.…esse，---r，-ae-） … . .
-* 2 *** 3. .…
§::::：::：:：::：：：::：： -
№ ：=）
sae~4）
、、、。、。--****§-ſ szae

^of THE
|
T II F. GIFT OF
S. Lee A. White
Hºff


82 g’
*646s
/)
< * ja , º, . . . . 3. - **
:: i Q... * * '''.C., , (A+ hºs. &P as ~~ +AA **.*.*. & ( i, x 6-6– d *
- > * > . . . . f f :--~~~ 2. ...t-4
* . - * N- f
24
T H E t gº
/
!
SKETCH Book of FASHION.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS.”
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the ſoul body of th’ inſected world.
As You Like It.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
WOL. I.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
THE PAVILION.
NEW - Y O R. K. :
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
No. 82 Cliffstreet, -
AND SOLD BY THE BOOKSELLERS GENERALLY THROUGHOUT
THE UNITED STATES,
1833.
P. R. E. F. A. C. E.
THE following Tales form the last of a series of Novels, of
a class created by the peculiar spirit of the last reign, and
manifestly at variance with that of the present times. These
sketchy performances, although favoured with critical praise
far beyond their pretensions or deserts, have in some instances
been blamed for pungency of Satire, and in some for a char-
acter of levity. To both charges the writer is willing to
plead guilty. The only apology admissible for a fashionable
novel, is the successful exposure of vices and follies daily
and hourly generated by the corruptions of society,+
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
And touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone:
by ridicule,_which, if no longer admitted as the test of Truth,
may be assayed in its turn by that only sterling standard.
The sketches contained in “Mothers and Daughters” are
sanctioned as correct, by the very class most interested in
their refutation. - -
Nor is a plea of extenuation wanting for the tone of
frivolity pervading their pages.—The first object of even the
severest moralist is to command attention for his lessons:
and modern society, “which refuses to hear the voice of the
charmer, charm he ever so wisely,” is well known to lend
ready attention to the charmings of the light and gay.—If a
single absurdity, a single error, have given way before
the extended finger of these “laughing satires,” the object of
the writer is fully accomplished.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
Qui se marie avec un veuf, épouse nu homme ot un fantôme."
MoNTAIGNE.
VoL. I. B
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 3
CHAPTER I.
By Tre and Pen
You know the Cornish men. .
OLD ADAGE.
JULIA was the only daughter of Mr. Trevelyan. But
although her father's county may be implied in his pat-
ronymic, his fortune and condition must remain problem-
atical, unless the reader's mind is set at rest by the assurance
that he was rich in five thousand per annum, somewhat
more substantially founded than Cornish fortunes in general;
and in a landed estate which would have looked much better
on Stanfield's canvas than in its rude reality. Trevelyan
Hall and its surrounding landscape were, in fact, so much
more picturesque than pleasing to their hereditary denizen,
that no sooner did the general pacification of Europe Sanc-
tion the measure, than Mr. Trevelyam caused its rocks and
woods and waterfalls to be specified in language far more
efflorescent than the soil which gave them a local habitation,
—inserted in the folios of Bates and Gillow, as “To be let
for a term of years,”—and without waiting for a lessee, who
might be some time in making his way to the Land's End,
—the Squire, Squiress, and their only daughter, “departed
from Kirkham's Hotel, in Lower Brook-street, on a tour of
the Côntinent.”
The field was a wide one; the heroine admirably qualified
to feel and increase its vast variety of interests. Julia was
scarcely eighteen ; handsome, intelligent, and good-hu-
moured; with the lustre of youth still beaming in her
character and countenance, unimpaired by the vigils and
affectations of London life. Julia Trevelyan had, indeed, as
much cause for gaiety, both of heart and manners, as can be
4 THE SECONIO MARRIAG E.
well imagined. What are called the good things of this
world were largely at her disposal; and the only shadow
intermingled with her sunshine, was attributable to a cir-
cumstance with which most human beings would be content
to compromise. The only child was too much an object of
affection to those about her, to be allowed the free use of her
time and limbs; and after running much chance of being
killed with kindness in her childhogd, ran, some hazard of
being made miserable for the remaindérºofºgs,
fortunately preserved, by ºthe anxiety of her fºe d
mother to render her the happiest of human beinfºil;
very difficult to be rational on the subject of ºnl
daughter; more particularly a lovely and loving only
daughter—framed
“In the very poetry of nature,”
and springing up to womanhood under our eyes.
Trevelyan and his wife were what is termed “the best
people in the world; ” a definition far from implying that
they were the most agreeable. The Cornish couple were
unlucky in seeing the light at a period when the march of
intellect was less universal in its recruiting system than at
the present day. A long avenue afforded, even in the eigh-
teenth century, a prodigious fortification to a squirearchical
mansion against the innovations of education and reforma-
tion; and the misses and masters of a family too “particular”
to have recourse to school education, were allowed to remain
almost as innocent as they were born of all branches of polite
education, beyond the indispensable accomplishments of read-
ing and writing. Even the faculty of turning these to
account was regarded as superfluous or professional; and
Mrs. Trevelyan, as Miss Trevanion, with fifty thousand
pounds for her fortune, had been afflicted with very little
literature beyond a few books of devotion, such as the
“Whole Duty of Man,” and the “Economy of Human
Life ; ”—in addition to an almost Alexandrian“libiary of
“occasional” Sermons. The family recipe book teemed with
specimens of the laxity of her early Orthography; and the
chintz room, and north room, and half a dozen other “best
bed rooms” at Trevelyan Hall were still disfigured by sam-
ples of shell work, needle pieces and lambs-wool. Such as
had obtained for the Cornubian heiress a reputation for “fine
taste,” rivalling that which turned the head of Clarissa Har-
lowe. In becoming the wife of a neighbouring squire, and





THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 5
changing only two out of the three syllables composing her
maiden name, Mrs. Trevelyan fixed herself for life in a
sphere for which she was admirably fitted ; and the happy
couple went on step by step, and hand in hand, through life;
passing a season in the metropolis once in three years, to
prove to their friends in general that time had not overlooked
them in his task of making the sons and daughters of clay
hourly older and daily uglier—and fancying they were march-
ing with the times and fulfilling the great purposes of exist-
ence, by the occasional introduction of a new piece of furni-
ture or set of china at the Hall; a new annual or exotic in
the gardens, a new agricultural implement on the estate, or a
new set of sermons into the bookcase. -
Every thing, indeed, went smooth and straight with them,
saving in the nursery department ; and Mrs. Trevelyan's
career might have proved insipid even to her limited capaci-
ties of enjoyment, but for the annual triumph of producing a
little olive branch and going through the ceremonial bonfires,
bellringings, and oxen roasted whole, in honour of half a
dozen succesive heirlings to the Hall; and the annual afflic-
tion of their half dozen subsequent sicknesses, deaths, and
burials. -
Julia, the last of the Trevelyan generation, seemed to bring
with her change of sex, a change of fortune. No bonfires
blazed, no bells were rung, no oxen roasted, no doles dis-
tributed, for a mere Miss Trevelyan. She was received into
the family with very lukewarm rejoicing (like Shakspeare's
Elizabeth), as only
A girl,
Promising boys hereafter;
but, as if in defiance of destiny, the young lady grew and
grew, and throve and throve, till her parents almost forgot to
despond over the fate which limited their inheritance to her
single self. At length, with the tardy conviction that she
was to be the last of her little flock, came the redoubled ten-
derness, rendering her existence at once a pain and pleasure;
and no sooner were poor Mrs. Trevelyan and her nurse
moved to acknowledge that “the nursery chair had best be
moved to the lumber room,” than poor little Julia became
enshrined, an unwilling idol, in the golden niche destined
go her future safe-keeping. & º
An idol has but a sorry life of it!—Incense, and isolation
are sickening things; and could the little girl have conjec-
B”
6 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
tured, in her pink sash and shoes, to what concatenation of
events her personal importance was owing, she would as-
suredly have evoked from the vault beneath the family pew,
a line of evanished baby Squires, emulating the ghastly ex-
hibition of Banquo's crowned successors. The loss of Tre-
velyan Park would have been pure gain, coupled with the
forfeiture of that morbid tenderness which induced her father
to worry her and himself to death, whenever her finger
ached; and her mother to live a martyr to imaginary evils
hereafter likely to assail the “sole daughter of her house and
heart.” Mr. Trevelyan was in a perpetual tremor lest Julia
should die and leave him childless; Mrs. Trevelyan in an
unceasing flurry lest by some omission, some maternal meg-
ligence, a weak point should be left unguarded in her daugh-
ter's destinies, where sorrow might break in or the troubles
of life gain footing, to molest this bright exemption from the
sentence of fallen humanity. Between both, and solely in
their excess of zeal to secure her health and happiness, the
poor girl was fairly plagued to death. i
The whole mischief arose from their want of better occu-
pation. . The squire and his wife had no employment either
for mind or body. He was neither a reading man nor a
sportsman; she was neither afflicted with a musical taste,_
nor a botanical,—nor a puritanical; planted no gardens,
superintended no Sunday schools; nay, she had not so much
as a pet spaniel or a pet album over which to potter away her
leisure.
When little Julia was rescued at last from Papa and
Buchan, from the village apothecary and family medicine
chest, to be inaugurated into the mysteries of the school-
room, a new era dawned upon poor stupid Mrs. Trevelyan,
redoubling in her estimation the importance of maternal
nature. She had at length something to do, besides losing
her keys and finding them again. She came to be consulted
about back-boards and stocks, grammars, and dictionaries,
Genlis and Edgworth. Her opinion was as regularly asked
by the new governess as if it had been worth having ; and
Miss Wilmot, during the twelve years she presided over
Julia's education, actually managed to have her own way
with her pupil, by persuading the lady of the Hall that way
was of her own exclusive pointing out; that not a pincushign
was planned, nor a sonata selected, except under her º,
jurisdiction, Old Trevelyan, indeed, occasionally interfere
in the regimen of the future heiress of his honours; pre-
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. f 7
scribed ground-rice pudding instead of whole, and advised
beef-tea in alternation with mutton-broth. He even insisted
on a pony as an interlude to the severe studies to which he
saw the precious victim subjected; and managed, in spite of
all his wife's hysterics, to accomplish the all-accomplished
Miss Trevelyan as the best horsewoman in the county.
At first, indeed, it appeared the sole object of these doating
parents to render Julia worthy of the auspicious destinies
already provided for her. The elaboration of study to which
she was subjected purported only to qualify her for her sta-
tion in her own county and country, as the heiress of Treve-
lyan Hall. But no sooner was the miracle accomplished,—
no sooner was her father convinced that (without having .
attained the long-predicted spine complaint) she had been
made mistress of several languages, and that her drawings
and etchings, bravuras and ballads, fairly warranted the
annuity settled upon Miss Wilmot on her dismissal from office,
than he discovered that she was much too good, fair, and
clever for the atmosphere of Cornwall. His heiress had a
right to become something more distinguished than his mere
heiress. No one in the neighbourhood was worthy of her
hand. Julia must see the world, must visit foreign coun-
tries ; and whereas a prolonged tour on the continent prom-
ised an extension of her father and mother’s domestic
happiness by delaying her settlement in life, the project of
going abroad for a year or two, was readily adopted in lieu
of their triennial visit to London. With a huge patent"
medicine chest, and pocket editions of Mrs. Chapone and ...
Gregory's Legacy, they accordingly entered the travelling
carriage about to become their home; and although, by the
time they rattled out of the court-yard of Quillacq's hotel,
poor Julia had discovered that the hurry of travelling would
not emancipate her from the troubles of her filial estate so
much as she had hoped, it was indeed delightful to be re-
leased from the one gravel walk to which her daily exercise
at Trevelyan Park had been for many years restricted; and
the early to bed and early to rise, the bread and butter
breakfasts and roast mutton dinners, swallowed on the un-
silenceable authority of the great turret-clock, by which all
her proceedings, moral and active, had been regulated from
her childhood upwards. s
8 THE SE COND MARRIAGE,
CHAPTER II.
A cheerful temper, joined with innocence, makes beauty attractive,
knowledge delightful, and wit good natured. ADDISON.
THE Trevelyans, visiting the continent for somewhat
more than the usual purpose of catching a glimpse of the
Louvre, crossing the Simplon, gaping at the Duomo and
St. Peter's, and returning through Paris for the purpose of
smuggling over a collection of Herbault's last,-had wisely
provided themselves with the best letters of introduction. It
was their intention, after passing the summer in Switzer-
land, to winter in Florence; Mr. Trevelyan having taken
it into his mervous head that it was necessary to attemper
Julia's constitution to the fervid sums of Italy, before he per-
mitted her to bask in the utmost blaze of the sweet south.
In Florence, accordingly, they were very soon settled.
The lovely and gifted heiress was accounted a charming
acquisition to the musical circle of the embassy and the
theatricals of the Normanbys; where even the hypochon-
driac father and prosy mother were excused and accepted,
in favour of a beautiful girl in the entail of a fine estate and
the possession of a host of charms. The Carnival came,
with its sugar-plumbs and balls, and Miss Trevelyan at the
close of its enchantments found herself on the road to Lucca
for the bathing season —having refused an Irish baronet,-
a Cumberland squire travelling to be polished,—an honour-
able Colonel of grenadiers on his way to join his regiment
at Corfu, and a little chicken-faced lordling far gone in
consumption, and bear-led by a reverend dominic, who al-
ready carried in his pocket the programme of his pupil's
funeral ceremonies. Of these adorers, Julia laughed at
some, and with others; sincerely regretting that there was
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 9
not merit enough among the whole squadron to form one
tolerable hero of romance; and that she was compelled to
wander forth into the land of poesy, without having imbibed
a little touch of sentiment to animate the landscape into
ºte: beauty, and lend new softness to the language of
OW62. -
Julia was gratified to perceive that her father and mother
had no intention of parting with her on easy terms; but she
little knew how indispensable she was to them, as a tenant
for their empty hearts. In her childhood, the anxieties of
her teething, measles, whooping-cough and scarlatina, had
kept their feelings from stagnation :-Mr. Trevelyan had
been saved from a severe fit of blue devils, one rainy winter
in Cornwall, by an alarm of small-pox ; and Mrs. T. had
derived all the tragic interest of her life, from the duty of
supervising Julia's interviews with the dentist, and first ex-
perience of her pony. But never had she been so valuable
to either, even at the crisis of her typhus fever, as now ;
when the daily arrival of some new adorer afforded them
occasion for new alarms, new investigations, new inquiries
touching the endowments, temporal and spiritual, of the
aspirant.—The excitement was delightful
“With such a treasure to dispose of,” whispered poor
Mrs. T. to her friend the Dowager Lady Wadham, as they sat
gossipping together at one of Torlonia’s soirées, “I feel that
I cannot be too vigilant. One meets with so many adven-
turers on the continent, even in the best society; and I declare
I never feel easy when I see Julia dancing with a stranger,
till I have informed myself of his name, nation, and all that
is known respecting him.—Ah ! my dear Lady Wadham, it
is an awful charge to have an only daughter P’ -
“So I should imagine,” replied the old lady, who possess-
ed about as much sensibility as the velvet fauteuil in which
she was seated. “I am sure my five girls never gave me
so much uneasiness, all put together, as Miss Trevelyan does
gow. Yet mine were sad wild creatures, and we lived near
a garrison town;–while your daughter appears prudence
itself.”
“Very true, my dear Madam. But one should do one's
best tº prevent a young creature from falling in mischief's
way. -
“And pray, who is that very handsome piece of mischief
in Miss Trevelyan's way just now —”
10 THE SECONIO MARRIAGE,
“I left her in the other room dancing with the young
Duke of Brancaleone.” -- -
“Then I suppose she grew tired of him ; for there she
stands,” continued Lady Wadham, raising her glass to her
eye, “in earnest conversation with a very fine young man,
whom I never saw before –there, next to the old Mar-
chioness in the yellow turban.” -
“God bless my soul!—who can he possibly be 7" exclaim-
ed Mrs. Trevelyan, in rising agitation. “Who can have in-
troduced him to my daughter ?—They are talking together
very familiarly on so short an acquaintance; I must speak to
Mr. Trevelyan about it.—Mr. Trevelyan mever allows Julia
to be introduced to people without his previous sanction—
Where can Mr. Trevelyan be He ought to be made aware
of what is going on.—My dear Lady Wadham, you don’t
happen to see Mr. Trevelyan any where?—Really Julia
should be more guarded. She is no longer a child. She is
old enough to be aware of the imprudence of committing her-
self by making promiscuous acquaintance. I wish I could
find Mr. Trevelyan.”
A similar anxiety on the part of the Squire soon brought
him from the further end of the room, to reciprocate his in-
quiries respecting Julia’s new partner ; but their united in-
vestigation yielded no further information than that he was a
nouveau débarqué, just arrived from England. -
“Perhaps it may turn out to be the young Lord Aven-
more,” whispered Mrs. to Mr. T. “I know he is bringing us
letters from our friends in Yorkshire.” w
“Or perhaps it is the new attaché who is expected to pass
through, on the Neapolitan Mission. I received a hint about
him from the Turbervilles. Lord Durlington’s second son;
but with his mother's fortune settled upon him to the amount
of five-and-twenty thousand a year. To be sure the Dur-
lingtons are people of a very suspicious complexion; I
should scarcely like Ju. to marry into a family with that
clear transparent skin. There must be pthisis or scrophula
at the bottom of the business. Not even Gowland could work
such a miracle as Lady Durlington's face.” *
“ Then the stranger yonder can have nothing to do with
them ; for he is as swarthy as a Moor. I declare, Mr. Tre-
velyan, I begin to feel a little fidgetty about the business.
You must remonstrate seriously with Julia as soon as she
has done dancing.” -
To remonstrate seriously with a creature whose light foot-
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 11
steps approach us in the confidence of perfect innocence, her
chesnut ringlets carelessly shaken aside, her blue eyes glam-
cing beneath them,-half-shy, half-tender—her white teeth
exhibited by an incessant play of smiles and dimples—her
sweet voice ringing like the carol of birds, is a difficult task.
Instead of question or reproval, the old man found that noth-
ing was required of him but to bow very low to the stranger,
on his daughter's announcement of “Sir Alan Redwood, a
friend of my uncle Trevanion.” -
Mrs. Trevelyan instantly rose from her seat, and to prove
by the length and depth of her curtsey how much she was
satisfied to find him an Englishman—how much more to
find him a Sir Anything Anybody—how, most of all, to learn
that he was blest with the friendship of her worthy brother
Trevanion. - -
Sir Alan, meanwhile, seemed to limit the extent of his
personal importance to the consciousness of having been re-
cently the partner of the loveliest girl in the ball-room. He
bowed gravely, stiffly, Englishly, to the profound obeisance
of his country-woman; and Julia was for a moment mortifi-
ed by the coldness of his replies to her father's polite inquir-
ies touching the health and journey of an individual he was
addressing for the first time; and the dry repulsive way in
which he suddenly quitted the group, and made his way to a
sneering coterie of diplomats who stood strung together near
the door.
“What a pity that he should be so ungracious !” thought
Miss Trevelyan, as her mother toddled back to Lady Wad-
ham to communicate all she knew respecting the illustrious
stranger, and solicit further information. “He is very hand-
some—very well informed:—I did not foresee he could be
so disagreeable.”—and it afforded her real gratification, in
the course of the evening, that Sir Alan Redwood should see
how assiduously her hand was sought by the most distin-
guished partners in the room ; and still more, with how
much respect her father and mother were treated by the lead-
ing personages of the society. She almost wished, indeed,
that her friend Lady Clairiville had not introduced this same
surly English Baronet to her acquaintance. But it did not
much signify. He had already informed her that he was on
his way to Naples; and birds of passage are too frequent in
Rome at the commencement of the winter to render them of
much account. Sir Alan would be off in a day or two, and
would probably leave little occasion to regret his departure.
12 THE SEcond MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER III.
There was no great disparity of years,
Though much in temper, but they never clash'd;
They mov’d like stars united in their sphercs,
Or like tho Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd,
Where mingled and yet separate appears
Tho river from the lake. Brron.
IN spite of his own announcement, however, and in spite of
the announcement of all the gossips, Sir Allan Redwood
loitered on from day to day, from week to week. It was not,
as Lady Wadham ill-maturedly insinuated, that he was disap-
pointed of his remittances from England, and pretended a
predilection for Rome merely from an inability to get forward
to Naples. The English Baronet lived (as the English love
to live) at the most expensive hotel in the most expensive
manner; not only paying his way as he went, but paying a
great deal of way that he did not go. Moreover he was a
dilellante or cognoscente (as the English travellers love to be,
in things that delight them not and concerning which they
know nothing); and displayed much liberality among the
studios and ateliers which are frequented by his youthful
countrymen in Rome, much as Tattersall's and Hoby's are
frequented in London, and where they seldom display much
beyond their own ignorance. It was plainly no deficiency of
means to go further and fare worse, which detained him so
long in the Eternal City.
It is almost superſluous to notice that wherever the inhab-
itants of the British Islands much do congregate, there must
inevitably be dinner-parties—not dinners only,–not good
eating and drinking, but parties of gentlemen and ladies,
dressed in their best attire, to sit round a table, and partake
of it in the most formal and disagreeable manner, precisely
THE SECON D MARRIA GE, 13
at the moment devoted by other nations to the enjoyment of
lighter entertainment, the theatres and the promenades.
Even in the campaigns of the Peninsular war, even when
superannuated cows and mules furnished the best part of the
bill of fare, and the leg of an ass-foal was accounted a
delicacy, regular cards of invitation are known to have been
sent out by more than one gallant Colonel, whose baggage
consisted chiefly in Saucepans and gridirons; and even at
Rome, instead of “doing as Romans do,” it is the custom of
our countrymen to gather together, per dozen, precisely at
the hour and in the fashion they would do in Berkeley-
square or Grosvenor-place. The Trevelyans, who enjoyed
the exact amount of popularity ensured by great respectability
of tone, equipage, and establishment, were greatly in re-
quest at these ultramontane feasts. Sir Thomas and Lady
Dunderhead, or Mr. and Mrs. Bumble Drone, were urgent
for “the favour of their company,” because they knew that
the favour of their own company would be requested in return
on the following week, to meet pretty nearly the same com-
pany, and feed on exactly the same quality of viands and
wines, enlivened by a prosy recital of their morning exploits,
and a general lamentation over the dulness of the English
papers. They were asked every where; they went every
where; and every where they went, it was now their fortune
to meet Sir Alan Redwood; who, thanks to the taciturnity
of his manners, had attained the renown of being a very
sensible young man,—and thanks to his brusquerie, of being
a very distinguished one. It is singular how much some
people gain by making themselves disagreeable !—
Julia Trevelyan's estimate of the English Baronet who
“said farewell and went not,” was however very different
from that of Lady Wadham and the rest of the cassino play-
ing community. She did not think him a Solon, she did not
think him a Saint. She did not conjecture that he would
ever set the Thames or the Tiber on fire, drink up Eisel, or
eat a crocodile. She only thought him the most charming
man in the world; and herself the most unlikely woman to
attract his notice.
Dinner parties of twelve seldom include more than one
lovely Julia, or one distinguished young Baronet; and it
was consequently their fortune to be placed side by side by
the benevolent providence of their hosts, much oftener than
seemed to suit the inclinations of the supercilious Sir Alan,
or the delicacy of the sensitive Miss Trevelyan. She saw
Vol. I. C
14 THE SIRCON D MARRIA GTE,
plainly that he did not think her worth conversing with; that
the long-winded imanity of her father and mother had in-
spired him with a very disparaging notion of the intellect of
the family; that beyond the courtesy of placing a beccafico
on her plate, he was in fact very little cognizant of her being
seated on the chair beside him. Her pride at length sug-
gested, that he might suppose she had some share in the
arrangements for their dancing, riding, sitting, and talking
together, made by the unanimous consent of society, without
reference to her inclinations.
Dismissing the artless cordiality of her general address,
Julia accordingly strove to insinuate an unwonted air of dig-
nity, and even disdain, into her intercourse with her hand-
some countryman. But by this she gained nothing. Her
reserve rendered him only more reserved,—her scorn, more
fastidious ; and whereas she had been previously amazed and
distressed by rumours, that “Sir Alan Redwood and Miss
Trevelyan were going to be married,” she had now the vex-
ation to find that public report only modified the lie into “Sir
Alan and Miss Trevelyan had been engaged, but had broken
off the engagement.” All this was mortifying enough ; and
the more so, that Mrs. Trevelyan evinced no great indigma-
tion either at the first or second falsehood. “Nothing has
prevented more marriages,” said she, in answer to her
daughter's expostulations, “than premature disavowal. Were
I to set about denying the report, Sir Alan might say that it
would have been as well to wait till we were asked ; and
perhaps make it an excuse for never proposing at all.”
“But, my dear mother, believe me, he is never likely to
propose at all,” exclaimed poor Julia, reddening to the tem-
ples, at this specimen of her mother's discretion. “Surely
you must have observed, from the very first might of our in-
troduction, his coldness, his moroseness, his every thing short
of incivility towards us all?—”
“Nonsense, my dear !—Sir Alan is a very well-bred
young mam, who does not go about shaking hands with and
whispering to every one, like Sir Lucius Blarnymore ; or
pass his time in morning visiting, like poor little Lord
Dwindleham. He pays us as much attention as he pays any
one.”
“Granted 1–and an additional proof that he is very un-
likely to make me an offer of his hand. He talks to me just
as he talks to Lady Wadham or the paralytic Princess
Ronsiglione. Is that the tone for a lover ?”—
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 15
“Why what in the world do you imagine detains him
here at Rome, except the view of recommending himself to
our family "- -
“Indeed I imagine nothing on the subject: and least of
all that Sir Alan entertains the Smallest interest concerning
me or mine. Pardom me, dear mother, if I express a hope,
that you have not allowed your conjectures to transpire
among Lady Wadham and her set !”—
“My dear love, the fact is too apparent. They all see it
as well as myself: they cannot help seeing it, and they can-
not help saying so, and I cannot blame them. Consider for
a moment —Sir Alan arrives here with the intention of
refreshing himself on his journey by a few days rest. Every
thing is arranged for his departure ;-passports made out,
trunks packed. He comes to Torlonia’s, dances with you,
—burns his passport, unpacks his trunks,—and, on pretence
of some monsense or other, lingers on week after week,
meeting you day after day, and daily more intent on the
connexion.” ſ . -
“I scarcely know how to answer so partial a statement.
But as it must be plain to you that he cannot marry me with-
out your consent and my own, you will admit that he takes
very little pains to conciliate either or any of us?”—
“Oh that is his way. He is not a fop, he is not a
courtier ; and being probably aware that nothing would be
more gratifying to your father and myself than to secure so
eligible a connexion, perhaps he thinks a waste of courtship
superfluous.” . . - *
“My dear, dear mother ſ—this is worse and worse !”—
cried Julia, hiding her face in her hands.-‘‘If you say
only half so much to Lady Wadham, I no longer wonder at
the cold contempt of his demeanor. To fancy that I am
sitting patiently in the hopes of finding his handkerchief
thrown into my lap :-and willing and eager to become Lady
Redwood on any terms upon which he may vouchsafe to
grant me the opportunity —Oh mother, mother ſ—why
have you exposed me to such a humiliation.” -
“What can be the matter with you, child ! I don't like
to see you crying for such trifles —I really begin to believe,
with your father, that you are not well. He says the Sicilian
wines here don’t agree with you, --that you look heated;—
and wants you to take some Seidlitz powders.” ... -
“I should do very well could I but persuade you to dis-
miss the absurd notion that Sir Alan Redwood has any
16 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
particular object, any object in which I am concerned, for
prolonging his sojourn here.”
“But why wish to persuade me of such a thing —It
would be a great disappointment to me ! I have set my
heart upon the match.” .
“You, who love me so tenderly, would entrust my hap-
piness to the care of a man we have known only six weeks!”
“Ah ! but every one sees that you are very partial to him.
In my opinion, Sir Alan is the only man you have ever
really liked. I was telling Lady Wadham so, last night at
the Cardinal’s.” -
“Ah, mother, mother —and a man too with whose prin-
ciples and connexions we are utterly unacquainted.”
“My dear Julia, you don't suppose that your father and I
have been proceeding blindfold in this business —From the
very night of Sir Alan Redwood's introduction to us, from
the moment I perceived that you had taken such an instan-
taneous fancy to each other, I wrote over to my brother
Trevanion (with whom he said he was acquainted), to make
the most minute investigation into the particulars of his
family, fortune, and character.” - -
“And supposing they have reached his ears ?”
“Supposing they have, what can be more natural than
the solicitude of parents situated as we are situated ?—I have
little doubt that he is fully aware of the circumstance, and
highly applauds our prudence.”
“And what must he have been thinking of me all this
time,” faltered Miss Trevelyan; looking more like a heroine
than she ever looked in her life.
“But, my love, you don't inquire the particulars of your
uncle's reply f’’
“It is quite a sufficient misery that the inquiry was ever
made.” &
“Ah! you will change your mind, my dear Ju., when
you hear that Sir Alan has nearly thirty thousand a year,
and one of the most beautiful seats in Yorkshire; and that
he is connected on all sides in the most unexceptionable
manner.”
“I am only glad to find that he has some little excuse for
the self-importance I have always found so disagreeable.”
“It is certainly some drawback, that the child survives;
but, as it is only a girl, there would be nothing to 'interfere
between your children and the entail. Trevelyan Park
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 17
might be settled on your second son, with a provision for
change of name.” .
“Children —daughter ?—son ?”— ... • -
“Yes, my love. She died in childbed, you know ; and
her family have the care of the child.”
“To what family and what child are you alluding f"—
“To Sir Alan Redwood's, to be sure.”
“Sir Alan a married man º'-
“A widower, my dear Julia. Your uncle. Trevanion
writes me word that the young man is travelling on the con-
tinent only to dissipate his affliction for the loss of his wife.
A charming creature, he says ;-so beautiful, so accomplish-
ed, and poor Sir Alan so tenderly attached to her "→
“And this is the man we have been pestering with invita-
tions to fêtes and operas —No wonder he was so much
disgusted with our proceedings. How frivolous must all
my girlish folly have appeared in his eyes.” -
“We met him first, you know, in a ball-room. Lady
Redwood has been dead a year, or you would scarcely have
seen him capering about in weepers.” --
“Capering about !”— w
“And from the moment people re-appear in society, they
must expect to be treated like the rest of the world. Sir
Alan Redwood cannot expect that we are all to be pensive
and grave because he chooses to be sorry for his wife.
Hush ! here he comes.” { -
“Pray, pray mamma,” whispered Miss Trevelyan, as the
baronet’s steps were heard traversing the ante-chamber, “do
not let him suppose we have been discussing his affairs; con-
sider how officious and impertiment we should appear !”
It was probably an apprehension that Mrs. Trevelyan
would commit her by some new indiscretion, that lent so beau-
tiful a flush to Julia's cheek when Redwood entered the
room. It was probably the new interest he had recently
acquired in her eyes, which caused her voice to tremble when
she addressed him. A husband and a father ſ—a bereaved
husband—a father separated from his only child | Such
sorrow as he must have undergone; such painful remem-
brances as must still haunt his mind!—Involuntarily her
eyes filled with tears, as she remarked for the first time that
his brow was hollow, and his lips feverish and compressed.
How often must she have insensibly wounded his feelings—
how often vexed and offended him —Julia Trevelyan never
discovered how far her predilections had outstripped her
• \ C*
18 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
intention, and how deeply, tenderly, and irrevocably her
affections were pledged to Sir Alan Redwood, till she had
reason to believe that his own were wedded to the grave—
that he was a heartbroken and misanthropic man
It was probably the sympathy thus developed, which soft-
ened even the harsh Englishman's intonation, as he addressed
a few uninteresting inquiries to the lovely heiress. Blind as
he was—blinded either by prejudice, pride, or mental afflic-
tion,--the pertubation, the tenderness of Miss Trevelyan's
manner could not escape him. He drew his chair nearer to
hers, and for a moment affected to interest himself in the
drawing at which she was diligently working with a view to
escape his coldly scrutinizing glances. Julia felt her breath
grow shorter, and her cheeks of a more burning crimson.
She was determined that he should have no plea for suppos-
ing that she had participated in her mother's investigations;
and replying to his questions with an abruptness almost as
startling and ungracious as any he had ever practised to-
wards herself, Sir Alan was for the first time induced to con-
sider the beautiful Julia as wayward and capricious. He
was indignant. He had thought better of her ; had regarded
her as the least spoiled child of the most spoiling parents
that the weakest human nature could furnish; and intent per-
haps on making his dissatisfaction apparent, assumed in his
turn a harshness of tone such as induced Julia suddenly to
let fall her pencil, and lift her large dark grey eyes to his,
with an expression that could not be mistaken;–with the
deprecating, devoted, doubting, timid tenderness, of first and
unreturned affection. There was no resisting this mute and
involuntary appeal. Sir Alan Redwood, silently seizing the
hand of the lovely artist, pressed it fervently in his, and
would probably have raised it to his lips, had she not forci-
bly disengaged it,-risen abruptly from her seat, and quit-
ted the room. , Mrs Trevelyan was too busy with her knit-
ting, and too slow of apprehension to notice what was going
on. As Julia passed her chair, she saw indeed that the tears
were streaming down her face; and attributed her daughter's
emotion to the agitating nature of the conversation they had
recently held together.—She only hoped that Sir Alan was
not so clear-sighted as herself! -
THE SECOND MARRIAGE, 19
CHAPTER IV.
I love him not, -nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide at me !
As You Like IT,
For TUNATELY for the happiness of man-and-womankind,
those subtleties of sentiment which agonized the sensibilities
of young ladies and young gentlemen of the days of the Har-
lowes and Grandisons, have vanished from the common-place
routine of life. For many years past, we have heard of no
female victims to the delicate distress of having given away
an unwooed heart; nor do we know a single marriage em-
bittered by a recurrence of the Richardsonian paradox of
who loved first, and why. It does not, however, appear cer-
tain that the moral turpitude of the action is by any means
diminished ; and it is with fear and trembling we admit that
poor Julia Trevelyan's heart was exclusively dedicated to
the flinty Sir Alan, long before he had vouchsafed to press
her hand, or even compassionate the tears he wrung from
her gentle eyes. We admit that the conduct of our heroine
was very blameable.—It was, however, very natural ; for
the young Baronet was not alone the most attractive man
with whom she had ever been acquainted ; but the only one,
oung and unmarried, who had evinced no pretensions to
}. hand 1–
But now, now that she had so completely betrayed her-
self, now that the unguarded weakness of her demeanour
afforded him greater excuse for triumph than even Mrs.
Trevelyan's manoeuvres,—did he now, did he still maintain
that frigid reserve, that mortifying apathy, which had so long
borne testimony to the pre-engrossment of his feelings?—Im-
20 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
possible !—He could not longer close his heart against a
young, beautiful, gentle, accomplished, rich, well-born girl;
whose devotion to himself was manifest, notwithstanding all
her efforts, all her struggles, all her delicacy; who loved
him in spite of himself—and in spite of herself also.
Yes!—Things went worse between them than ever !—A.
new shade of embarrassment seemed added to a mutual posi-
tion, already only too embarrassing. Julia, ashamed of the
emotion involuntarily betrayed, grew almost sullen with its
object; while Sir Alan, instead of throwing himself at her
feet as the happiest and most grateful of men, scarcely
even deigned to occupy the place by her side forced upon
him by the misjudging zeal of Mr. or Mrs. Trevelyan.
Whenever he addressed her it seemed by involuntary im-
ulse ; and though a close observer might have noticed that
}. eye from a distance was constantly directed towards her,
and his lips when he did speak, compressed, as if by a
strong effort to restrain his declarations, poor Julia saw
nothing in his demeanor but increased reserve, increasing
alienation. Very earnestly did she long for the first symp-
toms of the return of spring ; for in the spring they were to
quit Rome; and she had actually succeeded in persuading
her parents to a voyage to Sicily, in order to avoid the ap-
earance of travelling in company with the surly Redwood
i. pursuing their original plan of a journey to Naples.—
But the first symptoms of spring were fated to waft new
projects upon their balmy gales.
It was about the end of February ; and a continuation of
cold weather, such as, to use the Roman proverb, had “hung
beards on the frost-bitten Tritons of the fountains in the Pi—
azza Navona,” rendered a change of temperature peculiarly
welcome; when a few days of sunshine brought forth at
once the ready verdure of that accessible soil, and, as if by
a magic touch, the gardens of Monte Pincio, grew suddenly
bright with flowers. Tulips, anemones, and hyacinths, start-
ed up as if long impatient for a summons —the intense
verdure of the yellow jasmine-leaves grew glossier and
greener than ever —the bright bay and peaked phyllerea
seemed to wake into vivid existence;—even the eternal pine-
trees threw aside their mourning habits, and, if they still
sighed, imparted a spicy sweetness to their sighs, as though
grateful to the Sunshine, that disdained not to smile upon
their desolation. All the world was astir again. Superla-
tives were audible in the streets : “Bellissimo (–dolcissimo 1
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 21
—beatissimo P’ were heard on every side. The Romans be-
gan to dream of their villeggiatura, and the English to
project picnics. Lady Wadham was wild to go and eat pig-
eon-pies at Adrian's villa; and Mrs. Green Smith and Miss
Brown Thompson thought that a gypsey party to Tivoli
would be the most delightful thing in the world.
In these expeditions, and fifty others of an equally incon-
gruous nature, the Trevelyans were necessarily included;
and although the old gentleman entertained a motion that ma-
laria and the picturesque are two airy nothings very frequent-
ly to be met with in the one and the same “local habitation,”
yet, for the sake of seeing Julia scramble over broken col-
umns on Sir Alan Redwood’s arm, or hunt for wild ane-
mones with Sir Alan Redwood by her side, he was very
willing to eat his ham sandwiches or cold chicken in any ru-
ined temple or desolated villa, selected by the bad taste of the
indifferent society by which he was surrounded. -
It would have tasked Miss Trevelyan's candour to decide
whether it was by consent or compulsion that she found her-
self included in a party of this description, made by Lady
Clairiville, to visit Horace's villa, and dine tant bien que mal
in the beautiful ruins adjoining the village of Roua Giovane.
They were to pass the morning in wandering beside the shal-
low waters of the Licenza; or explore, on mules provided
for the purpose, the woods and precipices of Mount Lucre-
tilis, overhanging the favorite haunts of the poet. But
when she found herself gradually led apart by Sir Alan, and
conducted among the green thickets of arbutus, where the
violet and orchis seemed springing under her feet, she saw
no cause to repine having accepted the invitation, nor any
reason to doubt that the object of her affection was for once
intent on securing a téte-a-téte. The clear Italian sky was
bright over their heads; the song of the distant goatherd,
reaching their ears at intervals from the mountain side, alone
disturbed the stillness of the landscape;—and never had
Redwood conversed with her in terms of such endearing fa-
miliarity. There was nothing of love, indeed in his lan-
guage ; but a great deal in his tone. He talked of poetry
and poets;–of nature and religion;–of every thing that
people talk of when love is uppermost in their hearts, and
souls; and moreover, having persuaded her to rest herself by
his side on one of those moss-covered stones marking the
limits of the winter channel of the Licenza, which seem to
have been lying there in their hoariness since the very days
22 THE SE COND MARIRIA. G. E.
of Horace, bent his looks upon hers with an expression
whence all his former reserve was banished;—an expression
such as marks the glance of a human eye towards the object
on earth upon which it most delights to gaze. He became
abstracted, incoherent, and Miss Trevelyan saw in a mo-
ment that the long-wished,—long-despaired of confession
was at hand;—when lo l just as she was beginning to trem-
ble with emotions of mingled joy and fear, a loud halloo from
a dandy dragoon, a brother of Lady Clairiville's (who being
a jester by vocation was pronounced to be a great requisition
to all the pleasure haunts of the ennuyées of Rome) announc-
ed that Lady Wadham and her Huns were at hand. Julia
and Redwood had just time to start up from their sentimental
post, and assume a tone that might better assimilate with the
flippant bantering of their companions. But it was impossi-
ble to divest themselves of a certain air of consciousness,
such as induced Lady C. to assure her young friend that she
saw clearly “how things were ;” and Lady W. to offer her
çongratulations in an audible whisper to both. &
Greatly, however, as poor Julia was distressed by their
officious impertinence, she was far more so on perceiving
that Sir Alan, instead of compassionating the dilemma in
which she was placed, studiously withdrew from her side.
They were now making their way to a dismantled fortress
near Roua Giovane, *i. the banquet was already pre-
ared; and leaving her to the charge of the moisy blockhead
i. whom they had been molested, he now affected to offer
his arm as the escort of Lady Clairiville; beside whom he
sat during the repast devoting himself ostensibly and exclu-
sively to her entertainment.
The tables being at length removed, dancing was proposed
in the quadrangle; and in a moment she beheld Redwood
guiding the triumphant Lady Clairiville through the mazes
of a waltz 1–Twilight stood her friend. Gradually extri-
cating herself from the merry group, poor Julia stole silently
away through the immer courts of the venerable edifice;—
tripped hastily over the short green grass, by which the
intervening mounds of earth were covered as by a carpeting
of green velvet;-and having reached a little desolate
mook of glacis bounded round by the hoary walls and a
wooden paling, sat herself down on the ground and covered
her face with her hands; the better, it may be concluded, to
collect her thoughts and shape her projects for the future.
Of course she would not have done so ignominious a thing
as weep for the world !
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 23
But after a few minutes indulgence of these solitary rumi-
nations, she suddenly started up; and would have quitted
her lonely oratory almost as eagerly as she had sought it,
but that she was forcibly detained,—forcibly compelled to
reseat herself—forcibly compelled to listen to a voice, the
faintest accents of which, whispered softly into her ear, had
caused her a moment before to withdraw the hand from her
face and prepare to retrace her steps back to the company.
“Dearest, dearest Julia | *—exclaimed Sir Alan Red-
wood, “you are weeping !—What brings you here 3–What
has impelled you to quit yonder merry group for this dreary
spot º'
Sir Alan seemed resolved to compensate himself for five
months of self-restraint, by the sudden assumption of unlim-
ited license; for he not only ventured upon the familiarity
of Juliaizing the astonished recluse, but actually presumed
to encircle Miss Trevelyan's slender waist with his arm.
It was not surprising that she should turn pale and tremble
at so extraordinary an irregularity on the part of so regular
a man, in the dimness of encreasing twilight and in the
stillness of so remote a spot. She began heartily to wish
she had kept with the rest of the company; for she had
little doubt that the elated Baronet was under the influence
of champagne.
Alas ! his was an intoxication quaffed at a still more peri-
lous source –his was an intoxication against which both
soda and seltzer are ineffectual correctives –his was the in-
toxication of a passion long repressed, long increasing; of a
tenderness only the more potent and the more exquisite, that
it had been subdued by all the arguments and all the efforts
which human resolution could suggest.
“You think me wild,” cried he, in answer to the silent
shudder with which she repelled his touch. “You attribute
my impetuosity to audacity,+perhaps to wine,—perhaps to
madness.-No, Julia—dearest, most beloved Julia, no l—I
am only too sober, too same, too sad.—It is with the full
force of my reason I am compelled to acknowledge how long,
how intensely I have loved you ; how painfully I have striven
to conceal; how vainly attempted to subdue my attachment l’”
“Your attachment " ejaculated Miss Trevelyan, astonish-
ed out of her terrors; and already relapsing into the credu-
lous confidence ever entertained by a woman towards the ob-
ject of her affections. “Do not imagine me so easily de-
ceived.”
24 THE SECON D MARRIAGE,
“I do not imagine you deceived ſ—No 1 it was impossible
to deceive you :—I felt that it was impossible. With all my
efforts to appear unconstrained in your presence, with all my
anxiety that nothing should transpire to betray the troubled
state of my feelings, nothing could blind your penetration ;-
you saw and have seen from the first moment of our acquaint-
ance ; the unlimited extent of your influence over my feel-
ings.”
It would have been much more to the purpose, had Miss
Trevelyan persisted in feeling or feigning astonishment and
incredulity. But Julia was incapable of art. If no longer
surprised, she was at least gratified and penetrated by all she
felt and all she heard. Moreover, the tears were very near
the surface,—quite ready to spring forth again; and without
the least regard to her own dignity, she actually relapsed into
a most unheroic flood of tears. Sir Alan received no very
intelligible negative to his request for leave to hope, and
for permission to tender his proposals to Mr. and Mrs. Trev-
elyan.
TIIE SECOND MARRIAGE. 25
CHAPTER W.
Fair Hero is won;–and his good will obtained, name the day of
marriage
MUCH ADo ABOUT NOTHING.
WITII two young lovers eager to be married, and a father
and mother equally eager to hasten their hymeneals, there is
little likelihood of delay. It was not much more than a
week before Julia Trevelyan suffered herself to be persuaded
into an opinion that nothing could have been more matural
than Redwood's conduct towards her ; and as to the squire
and his lady, their triumph was unconditional. Mrs. Treve-
lyan had the comfort of proving to Lady Wadham, how
groundless had been her inuendoes respecting her future
son-in-law ; and Mr. Trevelyan the joy of discovering that
Sir Alan's estates were full six thousand a year more ex-
tensive than he had been led to believe. Instead of going
into the family of Redwood as an heiress, the fair Julia of
Trevelyan Park would scarcely take with her an equivalent
for all the splendours and prosperity of her new condition.
A day was appointed for the marriage about six weeks
after the éclaircissement of the Horatian Villa, to give time
for the return of a courier from England, where the legal
preliminaries were to be adjusted; and in the mean time,
the bride and bridegroom elect had nothing to do but to play
Romeo and Juliet, in all the luxury of an Italian spring,
while old Capulet and his Lady stood aſar off watching their
proceedings, and congratulating each other that they had
not allowed their precious pearl to remain closed up in the
dull oysterbed of their Cormish estates.
It has been already admitted that Miss Trevelyan's eyes
were the bluest, her tresses the most silken, her figure the
Vol. I. D
26 TIII, SE CONID MARIRIA.G.E.
most symmetrical, that imagination can picture. But Julia
possessed a personal charm beyond even these important ad-
vantages. She had a countenance full of Scnsibility; a
countenance the very mirror of her mind; a countenance
over which the clouds and sunshine chased each other with
the sportive variability of an autumnal sky ; one minute,
summer seemed lingering there in utmost glory, the next,
there was a cloud, a dreariness, a darkness, quickly to be
dispelled by a new dawn of the refulgent sunshine of perfect
happiness. And yet she was not capricious.-The changes
of the weatherglass were solely dependent on the atmos-
phere shed around it by the one all potent orb, influencing
the ebb and flow of her heart's emotions; and it was already
in Redwood’s power to overcast her sprightliest mood, or
call up an April ray amid the utmost desolation of her tears.
To repress this exquisite but fatal sensibility, Miss Wilmot
had laboured hard in her vocation. It is true she made no
boast on the subject to her employers; for she knew full
well that Mrs. Trevelyan's alarms once excited, she would
do her best to tranquillize her daughter's nerves by worry-
ing her into a fever ; nor would the old gentleman have
hesitated to apply half the contents of his medicine chest to
the aggravation of the disorder. She contented herself with
striving to fortify the mind of her pupil with principle and
her heart with reason; trusting she might outgrow an in-
firmity commonly classed among the diseases of youth. On
retiring to her modest retreat at Devizes, the worthy woman
even flattered herself that the danger was past ; and know-
ing her pupil to be fenced round by the prosperities of life
from the common cares of human nature, ventured to an-
ticipate for her as bright a destiny as any child of wrath is
is entitled to expect in a probationary world. One might
almost venture to conclude that presentiment had led her to
expect that the object of her affectionate solicitudes would
fall into the hands of the high minded Sir Alan Redwood,
with an income of forty thousand per annum; a very credi-
table measure of precedency among the Sir Johns and Sir
Thomases, his brethren ; and a character that might have
borne the scrutiny of the most scrupulous club in the parish
of St. James.
She did not, however anticipate, or if she had, would
have repelled the notion as inauspicious to the happiness of
the gentle Julia, that the very sensibility she had so labour-
ed to exterminate, with its sunshine and shadows, its smiles
g
THE SEC O N D M A R R.I.A. G. E., 27
and tears, was the chief source of her attraction in the eyes
of her future husband. Redwood was a distrustful man,
and prized nothing more highly than the glass window thus
enabling him to pry into the mind of the object of his ten-
derness. The enhancement of beauty arising from the
variations perceptible upon Julia Trevelyan's dimpled face,
were as nothing in comparison with the insight they afforded
into her thoughts and feelings. “The eloquent blood,” that
spoke in her cheeks was a welcome tell-tale ; and her tears
possessed an oratory of unappreciable value.
There could not, indeed, be a greater contrast of disposi-
tion than between Sir Alan and the lady of his love. Red-
wood’s commanding height, austere address, stern features,
and impassive countenance, seemed only the sterner and
more commanding, now that a flower had sprung up beside
the rock, in contrast with its rugged coldness; and Lady
Wadham and the coteries shrugged their soulders and Smiled
contemptuously, when they saw them sitting together even-
ing after evening, often without uttering a syllable, and cer-
tainly looking mone of those things that are said to be unut-
terable. Julia, in truth, felt too happy, too contented, to
venture on bending her radiant smiles on her observant lover;
while Sir Alan was too much on his guard against the world,
against its inferences, and above all, against himself to ren-
der his tenderness a matter of comment to the vulgar tongue,
or of self-assured possession to his future wife.
Nevertheless, his expressions were not always measured,
nor Julia's sweet looks ever hoarded up from his participa-
tion. Lady Wadham’s eyes were not always upon them ;
and during those long spring days that intervened between
betrothment and marriage, those days of growing daylight
and progressive vegetation, when every morning dawned
upon brighter blossoms and fresher verdure, it was indeed a
holiday of spirit to them both, to wander together through
the gardens of the Villa Borghese or some other belrespiro ;
while the old people sat prosing together in a favourite pavil-
ion, bending their idolizing eyes from a distance upon the
fair figure of their daughter ; her white raiment glancing
among the dark evergreens, like the shining radiance of an
angel guest wandering amid the paths of Paradise.
How 'happy she was, -how bright, how beautiful —all
her wishes accomplished,—all her hopes surpassed. It was
no longer possible to doubt that Redwood loved her —his
looks, his words, his eagerness to secure her society, his
2S THE SECON E). MARRIAGE.
anxious plans to render their future life less world-absorbed
than the ordinary career of dinner-giving, ball-haunting ex-
istence, all conspired to re-assure her misgivings. That he
had sought her for herself alone, was indisputable —and her
only care was to appear, or render herself worthy of the
choice which she (lovely and gifted and good as she was) re-
garded as an effort of the most gracious toleration.
There was still, however, one single speck on Julia's hori-
zon—(what horizon can be altogether cloudless 2)—which
cast a hovering shadow over the airy distance of her pros-
pects. The object of her tenderness had already loved ; the
husband of her young heart had already cherished a beloved
and loving wife in his bosom. Perhaps he was even yet in-
fluenced by the memory of those ties, that tendermess 7–
Perhaps she was secondary in his esteem to the Mary whose
hair still encircled his finger ?—Were not his thoughts some-
times secretly occupied in comparing her person with that of
the first Lady Redwood,—her sentiments with those of his
early choice,—her voice with the voice that was silent, her
smile with a smile now set for ever in the stillness of the
grave 3–This dispiriting idea, once conceived, often caused
her blood to freeze in her veins !—To be subordinate in a
heart that was all in all to her 1–To bear a part, only, in the
destiny which was to her as the well-spring of her own exist-
ence —
What worlds would she not have squandered to give utter-
ance but to the smallest of her alarms on the forbidden sub-
ject, to approach, even at a remote distance, the history of
his wedded life;—to whisper, “Was she young, fair, confid-
ing, affectionate 7–Did you love her as you love me, or rather
as I doat upon yourself? Have I cause to apprehend that the
shadow of the dead will interpose between your heart and
your living wife 2'-But no 1–such an appeal would have
been hazardous with any created mortal; and with Redwood
fatal. Julia felt assured that, should she venture to breathe
the most distant allusion to this delicate topic, he would start
off, fly from her presence,—abandon her for ever ! He would
give himself no time to reflect upon the anxious tenderness
suggesting her uneasiness on the subject ; but dismiss her at
Once from his heart, and see her face no more
Often, when they sat together side by side and hand in
hand, in some sequestered nook among the espaliers of
blossoming orange-trees of the Ludovisian gardens, listening
to the busy murmur of the bees and watching the gradual
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 29
unfolding of the variegated parterres;–or with upturned
eyes speculating upon that majestic vault above, which in
Italy seems to connect, unimpaired by baser matter, the
throne of the Creator with the earth his footstool,-a sudden
thought that even so he might have sat, so ruminated, so
eloquently discoursed of the glory of God with another and
more congenial spirit, caused the sweet face of Julia Trevel-
yan to glow with a sudden flush, and the words to expire
upon her trembling lips. What availed it to her affection to
share the outpouring of his gratitude for the beauteousness
and plenteousness of the created earth ;-what availed it to
trace with him the palpable connection between every good
and holy thought arising in their minds, and the eternal and
informing Spirit whose dwelling place was so bright over their
heads ;--if that earth held its chief influence in his mind as
the resting place of her he had lost,--if that ethereal realm on
high, shone brightest in his eyes as the spot where she was
waiting to welcome him to yet more intense communion —
Julia, Julia who in the excess of her attachment would have
renounced every human pleasure and every human associa-
tion for his sake, shrunk from this grievous division of his
affection. It withered up the glowing pulses of her heart, to
think that the love with which their energy was repaid was
only comparative
But where was her remedy ?—what the alternative —To
love him less, to withdraw a proportionate quantity of her
own tenderness, was impossible. Her fate was wrapped up
in even that divided portion of his tenderness which he
vouchsafed to bestow. She must be patient ; or rather must
labour diligently in all the vigilance of day by day devotion
to his will, to conquer to herself a stronger hold on his feel-
ings.
