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1

GAMBLER'S WIFE.
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE YOUNG PRIMA DONNA,” “THE BELLE OF THE FAMILY,” “THE ·
OLD DOWER HOUSE," &c.
“A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain-
One whom the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony-
A man of compliments—"
3
LOVE'S LABOUR Lost.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
No. 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1845.
Se48
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
"Were honour to be scann'd by long descent
From ancestors illustrious, I could vaunt
A lineage of the greatest."-RowE.
Ir was on a lovely evening in the month of
August that young Arthur Balfour, having glad-
ly forsaken the noise, glare, and confusion of a
London season, entered the splendid domain of
Sutherland Manor. His father and the present
proprietor of this lovely spot were cousins. Or-
phans from infancy, they had been brought up
as brothers, under the care of their grandfather,
who lavished the most tender affection on the
two boys, rendered still more precious from be-
ing the only scions of a house of which he was
not a little proud; and certainly, for antiquity
and honour, it ranked among the first of the
commoners in the land. The two boys grew to
manhood; and with increased pride and delight
did the old man regard the noble youths des-
tined to perpetuate his ancient name.
A severe blow, which greatly wounded that
pride, was, however, soon inflicted by one of
them, for Arthur, the eldest-married!
And was it some lowborn damsel who was
to contaminate the gentle blood of the Suther-
lands? No he wedded the only daughter of
a peer; but it was the idea that a Sutherland
should submit to give up that name which
caused the offended blood to rush into the old
man's face the name for which heroes had
fought and bled!-to take another in order to
induce a haughty earl to stoop to give his
daughter to a commoner! He was thankful he
was not his heir, but the child of his youngest
son; still there, were but too few Sutherlands
remaining to afford to lose even one: broad
lands would also have been his; but no mortal,
not possessing the name of Sutherland, should
ever own a rood of the estate.
Five years after this event, Mark Sutherland,
on whom the whole weight of the affection of
the grandfather had now fallen, increased it
tenfold by choosing a wife who, for virtue, fam-
ily, and beauty, was worthy of the house she
had entered-moreover, whose parents were
not unmindful of the eligibility of her marriage,
Some years of this happy union passed away,
and the health of the elder Mr. Sutherland grad-
ually declined. Fain would he have seen a son
of his grandson sporting in his halls before he
was "gathered to his fathers;" but two fair
girls alone clung to his knee and gambolled by
his side-still they were Sutherlands; and
though many more great-grandchildren might
yet be born to him, he could even contemplate
with satisfaction the whole power and dignity
of his house being on some future day vested in
the person of the lovely little Maud-for a fe-
male had before swayed its honoars without
diminution of its prosperity--the neiress being
|
I also privileged to retain her maiden name, and
to bestow it on the husband of her choice; and'
when the young Arthur Balfour was sent an-
orphan to Sutherland Manor, and was received
and cherished by his venerable relative with
the tenderest affection, the death of his father
having banished from the breast of the kind old
man every feeling of resentment, still the noble
boy in no degree robbed his baby lady cousins
of their rank in his consideration, for Arthur
was not a Sutherland! Mark, however, some-
times conceived the erroneous idea that a feel-
ing of regret lurked in the heart of his grand-
father at the probability of a female succeeding
His character was no-
to his venerated estate.
ble and disinterested, and it was with sincerity
that he constantly suggested the expediency of
securing the inheritance to his young cousin.
He would often say, "I already love Arthur as
my son, and, to speak the truth, I have ever had
a strong prejudice in favour of the Salic law."
The old man, however, would gently reprove
him for this sentiment, and always firmly op-
posed the proposition.
this
It was after an amicable argument up
subject, a few days previous to his leaving the
Manor for London, to try the aid of the best med-
ical advice, urged by the entreaties of those
around him, that, having for some time watched.
with a thoughtful smile the gentle attentions of
Arthur to the little girls as they gambolled before-
him, Mr. Sutherland suddenly exclaimed,
"Remember, Mark! Maud must be your heir-
ess unless you have a son. Arthur is indeed a
noble boy, and would be an ornament to the
name of which he was deprived by his poor fa-
ther's fault; but such a fault was too great to
be overlooked in the manner you propose. No!
if ever he resume the name of Sutherland, let it
be for the sake of becoming the husband of little
Maud. Ah! pretty May," he exclaimed, "it is
not of you I am speaking, so you need not stroke
his cheek, and look so lovingly in his bright eyes.
And you," he added, turning to the mother of
the beauteous girls, "will you, dearest´ Mary,
promise to use your influence with your daugh
ter in favour of this young lover, and give me the
hope that hereafter my wishes may be fulfilled."
"If," Mrs. Sutherland smilingly replied, fixing:
her large dark eyes with fond admiration on the
handsome boy, who was warmly defending his
gentler companion from the rather overbearing
authority of his intended wife, "if he change not
greatly, I think much influence on my part will
scarcely be required. May your wish be accom-
plished, my dear sir," she continued; "but F
confess that I should ever shrink from influen-
cing the inclinations of my children on the subject
of marriage," and Mrs. Sutherland looked at her
husband, as if wishing to hear him express hia
concurrence in her sentiment.
}
553061
4
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"To tell you the truth," he observed, smiling, | his grandfather with regard to Arthur and his
"I do not think there is much chance of Miss daughter Maud, and it was with pleasure he rec-
"Maud's ever allowing her will to be opposed by ollected them. Balfour was worthy of his child :
any one more than she can possibly avoid. See his choice, he was sure, would never be influ-
how she already lords it over poor, gentle little enced by mere beauty alone, or any worldly con-
May, who, on the contrary, looks as if her will siderations. And my daughter," he thought
would ever be that of those she loves. I do not
promise poor Arthur an easy life, if he is to be
under the dominion of those bright eyes.'
"Ah, she will be a splendid creature!" replied
the old man; "but do not spoil her. Far be it
* from me to wish that noble spirit, which so well
becomes a Sutherland, broken, or severely curb-
ed; but those restless orbs and that fiery brow
already betoken a temper which will require
much judicious management. And remember,
my dear Mary, that a meek and gentle spirit is
the loveliest attribute of a woman-of every age,
of every station-from the queen on her throne
to the peasant in her lowly dwelling: think of
what I say, my dear children, when the old man
is in his grave, and train up these two sweet
girls with judicious firmness, suiting the treat-
ment to their different tempers and dispositions;
may they only be like their mother-my excel-
lent Mary, and then my most anxious wishes for
them will be satisfied.”
and it was with the pride of a father-" shall
be wooed for herself, and not for her fortune."
He forbore to dwell on the merits or attractions
of his children, for with such a wish lurking in
his heart he felt that it was a delicate subject;
but though he always answered Arthur's eager
inquiries concerning his cousins with the smi-
ling promise that he would soon have an oppor-
tunity of judging for himself of their various
qualifications and merits, the young soldier read
more from the glistening eye of intense tender-
ness when he mentioned the name of his wife,
and the fond look of pride and confidence with
which he spoke of his daughters, than if he
had passed hours in descanting on their perfec-
tions.
It was at length arranged that, as Mr. Suth-
erland would be for some time longer detained
in town, the young man should precede him to
the Manor, and arrive there the day on which
he had been expected. He, however, insisted
A few days after this conversation, the vener-on not informing his family of this change of
able Mr. Sutherland left his much-loved home, plans, and, charging Arthur with a note of ex-
and only returned to it to be laid in the burial-planation to Mrs. Sutherland, bade him adieu
place of his ancestors.
Arthur Balfour was not suffered to remain
much longer under the guardianship of his cous-
ins, being claimed by his aristocratic relations,
who, however, considered they had performed
their duty by placing him at Eton, and at an early
age giving him a commission in a crack regiment,
which was soon after ordered on foreign service.
This was fortunate for the young man ; qualified
as he was in every way to shine in society, he
might, had he remained in the circle of fashion
\ and idleness, have been led into a vortex of dis-
sipation calculated to alter the bias of a charac-
ter which nature had formed in a most noble
mould. Much, indeed, does the happiness and
dignity of a young man's future destiny depend
on the society he forms, and, consequently, the
impression he imbibes on his first entrance into
the world!
It was not till seven years had elapsed that,
with a name standing high in his profession for
honour and high principles, his innate vigour of
mind strengthened, and his taste enriched by
travel, that Arthur Balfour returned to his na-
tive country.
for a season, and Balfour, with extreme de-
light, found himself rapidly whirling far away
from the crowded ballrooms and dusty streets
of London, in which he had passed the last four
months, during the height of what is called the
Season!
CHAPTER II.
"O tell me where
Could majesty and power
Be clothed in forms so beautiful and fair?"
"It cannot be that years have pass'd
Since last I saw the place;
For years bring change, and here is not
Of any change a trace."—Anon.
It was on the lovely evening before described
that the young soldier approached one of those
fair country homes for which our island stands
pre-eminent.
They strike with astonished admiration trav-
ellers who have been absent in foreign lands,
and Sutherland Manor, situated in one of the
most beautiful parts of Cumberland, where lake,
wood, and mountain all combine their charms,
was perhaps more calculated to call forth those
feelings than any other domain in England.
Arthur Balfour had not been transported from
London in a few hurried hours, by the aid of
steam and noise, but by the less rapid agency
of post-horses. Thus had he been enabled to
feast his eyes at pleasure on the beautiful scene-
ry through which he passed, during his route
from the south.
But it was his handsome person which per-
haps gained for him most favour and approba-
tion in the fashionable circles to which he was
again admitted; he was patronised and courted
by the great, the rich, the beautiful! His mind,
however, had acquired too healthy, too fastidi-
ous a tone to be long satisfied with such frivo-
lous companionship, and he turned from the gay,
trifling, glittering worldlings, to the calm, intel-
lectual Mark Sutherland, who happened to be in
London at this time, and it was with real delight When the carriage rolled swiftly through the
that he received from him a cordial invitation noble avenue, and then stopped at the well-re-
to exchange the glare and confusion of his pres-membered porch of his "boyhood's home," so
ent mode of life for the peace and serenity of
the country. Mr. Sutherland, on his part, as he
daily became better acquainted with the merits
of his young cousin, remembered the wishes of
familiar did every object appear to him, that
even if the same children had sprung out to
greet him at that moment, he would not have
been very much startled.
1
م
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
5
{
The servants, however, headed by a venera- | rustic bench, beneath the shady branches of the
ble housekeeper, threw open wide the oaken tree, and apparently watching the movements
door to receive their expected master, and on of the stately birds.
perceiving their mistake, civilly ushered him
into the spacious hall, from the lofty walls of
which hung many a portrait of the gallant knights
and haughty dames of his ancient race.
On hearing the sound of a footstep she turned
a sweet face towards him, a bright blush at the
unexpected sight of a stranger spreading over
her delicate features. She rose, and slightly
bowing, stood as if awaiting an explanation.
Balfour knew at once that she was a Sutherland,
but which of the sisters he could not feel sure;
though certainly those mild hazel eyes, and that
gentle expression, reminded him more of his lit-
tle friend May than of the restless, bright-eyed
Maud, whom he ever remembered equally as his
torment and delight.
He did not, however, pause to consider, but
approaching her, said,
There is a feeling of nervous embarrassment
experienced by many on a first arrival after a
long absence, particularly when alone and un-
known-the task of introduction devolving on
one's self. Balfour was therefore not sorry, re-
membering that eleven years had elapsed since
he had been seen by his family, to be able to
announce himself to Mrs. Power, and to request
her to deliver to her mistress the note he had
brought from Mr. Sutherland, explaining the
reason of his unlooked-for appearance. The "I do not presume to hope, Miss Sutherland,
old lady, on recognising at last in the tall, man- that you can recollect me, though perhaps you
ly form before her, the pretty boy she had for- may still have some slight remembrance of Ar-
merly so dearly loved for his own and for his thur Balfour, as he was in those joyful days
father's sake, soon changed from her civil pom- when his home was this beautiful spot, and he
posity to the most delighted surprise and admi- the happiest of the happy. I can, however, al-
ration. It was some time before the good old most venture to say that this is not Maud Suth-
woman had sufficiently poured forth her expres-erland to whom I am now speaking, but her
sions of astonishment and ecstasy to admit of
her informing him that the ladies were out, but
that they would shortly return; and having
ushered him through the long oaken vestibule
into the spacious drawing-room, after lingering
for a little more chat, she left him, in order, as
she said, to give directions for the preparation |
of his sleeping apartment. Arthur walked to
the open window, and gazed upon the beautiful
scene before him a scene which had been grad-
ually fading from his memory, assuming the
form of an agreeable though indistinct dream,
but which now seemed as familiar as if he had
never left it. He stepped out upon the broad
stone terrace to enjoy the cool evening breeze, la-
den with the scent of the beautiful flowers whichment of Mr. Sutherland's return, and to witness
grew in such cultivated luxuriance around.
The house stood on an eminence, command-
ing a splendid and extensive view of park and
wood, bordered in the distance by majestic pur-
ple mountains, furrowed with glens and rapid
torrents. From the terrace sloped a spacious
verdant lawn, at the base of which might be
seen the pure, tranquil lake, glittering through
the numerous woody and rocky knolls, of vari-
ous elevations and sizes, which adorned its mar-
gin.
He well remembered how once he had dis-
dained the winding path down which he was
now tempted to wander, preferring rather to
run from the top to the bottom of the slope, at
the imminent peril of being precipitated into the
blue lake below.
sister."
"Arthur Balfour!" exclaimed May, in de-
lighted surprise; and she extended, with the
utmost cordiality, both her hands.
"You are
quite right," she continued, smiling sweetly;
"I am May: I also remember you-at least, I
fancy I do. I never could have entirely forgot-
ten you, hearing as I do your name so constantly
mentioned by all who knew you here.
"Mamma and Maud," she continued, "are
now on the lake-we are expecting my father;
and as he sometimes stops at a little village on
the other side and is rowed over, they went
there in the hope of meeting him."
Arthur was obliged to disclose the postpone-
the disappointment depicted on the counte-
nance of his fair cousin. It was vexatious to
be the bearer of such unwelcome tidings to
those to whom he was so anxious to render
himself acceptable.
May feared she had allowed her disappoint-
ment to be too apparent, so she kindly told him
of the sincere pleasure she was certain her
mother would feel in again seeing one of whom
she always spoke with such affection.
"And my father," she added, "has made us
quite jealous lately-his letters are filled with
your praises !"
The conversation then turned on their youth-
ful reminiscences; and when Arthur broke
forth into enthusiastic, but sincere and heartfelt
praises of her father, the eyes of the daughter,
so gentle and quiet in their usual expression,
beamed with bright animation, lighting up her
features with such a glow of unmingled pleasure
that Arthur thought he had never seen so sweet
a face.
He stood for some time by the water's edge
with feelings of rapture and admiration swelling
in his heart as he gazed on this spectacle of na-
ture's loveliness. His attention was soon di-
verted by the movements of two snow-white
swans at a little distance from the spot; they The moments fled swiftly the fair May
were fluttering their wings and stretching their seeming to have forgotten her late disappoint-
graceful necks, evidently in the act of receiving ment, and Balfour becoming so perfectly satis-
from the hand of some one on the bank their fied with the enjoyment of the peace-inspiring
evening meal, for fragments of bread were float-influence of the tranquil evening, and the so-
ing on the surface of the lake. The foliage of a
spreading tree concealed the person from Ar-
thur's sight; he approached gently, and per-
ceived the figure of a young girl seated on a
ciety of his gentle companion, whose quiet
cheerfulness so well accorded with the scene
before him, that he began to feel no wish for
any interruption.
$
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
*All around was still and calm; the noon of night
*
Was fast approaching; up the unclouded sky
The glorious moon pursued her path of light,
And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh;
No sound save that of the night wind's gentle sigh
Could reach the ear, and that so softly blew,
It scarcely stirr'd, in sweeping lightly by,
The acacia's airy foliage."
It was indeed reviving, after many months
passed in London, in society little interesting
to the feelings of the young man, to gaze on
this scene of tranquil beauty, and to listen to
the soft voice of the graceful girl by his side.
Arthur Balfour felt inexpressibly happy.
Their quiet tête-à-tête was soon interrupted,
for the splashing of a light oar was heard, and
"Sweetly o'er the lake"
resounded the notes of a guitar, accompanied
by one of the most beautiful voices ever heard.
Very few are insensible to the charms of mu-
sic, and on the water the effect of melody is
ever heightened at this moment, the scenery,
the twilight hour, the enchantment of the strain,
all combined to excite the imagination of the
young man. He could, indeed, have well be-
lieved that he had been transported into a land
of enchantment.
"Oh! there they are!" cried, May; and,
after a few minutes' pause, a tiny skiff, which
had till now been hid by an islet richly studded
with birch, alders, and weeping willows, ap-
peared in sight, swiftly sped by a single rower.
It was not yet sufficiently near to enable those
on the bank to distinguish the countenances of
the individuals in the boat, but it could be
plainly seen that they were gazing earnestly to-
wards the spot where May and Arthur stood.
A voice as sweet, though less powerful, mingled
with the clear, young, warbling notes which had
at first entranced the ear of Balfour. Nearer
and nearer they approached, and it was evident,
as May observed, that they mistook him for her
father, for it was his favourite song which wel-
no small share of conscious beauty, with per-
haps less of vanity than proud indifference.
The boat had now touched the bank, and May,
bending forward, said, in a low tone,
"Dear mamma! my father does not return
for some time, but he has sent you a note by Mr.
Arthur Balfour!"
land, a smile of pleasure lighting up a face which,
though it had lost the bloom of youth, was still
very lovely.
very lovely. It was the same face which had
beamed with kindness on Arthur in his boyhood,
and in the intervening years it had never faded
from his recollection; he had seen it in his
dreams, and there it was again, as sweet, as al-
most heavenly, as he had ever pictured it.
She gave him her hand to assist her from the
boat, received him with affectionate warmth
of feeling, and looked at the young man with
earnestness, as if seeking to trace in his hand-
some face a resemblance to the little Arthur she
had so dearly loved. Mrs. Sutherland then
turned to her daughters.
"Arthur Balfour!" exclaimed Mrs. Suther-
"
May has already renewed her acquaintance
with you, I perceive," she said, “but, Maud, you
must also welcome your cousin."
with a look more of curiosity than cordiality,
Maud, who had been regarding that cousin
coldly extended her hand and cast down her
beautiful eyes as she listened to his words of
greeting; and then she seemed to think she had
conferred sufficient honour, for she hastily turn-
ed to her mother, who was reading her hus-
band's letter, and questioned her, in the tone of
a spoiled child when disappointed of a promised
pleasure, as to the reason of her father's non-
arrival. There was something in that letter
which had caused Mrs. Sutherland to raise her
eyes, and for a moment fix them with a thought-
ful glance on Arthur and her eldest daughter as
they stood side by side; but she answered her
inquiries, and then taking Arthur Balfour's arm,
comed him to his home; and while one of the
"I am neither so nimble nor so strong," she
ladies joyfully waved her handkerchief, the oth-said, as they began to ascend the hill,
er, as the boat drew near, throwing down her
guitar and seizing an oar, herself guided the
boat. As thus she stood, her head thrown back,
her form erect, her dark, long auburn ringlets
waved slightly by the evening breeze, her rosy
lips parted, which seemed to speak the word
Father," she looked indeed "The Lady of the
Lake," Scott's own beautiful "Ellen Douglas."
Arthur Balfour almost held his breath, dread-
ing lest this beautiful vision should vanish;
and, indeed, a change soon came over it, for at
length, becoming aware of her mistake, the look
of joy with which Balfour had at first been re-
garded changed to that of surprised scrutiny,
and the fair steerer, though she did not
"Push her light shallop from the shore,"
still, at the sight of a stranger, her efforts to
forward it entirely ceased.
She rested on her oar, and fixed on Arthur
her large bright eyes with a keen glance of dis-
appointment; and when she beheld how ear-
nestly the stranger looked upon her, there was
mingled with the deepening colour of her cheek
a compression of the curling upper lip, an al-
most imperceptible toss of the head, which im-
pressed upon the gazer's mind the idea that,
joined to a due sense of womanly modesty,
there reigned in the breast of that lovely form
as when
you used to challenge me to a race, Arthur, up
and down the slope. While I have been gradu-
ally failing in health and agility, you have been
progressing in bodily power; you must now ren-
der aid instead of requiring it from me, and, in
future, be content with Maud and May as com-
petitors, though you formerly disdained the speed
of their little legs; but tell me, what do you
think of your playmates of days gone by?"
Arthur pressed the hand that hung upon his
arm, and was sincere in the warmth with which
he eulogized his cousin May: "She was," he
said, "lovely as in childhood, still possessing
that winning gentleness which had ever distin-
guished her in infancy." Mrs. Sutherland listen-
ed to this eulogium with a gratified smile; but
when he paused, she looked with cagerness to-
wards her other child, as if wishing, but, at the
same time, hesitating to ask his opinion of her.
The eyes of Balfour followed the direction of
Mrs. Sutherland's glance, and were soon fixed
on the sisters, who were walking together at
some little distance, their fair arms encircling
each other's waists,
"A lily of the valley,
A rose in all its pride!"
and Arthur turned to Mrs. Sutherland and ex-
claimed, "Maud is beautiful-very 'beautiful !
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
But," he added, inwardly, "give me the gentle | doubt much whether my courage would be now
lily rather than this proud rose with all its sufficient to resist such a foe-and such fire!"
beauty!"
CHAPTER III.
""Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,
But the deep magic in the chords
And in the lips, that gave such power
As music knew not till that hour."
Lallah Rooke.
And he shaded his eyes with much terror from
the brilliant orbs which were laughingly fixed
upon him.
The conversation was carried on in this
strain for some time, till at length Mrs. Suther-
land begged for her usual evening amusement
of music, and Balfour again heard that beautiful
voice which had before delighted his ear. No
expense had been spared in its cultivation, but
in this instance nature still triumphed over art,
for its rich melody could scarcely be improved.
May also sang sweetly, and her voice blended
well with that of her sister, but it did not pos-
How versatile is man! Notwithstanding the
inward thought expressed by Arthur Balfour in
favour of the gentle May, when he again joined
the party at the tea-table his eyes wandered
more to the "proud rose" than to the "gentle
lily" but the cordial smile and kind empresse-sess the same power and compass.
ment with which Maud made room for him by
her side produced as different an effect, both on
her beauty and on Arthur's feelings respecting
it, as sunshine contrasted with gloomy weather
on a beautiful landscape. Oh! how repugnant
to all men is an ungracious, repellant manner in
a woman, and how irresistible and universal a
charm-far surpassing beauty-is that animated
suavity of address, which (as some old author
observes, and young ladies ought to learn by
heart) "adds elegance to the loveliest form, and
causeth beauty, like the rose it resembleth, to
retain its sweetness, even when its bloom is
withered." The truth is, that during their walk
homeward May had been repeating to her sister
all the admiration and affection which Arthur
Balfour had expressed in speaking of their fa-
ther; she knew that it would gratify Maud, and
May was right; for although she merely said,
"And who would not praise our father is he
not the most perfect of men? a person must be
blind, or contemptible indeed, who did not ap-
preciate his superior merits!" still the effect
was favourable to Arthur Balfour. Mrs. Power
was in the drawing-room when he entered, on
the plea of superintending the preparations for
tea, but in reality for the purpose of hearing
what her mistress had to say on the subject of
the new arrival, and of delivering her own com-
ments on the topic in question.
Mrs. Sutherland, who, fatigued by the exer-
cise she had taken, was reclining on the sofa
enjoying the music, and watching with pleasure
Arthur's admiration of her favourite child, sud-
denly exclaimed,
"Do you retain the musical talent you pos-
sessed as a boy? I had made you quite a good
singer when you left me."
"I have never lost the taste for it acquired
by your instruction," Balfour replied.
"Ours
is a musical regiment. The band under our
auspices is one of the finest in the service: I
only wish you could hear it.”
:
"But, as that is not quite possible at pres-
ent," interrupted Maud, "I think it would be as
well if you would give us a specimen of your
own performance. Mamma inquired whether
you could sing; and as I plainly perceive that
you can, I beg you will begin, without giving us
the trouble of pressing you any farther. It is
very fortunate," she continued, "that you do
like music, for here we almost exist upon it.”
Arthur, however, assured her that his talent
had hitherto been confined to taking parts in
glees, trios, &c., with his brother officers, and
insisted with some firmness on being excused
for that night at least.
Mrs. Sutherland and May at length united in
his cause, seeing his evident reluctance, plead-
ing as an apology the fatigue of his long journey.
"We will not let him off so easily another
time," added May.
her will, and she was silently rising from the
instrument, as if disdaining to use farther en-
treaties, when May whispered in the ear of the
offender,
"Do sing to please Maud."
"Mrs. Power has been entertaining us with
anecdotes of 'the merry days when we were
young,' Mr. Balfour-or Arthur, I suppose I Maud opened her large eyes, and fixed them
may call you, though we are but third cousins," upon him with anger and astonishment at hav-
said Maud, as the housekeeper, having exhaust-ing found one so bold as for a moment to resist
ed her admiration and employment, left the
room. By her account, it appears I behaved
very ill to you; I think I do remember!" she
exclaimed, laughing and raising her dark eyes
as if endeavouring to bring back the past more
vividly before her; " yes, now I quite remem- Whether his obstinacy were quelled by the
ber being rather jealous of your attentions to gentle expression which accompanied this last
May, who would insist upon sitting upon your petition, or by the fiery glance previously dart-
knee for hours together, stroking your face ored upon him by the imperious beauty, we know
playing with your curls, while you told her sto-
ries-yes, May, you need not blush; it is true,
indeed. I do not think," she added, again turn-
ing to Balfour, "that I attacked you personally
—perhaps because your sense of gallantry was
too great to permit you to resent it; so I tyran-
nized over my rival, and then you were angry
enough: May found you a brave champion."
"And so, I trust, she will ever find me in
her cause," answered Arthur, smiling; "but I
only hope it may be against some other enemy;
for though I have grown older and braver, I
not, but Arthur, turning towards the pianoforte,
looked over a heap of music which lay near it,
and suddenly stopped when he came to the glee,
Blow, gentle gales."
May, who had followed him, on perceiving
this, joyfully exclaimed,
<
"Oh, I see by the expression of your counte-
nance that you sing this! Maud, pray do come!
Arthur can sing Blow, gentle gales.' We al-
ways so much wished to find a third voice.
Papa will be delighted: it is his favourite trio."
Maud, who had walked to the window, and
8
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
was at that moment seemingly intent on watch- | the Sutherlands. Every wish was gratified.
ing the lovely moon as it sailed in majestic
beauty from beneath the dark clouds, and cast
its mild radiance on the clear lake, quite forgot
her offended dignity on hearing this explanation,
and was in another instant at the instrument,
joining in that sweet glee, which so well suited
their respective voices; and Maud vouchsafed
to smile again on Arthur Balfour.
He went to rest with that smile before his
eyes, and sweet sounds ringing in his ears,
which, notwithstanding the fatigues of the day,
for a considerable time banished sleep from his
eyelids.
CHAPTER IV.
"True happiness is not a plant of earth;
The search is fruitless if you seek it here:
'Tis an exotic of celestial birth,
And never blooms but in celestial air.
It rises oft and buds, but ne'er was seen
To blossom quite the climate is too cold."
IF Sutherland Manor looked beautiful in the
subdued light of eve, how much more lovely did
it appear lighted up by the bright radiance of
morning sunshine; and if Arthur Balfour on his
first arrival was delighted with its inmates, how
greatly did the charm increase as day by day he
gazed on their beauty, and discovered how su-
perior was their excellence of mind. It was to
him a second paradise, where happiness alone
could intrude; and when, during the following
week, Mr. Sutherland returned home, it was in-
deed the perfection of domestic bliss.
While journeying through this vale of tears,
now and then a picture may present itself of
seemingly unbounded prosperity; one over
which the sky appears so serene and cloudless,
that a dark spot can never be discerned to dim
its pure azure-where the sun of happiness is
forever shining! but, alas! those whom grief
has made wise look with trembling on the
brightness: "Can all this last? Man is born
to trouble," they exclaim; "and is it possible
that any of the race of Adam shall be exempted
from the usual sorrows of mortality?" Per-
haps, with the experience of misfortune, they
can perceive high above the heads of these fa-
voured mortals that same small, dark spot, "not
bigger than a man's hand," almost impercepti-
ble from the surrounding brightness; but that
it must increase, and spread, and in time cover
with its sackcloth hue the hitherto unclouded
firmament, is a matter of awful certainty; and
when, at last, the storm bursts, wo be to them
who have built their hopes on the quicksand of
this world's perishable bliss.
"Whatever passes as a cloud between
The mental eye of faith and things unseen,
Causing that bright world to disappear,
Or seem less lovely, or its hopes less dear,
THIS is our world—our idol-though it bear
Affection's impress or devotion's air."
Some might perchance think that one more
blessing might still be desired-a son to inherit
his father's fortune and name; but the father
himself thought not of it. In the full tide of his
prosperity, it was not on worldly possessions
that his heart was placed; he valued them only
as they contributed to the happiness of his
greatest treasure-his wife! And his love was
returned with as deep, as fervent an intensity,
mixed with a still purer, holier flame, "speak-
ing less of earth than heaven," which created
a beneficial influence on the husband. But even
from Paradise, with all its beauty and innocence,
sin could not be excluded; and so, in the love-
liest mind, some dark shade will ever mingle it-
self, teaching a sad lesson of the innate earth-
liness of human nature. In the heart of Mrs.
Sutherland this shade of imperfection arose from
the most tender of human feelings,
"A mother's love;"
but its excess became a sin-poisoned the
healthful tide, and drew into the snare her hus-
band but all she did was right in his eyes.
By the injunctions of old Mr. Sutherland not
to spoil young Maud, it was evident, even at that
early age, she was at least showing signs of a
disposition which required strict attention and
management: but was the old man's advice re-
garded and remembered?
Daily increasing in loveliness and fascination,
the child entwined herself more closely round
the mother's heart, and it became at last that
parent's sole thought to shield from every in-
fantine grief her heart's darling. And how did
the little girl bear this overweening fondness?
She soon began to know no will but her own
-no sorrow but when that will was crossed-
and that was indeed very seldom-for as in the
nursery she won every heart by her childish
grace, her merry, ringing laugh, which glad-
dened all around her, and made them bow down
willingly to her self-willed pride when it was ex-
cited, so was it also in the schoolroom. Her
governess, not understanding her disposition, at
first attempted to restrain with authority the
spirit of defiance and wilfulness which she dis-
covered in her pupil, but the gentle nature of the
preceptress quailed at the fierce resistance of
the child and the fiery glance shot from the dark
eyes, which in anger rested upon her. She tried
submission on her part, and the experiment suc-
ceeded. The little girl yielded of her own ac-
cord: gentleness on the part of Miss Meyer ef-
fected what severe authority never could have
accomplished, and she afterward astonished her
governess by her talent, good sense, and amia-
bility when not opposed!
The young Maud had strong feelings, and
those she loved she adored passionately; but
her affections had been confined to her father,
mother, and sister; as they never contradicted
her, it was difficult to discriminate whether her
love for them or her self-will would gain the vic-
And such was the danger that awaited the Suth-tory, if set in opposition one with the other.
erlands. From the day of their marriage until
the present hour, perfect felicity had been the lot
of Mark Sutherland and his wife. People are
generally supposed to have some skeleton in
their closet-some bête noir to create an alloy in
the best-regulated and happiest families-but
no such monster seemed to haunt the house of
Had a little judicious fear been mingled with
the love she bore her parents, her proud spirit
might have been kept in stricter bonds, for it
did once happen that she deeply wounded her
mother's heart--that heart which would willing-
ly have bled to save her from the slightest pang;
and then she in her turn trembled and quaileđ
1
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
idea made her cling more fondly round her be-
loved ones, it made her also strive to pierce
that dark cloud, to behold the glory beyond, and
there to raise her hopes, praying that those be-
longing to her might rise there also, far above
this world of sight and sense.
before her father's stern gaze, and the angry | from those she loved so well; and while the
words that fell from his lips, which had never
before breathed aught but tender endearments
towards her. She fell on his neck, and in an
agony of grief, as violent in its nature as her
former pride and passion, implored him not to
look upon her with such offended eyes, or she
must surely die. He pressed her to his heart
and said, while a tear glistened in his eye,
"Never again grieve your mother, Maud;
that I never can forgive."
SO.
But though the bloom on her cheek was giv-
ing place to a more delicate, a more hectic tinge,
she only seemed, in the eyes of her husband
and children, more lovely than ever; and though
her once light-bounding step could no longer
climb the steep hill or mountain, or bear the fa-
tigue of a gallop on the favourite horse, her hus-
band was so happy to find her leaning on his
arm as she walked, and her children to lead her
pony up the ascents or drive her in their quiet
little equipage, and do all in their power to raise
up that sweet, pleased, and gratified smile which
had now taken the place of the cheerful laugh
which used to gladden all around her, that they
sometimes forgot the cause which called for
these anxious attentions-her altered and de-
clining health.
And it was long, very long, ere she again did
Childhood passed, and sense, increasing
with her years, curbed in some degree the un-
ruly passions which had formerly swayed her
impulses. The year before this story commen-
ces, she had, on attaining her seventeenth year,
been presented at court, and mixed for a while
in the gayeties of a London season. Her pa-
rents, for her sake, left the comparative seclu-
sion in which they had for some time dwelt-
a seclusion, at least, from the London world!
Mrs. Sutherland's health was delicate, and their
children were so young, that, except for the
benefit of masters, they had rarely left their She was still as calmly cheerful, as uncom-
country home. But now they thought it right plaining, unmindful of self as she had ever been.
that Maud should see something of the world, The medical men, too-the most skilful of whom
in which, both on account of her brilliant pros- had been consulted in London-raised no alarm
pects and personal attractions, she was probably in the minds of her family: they only recom-
destined to play a conspicuous part. For amended great care and quiet, and these she nev-
while the fair debutante seemed dazzled by the er lacked. Even Maud forgot self in striving
éclat which attended her appearance, and her to administer to her mother's comfort
anxious parents began to fear that the pure and mother who had done so much for her and
innocent enjoyments which had hitherto gilded | May! we must say one word of her.
her young life would never again be so fully ap-
preciated; but in this instance they judged er-
roneously.
One day Maud appeared before them, and to
their great surprise entreated her parents, in a
manner which showed plainly that she intended
to brook no refusal, to take her back to her
“dear beautiful Sutherland," for she was sick to
death of London and its society.
They hesitated, but, as usual, she soon gain-
ed her point, and was as happy to escape from
the noble and fashionable crowd of admirers
who were in the train of the beautiful heiress,
as May to leave the masters and confined school-
room, where she, not having yet "come out,"
passed most of her London season; and while
some anxious and disappointed eyes were ga-
zing with astonishment and dismay at the list
of names in the "departures" of the " Morning
Post," and others searching amid the beauteous
maze of ballroom, opera, or fête for the star
which had shone for a little moment with such
brightness, Maud was flying back to her home,
as joyous, as callous of the sensation she had
created as a pet bird which escapes from its
cage, and flies to the woods and groves, far
away from those who have long fed and cher-
ished it.
Shortly after this period, the increased de-
cline of Mrs. Sutherland's health caused all
hearts to cling more tenderly around her. It
seemed as if at last, on the clear firmament
above them, a small, dark cloud was becoming
visible, but so gradually did it spread that they
could scarcely as yet perceive it. It was dim
to all save her on whom it more immediately
lowered. She knew, though distant the time
might be, that it must eventually separate her
B
the
She had fulfilled the prophecy of her father
while she was yet a child, that "her will would
be ever that of those she loved." And she was
fondly beloved-equally valued as her sister, but
in a different way she ruled that love with a
humbler, gentler, a more grateful sway.
was less lovely than Maud: her beauty, like
that of her namesake month, was fresh, smiling,
but more subdued, less dazzling than that of
her summer sister.
She
She won all hearts by her sweet temper, her
considerate thoughtfulness towards others, her
simplicity and naïveté.
"In truth, she was a light and lovely thing,
Fair as the opening flower of early Spring."
CHAPTER V.
"This should have been a noble creaturo; ne
Hath all the energy which would have made
A goodly frame of glorious clements,
Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,
It is an awful chaos-light and darkness,
And mind and dust, and passions and pure thoughts
Mix'd, and contending without end or order,
All dormant or destructive."-BYRON.
"We have been so happy and merry togeth-
er," said Mr. Sutherland one morning, about
a month after his return home, when the party
were all seated round the breakfast-table, read-
ing and commenting on the contents of their
various letters and newspapers, "we have been
so contented with ourselves that we have for-
gotten the duties. of hospitality, and have not
invited any one into the house for ages.
We
must have some one, Arthur, to help us to shoot
the partridges. I have, however, been quieting
my conscience by thinking how well this calm
י
10
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
|
life suits that lady," and Mr. Sutherland looked | yet been much initiated," said Arthur; "the
towards his wife.
"Oh yes, Mark!" she answered, imploringly,
"do let us remain at present as we are; the
partridges, I am sure, will not complain that
they are neglected, for you seem to give all the
country leave to shoot them, if I may judge
from the continual fire of shots kept up all day
-nor can our neighbours either."
"And what have you to say about it, Maud ?"
continued Mr. Sutherland; "ought we not to
give your cousin a little country gayety in re-
turn for having left London for the sake of our
society."
"I know not what my cousin may think on
the subject," was her reply; "but, for my part,
I had enough of both town and country gayety
last year I had no sooner escaped from the
former, hoping for a little peace and quiet, when
some of the same faces and same speeches
I had seen and heard in London followed me
here."
"Did they all come to shoot partridges ?"
asked Arthur, slyly, for he had heard of her nu-
merous conquests.
She blushed, and replied rather haughtily,
They might have come to try to ensnare
other game, but if such were their intention,
they went away without having succeeded in
the attempt."
"To give you a proof of how little tired I am
of my present life," said Arthur, "I will, if you
will permit me, take the liberty of refusing
these invitations I have just received, and re-
main," he added, more seriously, while he gave
a timid glance at one of the party," where I
have passed five weeks of such perfect happi-
ness that they have seemed but one.
Balfours are not a sporting family, and I do not
ever recollect meeting him anywhere-though,
now I think of it, I have some remembrance
of having heard his name mentioned, and of
having once, at the Opera, seen him, when he
was pointed out to me by a fair relative: I
knew not, however, that he was so noted a
character, or so intimate a friend of yours; it
would have then made a stronger impression
upon me."
"Not only a friend," replied Mrs. Sutherland,
"but a relative-he is my nephew-the son of
my sister, who was very dear to me, and for
her sake I love him, although circumstances
and different tastes and pursuits have much
separated us.
"I do not know what country air may do for
him," exclaimed Maud, "but I am sure, when I
saw him in London, I did not perceive anything
so very fascinating in his appearance, at least.
First of all, he is quite old, more than thirty,
and-"
"Have mercy, Maud, upon what you call
elderly gentlemen past thirty!" interposed her
father, laughing.
"However," continued the young beauty, "I
remember, when May and I were children, we
considered him all perfection, for many a holy-
day and amusement he begged for us, allowing
us to tease him and romp with him as much as
we pleased; and he used to kiss us so often,
and tell us we were beautiful, which, to tell you
the truth, always won my heart, though May
was indifferent to such praise."
All the party laughed heartily at this frank
avowal, and she continued:
"And then, a few years after, when the house
was full of visiters, and mamma occupied in
entertaining them, we poor wretches were con-
sequently kept still closer prisoners to the school-
room, and how delighted we felt on a long, wet
afternoon to see his merry face peep in, and to
hear him ask leave to enter-and so was Miss
Meyer, I am sure, though she always, at first,
endeavoured to look demure; but her gravity
All but the individual to whom that glance
was directed expressed the warm approval of
this proposal, and she concealed her face with
the newspaper which had been hastily taken
up, and seemed buried in its contents, so that
no one saw the bright glow which lighted up
her face, or the sparkling of her eyes, kindled
either by the words she had heard or some-
thing in the paragraph she seemed so attentive-soon disappeared, and it ended in her laughing
ly perusing.
"I have not, however, yet told you," said
Mr. Sutherland, "of the addition I expect to
our party. He is a self-invited guest, and al-
though you all appear to have become such
misanthropes, I think none of the ladies will
object when I name him as the fascinating, ir-
resistible Harry Percy."
"Is he indeed coming here?" exclaimed Mrs.
Sutherland, in a tone of interest mingled with
a shade of painful anxiety.
Maud removed the paper from before her
face, and even May suddenly stopped in the
very act of pouring out her mother's coffee, to
listen to this announcement, which, indeed,
seemed to have created so great a sensation
that Arthur's curiosity was excited.
"Who is this redoubtable Harry Percy?" he
exclaimed.
"Never proclaim your ignorance by asking
such a question," replied Mr. Sutherland, laugh-
ing. "Why, Balfour, not to know Harry Percy
proclaims at once yourself unknown-at least
in the sporting world."
"And in that world I cannot say I have as
nearly as much as we did at his droll stories;
and do you remember, May, how she used to
blush at his highflown compliments? not on her
beauty-he had the tact to know what flattery
would suit her best-her attainments were his
theme of praise, or, what she prized still more,
those of her pupils."
"Yes!" said May; "but she used, however,
to look grave if she saw by your telltale blushes,
Maud, that he was pouring compliments into
our ears, and then she would say that we were
too old to be told that we were pretty or clever.”
"But I am sure I liked him all the better for
it," laughed Maud, " for I believe I was rather
fond of admiration then," she added, colouring
slightly, for she saw the eyes of Arthur fixed
upon her with an inquiring look, which seemed
to say,
"And are you fond of it now?'
"No one understands better than Percy how
to suit his compliments to those on whom he
bestows them," reinarked Mr. Sutherland. "It
is partly on that account, I believe, that he is
such a favourite with the ladies."
"But I am sure," again persisted Maud, "at
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
11
the few places at which I met him last year, or
when he called at our house, which was not of
ten, I never saw any one look so ill; such a
long, sallow face-nothing left of beauty but his
magnificent eyes, which, from a baby, I always
remarked; and then, when he did try to make
himself agreeable at a ball, it seemed all effort
or false excitement; and in a morning visit he
was always so busy talking to you, papa, that—”
"That he had not time to win his fair cous-
in's approbation by the fine speeches which
once gained her heart-speeches she was hear-
ing from so many others at that time."
"No, papa, I meant not that," she answered,
erecting her graceful head; "he would soon,
like those others, have found how little value I
set upon them now."
"It is not so much in London," said Mr.
Sutherland, "that he shoots his arrows at la-
dies' hearts he keeps that sport for country
amusement-sport which he seems to class
with the destruction of pheasants and hares,
wounding them as carelessly, and without re-
ceiving injury himself. A skilful marksman is
Harry Percy, and rarely, very rarely he misses
his aim. In London, his thoughts, as well as
his heart, are engaged with other game; less
detrimental are then his pursuits to the fair sex
-far more ruinous to himself, poor fellow! No
wonder his cheeks are hollow and his spirits
forced
much has he to answer for: riches and
health despised and wasted, time and talents
misapplied! When you last saw him, Maud,
he was enduring the misery and annoyance re-
sulting from a gambler's ruined fortune."
Poor Harry!" sighed Mrs. Sutherland; "it
is indeed sad to reflect on his career of error
and folly."
"His affairs, which I trust I have in some
measure arranged, at least for the present,"
continued Mr. Sutherland, “make it necessary
that for a short time he should retire from the
world; he therefore begs me to lend him' Percy
Castle,' as he calls a cottage he used formerly
to occupy, for he says his health and spirits are
in a sad state, and quiet and solitude, enlivened
by the society of his aunt and cousins, will best
tend to revive both his mind and body."
"Ah," said Mrs. Sutherland, in a gentle, pity-
ing tone, “I fear his satiated feelings will be un-
able to relish the simple, unexcitable refresh-
ment we can afford him."
"I do not agree with you there," replied her
husband ; "we flatter ourselves that our soci-
ety is not quite so unpalatable as you would in-
fer, my dear Mary; and I assure you, Harry
Percy, when speaking of his intended visit, pro-
fessed to anticipate as much pleasure from
fishing parties on the lake, excursions up the
mountains, songs from Maud and May, quiet
chats with you, Mary, and, lastly, shooting par-
tridges with Arthur and myself, as he ever did
from an evening at Crockford's, or the Derby
day and St. Leger."
Maud curled her lip at the idea of her society
and attractions being placed on a par with such
objects and pursuits, and Mr. Sutherland, rising
and walking to the window, proposed their all
adjourning to the cottage.
"A quiet walk will do you good this fine
morning, Mary. I must arrange about having
the place put in order to receive so refined a
|
|
tenant, and the assistance and taste of ladies
are always valuable in such cases."
The whole party were soon in motion, enjoy-
ing the fresh, exhilarating air of a lovely Sep-
tember morning.
CHAPTER VI
"Who plays for more
Than he can lose, with pleasure stakes his heart."
"Game is a civil gunpowder in peace,
Blowing up houses with their whole increase."
f
HERBERT.
THEIR way led over a common covered with
fragrant heath, which joined the outskirts of the
pleasure-grounds of the Manor, a smooth, ver-
dant path, which looked very tempting for a
gallop, running through the midst of it; and
over this path they now proceeded, Arthur, with
a fair cousin on either arm, his quick, firm, sol-
dier-like tread soon outstripping the languid
step of Mrs. Sutherland, who, with her kind
husband, suiting his pace to hers, followed at a
distance.
She listened with delight to the merry voices
of the trio, borne back to her by the breeze, and
sounding to her ears more sweet than the mu-
sical notes of the birds which hovered near.
The father gazed after them with fond pride.
"How beautiful Maud is !" he said.
And this led to their conversing on a subject
which, though it became day by day nearer
their hearts, they rarely touched upon even to
each other, for they felt it to be one of peculiar
delicacy. It was the wish expressed by their
grandfather, and which was gradually becoming
not only their own desire, but their most ear-
nest hope. It was a hope and desire springing
from the purest motive, not from pride or any
worldly consideration, or they would not have
fixed their wishes upon the young soldier as a
husband for their idolized daughter, incapable
as he was of augmenting her wealth or raising
her to a higher station; for, with all her advan-
tages both of fortune and beauty, they might
have claimed for her an alliance amid the noble
and wealthy of the land.
But, even setting aside all family reasons, Mr.
and Mrs. Sutherland would have still chosen
Arthur from among many for the protector, the
future guide of their high-spirited, their self-
willed Maud !
They well knew that on the choice of that
guide, the happiness, the well-being of her life
would depend. She would need a firm but gen-
tle disposition to compete with hers, and strong,
unvarying affection to satisfy her exigeante
heart. She would never brook indifference or
neglect: it would either crush her proud spirit,
or turn her warm love into bitter hate. Weak
servility she would despise; tyranny would
rouse into fury all the fierce rebellious feelings
within her.
The parents well knew the failings and pecu-
liarities of their child, and whom had they seen
so calculated to soften the asperities of her
character and direct it into a proper course as
the manly, high-minded, mild, and affectionate
Arthur Balfour? but they would lend no as-
sistance in forwarding their wishes: they evon
sought to conceal them from the parties con-
cerned till circumstances should fully justify
12
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
their declaring them. They expected it to be
a work of time, so they were not disheartened
at perceiving as yet, in the deportment of the
young people towards each other, merely the
calm, frank attention of a brother shown by Ar-
thur to Maud, and accepted by her in the same
merry, careless, matter-of-course manner with
which she generally received the devotion of
her family, and none of the proud scorn she be-
stowed on her London admirers.
They also saw that Arthur was less dazzled
than others had been with the bright beauty of
Maud; but time and her charms would be in-
vincible, they little doubted, although, perhaps,
anxiety mingled with their hopes.
He had commenced life prematurely early,
and satiated tastes led him easily to seek for
fresh excitement in the paths his associates
pointed out to him. Whatever he undertook, he
entered into with enthusiasm. With the natural
energy of his disposition, he plunged into the
gulf of gambling, and sank never to rise again,
his open-handed, careless liberality making him
a ready victim to the sharks who had thus al-
lured him.
Warnings he had many, but they availed not.
Fortune, which had from his birth so kindly
smiled upon him, seemed now to desert him :
however, sink or swim in the unhallowed stream
in which he had plunged, there he must remain.
At the age of thirty his possessions were dissi-
pated, his free, generous spirit enslaved.
After a walk of about a quarter of a mile
across the common, the party reached a thick
wood, the favourite resort of scores of pheas- His noble estate was sold to satisfy the nu-
ants and hares, and there stood a rustic cot-merous creditors who poured clamorously upon
tage, the Percy Castle" of which Mr. Suther- him, and from whose importunities he must have
land had spoken. It had once been the resi- made a shameful retreat from the country, had
dence of a maiden sister of his grandfather, but it not been for the liberal assistance of Mr.
on her death was occasionally lent as a shoot-Sutherland.
ing-box to relations or intimate friends, who And the heart of the gamester! After years
preferred a private establishment to the hospi- of such companionship, such pursuits, who could
tality of the Manor.
preserve his heart from the canker-worm, which
gradually works its way, devouring all that is
fair and beautiful within?
The now expected occupant had laughingly
conferred the present exalted title upon it, hav-
ing in former days made the cottage his abode; But the fair exterior remained; and though,
and here once more, under its low, thatched by degrees, he had disappeared in part from those
roof, in its quiet, simple rooms, with no sounds circles of London gayety of which he had once
to break in upon his retirement save the wa-been the ornament and delight-though mothers
ving of the trees or the chirping of the birds, he
would have time to ruminate in silence over
fortune ruined, time lost, talents despised and
misapplied, friends estranged, and all the ruin
brought about through the agency of that selfish,
unworthy propensity, which principle and moral
courage were not strong enough to enable him
to cast aside, and had therefore proved the
bane of his existence, the destroyer of his hap-
piness, the perverter of his once noble heart and
virtuous resolutions-and this was the vice of
gambling! Yes, Harry Percy began his career
with the brightest prospects of worldly prosper-
ity. Beloved and admired by all, both abroad
and at home, his animation, wit, talents-his
affectionate, warm manners-his handsome
person, and a certain fascination of demeanour
which was irresistible, won all hearts. No
wonder, with so many attractions, that, even |
before he had obtained his majority, he made Balfour was standing by the latticed window
an easy entrance into the most select circles of from which two young faces were peeping, look-
fashionable life-was courted, fêted, flattered-ing like roses among the green vine-leaves which
his presence hailed with delight wherever he surrounded them.
went; and Harry Percy, pleased with himself,
was pleased with all the world.
now as carefully guarded their daughters from
the ruined spendthrift as they had formerly
courted and encouraged the rich, eligible parti,
Harry Percy-still he was the irresistible, fasci-
nating, the more dangerous, if possible, to every
selfish,nating,
heart he choose to vanquish whenever he did
enter into society.
It had been well with him if he could have
remained contented with this happiness, for he
had, indeed, "the ball at his feet." But his po-
sition was one of peril. He was an aim for more
dangerous shafts than the bright eyes of the
lovely beings whom he assembled in the winter,
when he kept open house at his beautiful place
in Cheshire.
CHAPTER VII.
"As I pursued my journey
I spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red,
Cold palsy shook her head, her hand seem'd withered."
OTWAY.
We must retrace our steps to the cottage,
where Arthur and his fair companions had long
since arrived.
At the rustic porch was one who curiously
scrutinized their every action-listened to every
word that fell from the lips of the merry group,
to which she formed so striking a contrast; for
she was old and very hideous, her decrepitude
and infirmity approaching nearly to deformity-
at first sight she seemed almost unearthly. To
Maud and May, however, she was an accus-
tomed object, therefore the old crone remained
unnoticed by them.
In the fashionable world there is a set, which Reach me that bunch of grapes, Arthur,"
is composed, indeed, of many who are styled no-exclaimed Maud; "they look very tempting,
ble, honourable, but whose nobility and honour and will be most refreshing after our walk.'
are like the beauty of the painted and garnished
sepulchre, serving only as a cover for much that
is false and dishonourable, profligate and disso-
ute; and of such as these did the gifted Harry
Percy become the prey.
Arthur, with some difficulty, contrived to gather
the luxuriant cluster, which, like good things,
grew much higher, and were, consequently,
more unattainable than the rest.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
13
"Oh! I offended her when I was a child by
some not very civil remarks about her looks,
and she, like most very ugly people, being ex-
given me: you cannot imagine the spite she has
against me. She is too contemptible, and a lit-
tle mad besides, or I would not endure her in-
solence: you can have no idea of its extent at
The old hag followed his movements with her
small blear eyes, as if she grudged the grapes
being given to Maud.
"Oh! Arthur, I see a bunch much more beau-tremely tenacious on the subject, has never for-
tiful," again cried the capricious lady, stretching
her graceful neck out of the window; "there!
look, just above the porch: I must have them
instead of these."
"Do you mean those?" replied Arthur, point-times."
ing to a cluster; I assure you they are not
half so ripe as the others. Now, May, I must
find you some as fine, if I can."
"
May shall have these, if she will conde-
scend to receive rejected goods. I have quite
set my heart upon that other bunch, and have it
I must and will, so quick! sir," added Maud,
with mock command.
"Oh, pray give them to me," replied May;
"I shall not be so foolish, sister mine, as to
throw away the best grapes because they have
been rejected; and I think," she continued,
bursting into a merry laugh at the dismayed
look with which the coveted bunch (on nearer
inspection proving hardly ripe) was received by
her sister, I think the pretty lady who refused
them would now take them back in exchange
for her beauties.'"
"And is Mr. Percy to have the pleasure of
her company while he is here?" said Arthur;
"I should think she would prove an antidote to
peace of mind and equanimity of temper!"
"Oh yes! she will not be induced to take
her departure. She is the widow of an old ser-
vant of our grandfather's, who made papa prom-
ise to provide for her; he therefore allowed
her to take charge of the cottage while uninhab-
ited, of course intending her to turn out when-
ever it should be occupied; but some years ago
Harry Percy came down to take possession,
and found her fighting with his fine valet, pos-
itively refusing to leave the premises, and Har-
ry, who always acts from the impulse of the
moment, very good-naturedly, but rashly, al-
lowed her to remain. He, I remember, some-
times jokingly complained afterward that he
could not sleep, from fancying he saw her hid-
eous face peeping at him through the curtains
of his bed; and his valet appeared one day, and
Oh no,” said Maud, half provoked, but half
laughing too; "these sour ones gave Arthur
rather more trouble, which is a consolation: I
never care about anything which is within every-gravely assured him that the old witch turned
body's reach; but," continued she, in a sly tone,
fixing her eyes with a playful, covetous look on
the fruit in May's hand, "I would not have been
so mean-spirited, little sister, as to have accept-
ed what another had despised-and, after all,
they are not so very fine."
the milk sour, and had poisoned his favourite
dog because it bit her cat, and ended by decla-
ring that, if he were expected to keep company
with an 'evil eye,' he must desire that his wa-
ges might be increased."
Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland had by this time
She suddenly stopped, for May's gay laugh made their appearance, and they all adjourned
was echoed by one far less musical, beginning in a body to find old Judith, in order to break
by a suppressed chuckling, which increased to a to her the necessity of the cottage being thor-
screech like that of an enraged peacock, inter-oughly cleaned and put in a proper state for the
rupted ever and anon by the words "sour grapes reception of the visiter who was to intrude upon
sour grapes!" pronounced in a cackling, mum- her solitude.
bling tone.
Maud put her hands to her ears to shut out
the discordant sounds, and Arthur started and
turned round, looking as much astonished as if
he had heard the laugh of a hyena.
The hideous cause of this disturbance seem-
ed glad to have attracted any sort of notice, and
approaching nearer to the window, she said, ad-
dressing May in a patronising tone,
They found her in a small back kitchen, cow-
ering by the fire, over which was suspended a
large caldron, containing some sort of mess in-
tended for her dinner, which she was watching
and stirring up while it bubbled and hissed, with
the same interest and anxiety as did the famed
witches of Macbeth their strange and charmed
concoction. A huge black cat was seated on
one side of the hearth, erecting its back and
mewing occasionally, while it intently observed
with its glaring eyes every movement of its
mistress, evidently awaiting the completion of
the preparation of the meal of which he was to
partake. Neither the cat nor his mistress look-
"That's right, Miss May, don't you be over
scornful; pride sooner or later will have its
fall it ever comes, as the parson tells us, be-
fore destruction; and mayhap, one of these fine
days, you may chance to pick up something
better than grapes which others have throwned much pleased at the interruption to their oc-
away for what they think finer. May it prove to
her," she added, turning a vindictive glance at
Maud, "yes, I say, may it prove to her as sour
as the grapes; and then let her come and feast
her great black eyes on your sweets, Miss May,
honey, and cry them out if she pleases, because
she didn't take them when she could."
Having delivered this harangue, she gave a
satanic grin at Maud, and then entered the cot-
tage, banging the door violently after her. Maud
shrugged her shoulders with a disdainful smile,
and answered Arthur's question of
cupation; but, on Mr. Sutherland apologizing
in a suitable manner, Judith suppressed the dark
scowl which had gathered on her withered fea-
tures, and listened with tolerable graciousness
to his commands, even condescending to relax
into a grim smile, or rather grin, at some speech
of her master in allusion to her former victory
over one of the visiters she was again to expect.
The black grimalkin also suffered the fair
hand of May to pass itself over its wiry back,
but whenever Maud approached, it reared that
back on high, and furiously glared and spit at
"What can make that old woman so bitter her.
against you, Maud ?" by exclaiming,
"He! he he!" chuckled his mistress, with
14
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
mischievous satisfaction, as she perceived this;
"Tom's a fine fellow; he can tell what's sweet
and what's sour, though others can't: can't he,
Miss May, hinny?" and she winked significant-
ly at May with one of her dreadful eyes.
CHAPTER VIII
"Love is made of every fine emotion,
Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;:
Love is aspiring, yet is humble too;
It doth exalt another o'er itself
With sweet heart homage."-L. E. L.
THE season for excursions for pleasure over
lake or mountain, for exploring a country so
fertile in loveliness as the neighbourhood which
surrounded the Manor, was now quite passed
and gone. The variegated foliage of autumn had
passed into the sear and yellow leaf, falling at
every gust of the November wind; crumbling
under the foot of the passenger, or sleeping on
the quiet surface of the lake. The summer birds
had all departed, but Arthur Balfour still lin-
The latter laughed: she thought the old wom-
an was again referring to the story of the grapes;
but, had she been more observant, May might
have discovered that this speech was partly lev-
elled against Arthur; for her business with Mr.
and Mrs. Sutherland having been concluded, she
had since been watching with much displeasure
the pleased and admiring attention bestowed by
the young soldier on every gesture, every word
of the graceful object of her aversion, while her
favourite May was obliged to remain satisfied
with only the very flattering notice of the afore-gered in the country. Harry Percy had not yet
said black Tom.
There was nothing to be done towards the
arrangement and embellishment of the cottage
till the necessary cleaning had taken place, so
the merry party once more bent their steps to-
wards the Manor.
Their conversation turned on the extraordi-
nary character of old Judith, her aversion to
Maud, and partiality to the gentle May, who was
rallied on the apparent congeniality existing be-
tween the old lady, herself, and the cross black
cat.
The secret, however, was simply this. Maud,
when a child-a spoiled beauty-with impulses
always indulged, had been kindly offered by
Judith a cake from her yellow skinny hand.
The little girl, after regarding it and the donor
for an instant, with a look of supreme disgust
cast it from her.
Her governess reproved her for her ungra-
cious conduct, and the reply was,
"I could not eat anything from the hand of
one so hideous. Oh, Miss Meyer, how happy I
am that I was not born ugly!"
:
Judith heard this speech: hers was not a
character to forgive an insult, because it hap-
pened to be offered by one who was young, rich,
and beautiful these advantages rather tended
to inflame her hatred, for she grudged her the
possession of them. The antipathy of the vin-
dictive old woman increased rather than dimin-
ished by time. Maud was not likely to endeav-
our to conciliate one from whom she received
naught but taunts and bitter words-she, the
idolized both of the rich and poor!