Such were the sentiments with which she approached the
altar. Such was the moderated triumph with which this
object of envy to so many, of congratulation to more, accept-
ed the brilliant prospects that awaited her on returning to her
native country as the wife of Sir Alan Redwood, Baronet, of
Farminghurst Castle in the County of York, and Burnley
Wood in the County of Middlesex ; as the proprietress of
the prettiest villa, finest diamonds, best equipage, and most
ancient plate ; the mistress in short of a destiny as bright
and promising as even her too idolizing parents, in the plen-
itude of their partiality, could have selected for their only
child. * .
D *
30 THE SECON D MARRI.M.G. E.
CHAPTER WI.
Safe out of Fortune's shot she sits aloft,
Advanc'd above pale Envy’s threatening reach;
As when the golden Sun salutes the morn,
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the ocean with his glittering car,
And overlooks the highest peering hills.
TITUS ANDRONICUs.
ENGLISH newspapers are generally very busy about new
married people. The arrival in London of Sir Alan and
Lady Redwood was announced with considerable pomp ;
and the world was moreover informed that it was the inten-
tion of “the amiable couple” to pass only a few days in
London, previous to their departure for their seat in York-
shire.
Julia, who had not visited the metropolis since her
attainment of woman's estate, had in fact very few connec-
tions there to induce a prolongation of her sojourn; and
although they made their appearance in the height of the
London season, although the suffocating atmosphere of many
a ball-room demonstrated the fulness of town and the gaiety
of the coteries, she had not yet been married long enough to
have acquired the least ambition for the display of her
diamonds, or the exhibition of her trousseau, Mrs. Treve-
lyam, who had given a parting charge to her son-in-law on
no account to postpone Lady Redwood’s presentation, or
encourage her taste for moping at home, would have been
shocked had she suspected that a few visits to the theatre in
a morning dress, for the purpose of witnessing certain chef.
d’awvres of the English stage, formed the extent of her
daughter's dissipation during this her bridal visit.
“Do let us get away as soon as possible,” whispered
THE SEcond MARRIAGE. 3]
Julia to her husband, pointing out to him the moss-roses
contained in the basket, of a dirty flower-girl, who stood
curtseying opposite the windows of the hotel. “The
country is just now so beautiful; and I am so anxious to
have a glimpse of my new flower-gardens, and a ride with
you through Redwood Forest before the wild thyme is out
of bloom.—Why not go to-morrow —What have we to
detain us?” - -
“You forget,” replied Sir Alan, coldly, “that the Wal-
poles have promised to be in town on Monday, to give me a
sight of my little girl.” - -
“No | I did not forget their promised visit,” replied
Julia, blushing deeply; “but you never told me that little
Mary was to accompany them. I understood she was at
Weymouth for the benefit of sea air.” -
“She is at Weymouth. But Mr. and Mrs. Walpole are
of course desirous that I should see her; and, concluding
that so long a journey would be unwelcome to you, and that
I should be unwilling to leave you just now, they have
wisely and kindly decided on bringing her to town.
Mrs. Walpole is a very conscientious, as well as a very
sensible woman. However desirous of retaining her little
grandchild under her care, she is too prudent to wish that
Mary should be wholly estranged from her father.” -
“Could you not persuade her, then, to let us take the
little girl into Yorkshire;” inquired Julia, involuntarily
trembling at the motion of sharing Redwood's affections with
any other living creature. -
“No,” replied Sir Alan, fixing one of his scrutinizing
glances upon her face; “it would terrify poor Mrs. Walpole
were I so soon to demand the surrender of her little charge.
Besides, knowing you to be unaccustomed to children, I
fancy she would be alarmed at the motion of Mary's falling
to your care before you have acquired a little nursery
experience. She implied as much, indeed, in the letter I
received from her at Paris.”
“The letter he had received from Mrs. Walpole at Paris!”
—He had then received a letter, without adverting to the
contents, or even acquainting her with the circumstance.
He probably regarded the subject as too sacred for her
participation. Mrs. W. had doubtless addressed him to
advocate and defend the rights and claims of her grandchild;
or perhaps, even with a view of keeping alive the memory
of her daughter in his heart—of reminding him of “the
32 THE SEC O N D MARRIA.G. E.
former Lady Redwood;”—or of “his dear Mary 1”—Yes!
he was certainly in the habit of calling her his “dear Mary”
in his correspondence with her family.—His “dear Mary 1”
—Oh ! that another woman should have possessed—should
still possess sufficient dominion in his mind to be the object
of his endearing appellations—his lingering regrets Lady
Redwood (the second Lady Redwood) turned coldly away
from the window, observing in a tone of pique, “I dare say
Mrs. Walpole is right; I am quite of her opinion, that the
guardianship of her grandchild could not be committed to
worse hands than mime.” -
The bridegroom was now piqued in his turn. Nothing
had he so much at heart as that his gentle Julia should
attach herself to his little motherless girl, and that an affec-
tion should spring up between them. It was in the hope
that some proposal would arise on her part for Mary’s re-
turn to her matural home, that he had encouraged Mrs.
Walpole's propósal of bringing her to town ; and partly in
delicacy, or calculating perhaps too largely on the perversity
of her sex, he had opposed her suggestion only in the hope
that his apparent indifference would stimulate her own in-
clination for her daughter-in-law's company. Totally un-
prepared for her cool and abrupt dismissal of the subject, he
was for a few minutes almost inclined to express resentment
of her conduct; and nothing but the certainty that quarrels
or reproofs would form a bad preparative for the tenderness
with which he wished to inspire her, prevented him from
assuring his bride that little Mary had too happy a home
and too many friends and protectors, to be under any neces-
sity for courting the kindness of a step-mother. It was only.
by hastily quitting the room, that he escaped the temptation
of giving vent to his feelings. -
But when they met again, all was forgotten The child
did not altogether engross the hearts or minds of the bride
and bridegroom. Sir Alan, when he entered the drawing-
room a few minutes before dinner and found his lovely Julia
watching beside the window for his return, her cheek flushed
with expectation, and her lips parted by anxiety, could not
refraim from folding to his heart the beautiful being who
started up and sprang forward to welcome him home. She
had made an engagement during his absence to pass the
evening at her uncle Mr. Trevamion’s, and was attired in
something more nearly approaching to full dress than he
had seen her wear for two months past; nor could he resist
THE SEC O N D MARRIA G. E. 33.
drawing back from her embraces to contemplate, with re-
newed admiration, the graceful turn of her head, the rounded
outline of her arms, the symmetrical elegance of her whole
person. The vexations of the morning were forgotten in
Julia's delight at being again by her husband’s side;—in.
Redwood's triumph in the lavish affection of so charming,
so gifted a creature. He almost regretted that any other
eyes were to feast themselves on her beauty; and prepared
somewhat with an ill grace to fulfil their engagement to his
old friend, the remote origin of his present happiness.
The Trevanions were what is termed “serious people.”
They were not methodists—their worship was strictly or-
thodox; but so strictly, that the worldly-minded, who
grudged them a reputation and consciousness of sanctity,
for the acquirement of which themselves had no mind to
sacrifice the levities of life, branded them with the name of
“Saints,” and fled from the baleful example of their virtues.
These it is true were not arrayed in their most attractive garb.
Mrs. Trevanion's piety was of an austere and cheerless
order ; and her husband, if he refrained from the hair-shirt
and discipline of the heretic church, scrupled not to apply a
similar castigation to his mind; and on a point of principle,
to make himself and those about him as uncomfortable as he
conveniently could. On learning, for instance, the tidings
of his niece Julia's approaching marriage with a man whom
he had himself announced to the Trevelyans as every way
qualified to render her the happiest of women, he considered
it his duty to dispatch a letter to his sister, reminding her
that misfortune lurks in the palace no less than in the cabin ;
and that sickness, sorrow, and early death, appear to delight
in exercising their cruel influence in the homes of the pros-
perous. -
To the eye of a man of this description the arrival of
Lady Redwood, gay, fair, smiling, joyous, brilliant, afforded
only a theme for painful presentiments. It was not often
that so bright a creature sat smiling in his sober drawing-
room ; and while poor Sir Alan fell to the share of Mrs.
Trevanion and two sanctimonious-looking individuals of
questionable gender, who added little more to the conversa-
tion than a few hems and groans,—Julia was decoyed by
her uncle to a sofa at the other extremity of the room, to
be mortified into a more Christian frame of mind by his
Jeremiads.
34 TIHE SE COND MARIKIAGE.
“I am surprised, my dear,” said he, “that your parents
did not accompany you to England 3'-
“My father was of opinion that so long a journey was un-
desirable for mamma, during the summer heats.”
“Then you should have persuaded Sir Alan to defer his
return to England till the autumn.”
“He has busines in Yorkshire that admits of no delay.”
“Could not your marriage have been deferred till it was
possible for my sister and Trevelyan to come back with you
for its solemnization here ! My dear, I do not wish to blame
you, but I think your duty to them might have suggested
such a plan.” . - -
“Had I proposed it, my mother would have refused her
sanction. She was very anxious to hasten the marriage.”
“Ay, ay!—poor thing; I fancy she finds her health de-
clining. My dear, I do not wish to alarm you ; but at her
time of life, health is a precarious thing : and there is only
too much cause to fear, in leaving a person of her years in a
trying climate, that you may never meet again. I am sadly
afraid, my dear Julia, that—” - -
“Oh no mo,-pray do not say so,” exclaimed Lady Red-
wood in great agitation. “I assure you my mother's health
is much as I have known it for the last fifteen years. She
has promised to be with us at the Castle in October ; and I
trust, my dear uncle, you will meet her there, and admit that
your apprehensions were premature.” * * , -
“I trust so,-I am sure I trust so,” replied Mr. Trevanion
with a deep sigh ; “but I own I anticipate the worst. Pray
my love, when has Sir Alan determined to quit town º’”
“We are waiting only for Mrs. Walpole's arrival,” said
his niece blushing deeply. “She has promised to bring up
our little girl from Weymouth.” -
“Our little girl?—Oh ! little Miss Redwood I presume?
Ah poor little dear;-she comes home to live with you I
suppose ?”— -
“No, her mother's family are anxious to retain her some
time longer.” -
“And you intend to sanction such a measure ?”
“Sir Alan very maturally thinks that as her health is deli-
cate, it will be better for her to reside near the sea, and with
persons experienced in the care of children.”
“But surely, my love, you intend to resist such a determi-
nation ?”
THE SE COND MARRIAGE, 35
“And why?—I can have no object but the welfare of the
little girl.” - -
“My dear, your own future happiness cannot but be of
some account in your eyes.” -
“I must not pretend to be less selfish than other people,”
said Julia, trying to rally her spirits, which were sinking un-
der the influence of her uncle's solemn tones and lugubrious
aspect ; “but I really see no cause to fear that I shall be a
sufferer from Mrs. Walpole's kindness to her grandchild.”
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Walpole "—
“Only from Redwood's reports.” -
Mr. Trevanion said nothing, but looked, “So much the bet-
ter for you !” . . s -
“Sir Alan describes her as a sensible well intentioned
person.” - - . -
“Yes, very sensible; more sensible than tolerant or in-
dulgent. She has great influence over your husband's mind,
and you must take care that it is not exercised to your detri-
ment. In your place, I should hesitate about having the
child too long under her charge. Mrs. Walpole will prob-
ably inspire her with sentiments towards yourself, and gen-
eral principles, such as may render her hereafter a somewhat
uneasy inmate. - - -
“Do you think so 2° involuntarily ejaculated Julia.
“The life of a stepmother is commonly a stormy one,” re-
plied her uncle, without compassionating the alarm betrayed
in Lady Redwood's change of tone. “You cannot be too
much on your guard ; every step you take is important to
your future happiness; and I think it my duty to warn you
that, unless you crush the influence of the Walpole family
now, on your first assumption of your rights, you have every
thing to fear from their ascendancy. Between ourselves,
my dear Julia,”—lowering his voice to a still more confiden-
tial pitch, “the old grandmother is the most imperious wo-
man in existence, and her daughter Martha the most artful
and insinuating. During Lady Redwood’s lifetime” (Julia
shrank within herself at the name) “they did not suffer Sir
Alan to say his soul was his own ; and had he remained in
England, I very much doubt whether he would ever have
ventured to contract a second marriage.” -
“Perhaps,” faltered his niece, growing paler and paler,
more and more depressed, “perhaps it was to escape the
thraldom of the Walpole family that Sir Alan visited Italy f"
36 THE SECON D MARRIA.G.E.
“Many people thought so" rejoined old Trevanion, re-
joiced to perceive that he had gradually subdued his spright-
ly niece into a proper frame of mind. “But take my advice,
Julia. Resist from the first the innovations of these people.
Show them that you are determined to be mistress of your
own house, and to retain the Superintendence of your family;
and by exercising your firmness in the maintenance of your
rights, and your fortitude in the endurance of their persecu-
tions, you may perhaps have less cause than at present, alas!
I have reason to anticipate—for deploring the day you were
ever tempted to give your hand to a widower.”
The “widower” was just then too close at hand to admit
of a rejoinder on the part of his wife. Wearied out in pa-
tience by Mrs. Trevanion's tediousness, and the monosyl-
labic interjections of her two serious friends, he came to
remind his wife that the carriage was waiting ; and great
indeed, was his surprise, instead of being greeted with the
endearing smile he was ever in the habit of receiving, to find
her looks haggard, her words incoherent, her whole demean-
or changed. She suffered him to put on her shawl and
reiterate her adieu to her uncle and aunt, without appearing
to recognize his presence : and from Mr. Trevanion's door to
that of the Hotel in Jermyn-street, not a syllable passed
between them. Julia was silently weeping in the corner of
the carriage; and Sir Alan conjecturing, in gloomy abstrac-
tion, what mysterious communication or remonstrance on the
part of her uncle had produced so remarkable a transition in
the mood and manners of his bride.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 37
CHAPTER VII.
Love was a lambent flame that play’d about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream :
So cold herself while she such warmth express'd,
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream. DRYDEN.
THERE is no one, perhaps, more to be envied in this world,
than a youthful bride arriving at the beautiful country seat
which is to be the home of her future life, the scene of her
long career of prosperity, the birthplace of her children,
the shelter of her declining years –unless, indeed, it be the
happy individual on whose arm she contemplates its beau-
ties, and to whose preference she is indebted for its posses-
sion. Often during their courtship, and still oftener during
their bridal journey, had Redwood pictured to the delighted
Julia the fine features and picturesque associations of Far-
minghurst Castle ;—-had described the solemn grandeur of its
woods,--the extent of its sea view, the variety of its wild
and rocky glens. Curiosity had long heightened the interest
with which she regarded a spot, the scene of her husband’s
infancy and childhood; and frequently had her dreams fore-
stalled the moments of her arrival there, till she woke with
her heart beating in imaginary excitement.
Since her arrival in England, these feelings had redoubled.
Farminghurst was the spot appointed for her re-union with
her parents, from whom she was now, for the first time,
separated; and she longed to be there;—to make arrange-
ments for their reception;–to see the race of people among
whom her destinies were appointed;—to tear a leaf, if
possible, from the book of futurity.
“In this world,” says Rochefoucault, “our warmest
wishes are seldom fulfilled; or they come to pass in a way,
or at a moment, which robs them of half their charm.”
Unfortunately for the bride of Sir Alan Redwood, the happy
hour of her arrival at her princely residence, did not occur
Wol, I. E
38 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
till after her interview with the Walpoles and her martyrdom
to the interference of uncle Trevanion. Even had he
refrained from pointing out to her observation the alarming
austerity of little Mary's family, she might, perhaps, have
experienced some degree of apprehension on her first intro-
duction to the nearest relation of her predecessor; but,
aided by Mr. Trevanion's notes explanatory, she shuddered
at the rigid formality of grandmamma’s plaited lawm kerchief
and powdered toupee; and could scarcely find voice to
answer Miss Walpole's interrogations respecting her travels,
given in a tone of dry catechismal regularity savouring
awfully of the school-room. *
So much, indeed, was the gentle Julia overawed by all
she saw and all she conjectured of the Walpole family, that
she took refuge, according to the custom of timid people, in
an air of hauteur, and a tone of most repulsive coldness.
Nothing could be more mortifying to Sir Alan Redwood
than the constrained manner with which his Julia replied to
the old lady's communications respecting little Mary's health
and disposition. Lady Redwood, forewarned by her uncle,
saw clearly through the assumed amiability with which the
grandmamma was attempting to conciliate her confidence
and secure her subjugation. But she was determined not to
be caught, not to be captivated; and instead of taking her
little step-daughter on her knee, as she would have done
almost any other child as pretty and graceful, and stifling
her with kisses as her strong resemblance to her father
naturally prompted,—she scarcely deigned to notice her;
and concurred with the most ungracious alacrity in Miss
Walpole's proposal that Mary should return to Weymouth,
and reside with them another year. It was evident that this
plan afforded as much satisfaction to the stepmother as to the
aunt; but amid all Martha Walpole's delight at the motion
of retaining for some time longer the superintendence of her
motherless niece, it was plaim to the mortified Sir Alam, that
she had already conceived the greatest contempt for Lady
Redwood's pride and heartlessness. He took little Mary
into his arms, and strove to conceal his vexation of spirit by
the warmth of his caresses: and Julia's reserve did but
increase when she noted this excess of tenderness. The
mortified father was no less indignant than afflicted. How
could he conjecture that, after her careless dismissal of his
child, poor Julia retired into her own room, to weep over
the violence she had done her kind and tender feelings; or
THE SE COND MARRIAGE. 39
that her heart was beating with agitation throughout the two
formal interviews, in which she deported herself so arro-
gantly towards the family of his first wife.
Their feelings thus mutually estranged, it is not wonder-
ful that the Yorkshire journey should be silent and cheerless.
Sir Alan felt himself aggrieved, while Lady Redwood was
of opinion that nothing but the most prudent management
would preserve her from approaching martyrdom. She was
constantly on the watch to circumvent the consequences of
her husband's recent interview with her enemy, and to defeat
the influence of the Walpole family; while he, attributing
the strangeness of her manner to caprice, redoubled her
uneasiness by his resentful abstraction.
Such was the mood in which the bride and bridegroom
arrived at Farminghurst; such the temper of mind which im-
parted to Julia's beautiful feature an expression of sullen
melancholy striking consternation into the old servants and
chief tenants, and dependants, who were waiting in the hall
and courtyard to welcome her arrival.
If the haste with which she passed through the crowd and
hurried into the saloon, prevented her from hearing the
universal but involuntary ejaculation, “Ah! how unlike my
late lady!”—the feeling by which the phrase was dictated
was too apparent in the countenances of her attendants to
escape observation. Instead of the pleased alacrity which
flies to do the bidding of a cherished mistress, there was an
air of unconcern in the comings and goings of the domestics;
and in answering the few trifling inquiries she addressed to
them, Lady Redwood saw that their looks were invariably
directed towards their master, as if her approval were of no
aCCOunt. - -
But all this was of very secondary moment. From the
time of changing horses at the last stage, where the extreme
obsequiousness of landlord, landlady, waiters, ostlers, little
dogs and all, sufficed to prove that they were approaching the
confines of home, Sir Alan had sunk into the corner of the
carriage in the most mournful reverie. Instead of pointing
out to her, as she had hoped and expected, his favourite spots,
his peculiar haunts, naming such and such a wood, tracing
the course of the river, and acquainting her beside which
group of distant poplars the Redwood Mills, and behind
which jutting rock the village church lay niched in smug
concealment, his eyes wandered vaguely over the wide land-
Scape—the hedges flew by unheeded—the turnings of the
40 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
road brought new varieties of hill and dale before them,--
but the bridegroom uttered not a word ' His mind was evi-
dently absorbed in the past –“ Mary” was doubtless again
by his side —and those
Love-storied trees and passion-blighted spots
were bringing back the tender remembrances, the hallowed
regrets, which he had fled to Italy to obliterate. She ven-
tured to steal a glance towards him, and saw that his eyes
were filled with tears. How difficult she found it to restrain
her own —how dispiriting, how bitter was the sense of her
own insignificance in his eyes, of her own insufficiency to
his happiness |
Arrived at home, the evil did but increase. Not a cham-
ber, not a piece of furniture but was evidently fertile in
associations agonizing to his feelings. Instead of replying
to her questions respecting one or two noble specimens of old
masters with which the walls of the apartment were adormed,
he retired to a distant window, and gazing stedfastly on the
prospect, seemed determined to conceal his countenance from
her scrutiny. Her first thought was to quit the room, and
retire to the one appointed for her use; but she was prevented
by the fear of seeming too much at home, or wishing to fore-
stal his arrangements. She did not like to inquire of the
housekeeper the way to her own apartment, till Redwood had
expressed his choice and intentions, either privately or pub-
licly. Perhaps, in ignorance or malice, the old woman
might point out the identical chamber he had inhabited with
his first wife;—her bridal chamber,-her death-bed. Per-
haps, if the choice was referred to herself, she, unconsciously
might fix her preference on the self-same room. And them,
how terrible would it be to hear from the lips of Sir Alam,
for the first time, the name of his deceased wife —Supposing
he should say to her, “No 1 not there ;-do not choose that
chamber –it was Mary's ;-it was my wife's 1”
But no sooner did Sir Alan recover his self-possession
sufficiently to quit his post and turn towards his lady, than he
was struck by the paleness of her face.
“Are you ill, dearest Julia?” he inquired, hastening towards
her ; all his tenderness returning at the sight of her troubled
countenance. “Has the journey been too much for you ?”
“I am indeed greatly fatigued,” said she, recovering
some portion of her bloom, as a guilty blush overspread her
cheeks, in terror that Sir Alan should surmise the origin of
her uneasiness,
*THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 41
“Will you lie down on the sofa till dinner time !—Or
would you like to come at once to your own room ?—
“At once to my own room,” faintly articulated Lady Red-
wood. “But do not let me trouble you; I dare say Sterling
can show me the way.”
“No ſ” replied Sir Alan, proudly, almost sternly, “do
not deny me the pleasure of conducting you thither myself.
It is a happiness I have long and eagerly anticipated.”
With the air of a culprit, Julia accordingly accepted the
arm tendered to her support. But as she slowly ascended
the grand stair case by the side of her husband, the whole
scene seemed to swim before her eyes. Instead of noticing
the fine bronzes decorating the hall, or the magnificent vases
of Sèvres and Mandarin China placed at intervals along the
galleries, her thoughts were engrossed by the consideration,
—“Will he take me to his old room,--to her room ?—Does
everything remain there as in her time !—Should any trifling
object belonging to her meet his eye, will his feelings be over-
come by the sight;-and will he visit upon me his conscious-
ness of infidelity to her memory !”
Nor were her terrors wholly groundless. There is not a
spot in the wide world where the force of custom is so power-
ful as in an oldfashioned English country-house. Routine
reigns there with its most despotic rule. In the household
of the genuine Squire, it is held as impossible to breakfast
elsewhere than in the breakfast-parlour, to dime in any other
than the diming-room, or hang a hat in any other place than
the hall, as it would appear to an official man to transact
colonial business at the Home Office, or arrange some diplo-
matic difficulty by reference to the Board of Control. The
Baronets of Redwood, for the last four generations, had ap-
propriated to themselves a certain suite called the North
Rooms, consisting of an ante-room, bed-chamber, and two
dressing-rooms; and it would have seemed quite as extrava-
gant to Mrs. Haynes, the housekeeper, for the master of the
house to inhabit any other portion of it, as that he should
build a nest among the jackdaws in the parish steeple. Sir
Alan, in writing down to the Castle that Lady Redwood and
himself might be expected on such a day, had desired, in-
deed, explicitly, that the Chintz-room might be aired; but as
he limited his communication to this solitary order, Mrs.
Haynes maturally concluded that some member of the “new
lady’s” family would accompany them, to whose use it was
destined; and had been careful to direct the footman to carry
E*
42 - THE SECON D MARRIAGE.
my lady's trunks and imperials to the North Room, and to
induct my lady's maid, Mrs. Sterling, into the same locality.
When Sir Alan accordingly threw open the pretty airy
chamber he had selected for his wife, nothing was visible but
the noble prospects from the windows, the lofty chintz bed,
and the snowy muslim toilet-table. There were no packages,
—no dressing-boxes, no Mrs Sterling ; and the truth in-
stantly flashed on his mind. He started with an involuntary
shudder at the idea of the annoyance he had escaped by
offering himself as Lady Redwood's conductor. The move-
ment did not escape her. Nothing could be plaimer than his
agitation; and she was now convinced that “Mary” had ac-
tually breathed her last in the lofty chintz bed,—had directed
her dying eyes to that beautiful landscape, and taken her last
look of her own faded countenance in that very tiring mirror
It was well for her that Sir Alan hastily quitted the room to
give orders for the removal of her baggage to her new apart-
ment, or her perturbation could not have passed unnoticed.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 43
CHAPTER VIII.
Oh! noble Love
That thou couldst be without this jealousy,
Without this passion of the heart, how lovely
Wouldst thou appear !
BEAUMoNT AND FLETCHER.
LADY REDwooD had now been two months a wife. Her
bridal awkwardness had in some measure worn off; and
she was now familiarized to the custom of sitting at the head
of the table, and undergoing all the formal ceremonial of
dinner. ^ .
But on entering the magnificent eating-room at Farming-
hurst Castle, a new source of embarassment overcame all
her self-possession. It was not the sight of the magnificent
family pictures, the Barons Redwood by Holbein and Zuc-
chero, and Baronets by Vandyke, Lely, Kneller, and Rey-
molds;–it was not the gorgeous beauty of Venetia Lady
Redwood, from the pencil of Gervas; or of Selina Lady
Redwood, from the hand of Hoppner, that suspended her
footsteps on the threshold;—it was, that she was about
herself to assume the post of Mary Lady Redwood—it was
that she was about to occupy, directly in the eyes of Sir
Alam, the place and station filled by his late wife'ſ As she
advanced towards the board spread with costly plate, and a
dinner of the most recherché kind, she almost expected
to find “the table full " to see her predecessor, pale and
menacing as the ghost of Banquo, arise and “push her from
her stoolſ” Sir Alan saw her hesitation; but, not under-
standing its motive, said and did nothing to assist her.
“This long table looks tremendously formal, faltered
Julia, flushing scarlet, with the effort she made to speak.
44 THE SECONIO MARRIA GTE.
“Will you allow me to have my chair placed nearer to
you?—I think I should like to act company to-day, and sit
at your right hand.”
“Willingly, willingly,” cried Sir Alan, for a moment
pleased by a proposal that seemed to spring from the desire
of being near him. “Mansel ! place Lady Redwood's chair
here.” And he looked smilingly upon her, and would have
extended his hand to welcome her to her new seat, but that
he was restrained by the attendance of two or three inquisi-
tive servants. He had not, however, finished his soup before
his views of the case were entirely altered. He now con-
jectured that the beautiful Julia disdained to preside over his
household board: that she despised the common-place regu-
larity of his old-fashioned mansion ; that she was determined
to play the fine lady from the beginning, by a refusal to
comply with even the most ordinary forms of matronly duty.
How often had he heard the equanimity of her temper set
forth by the encomiums of her doating parents How often
had Mr. Trevelyan assured him that, from the hour of her
birth to that which saw her at the altar, she had never given
them a single moment's uneasiness; never frustrated their
will ; never thought or acted but at the suggestion of those
in authority over her Alas, poor man l—he had been but
eight weeks a husband, and already Lady Redwood had con-
trived to wound his feelings, mortify his pride, disturb his
º traverse the customs of his house, and alienate
is child from his roof. This was his gentle, sweet, sub-
missive bride; this was the lovely being who, for six months
of careful deliberation, he had watched, examined, probed,
assayed, in selfish anxiety to secure himself from an ill-
assorted marriage—an unquiet home !
Wexatious, indeed, was that first evening passed at the
Castle !—Julia sat apart with swelling bosom and gloomy
countenance; framing within herself a thousand wild con-
jectures — a thousand mournful forebodings; — while Sir
Alan, seated in his arm-chair, bent his head over a book,
to conceal his distemperature of spirits and countenance. ,
Lady Redwood attributed all this discomposure to the linger-
ing influence of his first wife. But she was mistakém : it
was the second only—it was herself—who was the cause of
his uneasiness.
It is not to be supposed that a friend so highly esteemed
as the worthy Maria Wilmot, had been neglected by her
pupil on occasion of the brilliant marriage which had
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 45
crowned the destinies moulded under her auspices. Many a
querulous letter had been despatched from Rome to Devizes,
during poor Julia’s season of tender disquietude; and when
the auspicious moment of proposal and acceptance came at
last, her kind preceptress was the first and only person to
whom the lovely heiress addressed a confession of her
triumph.
“I know you will be satisfied with my prospects,” wrote
poor Julia, “I am persuaded that even you, so indifferent to
the value of worldly things, will admit me to be a very fortu-
mate, and likely to be a very happy woman. Sir Alan Red-
wood’s principles are as severe as even you, my dear friend,
could desire. I am not going to marry the flirty, frivolous
man of fashion you have so often laughingly predicted to me.
My chosen husband is fonder of solitude than society, of
the country than town, of books than men,_of study than
pleasure. We shall forget the world in each other's sole so-
ciety, and spend the greater portion of our lives at Farming-
hurst and Trevelyan. I have not a hope or a wish ungratifi-
ed, unless that I may have virtue to support as I ought, so
unmerited an influx of prosperity.”
To this effusion of girlish ecstasy, Miss Wilmot replied
imore after the manner of the governess than of the woman
of the world. Instead of perceiving that Julia, flattered
into a goddess, was inaccessible to vulgar arguments of mor-
tal policy, or lessons of divine wisdom, she wrote to remon-
strate with her young friend’s too confident elation of spir-
its, to remind her of the instability of sublunary happi-
ness. Uncle Trevanion might have been, perhaps, more
prosy, but he could not have been more ill-judging ; for Ju-
lia, apprehensive of provoking a further rebuke, refrained
from all communication with her prudent admonitress.
£xperience had not yet taught her how welcome is the
refreshing verdure of the evergreen of friendship after the
summer flowers of love have blossomed and died away !
But no sooner was the sky overcast, no sooner did the
occurrences of her London visit tend to remind Lady Red-
wood that she was not alone exempted from the common
cares of humanity, than her spirit yearned towards the kind
and wise woman who had so often cheered her under the
petty vexations arising from the over solicitude of her par-
ents. It was not over solicitude from which she was now
suffering, it was not the dread that Sir Alan should love her
too tenderly for her comfort, that rendered her stay in Jer-
46 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
myn-street so uneasy—her journey to the north so tedious ;
and yet the present irritation had precisely the same effect as
her transient Trevelyan Park fits of the sorrowfuls;–for it
made her eager for Miss Wilmot's assuaging pity, Miss
Wilmot's cheering arguments, Miss Wilmot's mild philoso-
phy. As she sat on the evening of her arrival, with her
eyes now intent on her husband's studies and now on the
pattern of his carpet, she was revolving in what terms to ad-
dress her old friend so as to obtain her counsel and commis-
eration, without rendering her too anxious, or inducing her
to hasten the return from Italy of Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan,
and above all, without inferring an unkind feeling towards
Sir Alan. -
Unluckily, the evening was only too propitious to Julia's
desponding frame of mind. Summer was already on the
wane, and the Autumn seemed inclined to look in upon the
earth and remind it of stormy days to come. A high wind
arose during dinner, which now howled desolately among
the high old Gothic chimmies, and swept fearfully along the
echoing corridors. Distant doors (the sound of which, at
present unfamiliar to her, seemed ominous and awful) now
and then clapped to with a startling noise. The very can-
dles beside which Sir Alan Redwood sat reading, flared and
fleckered with the gusts of wind that penetrated the old fash-
ioned oriel windows. Nothing could be more desolating
than the sounds and sights around her. -
At length, the butler entered with his tray of bed candle-
sticks, and an inquiry whether her ladyship chose supper ;
and great indeed was the surprise of the old man to observe
the bride-groom seated in his usual reading chair, tranquilly
perusing a new number of the Quarterly Review and the
bride at the opposite side of the room with a work box open on
the table near her, but evidently doing nothing and saying as
little. “If this is new-fashioned honey-mooning,” thought
old Mansel (as he proceeded to inform the household that my
lady did not eat supper, and that Mrs. Sterling was to go up
to my lady's room)—“give me the old. I never saw Sir
Alam so down-hearted in my late lady's time. Pray Heaven
things may be going on right between the young people.”
According to Lady Redwood's order, her own maid was
now sauntering up the back staircase to await her in her
dressing-room. But had not Julia been afraid of exciting Sir
Alan's surmises, she would certainly have desired Mrs.
Sterling to attend on her at the drawing-room door to accom-
TIIIE SECOND MARRIAGE. 47
pany her to her chamber. Between the dispiriting state of
the weather and the train of reflections she had been pursu-
ing, it was far from agreeable to her to think of crossing the
great hall alone. But having lingered a considerable time in
the hope her husband would bear her company, she suddenly
took up her candle and prepared to quit the room.
Sir Alan who was seriously hurt and displeased, now
raised his eyes from his book, with a cold inquiry, whether
she could find her way; and Julia's pride, doubly roused by
his tone of indifference, naturally suggested an answer in the
affirmative. With faltering steps she accordingly made her
way along the dimly illuminated vestibules and passages,
where the tall bronze statues seemed frowning at her from
their niches as she passed. The grand staircase was painted
in fresco with devices of some Roman triumph ; and casting
a trembling glance upon its phalanxes, Lady Redwood could
have almost persuaded herself that the eyes of the centurions
glared out fiercely upon her. With hurried footsteps she
hastened along the passage she had traversed before dimmer
on Sir Alan Redwood's arm ; but now, in her trepidation
Inothing was easier than to mistake the door of her own room,
when with a trembling hand she flung open the one she
fancied must belong to the chintz bed-chamber. She was
mistaken. It was that of an old fashioned apartment seldom
used ; and the first thing that greeted her was the funeral
achievement of the late Lady Redwood, with its black bor-
dering, and skull and cross bones ; which had been taken
down in expectation of her arrival, and put there to be out of
the way ! -
With some difficulty Julia refrained from shrieking aloud
as this ill-omened object met her view. But hastily with-
drawing from the unlucky chamber, she called aloud for Mrs.
Sterling, and in a minute the smart person of her attendant
emerged from a door at the further end of the coridor; and,
for a moment, Lady Redwood's nervous terrors were tran-
quillized. -
One of the happy results of the strict system of Julia's
education was a disinclination for familiarity with servants.
She was not in the habit of conversing with her maid on any
thing but the duties of her calling ; and Mrs. Sterling would
have been as much astonished at an idle question from the
lips of her young mistress, as from those of one of the
statues in the hall. Nevertheless, on the present occasion
Lady Redwood would have given worlds for courage to
48 THE SECOND MARRIAGE,
hazard a single sentence with her attendant. But she was
still so young, so timid, so apprehensive of provoking
impertinent criticisms, that the words expired on her lips as
she attempted to frame an inquiry whether the chamber ap-
propriated to her use was in truth that of her predecessor.
Mrs. Sterling, meanwhile, catching a few words, managed,
to confirm her suspicions. “The housekeeper had orders
from Sir Alan,” she said, “that every thing should be ex-
actly as it was in her late lady's time; ” and the long process
of brushing and curling the present lady's beautiful chesnut
hair, and of folding and laying aside the present lady’s silken
robes, being at length completed, the waiting-woman, tired
by her day's journey, hastened to light the might-lamp, draw
the bed curtains, and inquire at what hour Lady Redwood
would please to be called on the following morning ;-adding
that “her late ladyship always breakfasted with Sir Alan, in
the study, at nine o'clock.”
Julia knew not what she answered. She was wondering
what construction Sterling would put upon her conduct,
should she desire her to stay till her master made his appear-
ance. But while still framing the terms of the request so as
to make it appear as unimportant as possible, the sleepy wo-
man glided out of the room, and the sleepless one was left
alone.—Alone !
The wind howled; a wailing voice seemed mingled with
its whistling gusts; and the flame of the veilleuse was bowed
jalmost into darkness, as they swept too and fro over its
crystal vase. Lady Redwood had listened and listened, for
the retiring footsteps of her maid, but all was now silent;
—she heard nothing but the panting of her own breath, as
she lay half hidden among her downy pillows. Perhaps
Redwood might be already in his dressing-room ?—and why
should she patiently endure the perturbation by which she
was oppressed, when a slight effort of courage would bring
her into his presence —She abjured her pride,-she forgot
her pique;—she determined (whatever construction he might
place on the proceeding) to make her way into his room.
Stealing from the bed without pausing to throw on her
dressing-gown but hastily inserting her feet in her silken
slippers, she seized the veilleuse; and opening the door of
her own dressing-room, which divided that of Sir Alan from
the bed-chamber, was about to traverse it, when an irresist-
ible impulse induced her to shrink back and close the door.
There is something in the aspect of a large, dark, deserted,
THE SE COND MARRIAGE. 49
unfamiliar chamber, dimly lighted by a lamp, very uninvit-
ing to a person of weak nerves. The thought struck her
that even there the late Lady Redwood had probably lain in
Solemn preparation for the grave;—that there—in that room,
which she must have often crossed in the happy ſamiliarity
of matronly affection to consult with her husband,-in that
very room the trappings of her funeral array had probably
darkened the cheerful hangings and displaced the gay
furniture.
“This is childish,_this is degrading !” faltered poor
Julia, as the moisture rose on her brow ; and she sat down
on the nearest chair with the veilleuse in her hand, in hopes
to regain her strength and courage. “A moment’s space
would suffice to convey me to dear Redwood's presence.
In his arms I should forget all these foolish fears. I will
cross the dressing-room.—What is there to alarm me?”
Again she listened;—again the wind howled fearfully in
the corridor. Nay, its voice seemed breathing with a pecu-
liarly melancholy inflection from the very bed she had just
quitted.—Its long curtains carefully drawn around, now
seemed to exclude her; or rather, to conceal some unseen
and mysterious occupant. “It was here she used to lie;—it
was there her expiring breath called upon Redwood's name;
—perhaps adjuring him to be faithful to her memory,+
perhaps, I cannot—cannot stay here; I will go to him,”
sobbed the agonized Julia; and again throwing open the
door of the dressing-room, with the ordinary impression of
nervous persons that something was pursuing her which she
dared not turn round and confront, she crept across the
shadowy apartment.
But, lo 1 scarcely had she attained half the way, when the
opposite door opened slowly, and a tall white figure, partly
enveloped in a black drapery, stood before her. She saw
not the face of the spectre; but with one long piercing
shriek, fell insensible on the floor
*.
VoI. I. f
50 THE SECON D MARRIAGE •
CHAPTER IX.
Stay illusion :
If thou hast any sound or use of voice,
Speak to me !
If there be any good thing to be done
That may to thce do ease, and grace to me,
Speak to me !
HAMLET.
It is an unlucky circumstance, inseparable from the forms
of civilized life, that domestic catastrophes can no longer
take place without the intervention of servants; by whose
voluminous reporting, cases of squabbles between my lord
and my lady at the dinner the breakfast or the supper table,
—during an airing in the britschka, or a row on the lake,
are sure to find their way all over the country. Sir Alan
Redwood's first impulse on finding his Julia cold and breath-
less on the floor of her dressing-room, was to ring violently
for the assistance of her maid; and both Mrs. Sterling, and
the housekeeper, and even old Mansel, contrived to make
their appearance on the scene in time to see her lying in-
sensible on the sofa, with “master” bending over her, as well
as to hear the first incoherent expressions of her returning
conscientiousness. “Redwood, Redwood, why did you
bring me hither?—Why expose me to this horrible visita-
tion ?”—It was necessarily settled in the steward’s room the
following morning, that “my lady had seen something !”
“My lady’s” popularity in her new household, which had
already assumed a very doubtful aspect, was now at an end.
“If their poor dear first lady could not rest in her grave be-
cause of Sir Alan's giving such a stepmother to poor dear
little Miss Mary, the case must be very bad indeed " The
under-housemaid protested “she would not stand in my lady's
THE SEC O N D MAR R.I.A. G. E. 51
shoes, not for the vally of all the 'state of Farminghurst
Castle;” and one very nervous laundry-maid, much addict-
ed to novels and green tea, actually resigned office, and went
to wring wet limen and her own hands in some less ghostly
establishment.”
The first thing accordingly that transpired of the new
Lady Redwood in the neighbouring town of Farmington,
was that the castle became haunted from the moment she set
foot in it; and that she was a proud, arrogant, hoity-toity
woman, who would not so much as sit at the head of her
husband’s table ! Rumours, like clouds, gather as they go.
The children belonging to the late Lady Redwood’s various
village schools, having imperfectly caught the general tenor
of the reports gossipped over beside the cottage hearths, mis-
taking the effect for the cause, insisted that the new lady
herself was the spectral apparition ; and the first time poor
Julia, recovering from her temporary indisposition, drove
down to the village in the pony-cart with her husband, a
general consternation seemed to seize the little congregation
drawn out for her inspection. Instead of receiving with joy-
ful gratitude the largesse bestowed upon them by their new
patroness, instead of looking with admiration on her snowy
robes and beautiful face, the trembling urchins held together
by the hand with looks of terror and aversion, and regarded
her benefaction as “fairy money,” likely to bring misfortunes
on the possessor.
Tears came into Lady Redwood's eyes as she quitted the
school-house. She could not blind herself to the ungracious
mode of her reception,--to the stern glances bent on her by
the schoolmistress, to the loathing looks of the poor chil-
dren. “I see how it is,” thought she, as the pony-chaise
jolted along a beautiful green lane, matted with hazel bushes
and fragrant with honeysuckle; “they were too long the
objects of the first Lady Redwood's bounty to look on me
without disgust. They regard me as an interloper;-I will
never go among them again.”—
“I trust, dearest Julia,” whispered Sir Alan, pleased to
see the old people totler to the doors of the several cottages
to make an obeisance to his beautiful bride, “I trust you will
find an interesting source of occupation in promoting the
welfare of these poor creatures. I have been accustomed to
regard them as a charge committed to my guardianship. I
am sure you will aid me in the discharge of so sacred a duty;
—I am sure you will visit and comfort them *—
52 T IIIE SECON D MARRIAGE.
I have been accustomed” sounded in the ears of poor Lady
Redwood very like “Mary and I were accustomed.” Her
heart, which was aching before, rebelled against the instiga-
tion. “I can trust to Sterling,” said she, “to be my dele-
gate. Papa never liked me to go into the cottages at Treve-
lyan ; he ſancied my health might suffer.”
Stung to the heart by her cold selfishness, Sir Alan uncon-
sciously administered a sharp cut of the whip to the little Shet-
land he was driving. Hard-heartedness in a woman is a
hideous thing;-hard-heartedness in a wife is a revolting one;
hard heartedness in Julia—the beauty, the heiress, the favoured
of Heaven, a crying sin! He might perhaps have been tempted
to give vent to his feelings, but that they were now entering
the vicarage-lane ; and that a low paling, surmounted by a
wall of Portugal laurel, döminated by six tall steeples of
poplar trees, ancient and stalwart and mossy, soon proclaimed
them to have arrived at their destination. Although she had
set out with the intention of a bridal visit to Dr. and Mrs.
Hobart, the vicar and vicaress of Farmington, Lady Red-
wood would now have willingly declined the exertion; but
on mentioning to Sir Alan that she was suffering from an
excruciating head-ach, his hasty reply demonstrated that the
vicarage visit was inevitable. Remembering the brilliant
bloom with which she had made her appearance at the break-
fast table, and unaware of the painful impressions she had
been imbibing at the school-house, he did not hesitate to
attribute her plea to caprice or affectation. She wanted to
play the fine lady to Mrs. Hobart, or the despot to himself.
Resistance was useless ; Julia, mildly submitting to his de-
cree, soon found herself stepping from the chaise under a
porch covered with a profusion of the sweet scented clamatis.
Having reached the parlour, a small compact wooden
figure, in a slate coloured gown, rose, curtsied, and pointed
to a very severe looking arm-chair ; and poor Lady Redwood
found that her husband’s announcement of Mrs. Hobart's
cold formality of address had not been overcharged. After
two minute's silence, broken by a polite inquiry from Sir
Alan after “his friend Hobart,” the figure rose again, and
rang the bell; when the footboy who had ushered them in
having made his re-appearance and ducked his head to his
silent mistress by means of a tug inflicted on the central lock
of a shaggy red mane, she desired him to step to the vestry,
and let the Doctor know Sir Alan and my Lady were there.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 53
“You seem to have a very pretty garden : " said Lady
Redwood, in a conciliating tone.
“The Doctor is fond of flowers, and takes pleasure in
cultivating it.” -
“It strikes me that the finest flowers are generally to be
found in old-fashioned gardens. Do you not think that
stocks, and cabbage-roses, and homey-suckles are generally
far more beautiful in old farm-houses than in the choicest
nursery grounds !”
Mrs. Hobart was affronted. “The Doctor gets his plants
and seeds from the first florist in the county.” -
“I saw you, Mrs. Hobart, at a distance, when we drove
into the village,” said Sir Alan. “I conclude you were
frightened in by the overclouding of the weather ?”
“The Doctor told me before he•went out that it would not
rain ; so I was under no such apprehension.”
“Hobart is, I know, an infallible weather-glass ; ” re-
plied the patron ; “ thanks, I fear, to his rheumatism. Ah!
here he comes ' " º |
Lady Redwood's hopes that the entrée of the Vicar would
serve to animate the scene, were very speedily undeceived.
Mrs. Hobart, who was but the 'sympathetic reflection of a
human being and destitute of an idea of her own, could no
longer quote the Doctor when he was actually in presence;
and as to Hobart himself, he was precisely the man to inflict
martyrdom on poor Julia.
The Vicar of Farmington was an interpreter of minikin
mysteries, a prophet on a small scale, a diamond edition
of Albertus Magnus, a duodecimo Roger Bacon, a minia-
ture Faust,--a mimini-pimini Galileo ; dabbled in chemis-
try; passed for an antiquary with the maiden ladies of the
neighbourhood;—was the proprietor of half a dozen_black
letter editions;–corresponded with the Gentleman's Maga-
zine;—and, in the course of a second glass of negus, had
been known to hint himself as the Philanthropos of the
Statesman newspaper.—Generally speaking, an individual
of this sort of universal genius, is a man of words ; but Ho-
bart was intrinsically and exclusively a man of letters. Sus-
picious perhaps (for the most arrogant pretenders have often
a tolerable insight into their real value) that his sayings were
of very small account in the ears of mankind, he strove to
increase their importance—as the Dutch planters augment
the price of their spices, by glearing the market with a
F - -
j
54 THE SEC ON D M A R R.I.A.G. E.
bonfire—by rendering them not only few and far between,
but by giving utterance to his oracles in an unintelligible
whisper. He would not inquire of one of his tithepaying
farmers after the health of his cart-horse without taking him
aside for so interesting an investigation;–was always to be
found wispering in a window seat at the squirearchical dim-
mers of the parish ;-and shook his head with as much mys-
terious emphasis while bargaining in a corner for some old
higgier's new laid eggs, as would have procured him con-
siderable deference at a visitation dinner of the diocese.
But if so mysterious the course of his intercourse with the
every day world, what was the extent of his empty solemnity
in his communication with his patron 1—In presence of Sir
Alan, his aspect grew as hieroglyphical as the Pyramids;–
his face was “a mystery” without being a “beauty;”—his
discourse all periphrasis;–his “nods and winks” were preg-
mant with emphasis and implication; and as to his “wreathed
smiles,” not a simper of them but contained a judicial ver-
dict —Not a word did the Doctor utter, but “denoted a fore-
gone conclusion; his dissertations (without a key) were as
incomprehensible as a fashionable novel; and his allusions
to “certain persons,”—and “certain events,”—and “one
who shall be nameless,” and “a mutual friend of ours whom
it is needless to specify,” would have defied the exposition
of Messieurs Boswell, Croker, or Thomas Hill. -
His ko-tou to the bride reverentially but silently performed,
Dr. Hobart commenced an inquiry, partly by signs and sym-
bols, and partly by word of mouth, “whether Sir Alan had
received his letter of the 21st instant, relative to an interest-
ing occurrence;—and whether he might consider himself
justified in the inferences he had formed on the occasion,
relative to his patron's wishes on a certain head?”—
Redwood, albeit, well-used to the Vicar's tendency to
monster his own nothings, and those of other people, could
scarcely refrain from a smile as he proceeded to invest his
reply to the question in the plain English of “Yes, my dear
Doctor; and I have no doubt Lady Redwood will like green
baize hassocks quite as well as red;” but Hobart was not to
be defrauded of his opportunity, . It might suit the proprie-
tor of Farminghurst Castle to admit his “womankind” into
the cabinet council; but the proprietor of Farmington Vicar-
age knew better. He was well aware by what means he
had succeded in enshrining himself as a divinity, a Magnus
Apollo, -a Socrates in a surplice,—in the eyes of his little
THE SECON D MARRIAG E. 55
T)utch doll of a wife —and had no mind to rend in her
presence, the vail of his Temple of Mystery.
Laying violent hands on the button of the Baronet, he
accordingly drew him into the furthest window, placed him
with his back to the ladies, and left nothing visible to the
anxious Julia but his own self-important face—creaming and
mantling like the standing pool, and foreshowing the nature
of a tragic volume.
What could they be talking about? What could the Doctor
be saying to Sir Alan in that sympathizing tone, that depre-
cating whisper, which required the enforcement of so much
shaking of his well-powdered head, so much wagging of his
forefinger, so many furtive glances towards herself, to ascer-
tain that she was not listening ;—so many whispered but
audible injunctions to the Baronet to speak lower;-to re-
member that they were not alone —now and then, an italic-
ized word reached her ears through the measured drome of
Mr. Hobart's wishy-washy conversation; such as, “poor
thing;”—“the feelings of a woman so circumstanced ;”—“a
voice addressing us from the grave;” and without the least
suspecting that the mystery enveloped a communication from
Hobart, as vicar, to Redwood, as magistrate, concerning a
peccadillo of one of the female parishioners of the former,
who was expiating the laxity of her morals on the treadmill
upon six ounces of bread per diem, she referred every inter-
jection, every sigh and evey grimace, to some direful circum-
stance connected with his former patroness. w
“I will step up to the Castle, and have a few minutes'
private conversation with you on the subject,” was the Doc-
tor's concluding sentence, when Sir Alan, to the eminent
peril of his button, at length tore himself from the window
Seat.
“Do, Doctor,” said Redwood, enchanted to have pro-
cured even a short respite. “You will always find me open
to your arguments;–but the less I hear on this painful sub-
ject the better. It is now too late.”
“Too late 1'-Poor Julia.
The visit was soon at end ; but not so the increased and
increasing distress arising to Lady Redwood from Dr.
Hobart's diplomatic tone and impressive pantomime. Although
Sir Alan was keenly alive to his Vicar's foible, he respected
him too much as a good man to hold him up to ridicule for
not being a wise one ; and instead of pointing out to Julia, or
even admitting that he had not a grain of confidence in Dr
56 THE SE COND MARRIA GTS,
Hobart, nor the slightest inclination for the numberless
private audiences insisted on by that worthy divine, he con-
sidered it his duty to maintain the importance of the Vicar
of Farmington, in the eyes of his household, by indulging
those little innocent vagaries of his self-importance which
did no harm to either of them. Whenever the man of mys-
tery visited the Castle, Sir Alan either withdrew with him to
the library, or talked with him in mysterious whispers at the
furthest extremity of the room; and it was really no great
stretch of Lady Redwood's morbid sensibility to believe that
weighty business was transacted between them, in which she
was not suffered to participate; that they had a secret in com-
mon of painful import and unequalled interest. Sometimes
the name of Walpole transpired amid their whispers ; and
though it arose only from Dr. Hobart's inquiry after the old
lady's rheumatism when she last wrote, Julia no longer
doubted that the gentleman in black was in collusion with that
dreadful family; and that, in all probability, he transmitted
to Weymouth a regular diary of the proceedings at the
Castle. And this was the individual with whom a large
fraction of her country life would be passed :—this was the
man who was to dine with her every Saturday, exhort her
every Sunday,+regulate her beneficence to the poor, and
her intercourse with those whose young ideas were being
taught to shoot at her cost and care I Dr. and Mrs. Hobart,
and a husband whose heart was wedded to the grave, were
the companions destined to replace her doating parents, her
discriminating friend Miss Wilmot. She almost longed to be
back again on the once familiar gravel-walk at Trevelyan
Park. Nay, she would have swallowed the bitterest concoc-
tion devised by the malice of Buchan, only to feel her father's
hand laid in benediction on her head, or her mother's clasped
in yet tenderer endearment within her own —
"THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 57
CHAPTER IX.
A goodly spot,
With lawns, and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellice-work in long arcades,
And cirque and crescent, framed by wall
Of close-clipt foilage, green and tall,
Converging walks and ſountains gay,
And terraces in trim array. WoRDsworth.
It is very well for philosophers, who dry up their tears with
the dust of mouldy libraries, to affect superiority to the ordi-
nary vexations of life. But of what but petty cares and petty
pleasures, is the grand Bum total of destiny composed ? He-
roes and heroines bear a small proportion to the mighty
multitude of their fellow-creatures; and for one individual
who perishes by the Brobdignagian sabre-cut, a thousand
are exposed to Lilliputian warfare; ten thousand doomed to
the pin's-prick martyrdom of trivial afflictions.
Lady Redwood had youth, beauty, virtue, fortune—was
blest in affectionate parents and a husband of her own select-
tion. But it was clear that she was fated to be a miserable
woman: a single clear petrifying drop was incessantly drip-
ping upon her head and chilling her to stone. The beauti-
ful park of Farminghurst attracted day by day a host of
admiring visitors to expatiate on the majesty of its woods,
the variety of its prospects; but to the eye of the fair crea-
ture to whom they were as the dryad-haunt of daily life,
they said nothing, less than nothing :--her fancy was
disenchanted,—the blight of disappointment was already on
her young heart —Without sister or brother or congenial
spirit to exhaust the early impulses of her warm affections,—
without romantic associations or romantic studies to exalt
58 THE SECON D MARRIAGE.
her imagination or bewilder her passions—-Julia Trevelyan's
feelings had flowed undeviatingly in the pure channel marked
out by nature. She had loved her tiresome father and moth-
er dutifully and patiently –she had prepared herself to love
her highly-gifted husband passionately and exclusively.—
Was he not her chosen one, her own, -her only ;-the com-
panion of her mortal pilgrimage,_the partner of its crown-
ing immortality.
By how many chilling negatives were these and similar
questions o be frozen into silence —No 1 he was not hers;–
never, never could be hers.-He belonged to his dead wife
—his living child,—to the whole tribe of Walpole,_to any
and every one but her ;-to the mysterious vicar, the im-
portunate bailiff-to stewards, tenants, gamekeepers, and
constables Every human being at Farminghurst seemed
to have a claim on his time, a title to his personal interest.
Bid he accompany his bride in a morning ride, every farmer
who approached had his private tale to disclose, his peti-
tions to advance to his landlord, regardless of the value pla-
ced by the repining Julia on every word proceeding from
Redwood's lips, every glance emanating from Redwood's
eyes. Did she persuade him, on their return, to adjourn
with her to the library, and lavish the delightful hour
of leisure preceding the dinner-bell on new books, old
engravings, or passages from a favourite author shared in
common, the mysterious vicar was sure to drop in, with a
face as secret as a despatch box, to draw his patron to a
distant window, and engage him in discourse, in which Sir
Alan's air of absorbed attention plainly denoted his inter-
est. In a moment he seemed to forget her presence, and to be-
come indifferent to her embarrassment. Nay she could not
so much as reckon on an unmolested stroll with him through
the beautiful shrubberies. Every minute the head gar-
dener was at their side,-imploring instructions, demonstrat-
ing impossibilities, and courting praise from his master ;-
while Julia, instead of rewarding him with her approval,
fairly wished him at the bottom of one of his much vaunted
melon pits. g -
Now had Lady Redwood been assured of possessing her
husband’s entire affection,-had she felt satisfied that, confer
with whom he would,—debate with whom he must,-she
was the one sole object to which inclination would have
directed his time and thoughts, – vicar, steward, bailiff,
butler, down to the game-keeper's crop-eared terrier, might
THE SE COND MARRIA GE. 59
have shared his attention without exciting her uneasiness.
She would have entered into all his solicitudes, all his pur-
suits;—nor envied a single whisper, nor been jealous of a
single ea parte audience. But a woman whose mind is per-
plexed by doubts of her husband’s attachment, sees mischief
in every thing. She persuaded herself indeed that a husband
of but two months standing, ought to feel as impatient as
herself of Dr. Hobart's importunities, as indifferent as her
own heart to the fall of his timber and the rise of his under-
wood. If the vulgar cares of life were thus early to break
in upon their intercourse, where was that blessed, that un-
interrupted communion of wedded hearts, for which so many
well-rhymed stanzas had bespoken her admiration;–on
which “so much metre and much pains” have been from
time immemorial thrown away, Oh! those poetical dreams
of her youth !—those visions of the starry sky, the flowery
vallies, and the quiet woods, enjoyed in sympathizing lone-
liness with the man of her heart, of her choice,—her better,
her far more precious self! Was all to end in colloquies
with the game-keeper about breaking a litter of setter-pup-
pies,—or with a Scotch gardener about the best mode of
cultivating the hundred-headed cabbage 7–Here was an end
for her romance;—here a commencement of the common-
place realities of life —Was it worth while to lavish the pure
incense of her heart, that
Rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
on one who cared more for the mash about to be administer-
ed to his favourite mare, than for a walk with her by moon-
light on the terrace 7–and who preferred a debate with the
Doctor touching the new tiling of the workhouse, to her own
quotations from Byron and Mrs. Hemans ? The thing was
only too apparent l—Nothing but a heart whose energies
were destroyed,—a mind whose polish was worn off by de-
votion to one pre-engrossing object, could be capable of such
trifling, such paltry, such mercenary worldliness —
It had been well for a woman thus misguided, to have
been united with a husband stationed somewhat higher,
or somewhat lower, in the scale of human dignities; with
one who possessed no delegates to require his superinten-
dence, or a dignity too supreme to admit of contact with them.
He was just planted on that round of fortune's ladder best
calculated to add to the amount of her cares.
People who brood over their sorrows, are usually success-
60 THE SEC ON D MARRIAGE.
ful in hatching a numerous covey ; and those who sit “nurg-
ing their rage to keep it warm,” are sure of a comfortable
temperature of indignation. Solitary meditation did but dis-
tort the medium through which Sir Alan Redwood’s conduct
was viewed by his wiſe; and at length, after a dialogue with
herself of which the arguments were only too unanimous,
she took a sudden resolution, about as discreet and judicious
as all sudden resolutions of ladies of twenty-One, whether
wives or maidens. “I will repress this glowing tenderness,”
said she. “I will meet his coldness with coldness. Since
he can interest himself with trifles, let me seek objects of
interest equally trivial ; since his pursuits are of so absorbing
a nature, let me create to myself amusement from a thousand
neglected sources. I will resume my drawing, my etching,
—all the occupations which afforded me so much gratifica-
tion ere I became acquainted with Redwood. He gives his
attention to the plantations and orchards,--I will busy my-
self in improving the flower garden;–he puts his exclusive
confidence in Dr. Hobart, I will make a friend (a friend') of
the Vicar's wife.”
Of these intentions, the second was at once the easiest and
pleasantest of execution. It possessed even the charm of
novelty; for notwithstanding Julia's Tustic education and
feminine passion for flowers, gardening was among Mr.
Trevelyan's numerous interdictions, as a source of catarrhs
and an enemy to the complexion. In her own old home, Julia
had possessed a little square ugly nook called her garden;
duly dug and planted by the under gardener, and weeded by
seven ragged boys from the park lodge. But she had never
yet enjoyed the glorious privilege of planting, uprooting,
—raising the rustic temple, and destroying the obsolete
grotto.
Now the gardens at Farminghurst were certainly as well
calculated for improvement as Repton himself could have
desired. There was a labyrinth of brick walls and lofty
terraces, with balustrades and vases of stone;—a pleasaunce
stuck with statues and yew-trees ; and a Dutch garden, of
which the sun-dial in the centre stood towering above the
tulip and polyanthus beds, and vying in solitary grandeur
with the column in the Place Vendome. All was surpassingly
frightful; and as the genius of harmony was not likely to
descend and whisper to its mistress that the whole was in
curious and remarkable unison with the heavy gables and
sixteenth century architecture of the castle, there seemed
THE SE COND MARRIA.G.E. 61
every probability that not so much as a pebble or a chrysan-
themum would be left to prate of the whereabout of its
straight parterres and straighter gravel walks. But Julia
had not sufficient ardour to become a ruthless invader ; and
instead of directing the force of her genius or of her author-
ity to the demolition of the terraces and tulip-beds, she
determined to choose a spot for her exertions where what was
already charming might be rendered still more delightful.
Situated about half a mile from the house in one of the
plantations (a rich shrubbery of evergreens leading from the
old-fashioned pleasaunce to the ridge of hills forming the first
landbreak towards the sea)—there was a beautiful platform of
greensward fronting the western Sun, and fenced round with
an extensive belt of flowering shrubs. The spot was
evidently not a ſavourite with its master; for whenever the
course of their walks led them that way, he proposed return-
ing to the house. Nay, once upon Julia's proposing that
they should rest themselves there on a rustic seat placed under
shelter of a spreading magnolia tree, he had frankly invited
her to select some more cheerful spot. “Any part of the grounds
rather than this,” said he ; leading her onwards through the
closer dingles of the shrubberies.
This, therefore, was the place that naturally pointed itself
out to Lady Redwood as propitious to her operations. Here
she might work in secret, secure from her husband's obser-
vation ; here she might create for herself an interest, an
occupation, a solitary haunt for her reveries, a refuge from
Her desolation. It was an excellent field for the exercise of
her taste;—sylvan, remote, grassy, shadowy –with several
fine cedars feathering down to the soft short turf; and dense
masses of evergreen, that wanted only a skilful hand to break
into picturesque groups. Nothing could be easier than to
open a vista towards the sea, and add a beautiful landscape to
the tranquil lonely stillmess of the ſoreground. It was only
to cut through the screen of shrubs, and the rustic pavilion
(the châlet, ſor the erection of which her plans were already
sketched) would command a magnificent prospect over the
German Ocean (–Eager as a child for the realization of her
Scheme, the axe was soon at work; and in the course of a
few days, the trunks of hemlock firs, stone pimes, acacias,
and tulip trees, which twenty years had coaxed into moderate
growth, may, even the beautiful magnolia tree,_lay encum-
bering the lawn. Instead of their dull dim foliage, a beautiful
glimmer of the distant sea, with the lifelike variety of its
Vol. I. G
62 THE SECOND MARRIA GTE.
chasing sails and changeful hues, gladdened the eyes of the
delighted Julia 1—Having caused the rustic bench, origin-
ally placed under shade of the branching magnolia, to be
disencumbered of the withering shrubs scattered around, and
stationed on the spot she had selected for the site of the
chálet, Lady Redwood sat herself contentedly down to con-
template the beautiful landscape she seemed to have called
Into exlStence.
There is something peculiarly pleasing in the combination
of movement and stillness inherent in every extensive pros-
pect. The lofty platform, perched like a green nest on the
edge of the hill, commanded a beautiful stretch of wood-
lands shelving to the sea. A thriving village stood on a
detached acclivity to the eastward; the very movement of
whose windmill with the measured swirl of its sails, served
to animate the scene. The soft, nobly rounded tops of the
oak trees below, formed a rich foreground; and at a distance
(its dolphin like tints varying with the reflection of the
clouds sailing above) shone the majestic ocean,—the mighti-
est moving impulse of the created earth.
It was a lovely scene,—a soothing spot. The humming
of the insects among the branches, the distant call of the
herd-boys gathering their cattle in the pastures, and now
and then a blackbird waking up the mellow gurgle of its
evening song, alone disturbed the deep tranquillity;-and as
Julia sat drinking in the balmy breath of evening, rich with
the fragrance of the crushed grass and the aromatic exhala-
tions of the pine trees, her heart felt freshened and her
spirits brightened. She seemed to rise superior to the petty
cares by which she had suffered herself to become oppressed;
—to rejoice in the beauty of the external frame of nature;—
to recognize the beneficence of the mighty hand that spreads
its gifts so bounteously around us, and still hovers over its
works as if awaiting fresh occasion to beautify and bless —
She began to recognise with thankfulness the prosperity of
her own situation. Her parents too would shortly arrive in
England,—would soon be with her —would sit with her on
that very spot;—and rejoice with her in the brightness of
her destiny. Yes;–she felt that she was now happy, or on
the point of becoming so;-that she should soon be as light-
hearted as ever,-recover her spirits, her bloom, her
Alas! what sudden spectacle caused the quick blood to
mount into her cheeks; and suspended this happy progress
THE SECONID MARRIA.G.E. 63
of thought and feeling 2—What did she behold,—what hear
—what apprehend,-to induce that air of consternation ?—
Never before had the approach of her husband produced
so strange an emotion | A rustling of the bushes having
caused her to turn her head while summing up her vast
amount of means of happiness, she was struck by the sight
of Sir Alan standing motionless by her side; his looks
haggard, his lips quivering, his eyes sparkling with
indignation 1–
“Who has dome this 2'-cried Redwood, pointing to the
uprooted trees, and disordered turf. “What accursed hand
has dared to invade this sacred—sacred spot ſ—Rather had
my right arm been cut off, than one branch of yonder mag-
nolia touched; rather had they taken my heart's blood, than
presumed to lay their finger on a single blade of grass. It
was hers Mary, Mary, is this the way in which I
have kept my promise;—is this, the guardianship I have
exercised over your favourite haunt l’—He wrung his hands
distractedly as he spoke, with many an abhorrent glance
over the scene of devastation.
But Julia was now beyond reach of his adjurations. She
could no longer hear his cruel words—no longer tremble
under the terrible expression of his countenance—she lay
cold and senseless at his feet,
64 THE SE COND MARRIAGE,
CHAPTER XI.
What tho' his other wife
Out of her most abundant soberness,
Forc’d him to blow as high as she, dos’t follow
He must renew that long-since buried tempest
With this soft maid 2 THE TAMER TAMED.
IT was scarcely a week after this distressing occurrence,
that Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan arrived suddenly at the Castle.
Loving their only child so tenderly, and with so sure a trust
in her reciprocation of affection, they had taken it into their
heads to make their appearance without previous announce-
ment, in order to give her what they called an agreeable
surprise. Clearer-sighted people would have been aware
that surprises (excepting in a pantomime) are never agree-
able. Lady Redwood, who knew not of their arrival in
England and believed them still in Paris, was very ill pre-
pared to afford the welcome they expected. Recent indispo-
sition imparted languor to her address and listlessness to her
air; and there was no longer a single impulse of joy stirring
in her bosom.
Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyam had expected indeed to see her
weep in the joy of seeing them again—had expected to weep
themselves:–they were prepared for a general overflow of
tears. But they did not expect the flood to be of long dura-
tion. Satisfied that the sunshine of Julia's sweet smiles
would very soon re-irradiate the scene, the lively tones of her
voice would again yield delight and gladness to their old
hearts.
But they were disappointed Lady Redwood, after the
first burst of surprise and emotion, regained the statue-like
paleness and immobility which were now becoming habitual
to her. The tears dried in her eyes, but it was only to be
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 65
succeeded by the glassy vacant stare of a half-alienated mind.
The shriek of her amazement was momentary; but, instead
of giving place to joyful tender expressions of welcome, a
hoarse broken murmur seemed to have usurped her former
sweet intonation. Fortunately Sir Alan was absent—gone
to fulfil his magisterial duties in the neighbouring town; or
he would certainly have been apt to take offence at the invol-
untary exclamations of pity and regret with which the won-
dering parents contemplated their altered child;—the morti-
fication expressed by old Trevelyan, that he had ever suffered
her to encounter the searching atmosphere of Yorkshire,
instead of her own soft breezes of the west;-and the hints
thrown out by the poor mother, that her child was less happy
and less cared-for than she expected to be ſ—On Julia's ear
these insinuations fell innocuous. It was not what the
world thought, it was not even what her parents thought, in
disparagement of her condition, that constituted its shame or
sorrow ;-it was that, according to the pathetic phrase of the
Boothby monument, “she had ventured her store of hap-
ines in one frail bark, and that the wreck was totall” It
#. been her sole wish, her hope, her trust, to triumph in
the exclusive affection of her husband; and disappointed in
that blessed aspiration, her after life was a blank.
“Tell me, Julia, my love,” inquired her mother, trying
to engage her in general conversation, as they sat together
after dinner in the vast comfortless saloon (which Lady Red-
wood wanted courage or energy to render more modernizedly
habitable,) “who presented you at the drawing-room ?”—
“I did not go. The weather was oppressive ; and Sir
Alan was not particularly anxious on the subject.”
“You must have been languid from debility to suffer so
much from the heat. I hope, my love, you saw Sir Henry
Halford 7”—
“No, indeed, Papal Redwood was of opinion that the
bracing air of Farminghurst would restore me; and you
see,” she continued, faintly smiling, “that he has proved a
true prophet.”
“Never saw you looking worse in your life ſ” cried old
Trevelyan. “I wish to goodness I had brought down some
sulphate of quinine.”
“And how did you like the Duchess of Wearmouth f"
inquired his wife.
“I did not see her.”
66 THE SECOND MARRIA.G.E.
“Not introduce you to his aunt the Duchess ſ” cried Mrs.
Trevelyan with indignation.
“We had very little time to pay visits.”
“It was her business to vist you as a bride. And pray
them, my dear Julia, which of the family did condescend to
notice you when you were in town”—
“The Walpoles came up for a day or two, to bring the
little girl,” said Lady R., blushing deeply.
“The Walpoles -—they are the relatives of the late Lady
Redwood. It was to his own connexions Sir Alan ought
to have introduced his wife.”
\
“And would, had I desired it. But my chief object was
to get into the country.”
“Probably he has not even presented you with the family
jewels —Have you your diamonds yet, Julia?”—
“I fancy they are at the banker's. It would have been
absurd, you know, to bring them down here, where we see
so little company.”
“But why see so little company ?—Your neighbourhood
is a very good ome, and your honeymoon over, I conclude,
by this time !”
“Yes,—quite over !” responded Julia, sighing deeply.
“Then why not comply with the customs of society, and
receive your neighbours as they ought to be received in a
house like this 3'-
“We have had but little leisure since we came here,” re-
plied Lady Redwood, unwilling to admit the want of harmo-
ny between herself and her husband, which would have ren-
dered the presence of strangers so embarrassing. “But Sir
Alan was saying yesterday, that as soon as the Walpoles
came down to assist me in doing the honours, we ought to
send out our invitations.” \
“The Walpoles again ſ” cried the old lady. “What have
the Walpoles to do with your proceedings? Surely, my
dear Julia, the customs of Trevelyan Park have qualified
you to preside over Farminghurst Castle, without the inter-
vention of such people as the Walpoles 2"— -
“Sir Alam has a very high opinion of them.”
“Which need not induce him to depreciate his wife. It is
time that things were put on a different footing,” said poor
fussy Mrs. Trevelyan. “I shall take care that the claims
of a child of mine—” e
“My dear, dear mother l interrupted Lady Redwood,
THE SECON D MARP IAG1. " 67
clasping her arms round Mrs. Trevelyan, as she sat beside
her on the sofa. “If you value my comfort, you will not
interfere betwixt me and my husband. My happiness is just
now hanging on a thread. Touch it with ever so delicate,
so tender a hand, and it will snap asunder. You must not
talk to Redwood of the Walpole family ; you must not tor-
ment him about diamonds and drawing-rooms; you must not
urge him into seeing more company at Farminghurst than
suits his convenience. You must not; indeed you must not
—If you love me, you will promise to desist from all these
things.-You do love me —you will promise ?”—
“My dear child,” cried poor Mrs. Trevelyan visibly affect-
ed, “I was in hopes I should see and hear no more of these
nervous tremors. You remind me, Julia, of those disagree-
able moments at Rome, when you were still in doubt respect-
ing Sir Alan's attachment.”
“Do I remind you of those moments?” ejaculated Julia,
withdrawing her arms. And she whispered to herself that
even that period of suspense was preferable to her present
certainty of his sentiments.
The old squire, meanwhile, having been absorbed in a
deep reverie, fancied he had made a notable discovery. Ever
ready to espy a physical cause for moral effects, it suddenly
occurred to him that all his darling Julia's chilliness, pale-
ness, and nervous emotions, were attributable to the prospect
of a little heir to Farminghurst Castle ; and, vexed that he
had said any thing to embarrass her, he now cut short the
course of his lady's catechism, and began to relate the adven-
tures of their own journey from Italy, for the amusement of
his daughter; laughing at all the dull jests of his own nar-
rative, and fancying it was Julia who diverted; and dwelling
with considerable emphasis on certain situations and inci-
dents which he found highly interesting, but which fell un-
heeded on the vacant ear of poor Lady Redwood.
The old gentleman’s illusion could not last forever ; nor
had he been twenty-four hours under the roof of his son-in-
law, before a dispassionate review of his own and his wife's
observations, conjectures, and apprehensions, aided by the
hints and implications of Mrs. Trevelyan's maid, sufficed to
convince him that his Julia was an unhappy woman—a meg-
lected wife
“What shall we do, what can we do ſ” cried poor Mrs.
Trevelyan, wringing her hands as she walked up and down
her dressing-room, after a cabinet council with her husband.
68 THE SE COND MARRIAGE.
“In spite of all our care and caution, that our precious child
should fall into the hands of a brute!—”
“ We have no evidence entitling us to use so harsh a
term.”
“What!—when you hear that the poor dear girl has
twice been found senseless in his arms ?”
“She seems in a very weak state of health, poor dear;--
perhaps she wants tonics.”
“And what has reduced her to a weak state of health —
She was always well enough and happy enough at Trevel-
yan Park. She was even well and happy in Italy, when
this heartlsss man first intruded himself into our society.
But I doubt whether she will ever be well or happy again.
Ah my poor dear Julia 1—little did she deserve to be vis-
ited with such a destiny ſ”——
“Hush, my dear, hush —You saw how anxious the poor
child was that we should be cautious in meddling with her
domestic affairs.” *
“And yet you affect to doubt that her husband is unkind
What but actual, positive, and most severe unkindness could
terrify her to such a degree ?––Ah, Mr. Trevelyan the case
is only too plain;–I am convinced he uses her like a dog.”
“Well, don't convince me so, if you can help it; for were
it once proved, he should die the death of one, if ever Provi-
dence put strength into a father's arm —But what chance
have we of obtaining her confidence 3’—
“Sir Alan will be here to-morrow. You must point out
to him, without warning Julia of your intention, that her
health requires a milder atmosphere ; and ask his permission
to take her back with us to Trevelyan Park.”
“Will she ever find courage to second the proposal f"
“We must place the necessity of the case in so strong a
point of view as to leave him no alternative.”
“At worst, I can but end (where I would fain begin) with
peremptory measures, for, by fair means or foul, Julia shall
accompany us home to Cornwall, or my name is not Rich-
ard Trevelyan ſ”
There proved, however, no occasion for the threat. Fair
means were "perfectly successful, so far as regarded the ac-,
complishment of the object ; but so for as regarded the ad-
vancement of their daughter's welfare, the wisdom of Mr.
and Mrs Trevelyan's tactics is much to be doubted. It was
in Julia's presence they first proposed their project for the
sanction of Sir Alan ; who, having, in the first impulse of
THE SECON D MARRIAGE . 69
his surprise, turned his eyes upon his wife, was satisfied
from the sudden flush overspreading her cheeks, that the
plan originated with herself; and refrained from all dem-
onstration of either surprise or mortification, while by a cold
but unconditional assent, he completed her own. Unprepar-
ed for the scheme projected by the officious zeal of her
father and mother, she was still less so for the calmness with
which her dear Redwood seemed to contemplate her ab-
sence; and ill as she was inclined for the measure, Julia was
now too much piqued by his indifference to oppose any ob-
stacle to the plan.
“The weather is just now very propitious for so long a
journey,” uttered by Sir Alan, by way of collateral inquiry in-
to their intentions, sounded to his wife very like a hint that
the sooner they were gone the better. Having hastened her
preparation accordingly, she now began to express to Mrs.
Trevelyan great anxiety for change of air—great desire to
be at home again. She was sure she should be better in
Cornwall; she should grow strong at Trevelyan Park;--
it was so long since she had been at home.”
This last trait was conclusive l—Sir Alan Redwood would
have forgiven her any thing but the feeling that still pointed
out her “home” as elsewhere than at Farminghurst. He
refrained from expressing his desire to be the companion of
her journey to the south;--he refrained from even fixing a
period for seeing her again; and even expressed his request
to hear of her safe arrival at Trevelyan Park in terms so
cold and formal, that compliance had been ignominious.
Heartstricken—disappointed—despairing, poor Julia had
scarcely fortitude to bear her up with any show of cheerful-
mess through the few days that elapsed previous to her depart-
ure; but pride—the suggester of so many pernicious lessons
—enabled her to at least disguise the feelings she could not
subdue. While her bosom was throbbing with anguish, she
managed to make her adieux to the mysterious Vicar as de-
cisive as if she were on the point of quitting Farminghurst
for ever; and to receive her husband's cold farewell, as
lightly and unconcernedly as if she were only intent on a
party of pleasure.
70 THE SECON D MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER XII.
We shall write to you
As time and our concernings shall importune,
How it goes with us; and do look to know
What doth befall you here. So fare you well.
MEASURE FoR MEASURE,
HAD Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan been aware of the exact
nature of the duty they undertook in removing their darling
Julia from the protection of her barbarous husband, not even
their tenderness would have adventured so arduous a task.
But with their usual opacity of vision, they were deceived
to the last moment;-were persuaded that Lady Redwood's
expressions of anxiety to quit Farminghurst were genuine,
and that the wild merriment bursting at intervals from her
lips, even on the very morning of departure, arose from a
pleasurable excitement. They saw not—they heard not—
they had not soul to know or dream, that it sprang from the
bitterness of a deceived and breaking heart
The flush upon her cheek, indeed, filled them with con-
sternation. Regarding it as a hectic symptom, they were all
eagerness to remove her from Yorkshire to the mild breezes
of her natal atmosphere. But when (the portal past,--the
last lodge—the last glen—the last wood of Farminghurst
left behind and out of sight,) they saw their daughter sink
heavily into the corner of the carriage, her hands crossed
despairingly on her bosom, and the feverish glow of her
cheek fading suddenly into the paleness of marble, Mr. and
Mrs. Trevelyan began to fancy that the state of her health
was more perilous than they had imagined; and that she
would scarcely bear the fatigue of so long a journey. They
now blamed themselves for the responsibility they had in-
THE SECONID MARRIA.G.E. 71
curred in the eyes of Sir Alan Redwood; and half resolved
to dispatch a letter back to the Castle, requesting he would
follow them as soon as possible to Trevelyan Park. Nothing
but the apprehension of accelerating the progress of Julia’s
disorder by the agitation attendant on the unwelcome appear-
ance of her tyrant, induced them to postpone this ill-judging
determination.
Lady Redwood did, however, bear her journey without
inconvenience; and the interest of revisiting the abode of her
childhood did, for a single moment, disperse the mournful
clouds gathered around her brows. But her heaviness of
spirit came again only the more painfully for its momentary
suspension. Nay, there was something in the unnatural
isolation of her new position that seemed to strike her with
double force, now that she found herself a wife—a widow—
in the dwelling-place of her virgin years. It seemed as if
she had cropped the flowers of her destiny;-that nothing
was left for her but its withering leaves, its bowed and faded
stem;-that Hope, the butterfly which once fluttered amid its
perished blossoms was lying dead in the dust; that the bee—
that sanguine gatherer of its honey—had deserted a thing
which now rendered back nothing but bitterness;–that the
rifled sweets were gone—that the eternal winter was at
hand!
If the Trevelyans had indulged the flattering illusion that
change of air and scene would bring back health and strength
to their feeble charge, they were quickly undeceived. From
the moment she arrived at her old home (which rose before
her eyes as a monument to her departed happiness) her step
grew heavier—her breath shorter—her eye more languid—
her pulse more fluttering.—The Cornish physicians, who
had seen her depart three years before in all the bloom and
elasticity of girlhood, shook their heads as they noted her
#. lips and hollow eyes, and listened to the nervous
uskiness of her voice. It happened that their visits were
paid immediately after the daily arrival of the post, when
the excitement of expecting a letter from Farminghurst and
the subsequent disappointment of her expectations, filled her
veins with fire and her nerves with irritation. Unable to
account for the stir of pulse perceptible in her frame, they
followed the course systematically pursued by persons accus-
tomed to watch over English constitutions, and attributed
the mischief they could not develop to the existence of latent
consumption. Although the lungs, they admitted, were not
72 THE SE COND MARRIAGE,
at present affected, they deprecated all exposure to atmos-
pheric changes, and desired that their patient should be at once
amused and kept quiet. The lungs —with the heart so
near, that they should remain blind, deaf, and insensible to
its influence —
Meanwhile Lady Redwood profited by the privilege of an
invalid to write no letters and see no company. After the
few formal lines in which she officially announced to Sir
Alan, her “arrival at dear Trevelyan after a safe and de-
lightful journey,” she resolutely refrained from addressing
him. What indeed could she have said, debarred from re-
ference to the one sacred subject uppermost in her mind?—
Or how could she have addressed him on common place
topics, while her whole soul was withered up by the shadow
of the unsurmountable barrier existent between them —
With respect to society, it had been her intention in accept-
ing her parents' invitation, to play her part of excellent dis-
sembling to its utmost limit; to smile, talk, and apparently
enjoy herself as she had been wont to do, among her early
friends and connexions. But the first few days past at Treve-
lyan proved her incompetency to such exertions. The
neighbouring squirearchy—who came thronging to the Park
to welcome back their fellow squire and squiress, and listen
to wonderful tales of their Italian travels, regarding Julia's
sojourn with her family as the visit of an only child to her
adoring parents, tortured her with facetious references to her
absent husband, inquiries respecting the probability of his
arrival, and expressions of anxiety to make the acquaintance
of a being so idolized and idolizing. It was impossible to
court the continuance of these vexations; and entrenching
herself accordingly in the decree of the physicians that she
was to be kept quiet, she confined herself to two cheerful
comfortable apartments connected with her own room ; which,
in contemplation of the future visits of Sir Alan and Lady
Redwood to a home which must one day become their own,
had been splendidly fitted up for her by the kindness of her
father. The country neighbours were easily satisfied.
Having been admitted to a sight of the great lady of Farm-
inghurst Castle, they ascertained that she was by no means
so pretty as when (as little Julia) she paced the gravel walk
by Miss Wilmot's side;—that she still wore a simple dress
of white muslim —and that she was by no means so well
worth looking at and listening to as her more chatty and
equally travelled mother. The reality of her indisposition
THE SECON D MARRIAGE, yº.
73
was too apparent to induce any suspicion of fine ladyism in
her self-sought seclusion; and seeing her so languid, pale,
and thin, they politely wished in their hearts that the first
little Redwood might prove a son and heir.
Poor Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan were not, however, to be
so deceived. The Squire, to whom his daughter's merest
finger-ach had ever been as an attack of the plague, now saw
death inscribed in her hollow brows and attenuated form.
Did not the very physicians talk about consumption;–did
not Julia, herself, though reluctantly, admit that she could
neither eat nor sleep!—Her appetite was gone,—her powers of
rest;--it was all too plain, too terrible ſ—His only daughter
—his darling daughter –Poor Mr. Trevelyan shuddered
while he whispered to his poor old wife that the spring
would come again, and find them childless. “So young—
so beautiful—to think that we should survive her,” he
exclaimed, with outspread hands, as he attempted to subdue
his irritation by pacing up and down Mrs. Trevelyan's
dressing-room. - - .
“No, no, mo,-do not say so !” cried the poor mother,
laying down her work and taking off her spectacles, as if to
recall all her perceptive powers for a mental revisal of the
case. “Camomile admits that, at present, the disease has
no hold on the constitution. The dear creature suffers no
pain,_breathes freely.
“But her pale face, her debility ?”
“I sometimes think we have done wrong to call in the
aid of physicians. I have never (thank Heaven, and thank
you, my dear husband,) had occasion to see much of human
affliction ; but I cannot help fancying that a great part of her
suffering is on the mind. That history of the ghost, which
Sterling persists in, and which, I find, was the common talk
of the country at Farminghurst, must have arisen from some
nervous panic.”
“What say you to inviting Miss Wilmot here —Perhaps
Julia may have less reserve with her than us.”
“Miss Wilmot, indeed tº exclaimed Mrs. Trevelyan.
“It would be hard indeed were my only child to shew
more confidence in her governess than in her mother.”
“She may hesitate about alarming you.”
“True !” replied the old lady; and the woman having
given vent to her little movement of pique, the mother readily
consented to a proposal, which, by any possibility, could
prove advantageous to the beloved invalid. But unfortu-
Vol. I. H
74 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
nately, the friend of Lady Redwood's youth was absent on
a distant tour; and still more unfortunately, a visitor arrived
in her place, than whom the Fates could scarcely have
provided a more pernicious substitute. Mr. Trevanion,
whose estates lay on the western coast of Cornwall, having
accidentally heard of his niece's indisposition, considered it
his duty to come and remind her of the uncertainty of human
life, and the insufficiency of human skill in repelling the
progress of disease. His solemn face and doleful tones,
combined with the fading hues of autumn and the dispiriting
influence of the equinoctial weather, completed the charm.
Lady Redwood soon began to fancy not only that she was
dying, but dying of a broken heart. The more persuaded,
however, she grew of the fact, the more she was bent on
screening it from her unfortunate parents, and preventing
rumours of her situation from reaching her husband. Hav-
ing hinted to Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan that she was in cor-
respondence with the Castle, they were very ready to desist
from all further communication with a son-in-law, now the
object of their detestation. -
“When all is over,” mused poor Julia, “when my end is
approaching, then let him come, and gaze upon the wreck
of the wife he has sacrificed. Let him see me perish ; –let
my closing eyes but detect some expression of sympathy and
pity in his own, and I shall die contented ''' -
But however contented she might wish to render her last
moments, Uncle Travanion took care that her present ones
should assume a less amiable character. -
“And so, my dear,” said he, having visited her dressing-
room with a bundle of tracts under his arm, “I find by a
letter from my wife, that the Walpoles have profited by your
absence to take up their abode at Farminghurst ’’ -
Julia pretended to turn a deaf ear. She was unwilling
Mr. Trevanion should discover that he was the first to com-
municate the intelligence.
“Pray did Sir Alan inform you in his last letters that Miss
Redwood was established under his roof?”—
“Miss Redwood f *-
“His little girl.-Martha Walpole is in correspondence
with one of my wife's sisters (whom you drank tea with one
evening at my house), and writes her word that at Sir Alan's
wish she had conveyed her poor motherless little charge to
Farminghurst; and installed her under the care of a regular
THE SE COND MARRIA GTE. 75
governess, able to supply the deficiencies of your inexperi-
ence. It seems the Walpoles have engaged to pass the
winter there.” .
“Have they !—I rejoice to hear it. Sir Alan being de-
tained there on business, I am glad to find he has secured a
little cheerful society.”
“Cheerful? the Walpoles cheerful society —Well—well!
—they are at least well-principled, right-thinking people,
who will speedily counteract any little irregularities you may
have introduced into the establishment. By the way, my
dear Julia, I am sorry to find that their feelings have been very
much hurt by the way in which you have set your face
against every thing connected with the memory of poor Lady
Redwood. I believe one of Mrs. Walpole's chief objects in
taking up her abode at Farminghurst is to put an end to the
the reports you have circulated of the house being haunted.”
“I—I circulate such a report l’’-exclaimed his niece;
“I, who, with the exception of a few formal visits, have had
no communication with his Yorkshire neighbours. The
house haunted 2.--What an absurdity 1"– -
“I am glad to hear you say so. Mrs. Trevanion informs
me an opinion is prevalent that you have quitted your hus-
band's protection in consequence of seeing, or fancying, or
stating that you saw, the apparition of the deceased Lady
Redwood.”
“Can it be possible,” exclaimed poor Julia, “that so
absurd a report has been promulgated in consequence of my
having been startled by the sudden entrance of Sir Alan into
my dressing-room, when over-fatigued by a long journey !”
“It seems too that your coldness has given great offence
to a worthy family in the village, who always lived on terms
of affectionate intimacy with your predecessor;-that you
never so much as suffered poor Dr. Hobart to have a five
minutes interview with your husband.”
Poor Lady Redwood, recollecting only too well that the
Vicar's shortest sentence was of that duration, and his short-
est visit one hundred times as long, groaned aloud.
“In short, my dear niece, I own it affords me considerable
mortification to find that in the brief space of four months of
married life, your conduct has alienated the affections of your
husband, disgusted his whole family, his whole county,+
driven the poor from his gates, his child from his protection,
and thrown you back upon the hands of your father and mo-
ther;-to say nothing of the vexation Mrs. Treyanion and
76 TI-IE SE CONID MARRIAG E.
myself experience, on hearing you described as a cold-heart-
ed, artificial young woman ; too selfish to resign the idle
habits into which you have been so unfortunately petted by
my brother and sister.”
“This is too much—too much ſ” cried poor Julia, bursting
into tears : “my conduct, my motives, my very feelings
misrepresented. Oh that I had never formed this miserable
connexion, the origin of so much suffering—so much humil-
iation ſ”
“My love, it was a thing of your own doing. I find that
your parents would never have consented to the match, but
for the obstinacy with which your heart was set upon it ;
and you remember that even I, your uncle, considered it my
duty to set before you in the clearest light the hazards of the
step you were taking.”
But Lady Redwood remembered nothing, heard nothing,
saw nothing. The idea that Sir Alan, not content with ban-
ishing her from his heart had circulated calumnies respecting
her, absorbed her every faculty, her every feeling. She
longed for Mr. Trevanion’s departure that she might sit
down and give vent to the wounded feelings so long repress-
ed. Away with all reserve —She had done wrong in so
long remaing silent —Henceforward she would at least ex-
press her sense of the injuries, the mortifications to which
she was subjected. It is an easier thing to write than to give
utterance to the effusions of wounded pride, of wounded
affection. A pen obeying the dictates of an excited heart is
always fluent—often eloquent ; and within an hour of her
uncle's departure to take his easy, jog-trot, morning’s amble.
in the park, several pages of Julia’s delicate penmanship
expressed in the following lines the tumult of her gentle bo-
SOIIl. -
|),
*YYX SE COND MARRIAGE. 77
CHAPTER XIII.
No language can express the smallest part
Of what I feel, and suffer in my heart
For you, whom best I love jºi. most.
But to your service 1 bequeath my ghost,
Which from this mortal body when untied,
Unseen, unheard, shall hover by your side ;
Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend,
But wait officious and your steps attend.
PALEMON AND ARCITE.
“Trevelyan Park.
“I have been greatly to blame ! I ought not to have quit-
ted your roof without a frank avowal of the bitterness of
feeling instigating my return to that happy home of my
childhood, which I would to Heaven I had never quitted.
But I did not dream that the delicacy or timidity which seal-
ed my lips, would expose me to the aspersions by which I
find my character injured in the estimation of the world. I
trusted that you, my lawful, my chosen protector, would be
the last to assign to the gossip of society the unwarrantable
judgment you have formed of my disposition. What have I
done to deserve all this 3–You found me happy, and condu-
cing to the happiness of others, -the idolized child of doat-
ing parents. You saw (for how impossible was concealment
to a heart unpractised as mine !) with what rash confidence I
deposited every chance of future peace in your hands;–that
my whole soul was absorbed in your affection;–that with
wou either I must live or have no life.'
“Why did you accept such a deposit —Why foster and
sanction a warmth of attachment which you knew was lav-
ished in vain? You, -wedded to the grave, Lengrossed by
H*
78 THE SE COND MARRIAGE,
remembrances of a tenderness as fond as that you discerned
in my bosom towards yourself-how could you venture, in
the calmness of your deliberation, to chain me for life to the
coldness of the sepulchre 3—I am raving ! I mo longer
know what I say or write Stung to the heart by your in-
gratitude, I am careless of giving offence. . What avails a
momentary pang inflicted on your self-love, compared with
the gnawing anguish to which, for three months past, you
have condemned me !
“But no matter. I write in haste, but with as much firm-
mess as a year's deliberation could procure.—Let us part —
Do not cheat the world by a semblance of harmony which
exists no longer which, alas ! never existed. You have
done your work in traducing me by accusations of hard-
heartedness—of selfishness; even I, who would have sacri-
ficed every wish, every inclination for your slightest token of
approval. Afford me at least, by sanctioning my residence
with my parents, the means of vindication; that, during the
short remnant of my days, I may strive to knit anew the
happy interests of my youth, nor subject myself to fresh
charges of rebellion and disobedience. Enjoy yourself in the
society of those to whom you should never have given a rival
in your—(I was about to say your affections—but when were
they ever mine !)—your household and authority. You will
soon be disencumbered of even the shadow of restraint. But
when you learn my death, do not, on peril of consigning
another victim to an early grave, do not again venture to
take to your bosom a trusting, doating, miserable being ;
who, once undeceived, may like myself dash away the rem-
nant of life as a vain and valueless possession. Farewell!
I will not trust myself to say more. I will not expose the
anguish of a devoted heart to the curiosity of those around
you. . I wait but your reply to prepare my father for a mea-
sure that will give liberty to you, and peace to me.”
Little did the affectionate parent of Lady Redwood con-
jecture, when he performed his quotidian duty of transferring
the correspondence of Trevelyan Park from the letter-box to
the post-bag, that the weighty epistle, double-treble-
quadruple,_addressed in Julia's hand-writing to her lord and
master, was so big with important matter. Still less did
Trevanion, when he took his seat at the dinner table, to
acquaint his brother-in-law with the result of his morning's
observations—the dilapidated state of his fences, the meagre-
mess of his flocks and herds, and the ruinous condition of
T H E SEC O N D M A. R. R.I.A. G. E. 79
his plantations,—conjecture that his jeremiads of the morn-
ing had produced so remarkable an effect on the mind of
Lady Redwood.
The little party humdrummed through their two courses,
aided by pretty nearly the same observations that had fallen
from each on the same spot the preceding day; lamenting
that dear Julia should confine herself to her own room ; and
concluded with a declaration that perhaps, after all, quiet
was the best thing for her. Every thing went on as usual.
The doors opened and shut the same number of times; and
Mr. Trevelyan uttered his accustomed exhortation to the
butler to let the fire be looked to before the servants left
the room. Who would have guessed that the only daughter
of the house was pacing her apartment above, in indescribable
agitation of feeling ; her overcharged heart bursting with
the excitement of her recent effort, her burning eyes unmoist-
ened by tears, her flushed cheeks glowing with indignation.
Could Camomile have peeped in upon her proceedings, it is
probable that he might have added a straight-waistcoat to the
rest of his useful suggestions.
And all this perturbation was to last for a week —Six long
days must elapse previous to the arrival of the answer which
would unseal the lips and seal the destinies of Lady Red-
wood. Six long days, six long nights —Could human
patience, could human strength, support her through a con-
tinuance of such a conflict; and enable her to bear up against
the well-meaning fussiness of her father and mother. It was
at least some comfort that Mr. Trevanion would not be pre-
sent at the crisis ; that he would be gone back to prognosticate
evil to his own wife, previous to the announcement of her
separation from her own husband. Already she counted the
hours till the fatal day. The post came in early ; she should
have the day before her to communicate the astounding fact
to her father and mother; the preceding night to strengthen
her spirit with quietness.-But alas the best digested plans
are the sport of time and chance. Instead of supporting the
conflict for one hundred and forty-four hours, the delicate
frame of Lady Redwood sank on the second day of trial. A
nervous ſever manifested itself; Camomile was sent for ; his
patient grew delirious, and the squire and squiress distracted.
Long before the arrival of the Thursday which was to bring
the fatal fiat from Farminghurst, an express was on its way
thither to acquaint the heard-hearted Baronet that he might
spare himself the discredit of negative or affirmative —that
S0 THE SECON D MARRIAG E.
the King of Terrors was about to take under his protection
the fair flower withered by the biting blasts of his indiffer-
.62]] C62.
Fortunately the letter in which Mr. Trevelyan hastily and
harshly set forth both the evil and its origin, never reached
the hand of Sir Alan Redwood. He had already quitted
home. The appeal—the affecting appeal of his wife had
instantly determined him to set forth and plead his cause in
person ; explain all that was mysterious in his own conduct,
—and soothe away all that had been painful to herself.
Never was there a man so overwhelmed with surprise as
Julia's husband by the sudden avowal of her feelings, her
unlooked-for, her undreamed of feelings. So persuaded as
he had been of her coldness, her worldliness, her egotism,
it seemed, on the perusal of her letter, as if a mine of unap-
preciable wealth were opening at his feet; and all his visions
on the eve of realization. She had loved him then ;-she
had been willing to become a mother to his child,—a minis-
tering angel to his destinies. His reserve had been the
cause of all their misunderstanding—her jealousy the origin
of all her melancholy How soon, how readily could all be
explaimed ;-how delightful the meeting after so inauspicious
a farewell !—He had been on the point of losing his Julia ;
she had been on the eve of deserting him for ever; but it
was not too late |
Oh! for a horse with wings —
To bear him on his back to -
Trevelyan Park. Oh! for an advent of Nat. Lee's divinities;
those
Gods, who annihilated time and space,
To make two lovers happy.
In a few hours he was in his travelling carriage, on his
road to Cornwall,—on his road to Julia ; the Julia of the
Ludovisian gardens and Horatian Villa. No longer the
moping wayward Lady Redwood; but the Miss Trevelyan
who had wept on his bosom while uttering her avowals of
love—her promises of faith. It is seldom that the leafless
hedges and swampy roads of a November journey appear so
chayming in the eyes of man, as they seemed to the Baronet,
. traversing the cross roads and miry ways dividing the
northern extremity of Yorkshire from the southern extremity
of Cornwall. Scarcely stopping to eat and never to sleep,
on his route, it was midnight when he arrived within ten
miles of Trevelyan Park, What was to be done : Sir Alan
THE SE COND MARRIAGE. 81
dreaded interfering with the routine of the squire's estab-
lishment, or provoking the comments of the family by
making his appearance in the middle of the night; and half
determined to remain at the inn so as to reach the hall by
breakfast time on the following morning. Already he had
reached the court-yard, when this project occurred to him ;
where, to his surprise, the landlord having approached and
flared a candle in his ſace, uttered an exclamation of disap-
pointment. -
“What is the matter 7 °–cried he, preparing to alight.
“Beg pardon, sir!” replied the man, apprehensive of
having displeased a gentlemam in a new chariot and four.
“Hope no offence. Took you for the doctor from Truro.—
Squire Trevelyan's groom's been waiting for him here these
three hours.—Fancy he'll be too late.—You ’re a stranger
in these parts I take it, or you’d understand that gentle and
simple—”
“Who is ill at Trevelyan Park?” inquired Sir Alan in
a faint voice, falling back in his carriage. “The old lady-
the—the-’’ -
“Ill, sir? Lor’ bless you, sir, I wish she may be ill at
this present speaking. The squire's young man says as
there was n’t half an hour's life in her when he came away.
They've been hunting all over the country for advice; but,
as I said before, ‘Lor' bless you, Dick l’ says I, ‘what
signifies advice when the strength's gone?' She ’s been
raving these three days; for all the bleeding in the world
would n't keep down the fever, till she dropped all o' sudden
like a spent ball; and now—”
“Mrs. Trevelyan is advanced in years,” ſaltered Redwood,
for he had not courage to hazard a direct inquiry.
“Mrs. Trevelyan –Lor' bless you, sir; it be’n’t Mrs.
Trevelyan –It be Squire's daughter, Miss Julia as was.-
Married only a day or two back, as one may say; and sent
back home to die. God love her, pretty lamb –I lived
bailiff in the family, and have known her ever since she was
as high as my stick.” -
Poor Redwood heard no more. To the infinite consterna-
tion of the landlord of the Trevelyan Arms, he cut short his
communication with, “Horses on, instantly ſ”—nor was it
till he was some hundred yards advanced on the road, that
the ex-vassal of the family became aware of all he hazarded
by his abrupt and uncalled-for disclosures,
82 TEIE SECON D MARRIAGE,
CHAPTER XIV.
Oh! if thou hast at length
Discovered that my love is worth esteem,
I ask no moro, but let us hence together.
And I–let me say we—may yet be happy. e
SARDANAPALUs.
ALTHough the legislation of Lady Redwood's sick room
was at present consigned to the hands of four of the best-
meaning and worst-judging persons in the world,—her
father, mother, uncle, and apothecary, they had just united
sense enough among the party to prevent Sir Alan from
rushing distractedly to her presence, and crushing the little
hope remaining. The expected physician soon made his ap-
earance ; but he came only to confirm their worst appre-
}. and to declare that in the remote possibility of the
patient's struggling through the attack, mental alienation
could scarcely fail to be the result.
Even this was something. The poor old father and mother
eagerly clung to the prospect of seeing their rescued child,
led about in helpless imbecility, rather than surrender her to
the grave ; and as to her husband, he was too lost, too utterly
self-abandoned, to calculate on possibilities. All he could do
was to kneel by the sufferer's bedside,-listen to every
breath, every murmur, watching every change on her
countenance; and, when the obscurity of the chamber per-
mitted, supplying the attendance of those who ministered to
her wants. He interposed indeed his authority, when on the
first promise of returning reason Mr. Trevanion suggested
the necessity of apprising her of her situation, and affording
her spiritual preparation for the grave; and at length, on the
appearance of a decided amendment, succeeded in prevailing
THE SEC 0 NTD MARRIAGE. 83
on her parents to retire to rest, and leave him in charge of a
treasure which mome knew better how to value.
Many days had elapsed since Julia had exhibited any de-
gree of personal consciousness ; but the deep sleep that now
overpowered her faculties, afforded the promise of refresh-
ment ; and with anxiety mingled with hope Redwood bent
over her, listened to her light breathing, -and noticed that
the ſever was abating in its virulence. The sighs that es-
caped her bosom seemed to arise from some moral cause
rather than from the oppression of disease : she was strug-
gling back to life, -to the sense of her miseries. He even
heard her breathe his name as if in the transports of a
dream.
“No letter yet?”—she faltered, without unclosing her
eyes. “Will not Redwood deign to write to me?”—
“Hush ’’ said he, in a low voice, apprehensive that she
would injure herself by further agitation. “He is coming.”
“No, mother, no l—we must not meet again. He has
broken my heart. Let me die in peace.” And again she
sunk into lethargy, as if incapable of confronting the wretch-
edness of her condition. Towards morning she again betray-
ed symptoms of animation; again inquired for letters; again,
and with the tenderest adjurations, breathed the name of her
husband. Half concealed behind the draperies of her bed,
trembling lest he should augment her perilous excitement,
he no longer dared trust himself to reply. She was now
sufficiently recovered to detect his voice; and summoning
her accustomed attendants he stole away from her apart-
ment.