""
May, on the contrary, was ever on the watch
lest any look, any word should escape from her
which savoured of a consciousness of supe-
riority in any respect, and thus, by civility,
"which costs nothing and buys everything,
even golden opinions, had excited in the strange
being Judith as much love as Maud had kindled
hatred in her distorted heart; and though to
the highly-favoured heiress the praise or cen-
sure of a wretched, half-crazed creature like
old Judith was of little moment, yet the veriest
worm will turn when trampled on, as the fable
goes the lion, the king of the forest, owed his
life to the good offices of an insignificant little
mouse. And as the quaint poet Herbert says,
"Scorn no man's love, though of a mean degree-
Love is a present for a mighty king-
Much less make any one thine enemy.
As guns destroy, so may a little sting.
The cunning workman never doth refuse
The meanest tool that he may chance to use."
arrived the world still held him fast: a few
more thousands were to be lost or won, a few
more draughts of such amusements and pur-
suits to be quaffed in which his existence had
been spent, ere, he wrote, "urgent business
would allow him to tear himself from detested
London, to refresh his weary body and mind
with the delightful peace of the country and the
charming society of his Sutherland relations.'
Though Nature had changed her face, the as-
pect of affairs within the Manor was unaltered.
The same merry party galloped over the hills
and plains, or climbed the mountains, to gaze
on the dark beauties of a winter landscape; the
same group partook of fireside enjoyments,
homebred happiness, and all the comforts that
the hours of long, uninterrupted evenings afford.
But the hearts of all-were they the same? Do
the circling months ever revolve without find-
ing some change in the heart of man? its dear-
est joys, perchance, are fled; a sparkling dream
has vanished away, or some feeling or passion
found an entrance into the heart before un-
known. And so was it here. During the last
three months (short indeed did they appear),
two hearts, at least, had by degrees suffered a
change, but so insidious and gradual were the
steps by which the change advanced that nei-
ther of the individuals were quite aware of the
alteration in their feelings, until, at length, the
intruding sentiment had obtained full possessioir
of their minds, and it had become too vividly,
painfully felt to be longer concealed from them-
selves. And then Arthur Balfour began to
recognise the spell which had robbed him of his
former unbounded freedom of soul; for never
before had he
"Made one mortal eye
The lonely star of his idolatry;"
never before had the sound of one voice power
to make his own lips tremble while he spoke,
or cause his firm heart to palpitate. But was
it the proud Maud that had woven this spell?
That proud girl! would she so easily yield her
heart to one who had never poured words of
love and adulation into her car-from whom
she had only received the affection and atten-
tion she might have claimed from a brother-
the Maud who had been so sought, so courted?
It is more consistent to suppose that the gentle
May might have suffered her young heart to be
entangled in an attachment which her inno-
cence had invested with the idea of a sisterly
affection. But no, it was not the voice of May
which faltered when she spoke his name; she
1
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
15
could meet unmoved the gaze of his clear blue |
eye; her step was as light, her spirit as joyous,
as when she first saw Arthur at the calm lake's
side.
given vent to these failings in his presence.
Oh! that she had been less kind, less amiable!
Why had her usually invincible heart, at so
early a period of their acquaintance, been led
thus willingly captive?
And for a time her spirit drooped under the
It was, indeed, the bright elder sister whose
proud heart had bowed beneath the power of a
first love a love from which at first she ear-agonizing thought that hers was unrequited
nestly strove to fly, but vainly-and the soften- love. But not for long was Maud cast down;
ing influence of that passion which "refines the hers was not a spirit to
thoughts, and heart enlarges," gave a new at-
traction to her beauty.
1
If she had been lovely in Arthur's eyes in all
her pride and gayety, how much more beautiful
did she now appear, when under the subduing
influence of this new feeling. Her lustrous
eyes, how much sweeter was their expression,
and her rich voice, how far more melodious did
it sound to his ear, now that a deeper tone of
feeling was blended with its music!
And Arthur! why did he not fall at his fair
cousin's feet and confess his love? Why was
he so faint of heart, when all seemed to smile
upon his love? He could not have been so
blind as to imagine she would frown upon him.
Another feeling struggled within the heart of
the young man-a feeling partaking both of
pride and honour !
"Let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek, nor pine in thought,
And with a green and yellow inelancholy,
To sit like patience on a monument
Smiling at grief."
No! she raised her drooping head, and re-
solved to investigate the matter, and learn the
whole truth; and if she found her love had
been wasted on one who did not value and re-
turn it, to call it back, and tear it from her
heart, cost what it might.
A pang shot through her frame at the first
glance she gave into her heart. It was May on
whom were now lavished the smiles, the words
of cordiality, of affectionate regard, of which
she was wont to receive so large a portion;
had she been supplanted by her gentle, unob-
trusive sister? She even remembered with a
mournful sensation her jealousy of Arthur's at-
tentions to May in their infantine days of mirth
and unalloyed happiness.
Honour suggested, "Who is it I love?" The
answer came, "The rich heiress of Sutherland
Manor!" and poor Arthur remembered their
But no! a second glance, and she was satis-
relative situations. She, for whom her parents fied on that point; she gave a third-a long,
might have justly expected an exalted destiny; steady, scrutinizing inspection, and then a thrill-
and he, a comparatively poor relation! It was, ing sensation shot through her heart, and told
indeed, a painful reflection; and was he to her that she was beloved! and she smiled once
abuse the hospitality, the unfailing kindness of more, her own proud, beautiful smile, at her
his friends? was he to frustrate their dearest blindness at having mistaken the embarrassed
hopes by intruding his love upon the gifted air, the faltering voice, the averted eye, for
Maud, by endeavouring to engage her affec-aught but the love of one who fears to show
tions?
:
that love.
And why does he fear? Oh coward! does
he think I love him not? Well, let him fancy
it; the uncertainty will make him prize it more
when he is convinced that it is within his
grasp."
Pride suggested, "What will the world say?
Arthur Balfour going to marry an heiress? He
had his wits about him, and was wiser than we
thought when he left the gayetics of London to
ruralize in Cumberland: a golden bait allured
him to the seclusion of Ullswater. She is a
How long Maud would have persevered in
monstrous spec: he has played his cards well the apparent gay carelessness which she again
he has certainly won his heiress!"
assumed, proudly rejoicing in the newborn con-
"I must leave Sutherland," he mentally ex-viction that she had complete power over the
claimed, after he had distracted his mind by heart of Arthur Balfour, we know not suffice
such thoughts, "I must leave Sutherland; I it to say, that, after having inflicted many a
must not have such base, such sordid motives pang for the pain his cowardice (as she termed
attributed to an attachment which, Heaven it) had made her suffer, circumstances once
knows! is disinterested-is pure. Oh! that
more turned her own weapons against herself.
she were poor !"
But, though he resolved upon taking his de-
parture, the spell which bound him to the spot
was too potent, and week after week found
him still at the Manor. His manner towards
Maud, however, changed; his words grew cold,
his demeanour restrained and embarrassed; he
carefully avoided finding himself alone with her
in whose society he had hitherto walked and
rode in free and happy confidence.
CHAPTER IX.
"Oh, there are evil moments in our life,
When but a thought, a word, a look, has power
To dash the cup of happiness aside,
And stamp us wretched."-L. E. L.
It was one of those rainy afternoons so prev-
alent at that season of the year; but, though,
His conversation was now addressed exclu- gloomy was the appearance of the weather, the
sively to May; by her side he walked and rode. young people rather hailed with satisfaction an
And Maud, she saw all this and wondered! occasional thoroughly wet day--a day sufficient-
Was she to be thus shunned-thus thwarted? ly stormy to preclude all hesitation whether to
she, the delight of all hearts! Had her charms go out or not. Maud and May were always
failed to inspire love in one who had possessed provided with resources which rendered them
himself of her young affections? What could independent of circumstances, but certainly they
be the cause? Had her pride, her caprice dis-had never enjoyed dark, wet days so truly as
gusted him? but no, she had scarcely ever since the arrival of Arthur Balfour. He would
16
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
sing, he would converse, as they wandered for
exercise through the long picture galleries, look-
ing as lovely with their flowing ringlets as the
representatives of the far-famed Sir Peter Lely
by which they were surrounded.
Merry and musical rang the echo of the glad
young voices through the lofty vestibule when
Arthur, perchance, challenged his fair compan-
ions to a trial of skill at battledore and shuttle-
cock, and how proudly did Maud exult over
poor May when, one lucky day, she kept up the
strokes to a far higher number than her usually
more successful rival had ever yet reached.
And as she stood on the dark oak floor, breath-
less from her late efforts, her graceful form
erect, her classical head thrown back, her cheek
flushed to a bright crimson, she looked indeed
the very emblem of majestic beauty.
Young men and maidens, beware! for even at
the simple game of battledore and shuttlecock
hearts may be lost and won!
Then, again, as the slender fingers of the
sisters traced the flowers on their embroidery
frames, Balfour would entertain them with tales
of his travels in foreign lands, or with his voice,
"clear, symphonious, yet distinct," read aloud
some new publication.
But on the present day Maud and May sat
quietly in their mother's boudoir, the former
apparently so intently occupied with
"The wreath that cannot fade"
which she was working on the canvass, that
she noted not the pattering rain which beat
against the window, nor did she seem to desire
any interruption to the deep silence which had
for some time reigned in the room.
But the eyes of May often wandered, and she
frequently paused in her work to listen for the
accustomed footstep, the usual tap at the door,
which a short time ago would have been heard
long ere then, and at last she exclaimed, look-
ing towards her sister,
"I wonder why Arthur does not come to
read to us."
No answer: a short pause ensued, and then
May continued,
'Shall I go and call him?"
"Oh, certainly not," replied Maud, hastily;
"I suppose he is more agreeably engaged
however, just as you please; I am going to
sing."
And, as if awakened from a profound revery
by her sister's voice, she pushed back her frame,
rose from her seat, and walked to the window;
then, after gazing for a moment on the dreary
scene without, moved towards the door.
"Dearest!" said Mrs. Sutherland, raising
her eyes from the letter she was writing, "will
you bring me from the library the second vol-
ume of Scott's Life? I feel weary even after
the slight fatigue of bending over my paper.
This weather disagrees with me. I shall lie
down on the sofa presently, and perhaps good
little May will read to me."
Maud smiled, nodded assent, and left the
room, and we must follow her into the Gothic
library, with its oak-panelled walls, covered
with ponderous tomes of ancient lore, and vol-
umes innumerable of modern literatúre. Mr.
Sutherland and Arthur Balfour were there, bu-
sily engaged in writing letters, the latter seated
in the embrasure of an oriel window. They
both raised their eyes when the door opened
and a light step was heard. Mr. Sutherland
gave a fond smile at the intruder, who walked
across the room to a tier of books, her graceful
head erect. Her arm was extended to reach
the volume she sought, which was placed high
above her, and in bringing it down she also dis-
arranged at least a score of others, which fell
to the ground, creating no slight noise and con-
fusion.
On first entering the room Maud had cast a
furtive glance on Arthur as she passed him,
and an arch smile played on her dimpled cheek
as she did so, but he had returned it with one
very sad, and as she turned towards the book-
shelves, he had resumed his pen and continued
his writing.
However, at the noise of the falling books he
started up, and Maud, who, having watched the
downfall with a half-frightened, half-amused
countenance, at length exclaimed,
"There, Mr. Balfour! now I have given you
some work to do for me-at least, if it will not
interfere with the very agreeable and absorbing
occupations which have engaged you all day."
Agreeable!" he murmured, in a low, mourn-
ful tone, as he stooped down to raise the fallen
books; "far, very far from being agreeable !”
"Then why continue them?" she replied. “I
never do anything I find disagreeable."
Duty to one's self and to others sometimes
forces an unfortunate man to do what is very
repugnant," was the grave answer, pronounced
in the same suppressed voice.
She looked at him for a moment with a puz-
zled air, but then said laughingly,
"Oh! I suppose that is a hint that I should
assist you in the disagreeable duty of picking
up the books; but, as you are so dutifully in-
clined to-day, I shall leave it all to you, for it is
anything but agreeable to me either to break
my back by stooping, or to hear a sermon-Mr.
Merton dines here to-day, so we can have plenty
of preaching this evening, if we desire it."
And she turned to depart, but stopped when
she reached her father's side, and kissing his
forehead, playfully said,
"There! I have performed one piece of duty,
at any rate, which is not very disagreeable to
me.
Mr. Sutherland laid down his pen, and passing
his arm round her waist, fondly returned the
kiss.
'Do not leave us," he said.
"What! you
must? this is too bad; you come in, disturb us
by doing as much mischief as possible, and then
you run away!"
"Mamma is waiting for her book," replied
Maud,
If you had come half an hour sooner, you
naughty little girl, instead of harm, perhaps
you might have done good," continued her fa-
ther; "you might have persuaded that gentle-
man," and he looked towards Balfour, "not to
commit a very ungracious act.”
"What! the duty of which he has just been
boasting so heroically ?"
"I cannot think there is much duty in the
case. Arthur has written to his uncle," and
Mr. Sutherland took up a letter directed to the
Earl of B announcing his intention of
is
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
17
paying nim a visit in Herefordshire on Saturday and then, almost unperceived by her parent or
next, and from thence proceeding southward to sister, again left the room. Stunned by the sud-
some other friends. Now you know he certain-denness of the recent shock, she could at first
ly promised not to desert us till after Christ-
mas.'
No answer did Mr. Sutherland receive, and
he continued,
"He is a very shabby fellow; he knows I
shall require his services to help to entertain
Harry Percy, who will be here next week. I
am half inclined now to throw the letter into the
fire, but he is so obstinate on the subject that I
fear he would only write another. What do
you say about it, Maud: shall we venture to
burn it?"
Still there was no answer; the little hand
which had been pressed within her father's
during this speech became so cold that he look-
ed into her face, and started with alarm on see-
ing that the colour had fled from her lips, and
her eyes were fixed upon him with a troubled,
bewildered expression; he felt, too, that her
frame trembled violently.
He was on the point of anxiously inquiring
if she were ill, when a sudden thought flashed
through his mind; he therefore refrained, and
kissing her again even more fondly, he gently
said,
"Well! I see you are impatient to take the
book to your mother; I will not detain you: go,
dearest !"
And Maud left the room, her step as firm, her
head as erect as when she entered it.
Arthur had returned to his seat in the recess
before the words of Mr. Sutherland had been
spoken; his back was towards them, but he had
listened almost breathlessly for an answer from
Maud; he heard with agonizing suspense the
pause which succeeded her father's communi-
cation; and when, at length, he ventured to
turn his head, he only caught sight of her flut-
tering garments and the closing of the door.
Mr. Sutherland did not resume his pen for some
time, but, with his head resting on his hand,
pondered deeply.
Towards dusk the weather improved, and the
two gentlemen left the house together for a
short walk before the half-hour bell rang, but
there was now a slight restraint visible in the
deportment of Mr. Sutherland towards his com-
panion. Balfour was fully aware of this, and,
though wholly unconscious of the cause, it
struck a pang into his heart: almost in silence
he walked by the side of his host, and returned
to the Manor anything but happy.
CHAPTER X.
"Mightier far
Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is Love, though oft to agony distress'd,
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's
breast."-WORDSWORTH.
MAUD quitted the library with the sinking
heart of one who, by a few words, had felt her
hopes crushed, her happiness dissipated. With
a strong effort, however, she strove to assume
an air of calmness until she had fulfilled her
mission; with a steady step she entered her
mother's boudoir, laid the book on the table,
C
scarcely collect her scattered senses; she paus-
ed and leaned against the hall table for support,
and with eyes distended and lips apart, strove
to recall all that had occurred.
The painful reality soon came rushing back
into her heart, and with it the full consciousness
of all her misery.
She could have thrown herself on the ground
and wept aloud in agony; but, startled by the
sound of footsteps approaching, she rushed to
the drawing-room door, entered, and flinging
herself into a large arm-chair, buried her face
in her hands, while tears, burning tears, trickled
through her fingers.
He is going-yes, he is going! cruel, un-
grateful Arthur-and without telling me he loves
me! I can not, I will not endure the shame,
the misery of loving one who spurns, who de-
spises me-I, who by one word might bring
many a lover to my feet! And I have thus to
debase myself! to weep for the cruelty of a
mere boy-yes, a mere boy," she repeated, with
angry scorn. "But oh, Arthur!" she continu-
ed, in a softened tone, "there is more nobility,
more that is valuable in your young mind than
can be claimed by any of the titled, wealthy,
frivolous worldlings who for my fortune flocked
around me; and although at this moment I
would gladly hate you, I cannot; it is impossi-
ble where where is my pride?" And again
she buried her face in her hands to hide her
burning blushes. It was long ere she again re-
moved them; the violence of her emotion seem-
ed to overpower her; but she suddenly started
up: a new thought appeared to have revived
her.
"I know you love me, Arthur," she ex-
claimed ; yes, or think you I should not have
strength-pride sufficient to tear you from
my heart? A Sutherland, and thus demean
myself! No, I am certain there is some rea-
son," she continued, after a pause; "some
scruple in his generous heart. You fear, Ar-
thur, my parents would refuse to give you their
heiress. Oh, proud Arthur! am I not worth
|
the venture-deserving the sacrifice of a little
pride? However, it is but natural: it is a bit-
ter feeling to be spurned-rejected! but for the
sake of a little false delicacy you shall not go,
when one word, one little word from me or from
my father--for my father would not, should not
refuse him!" and the young beauty's eyes flash-
ed fire, and she stamped her small foot at the
very idea of her will being disputed. "Yes," she
continued to think aloud, "I will go to my fa-
ther I will tell him all it is thus that queens
are compelled to act, and for once I must be the
queen !"
:
She rose, as if intending immediately to ex-
ecute her resolution; but her heart seemed to
fail her, and, after pacing the room several
times with agitated rapidity, she once more
sunk despondingly into the arm-chair to ponder
farther on the step she was to take.
The sound of the first dinner-bell rang on
her ears, but she did not move; she scarcely
heeded the entrance of a servant, who placed
a lamp on the table, stirred the already blazing
fire into a still brighter flame, and then departed
18
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
At length, however, she was roused from her
meditations by hearing the door open, and look-
ing up, she saw Arthur Balfour!
|
to pour forth her excited feelings in a torrent
of words.
"I have learned to value your friendship,
Arthur, and I would not willingly forfeit it. Oh,
we were so happy, and now I am so miserable!
Tell me, then, before you go, how I have offend-
ed you-why you hate me?"
Į
He did not see her, though he passed close
to her on his way to the fireplace; he rested
his elbow on the mantel-piece, and remained
for a few minutes in deep meditation. And
once Maud almost fancied she saw him brush a
tear from his manly cheek; he certainly sighed
deeply-mournfully; at last he drew from his
pocket a small morocco case, opened it, and
gazed upon its contents. It was a little gold
ring, with a single though very fine diamond,
and had belonged to his mother; he had long
anxiously desired to place it on the finger of
one of his cousins, and had ventured once to
express this wish to Maud, but she gave himed forth the history of his love-his doubts-his
no encouragement; it was on one of her days scruples-his wretched fears!
of tyranny, and she coldly replied,
"I have a diamond ring. Papa gave me a
beautiful hoop last birthday!"
But she now felt a thrill of joy at the idea of
receiving any gift from his hands-of listening
to the words of kind affection which assuredly
would accompany it; and though her heart beat
almost audibly, she bent forward and softly
murmured, "Arthur."
He started and coloured as if he had been
detected in some unlawful deed; but drawing
near her, he said, gazing with some surprise at
her dishevelled tresses and flushed cheeks, on
which the traces of tears were still visible,
"I had no idea you were in the room: I
brought down this little ring, in the hope that
May would give me the pleasure of seeing her
wear it before-I-leave-since-
He paused, for Maud had suddenly risen.
from her seat, and turned her large, dark eyes
full upon him, while the blood rushed in tor-
rents to her fair face, even to her temples, and
the hand with which she tightly grasped the
arm of the chair trembled violently. At length
her pent-up feelings burst forth.
"May!" she exclaimed: " why is it always
May and why is Maud to be slighted-avoid-
ed-despised? Tell me the reason, Arthur;
answer me, I command you!" and she strove
to throw more fierceness and less of tender-
ness into the expression of her speaking coun-
tenance, but in vain; glistening drops would
start, and quench the fire of her flashing eyes,
and in a softened, agitated tone she exclaimed,
"I have not been accustomed to such treat-
ment, Arthur; never before have I been con-
strained to ask-to ask any one to--not to hate
me, but-but-you are going to leave us, and
I would not-would not part so coldly. I have
been ungracious, no doubt capricious, but sure-
ly not sufficiently so to make you hate me."
"Hate you?" cried Arthur, in great agita-
tion.
Yes, indeed, Arthur," interrupted Maud,
speaking rapidly, incoherently; "I did not in-
tend to drive you from those with whom you
profess to be so happy : I am the cause of your
departure, for to me only are you changed-to
me, who thus humble myself to ask you not to
hate me; I, who till now cared naught for love
or hate, save from my parents-my sister!”
Again poor Arthur, half beside himself with
amazement, joy, and agitation, would fain have
spoken. but his impetuous companion continued
|
She sank back into the chair at last exhaust-
ed, and covered her burning face with one
hand, while the other was seized and pressed
to the heart and lips of him to whom her
words were addressed. No longer was he si-
lent he was beloved; could he doubt it?
therefore what should, what ought to prevent⚫
his declaring his love?
And he did declare it; on his knees he pour-
Yes, dearest, sweetest, loveliest !" he add-
ed, "your dear words have broken the chain
which so long bound me to silence. I dared
not to say that I aspired to your affection, su-
perior as you are to me in every way—so rich-
ly gifted-so bright-so beautiful; but I adore,
I worship you. Nay, one little word more,
one kind word, to assure me you forgive my
presumption."
Like one who by the touch of some magic
spring has suddenly set some mighty machine
in motion, sat our heroine, petrified at the effect
her power had produced. She almost uncon-
sciously suffered him to remove the hand from
before her face, to place on it the little ring, to
press it again and again to his lips; and then
once more she strove to speak. But what she
would have said was interrupted, for at that
moment the door was thrown open, and a ser-
vant announced "Mr. Merton !"
Like a startled deer she sprang up, darted
through an opposite door, flew up the wide stair-
case, along the gallery, and reaching her own
room, sunk on a chair, her eyes fixed, as if in a
dream, on the sparkling gem on her finger, till
suddenly there came a shower of tears, and then
a proud, happy smile, like a bright gleam of sun-
shine after rain.
The maid had left the apartment to seek for
her truant young lady, and May, ready dressed
for dinner, was seated by the fire reading; she
turned her head on her sister's entrance, and
for a moment was lost in amazement in wit-
nessing the unusual emotion betrayed by her.
She approached, and throwing her arm around
her neck, affectionately kissed the flushed cheek,
and, at the same time, May's eyes were attract-
ed by the sparkling ring upon her finger. The
colour mounted to her face, and for a moment
there was a pause, but in the next she again
embraced her sister, and burying her face in
the bosom of Maud, exclaimed,
'Ah, so you have stolen my ring, you naugh-
ty sister!"
And Maud felt that she was weeping. She
pressed May in her arms, and calmly related
all that had occurred, and when the latter again
raised her face, her eyes were beaming as bright
with happiness as those of the joyful Maud.
A headache was the excuse she made for her
sister's absence from dinner, and Arthur saw
by the smile she gave him that she knew all.
He was grave and silent as he sat beside her,
and so was Mr. Sutherland; Mrs. Sutherland
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
GAMB
19
and Mr. Merton had nearly all the conversation
to themselves.
Immediately after the long and weary repast,
tedious to all save the good clergyman, Mrs.
Sutherland hurried to her child's apartment,
where she found her lying on the sofa, looking
sọ joyous, so blooming, chatting gayly with
Mrs. Power, who, as she said, "after sending
in her dessert, had just stepped up with a cup
of strong coffee for her dear young lady," that
the relieved mother, after playfully chiding her
for the unnecessary alarm she had caused, in-
sisted upon ringing for her maid to smooth the
ringlets which were floating rebelliously over
her neck and shoulders in such wild disorder;
and then, leaning on the arm of the fair girl,
they descended to the drawing-room.
There they found Mr. Merton, who had made
his escape from the dining-room in order to
have a little chat with Mrs. Sutherland on par-
ish matters.
"A visiter to the Manor !" was the univer-
sal surmise; and the britscha did stop at the
massive iron gates, which were instantly thrown
open wide by a silver-haired old woman, but it
entered not the Park.
The consequential-looking valet on the rum-
ble merely delivered a brief message, and the
inside passenger putting out his head, on which
he wore a graceful-looking black velvet travel-
ling-cap, nodding familiarly and good-humour-
edly, cried out, in an elevated tone,
"A merry Christmas, Mrs. Grove! how are
you, my good lady? Bless me, as fresh and
good-looking as ever-a perfect evergreen!
The family well at the Manor ? All's right!
get along, boys! precious cold it is!" and,
hastily pulling up the glasses, he laughingly
muttered, "The old woman is as deaf as a post:
no use wasting powder and shot upon her, at
any rate."
The post-boys once more cracked their whips,
the horses darted off, and, skirting the palings
of the Park, they crossed the fenced carriage-
path on the common, and then drew up before
the rustic porch of "Percy Castle "
With what changed countenances did Mr.
Sutherland and Arthur Balfour appear when in
about an hour they entered the saloon. They
were pictures of perfect happiness! All fear
every scruple had vanished; the declaration of The steps were let down, the traveller sprung
Arthur's love had not only been sanctioned, ap- from the carriage, and was heartily welcomed
proved, but welcomed-joyfully received by the by Mr. Sutherland and Balfour, who, in shoot-
father of his beloved, who indeed, by its avow-ing costumes, stood ready to receive him; and
al, beheld the prospect of the fulfilment of his
dearest wishes.
It was joy to the mother, joy to them all.
The young lovers most assuredly looked upon
the past moments of doubt and fear, now chan-
ged into smiles and happiness, as
while Judith and a pretty damsel (a pleasing an-
tidote to the old crone) bustled out to assist
"the gentleman's gentleman" to unburden the
carriage of the carpet bags, heavy dressing-case,
and large leather writing-desk, &c., &c., Ar-
thur Balfour, who accompanied Mr. Sutherland,
"Emblems of hope and love through future years."
was introduced in due form to the renowned
Gladly would Arthur have recalled the letter to Harry Percy, of whom he had heard so much,
his uncle; but, as this could not be, he was
and who now shook him warmly by the hand,
obliged, most reluctantly, to leave Sutherland and expressed great pleasure in making his ac-
Manor to pay his promised visit to the earl. Inquaintance. They entered the comfortable lit-
a few days he departed: only a fortnight, how-tle sitting-room, and while he warmed himself
ever, elapsed before he again found himself by
the side of Maud.
The parents were anxious that the young
people should know more of each other before
any regular engagement took place; but Ar-
thur Balfour was pacified by receiving a prom-
ise that, should the affections of both stand the
test of some months' trial, he should obtain, ere
he joined his regiment in the Spring, a formal
assurance of receiving, at a fixed period, the
hand of the beautiful Maud.
CHAPTER XI.
'Ile was a man
Versed in the world as a pilot in his compass,
and he spread his sails
With 'vantage to the galo of other's passion."
L. E. L.
Ir was on a clear, frosty afternoon, just two
days before Christmas, that a travelling car-
riage dashed furiously through the quiet little
village of, bringing hosts of villagers to
their doors to gaze upon it as it whirled past,
followed by the noisy shouts of numerous little
urchins, and the barking of every little dog in
the place, from the butcher's large mastiff to
Mrs. Hazell the applewoman's half-bred spaniel
puppy all was curiosity and commotion in this
usually quiet spot.
by a blazing fire, the newly-arrived looked about
him with an air of extreme satisfaction.
"Well, upon my word, this is snug!" he ex-
claimed; "but what trouble you must have
taken on my account! you see I was determin-
ed, at all events, to eat my Christmas dinner
with you: I cannot tell you how charmed I am
to find myself here at last! thought I never
should have got out of town-never should
have managed it!"
I suppose London is empty now,” said Bal-
four.
"Not a soul in it," Percy replied; "and what
with the tiresome business with which I was
engaged, and the infernal fogs, I thought I
should have died of it; as it is, I am extremely
ill. How fresh you look, old fellow!" he con-
tinued, with great animation, giving Mr. Suth-
erland a hearty slap on his back; " upon my
honour, no one would take you for ten or four-
teen years older than myself-quite marvellous!
All well at home?"
Mr. Sutherland could not say they were all
well; he shook his head when he spoke of his
wife's weak state of health.
"Ay, yes, I am indeed grieved to hear how
delicate Mary has become-dear Mary! Well!
she and I must nurse each other: can't possi-
bly be worse than I am; I assure you it is true
perfectly true-a complete wreck--quite done
up! But, by-the-by, what is your dinner hour?
20
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Seven! well, you may expect me, and I'm as
hungry as I have ever been after the longest
run better for the country air already; I shall
go and dress instantly."
:
}
room before dinner, he found Mr. Percy already
arrived and standing before the fire, chatting
with his uncle and aunt.
left an orphan at an early age, and was brought
up and educated in the house of her half sister,
who had married the wealthy Mr. Percy.
Mrs. Sutherland was but a few years older
It was but a short walk to the Manor across than Percy, and he was associated in her mind
the Park, and in bad weather a bed or a car-with all her earliest recollections. She had been
riage was always at his disposal; and Harry
Percy promised to become a regular guest at
the dinner-table. Though denominated a fine
gentleman, he certainly was not of that class of Mrs. Sutherland had tenderly loved Harry
modern dandies who fear a little wind and Percy from the infant to the schoolboy, from
weather, and who, as Mr. Sutherland remarked the schoolboy to the man, and her sweet face
to Balfour on their way home, take such es-beamed with pleasure at now again seeing him ;
pecial care of their persons that it might be im- her thoughts flew back to former years; and she
agined they were composed of no more durable could not but believe that he was the same
or water-proof material than silver paper, or, as warm-hearted, affectionate being he was wont
the nursery song declares,
to be, when she gazed on his frank, bright smile
-his soft, expressive eyes! Was it possible
that the canker-worm of vice should have blight-
"Of sugar and spice,
And all that's nice.'”
Arthur laughed at this philippic of his com- ed and destroyed the beauties of his soul and
panion, who continued,
mind? No, it could not be !
Arthur also thought, "Can this be a confirm-
ed roué, a ruined gamester?"
You may laugh, but I assure you my poetry
is very applicable to the subject; it is disgust-
ing to witness the extent to which self-indul- Maud and May at this moment entered. Har-
gence has reached among the young men of the ry Percy hastened to meet them, and May re-
present day; it seems, indeed, that their own ceived from him the same warm embrace to
ease and gratification are the sole aim of their which she had been accustomed from her child-
lives; even in the most trivial matters the foi- hood; but whether it were that Maud drew rath-
ble creeps out. Enter a modern drawing-room, er coldly back as she extended her hand to greet
and instead of the profound respect formerly him, or that he was too much occupied in ga-
paid to the aged, you will now see the merest zing at her beautiful face, he contented himself
boys indolently lounging on the most luxurious with merely pressing her hand affectionately in
couches, or reclining on the easiest arm-chairs his. Arthur felt a thrill of satisfaction pass
before the fire, while their elders and superiors through his frame on perceiving this, and turn-
are obliged to content themselves with any ed a grateful, well-pleased smile on Maud as she
chance seat which the impudent puppies may advanced to his side. He was not, however, at
have rejected. The era of gallantry is also all offended by the admiring attention with
gone by, for even the presence of the fair sex is which Percy fixed his eyes upon her. Who
no longer a check to this species of selfish im- could look unmoved upon her matchless beau-
pertinence. Often have I blushed to see a del- ty? he thought, as, with pride swelling in his
icate young girl in a ballroom, weary with dan-heart, he used the acknowledged lover's privi-
cing, remain standing nearly a whole evening,
while some dandy, too fine, too lazy, or too stu-
pid to join in the waltz or quadrille, has never
(excepting, perhaps, at supper-time) stirred
from the bench on which he has been stretch-
ed, half asleep, half awake, all the night through.
Now Harry Percy's manners are and ever have
been perfect. In society he must ever shine
pre-eminent; and I fully believe that to this
undeviating politeness and easy good-breeding
-his empressement to anticipate the wishes of At dinner Balfour was fascinated with the
those around him-his being, in short, as the brilliant powers of conversation displayed by the
French so well express it, 'toujours aux pieds new guest, and yet there was nothing in it very
des dames,' he owes a great part of that un-deep or striking, but it was as sparkling and ex-
bounded popularity which he enjoys among the
softer sex, who so greatly appreciate that charm
of manner which he so peculiarly possesses.
But the dressing-bell rings, and here we are at
home, so my eloquence must cease at present."
CHAPTER XII.
"Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too delighted ear; for several virtues
Have 1 liked several women; never any
With so full soul but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed; but thou
So perfect and so peerless art created,
Of every creature best."-SHAKSPEARE.
lege of gazing without disguise on every feature
of her face, every graceful movement of her
form, while she, with a conscious, blushing
smile, calmly submitted to the scrutiny.
Harry Percy had turned his attentions to May,
who was quietly listening to him as he told her
how much she was grown since they had met,
and by the smiling glances of his speaking eyes
expressed, as fully as if he had pronounced it
in direct terms, how lovely she had become.
hilarating in its effects on those who listened as
the Champagne he so freely quaffed; calling up
bright smiles on every face as he rattled on,
now gayly, now with energetic earnestness,
then with deep feeling, according to the subject
in discussion.
Percy began to rally Maud with mock seri-
ousness on her London success-on her cruel-
ty to her victims, in leaving them so abruptly as
she had done, describing in so droll and lively a
manner the dismay and disappointment her sud-
den departure had wrought on some luckless as-
pirants, that, though at first she strove to frown,
she ended by laughing heartily with the rest.
He then dropped his tone of raillery, and with
real earnestness besought them, now that May
WHEN Arthur Balfour entered the drawing- was of an age to be presented, to rejoice the
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
21
London world once more by their presence; | of all spectacles, a splendid specimen of the
they were, he said (begging pardon for the stale- Maker's works lost to himself, lost to his friends,
ness of the quotation), "flowers too fair to and, still more appalling to the idea in the pres-
waste their freshness in the desert air.'"
ent state of his heart, lost to his God!
"It would be, I think, but shortlived freshness
if transplanted to London," interrupted Maud,
laughing rather scornfully.
"Ah! very good! that, I know, is a cut at
my faded, yellow face; very severe, I must say,
though!"
"Oh no!" said Maud, laughing, "you look well
enough now-far better than when I saw you in
London, for then you were very-very-”
Seedy, I suppose you mean."
No, for I hardly understand what such an
expression is intended to convey; but you were
certainly not a good specimen of the freshening
powers of London."
Again, however, it was the gay, smiling Har-
ry Percy who, some short time after, was seat-
ed by the side of Mrs. Sutherland, and with
subdued cheerfulness questioned her with affec-
tionate earnestness on the state of her health,
and called up bright smiles to her face by expa-
tiating on the subject most dear to her-her
children! dwelling on their beauty, particularly
on the loveliness of Maud, and expressing him-
self with the warm though calm interest of an
old and anxious friend. He then reverted to
the days of their mutual childhood, and added,
with a subdued expression, pressing the hand
of Mrs. Sutherland in his,
"Ah! very true: upon my word, you are rath- Though changed, sadly changed since those
er hard upon me; I see I must take care what happy times, dear Mary, one feeling of my heart
I say to you in future, Miss Sutherland; but I must ever remain the same, ever unaltered: my
suppose I was pining with envy at seeing oth-love, my gratitude to you, who, from the mo-
ers flocking round a bright star which I dared ment of my birth, have been my dearest and
not approach."
best of friends.”
"Well, you did assuredly keep at a profound
distance, I must own.
"Of course, of course! the attentions of an
old fellow like me, and a cousin too, would have
been very much de trop when so many handsome
young men were in the case; I make a point
never to interfere when such is the state of af-
fairs-wouldn't presune to do so."
At length music was asked for by Mr. Suth-
erland; and as Maud walked to the instrument
followed by Balfour, a thought seemed to strike
the quick, observing eye of Harry Percy: some-
thing of a serious nature was evidently going
on in that quarter, he saw at once; and after a
moment's scrutinizing glance at the lovers, he
bent towards Mrs. Sutherland significant looks,
and in a low voice questioned her on the sub-
"Oh!" continued Maud, carelessly, and curl-
ing up her lip, "you need not have been afraid :ject. At first he was answered only by the
you would only have been treated like the rest;
one more added to the list would have made lit-
tle difference; you would have sunk into the
same scale with the others, I dare say, and not
have been remarked !"
smile, but she ended by confiding to his atten-
tive ear the whole history of the prospect of an
engagement between Maud and Arthur.
A long pause ensued. Harry Percy seemed
absorbed in thought, and he spoke not for some
moments.
"And shared the same fate," he gayly ex-
claimed, not at all disconcerted by this uncom- Whether from vanity, which made him tena-
plimentary speech, rather different from the cious of commanding especial observation and
treatment he was accustomed to receive from consideration-in short, of being the chief ob-
rosy lips; there was, however, an arch expres-ject of attraction, or that he thought engaged
sion in his eye as he went rattling on in the
same animated tone.
lovers threw a sort of restraint over society in
general, certain it is that Harry Percy had ever
Arthur thought him no less agreeable when expressed an inveterate antipathy to their pres-
the ladies retired; however, he soon left him ence, and always said to a female relation, who
tête-à-tête with Mr. Sutherland, concluding that till her death presided over his establishment
he must have many subjects to discuss, and he at
was too glad of an excuse to join the party in
the saloon.
Had he suddenly returned to the dining-room
he would have been startled, amazed, for he
would have seen all the bright, sparkling gayety
which had so captivated him totally vanished
from the face of the fascinating Harry Percy,
and in its place the wretched, care worn, har-
assed countenance of one who, with bitter en-
ergy, gave the details of his ruined fortune, his
blighted prospects, and with remorse and de-
spair related the story of the disgraceful meshes
into which his unbridled, unconquerable passion
had entangled him; and Mr. Sutherland, though
willing to compassionate and assist the unhap-
py man, could scarcely restrain feelings of an-
ger and contempt at the detail of vices and
weaknesses which had producea such lamenta-
ble results.
But he knew how worse than useless would
be admonition or reproach; the die was cast:
he could but so.ow over the most melancholy
"Invite whom you like, and as many as the
house will hold, only pray let us have no en-
gaged couples; I cannot stand them, for of all
the bores in the world they are the greatest. I
would ten thousand times rather have twenty
old women here, nuisances as they are, than
one pair of acknowledged lovers to flirtations
I can have no possible objection!"
Perhaps some idea connected with this feel-
ing crossed his mind during the pause which
followed Mrs. Sutherland's communication; he,
however, soon rose and joined the party at the
pianoforte, and was ere long making himself
very agreeable to his cousins; and though it
was midnight ere Harry Percy departed, the
evening passed very swiftly to all the party.
Harry Percy was so agreeable, so delightful!
Before they separated for the night, however
(as is ever the case on the departure of an un-
fortunate individual from a family circle), the
new visiter was talked over, his merits and de-
merits were canvassed.
22
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Balfour was charmed with his new acquaint-
ance, and declared that his powers of fascina-
tion even exceeded his expectations.
"Maud Sutherland is decidedly the most
splendid creature I have seen for a long time,"
he soliloquized. "If she created a sensation in
the world a year ago, when her beauty had not
arrived at perfection, what would she now do-
and still more in a few years? And that lucky
:
"Oh, Arthur!" said Mr. Sutherland, "you
are only like the rest of the world; few escape
from the irresistible captivation of his manners:
that outward gloss, which, I fear, has swallow-young dog Balfour is to be the possessor of this
ed up all the inward merit of poor Harry's bright, lovely girl, who looks with scorn on all
character. It is very sad to witness the wreck save him-who baffled all the most practised
of so naturally fine a mind-the effects of an hands in London! By Jove, I don't half like
evil course of life. When in his society, I own the fellow! I hardly know which becomes her
I can never help loving him and delighting in most, the proud, contemptuous glance of those
his presence, although I know the feeling is glorious eyes, or the tender, melting air which
morbid."
they assume when she speaks to or looks at him.
He must be a clever fellow to have managed so
well opportunity-nothing like opportunity!
And yet, Master Balfour," he said, half audibly,
"I should like to try how soon I could unseat
you from your exalted pinnacle! She is worth
a little trouble: how superior to all the women
I have made fools of! It will be no easy task;
I shall have all her pride and love against me;
but courage, Harry Percy; you have very seldom
failed! It will be an amusement and excite-
ment while I am here, and will help to pass
away time. Yes, I will try, I am determined;
so garde a vous, fair Maud! or, rather, Arthur
Balfour, look sharp after her heart: it is now
yours, my boy, but there is no telling how long
it may so remain !"
Might not Mr. Percy still be turned from
his present career? Is it not possible that, by
forming new ties, his pursuits and his habits
might change, and cause his mind to incline to
better things?" continued Balfour. "Remem-
ber the old saying, 'A reformed rake often
makes the best husband.'" Mr. Sutherland
shook his head.
"God forbid," he exclaimed, "that any one
I love should ever make the trial. A woman
must indeed be bold to risk her happiness for
the mere chance of her attractions and influence
alluring the selfish, corrupted heart of a world-
ling from the vices and follies he has hitherto
worshipped, especially a gambler; her love and
welfare would soon be of less importance in his
eyes than the turn of a die or the speed of a
horse, for such is the occupation and aim of his
Love is but a secondary consideration,
Arthur-an amusement!"
life.
"But, my dear sir," interrupted Balfour, "we
know what miracles a real attachment has in
many instances wrought."
:
"My dear fellow, you argue like a young
and inexperienced man; but you know not Har-
ry Percy do you suppose he would be long
satisfied with the attachment of one devoted
heart, when all his life he has been accustomed
to the idolatry of so many. No! delightful as
Harry Percy appears to the outward eye, rather
than see a daughter of mine become his wife, I
would follow her to her grave, for there would
be peace for her in death, but not as the wife of
Harry Percy-of a gambler!"
They were all silent for some moments
there was something in Mr. Sutherland's man-
ner and tone while pronouncing the last words
that chilled all their hearts.
Mrs. Sutherland, however, soon ventured a
word in behalf of her absent favourite.
"One little word of extenuation, however, I
must say in favour of Harry Percy," she ex-
claimed; "whatever may be his faults, he still
retains the reputation of being strictly honour-
able and straightforward, and certainly he is
possessed of generous and liberal sentiments;
he has fallen a victim to the greedy and subtle
sharks by which he has been surrounded."
Mr. Sutherland smiled, but sadly, and then
murmured to himself,
"But how difficult it is to persuade the world
of the honour of a gambler !"
Well might Mr. Sutherland have thus ex-
claimed, could he have read the thoughts which
passed through Harry Percy's mind as he bent
his way across the Park, with the keen, frosty
air blowing on his face, and the pure, bright
stars twinkling above his head.
And again he quickened his pace and pursued
his way, exulting in his project, without be-
stowing one single reflection on the happiness
he might crush, the hopes he might destroy, or
the wrong, the sin he was about to commit in
trifling with the feelings and affections of an in-
nocent young girl, the daughter of the friend
who throughout his whole life had loaded him
with benefits, and for whom, not an hour before,
he had professed the utmost gratitude and af-
fection and all for what? the mere gratifica-
tion of vanity, pride, and selfishness.
He reached the door of the cottage: it was
open; and, taking a candle from the hand of his
servant, he hurried up stairs and was soon in
bed, there to dream of Maud Sutherland and the
treachery he was meditating against the peace
of Arthur Balfour.
CHAPTER XIII.
"Life now is life-'tis bliss indeed-
A scene of fascination;
And
eyes that weep and hearts that bleed
Seemn spots in the creation.
We think that every coming day
Will still be calmier-brighter;
That hope's gay wings will grow more gay,
And life's light chain still lighter!"
DUNCAN GRANT
CHRISTMAS was always a happy season at
the Manor and its environs. The poor tasted
largely of the bounty of their patron, and bless-
ings were invoked on the heads of that family,
who, indeed, humbly endeavored to further one
of the designs of their great Master's advent,
"Peace upon earth, and good will towards
men."
Christmas was also a merry time at Suther-
land; the customs and gambols of ancient days,
now nearly obsolete, were still retained at the
Manor.
The tenants and domestics were feasted on
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
23
barons of beef and ale in the great hall, which
was decorated with holly and evergreens, and
there Christmas sports and dancing went on,
often honoured by the presence of the superiors
of the house; and the stately Maud and the
delicate May might often be seen, all smiles and
affability, mingling in the dance with a sturdy
farmer as their cavalier, or the refined Harry Per-
cy and the gallant young soldier gayly footing
it away with pretty country damsels in their
stuff gowns, and coarse, gloveless hands.
short time that remained of the shooting sea-
son; but an hour or two before luncheon he
generally made his appearance in the drawing-
room, where his presence was always hailed
with pleasure by the several ladies there assem-
bled; and under cover of music, which was al-
ways going on, he contrived to make as much
havoc as the sportsmen in the woods. True,
his shots chiefly consisted of a word or a look,
but from him they were as powerful in their ef-
fects as whole volleys of fire from any other
quarter.
No other company was ever invited during
this season; Mr. Sutherland wished it to be as
much as possible a holyday to his servants,
therefore their occupations were not increased
by guests in the drawing-room. Three weeks,
however, after the arrival of Harry Percy, car-seft words and glances were directed.
riages began to roll along the broad avenue lead-
ing to the door of the Manor, and successions
of visiters were day by day welcomed by its in-
Harry Percy was certainly unrivalled in dex-
terity and skill, and a great part of this skill
consisted in the art he possessed of making each
fair one in turn believe that to her alone these
mates.
Walks and drives filled up the afternoon, and
then the ladies retired to their rooms to dwell
upon the honeyed words, the bewitching com-
pliments of the all-fascinating Harry Percy.
passed what he denominated the hour of the
day worth all the rest.
The two young lovers did not derive the ad- And he always, at this hour, adjourned to
vantage which a large party in a country house Mrs. Sutherland's boudoir, and seated before a
often affords. Two hearts may be more close-bright, cheerful fire with her and her daughters,
ly drawn together in a crowd, and there enjoy
more real communion with each other than in
a small domestic circle; they fancy themselves
less observed, less commented upon; even at
the noisy dinner-table, where every tongue is
busy, every eye occupied, soft glances may be
then safely exchanged, sweet words heard only
by the one for whom they are exclusively in-
tended.
But Maud had a conspicuous part to play, for
her mother's health rendered her incapable of
any exertion, and she was obliged to take her
place on every occasion. Arthur Balfour soon
found that he must make up his mind not to ex-
pect much individual attention from her. He,
however, bore the deprivation very manfully;
it was a new delight to see her move about
"The star of the goodly company;"
to hear the whispered remarks and exclamations
on her beauty-her grace; and to know that he
would one day call her his-his own; to think,
to feel that his sinile, his admiration were alone
prized. Arthur Balfour was at this moment far
too happy to murmur at the attentions which
his beloved was in courtesy called upon to de-
voto to the guests of the Manor: all seemed
bright to him; all joy, peace, and future happi-
ness!
It very soon became evident to all who was
the fortunate being that had obtained the rich
prize. More than one of the assembled party
had come with hopes beating high in their hearts,
and speedily were they laid low by the compo-
sed indifference with which their advances were
received.
Eyes were now turned to the paler star, the
fair May, whose quiet grace and beauty, to say
nothing of her large fortune, were to some al-
most as attractive as the still brighter charms
of the heiress; but the naïve simplicity with
which she received attentions and adulation
was equally discouraging to their hopes and ex-
pectations.
And how did Harry Percy amuse himself all
this time?
He reported himself on the invalid list, and
consequently seldom joined the sportsmen, who
sallied forth very early to make the most of the
"How delightful! how reviving!" he would ex-
claim, "after the nonsense, the folly I am forced
to talk all the morning in order to make myself
agreeable, in obedience to your orders, Maud, to
be allowed the entrée to this little nest of peace,
and to sit with those I so dearly love; to be
able to say what I really think; to throw off all
disguise and artificial sentiments which with
those sort of people one is forced to assume;
and to allow one's self to be natural and at ease.
Oh! if I had always had such society to fly to,
I might have been what alas! I am not now !"
It was thus Harry Pey would speak, while
a deep melancholy diffuse itself over his coun-
tenance and into his wonderfully expressive
eyes, and he would rest his forehead on his hand,
and remain for some time apparently buried in
painful thought: even Maud, in these moments,
could not forbear a feeling of pity for one who
seemed formed for all that was good and attract-
ive, and who proved so striking an instance of
a blighted character.
It often happened that Mrs. Sutherland, more
exhausted and fatigued than usual, retired to the
quiet of her own dressing-room, and the trio
were left to themselves. Harry Percy would
then exert himself more than ever to be agree-
able; and whether gay or sad, he always suc-
ceeded in making the time pass pleasantly and
quickly away.

He al-
He frequently spoke of Arthur Balfour, but as
if ignorant of the affaire de cœur between him
and one of his listeners; sometimes, however,
a significant glance of his speaking eyes, direct-
ed at May, plainly told her that he knew more
than he would fain make them suppose.
ways showered the warmest praises on Balfour,
though there often mingled with his commend-
ation a tinge of something which neither of the
sisters particularly liked-a sort of patronising
tone, never used unless towards a person con-
sidered beneath one. This had often caused the
proud blood of Maud to mount to her face, and
fire to flash from her indignant eyes; but May
wondered she was so patient; that her sister,
who possessed so little of the spirit of forbear-
24
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
S
ance and endurance in general, should submis- |
sively suffer him to assume such a tone and
manner towards one whom she considered in
every respect second to no man save her father.
Once Harry Percy ended some encomium on
Arthur by saying he was a person who would be
greatly improved by a little more knowledge of
the world. Maud was silent; but May, contrary
to her custom, undertook to speak for her sister,
and became Arthur's champion with kindling
eyes and glowing cheeks she exclaimed,
:
"The world! What do you mean, Harry
Percy? You seem to forget that Arthur has not
only seen our world, but the New World: he has
beheld two worlds, whereas your experience ex-
tends only to one; and, from your own account,
Harry, the knowledge of that has-has-" she
hesitated, for she was not accustomed to say
severe things, and, blushing at her own enthu-
siasm, suddenly stopped short in her speech.
Maud smiled and simply said,
"Arthur ought to be very grateful to you, May,
for so warmly advocating his cause."
"You are quite right, May, perfectly right,"
exclaimed Percy, in his usual rapid manner, but
in a saddened tone; "my world, as you say, has
done me little good. Heaven grant that Arthur
Balfour, or any one you esteem, may be pre-
served from its baneful influence; hitherto he
has not been exposed to the snares of the world
-its temptations, and therefore he has escaped
its dangers; but even were he now exposed to
these dangers"-and here Harry Percy sighed
and paused" he has, lucky fellow! an invin-
cible safeguard-the armour of loving hearts
around him. I was far less fortunate on my
first entrance into the world: I was only sur-
rounded by the cold, the subtle, and I am there-
fore what you now set me!" and he paused and
fixed his eyes on Mand, as if he would fain have
read in hers what she thought of him-in what
light he appeared to her imagination. Was it as
the irresistible, the fascinating, the delightful
being he was well aware he was considered by
most of her sex, or was she comparing him with
her handsome young lover—with his frank, noble
heart-bis unblemished character-his ardent
his ardent
love-his soul untainted by the world—that
world in which he had moved?
Percy could at length almost flatter himself
that the former feeling prevailed, for the proud
indifference with which she had at first treated
him seemed to be gradually fading away. But
then, if Arthur's step or voice was heard. her
eyes would sparkle, her cneek flush, and she
would receive him with a smile, which would
assuredly have laid low the hopes of any less
experienced, less successful conqueror of hearts
than Harry Percy.
It was in this society that Arthur Balfour
usually found Maud, when, after a separation of
some hours, he would hasten to seek her in her
mother's boudoir. Harry Percy was generally
by her side, though he never failed to relinquish
his seat to the new comer; he, however, seldom
left the room, but would engage Mrs. Sutherland
or May in an animated conversation, which never
terminated till the dressing-bell rang.
This was annoying enough to Balfour; he
thought that, after an absence of a great part of
the day, spent in assisting her father to amuse
his guests, it was hard that he might not enjoy
|
at least an hour's tête-à-tête with his beloved.
He had so many questions to ask-so much to
say, which must be whispered to her ear alone.
But it would not continue long: a few days, and
the month would terminate, and the visiters de-
part. Then he would have all his time to devote
to her only, and no one to monopolize her atten-
tions but himself; and this idea gave him un-
bounded joy, and enabled him to endure with
patience the annoyances of the time being.
CHAPTER XIV.
Away! I do condemn my ears, that hast
So long attended thee.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman."—SHAKSPEARE
Ir was the last evening: the party at the
Manor was about to separate on the following
day, and right glad were some hearts among
them that so it was to be.
And the host himself rejoiced that they were
to be alone, for with alarm and grief he saw that
the exertion and excitement his wife had un-
avoidably undergone had weakened and ex-
hausted her; and the invalid, on her part, could
not disguise how ardently she panted for the
quiet and peace of their family circle.
"Come and take a stroll with me, Balfour,"
said Lord Percival, as they left the dining-room
the same evening. He was the son of Lord
Balfour, and, consequently, cousin to Arthur.
It was a clear, moonlight night, innumerable
stars bespangling the heavens, and, seizing the
arm of his relation, the young lord led him
through a glass door on to the terrace.
A perfect calm reigned without, the stillness
being alone broken by the merry voices of the
company within, which reached the ears of the
two young men as they sauntered past the
drawing-room windows.
"Now I would wager my existence, Balfour,"
was Lord Percival's first remark, “that you
would twenty times rather be gazing on your
Venus-on the star of your idolatry in that room,
than on the planet Venus, shining so brilliantly,
so gloriously above your head?"
This was not contradicted.
"Well, I feel no scruple in detaining you a
short space, as I leave you to-morrow to bask
in all its brightness, without interruption, I hope.
I could not take my departure, my dear fellow,
without congratulating you on what you appear
to wish to keep so profound a secret. Why, I
know not, unless, indeed, you fear being snot
through the brains by half a hundred would-be
rivals; but you need not fear me; and, to set
your mind at ease, I will confess that your god-
dess, from the first, was too dazzling for my
weak sight."
Arthur smiled proudly.
"Ah!" he continued, "I see by your face
that you are thinking of the fable of the fox and
grapes; but no! I own that my heart has been
subdued by the softer, milder rays of that pale
star by her side. But," he added, laughingly,
as he raised his eyes to the glittering firmament,
"that same little star is Mars, I believe, which
is therefore a shockingly inappropriate simile:
so, in plain terms, leaving astronomy and as-
trology, I must confess, that if the pretty May
did not look so coldly kind upon me, I should be
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
25
{
very much tempted to fall at her feet, and offer | personification of honour and uprightness, should
her my hand and heart."
countenance and apparently patronise such a
man as Harry Percy? There would be nothing
remarkable in other people doing so, but, for
more reasons than one, it seems to me an in-
stance of great inconsistency on the part of our
excellent host."
"I admire, I laud your taste, Percival; you
will indeed be a most fortunate man if you suc-
ceed in gaining the affections of so perfect a
being as May Sutherland."
And Arthur in a moment had erected a fabric
in his imagination, based on the union, at some
future time, of his two cousins.
It was not to every one that he would thus
joyfully have bestowed his sweet sister, as he
already called her; but he loved and esteemed
Lord Percival, and warmly expressed his sin-
cere wishes for his success in winning the fair
prize.
"I did not bring you here, however," resumed
the young lord, "to speak of my own hopes and
affairs, but of your prospects, Balfour; there-
fore give me the authority to congratulate you
by confessing (I will keep your secret, if it be
one) that you are engaged to her," and he again
smiled a merry smile,
"Whose eyes are loadstones, and her tongue sweet air'
(as you were singing to-day), and whose
"Sunny locks hang on her temple like a golden fleece.'
How can I adequately describe her perfections?
In plain terms tell me, however, Arthur, are you
not engaged to the rich and most beautiful heiress
of Sutherland Manor? Come, confess-confess,
my dear fellow !"
Balfour hesitated: he would willingly have
proclaimed his happiness, but he hardly knew
whether he was justified in so doing, unsanc-
tioned by Mr. Sutherland, who had not given
him permission to make it publicly known;
however, he felt sure that his cousin did not
ask the question out of mere curiosity, but from
real interest in his welfare; he therefore ended
by fully disclosing to him the exact situation of
affairs existing between himself and Maud-in
short, the whole history of their love.
"Not absolutely engaged!" was his listener's
comment, when Balfour had concluded his story,
and there was a tinge of disappointment in his
voice.
"Not exactly! I have just told you so," said
Arthur, impatiently; "not yet, but in a few days
it will be decided."
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Percival, "I under-
stand;" and there was a change in his counte-
nance that puzzled Balfour.
A pause of several minutes ensued, broken at
length by the young lord's demanding abruptly,
"How long, by-the-by, has Percy been stay-
ing nere ?"
"About seven weeks," was the reply.
"How long does he remain?"
“As long, I believe, as he finds it agreeable,
or, rather, as long as his affairs render it neces-
sary that he should lead a retired life.”
Lord Percival gave a long, expressive whistle,
which seemed to comprise more meanings than
one.
"I imagine, from what I hear," he continued,
"that he will have-more difficulty in arranging
his affairs than any one is yet aware of, and, in
my opinion, he might just as well have taken
his departure for the Continent at once, for,
mark my words, ere long he will be obliged to
do so.
But tell me, Balfour, do you not think it
rather extraordinary that Mr. Sutherland, the
D
|
"Indeed!" said Arthur; "I quite differ from
you. I see nothing extraordinary in one so be-
nevolent and kind as my uncle striving to aid
when in trouble, and receiving into his house a
nephew who, with the exception of one unfor-
tunate propensity, is far superior to most men
we meet with in the ordinary course of society:
he is, at any rate, generous-honourable !"
"Well!" replied Percival, "far be it from my
wish to deteriorate from any man's good name
-to cast the first stone; but I fear, if you asked
his creditors, they would tell you a very differ-
ent story: mais ce n'est pas mon affaire." Per-
cival paused, and then, in a grave tone, contin-
ued: "I will, without farther hesitation, say at
once what may startle you, Balfour, but pray
believe that it is kindly meant. Many blame,
Mr. Sutherland for introducing into his house,
on such familiar terms with his beautiful daugh-
ters, the most dangerous man, the most experi-
enced flirt in England. I assure you the world
censures him very much."
"Pshaw !" exclaimed Balfour, contemptu-
ously, though the colour mounted to his tem-
ples; "let the world mind its own business:
| Mr. Sutherland can take care of his daughters,
and they, let me tell you, are not formed of such
flexible materials as to yield their hearts to
every smooth-tongued coxcomb who approaches
them. The world will soon hear that there is
indeed one fortunate man who has secured the
heart of the beautiful Maud, and," he added,
with vehemence, "let him who would seek to
rob me of the precious treasure beware!"
Lord Percival made no reply to this enthusi-
astic speech of his young cousin, and Balfour
continued :
(C
Percival, you look as dismal and serious as
if you suspected that May's coldness towards
you arose from Percy's fascination: can this
really be the origin of the tirades with which
you have been treating me? Ah! my lord,”
he added, in a jesting tone, "beware of jealou-
sy; it is a green-eyed monster."
"Balfour!" exclaimed Percival, "time is
passing quickly; our absence will be observed;
and, beautiful as is the night, I begin to feel
frostbitten, so I must at once come to the point.
I would not needlessly alarm you; I would
merely advise you to keep your eyes wide open:
it is not on the heart of that sweet creature,
your youngest cousin, that I fear Harry Percy
will try his skill: there is a childlike simplicity
about her, a calmness of demeanour, which will
prove her safeguard: there is no chance of his
stooping to seek the violet when so bright a rose
is blooming before him."