It was no longer possible to doubt his influence over her
feelings. Even had her letter left a shadow of mistrust upon
his mind, the tones of endearment in which this being, hower-
ing on the brink of the grave, pronounced his name and
clung to every token of his early love, must have convinced
the most obdurate heart. But he must yet refrain from ex-
planation,-yet postpone that precious interview which, he
flattered himself, would conduce more to her recovery than
all the medicaments of the physicians.
“My dear sir,” said his friend Trevanion, drawing him
aside as soon as Camomile and Company pronounced that
they were beginning to entertain sanguine hopes in her be-
half, “as your departure would no longer leave any peculiar
responsibility on the hands of the family, I am sure you will
pardon me for suggesting that it would be highly prejudicial
84 THE SECON D MARRIA GE,
to my poor dear miece to find you an immate of this house on
her restoration to consciousness. It is a hint that could
scarcely be given by Trevelyan and my sister, without in-
curring the charge of inhospitality; but at my years, and
considering the terms of confidential Tegard on which we
mutually are, I am sure I shall be ſorgiven for candidly
owning that the prejudice poor dear Lady Redwood appears
to have conceived against you—”
“Arises,” cried Sir Alan, no longer able to repress his
impatience, “from mutual misunderstanding. I came hither
only in compliance with—” he paused;—he could not say
with her invitation—“with Julia’s wish for an interview.”
“Well! my dear sir,” replied Mr. Trevanion shaking his
head. “I have candidly given you my opinion ; to which I
will only add, that should you persist in your determination,
neither Camomile nor I will answer for Lady Redwood's
life.”
He did, however, persist. In the face of Mr. Trevanion's
homilies, Mr. Trevelyan's prescriptions, and the indignant
remonstrances of the lady mother, he resumed his post by
Julia's bedside; and, after carefully concealing himself from
her observation so long as her debility of frame rendered
agitation dangerous, seized the first moment of returning
strength to recall himself to her notice, to enfold her within
his arms; implore pardon for all his past offences, real and
imaginary; and re-cement his union with his wife by sweeter
and bitterer tears than had ever yet been wept by either.
It was not, however, for many weeks,—(not till Lady Red-
wood was able to rise from her sick-bed, and niched cozily
in her arm-chair by the fireside, give ear to the explanation
now so eagerly tendered by Sir Alan,)—that the following
narrative sufficed to obliterate all traces of her jealousy, her
repining, her ingratitude. It afforded no small subject of
consternation to her father, when occasionally he intruded
upon their téte-à-téte (in order to ascertain that the apart-
ments. were regulated to the thermometer temperature) to
perceive that his darling Julia's eyes were often red with
weeping, and her darling Redwood almost breathless with
the interest of the conversation they were holding together.
* $ * $ * 3%
“I need not remind you, dearest,” said Sir Alan, while
Julia averted her face lest she should betray an overweening
interest in the narrative, “that it was in my earliest, child.
hood I experienced the loss of both my parents. I never
THE SEC O N D MARRIA GE, 85
knew them,--I never missed them,--but grew up in the
family of my guardian, Mr. Walpole, as though it were my
own. My school vacations were passed at his residence;
all my pastimes, all my enjoyments, seemed to originate from
thence; and if they were scanty and different from those
accorded to my companions, the old gentleman dealt with me
only as with his own children, with his wife, with his very
self.
“These worthy but most unconciliating people belonged
in short to that austere class of the rigidly righteous, of which
the Trevanions have afforded you a modified specimen; per-
sons who
Hope to merit Heaven by making earth a hell;
and are so much on their guard against the frailties of mor-
tal nature, that they dare not even taste the cup of sweets
vouchsafed by Providence, lest there should be poison in the
lees Mr. Walpole was a noble-spirited man ; but hard,
dry, self-opinionated ; his wife, one of those magnifiers of
nothingnesses who have always a microscope in their hands,
to quote deformities in the fairest works of nature ; and pry
into causes where the effect alone concerns them.
“Martha, the eldest,--by very many years the eldest
daughter,-exhibited a promising combination of the defects
and deficiencies of both her parents : formal, pedantic, su-
percilious, with nothing human, nothing loveable in their
nature. Bigoted in their religious principles, the creed of the
Walpoles was of a selfish and repugnant kind; rebutting
all human predilections,—all sublunary gratifications; yet
imparting no charm to the state tendered in exchange for so
many sacrifices. Towards myself, the demeanour of the
family never went beyond a compassionating toleration.—
They thought me, indeed, unlucky to have been born with
so many temptations to criminality, as a considerable estate
and family interest could not fail to supply –in intellect a
weakling;-in spiritual prospects a castaway. All their
efforts (and they laboured diligently in their vocation) would
scarcely, they feared, endue me with a becoming contempt
of the world and its ways, but they did their best to pre-
serve me from temptation, by carefully secluding me from
communication with the heartless children of perdition.
“ Under these circumstances, you will not wonder that I
was induced to regard my playfellow, little Mary (the young-
est of the family) as a being of a very superior order; for
Vol. I. I
86 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
although far from participating in the rampant willfulness of
my own disposition, she was free from the hard presumptuous
self-sufficiency, and pharisaical pride of her tribe. She was
not pretty, scarcely even good-looking 7 but by the side of
Martha's gaunt figure, and the stern visages of the old peo-
ple, her countenance grew pleasing and person graceful—
She was young, too; and amid the dull solemnities of the
Walpole establishment, my eyes rested upon Mary as the
only living thing with which I could sympathise; and al-
most as great a victim as myself. By the time I attained my
nineteenth year, I ſancied myself desperately in love with
her ; told her so ;-implored her affection in return ; and
having mutually plighted our girl-and-boyish faith, formally
requested the sanction of old Walpole. -
“The world was of opinion that this attachment was ex-
actly what he expected,—what the whole family had long
been planning. Yet, Mr. Walpole insisted that we should
meet no more till the attainment of my majority; and sent
me abroad with a ‘serious' tutor to put the strength of my
passion, and my principles to the proof. This again the
world hailed as a hazardous experiment, predicting that
Mary Walpole's pale face and spiritless demeanour would do
little in restricting the wild courses of a boy of nineteen ;
but had they known more of the monotonous and chilling
interior of Mr. Walpole's family, they would have been
aware that a person whose growth had grown and strength
strengthened in its iron trammels, must have acquired a
lethargy of docility not easily thrown off. It is absuld to
describe the ardent spirit of youth, as boiling only the more
impetuously for the restraints imposed upon its impusles;
nothing is more readily checked than the vigor of the human
heart. Moreover, mine was to be a tour of instruction
rather than of amusement. The first year was to be passed
at the University of Jena ; and a considerable portion of the
latter among those ‘Isles of Greece,’ which, although burn-
ing Sappho" may have loved and sung there in the olden
time, present few modern beauties or modern blues to mis-
lead the heart or mind of the youthful traveller. I had
therefore but little temptation to Swerve from my faith ; and,
on the whole, am inclined to think that absence did but
increase the strength of my attachment :-for fancy or for-
getfulness tended to beautify its object, while Mary’s letters
began to breathe a holy tenderness to which Mary's lips had
failed in giving utterance. I returned home happy in the anti-
THE SEC O N D MARRIAG E. 87
cipation of assuming the possession and control of my ex-
tensive property, and sharing it with my guardian's daugh-
ter; unaware of the change which time had been silently
working in my views and feelings.
“On re-entering Mr. Walpole's house, I became at once
painfully sensible of the egotism dictating its narrow policy;-
of the insignificance of my guardian’s character; of the arbi-
trary opinionativeness of his wife ;—of Martha’s cold-blooded
reserve and supercilious self-esteem. They still professed
to despise the world, and live to and for themselves; while
I, in peace and charity with all mankind, and perhaps too
easily captivated by the specious blandishments that courted
me in society, was eager to open my house—my heart—my
mind—to all the world. No act of treachery had put me
out of humour with human kind:—they spoke me fair, and
I doubted not meant me well.”
“And Mary 2” whispered the anxious Lady Redwood,
interrupting for the first time her husband's narration.
“I would willingly avoid imputing the shadow of blame
to her,” he resumed, in a more subdued tone. “But I must
admit that Mary shared the condemnation which my amended
experience brought down on every member of her family.
She had gained nothing since we parted, and lost much.
The freshness of early youth was gone, both from her
countenance and character. If less frigid in demeanour than
her elder sister, she had become reserved to a degree incon-
sistent with the fervour of love; and in our private inter-
views, persisted in the same heartless formality necessitated
by the presence of the family –her notions of decorum were
now so rigid, and her judgments so harsh, that I shuddered
at the idea of passing my life with so precise and uncommu-
nicative a person. But it was too late to recede. The Wal-
poles were bent on the early celebration of our nuptials; and
trained as I had been under their yoke, it appeared to me
impossible to contravene their authority or set aside their
judgment. -
“The nearer, however, I drew to the moment which was
to operate so decisively on my destiny, the more I clung to
the attractive range of society now, for the first time, open
to my participation. My engagements with Miss Walpole
were not so generally known but that many a mother, many a
daughter, laboured to embellish my existence with the charm
of female favour. Courted, adulated, welcomed to hundreds
of the gayest houses of the metropolis, it was only at my
88 THE SECON D MARRIA GE,
guardian's that I was received with louring brows and cere-
monious coldness —that my actions were subjected to perpe-
tual investigation, incessant blame, and my condition of life
contemmed as a source of empty show and worldly care. . I
longed to get Mary away from the influence of her friends.
Since she must unavoidably become my wife, I resolved to
do my utmost in modelling her to those graces which I was
now beginning to prize so highly, or in rendering society
sufficiently attractive to tempt her from the solitude which
she knew not how to embellish. I loved music —and Mary
was no musician. I was fond of poetry;-and Mary
had been taught to regard it as a frivolous and profane thing.
In Italy, I had begun to study the language of Metastasio ;
—and I found it qualified by the Walpoles as a vain and
wantom dialect. I delighted in pictures ;-and my guardian
persisted in defining them as a strip of canvas daubed with
meretricious colours, at an infinite waste of time and pains to
some individual who might have been usefully employed in
mechanical labour. He seemed to pity me for being proprie-
tor of so much superfluous brick and mortar as was wasted
in my dwelling at Farminghurst; and as to Burnley—what
was the use of a second country-seat 7–I might either let it,
or convert its useless lawns to agricultural purposes. All
these narrow views of life and manners provoked not a single
argument of opposition or remonstrance from Mary’s lips;
and, on the eve of her marriage with the man of her choice,
it seemed far more a matter of regret to her to quit her Dor-
cas societies and Sunday-schools, her weekly pensioners and
favourite preacher, than a subject of joy that she was about to
join her fate to mine, to be the ornament of my home, and the
sharer of my joys and sorrows. How could I be satisfied
with so limited, so contemptuous a measure of personal affec-
tion ?—How could I bear that a tie so momentous as that of
conjugal faith should be regarded as secondary to the ordinary
connexions of life —The more I saw of Lady Redwood's
impassive coldness, the more I withdrew from her those
diminishing impulses of tenderness, which required the
genial atmosphere of sympathy to warm them into new and
perfect growth : -
“You, dearest Julia, may perhaps have been induced to
inveigh against the dulmess of the Castle. Judge what it
was under the dominion of that frigid and paralyzing spirit
of bigotry, which banished music, poetry, flowers, from its
desolate apartments; and rejected those still more cheering
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 89,
influences of endearment and mirth, which brighten even
the dreary resorts of penury | Dispirited by her grave and
oppressive taciturnity, I soon took refuge from my unattrac-
tive home in an affected ardour for field-sports; profiting by
the excuse thus afforded, to fill my house with my country-
neighbours, or escape it altogether by prolonged visits to
their own. Mary declined accompanying me ; and it was
some relief to throw off, from time to time, the heavy yoke
of dulness I had so madly affixed upon my own shoulders.
The very name of home became loathsome to my feelings.
No smiles awaited me on my return ;-no interest animated
my pursuits :-I experienced the torment of the criminal of
the olden time chained by Mezentius to a corpse. My irrita-
tion settled into coldness, and indifference was on the point of
becoming aversion. -
“The autumn succeeding my inauspicious marriage, I
agreed to join a shooting expedition to the Moors; and on
communicating to Lady Redwood the probability that I might
be some weeks absent from home, I prepared myself for
tokens of regret or displeasure. Mary contented herself, on
the contrary, with a calm expression of satisfaction that I
should be so long away; requesting that she might be per-
mitted to invite her own family to bear her company while I
remained in Scotland.
“‘My father will be well pleased to visit the Castle during
your absence,' she observed. ‘Your views and opinions are
so opposite, that no satisfaction or advantage can result from
your being together.'
“This declaration amounted to a tacit confession of her
own discomfort in my society; for no two persons could be
more congenial than Walpole and his daughter, none more
positively at variance than his daughter and her husband.
Meanwhile, notwithstanding my efforts to get away previous
to the arrival of my father-in-law, circumstances occurred
to retard my departure; and during the eight-and-forty hours
we passed under the same roof, the breach between us was
incalculably widened by his pertinacity in favouring me with
the same lectures, dictations, and reprovals, to which I had
been compelled to submit during my minority. Lady Red-
wood, if she did not chime in with his admonitions, preserved
a dignified silence; and never was there a sensation of re-
lease more gratifying than mine when, after a formal saluta-
tion from my wife, I turned my back upon Yorkshire, and
felt respited for a time from my household tribulations.
I*
90 THE SE COND MARRIAGE.
“Nor did absence diminish the breach thus opened between
us. My companions, a set of jovial bachelors who were
tolerably aware of the unsatisfactory nature of my domestic
connection, not only laboured to render me sensible to the
joys of liberty, but were incessantly throwing out insinua-
tions against petticoat government, and the odiousness of
women of sour or shrewish disposition. But the cheerful
life for which we were indebted to the proverbial hospitality
of the Highlands, formed in my eyes the best commentary
on Lady Redwood’s churlish unsociability; and when the
period arrived for returning to Farminghurst, I shuddered
at the prospect of encountering the Walpole circle, with its
querimonious tones, its severity of universal condemnation,
its selfish reserve, and pragmatical importance. I knew that
all my thoughts, words, and deeds, were about to be siſted
through the sieve of their peculiar doctrines;–that my plea-
sures would be treated as sinful, my pursuits as contempti-
ble;—that even Mary was beginning to regard me as a law-
breaker and a reprobate |
“Under these circumstances, it was a considerable relief
when a plan was suggested that our party, instead of break-
ing up at the close of the grouse-season, should re-assemble
at Melton Mowbray towards the end of October, for the form-
ation of a private hunting establishment; and supported by
so agreeable a project, I returned home, determined to defy
guardian, mother-in-law, Martha, nay, even Lady Redwood
herself; to assert my own authority, seek my own amuse-
ments, and leave her to the enjoyment of those so little conso-
mant with the temper of a man in the prime of health and
prosperity.”
THE SEC O N D MARRIA.G. E. 91
CHAPTER XV.
The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs
Too heavily upon the lily's head,
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
WoRDswortú.
“My wife's ſamily,” resumed Sir Alam, after having paused
to give audience to Julia's exclamations of wonder and con-
demnation, “were, however, too much enlighented as to the
obstimacy of my disposition, to suggest opposition to my
plans. No proposal was made on either side that Lady Red-
wood should bear me company. Her father was anxious,
that she should return home with him, and as Mary had
now the prospect of becoming a mother, the project was eli-
gible enough. But she would not hear of quitting Farming-
hurst; and succeeded in persuading the old people to permit
her sister Martha to pass the winter in Yorkshire. My de-
parture preceded theirs; so that I knew nothing of their
state of feeling in taking leave of their widowed daughter—
for such they already regarded her.
“I need not weary your patience, dearest, by a descrip-
tion of the heartless mirth and festivity in which I passed the
winter. It was my sole study to obliterate from my memory
every thing connected with Farminghurst —and I suc-
ceeded. Already I regarded my marriage as an act of boy-
ish infatuation; and was even base enough to concede to my
intimate associates the privilege of rallying me respecting
my methodistical wife and miserable home. One or two of
my friends even urged me to bolder resistance; to re-model
my establishment and mode of life according to my own
good liking. ‘If Lady Redwood does not choose to con-
92 "THE SEC ON D MARRIA GE,
form to her husband's wishes,’ argued they, “let her go home
again, or pray and preach elsewhere. You have St. Paul's
authority on your side to enforce her submission to your
authority.'
“My opinions began to coincide with theirs; and already
I determined that, after the event of Mary's confinement, a
mutual explanation should place us on a different footing;
that either she should consent to render my house the resort
of cheerful society and conform her own habits to the usages
of the world, or that we should form separate households
after our several fancies. I insinuated something of the
kind in one of my letters; but Mary's replies were so
guarded and so cold, that it was impossible to judge whether
the proposal was acceptable or painful to her feelings. She
wrote regularly, giving me an account of all that interested
or ought to interest me, concerning my tenantry and estates;
but the tone of her correspondence partook of the dry cir-
cumstantiality of all letters of business.
“Never did I hail the approach of spring with so little
satisfaction, as when a brighter verdure in the Leicestershire
pastures reminded me that I should shortly have no further
excuse for prolonging my absence. Lady Redwood's con-
finement was announced for the beginning of May; and at
the end of March, I found my companions beginning to dis-
perse. I took my leave of them with regret and envy.
They were looking forward with eagerness to the season,
to their clubs, the Opera, the Derby, Almack's, and all the
countless varieties of London pleasure ; while I had nothing
to anticipate but a sullen wife and discontented home. My
utmost hope suggested that Mary’s new position as a mother
would tend to humanize her character, and warm her feel-
ings towards myself; or that it would afford me an excuse
for leaving her more than ever alone, and dispensing with
the company of her odious relatives. On one point, more-
over, I was positive; and expressed my determination so
clearly in my letters, that even the coolness of Walpole blood
was not proof against my authority. Of all the family,
Martha had been the most audacious in her expressions of
disapproval of my conduct; and not choosing to expose
myself to discussions with her at so critical a moment as
that of her sister's indisposition, I signified my wish that I
might find Lady Redwood alone on my return to Farming-
hurst. This was ungracious enough;-but it was better
than a family quarrel.
TEIE SECON D MARRIAGE, 93
“I did accordingly find her alone; and not only more
cheerless and dispirited than ever, but in a miserable state of
health. But having neither sisters not any near female
relative of my own, I was little habituated to the peculiarities
of feminine infirmity; and attributing the delicate appear-
ance of my wife entirely to her situation, gave little heed to
her illness. It did not render her kinder or more conciliat-
ing ; and trusting that the birth of her child would restore
her strength and soften her humour, I betook myself to my
usual occupations,—riding over my farms with the bailiffs,
making excursions in my yacht, and passing my evenings
in the perusal of new works (certainly not selected by the
Walpole dynasty) forwarded to me from town. It was
inexplicable that, living together as we did, I could manage
to see so little of my wife; or that she could persist in her
cold and selfish alienation,-in cherishing so fixed a dislike
to the father of her expected child.
“One day, about a fortnight after my return, I had been
occupied the whole morning with the keepers shooting
landrails upon the marshes of Farming Level—(you
remember it, Julia 1—the salt-marsh extending from the
cliffs to the sea, at the foot of the shrubberies 7)—and having
dismissed my people, I took a short cut homewards through
the grounds, followed by a favourite setter. It was a lovely
day in April,-mild, balmy, full of promise, full of hope;
the trees budding around, the birds singing among the
branches as if to encourage their growth ; every bank
purple with violets, and an endless variety of spring flowers
enlivening the borders of the shrubberies. The clear blue
skies, the bluer sea, the woods just rousing from their
winter lethargy, the very herbage under my feet announcing
a more buoyant and life-like texture, all tended to raise my
spirits and brighten my views. As I sauntered along,
watching the squirrels which Ponto's approach drove up the
tall stems of the pine trees, I was forming a thousand
projects for the future. I resolved that, on being assured of
Lady Redwood's safety, I would visit London, perhaps Paris,
and familiarize myself with the pleasures and diversions so
fondly described by my Melton friends. Although deprived
of my hopes of happiness, amusement at least was at my
command; and I promised to repay myself the infinite
arrears of enºr still owing by the Fates.
“Engrossed by these chimeras, I reached that platform
of the shrubbery, that fatal spot—(Sir Alan looked signifi-
94 THE SECON D M A.R.R.I.A.G.E.
cantly at his wife; and Julia nodding her comprehension of
his meaning, impatiently motioned to her husband to pro-
ceed,) to which you have since observed me affix a peculiar
sentiment of interest ; when, to my surprise, I perceived
Lady Redwood seated on the bench under the magnolia
tree. Weak as she was, it was a considerable walk for her to
have achieved ; and common courtesy required me to accost
her, and offer my arm to facilitate her return; when, on ap-
proaching her, I perceived with surprise that her features
were swollen and discoloured with weeping. Strange to say,
I thought her prettier under that aspect than I had seen her
since our marriage. She was more like the Mary of my
youth.-Alas! it was so long since she had appeared to in-
dulge in any womanly emotion.— -
“What is the matter?” said I, in a kinder voice than usual,
and seating myself by her side, ‘Have you received bad
news from your family º
“ No.'
“‘Are you indisposed ?—overfatigued ?
“‘Not more so than usual.'
“‘But you have been crying.—-What has distressed
you ?'— - - - -
“‘I often cry without any new distress.'
“‘You are weeping even now 7" -
“‘Not for sorrow's sake. Do not disturb yourself. My
feelings are little worth investigation or comment.’
“My suspicions were excited by these inconclusive an-
swers; and I now insisted on an explanation. I fancy I
spoke harshly, for Mary's tears flowed unrestrainedly.
“‘Nay them,' cried she, at length, as if by an impulse
beyond her own control; ‘why not vindicate myself by an
avowal of the truth?—My lips will soon be closed forever,
my heart frozen into peace. Why, why—scruple to reveal its
burning anguish ' Yes! I have been weeping—enjoying
the consolation of tears—the only comfort you have left me !
But they were tears of joy: for I know that the end of my
pilgrimage is approaching, and that my heaviness shall not
endure forever ! Rejected as I am from your bosom—com-
temned—reviled—the day of my release is at hand; and I
shall taste, after all my trials—my humiliation—my despair,
—the tender mercies of a more forbearing Master.—Yes,
Redwood, I am about to die. Rejoice with me !—rejoice for
your own sake, rejoice for mine !—Our ill-assorted mar-
riage is on the eye of dissolution. You will be free to form
THE SECOND MARRIAGE, 95
a tie more congenial with your feelings; and I-(pray for
me, that it may be sol) I shall be summoned to the enjoy-
ment of a peace which passeth all understanding.'
“Startled by her unexpected vehemence, I was still far
from entering into the source of this exaltation of feeling.
“‘Calm yourself,' I replied; “calm yourself. Such are
the apprehensions of every woman circumstanced as you
are now.’
“‘Was ever woman circumstanced as I am now !"—
cried Lady Redwood, clasping her hands. ‘Did ever wo-
man sacrifice her happiness, her principles, her tenderness,
to be rewarded as I have been 3–to ask for bread (even the
nutriment of a craving heart) and receive a stone ;-to have
forsaken her own people and her father's house, for the sake
of one from whose bosom she is cast forth to perish l’—
“‘What mean you, Mary " I exclaimed, ‘explain the
cause of this excitement.’
“Does it need interpretation, that the worm, long trod-
den under foot, should at length turn upon the iron heel by
which its helplessness has been bruised ?—Is it so strange
—so miraculous—that even I, lowly and humiliated as I
am, should pause upon the brink of the grave, and grieve
that my youth has been spent in vain ; the warm impulses
of my heart lavished on empty air, cast upon the waters,
disowned, disdained, polluted
“‘Suffer me to conduct you home,” said I, with assumed
calmness; for I was now persuaded that my wife was la-
bouring under a paroxysm of insanity.
“‘No P-cried Lady Redwood.— No | Since I have
been unable to control the impulses of an overcharged heart,
here let me speak; here, where the Almighty, to whose
mercy I am hastening, looks down upon my sorrow;-where
the abundance and beauty which nature has shed around
me to so little purpose, remind me that something exists on
earth to render death an act of resignation.’ -
“‘My dear Mary, you alarm me and injure yourself by
this violence,' said I, inexpressibly awed by the solemnity of
her voice and gestures, ‘You will yet live many years for
the enjoyment of '
“‘Hush P interrupted my wife, turning suddenly towards
me. But that a voice has spoken to me, but that I know
myself on the brink of fie great abyss, think you that my own
lips, my own withered heart would have unclosed ? Talk
96 TIIIE SECON D M A.R.R.I.A.G.E.
not to me of living !—Earth has no shelter for me but the
grave.’
“‘Mary–Mary !' cried I, ‘you are tempting Providence
by these wayward ejaculations. With the poor, the naked,
and the hungry suffering around, what right have you, the
minion of prosperity, to rebel against God ''
“‘The eye of Heaven hath a clear insight into the value
of its gifts,” replied Lady Redwood. ‘Gold, silver and gor-
geous raiment, are not all in all in the sight of God, as in
the sight of man. To possess the means of happiness, ac-
cording to our powers of enjoyment, constitutes real pros-
perity. For me, I care but little nor have ever cared, for a
lofty dwelling, obsequious attendance, or the trinkets of
pomp. From my youth upwards, I have coveted but the
approving eye and caressing hand of affection; and these
were fated never to be mine ! . Admit then that I am a beg-
gar, an outcast, a miserable—miserable outcast !’ And the
tears poured down her cheeks as she spoke. *
“‘Are you serious in these charges 3' said I, still hoping
and believing that she laboured under mental delusion.
* Having rejected all my overtures of affection, of regard, of
friendship, do you now accuse me of having been the first to
outrage our vows of wedded love º'-
“‘Wherefore accuse you ;—to whom have I to appeal for
pity, or redress —Listen to me! You know as fully as
myself in what strict, principles of piety I was reared. My
parents, abhorring the idolatries of the world, taught their
children to look upon images of silver and gold as things of
no account to an immortal soul —and so far it was easy to
espouse their tenets. . But they did more, and required
more at our hands; and then, and them only, I grew rebel-
lious to their will. What availed it to insist on the sacrifice
of all carmal affections, when from my very childhood every
feeling of my bosom had been devoted to my playmate Alan
Redwood;—when, as I grew in years, that childish regard
had deepened into womanly tenderness : My father remon-
strated;—I told him it was already too late:—my mother
warned and admonished me;—I told her that my whole
heart, my whole soul were yours, and yours forever !
“‘At length, they ceded to my prayers—but their blessing
on our union was even as a curse; for my father reminded me
that whoso goeth forth to dwell in the tents of Belial must eat
the bitter bread of his service; and that the worldling I had
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 97
chosen for my husband would be as an avenger to punish the
sinfulness of my choice
“‘And such,’ cried I, with indignation, “such was Mr.
Walpole's notion of the feelings to be instilled into his daugh-
ter's heart towards her husband 1’ -
“‘Blame him not P interrupted Mary, “He sees things
after the manner of his people. Would I had never pre-
sumed to look on them in a different light. Yes, Redwood,
even thus forewarned, I did dream, I did hope, that the com-
panion of your infancy, childhood, manhood, had attained
a chief influence over your mind, and might one day suc-
ceed in touching your stubborn heart. But lo! from the
moment of our marriage, my trust was undeceived—oh !
how bitterly undeceived. I saw that you despised my home-
liness, shrank from— -
“‘Desist, Mary, desistſ’ interrupted I; “you cannot
justify yourself in such assertions.' -
“‘I can—I do I Remember your silence, your coldness
your reserve, your unwillingness to conciliate my gratitude
by the smallest sacrifice to the opinions you had seen con-
secrated in my eyes by the precepts and examples of my
parents. You treated me with scorn,--almost with insult.
I forbore to murmur, and you despised me only the more for
the tameness of my submission. You quitted me, aban-
doned me:—then, when in the languor of indisposition I
most needed the sustaining hand of kindness, you deserted
me for the companionship of those whose heartless levity
contributed more largely to your diversion. What had I in
exchange for the tenderness of which you defrauded me !
My tears 1—Day after day, during your absence, I came
hither, to this secluded spot; to weep over my own wretch-
edness and count the moments till your return.'
“‘Why—why not even then address me thus * cried I
deeply affected. ‘Why not deign to disclose a state of feel-
ing which assuredly your own demeanor afforded me no clue
to penetrate '''
“‘Was it in the nature of woman to degrade herself still
further in the eyes of a husband by whom she was openly
despised?' - .
“‘On my soul, on my life, you wrong me ! ... I too have
been deceived—have deceived myself. I believed you care-
less of my happiness, indifferent to my regard—wrapt up
in your own family,–accountable only to Heaven,_engross-
ed by unceasing prayers.”
Wol. I. K
98 THE SECON D M A R RIAG E.
“‘And were they not all for you—for your welfare ?—
Unless when, despite myself, an involuntary supplication
burst from my lips that I might learn to love you less ; or that
when I should be in the grave, repentance might overtake
you for the sufferings you were inflicting on me!’
“‘Dearest—dearest Mary' cried I, folding her to my
bosom,-‘companion of my youth,-my chosen wiſe,_mo-
ther of my child,—why—why has this fatal reserve so long
interposed between us? But it is not yet too late;—we have
years of happiness in store P
“‘No!’ faltered Lady Redwood, inclining her head (and
for the first time for many months) upon my bosom. “But
that my destiny is sealed, I should not have spoken thus.
But do you really love me? Can it be possible that all the
wretchedness I have endured,—all the tears I have shed,—
are attributable to the want of conſidence which has suffered
a cloud to gather between us 3'-
“‘It is—it is ſ' said I.”
“‘ I have wished for nothing but your affection, and yet—”
“Say not another wordſ” cried I, again ſervently clasp-
ing her in my arms. “Providence is merciful. With such
prospects of happiness opening around you, Mary, you will
live to gainsay your own predictions. We shall—we must
be happy P
“‘For months past——may ! from the period of your depart-
ure for Scotland,—from the period when I became convinc-
ingly aware of your indifference, I have never cnjoyed a
night's repose. Food has not nourished me—sleep has not
refreshed me. Nature can no longer support the conflict.'
“Gazing earnestly in her ſace, I discerned fatal conſirma-
tion of this opinion.
“‘You must have advice " I cried—
“‘Willingly—since you desire it. But do you really
imagine that drugs have influence over a disorder such as
mine !
“‘The cause of your mental irritation removed, a restora-
tion of strength will follow. Promise me, Mary, to take
care of yourself?”
“‘I will—I do —and in evidence of my obedience, let us
return home. The evening is growing chill.”
“The interest of our conversation had in fact prevented
either of us from noticing that a heavy dew had risen ; which,
in Lady Redwood's state of debility, was highly permicious.
The next day she was worse. I had no longer any inclina-
T H E S E CON D M A R R.I.A.G.E. 99
tion to quit her side even for a moment;-the neighbouring
physician, whom I had summoned to her aid, admitted to me
that it was highly improbable she would survive the event of
her confinement Unwilling as I was to admit the interven-
tion of a third person between us in our altered state of feel-
ing, I considered it a duty to the Walpole family to apprise
them of their daughter’s precarious condition ; mor, in the
wretchedness and repentance of my soul, did I hesitate to
acknowledge my past wrongs against her, and my earnest
desire to redeem them. In the course of a day or two they
arrived at Farminghurst; and they, who had been such unwel-
come visitors in the house of feasting, were all that could be
wished in the house of mourning. The stern grief of the
old man who had so laboured to subdue every human emotion
within his heart, was inexpressibly affecting ; and Martha
and her mother were too much softened by the sight of
Mary's suffering, to indulge in their former asperities. It
seemed to afford peculiar satisfaction to poor Lady Redwood
to see us all once more united on a friendly footing.
“From the period of that ſatal day, she had never been
permitted to quit her own room ; and nothing would persuade
poor Martha, who was truly and tenderly attached to her
sister, but that extreme care, the skill of her attendants, and
above all the vigour of youth renovated by prospects of re-
turning happiness, would carry her in safety through her
evil day. But Mary knew better –from the first she declared
her death as certain, and never swerved from the opinion.
“‘My sister wants to delude you into believing me a false
jº said she, with a smiling face and extended
land, one day as I approached her couch. “Do not lend
your car to her, dearest Alan ; or you will perhaps turn
aside from the petitions and remonstrances I have still to
offer —It will soon be too late In the struggle of that
hour, I shall have no voice to commune with my husband.
“If you have a wish to express,' I faltered, seating my-
self beside her, ‘for the ease of your own mind, however
needlessly, give it utterance.”
“‘The spring comes forward so beautifully,' said she,
pointing with her thin hand to the window, round which the
China roses were already clustering, ‘the weather is so
mild, so soft, so balmy, that I was in hopes of being able to
reach that dear old Spot with you again;–that spot where
#. first kind tears of mercy announced that my day of tri-
ulation was over !”
100 - THE SECON D \{A R R.I.A.G.E.,
“Wait another week,' said I, in a low voice, “and we
will go there again together.”
“‘Another week l’ murmured Mary, with a mournful
wave of the head. ‘In another week I shall be No
matter, why should I breathe a word to grieve you ? No,
Alan—no | I shall go hence no more borne upon my own
feet, or with the impulses of living breath in my bosom.
And therefore, dearest, let me hasten to claim a promise at
your hands. When all is over here, bequeath my poor babe
to my mother's care, and quit a spot associated with so many
unwelcome impressions. Go abroad—travel—bend your
. upon other faces till you have forgotten poor Mary's ;-
and—'
“‘Never, never !' cried I, pressing her hands within my
OWII.
“‘It is presumptuous to suppose your bosom formed of
other than mortal texture,' she replied, striving to smile.
“It is in the nature of the human heart to forget;-it is in the
nature of the human heart to love again, again and again.
Only, dearest Alan, when you are about to take a new wife
to your bosom—' (she prevented my remonstrances by plac-
ing her cold hand on my lips), “pause for a moment to recall
the evil effects of former precipitancy!—Pause, to consider
whether between yourself and the object of your affections,
there exists that congeniality of principles, opinions, and
condition, without which wedlock is a state of penance ;-
whether you are disposed—nay, firmly determined, and at
every personal sacrifice—to secure her happiness.-Less
than such devotedness is not love . Thus much for her sake
and your own. For mine—for the sake of my child, if in-
deed my child survive, promise me, dearest, dearest husband,
that however your fancy may be captivated by a fair face and
pleasing demeanour, you will ascertain the principles and
temper of the woman you make its mother. Martha—fetch
hither the bed prepared for this babe of promise. There—
Redwood —there stands the downy nest of the little being
my heart so yearns to look upon, and which I shall never,
never behold.—Clasp your hands in mine, dearest, clasp
them in blessings upon its pillow ;—and promise me that you
will choose for it a mother who shall be tender to its infirmi-
ties and forgiving to its frailties.’”
He paused and Lady Redwood hid her sobbing face in
her hands.
()
THE SEC O N D MIA R R.I.A. G. E. 101
“I promised, Julia.--What would I not have promised to
ease one pang of the unhappy creature who was hastening
thus unrepiningly to the grave. A few mights afterwards
I was summoned from my bed to speak to her. She was
restless, ſeverish ;-her hour was approaching ! and Mar-
tha Walpole had reluctantly consented to summon me, that a
few more—a few last parting words might pass between us.
She commended her servants to me—she commended her
poor to me;—the naked whom she had fed—the babes whom
she had instructed. She bade me honor her father and moth-
er; be kind to her poor companionless sister; forbearing to
the Hobarts, the pastor delegated to feed my flock;-and
above all, after solemn exhortations of a still holier nature,
she placed in my hand her own well-studied copy of the
Scriptures, and on my finger a ring (Julia I wear it still, and
you have grudged me the indulgence), containing her own
hair and an obituary inscription. Her attendants them forced
me from the chamber, and compelled me to retire to my own,
And lo! when ſ beheld her again, the struggle was over,
the flush had faded from her cheek—the beaming eye was
closed. Mary lay composed upon her couch in the rigid
stillness of death ; and the feeble wail of an infant in the ad-
joining chamber apprised me that I was the father of a moth-
erless child.”
102 THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER XVI.
I charge you by your love, to take some pity
On this distressed man. Help to restore him
That precious jewel he hath lost
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
To one endowed with poor Julia's sensibility there needed no
comment in illustration of the foregoing marrative, or in rep-
robation of her own offences. Recognizing at once the pe-
culiar claims enforced by Lady Redwood's afflictions on the
memory—the remorse of her husband,-as well as the weak-
ness and wickedness of her own groundless jealousy, she was
now more inclined to quarrel with Sir Alan’s obduracy
towards his patient and devoted wife, than to blame his too
strict performance of those promises which had soothed her
dying hours. She no longer wondered at the caution with
which Redwood had yielded up her affection to herself—the
vigilance with which he had studied her principles and prac-
tice; the sort of reluctance with which he had admitted to
himself his inconstancy to the memory of the dead; and the
fear and trembling with which he had elected her to be the
mother of a child so solemnly committed to his charge.
And how had she repaid his confidence —She blushed to
think of it!—Her ungraciousness towards the Walpoles,
whose importance in his estimation arose from so sacred an
influence—her insensibility towards his little girl—her
indifference to his household—her neglect of his humble
tenantry—her incivility to the Hobarts—her untoward inter-
ference with a spot thrice hallowed by the memory of his
unhappy victim Poor Mary —who could better sympathize
than Mr. Trevelyan's daughter with the wretchedness of a
neglected wife –Poor Mary —Lady Redwood actually
THE SEC ON D MARRIAGE, 103
longed to be at Farminghurst again, that she might renew
and replace every object commected with one who had died so
young and so full of sorrow. She yearned to have the little
motherless child in her arms;–to visit the poor—whom
Mary, even amidst her worst of trouble, had never over-
looked;—to encourage the young—whom Mary, in the
midst of sorrow and sickness, had laboured to train towards
the skies. Satisfied of her unworthiness, she felt grateful to
Redwood for loving her in spite of all her faults; and deter-
mined to profit by the first hours of returning health to study
the acquirement of Mary's spirit of righteousness, without
neglecting her own spirit of conciliation. She thought it
would be easy, she knew it would be delightful, now that
she saw clearly through the clouds enveloping the character
of her husband, to pursue a system of life calculated to retain
his affections, and render their future destinies as bright as
she had dreamed them in the earliest hours of her enthu-
siasm. Every day added strength to her frame; every day
added vigour to her mind. She felt almost inclined to rejoice
that the stormy onset of her married life had compelled her
to a course of such severe self-examination ; had arrested
her in the wild career of girlhood—the flighty heedlessness
of prosperity, and rendered her conscious of all the gifts
for which she had to be at once grateful and accountable to
Providence. Restored to Redwood's affections and con-
fidence, she was at peace with all the world. She had
patience even with uncle Trevanion, and defied Dr. Hobart's
most mysterious whisper to ruffle her temper.
Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, satisfied that nothing but the
vigilance of their own attendance and the art of the Cornu-
bian Galen had enabled their beloved daughter to overcome
the miserable condition to which she was reduced by the
indifference of the worst of husbands, profited by the earliest
moment of her recovery to insinuate a hope that Sir Alan
would never more remove her from their roof; and great
indeed was their amazement when Julia, instead of seconding
the petition, threw herself into the arms of her beloved
Redwood, assuring them that there was no life for her save
in his presence. Nor was their surprise diminished when,
with the most winning frankmess and many tears, Lady
Redwood honestly accused her own jealous perversity of all
her past distresses, and implored oblivion for the past, and
indulgence for the future.
{04 TIII, SIS COND MAR RIA G E.
The approach of spring enabled her to devote herselſ to
the ſulfilment of “vows made in pain,” and resolutions con-
ceived in a moment of penitence. On the return of Sir Alan
and Lady Redwood to Farminghurst, no further complaints
were made among the old domestics of the cold hauteur of
her entrance into her husband's home, nor had she any
cause to complain of the dreariness of their journey; for,
having cytended it through the metropolis, ſor the purpose
of visiting the Walpoles and claiming their charge, little
Mary's Sallies and little Mary's smiles afforded continual
matter of interest.
A ſew months afterwards, the whole Walpole family
became her guests; and although at times the dissertations
of the old lady and the homilies of her husband were some-
what tedious, there was a conscientiousness in all their
doings, and a tenderness of affection towards their little
grandchild, which bespoke her forbearance. Towards
Martha, she was even more kindly disposed;—for Martha,
taught by sad experience, was so willing to sacrifice her
predilections to conciliate the ſather of her dead sister’s only
child, that there was something almost affecting in the
docility with which she, a middle aged woman, strove to
acquire the qualities amiable in his eyes. With Martha,
she visited the poor and comforted the sick;-with Martha,
she encountered the oppressive imanity of the vicarage;—
with Martha, she laboured to accomplish her mind by a
course of serious reading, for the duty of presiding over her
daughter-in-law's education. Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan were
amazed when they saw that it was a chief object with their
beautiful daughter, their noble heiress, to convert herself into
a governess; and implored her to invite Miss Wilmot from
her retreat, to save her ſrom such ignominious drudgery.
But against this plan there was a serious objection. Lady
Redwood's preceptress was now herself a happy wiſe; and
poor Julia would certainly have been leſſ to the ſulfilment of
her task, but that maternal duties of her own soon interfered
with the project.
Before the family quitted London the second year after
their marriage, Dr. Hobart had the happiness of whispering
to every family within ten miles of the vicarage, that he was
about to travel up to town to administer the rite of baptism to
the son and heir of his patron ; and on his return, had the
Satisfaction of subdividing his discourse into divers heads.
Imprimis, that the said son and heir was the finest inſant in.
Լ HE SECON D M A R R.I.A. G. E. 105
the kingdom ; secondly, that Lady Redwood had gratified
her husband by proposing old Mr. Walpole, in conjunction
with her own father, as a sponsor to the child; thirdly,
that her ladyship having been presented at the drawing-
room by her cousin the Duchess, arrayed in all her family
diamonds, had attracted universal admiration; fourthly, that
he himself had been introduced by his patron, Sir Alan, to
the nod of the King's Majesty; and, fifthly, that the united
families of Redwood, Walpole, and Trevelyan were about
to pass the summer at the Castle. Mrs. Hobart herself,
indeed, was furthermore heard to insinuate that the Doctor
had pronounced his patron to be the most fortunate of men;
—nothing being left himself, his friends, or the parish, to
regret, in his—SEcon D MARRIAGE.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
ºm-s-sua-s
Il n'y a rien dont on voit mieux la fin qu'une grand fortuner.
LA BRUYERE.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 109
CHAPTER I.
To secure our own enjoyment is happiness; to secure the enjoyment
of others, is virtue. SAADI.
MR. MARTINDALE was considered a very fortunate man to
return from the Cape of Good Hope with a fortune of nine-
ty thousand pounds, shortly after he had attained the age of
forty-four. Ages and their influences are comparative. An
individual, who during twenty-two of his four-and-forty
years has scarcely missed as many days of being seen on
the pavé of St. James Street or in the dust of Hyde Park,-
whose visage has been as stationary in the bay window of
White's, Arthur’s, or the Cocoa Tree, as that of the great
Saladin over the Saracen's Head coach-office, passes for a
middle-aged man, or rather for a man of a certain age : but
one who has passed his time in purveying camels for the
East India Company in the vicinity of the Himalaya, or
planting indigo, or chewing betel in any other oriental set-
tlement, is accounted a young man, should his final settle-
ment with Leadenhall-street be completed within his first
half century. Richard Martindale, thanks to currie, mag-
nesia lozenges, and other bilious preventatives, had been so
lucky as to lose sight of Table Mountain without the loss
of his liver or the reduplication of his spleen 5–his fortune
was invested in a very safe house ;-and on his arrival at
Nerot's Hotel from the Downs, he thought himself, and was
thought by the waiters, a very important personage. He
was not indeed the inheritor of an aristocratic name, but his
lineage was respectable and irreproachable ; his father hav-
ing been an eminent physician in the town of Hertford,
where his elder brother still practised as the leading attor-
VoI. I. L
I 10 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
ney. One younger brother was a clergyman ; and his two
sisters were married to small squires in the neighbourhood
of their hereditary home. l
In such a family, secure from all pretension to fashion or
distinction, the sum of ninety thousand pounds was as the
treasury of the pre-Adamite sultans! They had been talk-
ing for five years past of all Richard would do when he
arrived; and now that he was really come, and really plead-
ed guilty to the possession of a sum so nearly approaching
to one hundred thousand pounds, they hardly knew how to
make too much of him, or too little of themselves. A for-
tune recently acquired or still floating, which has not yet
been subjected to matter-of-fact calculations respecting in-
terest, investment, and net produce, always assumes double
importance. To say that a man has an income of four thou-
sand a year, is to say nothing. One set of people regard him
as a pauper; another set observe that, with management, he
may live handsomely enough ; a third declare that he must
not attempt to launch out in London society; and the fash-
ſº world vote him admissible only as a giver of mo-
derate dinners, and a proprietor of moderate equipages. But
give him boldly out as recently arrived in England with a
hundred thousand pounds, and the whole world (with the
exception of the mercantile classes) hail him at once as a
wealthy man. What may not a man do with a hundred
thousand pounds !—“No stud, no service of plate,_no
French cook,+no opera box : Shabby fellow —Iſ a man
with a hundred thousand pounds cannot afford to be comfort-
able, who can º’’ People talk of the earnings of his thirty
years’ exile, of the whole provision for his ſuture family,–
as of a year's income.
Such was the case with Richard Martindale. His elder
brother the At , but no, he called himself “the Solicitor,”
had long fixed a greedy eye on a small estate of fiſty or sixty
acres, adjoining his paddock, in the suburbs of Hertford.
“Now Richard is come home,” said he, to his smart wiſe, “I
shall get him to manage it for me.” The Reverend Jacob,
like his namesake, proprietor of twelve blooming children,
was no less anxious to build a wing to his parsonage, in
order that the fathers of the twelve future tribes might not
sleep above three in a bed. “Now Richard is come home,”
said he to his dowdy wife, “I shall get him to manage it for
me.” His elder sister, Mrs. Marriot, had an elder son ripe
for college; and, in his mother's opinion, needing only that
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 11 I
stepping-stone to advancement to reach the highest dignities
of church or state. It had long been her ambition to behold
him in trencher cap and gown. “Now Richard is come
home,” said she to her somnolent spouse, “I shall get him
to manage it for me.” His younger sister, Mrs. Millegan,
whose husband, in addition to his own farm, managed the
large estates of the Earl of Mowbray, and who was accord-
ingly much noticed by the ladies at Mowbray End, had long
been desirous of possessing some sort of carriage, even a
pony cart, in which she could make her appearance there
when company was staying in the house, without dust or mud
upon her shoes or traces of plebeian moisture on her brow.
“Now Richard is come home,” cried she to her three
eager daughters,” “I shall get him to manage it for me.”
For these cogent reasons, the different members of his
family were severally though simultaneously careful not to
grace the exile's welcome home with any demonstration of
personal comfort. Both brothers and sisters were really and
unaffectedly delighted to see him ; but they were just ninety
thousand times as fond of him as when, in his hobble-de-
hoyhood, a passage was taken for him in the outward-bound
ship fated to convey him to the Hottentots and cobra-de-
capellas. But instead of rejoicing heartily with him on his
safe return, slaying the fatted calf, and listening politely if
not attentively to his Eastern romances, each had a tale to tell
of “moving accidents by flood and ſell ;”——of the badness of
the times; the defaulture of parishioners ; the rise of dry
goods and tobaccos; the fall of stocks; the unpromising
aspect of affairs both public and private ;-and instead of
their usual hearty joviality, each spoke in a plaintive tone
with elevated eyebrows and depressed mouth. Each wanted
but a little, however, of being able to face with cheerfulness
the ills of life. Robert, the solicitor, honestly confessed that
he had no doubt of making his way in the world, and bring-
ing up his family respectably, if he were only able to accom-
plish the purchase of Clammer Mill Farm. Jacob had no
fault to find with his condition in life ; but it was a grievous
thing to see ten or a dozen fine boys cooped up like quails in
a poulterer's cage, or turned out on the village green to play
with vagabonds or trampers, because there was no room for
them in their poor ſather's confined and unwholesome house.
Maria showed him albums full of her poor dear Dick’s “Fu-
gitive poetry;” and appealed to him, whether it would not be
a thousand pities that so much genius should blush unseen
II 2 . MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
for lack of the distinctions of the University;-while Nancy
hinted that if she could but manage to keep up appearances
a little better, she had very little doubt of securing one of the
young Mowbrays as a husband for her daughter Anne; only
when the poor girls made their appearance in the saloon at
Mowbray End, panting and puffing after their walk, with
the complexion of a cook in the basting act, it was not to be
supposed they could look to advantage.
Poor Richard was at first mightily distressed to observe the
desponding condition of his kinsfolk. There could not
apparently be four more uncomfortable families than those
which had unceasingly favoured him, during his residence
among the Hottentots, with glowing pictures of their domes-
tic happiness, and entreaties that he would hasten to witness
and share it. Their pretensions, however, were far from
exorbitant. He was in hopes that five thousand pounds would
cover the whole amount of their ambition; and what was five
thousand out of ninety —Within a week, therefore, after
his arrival at the dapper residence of his brother Robert, he
had promised universal happiness to the family; purchased
the Clammer Mill estate; presented to Jacob the fifteen hun-
dred pounds necessary to build and furnish the new wing ;
settled eighty pounds a year on Richard Marriot; and be-
stowed on the astonished Mrs. Millegan a handsome chariot
and set of horses. He cursed the whole family in short
“with many a granted prayer ;” and never was a finer or
more glowing specimen of the short-sightedness and ingrati-
tude of the human race exhibited, than by the dynasty of
Martindale. Having so readily obtained all they asked for,
they were now prodigiously vexed they had not asked for
more. Bob had little doubt that his dear Richard would have
made very little difficulty in adding the Springfield Farm to his
purchase ; which would, in fact, have made the whole a most
complete thing—a most valuable investment—a most saleable
property:—while Jacob thought it a great oversight to expend
so large a sum as fifteen hundred pounds on a college living,
while four thousand would have purchased the advowson of
Bramfield, where the parsonage and gardens were calculated
for the reception of a large family (six more sons if he liked),
and fit to step into at once, without incurring the perplexities
of brick and mortar :—Mrs. Marriot woke her unhappy hus-
band three or four times during his after-dinner dose, to
lament that while she was about it she had not begged her
brother to send Tom to Westminster, as well as Dick to
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. t 113
Trinity; and, as to Mrs. Millegan, she had an attack of the
jaundice in honour of her good fortune. She, who had been
the most abundantly rewarded of all,—she who had spunged
for a pony cart and obtained a yellow chariot with a light
blue bullion hammer-cloth—she was the most disappointed,
—the most indignant of the whole family;-and knew not
whether most to blame her own improvidence or the injustice
of her brother. He was no longer her “dear” brother—no
longer even Dick—but merely “Richard Martindale.”—
Nothing could be more unfair than Richard Martindale’s
partiality in the family; and to make her the sufferer, his
next, and once his favourite sister ſ—she who had been
“little Nancy” in his early letters from the Cape;—and who
had sent him out year after year, for fifteen seasons, a case
of high-dried hams and tongues of her own curing. It was
too bad
Richard Martindale had expended £2754 7s. 8d. on the
purchase of the Clammer Mill estate ;-Richard Martindale
had paid in hard cash to his brother Jacob, a sum of £1500;
—Richard Martindale had settled on Dick Marriot the inter-
est of £2,000; while on herself—on little Nancy, on poor
little Nancy, he had bestowed a London built chariot, with
a pair of harness and iron-grey horses —Even allowing for
Richard Martindale's absurd ignorance of the value of things,
and predisposition to be cheated, the whole gift would not
cost him £600; and, by a prudent purchaser, might have
been secured for £470. And this was to be her portion of
his opulence; this her share of the family bounty amounting
in the aggregate to £6,854. 7s. 8d. . . .
While poor Mrs. Millegan railed at the cruelty of her
brother,-her husband and daughters railed at her own bad
management; till, in the exuberance of her wrath, she set
forth in the town-built chariot aforesaid with its blue ham-
mer-cloth, to quarrel with her sister Marriot for having so
shamefully overreached poor Richard. Nay, before the
month was over, hard words had passed between Robert
Martindale and Jacob (in whose parish, the momentous farm
of Clammer Mill happened to be situated); and Richard, on
his second arrival in Hertfordshire from Nerot's Hotel,
found that those he had left desponding, were grown despair-
ing; and that their complaints were now no longer of their
circumstances, but of each other. No two of the four fami-
lies could meet without bickering ; and in consequence of
this novel disunion, it came out that young Dick of Trinity
L*
I 14 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
was privately engaged to his cousin Clotilda Martindale,
sole heiress to the solicitor and to Clammer Mill farm ; and
that the eldest of Jacob's dozen had been writing verses to
Miss Helena Millegan the Mowbray hunter War was now
openly declared among them ; and Richard Martindale,
accustomed to the pococurante existence of Africa, and the
dreariness of oriental lassitude, was amazed that they could
all take so much pleasure in talking so loud and so fast;
and above every thing, was seriously disgusted by the mer-
cenary character betrayed by every member of his family.—
He had not been in England long enough to know the value
of a guinea, the burdensomeness of a numerous progeny,
and the mortification of being overreached
At length growing somewhat irritable, he began to fancy
himself bilious ; and having packed himself and his York-
tan coloured serving-man (it is impossible to designate him
a valet) into a yellow chariot resembling, with the exception
of the hammercloth, his ill-starred present to the wife of
Lord Mowbray's agent, he set off for Cheltenham as fast as
four post horses would carry him. If he could not get rid
of his indigestion, it would be something to get rid of his
family.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY 115
CHAPTER II.
So thistles wear the softest down
To hide their prickles, till they’re grown;
And then declare themselves, and tear
Whatever ventures to come near.
HUDIBRAs.
Poor Martindale felt as if released from the house of bond-
age as he walked jauntingly along the Montpelier Parade,
arrayed in a new coat, new boots, new gloves, new every
thing ; betraying in every look and movement the luxurious
nabob, intent on his own rejuvenescence, and enchanted with
the stir and cheerfulness of an English watering-place.
And if his object in visiting Cheltenham were to recruit
his health and spirits, the effort was speedily effectual; for
at the close of ten days, he made his way to the spring, not
only more spruce and self-complacent than ever, but having
a very pretty woman appended to his arm. Discouraged in
his attempt to diffuse happiness and sow contentment in his
own family, he had conceived a determination to become the
founder of a new family for a renewal of the experi-
Iment.
Although forty-four in years, and fifty in complexion (his
face having very much the appearance of a last year's russet-
ing apple), Richard was by no means an ill-looking man;
and, but for a little excess of showiness in his costume,
might have passed for a gentlemanly one. Having tontined
his way to a high appointment at the Cape, he had lived
there in the best official society; and was in fact a better
bred man than either Robert or Jacob, his brethren, who,
116 NIY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY,
between themselves, affected to look upon him as a Hotten-
tot. But whether ill-looking, ill-dressed, ill-bred, or well,
it mattered not. A handsome equipage, and the reports cir-
culated by his York-tan coloured servant, had induced an
opinion that he was a man of millions; and it naturally fol-
lowed that he soon became an object of universal esteem and
admiration. It happened that a Scotch banker, the brother
or cousin of his own agent, was sojourning at Chelten-
ham ; through whose busy intervention, divers loo-playing
dowagers and mammas of many daughters, managed to make
the acquaintance of the bachelor-nabob. They found Rich-
ard Martindale quite ready to fall in love, and be fallen in
love with ; and with the natural hankering after a little bit
of dignity so remarkable among the wise men and the fool-
ish who visit us from the East, he soon anchored his affec-
tions on Miss Mary-Matilda Grinderwell, daughter of a
Dorsetshire Baronet; a bewitching creature, with pink
cheeks, flaxen hair, a stiff muslim frock and coloured shoes,
exactly after the pattern of an angel in a pantomime, or a doll
at a bazaar. Sir John and Lady Grinderwell were enchant-
ed with the prospect of securing such a son-in-law ; and
though, on examination into his exchequer and treasury esti-
mates, Mr. Martindale proved to have exactly four hundred
and fifteen thousand pounds less than common fame had led
them to expect, he had quite as much as warranted them in
calling him “a man of four or five thousand a year,” (for a
Baronet of landed estate knew better than to talk about
eighty-five thousand pounds,) and they had the satisfaction
to perceive that mothing could be more liberal and docile
than his motions about settlements for his dear Mary-Matilda,
and her future family.
As Mr. Martindale was somewhat out of conceit of his
Hertfordshire relatives, and as Lady Grinderwell was of
opinion that it would make room in the family coach if she
were able to travel back to Grinderwell House without the
addition of her third daughter's company, it was agreed that
the marriage ceremony should be performed (without cere-
mony) at Cheltenham. Richard Martindale's chariot was
as good as new, his wardrobe quite that of a bridegroom ;
and as to his dear Mary-Matilda, the Cheltenham mantua-
makers and millimers far exceeded any motions of fashion
she had ever been permitted to indulge. A showy flimsy
trousseau was therefore speedily gathered together. Mar.
tindale made a flying journey to Bath for the purchase of
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 117
trinkets and wedding presents; and within two months from
the day when his travelling-carriage first drew up under the
gateway of the Plough Hotel, it made its exit in an opposite
direction on a bridal tour into Wales. Richard was the hap-
piest of men; Mrs. Richard, in her bonnet and feathers, the
smartest of women ; and if the York-tan domestic in the
rumble did not show his white teeth by grinning quite so
broadly as formerly, it was because a very sententious
lady's-maid was seated by his side, who affected a taste for
the romantic, and sobered him by her allusions to the plea-
sures of the mind. -
A bridal tour, in fine weather, with an easy carriage and a
travelling-desk full of bank-notes, is thought to constitute the
height of human felicity. Mr. and Mrs. Richard Martindale
travelled hand in hand for nearly seven hundred miles, enliv-
ened by Mary-Matilda’s somewhat diffuse reminiscences of
Grinderwell House, and the two preceding summers at Wey-
mouth and Hastings, “where Pa had had to fight a duel
with a captain of Hussars about her elder sister, and where
Julia, the second, had been very near marrying a very hand-
some young man with mustachios, a Lieutenant-Colonel in
the service of Don Pedro, who had since been tried for shop-
lifting;”—as well as by Richard Martindale's repertory of an-
ecdotes of hair-breadth 'scapes from boa constrictors and lion-
cubs,-an expedition to the court of Congo, the horrors of
the tail of a typhoon he had encountered on his outward-
bound voyage, and the head of a shark on his return. It
would be irrelevant to vary the picture of their pilgrimage by
a hint of all the damp beds, tough beef-steaks, sloe-juice wine,
and sloe-leaf tea, they confronted by the way. All these
minor miseries served as texts for Richard's protestations to
his bride, that
With her conversing, he º hard beef,
Sour veal, or musty lamb, all pleased alike;
while Mary-Matilda maintained, for the first six weeks, that
the tenderness of her dear Richard fully compensated the
toughness of the steaks.
At length the November fogs set in. Martindale could no
longer travel with the windows down, and was obliged to
plead guilty to the twinges of a flying rheumatism. The
loving couple having now been acquainted for four months,
and united for two, had confided and re-confided to each other
(like two benighted princesses meeting in a wood in one of
118 MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY.
Mademoiselle de Scudéry's novels) all the incidents of their
past lives. Mary-Matilda was beginning to yawm wider and
oftener than was either becoming or safe, considering the
state of the atmosphere; and it was at length agreed between
them that, although travelling was a delightful thing, it
would be still more delightful to settle in a good warm resi-
dence for the winter.
The world was all before them where to choose :-
Richard spoke of Hertfordshire; Mary-Matilda thought
of London;–and lest either should obtain ascendancy in this
their first matrimonial privy-council, they mutually deter-
mined on Bath. They could not have chosen better. Bath
was precisely the place for the man who could select a car-
riage for country use with a blue bullion hammercloth, and
for a lady who could set off on a tour to the mountains in a
white satin hat and feathers. To Bath they went ; engaged
a handsome house, gave dinners, were “visited by every
body;” and before the return of spring made manifest to
Richard that he would shortly be the happy father of a little
Dick, Mrs. Martindale, the daughter of Sir John Grinder-
well,—Mrs. Martindale, whose fine clothes were now re-
placed by still finer, and who wore such beautiful pearls and
such a quantity of ostrich feathers, was pronounced to be
one of the beauties of Bath, and “quite the woman of fash-
ion.” Richard grew more persuaded than ever that he was
the luckiest and happiest of men; and Mrs. Millegan (whose
daughters had been finished at a Bath boarding-school, and
retained several correspondents there) was ready to expire of
indignation on learning in what style her brother lived, and
that Mrs. Richard Martindale's ball had been the most splen-
did of the Circus and the Season. The whole of the Martin-
dale family had, in the first instance, received the announce-
ment of his marriage as a personal injury; and their only
comfort was in pointing out that one of a Baronet's many
daughters could not but prove a very unthrifty helpmate.
They had fancied Richard, at forty-four, a man of more sense
than to be captivated by the first pretty face that came in his
way; and now that he had actually become the prey of a
girl of whom he was old enough to be the father, and who
would doubtless make him father of as large a family as that
which blessed the union of her own prolific father and mo-
ther, they cared not how little they heard about him. Clam-
mer Mill proved a profitable bargain –Jacob's wing had
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. II9
been finished by contract so as to leave him two hundred
pounds in pocket ; Dick Marriot was doing wonders at
Cambridge; and all congratulated themselves on having been
so prompt in screwing what they wanted out of the pocket of
“that silly fellow, Richard.”
Mrs. Millegan was the only one of the family who was
implacable. Had she dreamed on Dick's arrival in England
that he was likely to make a fool of himself by marrying, she
certainly would have spoken out at the period of his insult-
ing her by the present of that useless, showy carriage; a
thing, as Millegan observed at the time, that “would require
a couple of hundreds a year to keep it up ;” a thing, as Lady
Charlotte and Lady Jemima Mowbray had been observing
ever since, “quite inconsistent with their establishment and
style of living ;” a thing she had never sought—never wished
for. Had he given her a pony cart, as she hinted to him,
there would have been some sense in it. But a London
chariot and horses —and such horses 1 lame, blind, spavined,
windgalled:—“Mr. Millegan had sold them for a song to
the Red Dragon at Hertford, and they were actually running
in the mail 7”
“Little Nancy” (who was now a woman of some fifteen
stone) could by no means pardon her brother; and when the
newspapers eventually announced that the lady of Richard
Martindale, of the Circus, Bath, had given birth to a son and
heir, the sole ejaculation of her sisterly tenderness on the
occasion was, “Much good may it do him ſ” It was but an
augmentation of her wrath, when she learned from her
brother Robert, whom as her husband’s man of business it
had not been convenient to her to include in her family quarrel,
that this addition to the tribe of Martindale had been chris-
tened Grinderwell. “Grinderwell Martindale !—Perhaps
some day or other to become Sir Grinderwell Martindale —
The euphony of such a title !—Why could not Dick content
himself with one of the family names, Richard, Robert, or
Jacob Between a Miss Clotilda, and a Master Grinderwell,
the Martindale family was likely to descend in a pretty way
to posterity.”
120 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
CHAPTER III
All quit their homes, and rush into the sea.
CowPEn.
Much as Mr. and Mrs. Martindale were delighted, and had
reason to be delighted with Bath, the summer season of
course suggested that, although that lively spot is the country
to London, it is a city to the country. It was indispensable
too, to secure a change of air for the accouchée ; but as
unfortunately the period for Sir John and Lady Grinderwell's
annual migration from Grinderwell "House was already ar-
rived, it was useless to think of accepting the invitations with
which, from the moment of their marriage, they had been
weekly favoured by the Baronet. Martindale suggested,
however, (perhaps in consideration for Mrs. Richard's family
feelings, perhaps for the advantage of restoring his sister-in-
law Julia to the care of her affectionate parents, the young
lady having arrived at Bath with her brother Captain Grin-
derwell soon after their settlement there) that they should
join Sir John and Lady Grinderwell at Exmouth, where the
family was about to pass the autumn ; a project seconded with
rapture by Mary-Matilda, who was dying to show her baby
and her new set of pearls to Ma and sisters, and to whisper in
confidence to Harriet and Anne how very strangely Julia had
been flirting with a half-pay Captain of the Gloucestershire
militia. The Martindales were therefore soon established at
Exmouth, within a few doors of the Grinderwells ; and, as
Richard repeatedly observed to an an old Cape chum whom
he accidentally met there, nothing could be pleasanter or
more cheerful than their little family party. So many young
MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY. 121
people ; so much music ; so much riding, driving, and
dancing ; so many little supper parties; so many large dim-
ner parties at his own house; besides gipseyings, picnics,
and other manoeuvres invented by Baronets of large family
and small fortune ; the budding beauties of Master Grinder-
well, and the promise of a second olive branch to make glad
his heart;-all was auspicious, all was cheering, all was
Satisfactory !—
“Ay, ay!” growled Edward Warton, a cunning old
bachelor, who, like his friend, had amassed a considerable
fortune on the shores of Table Bay, but was too wise to
squander a shilling of it even on himself. “I see you have
married half a dozen of wives instead of one.—Good look
out for old Grinderwell, deuced bad one I take it, for your
weekly bills —Nunky pays for all, eh, Dick —Sharp wo-
man, that old mother-in-law l—Sad do, I fear, this match of
our's 1—Always a sister or two staying in the house, eh
Dick —Take care they don’t eat you out of house and home !
—But I forgot; you’ve got no home, I ſancy —Only a gim-
crack lodging-house at a watering place 1 "-
“I have a very excellent mansion in Bath,” said Martin-
dale with indignation, “where I hope you will come and see
me—that you may humanize your notions a little respecting
my wife and her family.”
“Bath !—what a place to live in a mob of swindlers,
dowagers, and decayed spinsters | Bath !—Why not pur-
chase a good substantial country seat at once ; which would
have given you a stake in the country, and a respectable
roof under which to bring up your children, eh Dick : *-
“I had none when I hired my house in the Circus.”
“Now only just see what I have done.—Last year, I had
an opportunity of buying an estate in Shropshire. Capital
purchase,_eligible investment 2 Got seven per cent for my
money, and had an excellent freestone dwelling-house and
offices, thrown into the bargain ſ—Let it immediately for two
hundred a year.—Too large for an old bachelor like me.—I,
you know, have not been lucky enough to meet with a Miss
Grinderwell.”
“There are three very much at your service,” said Richard
drily.
“Thank you, thank you!—Not half such a good invest-
ment as my Shropshire estate. Fortunes of fifteen hundred
pounds a piece, I understand; eh Dick 3—The interest
Wol. I. M
122 Miy PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
scarcely pays for their daily visits to the confectioners' shops,
I fancy.”
“I never hear of Mary-Matilda's visits. I assure you.
Julia, Harriet, and Anne, may have been occasionally seen
taking an ice, by way of excuse for flirting with the officers.”
“The officers ? Poison—Marry into a family of such a
description ? I would as soon look out for a Mrs. Warton
in a stroller's barn —Ay, ay, Dick, you'll soon get tired of
this ragamuffin watering-place sort of life ; and when you've
got a comfortable place in the country, let me know, and I’ll
come and pass a month with you.”
Long before the close of the autumn, Ned Warton's pre-
dictions were partly verified. Martindale grew heartily sick
of watering-places; and was beginning to think the Grinder-
well young ladies too flippant, and the Grinderwell young
gentleman too noisy. Sir John was a grumpy, discontented
radical,—a professed liberal and domestic tyrant; and as to
her ladyship, since she left off her maternal exercises, the
poor woman had done nothing but stuff and sleep. It some-
times occurred to poor Richard, moreover that he was made
a butt by the captains of hussars, lancers, dragoons, carabi-
neers, fusileers, and fencibles, who lounged in his house,
drank his claret, and flirted with his sisters-in-law. He
began to be tired of a round of company, and to long for a
quiet study or book-room to spell the newspapers in ; and
almost regretted that there were still three months unexpired
of his year’s residence in the Circus. To be sure the waters
were supposed to be useful to his rheumatism ; and he liked
his Whist Club, and found his neighbours Sir Hookah Smith,
and Sir Sangaree Brown extremely agreeable. But at his
time of life (it was the first time he had ever been heard to
allude to “his time of life,” even in soliloquy) people wanted
to be quiet. There was too much bustle at Bath for a man
of five-and-forty, worn out out by a hot climate.
Nevertheless when the term of his stay there was on the point
of expiring, his resolution to quit was almost shaken by the
numerous arguments brought forward by Mary-Matilda for a
renewal of the lease.—“She should so much like to be con-
fined again at Bath;-and Ma had promised that Amme and
Harriet should come and pass the winter with her l’’-This
last declaration was decisive. Martindale immediately pro-
tested that to prolong their residence at Bath was out of the
Question, that the air disagreed with him; and after one or two
MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY. 123
floods of tears more nearly approaching to hysterics than any
thing she had attempted since her scene in the vestry on her
wedding-day, Mrs. Richard consented to accompany her lord
and master to Nerot's Hotel, till they could procure a suit-
able residence in town. It was not that she disliked the
notion of figuring in London ; but she had a shrewed suspi-
cion that, although a somebody at Bath and a very consider-
able somebody at Exmouth, she should be a nobody in the
the metropolis. “ Tel brille au second rang qui s'éclipse aw
premier ;” and, after Shining as a fixed star in the Circus, it
was very hard to dwindle into one of the thousandth magni-
tude in Baker-street, or Gloucester-place. Unused to Lon-
don, she was certain she should find it very dull ;-nor did
her arrival in Clifford-street on a foggy evening in Novem-
ber, tend to brighten her opinions on the subject. It was not
till, at the close of a week, she found herself comfortably
settled in a handsome house in Harley-street, with an equally
handsome establishment, that she began to admit the possi-
bility of living in London.
Richard Martindale was now happier than he had been
since the first fortnight of his original arrival at Chel-
tenham. -
In Harley and the half-dozen adjoining streets, he had
at least half a dozen oriental acquaintances, with whom he
could sit gossipping about things, people, and places, events
past, present, and to come, wholly uninteresting to the
kingdom in general. Instead of one whist club at Bath, he
had now four ; and instead of the captains of hussars, lan-
cers, dragoons, carabineers, fusileers, and fencibles, he had
his friend Ned Warton, besides eight Directors, six Calcutta
Rabobs, and two yellow Knights Companions who had served
with distinction at Bhurtpoor. With the assistance of a
speculative agent, he still contrived to receive four thousand
a year income from his eighty-five thousand pounds : and as
his brother Robert often observed, “a man might really live
like a prince on such a fortune;—and do something for his
family into the bargain.”
124 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
CHAPTER IV.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN every great metropolis there must necessarily exist a
great variety of circles and coteries, as of classes in the veg-
etable or animal creation. It is absurd to attempt the sweep-
ing distinctions of equestrian and pedestrian, patrician and
plebeian, in a city numbering a million and a half of inhabit-
ants. Even the minority of the patricians may be subdivided
into several classes; and as to the plebeians, Linnaeus him-
self would be puzzled to dispose of the varieties! º
Now the coterie to which the Martindales instinctively
attached themselves, was of the genus called “ dinner-giv-
ing people,” a large and (as the newspapers say) “influen-
tial” body (chiefly resident in the N. N. W. of London),
who make it the business of their lives to assemble at their
tables three or four times a month sixteen well dressed indi-
viduals, severally possessed of an amount of plate, linen,
china, and domestics, equal to their own; and who in reward
for this mechanical act of hospitality, are entitled to dine on
all the other days, in a company equally numerous, and on
viands equally delicate. The ambition of displaying at
their own board, meat in due season and fruit out of it,
of obtaining Sir Thomas’ opinion that their hock is superior
to that of Sir Charles, and securing Lady Charlotte's ver-
dict that their peaches are three weeks earlier than those of
Sir Thomas, suffices for their happiness ; and there is a
steadiness of dull decorum about the tribe, an affectation of
rationality and “charming people”-sort of excellence, essen-
tially different from the sprightliness of ball-haunters and
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. I25
the brillancy of genuine fashionables. Fashionables and
ball-haunters of course occasionally dine out ; but they al-
ways remain distinct from the lumbering class of regular
dinner-giving people. -
In this vocation, the Martindales shone superior. Their
plate was new and handsome, their establishment numerous;
and among all the mercantile baronets and oriental digni-
taries frequenting the house, it was decided that except Mr.
Calicut the Director (whose table was supplied by his own
farm in Surrey,) not a family in Harley-street, “did the
thing in better style.” Nothing can be easier than to become
the nucleus of a little knot of society on similar terms. An
exchange of dinners among persons ever so slightly acquaint-
ed, is no robbery; but a sort of mutual benefit company,
whose credits and debits are homestly and accurately balanced.
But in addition to this, the business of his life, Richard Mar-
timdale was not without his pleasures. Like all orientals, he
was a lounger by profession. There was nothing so delight-
ful to him as to Saunter into his club (a club well deserving
the name of “The Millionary”), and gossip to how tehow
with a knot of other elderly gentlemen of equally gambouged
complexion;–to hear and contribute to the last new rumours
from Calcutta, Madras, Bombay, Ceylon, the Mauritius, the
Cape;—to wonder over old jungle stories, and new romances
concerning the cholera ;-to elephantize in Asiatic grandilo-
quence, revel in Asiatic reminiscences, and grow poetical
concerning the turbot and lobster-sauce of the preceding
day and the anticipated haunch of the following. And then
he loved to wander up and down St. James's-street, linked by
either arm to some well-fed, well-dressed, middle-aged, mid-)
dle-talented man; ready, like himself, to measure inch by
inch, with Lilliputian labour, the last arguments of Peel, or
the latest eloquence of Brougham; to sneer at Macauley as
a theorist, or break their heads against the castiron compact-
mess of an article by Fomblanque ; to give their opinions
upon all things and all people as lengthily and emphatically
as if they were worth listening to ; and to take their ease and
their ice at Grange's, or their sandwich at the Cocoa Tree.
Essentially a good-humoured, happy, and happy-making
man, poor Richard Martindale, exulting in comfort at home
and popularity abroad, was one of the most contented and in-
offensive among the do-nothings of the west end.
Even his wife, who, as a very silly woman, with three
giggling Sisters, four impude: brothers, and a spunging
M
126 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
father and mother, might have been expected to form some
drawback on his domestic enjoyments, turned out far better
than could have been anticipated; for, following the destinies
of her sex, she was fated to behold a little Richard Martindale
arrive so soon after a little Grinderwell,—a little George so
shortly after little Richard, and a little Clara, Maria, and
Sophia, in the three following years, that she had no leisure
to do more than sit at the head of Richard's dinner-table, and
exhibit her expansive person at a few annual balls in the
neighbourhood of Portland-place. Her eldest sister had
married the Grinderwell curate; Anne had eloped with an
Irish lieutenant of infantry; and Julia had become the wife
of a General Mac Glashun, chief agent of Bolivar, or prime
minister of the Cacique of Poyais, or Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer at Lima, or some such apocryphal dignity, whom
she met at Bath, and with whom she shortly afterwards sail-
ed for South America;-but Mrs. Martindale had very little
share in promoting either of these three suitable alliances.
On her own account, too, she had given up all interest in the
attractions of captains of hussars, lancers, or dragoons, cara-
bineers, fusileers, or fencibles; and, following the usual rou-
tine of an empty-headed, hollow-hearted woman, had laid
aside the coquette to become the dawdle. Although still
devoted to dress, her finery was a mere affair of competition
with Mrs. Calicut, or Lady Kedgeree, or Lady Hookah
Smith ; and the greater part of her time was spent, as a
matter of routine, in gossipping with her head nurse or the
apothecary. In the autumn, they all went to the sea, for
change of air for the children; at Christmas, they either paid
a family visit to Grinderwell Hall, or took a course of the
Cheltenham waters; but they were always back again in
Harley-street by February, to be ready for the east wind, and
their favourite Saturday dinner parties. They were regular
in their appearance at the gay church of St. Marylebone on
Sundays; regular in their drive afterwards in Hyde Park;
regular in an annual exhibition at the drawing-room ; and
regular in all the other evolutions of the opulent medio-
cracy. * . .
It is not to be supposed that such a career of contentment
and ease could fail of attracting the notice of that busy enemy
of mankind, who, from the days of Job to those of George III.,
has been so apt to interfere in the household happiness of the
human race. Though the Martindale family had kept up
nothing of that cordial intercourse with poor Richard which
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 127
marked his original advent at Nerot's hotel, and though their
indifference towards him had unquestionably increased in
proportion to the sprouting and spreading of his olive
branches, there was a decent degree or exhibition of friendliness
kept up among them. Whenever Robert or Jacob visited
London on business, they dimed in Harley-street; and usually
returned the compliment by a leash of partridges on the first
of September, or a brace of pheasants on the first of October,
when they were sure the family were out of town; and on
occasion of Mrs. Richard’s annual accouchement, her spouse,
in the fulness of his joy, made it a point to despatch a letter of
announcement to each of his sisters and sisters-in-law.
But various changes had now taken place in the united
Martindale clan. Marriot senior, the drowsy, was now
sleeping his last sleep; and Marriot junior, the genius (to
whose education uncle Richard had so absurdly dedicated
the sum of two thousand pounds), was reigning in his stead.
Having augmented his paternal estate by the sum of fifteen
thousand pounds reluctantly ceded with the fair hand of his
daughter Clotilda, by his uncle the attorney, Mr. Marriot of
Starling Park had become, or fancied himself to have become,
a man of some consequence in the county. . As the relative
of their agent the worthy Millegan, the Mowbrays were in
the habit of honouring him with a gracious bow when they
saw him at the Hoo races, or the cricket matches or archery
meetings of the county: and of inviting him with his showy
bride to all their public days at Mowbray End.
But on the spring succeeding his fortunate marriage,
Richard Marriot, giving loose perhaps to the inspirations of
that genius so much lauded by his mother, took it into his
head to pass a month or two in town. He was now in pos-
session of nearly three thousand a year, and shrewdly sus-
pected himself to be almost as great a man as his uncle
Richard ; and having, by means of a house agent, settled
himself in a half dirty, half tawdry house in Welbeck-street,
flew to secure an introduction for his talking, showy, super-
ficial bride, to Mrs. Richard; who, as a baronet's daughter,
was accounted the grandee of the Martindale family. Mar-
riot had hinted to Clotilda, previous to their arrival in town,
that very likely aunt Richard might be moved to introduce
her into society and present her at court; and the belle of
the country town had preconcieved a notion of the matron of
Harley-street as of the most fashionable, or as she called it.
tonish woman in London.
|
_-sº
128 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. .
A large and rapid increase of family is said to be as bad for
the temper as for the figure; and however copiously devel-
oped. Mrs. Richard Martindale's organ of philoprogenitive-
ress, certain it is that she was by no means so mild and con-
ciliating as when figuring of yore in the Bath pump-room ;
or playing the chaperon to her sisters on the esplanade at
Weymouth. Her nephew Marriot, moreover, was pre-
cisely one of the human beings towards whom her milk of
human kindness was thoroughly soured. She could never
forgive him the sacrifice of two thousand pounds (two thous-
and pounds, robbed as it were by anticipation from her
unborn progeny) to affix an empty initial honour to the name
of an individual whose obscure existence at Starling Park
certainly demanded no such evidence of scholarship. She
had always disliked Mr. Marriot as a presuming consequential
young gentleman : and now that he had assumed new dignity,
both Squirearchical and matrimonial, she prepared herself to
dislike him more than ever. She would have borne almost
any other relative of her husband's. Poor William, the son
of the Rev. Jacob, who was now married to one of his Mil-
legan cousins, and settled as an under master at Charter
House School, was always warmly though patronizingly
welcomed in Harley-street; but Mr. and Mrs. Marriot, with
their bright green carriage, and passion for finery and sight-
seeing, were poor Mrs. Richard's aversion, or, as Liston says,
‘I may say her favourite aversion.” t
Now Clotilda was one of those impenetrable persons, to
whom it was almost impossible to give offence. An only
daughter, the sole heiress of one of the most opulent and
influential residents in a small country-town, who, from pos-
sessing considerable electioneering tact, was always very
much courted in his own person as well as in those of his
wife and daughter, she had been in the habit of considering
herself of so much importance, that she could not for an in-
stant suppose that any one was inclined to think of her dispar-
agingly, or treat her disrespectfully. She had considered
herself a very fine thing when worshipped at the country balls
as Miss Clotilda Martindale; but she thought herself a much
finer as Mrs. Marriot of Starling Park, with a new carriage of
her own, a new visiting ticket, a new set of pearls mounted in
cornucopias, and above all,—a “Place in the Country.”
That Mrs. Richard Martindale could be inclined to slight a
person thus variously and richly endowed, was of course out
of the question ; and when young Mrs. Marriot paid her.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. I29
first visit in Harley-street, laughing and talking as loud as
possible to show the ease of her manners, and the indignant
aunt received her with the coldest and most repellent tacitur-
nity, the self-satisfied bride determined that the apathy of the
Baronet's daughter was but a distinguishing trait of fashion- %
able manners; and that it was now du bon ton to look sulky
and affect a monosyllabic terseness in conversation.
Being well aware (from the long-standing jeremaids of
aunt Millegan and uncle Jacob, against the wasteful extrava-
gance of such a practice) of the Martindales’ addiction to
dinner-giving, the young couple were for some time in daily
expectation that a festival would be concocted in their hom-
our ; and Mrs. Marriot had already determined to make her
début on the occasion in her wedding dress of Urling' lace,
with her new set of pearls. But when three weeks of their
stay in town expired without the appearance of the antici-
pated invitation card, Mrs. M., instead of growing affronted,
assured her husband that it was no longer the custom of the
great world to give wedding dinners; and that as a point of
etiquette, their uncle and aunt Martindale were waiting for
an invitation to Welbeck-street. Upon this hint, a “requests
the honour” was despatched to them at ten days' notice, and
Mr. and Mrs. Richard, from their natural or acquired predi-
lection for dinner parties, could not find it in their hearts to
be dignified and say “no.”
Little, indeed, did the sullen aunt imagine, as she took
leave on the appointed day of the little family of Martindales,
busy at their evening trough of bread and milk, how mighty
an influence that same dinner party was to exercise over her
future destinies. During its progress, indeed, nothing occur-
red which did not tend towards her satisfaction. She saw
that Mrs. Marriot was totally unaccomplished in the science
of dinner giving. There was no cucumber for the salmon,
although the month of April was half over. The white soup
tasted of washballs; veal-tendrons were made to match with
sweet-breads; and the dish of a large boiled turkey was
garnished with parsley sufficient to have decorated a jack-in-
the-green An old fashioned blancmange was among the
sweet dishes of the second course, and altogether the dinner
was a contemptible affair :-just such as might have been ex-
pected at the table of an attorney’s daughter, whose experi-
ence did not exceed the apple-tart and custard delicacies of
an election supper.
130 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
But if, by the supercilious way in which she raised her
eyeglass to her eye to investigate the arrangements of the
table, Mrs. Martindale contrived to excite the choler of her
niece, Clotilda managed shortly to return the compliment,
and with compound interest. She had invited to meet the
woman of consequence of her own family, the woman
of consequence of her own neighbourhood. The Wel-
beck-street party consisted, in addition to the four Martin-
dalians, of Mr. Blickling, the county member, and the
Hon. Mrs. Blickling his wife; a Mr. and Mrs. Cleverley, of
Poplar Grove, in the same neighbourhood; besides two
Honourable Mowbrays, a younger Marriot (a man of wit
and fashion about town), and one or two college friends of
the host. In such a circle, the Richard Martindales had
very little to say. There was no opportunity for orientalisms
from uncle Richard, or nursery anecdotes from his lady :
nothing was discussed but the agricultural interests and Hert-
fordshire topics; and instead of Portland-place balls, Wim-
pole-street concerts, and the beauties of the new Easter piece,
Mr. and Mrs. Richard were compelled to hear of Hatfield,
Gorhambury, Panshanger, and the theatricals of the Hoo.
Even when the ladies retreated to the drawing-room, and
the partie quarrée formed by Mrs. Blickling and Mrs. Cle-
verley on one sofa, and Clotilda and her aunt on the other,
commenced the usual tittle-tattle peculiar to such occasions,
Mrs. Richard was struck dumb by perceiving that neither of
her three companions were in the slightest degree interested
on her account of a family squabble between her first and
second nurses about a dose of rhubarb for her second boy,
such as she was in the habit of quoting after dinner at her
friend Mrs. Calicut's. Mrs. Blickling had the politeness to
cry “indeed ” more than once in the course of her narra-
tive ; but it was clear she did not enter into the history with
right maternal interest ; and like Constance, Mrs. Martin-
dale was tempted to exclaim,
She talks to me, that never had a son.
Mrs. Cleverly and the bride, meanwhile, having none either,
turned a decidedly deaf ear to the whole anecdote ; and when
Mrs. Richard arrived at the close of the tale with “ and next
day, poor nurse came to me with tears in her eyes, and told
me she should have no objection to stay, provided I made it
a rule in my nursery that the under nurse was not to stir the
children's tea; ” she found that Clotilda and the lady of
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 13}
Poplar Grove were deep in housewifely details of a different
nature. - -
“Oh, yes!” cried Clotilda, who, no longer having the
fear of aunt Martindale so strongly before her eyes, had re-
assumed her loud volubility ; “I assure you we have up all
our poultry and vegetables from Starling Park. It is really
impossible to keep a decent table in London unless one has a
Place in the Country.” : -
“I have generally heard,” observed Mrs. Richard con-
temptuously, “that Covent Garden is the best garden in
England.” • --
“For those who are accustomed to adulterated London
provisions, no doubt it is,” retorted her niece; “but when
people require things to be pure and wholesome and in a
natural state, there is something so nasty, something so re-
volting, in the way in which Battersea vegetables are forced,
and London poultry fattened.” -
“Horrible indeed l’ exclaimed Mrs. Blickling, “I own
I never can prevail on myself to touch that tell-tale colossal
asparagus, or those disgustingly bloated fowls. We have a
cart twice a week through the season from our Place in the
Country.” - —
“Mr. Cleverley will eat none but his own mutton,” cried
the lady of Poplar Grove. . *… -
“And I own I never fancy any but the Blickling venison ſ”
observed the Member's lady, with a grand, parkish sort of
air and tone. -
“What lovely jonquils P’ interloped Mrs. Richard, anx-
ious to get rid of these details of the buttery hatch. And
the double violets are really quite luxurious ! How very fra-
grant ſ” -
“Pray let me offer you a bunch if you are fond of
them,” cried her niece with patronizing graciousness.
“We have quantities sent us up from Starling almost every
day.” * . -
“It is so convenient to have one's place within a certain
distance of town,” said Mrs. Blickling. “When I hear
people parading about their estates in Yorkshire or Devon-
shire, I always recollect the convenience of driving down to
peace and tranquility with as much ease as if we were going
to a dejeuner at Wimbledon | Three hours take us to Blick-
ling. We even have up all our cream for ices, and home-
made bread. In short I look upon Blickling as the farm
which supplies our table. I should hate a place in one of
132 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
the remote counties. I hope, however, I am not offending
Mrs. Martindale by saying so 7–In what county is Mrs.
Martindale's seat 7”
Mary Matilda, thus interrogated, could not but reply; and
though it was with a visage the colour of a stick of red seal-
ing-wax, she managed to make her answer as dignified as
as periphrasis could render it.
“My father, Sir John Grinderwell, lives in Dorsetshire.
At present, Mr. Martindale has no country-seat.
The “at present” conveyed of course to the mind of two
out of the three ladies, that Mr. Martindale was a landed
proprietor in expectancy. Mrs. M. herself was probably in
the entail of the Grinderwell estates.
“No country-seat —How very tiresome that must be ſ”
drawled Mrs. Cleverley of Poplar Lodge, leaning back on
the cushions of the sofa with a singular augmentation of
self-importance. “And what do you do with yourself at the
close of the season?” -
“We generally go to the sea,” snarled Mrs. Richard; where,
I observe, we meet all our friends who have fine seats of their
own, of which they are for the most part horribly tired : so
that if Mr. Martindale and myself had any taste for a place
in the autumn, we might find hundreds to be let, and the sat-
isfaction of a choice.” -
“But that is so different from a place of one's own ſ”—eja-
culated Clotilda, looking sentimental, and twisting her ermine
boa till she pulled off a tail. “I declare I know every bush
and briar at Starling; and there is not a flower in the garden
which does not inspire ‘thoughts too deep for tears.””
“Nothing like a place of one's own ſ” cried Poplar
Lodge.
“No,-nothing like a place of one's own
Blickling Hall.
“No,-nothing like a place of one's own l’” echoed Star-
ling Park.
“Besides, one cannot hire a place for the Easter holidays,
or Whitsuntide, or even now and then when one's children
require a week’s change of air.”
“We change the air by going to Brighton,” said Mrs.
Richard, trying to subdue herself into an air of mildness.
“Most medical men are of opinion that sea-air is the best
thing for children; and I am told Sir Henry Halford is deci-
dedly of opinion that the West Cliff at Brighton equals Mont-
pelier or Madeira.”
!” exclaimed
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 133
“I fancy it is 1" said Mrs. Cleverley. “At least, we
make it a point to give our little ones the chance of six weeks
there every year. But I own I can't endure Brighton in
the summer ; when all the cits, who have no country resi-
dence, go down there just by way of getting out of London.
I like to go when one finds a little society.”
“And then it is so delightful to get back to one's own
shrubberies, after being cramped up to walk on that odious
Chain Pier P’ exclaimed the Hon. Mrs. Blickling. “I de-
clare Blickling never appears half so fresh and green to me,
as after staring upon chalk and shingles for a week; and
really the enjoyment of the Hall after those miserable card-
paper houses "-
It was lucky ſor Mrs. Richard Martindale that the gentle-
men just then made their appearance for coffee. The agri-
cultural interest was getting too much for her.
--~~
Wol, I. N
I34 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY,
CHAPTER W.
Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades—How charming is a parkſ
Pope.
From the day of this fatal dinner-party Richard Martindale's
fate was fixed. Mrs. Richard, like the dying Falstaff, could
do nothing but “babble of green fields;” and her head-nurse
began to assure her that it was plain she had a “longing for
a place in the country.” . Almost before the close of the
season, she expressed a determination to avoid Brighton
“while those odious citizens were there, who only went
because they had no place of their own;” and yet, though
protesting against every spot along the coast from Scarborough
and Cromer to Ilfracomb and Tenby, she persisted in de-
claring that the seven little Martindales would not be able to
exist seven days longer without country air.
It was in vain that Richard suggested expedients. “Rams-
gate,” she observed, “was so glaring ; Broadstairs so glum ;
Margate so vulgar; Dover so bustling ; Worthing so tame;
Hastings so gossipping; Weymouth so country fied; Ex-
mouth, Sidmouth, Torquay, and the Welch coast, so incon-
veniently remote. Harrogate smelt like a gunsmith's shop;
Buxton was full of Irish dowagers; Malvern was a mere
stare over a tailor’s book of patterns; Cheltenham reminded
her too much of old times, and Leamington of new people.
The water did not agree with her at Tunbridge; and a week
at Southend would condemn the whole family to the ague.”
Richard then proposed a family crusade against Grin-
derwell House. But Sir John Grinderwell had only been
dead six months; Sir Joseph, her elder brother, had not yet
taken possession ; and the Dowager Lady was living there
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 135
pro tempore. As a last resource, therefore, he asked her
what she thought of a round of visits in Hertfordshire 7–His
brothers and sisters, she knew, had often invited them ; and
his niece Clotilda would be enchanted to have them all for a
month at Starling Park.
This was pouring oil upon the flame. Mrs. Richard, half
whimpering half sulky, took this opportunity of pointing out
to his notice that he, the richest of the family,–was the
only one of its members who was not blest with a country-
seat ; and the unhappy man, not venturing to suggest that he
was also the only one who possessed a house in town, was
wise enough to look penitent, and very much ashamed of
being but a second son. Even when assured by his wife that,
accustomed from her infancy to the pride, pomp, and circum-
stance of Grinderwell House, she had no taste for a country
attorney's square red-brick house, the front and offices looking
into the by-Street of a provincial town while the rear com-
manded only the damp Clammer-Mill meadows,—those
meadows purchased with his own money, and of right the
property of poor dear little Grinderwell,—he had not courage
for reply or explanation. ſ
“As to a country visit at the Parsonage,” muttered the
discontented fair one, “I declare I would as soon introduce
my poor babies into a kennel of foxhounds, as among those
great rude bears of Mr. Jacob Martindale. A boy in a leather
cap and corderoys, is my mortal aversion : and five of them 1
—five 1 I am certain I should have one of my nervous fevers
before I left the place.”
“Well, my love, what say you to a little visit to my sister
Millegan She, you know, has no bears of boys to kill the
children with hugging. One only of her girls is now un-
married : and I assure you nothing can be more orderly than
her establishment, nothing more compact and comfortable than
her house.”
“Very likely. When people have a place of their own in
the country, it is worth their while to make it comfortable,
and to keep their establishment in order. A house in town
is only half a home; one never feels settled in it; and the
sort of rambling life we lead in going from watering place to
watering place, is little better than sauntering away our best
years without aim or purpose. It is so different—so very
different, when people have a place of their own, which they
embellish and improve for the sake of the children who come
after them —Heigho ſ”
“The child, you mean, my love; except the eldest son, I
136 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
know not who benefits by the outlay. Now at Grinderwell,
for instance, your—” \
“Where there is rank to be kept up, as is the case with
my family,” said the Baronet's daughter, looking like an
empress, “the thing is very different. But at worst a mort-
gage for the benefit of the younger children will always
bring matters straight. However, it is useless discussing
the subject. We are never likely to have a place in the
country, and it therefore signifies very little how other
people arrange their affairs. I know not, indeed, why I
should ever for a moment fancy you would desire such a
thing. Your family having always been content to reside in
a country town, and you having passed your life in a colony,
it is scarcely to be expected that you should be sensible to the
charm of an hereditary house;—a place where people strive
to be respected, in order that their children after them may
enjoy the odour of their good name.”
“I don't see why people may not be respected in town,”
cried Richard, somewhat piqued by this last taunt. “People
may always bequeath an honest name to their children. In
professions, for instance, in trade, in-"
“Professions,—trade l’’ cried Sir Joseph Grinderwell's
sister, despising the Hertford doctor's son, as heartily as if
he had not elevated her to a condition of life far beyond her
claims or pretensions. “I really hope you will not talk so
before the children, for they are getting old enough to under-
stand you;-and what will little Grinderwell think 2"
“And how do you decide about this visit to the Millegans?”
—asked Richard, afraid of being too angry unless he changed
the subject.
“What visit —I’m sure I never thought of any. There
is nothing that would be more disagreeable to me than to be
staying in a house like that of the Millegans, standing in the
very shadow of a great establishment such as Mowbray End;
and accepted on sufferance there like a poor relation, or the
curate of the parish; having Lord Mowbray's carriage sent
to take you to dinner, and her ladyship ringing the bell, and
ordering it to take you home again, when she is tired of you !
—From what I heard pass between your niece Mrs. Marriot
and the young Mowbrays the day I dined in Welbeck-street,
such, I am certain, are the terms on which Lord Mowbray
lives with his agent's family.”
“Millegan is his lordship's auditor, it is true,” observed
Richard Martindale. “But his own family is of very ancient
My PLACE IN THE count RY. 137
standing in the county. The Millegans have been respect-
able yeomen on their estate, ever since the reign of Edward
the Sixth ; while the Mowbrays have been heard of in the
county only within the last century.”
“Perhaps so ; ” replied Mary-Matilda, reverting within
herself to the spreading genealogical tree adorning the
dining-room chimney-piece of Grinderwell House; in which
Grinwaldus (its acorn) figured as cup-bearer to King Edgar.
“You see that all the importance of either family, such as
it is, appears to be derived from having a place in the
country.” -
A few days after this conversation, Richard Martindale,
whose passion for home, whether in town or country, was
not likely to be increased by the bitter tone recently acquired
by his wife, boldly announced his intention of running down
into Hertfordshire for a few days, to visit his relations; or
more properly speaking, and more wisely acting, took his
departure without any previous announcement. Mrs. Richard
had therefore all the delight and glory of becoming an
oppressed individual, of assuming a plaintive tone, wearing
an invalid cap, and hoping that when she was dead and gone,
her husband might not repent too severely his cruelty and
neglect of so devoted a wife. It is true she had now been
married nearly ten years, during which time Richard had
never before been ten hours absent from her apron string.
It is true, that Richard was now fifty-four, an age scarcely
consistent with libertinism or frivolity; yet still there was
something very suspicious about this sudden journey. The
freak had entered his head while he was perusing “The
Morning Post.” How did she know that he was gone into
Hertfordshire at all ?–How did she know but that the staid
and sober Mr. Martindale had received some kind of assig-
nation or appointment through its columns, such as–“**'s
letter is received ; and Rosa will meet him at the time and
place appointed, if he can make it convenient to leave
town.”— r
Mary-Matilda hated mysteries. Why had her husband
kept so secret his desire of a visit to Hertfordshire 3 Perhaps
he was gone to consult with his brother the attorney, about
some means of getting rid of her, and forming a separate
establishment. Perhaps—But why enumerate the vagaries
feeding the fancy of a peevish woman, parted for the first time
from her husband, without any means of employment for her
vacant mind. It was some comfort that she could send for
N*
138 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY,
the apothecary; declare herself indisposed; lie on the sofa ;
take hartshorn; and sentimentalize herself into languor upon
a diet of green tea and custard pudding." She was deter-
mined that at least, when the truant did think proper to return
to the home he had so basely abandoned, he should find her
looking as pale as the cambric handkerchief she now inces-
santly applied to her eyes. If she did not favour him with a
scene on such an occasion, she might never have another op-
portunity.
Five tedious days had passed away. Poor Mrs. Richard,
having scolded all her children and as many of her servants
as she dared, and being too bent on playing the victimized
invalid to admit visitors, was growing very tired of herself
and her heroics. At last, on the fifth evening, half famished
by her perseverance of sullen abstinence, and satisfied that as
it was Saturday night, she had no chance of hailing her cul-
prit's marital knock at the door till Monday morning, she
suddenly rang the bell, and ordered a supper tray into her
dressing-room. When lo! just as she had filled her plate
with a provision of cold lamb and sallad enough to have
dined a corporal of dragoons, the door was flung open, and
Richard rushed into her arms. The surprise and disappoint-
ment were alike overwhelming. She, who had been pictures-
quifying in her dressing gown for five long tedious days;
who had purchased a new bottle of salts for the occasion;
who had rehearsed her shrieks, and prepared her agonizing
flood of tears—she to be caught in the fact of a tumbler of
Madeira negus, and a fat shoulder of lamb ſ—It was to
ignominious. -
“So you are come at last,” cried the mortified victim, com-
pelled to wipe her mouth instead of her eyes, as she accepted
his warm embrace. . - .
“The business was not settled till six o'clock this evening,”
cried Richard. “But it is ours, and Heaven sends us health
to enjoy it.”
“I don't understand you?” -
“Have you a clean plate there, my dear !” inquired
Richard Martindale, seating himself beside her before the
fatal tray, having already rung a bell for a further supply of
knives and forks. “Do you know I have had no dinner. I
was in such haste to get up to you, to tell you the news, that
I jumped into a post-chaise the moment it was over. How
are the children º’”
“You will positively drive me distracted. What news?—
You have told me none.”
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 139
“Your health, my love. How refreshing is a glass of
wine, after a fatiguing day and a dusty drive I suppose
you expected me, as you have prepared supper ?—”
“How was I to expect you ?—I may think myself lucky
that I see you any time within these six weeks. How could I
possibly guess when it would suit you to return home 7"
“Didn't you receive my letter —”
“What letter 2—” -
“By this morning's post?—”
“I have heard nothing of you, Mr. Martindale, since you
started off on pretence of a visit to your family, nearly a week
ago.”
“How very extraordinary, how devilish provoking !”
cried Richard, setting down his glass. “I was so very par-
ticular about that letter. I inquired so often about the post
hour from my brother's clerks. By Jove, here it is!”—
cried he, suddenly detecting the neglected dispatch safe in
his waistcoat pocket. “In my hurry, I must have forgotten
to put it in the post.”
“A very convenient excuse.” -
“Well, I am not sorry for it. The surprise will be the
greater.” . . .
“What surprise —”
“Nay, since you know nothing about the matter, I shall
punish you for that cross face by making you guess.”
“You are really too vexatious !—After the week of dread-
ful suspense I have been passing, to break in upon me in
this sudden way, and perplex me with all these mysteries.
How am I know what you mean?” -
“My dearest love, do not irritate yourself,” said poor
Richard, drawing his chair nearer to hers, when he per-
ceived that she was on the verge of a genuine flood of tears.
“I will explain the whole business to you from the very
beginning.
“No ; I don’t want to hear a word about it,” cried the
lady, retreating to the sofa in a magnificent fit of the pouts.-
“Believe me, I have no curiosity about any of your family
affairs. I dare say you and your brothers can manage them
very well amongst you without any interference of mine.
Doubtless Mr. Robert Martindale's professional advice—”
“My dear, dear Mary-Matilda P’ exclaimed her husband,
somewhat provoked after a long day’s fast to be obliged to
procrastimate his cold lamb in honour of her ill-humour.
“You must be aware that my sole motive in making this
140 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
purchase is to gratify the desire you have so long expressed
of—” -
“What purchase ?” ejaculated the breathless lady, jump-
ing up from her reclining position.
“The Marygold Hill estate, my love. Yon know how
eagerly you have beset me lately for a place in the country.”
“You have actually bought a place in the country —”
“The papers were signed this afternoon. A great bar-
gain, I am told ; but the purchase was a serious affair.—
Five-and-forty thousand pounds !—But it is the most beauti-
ful thing ! All within a ring fence ;-a trout stream running
through the lawn –best preserves in the country;-timber
magnificent, garden superior to those at Grinderwell Hall !
The Marriots' place a citizen's villa by comparison —-
Drawing room and library opening into a conservatory of
rare exotics? Saloon forty feet by eighteen. But here is
George Robin's advertisement of the place, which original-
ly led me into temptation. Dont you remember how I
started in the midst of reading the newspaper that morning
at breakfast !—I could not hear or answer a word you
said to me, after the notice of sale had caught my eye.”
“My dear, dear Richard 7" exclaimed the vanquished
lady, holding the crumpled newspaper in one hand, and
throwing the other arm round his neck. “Why did you
you not tell me at once '’ -
“I think you must now be satisfied that I have neglected
nothing to fulfil your wishes º' -
“I never was so delighted in my life —A finer place than
Starling Park —Forty-five thousand pounds !—Saloon, li-
brary, conservatory!—Show me the advertisement, Richard;
show me the description.” -
“I can’t, ah, here it is. “That unique residence
known by the name of MARygol D HILL : situate five miles
from the stiring little county town of Hertford.’”
“Good Heavens ! In Hertfordshire Just in the midst
of all your odious family! How very provoking ! I'm sure
when I told you that I should like a country seat, I never
dreamed that, without consulting me, you would think of
going and buying a place in Hertfordshire.-I would as
Soon go to—” -
“The devil "cried the indignant husband; and his new
place in the country was the origin of his first serious quar-
rel with his wife.
DIY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 141
CHAPTER WI.
Abused mortals | did you know
Where joy, heart's-ease, and comfort grow,
j scorn proud tow’rs
And seek them in these bow’rs,
Where winds sometimes our woods may shake,
But blustering care can no vile tempest make.
SIR. W. RALEIGH.
THE bustle of a removal is admitted to be so fatiguing to the
body and irritating to the mind, that it cannot be too rapidly
passed over. We might otherwise be compelled to admit
that even the mild Richard was stimulated into a fit of pro-
fane swearing, on finding the leg of his magnificent billiard
table very clumsily dislocated, and a sword-stick poked
through the canvas of a fine Gainsborough. As to Mary-
Matilda, an attack of nervous fever, consequent on the
fatigues of the march, threatened to lay her in the family-
vault forming part and parcel of the purchase of the Mary-
gold estate ; while the seven little Martindales, from Grinder-
well the Great down to the ultima Thule or Fooley, little
Miss Clotilda, were as inconvenient and inconvenienced as
their nurses could manage to make them.