He paused, for Arthur Balfour had grasped
his arm, and in an agitated and indignant voice
exclaimed,
Percival! if you have grounds to justify
your thus cruelly darkening my mind with foul
suspicion, for mercy's sake do not thus seek for
enigmatical terms to express your meaning, but
tell me at once what they are, and by the bright
26
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
heavens above-But no, it is too absurd, too | weighed that of Maud in the same balance as
ridiculous to convert the familiar affection of a his own. He proudly thought,
cousin, and one so much older than herself, into "Such love as ours! is it possible for any
an attempt to possess her heart; and, besides, circumstance to alter, any human being to over-
Percy knows too well that her affections are throw and destroy? No, never, never! Death
bestowed on another; that her love is sanc-alone can separate us: till then our love will
tioned by her parents, to whom he is bound by
such deep obligations-who have received him
in misfortune, assisted him in trying difficulties.
Percival," Balfour continued, in an agitated and
indignant voice, "I should really have imagined
an honourable man like yourself incapable of
harbouring such an unjust, such a cruel suspi-
cion !"
Lord Percival shook his head doubtingly, as
if to express how much his friend had yet to
learn of the world and its perfidy, and then
again he spoke, with great tact and caution
striving to rouse his excited listener only suffi-
ciently to induce him to be wide awake, with-
out torturing his soul with jealousy. He let
young Balfour fully into the real character of
Harry Percy; told him of the whispered hints
he had overheard among the guests, particularly
from the ladies, who are by far the most acute
in detecting such proceedings, that if Balfour
wished to be the only competitor for the hand
of the beautiful Maud, he would do well to look
about him; that the affection of cousins is ever
a convenient designation; any one, at a glance,
could detect in the attentions of Harry Percy to
Miss Sutherland a less careless gallantry—a
deeper meaning in his manner towards her than
that which he bestowed so openly on other fair
ones. Lord Percival also added that he had
heard some of the men insinuate that Harry
Percy might now put his powers of fascination
to a better use than that of merely gratifying
his vanity; that he might not merely aim at the
heart, but at the gold, which would so conveni-
ently repair his shattered fortune.
Much more did he say; and Arthur listened
with a scornful smile, as if he thought that
Harry Percy was more sinned against than sin-
ning; but the young lord did not tell him that
hints were also thrown out, that though, when
Balfour was present, she smiled sweetly upon
him, yet, when he was absent, she consoled
herself with the attentions of her perhaps less
handsome, yet, from his practised powers of
adulation, more dangerous cousin, and looked
no less graciously upon him.
Lord Percival would not, could not tell him.
this; he could not find it in his kind, warm
heart to inflict so severe a wound; and, be-
sides, he felt that most likely these remarks
were unfounded-were the suggestions of envy,
malice, and uncharitableness, or, perchance, of
mere idle gossip: he only felt that it was his
bounden duty to put his young cousin on his
guard, for Arthur Balfour, noble and honourable
himself, could scarcely imagine vice in others.
He considered that he had performed his duty,
and would now leave Arthur Balfour to act ac-
cording to his own discretion, and to look after
his own interest.
The latter laughingly thanked him for his
caution, in a strain and manner, however, which
showed that he could scarcely appreciate its
value. He felt so strong, so confident in the
love which so nobly, generously, yet humbly
glowed in his pure, unsuspicious heart, that he
endure. Sweet, lovely Maud, I am thine-thine
only, and thou art mine forever!"
4
Come," said Percival, interrupting his rev-
ery, "let us return to the house; we have been
some time absent from the party, and shall be
quizzed for being star-gazers-some may even
accuse us of being moonstruck; so quick!
quick, my good fellow, to the house. I am sure
you will gladly exchange the light of the moon
for that which, to your eyes, is so far brighter;
"Light that ne'er can shine BUT ONCE
On life's dull stream.'"
CHAPTER XV.
"Many were lovely there; but of that many
Was one who looked the loveliest of any."-L. E. L.
"A THRONGING scene of figures bright" pro-
sented itself to the dazzled eyes of the young
their return from their moonlit ramble. Lord
men when they entered the drawing-room on
Percival observed the hurried, anxious glanco
which his cousin cast on the numerous groups
scattered over different parts of the room, till
they fixed on the one bright spot where rested
his beloved, and though there were many other
beautiful women in the room, yet they might
have exclaimed with somewhat of truth,
""
"Like a snowy dove trooping with crows,
So yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.'
She looked, indeed, like a young queen as
she sat in a large, ancient, tapestried chair,
placed at the entrance of a recess at the farther
end of the room, facing the door, and which
was nearly filled with choice plants, shrubs, and
flowers from the conservatory; just above the
spot a lamp was suspended, and shed its silvery
light over her person.
Maud was clad in a simple dress of the whi-
test crape; no ornament decked her head save
that which nature had so liberally bestowed,
her luxurious hair descending on her fair neck
in long, shining ringlets.
Before Lord Percival and Balfour entered she
had been the centre of a knot of gentlemen, but
they had dispersed, and she remained in her
conspicuous situation attended by one alone,
who was leaning over the back of her chair,
conversing earnestly, while she, with a pleased,
attentive air, listened to his words.
Arthur Balfour remained for a moment lean-
ing against a marble table near the door, with
his coffee-cup in his hand. He did not wish to
show Percival that his warning had affected him
with painful feelings; but true it was that the
iron had entered his soul: his happiness was
gone, for he began from that moment to doubt!
Balfour would not, however, allow to himself
that his mind had received a shock which stag-
gered it. He fancied that his friend's eyes
must be now upon him, watching every varia-
tion of his countenance; therefore, though he
felt an earnest desire to find himself at the other
Į
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
27
When the set was over, and he was walking
end of the room, at his rightful post, which an- | feeling of jealousy which for a moment had
other had usurped-though he longed to ask darkened his mind: his cheerfulness returned,
her how her eyes could sparkle so brilliantly and he was even magnanimous enough to ask
upon any other but himself, and how she could Harry Percy to be their vis-à-vis in the ensuing
smile, and look so gay, and listen with such quadrille.
apparent interest to the words of another, he
with a strong effort restrained himself, and ad-up and down the room with his partner, she
dressed some trivial remark to an old lady seat- suddenly turned to him, and in a half laughing,
ed near him, which immediately elicited from half confused voice said,
her a long story, of which he heard not a syllable,
but, judging by his silence that he was intently
interested, she was no ways disheartened in her
powers of loquacity.
Lord Percival read his thoughts, and imme-
diately after their entrance turned from lim,
and seated himself by the side of May, scrupu-
lously avoiding even looking at his perplexed
relative.
May received Lord Percival with a kind
smile, and began immediately to inquire where
he and Arthur had been so long; and then for
the first time perceiving the latter, she fixed
her eyes on him for a moment, then directed
them towards her sister, and when she again
looked at Arthur, there was an anxious glance
on her usually placid countenance.
Lord Percival took note of all this.
|
"Do you know that I have promised to waltz
with Harry Percy?"
Arthur started: there had been an agreement
between them that they would never waltz but
with each other-in short, that they should not
waltz at all; for Arthur had rather a dislike to
that dance, and, indeed, very rarely attempted
it. Maud saw that he was displeased.
"Harry Percy waltzes so beautifully," she
continued, in a half apologetic tone, "and I
really cannot withstand the temptation."
"But we had promised each other," Arthur
began.
"Oh yes," she said, interrupting him, "it
was a very easy and safe promise for you, who
hate waltzing and do it so badly; but I will
give you the treat, Arthur, of seeing a specimen
of really good waltzing, and then you may take
"You have something to say to Balfour, I a lesson."
am sure," he exclaimed.
She slightly blushed and replied,
"Oh no! at least it was only that my sister
was inquiring for him just now.”
But at that moment Mr. Sutherland approach-
ed the subject of their discourse, and said, in a
low tone,
"Why, Arthur! we thought you were lost!
Where have you been? Maud has been asking
for you, and is now looking all astonishment at
your preferring Lady Ferrer's conversation to
hers."
Arthur looked up and met the glance of those
bright eyes, and soon he was at the other end
of the room.
(C
"Balfour!" exclaimed Harry Percy, as he
approached, we hope you are edified by Lady
Ferrer's amusing discourse; we have been
watching your face of intense delight and in-
terest, and it nearly made us die with laugh-
ter."
"Dear Maud," replied Arthur, in a pleading
accent, "grant me the favour-do not waltz:
your father, you know, has often expressed his
dislike to the dance, especially when performed
by his own daughters.'
">
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, frowning; "my
father can have no objection to my waltzing
with my cousin, so that excuse will not do-
and as yet I am under the authority of no one
else."
They were both silent till they reached the
spot where Mr. Sutherland was standing, and
then Maud stepped towards him, and placing
her little hand on his arm, said proudly,
Papa, have you any objection to my waltz-
ing with my cousin Harry Percy?"
Mr. Sutherland hesitated ere he replied, then
looked at Balfour, whose head, however, was
averted, and saying, "I refer you to Balfour; if
he does not object, I cannot," walked away.
Maud coloured and bit her lip.
The doors leading into an adjoining room, The music struck up. Harry Percy arose
prepared for dancing, were now thrown open, and approached her, and she cast an impatient
and Mr. Sutherland desired them to set the ex-glance on Arthur, which seemed to express the
ample by commencing the ball without farther
delay.
Arthur offered his arm to Maud.
"You hardly deserve it," she said, as she
accepted it; " why have you not been near me
all the evening?"
"I have been walking with Percival on the
terrace," he replied, "and when I returned you
seemed so agreeably occupied."
"Oh, I have been talking to Harry Percy
nearly all the time: he is so extremely enter-
taining."
"He seemed so-therefore I would not inter-
rupt you.
She laughed and said,
"Well, do not look so cross, or I shall wish
him back again."
There was such a freedom from any shade
of embarrassment in her manner as she spoke
thus, that Arthur blamed himself for the slight
question, "Am I to bend to your caprice or not?"
He understood it well, and bowing his head
gravely, coldly relinquished her arm: this ac-
tion also told her, as well as words could have
done,
"You know my opinion on the subject; but,
as you say, I have no right to dictate to you.
For one short moment she wavered, but in the
next Harry Percy was triumphantly leading her
to the dance.
Arthur Balfour's heart sunk within him, and
he was turning dejectedly away, when his arm
was gently grasped, and the words, "Arthur-
dear Arthur, I will only waltz with Harry Per-
cy, I promise you-indeed I will not," fell upon
his ear.
He looked up, and Maud's tearful eyes were
fixed upon him with an expression which made
his heart beat once more with exultation and
happiness: it seemed as if they were humbly
}
28
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
•
imploring forgiveness; and to whom else would | the Manor, and eat their luncneon in an adjoin-
she have thus bowed her proud spirit?
ing farmhouse. This scheme met with univer-
Maud's partner had left her to desire a partic-sal approbation, and a message was despatch-
ular waltz to be played, and she had taken this ed to Harry Percy to acquaint him of this ar-
opportunity to soothe Arthur and quiet her own rangement.
conscience.
Lord Percival, who stood near, caught the
words, notwithstanding the low tone in which
they were spoken.
"6
Unlucky Arthur!" he thought; "only-only
Harry Percy! Ah!" he continued, as he saw
him seat himself by May, "you would have been
far wiser had you been less ambitious in your
love your gentle younger cousin would have
suited you much better: how her soft eyes spar-
kle-how the colour mounts to her fair cheek
as he addresses her! What would I give, poor
fellow to disperse the dark clouds which are
hovering over your head; but I see the storm
is gathering fast."
The meditation was interrupted by his part-
ner, who exclaimed,
"How beautifully she waltzes-how perfect!
Do look, Lord Percival; is it not exquisite? I
never saw Miss Sutherland waltz before; this
is the first time she has done so since we came
to the Manor. How lovely and graceful she is!"
Yes, there they were, whirling rapidly round
most gracefully in that all-fascinating, all-intox-
icating dance! Every eye was upon them; even
the other couples ceased waltzing, and paused
to gaze with admiration; and when, at length,
they stopped to rest for a while, the eyes of the
fair danseuse were beaming bright with pleasure,
and Percival heard her exclaim,
"How charming! how delightful !"
Delightful! perfect! charming indeed!"
echoed her partner, as he leaned over her, and
again his arm encircled her slender waist: once
more they were flying away into the mazes of
the dance.
It seemed as if they could never weary: they
were still dancing when the music ceased, and
it appeared to Arthur Balfour as if it would have
lasted forever: he thought a waltz had never
yet been so interminable.
"Over already! not one turn more? How
provoking!" exclaimed Maud, as she was led by
Harry Percy into the cool vestibule past the spot
where Arthur and May sat.
"Poor Arthur!" again soliloquized Percival;
"only Harry Percy, indeed!"
CHAPTER XVI.
"Tis strange to think, if we could fling aside
The mask and mantle many wear from pride,
How much old be, we now so little guess,
Deep in each heart's unaream'd. unsought recess."
"Now to my charms
L. E. L.
And to my wily trains."-MILTON.
THE last carriage had rolled away from the
door, and the Sutherlands and Arthur Bal-
four stood on the stone steps till the sound of
its revolving wheels had died away, and then
they turned to one another with inquiring looks,
which seemed to say, "Now how shall we en-
joy our liberty?"
It was soon proposed that they should all
drive to visit a ruined castle, the lion par excel-
lence of the neighbourhood, about ten miles from
|
He sent back to say " He was just up: would
dress and breakfast with all his powers of alac-
rity, and follow them on horseback."
Arthur had lately received, as a gift from Mr.
Sutherland, a handsome phaeton and horses;
he was very proud of his equipage, and, indeed,
it was perfect of its kind; he begged Maud to
allow him to drive her in it. She joyfully
agreed to this proposal, for she had no taste for
the close carriage which the present season
made it necessary her mother should occupy.
Mr. Sutherland could not accompany them,
but he took care to see that his wife had every-
thing to conduce to her warmth and comfort,
smilingly bade Arthur be careful and bring his
charge safely back, and then wrapping Maud's
fur cloak comfortably round her feet, he wished
them a very pleasant day.
·
Arthur gave one slight touch with his whip
to the spirited horses, which immediately sprang
forward, followed by the less speedy chariot
containing the two ladies.
It was as fine and bright a February morning
as ever was beheld; approaching Spring seem-
ed anxiously contending with lingering Winter.
The ground sparkled like crystal with the re-
mains of the late frost, but primroses here and
there peeped forth from the hedges.
The exhilarating effect ever produced by a
quick drive through the open air, on such a
morning as this, did not fail to impart itself to
Arthur and his companion. All remembrance
of the last evening's conversation on the ter-
race—of the waltzing-all past grievances van-
ished from the mind of the young man ; the
bright being he loved was by his side; her
musical laugh rang upon his ear; her dark eyes
beamed upon him; and joy, unmixed joy and
hope again, like the Spring, burst forth to glad-
den his heart: joy in the present, bright hope
for the future!
"Alas! alas! hope is not prophecy!"
their exuberance: language seemed too poor,
As for Maud, her spirits were unbounded in
too insufficient to satisfy them; they overflow-
ed in song; and calling upon Arthur to join his
voice with hers, they broke forth into the most
cheerful and harmonious strains. The words.
"For it is life's happy hour,"
seemed to speak from their very souls as well
as from their lips; Mrs. Sutherland and May
smiled as their ears faintly caught the sounds
borne back to them by the soft breeze, and their
eyes sparkled with pleasure: they too were
happy in their own quiet way.
But he notes of the song also reached an-
other, and he spurred his horse on even more
quickly than before.
"This will never do!" he murmured: "this
sounds not like the sighing of a fettered heart.
Youth's happy hour!" he bitterly repeated;
"dead and lost is that hour to me: never, till
now, did this heart feel how truly your golden
light has passed forever! But it shall shine
again: yes! the bright hue of that lovely girl's
smile shall illumine this darkened, blighted
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
20
knew her best probably attributed these symp-
toms to what, we are unwillingly obliged to
confess, was not a rare event, namely, the un-
romantic and unheroine-like fact of the beauti-
ful Maud being in a bad humour.
heart-blighted before its time by the destruc- From the moment Harry Percy approached
tive contact of a vain and empty world. I have the phaeton, a gloom had gradually gathered
hitherto played with love merely for my own over her countenance, broken by sudden flash-
amusement, but never have I truly felt the pas-es of pettishness and irritability. Those who
sion till now, when her whom I could really
prize is given to another. Is it possible, then,
that I, Harry Percy, am indeed at last fairly
caught? is it indeed possible? The world, at
least, will not believe it-will attribute to me
its own mercenary motives; but with all my
faults I have never been a fortune-hunter: no
one can accuse me of that. But, by Jove! the
world for once is right it would be a gloriousness from others, when, instead of chidings, re-
patch-up to my ruined fortune. Fate! you
have hitherto frowned upon me, but I have
never yet invoked your aid to assist my love.
Smile on me now, thou fickle goddess Fortune,
for Maud Sutherland must be mine !"
These were the meditations of Harry Percy!
"But there is no time to be lost," he contin-
ued to soliloquize :
"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly.'
So said Macbeth, and so say I. Much is to be
done there is that young fellow to disentangle
from her heart. I fancy already that work has
made some progress, and the experienced, in-
vincible, victorious Harry Percy will continue
to entwine his snares around it. Courage,
then, courage! Faint heart never won fair
lady!" and with these words on his lips he
bounded forward to the side of the phaeton.
The song ceased when he reached it, the
horses' pace was slackened, a blushing face
turned towards him, and a little hand was ex-
tended, which was pressed with a fervour which
he saw was felt as he intended it should be,
and her words of greeting returned with an im-
passioned glance which he perceived was per-
fectly understood, for the bright eyes lowered
till their long lashes swept the burning cheek;
but the next moment the impatient horses re-
ceived a lash from their driver which made
them spring forward at a furious pace, and
Harry Percy's steed starting aside, rearing and
plunging, he was soon lost sight of, being left
considerably behind by the phaeton.
The rider uttered a suppressed imprecation,
but composed his features and smoothed his
brow as he turned to speak to the occupants of
the chariot, but still it was not with his usual
bland and easy smile; and May said to her
mother, "How grave and pale Harry looks!"
Mrs. Sutherland answered that she was fearful
he had much cause for gravity, for the last post
had brought him a very bad account of his af-
fairs.
The subject of these observations had very
soon again reached the phaeton: he kissed his
hand most gracefully as he passed it, taking
care to exhibit to the best advantage his supe-
rior horsemanship, which the fine action of the
noble animal he rode fully favoured.
But who could marvel that she should thus
occasionally err, when the fault never failed to
call forth such proofs of affection, such kind-
doubled attention and fondness were ever lav-
ished on the spoiled beauty to win her back to
smiles. But this day the pettishness and irri-
tability were assumed, apparently, to hide deep-
er feelings; she seemed as if acting a part
throughout the morning.
There was no childish sentiment in the star-
tled, thoughtful expression of those dark eyes,
or the impatient, anxious tone of her voice;
she was evidently ill at ease with herself, and
therefore sought not to appear so to those
around her.
At luncheon the conversation was badly sus-
tained; a cloud seemed to hover round the par-
ty; and poor Maud! no wonder she was op-
pressed and gloomy: a change had indeed
come "o'er the spirit of her dream :"
"Never more will the young heart know
Its joyous hour-
Its childhood is departed."
CHAPTER XVII.
"I think on many a wasted hour,
And sicken o'er the void,
And many darker are behind,
On worse than naught employed.
Alas! my heart,
How widely hast thou strayed,
And misused every golden gift
For better purpose made."-L. E. L.
"ARE you going to sit here forever?" exclaim-
ed Maud, as she suddenly looked up, as if awa-
kened from a deep revery, and met a gaze which
caused a bright flush to pass over her cheeks;
"do you mean to remain in this room all the
day, and return home without once having stir-
red out to look at the very object you came to
see?"
Mrs. Sutherland was comfortably seated by
the blazing wood fire. The farmer's wife had
formerly been a servant at the Manor, and loved
her devotedly, as all those who knew her well
ever did. It was her intention to remain quiet-
ly there till the time arrived for their return
home, for even the easy drive had fatigued the
invalid, and she was conversing with Mrs. Meade
on the subject of her domestic affairs, in which
she took a kind interest.
May was playing with the rosy children group-
The turrets of the ruined castle soon appeared around her, and Maud had seated herself by
ed in view, and in a short time the whole of the
party were seated at a good luncheon in the
farmhouse parlour.
the latticed window, her eyes vacantly fixed on
the objects without, in the mood described be-
fore. Arthur was by her side: he took her hand,
But where was the wild gayety which had which lay listlessly on her knee, and strove, fruit-
possessed the beautiful Maud during the begin-lessly, to win her to smiles and conversation.
ning of the drive? It had, indeed, been like She did not withdraw her hand, but averted her
the uncertain glory of a Spring morning-too | face.
bright to last.
And Harry Percy! He had at first placed
2
30
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
himself by Mrs. Sutherland, chatted and appear- peace which this world cannot give. But only
ed to take the most profound interest in Mrs. for brief moments did these gleams of better
Meade's affairs, admired and caressed her chil- things rest upon his mind: he drove such
dren, inquired their ages and names, and told thoughts away like busy intruders. What had
all the little girls they were very pretty and very he to do with memory? it conjured naught but.
tall, and the little boys they were very fine fel- dismal phantoms. "I will think of the beauti-
lows; but at last he moved to a horsehair sofa ful present," he soliloquized, his mind turning
opposite the window where Maud and Arthur to the lovely Maud: "out upon you, Harry Per-
were seated, drew a newspaper from his pock-cy, for a coward!" And had his companions
et, and apparently began to read. What! its looked upon his countenance, they would have
contents? No Maud caught his eye fixed on marked a smile of scorn. "What regular folly
her and Arthur over the edge of the paper, quick-to feel any compunction on the score of this
ly, however, removed when he perceived he young fellow Balfour. I shall be only doing him
was discovered. She abruptly drew her hand an act of kindness: she is not in any way suit-
from Arthur, and exclaimed,
ed to him; they are the very extreme of oppo-
sites; how much more calculated," he contin-
ued to ponder, as he gazed on May, who leaned
on Arthur's arm, and was looking up into his
face with an expression of such pleasure and
confiding affection-nay, even of admiration, as
they conversed together, "how far more suited
is that pretty, calm girl for young Balfour than
her glorious sister! I am sure it would be serv-
ing the good youth to forestall him in the love
of one who can never contribute to his happi-
ness. He ought to have a more domestic wife-
a more yielding one than she will ever prove.
No! she shall shine resplendently in my world,
and in my leisure hours her impetuous spirit
will be an amusement. I cannot exist without
excitement of some kind or other. I flatter myself
I am a pretty good judge of character, and, depend
upon it, little May is the wife for Balfour; but
the difficulty will be to make him think so.
"Are you going to sit here forever? I thought
you came to see the ruins; if it were only to
read the papers and watch the ducks swimming
in the pond, we might just as well have remain-
ed at home !"
"Well, then, let us go," said Arthur, and he
offered her his arm.
"Oh no!" she replied, impatiently; "having
seen the castle constantly for eighteen years,
I would rather remain where I am; I have a
dreadful headache. Oh, do not stay on my ac-
count!" she continued, as Arthur announced
his intention of remaining with her; and she
walked languidly towards her mother, and seat-
ed herself on a low stool by her side, and lean-
ed her head against her knee.
On their first acquaintance Harry Percy and
Balfour had been constant companions, and got
on very well together; but when once the feel-
ing of distrust and doubt has entered the heart,
all unconstrained and social intercourse must
cease. The present position of the two gentle-
men destroyed every inclination for a tête-à-tête
walk; they therefore stopped, as they passed
through the little garden, at the latticed window
to invite May to accompany them, and she cheer-
fully consented to be their cicerone.
With all these thoughts crowding upon Harry
Percy's mind, it may be easily imagined that
May and Arthur had all the conversation to
themselves. They had extended their walk
farther than they had intended; the sun had set
behind the distant hills, and it was getting quite
dark when they returned to the farm.
The shadow had passed from her brow, and
as she sat, unmindful of their presence, she look-
ed as if no untoward passions had ever ruffled
her serenity. On first noticing the entrance of
the walking party, she slightly started, but took
no heed of any one; she only bent more fondly
over the pretty baby, her godson, and shook
the coral and bells, her own gift, which hung
round his neck, while the little creature seized
her long curls, which Arthur hastened to disen-
tangle from its merciless grasp. She laughed and
thanked him, but lifted not her eyes to his face.
When they entered the little parlour, the first
The society of a young, innocent girl like object that met their eyes was Maud, with Mrs.
May was refreshing, even to a heart fettered by Meade's fat, crowing baby on her knee, sur-
passion and care. It was like the cool breeze rounded by the rest of the children, whom she
on the fevered brow-the clear, sparkling rivu- was delighting with her gayety and kindness,
let on the sultry summer day; and as she walk-and who stood gazing on her lovely face with
ed between her two cousins, pointing out to evident admiration; for children are always at-
them the beauties of the spot, relating the tra-tracted by beauty, particularly when combined
ditions associated with the ancient pile, her fair with good nature.
face glowing with gentle enthusiasm, her soft,
hazel eyes kindling as she spoke, the youthful
days of the worldling seemed to rise up before
him those days when his heart was affection-
ate and pure, his hopes bright and promising;
when he was rich in the love of parents, and of
the fair creature whose daughter (so like what
her mother had then been) now walked by his
side. He thought of his own mother's early
death, of her grave which he had wept over
sad memories, which, however, had failed to
draw his hopes to that "better land" where he
had, in his boyhood, often loved to think of her. Harry Percy had walked straight up to Mrs.
The young, fair face of May Sutherland re- Sutherland, who begged him to hasten their de-
vived in the once warm heart of Harry Percy parture; but Mrs. Meade had set out her best
wretched reflections and retrospects of his past China tea-things, and of tea and hot cakes they
life, and brought with them an indefinable long-were entreated to partake; after which the car-
ing, a craving anxiety for something to fill up
the blank space in his soul; and the wish was
independent of any object or circumstance on
which for years his hopes and expectations had
been fixed: what he now panted for was the
riage drove to the door, and the lamps were
lighted, for it was already nearly dark.
The weather had become very cold, and the
farmer predicted rain.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
31
1
CHAPTER XVIII.
"I thought how love, I thought how hope
O'er the horizon of my heart
Had pour'd their light like yonder sun,
Like yon sun, only to depart:
Alas that ever suns should set,
1
Or Hope grow cold, Love forget "-L. E. L.
"DEAREST Maud, you will not venture in the
phaeton, I trust," said Mrs. Sutherland, anx-
iously, as they equipped themselves in their
cloaks and furs. No, indeed, darling," she
continued, as Maud signified her intention of so
doing, "I cannot permit it; so you must relin-
quish Arthur's society for this once, and put up
with May's and mine."
But Maud looked dissatisfied.
"I am sure it will not rain," she said; "and
how can I be cold in all these wraps?" And
she walked to the door, and gazed on a scene as
different from the brightness of the morning as
had been then her mood contrasted with the pres-
ent gloom. In the mean time her mother called
Arthur aside, and begged him to reconcile her
spoiled child to the arrangement she had pro-
posed.
Mrs. Sutherland knew that Arthur had ac-
quired an influence over Maud which not even
her indulgent parents possessed; that a word,
a look from him had often recalled smiles, which
some slight disappointment or contradiction had
for a moment banished. She knew not the
altered state of the case; and as Balfour with-
drew "to do his best," as he said, no one guessed
the painful, torturing thought which called forth
the heavy sigh which heaved from his now
doubtful heart.
He approached Maud as she stood by the door,
and said, in a cheerful tone,
:
former returned to the house. When he followed
him and looked into the parlour in order to tell
the party that all was ready, Harry Percy was
standing between Maud and her mother, talking
in his most earnest manner. Maud was laugh-
ingly shaking her head, while Mrs. Sutherland,
with a half smile and half frown, was listening
to his energetic pleading. Harry Percy's enun-
ciation was most peculiarly rapid and emphatic.
The next moment he had darted forth, and
when Arthur gave his arm to Maud, and led her
to the door to assist her, as he thought, to mount
the box, he heard the words,
"Oh no, thank you; I have no wish to play
the footman."
He paused, and was about to hand her into the
carriage where Mrs. Sutherland was seated,
when the voice of Harry Percy was heard behind
them.
"Where is your sister?" he said.
"She is, I suppose, on the carriage box with
Arthur; he gave up driving the phaeton on pur-
pose," was the answer,.in the soft tones of May.
"Oh, nonsense! I am to have that pleasure
to-night, and you must console the forsaken; I
am sure you will do it famously, and be also an
excellent substitute."
"Harry! you know I will not," May was
heard to say, in a less gentle accent than was
her wont, as she turned away, thereby prevent-
ing the indignant flash of her usually mild eyes
from being seen, otherwise it might have sur-
prised her listener as much as did the change
in the tones of her voice.
"Maud, is this true?" exclaimed Arthur.
"
'Yes; Harry" she replied, and those first
words were scarcely audible; but she then con-
"So, dear Maud, I am not to have the pleas- tinued in a perfectly clear, calm voice, "Harry
ure of driving you home !"
It seemed that he had raised her from a rev-
ery, for she started when he spoke, but then
quickly said,
"Indeed! I was not aware-pray why not?"
"I thought it was your mother's wish that
you should return in the chariot ;" and there was
an expression in his voice as he spoke, which
told as plainly as if he had added, "Is not her
wish your law?" "She is fearful," he continued,
"that the rain will overtake us: I am bound to
second her desire, great as the disappointment
is to me.'
>>
Maud turned away her head.
"But really it is not very cold," resumed Ar-
thur; "I know now how it can be managed to
please us both," he exclaimed; "I will drive the
chariot, and you can sit with me on the box;
then, if the rain comes on, you can easily change
and go inside. My horses, I am afraid, would
never accommodate their paces to those of the
others."
Receiving no answer of dissent or assent to
this plan, he started off to make the necessary
arrangements.
Balfour found Harry Percy superintending the
saddling of his horse, and on hearing of the new
plan, he asked the reason, and then carelessly
said,
"Oh ! if that's the case, you may as well let
me drive your phaeton, and the groom can ride
my horse."
Arthur Balfour willingly assented, and remain-
ed to give some orders to the servants, while the
|
made some little exertion to overcome mamma's
fears and objections, knowing my great desire
to return home in the phaeton: he therefore
deserves to be rewarded; and-and I have
promised to let him drive me!"
What could Arthur Balfour say? He would
not trust himself to speak: he felt his indigna-
tion vehemently rising-not against her, but
against the dissembler who had thus cajoled,
cheated him of her society. But still there
was nothing that could authorize his opposing
the scheme; and although at that moment the
young man would gladly have spurned to the
ground and trampled on the being who, with a
sickening shudder, he now began indeed to re-
gard in the light of a rival, as with his careless,
self-satisfied, self-possessed smile he triumph-
antly led away his too willing captive, yet he
had to control his indignant feelings and smoth-
er his wrath while Mrs. Sutherland bestowed
some parting words on the farmer and his wife.
He was roused from his forgetfulness of
aught save himself by meeting the kind, pitying
glance of his younger cousin earnestly fixed
upon him; but pity is very grating-very gall-
ing to a proud heart smarting under wrong, and
he hastened to smooth his brow, and with a
forced smile approached her and asked if they
were nearly ready to start.
"That naughty girl," said Mrs. Sutherland,
probably perceiving, through all his endeavours
to conceal it, symptoms of discomfiture in his
countenance, "that naughty girl gained her
point after all, as she generally does. Arthur,
32,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"The song of a young bird,
As musical as it was bright and wild,”
there will be a great deal for you to do in the tion to her wishes that Balfour had made; and
way of reform." The last phrase was added then some witty speech on Arthur's dismay and
with a lively smile, but poor Arthur could not consternation, all uttered in a light tone, which
return it. Come, you had better make your-showed of what little consequence he deemed it.
self comfortable with us inside," she continued, But when this tone changed into the tender,
as you will have nothing to render your cold earnest sound of words conveying deeper mean-
drive agreeable ;" and May nestled close to hering, which gradually stole upon her senses, she
mother, to show that there was plenty of room. struggled not against the spell which lulled the
He at first looked half inclined to accept the stinging of her conscience; she thought not of
offer, but finally shook his head, and forcing a her heart's danger, but unresistingly gave her-
smile, said, "He feared his long legs would self up to the perilous enjoyment of the moment
only be in their way," hastily mounted the box of feeling that Harry Percy was near her—of
and drove off.
listening to the words poured forth so melodi-
The fact was, that the moment after the in-ously from his lips-of meeting the glance of
vitation was uttered, the phaeton had driven | those deep blue eyes fixed upon her with a gaze
rapidly past, and the ringing laugh which in the that thrilled through her frame. "Did Arthur
morning had rang upon his ears like
ever woo like this?" she inwardly mused; "it
was I who extracted his timid, tardily-confessed
attachment; had I not done so-alas! too hasti-
ly he would have left me, and with his well-
"Sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, ´
directed mind soon would he have conquered a
as she gayly kissed her hand to those she left feeling engendered by having been so long and
behind. The sound of Maud's laugh struck constantly thrown into my society: a feeling
upon his heart as the death-knell of her love; which he only imagined was love; but it was
but he strove to rouse, to reason himself out of not love! Perfect, confiding love sees no fault
the agonized feelings which raged within his or failing in the object of its devotion; and how
breast; to blame, to laugh at his weakness and often has my proud, my wilful conduct caused
He even
folly, in construing what probably, after all, a shadow to pass over his brow?
was the imaginary phantom of jealousy called sometimes presumes to lecture me—to remind
up by the insinuations of his cousin the previ-me of my duty; and if he is thus as a lover, oh!
ous evening; he would not, could not doubt his how would he be as a husband ?"
beautiful Maud. Thus he tried to reason with
himself: poor youth, how fruitlessly did he
strive the barbed arrow of suspicion had
pierced his heart. And Harry Percy! With-
out one pang of self-reproach or compunction,
he sprang into the phaeton by the side of "his
lovely torment."
now jarred upon them like
CHAPTER XIX.
"It is a fearful trust, the trust of love:
In fear, not hope, should woman's heart receive
A guest so terrible."-L. E. L.
Thus did Maud continue to meditate, endeav-
ouring vainly to form excuses for her own faith-
less, cruel conduct. Even while her eyes glis-
tened and her heart beat with emotion when
Harry Percy, with energetic vehemence, yet
wrapped up with cautious cunning, spoke words
which were imprinted as with a burning iron
upon her heart, still her thoughts wandered to
her position towards Arthur Balfour, and shame
and confusion were mingled with her reflections.
"Arthur, I am sure," she thought, "thinks
me inferior to himself in goodness: never can
I give my heart to one whose love is not suffi-
ciently powerful to make him overlook and for-
get all my faults and imperfections."
In this short day, apparently so devoid of in-
cident, the destiny of Maud Sutherland had Extenuating thus her conduct, Maud endeav-
been decided. She had for some time felt the oured to feel that she had some right on her
spell-the hitherto cherished, pleasing spell side. "Arthur is very good, very noble, I own,"
which had bound her to Arthur Balfour gradu-she told herself, "but I am not ambitious of per-
ally passing away, and another feeling, more
subtle, full of painful excitement, but irresisti-
ble, erecting for itself a foundation, as it were,
upon the very ruins of the first, and insidiously
winding itself round her heart.
fection in a husband; the contrast between us
would be too perceptible;" and then she pic-
tured to herself another love-a love which in its
strength would overleap every barrier, surmount
every obstacle: no circumstance, no considera-
tion would oppose the force of an affection
which beamed forth in every glance, in every
word of one who, from his earliest youth, had
No wonder, then, that in spirit she wept over
the ghost of her first pure love, as it hovered
mournfully round her, as if beseeching her to
recall it ere it passed away forever, sadly whis-basked in the smiles of beauty, but had with-
pering into her inmost soul that with it must de-
part her own young happiness; like the injured
Ondine, when imploring, not for her sake, but
for his own, the fidelity of the inconstant Huldi-
brand.
But how was the warning influence of her
conscience received?
stood all, scorned all, till her charms had warm-
ed his heart into love. And oh! she thought,
he would worship the very ground on which she
stood-adore even her failings! And his faults!
She would have the triumph of weaning him
from the world: because the censorious con-
demned him, she would only idolize him the
Arthur would have been somewhat consoled more. Poor Maud! these or some such thoughts,
if he had known how forced was the laugh too confused to be accurately defined even by
which had been called forth by the congratula- herself, passed rapidly through her young mind
tory words of Harry Percy on the victory she during the first part of her drive, and her gayety
had gained; his praise of the firm spirit she had was assumed and unnatural-as different from
shown in punishing the very ungallant opposi- | her feelings in the early part of the day, as that
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
33
morning light had been from the evening's dark- | satisfactory than true; and Mr. Sutherland, per-
ness.
Her companion's voice grew more and more
earnest and serious; and when the prognosti-
cated rain began to descend, and he encircled
with his arm her slender form, in order to wrap
the furred mantle more closely round her, and
she expressed her concern that her mother's
fears should be realized, and that she should be
uneasy on her account, he whispered, in a tone
that thrilled through her heart, "She need not
fear: are you not with me? Your mother knows
how I love you all, dearest Maud; she knows
I would gladly shed my life's blood to be able
through life to shield you from every blast-you,
for whom I would deem it blessed, thrice bless-
ed, to live-to die! and though cruel fortune
has denied it-"
But, as if by a strong effort, he checked him-
self, and a deep sigh and a long pause ensued.
This burst of enthusiasm, humbug, or whatever
it might be called, for a time recalled Maud to a
sense of what was right. Harry Percy felt the
hand which, a moment before, had been pressed
within his own, quickly withdrawn, while she
drew herself up, averted her head, and was si-
lent.
But for this ho cared not: he felt that the
game was in his own hands; he knew the
mighty struggle of her pride against his love,
and this very struggle made him glory more than
ever in his conquest. Harry Percy, thou art
indeed invincible!" he inwardly apostrophized.
And Maud trembled at her own abject weak-
ness she, who had ever made it her boast to
triumph over the hearts of others, now to have
so little command over her own! Was it pos-
sible that she possessed so little dignity and
command?
But those who have never yet felt the neces-
sity of curbing their own will in the slighest
degree; who have ever made the gratification
of their own feelings their chief object, consid-
ering little those of others; who have used their
pride merely as a weapon to mortify, not as
a defence and armour to preserve their own
hearts in the paths of rectitude, often find pride
deaf to their call when its aid is really needed.
Maud at length attempted to break the si-
lence, which to her, at least, was embarrassing,
and in a hurried, careless manner, waiting for
no answer, proceeded to talk rapidly on indif-
ferent subjects. Her companion perceived her
confusion, and rejoiced at it.
s
Mr. Sutherland was standing at the door
ready to receive them on their arrival, and
when he pressed his daughter in his arms as
he lifted her from the carriage, her heart smote
her, for had not she encouraged-yielded her-
self up without a struggle to a feeling which,
were her parent conscious of its existence,
would fill him with amazement, grief, and un-
bounded indignation? The father, always so
fond and kind, having led her before a blazing
wood fire in the hall, and gently relieved her of
her numerous wet wrappings, for the first time
perceived who had been her companion, and in-
quired with some surprise what had become of
Arthur. Maud answered not, but cast her eyes
upon the ground.
Harry Percy, however, in his usual off-hand
way, explained the affair in a manner more
E
|
fectly free from all suspicion, and believing that
the heart of his daughter was wholly Arthur
Balfour's, attributed her changed demeanour
to the circumstance of her having been depri-
ved of his society.
You look pale, my darling child; and how
cold these little hands are!" he remarked, as
he took one of them, and gently chafed it with-
in his own.
"
They are so, indeed," rejoined Harry, and
the other hand was seized by him, while, with
the admirable power he possessed of rendering
the most trival cireumstances amusing and in-
teresting, he edified Mr. Sutherland by relating
the events of the day; and the colour soon
returned to Maud's cheeks, and warmth to the
little hand, which fluttered like a bird within
his.
And thus was the group arranged round the
fire when the chariot drove to the door and Mr.
Sutherland hastened to receive the party.
Maud attempted to withdraw the hand which
remained in that of Harry Percy: she had no
inclination at that moment to meet her injured
lover's glance, and wished to depart ere he en-
tered the hall. But, before this could be ac-
complished, her hand had experienced one more
fervent pressure, and then it was raised to
Harry Percy's lips! Scarcely had it been re-
leased, with a long-drawn, passionate sigh, and
Maud but made a few hasty steps towards the
vaken staircase, when Arthur entered, shaking
the rain from his hat and greatcoat.
He started on seeing Maud, and to her ques-
tion, inquired in a tone of assumed gayety, of
whether he had enjoyed his drive, he replied,
with a sad smile,
And you,
"No! how could I enjoy it?
Maud-"
There was nothing like reproach or anger in
his voice or manner, but his words smote pain-
fully on her heart, and she exclaimed, with a
flash of her large, sparkling eyes, and in a bit-
ter, passionate accent, intended for him who
had brought all this altered state of feeling upon
her, and caused her to give pain to one so ex-
cellent,
"I have not enjoyed my drive at all, I assure
you. I wish I had gone in the chariot with-
with mamma."
Harry Percy smiled an incredulous, scornful
smile, but neither Arthur nor Maud perceived
it the former had averted his face, probably
desirous of concealing the emotions which were
rising in his heart as he listened to her words;
and Maud, having concluded her abrupt, con-
fused sentence, placed her little foot on the
first dark, shining oaken step, and hastily as-
cended the stairs.
CHAPTER XX.
"I need not say how, one by one,
Love's flowers have dropp'd froin off Love's chain."
L. E. L.
"Is there a heart that music cannot melt ?"
BEATTIE.
A CALM Succeeded the events of this last day
-a delicious, though deceitful calm, which serv-
ed to lull, in a degree, the suspicion and agony
34
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
of Arthur Balfour. There existed no longer | conversing, perhaps you can sing to us. No!"
any reasonable grounds for suspicion on the she continued, in a gay but commanding strain,
subject of Harry Percy's attentions towards "I must insist on hearing a solo. May, you
Maud. It seemed, indeed, that restraint and shall choose one for him. Come! no refusal:
coldness had sprung up between them. Maud I will have it."
was to all appearance his own, and Arthur Bal-
four, too happy to sink once more into the
sweet dream of love, sought not to awake from
it; he feared to dispel it, and would not, there-
fore, trust himself to question the reality; he
dared not ask himself if it were the same love
that had at first made him so supremely happy;
he did not trust himself to question whether
there was not in the demeanour of the beautiful
girl too much courtesy, too much of ceremoni-
ous attention-the sad signal
"When love begins to sicken and decay”—
in short, too much cold, calm kindness to suit
the character of love-at any rate, the love of
Maud Sutherland!
He dared not allow himself to remember how
little this would have satisfied him once:
he
was too glad to escape the storm, which at one
time threatened to burst and crush his hopes
forever, to seek now to dissipate the ominous
stillness which had succeeded the former bright
sunshine.
What abject cowards does love make of the
stoutest hearts!
But still there were moments when a word,
a look would make him feel the change,
"the
shadow on his brow, the sickness at his heart;'
then, again, a smile, a peculiar tone of voice,
speaking of by-gone hours, would cause the
shadow to depart, and once more his young
heart would beat with hope and joy.
In his moments of doubt and sorrow-and
often did they recur-he had not even the con-
solation (if so it could be deemed) of blaming
his suspected rival, for it seemed as if Percy
scrupulously avoided the society and conversa-
tion of Maud. And this had been for some
time Percy's policy-policy of which Arthur
knew not fully the danger, though he who prac-
tised it, so experienced in the nature of the heart
of woman, fully estimated and valued its power.
One evening, however, Arthur and the two
sisters were assembled, by the desire of Mrs.
Sutherland, at the piano, but May's voice had
alone been heard; in vain had she called upon
her two companions to join her. Arthur had
repeatedly shaken his head, saying he was in
no singing mood; for a few hours before a pang
had been inflicted on his heart, which at last de-
termined him to break through a state of things
which even the certainty of misery would be
more tolerable to endure.
The truth was, she had seen a smile of satis-
faction and triumph pass over the countenance
of Harry Percy as he glanced at Arthur's
mournful countenance; he knew well the pain
he was inflicting on the young man, and he
seemed to glory in it. Maud saw all this: her
better feelings prevailed, her heart smote her,
and then it was that she turned to Arthur and
desired him to sing; he prepared to obey her
commands, while May selected a solo.
What language can speak so eloquently to
the heart as that of song? Well may the poet
say,
"Amid the golden gifts which Heaven
Has left, like portions of its light on earth,
None hath such influence as music hath."
The very soul of the young man seemed to
gush from his lips in the following words of the
song selected by May:
"Changed, changed! I feel that thou art changed,
Though change thou dost deny;
I feel it as the storm is felt,
Ere seen in yonder sky.
Slight are the signs that show the heart,
And slight those showing thine;
1
Ah WHY should time exhaust THY love
And yet not alter mine?
Those eyes that used to fill with light,
When I have gazed on thee,
That voice which into whisper sunk
Whene'er it spoke to me;
Those eyes are cold-that voice has lost
That low, peculiar tone;
Till now I did not know how much
I thought thou wert my own.
Bo alter'd-faithless-what thou wilt,
But let me still believe
That ONCE I was beloved again,
That thou didst not deceive.
My present is a weary lọt,
My future is o'ercast ;
My heart, which dreams and doubts distrust,
Turns sadly to the past.'
Arthur Balfour had a beautifully plaintive and
sweet-toned voice, and the pathos and deep
feeling with which he breathed forth words so
accordant with the painful emotions passing in
his heart, the melting tenderness so uncon-
sciously expressed in his eyes as he turned
them towards Maud, were truly touching. When
he arrived at the concluding stanza, his voice
became low and tremulous, and his fluttering
heart rendered the last two lines scarcely audi-
ble to those who were at some distance from
the instrument, though to the two persons near
him they were perfectly distinct.
Little did some of his audience imagine how
May's voice carried him back to the first eve-appropriate to his own feelings were the words
ning spent at Sutherland, and then his mind he uttered! Mr. Sutherland exclaimed from
rapidly traced all the past circumstances from the farther end of the long saloon, "What a
that day to the present time. At last Maud,
At last Maud, dismal ditty, Balfour!" And Mrs. Sutherland
who had hitherto been seated on an ottoman added, "Yes, it is indeed; and really, from the
opposite to Arthur, her eyes fixed in sullen si- manner you sing it, Arthur, one might imagine
lence on the ground, only raising them occa- that you were pouring forth the sorrows of your
sionally to glance hastily towards the opposite own heart."
end of the room where Harry Percy was seated,
apparently in deep thought, suddenly started up,
and how did his heart throb as she exclaimed,
in an animated tone, as if wishing to rouse her-
self from her late gloom,
But some of the listeners did not appear
equally unconscious. As he finished the song,
he met the eyes of May raised towards his with
a look of the deepest sympathy: it was a look
he had frequently encountered lately, but never
"Arthur, pray do not look so grave and dis-had he so fully appreciated the kindness of its
mal; although you may have lost the powers of expression as at this moment, and he thought
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
35
that hitherto her affectionate solicitude had
only met with coldness and neglect; bending
over her, therefore, he said, in a low, kind voice,
"Thank you, dear May, thank you for finding
me words to express what I so deeply feel."
He was turning away, but a gentle touch of
his arm and an expressive glance from her
whom he addressed caused him to direct his
looks once more towards Maud, whose face,
during the latter part of the song, had been
averted. It was now buried in her hands, and
the pearly drops were fast trickling through
her slender fingers, while her bosom heaved
convulsively.
Mr. Sutherland had an engagement in the
country town that morning which obliged him
to quit home soon after Arthur had told him of
the necessity of his immediate departure. On
taking an affectionate leave of his young rela-
tive, he spoke with much warmth of the real
pleasure it gave him to think of the near con-
nexion which would soon exist between them,
and Arthur heard with a thrill of joy, tempered,
however, by the saddened tone of Mr. Suther-
land's voice, that it was his wife's earnest hope
that an event which she so ardently desired
should not be delayed longer than was requisite.
for the necessary arrangements on such occa-
May rose hastily, not to comfort her, but to sions.
leave that part to be performed by one more Arthur knew by the quivering lip of the
able, and to prevent, if possible, the observation speaker, the nervous pressure of his hand,
of others being directed towards her. She saw what were the reflections that prompted this
not till she moved that Harry Percy was stand- desire. With her-that much-loved friend, he
ing behind her chair, evidently earnestly watch-had a long and affecting interview: and then..
ing the deep emotion of her sister.
he sought Maud, for in half an hour he was to
Mand perceived it not. Bitter remorse for
the sufferings she had caused-for her treach-
ery, her inconstancy-were at that moment
exercising their chastening influence on her
heart; and when at length Harry Percy ap-
proached her, and was about to seat himself by
her side, she repulsed him with a look which
baffled even him.
|
depart.
He found her in the conservatory, tying up
the slender branches of a choice rose-tree. It
had been transplanted by her own hands on the
very day succeeding the evening on which the
ap-very
disclosure of their love had taken place, and
they had pleased themselves with the idea that
the flower would blossom about the time when
they should be formally betrothed to one anoth-
er; and now two beauteous buds were just ap-
pearing, giving promise of full-blown roses in
less than a fortnight.
To hide his confusion and discomfiture, he
walked, seemingly as if it had been his original
intention, to the other end of the room, where
he was soon engaged in conversation with Mr.
and Mrs. Sutherland.
In the deep recess of the saloon, by the side
of his beloved, Balfour passed an hour of per-
fect bliss-so perfect that he almost deemed it
equivalent to the misery he had lately endured.
He made such good use of that brief hour, that
it seemed probable Harry Percy's usurped do-
minion, once shaken as it now was, would soon
totter, bend, and fall to the ground, never to
rise again.
But alas! the next morning, with the post,
arrived a summons requiring Arthur's presence
in Ireland on military affairs which admitted of
no postponement.
CHAPTER XXI.
"Farewell!
Shadows and scenes that have for many hours
Been my companions, I part from ye
with deep, sad thoughts
Li
|
Maud," said Arthur, as he took her hands
in his, "those roses were planted as emblems
of hope and love for future years! When I re-
turn to claim this precious hand, and with it thẻ
precious heart you promised to bestow on me,
let me see one of those roses in your hair, as a
sign that your heart is the same-unchanged-
as it was in that hour when you made me so
happy. Oh! my beloved, my own Maud, let
the bright flower greet me on my return, speak-
ing of joy and faith, telling me that your love
was true and constant, not a moment's phan-
tasy-a dream-a brief dream-that-" and
the colour mounted to his temples, and his eyes
flashed with enthusiasm.
[
Arthur Balfour did not see the vivid crimson
rivalling his own which overspread Maud's face
and brow, for she bent over the rose-tree, her
long ringlets completely concealing her counte
nance; but she interrupted his speech in a
quick, cold tone of voice, which sounded pain-
fully on his ear, saying,
Arthur, even on the very eve-the very
moment of your departure, you still torment me
with doubts and suspicions;" then in an as-
sumed tone of careless gayety, she continued,
But I hate scenes, so let us talk on other sub-
And hopes-almost misgivings !"—L. E. L.
THIS intelligence fell like a thunderbolt on
the heart of poor Arthur. One more fortnight,
and his destiny was to be irrevocably decided.
Away from his beloved, that period would ap
pear a century! Still, in the midst of his de-jects. I will certainly wear one of the roses in
spondency, he had one powerful sense of con-
solation. Had he been called away a few days
sooner, he would have departed, his mind dis-
tracted with suspicion and doubt; now he
scorned his previous fears and gloomy forebo-
dings, and his perfect confidence and renewed
happiness served to support him when the sink-
ing sensation of misery forced itself upon him,
and which, in spite of all his fortitude, he now
felt more deeply as the moment for departure
arrived.
my hair, if it will gratify you, and the other
shall be presented to you, accompanied by a
couplet of verses hailing you as Captain Bal-
four. But perchance the roses may be blighted
before they arrive at full perfection, or some
audacious mortal may take a fancy to them;
and then," she continued, in a tone of feigned
alarm, "what is to be done? what will be the
fatal consequences? With what care, what
anxiety must I guard these precious buds, or
never, since the fearful tragedy of 'Beauty and
36
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
the Beast,' or the Wars of the Roses, will the
Queen of the Flowers have created such. com-
motion and disaster."
There is nothing that more completely gives
the deathblow to romance or sentiment than
raillery or ridicule. Arthur Balfour coloured
and felt almost ashamed of his late enthusiasm,
and by the time the carriage which was to con-
vey him away was heard to drive up, he had
forced himself to assume the same light, gay
tone and manner as his companion.
But then the sinking of his heart returned,
and with a faltering voice and blanched lip he
faintly murmured his farewell. Empires
worlds would Arthur Balfour have given for
one tear, one speaking sign in return; but no!
though there was a proper look of sadness and
sorrow on the part of Maud, it did not wholly
satisfy him. He thought he was entitled to a
wariner adieu than the mere pressure of the
hand he would have ventured to impress a
kiss on her lovely cheek, but with a smile and
a blush she turned away her head.
1
:
However, when the last moment came-when
Arthur rose to depart-when she had listened
to his final, trembling words of affection, and
beheld his pale face and glistening eye, a feel-
ing of greater tenderness and grief appeared to
pervade her heart, and in a soft tone, which
was like balm to the wounded heart of poor
Arthur, she exclaimed,
does, I hope, love you indeed she does
but-"
Arthur interrupted her by pressing her in his
arms as he would have done a favourite sister,
kissing the lips that had pronounced the pre-
cious words.
"Thank you for those reviving words, dar-
ling May," he exclaimed; but when he released
her from his embrace, he beheld her as pale as
monumental marble. Why do you look so
sad?" he continued. "Are you not glad that
Maud loves me? Do you not wish me to be
your brother?”
4
"Oh yes, Arthur," she replied; "can you
doubt it? But I know not why it is, a dark
cloud, as it were, seems hanging over us, as if
some fearful event would happen during your
absence. I do feel sad-very sad. Oh! do not
pray do not remain long away !"
"Thank you, May!" he said, in an absent
manner, as he fixed his eyes with a penetrating
glance on her blanched cheeks, now bathed in
tears, and listened to the painful heavings of
her beating heart. The truth was, that Balfour
ruminated on the question which suggested it-
self to his mind, "Why this parting should be
so unlike another?"
He then began to talk of her mother, attribu-
ting much of May's dejection to anxiety on her
account, and spoke cheeringly of the hope he
still entertained that the approaching fine weath-
Write to me, Arthur, and do not be longer would restore her to health; but the dreadful
away. God bless you, Arthur!" and thus they
parted.
As Arthur Balfour passed through the vesti-
bule d
on his way to the carriage, he remembered
he had yet one more adieu to make, and in the
midst of his grief he reproached himself for
even for a moment forgetting his dear, gentle
May. He was preparing to seek her, when he
heard his name softly pronounced, and she has-
tened to meet him. Arthur took her hand and
led her into the drawing-roon.
¿ Arthur! I thought you had gone without
wishing me good-by," she said, with a forced
smile, but she was deadly pale, and he saw
tears upon her cheeks.
And could you believe that I should forget
you, May, whom I love already as a sister?"
replied Balfour.
The fair girl looked up in his face with an ex-
pression which was like a gleam of sunshine,
but the next moment she sighed heavily.
|
thought of her beloved parent's danger had
never once crossed her mind, therefore she
seemed more terrified than comforted by what
Arthur said on that subject. He quickly per-
ceived this, and spoke of other topics.
"May," he said, "I parted from Maud all
smiles, and I believed them to be omens of fu-
ture happiness; but your tears and sadness
have banished all idea of smiles. I shall depart
wretched and dejected. What is the cause of
this deep sorrow? Tell me, I beseech you!"
Perhaps I may be very silly-very weak,"
she replied.
At this moment a servant was heard ap-
proaching. "I must go," he hastily exclaimed;
and as he turned to depart, his eye happened to
rest upon a large mirror, in which was reflected
a view of the walk leading to the conservatory:
a cloud came over his brow. Promise me,"
he said, seizing the hand of May and pressing
it within his own, while his voice was agitated
and earnest in the extreme, "promise me to be
constantly with your sister when I am away.
Go to her now: I left her in the conservatory.
Oh, May, do not-do not let her forget me, if
you love me!"
"That indeed she shall not, if aught I can do
will prevent it," was the answer, while May
lifted her tearful eyes to Arthur's face.
"But
again I entreat you, be not long away."
"And will you love me as a brother, May,"
Balfour continued, "when I return to claim
Maud as my wife! Will you be as kind as you
have ever been to me since the evening when
we first met by the lake's side? And will you
promise in my absence," and he spoke in an
earnest, almost solemn tone," to take care of
your sister? Let her not forget me, May," he
added, in a deep, low voice; "to no other ears
but yours would I breathe what I am about to
say. There have been moments-agonizing,
maddening moments-when the torturing sus-riage had been ready some minutes, and im-
picion has sprung up within my heart that
that-that your sister loved me not-ay, even
that she loved another!" He paused, appa-
rently expecting an indignant exclamation from
his listener; but in a hesitating and embarrass-
ed tone she murmured,
"Oh Arthur, Arthur, do not speak thus! She
Arthur once more looked inquiringly at her,
but a servant entered to announce that the car-
pressing a last kiss on her fair forehead, he mur-
mured again the words "Go to your sister!"
and then left her. But did May obey Arthur's
entreaties? did she at once seek her sister?
No, she stood rapt-without motion-listening
to the carriage wheels as the sounds died grad-
ually away in the distance, and then she raised
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
37
her head; but the object upon which her eyes
fell by chance again plunged her into a profound
fit of musing, which lasted some time.
and then, for the first time, the secret of her own
heart, like a flash of lightning, was revealed to
her; for a moment she felt stunned by the blow,
and like the flower weighed down by its dew,
she bowed her head, but it was only for an in-
stant; for when, hiding her face on her sister's
bosom, she listened to her proud, happy recital,
the pretty floweret again raised its head, and
with a bright smile she congratulated her for-
tunate sister. She was rejoiced for her, although
for herself she had just awakened from a sweet
dream, which had passed away, she thought,
forever.
From that hour a new, a different love sprang
up in her heart, like
"The love with which angels love good men.”
The bright afternoon sun was streaming into
the room, and shed its light on a large picture
which hung opposite to her. It represented a
beautiful boy of about ten years old, with his
arms twined lovingly round the neck of a fair,
delicate child that leaned her head against his
shoulders, her golden ringlets, through which
he carelessly passed his fingers, mingling with
his short, crisp chestnut curls; her large, soft
hazel eyes were lifted up to his face with a look
of almost venerating affection, but his eyes were
turned away. They rested with a supplicating
expression on a third figure in the portrait, an-
other little girl, who stood at a short distance The unselfish girl felt joy in Arthur's happiness
from him, her head erect, her sunny locks flung as if it had been her own; and when, at length,
back, her round, dimpled arms waving an adieu, a cloud appeared to obscure that happiness,
while in her dark, lustrous orbs there was a half with what fear, with what anxiety did she
mocking, half triumphant air, which seemed to watch its progress! how many a pang did her
say, "I am going to leave you, and I well know soothing influence spare him! how many a bit-
the pain I shall inflict." May gazed on the ter word, and cold look which she knew would
group till the warm life-blood had mantled her wound, was averted from him by a “soft word
pale face, and a long, deep-drawn sigh heaved which turneth away wrath" from her gentle
from her breast. The sigh was for the blue-eyed lips! And then, how many a dangerous glance,
boy, not for the gentle baby-girl; but while she and still more dangerous tête-à-tête, was pre-
gazed and pondered, varying expressions, as vented by May; for, with all the quick-sighted-
diversified as the shadows on the hills, passedness of her active, jealous affection, she soon
over her countenance, and contending, over- discovered the exact state of affairs, and alas!
powering sensations caused her heart to swell the real peril which threatened Arthur's peace
almost to agony, and tears to overflow.
CHAPTER XXII.