Let us therefore suppose the nineteen waggon loads of
domestic furniture (including the thirteen grumbling menials
from Harley-street) fairly deposited and fairly settled. But
to imagine this, we must also admit the expiration of a calen-
dar year; for full twelve months were required to adjust the
rival claims of the butler and housekeeper, to “this 'ere
cupboard and them 'ere shelves,”—no less than to enable
Mrs. Richard to determine whether the young ladies should
142 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
sleep in the front nursery or the back ; or whether the Wor-
cester chima vases would look better in the blue drawing-
room or the chintz breakfast-parlour. It required a winter
to ascertain which of the chimnies smoked, and which of
the doors required listing ; and a second summer to find out
whether the general clearage of evergreens from the court-
yard they had been supposed to render damp, and the fall of
a grove of chesnuts protecting the house from the western
sun, would prove a seasonable benefit. Mr. Richard had
from the first asserted that they could not expect to be com-
fortable in less than a year. The new plantations could not
be completed, the new offices finished, or the workmen got
out of the house in less time.
The year was gone ; the second tolerably advanced; but
the fair proprietess of Marygold Hill could by no means be
persuaded to pronounce herself comfortable. A new little
marygold was budding ; and the fractious invalid could nei-
ther bring herself to like the neighbouring apothecary, nor
reconcile herself to the loss of Lady Kedgeree's daily calls
of inquiry, or her Harley-street neighbour Mrs. Calicut's
hourly councils of gossip. Richard Martindale already
affected the cockney country gentleman ; sported a fustian
jacket, leathern gaiters and a bill-hook ; went out before
breakfast, spud in hand, to make war upon the thistles
and dandelions ; and above all, during the shooting
season was never to be heard of (except by the distant report
of his Manton) from breakfast till dinner, or during the
hunting season from breakfast till luncheon. Mary-Matilda
consequently found her time hang somewhat heavy on her
hands. She was not yet on easy terms with her new neigh-
bours; and her own previous experience of a country life had
been made in a house full of giggling sisters and riotous
brothers. But her own girls were too young to giggle, her
boys to dull for mischief; and moreover a termagant head
nurse, the inseparable prime minister of every silly indolent
mother having more than two thousand a year, would only
allow her the children's company at her own pleasure and
convenience. She had no hereditary interests in the condi-
tion of the neighbouring poor, or the prosperity of the neigh-
bouring farmers. All were alike strangers; and though the
Martindale family were very kind in volunteering visits to
Marygold Hill, they always came with prying, investigating,
arithmetical looks; Mrs. Robert begging her to take her
daughter Marriot's advice in the management of her dairy
and housekeeper's accounts; Mrs. Jacob, spunging for
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 143
cuttings from the greenhouse or a breed of her choice Dork-
ings; Mrs. Millegan annihilating the utmost efforts of her
fine ladyism by a sketch of the superior splendours of Mow-
bray End; and Mrs. Marriot, senr, the widow, who was
living in a cottage in her son's village, overwhelming her
with tracts and controversy. Mrs. Richard was never so ill
as after some of these envious, presuming people had been
staying at Marygold Hill; and at length, though reluctantly,
and with the loneliness of a long winter in perspective be-
thought her of renewing her correspondence with her own
married sisters. She longed to figure before them in her
new dignities of patroness of a village and proprietress of a
country seat; and nothing was more easily arranged.—Mrs.
Mac Glashun, who had fancied herself the wife of a Lieu-
tenant-General of Poyais dragoons, now found herself the
widow of an ensign of Irish militia, with two young chil-
dren, whom she was very glad to quarter on the charity of
any member of the family willing to provide them with bread
and butter; and Harriet, whose union with the Grinderwell
curate had caused him to be ejected from his cure by the rec-
tor nominee of the late Sir John, was now settled with him
on a vicarage of forty pounds a year on the Lincolnshire
coast, living on conger eels and lived upon by the fen-flies.
Both, on the first hint of an invitation, hastened eagerly to
Marygold Hill; and it was no small affliction to the pride of
the arrogant Mrs. Richard Martindale, that Mrs. Trotter made
her appearance by the north mail, and Mrs. Mac Glashun
and her children by the day coach.
Poor Richard, always kind and well-intentioned, was
only the more cordial in his mode of reception in considera-
tion of their mode of travelling ; indeed, he was far better
pleased at the idea of having his two sisters-in-law as his
inmates, now that they were tamed by misfortune, than
during the heyday of their partiality for captains of hussars,
dragoons, lancers, carabineers, fusileers, and fencibles.
Moreover, if the truth must be told, he was not sorry to have
an excuse for occasionally prolonging his day's sports, and
taking a bachelor-dinner with the Marriots, Millegans,
Martindales, or his new friend, Jack Cleverly, of Poplar
Lodge.
Now this new friend Jack Cleverly, was perhaps of all
poor Mrs. Richard's Hertfordshire grievances the most
enormous; being a huge, large-limbed, cheery, back-
slapping individual, with the strength and eke the lungs of
144 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
an ox, who looked upon the fair and frail sex (like the
mares in his stable and the cows in his meadow) as useful
animals, created for the service and delectation of mankind.
Despising the great lady of Harley-street with all his soul,
as too lazy to nurse her own children and too helpless to
drive herself round the farm like his own stirring housewife,
he was never to be persuaded into the slightest deference
towards her nervous headachs; shouting whenever he sat
by her at dinner as if he had been tally-hoing to the hounds,
and slamming the doors after him whenever he was staying
in the house, as if he were bullying the waiters at a
travellers' inn. He was, indeed, a hateful creature in her
eyes and ears; talking with his mouth full, wiping it on the
table-cloth, breathing like a grampus, and sucking in his
tea from the saucer with the impetus of the famous American
whirlpool that swallows up ships of the line. Mary-Matilda's
first topic of lamentation (after listening to Mrs. Mac Gla-
shun’s moving tale of those Occidental adventures which
had terminated with seeing the unhappy ex-lieutenant-gen-
eral hanged higher than Haman, on a Mexican gallows
erected between two cabbage-palm-trees,—and trying to
seem interested in poor Mrs. Trotter's description of her
little parsonage-garden, with its slimy fen-ditches and fetid
exhalations,) was the misfortune of possessing a loud vulgar
neighbour like Jack Cleverly, who had no greater satisfac-
tion than in decoying Martindale away from home, brutal-
izing him with strong ale, and persuading him that it was a
mark of manliness to defy the influence of an “affectionate
domestic partner.” It was in vain that Mrs. Mac Glashun
described her sufferings when left a nursing mother in a
torrid climate;—Mary-Matilda interrupted her to complain
that poor little Dick had a chilblain in his little finger,
thanks to Martindale's obstimacy in choosing to purchase an
estate in a county notoriously the coldest in England; and
while Mrs. Trotter was pointing out to her commiseration,
that for three years she had been living in a fishing-hamlet,
without a neighbour within forty miles saving the officers of
excise and coast blockade and their spirituously-inclined
consorts, the lady of Marygold Hill begged to assure her
that such a spot was infinitely preferable to a country house,
placed under watch and ward of a husband's vulgar family.
She appealed to the judgments of both, whether any thing
could afford stronger proof of Martindale's want of knowl-
edge of the world, than to sink half his fortune in the
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 145
purchase of an estate in the only county in England where
no extent of landed possessions would obliterate the recollec-
tion, that “after all he was nothing but a second son of old
Doctor Martin'ale of Her'ford, who had made money in
Indy;”—and to their feelings, as daughters of the house of
Grinderwell, on the ignominy of being introduced into the
neighbourhood under the patronage of Richard’s eldest
brother's wife (the heiress of a rich brewer), and to the
county in general, per favour of Mrs. Millegan's favour
with the great people at Mowbray End. Somehow or other,
both Julia and Harriet were disposed to harden their hearts
towards the picture of their sister's distresses. They, who
had been subdued in a rougher school, who had contended
with cold and heat, hunger and bereavement since they
flirted at Weymouth or pouted at Grinderwell House, could
not connect the idea of misfortune with the wife of an affec-
tionate husband, the mother of seven fine children, and the
owner of a handsome country seat in one of the best counties
in England.
Perhaps it was this obduracy which gave them a sinister
position in Mrs. Richard Martindale’s opinion. Other causes
of dissatisfaction soon however became apparent. Mary-
Matilda had been originally considered by far the prettiest of
the four sisters; but, now, though the ten years which had
passed over her head since the tour into Wales still left her
flaxen hair and pink cheeks,—habits of luxurious idleness,
and other natural causes had produced an expansion of out-
line far from conducive to her reputation as a beauty. 9 Her
cheeks were bloated, her eyes offuscate ; little yellow ringlets
hung scantily round the enlarged oval of her rubicund face;
and, at eight-and-twenty, she might have passed for the age
proverbially connected with the qualification “fat and fair.”
Mrs. Mac Glashun and her sister, on the contrary, attenuated
by privations, had preserved their shapes, and therewith that
air of gentility with which the choicest costume can never
invest a dumpy woman ; and no sooner did the good air and
good fare of Marygold Hill restore animation to their features
and bloom to their cheeks, than they shone forth as very
pretty women, and came to be talked of as Mrs. Richard
Martindale’s beautiful sisters. The Hon. Mrs. Blickling in-
sisted upon being favoured with their company at a popularity
ball her husband, the member, was giving to the free and
independent gentlemen of the county of Herts; and it was
indeed wormwood to Mary-Matilda, who had made herself
Vol. I. O
146 |WIY PLACE IN THIRE COUNT 13. Y.
obnoxious in a cheerful social neighbourhood by stickling
for precedency as a baronet's daughter, to have her two
sisters appear on so ostensible an occasion in dyed silk gowns,
as a curate's wife and adventurer's widow ; and yet to know
that they were fiftyſold as much liked and admired as herself.
Now in London this never could have happened. Her
Harley-street friends would never have dreamed of pressing
their civilities on a Mrs. Mac Glashun and a Mrs. Trotter,
who had no houses of their own in which to requite the obli-
gation; and even had they been capable of such a waste of
magnanimity, the general indifference-to-family—ceanections
prevalent in London society, would have prevented any one
from knowing, caring, or commenting upon the relationship,
or instituting comparisons between the parties. They had
not been established two months at Marygold Hill, before
Mary-Matilda wrote to her favourite sister Anne (the wife of
the Irish captain, who was now on half-pay, and settled on a
small hereditary estate on the borders of Connemara,) to de-
scribe how very troublesome she found those wild heathens,
the little Mac Glashuns, in her nursery; and how much
she was apprehensive that Harriet and Julia would assume
the command of her establishment, and probably give offence
in the family and neighbourhood during her approaching
confinement.
There was no resisting this sororal appeal? Mrs. O’Cal-
laghan certainly had intended to pass a happy domestic
winter in the bogs. But she would not allow poor little
Mary Matilda to be put upon ; nobody could say what might
be the result of her suffering any annoyance during the
ensuing delicate crisis. So having persuaded Captain O'Cal-
laghan to become her escort; away she went by long sea to
London ; and, from the Tower Stairs, straight to those of
Marygold Hill. The heroine was already in the straw ; but
her husband (albeit somewhat startled by this third addition
to his family circle) gave them a hearty welcome. All
&colonial people are hospitably inclined; and though he could
"certainly have dispensed with the Captain's company, against
whom, during his courtship of Anne Grinderwell he had
conceived an antipathy, yet still any connection of his déâr
Mary-Matilda was welcome. It was still winter. And is it
not the custom in Great Britain for people to collect as many
as possible of their friends and relations at Christmas under
their roof? Is no hospitality an almost religious duty on the
part of the proprietor of a “Place in the Country "
MY PLACE IN THE count RY, } 47
CHAPTER VII.
There are a set of joyless fellows who, wanting capacity to make a
figure among mankind upon benevolent and generous principles, try to
surmount their insignificance by laying offences in the way of such as
make it their endeavour to excel upon the received maxims and honest
arts of life. ARBUTEINoT.
IT was an awful visitation to the irritable nerves of Mrs.
Richard Martindale, who, during her annual indispositions,
had been accustomed by her kind husband to have things
kept so quiet in the house, that the blind mole heard not a
foot-fall—when the little Mac Glashuns, instigated by uncle
O'Callaghan, set up their war-whoops in the hall; or when
uncle O, Callaghan himself, after a second bottle of Madeira
at luncheon, stumbled along the corridor to the billiard-room,
singing “I am the boy for bewitching them,” in a tone that
would have drowned Jack Cleverley's loudest view halloo !
Her head-nurse gave her warning, and even the nursery-
maid “warn’t going to stay to be made keeper to them two
little heathen savages.” Forced into a premature assump-
tion of strength and authority, the nervous lady exerted
herself to resume her post in the drawing-room —and then
things went worse than ever.
The treacherous Anne had evidently coalesced with Julia
and Harriet ; and great was the art with which all three
prevented their nefarious proceedings from coming under
Martindale's observation, by soothing him with their flat-
teries and pretended regard. It was vain for Mary-Matilda
to hint to Mrs. Trotter that her poor husband doubtless found
his solitary situation in the fems extremely disagreeable ; or
to Captain and Mrs. O'Callaghan that the weather was
growing delightful for a voyage. They always contrived
148 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
that the worthy Richard should sieze that very opportunity
for assuring them that his house was their own ; that if
Trotter found it dull at Swamperton, he had better join his
wife at Marygold Hill; and that the state of Irish affairs was
not such as to justify his Connemara brother-in law in a pre-
cipitate return to his Sabine farm. His wife could have
found it in her heart to burke him for his officious hospi-
tality to her encroaching family.
Nor was it only that their innovations produced real incon-
venience and annoyance in the establishment; but the Mar-
taindale family, living near enough to have on eye upon their
proceedings, and enchanted to have an opportunity of paying
off to the nabob's wife the innumerable slights and insults
with which she had beset them, took care to let her see they
were fully aware that her hungry swarm of poor relations
had alighted like locusts upon poor Richard's property, to
devastate and devour. The elder brother Robert had died
a few months before ; expressly for the purpose, Mrs. Rich-
ards thought, of bequeathing sixty thousand pounds to the
Marriots, and making Clotilda more vulgar and presumptu-
ous than ever; but the remainder of the Martindale clan (re-
joiced to find out, and to show they had found out, that the
family of “my father Grinderwell,” with which they had
been so frequently twitted, was, in fact a tribe of needy beg-
gars) constantly wrote her word that they would drop in upon
her and their brother or uncle Richard, “when her own
family had quitted her. They would not think of intruding
so long as she had so much good company about her.”—
Wretches not one of them but knew she had as much
chance of getting rid of her sisters, as of that capital man-
sion known by the name of Marygold Hill.
Ned Warton, too, who had so long refrained from inter-
course with his Cape Town friend, thought proper at this
unlucky juncture to propose the month’s visit with which,
nine years before, he had threatened his dear Richard Mar-
timdale ; and the lady, who, at any other period, would have
rebelled against the merest hint of such a favour, dared not
provoke the report he would doubtless circulate among their
mutual rice-and-currie acquaintance in town, that he could
not be received at Marygold Hill because the house was gar-
risoned with the poor relations of poor Dick's poor wife. She
would have done better, however, to incur the imputation;
for, after having vainly hinted to the O’Callaghans the pro-
priety of giving up their comfortable room, and perceived
MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY. 149
that there was a confederacy among her sisters to keep pos-
session of their original quarters, she was obliged to consign
Mr. Warton to a little poky chamber without a fire-place,
commanding a picturesque view of the bottle-racks and knife-
houses. -
“Very well indeed; this will do very comfortably for my
man. Sam you don’t mind sleeping in a room without a
chimney, for once in a way ?” said the crafty Ned, when
Richard Martindale, followed by his own respectable body
servant, showed him to his gite. “And now let me see my
own apartment.”
Upon this hint, Martindale, stung by his irony, yet trembling
at his own audacity, actually conducted him to his own bed-
room ; and Warton, who could not bring himself to feel the
slightest compassion for a hen-pecked man, had the comfort,
while he watched the unpacking of his portmanteau, to hear
the altercation that ensued in the adjoining dressing-room,
between Richard and his wife, on the subject of this unpre-
cedented exercise of marital interference.
“We can very easily have a French bed put up for our-
selves in this room,” exclaimed the husband; “I really had
not the face to make my respectable friend Warton sleep in
that corner cupboard. Since you could not prevail on the
O’Callaghans to give up the south bed-room, we must make
up our minds to be inconvenienced for a short time. Re-
member, my love, it is for the sake of one of my oldest
friends; and people are often obliged to reconcile themselves
to such shifts in their own Place in the Country.”
“I shall sleep with my poor children in the nursery,”
said Mrs. Martindale, her throat dry with rage: you may do
as you please. I should like to know whether any other
woman in England was ever turned out of her own bed to
make way for a crackbrained fool, with the tricks of a bab-
oom, and the insolence of ” Warton threw his slipper
against the dressing-room door to warn the irate lady that he
was within hearing; and Mrs. Richard Martindale, unable
to face him immediately after such an exposure, chose to be
indisposed, and dine up stairs. Shouts of laughter and the
fumes of cigars and whisky toddy ascending from the hall,
soon warned her that the monster Warton, and the brute
O’Callaghan, were colleaguing over their Saturnalian orgies;
and very probably engaging poor Richard himself in a career
of libertinism. “And this,” said she, as she wept over a
plate of partridge and bread sauce furtively brought up by
- O* -
150 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY,
her own maid, “ this is the comfort of having a Place of
one's own in the Country !—”
It affords unlucky proof of the evil particles floating in our
nature, that no compacts are more effective than those found-
ed on malicious calculations, and a common animosity. Ned
Warton, who, though he would as soon have put to sea in a
sparrow's eggshell, as marry with Sir John Grinderwell's
daughter, had never forgiven his chum and cotemporary
Richard for carrying off a young and lovely wife; and who
entertained a rooted antipathy to the fubsy doll by whom his
friend Dick had been so often prevented dining with him at
the club, and going half-price to laugh at Munden,_no
sooner discovered that the coarse, Tampant, Tollicking, Cap-
tain O'Callaghan entertained a similar dislike to his cold-
hearted sister-in-law, than he entered into a league with him,
offensive and defensive, to rescue Richard from her subjuga-
tion, or make the house too hot to hold her. Dick Marriot,
too, the genius of Starling Park, who retained a strong sense
of his obligations to his uncle, and who consequently des-
pised the shallow woman by whom he was despised,—hav-
ing taken a chance dinner at Marygold Hill after a hard
day's hunting, instinctively joined the unholy alliance, and
even suggested a new mode of mischief to their adoption.
He undertook to point out to the notice of Mrs. Cleverly
the frequency of her dear Jack's visits to Marygold Hill, as
connected with the charms and ingenuous sprightliness of
the widow Mac Glashun ; leaving it to the well known sus-
ceptibility of the lady of Poplar Lodge to favour her friend
and neighbour Mrs. Martindale, whom she detested as heart-
ily as friends and neighbours in a dull country neighbour-
hood are compelled to do for want of better employment,
with her opinion of the conduct of her sister in encouraging
the attentions of a married man ;-and to persuade the jovial
Jack that the party at his uncle Richard Martindale's could
not get on without him, and were much hurt by the infre-
quency and brevity of his visits. Jack was not the man to
resist such an appeal. A house filled with three amateurs
of whiskey toddy, and three lively chatty women, presented
a real attraction; and even Richard Martindale, his friend,
was no less surprised than delighted to observe how unre-
servedly he came among them, and how ready he was for a
carouse with the brawling O’Callaghan or his nephew Mar-
riot. Old Warton looked on with his cunning eye and
MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY. 151
puckered face, and saw with delight that a catastrophe was
brewing.
Now Mrs. Richard Martindale, on her inauguration into
the circles of the neighbourhood, had not been so inattentive
to her own interests as not to secure a partizan ; and the
same incipient ambition which prevented her from resting on
her pillow till she had magnified her own dignity by the ac-
quisition of a place in the country, had suggested her choice
of the County Member to be her knight and champion.—
There was something in the solemn dull impracticability of
the well-looking, well-conducted Mr. Blickling, which for-
bade all possibility of scandal;-and it was therefore highly
satisfactory to her feelings to roll into the Hertford ball-room
on the arm of this mighty, dignitary ; or to hear the Hert-
fordshirians from the south-western extremity of the county
inquire at the Hatfield Tuesdays, to whom their favourite
member was paying such marked attention.—Mrs. B. like
most county members' wives, was too much accustomed to
see him bowing, and beauing, and philandering, after the
fashion of Sir Christopher Hatton with Queen Elizabeth, to
take; the least note of his proceedings; and Richard was
gratified to perceive that his wife, her pearls, and ostrich
feathers, were received with becoming attention. Nothing
could be further from gallantry than such a liaison. Blick-
ling himself was a man who sometimes “spoke,” but never
talked. Deeply imbued with a sense of his personal dignity
as the representative of the county, and proprietor of one of
its finest estates, he considered loquacity derogation ; and
having made it his maxim that men often repent of saying
too much but never of saying too little, was looked upon as
one of the most sensible men either in the House or out of it.
Thousands of people said “there was no one on whose
opinion they relied so much as on that of the Member for
Hertfordshire,” without perceiving that he was never known
to give one, but contented himself with bowing gracefully
and assentingly to the expression of their own.
To her growing intimacy with this senatorial tumefaction,
the recent occurrences in her family had opposed some
obstacles ; but now that she was out again, and that the
weather permitted her to drive over to Blickling Park, she
contrived to make her way there unaccompanied, and to take
a long stroll in the shrubberies with a party staying in the
house. Satisfied by the profound reverence of the Member's
bow that she was still as great a favourite as ever, Mrs.
152 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
Martindale no sooner found herself, by one of the turns of
the shrubbery, alone upon his arm, than she siezed the
opportunity to renew all her former declarations of relying
solely and singularly upon his guidance in the direction of
her own conduct ; assuring him that “his superior wisdom
could alone extricate her from a most unpleasant dilemma.
It was impossible to place even Mr. Martindale in her confi-
dence; for the delicate relation in which the offending par-
ties stood towards him, might lead to the most unpleasant
results.” Mr. Blickling paused, and looked stedfastly and
inquiringly at his fair companion, but said nothing. He was
very much in the habit of saying nothing.
“During her recent indisposition,” she resumed, “the
families of the neighbourhood had been so kind as to show a
great deal of attention to her sisters. They had been to as
many dinner-parties, as many Christmas balls, as if she had
not been confined to her room. Mrs. O'Callaghan had been
kind enough to stay with her ; but Julia and Harriet had
been constantly out. Probably he had frequently met them 7”
The Member bowed as to the Treasury Bench, but said
nothing;--he was very much in the habit of saying nothing.
“All this, she was sorry to admit, sorry for the sake of
her own family, sorry for the sake of a respectable family in
the neighbourhood, had been productive of much mischief l’’
Mr. Blickling started and stared. He even spoke ; he
cried “ Indeed ' " and much as Kean himself might have
Iago-ed the word; and when his friend Mrs. Richard Martin-
dale proceeded to unfold to him the agonized apprehensions
entertained by Mrs John Cleverly of Poplar Lodge, and her
own terror lest “any thing unpleasant” should happen
during her sister's visit at Marygold Hill, he seemed quite
as much shocked and alarmed as she could possibly desire.
But, although she expressly asked his advice, and in her
unwillingness to involve Martindale in a quarrel with his
friend Jack, begged to know whether it was not plainly her
duty to get rid of the indiscreet Mrs. Mac Glashun as quietly
as possible, the great man of Blickling Park could not be
induced to express a decided opinion. He shook his head,
waved his hands, elevated his eyebrows, cleared his voice;
and Mary-Matilda finally quitted the shrubbery under a
persuasion that her platonic knight had advised her to do
exactly what she had driven over to Blickling determined to
effect; viz. to bring matters to a crisis by bringing all the
parties concerned publicly together. It had always been a
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. I53
Martindale custom to celebrate the christenings of the family
by some showy festivity; and as she had done nothing since
her arrival in the county to conciliate her neighbours, she
now resolved to give a splendid ball and supper. This
measure would serve to replace her in all her abdicated
authority. An evening, at ten days distance, was fixed for
the ceremony ; and Mr. and Mrs. Blickling, who were
already engaged to act as sponsors for the new little Hertford-
shire Martindale, promised to dine and sleep at Marygold
Hill. The rest of the company were simply invited for the
evening.
Nothing makes people so popular in any neighbourhood
as the act of giving a ball. Even Mrs. Richard Martindale,
though in general very little liked, was now pronounced to
be a good-natured, well-meaning woman in the main. Mrs.
Cleverley forgot her domestic woes, Mrs. Marriot her filial
mourning, the Ladies Mowbray their dignity, and the Mille-
gans their aversion; nobody remembered any thing about
Marygold Hill and its inhabitants, except that it was to be
opened on the fourth of March, with a ball and supper,
Weippert, and the Hatfield band. The Lieutenant General's
widow and the Curate's wife contrived to coax poor Richard
out of new white crape christening dresses; and Ned Warton
who wished for nothing better than to see his friends in a
scrape, looked upon the whole as a “ploy,” and trusted that
Mesdames Martindale and Cleverly, and as many of the
gentlemen as possible, would make fools of themselves on the
Occasion. n
The morning arrived, and the Blicklings (to whom Mrs.
Trotter had volunteered to surrender her apartment) arrived
also ; and while poor Richard paraded the lady round his
improvements and broke her shins over his patent castiron
fences, his wife managed to get the County Member téte-à-tête
into her book-room to relate to him all that had been going
on since she saw him last. They sat opposite each other ;
Mrs. Richard with compressed lips, looking rigid, stern, and
moral;-Blickling like the “Portrait of a Member of Parlia-
ment” in Somerset House exhibition, with his hand pictures-
quely resting on the writing table, and his legs crossed ä la
Knight Templar. Whenever Mrs. Martindale terminated
a sentence in reprobation of the wickedness of the world, and
more especially of married men who run after other men's
wives or widows, the senator gravely uncrossed these im-
pressive limbs, and (as if in mute reply to her appeal) re-
154 MY PLACE IN THE CO UNTRY.
crossed them in an opposite direction. He was too cautious
for words. .
“Yes!—my dear Mr. Blickling,”—faltered Mary-Matilda
in an under-tone ; “you will, I am sure, sympathize with
my feelings, when I acknowledge I have now more than
ever reason to believe that villamy has been going on under
my roof. The other evening, after dusk, my own maid
actually discovered a female in a white dress (it could be no-
body but the ill-advised Mrs. Mac Glashun) clandestinely
receiving a letter over the paling of the shrubbery from a
gentleman on horseback, who could be nobody but that
wretch Cleverly P- --
Mr. Blickling replied affirmatively by manoeuvring his
right leg over his left, and thus altering the balance of his
whole attitude.
“Several times lately, the house-dogs have been heard to
bark at undue hours; and I have every reason to believe
that the alarm was given by these faithful creatures on ac-
count of strangers loitering about the premises to favour this
vile—this detestable correspondence ſ” -
Her auditor gravely and silently resumed his original
position. \
“To-night, however, I am determined to be on the alert,
and so is poor dear Mrs. Cleverly. They will come early.
The guilty parties will not entertain a suspicion that they
are watched; and my eyes shall never be off their move-
ments throughout the evening. It is a melancholy thing
that the inquity of mankind should compel one to have re-
course to such precautions with one's own sister. But Julia
so positively persists in denying the charge, that, without pro-
curing distinct proof, I have no excuse for forbidding that vile
fellow the house, and preserving the honour of my family.”
Again the prim and prudish Blickling executed his favour-
ite evolution; when, startled by a sudden burst of laughter
at the bookroom window, both looked up, and perceived the
blooming face of the widow Mac Glashun laughing under
her gipsey-hat ; while Ned Wharton stood by her side, with
a countenance as malignantly significant as that of Wathek's
Giaour. Mary-Matilda rose with ineffable dignity; and the
County Member again uncrossed his legs, and was on them
in a moment.
“Observe, my dear madam, the corrupt condition of modern
Society,” said he sententiously, as he threw open the door into
the Saloon. “Such is the depraved state of those unfortunate
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 155
people's minds, that they are putting an evil construction on
the innocent friendship existing between a woman so exem-
plary as you, a man so unsusceptible of immoral impressions
as myself. Ah! madam —ah ! Mrs. Richard Martindale !—
what is the world coming to '''
The evening arrived—the evening passed ;-the eyes of
Jack Cleverley's wife and Mrs. Mac Glashun’s sister were
carefully fixed upon the proceedings of the delinquents;–
but nothing transpired. The little widow was certainly
looking very handsome, and danced beautifully and with great
animation ; but, as Mr. Blickling observed aside to his fair
friend, “If she flirted at all, it was clearly quite as much with
that eccentric old humourist Warton as with the valiant Jack.”
The ball passed off, as announced by the Hertford paper
next morning, “with unexampled eclal.” Most of the county
grandees were absent from indisposition. Weippert's music
was supposed to have gone by the wrong coach, for it never
made its appearance. The Argands would not burn. The
white soup was sour, and the lobster sallad sweet. Still, for
a country-ball, the thing went off tolerably. When a great
number of young people meet together, and are willing to be
amused, criticism is misplaced ; and as Captain O'Callaghan
had affronted the butler by volunteering to concoct the negus,
and been consequently carried up to bed half an hour before
the commencement of the ball, there was no person present of
whom Mrs. Richards had any particular reason to feel
ashamed.
To say the truth, the old or middle-aged people seemed
quite as well amused at Marygold Hill as their juniors. Ned
Warton was growing quite humanized, Richard Martindale
was in the best of spirits, and the Blicklings themselves were
so much gratified by the hospitality of their reception, that
they actually proposed, of their own accord, to pass another
day at Mrs. Martindale's seat. Mary-Matilda had the satis-
faction, after breakfast next morning, of holding another
jeremiad with the Member over the sinfulness of this corrupt
generation, and of whispering to him that, notwithstanding
all her vigilance of the night before, her own maid had
detected the lady and gentleman stealing away together from
the ball-room. Mr. Blickling shook his head, and was
evidently much hurt that so much turpitude should exist
under the same roof with himself and his family; but still
he said nothing.
Mrs. Richard Martindale dwelt much on this flagrant
156 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
instance of his hypocrisy, when discussing the subject with
her husband a few days afterwards, in consequence of a dis-
graceful discovery which had set Marygold Hill into con-
sternation, and sent little Mrs. Trotter back in disgrace to the
fens;–besides very nearly driving the County Member from
his seat, both in Herts and the House. Mrs. Trotter's had
been the white dress in the shrubbery; Mr. Blickling's the
bay mare that stood so quiet beside the railings of the shrub-
bery. But Mrs. Mac Glashun had no leisure to upbraid
either of her sisters with the aspersions thrown on her fair
fame at Jack Cleverley's expense. Apprehensive of the
coming storm and the demur it might occasion in her old
beau's intentions, she was already off to Hertford in a post-
chaise, with Edward Warton, Esq. and a special license !
“A pretty example have we set in the neighbourhood,”
faltered poor Mrs. Richard, who was confined to her bed with
genuine indisposition occasioned by this double shock. “In
London this disgraceful affair would very soon blow over ;
but I foresee no end to the tittle-tattle it will produce, hap-
pening at this season of the year, and at our Place in the
Country P’—
i
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 157
CHAPTER VIII.
The park when purchased with digust she sees,
And sighs for town, “Oh odious, odious trees 1’’
Pop E.
AFTER all that had occurred, the Martindales had no longer
any hesitation in informing the O'Callaghans, that it was
their intention to go to town for a few weeks to be out of the
way of their country neighbours; and the captain, who had
made himself mighty comfortable at Marygold Hill with his
whisky toddy, shooting his brother-in-law’s pheasants, and
laming his hunters, now began to look big, and to talk about
“the paltry upstartness of a new-bought place, compared
with a fine ould ancient castle discinding from father to son
from gineration to gineration.” Poor Richard, who was all
philanthropy, contrived, however, to get rid of him without
a quarrel, by paying his way back again to Connemara, vić
Holyhead. The head nurse came back; and Marygold was
itself again. To remain there, however, was impossible.
Mrs. Martindale felt that she had not the courage to encoun-
ter the hearty laugh of the Cleverleys, the sneers of the
Marriots, or to pass in her daily drives the accusing lodge-
gates of Blickling Park. It had been understood, and prom-
ised, indeed, on the purchase of the fatal place in the country,
that she was to go to town for the season when she pleased,
—every spring if it suited her,-either to an hotel or a ready
furnished house. Recollections of the miseries of removal
had hitherto alone prevented her from exercising the right;
but now, she was ready and willing to occupy a comfortable
furnished house engaged for her by her good-natured hus-
band in Queen Anne Street. She longed to be once more
Vol. I. P
I58 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.,
within reach of the Kedgerees and Calicuts, and all her for-
mer dinner-giving friends and acquaintance.
Numerous, indeed, are the mortifications which await a
country family arriving, after some years' absence, in town
for the season. They find themselves out of fashion,--be-
hind the time, Leclipsed,—disparaged,—forgotten by mº, )
and even deliberately cut by a few. Mrs. Richard, in addi-
tion to the discovery that her own wardrobe and that of her
children must be re-modelled, had the mortification of discov-
ering that Lady Kedgeree had already acquired another bo-
som friend to gossip with in her stead; and that Mrs. Cali-
cut was quite as intimate with her successor in the Harley-
street-house, as she had ever been with herself. Richard,
meanwhile, on coming home every day from his solicitor’s,
where he had now three lawsuits in progress connected with
the Marygold Hill estate, (one concerning a flaw in the title ;
another for having closed up a foot-path, and a third, for an
action for trespass,) no longer made any secret of the supe-
rior attraction he discovered in a metropolis so rich in clubs,
and so adapted to the habits of a lounger. He was now
approching his sixtieth year; it was necessary that Master
Grinderwell should go to Eton; “and when the lad is at
school,” said he, in a desponding tone, “what on earth shall I
have to amuse me at Marygold Hill ? My hunting days are
gone by ;-that impudent fellow, O'Callaghan, has thinned
all my preserves;–I make but a poor hand at farming ;-and
altogether, I feel that the country is no place for me. Besides,
it requires an immense fortune to live like a gentleman on
one's own estate; and what with the five-and-forty thousand
pounds so rashly sunk in the purchase, and the ten thousand
I have frittered away, hundred by hundred, since I married.
—my circumstances are becoming considerably embarrass-
ed. As my poor brother's partner, Latitat, says, “unless I
can make the Marygold estate yield somewhat of a more
profitable return, I may look upon myself as a ruined
man.’”
- “No man can press oil out of a stone,” says the Italian
proverb ; and Richard found to his cost, that it was impossi-
ble to extract a profitable return from a fancy-place, consisting
of lawn, shrubbery, paddock and woodlands in their nonage.
His brother Robert's successor, however, who had a keen
eye for speculation, had the good luck to discover an excel-
lent stratum of brick earth on the estate ; and accordingly, by
MIY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 159
the time Mary-Matilda had blushed her last blushes for the
delinquencies of her two sisters and made up her mind to
return home, she had the satisfaction of finding the only
picturesque point of the grounds disfigured by kilns and lit-
tered by brick straw, and the whole atmosphere, the “pre-
cious country air” she had sacrificed so much to secure for
ſher children, foully impregnated with hydro-sulphuretted gas.
Poor Richard assured her, that the success of his brick-kiln
could alone redeem him from the difficulties into which he
had been plunged by his rash purchase of the estate ; and at
length compromised the matter by undertaking to build her a
splendid new steam-conservatory round the basement story of
the house, capable of removing all the bad effects of the gas.
Mrs. Richard had ample need for this little smoothing
down of her ruffled pride. During her spring in town, the
Marriots had been busy turning their sixty thousand pounds
to account, in making magnificent improvements, and re-fur-
nishing Starling Park. Thanks to the models afforded them
at Mowbray End, the mansion was completed in the best
taste; and, as Clotilda admitted to her aunt, while parading
her through every room in the house from the attics to the
housekeeper's room, “they really flattered themselves it was
the most perfect thing in that part of the country.”—
Mrs. Martindale thought of the two thousand pounds settled
by poor Richard on his nephew, to insure him a college
education, and wondered when she should be able to have a
white marble bath in her dressing-room, or lace trimmings
to her muslin curtains.
With her own family, meanwhile, Mrs. Richard had
resigned all intercourse. Sir Joseph Grinderwell affected to
resent her negligence as the origin of his sister's indis-
cretion; and her younger brothers were eating government
bread in different parts of the globe;—one as a resident in
Newfoundland, one as a consul in Cochin-China, and one
thirty feet below the level of the Thames, as clerk in a
frog-trap at Somerset House. She had no one to quarrel
with, no one to molest;-even the humble Jacob Martindale
treated her with that frigid deference which forbids all
approach to familiarity; and Mary-Matilda, who had been
so lively at Grinderwell House, so merry at Cheltenham, so
happy in Wales, so contented at Bath, so dissipated at
Weymouth, so courted in Harley-street, discovered that in
the country, to which she had restricted the remainder of
her days, she was likely to be dull, dispirited, despised, and
160 MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY.
lonely. It was very little consolation to her to feel that she
was proprietress of a place in the country, now that her
means no longer permitted her to enliven it with entertain-
ments, fill it with company, and assume a leading part in
the neighbourhood. She took it into her head they were
designated all over the county as “the Martindales of the
Brickfield; ” while the more moral circles probably pointed
her out to abhorrence, as a member of that obliquitous family
which had induced the County Member into backsliding.
“Ah, Richard ' " she exclaimed, when another winter
was about to set in, and they had not so much as the O’Cal-
laghans at their disposal to assist them in making war
against the long evenings and snowy mornings, “I shall
never forgive you for having made me renounce that com-
fortable Harley-street house for this desolate place. To live
as we did there, forms the utmost limit of my desires;–good
establishment, pleasant dinner parties, winter at Brighton,
summer at Hastings;–the children always well, the ser-
wants always happy;-the Kedgerees, the Calicuts, and
poor dear Camphor the apothecary within a stone's throw.—
It really was madness on your part to set your heart upon a
country life. You are not fit for it, my dear, you are really
not fit for it.—You cannot do without your club ; or your
morning's lounge with Sir Hookah Smith and Sir Brown
Kedgeree. I wish to Heaven I had been as well aware
when you took this place, as I am now, of your inaptitude
for rural pleasures; nothing should have induced me to
allow you to bury us for life, in order that you might
gratify the pride of the Martindale family by purchasing
a place in their native county. There are the poor girls,
who will soon be wanting masters, and who will be brought
up mere Hottentots (I beg your pardon, believe me, I
intended no allusion to your early avocations,) and turn
out perhaps vulgar fine ladies, like your niece Clotilda.”
“Or worse, like your two flirting sisters,” might have
burst from the lips of a man less mildly quiescent than the
patient Richard. He however, contented himself with ob-
serving, “Well my love, we must hope for the best. Your
mother may perhaps take it into her head to leave enough
to enable you to make a little visit to town every spring ; or
perhaps—”
“A letter by express, Sir,” said the footman, placing a
voluminous despatch in the hands of Mr. Martindale, and
quitting the room.
MY PLACE IN THE COUNTRY. 161
“What is it, what is it !”—cried his wife, breathless with
consternation. “Is it any thing from little Grinderwell ?—
any thing from Eton 7"—
6 & No.” -
“Any thing regarding my sisters ?”
& 4 NO.” -
“In a word are the tidings good or bad —your banker,
your agent 2"
“I hardly know whether to call them good or bad,” said
Richard, much perplexed; “for you women are so con-
foundedly capricious, that one can never anticipate on what
opinion you may finally anchor.”
“For Heaven's sake, do not prose so when I am dying
with curiosity. Give me the letter ſ”
“Tell me first;” said Martindale, grown cunning with ex-
perience and placing the folded epistle carefully in his pock-
et, “tell me ſirst, candidly and explicitly, do you repent hav-
ing purchased Marygold Hill;-and would you, if you
could, return to the freedom of a London life 7”
“That I would ſ”—ejaculated Mrs. Richard, firmly be-
łieving such a release to be beyond her husband’s power.—
“If we could but get rid of this estate, I should be the hap-
piest woman in the world.”
“I give you joy them, my dear Mary-Matilda,” continued
he drily. Latitat informs me that we have lost our suit.—
The title cannot be made good; and after all, Marygold
Hill returns to the possession of its lawful owner. I shall be
a loser to the amount of some thousands by the money I
have expended on the improvements ; in consideration of
which, the adverse party have very liberally offered me a
long lease of the place on easy terms; and should you feel
any reluctance in quitting it—”
“No, no, no, ſ” cried Mrs. Martindale. “Pray let us re-
turn to the mode of life for which we were born, and which
suits us best. I have had quite enough of Marygold Hill.—
Believe me, I have lost all predilection for —a PLACE
IN THE Count Ry.” -
p“
THE PAVILION.
I would, if possible, represent the errors of life in such a manner as that
º of pleasure may read me. In this case I must not be rough to
adies and gentlemen ; but speak of sin as a gentleman.
STEELE.
CHAPTER I.
No person, who possesses either piety, grace, or good manners, will
use such jests as are bitter, poisoned, injurious, or which in any way
leave a sting behind them. BURT on.
A vice has been gaining ground of late years among the
higher orders of English society, which, although it may
not strictly fall under the interdiction of the Decalogue, is
unquestionably at variance with the spirit of every Christian
principle, and every moral law. It seems admitted that,
couched in a tone of irony, the grossest insults may be offered;
that, under the palliative name of quizzing, any species of
impertinence may be inflicted ; and that, provided a sneer be
unaccompanied by a menace or a blow, it must be received
with good humour. Many a person welcomes, as an
evidence of wit, the reputation of being “very satirical,”
who would shrink from the imputation of that “scorn of the
scorner,” pointed out in Holy Writ as one of the most
abundant fountains of human bitterness.
“In one of those admirable letters in the “Heart of Mid
Lothian,” whereby Scott practically demonstrates the pro-
gress of corruption which has transformed the selfish Effie
Deans into the heartless Lady Staunton, she is made to
allude to the hollow tone of fashionable irony, as “the
drolling style of conversation now in vogue.” But from the
bantering of the reign of George II., to the mockery of that
of William IV., how gigantic and lamentable the progress'
—Irony is now the favourite and universal figure of speech
The bar, the senate, the drawing-room, may even the social
fire side, is embittered by the caustic personalities of sneer-
ing wit ; and of all cotemporary writers, Sir Walter alone
166 THE PAVILION .
has disdained to enliven his pages with its flippancy, or adorn
them with its false glitter. Even in their intercourse with
each other, “I pray thee do not mock me, fellow student,”
—is arprayer that falls as naturally from the lips of the
modern “men of wit and fashion about town,” as from those
of the Prince of Denmark himself.
But it is chiefly in fashionable society that the art of quiz-
zing forms so important an accomplishment; and a total
want of bonne foi, such as the practice necessarily produces,
is a characteristic of the great world of London peculiarly
striking to foreigners. They are amazed to observe that a
fact narrated at some distinguished dinner-table, is received
with a wonderful allowance for “ errors excepted;” that Lord
A listens to his friend Lord B–, with a smile of po-
lite incredulity; and that, ever on the watch against being
quizzed by an ironical compliment or rendered ridiculous as
the subject of a hoax, the belle of St. James's receives as an
injury, the same courteous salutations which a belle of the
Chaussée d'Antin claims as a right ! It is, now, in short,
admitted, that John Bull, our national impersonator, hereto-
fore represented as endowed with the moral swallow of a
whale and digestion of an ostrich,--as a speaker of matter
of fact, and a hearer of matter of fact, has become a mere
strainer at gnats, a doctrinaire in creed and cant, a scan-
dal-monger pre-eminently addicted to frivolous and vexatious
bantering and backbiting !—Under the influence of the smiles
and blandishments of the Exclusives, honest John has even
been betrayed in his dotage into sneering at those who will
not join with him in abjuring the simplicity of life and man-
ners which he has recently learned to reprobate as an evi-
dence of national barbarism. - -
“Who or what is this new Prussian ambassadress '' in-
quired Lady Mary Milford of the Honourable Frederick
Fitzgerald, as they stood together in the tea-room at Al-
mack's at the close of the last ball of the season, waiting for
the announcement of her carriage.
“Is it possible that you do not know —The original of
Góethe's Charlotte Old Reppenheim fell in love with her
as she was cutting bread-and-butter for her little brothers and
sisters, at some presbytery in Lithuania; and, instead of
renouncing the charming simplicity of character which she
considers the origin of her promotion, she still sticks a moss-
rose in her flaxen wig, quotes Hermann and Dorothea;
and Clanhenry protests that she actually appeared at Court,
THE PAWILION. - 167
last winter at Berlin, leading a lamb, en lisière, with a blue
riband.”
“Nonsense ! There is no believing a word you say. I
have not forgotten your persuading me that Lady Charlemore
was the authoress of the Waverly novels. But really this
Countess Reppenheim promises to be impayable. Sophia
tells me that she went out fishing with the king on the Vir-
ginia Water, after her audience of reception at Windsor, and
inquired of his Majesty, in a tender whisper, whether he
ever bestowed a tear on the memory of ‘Cette belle Robinson,
st intéressante parses grâces et parses malheurs ?” –
“And by way of illustrating the adage, ‘Ne faut point
Jarler de corde dans la maison d'un pendu,” passed a whole
}. to-night in torturing our friend, Lady Grasmere, with
a dissertation on the pleasures of a rustic life ; forgetting that
our English Wiscountess is the daughter of an Irish farmer,
reared upon bite-and-sup, and highly accomplished in the
manufacture of Eddish cheese !”
“A most unsophicated individual indeed! Well, well ; a
season in London will scarcely ſail to endow her with the
right use of her eyes, ears, and understanding. I can almost
forgive her bâvue, however, in the Grasmere affair. How
is it possible for foreigners to be forewarned against the ex-
traordinary instances of mésalliance which betray them, in
this country, into the society of parvenues of every descrip-
tion ; actresses, opera dancers, farmer's daughters, -all sorts
and conditions of women. Far be it from me to blame the
system which keeps our brothers and uncles (the cadets of the
family) out of bedlam or the workhouse. But it is not sur-
prising that a person like the Countess Reppenheim, qualified
by her sixteen quarterings to enter any Chapter of the empire,
should find it impossible to give credit to the existence of
such degradation.” +
“Ay, ay! we'll teach her to ‘think deep ere she depart.'
We must improve her morals by familiarising her with the
majesty of the people, and the equality of the human race.”
“C'est pour rire 1 You, who are the greatest aristocrat
unguillotined l’’
“Am I?—Only during the lifetime of my old aunt, the
Duchess of Keswycke, whose acres, thank Heaven, are as
loose as her principles are fixed. I intend her to make me
her heir ; and there is no pleasing the doting widow of a
Duke of twenty descents, without pinning a little faith upon
the legends of Domesday Book. She has fifteen other needy
168 T HIE PAVILION.
nephews on the watch for her inheritance; and I am obliged
to put my best leg forward—”
“To convince her how well it would become the Garter 7
—Well !—we must get Countess Reppenheim presented to
her Grace; to prove to the wife of this Silesian magnifico,
that we really have a peeress or two whose grandfathers
kept no chandler’s shop ; and whose prejudices are as
chivalrous and feudal as her own.”
Such was “the drolling style" in which one of the
gentlest, purest, and most amiable of human beings was
discussed among the fashionables of the metropolis in which
her lord was appointed to fill the honourable post of ambas-
sador. Countess Reppenheim was scarcely thirty years of
age; but the delicacy of her health had invested her with
the tone and aspect of a somewhat more advanced epoch.
She was secured, however, from that besetting sin of coquetry
which usually characterizes a foreign fashionable in the
wane of her charms, by strong attachment to her husband,
no less than by personal indolence and constitutional infir-
mity. She seemed to have been, or to be on the point of
becoming a beauty. But something was deficient: either
vivacity, or vigour, or intelligence; or some one among the
nameless nothings indispensable to female fascination. The
women called her faded,—the men, languid;—but all were
of opinion that she need only exert herself—devote a little
more care to her dress, and a little more animation to her
manner, to be as captivating as the most captivating of her
SGX.
The Countess had, in fact, been reared in a school which,
instead of initiating her into the arcana of that hateful
science called “knowledge of the world,” had involved her
in scenes of such stirring and unprecedented anxiety and
excitement as could not fail to produce a lasting injury to
her naturally frail constitution ; as well as to impart to her
character a tone of sentiment and romance, fatal to her
success on that hollow stage of irony, the supreme bon ton
of London. At a very early age the Baroness Helene von
Edelstein was nominated Maid of Honour to the beautiful
and unfortunate Louisa Queen of Prussia; had witnessed
her bitter trials, her patient resignation, her untimely death.
One of the last actions of the royal sufferer had been to
bestow the hand of her favourite on Count Reppenheim ;
and instead of the origin assigned by the fashionable and
sneering Clanhenry for the alliance, it had been the favourite
THE PAVILION. 169
project of a dying queen. Scarcely, however, had the tears
of the young Countess ceased to flow for the loss of her
beloved mistress, when Reppenheim's appointment to a high
command in that army of the Elbe to which the name of
the queen afforded a rallying cry of vengeance, filled her
with consternation. Instantly retiring from court, she made
it at once a pleasure and a duty to pass the period of his
absence in strict seclusion on his family estates; and thus
the woman who, from early courtiership and late, might
have been supposed a fair match for the intrigues of Carlton
House or the affectations of Almack's, still retained the
primeval simplicity and good faith of childhood. Four years
indeed had elapsed since the battle of Waterloo secured the
pacification of Europe, and caused the palaces of the con-
tinent to ring for joy. But they had been passed by the
Count and the Countess in comparative obscurity on their
Silesian estates; and the new ambassadress now made her
appearance in London, having imbibed all her notions of
English frankness and English hospitality from the national
vaunts circulated in books of the last century; and prepared
to interpret au pied de la lettre all she saw and all she heard
in moral London. She would as soon have expected to find
a scorpion hidden under the leaves of a garden rose, as that
the languor of her air and the graciousness of her manners
could be made a matter of ridicule among those who met her
with such eager invitations and overtures of friendship.
Had it been the commencement instead of the close of
the season when the Reppenheims arrived in town, a single
week's experience would have sufficed to place the Countess
in the current of the vortex. But unfortunately, July and
the last lingerers of the beau monde were taking their depar-
ture together. The closely-shuttered mansions of Grosve-
nor-square were already uninhabited ; saving by the ancient
porter who sat, spectacles on nose, at the hall window, with
one eye on the radiant blossoms of a pot of French mari-
golds, and the other on a well-thumbed copy of the Court
Guide,-the literary vade mecum of his vocation. Not an
equipage was to be seen in the streets, but those of a few sal-
low apothecaries and physicians; who, exhausted by the
labours of the season, looked like the ghosts of their own
patients escaped from the Styx. The gay haberdashers’
shops of Regent-street stood stripped of their festoons of rib-
band, during the annual migration of Mr. and Mrs. Taffeta
to Margate ; long melancholy strings of hackney coaches,
Vol. I. Q
170 THE PAVILION.
like funeral processions of departed business, ruralized cer-
tain commercial streets by the litter of their hay and straw ;
while in Cumberland-place and the Squares, a luxuriant
crop of after grass was running to seed. The West End
“smelt wooingly”—of mellow apples, and sounded hollow
as the brazen gates of a giant's portal in a pantomime.
The moment was doubtless unpropitious for the advent of
a foreigner; and right glad was the Countess to take refuge
in a damp diplomatic villa on the banks of the Thames, be-
queathed to the tenancy of the ambassador by the excellency
his predecessor.
“I grieve to leave you in this dull place,” said Lady Beau-
lieu, the popular wife of the foreign secretary, (who had be-
come slightly acquainted with Countess Reppenheim during
the Aix la Chapelle negociations,) on taking leave of her
for the season. “I am, however, scarcely in a more envi-
able position than yourself; for Beaulieu and I are going on
a conciliation pilgrimage to our Irish estates, and I have no
hope of seeing you till we meet at Brighton in the winter.”
Unfortunately it did not occur to Lady Beaulieu that the
new ambassadress could require, in the interim, any hints for
her guidance in the choice or formation of her society. She
forgot that, although London is nominally a wilderness dur-
ing the parliamentary recess, a few stray dandies are always
to be found, who would be brought down to dinner by the
attachés and secretaries, to quiz the simplicity of their noble
hostess, and circulate reports of the rusticity of an ambassa-
dress who actually exerted herself to render her house agree-
able; and who exposed herself to still more poignant ridicule
by respectful attention to a husband many years older than
herself. Neither was her ladyship aware that a certain Lady
Grasmere, who inhabited a neigbouring villa during the au-
tumn months, had been already presented to the Countess;
and would present, in her turn, other persons and person-
ages equally ineligible. Nay, even had Lady Beaulieu been
forewarned of these impending dangers, it may be doubted
whether, with all her tact and good breeding and good hum-
our, her ladyship's own mind was sufficiently schooled in
the philosophy of fashion to enable her to set forth the worst
features of the case.
But had it been possible for the blue-eyed goddess of the
Grecian bard to have arrayed herself (instead of the vener-
able front and solemn tunic of Nestor) in the flowing satin
and flowing Tinglets of a patroness of Almack's, she would
THE PAW II, ION: I'71
probably have whispered to the fair Prussian who sat contem-
plating the weeping-willows and aguish lawn of Maple Villa,
in the persuasion, like Pope Gregory's of old, that Britain
is peopled with angels, “Of all the capitals of Europe Lom-
don is the place where the forms of society are loosest in de-
finition and strictest in observation. The slightest infraction.
of the arbitary code of conventional law is fatal to the con-
victed culprits; and not the most pitiful little court of cere-
monious Germany is half so scrupulous in the exaction of
its etiquettes and the infliction of its penalties. In the beaw-
'monde of May-fair, court any infamy rather than that of ridi-
cule. Instead of the lambent ſlame which, in foreign society,
sports alike innocuous round the head of the lance or the
point of the ſan, you will find the persiſlage of the English
a scorching and corroding fire, eating into your heart and be-
queathing an ineffaceable scar. Be vile, be prodigal,—be
false, but do not make yourself ridiculous. A butt or boro
ranks with the worst of criminals. Believe only half you
hear ; say only half you think ; do nothing you are asked ;
and in process of time you may achieve a tolerable degree of
credit and popularity in fashionable society,”
172 THE PAYY LION.
CHAFTER II.
There are no persons so solicitous about the preservation of rank as
those who have no rank at all. SPIENSTONE.
THE Dowager Wiscountess Grasmere, described by the two
maligners of the Almack's tea room as “an Irish farmer’s
daughter,” was in fact the offspring of a man of decayed
fortune in a remote part of Commaught; who, officiating as
bailiff to the late Wiscount her husband, had ended with be-
coming his father-in-law. It would be difficult to conceive
any thing more dazzling than the beauty which effected this
singular transition. Eleanor Cavanagh was tall, finely
formed, uniting a countenance of the antique character, with
a complexion of that pure poetical paleness which nothing
but fine features can embellish, but which so well becomes
their delicate chiselling. She was unquestionably one of
the loveliest women in the kingdom.
Lord Grasmere, ever on the watch against provoking the
sneers of society, had seduously avoided collision with the
London world till a prolonged residence on the continent,
and the influence of society at Lausanne, Florence, and
Rome, had tamed down his wild Irish girl into the soft, fem-
inime, and dignified woman which his widow at the age of
five-and-twenty was universally pronounced to be. A joint-
ure of eight thousand per annum was perhaps the chief ac-
complishment that drew to her feet the homage of hosts of
lordlings, dandylings and needy honourables; but it could on-
ly be the charms of her manners and the merits of her charac-
ter which attracted the friendship of so many distinguished in-
dividuals of her own sex. Lady Grasmere was not, however,
what in London is termed “the fashion.” When she en-
THE PAW II, ION, I73
tered a ball-room, no knot of impotent loungers gathered
round to listen to her bon mots, or amuse themselves with
her blushes ; no cortege of dashing vauriens followed her
borse as she took her daily airing in Rottenrow ; or planted
their kid gloves on the edge of her britschka as she jogged
up and down the drive, swallowing the dust and their glar-
ing adulation. She gave her name to no new footstool—no
fashionable bonnet ;--nor was her opera-box a levelling
mark for the glasses of the gallant, the gay, and the presum-
ing. But she had achieved something far beyond all this.-
Her society consisted of young and lovely women, unbreath-
ed on by the venomous lips of scandal; of agreeable and
high-bred men, who knew how to unite the spirit and graces
of their age, without slang–without finery, without undue
assumption of any kind. A few of a still more distinguished
order were sprinkled among the group, a few leading poli-
ticians and men of letters, but not in sufficient numbers to
provoke against her little circle the anathema of being a
bureau d'esprit. Now and then, indeed, a dandy lord or
fashionable libertine would force his way into the coterie, to
prefer his suit and receive a gentle dismissal; and it was
this latter circumstance alone, which provoked the Exclu-
sives to set forth in loud and angry terms that Lady Gras-
mere “was not one of them.” They could not, however, suc-
ceed in stigmatising her as any thing she ought not to be.
By her position in the world, Lady Grasmere was eminently
qualified to form a centre of attraction to a social circle;—
young, fair, free, rich, virtuous, good-tempered,—she was
not sufficiently secure on the pedestal of fashion to admit of
trifling with her own dignity. Unsupported by high per-
sonal connexion, she was aware that pretension, or dulness,
or indiscretion, or eccentricity, would suffice to provoke in-
quiry and impute the blame of all her errors to the obscurity
of her birth. She saw that she must not venture out of her
depth —but she also saw that there was ample space within
given distance of the shore, for the gratification of her fu-
ture life, without self-sacrifice or danger. Her house, in-
stead of being extravagantly or gorgeously brilliant, was
furnished with studied simplicity. Her equipage was plain,
—her establishment remarkable only for its regularity and
propriety; but there was a tone of elegance pervading the
whole, that spoke wonders for the taste and tact of the own-
er;—and Lady Grasmere gratified herself with the certainty
that (her Cavanaghship apart) there was nothing the least
%
174 THE PAW II,ION.
quizzible in herself or her appertainments. . For three years
previous to the arrival of the Countess she had assumed
that distinguished part in London life which merit of any
kind is sure to command from the unbribable jury of its cote-
ries;–had refused more offers than half the heiresses or
beauties of the day —and it was a sole drawback to her
satisfaction that there was still a lofty sect which looked
down with contempt upon her excellencies, and persisted in
waving a flag of triumph over her head. -
Such was the woman assigned by chance to Countess
Reppenheim, on her arrival in town, as her “glass of
fashion and mould of form.” Unsuspicious that the extreme
Tetenu of Lady Grasmere's manners and conduct arose from
the constant fear of committing herself by dereliction from
the usages of society, the Ambassadress could not contem-
plate without admiration the modest graces of the English
neighbour who exerted herself so hospitably for her amuse-
ment. Accustomed in other countries to find none but the
highly born and highly bred established in the circles of the
great world, it never occurred to her to suspect roture in a
head adorned with a coronet. To Lady Grasmere, accord-
ingly, she addressed herself for information on all doubtful
points connected with her new honours or the forms of society;
—and nothing could be more injudicious than her choice of
a Mentor. Although fully adequate to maintain her own
station in life, her ladyship both was, and felt herself to be,
incompetent to the perplexities of courtly etiquette. But she
did not possess sufficient dignity of mind and strength of
character to confess the truth, and admit her own deficiencies
of birth and education. Preferring Countess Reppenheim to
the whole host of her female friends, and aware of the mar-
vellous extent of German prejudices on the chapter of pedi-
gree, there was nothing she more apprehended than that
some of the light, gaudy, but venomous insects fluttering in
society, should buzz into the ear of the ambassadress the
secret of her insignificance; and it was part in the hope of
forestalling the report, that Lady Grasmere, for the first
time, began to affect a certain supercilious fastidiousness
respecting men and things, very foreign to the usual amiabil-
ity of her demeanour. - -
There is nothing more vulgar among the sins of social
life than what is termed finery. It is, in fact, a distinguish-
ing mark of absence of caste; for what can a person really
distinguished by birth or merit gain by presumptuous dispar-
THE PAVILION. 175
agement of the rest of the human race : It is the policy of the
eminent to elevate the claims of those beneath them, in order
that by raising the standard of comparison, their own supe-
riority may attain yet higher distinction ; and the moment a
man or woman affects to be fine,—to shrink from contact with
any but the elect, and to raise a glass of inquiry to the un-
known physiognomies of plebeian life, it is to be inferred that
“something is rotten in the state of Denmark; ” that so
studious an arrangement of the folds of the velvet mantle and
ermined robes purports the concealment of some gash or
blemish beneath, known only to the wearer.
Among the idlers at Lady Grasmere's villa, and preten-
dants to her favour, from whom, in the course of the autumn,
the Countess unconsciously and unfortunately imbibed her
notions of the character of an English gentleman, were Mr.
Fitzgerald, the satirical hero already introduced to the reader,
and a certain “fat,” dark, and “forty” dandy, named Lord
Clanbenry –the former a budding, the latter a full-blown
exquisite ;-the former professing good looks, the latter good
manners ;-the former insinuating himself to be the idol of
the sex, the latter the Coryphaeus of the clubs;–the former
the unresisting victim of the vortex—oppressed with balls,
bewildered with dinner invitations, beguiled into water-par-
ties, tormented into picnics, and on severe duty as a Park
escort and caller of carriages;–the latter, still more re-
cherché (having escaped the impertinence of similar impor-
tunities, and outlived the ardour of popularity,) a veteran of
the war of society—medalled, promoted, pensioned—a Field
Marshal of the fashion-list of his Majesty's dandies | Both
were favoured courtiers at Carlton-house, and reaped in gene-
ral society the full advantage of that empty distinction.
The main difference, however, between the two lay deep
beneath the surface. Both were poor, both fortune-hunters;
but the handsome Frederick was a young brother, who had
never had a shilling in his life; and the well-bred Clenhenry,
a spendthrift, who had not a shilling left. Frederick accord-
ingly strove to impress on the mind of the richly-jointured
dowager that, although courted by the world, he resigned it
all for her ; while his lordship assumed still higher ground,
and insinuated that the fervour of his devotion ought to deter-
mine her to resign all the world for him. Both were emin-
ently fine; Fitzgerald from the consciousness of being de-
ficient in every thing but a tolerable exterior ; Clanhenry,
from knowing that the dilapidated state of his finances had
176 THE PAVILION.
betrayed him into various acts of meanness, or what, in any
but a man of many clubs and universal acceptance, would be
termed dishonesty. It required a considerable proportion of
that self-possession patricianly denominated “knowledge of
the world” and plebeianly termed “impudence,” to carry
them in safety through the shallow waters in which they
were compelled to navigate. -
Now Lord Clanhenry and Fred. Fitzgerald (for although
in some cases youth and good looks impart consideration, it
is but just to give precedency to the peer), were equally though
secretly of opinion, that it would have been more for their
interest had lady Grasmere's new friend continued to air her
little Pomeranian lap-dog unter den Lindem of Berlin, instead
of among the sooty elms of Hyde Park. Their tactics were
disconcerted by the straightforward simplicity of her cha-
racter. She was in the habit of asking plain questions,
which they found it very difficult to answer; and of giving
a literal interpretation to their sayings, such as their doings
were ill calculated to justify. There was no knowing how
to dispose of such a woman. Her rank, fortune, unblemish-
ed reputation, and official dignity, rendered it impossible to
decry her in society. The only alternative was to impugn her
authority in the eyes of Lady Grasmere, by betraying her
into breaches of etiquette and violations of English notions
of propriety, and then quizzing her into disrepute. Each,
unavowedly to the other, accordingly commenced his system
of operations by insinuating to the idle babblers, their com-
panions (the Lady Grandisons and Lady Mary Milfords),
that the simplicity of the new ambassadress was the simpli-
city of mere folly, and her credulous good nature the fruit of
mental imbecility. In a very short time people began to take
advantage of these imputed defects, by addressing her with
exaggerated civilities, and filling her mind with groundless
notions of English Eccentricity. It is true she had not read-
iness of tact to detect the imposture ; but it afforded no evi-
dence of folly that, finding herself suddenly introduced into
the society of a foreign nation, she respected its usages, how-
ever absurd ; and reflected in respectful silence on the pecu-
liarities to which she was required to conform, and which
were pointed out to her by persons of seeming respectability
and real distinction. -
THE PAVILION . 177
CHAPTER III
Soft creeping, cups on cups, the feast compose ;
At every pause they stretch, they yawn, they dose;
And now to this side, now to that they nod,
As black or green infuse the drowsy god. DUNC1AD.
THE first experience of the Countess in the pleasures and
penalties of fashionable life in the most hospitable country in
Europe, occurred at Brighton ; where, in compliance with
the custom introduced by the Prince Regent, the beau monde
of that epoch made it a point of conscience to pass a shiver-
ing Christmas. Ç
“I do not much like travelling at this season of the year,”
observed the Countess to Lord Clanhenry, a few days
previous to her departure for the coast. “But it appears that
it is no longer the fashion to settle in London for the winter
till April or May; and I do not wish to make myself
particular.” *
“Quite right !—Were it known that the Prussian minister
remained in town during the holidays, it would induce a
general suspicion that he was on less than the best terms with
the court.” &
“Du reste” replied the Countess, wrapping herself up
still closer in her Cashmere, “it does not much signify.
Wherever one goes in England, comforts of every kind
await and attend one. Mr. Fitzgerald assures me that in the
poorest hovel they pique themselves on the luxury of carpets
and curtains ; and my maître d'hôtel writes me word that he
has engaged me one of the best houses in Brighton.”
One of the best lodging-houses in Brighton, in the year
1819, was not perhaps quite equal to the worst of the year
178 THE PAVILION.
T833; and poor Madame Reppenheim's notions of English
“comfort” were considerably puzzled by creaking stairs,
smoky chimmies, doors that would not close, and windows
that would not open ; besides a host of minor deficiencies, all
of which were maliciously ascribed by hot evil genii, Clan-
henry and Fitzgerald, to “les habitudes du pays'. Unwill-
ing to contemm what appeared so satisfactory to the rest of the
nation, the Countess accordingly pronounced herself to be
extremely well lodged; politcly ascribed a severe cold caught
on settling in her “ comfortable” house to the influence of
the sea air ; and an attack of opthalmia, proceeding from her
smoky dressing-room, to the misfortune of having been
accustomed to stoves. Lady Grasmere being unable to visit
Brighton during the first ten days of her stay, she was more
than ever open to the mischievous influence of her two
enemies.
“I have received an invitation from your relation the
Duchess of Keswycke,” said the Countess to Fitzgerald, a
few days after her arrival. “Her card specifies that it is a
very small early party. What does that mean?”
“That you must go at eight o’clock, in a morning cos-
tume. Her Grace is a very old-fashioned personage, and
hates any thing like ostentation.”
In pursuance of this advice, the ambassadress in an ele-
gant demie-toilette (to which a bonnet imparted the decided
character of a morning dress), made her appearance just half
an hour after the guests of the Duchess of Keswycke, in
their satin gowns and diamond necklaces, were sitting down
to dinner. Vexed and mortified to find herselſ so thoroughly
deplaçáe, for by a mistake of the servants she was ushered
into the diming-room, the Countess moticed that the members
of the small carly party arrived at ten o'clock ; and when,
two mights afterwards, she received a formal card from Lady
Grandison to the same effect, she resolved to put in practice
the hints she had received from Lord Clanhenry on the sub-
ject of English dress and English hours. Mistaking reverse
of wrong for right, she made her appearance on this occasion
between ten and eleven o’clock, radiant with jewels; and
nothing could exceed the contemptuous surprise with which
she found herselſ surveyed by the half dozen old women con-
gregated roundasolitary whist-table, their chairs and carriages
having been already announced for departure. Sir Carmy-
chael Domdaniel, the veteran beau of the antiquated coterie,
had the satisfaction of enlarging the following morning on
THE PAVILION, 179
the tale of the Countess's ill-timed splendours, at full fifty
houses in Brighton, wherein he enacted the part of Court
Circular. - . . .
“I fear I shall never understand your habits ſ” cried she
in a desponding tone to Lady Grasmere, on her arrival from
town. “Even your friends Clamhenry and Fitzgerald, well
as they are versed in les usages, can give me no infallible in-
formation. I have already committed a thousand blunders.
The Duchess of Keswycke looks upon me as a Goth, and
Lady Grandison as a fine lady. Your customs, like the
pronunciation of your language, appear quite arbitrary.”
“Never mind such persons as the Duchess and Lady
Grandison,” replied her friend in a pacifying tone. “The
great charm of Brighton society consists in little friendly
parties, given without form or etiquette. Come with me to
night to Lady Mary Milford's, I see you have an invitation.
Nothing can be more sociable or select than her soirées. It
is her rule, both in London and Brighton, never to have large
assemblies; the consequence is that every one is always
dying to go to her, and that she commands the best society.
Just now, she has her niece the brilliant Lady Sophia Cleri-
mont staying with her; and is giving a series of tea parties
by way of opening her house every night at a reasonable
rate.” - -
“The best society 1"–" quiet, sociable parties 1”—What
could be more inviting to the ear of a foreigner, desirous of
becoming acquainted with the far-famed,—the intellectual,—
the hospitable, the dignified coteries of English society; so
different, so superior to the selfish, frivolous, impure circle
of Paris and Vienna —
“I am glad after all, that I came to Brighton,” thought the
Countess as she arrayed herself to accompany her friend to
Lady Mary's, “it will serve to initiate me into the habits of
England, before I launch upon the wider sea of London.”
The experience of her own mansion had somewhat amend-
ed Countess Reppenheim's motions of the sort of “comfort”
to be expected in the lodging-houses of a bathing place, the
chief merit of which seems to consist in a free admission of
the sea breezes;–nevertheless, she was somewhat surprised
to observe that the best society in Brighton was about to
assemble in two stuffy drawing-rooms, having scanty curtains
of yellow cotton and a dingy carpet of green baize. The
only sofa in the room was occupied on her entrance, by a
group of young ladies who, on the appearance of a stranger,
180 THE PAVILION.
whispered behind their fans; while several Hussar officers
belonging to the regiment quartered in the town, lounged
over the back of the sofa with the most intimate familiarity.
At a little distance sat the chaperons; three or four dull-
looking middle-aged women (such as chaperons ought to be),
saying, seeing, and even hearing nothing, except the myste-
rious rumours circulated by Sir Carmychael Domdamiel, a
pompous little man with a military air, who went from one
to the other whispering courtly nothings under screen and
shelter of the enormous nose that served to impart importance
to his whole person. Apart from the rest, lounged one very
impudent, very chatty, very much rouged dowager; who
gladly pounced upon so patient a listener as Countess Rep-
enheim. - ; -
“You perceive that we receive you & l’Anglaise,” said
Lady Mary to her new guest, pointing to the tea-table ; and
Soon afterwards, on the arrival of a few supercilious young
gentlemen in stiff cravats, headed by Fitzgerald and Clan-
henry, the operation of tea-making commenced. -
“Now then,” thought poor Madame de Reppenheim, “I
shall at last participate in this national feast. General con-
versation will enliven the ceremony:-and the colloquial
superiority I have so often heard described, will render me
insensible to the mingled odours of ill-trimmed lamps and
an ill-dressed dinner.”
But no l—there was no attempt at general conversation.
The three young ladies whispered on three chairs instead of
one sofa. The stiff necked dandies exchanged monosyllables
with the taciturn chaperons; Domdaniel talked broad with
the impudent dowager; Lord Clanhenry sentimentalized
with Lady Grasmere; and Mr. Fitzgerald with herself; a
silver urn was brought in ; and, to her great surprise, two
full-grown footmen were admitted into the drawing-room to
assist the butler in his operations. It was in vain that the
handsome Frederick exerted himself for her amusement;
she could not withdraw her eyes from the ceremony of
rincing tea-cups, and dispensing the boiling beverage that
filled the room with steam.
“Nothing so pleasant, nothing so sociable as a tea-table !”
exclaimed Fred. Fitz, ; watching with delight the astonish-
ment depicted on her face. “It is no longer the fashion to
serve it ready made. In justice to ourselves, we cannot
allow our servants to engross the enjoyments of making our
THE PAVILION. 181
tea as well as our soup; or washing our cups and saucers
as well as our plates and dishes.”
“It is indeed a most amusing operation,” said Madame de
Reppenheim, blaming only her own want of savoir vivre in
being unable to discover its peculiar charm. “I shall take
care to have a tea-table at my soirées, when I return to
town.” - l -
“Charming creature, Lady Sophia Clerimont l” whis-
pered Mr. Fitzgerald, directing her attention to one of the
slender young ladies, who now presided at the tea-table.
“A niece of Lady Mary's 1”
“Charming indeed;” echoed the Countess, looking at
the bare shoulders and red ringlets of the giggling Hebe ;
satisfied that in this instance, as in that of the tea-cooking,
she had only to blame her own incompetency of judgment.
“She is so naive—so unaffected;—says every thing that
comes into her head. Did you hear her tell Lord Brance-
peth just now that his nose reminded her of a macaw's
beak 2 Positively Lady Sophia is the most original creature
in the world.” '.
“Very piquant,-very droll!” replied the ambassadress,
trying to force a laugh at an observation which struck her
as singularly ill-bred.
“She does the oddest things I’’ resumed Mr. Fitzgerald.
“Did you hear of her having poor Clanhenry's favourite
spaniel shaved, and sending it back to him painted in stripes
like a zebra !”
“Excellent l” replied Madame de R , perceiving,
from the example of her companion, that she was expected
to laugh heartily at the anecdote :-and she bent her eyes
with unfeigned curiosity on this very original young lady,
round whose chair, four of the hussars and three of the
dandies were now clustered, bestowing immoderate applause
upon her sallies. *
“No one is so much the fashion as Lady Sophia 1" said
Fitzgerald. “She is quite a privileged person.”
“Privileged indeed ' " thought the wondering ambassa-
dress, as she watched the familiarity with which she
addressed and was addressed by the young men who dis-
puted her notice. “And these, then, are fashionable
manners —How cold—how dull—how formal must all
these people think me !—Since it is the custom to allow
such latitudes to an unmarried woman, what must be the
proceedings of women of my age and experience 1"
Vol. I. R
I82 THE PAVILION.
“Is it true,” inquired she of Lady Grasmere as soon as
she could approach her, and striving to appear as little
amazed as possible, “that Lady Sophia Clerimont is one of
the most fashionable girls in town ''' n
“Oh, yes I’’ was her friend's reply ; “She is a charming
creature ; full of wit and animation.” She did not think it
necessary to explain that this wit and animation consisted in
the most flippant effrontery ; that her popularity with the
hussars and dandies arose from her possession of a fortune
of ten thousand a year : and with the ladies (her rival in lo-
quacity the well-rouged dowager, included) from the dread
of being made the subject of her caricature or pasquinades.
There was only one point, meanwhile among the many
which excited her surprise in this her inauguration into the
“sociable” parties of Brighton, on which the Countess ven-
tured to express her wonderment to her friend.
“I thought,” said she to Lady Grasmere, as they went
out airing together in the Snow the following morning, “ that
all these people were passing the winter at Brighton ex-
pressly to meet the Prince Regent tº
“And so they are.” -
“Impossible !—your friend Mr. Fitzgerald announced last
might that his Royal Highness was expected in a day or
two, and every one instantly exclaimed that the pleasure of
the Brighton season was over ;-that the Pavilion spoiled
every thing else !”
“And so it does.”
“Comment donc 2''
“In the first place by completely changing the charac-
ters of half one's acquaintances. Persons who are only
men and women at present, will be converted into mere
courtiers the moment the Regent arrives.”
“Only such butterflies as Fitzgerald, surely f"
“And then it breaks up all private parties. No one likes
to send out cards with the chance of having their best peo-
ple commanded away at the last minute. The society here
is not extensive enough to admit of sparing fifty or sixty
persons once or twice a week.”
“True ! but those whom I heard finding fault with the
Pavilion, are precisely the people who form part of the set
there.”
“Otherwise they would not have ventured to abuse it.—
You heard what Lady Edystone said about the maussaderie
of the Prince's soirées 8”—
THE PAWILION. 183
“That chattering old dowager ?—I did ſ”
“Should you have suspected from her tone and manner
that it has been the object of her life for the last thirty years
to be in favour with his Royal Highness *-
“You jest Pº
“When he was young, she made love to him ; when he
grew older, she made hate, striving to render herself im-
portant in his eyes by espousing an adverse political party;
—and now that he is no longer either an Adonis or a Whig,
she affects to engage his attention par réminisence, by being
on excellent terms with all the people he likes best, and by
following up all his plans of amusement as if they were her
own.” •
“How unaccountable !—Had you but heard the impertin-
ence in which she indulged respecting the Carlton House
set ! Did you but know the insinuations she threw out
against the Pavilion party 1" w
“Of course !—By those very circumstances you might
have guessed that she moved in no other ; and that the per-
sons she was slandering were her bosom friends.”
“If she talked so of her intimate associates, what will
she not say of an unfortunate stranger, like myself?”
“Nothing !—unless you should happen to get into favour,
and interfere with her own projects. England is a place
where people are made to pay dear for distinction of any
description.” ; --
“You alarm me !”—said the poor Countess, sinking into
a corner of the carriage. “After all, them, it appears that
ingenuousness and cordiality are merely Utopian virtues.—
After all, the English—the frank English—are growing as
hollow and interested and artificial as the rest of the world !”
“Let us hope there are exceptions,” said Lady Grasmere
blushing deeply. “I should be sorry to distrust all my
friends, or attribute unworthy views to even all my acquain-
tances. Lady Mary Milford is a charming person.” -
“I hope so —But it strikes me that there is something
overstrained in her politeness—something jesuitical in her
excess of humility and deprecation. Before you have half
done speaking, she answers you with a smile and a bow ;-
and whenever she catches your eyes from a distance, makes
a sort of telegraphic signal of sympathy and intelligence. I
observed her do it last night to every body in succession.—
You see dear Lady Grasmere, how soon I am becoming in-
184 THE PAVILION,
fected with your national errors. You have already taught
me to play the satirist.”
“Do not exercise your genius in the first instance on my
friend Lady Mary. Believe me you quite mistake her
character. The softness of her manner arises solely from
the excessive gentleness and philanthrophy of her disposition;
and, admitting to her house only those persons for whom
she has the highest regard, nothing can be more natural than
that she should favour them with tokens of interest.”
“I dare say I am wrong,” said Madam de Reppenheim,
vexed with herself for having spoken harshly of the friend of
her friend—“Besides she was the only one of the party who
did not join in inveighing against the Pavilion ; but frankly
admitting to me that nothing could exceed the charm of the
royal circle.”
“Did she 7”—replied Lady Grasmere, thoughtfully.
“That is indeed incomprehensible. I have always heard her
assert such very different opinions ! Lady Mary is so indo-
lent that she hates representation of any kind. She likes to
wrap herself in an old gown and shawl, and sit gossiping in
some odd corner with the Sir Carmychael Domdaniel ; a
manière d'être which does not by any means recommend her
to the favour of the Regent. He likes to see people in their
best looks, spirits, and costume ; and, for some reason or
other (one of those caprices to which you will grow accus-
tomed after a season or two in London), has not invited Lady
Mary or her charming niece these two years.”
“Her praise, then, was at least disinterested.”
“I fear not. There must be something on foot of which I
am at present ignorant ; ” observed Lady Grasmere, falling
into a reverie which lasted during the remainder of their
drive. She did not think it necessary to degrade herself in
the es-imation of her friend, by admitting that she herself
had never yet been included in his Royal Highness's invita-
tions; and that one of her chief inducements to visit Brigh-
ton, was the hope that her extreme intimacy with the
Prussian ambassadress, Lady Edystone, and others particu-
larly distinguished by his notice, would assist her in the
accomplishment of an honour the more eagerly covetted from
the precarious chance of its attainment. The parvenue Wis-
countess saw others equally disqualified by birth, and far less
recommended by nature, achieve the object of her ambition ;
and could conceive no motive, unless her deficiency of
political interest, her want of a brother, father, husband,
THE PAVILION. 185
son to support her claims in society, for the neglect. It did
not occur to her indeed, that she was only too well recom-
mended by nature;—that her attraction rendered, her an
e & e §§
object of jealousy to her own sex,−that she was, in shöff;
far too pretty a woman to be admitted with safety into a circle,
of which it was evident that she would form the brightest
ornament. She had very little suspicion that, in spite of all
the wires she was beginning to set in motion, her ostracism
was already pre-determined by the rival jugglers of the
Pavilion. Lady Mary Milford and her niece might very
easily render themselves eligible; but the youthful dowager.
of Grasmere was out of the question.
186 THE PAVILION.
CHAPTER IV.
A courtier is to bee found only about princes. Hee knowes no man
that is not generally knowne. #. puts more confidence in his words
than his meaning, and more in his pronunciation than his words. Hee
follows nothing but inconstancee; admires nothing but beautie; honours
nothing but fortune. The sustenance of his discourse is names. He is
not, if he bee out of court; and, fishlike, breathes destruction when out
of his own element.
SIR. T. Over BURY.
IT was about a week after this conversation, just as Coun-
tess Reppenheim was beginning to form an opinion that
English bathing-places are by no means so amusing as les
eawa, and that the society of Brighton was pretty nearly on
a par with a fifth-rate provincial town in Germany, that a
sudden fermentation became apparent throughout the town.
From the plebeian groups on the Steyme to the patrician one
of Lady Mary Milford's drawing-room, every body assumed
an air of fussy importance. The hussars jangled their spurs,
Lady Sophia waved her ringlets, and the Brighton Chronicle
announced with a tone of sentiment becoming the occasion,
“The Prince Regent is once more amongst us, and this gay
little town is itself again. His Royal Highness alighted at
the Pavilion yesterday evening at about twenty minutes past
six; having accomplished the journey in five hours and
seventeen minutes. We noticed with regret that our august
patron looked somewhat thinner than when he quitted us last
Easter. He wore a light brown wig, inclining a shade
nearer to auburn than usual; which perhaps contributed to
the change of his appearance. All is now activity at Brigh-
ton.—This morning will be devoted by the nobility and gem-
try, and visitors, to leaving their inquiries at the Pavilion.
A select party will have the honour of dining with his Royal
THE PAVILION, 187
Highness this day; and invitations are already issued for a
grand ball to celebrate the annual festival of Twelfth Night.
The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester are expected in a day
or two.” . l
Such was the tenor of the bulletin announcing the event
that produced so wonderful a sensation —With the exception
of the issue of invitations for a Twelfth Night ball, (“a
thought” to which the wishes of the good people of Brighton
were both “father” and mother) the whole was correct; and
whereas the two preceding winters had been overcast by
domestic calamities in the royal family, by the deaths of the
royal mother and daughter of the Regent, it seemed deter-
mined that the present should shine with redoubled splen-
dour. Lady Grasmere's nets were already spread ; she had
paid her court in this quarter, and strengthened an intimacy
in the other ; had given three dinners à la cordon blew to a
gouty old Earl who was supposed to possess peculiar influ-
ence at the Pavilion; and made a sacrifice of a favourite
edition of the Florence gallery to a lady of fashion, who was
supposed to dictate the predilections of a lady of rank, who
was believed to actuate those of the Delhai Lama. All was
in excellent train ; and having hinted in a general way to
Countess Reppenheim that, in consequence of her long resi-
dence abroad and the unfortunate domestic circumstances of
the Prince Regent since her return to England, she had not
yet been personally made known to him, except in a general
way at the drawing-room, she waited the event in patient
persuasion of being included in the invitations to the ap-
proaching fête. - -
Nothing could be more problematical than the state of
society among the higher classes at the period in question.
For some time it had been difficult to determine which held
the greater influence over the circles of the aristocracy:—the
nominal court of Queen Charlotte, or the virtual court of the
Regent; while the dawning prospects of the heiress apparent
opened new vistas for the calculations of courtiership. But
now all doubt on the subject was over. The good old Queen
was no more;—Claremont, by one of the most cruel bereave-
ments that ever frustrated the hopes of a nation, was closed;
—and there was nothing left but Carlton House and the
Pavilion to invite the intrigues of the courtly-minded. The
Regent had already held his first independent drawing-room ;
where Lady Grasmere, among a host of other beauties, was
for the first time presented to his motice. But what availed
18S THE PAVILION.
the drawing-room ? — Unless distinguished by invitation
either to the fêtes of the season or the private circle of the
Pavilion, she felt that the one great step of her elevation was
still unachieved ; and that jointure, jewels, beauty, popularity,
all were insufficient for her happiness. J
The weakness of the sex is rendered the scapegoat of so
many follies, that it would be easy to ascribe this sole infir-
mity of a virtuous mind to feminine vanity, and the over-
weening influence of fashion. But nine times—may, nine
times and three-quarters in ten, every darling folly of woman-
kind may be traced to the artifices of the wiser or more
crafty moiety of the human race. It was Lord Clanhenry's
pleasure, or rather he wished to make it his profit, that the
lovely widow should find herself wanting in the only point
enabling him to afford her support. During the six months
which had elapsed since the amount of his Christmas bills (a
collection of antiquities of singularly ancient date) had made
it apparent to him that he must either marry or starve,
either possess himself of an heiress or follow his friend Bru-
mell to Calais, he had never ceased throwing out insinua-
tions in Lady Grasmere's presence that a Wiscountess by
itself Wiscountess, was a very paltry thing; that the narrow
sphere of a secondary woman of fashion was infinitely less
distinguished than sturdy plebeianism ; that in England, as
in all civilized countries since the reign of Louis le Grand,
society was composed of two circles, the court and the nation,
—personages and persons,—entities and non-entities; and
that in spite of her charming house, excellent establishment,
and lovely person, she would be more enviable as wife to an
eminent haberdasher, than as a Peeress unmoticed by the
Prince Regent. - - . . .
Women in possession of every thing to gratiſy their reas-
onable desires, are apt to sigh for straws ; and poor Lady
Grasmere actually began to fancy herself a slighted and um-
happy woman —but her morbid sensibility led her to a very
different conclusion from that anticipated by Clanhenry.
Instead of resolving to give her hand to the man whose favour
with the Regent would lead her triumphantly into the centre
of the royal circle (devoting her fortune to a spendthrift and
her person to a libertine), she preferred the safer couse of
attaching herself to the train of half a dozen old women, such
as Lady Edystone, and relying on the bosom friendship of
Countess Reppenheim. But Clanhenry was not to be so
defeated. He had already succeeded in spreading a thousand
THE PAVILION. 189
ridiculous reports at the expense of the Countess, and pro-
ducing an unfavourable impression concerning her in the
highest quarter; and determined to turn the mischief he had
created to his own account.
“That Countess Reppenheim is a most decided bore ſ”
sent round by means of the court-speaking-trumpet, Sir
Carmychael Domdaniel, in a certain circle, in a certain tone,
produced an effect even more certain than had even been anti-
cipated by the man of ton ; and the Count her husband soon
observed with surprise, regret, and mortification, that while
he himself was especially distinguised by the motice of the
Regent, and while other women far less remarkable for
beauty, grace, or accomplishments, were welcomed at the
Pavilion with the most flattering attention, his own beloved
Helene was received with courteous but formal solemnity.
There was no remedy, no appeal against this silent verdict
of royal disapprobation ; and the ambassador was cautious
only to conceal from his wife his own opinion that she had
unconsciously given offence at the English Court; an opinion
which he knew would overcome her with vexation.
But Countess Reppenheim, however simple and confiding,
was not so destitute of tact as to be unobservant that, although
a frequent guest at the Pavilion, she was never voluntarily
addressed by the Regent with more than the salutation
d'usage.
“Surely it is very strange,” said she, one night to Mr.
Fitzgerald, (who, unaware of her extreme unpopularity in
the circle, caused by Lord Clanhenry’s aspersions, had ven-
tured to seat himself by her side during one of the exquisite
concerts executed by the private band of his Royal Highness),
“It is very strange that the Prince Regent should have been
sitting opposite for the last half hour talking to old Lady
Molyneux, who is so deaf and tiresome ; and that he has
twice passed the vacant chair by my side, to address himself
to some other person. Chez mous, it would be considered a
breach of etiquette to treat the wife of a foreign minister with
such marked neglect.”
“You do not understand the customs of our eccentric
country.” said Fitzgerald, gladly seizing an occasion for
quizzing a person whom it was his interest and pleasure to
render ridiculous. “At other courts, royalty is expected to
make the first advances. With us, the case is reversed.
The Regent is doubtless surprised that you neglect to enter
into conversation with him. All who are ambitious of his
} }
190 THE PAVILION.
Royal Highness's notice, follow up his bow of reception by
some friendly inquiry.”
“I could never venture on so extravagant a piece of pre-
sumption P’ cried the courtieress of the Spree, in utter amaze-
ment.
“Nevertheless, unless you conform to the Prince's notions
you will find yourself always on the black list. The first
time he approaehes, make some inquiry about his health (he
is fond of being condoled with about his health); and
wounded as he has been in his domestic affections, nothing
delights his Royal Highness so much as allusions to the
felicity of wedded life. It is a favourite topic.”
And away went Mr. Fitzgerald, to enjoy from a sly post of
observation the amusing spectacle caused by his mystifica-
tion | A man less practiced or less bold in the art of quiz-
zing, would have been almost alarmed at the air of amaze-
ment with which the most gracious, but most dignified Prince
in Europe, suddenly found himself singled out and inter-
rogated by the timid Prussian ambassadress. The theme so
perversely selected was matter of only secondary surprise.
His Royal Highness was more astonished at her Excellen-
cy's abrupt advances than his high-breeding permitted him
to evince ; or than his powers of self-command could wholly
disguise.
The slightest cloud, the most trifling gesture of coolness
on, the countenance of any illustrious personage is sure to
be perceived by one or other of the “small deer” ever on the
watch to browze on some tiny leaf of royal favour, and pro-
portionately curious respecting the sweet or bitter herbage
cropped by the rest of the herd.
“What a woman that Countess Reppenheim is ſ”—yawn-
ed Lord Meerschaum, (who had achieved some little distinc-
tion at the Pavilion by his fastidious curiosity in tobacco ;
who was said to freight an annual ship to the Havannah, and
keep a resident agent at Maryland:) “She is actually bor-
ing his Royal Highness about his health, who has an antip-
athy to that sort of thing.” º -
“How ill-judged of Reppenheim to bring his wife down
to Brighton,” said Theodosius Bogg, a man of considerable
backstairs influence, in the habit of following about the court
from place to place as a fetcher and carrier of nothings ; a
trustworthy envoy between my Lord Privy this and Mr. Sec-
retary that. “He must perceive that she is en mauvaise
THE PAVILION. 191
odeur in a certain quarter, and consequently a mere millstone
tied round his neck.”
“How I should hate to be that Prussian ambassadress ſ”
cried the wife of a minister high in the royal favour, to Lord
Brancepeth, one of the most distinguished members of the
coterie of Carlton House.
“Every thing she has done and said since her arrival has
manqué ! Handsome Fitzgerald calls her, the ‘Bergère Chât-
elaine;' and she really boasts a most pastoral simplicity.”
“Reppenheim certainly mistook her vocation when he
made her a grande dame,” said Lord Clanhenry carelessly.
“Made her a grande dame !” cried Lord Brancepeth, dis-
gusted by the party spirit he saw exercised against a lovely
and interesting woman, merely because she chanced to “sail
in the North” of royal opinion. “Surely you are aware
that the Countess is issued of one of the noblest houses in
Germany, that she was a favourite maid of honour to the
late Queen of Prussia, that her father married one of the
Saxe Hildburghausen family,–and—”
“Her mother may have been Field Marshal Suwarrow.
without improving her capacity for diplomatic representa-
tion,” said Clamhenry vexed to find a man of Brancepeth's
high standing in society upholding the claims of one it was
his pleasure to depreciate. “I say again, as I said before,
that she has no vocation for courts or courtiership.”
“Of late years, so little has been known in England of
courts or courtiership,” observed Lord Brancepeth drily,
“ that perhaps the less we set ourselves up as arbiters on
such points the better. Countess Reppenheim’s manners
possess the highest dignity,+the dignity of simplicity. She
is not perhaps quite sufficiently on her guard against the
hollowness of the world; but all she loses in this respect, as
a woman of fashion, she gains in the regard and veneration
of those whom she honours with her friendship.” :
“Including of course Lord Brancepeth and the order of
the Rationals I’’ sneered Clanhenry.
“No,” replied her amiable partizan, “I am not, at present,
so fortunate. I have hitherto stood on terms of distant
acquaintance with Countess Reppenheim. But hencefor-
ward I shall take particular pains to cultivate the intimacy
of one who doubtless boasts peculiar merits and accomplish-
ments, since she has drawn upon herself, during less than
half a year's residence in this country, so much envy and so
much misrepresentation.”
192 THE PAVILION.
In a few minutes after this strong declaration in her
favour, Lord Brancepeth was seated in earnest conversation
by the side of one on the point of being rebutted as a Paria
from the high caste by which she was surrounded; enjoying
the gratification, so powerful with a generous mind, of
affording protection to an injured and unoffending person.
Now of all the persons assembled in those radiant apart-
ments, his was the suffrage Clanhenry was least willing to
concede to the object of his animosity. Lord Brancepeth
was precisely the sort of person against whom the arrows
of ridicule are launched in vain. Straightforward, plain,
manly, resolute, he was unassuming in his dress, equipage,
and demeanour; and without any fastidious affectation of
refinement, was so perfectly gentlemanly in mind and
manners, that he might have appeared in a coat of the Chel-
tenham cut on a cabriolet of the Bath build, without the
slightest fear of passing for any thing but what he really
was—a first rate man of fashion. Leaving it to boys or
parvenus to attract notice by the variety of their carriages or
the finicality of their costume, he felt that his own place
in society was definite; that it fulfilled all his ambition, and
could be forfeited only by a base or unworthy action. Sup-
ported by this first great principle, he had been on the turf
without a squabble or a duel; was a whist player to a con-
siderable extent at the fashionable clubs, without risking his
fortune, his honour, or his temper; and a first favourite with
the Prince Regent, without having courted the royal smiles
by adulation, or turned them to account by solicitation. The
favourites were not jealous of him, the public did not mis-
trust him, even the public journals, whether ministerial or
opposition, did not abuse him. Lord Brancepeth was, in
fact, an upright and honourable man; and was estimated
accordingly.
He might have been as upright as he pleased however—
as honourable, and even as highly esteemed,—for any thing
that Lord Clanhenry cared; had it not been for the general
opinion that he was a pretendant to the favour of Lady
Grasmere, and for his lordship's particular opinion that the
pretension was not regarded by the lady as either saucy or
overbold. Clanhenry was well aware that his own suit had
little to offer in competition with such rivalship; that
whether in respect to character, rank, fortune, person, or
talents, his own endowments were immeasurably below
those of Lord Brancepeth; and his only hope was to prevent
THE PAVILION. 193
a liking from warming into passion, and a passion from
proceeding to declaration, which threatened utter ruin to his
matrimonial projects. He had foreboded evil from the
moment of Brancepeth's arrival at Brighton ; and now that
he publicly vouchsafed his protection to Lady Grasmere's
friend, a fatal presentiment whispered that he was about to
vouchsafe the offer of his hand to Lady Grasmere's self.
For a moment Clanhenry mistrusted his own previous line
of policy. Perhaps he had acted injudiciously in exposing
Countess Reppenheim to ridicule and unpopularity, and
leaving to his rival the advantage of redeeming her from
ignominy. Perhaps he might have done better by enlisting
the sensibility of the fair Prussian in favour of his suit: and
assailing the heart of the well-jointured widow, boldly and
at once, backed by the influence of a bosom friend, as well as
by his own influence with the fountain head of honour.
Iord Clanhenry thought of the fatal first of January, and his
bale of unpaid bills, and trembled ! He had still a second
string to his bow in the lady with the poppy-coloured ring-
lets. But even to his debased and vitiated taste there was a
considerable difference between selling his coronet to the
graceful Lady Grasmere or the giggling Lady Sophia
Clerimont.
Wol, I, 3.
194 THE PAVILION,
CHAPTER W.
Courts are too much for such woak wits as mine,
Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold Divine;
From such alone the great rebukes endure,
Whose satire’s sacred and whose rage secure.
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
To deluge sin, and drown a court in tears.
DoNNE’s SATIAEs.
Twº Lve years ago Brighton did not form, as now, a re-
mote but splendid parish of the metropolis; whither, during
successive portions of the year, the eastern and western ex-
tremities of London transport themselves, with their charac-
teristic customs and fashions; but a small gossiping bathing-
place, where, according to the Pythagorean precept, Echo
was sedulously worshipped. Not a cathedral town in the
realm was more addicted to les cancans of morning visiting ;
or to those little scandals which are nursed up like lapdogs
among elderly ladies and gentlemen who have more leisure
than wit or discretion.
Instead of affording, as at the present moment, an extensive
circle of the best society wholly independent of the palace, it
presented, during the winter months, a knot of people of
fashion, waiting patiently like a crowd of boys on occasion
of some public rejoicing, to huzza for every squib that ex-
plodes, and ready to throw up their caps at every effort made
for their amusement. If it happened that his Royal High-
mess was detained in town longer than usual, they felt ag-
grieved ; and complained of the dulness of Brighton as if
they were there only to do him honour. If, on his arrival,
it suited his health or convenience to limit the gaieties of
the Pavilion to his own immediate circle, they murmured yet
more loudly. The Prince Regent was regarded as respon-
THE PAVILION. 195
sible for all that went amiss in the town to the discomfiture
of its visitors; and was rendered accountable to them in his
turn, for every piece of new ſurniture, every Chinese lantern,
or enamel miniature, hung up in his private dwelling-house.
The gorgeous apartments so hospitably thrown open, were
subjected to criticisms, public and private, such as would not
have been ventured upon the mansion of any other individual
in the kingdom ; and Brighton, indebted to his royal patron-
age for the very breath of its existence, was always the first
to note and bruit abroad those trivial occurrences of domestic
life which cannot be recorded without offence to the actors of
the drama. “. .
At that period, however,
(In our hot youth, when George the Third was King)
the place boasted in itself, and exhibited in its habitual visitors
a character of originality, such as an increased population
tends to diminish. In a crowd of any kind, there is no room
for the development of oddity; and men and women, like
horses, are apt to be subdued among multitudes of their own
species. The Brighton of 1833 only too closely resembles
the London of 1832; but the Brighton of 1820, resembled
rather the Bath of 1800. There were, at that period, amb-
ling along the Steyne, no fewer than three professed imitators
of its royal patron —three Prince Regents, in coat, wig,
black stock, and came —who sneezed whenever it was ru-
moured that his Royal Highness had a cold,—and kept their
beds whenever Sir Henry Halford visited the Pavilion.
There was the weazened beau, whom Warren's milk of
roses, aided by a well-furred roquelaire and cachemere waist- .
coat, enabled despite his threescore years and fifteen to con-
front the Christmas breezes of the Marine Parade; and who
still, among friends and sotto voce, ventured to qualify his
royal pupil, as “that wild young dog.”—There was the vet-
eran bel esprit who, looking upon Sheridan and Jekyll as
modern wits, had no great opinion of them ; but persisted in
filling Lady Sophia Clerimont's album with stanzas a la
Chesterfield, and maccaronics in the style of Bishop Marley.
There was the lofty Dowager in her moral farthingale of
buckram ; who, even in her peccadilloes, had erred with
such an air of propriety and high-breeding, that nobody had
a word of scandal to breathe against her. There was the
worthy-minded dowager Lady Edystone, who openly pro-
fessed her faith in the Pavilion, as a sanctuary hallowing
196 THE PAVILION.
every object within its sphere. There were two or three
bilious old K. C. B.s, with Sir Carmychael Domdaniel at
the head of the squadron ; who, being occasionally invited
to fill a corner of the dinner table at the Pavilion, commanded
the respect and admiration of the town, by giving it to be
understood that they were secretly employed as chief machin-
ists of its scenery and decorations. There was the wife of
the favourite Bishop, expanding and expanding like the frog
in the fable, till her friends trembled for her safety;-there
was the wife of the favourite physician, whispering about her
little anecdotes of the royal Saloon, and comprehending her-
self and its illustrious master in the “we” which gave force
to her narrative;—there were fifty other tiresome women
who retained the privilege of making themselves disagree-
able throughout every gradation of Brighton Society, in con-
sideration of the circumstance that they were occasionally
shone upon by a ray from the royal countenance, or because
the shaking mandarins, their husbands, were blest with the
invaluable privilege of the royal button — -
It was, in fact, an act of heroism to hazard a rainy or snowy
season in the midst of such a set of empty and incorrigible
idlers; the business of whose lives consisted in discussing
things which did not concern them, and personages whom
they did not concern. In point of scandal and gossiping it
was worse than the worst state of the City of the Avon ;
where a succession of amusements served to divert public
attention from private grievances; while not a single glass of
wine was drunk by the Prince Regent, not an airing taken
by one of his guests, not a ride in the manege, not a turn on
the lawn, but a palaver was held by the elders of the tribes
of the East Cliff and the West, to decide upon the eligibility
of the proceeding : The Court did not, however, suffice to
occupy the energies thus vehemently excited; and the whole
society of the place was successively subjected to the ordeal,
by way of keeping in the hand of the inquisitors.
Among these, the mansion of Lady Mary Milford was at
once a sanctuary and a temple of adoration. The men
crowded thither to do homage to the heiress, the women to
manufacture scandals with the aunt; and as Lady Sophia,
in addition to her bare shoulders and golden tresses, possessed
a mean and crafty spirit, her policy had suggested the adop-
tion of Lady Grasmere as an ally, in the dread of her at-
tractions as a rival. The coquette could not make up her
mind to spare to the beautiful widow even so poor a con-
THE PAVILION. 197
quest as Fitzgerald or Clanhenry : far less to leave her in
undisturbed possession of Lord Brancepeth, to whose
captivation, for the last two years, her own efforts had been
Secretly but sedulously directed. Frivolous and heartless
as she was, Lady Sophia was steady in her preference ; and
though willing to giggle with lancers, hussars, and drag-
oons, her main object had never been neglected.
“News—news—news —” cried Lady Edystone, tripping
into their room with affected juvenility, the day after the con-
cert; “What will you give me for being the first to tell you
that the prudish Lord Brancepeth has struck up a flirtation
with the mouton qui réve ambassadress’ -
“Nothing,” said Lady Mary, “unless you can bring us
proof to back assertion ;-the thing is impossible !” -
“By no means even improbable,” added her niece ; her
perception on the subject somewhat quickened by jealousy.
“Countess Reppenheim is the confidante of Lady Grasmere;
and Lord Brancepeth's pretensions in that quarter are suffi-
ciently notorious.” - - -
“Young ladies are always espying symptoms of matri-
mony,” said the dowager maliciously. “For my part, I
have no doubt that his incense burns to the goddess on whose
shrine it is laid. Lady Grasmere was not there, last night,
to be flattered by his patronage or her friend; and I am per-
suaded that nothing but a strong personal fancy would have
induced him to act the Quixote as he did, in her behalf.”.
“Who were his antagonists —” s
“ The whole room was laughing at her.”
“And why 2"
“Never was any human being so absurd . Clanhenry
protests that she is bent on making a conquest of the Regent;
and last night, she certainly followed him up and down,
boring him to death. But here comes Mr. Fitzgerald 1–He
will tell you all about it.” -
“He seldom sees or hears any thing in which his own
vanity is not concerned. I have no doubt he was Sauntering
past one of the great mirrors half the evening, observing
nothing but the reflection of his own beautiful person 1—Ah !
Fitzgerald !—How do you do this morning 3–delighted to
see you !—why did you not come earlier 7–We expected
you at luncheon.”
“Did you?” muttered the handsome Frederick, who,
during the stay of the court at Brighton, always grew mys-
terious and important, “I am sorry I was not aware of it,
5* -
198 THE PAVILION.
that I might have prevented your disappointment. I had
engagements this morning to sing with the Trills, beside my
usual lounge at Lady Grandison's ; and instead of fulfilling
either, I have been riding in the school.”
“With his Royal Highness **—
“With his Royal Highness.”
“Then you can tell us the true state of this mysterious
business. What does he intend to do with her ?— -
** With whom ?” - -
“Countess Reppenheim —Lady Edystone assures us she
made such bold advances last night, that no one knows what
to think of it.” - {
“Has the thing got wind already ?” said Fitzgerald
walking to the fire-place, and leisurely arranging his collar
at the glass.
“How much his Royal Highness must have been dis-
gusted 1" said Lady Sophia in a tone of interrogation.
“I really cannot advance an opinion ; I have never given
it a minute's concern,” said Fred. continuing his labours of
the toilet, and affecting diplomatic mystery.
“I should think she would not be invited again?” observed
Lady Mary. - -
“I cannot form an idea.”
“Probably she will go back to London 2" 4.
“Certainly, if her stay at Brighton is at an end.”