"If ever angels walk'd on weary earth
L. E. L.
difficulties rising rapidly round Arthur Balfour,
but she could not turn the current of these
troubles; she could only weep for him, pray for
him.
of mind. The redoubtable, all-powerful Harry
Percy, the practised worldling, had often, of
late, felt his conscience pricked, the colour rise
to his cheek, and his eyes sink; and this effect
was produced by the quiet though reproachful
In human likeness, thou wert one of them."
tone, or even the penetrating, stern glance of
the meek, yielding, insignificant girl, for such
WHEN Arthur Balfour first became sensible he had once considered her. But the hearts of
of the state of his feelings towards Maud Suther-men are not in the hands of men. May foresaw
land, from scruples of honour and delicacy he
endeavoured to stifle the growing passion by
flying from the dangerous presence of her he
loved. He walked, he rode, he sat by the side
of May, even as he had done in the days of
And not alone for him did she weep, but for
their familiar childhood. Arthur Balfour pos- her sister, the real victim-for her parents,
sessed no innate vanity, and never dreamed of whose dearly cherished hopes threatened to be
danger to the heart of the calm, seemingly pas- totally frustrated, and yet they did not, could
sionless being by attentions so tender, yet lav- not see the coming storm.
lav-not
ished with a brother's spirit, nor could any one
have guessed that a wound had been inflicted
-no, not even May was aware that her heart
had received an impression which might one
day cause her anguish. All she felt at that mo-
ment was a joy reigning within her bosom,
which made her step lighter and her heart more
gay since Arthur smiled on her more than had
any other. He
He appeared to court her society,
he so often called her back when she was about
to leave the room, to invite her to walk or to
ride. She thought him noble, good-next to
her father, the most perfect man on earth, but
that was all: she knew not that her heart
"IIad fill'd
With love, as flowers are fill'd with morning dew
And with the light of morning."
Or, if the thought had crossed her mind, it was
but a brief dream of bliss, for there came a mo-
ment-
She saw the ring which she had hoped would
be hers placed on the finger of her beautiful sis-
ter, and she beheld her smiles of happiness;
|
It seemed so strange-their blindness! her
father, too, usually so clear-sighted and observ-
ant! but his eyes, heart, and soul were at this
time centred in her invalid mother, and indeed
his noble nature was the last to harbour suspi-
cions injurious to the honour of another. Often
did May long to speak to him on the subject-
to warn him of the serpent he was cherishing
in his breast; but she dreaded, poor girl! to
bring the thunderbolt down upon their heads-
to crush their hopes, which were so bright. She
had shrunk from being herself the means of wa-
king from their happy dream her unconscious
parents, and now it was too late. She too well
knew the nature of her sister's disposition-too
well she also knew that interference now would
avail but little. Opposition, reproach, would
only farther excite the fire which was kindling
in her heart. No! May felt that she was pow-
erless to avert the impending evil; she must
tremblingly await the crisis, and leave the re-
sult to Him "who alone ruleth the hearts of
men."
38
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
It was thus she thought, as she stood gazing | on his part, and why that rapid change of colour,
on the picture before her when Arthur depart- that strange tremour on hers?
ed, and with a tearful, sorrowful sigh she mur-
mured, "Oh, Arthur, why did you love that cru-
el little beauty instead of" and then the vivid
blush mantled her pale cheek, "instead of her
who would never have given you the pain, the
grief which I fear you are doomed to suffer-
who would have loved you. But she does love
you dearly, as did that quiet little girl you are
sheltering in your arms, and she will try her
best (would that she could do more) to turn
away the threatening storm.”
Never since the drive home from the ruined
castle had the cousins found themselves tête-à-
tête-indeed, they had seemed mutually to avoid
each other; and even now, when Harry Percy
stood before her, and said, in a hurried voice,
I fear I am an intruder, Maud," she made a
movement as if to depart, and faintly uttered
|
the words, "I am going to mamma.
$
>
And then May remembered Arthur Balfour's
last injunction, and blamed herself for having
disregarded it. She hastily brushed away her
tears and left the room to seek her sister.
Alas! May, why did you tairy so long?
found her, but not alone.
CHAPTER XXIII.
"I'll tell thee,' said the old man, 'what is life.
A gulf of troubled waters, where the soul,
Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves
Of pain and pleasure, by the wavering breath
Of passions."-L. E. L.
She
WHEN Maud turned away after her cold fare-
well to poor Arthur Balfour, and had listened to
his footsteps till they quite died away, she seat-
ed herself on a low flower stand which was near,
and heaved a long, deep sigh.
"One moment first," he continued; "surely,
as a cousin," and he laid a stress on the last
word, and paused for an instant, fixing his eyes
on his listener, "a cousin, and one who loves-
loves you-as-as-a beloved-shall I say sis-
ter?-I may congratulate you on the prospects
in store for you."
For the first time she lifted her large eyes to
his face; an eager, disappointed, inquiring, al-
most angry expression gleamed in those spark-
ling eyes, and plainly said, “Do you congratu-
late me?"
But she only bowed her head proudly, and as
she plucked to pieces the blossoms of a Cape
jessamine, and scattered the snow-white per-
fumed leaves on the ground, quickly answered,
"Thank you. >>
Earnestly did Harry Percy again look upon
Maud Sutherland, and for a few moments he
spoke not; then, in a deep, agitated tone, he ex-
claimed,
"Cruel-cruel girl! as carelessly as those
fair fingers have scattered the blossom of that
flower to the winds, have you dispersed my vis-
ionary hopes of bliss: by those two little words
you acknowledge that my fate is decided-but
no matter; in a few days I depart."
but no word was spoken.
But it was not sorrow that called it forth;
she sighed to think that she should actually ex-
perience a feeling of relief at the departure of
one whom she had loved so well; she sighed to
think how changed was her own heart. She
Hurriedly, vehemently was another flower
remembered her emotion on the previous even-sacrificed, and the delicate leaves flung away,
ing-the tears she had shed-the happiness she
had enjoyed when, for a brief space, those soft-
er emotions had re-entered her heart; she now
felt that the feeling had only been "a touch of
light—a tone—a song.” "The sweet enchant-
ment" was now all gone-gone forever! “But
why," she exclaimed, a proud smile curling her
lip," why should I sigh and grieve for having
shaken off the chains of love? After all, liber-
ty is delightful, and I am still unfettered!”
But did she feel herself free? One chain had
indeed fallen from her heart, but was there not
another there?
A footstep was heard approaching.
"She flung from her forehead its curls of bright hair,
Ere those ringlets fell round her, another was there;
Red flush'd her cheek's crimson, and dark droop'd
her cye,
"It is dangerous, it is wrong for me to re-
main longer here," pursued Percy. "Oh, Maud,
why did you not send me sooner from you?"
He paused for a reply, and at last she mur-
mured,
Why should I, Harry?"
'Yes, I shall depart!" he continued, “and
therefore I will, I must speak, only once, of all
I feel, ere I plunge again into the troubled, poi-
sonous stream of the deceitful world, there to
endeavour to drown-to root out of my memory
the vision of the beautiful, the peerless angel
whose purifying influence revived in my soul
feelings of holier, better things-of a brighter,
more virtuous existence; who--"
(<
Harry!" interrupted Maud, in an agitated
and reproachful voice, "Harry!"
A stranger had said 'twas her lover stood by."
It was Harry Percy, with a brow of care, arms "Pardon me-forgive me," he continued; "I
folded, eyes bent to the ground, and his mind will try to be composed-calm-calm as your
probably filled with harassing visions of impor-young lover! But did he ever-could he ever
tunate creditors, crushed hopes, vain regrets
of the past-fit meditations for the ruined gam-
bler.
feel as I do now? Listen, and then, if you will,
then dismiss me that moment I leave you-ay,
and forever!" Maud spoke not, and Harry
There was a natural start, a surprised expres- Percy continued with more than his usual ra-
sion in the dark, arched eyebrows as he sudden-pidity and energy. When I first entered the
ly raised them, a melancholy but sweet smile as world, Maud, young and as yet uncontaminated,
the form of the beautiful heiress met his gaze, I loved a bright and lovely being: I then stood
the young cousin whom he caressed and loved upon the brink of the abyss which has since
as a child, the daughter of her who had been proved my ruin. Had one loving hand been
the companion of his infancy, and of a father stretched forth to save me, I might have been
who had been his generous benefactor and best preserved from the disastrous course into which
friend! Then why such sentimental agitation | I plunged. On my knees I asked for that hand.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
39
"perfect wife !"'" Maud till now had sat im-
movable, her large eyes distended, the colour
fading gradually from her cheeks to the same
hue as the marble statue of Flora against which
she leaned her head, but now they flushed with
a bright crimson tint, her cyes flashed, her lip
curled with anger. "I was awakened," Harry
Percy proceeded to say, "from my dream of
enchantment by your excellent father-by your
angel mother; they told me they had secured
the happiness of their child-her future welfare
for life: and how had this been accomplished?
They said that from infancy you and your young
relative had been destined for each other; that
the late Mr. Sutherland had extorted a promise
from them on his deathbed to that effect, in
order that the son of his other grandson might
benefit by his property. How skilfully has the
here on hearing of this scheme, and so con-
veniently falling in love (as he would deem his
cold preference) with the very being intended
for him, who, though not perfection, may, by
his judicious management, so become in time."
•
"And she," exclaimed Maud, starting up,
her eyes glistening like sparks of fire, "she
says, Heaven forever defend me from a perfect
husband! Have I then," she continued, aloud,
"have I been, as it were, cheated, decoyed into
giving my hand to one who, in obedience to
command, has deigned to try to love me? who
looks on me as a proud, spoiled child, that he
contemplates training to the meekness of my
Sister May, whom he so often holds up as a
model for me to imitate, whom, had she been
the heiress, he probably would have chosen?"
Harry Percy watched the countenance of the
irritated speaker with concealed triumph and
exultation. She continued, "Well, I remember
how he struggled-how he postponed the evil
day which was to decide his fate; how nearly
he was on the eve of departing, unable to make
up his mind to the sacrifice of himself. And I
-gracious Heavens! when I look back upon
that hour, I could go mad with anger against
myself."
Julia Bernard was prudent above her years; her
temperament was calm, cold, calculating; but,
to do her justice, it was not merely selfish feel-
ing which dictated her conduct; she was ami-
able, and felt solicitous for my future welfare;
she told me plainly and firmly that she loved.
me, but that she also valued her own happiness,
and therefore never would wed a gambler: her
hand and heart were mine if I solemnly deter-
mined never, never more from that day to touch
a card-approach a hazard-table-never to set
my foot upon a racecourse-in short, to abjure
all and every description of gaming. I vowed,
I promised; but that very evening, excited by
wine and my joyous thoughts, I was tempted
and persuaded by those subtle enemies, my com-
panions: I consented, for the last time, to hold
the dice-box and throw a farewell coup; Julia,
I remembered, had said 'from that day! How-fortunate youth furthered their views by coming
ever, I played, and that evening fortune favour-
ed me: I won an immense sum. This sum I
determined to dedicate to my lovely Julia, and
on the following morning purchased a parure of
diamonds worthy of an empress. I laid them
at her feet; but never did goddess spurn a pol-
luted sacrifice with more indignation than did
the cruel, cold-hearted girl. My jewels she
called the fruits of iniquity, and resolutely cast
them from her, declaring solemnly that she
never would become a partaker of my guilt by
accepting the wages of sin-that she would
never be my wife! and then, in softened accents,
in pitying words, more galling, more hard to en-
dure than reproach or harshness, she bade me
leave her forever! I departed," he continued,
vehemently," and maddened by disappointment,
and totally reckless of consequences, only sought
to drown my bitter thoughts in the intoxicating
pleasures of the world. I plunged deeper than
before into the fatal gulf. I gambled day and
night. I became, in short, the world's slave in-
stead of its idol-but what are its idols but its
slaves?—while daily, hourly I loathed more and
more the thraldom which so firmly fettered me.
Maud listened with mute and absorbed interest
to this painful narrative. Harry Percy seemed
wound up to the highest pitch of excitement, She paused, for even at this moment her
and scarcely paused for breath as he thus made heart reproached her; had she not been as-
a confession of his past and present feelings. cribing mercenary, false motives to one who
"Fate-Fortune, to mock me, to torture its she well knew was the very soul of honour, the
wretched victim, at length led me here-to most disinterested of beings? She felt she was
Paradise on earth, and I beheld angels bright, wrong-very wrong! But the words of Harry
and pure, and one most beautiful, whose pres- Percy had stung her to the very soul. My
ence, whoso companionship has infused into my father, my mother," she added, in a softened
soul a breath of heaven. The world and its tone,
The world and its tone, "how could you act thus? why did you
vanities vanished from my sight: I dreamed deceive your child ?”
again my early dream of love, but holier, love-
lier was that dream. Alas! the vision was
soon dissipated-destroyed; not by witnessing
the cold love bestowed upon her by another
no, for could that be love which responded so
ill with the overwhelming emotion which was
burning within my heart? One word from the
favoured youth relieved me from all fear of his
ardent love." Maud looked up inquiringly.
"Some one spoke of you," pursued, eagerly,
Harry Percy, and in so doing, used the word
perfection. 'Perfection!' exclaimed Balfour,
with a calm smile; no, not perfection-far
from it: in beauty, perhaps, she may be so ; but
perfection is not expected or required in a mor-
tal woman: defend me from what is called a
เ
|
But it was very far from Harry's intention
that in her self-mortified pride and indignation
towards others he should remain unnoticed-
forgotten; he therefore calmly but tenderly
took her hand, made her seat herself once
more, and then said,
Maud, I have done wrong in thus disclo-
sing to you, in an unguarded moment, circum-
stances of which your parents have not thought
fit to inform you; but perhaps it is as well, for
I am confident they imagine your heart is
wholly Balfour's, or would they, kind and in-
dulgent as they are, shackle their daughter's in-
clination, and sacrifice her to the gratification
of their own wishes and schemes; but I may
be mistaken-I may deceive myself-Maud, as
40
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
of embarrassment; for, although there was a
brighter glow upon her pale cheek, she turned
her open, ingenuous countenance full upon him,
and said in a clear, steady voice,
a brother, I ask, I beseech you to answer me;"
and he spoke in a tone as deep, as earnest as if
his very life hung on the reply; "answer me
as you would your father; tell me, and I will
depart, and endeavour to pray for your happi-
"I do love him-and who could not ?—for is
ness with the deep fervour of a brother: tell he not truly noble-truly excellent? Yes," she
me, Maud," and his voice trembled and his repeated, " truly good; there is no deception in
cheek paled, "do you love Arthur Balfour? his character. We all know there are some,"
will his love suffice for your happiness? Do and here her colour heightened and her soft
you really love him?"
eyes flashed, "who seem externally virtuous—
charming, but in reality are false, deceitful,
treacherous!"
>>
|
"And such you believe me to be !" he replied,
with a deep sigh, and a tone of such heartfelt
despondency that even May for a moment re-
gretted the bitterness of her last speech, but in
the next he had turned to her sister. She heard
the whispered words,
Conflicting feelings were striving for mastery
in the bosom of Maud: she felt that her answer
would decide her fate; and now that the mo-
ment had arrived, and she was on the point of
relinquishing forever the love of Arthur Balfour,
she remembered what love it had been; how
she had once valued it—gloried in it; and again
hastily rising, she exclaimed, in a tone of dis-
pleasure," Arthur alone has a right to ask that
question, and he only must hear the answer.
A long, heavy sigh responded to her words,
and then another pause ensued. Harry Percy
pushed back from his brow his dark hair, and
pressed his hand firmly upon it, and Maud re-
mained for some moments with her eyes bent
towards the ground. At length she raised The murmured words had been, "Alas! in:
them towards Harry Percy, contemplated his your hands rests my fate, whether my future
attitude of deep dejection, and a gratified feel-life is to be virtuous; you might be my guardian,
ing crept into her heart, which showed itself in my redeeming angel!"
"The haughty smile to hide the sigh beneath”
which played upon her lips. From between
the parted fingers which veiled his eyes Harry
Percy perceived it, and he heaved another sigh
-to hide a smile.
At this moment a gentle footstep was heard,
and May entered the conservatory.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"My heart is fill'd with bitter thoughts,
My eyes would fain shed tears;
I have been thinking upon past
And upon future years."-L. E. L.
MAY stood for an instant at the entrance of
the conservatory, contemplating, with an un-
easy expression on her countenance, the two
beings before her. Maud had turned away her
head, but Harry Percy slowly raised himself'
from his leaning posture, and extended his hand
to welcome her with his usual easy, unembar-
rassed smile.
"And do you, Maud, think this of me?" and
May felt sure that the sigh and melancholy were
assumed. Other sounds he murmured in her
sister's ear: they were too low to reach her
own, but she saw the crimson hue spread over
that sister's cheek as she hastily averted her
head.
"
Let us go to mamma, dear Mand," exclaimed
May, somewhat impatiently; "she has been a
long time alone."
Maud rose slowly and followed her sister to
her mother's sitting-room, where they were
soon joined by Harry Percy.
How little was that calm, sweet, suffering
mother aware, as she joyfully welcomed the
trio, what stormy emotions were tormenting
each heart! She listened some time to the
agreeable conversation of Percy, but her anx-
ious eye soon observed something amiss in the
countenance of Maud. She imagined she could
easily guess the cause of her depression and
agitated looks, and she immediately proposed a
ride, knowing the exhilarating effect of exercise
on the spirits of her daughter.
"You will have a full hour and a half before
the dressing-bell rings, dearest, and it will be
quite light till then; I am sure Harry will ac-
company you."
Harry did not offer a great many objections,
and rose to order the horses.
But no answering smile met his; no hand
was stretched forth to receive the one he prof-"you will ride too, will you not?”
fered, and tears were glistening in her eyes.
"And May," he said, as he reached the door,
Harry Percy marked this, and as he drew
her towards him and kissed her forehead, he
said,
May had walked to the window, and was ap-
parently gazing on the landscape without.
Will you ride, dear child, or will you stay
and take a turn with me on the terrace ?" ask-
"How sad the pretty May-flower looks to-ed Mrs. Sutherland. For the first time in her
day!"
life, perhaps, when there was any question re-
"Yes," she said, impatiently; then disenga-lating to the wishes of her mother, May hesita-
ging the hand he had taken, and turning from
him, said to her sister, " We shall all look sad
to-day, for Arthur is gone!"
"Then you love Arthur very much."
This was said with such a significant glance
of the eye, and in a tone of such deep meaning,
that even Maud turned a somewhat surprised
and curious look from one to the other.
But if May were inwardly troubled by the ab-
rupt question, Harry Percy must have been dis-
appointed if he expected any outward indication
|
ted. "Oh, I see she would like to ride, and it
will do her good," said Mrs. Sutherland.
But no! May could not endure that her
mother should suppose for a moment that she
could prefer any pleasure to that of being of use
to her. She looked upon the pale cheek of that
idolized parent, remembered that her father was
absent, that if she left her she would be alone,
and replied without turning her head from the
window,
66
No, I shall not ride;" but there was a pain-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE,
41
ful, doubting feeling within her heart as she pro-
nounced the words.
May, with her mother leaning on her arm,
was strolling on the terrace when Harry Percy
and Maud, side by side, slowly wended their
way along the gravel approach; but how differ-
ent were the thoughts of the parent and child
as they both gazed on the graceful figures of
the equestrians till they disappeared from their
sight!
"A ride this beautiful evening will do Maud
good," said the former, "especially with such
a cheerful companion: she looked pale and out
of spirits; but we cannot wonder at that, can
we, May ?" she added, smiling.
May endeavoured to smile in return, but it
was a forced, melancholy expression; she could
not say she thought the ride would do her sister
good. Alas! ´no.
·
And then she had to listen to her mother's
conversation respecting Arthur and Maud, and
it made her heart ache to think of the blow
which must sooner or later fall on her unsus-
pecting, confiding mother-that day on which
the veil would be withdrawn-that day which,
she now felt with grief, was fast approaching.
A third person had watched the pair as they
rode past her, and there was a meaning, an ex-
pression in her eyes as she looked after them,
as if she had been well acquainted with the se-
crets of their hearts. Had it been in the days
of witchcraft, no one would have hesitated in
ranking old Judith amid the weird sisterhood of
days gone by.
As Maud passed "Percy Castle" she had
turned her looks upward towards the creeping
vine, the foliage of which was already shooting
forth. Did she think of the sweet and sour
grapes ?
True, she turned her head hastily
away, but it was to avoid a very unpleasant ap-
parition at one of the windows. From it peep-
ed old Judith, her blear eyes fixed on her with
no very agreeable expression, and her harsh,
demoniacal laugh ringing gratingly on her ears,
as Maud gave her horse a quick touch with the
whip and galloped off.
It brought back vividly to her mind all the
incidents of that September morning-the cir-
cumstances which had called forth the same dis-
cordant sounds, and she thought of the change
which had been wrought in her heart since she
heard it last.
Oh! that she had received that sound, unmu-
sical as it was, as a threatening, warning pow-
er, calling her to turn from present danger, to
seek again the paths of peace!
CHAPTER XXV.
"But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd,
And secret pussions labour'd in her breast.”—POPE.
"Another-even now she loved another.”
BYRON'S Dream.
THREE weeks had elapsed-weeks which hád
been marked by only one apparent and impor-
tant circumstance, the illness of Mrs Suther-
land, who had suffered from an alarıning attack.
The skilful London physician, hastily summon-
ed, pronounced the seizure, when over, the cri-
sis of her malady, which having happily passed
away, tended rather towards favourable results
F
|
than otherwise; and though it left the invalid
weak and languid to the utmost degree, still
happy symptoms, which for some time had dis-
appeared, returned to gladden the hearts of those
around her.
The physician departed, having recommended
a change to the Continent as the most effectual
means towards her perfect recovery, and the
ensuing month the proposed plan was to be car-
ried into execution.
f
But a day had now arrived which rejoiced
the hearts of many at Sutherland Manor. Just-
ly loved, no less by his equals than his inferiors,
Arthur Balfour was about to return.
He had
been known and esteemed from infancy by the
servants and dependants of the family, and his
father was also remembered with affection.
Many were the significant smiles which passed
from mouth to mouth. They shrewdly guessed
that he returned to claim as his bride the beau-
tiful heiress, their future mistress-she whom
many of them had held in their arms when an
infant, and had watched growing up from the
lovely child to the beautiful woman.
And he,
they thought, was worthy of her, so young, so
noble, so handsome! Oh, the beautiful cou-
ple they will make!" was the burden of every
tongue; and visions of a wedding, such as was
never equalled in the hymeneal annals, floated
in the brains of all, from the inhabitants of the
servants' hall to the more exalted territory
under the government of Mrs. Power, who with
indescribable pride and importance opened the
sacred receptacle containing the wedding veil,
which for many generations had graced the
brides of the house of Sutherland.
Maud had often horrified the old lady by hint-
ing at the idea of being the originator of a new
and more modern style of headdress for the fu-
ture benefit of her descendants, and made her
ears tingle with the (to her) discordant sound
of Brussels lace as a substitute for the time-
discoloured though splendid point of which the
treasured heirloom was fabricated. Mrs. Power
prophesied that no marriage in the family could
be prosperous unless the precious relic bore its
part in the ceremony. But where is now the
destined bride-the subject of such anticipated
happiness, on whom the thoughts of so many
are centred? Was she looking out with anx-
ious, eager eyes for her expected lover? No,
she was seated before a large looking-glass,
having been attired with more than usual care
and solicitude by her abigail, in consideration
of him who that night would gaze upon her
beauteous lady.
:
One circumstance had greatly discomposed
Lucy lately it was, that her young mistress
had insisted upon wearing her hair simply
braided, so that her chief delight and pride, the
arrangement of the luxuriant, clustering ring-
lets, was denied her; she had that evening
sighed after many a vain attempt to induce our
heroine to reassume her original coiffure, which
met with such severe rebuffs, that at last, in
despair, Lucy had been silenced, and was forced
to submit to smooth the envious curls, and en-
deavour to turn and twist them from their nat-
ural course. She supposed it was to gratify
some fancy of the expected captain, but she
was puzzled, knowing from good authority the
admiration those very ringlets had once excited.
12
THE GAMBLER'S WİFE.
+
"But then," and Lucy shrugged her shoulders | our ancestors of old) find his ladye love in the
and raised her sentimental black eyes as she old hall, with all those ancestors looking down
mused, "there is no accounting for the freaks upon her, waiting to receive her preux chevalier.
and caprices of lovers." And another circum- I will be your attendant damsel, and witness
stance not a little mystified her: Miss Suther- your happy meeting. Come! But first let me
land's spirits and temper had lately become place in your hair this beautiful rose, your own
very variable: her mother's illness and the cap-emblem-Arthur's rose too, for you planted it
tain's prolonged absence might perhaps have together on a certain happy evening."
And
been the cause at one time, but now the former May attempted to fix it, as Lucy had done, in
was so much improved in health that every the bright hair; but, though she received not
heart rejoiced, and the latter, in a few hours, the same repulse, still there was an impatient
would again be by her side; still the quick-wave off with the hand while she said,
sighted waiting-woman observed in her none
of the joyous excitement usual to one so situa-
ted as her mistress. During the course of her
toilet she was either plunged in a deep revery,
with her dark, distended eyes fixed vacantly on
the lovely face reflected in the mirror before
her, while she turned again and again a diamond
ring on her finger, answering in monosyllables
or by impatient gestures any question or remark
ventured by Lucy, or in a state of nervous agi-
tation, starting and turning pale at every sound
that met her ear.
However, the toilet was at last completed,
and Lucy had nothing left to do but to cast an
approving glance at her own handiwork, and
she was forced, though unwillingly, to admit
that certainly the braided hair displayed to per-
fection the beautiful contour of that faultless
face. She did wish that the bright colour,
which now only came at fits and starts to her
cheeks, would remain there undisturbed as it
used to do.
"But perhaps," thought Lucy, who, in her
way, was full of romance and sentiment, "per-
haps, considering her circumstances, the deli-
cate lily whiteness is, after all, the most proper
and interesting."
But the beautiful rose, which, freshly pluck-
ed, stood on the dressing-table, and on which
she had cast many a wistful glance during the
progress of the toilet, how it would improve the
tout ensemble! and, though not without fear and
trembling, she removed it from the water, and
with the skill of a finished artiste held it in a
becoming position on the side of Maud's head,
begging her just to look and observe the effect.
One glance was given-an angry and impa-
tient gesture, and then, in a tone of command
which admitted of no resistance on the part of
the waiting-woman, she desired her to leave
the room, and Lucy, with a good-humoured
shrug, departed, for she loved her young lady
too well to be angry at her occasional caprice
and temper.
|
"Do not tease me, May; I am ill.”
"Ill! oh, nonsense! But never mind; in
an hour's time you will be quite well again, for
Arthur will be here!"
And again she made the attempt to place the
rose, and this time she seemed to have succeed-
ed, for she received no check to her endeavours,
and when she had arranged it to her satisfac-
tion, she exclaimed,
"Now see how beautiful you look!"
Hardly had the words passed May's lips, than
Maud sprang hastily from her seat, and in an-
other instant the flower was torn from its rest-
ing-place and lay at May's feet.
The gentle girl started and looked pale, nor
was she restored to composure by the words
that followed, for, with eyes vividly flashing
and her voice trembling with emotion, Maud
exclaimed,
May!"
"It shall not, it must not be there!
she continued, in a lower tone, and fixing a
steady gaze on her sister, "May, do you know
that he that Arthur begged me to let him see
that rose in my hair on his return, as a token
that I loved him still-as a sign that I was not
changed-that my heart remained as once it
was his own; and would you have me raise
false hopes? would you have me deceive him?"
"Deceive him!" exclaimed May, in faltering.
accents.
"Yes, deceive him!" replied Maud, "for,
May, I am changed-I love him not!" and
again she sank upon the chair, and heaved a
deep, long-drawn sigh, as if in a degree relieved
of the heavy burden which pressed upon her
aching heart.
And May fell upon her knees, and burying her
face in her sister's lap, murmured, in a voice
broken by convulsive sobs,
"Poor-poor Arthur!" A pause then en-
sued which lasted for some minutes. May was
the first to interrupt the painful silence. She
raised her face, down which the tears were
trickling fast, and with a look of earnest suppli-
When Lucy had left the room, Maud remain-cation, exclaimed, in a stifled, agitated voice,
ed seated as before. The only movement she
The only movement she "Oh, Maud! unsay those cruel, dreadful words!
made was to place her elbow on the table and they are not true-oh! say they are not true!"
lean her forehead on her hand. She did not "I cannot, May, for then I should speak
perceive that her sister had entered from an falsely!" was the reply.
adjoining apartment, and had stood for some
time anxiously gazing on her, till, happening to
raise her eyes towards the looking-glass, she
there beheld reflected the slight figure of May.
The anxious scrutiny of the latter was then ex-
changed for an affectionate smile, and kissing
her cheek, May exclaimed,
"My beautiful Maud must not sit looking so
sad and thoughtful, when with smiles and joy
the ought to be waiting to welcome her gallant
soldier. Come, and let Arthur (as no doubt did
"And he will return," continued May, in ag
onized grief, "he will return full of joy and
hope, and you will tell him-tell him that you
do not love him! And my father-my mother!
what will be their disappointment—their sor-
row?"
"I cannot help it, May-I cannot force my-
self to love; besides, I have been deceived.
Why was I not told it was a settled matter that
we were to become attached-that he was in-
vited here for the express purpose-that since
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE,
43
children we have been destined for one anoth-
er: why was I not informed of all this? why
have I been treated like a child? And you are
mistaken, May," she continued, "if you ima-
gine that my rejection will inflict so serious a
wound: no doubt it will cause him a pang at
first that he has lost the heiress whom he had
reasoned and schooled himself into loving, as
much as one so all perfect could love a being so
imperfect as myself. He will grieve, perchance,
to relinquish the honour and glory of subduing
my pride and self-will-in short, of enacting the
part of a second Petruchio in the Taming of
the Shrew. Oh! I have long seen, and indeed
heard, what he thinks of me; so, dear Ma, do
not distress yourself so very much we shall
soon find some means of consoling him."
It was now May's tearful eyes that flashed,
and her cheeks that glowed, as, starting to her
feet, she exclaimed,
"Maud, you are cruel-most cruel! and
shamefully do you wrong one who loves you
with equal disinterestedness as fervour; but I
know who it is that has thus poisoned your
mind-who has crept like a venomous serpent
into your heart, and has deceived you! and
you, my sister, have listened to his honeyed but
dangerous words: it is one who has been re-
ceived with kindness and confidence beneath
our father's roof, and reaped benefits from him
—who professes such love for my mother-
such brotherly affection for ourselves: it is he
who has treacherously, wickedly robbed Arthur
of your heart; who has poisoned your mind
with infamous fabrications, and made you think
thus coldly, unkindly, of a being so superior: it
is-it is "
1
"Hush, hush, I command you, May! You
talk, indeed, the language of one who has never
loved; and," she continued, lowering her voice,
and fixing an earnest, steadfast gaze on her
sister, "you know not what is to be loved by
HARRY PERCY!"
May again covered her eyes with her hands,
and shuddered violently.
"No!" she murmured; "thank God! I do
not; or, rather, would that I had been the ob-
ject of that love, to save you, Maud, from its
influence. I hope I feel that I should have
had strength to overcome the feeling, if not for
my own sake, for that of those to whom we
owe so much affection-such gratitude! for
you well know what wretchedness will be their
portion when the secret of such a love is reveal-
ed to them. Maud, you reverence your parents.
Oh! for their dear sakes tear from your heart
this unworthy passion."
Maud with indignant looks would fain have
interrupted her sister, but May fearlessly con-
tinued: Yes, unworthy I call it, Maud, though
you spurn me for thus saying. Has this love
not made you guilty of treachery towards an-
other? Ah, think how your parents adore you
you, their firstborn, their loveliest, their dear-
est! Our sweet mother, how she dotes upon
you, and rejoices in the happy prospect she
thinks in store for you: her eyes brighten when
she speaks of Arthur and her child, and pictures
to herself the joyful future! And will you,
Maud, dash all this happiness to the ground,
and tell her that you love one of whom it is im-
possible she can approve. Has he not wasted
the best of God's gifts, given to him to be used
to His glory-robbed honest men of their due,
May stopped abruptly when about to pro-and the poor of support, by sinfully squandering
nounce the name which was quivering on her
lips, for her indignation was turned almost to
terror by the violent agitation exhibited by her
sister. The colour which, at the beginning of
her speech, had rested impatiently on the cheeks
and temples of Maud, now vanished entirely,
leaving her pale as death; her whole frame
trembled fearfully; she cowered beneath May's
concluding words, and hid her face with her
hands, as if dreading some fearful shock.
1
May reproached herself for having called
forth such painful feelings, and with fresh an-
guish she beheld in her sister's agitation the
confirmation of her worst fears. She attempt-
ed to throw her arms round her neck, saying,
Forgive me, dearest, forgive me !" but Maud
repulsed her, exclaiming,
his fortune-by the devastating sin of gambling
and extravagance? He is wholly incapable of
sacrificing any wrongful desire or selfish grati-
fication for the sake of others: no one principle
of right does he possess."
"L
May, I will hear no more of this; you are
unlike yourself-prejudiced — unjust! You
know not Harry as well as I do!"
But May was not to be thus silenced.
One word yet! but I will say no more of
him. It was not of him, Maud, I would now
speak, it was of my mother! Oh! for her pre-
cious sake," and here the poor girl's voice fal-
She attempt-tered, and her lips quivered with strong emo-
tion, "for her sake you will surely try to con-
quer this dreadful love. Think how ill she has
been--and alas! Maud, the miserable, agoni-
zing thought has lately often flashed across my
mind that she may not long be with us; indeed,
she sometimes talks to me so solemnly, with
such touching eloquence, as if her mind were
impressed with the same sad feeling, yet she
fears to grieve us; this may be but a torturing
fancy, but still-still, should that time ever ar-
rive, and we are left—”
No! leave me, leave me! You know all:
go proclaim it, if you please; but I will not en-
dure reproach, nor will I hear him blamed-
abused; let no one presume to speak evil of
him in my presence. It is enough that I love
him!" and she raised her head haughtily, and
with an air of firm decision waved May from
her. But May heeded her not; she stood mo-
tionless, as if she were petrified.
But that time will never come for me,"
cried the impetuous Maud, in a passionate, agi-
tated voice; "to me love or hate would then
avail naught I should care for neither, for if
my mother died I should die also!"
"My father-my mother!" she at length
found words to murmur, "oh! what will they
feel when they hear this? Do you not remem.
ber, on the first night of his arrival, what they
said respecting him-how fearfully they spoke Oh, Maud, speak not so rashly: our lives
of his character, and of the misery that inust are not in our own hands," cried May; "and
inevitably devolve on the unfortunate woman that is not the way to show our affection for
who loved him? Could you, then, knowing her.
| If she died," and May lifted her tearful
their sentiments on the subject—”
$44
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
:
eyes to heaven, "we could neither add nor take him 'to go from hence, or, if you have not
aught from her felicity; she would then, we strength or courage, I will do it for you; tell him
humbly trust, be in heaven, in the presence of that you have resolved to break the spell which
her Saviour in joy unspeakable-inconceiva-bound you for a short space; tell him that duty
ble! It is now, while she is here, that alone it-honour points to such a course; that if his
now,hile
is in our power to add to her happiness-to love for you, his friendship for my parents is
save her from many pangs: what sacrifice is it sincere, he will leave you; yes, tell him all, and
possible for us to make too great for such a if he still retains a spark of anything like up-
mother-one whose sole desire since the hour right and honourable sentiments, he will in-
of our birth has been to save us from a mo- stantly depart."
ment's pain-who would gladly yield up her
very life for us?"
A
"But Arthur!"
"Tell him all: tell him that your imagination
May paused, too much overpowered by her had been excited-your affections for a while de-
excitement to find words to proceed; but she coyed from him--that you are still writhing un-
fixed an earnest, supplicating glance on her sis-der the effects of the subtle delusion; and that,
ter, which spoke all she would have said.
Maud was softened-affected; for the first
time during the conversation tears forced their
way down her cheeks. There was a pause, but
There was a pause, but
at length, in a sorrowful tone, she said,
if he loves you sufficiently to wait, time may
restore it to what it once was."
"And then ask him to return," interrupted
Maud, impatiently; "stoop to entreat him to
receive my love again? No, never-never!"
"No, tell him the truth; bid him return no
more, and then see whether he will obey-oh,
try him ;" and May smiled through her tears,
for hope was reviving her heart.
At this moment she heard her father's voice
calling her.
"May, I am not like you-not as good as you.
It is easy for you to sacrifice your own will and
inclination for the sake of others, but I have
never done so, and therefore find it no easy task.
I sometimes think that, even were I to marry
Arthur, I could never make him really happy. |
He is good-excellent! my self-will would only "I am coming, papa," she cried, and hastily
make him wretched; he would either despise and with trembling hands she fastened the rose
me, or seek to curb my temper and tutor me, in her sister's hair; and having affectionately
and that I could not endure. If you knew how kissed her, and removed the traces of tears from
galling it is to me to have my will opposed! her own fair cheeks, she ran off, for her father
Now you are so amiable, so gentle, yet so sen-again called her, desiring her to go to her mother.
sible—yes, dear May," she continued, rapidly,
and a half smile curled her beautiful lip, "you
would suit Arthur so well-you were made for
him; and how happy you would be together!
Oh! depend upon it, he would soon recover the
pang my rejection might cause him, and learn
to love you-nay, not learn, for already he con-
siders you perfection, and he would come at last
and thank me for the felicity my faithlessness
had procured him."
"
Maud, Maud !" cried May, hiding her blush-
ing face, "
you must not, shall not talk in this
wild, thoughtless strain; Arthur is far too valu-
able to be thus cast off, and you wrong yourself
and him by thinking that he does not prize you
sufficiently. If you only knew how he loved
you, you would be convinced that he would
rather possess you with all your faults-and you
are a naughty, spoiled child," she added, smiling
through her tears, "than the most perfect of hu-
man beings.'
Maud again shook her head.
May," she said, "knowing as you do the
state of my heart-knowing-for there is no
longer any use in concealing it from you-that
I love another, would you have me bestow on
Arthur a hand without a heart, or would he not
spurn from him a heart so false and treacherous?
for you would not have me deceive him—and
besides," and she covered her burning face with
her hands, "he-he-Harry Percy, alas! must
know that I love him. Arthur, I am sure, sus-
pected this he could not have done otherwise.
He will ask if my heart be truly, wholly his!
Can I say it is? Can I, with those eyes of Har-
ry's fixed on me, and while I hear that voice-
that thrilling voice?”
"You need not hear it, Maud-dearest Maud,"
replied May, caressingly; "it cannot be love you
feel for him-it is infatuation--fascination: tell
CHAPTER XXVI.
"Does she love the boy who, kneeling,
Brings to her his youth,
With its passionate, deep feeling,
With its hope-its truth?
No his hour has passed away!
He has had his day !"-L. E. L.
AND Maud arose from her chair, and with slow
and lingering steps sought the drawing-room.
As she entered, at the first glance it appeared
to be unoccupied by any one, but in the next
moment, from the recess of a deep bay window
Harry Percy appeared.
He advanced to meet her and took her hand.
She strove to withdraw it, but he held it fast in
his, while her eyes sunk beneath the earnest,
penetrating gaze he fixed upon her.
"Have I then no hope ?" he murmured, in a
low, musical tone; "is my doom fixed forever ?”
|
A pause no answer came, and with a pas-
sionate gesture Harry Percy loosened his grasp
of the band he so firmly pressed, and retreated
from her side. With a beating heart and trem-
bling steps Maud approached the window, and
leaned for support against one of the marble ta-
bles which stood in the recess, her eyes seem-
ingly riveted on the brilliant sky, on which the
setting sun was darting its departing rays.
But she marked not its marvellous splendour
—she saw nothing-she felt alone that the gaze
of Harry Percy was on her, as he stood by the
mantel-piece, his head resting on his hand.
Poor May! what availed her words of counsel
or reproof? they were as little heeded now as
the sky that was gleaming on the infatuated
girl; their influence was dying away in her
heart, as quickly as the brightly tinged clouds
were fading into dim obscurity in the distant
horizon.
1
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
45

The sound of carriage wheels was now heard!
nearer and nearer it came-pater and paler grew
-pater and paler grew
the cheek of Maud-how painfully heaved her
heart! more fixed; more earnest became the
gaze of Harry Percy!
"Come, Maud, come !" cried the cheerful
voice of her father; "let us go together to wel-
come Arthur!" and when, with faltering steps,
she advanced to meet him, Mr. Sutherland, with
a happy smile, drew her arm within his, and led
her into the hall.
The wheels were now distinctly heard grind-
ing through the gravel approach, and in another
instant the horses' feet rattled on the paved
causeway, and the carriage stopped: the steps
were let down with more than ordinary haste
and eagerness, and Arthur Balfour, with hope
and joy beaming on his countenance, sprung
out, followed more leisurely by another: it was
Lord Percival. Balfour scarcely waited to shake
Mr. Sutherland by the hand, for, catching a
glimpse of Maud, who stood motionless in the
hall, as if rooted to the spot, he was by her side
in an instant.
In crossing his gay on his way to his room,
he encountered May.
1.
Why did you not come to welcome me?”
he said, after the first greeting was over,
ou did not want me," she replied; but it
was not with her usual cheerful smile.
"How have you gone on during my ab-
sence?" he said, hastily, not able to conceal a
certain anxiety for her answer, the remembrance
of their former conversation flashing across his
mind.
But, before she could even reply to his ques-
tion, Lord Percival appeard, and Arthur, startled
at seeing him already dressed for dinner, was
obliged to run off without waiting for any far-
ther information.
"Miss Sutherland," said Lord Percival, as
they walked together towards the drawing-
room, I almost feared that, considering ex-
isting circumstances, I might be de trop here;
but Balfour assured me that such would not be
the case, and I was too happy to believe it."
He seemed to wish May to speak, and she an-
swered,
"I am sure, Lord Percival, we are all delight-
ed to see so valued a friend of Arthur's."
But her words did not seem to satisfy the
young man, and there was an expression of
The servants were busily employed in unpack-
ing the carriage, and Lord Percival, knowing
that at such a moment his presence was not
required, with a passing bow to Maud went on
to the drawing-room, where he found Harrymortified disappointment on his countenance,
Percy.
And Arthur! he was by the side of the be-
loved one; her hand was in his; his eyes were
fixed with a look of-oh! what intense, thrill-
ing inquiry on her face, where a vivid flush was
usurping the place of its former paleness; but,
though her lips moved, no word, no sound of
welcome issued from them.
Maud," he exclaimed, and a joyful smile
passed over his countenance, for he beheld the
rose.
"A cold meeting," exclaimed Mr. Sutherland,
who had viewed it from a distance; " cold
meeting for cousins and for lovers ;" and in an
instant Maud felt herself in Arthur's arms,
pressed to his heart, her lips to his !
Did he mark how cold were those lips-how
she trembled in his embrace-how constrained
was her demeanour ? Where was the happy
look-the blushing smile-the kind voice of love
that should have greeted him? Echo might
well have answered in mournful accents,
"Where! oh where !"
The servants now entered from the portico,
and Harry Percy and Lord Percival appeared
from the drawing-room. The latter apologized
for his uninvited arrival, explained that he was
on his way farther northward, and that, travel-
ling from town with Balfour, he could not resist
the pleasure of passing a night at the Manor.
Mr. Sutherland, after expressing his sincere
pleasure at seeing him, laughingly begged that
both gentlemen would have compassion upon
hungry souls, and lose no time in dressing, the
dinner hour having already passed. Arthur
Balfour, however, managed to have a few words
of affectionate welcome from Mrs. Sutherland,
and he was beginning to make many anxious
inquiries after her health, when Mr. Sutherland,
guessing where he was, entered the dressing-
room and hurried him off to perform the duties
of the toilet.
which might have surprised her, had she observ-
ed it, but her thoughts were otherwise occu
pied, and she heeded her handsome and titled
companion as little as if he had been the most
insignificant and least prepossessing of men.
The party were at last all assembled in the
drawing-room, but it was considerably past eight
o'clock when they sat down to dinner. When
it was announced, Mr. Sutherland, too hungry
to stand upon etiquette, seized Mr. Merton's
arm and preceded the party, much to the
Arthur drew Maud's
amusement of the rest.
arm within his, and followed. Lord Percival
took May, and Harry Percy brought up the rear.
"Where is my other rose?" asked Arthur,
with a smile, as he pressed the arm that rested
on his.
"It was blighted," was the answer, in a care-
less tone, and at the same moment (was it ow-
ing to the unskilfulness of May's pretty fingers,
or was it an omen ?) the rose which decked
Maud's hair fell at their feet, and she crushed
it unconsciously with her foot as she passed!
Arthur would have stopped to raise it from
the ground, but she hurried on.
May saw it, looked down upon it, and half
paused, as if she fain would save the neglected
flower. Lord Percival, smiling, said,
I would pick it up for you, Miss Sutherland,
if I thought a cast-away withered rose worthy
of your acceptance.
But it seemed that the broken, fallen flower
was not despised by all, for at the dinner-table
it decked the button-hole of Harry Percy. This
was apparently a trifling, insignificant occur-
rence, but to one who was looking on it seem-
ed "big with import."
And how did the dinner proceed? With so
many adverse passions contending in the hearts
of some of the company, could it be a social,
cheerful repast? Into the secrets of the heart
it is not necessary to dive, but to outward ap-
pearance all was gay-at any rate, bright, spark-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
ting! How joyous look the brilliantly-light-
ed room-the table with its glittering silver
the well-served dinner, surrounded by a party,
among which there was not one to spoil the e
fect of the tout ensemble-not one being on whi
the eye could rest without admiration or 'satis
faction!
There was the father, still in the prime of life,
with his noble, handsome face, on which the
cares of the world had as yet left no trace, with
whose dark hair there mingled scarcely a shade
of gray, and whose countenance beamed with
happiness as he gazed on those around him.
Even May looked and wondered, and her
spirits and hopes began to rise. Could her sis-
ter thus dissemble? could she be thus if she
meditated so soon destroying the happiness of
so many dear to her?
The father was also made happy by noting
the glad looks of his child, for even he had inar-
velled at symptoms in his daughter which had
of late almost startled him; they had evidently
been caused by her lover's absence: all would
now be right.
Lord Percival rejoiced for his friend Balfour;
and Harry Percy, with his penetrating eye-his
experience-his deep discernment-his fancied
knowledge "of the secret of the prison-house"
of which he held the key, even he was aston-
ished. True it is,
"That for a cloak, what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gayety?
The careless smile, like a bright banner borne;
The laugh-like merriment, the lip of scorn!
Too dazzling to be scann'd; the gloomy brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow,
But mocking words-light words and ready jest,
These are the bars, the curtains to the breast."
And thus it was with Maud Sutherland du-
ring the whole of that evening.
On the right hand of Mr. Sutherland sat Mr.
Merton. Unlike his host, he, poor man! had
many a furrow on his brow, imprinted by grief
much more than time. He was a widower, and
childless; and though he had not yet reached
the age of sixty years, his hair was silvery
white, his forehead wrinkled; but the benevo-
lent nature of his heart lighted up his counte-
nance, and shone forth in the mild, benignant
smile with which he contemplated the joys of
others. The remembrance of his own deep
sorrows did not prevent him from "rejoicing
with those" who rejoice, though to weep with
Mrs. Sutherland, who was not able to sit out
the miserable was perhaps more accordant with
a long dinner, was reclining on a sofa in the
his saddened heart. It is not in the gay and drawing-room when the sisters entered it.
joyous scenes of life that such good men espe-Maud seated herself by her mother's side, and
cially shine, but in dark and troubled hours, in
moments of affliction and suffering, and in such
scenes we may again meet him. By his side,
forming a striking contrast, sat the young sol-
dier, the very emblem of manly beauty. He
was, perhaps, the most silent of the group; he
seemed to have no eyes but for the loved one
by whom he sat.
Then there was Lord Percival, all gayety and
vivacity, especially when he could win a smile
from his pretty neighbour May; but at first, to
his sprightly sallies and animated questions, he
had gained only inappropriate and abrupt an-
swers: her eyes were anxiously turned towards
others of the party. All, however, seemed to
be going on so prosperously, that she caught the
spirit of the company, and chatted gayly with
the handsome young nobleman.
Mrs. Sutherland, taking her hand, said, with a
smile and in a tone of tenderness, which must
have sent a pang to her child's heart,
My own darling, tell me, are you very, very
happy?"
In a hurried manner, averting her head, she
answered,
"I
I shall be so to-morrow, if-if-mamma-
you-will-promise-to-"
Promise what, dearest?"
"To be kind, mamma-indulgent as you ever
have been-whatever may happen."
There was a look of surprise in the mother's
face as she tenderly kissed her idolized child.
May turned an anxious glance towards them
both, and then suddenly rose.
The gentlemen at that moment appeared.
Music soon began. Song after song burst forth
And Harry Percy? Unlike Arthur, he had from the lips of Maud with wild, thrilling melo-
eyes-ears-words for all! Never had his
dy. How often, in after years, did those sounds
spirits appeared so elevated, his conversation
-that voice of plaintive sweetness, return with
so brilliant and amusing, his manners so fasci- painful remembrance to the hearts of those
nating-so charming! Even Mr. Merton lis- who listened to her? how often, in the twilight
tened with pleased admiration while he so elo-gloom-that season of saddened meditation-
quently talked, and forgot, in the pleasure of the
moment, that such plausible sentiments and
opinions proceeded from the mouth of one of
the very class which should especially come
under the influence of his charitable censurc.
In her mother's place, between Harry Percy
and Arthur Balfour, sat our heroine-how
changed since the moments of previous agita-
tion, when the upbraidings of conscience were
contending with the passionate emotions which
strove for mastery in her young heart! Bright
was now the glow upon her cheek, the flash of
her eyes, the smile upon her curling lip: how
carelessly gay the tone in which,
"Arrow-like, light words flashed from her tongue,"
the ringing laugh which ever and anon burst
from her rosy mouth. Who could have dreamed
that all was but
"The mask and mantle many wear from pride."
and in the wakeful, feverish hours of a sleepless
night, did the thoughts of some of that assem
bled party fly back to the remembrance of that
evening—that bright, sparkling evening?
The good clergyman, as he sat by Mrs. Suth-
erland's side and watched the movements of
the beauteous girl, with a sigh breathed an in-
ward fervent prayer that the favoured child of
prosperity might not be led by the glare of earth-
ly happiness to forget those better things-those
more enduring blessings, which the world can
neither give nor take away; and as he pressed
her hand in bidding her good-night, he murmur-
ed, in a low tone of affectionate earnestness,
"God bless you! my dear young lady; and
may He shower upon you, with every earthly
blessing, His best gifts.".
"Now one more song, and then we must
away to bed," said Mr. Sutherland,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
47
Well! shall it be a chorus ?" asked Maud.
"Oh no! let me hear your voice alone," whis-
pered Arthur Balfour, as he leaned over her;
and he seated himself by her side, while she
sang to a light, gay air, with spirit and expres-
sion, the following words:
"Oh breathe not of Love,
Oh breathe not to me,
If constant for aye
Your love-motto must be :
Where are the things,
The fairest on earth?
Is it not in their change
That their beauty has birth?
Would they be lovely,
As all of them are,
But for the chance
And change that are there?
Breathe no love to me,
I will give none of mine;
Love must light in an instant,
As quickly decline.
His blushes, his sighs
Are bewildering things,
Then away with his fetters
And give me his wings."
One glance at Arthur, one graceful wave of
the hand, and she was gone; but the words,
"Oh breathe not of love, oh breathe not to me,”:
were heard ringing through the galleries as she
hastily passed to her room.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"I have strain'd the spider's thread
'Gainst the promise of a maid :
I have weigh'd a grain of sand
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand.'
W. SCOTT.
Arthur Balfour well knew where Maud was
to be found, when with a beating heart and
eager steps he sought her, that he might hear at
last from her own lips his doom: he felt that
the moment had arrived which would decide his
future fate, and render him either the happiest
of mortals or the most miserable being on the
face of the earth.
But it is needless to trace the arguments by
which the infatuated girl endeavoured to stiffe
the struggles, the reproaches of that inward
spirit, which in vain warned her to pause and
beware; those admonitory pangs of conscience,
which at one time had so moved, so tortured
her! Her better genius seemed to have de-
serted her, and she was left under the dominion
of that deadly foe, her own self-will-her own
unsubdued, rebellious heart!
She listened to Arthur Balfour with calm at-
tention, with dignified graciousness; she with-
drew not the hand so tenderly, so nervously
pressed in his, while, with all the eloquence of
his true, noble soul, he poured forth the full ex-
pression of the devotion he had before confessed,
and which she had once blessed him by accept-
ing and returning. He had now come, he said,
sanctioned by her parents, to claim the boon for
which he had so long waited-which had been
his hope-his life! for many a weary day-he
had come to supplicate her hand. Still, still she
withdrew it not; she even returned the pres-
sure as it rested in his, and smiled-yes, she
smiled; and Arthur thought his happiness was
ensured forever, and with joy uncontrollable he
clasped her in his arms, and again breathed
forth his joy and adoration. Maud struggled to
disengage herself from the warm embrace.
"Then you believe," he replied, with enthu
siasm, "that I love you? I worship-"
..
"Yes, Arthur," she exclaimed, "you do: you
shall love me-as a sister, and I will love you
as, a beloved brother. Nay, stop! hear me:
you never had a sister, nor I a brother; and,
ignorant of the affection which that relationship
produces, and having nothing better at the mo
ment to occupy our minds-" and again she
smiled, though her cheek and lips grew pale,
and her manner confused. Arthur offered no
interruption, and she continued: "Drawn to-
gether by past associations of our happy child-
hood, when we were indeed like brother and
sister, we foolishly chose to fancy ourselves in
love: I was, indeed, most blameable, and blush
with shame when I remember my conduct. But
I have been the first to awake from my dream.
It was in the conservatory, the scene of a
former tête-à-tête, that he sought and found the
object of his devotion. Passionately fond of
flowers, she frequently repaired to this favourite
spot to inspect her cherished plants and exotics,
and immediately after leaving the luncheon-You must have observed that I have been most
table on the day succeeding his arrival, she had,
as Arthur imagined, adjourned to this beautiful
temple, well deserving of being dedicated to the
goddess of flowers. Arthur's appearance did
not surprise her; she had quite expected him,
and with calm dignity, which in a better cause
must have been deemed admirable, turned to
meet him.
During a feverish night and a morning spent
in deep meditation, she had, though not without
feelings of remorse, contrived to nerve her mind
to the full determination of casting away every
particle of weak pity as unworthy of one whose
will was free-whose heart was her own to be-
stow or take away-whose love would not,
could not be restrained or controlled-over
which even her parents' wishes or commands
could have no power.
"I will tell them that I cannot love him," she
repeated again and again to herself; "no doubt
it will grieve them, but they will soon see the
utter impossibility of my trying to fulfil the tacit
engagement which exists between us, and they
will cease to desire me to wed one under such
circumstances; and then-"
unhappy of late: I felt that I had, as it were,
drawn you into the snare, and that you had
worked up your imagination to believe you real-
ly loved me: I knew that the awaking from the
delusion would be painful. Is it not, therefore,
more kind in me to at once arouse you from its
than to allow you, when too late-when bound
by irrevocable ties, to discover how much you
had been mistaken in your estimate of our mu-
tual attachment. I ought to have said this much
sooner, both for your sake and that of my pa-
rents, who by my folly-my cowardice, may
also have been deceived. Dear Arthur, forgive
me!"
More earnestly might she have craved forgive-
ness could she adequately have imagined the
despair, the agony with which her cold words
had struck upon the heart of her listener, freez-
ing the warm hopes which a moment before
beamed so gladly in his heart; and the proud
girl might have even trembled had she gazed on
his countenance after the first stunning sensa-
tion had subsided. Could it be Arthur?
Truly, he could scarcely be recognised as he
148
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Her manner became more agitated, the tones
of her voice lower, for the crumbling noise of
footsteps on the gravel of the walk of the little
How stood, his cheek, before so pale, flushed to
the deepest crimson-his lips, from which soft
words of love had tremulously proceeded, tightly
compressed-his eyes sparkling with indigna-flower garden which led to the conservatory
tion. He felt he had been wronged, grievously
wronged, humiliated, by her who so calmly,
coldly inflicted the bitter pang, and this thought
called forth all his pride, and anger now was
his predominant sentiment. His manner of
replying to her was unexpected by the proud
girl. He knelt not, he prayed not for a remis-
sion of his sentence; he dropped the hand for
which, a few moments before, he had so elo-
quently sued, which he had so tenderly pressed;
he fixed his reproachful eyes full upon her face,
and in a voice struggling with deep emotion,
said,
แ
•
Forgive you, Maud! You have destroyed
my hopes the happiness of my future life; you
have trifled with my feelings-cruelly, most
cruelly treated me. Mine is not a brother's
love. Tell me and I have a right to ask the
question-can you say with truth," and his gaze
was like that of the basilisk, "can you, Maud,
sincerely declare that it was the discovery of
your sisterly affection for me which alone has
influenced your cruel conduct, or was it rather
that you have suffered another-treacherously,
dishonourably to rob me of that love which
once-once your own lips confessed you felt for
me?"
:
sent the life-blood rushing to her heart. The
sound gradually increased until it appeared to
the trembling Maud to have approached quite
close to her; but suddenly, for a moment, it
ceased entirely, and then, more subdued than
before, was heard by her quick ear retreating
and dying away.
Arthur heeded it not; his mind was too pain-
fully occupied with inward thoughts to observe
any outward occurrence.
But doubtless this interruption had the effect
of bringing to a more speedy close this most
distressing interview. We will not dwell on the
painful conclusion, the expressions of mingled
reproach and grief, indignation, and relenting
and lingering tenderness, which passed during
that bitter scene: suffice it to say, that, like
all events in this world, whether pleasurable or
painful, it had its end, and Arthur Balfour, with
a face of anguish, and a step, how different from
that of joyous hope with which he had entered
the conservatory! departed from the presence
of her whom he had so fondly loved, and who
had so cruelly deceived him; and Maud, with
a pang of remorse she could not stifle, sunk on
a low seat, covered her face with her hands,
and sobbed passionately and violently.
Lord Percival was standing in the hall giving
some orders to his servant regarding his de-
For an instant her cheek blanched, and she
quailed beneath the words and glance of Ar-
thur, but she soon recovered, and proudly ex-parture, which was to take place almost imme-
claimed,
0
"I acknowledge not your boasted right to
question me in this strain, nor will I reply:
enough that I love you not. If you reject the
sisterly affection I bear you, I can offer you no
other," and she drew from her finger the dia-
mond ring, the token of their plighted love, and
held it towards him. But Arthur turned from
it with a shudder, and falling from her hand, the
little trinket rolled on the ground, and there lay
glittering in a corner.
"You are right," continued Arthur; "it is
not you, Maud, that I should call to account for
this perfidy, but the author of the misery I am
now enduring, and he" and his eyes flashed
fire-he, the traitor! must answer to me for
the grievous wrong he has done me. Farewell!
the blow has been too hard to bear: I am not
fit to remain in your presence," and he turned
to depart.
Stay, Arthur! on your peril, leave me not!
remain, I command you!" Maud exclaimed, her
pride and composure at once vanishing, and her
cheek turning pale as death. "What are you
about to do?”
·
He turned again sadly towards her, and paus-
ed for one instant, while with distended eyes
she gazed upon him.
diately, his travelling carriage being already at
the door, though the post-horses had not yet
been put to, when Arthur, passing by, accosted
him :
66
Percival, if you will only wait half an hour,
I will accompany you as far as C——.”
You will? I shall be delighted to take you
with me," exclaimed Percival; but his coun-
tenance changed, when he looked up and be-
held that of his friend. As if in answer to the
inquiring look Arthur saw depicted in his cous-
in's face, he hastily said,
"I have business at C, and shall be quite
ready in half an hour: I have something to say
first to Mr. Sutherland."
And he passed on, and, meeting his servant
in the gallery, desired him immediately to pre-
pare his portmanteau.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"Oh! farewell then
The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream,
That Miriam loves me.”—MILMAN.
MRS. SUTHERLAND and May had repaired to
the library, the former having a letter to dic-
tate they were soon joined by Mr. Suther-
"Tell me then, Maud, or I must ask him the land.
question, do you love Harry Percy?"
'Have you seen this paragraph?" said the
latter, putting his finger on the part indicated
as he handed to her the Morning Post.
May read as follows:
Leave me, leave me! how dare you insult
me?
Is this your love?" she cried, her eyes
appearing larger and larger, and passionate emo-
tion shaking her light frame; "what matters it Marriage in High Life.-Captain Arthur
to you who I love? but presume not to make Balfour, of the Grenadier Guards, left town
use of my name to justify your impotent rage- yesterday for Sutherland Manor, the seat of
your mad jealousy! Would you threaten me- Mark Sutherland, Esq., in Cumberland, the
terrify me into loving you? but it will not avail !" | preliminaries of marriage being about to be ar-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
49
•
"I am come to bid you adieu : I have promis-
ed to accompany Percival to C ———.”
ranged between this gentleman and the beau-
tiful and highly accomplished Miss Sutherland,
one of the most richly-endowed heiresses in There was an interval of silence: the pen
the kingdom. Captain Balfour's father, first had fallen from May's hand-her heart seemed
cousin to Mr. Sutherland, changed his name to stop its beating: Mr. Sutherland remained
to that of Balfour on, marrying Lady Charlotte rooted to the spot where he had paused on the
Balfour, only daughter of the Earl of Balfour, entrance of Arthur Balfour. Mrs. Sutherland
and half sister to the present earl. The gal-was the first to break the silence; her sweet,
lant captain is in his twenty-fourth year, and
the young lady has not attained her nineteenth
birthday. This marriage appears to give univer-
sal satisfaction to the families of both parties."
"I had hoped the affair had not been so pub-
lic," said Mr. Sutherland, looking rather grave; That kind, loved voice inflicted an additional
"but it is impossible to avoid such reports pang on the young man's heart; but, remem-
getting abroad, whatever one may do. I pre-bering the weak state of her health, it recalled
vented Percival reading it aloud at breakfast
this morning, and Maud and Arthur were too
preoccupied to think of looking into a paper."
May made no remark as she returned the
Morning Post to her father, but she looked very
grave.
low voice began to speak in tones of surprise.
"To C, Arthur? But you are not going
to remain there? What can take you to C-
to-day? Has Maud," she continued, with a
smile, "has Maud given you leave?"
him to the necessity of caution, and turning to-
wards her his pallid face, in tones of forced
calmness-and a smile, how melancholy!-he
answered,
'Yes, my dear aunt," for by that title he al-
ways called her, "she has !"
He paused, stooped down, and kissed her
forehead; then turning towards Mr. Suther-
land, with a quivering lip he continued,
Į
"I do not think," said Mrs. Sutherland,
"that there can be any objection to the event
being made public, nor do I see a possibility
of the secret remaining one," she added, with
a smile, "for I really believe, to judge from
dear Arthur's face when he left us just now,
that he has gone to claim that which will give
us no farther right or power to keep the knowl-than ever when he pronounced her name-
edge of the engagemont concealed."
"We have all been very blind-very much in
the dark: I ought not to have felt so secure.
I, at least, should have been prepared for this
blow! but Maud" his voice trembled more
"Maud has just opened my eyes-has unde-
ceived me; and as my presence cannot be very
agreeable to her after what has passed between
us, I think it better that we should part; there-
fore-therefore—”
He was stopped short in his sentence by a
look from Mr. Sutherland, who said, in a care-
less tone,
Mr. Sutherland did not reply, and he could
hardly account for the annoyance which the
paragraph had caused him. As he with agi-
tated steps paced up and down the room, he
ever and anon cast impatient glances towards
the door. Once he met the eye of May, as,
pausing in her occupation, she fixed her gaze
on her father's face, and Mr. Sutherland beheld Well, Arthur, it might be as well: I agree
an answering feeling to his own depicted on with you. You know you can return with me,
her countenance. He marked, too, how she for I have just received a letter which will
glanced towards the door, and how her hand oblige me to set off for C - to attend the
trembled when she recommenced her writing. county sessions, and I may, perhaps, be detain-
There was none of this emotion visible ined there a day or two; and by that time," he
Mrs. Sutherland as she reclined on the sofa,
giving directions to May concerning the letter |
she was enditing: she looked calm and hap-
py, though perhaps her delicate cheek bore a
more than usually vivid flush, and her large,
dark eyes a brighter animation than they had
done of late.
It was thus the trio were occupied when the
door opened, and Arthur, with a countenance
of almost livid paleness, appeared before them.
A deeper feeling of confusion and annoyance
was added to his outraged heart when he per-
ceived into whose presence he had entered.
He had expected to find Mr. Sutherland alone,
and the blood rushed from his heart to his very
temples when every eye turned upon him with
an inquiring, anxious glance.
It is mortifying to the nature of man to have
the weaker, the softer emotions of his heart
witnessed by a woman; and, under circum-
stances so humiliating, how doubly painful was
it for poor Balfour to find himself in the pres-
ence of Mrs. Sutherland and her daughter?
But he was too helplessly miserable to post-
pone the disclosure of his anguish.
He approached the mantel-piece, leaned his
elbow upon it, and said, in a broken husky
voice, as he averted his face,
$
G
added, with a forced smile, "no doubt Miss
Maud's ill-humour will have passed away, and
she will be ready to ask your pardon for her
caprice."
Arthur Balfour well knew the reason of this
interruption, and the light manner of Mr. Suth-
erland.
Mrs. Sutherland had not spoken, but the col-
our had entirely forsaken her cheeks, and she
now turned to her husband and said,
"I think, dear, I will go to my room;" and,
supported by him and followed by the weeping
May, she departed, leaving Arthur leaning
against the mantel-piece in an attitude of the
deepest despondency.
Mr. Sutherland soon returned and drew from
him the whole account of the disastrous affair.
With deep and grave concern he listened to
the relation, and when Arthur ceased speaking,
it was in quivering accents that he inquired of
the young man if he had any suspicion as to the
cause of the estrangement of his daughter's
heart.
After a pause, Arthur answered, in hollow
tones,
"I firmly believe that her affections have
been perfidiously stolen from me by-by Mr.
Percy."
1
50
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Had Mr. Sutherland suddenly encountered the
sting of a serpent, he could not have started
back with greater horror: the colour flew to
his temples-his eyes flashed!
Balfour averted his face, for it seemed as if
the countenance of Maud was again before him.
A vague suspicion, which had of late, at
times, floated through the father's mind like a
dark shadow, now assumed a palpable form,
and like a flash of lightning the whole truth
stood revealed before him. He felt how blind,
how madly secure he had been; and self-re-
proach almost superseded Mr. Sutherland's in-
dignation towards him who had so basely abu-
sed his confidence, so ungratefully repaid his
kindness.
Agonizing fears for the future happiness of
his child was for a moment his all-absorbing
feeling.
A servant entered to say that Lord Percival
was waiting for Mr. Balfour.
"we
"Well, Arthur," said Mr. Sutherland, grasp-
ing the hand of the agitated young man,
shall be both better able to talk over this mat-
ter when we next meet, which will be either
to-night or to-morrow; in the mean time, try to
keep up your spirits, my dear fellow. I hope
and trust that, on investigating the matter, I
shall find it not so hopeless as you seem to im-
agine."
'I am utterly hopeless," said Arthur, with a
ghastly expression; "but there is one part of
the affair-"
long, lingering look upon him as he turned to
depart.
How often, in after times, did that last look
haunt his memory, and that last blessing fill his
heart with sweet but mournful remembrance!
And May, she threw her arms round Arthur's
neck, and sobbed like a child on his bosom.
CHAPTER XXIX.
"Didst thou but know the inward touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words."
SHAKSPEARE
MR. SUTHERLAND watched the carriage which
was carrying Arthur away roll down the avenue,
and then, with a heavy heart, turned to seek his
culprit daughter. But no culprit did that daugh-
ter feel herself to be. At that moment her
heart was beating with sensations widely dif-
ferent from those which filled the hearts of the
rest of her family. Neither fear, nor uneasiness,
nor even self-reproach any longer troubled her;
she had avowed the love, the concealment of
which had so long burdened her mind; she had
received the ardent thanks of the man she
loved with infatuated tenderness. Unshrink-
ingly she met the passionate gaze that beamed
from those eyes, and listened to the full torrent
of words which flowed from the eloquent tongue
of her lover.
"She was an angel-the angel who was to
transform, to purify him-henceforth to guide.
his steps through life to virtue and happiness."
Arthur," interrupted Mr. Sutherland, "I
know what you would say, but I rely too much Thus spoke Harry Percy, and Maud lent a
upon your generous affection for Maud-for her willing, delighted ear to the sweet, honeyed
family, to fear that you would, by any rash act, flattery, and forgot how little she resembled a
make her name conspicuous, and destroy for- pure angel; she remembered not that she had
ever our domestic peace. Arthur!" Mr. Suth-blasted the hopes of one who loved her devoted-
erland again exclaimed, seeing by the counte-ly; that she was a deceiver-a betrayer of con-
nance of Balfour something which alarmed him, fiding affection, and that she was inflicting the
you love my wife: you see her state of weak-keenest pang of disappointment on the best of
ness her failing health-" and here the hus-
band's heart gave way, and the firm man wept.
"Would you add to her wretchedness?"
.
Never!" exclaimed Arthur; "I would bear
disgrace sooner-than-" he could say no more,
and a miserable pause ensued.
"Rely on my not leaving this house until
every circumstance is sifted and explained;
and now go, Arthur: we unman each other;
and, after all," he added, endeavouring to as-
sume a more cheerful tone, "we may be ma-
king a very serious story out of a spoiled girl's
capricious whims.”
On crossing the hall to enter the carriage,
Arthur Balfour's name was pronounced by May,
who had been sent by her mother to beg that
he would not leave the Manor without bidding
her adieu. He followed his fair guide silently
through the vestibule, having been first strictly
enjoined by Mr. Sutherland to avoid all agita-
ting topics.
parents.
To do Harry Percy justice, when he beheld
the successful result of his four months' cam-
paign-his schemes on the point of realization,
he felt a pang of compunction, and also some
misgivings, for he knew that there was still
much to be done. He was fully aware of the
estimate in which Mr. Sutherland held his char-
acter; he was too shrewd a man of the world
not to understand his position in the opinion of
the upright, conscientious father. With his
perfect horror of vice, would he give his idolized
child, the heiress of his greatness, to a ganibler
an almost utterly ruined man? True, the
will of that child had never yet been crossed:
still!
In cold blood had Harry Percy first engaged
in this pursuit, but he had completely fallen into
the snare which he had with such skill laid for
the unsuspecting Maud. He was fairly, despe-
rately in love with the captivating beauty; and
But Mrs. Sutherland seemed to have no in-now, in this moment of triumph, a flash of dor-
clination to engage in any discussion on the mant good feeling-strong, though, alas! eva-
painful cause of his departure. She spoke nescent-made him feel how unworthy he was
merely a few faint words of tenderness, and of possessing such a prize, and his heart sank.
when he murmured his hope of soon again be- But when he poured forth to Maud, in energetic
holding her, she answered not, but after infold-terms, his conviction that he was undeserving
ing him in a long, fervent embrace, with an
earnest voice she invoked a blessing on his
head; no tear dimmed her eye, but she fixed a
of her, and even implored her to pause-to con-
sider ere she rashly consented to share the for-
tunes of a ruined man; to reflect whether she
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
· 51
could endure or withstand the opposition of her
friends, the censure of the world; when he un-
folded to her the real state of his affairs, how he
was even now on the eve of departing for the
Continent in order to evade the increasing im-
portunities of his creditors, he saw by the proud
smile of confidence that played upon her lovely
mouth, as, leaning on the arm that encircled
her, she raised her face to his, her eyes, now
soft and liquid, beaming with happiness, how
little she dreaded opposition, how slightly she
estimated any of the evils he enumerated.
"I am my father's heiress!" she exclaimed;
"all that I have will be yours, Harry; and if it
were not so, think you I would not gladly share
exile and poverty with you?"
Again he pressed her to his heart, as with
fervour he cried,
Then, by Heaven, my sweet girl, naught
shall separate us but death !"
She laid her head on his shoulder, and by an
answering smile sealed the contract.
|
ing the marble statue, the pale hue of which
she resembled, and against which she leaned
for support.
Indignant as Mr. Sutherland had felt, the
manner in which Harry Percy received his ex-
pressions of displeasure in a measure disarmed
him. In the address of this finished man of
the world there was a gentlemanly bearing, a
seeming openness, a fluency of expression en-
gendered by deceit-for he scrupled not to ex-
press in the highest degree of exaggeration
sentiments which he really did not feel; there
was nothing, however preposterous, that he
scrupled not to assert; nevertheless, few could
listen to him unmoved-few indeed! On the
present occasion, Harry Percy's tact was not to
endeavour to exculpate himself, except by plead-
ing the strength of his love. Frankly he con-
fessed he had acted unworthily: spared not
himself-cursed his wretched fate, which seem-
ed ever to lead him into error-called himself a
wretched, unfortunate, lost creature, doomed to
ruin-his fortune, his hopes, all-all blasted!
His eyes were full of tears, and his voice
trembled when he acknowledged the justice of
the sentence pronounced by Mr. Sutherland,
which condemned him to put an end to his
hopes of ever calling Maud 'his wife. Appa-
"That is a rash vow, Mr. Percy!" said a
stern voice behind them; and, ere the words
had died away on the speaker's lips, Maud was
disengaged from her lover's embrace had
raised her head from its resting-place; and,
abashed and disconcerted, they stood side by
side enduring the severe, cold gaze of Mr. Suth-rently he listened with patient sadness and de-
erland.
However, a very short interval sufficed to re-
store the man of the world to self-composure
and ease of manner. He took the hand of
Maud, and leading her to her father, with the
frank, unembarrassed air of a person wholly un-
conscious of having given offence, confessed his
well-requited attachment to his daughter.
spairing anguish to the decree that he should
immediately depart from the spot where he had
so injuriously employed his time. Yes, that
very evening he would show his repentance by
tearing himself away from her he adored, and
a few more days would find him a solitary wan-
derer-a wretched exile in a foreign land. He,
however, sued for a farewell interview with
"And now, my dear Mark," he added, with a Maud; and so well did he act his part-so con-
smile, "we only desire to receive from your lips trite, so vehement were his expressions of com-
a confirmation of our happiness--your consent punction, that Mr. Sutherland's kind heart was
to bestow your precious child on one who, how-moved, and Maud was summoned to their pres-
ever blameable his life may hitherto have been,
solemnly promises that the whole study of his Proudly, with a cheek flushed to the brightest
future existence shall be to promote her welfare crimson, she entered, and stood before her fa-
-to become worthy of possessing so bright a|ther, not as a culprit to hear her doom, but like
treasure," and again he pressed her hand to his a queen to demand her lawful right.
heart.
Harry Percy, taking her hand with all the
language of tenderness he could possibly throw
into those
And Maud, while he spoke, regained her com-
posure, and had raised her graceful form as if
in defiance of rebuke or opposition.
Mr. Sutherland allowed Percy to speak with-
out interruption; he was silent while, with his
usual rapidity and exaggeration of expression,
the excited man poured forth an energetic de-
fence and declaration of his passion.
Harry Percy was gifted with an extraordinary
flow of words and most emphatic enunciation;
the torrent of his eloquence was usually effect-
ive and overpowering, but in the present in-
stance it made no impression upon his listener,
who at length, in a stern, cold voice, spoke:
"A treasure acquired by perfidious means
can never prove a blessing. My daughter, with
my consent, Percy, shall never be yours: such
is my determination. But it may be as well for
you to follow me to my study, where, in a very
short space of time, we may definitively settle
this affair and with you, Maud, I will speak
presently."
ence.
"Eyes of most expressive blue,"
gazed upon her for a moment; then, in tones
of the deepest despondency, disclosed to her
the entire failure of his hopes, her father's ir-
revocable determination and final sentence.
"Dearest Maud," he ended by saying, "I
can only acknowledge the wisdom of that sen-
tence. I had, indeed, madly dared to aspire to
bliss too great for one so unworthy of possess-
ing it. For your dear sake I leave you, perhaps
forever! I only ask-and surely your father
will not deny me this last request-I only ask
that you will remember me in your prayers, as
one who loved 'not wisely, but too well-that
you will pity and forgive me.",
He pressed her in a long, fervent embrace,
and when again she raised her head, and had
in a degree recovered from the sudden dismay
occasioned by this unexpected scene, he was
gone!
Percy followed him, after darting an encour- Harry Percy, during that embrace, had con-
aging look at the beautiful girl, who stood with trived to whisper in her ear other words un-
distended eyes and quivering lips, tightly clinch- | heard by her father. "My sweet girl, think not
52
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
that I will leave you thus: we shall meet again
ere I depart."
But she scarcely heeded or comprehended
them-she only knew that he was gone; with-
out a struggle he had relinquished-abandoned
her, and the blood forsook her cheek, and her
bosom heaved convulsively, though she firmly
compressed her quivering lips, and grasped the
table near her in order to conceal the emotion |
which pride forbade her to manifest to her father.
"Come here, Maud," the latter began, after
looking sadly on her for a moment. Fear no
reproaches from me: I only trust, poor child!
that hereafter you may never have cause to re-
pent having cast from you a love like that of
Arthur Balfour's-of having deceived him, and
all of us.
You cannot now appreciate the pro-
priety of the line I have taken, but in firmly in-
sisting on the dismissal of the object of your
infatuation I consider that I have saved you
from certain misery. Maud, I again declare,
as I have done before, little dreaming under
what circumstances I should have to repeat it,
that, rather than see you the bride of Harry
Percy, I would prefer following you to the
grave, young-beloved as you are. My child, I
am not taking a worldly view of the case alone,
although I must'candidly tell you that his wife
would never be my heiress. The disposition
of my property is left to my own free-will, en-
tirely in my own power; and think you that I
will give the inheritance of my forefathers to be
squandered and injured like the fortune once
possessed by Harry Percy? Never! No gam-
bler shall ever own the venerated estate.
Let
us, however, drop this unhappy subject, and
never renew it. Time, and the well-regulated
mind of my child, will be sure to remove the ef-
fects of the pernicious feeling which for a time
has sullied her young fancy," and he drew her
towards him and affectionately kissed her.
But no softening expression, no answering
pressure returned his caress; coldly she receiv-
ed it, and drawing up her head, she said,
"One request, my father, I must be allowed
to make it is, that henceforth I may never be
tormented by any solicitations or persuasions in
favour of Arthur Balfour, and that I may be left
in peace.
I here declare that no one in the
whole universe but him-I mean Harry Percy-
shall ever call me wife."
|
Her father read what was passing in her
mind; it wrung his heart to mark the fierce, in-
tractable spirit which for the first time showed
itself in the disposition of the child who had been
the idol of both parents.
In a voice in which sorrow was mingled with
reproach, he said,
"Maud, Arthur Balfour is too good to be
forced on one who, I must say, has proved her-
self to be wholly unworthy of his affection, and
I repeat the words of your dear mother, when,
years ago, your grandfather expressed his hopes
that you and Arthur might one day be united,
'Our children's inclinations on the subject of
marriage I could never wish to force.' But,
Maud, to restrain their inclinations, when they
are prejudicial and hurtful to them, is duty, to
say nothing of the right which parents have to
exercise authority. I trust, my poor child, you
will hereafter thank me for the very act which
now makes your heart rebel against me. But,"
continued Mr. Sutherland, his voice assuming a
tone of sternness, "on one point I must warn
you, Maud: I can excuse much; my love for
you will induce me to bend a great deal; but
remember what I now say: were you to wound
the heart of the dearest and best of mothers by
your conduct, I solemnly caution you that I never
could forget it, nor do I think I could ever for-
give it; so, Maud, beware ?"
|
CHAPTER XXX.
"Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast
Is like the snow on Rona's crest;
So pure, so free from earthly dye,
It seems, while beaming on the sky,
Part of heaven to which 'tis nigh:
But passion, like the wild March rain,
May soil the wreath with many a stain.
We gazo-the lovely vision's gone,
A torrent fills the bed of stone,
That, hurrying to destruction's shock,
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock."-Scort.
HARD-HEARTED-unnatural indeed must have
been the child who could have withstood the
tenderness, unmingled with reproach, which
beamed in her mother's glance when Maud
again entered her presence.
weeping, and even the servants appeared con-
scious that all was not right, and trod softly
with a serious a mysterious air. What a con-
trast did this rest afford to that of the prece-
ding day! It had been ordered early in the after-
noon, in consequence of Mr. Sutherland's de-
parture for the neighbouring town, where his
presence, in consequence of some business at
the sessions, was required, and no one wished
to linger over the silent meal.
Maud had, contrary to their expectations,
joined her father and sister at dinner, and com-
ported herself with the dignified demeanour of
Maud, you speak like a wayward child," re- one who had received an injury. Mr. Suther-
joined Mr. Sutherland, a shade of anger flush-land looked grave, May's eyes were red with
ing his cheek; "but at this moment you are not
in a state of mind to listen to reason, and I am
ready to make every allowance for your excited
feelings; but I also have a request to make~
or, rather, at the risk of my heavy displeasure,
·I command that neither by word nor deed you
grieve or disturb the peace of your mother; that
before her, at least, you abstain from any display
of petulance or temper. However, in her pres-
ent state of health I think and hope that this is
an unnecessary.injunction. A child must indeed
be unnatural who would not, particularly under
the present circumstances, make every sacrifice,
every exertion to overcome selfish considera-
tions. Maud, fear not any attempts on my part
to force your inclinations !"
The countenance of the self-willed girl ex-
pressed as plainly as words could speak, "Force
my inclinations! who would have the power to
force mine?"
It was after dinner that Maud found herself
seated on her accustomed seat at her mother's
feet, her eyes fixed vacantly on the book she
held on her knee. She ventured not to meet the
gaze she knew was fixed upon her, but felt it
was one of anxious love-mild tenderness! It
dispersed, in a degree, the angry, proud feelings
that raged in her ill-regulated heart; but did it
cause the rebellious spirit to strive to cast from
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
53
!
then an air of evident relief on the face of the
latter.
A servant appeared; and though Mr. Suther-
land hastily rose, as if to prevent his approach,
he was too late, and Maud saw a note present-
ed to him. At the direction he anxiously
glanced, and then followed the servant out of
the room.
it the sin which she cherished? No! self still
reigned pre-eminent. Her heart again palpitated
with the thrilling hope that from her mother's
doting affection might be brought about the ac-
complishment of her dearest wishes, and that,
after all her misery, she would, in the end, prove
victorious what joy-what triumph! "If he
could but see her and speak to her!" she mur-
mured to herself; and, remembering Harry Per- "Did Mr. Percy leave this?" Maud heard
cy's last words, her eyes sparkled as she ex-him inquire, in a tone so low that only her
claimed,
"He shall do so even yet, and he will prevail
over her fears and scruples !"
She gave not a thought as to what might be
her mother's feelings; she considered not the
bitter pang endured by her at the total frustra-
tion of her long-cherished hopes, and the hor-
ror that had filled her mind at the mere vague
supposition of the probability of the circum-
stance on which Maud was now building her
hopes.
tenacious ears could have heard it.
"Yes, sir; Mr. Percy's valet dropped it at the
lodge as the carriage passed," was the foot-
man's reply, in a clear, distinct voice.
Was it a letter?
"Order the carriage round in half an hour!"
and then Mr. Sutherland re-entered the boudoir.
He was followed by another servant, who ap-
proached Maud, and held towards her a silver
waiter. She started violently, and for a moment
the blood rushed in torrents to her face, and
her heart beat audibly.
Mrs. Sutherland had too fondly trusted that
Could it be from-Her
the bark of her beloved child's destiny was head swam, and her vision for a moment was
safely launched on the placid waters of domes-obscured from agitation, but in the next she
tic life; but now, dark, troubled waves seemed heard confused sounds of "Gardener, miss-
to be rising around it, and the mother's heart conservatory," and she held in her trembling
sank within her. As she passed her hand hand her once fondly cherished diamond ring.
caressingly through her daughter's golden hair,
and looked on Maud's face, and saw there de-
picted passions too strong, too uncontrolled to
allow of peace or happiness to their possessor,
she breathed the earnest prayer that He who
could say to the storm "Be still," and it obey-
ed him, would speak peace to the troubled soul
of her child, and by His all-powerful influence
subdue the fiery, headstrong temper, augment-passionate scorn trampled it beneath her feet.
ed, she feared, by her own weak, indulgent
fondness. For herself, the humble Christian,
though she bowed meekly to her heavenly Fa-
ther's will, still the prayer instinctively burst
forth,
She remained looking down at the sparkling
gem, till the servant had closed the door and
retreated, but then she arose.
Darting a look of reproach at her father, sis-
ter, and mother as she stood in the centre of
the room, her figure drawn up to its fullest
height, fire flashing from her eyes, she dashed
the ring to the ground, and with a gesture of
May covered her pale face with her hands;
she could not bear to look upon her sister in
such a state of violent excitement, and ere she
again looked up, Maud had rushed from the
ΓΟΟΙΩ. After the lapse of about twenty min-
utes, during which time her father had begged
"Oh, make not HER the chastener of my heart!”
that his rebellious child might be left in solitude
The revived hopes of Maud soon faded away. to exhaust her excited feelings, May, at the
For some time her jealous attentions had been weeping entreaties of her afflicted mother, re-
attracted to the seemingly deep and earnest paired to her sister's sleeping apartment. She
conversation held in a low voice by her father started when, on entering, she saw Maud stand-
and sister on the terrace, as they passed anding by an open window in full riding costume.
repassed the window. Occasionally they cast | A bright flush was on her cheek, and a wild
a sidelong glance at her, but it needed not that brilliancy in her eyes as she turned them for
sign to tell her that she was the subject of their an instant on her sister, and then hastily avert-
discourse. Mrs. Sutherland once beckoned to ed them. May approached her, and placing
her husband, and asked him at what time he her hand on her arm, said,
intended to start for C. His answer was, 66
Surely, dear Maud, you are not going to
that he had ordered the horses to be ready har-ride to night? it is getting late, and the sky
nessed, so that he might have the carriage at a looks black as if there would be rain."
moment's notice. The sun was beginning to
sink beneath the horizon, yet he still lingered.
Suddenly there came a sound of distant car-
sound of distant car-
riage wheels, and Maud no longer heard the
voices nor the footsteps on the terrace; her
heart, too, seemed to cease its beating, for in
an instant her quick ear had marked that the
vehicle paused an instant, then again proceeded,
the sound gradually dying away in the distance.
After a torturing interval of ten minutes her fa-
ther entered the room.
Maud turned a fierce, inquiring glance on each
of their faces. She saw that they wished to
avoid meeting her eyes, but she fancied she
perceived a look of expressive meaning ex-
changed between her father and mother, and
|
"It cannot be as black-as dreary as this
house-as everything in the world will hence-
forth appear to me," was the answer, as Maud
stepped back to disengage herself from her sis-
ter's gentle hold.
"Yes," she continued, with a bitter smile,
"I am going to ride, unless, indeed, this little
solace is also to be denied me. Is my horse
not ready yet?" she impatiently demanded of
Lucy, who just then entered, and being an-
swered in the affirmative, she gathered up her
habit and left the room.
As a child, it had ever been Maud's habit,
after any little contradiction or disappointment
had excited her petulance, to fly to her pony,
and soothe her irritation by galloping at full
}
54
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
speed over park and common.
And now, as
May watched her from the window, wending
her way through the avenue on her beautiful
Arabian, which tossed its graceful head in the
air as if fully participating in the pride and im-
patience which swelled in the bosom of its
rider, she inwardly prayed that her sister might
now return as benefited by the exercise as she
was wont to be in her days of childhood.
now she was alone, and could revel in her mis
erable feelings-her despair!
Corah stopped abruptly before the door where
many a time she had stood, impatiently pawing
the ground, while its fair burden looked up to
the latticed window, and laughingly chid the
inmate of the cottage for his laziness in not be-
ing ready to attend her, or lingered after a long
ride to listen to one of his merry jests, or, of
The sun was sinking, and howling gusts of late, his words of thrilling import, whispered as
wind had succeeded to the unnatural, gloomy he bent over her saddle to bid her adieu: all
stillness and oppression in the air which had around spoke of him-him whose absence had
preceded them; but May knew that the old converted the scene into one of gloom and des-
groom who attended Maud was trustworthy, | olation, and whose presence would in a moment
and could be relied on for not allowing her to have restored it to light and beauty. She gazed
go too far from home. It was, however, with as if riveted to the spot; but at length, in a pas-
a sad feeling, and a weight on her young heart, sionate tone, exclaimed,
such as she had never before experienced, that
May turned from the window.
CHAPTER XXXI.
"I'll follow thee through sunshine and through storm,
I will be with thee in thy weal and wo.
*
*
*
*
**
*
In all the perils which must now press round thee!
*
*
*
*
All will I part with to partake thy cares,
Let but thy love be with me to the last."
PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.
MAUD reined in her spirited steed, as, proudly
erect, and with the same bitter smile on her
lips, she passed along the avenue, for she con-
jectured and rightly, too—that many eyes were
upon her. In the present disordered state of
her feelings she fancied that all-even the low-
est menial in the house, knew that she had been
humbled, conquered, abandoned, and gloried in
the knowledge of it.
But when she had passed through the lodge
gates, as if the restraint she had before put upon
her movements had been galling to her, she
turned her horse's head towards the common,
and the impatient animal only required one
slight touch to send it flying off with impetuous
speed, the old groom calling out in an admoni-
tory tone,
60
Softly-softly, miss, over the hard road."
The velvet turf was soon beneath the feet of
Corah, and on she flew, the wind lifting the
bright braids of hair from the rider's face.
They were soon at but a few paces from the
very door of "Percy Cottage," and a bitter pang
of mingled feelings struck the heart of Maud on
beholding it; but as if she feared that even the
walls of the building could read her thoughts
and mock her, she again reined in her steed and
haughtily erected her head.
"And he has been driven from me forever-
has abandoned me!" And she clinched her
teeth and pressed her hand on her throbbing
temples, which even the wind that blew upon
her could not cool. "Yes," she continued,
"abandoned me, though I owned my love-and
he swore but a few hours ago that naught but
death should part us."
Corah gave a sudden start at this moment,
and in the doorway, looking, in the gloomy light,
the very personification of a witch, appeared old
Judith.
:
"Will she please to alight?" began the old
woman, in her croaking, discordant voice; "the
wind is cold, and she looks but poorly there is
still a fire burning in the parlour—I be fancying
it may be let out presently," and she burst into
her unmelodious laugh.
Maud had only been detained during these
words by the vague idea which gleamed through
her mind, that possibly some letter had been
left for her by Harry Percy. But this last lin-
gering hope soon vanished; and when she heard
the hateful laugh, and saw the sly, malicious.
leer with which the crone regarded her, and re-
membered how often she had caught her blear
eye peeping through some corner of the window,
watching her interviews with Harry Percy be-
fore the cottage door, she felt convinced that
Judith too knew all, and rejoiced in her fallen
pride. The old woman, chuckling and mutter-
ing to herself, soon saw the form of horse and
rider melt away in the distance. She watched
them with the expression of a demon till she
caught the last glimpse of Maud's veil waving
like a pennon in the air, and then, clapping her
withered hands triumphantly together, she re-
entered the deserted dwelling.
Unaccustomed to the violent lash it had re-
ceived, Corah darted like lightning over the
smooth turf, the spirit of the beautiful animal
She heard the horse behind her stop, and look-being still more excited by the high wind which
ing round, perceived that old James had alight-whistled past it. Swifter and swifter it flew,
ed, and was busily examining one of its feet.
He then informed his young mistress that he
should be obliged to ride back to the blacksmith's
forge, as his horse had a loose shoe.
And enough to unshoe any animal to go gal-
loping over those stones," he grumbled, in a
suppressed voice.
"Well, go, then !" was the petulant answer.
"I shall remain on the common; return to me
here."
And she was left alone. Even the presence
of old James had been a restraint to her; but
but the speed of Mazeppa's wild horse would
not have appeared too fleet for the high-wrought
state of irritation of its rider.
"Oh that I could fly from myself-from my
now detested home-from the whole world!
But not to follow you, false, treacherous one!
No if at this instant I were to behold thee ly-
ing before my path, I would crush thee-tram-
ple thee beneath my horse's feet."
Thus soliloquized the wretched girl, her very
nature transformed― disfigured by the whirl-
transformed-disfigured
wind of passion, her very soul shaken by its
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
55
influence. Passing her arm carelessly through | tonishment of beholding him, of which, at first,
the reins, Maud vehemently flourished with one her own late peril had made her almost un-
hand her whip in the air, and pressed the other mindful.
against her throbbing temples.
She was a perfect horsewoman, and sat as
firmly erect as if proceeding at the slowest pace;
but gradually the rapidity with which she shot
through the air took away her breath, and a
sensation of giddiness came over her. Every
object seemed to swim before her eyes. She
now strove to arrest the progress of Corah, but
in vain; like her mistress, the usually docile
but spirited animal appeared completely to have
lost its self-possession. A shepherd boy on the
common waved his arms and shouted, and
strove to obstruct its course, but, springing on
one side, it darted on more impetuously than
ever, and soon left him far behind, staring after
it in amazed alarm. They were now not far
from the verge of the common, which, separa-
ted only by a rugged fence, suddenly sloped
down into a woody glen, through the base of
which ran a rapid stream, receiving the flowing
waters of a cascade which poured down from
the mountain beyond.
66
Harry, dear Harry,' she whispered, as she
lifted her eyes to his face, "I thought you had
forsaken me.
"
"You thought so! Oh, how could you thus
wrong me? No, I am not one to relinquish,
without a struggle, an angel whose heart has
confessed itself my own, and therefore my hon-
our, as well as my ardent love, calls upon me
never to forsake. I can understand and appre-
ciate your father's feelings and objections, but I
also know that the happiness of his child is his
paramount object. I also feel convinced that,
though he with justice condemns my failings,
he still cherishes much affection for me; there-
fore, dearest, in defiance of the promise I made
to him that I would immediately leave this
place, I determined on seeing you once more;
and knowing that it was impossible to accom-
plish this end while your father was at home, I
made use of the artifice of sending him a note
| by my servant, whom I despatched in my car-
riage to await me at a convenient distance, in
order to induce in him the belief that I had re-
ally started, and thereby hasten his own depar-
ture. And now, Maud, my sweet girl! shall I
dare to disclose to you the purpose of this de-
sired interview? It is not to waste such pre-
cious moments in fruitless tears-in mournful
adieus-in protestations of eternal constancy!
it is to prove the truth of the love of her who
some few hours ago declared she was 'ready
to go with me into poverty and exile.'” Maud
started, and the colour mounted to her pale
cheeks. "Yes," he continued, with vehement
rapidity, "it was to propose a plan which,
though at first may appear startling, is our only
alternative. Do you doubt, beloved one! that
when once the irrevocable step is actually
taken, your father would long retain his anger?
Do you not really think that he, and your sweet
|
mother-whom, God knows! I would sooner
Corah was but a few yards from the dreaded die than grieve-would soon rejoice when they
spot. "One moment-one brief moment, and I
-one brief moment, and I saw the happiness of their child? Their fears
die oh Heaven! have mercy!" Maud faintly and scruples would melt away as they noted
murmured, covering her face with her hands as the reformation of him who, the moment that
the animal, as if to measure the distance re- daughter becomes his wife, most solemnly vows
quired for the spring, backed a pace or two, and to devote his whole life to her comfort and wel-
fixed a fiery eye on the fence. Already its fore fare." Maud, much agitated, shook her head
feet were raised, when suddenly its head was doubtingly. "Then view the other side of the
seized with the strong grasp of a man, who question," cried Percy, impetuously;
"to me it
threw his other arm round the form of the faint- would be misery-endless misery-desperation
ing girl, who by the rapid shock would other-everlasting ruin-death! And now I ask,
wise have been precipitated over the animal's will the noble-minded, generous Maud, from
head, and with a cry of joy she recognised mere childish timidity, shrink from an act which
Harry Percy! Pale and exhausted, she droop- will secure her own happiness, as well as the
ed her head upon his shoulder, the single word salvation of the man who adores her more than
Harry" alone escaping from her colourless his very existence?"
lips.
Maud's terrified imagination now pictured
herself (for she knew her mare never scrupled
at a leap) borne over the aforesaid fence, and
even if by chance she sat that leap, which in
her exhausted state she much doubted, what
would then be her fate? She would be carried
down the glen, and dashed against the trees
and rocks at the bottom of the ravine, there to
lie mutilated, or become a breathless corpse.
Death, which in her moments of violent passion
she thought she would have welcomed, now
stood in fearful array before her. A prayer to
Heaven for rescue-for forgiveness, burst from
her lips, and the words "Father! Mother!
May rung mournfully through the air; there
was yet another name, that in the extremity of
her despair mingled with the howling wind,
"Arthur! save me! I shall die! Arthur! dear
Arthur, save me !"
יין
He, her deliverer, as he pressed her to his
heart, kissed her cold brow, and stroked the
long, shining tresses which floated in wild dis-
order round her face and neck, murmured words
of tender encouragement in her ear.
Thus spoke the tempter: he paused and look-
ed into Maud's face, which was white as death.
'Harry! you know-you know" she faint-
ly murmured.
"Speak, then, dearest," he rejoined, “and at
once put an end to my suspense-my agony.
“Look up, my life-my beautiful! It is Har- It appears, indeed, as if fate had planned our
ry-your own Harry. Tremble not, my sweet meeting, by thus bringing us so unexpectedly
girl; you are safe; nothing can harm you now." together; but speak! we have no time to lose
A flood of tears came to the relief of the be- -we must soon be interrupted, for you are
wildered Maud, and soon restored her to the surely not without an attendant," and he eager-
consciousness of his presence, and to the as-ly stretched his eyes along the dark common,
50
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
on which, at that moment, no living creature | rising in her breast, she again buried her face
was visible; so he spoke again, vehemently in her hands.
urging his suit by every plea, by every argu-
ment, enforced by the strength of his too elo-
quent tongue.
When first the purport of his words fully
burst upon the senses of his listener, and she
comprehended what he demanded of her, she
had started up erect, fixing her eyes upon him,
and then she suddenly covered her face with
her hands, and lowly bent her head: the strug-
ge which was to decide her future destiny,
poor deluded girl! had commenced its work
within her.
Her heart sank within her: but no time now
remained for expostulation on either side, for
suddenly the sound of a horse's feet was heard
in the distance, though the almost total dark-
ness which had imperceptibly gathered round
them prevented their seeing the form of the old
groom hurrying along, anxiously glancing in
all directions in search of his young mistress.
Not a moment was to be lost; and Harry
Percy, attempting no concealment of his pres-
ence from the servant, but leading Corah by
the bridle, advanced to meet him. During this
That the conflict was fierce-bitter, is true. interval he planned every arrangement for the
Would that she could have breathed one prayer proposed elopement, and ere they reached old
for strength to resist this fearful temptation-James, from the hesitating, hurried lips of the
this deceiving spirit, which gradually lulled her bewildered girl,
fears, her reasons, her scruples; but alas! her
father's anger, her mother's anguish, all sank
beneath the SELFISHNESS OF PASSION!
And at length, when Percy ceased speaking,
she withdrew her hands from her face, and pla-
cing one within his, beneath darkening clouds
and howling gusts of wind-fitting accompani-
ments to the guilty resolve-Maud Sutherland
consented secretly to leave her father's roof to
become the wife of Harry Percy!
CHAPTER XXXII.
"Oft could he sneer at others, as beguiled
By passions worthy of a fool or child,
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove,
And even in him it asks the name of love."
Corsair.
"The word of promise fatally was drawn."
"Here is your young lady, James," exclaim-
ed Percy, in a calm, ordinary tone, which al-
most startled Maud, for she was agitated and
trembling. "You really must take better care
of her," he continued, "or she will be riding
away farther than you expect some day. If I
had not been here to stop her horse, she would
certainly have been thrown over the fence!"
James, looking not the least surprised at his
appearance, for he had not heard of his supposed
departure, merely touched his hat, muttering,
"No fear of her riding away as long as I have
a horse to go after her."
"Nous verrons," remarked Harry Percy, in a
suppressed tone, as, relinquishing the bridle of
Maud's horse, he allowed them to pass on; for
rain now began to descend in large drops, and
In the next instant, pressed to Harry Percy's | James announced that his master was waiting
heart, Maud listened to his ardent expressions for Miss Sutherland's return before he left the
of gratitude, to his passionate vows of eternal Manor. He had been obliged to go to the sta-
|
love-love, he protested, such as never before bles for another horse, and had seen Mr. Suth-
was showered on mortal woman's heart.
erland, who was very uneasy at her having
been left alone on such a dark, stormy evening.
Maud could not repress an inward shudder.
How could she dare to meet her father's eye?
And even Harry Percy, as he hurried along, bat--
tling against the roaring wind, and listening to
the horse's hoofs as they died away in the dis-
tance, felt misgivings as to the success of his
concerted plan.
In the bliss of that brief moment, did the re-
membrance of her father's threat cross her
mind: "The wife of Harry Percy shall never be
my heiress ?"
It did, but she heeded it not; and though she
murmured," My father will now have another
heiress," she relied too much on that parent's
affection on the pride they both felt in their
firstborn, to fear the threat would be carried
into execution. Had Harry heard her father's
menace? But she would not wrong him by
supposing that, even if carried into effect, it
would create a feather's weight of uneasiness
on his mind. She would not debase herself by
such an idea: if even penniless, was it not a
sufficient boon to bestow on him her heart-
her love?
"Yes, Harry," she at length exclaimed, "I
shall truly require love undivided-sole, devo-
ted love; such, indeed"— and the proud head
was once more raised, and the curling lip as-
sumed its expression of command-" such love
the step I am about to take gives me a right to
command, for it is an act for which naught but
the love I bear you would have bowed my spirit
even to contemplate to steal from my father's
house to accomplish by stealth what my will,
hitherto invincible, has not been able openly to
obtain; and my father! my dear mother!
Harry" she continued, and softer emotions
But, on the whole, he was sanguine: he
knew too well the extent of his power over the
heart of Maud-the strength of her will, when
once determined, to fear that she would either
betray him or fail in her purpose; and thus he
soliloquized:
Well, this is doing business with a ven-
geance. If all goes right, you will have gained
more by your tongue, Harry Percy, than you
ever did by all the harassing pursuits which
have engrossed the best days of your fevered
life of excitement. By Jove! the world will
stare when my marriage is announced: the
women, out of very pique and jealousy, will
prophesy all kinds of evils to the luckless being
whose fate is linked with the fickle, heartless
roué, Harry Percy; the grave ones will shake
their heads and pity my victim,' and my boon
companions, how they will laugh when they
hear that I have married an heiress! Even her
unrivalled beauty and attractions will never
make them believe that love induced me to take
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
57 '
the step. Ah! they would stare still more
were they to see into the real state of my heart,
and there view the deep wound which the bright
eyes of that graceful, high-spirited girl has in-
flicted; how deeply her wilful but confiding love
has touched me! It has been my overmaster-
ing passion for her that has spurred me on to à
purpose which, truly, gratitude forbids. But
why dwell upon the dark side of the question?
The die is cast, and under the present circum-
stances, a bold step is ever the best. When
When it
is all over, the father will be propitiated, backed
by the entreaties of that gentle mother; and as
for her fortune, even if Sutherland were to put
his threat into execution of disinheriting her
(which, by-the-by, I do not fear), I really think
I should be content to receive the darling girl
without a penny (by Jove! I am beginning to
be quite sentimental), and make up my mind to
settle down in some romantic spot in Germany
or Italy till my affairs were brought round a lit-
tle, with an occasional trip to Vienna or Naples.
What miracles she has already wrought! for
what else but her charms could have kept me
boxed up here for the last four months, where
I have actually never touched a card, and only
betted by proxy."
Thus did the man of the world ruminate as
he pursued his way, striving even to deceive
his own conscience and stifle its rebukes; en-
deavouring to make the evil course he was about
to pursue appear to his own eyes disinterested
-excusable.
But it required active measures to execute
his faulty purpose. In order to ensure secrecy,
and in consequence of his confidential servant
being already despatched, in spite of wind and
weather, Harry was obliged to walk to the vil-
lage to order a post-chaise to be at " Percy
Cottage" on the ensuing night at eleven o'clock.
How far was the excellent Mr. Sutherland
from imagining, when, issuing from the iron
gates of the park, his carriage whirled past a
figure which retreated behind the dark fir-trees
bordering the road, that he was so near his
graceless relative, whom, he congratulated him-
self, was by this time some miles distant from
the Manor.
Harry Percy was obliged to return to the cot-
tage, as he recollected having left some papers
in the escritoir which rendered the step impera-
tive, much as he would have wished, for many
reasons, to avoid it.
On entering the cottage, old Judith testified
no astonishment or even displeasure at the sud-
den reappearance of her guest, but greeted him
with a leer of significance, which might have
led Percy to exclaim, as Macbeth to the witches,
"You seem to understand me."
Giving orders that some refreshment should
be brought to him, he took his candle and re-
treated to his room.
"If," he mused, "through the gossiping ser-
vant-girl, the intelligence of my being here
should reach the ears of the servants, and,
through them, those of May, she would imme-
diately despatch an express to her father, and
then there would be the devil to pay."
|
however, instead of the light, tripping foot of
the girl, he heard the tottering, tardy step of
the old crone ascending the staircase. She
then opened the door, in croaking tones de-
manding what he wanted.
Really, my good lady," he exclaimed, after
eyeing her for a moment with a look of mingled
disgust and amusement, "I am sorry to give
you all this trouble. Pray let the girl bring up
the hot water, and do not fatigue yourself in so
unnecessary a manner; I thought I should
have taken you by surprise, and had no idea of
finding everything so comfortable."
Judith turned full upon him her withered face,
and laying her choppy finger upon her shrivel-
led lips, burst into the following broken senten-
ces, in the intervals of which a chuckling noise
issued from her throat:
"Never fear, never fear! I won't spoil your
sport. Good riddance of bad rubbish, I say:
make way for her betters! Sue is gone! no-
body here but me: I'll serve you to-night!
Wish her joy, the dainty darling, of her sour
grapes-he! he he! I see," she continued,
casting up her eyes, "it's coming, it's coming.
They'll soon be cursing her who now lords it
over all, great and small-their beauty, their
darling! who thinks no one fit for anything but
to lick the dust she treads on. That's right,
that's right! take the jewel: wish you joy of
her. Bring low her pride, Mr. Percy, and then
cast her away, as she once did the poor wom-
an's offering. Yes," she added, in a more sol-
emn voice, "the winds are roaring, and the
dogs are howling, as they did the night before
old master died, and they called me a witch
because I told them what would happen; but
mark my words! this April storm will sweep
all their bonny May-flowers away; thorns and
briers instead they'll have in plenty, and she
will be the sharpest thorn in their hearts;"
and, so saying, she rubbed her hands triumph-
antly together, and to the great relief of her dis-
mayed auditor departed, muttering, as she slow-
ly descended the stairs, "I see it-I see it all."
"She
"The devil's in the Bedlamite," exclaimed
Harry Percy; "a pleasant situation, truly, to
be alone in the house with a mad-woman;"
and he arose and locked the door, to secure
himself from any farther molestation.
seems perfectly aware of my scheme," he con-
tinued to muse; “that fellow Frampton must
have been gossiping to her; if not, she's a
witch in earnest."
Often
Percy's dreams that night were much dis-
turbed by visions of the frightful crone.
did he seem to hold in his arms the form of
Maud, when suddenly it would change to that
of the withered hag. In short, never had such
frightful apparitions troubled his slumbers; and
as the bright sun streamed into the room and
awoke him the following morning, he could
have exclaimed with Clarence,
"Oh, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams and ugly sights,
That as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night
If 'twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time."
And thus dawned the day which was to com-
Ringing the bell, he determined to adminis-mence a new era in his existence.
ter, by means of a bribe, a sedative to the fair
Susan's tongue. In reply to his summons,
H
}
58
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
?
•
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"It was a rough night;
My remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.”—Macbeth.
AND Maud-wretched girl with her head
bent lowly on her bosom, her hair dishevelled
by the rain and wind-who that had seen her
thus returning to her home, after her interview
with Harry Percy, could have recognised the
proudly erect figure which only an hour before
Had left it.
:
write you a line by the coach, and tell you how
poor Maud is to-morrow; we cannot wonder at
her unhappiness just now."
"Well, dear May," replied her father, "I
leave them both to your care, and you may ex-
pect a great many kisses if I find your mother
well and your sister happier on my return, which
I hope will be to-morrow night, or, at any rate,
the following morning. I feel worn out with all
that I have suffered to-day; but it is the will of
God, my child, and we must submit—but my
little May looks careworn."
The doubts that had then nerved her heart to
pride and bitter feeling bad been dispelled—but "Oh! never mind me, dear papa-but pray
was she happy now? No she lifted not her let me help you on with your greatcoat: you
eyes, as was formerly her wont, with joyous will have a very stormy drive. How the wind
confidence to meet those of her father, who ad-blows! Take care of yourself, dearest father,
vanced eagerly to meet her; she sprung not and give my love to Arthur.”
into his arms, so tenderly stretched forth to re- "God bless you, my child!"
ceive her, while, as though she had never of-
fended or grieved him, he gently lifted her from
the saddle, and affectionately chid her for caus-
ing him so much anxiety by staying out to
such a late hour.
"I could not leave home without seeing you
again, dear child-I could not part from my
Maud in anger," he resumed, when, after lead-
ing her into the house, he had enfolded her in
his arms to bid her adieu, for he felt not equal
to a prolonged interview. But the fond father
heard that she was weeping, and, unconscious
of the reason of those tears, he blessed them as
a sign of a softened heart!
"He went, and deeper grew
The darkling cloud above."
A short time after the departure of Mr. Suth-
erland, as if it had at last collected together all
its power, the storm burst forth in furious vio-
lence, the wind roaring without, and blowing in
hollow gusts through the galleries and vestibules.
of the Manor House, causing the pictures to
rock to and fro on the walls, the massive doors
to creak and bang, and many a timid damsel to
turn pale and quake at the startling sound of
windows crashing, and the dismal howling of
the great house-dog, faintly echoed by the in-
habitants of the distant kennel, heard during
the brief intervals of the cessation of the wind,
mingling with the distant roar of the tempest.
As Mrs. Power, escorted by the old butler,
He felt her bosom heave convulsively against
his own, and his heart yearned with affection
towards her. Little did he imagine that these
signs of sorrow were bursts of agonized re-made her accustomed nightly round to see that
morse!
"Your dear mother," said Mr. Sutherland,
"I have left very comfortable and composed,
and a few bright smiles from you, Maud, will
quite revive her. She has not been well since
you went out, but Mr. B-— has seen her, and
says the nervous attack she has had is of no
great consequence, but we must expect them
occasionally till she has change of air. I think
we must pack up to go off to Italy immediately
--what a charming trip we shall have!
now," he added, after talking a few moments
longer in this strain, and he thought she was
more calm and composed, may I not take
some message from you to poor Arthur-a lit-
tle balm for his poor wounded heart? I shall
see him to-night-nay, I only mean a few kind
words."
And
all was right and safe in the house, she express-
ed a hope that her master had arrived safely at
his journey's end, and that her mistress might
not be alarmed or kept awake by the violence
of the storm; such a one, she said, she had
never before remembered at that time of the
year.
But Williams recalled to her memory that,
thirteen years ago-the night before the news of
their old master's death had reached the Manor
—a similar tempest had taken place.
"And if I mistake not," he added-" yes, I
am certain that it was in the month of April, I
was called up from my bed to send some one to
stop the howling of old Ponto, which frighten-
ed the young ladies, who were both found cry-
ing, and clinging to Master Arthur, whom they
had called out of his bed in the next room to
protect them."
66
"Not now, father! oh, not now! No: tell
him to forget me-to hate me! Send him away
-far, far away! Good-night, and God in Heav-ling;
en bless you, my dear, dear father!"
She again threw herself into his arms, and
then abruptly flew out of the room and rushed
into her own chamber, leaving Mr. Sutherland
perplexed and unhappy.
Pretty creatures !" said the old woman, smi-
"I hope they will not be frightened to-
night, for they'll have no Master Arthur to com-
fort them.”
No," replied her companion; "what made
the young gentleman go off so suddenly? And
what was it made them all look so cut up as
May, whom he summoned to give some part-they did.at dinner? I declare I was quite down
ing directions concerning the two objects of his
solicitude, strongly advocated his departure:
her heart bled for Arthur Balfour, in solitude and
alone.
in the mouth to see them so gloomy and silent.
As for Miss Maud, I could not help fixing my
eyes-maybe rather rudely-on her face as I
stood behind master's chair, and when she
"Mamma wishes you to go to him," she said; caught me so doing, oh! what a look she gave
"I will take great care of her. She is now en-me! it really frightened me, her eyes grew so
gaged in quiet conversation with Mr. Merton, large and fierce-like: oh! she has a proper spir-
and I am sure she will sleep more tranquilly it about her !"
when she feels you are consoling Arthur. I will
"And who has a better right to be proud, I
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
59
should like to know?" exclaimed the partial
housekeeper. "And what's the wonder, so
young and beautiful as she is? We can't ex-
pect from poor human nature to find many such
angel-like creatures as her mother and Miss
May; and, take my word for it, her spirit will
all soften down when she has a husband and
children to think about. Ah! it will be a blithe
day for me when the veil shall be unfolded and
the bride-cake prepared."
"But are you quite sure that it is to be ?" re-
joined Williams, in a low, confidential tone;
you know it is said in some book or play,
'The course-' what is it? oh! The course of
true love never did run smooth;' and though
our young captain is over head and ears in love,
yet they do say-'
She found Maud also sleeping, although, as
Mrs. Power softly drew aside the curtain, as
she was wont to do since the former was an in-
fant, to gladden her old eyes with the sight of the
beautiful form they concealed, more beautiful
still when under the subduing effects of sleep,
she suddenly started up, exclaiming, "I am
coming-I am coming, dear," and immediately
sunk back upon her pillow, murmuring some
broken, unintelligible words, which gradually
died away upon her lips with a deep-drawn
sigh.
""
Pretty dear! what can make you sigh?
Ah! that howling dog and dismal wind are dis-
turbing your pleasant dreams of Captain Ar-
thur;" and, arranging the curtains around her
young lady, the good woman departed, stopping,
however, abruptly on perceiving a light glim-
mering through the door of Lucy's chamber:
the latter was Mrs. Power's niece, and had
been brought up from her infancy at the Manor.
On opening the door, she discovered the abigail
sitting up to trim a new cap, and she chided
her gravely for being about such vanities on
such an awful night, when she ought rather to
be in her bed or praying for poor wandering
"But he's a pleasant gentleman is Mr. Per-wretches who had not a roof to cover them-
cy," remarked the butler, "and a kind, open- without a home
|
handed master: it's a thousand pities that he's their heads.
so partial to the dice-box, and that he's such a
regular bit of a roué."
"Impudent_bodies!" interrupted the indig-
nant dame, "I'll soon teach them to keep their
tongues quiet this comes of that ape of a Lon-
don valet, who has turned the brains of the sil-
ly hussies, and set them up to talk about their
betters instead of minding their own business.
I'm glad that the place is rid of him, at last, and
his master too, whom he boasts so grandly about,
with his fine London goings on."
not knowing where to lay
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Mother, I leave thee! on thy breast
Pouring out joy and wo,
I have found that holy place of rest
"Roué indeed!" exclaimed the irritable old
lady; “roué indeed! I should like to know, Mis-
ter Williams, what you mean by that? I really
think that such as you ought to be above dirty-
ing your mouth with such like French words,
which mean all sort of things not fit to speak,
all caught from that Cockney valet, with his
chains and gimcracks, and his master's tarnish-ture no less disturbed than those of her lover,
ed, cast-off finery !
"Not so cast-off as you suppose," muttered
Williams to himself; "I have often seen the
master seated at dinner in the great dining-room
in a waistcoat which Mr. Frampton had sported
the night before at supper in the steward's
room.”
Still changeless-yet I go!"-MRS. HEMANS.
YES, Maud did sleep that night, but only at
intervals, and then her slumbers were of a na-
although no hideous hag had served as a drugged
sleeping potion to infect her visions with horrid
phantoms. No! the gentle hands of May had
smoothed her pillow as she laid upon it her
aching head, impatient to escape from her sis-
ter's tender attentions, which she had forced
herself to receive with thankful composure; to
"And as if a Miss Sutherland," continued
continued answer with calm indifference, but in so acting
Mrs. Power, "would overlook such a fine, state- she felt that she was a deceiver-a hypocrite!
ly, manly young man as the captain, fit husband Ere the unhappy girl slept, a still greater
for a queen-the image of the marble figure in trial awaited her-one which struck like a sear-
the chancel, of the great warrior his ancestoring iron on her conscience: it was her mother's
to cast her beautiful eyes on your roué, as you blessing, in the tenderest accents of affection,
call him, with all his smooth talk and rolling breathed upon her ear as the parent bent over
eyes, which always look as if they were up to her loved child.
mischief!"
"There's no saying," soliloquized Williams,
as the old lady departed; "women are queer
creatures; one can never be sure of them."
On the more sheltered and modernized side
of the house, in which the sleeping apartments
of the family were situated, the sounds of the
storm were, comparatively speaking, but faintly
heard; and when Mrs. Power stole softly into
Mrs. Sutherland's chamber, she found her in a
calm slumber, probably owing, in a great meas-
ure, to a composing draught. And May was
also asleep she, in her father's absence, occu-
pied a small bed in her mother's room.
The faithful housekeeper gently withdrew,
and ascended the winding staircase which led
from the anteroom adjoining the boudoir and
sleeping apartment of her mistress to that of the
young ladies, which she entered.
|
Maud had feigned sleep, but she felt, as her
mother raised her head after kissing her cheek,
a tear fall upon it, and the torture that tear in-
flicted on her heart was more agonizing than
the single drop which, falling from a height, in-
flicted such excruciating suffering on the wretch-
ed criminals of old; and when "the hand so
soft, so cold," gently pressed her throbbing
brow, with a sudden shudder she quickly avert-
ed her face, as if an icebolt had struck her.
Oh, Maud, recall those noiselessly receding
footsteps! When will a mother's form again
bend over thy couch? Will not that hand be
colder still, when, ere long, thou stretchest
forth thine own to clasp it? Oh! why, even in
thy dreams, dost thou strive to rise and follow
the calls of thy tempting spirit, and cry, “I
come! I come!"
60
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
The heavy sleep of exhaustion, which often | from a child had disdained the least particle of
follows a disturbed night, weighed down our deception in order to obtain a desired end, know-
heroine's eyelids till a late hour the following ing full well that she had scarcely to express a
morning; and when she did awake, she lay in wish ere it was accomplished whose faults
a sort of dreamy consciousness, the event of the were open as the day-that she, the indulged,
preceding day and her present position gradual- proud child, should now be unable to lift her
ly dawning on her mind in all their full reality, face to meet her sister's gaze-forced to play a
while the sun, streaming brightly through the part-to stoop to mean stratagem to steal
crevices of the shutters, and the notes of divers from her father's house like a thief in the night;
birds, announced that the storm which, during but
the night, had rocked their tiny habitations, was
hushed, and that they were rejoicing at the bril-
liancy of the fair April day.
The cheerful cries of the labourers, removing
the spoils of the past tempest in the flower-gar-
den beneath her window, rang upon her ears,
and she could occasionally hear the voices of
her sister and mother speaking in cheerful
tones to the gardeners, and once she caught the
sound of one of May's merry laughs.
"They seem very happy," murmured Maud,
"and take but little heed of me: they think
they have torn me from him I love: but they
forget, or care not what I suffer! But, Harry,
I will not wrong thy firm attachment by weakly
shrinking from the step which will make me
thine forever."