“What a bore for the Count : '' w
“He does not seem a man to be easily bored.” -
“But they have always set themselves up for a domestic
felicity couple !” sneered Lady Edystone. -
“Have they !”—observed Fitzgerald, determined to know
nothing concerning any body. “Who are they !—I really
know nothing about them. Reppenheim is Prussian ambas-
sador or some such thing, is he not ?—They asked me to
dinner four or five times just before I came down here; but
I never went.” -
“Yet you seemed intimately acquainted with the Countess,
when you met her here the other night with Lady Grasmere,”
cried Lady Sophia, in a tone of pique. “You were sitting
by her half the evening.” -
“Was I?—It is quite a chance where one is seated in
large parties.”
“But it was a very small party,’” said Lady Mary indig-
nantly, “you know I never have large parties ;-and the
THE PAVILION. 199
place was of your own selection. The Regent not being
then arrived, you were not quite so superfine and inaccessi-
ble as you are just now.” .
“Me fine !—what an accusation '” said the dandy, colour-
ing slightly at her vehemence. “Believeme, my dear Lady
Mary, there is nothing I enjoy so much as your little coteries;
and as to this piece of Pavilion scandal, I know no more of
it than yourself. What are you all talking about 7–Is his
Royal Highness supposed to have a foiblesse for the fair Rep-
penheim *—
“Exactly the reverse. You know very well that she is
his bête moºre ; and all we want to learn is the motive of
Lord Brancepeth's sudden declaration in her favour.
“Lord Brancepeth 2–Encore du nouveau 1–I never heard
their names mentioned together.”
“You will get nothing out of him,” cried Lady Edystone
peevishly. “Half an hour's trot in the royal manège has
made him so very great a man, that there is no talking to him
this morning.” - . -
“At least, pray tell us,” said Lady Sophia, “are the invi-
tations out yet for the ball?”— -
“ Not that I am aware of.”
“But there is to be a ball ?”—
“So the newspapers assert.” -
“But did you hear nothing of it at the Pavilion?”—
“ Not that I recollect. Why should there be a ball?—It
only produces a mob of Brighton people, just such as one
meets at the Duchess of Keswycke's or Lady Grandison's ;
whereas, so long as his Royal Highness restricts himself to
his private circle, he can have exactly whom he pleases, and
form the most perfect society in the world.”
This observation,--which was intended as a little punish-
ment to Lady Mary for her attack upon himself, by rendering
both aunt and niece painfully conscious of their own insig-
nificance, was studiously echoed by Lady Edystone as one of
the elect; as well as by the dull old dormouse Sir Carmy-
chael Domdaniel, whose military rank had obtained him a
favourable reception at half the courts in Europe, while his
tedious imanity excluded him from the more independent
circles of unfashionable life.
“If the most perfect society in the world affords no better
amusement to Lord Brancepeth and the Test of you than to
flirt with such a quiz as poor Countess Reppenheim, I wish
you joy of the pleasure you find at the Pavilion ſ” cried Lady
200 THE PAVILION.
Sophia with indignation. “Ah! my dear Lady Grasmere,”
she continued, affecting to catch a glimpse of the new visitor
who had entered the room during her speech, “pray excuse
me if you find me abusing your friend. But really all
Brighton has found so much to say respecting her barefaced
flirtation with Lord Brancepeth, that I scarcely consider it
necessary to apologize for adding my voice to the majority.”
“I shall really begin to fancy myself the keeper of Countess
Reppenheim’s conscience,” said Lady Grasmere, returning
Lady Mary’s salutation, as she seated herself hurriedly in the
circle. “Lord Clamhenry stopped my carriage just now on
the Parade, to insinuate that she had been making love to the
Regent; and to declare, without circumlocution, that Lord
Brancepeth is making love to her. I fancy both reports are
equally authentic.”
“She make advances to the Prince Regent : " 'snorted
Domdaniel in his corner. -
“Brancepeth make advances to her ſ” reiterated Lady
Mary, who had long destined him for her niece.
“He certainly paid her great attention last night,” said
Fitzgerald, with affected carelessness. “When he put her
into the carriage, I really never witnessed a more pathetic
farewell ; and in the face of a whole brigade of royal footmen,
who probably wished his lordship at the bottom of the West
Cliff, for keeping them standing at the door of the vestibule, to
face the might air.” . -
“It is very strange,” exclaimed Lady Grasmere, growing
more and more uneasy, “that my friend the Countess should
be the only woman in Brighton whom it is unlawful to hand
to her carriage | Sir Carmychael !—Mr. Fitzgerald,—pray
deign to inform me whether you put evil constructions upon
the conduct of every woman who accepts your own services
on similar occasions?” -
“Give me an opportunity of proving the fact,” whispered
Frederick, approaching her, and assuming a loverlike tone,
so as to be heard only by herself. “And yet, you well
know that I should venture to put no construction on any
proceeding of yours but such as your own will might
instigate.” .. -
But, notwithstanding the crouching attitude glozing smile
and earnest look with which these words were uttered, they
elicited no reply from the lady, not of his love, but of his
courtship. A possibility had just occurred to her, or rather
an assertion had just been made, which absorbed all her
THE PAVILION. 201.
interest; nay, even sufficed to create an interest unknown
before. Lady Grasmere, in the thoughtlessness of wild
seventeen and in obedience to her parents, had made an am-
bitious marriage with a man old enough to be her grand-
father ; but it was only in proportion as her experience of the
world increased, that she became conscious of the extent of
the sacrifice. “I have resigned every thing for ambition,”
thought she, whenever she contemplated the higher desti-
nies of other households. “But let me at least be consistent in
my worship to the idol I have adopted for my divinity. Hav-
ing renounced both the pleasures and penalties of love, I
will content myself exclusively with the gratification arising
from my brilliant position in society. I have every thing the
world cara offer. When once I command a favourable re-
ception at court, I shall not have a wish unaccomplished;
nor shall any thing induce me to give myself a second mas-
ter, and sacrifice the independence I have bought so dear.—
The homage of Lord Clanhenry and the rest of them does
me no harm ; but I trust I know myself and them too well
to be deceived by their interested professions.”
Now “the rest of them,” although a widely collective,
was a very indefinite figure of speech ; it included all Lon-
don, and designated no one. But it consequently included
many who formed no pretensions to the honour, and neg-
lected to except some, whom Lady Grasmere could have no
plea for comprehending in the list of her mercenary suitors.
Among these was Lord Brancepeth ; a man whom common
report had often pointed out as her lover ; but who, in his
own person, had never given the slightest hint in confirma-
tion of the rumour. As one of the most distinguished mem-
bers of fashionable society she had received with pleasure
his overtures of acquaintance, when opening her house to
the London world at the expiration of her widowhood; and
had occasionly received from him in return, those attentions
which a well bred man is in the habit of paying to every
woman in whose house he is a frequent guest. But there
his homage ended. He had never breathed a word resemb-
ling love ; had never fixed upon her those ardent looks which
she was apt to detect in the eyes of others ; or besieged
her by those (falsly called) petits soins, which form in a wo-
man's estimation the greatest attentions in the world.
Lady Grasmere was accordingly wise enough to persuade
herself that the pleasure she took in his courtesies arose
solely from the gratification of her vanity, by proving to cer-
202 -- THE PAVILION.
tain of the Exclusives by whom she was tacitly excluded,
that their idol, the distinguished Lord Brancepeth, was to
be found in her train; that he, the favourite of the Regent
and darling of the coteries, was not too proud to call her car-
riage, or carry her shawl. Her ladship's vanity must, how-
ever, have been enormous, if the feelings of eager delight
with which she saw him enter her opera box, or found him
turn his horse's head to join her in the park—or if the accel-
erated pulsation of her heart when Brancepeth, in the course
of a formal visit, was tempted to bestow some warmer ex-
pression of admiration on the embroidery or the drawing
with which he found her occupied—arose soley from so con-
temptible a source. That it could be love which caused her
emotion under such circumstances was of course out of the
question. In the first place, because Lady Grasmere had
formally renounced all allegiance to that most capricious of
divinities; and, in the second, because Brancepeth was an
Adonis, nearly fifteen year her senior ; and Lady Grasmere,
who had begun life at so early an age, fancied even herself,
at six or seven and twenty, considerably advanced in years
She had, however, no leisure for consideration of the busi-
ness. All her thoughts for some months past, had been ab-
sorbed by the one great object, of obtaining admission to the
Toyal circle; and to this even Lord Brancepeth was of sec-
Ondary importance. -
But notwithstanding this engrossing project of self-aggran-
dizement, it certainly had occurred to her, during the three
weeks of her residence at Brighton, that even the moderate
measure of his lordship's attentions was strangely diminish-
ed. Although habitually admitted as a morning visitor at
her house in London, he had been satisfied to leave a formal
card at her door, without even attempting to profit by the pri-
vilege; he had met her at several soirées at the Duchess of
Keswycke's, and two or three of Lady Mary Milford’s soci-
able tea-cookings, and contented himself with a gracious
Salutation, without attempting to approach her. She had
sometimes flattered herself in town, that he preferred her
sober style of conversation to the flashy flippancy of the sati-
rical Lady Sophia Clerimont, and the coarse double entendre
of Lady Edystone; that a friendly and confidential ease of
intercourse was established between them, as agreeable to
him as to herself. But it was plain that she had overrated
her influence ; for he now bestowed his attentions on both—
or rather on any one and every one rather than herself.
THE PAVILION. 203
Now the fair widow who, like all persons whose minds
are dominated by a ruling prejudice, was apt to ascribe every
little slight she experienced to the inferiority of her birth,
actually lowered her estimation of Lord Brancepeth's cha-
racter sufficiently to believe that, although in the wide wil-
derness of London he had no objection to waste a few hours
of the season on a young and handsome woman with a good
establishment, and tolerable acceptance in Society, was not
anxious to compromise his own dignity by displaying at
Brighton any thing approaching to intimacy with an indivi-
dual living without the pale of fashionable legitimacy.—
Having observed that many silly persons of her acquaintance
were no sooner admitted to move in that peculiar sphere, than
they ceased to remember even the existence of a planet unin-
cluded in the one great system,--she ventured to believe that
the noble-minded Brancepeth despised her for her inferiority
to the higher thrones and dominions of exclusive life —The
mere supposition, indeed, tended to magnify her desire for
the notice of royalty far more than the sneers of young Fitz-
gerald, or the solemn irony of Lord Clanhenry.
But on the suggestion of Lady Sophia Clerimont, a sudden
light broke in upon her mind l Brancepeth had more than
once avowed in her hearing, his admiration of the feminine
delicacy and simplicity of the new ambassadress ; and Coun-
tess Reppenheim unhesitatingly cited Lord Brancepeth as
the most agreeable and most high bred man she had met in
England. But neither of them had expressed more than ad-
miration. How should they?—It was not to her they would
make an avowal of a less lawful sentiment ;-it was not to a
woman of blameless life and manners, such as herself, that a
confession of illicit passion was likely to be confided. She
was now, however, enlightened —Her friend had doubtless
formed an attachment to the sedate Brancepeth : which was
not only returned, but had been the means of withdrawing
his attentions from herself. Perhaps it was a hope of im-
roving her intimacy with the object of her tenderness, which
i. originally suggested the preference testified for her so-
ciety by the Countess —Jealousy is a hasty traveller, and
jumps at all conclusions ! In a moment Lady Grasmere
overstepped all boundaries of common sense, and succeeded
in persuading herself that she was doubly a dupe;—that
Countess Reppenheim’s assumed virtues, and Lord Brance-
peth's pretended moderation of character, were equally frauds
practised upon her credulity, and calling for exposure and
204 THE PAWILION.
contempt. And although, in Lady Milford's drawing-room,
under the inquisition of the malignant Lady Sophia, the scan-
dalous Lady Edystone, and that very universal circulating
medium Domdaniel the diner-out and morning visitor, she was
careful to let no symptom of her irritation escape, her heart
waxed hot within her at the notion that those very Pavilion
parties to which Brancepeth affected indifference and the
Countess aversion, had been made the means of cementing
their connection secure from her own observation. It was
but the day preceding that Helene had been protesting her
extreme disinclination to join that evening's circle ; and had
oven hinted to the Count her wish to put forth a pretext of in-
disposition as an apology for her absence.—Hypocrite l—
Lady Grasmere could not pardon herself for having been
imposed upon by such shallow artifices ! Helene, who pre-
tended such attachment for her husband—such fondness for
her children, she to prove Haggard —and with the blush
of modesty still pure upon her cheek—the tears of sensibility
still glittering in her eyes.—Hypocrite—hypocrite—hypo-
crite –There appeared nothing so unprecedented or unac-
countable in the existence of an adulterous passion, to a person
so experienced in the scandals or wickedness of society as
Lady Grasmere, but that she readily gave ear to the imputa-
tion. But, alas ! amid all this virtuous indignation, all this
mental excitement, all this disgust against both the sin and
the sinner, a second discovery, still more appalling than the
first, suddenly burst upon her mind;—she was certainly in
love with Lord Brancepeth herself, or she would not have
cared half so much about the matter 1
THE PAW II,ION. 205
CHAPTER WI.
O hard condition—twin-born with greatness,
Subjected to the breath of every fool!
HENRY IV. PART. II.
FITZGERALD was but an echo to the general sentiments of
the royal circle at the Pavilion, in reprobating those official
entertainments to which all persons of a certain rank, having
left their names, were invited as a matter of etiquette, without
regard to preference or prejudice;—causing a general disar-
rangement of the establishment, considerable fatigue to the
illustrious host,-and no satisfaction to the persons chiefly
concerned. A féte of any magnitude was regarded at the
Pavilion as a sacrifice to propriety and popularity; to be
postponed as long as possible, and if possible altogether
evaded. It either did not occur to, or did not concern the
chief movers of the pageant, that divers persons (in addition
to the Lady Grasmeres and Lady Mary Milfords) had visited
Brighton with no other object than the hope of being included
in one of those universal gatherings ; that the Duchess of
Keswycke had brought her diamonds fifty-nine miles, that
Lady Grandison had been at the cost of a velvet dress with
trimmings of Brussels' point, that the Bishop's lady had
ordered a new grey satin gown, and Colonel F. afforded a
first rate dancing-master to his two awkward daughters,
solely in anticipation of some such festal solemnity. Had
his Royal Highness himself been sufficiently at leisure to
conjecture the enormous importance attached by many res-
pectable individuals to an evening passed at the Pavilion, such
was his proverbial good-nature that he would not for a
VoI. I. T
206 THE PAVILION.
moment have lent an ear to those who affected to consult his
own health and inclimation in persuading him that a ball was
superfluous. The court was cautious, however, against
letting the result of these nefarious counsels transpire ; and
day after day rumours grew stronger of an approaching
issue of invitations. Velvet dresses continued to arrive from
town, and white satin to glisten in the hands of the mantua-
makers, without the slightest suspicion that all their splen-
dours would be wasted on the desert air.
But Lady Grasmere was no longer one of the speculators
on this important subject. The beautiful costume she had
procured from Paris with a view to the momentous event, was
laid aside and forgotten in its packing case. She scarcely
recollected that such a superfluity as a diamond necklace
existed in the world ;—cared nothing for the notice of King
or Kaiser ;-and, if the notion of the illuminated halls of
the Pavilion ever entered her mind, it was with a shudder of
disgust at the remembrance that it was there her enemies had
plotted against her peace.
Resolved as she was, that neither the Countess nor the
Countess's lover should detect her profound mortification at
the discovery of their basemess, she was cautious that no
abrupt rupture with her former friend should induce inquiry,
expostulation, or explanation ; and accordingly determined
to break off the connection as gradually and unconcernedly
as possible. With Lord Brancepeth, indeed, she must
assume a totally different lime of conduct ; for whereas since
her observation of his coldness towards herself, she had
treated him with increasing distance and reserve, she mow
determined to mask the true state of her feelings under an
assumption of gay indifference ;-to accost him more
familiarly 3–to defy him with all the reckless daring of
despair.
Meanwhile a train of circumstances was arrayed against
her, over which, independent as she was, Lady Grasmere
had no control. At the very moment she was forming these
desperate resolutions, the Countess, her beloved friend—her
treacherous enemy—was giving audience in her dressing-
room to Lady Beaulieu ; who, having arrived from town to
pass the remainder of the holidays at the Pavilion, was
struck with surprise and regret to learn in a mysterious
whisper from Sir Carmychael, that her old acquaintance the
Countess was so little in favour with the ruling powers, or
their ruling powers.
THE PAVILION. 207
“I cannot make it out,” replied she, with her usual frank
goodnature. “Countess Reppenheim is a charming woman,
and can have dome mothing that ought to give offence.”
Sir Carmychael Domdaniel was of course ready with the
lesson that had been taught him ; and immediately pro-
nounced, under the shadow of his intrusive proboscis, that
“she was considered a sad bore.” *
“By whom?” inquired the straightforward Lady Beaulieu.
“By every body 1"
“Every body is less than nobody. Besides, my dear Sir
Carmychael, were every body who is pronounced a bore to
be sneered out of society, which of us would be safe 2''
A laugh immediately went round; but Domdaniel had
not the slightest suspicion at whose expence. “She intrudes
herself so officiously upon his Royal Highness,” said he,
“ that it is quite disgusting. She deserves to be sent to
Coventry.” And he twisted his nose with a gigantic expres-
sion of contempt. *
“But, my dear Sir Carmychael, supposing all the persons
were to be sent to Coventry who intrude themselves offi-
ciously into the society of the Prince Regent, think what an
increase of population that far-famed city would have to
thank us for 1 ''
Again a laugh went round, and again the little K.C.B.
wondered what could make them all so merry.
“And then she flirts so desperately with Lord Brance-
peth,” said he, impatient of any merriment which did not
arise from one of his own stale puns.
“Does she 7” cried Lady Beaulieu, to whom his Lord-
ship was nearly related, and who had experienced consider-
able alarm lest he should degrade himself and his family by
an alliance with the roturière Lady Grasmere. “That is
the best thing I have heard of her yet ! I must go instantly
and thank her for her patronage of my cousin of Brancepeth,”
and, without waiting to ascertain what further inuendoes
were going on under the gnomon of the indignant Sir Car-
mychael, she flew to the residence of the ambassadress, and
received a cordial welcome.
“I am so glad you are come at last;-I have missed you
very much,” said the Countess. “Either Brighton is very
dull,—or—”
“You have been looking all this time at the reverse of
the tapestry. I hear sad histories about you. I am told
208 THE PAVILION.
that you live with a set of people such as never were
heard of.”
“Who can have told you so 2°–
“Authority too high to be either quoted or impugned.”
“High as it may be, I have a right to take up my own
defence.”
“Hush, hush, hush | Can you in the first place deny
that you have divers times made your appearance at the
Pavilion soirées, looking very handsome, and, with malice
aforethought, striving to make yourself very agreeable 3’’
“On the contrary, Mr. Fitzgerald assured me only last
night that I did not strive half enough. And yet when I
followed his injunctions—”
“Frederick Fitzgerald then is the traitor 7"—interrupted
Lady Beaulieu. “My cross examination has been very
soon successful | Reste à savoir what could be his motive
for so malicious a piece of advice. In the next place, my
dear Countess, you are further accused of the high crime
and misdemeanour of a liason with Lady Grasmere.”
“There, indeed, I plead guilty; without admitting the
libel implied in your arraignment. I cannot perceive the
criminality of a friendship with one of the most amiable
women at Brighton.”
“In the world, if you will ! But she is not one of us,
and therefore does you a serious injury.”
“Not one of whom, of what?—Surely Lord Grasmere
was a man of the highest rank and distinction.”
“Of the highest fashion (which in England you will find
a far more lofty distinction), till he chose to marry his
bailiff's daughter.”
“Impossible !—my friend Lady Grasmere is accomplish-
ed, graceful, well informed—"
“Very likely.—When a woman’s education is completed
by her husband, instead of her parents and the pastors and
masters acting under their authority, I suppose, for the nov-
lety’s sake, he takes care to do justice to his pupil. Aw reste,
this Lady Grasmere has done wonders in society, and gets on
vastly well in her own humdrum way. But she does not
even aspire to measure lances with those of the true faith.
We know nothing about her, and wish to know nothing;
and consequently you must know nothing, if you are anxious
to be one of us.”
“I am anxious, it is true, to be on better terms in a certain
quarter, for I fear it vexes Reppenheim to observe how very
THE PAVILION. 209
Hittle satisfaction I have given. But neither for the accom-
plishment of that object nor of any other, will I give up the
friendship of one who, from the moment of my arrival has
overwhelmed me with kindness.”
“That was very impertinent of her ſ—She was well aware
that her standing in society did not entitle her to pay you
any such attentions.” -
“What a motion l—Do, pray, my dear Lady Beaulieu,
allow me to present her to your acquaintance; and then
you will judge more fairly.”
“To my acqaintance?–Not for worlds: Lady Grasmere
is just the sort of woman I never permit myself to know,
unless I have some immediate object in patronising and
bringing her forward. Your friend has advanced beyond the
necessity for that sort of kindness; and therefore she must
remain where she is, in all the infamy of too ostensible ob-
scurity—of being one whom every body and nobody knows.
Take my word for it, Countess, she will never get a step fur-
ther in the world.”
“In her place, I should be very well satisfied to remain
where she is.”
“She is not exactly of that opinion, I fancy; or she would
now be at her beautiful villa in Surrey, instead of courting
contempt from the beau monde at Brighton.”
“She is idolized by Lady Mary Milford and her set.”
“Shocking, shocking !—where could you pick up such
people —They are the very superlative of mauvais ton 1"
cried Lady Beaulieu, beginning to fear that the woman she
had undertaken to exonerate and defend was after all an in-
corrigible offender. “But tell me,” she exclaimed, bright-
ening up with a sudden reminiscence;” what is all this his-
tory about you and my cousin Brancepeth ''
“Only that Lord Brancepeth is the most delightful of
men,” replied the Countess, blushing, deeply at the remem-
brance of his kindness of the preceding night, but without
by any means conjecturing the extent or nature of the “his-
tory” which had reached Lady Beaulieu’s ears.
“For once I can sympathize with your enthusiasm,” said
her ladyship, not a little surprised at the naivelé of the
avowal. “He is indeed a charming person—very different
from the Lady Grasmeres and Lady Marys you seem to have
taken under your protection.”
“They are no less under his. It was with them. I first be-
came acquainted with Lord Brancepeth.”
y?:
210 THE PAVILION.
“Men go every where. It does not commit them.”
“But Brancepeth goes no where so much as to my friend
Lady Grasmere’s.”
“On your account of course. Quite right. We all un-
derstand that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing 1–My dear Lady Beaulieu, pray ex-
plain yourself. You are so enigmatical this morning that
you have puzzled me to death !”
“Well, do not disturb yourself further ; but come to the
Pavilion to-night with a determination to give up this perni-
cious friend.
“At least I shall not offend you by the sight of our inti-
macy. Lady Grasmere has resided so long abroad, that at
present she has not the honour to be particularly known to
his Royal Highness; and—”
“Yes, yes, yes | I am perfectly aware of all that ; and
the time will shortly come when you will understand it too,
or my pains will be very much thrown away. Au revoir,
chere Contesse ; do not forget my injunctions.”
Meanwhile, Fitzgerald having ascertained that Lord Clan-
henry was engaged to pass the morning at the Pavilion for a
council of costume touching certain changes to be made in
the uniform of the household troops, of which models had
been sent down from town, and in which Clanhenry, as a
well-dressed man of twenty years experience, was supposed
to be a cognoscente,_resolved to profit by the occasion to ad-
dress his homage to Lady Grasmere. Having shaken off
the importunate arm of Sir Carmychael Domdaniel, who
was apt to adhere like a barnacle to every goodly ship sail-
ing to or from the port of the Pavilion, he made his appear-
ance in her ladyship's drawing-room with an air very differ-
ent from the tone of courtly apathy he had assumed to daz-
zle the eyes of Lady Sophia Clerimont. He was now the
handsome Fred. Fitzgerald;—eveillé, anecdotic ;-almost as
eveillé and anecdotic as when labouring to attract the notice
of his royal patron by piquant narratives of all that was, or
was not going on in society,+his mimicries of Domdaniel’s
mysterious whispers, and prolix manifestos; his details of a
new and wonderful remedy for the gout: or description of
“a mare, the most perfect thing of the kind in England, ez-
actly calculated for his Royal Highness's weight.” Perceiv-
ing that Lady Grasmere was miserably out of spirits, he
judged the occasion favourable to a display of his entertaining
powers, and a manifestation of his desire to devote them for
life to her service.
THE PAVILION. 211
But all was unavailing. In defiance of his best stories,
told in his best manner, in defiance of his admirable style
of quizzing Lady Mary and Lady Sophia,-his sneers at
her friend Lady Edystone, his Mathews-like imitation of his
own friend Lord Clanhenry's obese efforts at being graceful,
which, as he observed, resembled the frisky play of a walrus,
—the fair Wiscountess could not, would not, might not be
amused.—He abused all her intimates; hinted that the
whole fair group of Milfordian gigglers were paying their
addresses to him ; and more than hinted that he was desirous
of paying his to herself.
It would have formed an amusing study for Newton or
Leslie, or any other of the delineators of the lights and
shadows of courtly beauty, to see the fine figure of Lady
Grasmere thrown listlessly into her high-backed chair; for
once careless of effect, and through that very carelessness
producing fifty times more effect than usual. Her exquisitely
modelled hand, entangled in the luxuriant tresses of her
hair; her large lustrous hazel eyes fixed vacantly on the
carpet; her Grecian lips, compressed with the consciousness
of injury; while near her sat the grimacing dandy, labour-
ing to throw all Lovelace into his countenance, all Grammont
into his persiflage, all St. Preux into his eloquence;—now
affecting fashionable cynicism —now the laissez-aller self-
possession of a man of the world;—now the air pénétré of
the tenderest of lovers. No Savoyard's monkey ever went
through a greater variety of attitudes and evolutions !—But
the more he prated, the more evident became Lady Gras-
mere's pre-occupation of mind. The more he laughed at
his own bon-mots the graver grew her silence.
“Confound the woman l’ thought the despairing wooer.
“Will nothing provoke her to Smile—nothing excite her
attention ?—I must pique her, then, or she will go to sleep
before my face.”
“By the way, I am so glad,” he now observed in a tone
of amiable candour, “that our poor friend the Countess is
likely at last to creep out of the shades To be sure it must
be miserably provoking to a woman entitled to play a certain
part in society, to find herself distanced solely by her own
manque d'usage. An ambassadress, a woman really, I
am told, d'assez bonne maison 1 and yet, managing to fall
back into the mediocracy by the mere weight of her own
want of tact. However, Brancepeth has now taken her by
the hand, and no doubt she will do very well. At present,
212 THE PAVILION,
you know, Countess Reppenheim is not at all known in
London: fortunately she has not had an opportunity of com-
mitting herself there; and she will make her début, after all,
under the happiest auspices.”
“Of course !” replied Lady Grasmere, somewhat roused
by the name of her offending friend. “I understand Lady
Beaulieu is arrived ; and it is her vocation to do the honours
to the ladies of the corps diplomatique.”
“Lady Beaulieu ?—Lady Beaulieu has her own affairs to
manage l—No, no I alluded to Brancepeth. Brancepeth
stands very well in a certain quarter, and will no doubt do
away the impression produced by the Countess's homely air
and breaches of convenance. Nothing is so important for a
nouvelle débarquée as to have some friendly guide to show
her a little of the terrein. It is a distinct art to move well in
a certain circle ; an art only to be acquired by experience.”
This was intended as a side-wind illustration of his own
value and importance to his fair friend. But, alas ! she re-
plied only by a peevish exclamation : “It is an art the ac-
complishment of which is dearly paid for by the forfeiture of
one's reputation and self-respect.”
“To be sure,” persisted the Honourable Frederick, roll-
ing the corner of his cambric handkerchief into the form of
an allumette; “reputation, and all that sort of thing, is very
good as far as it goes. But ‘I’d rather be a dog and bay the
moon, or even la très honoré Madame l'Evêque's toddling
poodle and bay an Argand lamp, than enrol myself at once
in the deadly brigade of the humdrums. Now our dear
Countess was born and educated a humdrum ; and entre nous,
even Brancepeth (who is a devilish good fellow in his way)
approaches to the humdrumatic style. One never heard of
his doing or saying anything out of the common way.”
“The very criterion of his excellenceſ" cried the Wis-
countess, piqued out of her self-possession. “Lord Brance-
peth does, says, and thinks exactly as he ought; and conse-
quently never renders himself a theme for the discussion of
society or the scandal of the newspapers.”
“Content to dwell in decencies for ever,”
quoted the dandy with a smeer.
“The happiest and Saſest of all earthly tabernacles P’ ex-
claimed Lady Grasmere, her naturally pale cheek flushing
with a sudden glow. “A man who can afford to restrict
himself to his allotted path of life, without any consciousness
THE PAVILION. 213
of defect or deficiency rendering it advisable to attract or dis-
tract public attention by glaring absurdities or pompous dis-
plays, proves that he is master of himself and of the world !”
“De la philosophie ſ” sneered Fitzgerald, startled by this
burst of enthusiasm from the recumbent statue. “I see I
must apply for your ladyship's assistance in—”
He was prevented concluding his retort by the announce-
ment of Sir Carmychael Domdaniel; who, with his usual
self-assurance of being at all times, in all places, the most
welcome of men, placed a chair as close to Lady Grasmere's
as possible, and commenced his ordinary disclosures of pro-
found secrets stolen from the daily papers, and bon-mots
stolen from the jest-books of the eighteenth century.
“And so, my dear Madam, after all, there is to be no ball
at the Pavilion this Christmas! For my part, I’m delighted;
—there is nothing in which I luxuriate so much as those
little private parties, where every one worth seeing, meets
every one he wishes to see;—eh ! Fitzgerald.”
But Frederick was sulky and silent.
“You see, my dear Madam, between ourselves, you
won't commit me, for of course” (with a mysterious smile),
of course I am speaking without authority,+you see Brigh-
ton enlarges so fearfully from season to season, and just at
this present moment there are such a vast number of persons
here whose rank makes them fancy themselves entitled to an
invitation,-and who, eh !—Fitzgerald'—But perhaps the
less we say about it the better | I understand Lady Mary
Milford is extremely angry; (a case in point you know !) but
as I was saying last night to Bogg, Meerschaum, and Clan-
henry, if the Pavilion parties are to be crammed with all the
nobodies in the land entitled to a coronet and supporters, they
will be no better than the Duchess of Keswycke's or any
other congregation of bores;–eh, Fitzgerald 2’-
“Really, Sir Carmychael, you must excuse my becoming
security for your aphorisms. I know nothing of the Pa-
vilion projects, and have the honour to be her Grace's
nephew.”
“A thousand pardons, my dear Sir ; but really the Duchess
lives so completely out of the world that one forgets to whom
she belongs, or who belongs to her. And by the way, my
dear Lady Grasmere, pray allow me to offer you my con-
gratulations on our friend the Countess's new conquest.
Really, Brancepeth is no every-day victory. A man against
whom so many manoeuvres have been directed—a man who
214 THE PAVILION.
stands so high with our illustrious friend—eh? Fitzge-
rald "-
“Really, Sir Carmychael, I must request you to—”
“I have long perceived,” resumed Domdaniel, wholly
insensible to the withering look of contempt launched against
him by the handsome dandy, “that Brancepeth had an attach-
ment; but I acknowledge it did not strike me that so very
unpopular a person as Countess Reppenheim—a woman so
universally pronounced to be so very decided a bore—was—”
“He sat confounded ; for the Countess having entered
unannounced during his tirade, now stood opposite to him,
waiting its conclusion.
Sir Carmychael consoled himself, as with a hasty bow he
shuffled out of the room, with a hope that her Excellency
was not sufficiently well furnished with his illustrious friend
the Prince Regent's English, to be fully conscious of the
extent of his own insolence.
THE PAVILION. 215
CHAPTER WIL.
Joy to you, Mariana love her, Angelo;
I have confessed her, and I know her virtue.
So, bring us to our palace
MEASURE Fort MEASURE.
CHRISTMAs was past and over ;-the first week of the new
year nearly expired;—the Steyne half a foot deep in snow,
the Duchess of Keswycke shut up with the lumbago or (as
her nephew reverently defined it) “some hackney coach-
man's disorder; ” there was no hunting for the hussars ;-
there were no balls for the slender young ladies ;-no new
novels at the circulating libraries —no business doing, no
pleasure going on 3–and people began to find out that a
country town, although boasting a royal Pavilion among its
dwelling houses, can be as dull as the rest of the world
during a foggy frost in the month of January. The Brighton
newspapers, meanwhile attributed this general depression to
the melancholy fact that his Royal Highness, their illustrious
visitor, was suffering from a severe cold;—Sir Carmychael
Domdaniel secretly ascribed it to the arrival of Lady Beau-
lieu, by whom his honourable office of butt to the Royal
circle was rendered somewhat laborious ;-Lady Edystone
declared—but her declarations are such as few people venture
to repeat ;-and Lady Grasmere, (poor Lady Grasmere !)
although she declared nothing, was not the less of opinion
that she was indebted for all her headaches and heartaches to
the astounding discovery of Lord Brancepeth's passion for
her friend the Countess.
Byron has informed us that the heart of man has its ides
and epochs of sensibility; that March has its hares, and
216 THE PAWILION.
May must have its heroine. But if there be a month peculi-
arly consecrated to the tender perplexities of the female
heart, it is decidedly that of January. Every thing is so
cheerless, so cold,—so desolate ;-there is so little commu-
nication between house and house, man and man, or man
and woman ;-mo rides, no drives, no lounging visits, no
sunshine, no flowers, no any thing to distract the attention of
the fair afflicted from her own emotions. Seated in a well-
scorched dress by the fire-side, a book in her hand, but her
eyes engaged in building castles among the glowing coals,
she reviews the past, and speculates concerning the future ;-
talks o'er again antecedent conversations,—recalls to mind
every look, -to heart every sigh ;—accuses herself of harsh-
ness, of want of candour, of blindness to her own happi-
ness;–then, sauntering to the window and casting a wistful
gaze upon the sloppy state of the pavement or the slippery
condition of the roads, retreats back again to her chimney
corner with the mournful certainty that it is “a naughty day
to swim in,” and that she has no chance of the visit she
would give so much to secure.
Never had Lady Grasmere taken so much occasion as
now to complain of the climate, and sigh for a change of
weather —never had she derived so little solace from those
favourite pursuits of reading, working, painting, music,
which, in London or at Richmond, caused her time to pass
so lightly. She began to fancy she wanted to be at home
again ; and, but for the dread of provoking the quizzing of
Lady Sophia Clerimont and the malice of the Domdamielites,
would have cut short her visit to Brighton, making a reso-
lute effort to get rid of her vexations, and commence a new
career of happiness and activity.
But if the first month of the year be unpropitious to ladies
in love, what may it not be said to be to gentlemen in debt?
—How despondingly do they contemplate the unsatisfactory
face of nature,—with all the blue noses, red eyes, and
muddy boots haunting its surface;—human beings looking
their ugliest, and even the brute creation, rough, shaggy,
and forlorn —A misty steam obscures the shop windows;–
the water-pipes enveloped in wisps of straw and the hall
doors sprinkled with sand, impart a vulgar air even to the
dwellings of the lordly –people elbow their way along
the streets to keep their blood from stagnation ;-the most
courteous greetings are hastily and sharply bestowed;—the
carriages roll past with the inmates as carefully secluded
THE PAWILION. 217
from sight as in so many hearses. There is no satisfaction
to be had in the external atmosphere;—the lounger’s occu-
pation’s gone ! º
The month of January was in fact, a “lapse of time”
which (like Cleopatra in her troubles) Lord Clanhenry had
for many years past been anxious to “dream away.”—-
Whether by his residence at Melton or Brighton at that busi-
ness-like crisis, he contrived that his afflictions should pour
in upon him per post;—or, whether, boldly facing his per-
secutors at his lion's den in the Albany, he was compelled to
confront them face to face,—was comparatively unimportant.
Between the first and fifteenth of January of every consecu-
tive year, he found himself reduced to echo Sir John Fal-
staff’s apophthegm that for consumption of the purse there
is no remedy —and to sigh that so few simple-hearted Jus-
tice Shallows remain in the world. He had not, like Fitz-
gerald, so much as an infirm old Duchess on whom to build
his speculations; like the locust in the wilderness, he had
eaten up the last green leaf; sold every reversion, mortgaged
every acre, every contingency, every security, real, personal
or conjectural. There was nothing left for him but a com-
promise with his creditors, or an heiress
This conviction had brought him to Brighton. It is true
he had no objection to dine three or four times a week at the
best table in England,-listen three or four evenings to the
most exquisite music in the most luxurious locale,_and sun
himself in all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious
royalty. But fatal experience had taught him, and an ex-
tensive correspondence with his solicitors, bill-brokers, and
bill-makers, daily reminded him of the lesson, that even his
royal patron was not likely to rob the Exchequer on his be-
hoof; and that Lady Beaulieu's smiles, however glorious to
bask in, would do nothing for the removal of his embarrass-
ments. He had debts, both of honour and dishonour, to
settle, that admitted of no delay ?—and let the town be as
gloomy or the Pavilion as brilliant as it might, the main
point was his acceptance by a widow with eight, or an heir-
ess with ten thousand a year. ,"
To achieve this desirable object, he had spared mo pain
to Lady Grasmere, no pains to himself: he had sneered
away her confidence in the Countess, her satisfaction in her
own position in the world; had quizzed her into odium in
the Pavilion circle,_slandered her into contempt with the
warm-hearted Brancepeth; and he now hailed with delight
Wol. I. D.
2:18 THE PAVILION.
the glow of feminine jealousy beaming in her restless eyes
and transparent complexion, at the insinuations he was
enabled to append to his edition of the state of affairs
between her excellency of Prussia, and Brancepeth the
defender of the faithful. He almost lamented the superfluous
trouble he had taken previous to quitting London, to insi-
nuate to his lordship that he was himself about to visit
Brighton, less with any view of paying his court at the
Pavilion, than in compliance with the eager request of poor
dear Lady Grasmere that he would meet her there, and act
as her cavalier of the season ; a statement which, although
it strongly provoked Lord Brancepeth to throw him out of
the club window at which they were standing, he felt that
he had no right to resent. The ignominy of the case rested
with the Wiscountess herself; who, for the sake of a little
fashion—a collateral link with the unapproachable sphere of
Exclusives—was induced to degrade herself by bestowing
her smiles on a libertine of broken fortunes, approaching her
with the undisguised intention of repairing them at her
expense. Lord Brancepeth listened, less with indigmation
than disgust, to Clanhenry's allusions to the evenings he
was in the habit of passing téte-d-téle with Lady Grasmere,
and the billets with which she was daily, hourly, half-
hourly in the habit of favouring him.
Such were the misrepresentations which caused that
sudden alteration in his sentiments and demeanour, detected
by her ladyship on her arrival at Brighton; and the cool-
mess, with which her own quick sense of dignity induced
her to mark the consciousness of the fact, only confirmed
him in his belief of her attachment, or entanglement, or
engagement with Clanhenry. Never, indeed, till that per-
suasion took possession of his mind, had he been fully aware
of the admiration with which her beauty, her graces, and
her feminine virtues had inspired him. His season for
romance had long been over : at the sober age of two-and-
forty, love and honeysuckles, and giggling young ladies,
lose their attraction. He knew that his post of honour was
not in a private station. He had official duties entailed on
him by a high appointment in the household of the Regent,
which, for some years to come, must render him a denizen
of the Court. His anxiety, therefore, in the selection of a
wife, was less directed to secure a pretty little doll to sit in
his drawing-room, embroidering work-bags, or murdering
Herz's somatas for his amusement, after the fashionable
THE PAVILION. 219
pattern of domestic life, than to find a woman worthy to
adórn his rank in the eyes of the world, as well as in his
own ; —qualified to walk hand in hand with him in the
saloons of royalty; to participate with him in an endless
round of festivity and dissipation, without any other object
there than his approval; and to encounter the perilous ordeal
of public admiration, without risk or hazard to her honour
or his own.
On his first intimacy with Lady Grasmere, even before
his eye was captivated and his powers of reasoning affected
by her exquisite beauty, he hailed her as eminently qualified
to fulfil his utmost exactions. He saw that she was graceful
and highly accomplished. From all that he knew or could
learn respecting her, he believed her to be as highly prin-
cipled as she was mild and endearing. She was rich, and
therefore above being swayed by interested motives, should
‘she deign to honour him with her hand; and that she would
deign, he gazed and gazed upon her beautiful face, fine
figure, and radiant smiles, till he flattered himself into believ-
ing. The Viscountess had herself announced her intention
of passing the winter at Brighton; and he had already formed
his own of devoting himself there to her society, and tender-
ing his hand, and coronet, and Brancepeth Court, to her
acceptance. He felt that an over jealous susceptibility had
only too long prolonged his celibacy, and would soon convert
him into an old bachelor. He had hitherto cherished, with
the tenacious egotism of his sex, an apprehension that his
rank and fortune might exert a stronger influence than his
personal merits, in aid of his courtship. But all these fears
anxieties and misgivings were irrelevant in the case of a
lovely Viscountess, in the independent possession of eight
thousand a year !
Such were the auspicious prospects blighted by the cunning
of Clamhenry, and the malice of Fitzgerald; and such the
motives which induced the former to watch with triumphant
satisfaction, on the ensuing evening at the Pavilion, the in-
creased and increasing intimacy between Brancepeth and
Countess Reppenheim. He saw that all was safe; that the
Angelo of the Regent's Court (disappointed in his matri-
monial projects on the wealthy widow) was fast falling into a
snare of a very different description; and not even Lady
Beaulieu observed with greater satisfaction the flushed cheeks
and sparkling eyes of the guilty pair, as they sat apart on the
silken divan encircling the saloon.
{
220 THE PAVILION.
Very little, indeed, did he suspect that the conversation,
exciting so many surmises, had commenced, on the part of
the Countess, with a confession of indisposition, arising from
her surprise at the coldness, strangeness, inconsistency, with
which her visit had been received by Lady Grasmere. For-
eigners do not cherish that excessive delicacy on matters
connected with the heart, which distinguishes the more re-
served nature of our countrymen. They talk of Love and
Friendship, as they would of the fine firts, and discuss even
their lovers and friends, as they would a favourite author or
actress. Madam Reppenheim had no hesitation in acknow-
ledging herself to be souffrante,_accablée, désolée, by
the unaccountable caprice suddenly displayed towards her by
a person so gentle, so considerate, and so warm-hearted as
her dear Lady Grasmere ! .
Nothing could be more matural than for the still partial
Brancepeth to ascribe this unsatisfactory change of character
to the influence of her ladyship's accepted lover, the worldly-
minded Clanhenry; nothing more indispensable than for the
Countess to vindicate the outraged fame of her friend, by an
assertation of Lady Grasmere's personal detestation of the
obese dandy, her abhorrence of his principles, her con-
tempt of his pretensions.
“I fear you are mistaken,” replied his lordship. “I have
good authority for knowing that Clamhenry is in immediate
correspondence with your friend ; and that he has visited her
on the most familiar footing at Maplewood for some time
past.”
“We have scarcely been apart for the last four months,”
eried the Countess, warming in defence of her dear Lady
Grasmere; “and it has often given me concern to observe
the annoyance caused her by Lord Clanhenry's importunities.
Nothing but the dread of his satirical wit, and the influence
he exercises in the great world, has prevented her from for-
bidding him the house. To be made the subject of one of
Lord Clanhenry’s caricatures or lampoons, amounts, it ap-
pears, to banishment from society.”
“Had not Lady Grasmere originally experienced some
degree of predilection for those fashionable accomplishments
—” Lord Brancepeth began : but the Countess would not
suffer him to proceed. -
“No, no, no l’” she exclaimed. “Believe me, Eleanor
has better tāste. Nothing does she so unexceptionably revile,
as the hollowness, persifiage, mockery, practised by such
THE PAVILION. 221
men as Clanhenry and Fitzgerald. Nay, I have even heard
her adduce, as the noblest trait in your own character (when
citing Lord Brancepeth to me as the model of an English
gentleman), your perfect frankness and candour.”
In the ardour of defending an absent friend, the Countess
did not perceive how far—how much too far—she had ven-
tured; and Brancepeth, gratified beyond description, was
careful not to call her attention to her own indiscretion, so as
to induce her retraction of the flattering inference. He had
just then, indeed, no further opportunity of persisting in an
investigation so interesting to his feelings; for Lady Beau-
lieu, bent on removing the unhandsome prejudices malici-
ously excited against the new ambassadress, had seized the
opportunity of pointing out to their illustrious host, (with
whom she was an old-established friend and favourite,) the
extreme beauty of Countess Reppenheim’s countenance, as
she sat engaged in animated conversation with his favourite
Brancepeth. Touching, with a woman’s ready tact, on every
point of the Countess's history calculated to invest her with
interest or importance in the eyes of the Regent, she described
her intimacy with the beautiful Louisa of Prussia, (that
heroine of royal romance () and the high distinction with
which she was still endowed at the court of her native country
by the force of that touching reminiscence. No person was
at hand to Smeer, to quiz, or to decry; and Lady Beaulieu
had the satisfaction to perceive that her plain tale produced
the desirable effect on a mind naturally imbued with noble
and generous impulses.
A few minutes afterwards, she had the gratification to
perceive that his Royal Highness was sharing with Lord
Brancepeth the animated Smiles of the Countess; who, too
much engrossed by the interest of the conversation in which
she had been previously engaged, to remember one word of
Clanhenry's malignant lessons or Fitzgerald's mystifications,
now appeared before his discriminating eyes in her natural
character of a mild, unassuming, simple, true-hearted
woman. When the Prince, pleased by her gentle tones and
graceful demeanour, proceeded to lead the discourse to her
native court, her native country, her past life, her beloved
mistress,—the genuine and unexaggerated tone of deep feel-
ing with which she recurred to that almost sacred subject,
interested him still more warmly in her favour. Countess
Reppenheim possessed moreover a fund of valuable informa-
tion connected with the late war and the imperial usurper,
222 THE PAWILION.
derived from actual observation; she had been present at that
memorable interview when the Queen was sent to intercede,
and intercede in vain, for the cession of Magdeburgh; and,
on a topic upon which she was so fully informed as well as so
earnestly interested, was eloquent and impressive beyond the
ordinary powers of her sex. It was not till he retired for the
night, that his Royal Highness abandoned the post by her
side, so long neglected, and now so highly and justly appre-
ciated.
The circle was petrified. Domdaniel having retreated to
a corner, was writhing his trunk from side to side in speech-
less agony.—The bore —the moulon qui réve ſ—the rejected,
contemned Countess Reppenheim had held the Prince
Regent entranced in familiar conversation for one hour and
forty minutes, by the musical pendule that told the golden
hours on the chimney-piece —Lady Beaulieu triumphed ;
and nothing was talked of next day but the caprices of ſor-
tune, and the caprices of royalty. A more startling scene,
however, was still in reserve. Before the close of the afternoon,
cards were issued for an impromptu ball to be given on that
very evening ; and amid the flutter of silks and Satins
occasioned by the suddenness of the event, a thousand mys-
terious rumours became partially audible.
Lord Clamhenry, was perhaps, the only man in Brighton
whose ear they did not reach. In addition to his ordinary
packet of long wafer-sealed epistles, the mail of that fatal
night had brought down from town his man of business,
wearing what the newspapers call a most imposing attitude.
An interview was appointed between them that could not be
neglected ; and two large tin cases filled with deeds of mort-
gage, annuity, insurance, assurance, and all the other paper'
currency of a ruined man, accompanied Mr. Cursitor to his
lordship's lodgings. Argument was unavailing, evasion
useless, compromise out of the question, procrastination im-
possible. Mr. Cursitor rendered it as apparent, not only as
words, but as deeds could make it, that his lordship was an
insolvent debtor, a bankrupt Peer ; and that, unless the
matrimonial redemption announced in his recent letters were
already secured, all was over with him
On that point, Clanhenry took defensive ground. If not
Secured, it was secure ; and if Mr. Cursitor would do him
the honour to dine with him, and remain four-and-twenty
hours at Brighton, all should be satisfactorily arranged. He
admitted it had cost him. some scruples to sacrifice himself
THE PAW II, ION, 223
for money; but the call of honour should now be obeyed.
He would dispatch his proposals in the course of the after-
noon ; and Mr. Cursitor might bear back to London, early
on the following morning, intelligence that Lady Gasmere
was at his disposal, and her eight thousand a year at the
disposal of his creditors. And while he hastened to pen an
epistle to the Wiscountess, profuse in protestations of disinter-
ested and unlimited attachment, it certainly did impart some
little additional triumph to his feelings to reflect on the
mortification with which Fitzgerald, and the pain with which
the outwitted Brancepeth would hear of his acceptance.
Apprehensive that some latitude of speech might circulate a
rumour of the object of Cursitor's visit, should he suffer the
man of business to become a man of pleasure and escape out
of his sight, his lordship renounced for that day his morning
lounge and daily visits; and, having received with the rest
of the court circle an invitation for the evening, contented
himself with the certainty that before it was time for him to
dress and go to the ball, it would be time for his solicitor to
undress and go to bed.
The fatal hour arrived; and, nauseated by the first bad
dinner he had eaten for six weeks and the first bottle of port
he had tasted for six years, heated, flushed, indigestive,
having vainly waited till the last moment for Lady Gras-
mere's expected answer, he at length shook hands with
Cursitor (who now saw two fat clients before him instead of
one) and stepped into his cabriolet. Hé, was very late
When the great portal of the illuminated hall unclosed to
receive him, the exhilarating sound of music instantly
greeted his ear; and groups of gay and glancing figures
within, warned that the fête had already commenced; he
beheld the Bishopess pluming herself like a peacock, and
the Physicianess strutting like a jackdaw. When lo!
just as he entered the ball room at one door, a general stir
and subsequent stillness throughout the apartment warned
him that the Prince Regent was entering on the other. All
eyes were directed towards the spot. A lady splendidly
attired was leaning on his Royal Highness's arm ; a lady,
whose exquisite beauty now seemed to strike the beholders
for the first time. It is true they had often seen her before ;
often radiant as now with diamonds; often arrayed as now
in pearly satin. But never before had they beheld her
dignified by the graceful homage of the Regent; never
before had they seen her blush so sweetly as when presented
224 THE PAVILION.
by his Royal Highness to Lady Beaulieu and others of his
peculiar circle, as “my new and amiable friend, Lady
Grasmere.”
“What the devil is the meaning of all this 2'' inquired
Clanhenry (frighted from his propriety by port wine and
consternation) of the panic-struck Domdaniel by his side.
“Only that Brancepeth having this morning, announced
his approaching marriage to our illustrious friend, our illus-
trious friend most condescendingly resolved to—”
“Ay, ay! I understand,” interrupted Clanhenry, shiver-
ing with the shock. “Poor Fitzgerald, eh –One can't
help feeling a little for poor Fitzgerald,” he continued;
suddenly striving to recover himself, and disguise his vexa-
tion from the K.C.B. of many echoes.
“Fitzgerald —What can it signify to him : Have you
not heard that Fred.'s engagement with little Clerimont is
formally announced by Lady Mary 3 And the worst of it is,
he has sold himself a blind bargain ; for the Duchess of
Keswycke died this morning, and has left him universal
legatee Handsome Fred, by waiting half a day longer,
might have escaped a wife with a fiery head and still more
fiery temper. But see; here comes Brancepeth to be con-
gratulated. Clamhenry ! where are you ?—Has any one
seen Lord Clanhenry 7–God bless my soul he must have
disappeared while I was talking to him '''
No one had seen, no one did see his lordship again that
night. But two days afterwards, when the Morning Post
announced an approaching alliance between the Right Hon.
Lord Brancepeth and the Dowager Wiscountess Grasmere,
the solemnization of which was to be honoured with the
presence of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, an
extract from the Brighton paper furthermore edified the
creditors of the luckless Clamheury with intelligence that his
lordship was one of the passengers on board the last packet
from Newhaven to Calais ; an incident which caused no
little scandal and speculation in the illustrious circle of
THE PAVILION.
END OF WOL UNIE I,
DO NOT CHR

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
A 512035”

*:）*）\ſ*（.*?）&-： -、,，.：…！*·→- * * .**|- c.-``````.ae * *~ --...！！！~, wł.: ºr ,--tº► -№ №g， *$5×
<᧠7. ***
?ſ&ºººººº.. “ ！
, ， ， * 4.