"Dear Maud, we can suffer this no longer,"
cried May, as she suddenly appeared, all fresh
and blooming from the morning air, by the bed-
side of her sister, and proceeded to throw back
the shutters. Come, lady sweet, arise!" and
she proceeded to kiss her; but, starting up as
if just awakened, Maud hastily inquired the
hour.
"Past eleven," was the reply; "and as we
thought the storm last night might have dis-
turbed you, we allowed the fair lady to sleep on,
though I really think a walk this bright, lovely
morning would have done you more good. I
have been wheeling mamma about in her gar-
den chair, and everything looks so cheerful!
the early flowers so fresh and sweet! The
tempest, however, has done some mischief, for
the wind has blown down one or two very fine
trees we have been watching their removal.
The old elm just opposite mamma's boudoir
window has fallen, and I think the view is im-
proved by its absence, it gives such a beautiful
peep at the distant hills; but mamma is very
sorry to lose her favourite. We have been
laughing at old Reynolds, who with a serious
face bemoans its fall as an omen of evil import,
and Mrs. Power also shakes her wise head on
the subject."
"And wherefore?" demanded Maud, listlessly.
"They say," replied May, with somewhat of
a serious air," that the fall of an elm foretels a
death.".
"Oh, do they?" rejoined her sister; "well, I
am not superstitious, and I think it just as like-
ly to portend a wedding and now, dear May,
send Lucy to me; I will get up.”
"What will not woman when she loves?"
asks the poet, and the question is soon answered.
In spite of all her agonizing self-reproaches,
Maud never for a moment (poor, misguided
girl!) repented of the promise she had made,
and in the midst of the dark clouds of her ima-
gination, the image of her lover would rise up
like a bright gleam of light, and it was this re-
membrance that sustained her aching heart.
She would soon be his forever! and then her
dutiful, her filial love should amply repay her
parents for the one act of disobedience. It was
thus she mused, when, as if in a dream, she
wandered that day through the house and
grounds like a restless spirit, or, as if attracted
by some secret spell, she ofttimes sought her
mother's side, though when there she mostly
felt the sickening qualm oppress her.
If addressed, she would answer in an absent
manner, or her forced smile would show how
far distant were her thoughts; and then, again,
she would break out into wild, unnatural gayety.
The sun was sinking by gentle degrees, and
the birds were carolling a soft, sweet farewell
to the departing month, for it was the last day
of April.
"What a beautiful May morning we shall
have!" said May, as they sat by the open win-
dow, the voices of the village children falling
pleasantly on her ear. The scholars of Mrs.
Sutherland's school were always, on that even-
ing, allowed to assemble in the parks to gather
flowers for their garlands.
"I trust we shall have such another lovely
day as this," said Mrs. Sutherland, languidly,
for she had overtaxed her strength by staying
out too long, attracted by the beauty of the day;
and mental cares and anxieties, in spite of her
pious fortitude and submission, weighed heavi-
ly on her heart; "but, to enable me to enjoy
it," she continued, "I must retire to bed early,
that I may be strong and brisk to-morrow."
"Oh yes, mamma," exclaimed May; "and I
promised papa that you should be blooming on
his return; and indeed you look pale: you must
indeed go to bed."
"I will," replid Mrs. Sutherland, "as soon as
I have heard a song," and she glanced towards
Maud with a beseeching smile.
She arose and mechanically seated herself
before the pianoforte. A song was already pla-
ced upon the stand: it was one just arrived
from London, and which she had not yet tried;
And May departed, rejoicing at Maud's recov-but she knew not, cared not what it was.
ered spirits, though she rather wondered at the
careless levity with which, considering all cir-
cumstances, her last words had been uttered.
She could not read the inward struggle which
tore Maud's heart during the whole of that wea-
ry day.
It was not only her filial compunction that
ortured her, but also her pride, that she, who
She played the symphony, and began :
"Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to return
From following after thee, for where thou
Goest I will go, and where thou diest I will die."
Her voice, at first clear and distinct, gradually
became faint, thick, and interrupted; and ere
she reached the concluding words of the song,
it entirely failed her.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
61
In vain she endeavoured: she could not com-
mand either her voice or her deep emotion; and
at last, pale as marble, she arose and made a
few steps towards the door.
"Do not go, my darling child," said Mrs.
Sutherland, in a voice of tenderness; and Maud
turned, and for a moment paused; in another
she was on her knees, her face buried in her
mother's lap, tears, bitter, scalding tears suffu-
sing her pallid cheeks.
Harry Percy! powerful indeed must have
been the spell with which you bound your infat-
uated victim, or surely she could not have with-
stood the softening influence of that touching
scene.
May was soon at the piano, for Mrs. Suther-
land had raised her eyes swimming with fond
emotion, and with a smile struggling through
her tears, begged that her dear May would sing
again that beautiful song, and immediately she
was obeyed. With deep and earnest pathos did
the strain of filial eloquence gush from her lips :
it seemed as if she was rejoicing at being thus
able, by words, to express the tenderness and
devotion of her heart:
"Entreat me not to leave thec-and where thou diest."
Her voice now trembled at the concluding
words, and she too hurried to her mother's
outstretched arms, and wept upon her bosom,
mingling her tears with those of Maud.
Unlike, indeed, were the feelings which agi-
tated those two young hearts. The earnestly
murmured blessing of the mother fell upon the
ears of both; but in after days of sorrow, when,
like a spirit, it again seemed to breathe over
their senses like an angel's whisper, did it con-
vey equally soothing consolation to the two sis-
ters? Bitter may prove the undeserved bene-
diction of a fond, trusting, but injured parent!
So in olden times did our forefather Jacob
find it in every event of life in solitary exile
-in the loss of the nearest and dearest-and
in the ingratitude and disobedience of his own
childhood!
X
*
+
*
The mother and daughters, as had been their
wont since their earliest childhood, knelt in
prayer together ere they parted for the night.
The evening devotions were read by May, for
Maud had put away the book, saying, "I can-
not read to-night.
ed to Lord Percival the blow which had been
struck to his bright hopes. The young man, in
no very mild terms, poured forth his indignation
against the cruel girl who had thus deceived
and blighted the happiness of his friend.
"She is unworthy of you, Balfour," he ex-
claimed; "take my advice; think no more of
her."
"That is easier said than done," replied Ar-
thur, with dignified sadness; "however, be as-
sured that a woman who has thus acted towards
me shall be torn from my heart: but you must
give me time, Percival; and, my dear fellow,
let me not hear again a word of blame against
Maud Sutherland. Is it possible that all your
indignation is directed towards her?" he added,
his lip curling and his eye flashing.
"No, my dear Balfour; but that part of the
subject, I know, creates sufficient wrath in your
breast not to need any addition from me," re-
plied Percival.
"The traitor!" exclaimed the young soldier,
with angry vehemence, "the treacherous vil-
lain! Let him be once away from Sutherland,
where even his person may be considered sa-
cred in my eyes, and then no consideration shall
or ought to prevent my receiving satisfaction at
his hands. Can it be supposed that I am to
stand tamely by and submit to his deliberate
villany, which has left me heart-broken-hum-
bled-exposed to the ridicule of the world-the
standing joke of that dishonourable Percy's roué
friends and blackleg associates?"
Well, well-softly, my good cousin; we
will talk of that by-and-by: here we are at
C. Now don't suppose that I am going to
leave you to brood over your misfortunes alone,
so do not think of it. Come on with me to
Howard's; he and my sister will be delighted
to see you, and it is quite a family party."
"Impossible, Percival; Mr. Sutherland will
be here to-night: Lmust see him.”
"With all that he had to arrange before he
started, I think it very doubtful whether he will
be here to-night: at any rate, he will not arrive
until you have had plenty of time to blow your
brains out. Give me some paper," he said to
a waiter, as they entered a sitting-room at the
inn; and he wrote a few lines to Mr. Suther-
land, explaining that he had laid violent hands
on Balfour, and carried him off to Howard Cas-
tle, begging that when the business of the day
was ended, he would also proceed to his broth-
And could she pray? Could she dare to pro-
nounce the words "Thy will be done?" Could
she thus pray, when, in spite of natural affectioner's, to dine and stay all night.
-in spite of the bitter pangs of conscience, she
was still clinging to her own wrongful will, or
could she utter the words "Deliver me from
evil," when to evil she was wilfully hastening?
But we will not endeavour to paint the feel-
ing which filled her heart when the last kiss
was given, the last good-night uttered!
CHAPTER XXXV.
"I will instruct my sorrow to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout."
SHAKSPEARE.
"She's o'er the border and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean."-W. ScoTT.
WHEN Arthur Balfour left the Manor-the
scene of his former joy, but present misery-
with bitter and disappointed feelings he reveal
Arthur, reluctant, and yet almost rejoiced to
escape solitude-to escape being alone with his
tortured thoughts, suffered himself to be taken
to Howard Castle, where he met with a cor-
dial reception from Mr. Howard and his newly-
married cousin Lady Frances, who, with a
young sister and a gentleman staying there,
comprised the whole party.
The sight of happiness such as he had once
fondly dreamed would be his own produced an
effect anything but reviving on his spirits, and
he sat amid the merry little group silent and
abstracted, with torture at his heart.
Lord Percival had hinted to his sisters and
Mr. Howard the circumstances of poor Bal-
four's case, and the former with womanly tact,
the latter with gentlemanly ease, kept clear of
any subject which might possibly touch the
62
THE GAMBLERS WIFE.
wound; but, unfortunately, their visiter, a sort
of gossiping toady, who went from house to
house collecting and repeating news, had not
been let into their confidence, and the instant
the servant had left the dining-room, Arthur
was petrified by the sudden apostrophe of,
"By-the-by, Captain Balfour, allow me to
congratulate you.”
"Pass the wine, Partridge!" interrupted Mr.
Howard, in a voice of thunder. Lord Percival
gave him a sharp kick under the table: the la-
dies turned crimson: Lady Frances begged the
culprit to shut the door, which was fast closed,
and the pretty Lady Cecilia, in her confusion,
allowed Arthur to pour to overflowing, in a large
glass, a bumper of Port wine.
"Well done, Ciss! are you going to give us
a toast?" exclaimed her brother, laughing, and
hoping to divert the mind of Partridge from the
dreaded subject; but this speech proved an un-
lucky one: the tormentor had returned to his
chair.
Keep it keep it, Lady Cecilia," he ex-
claimed, "and allow me to suggest your toast:
The future Mrs. Balfour! Come, captain, I am
sure you will join-eh ?"
"Most willingly," murmured Arthur, with
cold composure; and, filling his glass to the
brim, he hastily swallowed its contents.
"What are we the only two to drink so de-
serving a toast?" continued the creature.
"Others may perchance consider such an act
premature, considering they have not been au-
thorized to do so by the individual concerned,"
resumed Arthur, in a still more freezing tone.
Any person but Mr. Partridge must have per-
ceived that the subject was not agreeable to one
single person present, and would have dropped
it; but he was not to be silenced.
Authority! we have the authority of the
papers, at least. Nothing has been more talked
of in London since that paragraph appeared
than your projected marriage with the beautiful
heiress, who, you know-
"I was not aware," continued
continued Balfour,
haughtily, the blood rushing in torrents to his
cheek, and then again leaving him as pale as
death, "I was not aware of any such paragraph
having appeared; however, the world shall
shortly be indulged with a new topic for idle
conversation-its contradiction!"
quent conversation with Lord Percival did not
tend to soothe his disturbed mind.
The next morning he awoke, his head throb-
bing, his pulse quick and feverish, and without
much persuasion he was induced to remain
in bed.
On Mr. Sutherland's arrival at the Castle that
evening, he found him so ill that he instantly
sent for a physician from C-
who pronoun-
ced him to be in so high a state of nervousness
and fever that the utmost care and quiet would
alone prevent the malady affecting his brain.
Mr. Sutherland therefore refused to speak
on the subject so exciting and agitating to his
young relative: he only said a few words likely
to be soothing: he related the departure of
Harry Percy, and, on the whole; left him for the
night with his mind at ease, and altogether in
a calmer state. Balfour felt especially com-
forted by the affectionate manner of his kind
relative.
Still, in the dreamy, feverish, restless hours
of that night, there often appeared before his
mind's eye the bright form of Maud, either
standing erect, with the words which had
stamped him wretched coldly issuing from her
curling lips, or else, still more galling recollec-
tion! he saw her trembling and blushing, as on
that blissful evening when, in tones of thrilling
tenderness, her love had been confessed-that
love which she had now so cruelly cast from
her!
Miserable and confused were the dreams of
the unhappy Arthur Balfour.
The bewilderment of Mr. Sutherland was ex
treme on being rather roughly aroused from
sleep by a gruff voice, and on starting up, be-
holding the old groom James standing by his
bed, hurry and consternation vividly depicted
on his countenance.
"Good Heaven, James! your mistress!"
"My young mistress, if you please, sir, she
be off-God forgive me!-she be off, sir, with
Mr. Percy-God forgive me!-but who would
have thought it?"
In an incredibly brief space, the carriage,
with four post-horses, which James took the
precaution to order as he passed through C———
C-
stood at the Castle door.
Arthur, roused by the sound from his uneasy
slumber, sprung from the bed, and from the win-
Indeed indeed! then, my dear sir, my con-dow, which was just above the entrance, be-
gratulations must be changed into condolences
at your having missed a prize, which every one
long since imagined you had captured."
held Mr. Sutherland rush into the carriage, the
servant mount the box, and the postillions set
off at a furious pace down the approach to the
"Partridge, you are a confounded fool! lodge gates which opened to the north road;
Can't you hold your tongue?" whispered Lord but the next moment a person, spurring a foam-
Percival, as Balfour rose to open the door for ing, hard-ridden steed, appeared at full gallop
the ladies, who abruptly made a retreat, glad to into the park. He rode up to the Castle, and
escape from so unpleasant a situation; and having exchanged a few words with a servant,
Partridge, opening his eyes very wide, and fix-he darted after the carriage, loudly shouting,
ing them with a searching stare on Arthur's
face as he returned to the table, at last allowed
the subject to drop.
And Balfour determined within himself that
the world, at least, should never hear accounts
of his lovesick, love-crossed deportment, and
astonished his cousin by bursting forth into ex-
travagant gayety quite unnatural to his char-
acter.
It was in a state of feverish excitement that
he retired that night to his rooin, and a subse-
and waving his hand in the air.
Mr. Sutherland thrust his head out of the car-
riage with an air of impatience, but the man,
touching his hat respectfully, had uttered but a
brief sentence, when the horses' heads were
turned, and at the same impetuous speed they
again passed the Castle in the direction of
C-
The horseman stopped to refresh the tired
animal, which had carried him so many miles
in a manner almost unprecedented for rapidity,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
}
and in a few moments he was summoned to |
Arthur's chamber.
A short time after, Lord Percival, attracted
by the sound of moving footsteps in his cousin's
room, bent his steps thither, and found Arthur |
Balfour, with bloodshot eyes and haggard cheeks,
dressed as for a journey, standing, leaning for
support against the window-sill, and gazing
without with fiery impatience visible in every
feature.
"Good God, Balfour!"
Percival, I am going-good-by-do not stop
me-the villain-the-no opposition-next to
her father, I have the greatest right-not a
word-I will snatch her from him, or die!"
"That you certainly will, my dear cousin, if
you attempt such an undertaking. Come, be
reasonable."
The next moment Arthur had clasped his
hand to his burning forehead, reeled, and fell
heavily to the ground.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"Oh, she was good as she was fair,
None-none..on earth above her ;
As pure in thought as angels are-
To know her was to love her."-RoGers.
now sealed her mother's eyelids, though at one
time May had feared she might be again aroused
by the sound of carriage wheels, which, in fact,
though faint and distant, made her start, and
utter unconsciously a few words, the name of
"Maud" being the only one distinctly pro-
nounced.
When May heard these same sounds of car-
riage wheels, she almost fancied it must be her
father, but the noise soon ceased, and she
thought of them no more. Besides, her atten-
tion was otherwise attracted, for sounds too
indistinct and trifling by daylight to arrest the
ear, in the stillness of the night seemed com-
paratively loud and important. She fancied she
heard some one stealing through the anteroom.
She listened attentively for a moment, and then,
hearing nothing more, she thought it must have
been merely fancy on her part.
Her mother's hand was still fast locked in
hers. She felt no desire to withdraw it, and by
degrees, thoughts suggested by the contempla-
tion of that dear face became so absorbing, that
she hardly heeded the noise of the retreating
carriage, which again sounded in the distance.
She mused, and as she did so, a cloud of sad-
ness overspread her fair young countenance.
The too perceptible change which had taken
MAY had lain down to rest in her little bed in place in the mother on whom she gazed caused
her mother's room, but she could not sleep. her heart to ache and her eyes to fill with ago-
An hour or more had passed, yet still she was
nizing tears, and she shuddered to think what
awake. A restless, nervous excitement, for havoc even one day of unhappiness had made
which she could not account, completely ban- upon her feeble frame, and that this unhappi-
ished slumber from her eyelids; and at lengthness was caused by her child-the mother whose
rising, she begged her mother, who was also chief earthly comfort ought to have been her
awake, to let her sit by her bedside till she fell
asleep.
"I will not talk, dear mamma," she said.
"Do you try to go to sleep, and then I shall be
able to rest; not otherwise, I am sure."
Her mother smiled, and, placing her hand
within her daughter's, closed her eyes for sev-
eral moments; but when May hoped that she
at last slept, she suddenly opened them, and
made an anxious inquiry concerning Maud,
plainly showing what were the thoughts which
so effectually chased slumber away; then again
she closed her eyes; but no, it would not do.
At length she said,
·
"I am thinking of that beautiful song Ruth;
if my good May would sing it now, as I used to
sing my darlings to sleep when they were chil-
dren, I am sure it would calm me to rest.
thur, too-I had used to sing once for him
poor, dear Arthur.”
Ar-
May for one instant paused, and then in the
quiet chamber rose her soft, low voice, chanting
the desired song; and on its being finished,
fearing to dispel, by abruptly ceasing, the air
of repose which she saw gradually stealing over
her mother's countenance, she changed the
strain into Keble's Evening Hymn :
•
Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if thou be near;
Oh! let no earth-born cloud arise
To hide thee from thy servant's eyes."
children!
The remembrance of her own childish trans-
gressions, few and slight as they had been, now
rose before her mind and bowed her humble
spirit.
Happy! thrice happy those who have no
greater cause for self-reproach in every stage
of life than the young May Sutherland.
And then the sad face of another appeared in
her imagination before her: the disappointed,
wounded Arthur. And this idea plunged her
into such profound and painful meditations, that
she knew not how time sped. At length, how-
ever the gentle grasp that detained her hand
gradually relaxed and let go its hold, and,
though still feeling no inclination to sleep, May
She wished it were
arose to return to her bed.
morning; and impatient, like all bad sleepers,
to know the hour, she determined to enter the
boudoir in order to ascertain it, the little clock
in the sleeping-chamber having stopped at
twelve, and she knew that it must be later.
The double doors opened without the least
creaking. She crossed the anteroom, and in
another moment stood within the boudoir.
Through the open glass-door which led into the
flower garden streamed the bright moonshine,
rendering the room light as day.
May advanced, intending to shut the door,
wondering at the unusual carelessness of the
servants, although she certainly fancied having
The melody was indeed that which might have seen a housemaid closing and fastening the
well been
• Borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away."
shutters as she passed to the bedroom tnat
night.
She paused as she closed the glass door, to
And it failed not in its soothing effect, for sleep enjoy, for an instant, the sweet, fresh night air,
"As infants' slumber pure and light"
and listen to
64
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
:
"The song of mountain streams unheard by day;"
to contemplate the silver-lighted scene before
her.
2
Suddenly, however, a rustling sound caused
her heart to beat quickly, and in the next mo-
ment, from behind a projecting corner of the
building, issued an object by no ways calculated
to restore her self-possession. She could have
screamed aloud, but the thoughts of her mother
suppressed the cry which hovered on her lips.
The frightened girl remained rooted to the spot,
her eyes riveted on the cause of her alarm. The
figure advanced close to her, examining with a
ghastly countenance the pale figure of May, as
if endeavouring to ascertain whether she was an
aërial spirit of the Manor, or one of the many
statues scattered over the parterre; and as May
stood in the moonlight, her….
""
"Snow-white hands together pressed,'
she formed a model such as a sculptor might
have gloried in, or a visionary might have deemed
"Some stray child of light."
The dreadful suspense ended, for the figure,
resting a shrivelled, bony finger on her arm, ex-
claimed,
"Oh, Miss May, honey, is it you? Don't be
afeared it's only me-only old Judith; she
would not harm thee, pretty one: thou never
scoffed nor scorned her, because her face was
not so well favoured as thine !"
foot with passionate impatience, for a vague but
agonizing idea began to fill her mind.
"Who? Why, who but your precious beauty
of a sister. Yes, her and your fine London
cousin up yonder, with his sweet tongue and
sly looks. Oh! he's a cunning one: much good
may she do him."
"Judith!" May exclaimed, in a stifled voice,
"I do not believe you."
The next moment she had, with a desperate
effort, extricated herself from the grasp of the
withered fingers that held her, and like lightning
darted up stairs.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"The clock had tolled the midnight hour
When Jacqueline came forth alone.
*
*
*
A guilty thing and full of fears,
Yet ah, how lovely in her tears!
She starts, for what hath caught her eye?
What but her shadow passing by?
She stops, she pants; with lips apart
She listens to her beating heart."-ROGERS.
AND Maud-where was Maud? May had
kissed her and was gone. Lucy was dismissed,
and, having bolted the door which opened into
the lady's-maid's room, she seated herself by the
open window, the fresh air of the balmy eve of
the approaching month breathing on her brow,
her eyes fixed on the queen of night, glowing in
"Judith," faltered the trembling girl, "what serene majesty above, with its "holy face" look-
can have brought you here at such an hour? ing down as if in mild reproach on her, about to
Your sudden appearance has terrified me. I disgrace her peaceful presence by a guilty action.
must call up some of the servants to fasten the The minutes quickly flew: ten o'clock struck
windows," she continued, preparing for a retreat, then eleven-and all was peace and stillness
for the startling apparition of the old woman had in the Manor.
made her nervous, and there was something so
repellant in the countenance of the hag, as she
came close up to her side with a leer of impor-
tance on her visage, that May felt no inclination
to remain in her company, even to ascertain the
cause of her ill-timed visit.
"But do you know, hinny," whispered the
crone, detaining her by the skirt of her dressing-
gown, "do you know what fine bird has flown
to-night? No, none of them," she continued, as
her listener instinctively turned her head to-
wards a large gilt cage which hung within the
room. "Oh no! a finer bird by far-he! he!
he-isn't it, though ?"
Again May attempted to disengage herself
from her grasp.
She began to think that the old
woman must be really mad.
"Let me go, good Judith," she exclaimed ;
"I care not what bind has flown. I am cold
do you not hear my teeth chatter? Pray let me
go."
"You be right not to care, I'm thinking," con-
tinued her unpleasing companion, "for 'twill be
a braw thing for you, Miss May, for 'tis not with
the right one she be gone. No, she's left him
for you, deary. Old master's lands will never
be that proud young thing's! No! for they say
they will only be for her who marries the young
Balfour chap, and that'll be you, hinny, I be
fancying; so never look so scared. 'Twill be
too late to catch them now: they've been off an
hour or more," and she rubbed her hands with
glee.
"What do you mean? who's gone? catch
who?" almost shrieked poor May, stamping her
The night air now blew cold upon her face,
but she closed not the window. She sat, she
knew not how long, immovable. At length con-
fused sounds fell louder and louder on her ear:
they ceased!
She started to her feet, for a mo-
ment gasped as if for breath, and in another was
attired in her cloak and bonnet; and then her
door was softly opened, and noiselessly she
At her moth-
glided down the winding stairs.
er's chamber she paused an instant-it was a
breathless pause-and then she reached the
boudoir.
It required no greater strength than that pos-
sessed by the small fingers of the trembling girl
to undo the shutters from within: one touch,
and the stained glass door flew open, and she
stood,
"A guilty thing and full of fears,"
beneath the shade of her ancestral home. She
proceeded some steps across the flowery par-
tørre, and then again she paused. She has
reached the shrubbery walk and entered beneath
its dark shelter; for the moon, as if in anger at
the deed, suddenly hid behind a cloud, and all
was obscurity. But fast-fast she flies, for well-
known footsteps advance to meet her: a voice
of love greets her: trembling and breathless, she
falls into the arms stretched forth to receive her
to support her through the low gate, through
which he had often passed to enter the hospita-
ble abode from which he had rifled its most pre-
cious treasure. There stood the carriage with
its four impatient posters: dizzy and bewilder-
ed, she is lifted into it, and soon she is borne
swiftly away from the home of her childhood.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
65
The loud clock of the village struck the mid- | spoke a few words to the postillions, then hur-
night hour as the carriage whirled rapidly past ried forward to the little gate leading to the
the humble line of cottages, the inmates of some pleasure grounds, which he unlocked and en-
starting in their beds at so unusual a sound at tered. Judith too stopped for an instant, fear-
such a time of night, while they pressed their ful of being discovered, but the moon suddenly
frightened infants to their bosoms. Little did disappearing behind a cloud, she again quick-
they imagine that the carriage contained her ened her pace, "unwilling to lose the sport,"
who was wont to walk so proudly-so beloved as she termed it. The postillions exclaimed,
among them--and who, by her flight, left a "Hollo! who's there?" as she stumbled over a
withering blight on her home of bliss and pros- stone; so she once more paused, and stood
perity.
stock still behind a tree a few yards distant, and
in the space of less than ten minutes Mr. Percy
again emerged from the shrubbery, accompa-
nied by a female wrapped in a mantle, whom he
supported on his arm to the carriage, and after
placing her in it he sprang in, saying to the
post-boys,
Overwhelming indeed was the agony of poor
May when, escaped from Judith, she entered
her sister's room, and gazed horror-stricken on
the vacant bed, and all around the deserted
chamber, where no Maud answered to the stifled
shriek which burst from her quivering lips.
"Now every minute you lose will be money
Lucy! Lucy!" she cried, as she quickly
unfastened the bolted door and ran to the bed-out of your pockets, so drive for your lives,"
side of the maid.
and they immediately set off at a speed which
Lucy started up, and gazed in bewilderment | must even have satisfied him.
on the agitated face of her young lady.
"Good gracious, Miss May," she exclaimed,
"what's the matter? Is your mamma—”
No, no, Lucy: where is Maud ?"
"Miss Sutherland? In bed, miss, I hope,"
replied Lucy, who was by this time on her feet.
Followed by her young lady, she hurried into
the adjoining apartment, and with an air of
blank dismay contemplated its forlorn appear
ance, while May sat down upon the bed and
wept bitterly. At length she suddenly roused
herself.
Lucy," she exclaimed, "something must be
done; there is no time to be lost. If this dread-
ful tale be really true, Lucy-" and she paused,
for she shrunk from the idea of what she had
to communicate to a servant, even to one so
attached and faithful as Lucy-"I fear Miss
Sutherland at least old Judith tells me-
though it may—it may be false-has gone with
-with-"
But she was spared the pain of explaining
herself more fully by the tact of the quick-witted
abigail. She turned first pale, then red, and in-
terrupted her by saying,
"Where is the old woman, miss?" and on
receiving no answer, left the room with the
words,
"I will go and question the woman: it may
very likely be only a lie, dear Miss May, for she
is a wicked, horrid old creature."
May with trembling limbs followed, and stood
at the entrance to the boudoir listening breath-
lessly to the relation drawn forth from the hag,
which soon left no doubt in her mind of its fear-
ful truth. The following was the substance of
her communication:
At about ten o'clock Mr. Percy had given her
a letter, which he desired might be delivered to
Mrs. Sutherland the next morning. He had
wished her good-night, telling her to leave the
house door unlocked, as he was going to take a
stroll on the common, as he often did, late at
night, to smoke a cigar; she, however, "fancy-
ing," she said, "something was in the wind,"
crept stealthily after him. She had seen him,
with a writing-case under his arm, bend his
steps towards the Manor.
Though far behind, by the bright moonlight
she had kept him in sight, and at the verge of
the common there stood the post-chaise. He
[
Judith, all anxiety to give the alarm and be
the first to tell the news, crept through the open
gate along the shrubbery which led to the house,
determining to wait in a sheltered corner the
dawn of morning, and it was thus May found
her.
"Now you may just go about your business:
we want nothing more of you here," said Lucy,
when the old woman had finished her relation;
and, closing the glass-door in her face, she re-
turned to May, who, in a voice grown firm from
the necessity she saw for immediate action, ex-
claimed,
"Now, Lucy, a servant must be called up;
my father must be sent for it may not yet be
too late."
r
"Why, miss," said the girl, "they will have
to pass through C― to get to Gretna."
"Oh, my mother, my mother!" cried May,
"if she were to awake!
"if she were to awake! It must be kept from
her, Lucy—it must be kept from all as long as
possible; but do not stop: go call some one up.
Who shall it be?"
"Old James, miss," replied Lucy, in a decided
tone; "he is the most to be trusted, and he is
as quick as the wind, and never loses a moment
by his tongue; and though he is such a bear in
manner, he is such an attached creature that he
would give his life to serve any of the family."
And indeed it was in an incredible short
space of time that James, bearing a few hasty
lines penned by May's shaking hand to her
father, set off on the fleetest horse in the stables
to C. However, at about midway from the
Manor, the spirited animal, startled in the
moonlight by a heap of stones on the road,
sprang on one side, and backed suddenly into a
deep dry ditch; in attempting to extricate itself,
it fell, and James, on dismounting, found the
knees were badly injured, and that it would be
impossible to proceed but at a walking pace.
In despair, he was obliged to lead the poor an-
imal by the bridle for more than a mile, which
occupied as much time as it would otherwise
have taken him to reach C—————; at length, on
arriving at a small public house, he hired a mis-
erable hack-the only horse he could procure-
and after considerable delay again started, but
the animal had been hard-worked all day, and
in spite of the whipping and spurring of the de-
spairing groom, he did not arrive at C-—-— till
66
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
on the back of a chair, the little lace nightcap
on the toilet, What could all this mean?
the dawn was faintly breaking over the mount- | slippers on the carpet, the night-dress hanging
ains. Here he met with another disappoint-
ment he found that Mr. Sutherland had left the
preceding evening for Howard Castle, three
miles distant.
James, supplied with a fresh horse, set off
thither, the great clock of the Castle striking
the hour of five as he stopped before the lodge
gates.
.1
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"Hark! to the hurried question of despair,
'Where is my child?' an echo answers, 'Where?"
Bride of Abydos.
In the mean while poor May had crept back
to her mother's room, fearing that she might
awake and discover her absence; she, howev-
er, found her still in a calm sleep, and throwing
herself on her bed, May revolved in her distract-
ed mind the stunning events of the night-the
necessity of concealing the direful catastrophe
from her mother until her father's return, or of
breaking it to her in the least startling manner;
for perhaps Mr. Sutherland might be detained-
and how would it be possible to keep her long
in ignorance of it?
At length, after some hours of agonized med-
itation, the young frame of the poor girl, unused
to the stretch of exertion of both body and mind
it had that night sustained, exhausted by grief
and terror, gradually yielded to fatigue, and she
sank into a sort of dreamy state, which soon
relaxed into that kindly influence which seldom
deserts the young and innocent.
She had scarcely fallen asleep when Mrs.
Sutherland awoke. She lay for some time lis-
tening to the low breathing of her child, little
imagining that it was the first hour that weary
night that her eyes had been closed.
"How soundly I have slept !" she thought;
and then her ideas immediately reverted to her
other daughter, and she remembered with anx-
iety the nervous, uncomfortable state of her
spirits the day before.
"What if she has been tossing_about, rest-|
less, miserable, and alone, while I have been
enjoying such quiet repose," thought the anx-
ious mother.
Wrapping herself in her warm dressing-gown,
she arose, and taking the night-lamp from the
table, she glided from the room as noiselessly
as May had done, feebly and slowly ascended
the staircase, and entered the sleeping-room of
her daughter. The window was open as Maud
had left it. The moon, though less brightly,
still shone in the sky. Mrs. Sutherland drew
aside the curtain, and gazed within the bed to
see the "delight of her heart." At first, how
ever, there was naught but surprise visible on
her countenance when she discovered that
Maud was not there, and she glanced hastily
round the desolate chamber.
"She must have slept in another room," she
mused, as she perceived that the form of her
darling had not pressed the bed; and she cross-
ed the room to enter that of Lucy to inquire
where she was. But suddenly she paused:
she knew not why, but a faintness gathered at
her heart. She gazed once more round the
room, and beheld the little embroidered velvet
She looked down on the table against which
she stood, and there, in confused disorder, lay
pens, ink, and paper: one pen was still wet.
She raised a scrap of paper on which some
words were written. She recognised May's
hand she read "Dear papa;" the rest was
scarcely legible, but the words "Maud"-" Har-
ry Percy"" gone," were sufficient.
There was a convulsive gasp for breath, a
tight pressure of the hands on the heart, and
My child!" issued from her lips in a voice of
calm, concentrated agony, her eyes raised with
meek supplication to Heaven; but soon a wilder
expression was imparted to them-an expres-
sion never seen in those soft eyes before; and
as if the whole strength of her youth had again
returned to her, she rapidly descended the
stairs, and once more regained her chamber
and stood by the bedside of May.
'May, awake, child-awake!" rang wildly
through the still apartment; and May beheld in
terrified bewilderment the spectre-like figure,
who, grasping her arm with convulsive pres-
sure, gazed upon her with eyes which seemed
starting from their sockets.
"Mamma, dearest mamma!" cried poor
May; and she sprang up, and attempted to
throw her arms round her mother. But Mrs.
Sutherland, still tightly holding her arm, ex-
claimed, in tones of unnatural calmness,
"Your sister, May your sister, my precious
child - my sweet Maud ? Gone, you said:
where? With him-with Harry Percy? Speak,
child! tell me. Will you kill me?" she con-
tinued, more vehemently, as the poor girl, in
faltering accents, besought her to be composed.
"I will tell you all," she said, "dear, dear
mamına; but oh! for papa's sake be calm."
"Calm!" she exclaimed, with a deep groan,
which sounded almost like a scream;
"oh, yes,
I will be calm. Speak, May, tell me the truth.
You never disobeyed me before, why now?"
"She has gone," murmured the distracted
girl, "but-
A loud shriek burst from Mrs. Sutherland's
lips, which echoed fearfully through the adjoin-
ing rooms, and then a dreadful stillness suc-
ceeded. But the servants had been aroused by
the unnatural sounds. In a few moments there
was the noise of doors opening quickly, and
footsteps hurrying on the stairs. Mrs. Power
was the first to enter her mistress's room, and
there she found the unfortunate mother fast
locked in her gentle daughter's arms, and, fear-
ful to relate, the daughter was bathed in the
blood which issued in crimson streams from
her mother's mouth. Mrs. Sutherland had rup-
tured a bloodvessel at the heart!
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"Bright smiling eyes,
Where sunshine lies,
Undimm'd by care or sorrow ;
Beam while you may,
And still be gay,
For ye may weep to-morrow."
MRS. NORTon.
It was the evening of the first of May, a day
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
67
as lovely as ever ushered in that month of flow- | gradually to soften down all displeasure. For
ers, and usually a happy holyday to the inhabi- | myself, I am fully prepared for any weight of
tants of the village contiguous to Sutherland anger which your parents may feel towards me,
Manor. There seemed, however, on this even- and for so bright a compensation what would I
ing no great signs of hilarity. The Maypole not willingly endure?"
was indeed erected on the green, but only a few
young children gambolled round it. There was
a party of lads playing at football, and also a
group of girls standing talking to each other
not merrily, but earnestly-on what appeared
to be a subject of grave import; and at almost
every cottage door might be seen mothers with
their infants in their arms, or old men and wom-
en leaning on their sticks, all shaking their heads
sadly, and whispering to one another: none, in
fact, bearing on their countenances a cheerful
May-day aspect.
A carriage-the horses bearing marks of has-
ty travel was suddenly seen slowly ascending
the hill on which the village was situated, and
all eyes were eagerly turned towards the equi-
page. No glad cheers, however, greeted its ap-
proach; no May-flowers were showered upon
the occupants-and yet it was a bridal party!
"That would never do, Harry. Not even for
your sake could I have left England without see-
ing my father-my sweet angel mother! until
at their feet I have asked them to forgive me.”
And here her voice trembled, and tears sprang
to her eyes. "And will they be angry with
their Maud? No;" and she smiled hopefully.
For myself, I expect not many harsh words
or looks; and you, dear Harry, will they spurn
you? treat you coldly-unkindly that would
kill me ;" and she twined her arms round her
husband's neck, and buried her face in his bo-
som.
?
They were both silent for some minutes.
Harry Percy could scarcely conceal from his
bride the nervous agitation which, in spite of
his usual self-possession, he was not able now
to shake off when he looked forward to their
arrival at the Manor. Conscience, that troub-
A solemn silence reigned as it passed: the lesome monitor, was busy within his breast.
children even paused for a moment in their noi- | Fain would he have deferred the interview, but
sy play. Some few of the women courtesied, Maud would not hear of it.
and gazed sadly and anxiously at the equipage, But," she cried, rousing herself from the de-
but many more averted their eyes and turned jection which was stealing over them both, "we
mournfully away, though the carriage contain- speak of our parents as if papa was a cruel ty-
ed one whose "presence should have made a rant, and mamma-sweet, gentle mamma, a
holyday," for it was the daughter of their kind haughty, hard-hearted dame, who would wither
benefactor-the admiration, the idol of every me with a glance. No, I can guess how it will
heart-returning as a bride to her splendid home be: I shall find them all in the boudoir-but it
-the home of a long line of ancestors. But is strange they sent not after us, is it not, Har-
she, the beautiful young bride-beautiful, though ry? It is a good sign, however it shows that,
clad in no gay bridal attire-she heeded not this after all, they do not consider it such a very
cold reception. She leaned back in the car- grievous affair."
riage, her large black velvet mantle hanging
loosely round her, displaying the swanlike throat,
her simple straw bonnet carelessly pushed back
from her fair brow, her hair hanging in rich con-
fusion over the shoulder against which she lean-
ed her head, more lovely thus unadorned than
had the costliest trousseau been ransacked to
deck her youthful form.
Such, indeed, was the opinion of him who
gazed with admiring intenseness on her face,
watching the varied tints which played upon her
cheek, the half timid, half shrinking expression
with which she raised her brilliant eyes to his,
while by degrees, as they drew nearer and near-
er their journey's end, her breath came quicker
and quicker, and faster and faster beat her heart
against his own.
Harry Percy shook his head doubtingly.
"Well!" Maud continued, "I shall throw my-
self into my father's arms: if he rejects me, I
will kneel-yes, Harry, you may smile, but so
will I do. And not only for my own sake shall
I supplicate, but for yours, dearest; and do you
think they will reject their haughty, wilful Maud,
when on her knees before them meekly suing
for pardon? I will not rise till they promise to
receive you as their son, and to love you as
such; and then, Harry-Nay, look not so grave,
but come when you are summoned, and see
whether or not I have prevailed, and oh! how
happy we shall be! We can all go to Italy to-
gether. You will soon thank me for not agree-
ing to your cowardly proposal of slipping off like
two culprits, and leaving those we so dearly
Is my dear one's courage beginning to fail?" love in sorrow and anger. What are you look-
he asked, as he imprinted a kiss upon her lips.ing at, Harry?" she exclaimed, as the eyes
Oh, no, Harry, I am only impatient for it to which till then had been riveted upon her turn-
be over-to find myself forgiven, and you, Har-ed towards the window.
ry, received with affection and kindness. But
indeed you must obey me, and not appear till
you are summoned. I will plead my cause alone.
What do you doubt my power, my eloquence?
do you suppose without your influence I must
fail?"
'No, that I cannot do," was the reply; "but
it would torture me to think my heart's treas-
ure should, through her generous love for me—
unworthy as I am-be subjected to one harsh
word, one angry look: it was this that made
me propose that we should first repair to the
Continent, depending upon time and absence
"I am looking," said Harry Percy, "at the
gay doings going forward in the village. What
does it mean, mine own?"
Oh, Harry," she answered, bending for-
ward her head, and then seeing many a well-
known face directed towards her, she hastily
withdrew it, blushing deeply, "oh, Harry, it is
May-day!"
"So it is," replied Harry;
gotten it; but, dear love, what means this
"I had quite for-
change of countenance-those grave looks?"
"Oh! Harry, we have been married in May!"
"Well!" laughed Percy.
68
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"Do you not know that it is said that wed-
dings that take place in May never prosper ?"
answered Maud, solemnly; "remember the
Princess Charlotte-Lady Jane Grey-the un-
fortunate Mary Queen of Scots, and-"
Her lips were closed by a kiss, and a smiling
banter on her superstition.
"What does my Maud intend to murder
her husband, in imitation of this same Mary of
Scotland? or-who were your other examples
of the misfortunes consequent on a bridal in the
merry month of May ?"
Maud answered not: for a moment she seem-
ed lost in thought, but suddenly she turned to-
wards him, and looking earnestly in his hand-
some face, she said, in a low but earnest tone,
"Harry, tell me, what is it in your character
that makes you so loved, so admired, and yet
so condemned by every one? Why did my pa-
rents, with the affection and interest I know
they feel for you-why did they shrink from
giving me to you, and as firmly resist our mar-
riage as if you were the worst of human be-
ings?" She paused in her sentence as abruptly
as she had commenced it, while over the coun-
tenance of her bridegroom carne a half-amused,
half-embarrassed expression.
"Oh, upon my word, lady fair," he replied,
"I am not going to make you my confessor. I
shall leave my little wife to find out all my sins,
and it must be her task to cure me of them."
"But, Harry," she proceeded to say, in a hes-
itating, half-timid manner, "two of the sins I
have heard imputed to you you must never let
me find out. Harry, you must from this mo-
ment renounce the sin of gaming: I could not
bear that my husband should bear the title of
'gambler;' and-but the other fault is quite
out of the question, of course, perfectly at an
end." And she coloured proudly as Harry
poured forth many a fervent protestation, call-
ing Heaven to witness that no act of his should
ever cast a cloud over the happiness of her
young life, and she believed him.
But the colour now faded from her cheeks,
and her heart began to beat painfully; the lit-
tle hand pressed within that of Harry Percy's
trembled as she started up and sat erect, with
eyes distended, eagerly gazing on the outward
scene, and it was in a suppressed whisper that
she murmured,
"Harry, we are just arriving!"
But on
Percy too looked nervous-agitated, even
more so than his companion. In silence they
both sat as the carriage rolled past the lodge
gates, for it was not to enter there, much to the
indignation of the gentleman in the rumble, who
would fain have driven in proper style through
the stately avenue, and witnessed the sensation
their arrival would doubtless create.
they proceeded, up the gradually-rising ground,
till at length, at the little private gate leading to
the shrubberies, the postillions paused. Framp-
ton in a moment was at the carriage door,
awaiting farther orders. A brief consultation
took place between those within, and then the
steps were let down and they alighted.
Frampton was ordered to return with the car-
riage to the village, and put up at the Suther-
land Arms for the present, and he immediately
obeyed, casting, nevertheless, many lingering
looks behind him. There was not much to be
|
|
seen, however, to gratify his curiosity. The
little gate, still unlocked as it had been left the
night before, was pushed open, and the bride
and bridegroom disappeared beneath its low-
browed archway.
Then they paused; and Maud, after placing
her hand in Percy's, with a smile on her trem-
bling lips, bade him farewell.
66
How can I possibly exist through the dread-
ful moments of suspense?" he said, still detain-
ing her; "where shall I go-what can I do?
If it were not for the confidence pictured in that
bright face, I should indeed be utterly hopeless
of the immediate forgiveness of your parents.'
"Harry," she exclaimed, "rely on me-rely
on the love my parents feel for me. I know-I
am sure that I shall be victorious !"
Then gazing up with proud fondness into her
husband's face, she seemed to gather strength
and firmness from the contemplation of that loved
countenance. The nervous agitation which was
depicted upon it seemed to give her fresh ener-
gy for the undertaking. To relieve his mind of
its weight of care was now her dearest object.
All thought of self vanished; and tossing back
the locks from her brow, she made a few re-
treating steps, waved an affectionate adieu, turn-
ed, and soon disappeared from Percy's sight in
the winding shrubbery, over which the dews of
evening were gathering fast. Let us follow her
in her twilight walk.
CHAPTER XL
"There was one who held her down to earth, and on her
garment knelt,
In whose sad eyes an untold depth of speechless anguish
dwelt:
And canst thou-wilt thou leave me thus, mine own be-
loved one?
And must I seek my widow'd home thus desolate and
lone?"-Anon.
MAUD pursued her way with hasty steps, her
heart beating as quickly as it had done when,
not four-and-twenty hours before, she had pass-
ed through that same shrubbery.
All was calm and still except when, ever and
anon, the evening song of some bird saluted
her ears. The graceful laburnum waved in
bright beauty above her head, and the scent of
the seringa and sweetbrier shed their odour
around. And now she had reached the extrem-
ity of the pleasure grounds, and stood in the
open parterre.
Her home appeared once more before her in
all its beauty and ancient magnificence. The
past event seemed like a dream. She could
scarcely believe that she had fled like a culprit
from her venerated birthplace; that she had re-
turned to it—a bride!
A rush of happiness filled her heart as she
gazed around her, and all her fears-her doubts
instantly vanished. She pictured to herself the
joy her appearance would create; imagined her-
self clasped in her parents' arms, pardoned,
and Harry accepted as a son. As these glad
thoughts danced in her breast, she no longer
paused, but sprung with the lightness of a roe
across the parterre, and then again her heart
beat quickly, for she was at the very window
of the boudoir.
With a heaving bosom, eyes bent down, yet
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
69
Once more, however, a voice of sorrow re-
called her thoughts to earth. She raised her
hand and pressed it over the head of the heart-
broken May, who in a tone of bitter grief mur-
mured,
"Bless me, mother-oh, mother, bless your
child !"
with a confiding smile upon her lips, she pushed
open the glass door and softly entered. But the
room was empty. She glanced round it: all
within seemed to be exactly in the same state
as when she passed through it the preceding |
night. The vase which May had said should be
refilled with fresh flowers in honour of the May
day, still contained the same blossoms, now fa- A wandering, searching look of inquiry gleam-
ded and withered. The favourite birds flutter-ed for an instant on the mother's face-an ex-
ed round their cages, and chirped as if calling
for food. An almost awful stillness seemed to
reign in the house.
She passed through the boudoir, crossed the
anteroom, and paused at her mother's sleeping
room. The door was ajar, and low, solemn
tones broke upon her ear.
Then, and not till then, did the whole weight
of dread fall upon her heart, and at those sounds
a sickening, shuddering feeling crept over her;
and well might it so do! for what were the
words which those deep, solemn tones gave
forth, as with a look of horror she glided un-
perceived into the apartment?
Yet, forasmuch as the time of her dissolution |
draweth near, so fit and prepare her, we besecch
thee, against the hour of death."
She heard no more: her brain whirled, her
ears rang with a confused sound. Like a spec-
tre rather than a living creature, she crept to-
wards the bed where lay her dying mother, and
there, concealed by the drapery and the waning
light of the chamber, she sunk upon her knees,
wildly gazing on the scene before her. Yes,
there, supported in the arms of her father and
sister,
"In whose sad eyes an untold depth of anguish dwelt,"
reclined Mrs. Sutherland. Her hands were
clasped, her dim eyes turned towards the heav-
en which was about to claim her for its own.
Night was stealing on as calmly and holily as
was the calm, holy expression of those features
which its darkness was about to overshad-
ow forever. The curtains of the bed were
thrown back on the side on which the invalid
reclined, and the cool evening breeze blew
through the open casement, and gently fanned
her marble cheek. The low warbling of the
birds and the murmuring of the waters seemed
to mingle with the sounds of wailing within that
chamber of death.
Mr. Merton knelt beside his expiring friend,
the solemn prayer for the departing spirit issu-
ing from his lips.
pression as if some painful worldly care for a
moment weighed down her spirit-as she felt
the shining hair of her daughter, and a look, al-
most of agony, clouded her before placid brow.
But then, again, a ray from above seemed to il-
lumine it, and her lips moved as if in prayer for
forgiveness again May's supplicating voice
called her back to earth.
:
'My good May !" she then fondly murmur-
ed, and she poured upon the head of the weep-
ing girl, in faint but earnest accents, a blessing
as full, as tender, as ever fell from a mother's
lips.
She paused; her eyes closed, and as her hus-
band raised her in his arms, he thought they
were never again to open in this world-that
all was over.
But what sound was it that sud-
denly broke the awful stillness of that moment,
and recalled to earth the fast-departing spirit?
It was a thrilling, heart-rending, agonizing cry,
which those who heard it never, never forgot :
it was the cry of anguish-bitter, oh! howbitter
-of Maud, as she lifted up her voice and cried,
"Bless me-bless me also, oh my mother!"
There was one bright look of eager joy in that
mother's face-a gleam of reviving life, as fee-
bly she extended her failing, trembling arms to-
wards the wretched girl from whose lips the
passionate cry had issued.
"Maud, oh Maud !" she faintly murmured,
and Maud was in her arms.
Those around, fearful of the consequences of
this excitement, gently strove to separate them,
but love-powerful, invincible even in death-
prevailed.
For a moment the erring child was fast lock-
ed in the cold, marble-like arms of her expiring
mother, and she felt not their frigidity as she
gasped for breath to utter the words, "Mother,
mother, take me-oh mother, take me with
you !"
Colder and colder grew the arms that encir-
cled her, and fainter and fainter the grasp of
the mother she invoked. Once more Mrs.
Sutherland sank back on her husband's bosom,
But suddenly he paused, for the cyes which once more her eyes wandered with an expres-
seemed to have been lifted from all earthly ob- sion of fondness from one individual of the
jects to the contemplation of that new home weeping group to the other. Her spirit even
whither she was hastening suddenly turned on yet seemed bound by some unseen tie-to
her husband's face with an expression of ear-hover and flutter "as though it could not rise;"
nest, unspeakable love-her head sunk on his
shoulder-her lips moved, but he alone caught
the whispered breathing of that deathless affec-
tion they strove to express. They were answer-
ed by a burst of passionate tenderness, pronoun-
ced in stifled accents, and heart-rending, broken
supplications, that she would not leave him,
while with frantic energy he folded her in his
arms, as if his human grasp could detain her.
But the dying wife cast a look of mild reproof
upon him, and raising her eyes, she pointed with
her finger upward, as if to say,
"There we shall meet again !"
but suddenly there came a gentle sigh: then,
as if rejoicing at its ecstatic freedom, a radiant
smile, and the freed spirit had soared above,
where every earthly affection is swallowed up in
a love undying, unchangeable; a love blissful,
inconceivable, because poured in all its fulness
on God, not on the frail, sinful creature.
There was an instant's reverential hush, as
if the mourners' wo was soothed by the soft
fluttering of the angel's wings that bore the
soul of their loved one above, and they gazed
seeking to trace its heavenward flight. All
appeared calm but one, the child on whom the
TO
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
1
last look of earthly love had been bestowed by
the departed. She looked for a moment wildly
around her, then clasped her hands convulsively
over her head, tore with frantic grief her hair,
and with a fearful shriek, which recalled her
fellow-mourners to a full sense of their bitter
sorrow, fell on the lifeless body of her mother
almost as breathless, cold, and inanimate.
CHAPTER XLI.
"Toll, toll the bell!
Greatness is o'er:
T'he heart has broke
To ache no more!"
WALTER SCOTT
It was in the arms of Mr. Merton that, in a
deep swoon, the unhappy Maud was borne from
the chamber of death.
'Not there, sir, not there," said the old
housekeeper, in a melancholy whisper, as with
a face of wo she preceded the good clergyman,
and saw him stop before the door of the miser-
able girl's former apartment. "Not there now,
if you please;" and, leading the way along the
gallery, she threw open the door of the grand
state apartment, fitted up with rich though an-
cient furniture. In its time it had been more
than once occupied by royal guests; moreover,
it had been, through many generations, the bri-
dal chamber of the Sutherland family, and even
in the midst of her unfeigned misery, the at-
tached servant's great hobby could not be for-
saken-her tenacious regard to the primitive
customs of the family.
The good woman acted with the best inten-
tions, though it did seem to the pitying clergy-
man a very mockery, when, according to Mrs.
Power's directions, he proceeded to place his
poor inanimate burden on the gorgeous bed,
with its rich crimson velvet hangings, and an-
cient satin coverlet embroidered with gold and
divers coloured silks, now faded and timeworn,
though still preserving much of its original
splendour.
Maud was a bride indeed; but as she lay, pale
and motionless, more like the bride of death was
the poor corpse-like figure.
The physician had been summoned, and to
his care did Mr. Merton leave her in order to
seek the mourners, who, unlike the insensible
girl, were fully alive to the consciousness of
their misery.
his frame when he ventured to pronounce
Maud's name, and reverted to her present state,
hoping that some softer feeling might thereby
be called forth which might lead to assuage his
own afflicted heart.
But as the sound of the once-loved name re-
called with redoubled agony the circumstances
from which originated the heavy blow, he turn-
ed towards Mr. Merton a face over which an
ashy paleness diffused itself, and said,
"Mr. Merton, you will oblige me by not al-
lowing that man (whom may God forgive for
the misery he has brought upon this house) to
set his foot within these walls, much less to
presume to seek my presence: it would indeed
be an inexpressible relief to me if he were to
depart hence as soon as possible as soon”—
and his voice trembled and became husky-“as
soon as that unhappy girl is in a state to accom-
pany him. Forgive me," he continued, be-
coming vehement from grief as Mr. Merton at-
tempted some words of intercession, “but I can-
not change my feelings towards those who have
so cruelly struck my crown of happiness from
me, nor can you expect, in these bitter moments
of anguish, perfect resignation ;" and he buried
his face in his hands and again turned away.
Mr. Merton forbore to remonstrate; by sad
experience he knew the full extent of misery
which must be caused by
"A loss of her
That, like a jewel, has hung for twenty years
About his neck, yet never lost its lustre."
Mr. Sutherland's sufferings were deeply ag-
gravated, and the good clergyman attempted
not, by fruitless expressions of consolation, to
check the grief which must, in all cases, have
its free course; he therefore soon left him to
execute his wishes with regard to Mr. Percy.
And, in truth, the feelings of Mr. Merton were
far from lenient towards the man who had, by
his selfish, deceitful course, converted an abode
of light and joy into the dark dwelling of sor-
row and death.
When Maud parted from Harry Percy in the
shrubbery, he watched with fond admiration, not
unmixed with great anxiety, the receding foot-
steps of his beautiful bride until she disappeared
from his sight, and then he turned and took the
direction of the common, preferring solitude to
the idea of encountering the malicious scrutiny
of the old guardian of the cottage. He began to
pace to and fro on the smooth velvet turf with
quick, impatient step. Insensibly, however, all
the past cares and embarrassments of his life,
and the new colouring which might now be
given to his existence by the step he had just
taken, so engrossed his mind, that the time flew
quicker than he imagined, and on suddenly
awakening from his revery and looking at his
And much, indeed, of the heavenly balm of
comfort did the bereaved husband need, under
this overwhelming blow! At his feet, her head
leaning against his knee, sat poor May. She
"had wept her wo to stillness ;" and it was
only when Mr. Merton gently advised her to try
to take some rest that she gave way to a heart-watch, he found the hour had nearly elapsed,
rending burst of grief, and throwing her arms
round her father, besought him not to bid her
leave him.
Let her stay," said the latter; "she is now
all I have to love in this dreary world."
and all his eagerness and anxiety returned:
Night was spreading its sable mantle around
him, and a calm, peaceful influence reigned over
every surrounding object.
He remained within a very short distance of
"All!” thought Mr. Merton; "is, then, that the little gate, every instant expecting to see
poor drooping flower to be now cast away, issuing from it the promised messenger; per-
when she so sadly needs the comfort of affec-haps-could he dare to hope it?-Mr. Suther-
tion to revive her?"
land himself: but the moments sped, and no onc
He could not, however, blame his friend, or
wonder at the shudder which passed through
came.
Suddenly the mournful sound of the tolling
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
71
of the passing bell from the village church re- | of his precious bride; and having so promised,
verberated through the quiet air.
Mr. Merton departed, leaving Harry Percy to
the solitude of his own torturing reflections.
The listener paused: it caused a shivering
sensation to pass through his frame, and a
weight of awe seemed to strike upon his heart.
He again walked quickly to and fro: again and
again, at intervals, the dismal knell smote upon
his ear. At last he heard the sound of voices
drawing near. For one moment he thought it
might be some of those for whom he so anx-
iously waited, and he hastily turned to meet
them; but no! he perceived only some children
returning with their faded garlands to their
homes.
"For whom is that bell tolling, my pretty
girl?" he inquired of a little maiden who loiter-
ed behind. The question was asked more for
the sake of something to say than that he really |
cared for the answer.
The child looked up in his face with an air of
surprise, and dropping a courtesy, said,
"The lady, sir!"
"What lady?" he now asked, with some in-
terest, of the elder girls, who returned to hear
what he was saying to their young companion.
Why, sir," they answered, all staring at him
with grave, surprised faces, "don't you know?
the poor lady of the Manor?"
"Who? what?" stammered Percy, all aghast;
you cannot possibly mean Mrs. Sutherland?
Good God!”
Yes, sir! Mother says she broke her heart
when she heard Miss Sutherland was gone to
be married.”
"Sir," added a woman, in a sad tone, who
now joined the group, "I have just heard tell
that the doctor says it was a bloodvessel that
burst, and-"
But they all shrank back in terror as Harry,
clapping his hands to his forehead with violence,
burst forth into a frantic exclamation of horror
and wo, and with rapid strides darted forward
and disappeared from their sight.
It was thus that, on leaving the house of
mourning, Mr. Merton met him, and all harsh
feelings melted away at the sight of the fearful
agony with which the miserable man listened
to the confirmation of the dreadful tidings. His
sufferings, his despair, were indeed heart-rend-
ing to behold.
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CHAPTER XLII.
"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath,
I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death.
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done."
MRS. HEMANS
WHEN Mr. Merton returned to the Manor, he
was struck with "the much change in a little
time" which its aspects had undergone.
He bethought him of Eden, once so blissful,
but into which disobedience had brought both
death and misery.
Two hours had elapsed, and still Maud had
not recovered from the deep stupor into which
she had fallen.
Mr. Merton left the poor unconscious girl to
repair to the bedside of the widower, who, after
exerting himself sufficiently to give a few neces-
sary directions, listened, exhausted and subdued
in body and mind, to the voice of the excellent
man as he spoke of the life beyond the grave-
of the joy unspeakable, which the loved and lost
one was now so purely tasting! Mr. Merton
was at length abruptly called out of the room by
Mrs. Power, who weepingly exclaimed,
"Oh, sir, in mercy go to Miss Sutherland—I
mean--alack! alack! that I should live to see
this day-my poor young lady! I had prayed,
sir, she might open her eyes once more, but
never! oh, sir, it is far, far worse-God grant
she may not have lost her senses; but oh! to
see her-to hear her-it breaks my old heart!
Lucy is the only one now with her: I sent away
the doctor-I could not bear that he should
listen to her raving; oh, dear sir, come and
calm her, for the love of Heaven! Alas! alas!
this is a sore punishment for a piece of youthful
folly: but the Lord knows best !"
And the poor woman wrung her hands and
bitterly sobbed as she led the way to a scene of
misery too heart-rending for description.
Maud had recovered her consciousness. With
a piercing shriek of anguish, all the awful oc-
currences burst upon her senses, and when Mr.
Merton entered the room, she started up and
sat erect, with frantic agony depicted on her
countenance, and her large, wild eyes gazing
round with fearful intenseness, while in a voice
of thrilling vehemence she called upon her
mother-her precious mother!
He besought to be allowed once more to see
the face-the angel face of that beloved, perfect
being the being he would willingly have died
to save. Oh! that he might kneel beside her,
‘and in penitence and prayer implore the pardon
of Heaven for a sin which all the future years
of his life spent in bitter repentance could never
expiate. But Mr. Merton interrupted him, and "Oh! well is it," thought Mr. Merton, "that
taking his arm, led him to his own house, and the ears of the mother are closed, as we hum-
informed him, as gently and delicately as he bly hope, to aught but songs of joy-her eyes to
possibly could word it, of Mr. Sutherland's de-aught but blissful visions: she is spared much
sire that he should not enter the Manor; but
when Percy heard of the alarming state of his
dearly-loved Maud, it was with the utmost diffi-
culty Mr. Merton prevented him from rushing
forth to share her misery, and watch over her
in that hour of agony.
of sorrow, caused, perchance, by the child whom
to hear but sigh once grieved her tender heart.”
Fearful indeed was it, during the long hours
of the succeeding night, to listen to the lamenta-
tions of a daughter, mingled with self-accusing
cries and groans of remorse. Too loudly, too
At length, overcome by the arguments of the fiercely raged the water-floods around her tem-
clergyman, and subdued to feebleness by grief, pest-tossed spirit to allow the words of love and
he consented to remain at the Parsonage on mercy to be heard or heeded. The terrors of
condition that he should receive constant ac- Divine wrath alone filled her soul-the curse
counts of the poor suffering party-above all, I pronounced on disobedient children; and she!
72
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
for her there could be no forgiveness, no mercy!
Henceforth she must be an outcast-from heaven
and those she loved on earth, branded, like the
first murderer, with the mark of guilt on her
forehead.
worse than Cain, for she had killed her mother! | to Mr. Sutherland the situation in which he
now stood, and to ascertain his wishes respect-
ing his daughter. He hoped that arrangements
might be made to enable him to depart imme-
diately for the Continent.
In his present
wretched position, he added, it would be an
unspeakable relief to depart, and he considered
change of scene, and his anxious, tender sym-
pathy, would alone mitigate the violence of the
poignant grief of his beloved Maud,
It was not till the morning light streamed
through the crevices of the shutters, and the
birds began their early song, that, covering her
face as if to shut out all light and drown all
sounds of gladness, at last totally exhausted,
To all this Mr. Merton could not but agree.
the wretched girl lay passively listening to the He, however, with grave reproof in his tone,
voice of Mr. Merton, who, kneeling by her bed-mentioned the indispensable necessity of the
side, offered up a solemn prayer for the troubled marriage being solemnized in proper form.
in spirit. Gradually a comparatively calm ex- this, of course Mr. Sutherland would insist.
pression pervaded her countenance, then a sort
of stupor succeeded-sleep it could scarcely be
called-and leaving her to the care of Lucy, Mr. |
Merton arose and bent his steps towards the
Parsonage.
According to his promise, he had despatched
a messenger late on the preceding night and at
the earliest dawn of morning with intelligence,
painful as it was, to Harry Percy, therefore the
good clergyman was not astonished at the pale,
careworn countenance which he beheld on
reaching his home.
And soon he learned that troubles of a dif-
ferent nature had also intruded their weight into
the already heavy-laden heart.
That morning's post, just arrived, had brought
a letter from Mr. Percy's lawyer, informing him
that his affairs had reached such a climax that,
unless pecuniary assistance was obtained, he
could not answer for the personal safety of his
client; he therefore advised his immediate de-
parture for the Continent.
But what was to be done? Could he, ere
the grave had closed on her mother, hurry
away his bride? Yet go without her was im-
possible! Mr. Merton, on listening to this an-
nouncement, was more than ever struck with
the utter selfishness of Percy's late conduct, to
say the least of it, and he trembled to think of
the wretched future which presented itself to
the poor girl, who was to be taken from a hap-
py home to share the disgraceful fortunes of a
ruined gamester. Had Percy imagined that
her splendid prospects were to extricate him
from all difficulties? If mercenary motives
alone prompted him to the act, would the un-
happy Maud be less an object of pity?
Mr. Merton thought it improbable that Mr.
Sutherland would assist the man who had al-
ready received such pecuniary benefit from his
hands, and had so ungratefully abused his con-
fidence-whom he never had so much cause to
loathe and condemn; indeed, from what had
fallen from his lips in his last interview, Mr.
Merton feared that the once-cherished child
could no longer even hope for a continuance
of her father's love, much less expect to stand
in the situation of heiress to his vast riches.
And Percy warmly declared that no con-
sideration would tempt him, even if offered
which, of course, was quite out of the question
-to accept farther assistance from his uncle.
No, he must submit to the evil fate which he
so fully deserved he only grieved for her who
must share it with him; she, indeed, merited
a far brighter destiny.
:
He, however, begged Mr. Merton to explain
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On
And I trust," said Mr. Merton, "that you
agree with me on this point, and the neces-
sity for your journey being postponed a day or
two-"
My dear sir," interrupted Percy, "I have
not a word to say against your proposal. I
agree to every syllable you have uttered, and
had, of course, always intended that the mar-
riage should be solemnized in a Protestant
church immediately on our reaching the Conti-
nent. The delay of a day or two, I should not
think, would matter, but I confess that, under
existing circumstances, I should not wish to
defer my departure beyond that period.
CHAPTER XLIV.
"Fear me not;
I will not rush into the holy presence
With frantic outcry, and with violent steps
Most unbecoming mid the hush of death.
But I, with footsteps gentle as the dew,
And with suspended breath, will reach her bed;
There, silent as she is, so will I be,
Lying beside my mother in her sleep,
With my head upon her bosom, cold-cold-cold."
WILSON.
No obstacle arose on the part of Mr. Suther-
land to the wishes of his son-in-law. Without
comment he listened to Mr. Merton's commu-
nication that the affairs of Mr. Percy rendered
his speedy departure absolute; and when Mr.
Merton, trusting that some tender considera-
tions for Maud might at last call forth a kind
inquiry or remark, added,
"And your poor daughter! she, I suppose—”
"Must follow," was the answer, "the for-
tunes of her husband whose love she preferred
to—"
His lips quivered, and he covered his face
with his hands.
After a pause he continued in a voice of
forced calmness,
"Merton, I am not in a state to discuss so
painful a theme. I know what your kind heart
would dictate, but it cannot be. My over-
whelming sorrow has completely swallowed
up every tender feeling; and, fearful to say, I
feel that it will be a relief when the child-once
the delight, the pride of my life-shall have left
this roof. To see her would destroy me so do
not ask it.”
Again he paused and sighed heavily.
"Of course the marriage must be solemnized
in a respectable manner ere they depart," he
at length resumed, "and then let him—Mr.
Percy-know that all farther communications
concerning pecuniary matters must pass through
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
73
the medium of my solicitor. You will, my
good friend, make every arrangement for the
ceremony; and let me be spared the pain of
discoursing upon this subject-let not even her
name be mentioned before me, lest," he con-
tinued, vehemently, "lest I be tempted to
curse it! God forgive me! Oh, Mary! my
own sweet, angel wife-my treasure!" he ex-
claimed, with an irrepressible burst of grief,
forgive me also; but remembering how ten-
derly you loved her does but increase the black
ingratitude of this deed of self-willed disobedi-
ence, which destroyed your precious life. Oh,
Mary! my beloved-my murdered wife !"
It was with a heavy heart that Mr. Merton
proceeded to Maud's chamber to prepare her
for the speedy removal from her home, and for
the ceremony which was to precede it; but she
listened with a calm look of hopeless misery,
which plainly told how incapable was any out-
ward circumstance from adding to her present
wretchedness; she testified no emotion when
she spoke of her father, sister, or husband, ex-
cept that a slight shudder seemed to pass through
her frame at the sound of the last name, which
caused a feeling of redoubled grief in the heart
of her kind friend. The thought flashed through
his mind, Had she sacrificed all her best hopes
and happiness for the vain phantom of fancied
love?
With this fearful idea painfully possessing his
mind, Mr. Merton gently alluded to the sacred
nature of the vow she was again about to pro-
nounce, and affectionately pointed out to her
how, by her exemplary conduct as a wife, she
might testify her repentance for her errors as a
daughter.
As the good man thus spoke, a faint ray, al-
most approaching to something like hope, il-
lumined her wan countenance, and covering her
face with her hands, she murmured, in a low,
hollow voice, "Oh, Harry, Harry!" and there
was a sound of tenderness mingled in the tones
of deep emotion as she pronounced these words,
which at once reassured Mr. Merton on one
point, that of her ardent love for Percy.
Another weary day had passed over the
mourners' heads. Mr. Merton had given Per-
cy hopes that all necessary preparations for the
ceremony would be completed without delay.
An old clerical friend was to perform the ser-
vice, as he would, on that occasion, act as a fa-
ther to the bride.
On returning to the Manor in the evening he
was met by Lucy, who informed him her "young
lady" (all shrunk from calling her by her new
name) had repeatedly asked for him, and seem-
ed most anxious for his arrival.
Mr. Merton, therefore, immediately repaired
to Maud's room, and found, to his surprise, that
she had risen froin her bed, and was seated in
a large, old fashioned tapestried chair, her hands
clasped tightly together, and no farther signs
of animation visible than the slight heaving of
her bosom beneath the white wrapper which en-
veloped her drooping, slender form.
When, however, the mild voice of the cler-
gyman broke upon her ear, she started up, and
laying her hand on his arm, fixed her eyes on
him, while in a low, husky, but determined voice
she said, "Mr. Merton, I must see her!"
replied: he dreaded the effects that such a sight
might produce. Still, could the state of the
wretched young girl be worse than it was now?
Not one single tear had yet relieved her bursting
heart. Might not the sight of the calm, heav-
enly face, on which "the rapture of repose"
seemed so truly painted, yield a softening influ-
ence, and cause the pent-up fountain of her
tears to flow.
"My dear child," he at length said, looking
with deep affection and anxiety on her enfeebled
frame, as, unable to support herself, she again
sank back on her chair, though her eyes were
still riveted on his face, "are you prepared for
such a trial? Do you feel equal to look, for the
first time, on that which, though in its fairest
form, is still death?"
"I am I am," was the gasping answer;
"what now could I not endure? Mr. Merton,
I feel an earnest, an intense longing to look on
that sweet face once more; and if that look
were to kill me, I must-I will! Oh! prevent
me not," she cried, clasping her hands beseech-
ingly, "unworthy as I am! So soon shall I
depart, never, never to see her more: oh, while
I yet remain, let me be near her. I will be
calm-oh, yes! near her I shall be calm. Dear,
kind, best of friends! you who have not forsa-
ken me in my bitter misery, complete your act
of mercy and take me-oh, take me to her!"
With a voice almost inaudible from emotion,
Mr. Merton promised to comply, and shortly af-
ter, supported by him, the mourner entered the
chamber which, when last she left it, had re-
sounded with her cry of agony; but now
"The silent room
Was veil'd in sadly soothing gloom,
And ready for her last abode,
The pale form like a lily show'd."
She knelt beside that form, bowed her head, and
motioned that she would be alone-alone with
the dead!
remove the veil from that solemn, sacred hour?
Who would presume to paint the feelings or
Suffice it to say that beneath its influence
"The imbitter'd spirit's strife was calm'd."
The moments were not spent in vain, but
proved in mercy that
"Smitten friends are angels sent on errands full of love."
Would that it were ever so !
Mr. Merton had repaired to the boudoir where
Mrs. Power was preparing a couch, in order
that Maud, according to her earnest wish, might
spend in it the short time that remained previ-
ous to her departure. He was meditating on
the propriety of leaving her any longer thus
alone, when he heard a gentle footstep on the
stairs, and through the boudoir door, by the
light of the lamp she carried, he descried a
young face, on which a touching look of deep
sadness, mingled with resignation, was depicted.
It was May! She approached the door, and
slowly, with the light tread of one fearful of
awaking a slumberer from a gentle sleep, she
entered the chamber of death.
Mr. Merton and Mrs. Power looked at one
another, the former anxiously; but the old
housekeeper said, the tears starting to her eyes,
"You need not fear for her, sir! dear young
creature, it is not the first time she has been
there! No, hour after hour has she passed
He whom she thus addressed paused ere he seated by her mother's remains, like an angel
K
74
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
watching over the cold corpse. It is well,"
she continued, very well, that the sisters
should be brought together; it will do them
both good; and it does break my heart to see
that poor darling child mourning alone, while
those who are nearest and dearest to her weep
together and comfort one another, her dear
kame only increasing their grief, and making
them shudder as if she were really the wilful
murderer of her sainted mother; but, though
headstrong, God knows! she loved my lost
mistress as dearly as one human being could
love another."
The meeting of the sisters, though at first
agonizing, was truly salutary in its effects.
When May perceived the drooping figure
bending over the coffin, for a moment she stood
motionless, the blood rushing coldly to her heart,
and Maud covered her pallid face with her
bands, and shrunk down, as if to hide herself
from the gaze of intensity which shot from those
mild, sorrowful eyes, which seemed to her to tell
of horror and reproach.
But what passions save grief and love can
intrude into the presence of the dead? All
others are ever hushed within sight of that
"stern repose."
Another instant, and the sisters were locked
in each other's arms, and the tears of Maud
mingled with those of May. They were the first
healing drops that had fallen from her eyes, and
she shed them on her sister's bosom; and then
kneeling, the two fair creatures poured forth a
fervent prayer together by the coffin of their
mother, as from infancy they had prayed by her
side; and as that beloved parent lay mute and
motionless, she seemed still to smile upon them
(<
Through those soft eyes,
Whose light had fleeted to its parent skies."
Mrs. Power was right. When Mr. Merton at
length entered the apartment, one slight figure
was leaning for support against the other droop- |
ing form; they were even as two lilies bent by
the blast, and clinging together as they faded
and fell, beaten down by the storm.
consolation the sufferer was deriving from the
words of heavenly comfort which flowed from
the lips of their good friend.
The
Suddenly the door slowly opened.
mourners turned their eyes languidly towards
it, and then from Maud there issued a faint cry:
it was her father! Yes, it was her father;
though in the haggard face, which, bewildered
by grief, gazed around, almost blinded by the
agonizing remembrances which the sight of that
room called forth, she could scarcely recognise
the joyous, smiling, almost youthful counte-
nance of him who had been wont to hasten to
this very spot to meet the affectionate bursts of
welcome from her upon whom he had just
gazed, now cold, immovable, unmindful of his
love-his wretchedness-his presence!
But soon he perceived that he was not alone,
and his eyes wandered from one of the group to
the other, and suddenly a change came over his
wan countenance, and he abruptly turned to de-
part. But, ere he could reach the door, his
steps were arrested, his knees were convulsive-
ly grasped Maud was at his feet! She raised
her face to his, and with a painful effort gasped
the words,
:
Father! father! one word! one word in
mercy-oh father!"
He made an impatient, a violent, but ineffec-
tual effort to disengage himself from the tena-
cious grasp, and then looking down upon her,
he spoke in a voice hoarse and inarticulate :
"And what must that word be—a blessing?
Am I to invoke a blessing on the child who has
proved a very serpent, and stung even to death
the angel of my heart-the mother who loved
her as angels only can love. Ay! I have looked
upon her as there she lies, never again to speak
to me, never again to smile on me; I have
kissed for the last time her icy brow, and”—
he cast an appealing look at Mr. Merton and
May-" she asks me to bless her-she! the
murderer! Why does she hold me thus?" he
again exclaimed, with frantic energy ;
"does
she wish me to curse her? She will drive me
A beneficial effect was evident on the heavy-road!"
laden heart of Maud, but the comparative tran-
quillity which had infused itself into her stricken
soul was soon to be disturbed by a scene - a
trial, perhaps, the most severe that the unhappy
girl had yet endured.
CHAPTER XLV.
"Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous when thou show'st thee in a chila
Than the sea monster!
*
*
*
That she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child !"-SHAKSPEARE.
THE night had passed. Maud had slept at
intervals on the couch prepared for her in the
boudoir, but her eyes were far oftener wander-
ing over every object in the now melancholy
room. She held tightly grasped in her hand a
note from Percy, which, through the long, dreary
hours she never relinquished.
Mrs. Power alone watched by her, but when
morning dawned Mr. Merton was by her side.
May, too, had stolen from her bed, and was
seated at the feet of her sister, from whom she
was so soon to part, sharing in the hope-in the
And once more he strove to unclasp her arms
from around him; but, meeting the agonized
expression of her upraised face, he seemed
somewhat softened, and turned to Mr. Merton
as if beseeching him to do so for him.
"Mr. Sutherland," began the latter, in a tone
of mild reproof, "let not your grief make you
forget whose hand has smitten you: crush not
by your anger the already sorely-bruised reed
at your feet. True, she has deeply erred; but
still, forgive her ere she leaves you; forgive
her, as you yourself hope to be forgiven
you hope to meet hereafter her who, in well-
founded faith, we trust is now in perfect bliss."
as
"Father father!" then spoke May, she also
falling at his feet, "my sister's heart will break
if you leave her thus! Speak, I implore you,
one kind word. Oh, father! think what she-
your beloved-would have felt to see her daugh-
ter thus! Oh, think-remember how she bless-
ed her with her last-her dying breath!"
"She-she was an angel-an angel even
when on earth," exclaimed the father, passion-
ately, "and I-I am a sinful man, unable to
bow to the stroke--to bless the hand that has
smitten me, much less to look upon the instru-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
75
ment of his just and merited wrath. What
sharper instrument can be chosen to punish an
erring creature than a disobedient, ungrateful
child !"
A deep groan burst from the wretched Maud,
but he continued with vehemence,
"I well deserved the punishment; and if her
ingratitude had fallen on me alone, I could have
borne it—I had not dared to murmur, for it was
I who fostered the germes of her wilful spirit.
I reproved not, I checked not her faults: I left
them to grow with her growth, and strengthen
with her strength, and I deserve to reap the
consequences of my own selfish indulgence.
Yes, and I told her I could bear it all-anything |
--so that she grieved not her mother. Hush, |
May! stop me not! She has forced me to
speak: these are the last words of reproach she
will ever hear from me. I would fain have
avoided this scene: I knew the sight of her
would madden me. She heeded not my words
of warning: she-she did grieve her doting
mother-she broke her heart! and wherefore?
to unite her fate with the false, the dishonour-
able, the treacherous-"
"Father, spare her, oh spare her!" cried
May, in her turn clasping his knces, for her
sister's arms had at last relaxed their hold, and
she was prostrate at his feet. "Can you see
her thus, and not pity her? Oh, raise her, I
beseech you, father-she is so soon to leave
you-far from hence will she soon be. Oh, fa-
ther, should you never see her more! oh! think
of this were you never to behold her on earth
after this bitter parting! and oh! to think that
such angry words should be spoken so near to
her, who in life loved poor Maud so tenderly!
יין
May-May," cried the wretched man, "are
you too against me? Was I not sufficiently
miserable that I must yet endure this? Yes,
you say true: she did love her, and therefore I
will not curse the miserable girl—and I will not
even curse him! the destroyer of my happiness
-the traitor! For her sake I will refrain, for
she loved him-yes, she whom he has destroy-
ed. And I will pray, poor child," he added, in
a softened tone, and at the sound, she who was
supported in her sister's arms raised her eyes
with eager, longing, yearning hope to his face,
"I will pray," he said, "that too late you dis-
cover not that the heart for which you have
sacrificed so much prove of itself a curse far
greater than any I could invoke on your head.
May you never live to see your husband despise
the love you have bestowed so wilfully on him.!
may your children never bring upon you direful
misfortune, as one of mine has done-the one
whom Heaven only knows how I loved! and
she too-lost angel! oh God, how she adored
her-poor, unhappy child!"
These last words were uttered in a tone sti-
fled and subdued; and as if softened by some
tender recollection, Mr. Sutherland suddenly
raised the half-fainting form from her sister's
arms, strained her for one brief instant to his
bosom, then gazed for another in her face with
eager tenderness, while her head sunk on his
shoulder.
|
The next instant a convulsive shudder passed
over the father's frame; he averted his head,
for a small white hand touched his, and on the
third finger he beheld a wedding ring-the badge
of his daughter's disobedience and he shrunk
back as if he had touched a poisonous reptile.
"What am I about!" he gasped; "do I hold
in my arms the destroyer of her mother? Take
her away! take her to him to whom she now
alone belongs! Do you hear? take her from
me, lest I am tempted to dash her to the ground,
and call down the vengeance of Heaven upon
her."
Weakened by his passionate emotions, Mr
Sutherland's arms unconsciously relaxed their
hold, and Mr. Merton, who had retired from the
apartment on perceiving signs of Mr. Suther-
land's relenting, was recalled by a cry from May.
He found that Mr. Sutherland had sunk, half
fainting, on the sofa, his face buried in the
cushion, and Maud lay at his feet, while May
hung over her pale and weeping. Motioning to
May to withdraw her father from the room, Mr.
Merton raised the almost lifeless form in his
arms she was indeed again insensible to her
misery.
"Poor stricken lamb!" exclaimed the good
man, God help thee; and now that thy earth-
ly father has forsaken thee, may He be thy sup-
port !"
CHAPTER XLVI.
"What!
No bridal pomp, no hymeneal song!"
MILMAN.
THE first words that Maud spoke on recover-
ing from the fainting fit were to beg that she
might be taken to Harry.
"What right have I to remain here!" she
exclaimed. "Does he not ask for me? does he
not wish to see his unhappy Maud? if not, I
am indeed desolate.”
Mr. Merton soon satisfied her on that point,
and it was decided that all should be arranged
for her departure on the morrow.
May, with a bursting heart, busied herself in
making arrangements which might promote her
sister's comfort, and the attached Lucy was
easily persuaded by May's entreaties to follow
the changed fortunes of her young lady.
"I am as ready to go with her now," she
said, "as if, in happiness and riches, it had
been with dear Captain Arthur. Poor young
gentleman! The servants who come from the
Castle with inquiries say, Miss May, that he has
been very ill-for two days in great danger—
quite out of his mind, like-and no wonder, too."
Yes, poor Arthur," murmured May,
seem all to have forgotten you in your misery!"
*
*
*
*
-X+
*
*
we
The morning canie. Maud, at an early hour
and alone, entered the chamber of the departed,
and came forth from it with features as calmly
rigid as those she had gazed on for the last
time, was pressed convulsively in the arms of
her broken-hearted sister, and then gave a sign
to Mr. Merton that she was ready to depart.
Unconscious of aught around her, she passed
Oh, gladly would she have died in that bliss-
ful moment. May clasped her hands and look-through a train of weeping servants in the hall,
ed up, tears of thankfulness streaming from her
eyes, but this sensation was of short duration.
and, accompanied by Mrs. Power and Lucy, en-
tered the carriage which conveyed them to the
776
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
village church. At the porch stood Harry Per-
cy, in a state of great agitation.
He sprang forward, caught his bride in his
arms, and silently pressed her to his heart; her
veil shrouded her face.
"I can walk, Harry," said a voice so calm
that he in a measure recovered his own com-
posure, and gently assisted her to the ground.
Arm in arm they approached the altar, and
stood side by side before it. The venerable
clergyman who was to perform the ceremony
was already there.
Mr. Merton took his place by the side of the
bride, and Mrs. Power and Lucy stood behind.
And thus was a Sutherland married: no gay
troop of smiling friends-no crowds of tenants
of faithful dependants of happy children
showering bright flowers on the bridal path!
An awful stillness reigned around.
Flowers indeed decked the bosom of the bride,
but they were a faded bunch plucked from her
dead mother's coffin; and close to the altar, a
few paces from the spot on which she stood,
yawned the open vault, already prepared to re-
ceive that mother's cold remains. Mrs. Power
stood, her hands clasped, her head shaking
from side to side, her eyes upraised: "Icha-
bod! Ichabod! thy glory has departed!" she
might indeed have exclaimed.
It was at the moment when the answer of
the bridegroom was to be given to the solemn
question which precedes the plighting of troth,
that for an instant no answer came, and there
was a painful pause.
door. The good clergyman who had held her
at the font when she was christened-who, in
the days of her happiness, had been her friend,
and in her hours of agony her only stay-he
pressed her in his arms, and with tears mur-
mured a solemn blessing "The Lord keep
thee and bless thee, the Lord lift up the light
of his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace for evermore.”
Maud faintly murmured "Bless you!" then
threw herself into the trembling arms of the old
housekeeper, who sobbed out in broken accents,
My darling my beauty! your poor old Power
will love you to her dying day, in spite of all."
A small drizzling rain was falling, and the
sun was veiled by a heavy mist: the air was
damp and oppressive. It was the Sabbath, but
no idlers had collected in the churchyard: the
good feelings of the poor had told them they
were far better away. No person was to be
seen but the old sexton, who stood leaning
against the gate, and one other, who sat on a
flat tombstone by a ready-made grave, her aged
body bent nearly double over the stick on
which her hand rested, while, with an inquisi-
tive leer on her face, she watched the party as
they advanced, and then, as they passed on,
lifted up her skinny arm, and cast a nosegay at
the bride composed of funereal flowers.
damp blossoms struck the hand of Maud ere
they fell to the ground, and she shuddered fear-
fully. Harry Percy suddenly paused, and turned
angrily towards the aggressor.
The
"I did but give your bonny bride a wedding
posy," chuckled the crone; "let them bide
here: they'll serve for her when next she
comes, and maybe by that time you'll not care
much what be flung upon her, roses or rue."
These words were muttered as she hobbled
by the side of poor Maud, who hurried on with
her husband to the carriage.
It was broken by the sound of a suppressed
chuckle-a hyena-like laugh-behind the bridal
party from old Judith, who had entered unob-
served. Mr. Merton sternly signed to the in-
truder to withdraw, who, muttering some inco-
herent words, was heard slowly retreating down
the aisle. This brief interruption afforded the
bridegroom time to collect himself, and he gave They were the last parting accents which
the necessary reply; and shortly after the met her ear. Mr. Merton was too much agita-
words were repeated by the low voice of her, ted for aught but a yearning look of pity and
the sight of whose marble face-for she had love, and an earnest pressure of her cold hand.
removed the thick crape veil which had hither-And thus Maud departed from her home!
to shrouded it had caused him to lose the
power of speech, and to doubt whether it could
be the same bright, animated being who, but a
few days before, at a far different altar, had
plighted to him her faith.
*
*
*
*
*
"My life! my angel! one word-one look
to tell me it is my own Maud who once loved
me!"
These were the earnest, thrilling tones often-
derness which at length seemed to awaken her
from her stupor.
Harry, my cor Harry," she replied, in a
tone of deep pity, and covering her face; then,
in deprecating accents, she continued:
"My
poor Harry! Yes, I am Maud-the wretched
Maud to whom, in a rash moment, you bound
yourself: and will you too curse her-scorn her
cast her away?"
And Mr. Merton, as he marked her altered
aspect, remembered how Sunday after Sunday
he had watched our heroine as she entered the
church, with firm step and head erect, in the
pride of youth and beauty, conscious that every
eye was admiringly fixed upon her. Her full
voice, joining in the singing, still vibrated on
his imagination; but-and he sighed as he re-
membered it-she had ever stood in front of the
large family pew, as if she fancied herself a be- She was pressed to his heart, and words and
ing more to be worshipped than to worship. protestations, poured like a strain of rich and
Although her lips had moved throughout the soothing music on her ear, broke the spell into
service, her heart had not seemed to bear its which misery had thrown her every feeling, and
part in the solemn, awful words, when she pro-hope-almost joy-rushed back into her nearly
nounced herself to be a "miserable sinner;" paralyzed heart.
|
but the work had been done by a hand which
knows how to strike.
The service was concluded, and, supported
by her husband and Mr. Merton, the bride again
passed down the aisle.
The travelling carriage stood ready at the
The pent-up torrent of tears
again broke forth and flowed on the bosom of
her husband, who, while each tear was dried up
with kisses, spoke words which, for their equal
in fervour, in tenderness, perhaps rarely before
revived a woman's loving, trusting, clinging
heart.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
77
The poet has written,
"Woman, thy vows are traced on sand."
Well might that devoted sex retort,
11
"And man, where thine?"
CHAPTER XLVII.
"Low she lies, who bless'd our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise,
Her life hath pass'd away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep;
She is there of whom our souls were fond,
Then wherefore do we weep?"
MRS. NORTON.
THAT man, strong man, is less able than the
feebler sex to bear with fortitude the first agony
of affliction, is universally acknowledged, and
Mr. Sutherland was a striking instance of this
fact.
Even the one look he nerved himself to take
of the pale, lifeless form of his beloved wife,
proved too severe a trial for his fortitude, and
for a time robbed him of the resignation he had
been striving to acquire. From that moment he
never again left his own apartments until he
passed their threshold to follow to the grave her
from whom naught but the stern ravager, Death,
could have parted him, and on.returning to his
widowed home, his chamber was again his soli-
tary refuge. There he determined to spend all
his hours during the short space remaining, ere,
accompanied by May, he should depart for Scot-
land, where he intended visiting, after an ab-
sence of several years, an estate he possessed in
that part of the world.
Change, Mr. Sutherland felt, was absolutely
necessary, and when the plan was suggested, he
agreed to it immediately, little caring where he
carried his stricken heart. He was only impa-
tient to escape from the singing of the birds, the
He
like Crusaders and their stately dames.
scarcely knew that it was on a young, strong
arm he leaned as he passed to the church, along
the pathway lined with the village school-chil-
dren in mourning dresses, who, with looks of
serious awe on their faces, gazed on the coffin,
which they could scarcely believe, in reality,
contained the remains of their benefactress, their
ever-kind friend.
The heart-stricken widower knew not who it
was that, with the gentle tenderness of a son,
supported his half-fainting form in that dreadful
moment when, forever, the loved relic was hid-
den from his sight, nor who grasped his hand at
parting with a pressure which told that it pro-
ceeded from one who truly felt for him.
It was not until some hours afterward that he
learned from Mr. Merton that it had been Lord
Percival, who could only prevent Arthur Balfour
from setting off, ill as he was, to be with his
uncle on the painful occasion, by proposing to
take his place; and unable from weakness to
make any farther opposition, the afflicted young
man was forced to submit.
On the evening succeeding the funeral, Mr.
Merton informed Lord Percival that Mr. Suther-
land was desirous of seeing him, to learn if Bal-
four were really capable of the exertion of a
journey to Scotland.
A gleam approaching to pleasure had lighted
up the widower's wan face when the idea was
first suggested. The society of his young rela-
tive-he whom his beloved wife had cherished
as a son, whom in her last hours she had men-
tioned with such tenderness-it would indeed be
a solace; and even May smiled, for the first time
for many a weary day, when the proposition met
her ear.
Mr. Sutherland, although he at first dreaded
the exertion of seeing Lord Percival, in the end
felt cheered by the conversation of the kind-
and with Arthur Balfour for
the subject of their discourse, the time passed
quickly by.
perfume of the flowers, which made their way hearted young?
through the closed shutters and casement of his
darkened room. For where was she who had
so delighted in them? What now was light and
song to him but agony?
With May it was far different. She wandered
over every spot which most recalled her moth-
er's image, gazing on every object, listening to
every sound most loved by her. With a sinking
heart she anticipated the hour which was to
separate her from this, her sad, her only earthly
solace.
Ever communing in imagination with the de-
parted, she, who in life had been her constant
companion, still seemed in spirit to hover round
her path like an angel of comfort, and when she
sought her father, May could speak of the bliss,
the joy that blessed spirit was enjoying, till the
same sweet thoughts would calm the listener's
stricken heart.
It was the week after the funeral, while they
were thus employed, that Lord Percival was an-
nounced, and on his entrance he cast an anxious
glance after the slight figure in her sable dress
who retreated by an opposite door.
|
As Lord Percival was descending the stairs
after taking leave of Mr. Sutherland, he encoun-
tered a lady-like looking person, who, having
returned his bow, entered a room, from which,
ere she had closed the door, he heard a voice so
sweet, so sad, exclaim,
"Is Lord Percival still with papa ?"
Lord Percival inquired of the servant, "Who
was the lady ?"
"Miss Meyer, my lord, the lady who was gov-
erness here for many years," was the answer.
I wonder whether I might be allowed to
speak to her for a moment?" persisted Lord
Percival, as he glanced at a basket of hothouse
strawberries he had left on the hall table; "but
pray do not let me disturb Miss Sutherland,” he
said, as the servant withdrew to perform his er-
rand.
Returning quickly, Lord Percival was ush-
ered into a large, cheerful apartment, the for-
mer schoolroom, in which for so long Miss Mey-
er had exercised her too easy, yielding sway-
so she now thought with sorrow and self-re-
proach.
To satisfy Mr. Sutherland's anxiety respect-
ing Arthur Balfour, he was thus early admitted.
At the melancholy ceremony of the interment On hearing of the overwhelming affliction of
of Mrs. Sutherland, little did the chief mourner the Sutherland family, this attached person im-
know or heed those who stood around him in the mediately flew to offer her sympathy and as-
chancel, filled with ancient monuments of war-sistance to those who had ever treated her with
78
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
She turned away her head abruptly, withdrew
her hand, and flew from the room.
The young man, after earnestly following her
with his eyes till she disappeared from his sight
behind the flowery shrubs in the parterre, lin-
that kindness and consideration which had ren-
dered her situation as governess one of extreme
happiness. Her pupils loved her tenderly, and
well worthy of love and gratitude are those val-
uable persons who bear with never-failing pa-
tience the toil which mothers shrink from un-gered a moment with Miss Meyer, remarking
dertaking.
feelingly on the sad events that had occurred,
and while he spoke, he stooped to raise a flow-
er which had fallen from May's bosom at his
feet; for an instant he held it in his hand, but
on seeing Miss Meyer's quiet eyes turn upon
it, he coloured slightly, and with an embarrass-
A full return for her devotion did Miss Mey-
er receive from her pupils, not more from the
gentle, submissive May, than from Maud, with
all her impetuous self-will, who seemed, by her
after affection, desirous of atoning for all the
pain and trouble her heedless childhood had in-ed air laid it upon the table.
flicted.
"If you are fond of flowers, I would advise
The poor governess! how her heart bled you to keep that one," said Miss Meyer, com-
when she looked round the cherished school-posedly; "it is the finest specimen I ever saw
room, and recalled the career of that idolized of the—”
lovely torment," and then turned to weep and Then followed the longest of long botanical
to think of all that might have been done to have names, and he thanked her as, with the borrow-
given her erring pupil's character a different ed air of a connoisseur, he examined the unpro-
bias. And then she thought of Harry Percy, nounceable flower, and expressed his desire to
and it was with extenuating feelings that she accept it in order to show to his father's scien-
remembered him she thought of the affection-tific gardener at home. But Miss Meyer also
ate, agreeable creature peeping his handsome,
merry face into that very room, and who, in
spite of his fun and mirth, could nevertheless
converse both in a cultivated and rational man-
ner. Good, prudent Miss Meyer! perchance
you were too good looking and agreeable to be
quite safe from the charmer's influence-from
the weapons with which he used indiscriminate-
ly to attack.
smiled in her own quiet way. She was not so
blind as he supposed. She was perfectly aware
that a field-daisy would have been equally ac-
ceptable and precious had it chanced to have
fallen from the bosom of the gentle May.
*
*
*
*
The sun was sinking in all its expiring gran-
deur, darting its glorious beams through the
high Gothic windows of the large, silent hall,
But to return to Lord Percival.
casting gleams of light on the ancient portraits
Taking a hasty glance round the room, he--the calm, solemn faces- seemingly gazing
apologized for the intrusion, but said he had
promised Mr. Balfour-
May paused by the round table in the centre
of the hall, and stood with one hand resting on
it, the sun gilding her fair hair to a deep golden
tint, while she unconsciously fixed her eyes on
the composed, handsome face of one of the fe-
male portraits, which seemed to look down upon
her as though it said,
down upon their young descendant, so pale and
sad, who had glided noiselessly in, as if she
At that moment the room was suddenly dark-feared to break the stillness that reigned around
ened by a sabble-clad figure at the glass-door even by the sound of her light footstep.
which was about to withdraw, but on Miss Mey-
er saying, "Come in, dear May; it is Lord Per-
cival, and I am sure you will be glad to hear of
Mr. Balfour," she entered, her eyes bent sadly to
the ground, and the delicate colour, like the bloom
of a wild rose which the air had produced, dying
away as she languidly held out her hand to him.
The heart of the young man filled with ten-
derness as he gazed on her sorrowful face; and
as he marked the quivering lip, the tears which
trembled in her eyes as he spoke of Arthur Bal-
four, Lord Percival longed to take her in his
arms, and bid her weep those tears on his bo-
som. How ardently he desired to be permitted
to confess his love! but he felt this was not the
moment: he might only take her little hand in
his (he dared not even raise it to his lips), and
speak cold, courteous words of kindness.
"Our cousin, I assure you, Miss Sutherland,
has been well nursed by my sisters at Howard
Castle."
"We have all in our time suffered; in a few
years, all earthly joys and sorrows will have
passed away for you, as for those who are gone."
But no such stoical thoughts found their way
into the heart of May as she thus stood desolate
and alone. She was recalling to her mind the
merry Christmas party assembled there such a
few months before. And now the best loved-
the dearest of the group-was in her dark, cold
grave; the brightest-the loveliest-an outcast,
banished from that very roof by the father who,
from the happiest of the happy, was now bowed
down by misery. And Harry Percy - he who
had been the life, the gayety of the party, had
he not proved the serpent crawling beneath the
roses which had poisoned the happiness of Ar-
thur Balfour-of all ?
"Yes, you have all been very good," and for
the first time she raised her eyes-and they
were full of gratitude-while she again placed
her hand in Lord Percival's, who ventured to Desolate indeed she felt, poor May, who thus
retain it, while, in an inquiring tone of interest, mused on the eve of the day fixed for their de-
she continued,
parture from the Manor. She had just left her
"And he is really better-well enough to ac-father's side, the lawyer summoned from Lon-
company us?"
don to transact some important business having
"You will find him, I fear, much altered in arrived. Suddenly she was roused by the sound
*ppearance."
of a carriage rolling rapidly to the door, and as
"Of course-of course," she replied, in a hur-the great hall bell pealed loudly through the
ried, nervous manner; "no wonder we have quiet house, her heart seemed to die within her.
all had inuch to alter us, not only in looks, but In another moment Arthur Balfour stood before
in-and he "
!
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
79
her. In one brief glance she saw what ravages | ellers they chanced to encounter, and numerous
grief can make.
*
*
When, after a time, Arthur Balfour was suf-
ficiently composed to sustain an interview with
Mr. Sutherland, and entered his uncle's room,
the lawyer, Mr. Merton, and Williams, the but-
ler, were leaving it by an opposite door, and at
the table where Mr. Sutherland sat lay sundry
parchments and papers, one newly sealed with
black, and bearing on its corner, in large let-
ters, the ink scarcely yet dry, "My Will," giv-
ing testimony to the nature of the business just
transacted.
The next morning a barouche containing
Mr. Sutherland, May, Arthur, and Miss Meyer
drove from Sutherland Manor.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
"A foreign land is now her choice,
A foreign sky above her,
*
*
*
And circling flatterers hem her in,
Assiduous each a word to win;
But fitful were her smiles, nor long
She casts them to that courtly throng."
TAYLOR.
It was on a sultry day in August that, by the
open window of an apartment in the principal
hotel of that fashionable summer resort Wisba-
den, was languidly reclining on a sofa a lady in
deep mourning.
She was young and lovely, but the expression
of her fair face told that she had not been with-
were the conjectures as to who and what was
the being, so fair, so dejected, although tender-
ness the most devoted was lavished on her by
her husband. If, as it occasionally happened,
the Percys fell in with persons to whom Harry
was known either personally or by repute, the
pair were regarded with still greater interest,
for the rumour of the elopement and its direful
consequences had not failed to spread far and
near.
We English are far from being a cruel or
hard-hearted people, but (low be it spoken) we
are most assuredly a very gossiping race. Our
lethargic natures require excitement, and scan-
dal-that magic word, will animate the dullest,
the most phlegmatic of our natives. Right glad
were those fortunate mortals who could return
to London with the news that they had caught
a glimpse of Percy and his bride touring on the
Rhine; she, certainly a lovely, interesting crea-
ture, but looking most unutterably wretched,
and he, the gay Lothario, become an exemplary
Benedict-so devoted, so absorbed in the duties
of his new vocation! Some added that cer-
tainly they had heard a report (not that they be-
lieved it) that the lady had been cut off with a
shilling by her father. Others made their tale
still more acceptable by stating that rumours
were afloat that already the poor girl had reason
to rue her fate-that Percy treated her shame-
fully, even in those early days—that she was
dying of a broken heart!
And how really stood the case?
The drooping flower was reviving, and grad-
out sorrow. On a second glance, however, itually raising its head, under the fostering care
was difficult to determine whether melancholy of the most devoted love.
or happiness at that moment predominated
within her heart; for though at intervals the
colour would fade from her cheeks, and an ex-
pression of deep mental pain expand itself on
her countenance, her large eyes assuming a
leaden, fixed look, as if remembrances fraught
with agony were absorbing her thoughts, still
the dark clouds would pass away, the eyes again
become animated with light and life, and a
gleam like the roseate hues on the snow-peaked
Alps diffuse itself over her cheeks, while a proud
smile curled her lips, and her bosom heaved as
if some overflowing joy, painful even in its in-
tensity, was beating at her heart.
And this was Maud Percy: she whom, when
we parted from her three months before, had
sunk into overwhelming - apparently hopeless
misery, bowed down by sorrow!
And the fatal remembrance had taken deep
root in her nature, although the poignant grief
had been lulled by the fresh joys and hopes
which, in the buoyant heart of the young, will
naturally spring forth. But the sorrow was still
there,
"Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's light ray."
But what was the charm which could dispel
dark thoughts and transform gloom into light
and gladness? It was the wife's happiness
which softened the daughter's anguish.
And who among the most suspicious, the
most wary in the deceitfulness of mankind,
would have deemed Harry Percy aught but per-
fection, had they witnessed not only his devoted
affection, but listened to the eloquent words of
even religious consolation with which at times
he astonished his young wife! and then she
would turn to weep as she thought that if her
mother had but lived to see Harry now, and
hear him speak thus, how needless would have
been her fears for her child's happiness. Oh,
he was only too good for one so unworthy as
Maud inwardly confessed herself to be! It was
gratitude for her husband's unfailing devotion
that inclined her to struggle to arouse herself
from the apathy of misery which had weighed
her down, and at last enabled her to appear
more cheerful, her face to wear a more animated
expression; till by degrees she, in her turn, be-
gan to study and watch each change, each look
in the countenance of her husband, and it be-
came her part to soothe him when often a cloud
of dejection overshadowed its bright expression.
For his sake she endured with patience the
extreme annoyance of mixing in the society of
two or three young men, acquaintances of Percy,
whom they encountered on board a Rhine steam-
boat, as the idlers were hurrying from post to
pillar, and from pillar to post, in order to kill
Three months had been spent by the Percys time, and who were too enchanted to meet with
in visiting the picturesque neighbourhood of the "such an agreeable fellow" as Harry Percy, and
Rhine, but even that magnificent scenery failed thus found an ample inducement to pause in
to delight or interest the sad bride, and many their aimless, objectless course, and remain a
were the looks of pity, mingled with admiration short time at Wisbaden, where the Percys had
and curiosity, cast upon her by the fellow-trav-determined to pass the autumn.
80
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
The London men flattered themselves that
they were performing a very charitable part in
thus enlivening the banishment of a poor unfor-
tunate devil completely cleared out-and mar-
ried! and Maud, although at first she shrank
with distaste and dread from even the sight of
strangers, felt at last almost grateful, when, un-
der the influence of the gay and certainly agree-
able conversation of those young men, she be-
held Harry return once more to what he used to
be; his bright eyes, of late so heavy and mel-
ancholy, assuming again their peculiar arch ex-
pression, his own animated smile enlivening his
countenance as in days gone by! and his smile
was to her darkened heart as light, when it
streams upon a prisoner through the bars of a
dungeon.
Nothing either could be more considerate or
pleasing than the demeanour of her husband's
friends towards herself. Refinement of manner
is indeed a charm, and although we know that
it exists often in the most depraved, still it
stands alone in its fascination. The loveliness
of Mrs. Percy, over which a peculiar air of in-
terest was thrown by her deep dejection, and
which was still farther enhanced by her being
so entirely wrapped up in her husband, seemed
to elevate her in the estimation of these worldly
men, for in the frivolous society they frequent-
ed such a character was indeed a novelty.
But to return to the window of the Englischen
Hof, near which Maud was reclining, listening
to the merry voices of the group returning from
that place of public resort the Kursaal, and
where, after dinner, the party had rambled to
enjoy the cool shades of its walks and shrub-
beries, the lively sight of its motley assemblage,
and also (low be it spoken) to risk money, only
pour s'amuser, in those gambling chambers at-
tached to the establishment. The party which
approached the hotel were handsome, noble
specimens of Englishmen, and they sauntered
on, laughing and chattering gayly, till they ar-
rived within some yards' distance from their
place of destination, when one, the "stateliest
there of all" (so at least thought Maud, who
watched their approach), hurried on before the
rest, and disappeared within the house, not,
however, before he had paused a moment before
the window to speak in a voice of subdued ten-
derness a few gay words to our heroine, who
had started from the sofa and leaned eagerly
forward to greet him, her eyes glistening bright-
ly, her cheeks glowing with pleasure, and thus
highly gratifying the curiosity of some musta-
ched Germans, who, having once before caught
a brief glimpse of so fair a being, lingered near
the spot in the hope of again beholding her, and
were heard by Percy's companions to inquire
the name of the "die schöne," and then move
slowly off, leisurely puffing their meer-
schaums."
|
|
|
Harry Percy rising, broke the spell of perfect
happiness that short tête-à-tête had woven round
her. But she answered Mr. Gore's speech with
a faint smile, which changed in its character
when she looked up to her husband's face to in-
quire its meaning.
"Why, Maud," said the latter, with an arch
smile, "I only said that I thought you must
have fancied yourself seated at your window at
the Manor, with only the birds and deer to
stare at you, forgetting that there were different
| kinds of gazers at Wisbaden."
A stifled sigh and a bitter pang shot through
the young wife's heart when the Manor was
mentioned-in thought she had indeed been
wandering to that much-loved spot—but she re-
plied with a smile and a blush,
Oh, I am sure, Harry, I could not be seen
from where I sat-could I? The evening air
was so reviving after the sultry day, that it has
quite taken away my headache."
"The removal of your headache, Mrs. Percy,
has caused a severe heartache, I am sure, to a
whole bevy of Herrs, whom Percy's appearance
put to flight," remarked Lord George Damer.
A Maud Sutherland curl of the lip was his
lordship's reward for the implied compliment;
and on the servant entering with lights, Mrs.
Percy arose, and taking her netting, seated her-
self at the table, and entered into conversation
with her guests, her husband having in the
mean time retired into a distant corner, where,
with his head resting on his hand, he was peru-
sing some document, which an occasional groan
told was not of a very pleasing nature.
The handsome Mr. Lionel Vesey informed
Maud, by way of an agreeable piece of news,
that they had just heard that Lord and Lady
Templeton were expected that week at Wisba-
den-indeed, that Lord Templeton had written
to engage a suite of rooms at that very hotel,
and he congratulated Maud on the acquisition
her ladyship would be to her.
Maud did not express much delight at this in-
telligence, and, indeed, her heart sank within
her at the idea of having to exert herself to play
company.and associate with a gay London lady,
which she would now be compelled to do, for
the Templetons were intimate friends of Harry
Percy. She determined, at any rate, to implore
him to remove her to another domicil. She was
not at all equal to the undertaking, and the
sketch which Lord George proceeded to give of
Lady Templeton by no means lessened her dis-
comfiture.
'Though reckoned a fine lady, she is a very
agreeable woman when she chooses," he ended
by saying, "and of course she will be on her
good behaviour to you."
The bare idea of the fine lady was sufficient
for Maud, and she glanced towards her husband
as if to implore him to avert the infliction.
"I hope we have given our worthy friend "Come, Percy, my good fellow," cried Will-
time to deliver the eloquent lecture he had been iam Gore, "Mrs. Percy is already becoming
preparing for you, Mrs. Percy," said the Hon-jealous of the undivided attention you are be-
ourable William Gore, as he and two other
young men entered the Percys' sitting-room,
and approached the window where Maud sat,
her husband by her side, his arm encircling her
waist.
At the sound of the voice she suddenly looked
up, with a sigh of regret at their entrance, and
stowing upon that letter, and wishes to be made
a partaker of its exhilarating contents."
"Ah! indeed I won't trouble her with them
just now," replied Percy, rising, while he stuff-
ed hastily into his pocket the Lincoln's Inn
epistle; and in order to divert the anxious, ten-
der look of his wife, fixed on his pale counte-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
81
nance, exclaimed, in his usual gay voice, "By-
the-by, Maud, I am sure I beg you ten thousand
pardons for not giving you this before, but, by
Jove! that confounded despatch put it out of
my head," and he abstracted a sealed letter
from his pocket, and threw it on her lap.
Maud eagerly seized it, and the sight of May's
handwriting brought a flush to her cheeks and
glistening drops to her eyes, while in a tone of
delighted surprise she said,
"Oh, my dear Harry!" then added, in a tone
of mild reproach, " And do you really mean to
say you forgot it ?"
"No, Mrs. Percy, don't believe him; but I
am sure we are indebted to him-we should not
have kept you so long with us," said Lord
George, courteously, as Maud arose and was
re'reating from the room, with her letter in her
hand.
"Yes, that is always the way with ladies
when they receive letters," said Percy, as he
stood with his back to the fireless fireplace.
Come, Maud, I must have a song before you
go; if you once set off with that volume, we
shall have no music. Come, stay! read it here;
these good people promise not to disturb you."
Maud paused, and turned her beautiful face
towards her husband, as if uncertain whether
to obey the impulse of her own feelings or his
fancy. The eyes of Percy were fixed with a
pleased expression on her graceful figure. She
understood the look, and wavered no longer, but
ensconced herself in the same quiet corner
which Harry had previously occupied, to read
his despatch from England.
William Gore placed a lamp on the table be-
fore her, and shading her face with her hand,
she was soon lost in the contents of her letter,
which she perused with breathless eagerness.
CHAPTER XLIX.
"I had not thought to have unlock'd my lips
In this unhallowed air."-MILTON.
Ir was not the first letter Maud had received
from home. May had written soon after their
separation, but since that time all intelligence of
her father and sister had been received through
the medium of Mr. Merton.
It was some time before she could realize the
sense of the words of the epistle, for the paper
seemed to swim before her eyes, her heart beat
painfully, and her hands trembled so violently
that she could hardly hold it; but at length she
understood that May wrote that they had been
making a tour in Scotland, which accounted for
her previous silence, but now they were settled,
and she promised her sister to write constantly.
Tears were bedewing the letter-tears drawn
from mixed sources. The affectionate feeling
which ran through every line went to her very
heart, but still she felt that it was not the letter
a newly-married woman was wont to receive
from home, for a visible restraint mingled even
with every word of sisterly affection. Well she
understood the cause of this, and bitterly did it
wound her How could full confidence-en-
tire tenderness, be lavished on one who was
linked to the man whose name was a forbidden
sound, to whom she, the gentle, forgiving May,
avoided making the slightest allusion.
L
And yet this despised being had become part
of herself was doted on with an affection too
deep for expression. Every word and act of
odium or unkindness directed towards him must
strike her equally, for he was her all in all!
A bitter, angry feeling for a moment dried up
her tears, which not even a sentence in a post-
script which she saw had been interlined and
rewritten could subdue, although that sentence
was
"
My father, dear Maud, desires his love."
She pictured to herself kind May imploring
for permission to insert those few cold words,
and drawing at last from her father his reluc-
tant consent to this message of love, granted
only for the sake of the petitioner. How could
that love be sent but as a mere empty form to
one who, with his own lips, he called "the
murderer"-oh, dreadful name "the murder-
"the_murder-
er of her mother-a curse-a serpent in his
bosom !"
A feeling of darkness and dreariness was
strong upon her. The letter dropped from the
hand against which she leaned her burning brow,
and she mused for some minutes, till by degrees
her feelings softened and she raised the letter,
pressed it to her lips, placed it in her bosom,
wiped away the tears which again trickled down
her cheeks, and turned to seek him who she
knew by one smile could dissipate all her linger-
ing gloom.
Not till then did she become aware of aught
that was passing around her, or mark the con-
fused, and, to her ear, novel sounds that broke
upon her perception, for she had been seated
with her back to the rest of the party, and en-
tirely absorbed by the agitating emotion caused
by the perusal of her letter.
She now heard a succession of quick, rattling
noises, followed by loud, excited exclamations
of a description not the most edifying or pleas-
ing to a lady's ear.
She directed her eyes towards the spot from
whence the sounds proceeded, and at the far-
thest extremity of the unusually long apartment
saw assembled the four gentlemen, two seated
at a small table busily engaged at backgammon,
the others bending over them, exciting the per-
formance and themselves by a volley of anima-
ted betting. Maud gazed for an instant, and
then became aware that her husband was one
of the players, and that his usually musical voice
was the loudest raised amid the discordant din
of confused expressions and inharmonious ex-
clamations. In short, for the first time, Maud
beheld her beloved Harry engaged in the much-
dreaded pursuit which had ruined him. She
thought not of the word in its worldly sense, but
only remembered that it had ruined him in the
good opinion of her parents-of her lost moth-
er; that it was a pursuit which she had fondly
hoped he had renounced forever; in fact, she
beheld him engaged in what she supposed must
be gambling; that act, the very name of which
made her tremble with horror.
She knew not that, compared to his idea of
the employment, the manner in which he now
was playing was but mere baby's sport, and
poor Maud felt as much horrified as if she had
seen him in the most determined gambling-
house, with everything he possessed at stake.
Another moment she remained riveted to the
•
:82
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
spot, and then she arose and glided across the
room, unperceived by any of the preoccupied
party, and stood behind her husband's chair,
just as, having banged the dice-box furiously on
the board, a shower of oaths, echoed by a hearty
burst of laughter from his companions, issued
from his lips.
She laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and
murmured, in trembling tones of mingled alarm
and entreaty, "Harry !"
gradually she saw his glance stealthily wander
towards her face, and the flush on his cheek die
away. Their eyes met-he smiled-her coun-
tenance brightened, and her sweet notes gush-
ed out in all their fulness and melody.
You wicked Harry," said Maud, playfully,
as he accompanied her into the vestibule in or-
der to light her candle, "how could you dare to
shock me as you did this evening? Promise
never to do so more!"
He turned quickly round, and the gentlemen
"Never! my own darling, if it displeases
who were not playing glanced with surprise at you," and Harry affectionately embraced her.
the pale face of the young wife, whose eyes He returned to his guests, and Maud, perfectly
turned with an expression of such unfeigned reassured on this point, as she ran up stairs,
horror from Percy's excited face to the dice-box. heard, without the slightest misgiving, the vio-
They began a string of apologies for their lent ring of the sitting-room bell, which imme-
forgetfulness in having, as they feared, disturb-diately followed Percy's closing the door after
ed her. The colour rushed back to her cheeks,
for she perceived an air of impatience cloud for
an instant her husband's countenance as he ex-
claimed, in a careless tone,
"Well, well, we will be with you in an in-
stant, fair lady!" He gave another throw-
another exclamation, and then dice-box, board,
and all were suddenly precipitated from one
end of the room to the other, and, amid the irri-
tated remonstrances of his antagonists, and his
terrified wife's reproving exclamation of "My
dear Harry!" he arose, saying,
By Jove! there is no playing against such
devilish luck!"
'Yes, Mrs. Percy, it is too bad of him, is it
not?" drawled out Lord George, as he stooped
to pick up the fallen dice and scattered back- |
gammon men ; but if you take any interest in
such things, and will honour us with your coun-
tenance, Gore and I will have a hit or two,
which I promise you shall be conducted in a
more quiet, composed manner, and that none
of these late ebullitions of violence shall be ex-
hibited. You don't know him yet, Mrs. Percy;
he can be in a rage, I assure you."
"Thank you, Lord George; but you would
oblige me far more by ringing in order that
these things,” and she pointed to the offending
apparatus, " may be taken away, never again
to be introduced into my apartments."
Once more Lord George apologized, though
he was somewhat at a loss to divine in what he
had erred, unless it could be that she fancied
they had been guilty of disrespect in playing
before her. He could not imagine that the
mere act of a harmless hit of backgammon could
be so deprecated by the wife of so notorious a
gambler as his friend Harry Percy.
"And now," said Maud, in a tone of gayety,
as she followed her husband to the table, where,
taking up a newspaper, he had seated himself,
now I shall be happy to sing to you."
The gayety, however, of Maud was but as-
sumed, for Percy had murmured as he darted
an irritated glance at her, "My dear love, what
nonsense!" It was his first look-the first ac-
cents of the slightest approach to disapprobation
towards herself, and it was with a trembling
voice that, taking up the guitar which Harry
had lately given her, and fixing her eyes upon
him, she commenced one of his favourite airs.
For some time Percy raised not his eyes
from the paper, in which he seemed completely
absorbed, nor did he make any remark, though
one song was ended and another begun; but
him. She did not hear the subsequent order
issued by her husband, viz., that a card-table
should be set out immediately.
CHAPTER L.
"Vain the casual, transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance!
Beauty which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendent gems, and rich brocade!"
DR. JOHNSON.
"My dearest Maud, you will oblige me very
much by exerting yourself to overcome the re-
pugnance you express to the idea of meeting
Lady Templeton. Though it may be an inflic-
tion at first, I am sure you will soon find her
society an acquisition. I think it would really
be a blessing to you to have a lady companion."
"I want no one but you, Harry! I am not
in spirits to make myself agreeable to strangers,
and I always detested fine ladies; but if you
wish it, of course--"
"Thank you, thank you, my own sweetest,
I knew you would! Yes, I really do wish it.
Templeton is an excellent fellow, a great friend
of mine, and the acquaintance of such a person
as his wife will be an advantage to you, partic-
ularly when we return to England. It is every-
thing to a newly-married woman' getting into a
good set at first, and I am sure my beautiful
Maud need not be afraid of any fine lady in the
land: among a host she would shine the bright-
est."
"Afraid! Oh no, Harry, not afraid," she
answered, with a slight curl of the lip; "but
indeed," she added, with a sigh, as she glanced
at herself in a mirror, "I am not very brilliant
just at present," and she left the room to pre-
pare for a walk with her husband. The day
after this conversation the Templetons arrived.
Well, if that's a fine lady!" said Lucy, who
was dressing her mistress's hair for dinner
when the dashing of the travelling carriage up
to the hotel door, the cracking of the postill-
ions' whips, and the animated welcome of
Harry and his confrères, who were sauntering
about, was succeeded by a confusion of sounds
on the stairs, among which loud bursts of mer-
ry, hearty laughter, in a female voice, were the
most audible, "if that's a fine lady making such
a rumpus," continued Lucy, "she's no more
like one than I am! Well! did I ever-no,
never! And there's luggage for you!" she
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
83
added, as she leaned forward and cast a glance | tered by attentions and adulation, or some raw,
at the multitude of packages which, under the shy youth, who offers on the score of very grat-
superintendence of a Frenchified-looking maid itude for being made up to. No! depend upon it,
and valet, were being removed from the vehi- | young ladies, if you will cast an exploring look
cle. "What! not all yet? no, another, and around, you will find the quiet, retiring, modest
another! Now come the dressing-boxes: I girl, with even only moderate looks, preferred,
suppose the largest is my lady's! Bless me, when the beautiful highflyer is still single.
if there isn't a couple of pillows in blue silk Even among the most profligate, modesty in
cases! Oh, look at my lord's dandified velvet woman is duly appreciated, and be assured, if
and gold cap! Now five, six, seven volumes once a man discovers that there exists the
of books-novels, I suppose-and newspapers slightest laxity of conduct, he will act accord-
never ending! Well! did I ever see-no, ingly. He will amuse himself: laugh-talk-
|
never! I wish her joy, that parlez vous woman, romp-pay exclusive attentions-but then he
when she has to unpack all that she'd better will go away, and what will he do? Abuse—
not waste time in standing flirting and shrug- | ridicule-disparage—and show up, in the most
ging her shoulders at that silly creature, Mr.
Frampton. Well, she does talk pretty gibber-
ish! Why can't folks put up with maids of their
own country, I should like to know? But I
suppose those foreign bodies are more clever
at padding, and painting, and patching in false
hair, and such like abominations. For my
part, I cannot abide foreigners."
Lucy, having been from a child at the Manor,
had assumed a freedom of speech when address-
ing her young ladies which even Maud's posi-
tion as a married woman had not yet checked.
Come, Lucy, make haste and dress me,"
said Mrs. Percy, smiling," and do not talk any
more nonsense."
""
At this moment a loud ringing laugh, such
as had before astonished Lucy, was heard close
to the door of Maud's apartment, accompanied
by Percy's voice, who entered looking highly
diverted.
"Harry, is that the fine lady?" inquired
Maud.
"Certainly not-the countess is quite done
up by her journey-that's Lavinia Grantley, a
cousin of Lady Templeton, whom they have
brought with them to break the insipidity of a
conjugal tête-à-tête, which they vote a mon-
strous bore. Lavinia is a good-natured girl,
and the best fun in the world-noisy, as you
may hear! She's dying to see you, and would
have come in just now if I had given her the
slightest encouragement."
|
unsparing manner, the poor girl who has been
"the best fun in the world."
"How well my darling looks!" Percy ex-
claimed. "I do not think that either Miss La-
vinia or Lady Templeton can boast of anything
to be compared to this;" and he admiringly
passed his fingers through one of Maud's beau-
tiful ringlets.
There had been a time when Harry, under
the plea of disliking ringlets, had prevailed on
Maud Sutherland to alter her style of coiffure ;
but his object had been of a piece with the rest
of his conduct: it was only to triumph over
Arthur Balfour, and display his power over the
mind of his victim. Now he was as eloquent
in praise of her shining curls as he formerly
used to be in advocating the superiority of plain-
ly braided-hair.
Do you think there are any ringlets in the
whole world as beautiful as these, Lucy?" he
exclaimed; then added, "By-the-by, you must
scrape up a little French, or you will never get
on down stairs with so many mamselles."
"Thank you, sir, but I have no wish that
way," drawled out Lucy.
Maud indeed looked beautiful as, leaning on
her husband's arm, she entered the room where
the party assembled before dinner, and was in-
troduced to Lady Templeton and Miss Grantley.
The earl, who was standing near the window
talking to Lord George Damer, stuck his glass
in his eye and took a long survey before he ex-
erted himself to cross the room.
'Pon my soul !" he at length said, in a
scarcely suppressed tone, "she is rather good-
looking-wonderfully so, indeed, for an heiress!
the
Really, rather like the Duchess of
only woman I ever thought worth looking at."
•
What would the countess say if she heard
that speech?" inquired Lord George.
"Devilish fine hair-splendid eyes!" contin-
ued the earl, heedless of the interruption.
"Yes, Percy knew what he was about," ob-
served Lord George.
Does the reader understand what is intended
by the term sometimes used when describing
a young lady as "the best fun in the world?"
To us it does not sound well. It appears to
signify one who has the courage (we would
fain not use the word boldness) to allow things
to be said and done which a more modest, pure-
minded girl would shrink from with disgust—
nay, even fear: one who loves a good romp; who
will listen to, and, what is more, can understand
the mysteries of a double entendre: in short
(harsh as it may sound), who know how to put
men quite at their ease with them; but this is “Oh-ah! ran away, didn't they? Well, she
not good lact, to say the very least of it. Few looks as if she had plenty of the right sort of
mên are to be found, worth having, who think spirit- monstrous fine girl, certainly!" added
the fun sufficiently valuable to carry into mar- Templeton, as he dropped his eyeglass, lounged
ried life; few young ladies who are "the best towards Mrs. Percy, and, as dinner was an-
fun in the world" marry what we consider well.nounced, offered his arm to her with a look of
They go on from year to year amusing and perfect insouciance.
delighting the male species, but at the age of Poor Maud! how distasteful and jarring to
thirty or so, too often find themselves becom- her feelings were the noise and levity of that
ing rather passé, and their fun growing stale; the first dinner-party at which she had been
their playfellows wellnigh weary of the game; present since her marriage-for she had never
and their only remaining chance of matrimony joined a table d'hôte during their tour-and now
then is catching a superannuated old man, flat-the noisy exclamations and laughter, headed by
84
THE GAMÜLER'S WIFE.
Miss Grantley, which rang confusedly on her
ears, were painful and grating to her; and had
it not been for an expressive glance now and
then from her husband, she would have sat in
perfect silence.
the room, and seating herself at the piano, be-
gan a set of Strauss's waltzes, which, in spite
of several wrong notes, and one or two complete
break downs, and Lady Templeton's depreca-
ting exclamations of "Oh, Lavinia, my poor
head!" she continued very indefatigably strum-
ming till the gentlemen appeared.
CHAPTER LI.
"But I met a dimly mournful glance
In a sudden turn of the flying dance.
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
*
*
*
*
*
Away, for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead."
MRS. HEMans.
But the earl did not seem to appreciate the
exertion which, to please Harry, she made to
converse. He appeared completely engrossed
in the important business of tasting, abusing,
and dismissing with apparent disgust most of
the dishes handed to him. All his remarks had
reference but to one subject the culinary
science!—and they were addressed to the gen-
tlemen. It was only during the intervals of
using his toothpick that he honoured her with a
hearty stare and a little lisping tattle, inter-
spersed with capital jokes, which were perfect-
ly unintelligible to Maud, though they were re-
ceived with unbounded applause by Lavinia
Grantley, who thereby showed that she was
quite a proficient in the double entendre so much
the fashion in that circle in which Lord Tem-
pleton ran his course. The only notice he be-
stowed upon his countess was a look of the
most supreme contempt when, after her lady-
ship had twice asked him a simple question, he
felt obliged to give her some sort of answer.
Maud at first felt distressed for Lady Tem-scheme to Lavinia, which seemed greatly to de-
pleton, but her pity soon faded away when she
perceived the air of perfect indifference with
which she met this treatment from her lord.
She was about thirty, and by her simple but
strictly elegant demie toilette, and the languid
nonchalance of her manner, formed a striking
contrast to Lavinia Grantley, with her rather
overdone fashionable dress and unrestrained
exuberance of spirits.
Lavinia was, however, what might with rea-
son have been called a "very fine girl," and a
very fine girl," and a
real acquisition Maud deemed her when she
found herself alone with the two ladies; for, had
it not been for her assistance, how heavy would
the time have been! What ideas, she thought,
could she have in common with the artificial,
cold, frivolous being, of a sphere of which she
knew so little, and cared still less?
Mrs. Percy soon gave up attempting to take
any part in the conversation, though a smile
was involuntarily often called forth by the
strange speeches and observations of Miss
Grantley, who seemed charmed when she suc-
ceeded in producing an effect on one who, in
her own mind, she began to determine was in-
clined to give herself monstrous airs.
THE earl quietly dropped down on the sofa by
the side of Maud, much to her discomfiture, for
she had just moved to make room for Harry,
who was approaching, and who now moved off
to Lady Templeton; and to the spot where her
husband sat, Mrs. Percy's thoughts and eyes
continually wandered, even though his lordship
was taking the trouble to be, as he thought,
particularly agreeable.
Soon she saw Harry rise and propose some
light her, who was still seated at the piano,
chatting in a most animated manner to Lord
George and Mr. Gore. Percy then approached
Maud, and told her that he had sent for a mu-
sician, who lived a few doors off, that they
might have a little waltzing.
She could, of course, make no opposition to a
plan which seemed to be so universally ap-
proved; but when the room was arranged, and
the musicians struck up one of Lanner's liveli-
est airs, and she saw Harry with the countess,
and Miss Grantley with Lord George, whirling
round the room, a sort of faintness came over
her heart, and she bent her head to hide the
tears which would start to her eyes.
She heard Mr. Gore ask her if she waltzed,
and making a violent effort to regain her com-
posure, she declined his offer.
Lord Templeton had not yet relinquished his
seat by her side, although his conversation had
somewhat flagged of late, but he suddenly ex-
claimed, in a condescending tone,
"It is what I have not done for ages-dan-
cing's a monstrous exertion-but really, Mrs.
Percy, I think I must take a turn with you. I
like the tune the man is playing !" and his lord-
ship arose and offered his arm with an air of the
most perfect confidence.
**
Maud shrunk back and shook her head.
"What! not waltz?"
They began, at last, to be excellent friends.
Lavinia gave Maud an entertaining account of
Paris and the fashions, entreated her to have all
her bonnets in future from Herbaut, told her
she was the most fortunate woman in the world "I would rather not, I thank you," she an-
to have married such a dear, charming, hand-swered, quickly. "I see Miss Grantley has tired
some creature as Harry Percy, and concluded
by declaring that she must confess she was
dreadfully in love with him herself.
The young lady then proceeded to inform
Maud that she was the loveliest person, without
exception, she had ever seen, and appealed to
Lady Templeton for the truth of this assertion,
who could, of course, do no less than give a
polite smile of acquiescence as she languidly re-
clined on a chaise longue sipping her coffee.
At length, on hearing that Mrs. Percy was
fond of music, Lavinia jumped up, flew across
out all her partners; I am sure she would be de-
lighted to dance with you."
"I dare say," said Lord Templeton, with a
simper; "but really Miss Lavinia is so fat, and
so monstrously heavy on hand, that it would be
rather too much. Now you have just the fig-
ure !" and he glanced admiringly at her slender
ure!"
waist.
'Oh," exclaimed Maud, "I see, now, Harry
is dancing with Miss Grantley; then take a turn
with Lady Templeton. She waltzes so beauti-
fully!"
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
83
"What!" cried the earl, staring in amaze- Maud looked at him beseechingly: she longed
ment, "what! waltz with my wife? Good to say, "Let it, then, 'be with you-anybody but
heavens !-he! he he!-that certainly would that man!" But she became nervous and con-
be a little-'pon my word, Mrs. Percy, you are fused with the noise around her, and when her
too bad-you are quizzing. How satirical you | husband whispered in her ear, "For my sake,"
are!" and he looked highly diverted.
she arose in despair, and in another instant was
"And why not?" said Maud, her eyes flash-revolving rapidly round with Lord Templeton,
ing; "is there anything so very extraordinary
in a husband waltzing with his wife?"
Lady Templeton had been attracted by the
sound of her name and the mirth of her lord,
and as she passed by, leaning on the arm of Mr.
Gore, she said, with a seemingly careless smile,
Pray who is taking my name in vain ?"
The earl replied with the same provoking
laugh, which was very offensive to Maud,
"Oh, Mrs. Percy is amusing me excessively,
Julia, by proposing for us a conjugal waltz. It
is certainly some time since we committed such
a deed; but come, suppose we try it: a novel
performance it will certainly be, will it not?"
Maud saw a very slight flush pass over the
face of Lady Templeton, on which she had im-
agined no feeling of emotion could have been
called forth, and with something approaching to
a quivering lip and nervous eagerness, she with-
drew her arm from that of Mr. Gore, and said,
with assumed unconcern, as she courtesied
gracefully with mock gravity,
My lord, I shall feel highly honoured."
His lordship passed his arm carelessly round
her waist, and held the tip of his lady's finger as
if fearful of soiling his kid glove by the contam-
ination ; but Maud could perceive a tremulous
beam of pleasure in Lady Templeton's counte-
nance-an unusual sparkle in her fine eyes,
as they thus stood for a second; but the next
moment Lord Templeton had sunk again upon
the sofa, murmuring,
Oh, 'pon my soul, Julia, it won't do; you
must excuse me; I really-" and Julia stood
alone! Our heroine's eyes flashed fire, and she
could not forbear casting a look of extreme dis-
gust on the earl.
The smile on Lady Templeton's face did not
depart, but it immediately resumed its artificial
character as, marking Maud's look of indigna-
tion, she said, in a tone of forced levity,
66
'See, Mrs. Percy, what you may expect when
you have been married five years!" and then
placing her arm within that of Mr. Gore, she
was soon again heard laughing and talking with
her former indifference.
A shudder passed over Maud's frame at her
last words, but she raised her eyes as "Come,
Templeton, why are you so lazy, my good fel-
low ?" was uttered by Percy, who, as he stood
before her (with Lavinia Grantley on his arm,
looking red and heated by her exertions), pat-
ted his young wife's cheek affectionately. She
looked up into his handsome face, and her heart
bounded with glad confidence.
The earl informed Percy that he was really
expiring to take a turn with Mrs. Percy, but
"she was so cruel!"
"Oh, Mrs. Percy," cried Miss Grantley, "do
dance with Lord Templeton; he is such a deli-
cious waltzer !"
Come, come, Maud," said Harry, after sev-
eral entreaties had been resisted by her with the
same determination, "just a turn;" and then
lowered his voice, and added, "anything
her than make a fuss about it."
|
|
amid the murmured applause of the three other
gentlemen and the more demonstrative expres-
sions of Lavinia Grantley.
Graceful indeed were the movements of Maud
and her partner, who was formerly wont to be
considered one of the best waltzers at Almack's;
and, pleased with himself and the admiration he
knew he was exciting, he continued unwearied
for some time, little aware of the feelings of
deep repugnance and agony which were swell-
ing in his partner's breast as almost mechani-
cally she performed her part. When had she
last waltzed? and where? What eyes had then
gazed upon her that evening, so eventful from
its consequences? The eyes that had then
watched her-how little had she heeded their
expression then!-rose up before her now, but
changed were they indeed! One dying face
seemed gazing upon her, and all were weeping,
and reproaching her, that she who had made
them thus, as if untouched by the misery she
had caused, was participating in the frivolous
amusements of the light-hearted and gay.
At length, becoming dizzy from agitation, she
faintly uttered, "Oh stop! pray stop!"
It was by the door that she found herself
when Lord Templeton, in obedience to her en-
treaties, paused, and when, after mopping his
somewhat heated face with his highly-perfumed
handkerchief, he turned to look at his fair part-
ner-behold, she was gone!
She had flown to the solitude of her own
room, and kneeling on the ground with her head
resting on a couch, was weeping convulsively;
and as the sprightly music and merry voices
from below met her ears, she bitterly cried,
"Oh that I were in some quiet spot, where I
could weep and pray in peace! What have I
to do with gayety, with music, and dancing? Oh
that there was some one near me who could en-
ter into my feelings of self-reproach-of agony!
Oh, May, that you were here to throw your dear
arms round me, though you could not comfort
me!"
Arms were indeed thrown tenderly round her,
and lifting her from the ground, Harry's voice,
in a tone of gentleness, reproached her for de-
siring aught but him. He told her that equally
obnoxious to him was the gayety in which they
were forced to mix: why forced, he did not say.
His caresses and soothing words somewhat
restored her to composure, and drying her tears,
she sobbed and smiled alternately, like a tired-
out child, with her head resting on his bosom;
and then he explained to her that he had pro-
posed waltzing to avert what he knew would be
even more painful to her-that Lady Templeton
could not get through her evening without dan-
cing or cards.
With the tact and address he so peculiarly
possessed, Percy endeavoured to impress upon
her the necessity of overcoming the repugnance
she felt to the innocent relaxation of a quiet
game of cards-a repugnance which entirely
arose from her ignorance of the nature of what
86
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
really constituted gambling; and then he clev-|
erly insinuated that her marked abhorrence of
a little harmless play would only expose her to
ridicule ; that the strictest, the most strait-
laced persons could not object to the kind of
play she might chance to witness; and earnest-
ly implored that, especially while the Temple-
tons were in the house, she would accustom
herself to sanction it without disgust. All her
arguments he overruled; but she could not re-
frain from exclaiming, with her own peculiar
curl of the lip,
"Harry, is this the set in which you are so
anxious I should mix-which is to be of such
advantage to my future prospects in life? Such
a man as Lord Templeton! Oh, Harry, how
can he be your friend, so different from your-
self? He looks on his wife with evident dis-
gust, and she! her whole soul is absorbed, as
you yourself confessed, in heedless dissipation.
Dear Harry, why not take me to one of those
lovely, tranquil spots which we visited during
our tour, where you said it would be bliss to
live with me, and only me: there, forgetting
the world and its vanities, we might profit by,
and sanctify, the affliction sent to chasten our
sinful hearts. You said, Harry-and oh, how
it comforted me to hear those words!-that in
the seclusion-in the retirement of one of those
peaceful valleys, we might calmly prepare our-
selves for that blessed abode where none but
the pure and holy can hope to enter. In such
a world as this, Harry, of whose votaries the
people around us are specimens, how can we
ever hope to acquire tastes or feelings fit for
Heaven?"
Harry Percy, with all his tact, was at a loss
how to reply to this energetic appeal, and she
therefore continued,
"Tell me, Harry, has the world, to you who
know it best-have tried it most eagerly, and
enjoyed it the most unscrupulously-has it, with
all its attractions, its luxuries, anything to offer
which can stand a moment's competition with
the hope of a future but yet certain inheritance?
Oh, my beloved, let us away from this weary,
worldly society, and seek for the peace which
the world we live in can never give."
Harry Percy affectionately embraced his
sweet enthusiast, as he called his excited young
wife, protested that he was ready and willing
to go with her to any spot in the wide world,
but at the present moment he felt that it was
for her benefit and comfort that he should join
a little in society, in order to become a more
cheerful companion for her; and he concluded
by saying, as he pressed her to his heart,
tons soon congregated at Wisbaden, which was
much thronged with company that autumn, and
the beautiful Mrs. Percy became quite the rage,
and a universal favourite among her new ac-
quaintance, even in spite of her dejection, her
almost total avoidance of the gay scenes of
amusement, in which they passed their time;
notwithstanding even the singularity of her al-
ways unremitting attendance at the only public
place of resort which they did not patronise-
the house of God! and, above all, her unfash-
ionable and preposterous love for her husband.
Maud discovered that, to balance the comfort
and indulgence of being permitted by Percy to
remain chiefly in seclusion, she had to relinquish
much of his society. He declared that he found
it almost impossible to escape from the circle
of which, she was aware, he was so popular a
member. But then he ever returned to her
side with renewed affection and delight, vehe-
mently lamenting that even such temporary
separations should unavoidably take place be-
tween them.
Lavinia Grantley had in a degree won the
regard of Maud by her extreme good-nature, oft-
entimes insisting upon absenting herself from
her lively friends in order that she might strive
to entertain her "dear Mrs. Percy" by her
merry conversation; and she sometimes suc-
ceeded in eliciting a smile-even a laugh from
the melancholy Maud, who was grateful for her
attentions so kindly meant, though often she
would fain have been alone.
In her droll way, Lavinia would endeavour to
make her companion more au fait in the private
history of the different persons around her. She
gossiped on the subject of Lord and Lady Tem-
pleton's conduct towards each other, and rela-
ted anecdotes which were startling and repug-
nant to Maud's conjugal feelings; but to Lavinia
they were only a source of entertainment, and
topics on which she could exercise her satirical
powers. Often did Maud lament that, in her
amusing friend's different relations, there al-
ways seemed to lack the one attribute-Charity!
In compliance with her husband's reiterated
desire, Maud had at last consented to become a
witness of "the harmless little amusement of
cards," and even to tolerate them in her own
apartment.
In spite of Lady Templeton's affected world-
liness and her card-playing propensities, some-
thing like a softened feeling had imperceptibly
sprung up in Maud's heart towards her. Per-
haps it might have been caused by perceiving
how different the countess's manner was to-
wards herself than to the other members of her
own peculiar set: the trifling kindnesses and
consideration-a look-an expression-though
still tinctured with the same cold, worldly man-
"If you loved me as you say you do, you
would repose perfect confidence in your hus-
band, and rest assured that his every action is
influenced by his ardent desire for the welfarener, but which most strongly evidenced that in
of his much-loved wife."
What then could Maud say?
CHAPTER LII.
Lady Templeton's bosom there still lingered a
germe of those feminine feelings which the
world and its pursuits so often blunts or quite
destroys. The time was passing away; the
season of Wisbaden was drawing to a close;
the gay birds of fashion were one by one de-
parting, and the lately favoured spot was soon
to be deserted and neglected, so to remain un-
til another hunting season had fled-another
London spring, with its everlasting round of
OTHER élite of the same clique as the Temple- ceaseless dissipation, had wellnigh exhausted
"Behold the woes of matrimonial life,
And hear with reverence an experienced wife!
To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due,
And think for once a woman tells you true.
POPE.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
87
the luxurious frames of its votaries. Then, . Maud opened wide her large, sad eyes.
perhaps, the baths, which we are told "are
good for the stomach-good for the skin-good
for ladies of all possible shapes and ages, and
for all sorts and conditions of men-for head-
ache, gout," &c., &c., might again be desirable,
and Wisbaden would once more exchange its
gloomy, comfortless aspect for a scene of bus-
tle, animation, and sparkling delight.
It was the evening preceding the day of the
Templetons' departure for Paris, in the middle
of October, that Maud was seated in the count-
ess's apartment, having been dining with her.
"No
"You will continue your present course as
long as so outré a practice is agreeably received
by your husband-perhaps a little longer; till
at last, in self-defence, you will begin to weary
of keeping up what meets with so poor a re-
turn, and then you will fall into the general in-
souciance maintained by married couples. Nay,
do not look so fiercely at me with those beauti-
ful flashing eyes," she added, laughing.
wonder you can keep even Lord Templeton in
such good order! I wish I had such eyes, then
perhaps I might have held my sway a little lon-
Lavinia Grantley, after weeping in a most ger. Ah me!" and Lady Templeton sighed
energetic manner over her approaching separa-heavily, and then continued: "But, Mrs. Per-
tion from her "dear, sweet Mrs. Percy," with | cy, tell me truly, what would you do if matters
whom she had been so happy, as well as at the came to the pass with Mr. Percy and yourself,
departure of William Gore, who had left Wis- as you can plainly see they have reached be-
baden that very morning, and who had been so tween my lord and me? I really am curious to
attentive-indeed, would certainly have propo- know."
sed had not Lord Templeton, so excessively ill-
natured, laughed at her about him in his pres-answer; and erecting her head, she raised her
ence-perceiving that her auditors were looking eyes, as if the very supposition filled her mind
rather weary of her and her lamentations, or, with horror too great for expression. And then
as she would have expressed it, were "shock- the colour mounted to her cheeks at the idea of
ingly slow," ran off to superintend the packing having exposed so sacred an emotion to the
of her dresses, and to see that her exquisite pink cold, heartless observation-perhaps ridicule-
crape might not be injured.
of her worldly companion, and her long eyelash-
es dropped, and again she was silent. But there
was no ridicule in the tone in which, after a
brief pause, the countess resumed,
The countess was languidly reclining in her
arm-chair, mechanically turning over the leaves
of a French novel, and Maud sat on the sofa,
her embroidery frame beside her.
A few sentences, however, had been exchan-
ged between the two ladies after the retreat of
the vivacious Miss Lavinia, but the conversation
soon flagged, and for some time a perfect si-
lence had ensued. That Mrs. Percy's thoughts
were not with her companion might easily have
been guessed by the perpetual wandering of her
eyes, and her sudden change of colour and eager
expression at the sound of every carriage that
passed the door and each noise that reached her
ear, as well as the look of disappointment which
passed over her countenance when the sound
ceased without bringing the expected result.
At length, turning an involuntary glance, as if
for sympathy, on one of these occasions, upon
her companion, she observed that the count-
ess's eyes were fixed upon her with a smile, as
if of curiosity, and who, seeing that Maud re-
marked it, said, with a slight laugh, though the
tone of her voice was kind,
My dear Mrs. Percy, how long do you in-
tend to continue the unfashionable custom of
existing only in the presence of your husband?"
Maud coloured, and murmured an apology for
her absence of mind.
"Oh, I quite excuse you: I am only envying
you for having so charming a sposo to expect
one who does not deem it derogatory to honour
his wife with a kind look, or even a courteous
word," added the countess, in a tone of forced
lightness, and with a scornful curl of the lip.
Maud knew well at whom this speech was
aimed, but she was silent. She had no inclina-
tion to listen to the taunting remarks of a neg-
lected wife.
"But you will answer my question," contin-
ued the countess, in the same tone, tapping her
book with her mother-of-pearl paper-cutter," or
shall I, who, by experience, am most qualified
to do so, answer it for you?"
"Die!" was Maud's abrupt, emphatic, eager
"And what, then, do you think of me, Mrs.
Percy? How do you think I have escaped dy-
ing?"
Maud was at loss for an answer. Tears were
actually glistening in her ladyship's large, light
blue eyes.
"You would not believe, perhaps," she con-
tinued, as she dashed them away, that I could
ever have felt a particle of the sentiment you
now feel for your husband; but I did love Lord
Templeton, and deeply; and more than that,
for the first six months succeeding my marriage
I seemed to exist in a different world: a purer
-a better one. I do not mean to say that we
were ever so eperdument amoureux as you and
Mr. Percy, but my husband was very attentive,
very kind," and tears again glistened in Lady
Templeton's eyes, "and I was very happy, for
kindness and attention from one like him is
more flattering even than from a disposition
like Mr. Percy's, who is all heart. But soon-
very soon-I found myself standing alone in the
new world my happiness had created. Yes," she
continued, with her light, bitter laugh, "alone,
as you saw me on the first night of our arrival
here, when my lord's fancy for what he called
conjugal waltzing so suddenly vanished, and
he left me standing by myself, with feelings of
mortification feelings which have at length
wellnigh extinguished the lingering sparks of
affection which have been smouldering in my
weak heart, ready to burst forth at the slightest
breath of kindness. Once I really think he loved
me!"
The countess paused as if overcome by bitter
recollections, and for an instant closed her eyes,
and Maud beheld tears forcing their way through
the closed lids. At length she continued, in a
tone of undisguised feeling,
"This time last year, how happy I was !" and
again she was silent, and looked up as if to bring
88
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
the past circumstances more vividly before her "Oh, Lady Templeton, people may talk light-
mind;
"I was dangerously ill, and. Charles sat ly of sin who have never felt the anguish of re-
'hree whole days by my bedside, and was so morse-the pangs of conscience; but let them
kind-so anxious! He would sometimes take for one hour endure this torment, and the long-
my hand in his, and press it with affectionate est day to which their mortal lives may be ex-
earnestness; and once" the countess appear-tended will never cast the veil of forgetfulness
over that hour of suffering."
And then, recalled to more composure by
Lady Templeton's look of surprise at her sud-
den burst of emotion, she continued, in a calm-
er tone,
"There is no punishment in this world great-
ed almost choked with emotion-" once, when
I had closed my eyes, I felt the pressure of his
lips on my throbbing forehead. Oh! blissful
moment! would that it had been my last! Oh,
Mrs. Percy, how I longed to die! for I knew
that if I recovered, the happy dream would soon
fade away and I was right, alas! And I oft-er than I deserve; but I fear I shall never be
en think now," and Lady Templeton again burst
into her ringing, bitter laugh, "that my husband
was kind only because he thought his wife was
actually dying, and that he would soon be for-
ever relieved of the matrimonial shackles which
bound him to me."
Lady Templeton, in the agitation this unwont-
ed burst of feeling had produced, had risen from
her seat, and after standing for a moment be-
fore her half-frightened listener, sunk on the
sofa by her side.
Maud, taking Lady Templeton's hand in hers,
lifted her eyes towards the countess's face with
an air of compassion, but at the last few words
she almost unconsciously relinquished her hold
with an involuntary shudder.
You may well shudder, Mrs. Percy; never-
theless, my words are true. But I am not the
only woman in the world who is doomed to feel,
or, at any rate, to bear neglect and the loss of a
husband's affections, though I believe few con-
tinue to feel acutely so long as I continued to
suffer, though I am quite aware you do not give
me credit for aught so mauvais ton.”
Maud was silent: she knew not what to say.
"Death is at present your idea of a woman's
refuge from the wretchedness of scorned affec-
tion, and mine when I found that the charm
which had lured me was but an illusion. With
colder morning flown,' my refuge was plunging
deeper and deeper into that same world from
which, for a brief space, I had emerged. I flirt-
ed-more from the faint hope of awakening a
little jealousy in my husband than from any
pleasure I experienced in so doing-and I was
properly rewarded for my pains."
Maud looked aghast: she listened with in-
tense interest to this extraordinary confidence.
Lady Templeton continued:
prepared to meet with resignation the loss of
my husband's love-his devotion-his kind, con-
siderate attentions: it is all," murmured Maud,
"all I now have on this earth to live for-to de-
pend on.”
"Then God help you, poor creature!" cried
a voice behind her; and though Maud, on turn-
ing suddenly, discovered that these words pro-
ceeded from the heedless, jesting lips of Lavinia
Grantley, still, in the weak state of her nerves,
which had been much excited by the previous
conversation of Lady Templeton, the ominous
sentence fell heavily on her heart, and she burst
into a passionate flood of tears.
Not perceiving Maud's agitation, Lavinia con-
tinued,
"God help any poor woman who has no-
thing to depend upon but the constancy of a
charming man, 'of the right sort,' like Mrs. Per-
cy's delightful husband-though I wish he were
mine, for all that!" And the young lady began
gayly humining the words of a lively song:
"A fair good-night to thee, love, a fair good-night to thee,
And pleasant be thy path, love, though it end not with me;
Linking, light as ours, love, was never meant to last.
It was a moment's phantasy, and as such it has pass'd."
"Lavinia, don't be such a fool!" cried Lady
Templeton, in alarm. Ring the bell! Mrs.
Percy is ill: no, run into my room-make haste
-and bring some eau de Cologne. My dear
Mrs. Percy!
tlemen !"
Good gracious, here are the gen-
Maud, pushing aside the essences which Lady
Templeton and Lavinia were offering her, sprang
up and left the room by one door as Lord Tem-
pleton and Harry Percy entered by the other.
"But I need not trouble you with that part of"
my story. Cards I next tried, and found the
pursuit far more exciting: now I cannot exist
without them. But really, my dear Mrs. Percy,
I ought to apologize for having tormented you
with this detail of my grievances; you must
really think me mad, and you do look very pale.
But perhaps it is but kindness to let you into
the private politics of this virtuous world into
which you have been introduced, and for which,
truly, you seem so little prepared you are far
too good for us!"
"Good! Oh, Lady Templeton, say not that,"
murmured Maud, in a suppressed, hurried, and
agitated voice, "say not that: I cannot allow
you to call me good. If you only knew the sin-
fulness-the weight of guilt which lies on my
soul"
“You sinful, my dear Mrs. Percy! you, whom
I consider a very angel of purity!"
CHAPTER LIII.
And oh, how much I love him, what can tell?
Not words, not tears-heaven only knows how much.
And every evening when I say my prayers,
I pray to be forgiven for the sin
Of loving aught on earth with such a love."
PHILIP VAN ÅRTEVELde,
"I was told," cried Harry Percy, as, having
cast a glance from one to the other of the la-
dies, he dropped into a fauteuil, “I should find
my fair lady here: where has she flown?"
(
"She is not very well: she-" and Lady
Templeton rather hesitated. Oh, don't alarm
yourself," she added, as she perceived Harry's
look of apprehension; "only a slight hysterical
attack!" And with a faint sigh she again sank
upon her seat as she saw him hurry off, the earl
remarking, with a supercilious simper, to Lord
George, who had just entered,
"It is really very strange that ladies are so
subject to hysterics-particularly after dinner,
when left to themselves."
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
89
But our heroine's tears soon vanished at the were mercifully removed, and she saw herself
sight of her husband's face of anxiety and ten- as she really was, in all her sinfulness.
derness, and they were more effectually dispell- From that moment she spared not herself.
ed by the ridicule which he cast upon the cause In her many hours of solitude she communed
of her emotion. The idea, he said, of Lady | with her heart. In bitter, repentant sorrow she
Templeton attempting to get up anything like passed much time, and the fruits of this com-
sentimentality! it was all moonshine, her pre-muning were gentleness and self-denial, meek-
tending to have a heart; and he would really ness and charity, plainly showing at whose feet
thank her ladyship not to put such nonsensical she had laid the offering of a broken and a con-
ideas into his wife's head by getting up such trite heart.
scenes, but keep to her whist, which was much
more in her line.
Nevertheless, when Harry left Maud to play
a farewell rubber with Lady Templeton, she
retired to rest with the idle words of Lavinia
Grantley, "Then God help you, poor creature!"
ringing fearfully on her ears, in the tone of a
grave and solemn knell; and the bitter words
and looks of anguish called forth that night from
the woman of the world, whom she had before
thought so heartless, would rise before her ima-
gination; and whether they were acting or not,
for some time the remembrance of the scene
caused a painful feeling to oppress her spirit to
an extent for which she could hardly account.
However, the gloomy reflections which had
been excited by the countess's domestic history
entirely faded away and were forgotten in the
ensuing happy month, which was passed in the
quiet enjoyment of her husband's society in
their journey towards Belgium, which they per-
formed by slow degrees, stopping for a day or
two at any place on their route they thought
deserving of notice. But suddenly, as one
awakened from a pleasant dream, Maud found
herself in a gay and bustling metropolis, her
husband again surrounded by importunate
friends and acquaintance, on whom he once
more bestowed much of the time and attention
so precious to the heart of Maud.
And she, in obedience to his wishes, would
force herself to smile on others instead of on
him alone, and assume a courteous gayety she
felt not.
But still Maud had not relinquished all.
Chastened and softened as was her heart, still
a darling frailty clung to her nature, and was
cherished with the tenderest care. She bowed
to an earthly idol: her love for her husband, so
intense, so all powerful, came as a cloud be-
tween her soul and heaven.
The feeling Mrs. Hemans so beautifully de-
scribed was indeed the language of poor Maud's
heart :
"An earthly image comes my soul between,
And thy calm glory, Father! throned above."
God help thee, poor young wife! well indeed
might be said.
*
*
*
*
A few weeks after their arrival at Brussels
the king issued commands for a grand court
ball.
There, Maud!" cried Harry Percy, in a gay
tone, as he threw the card upon his wife's knee,
here is something which will no doubt be
agreeable."
And he watched her countenance with a
smile as she cast her eyes over it with a very
different expression to that generally called
forth by such invitations. She scarcely made
a remark upon it, but passed with a sigh of care
to that most weighty of all trifling subjects,
dress; for no fond mother's hand had with
pride and pleasure sent her forth from her home,
supplied with every anticipated want, such as a
young bride's trousseau usually affords.
"Oh! don't worry yourself on that score,
dearest," said Harry, when he discovered the
cause of her perplexity; "leave all that to me.
I'll manage that for you."
Perhaps our fair readers will hardly believe
it when they learn that Maud took him literally
at his word, and, in truth, did not trouble her-
self any more about the matter, but left every-
thing, as he desired, to him—indeed, gave it not
another thought until the day before the ball.
On that afternoon a box from Paris arrived, di-
rected to herself, and amid the admiring excla-
How scornful would have been the expres-
sion of Maud Sutherland's beautiful face if, in
the days of her pride, she had been told that
the time would come when she would find her-
self constantly giving up, with hardly an inward
murmur, or even a thought of self, every incli-
nation, every justifiable indulgence of her own
feelings, to a word-a look-an impelled wish
of another. But so it was; and Percy marvel-
led when, day by day, he more fully perceived
⚫ that, instead of being the husband of a self-will-mations of Lucy, several dresses, bonnets, &c.,.
ed girl, to whose proud, rebellious spirit he had
looked forward as rather a pleasant excitement
to the monotony of his domestic hours, he was
linked to a being who seemed to know no will
but his-to shrink with almost terror from the
bare idea of incurring, by any denial of his
merest fancy, the slightest breath of his dis-into his arms to thank him for his kindness;
pleasure.
t
And Percy-such is the diversity of human
nature he hardly knew whether to feel a shade
of disappointment at this metamorphose, or a
sensation of gratified triumph.
Truly Maud Percy was changed. There is
an effectual power which will firmly establish
itself in the truly humbled heart of the penitent
to whom it speaks, and Maud was humbled. By
the coffin of her mother, the scales of darkness
M
&c., of the newest Parisian fashion, were drawn
forth and displayed before her astonished eyes.
Maud knew it must be her husband's gift,
and on his entering the room, just as a case
containing a pair of splendid diamond combs
had been placed in her hands by Lucy, she flew
but as she again turned towards the jewels to
gratify him by a more minute and interested ex-
amination of the sparkling ornaments, she said,
"There is, however, unfortunately, nothing
here that I can wear for some time yet: they
are all beautiful, dear Harry, most beautiful!
but would it not have been better had Miss
Grantley sent some dresses for present use?"
for Percy had informed her that, at the earnest
request of that young lady, he had allowed her,
90
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
The letter was from Mr. Merton, and most
touching and truly eloquent in its style was the
composition. Free from any tinge of what the
most fastidious and prejudiced could denominate
cant, it was equally calculated to raise up those
that were falling as to strengthen those that
stand, and this was the object the writer had in
assisted by the more refined taste of Lady Tem-
pleton, to select this trousseau, for so it might
be called. "She must have known," added
Maud, sorrowfully, "that I was in mourning.'
To her great surprise, her husband seemed to
think that any of the dresses before her, seven
or eight months after the death of the nearest
relative, might be worn with the utmost pro-view when he penned it, for prayerfully had the
priety at the approaching fête.
good man sighed over the reports which had
"How I do long to see my beautiful wife," reached even his secluded home of the danger-
he said, fondly kissing her, "with these dia-ous paths into which the cherished lamb of his
monds sparkling in her hair, and that melan-
choly garb replaced by this what do you call
it, Lucy?" he added, as the abigail held up with
an admiring survey a ball-dress, which, by its
lightness and elegance, certainly did honour to
the taste of those who had selected it, as well
as to the unrivalled powers of the Parisian ar-eficial to Percy, who, in the days of bitter
tiste. "Brussels lace, is it? Oh, just the very
thing, I declare!"
At that moment he was called away, and for
the rest of the day there was no opportunity for
farther discussion of the matter. Percy did not
return home till late that night, or, rather, early
the following morning, and, in consequence, did
not leave his bed till the day was far advanced,
and then he looked ill-said he had to write
letters that plagued him, and that he felt quite
done up.
Dinner-time came: and when that repast was
hastily despatched, he had still another letter to
write. Percy had, however, remarked that
Maud looked pale and sad all the afternoon.
"You are monstrous lively, my darling," he
at length said, as he stood on the rug à l'Anglaise,
with his back to the fire. "Why looks your
grace so heavily to-day? We must brighten up
ourselves a little for this gay affair to-night. I
expect that we shall look very brilliant with our
diamonds and Brussels lace-eh! lady mine?"
He paused, for he beheld a nervous quiver of
her lip, and a tear glistening in her eye. She
arose, approached him, and leaning her forehead
against his arm, said, in an agitated voice,
"Do not think me ungrateful, Harry, but I
feel so great a repugnance to the idea of going
in such a gay dress to-night-especially when
look at this."
And she held up a deep black-edged letter,
received that very morning.
Oh, Harry, it seems so very soon. What
would they think of me, who, of all, has most
cause to mourn? And I find that already they
have heard of the society we were in at Wisba-
den, and imagine we have been very gay."
"And what business has any one, I should
like to know, to interfere with the society into
which I choose to introduce my wife?" inter-
rupted Percy, in a quick, angry tone. "I shall
really thank your sister to keep her remarks to
herself."
Harry, Harry," exclaimed Maud, placing
her hand before his mouth, "you are not going
to say an unkind word of darling little May?
Nay, read her letter: you will see there is not
a syllable"
"Then who has put this nonsense into your
head?" he resumed, pushing the epistle she
held somewhat ungraciously aside; and, taking
up the one that lay on the table, he hastily
glanced over the contents, while Maud stood
silently by his side watching his countenance.
flock had wandered. But he knew who was
her conductor-her director; and it was with
the most judicious tact that he worded his grave
but gentle warnings, in order that they might,
without offending, meet the eye of the husband,
and, by the blessing of God, perhaps prove ben-
mourning he had spent at the Parsonage, had
astonished Mr. Merton by the fluent eloquence
with which he could discourse on the most sa-
cred of all subjects; but he grieved to think
that words producing no fruits are but as the
"sounding brass and the tinkling cymbal," and
may even be ranked among those idle words
for which man is to be brought to judgment.
But Maud, as she anxiously watched her
husband's countenance, saw, instead of a soft-
ened effect, the flush deepen on his cheek, and
that quick movement of the eyelids, always a
sure sign with Harry that he was not well
pleased, and when he had hastily run his eye
over the conclusion, he crushed the paper in his
hand, and without any remark walked to the
window. He then broke forth :
"
Maud, I must put a stop to this!"
"What, Harry !”
"Why, I cannot have my wife turned Meth-
odist; and these sort of canting productions
such as you are constantly receiving are deci-
dedly making you one. You are, I assure you,
quite a different creature since we married-
quite different. Upon my word, I should not
know you for the same. You used to be all
brightness and animation, and now—”
Maud withdrew the hand she had laid upon
his arm.
"I am sorry, Harry, you think me so much
changed for the worse," she said, her heart
bursting with wounded feelings; "but you
should consider-"
"Oh, yes, I have had much consideration,"
he replied, interrupting her; "far more, I must
say, than you have, Maud, for me. It is neither
grateful nor flattering to one's feelings to have
everything one does to give pleasure received
as the greatest misery or the most heinous sin.
You ought to have considered, before it was
too late, that you were not going to marry a
parson, or — What, tears! Really, Maud, I
would give the world to see you in a passion-
anything rather than this continual weeping.
You must get over the habit, indeed, dear, you
must; tears may do for some men, but they al-
ways irritate me. There, now, put this well-
meaning but absurd epistle into the fire. Mr.
Merton should know better than to endeavour
to disgust a wife with the station of life in
which her husband is placed, and which it is
decidedly her duty to pursue without repining.
Come, throw it away, and I will write to our
worthy friend my opinion on the subject."
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
91
And, so saying, Percy committed the letter to
the flames. Maud made an ineffectual attempt
to save it, and then her eyes shot forth one of
their fierce flashes of days gone by, and she re-fond, such tender delight, whispering words of
treated from her husband's side and seated her-
self at a distance from him.
Harry's words had wounded her to the quick;
and when, after a brief pause, during which he
stood looking at her with a smile lurking in his
eye, he approached his young wife, and patting
her cheek, said,
"Well, how is Mistress Merton now ?"
Maud did not raise her head, which was rest-
ing on her hand, nor did she pay any attention
to his inquiry.
What, sulky!" he angrily exclaimed; "oh,
that will never do for me! If there's a thing in
the world I hate, it is sulkiness: a sulky wom-
an-horrible! I won't trouble you any farther,"
he continued, speaking rapidly, "but shall be
off instantly. Really, could I have only guess-
ed that my unlucky present would have led to
this! However, pray please yourself to-night;
don't let me, on any account, force you to act
against your inclination: dress as you like, or
stay away if it suit your wishes; it is very easy
to make the excuse of illness. Rather a bad
Rather a bad
beginning, I must say, to let your husband go
everywhere without you-but mind, I give you
carte blanche: do exactly what you like," and
he hastily left the room, and she heard the out-
er door bang violently.
citing to a degree, and in the midst of the admi-
ration poured upon her from all quarters, to
mark one smile beaming on her alone with such
approbation and admiration in her ear, it was
almost too much for her to bear, although she
could scarcely define the feeling that then filled
her heart. And when she passed from "the
halls of dazzling light" into the cool night air,
leaning upon her husband's arm, the spell had
not departed, for he was with her still.
Percy placed Maud in the carriage, and was
about to follow, when some one in the throng
spoke to him; and then he ordered the coach-
man to move on, in order to make way for the
other carriages, saying he would join them in a
moment.
It was necessary to proceed some short dis-
tance to be out of the way of the crowd of car-
riages, and the driver took his station close to
a spot where stood two gentlemen, who proved
by their conversation to have been guests at the
ball. The fumes of the pipe of one of them, ev-
idently a German, were wafted through the
open window of Maud's carriage, as were also
the words of both. At first they fell unheeded
on her ear, but their purport soon roused her
attention.
Maud heard herself named by the Englishman
as the beauty of the room, to which assertion
the German, after some little hesitation, assent-
ed, and added he had often seen Mrs. Percy at
Wisbaden, where there had been a great many
English this year.
"A good set?" demanded his companion.
"That depends upon what you call good in
your country," returned the other.
"There
were handsome, fashionable women and their
husbands, many of rank, but they mixed little
with us except at the tables. They patronised
rouge et noir very much. Your countrymen
seem fond of play. That pretty woman's hus-
band is a regular gambler."
He left her seated in her dark dress, with pal-
lid cheeks and hands clinched tightly together,
her large eyes dimmed with tears, struggling
not to overflow; he returned to find standing
on the same spot a radiant figure, which appear-
ed to him a fairy vision of beauty and brightness;
the diamonds sparkling amid her shining hair,
the graceful folds of the lace robe falling round
her like drapery round a Grecian statue, while
with a half confident, half nervous feeling, as
she heard a well-known footstep approaching,
she stood erect, her eyes flashing eagerly, her "Oh, Percy!" said his companion; "of
lips parted, her cheeks suffused with the bright-course you may be sure that wherever he is
est hue! Truly
"She now seem'd form'd to revel
In the sunshine of a throne."
CHAPTER LIV.
"And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spoke again."
BYRON.
MAUD did indeed shine that night, and uni-
versal was the admiration called forth by the
English beauty." It proceeded even from the
lips of royal personages, and much kind notice
did Maud receive from the fair young queen and
the monarch, who perhaps looked with peculiar
interest on the lovely flower of that country,
once his own happy home.
In after days Maud's thoughts often flew back
to that bright evening, and it ever appeared to
her mind in the form of a confused though daz-
zling dream-a scene of unnatural brilliancy.
In the weak state of her nerves, so sudden a
transportation into light and animation was ex-
there must be plenty of playing going on. He's
one of that clique of my worthy compatriots,
who, having gambled away other people's mon-
ey as well as their own, find it convenient to
come to your country to economize, as they
call it."
"And live the life which in their own coun-
try would be called swindling," replied the Ger-
man.
"I believe you are right," said the other;
"for instance, a ruined man like Percy, over
head and ears in debt, dressing his wife in lace
and diamonds! Did he play high at Wisba-
den?"
"Mein Gott, ja! and with all his heart and
soul too, whenever he could get away from his
beautiful wife. I must say he seemed a much
more attentive husband than your fashionable
countrymen generally appeared to be."
"Ah, poor thing! that may not, perhaps, con-
tinue long. There cannot be much happiness
in store for a gambler's wife.”
"My dearest Maud, you may go home; I will
follow presently," were the next words that
broke upon our heroine's ear, and in a moment
she was whirling away towards her home-
alone, with, as it were, a weight of lead upon
92
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
?
her heart. For some time she felt stunned-
stupefied.
"A gambler's wife!" she at length murmur-
ed, and she pressed her hand to her forehead.
The cold jewels met her touch! She shudder-
ed, her hand dropped, and she sat as if some
noxious reptile were on her brow, which, in
spite of the horror it inspired, she could not re-
move.
What a contrast would poor Maud have af
forded a few hours later to the radiant beauty
who had been gazed upon by all with admira-
tion, although with some it was mingled with
envy.
She was seated before the expiring fire in
her apartment, her eyes riveted, with a fixed
look of earnest thought, on the smouldering
embers, the flickering lamp burning dimmer
and dimmer, and as the Cathedral clock chi-
med the successive hours of three and four, she
started from her seat to listen for an instant,
and then relapsed into her former abstraction.
Percy, evidently much annoyed by the words
and looks of his wife, entreated her to leave
him and to seek her bed.
" and
But Maud would be heard. She cried,
"Harry, dearest Harry, listen to me
she seized his hand. "Sit down, and let me
sit beside you;" and she gently constrained
him to place himself on the sofa.
'My darling girl, to what is all this to lead ?"
and he reluctantly yielded to her gentle sway.
"You will make yourself ill with all this folly,
and me too ;" and he passed his hand over his
brow.
Maud then proceeded to repeat the conversa-
tion of the two persons she had heard that
night, and, regardless of the expressions of an-
ger and impatience which the recital elicited
from her husband, continued speaking:
"You little know, Harry, how I suffer from
apprehension on your account-how I dread the
vice which I know is your besetting sin. I nev-
er close my eyes but I dream of horrors, all con-
nected with the idea of gambling. Do you re-
member," she continued, with deep earnestness,
It was nearly five o'clock when Harry Percy,
with haggard cheeks, and a worn, anxious look,
stole noiselessly up stairs towards his dressing-"that Sunday at Wisbaden, when I walked out
room. As he entered it, he perceived the op-
posite door open, and a white figure stood be-
fore him it was his young wife!
An exclamation partaking of some displeasure
broke from his lips.
"Do not be angry," said Maud, in a sad but
firm voice, as she approached him, and looked
earnestly upon his jaded countenance; "I
could not go quietly to sleep with the dreadful
fear in my mind that you were in scenes where
there can be no rest either for your soul or
body, Harry!" and she fixed her large, dark
eyes upon him with a searching glance, which
was, perhaps, more overpowering to the con-
science-stricken Percy, from the mild look she
blended with it. He could detect no anger in
her expression as she continued to gaze upon
him, in the hope of discovering from her hus-
band's countenance, more than his words, the
truth of her suspicions; for alas! it began to
dawn upon the poor young creature that his
assertions were not always current coin.
And she judged rightly.. For an instant Har-
ry Percy quailed beneath the power of her
searching look, and hastily averted the eyes
wont to be so confident in the knowledge of
their power over the heart of her who stood
before him; and then in a hurried, confused
manner he stammered forth some incoherent
sentences of angry equivocation, denying all
knowledge of what could be her meaning. For
the first time a drop of gall mingled in Maud's
cup of pure and perfect love for her husband,
and it caused her lip to curl and her eyes to
flash with indignant scorn. It was a feeling
approaching to contempt that took possession
of her soul. For the first time in her life, she
heard one whom she loved sully his lips with
what she knew was untruth.
But the next instant that bitter drop was
ingulfed in the mighty tide of softened feeling
into which it flowed.
"Hush, dear Harry, hush!" she said, in a
tone of tender but solemn earnestness. "What
avails it to conceal aught from a mortal like
yourself-an erring creature, too deserving of
censure for you to fear reproach from her?"
|
with Lady Templeton and some of her friends?
I was behind with Lord George Damer, and we
followed the rest, when suddenly I found my-
self in one of those dreadful places which in
England is, I believe, called a 'Hell!" At this
last word she shuddered and lowered her voice:
"And well might it be so named, for there can
be no other scene so calculated to give one a
faint insight into the horrors of that dread abode.
Oh! the expression of those wretched faces, on
which the dim lamp, hanging above them, was
casting its pale light! such degrading, dreadful
eagerness, such despairing agony, when they
threw their gold upon the table, and saw it
swept away by those who stood so composedly
by, with demon-like smiles, watching for their
prey! And, Harry, there were among the group
some I had been daily meeting, and with whom
I had held social intercourse! Never, dearest,
from that hour was I able to cast from me a
feeling of loathing when in their presence—a
sort of sickening shudder when they approach-
ed me."
"Pshaw !" muttered Percy to himself.
Maud continued:
"I stood gazing on it all as if spellbound to
the spot. Lord George, I suppose, thought I
was amused; and then-how that face has
haunted me ever since!-a man bent forward
and said-the words still ring in my ears—' Met-
traije pour vous sur la table, madame?" I cannot
tell how I looked or what I did; but Lord
George, perceiving his mistake, kindly drew
me away, and then, Harry, you know you met
us coming out, and you were angry that I should
have gone into such a place."
Yes, dear, yes," said Harry, quickly, "I re-
member that perfectly; but again I ask, What
does all this mean?"
"I never told you till to-night," she contin-
ued, heedless of the interruption, "all I then
felt. I wished to banish the remembrance from
my mind, but I cannot. I am always fancying
you, Harry, in those scenes of horror, your
countenance distorted by anxiety, so changed.
so livid!"
Maud paused, sunk upon her knees, and look-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
93
·
ed with an almost wild expression of eager in- | to link your fate with one totally unworthy of
tensity into her husband's face.
you-one in whose nature, tastes, and passions
exists that which, of course, you cannot under-
stand. You know not the heart of man-how
should you ?-you cannot make allowances for
its failings. You expect a miracle-that, at
once and forever, I should renounce all my im-
perfections of character; but that is quite im-
possible !"
Harry!" she again began, "to-night I heard
myself called a gambler's wife! Look not so
angry, my own dear husband; the past cannot
be recalled; but now-now, before it is too late!
oh, Harry, be not thou the instrument of my
punishment for a gambler's wife there can in-
deed be no happiness! Yet it is not for my-
self alone I supplicate; but, Harry, think of
yourself your immortal soul! Can you pray?
can you kneel before a holy throne fresh from
scenes of such iniquity? and can your thoughts
rest on her our blessed, departed mother, for
whom you wept such bitter tears, and for whose
sake you vowed to forsake the vices she so
dreaded for the welfare of her child? You turn
away: one moment more, and I have done. Let
me implore you, for the sake of your happiness
hereafter for the sake of the wife you now
love, and to whom your love is so precious"
her voice dropped to a whisper, and tears fell
fast-"for the sake, also, of the being to be born!
dear Harry, let not our expected treasure be a
gambler's child !"
And what effect had this affecting appeal on
him to whom it was addressed? Why did his
ever fluent tongue allow it thus to flow on un-
interruptedly? As he looked upon the beauti-
ful young creature he had lured from her happy
home to share his uncertain lot, did not his heart
smite him?
It did; for there were tender chords still un-
broken in the heart of the gambler, and he loved
his fair young wife, although all he had to be-
stow was tainted love. When she first raised
her eyes with such supplicating earnestness to
his face in the first impulse of that moment,
he was about to press her in his arms, and pour
forth, as was his wont, vows, and soothing prot-
estations and promises, which he felt, with a
pang of remorse, were only promises to be bro-
ken; but something like a twinge of conscience
arrested his usually eloquent lips and prevent-
ed his uttering what he knew he had neither
power nor inclination to fulfil, and gradually the
wordling returned to the absorbing interest of
self-to devise some means of securing the
peaceful enjoyment of his pursuits, without the
future recurrence of scenes such as the one just
enacted.
There was something in the brilliancy of those
eyes-in the gentle, though firm earnestness of
voice-the majesty of youth and innocence with
which the young wife addressed him, that at
first almost awed Harry Percy. He felt that he
was in the presence of a superior being; but the
remembrance that she was a woman-a devo-
ted, loving woman-soon came to dispel his
fears and scruples, and he instantly determined
on what course to pursue.
He arose from his seat, paced up and down
the room with hasty steps, his eyes bent sor-
rowfully to the ground; then paused, and stood
by the still kneeling Maud, who fixed her glance
with eager inquiry on his face.
Maud," he began, in the softest, saddest
voice, " you have, indeed, fully impressed me
with my errors my wretched selfishness!
Could remorse or agony atone for them, my
present feelings would be sufficient retribution
for having, in my blind, selfish love, suffered you
Maud continued to gaze wildly on her hus-
band.
|
"I had hoped that, by degrees, the influence
of your love, and my attachment for you, which
increases day by day-the anticipated tie, which
will bind us still closer in the bonds of affection
I did fondly hope I might in time become all
you could desire; but, alas for human frailty!
One excuse I can urge in my behalf: I did not,
when I wooed you, conceal my faults: not from
the lips of the world alone, but from mine own,
you heard that I was-a gambler! Yes, though
you shudder now, you did not then; you vowed
you would gladly follow me through sunshine
and through storm-through weal and wo-in
temptation-in peril-in the midst of reproach;
that, whether fortune frowned or looked kindly,
you would still smile on me, and love even my
imperfections, because they were mine. Maud,
can you deny this?"
As Percy had proceeded in his speech, his
enunciation became loud, and energetic, and
rapid in the extreme. He now paused for one
instant for very lack of breath, but before Maud
could speak, he continued, in a suppressed tone
of deep pathos,
“But think not that I mean to reproach you,
my own beloved-and beloved you must ever
be, come what may." Percy heaved a deep-
drawn sigh. "No; myself alone I condemn,
and I will not shrink from the agony”—and he
pressed his hand tightly on his forehead-" the
torture, with which I am now about, for your dear
sake, to propose an expedient. Maud," he con-
tinued, solemnly, "I see a film has fallen from
your eyes; you are wiser now, perhaps better,
than when, as Maud Sutherland, you promised
me your devoted love. You find that you can-
not tolerate now what then you only viewed in-
distinctly. You begin already to despise me-
in time, would not the feeling increase?"
Maud endeavoured to speak, but her utterance
seemed paralyzed; and Harry continued:
"For myself, adoring you as I do”—and again
he hastily paced the room-" I will confess that
I dread the effect such scenes as that which has
just been enacted might produce. No man can
endure being watched-suspected! I should
tremble for the effect all this might have upon
the love I bear you. I dread to think the time
might come when you and I, Maud, should find
ourselves sunk into that cold, indifferent inter-
course we see existing between others-the
Templetons, for instance-and mark me! such
a state of affairs is commonly brought about by
the wife expecting too much from the husband.
I should anticipate worse than indifference-
even hatred! for, from the height our love must
fall, it is not probable that it would stop at the
middle course. I candidly tell you, Maud, that
I dread all this; therefore I would prefer, in-
finitely prefer, that now, before that maddening,
wretched pass arrives-even now, at this early
94
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
stage of our union, we should-part! Yes, bet- |ciety, he thought, would be more salutary in
ter far now to part in love and amity than- Arthur's case than close retirement, shared
than-"
with those whose presence must every moment
Harry Percy had expected, nay, fully intend-remind him of her whose hand had inflicted the
ed, that these words should not be without their
due effect. He now feared he had overshot his
mark.
There, on the ground before him, still knelt
Maud, but as if turned to stone; no marble statue
could have appeared more inanimate-lifeless!
Her head had sunk upon her bosom. She had
not fainted-no cry escaped her lips; but when
he raised her in his arms, there was a look of
fixed horror and wretchedness in her distended
eyes which terrified him, and in an agony of re-
morse he called upon her to speak to him, pour-
ing forth a shower of tender expressions and
reassurances, mingled with bitter self-accusa-
tions, which as speedily revived the drooping
flower as his former words had seemed to crush
it like a violent storm.
"
Harry, Harry, you were cruel," she mur-
mured, as the colour returned to her cheeks,
and life to her eyes; "but you could not know
all I feel for you, or you would never have ut-
tered such dreadful words. Oh never, never,
Harry, let me hear them again !"
"My own sweetest! I was cruel," he replied;
"but I am sure you will not regret the tempo-
rary suffering I have caused you, for has it not
shown me that you really love me, when I was
beginning to entertain that fearful, dreadful
doubt a doubt which would have so continu-
ally agonized my heart that I should not have
endured it long-it would have destroyed me!
No, Maud," he continued, more earnestly, "you
shall, I promise you, never hear such words
from my lips, if—”
'Oh, Harry, stop! say no more!" exclaimed
Maud; and a shudder passed through her frame,
and the colour once more fled from her cheeks.
And Percy said no more. He saw nothing
farther was required; that he had saved him-
self, by his address, from all future annoyance
and disquiet, and therefore he obeyed her and
was silent.
CHAPTER LV.
"Ife had not learn'd
blow which had been struck to his dearest hopes.
Mr. Sutherland,also considered that the unfor-
tunate circumstances of the case-the knowl-
edge which had circulated of the engagement
that had existed between Arthur and his erring
child-made it imperative that he should appear
in the world, and act in a manner most likely
to dispel all idle speculations.
But Arthur Balfour seemed unwilling to separ-
ate from the sad little party, to whom he felt he
was an acquisition and comfort. He knew that
it was solely on his individual account that Mr.
Sutherland proposed his departure, and he saw
the gleam of pleasure which lighted up his mel-
ancholy countenance when he answered in a
cheerful tone, that if his host did not absolutely
drive him away, he should remain, at least till
May and he had perfected themselves under
Miss Meyer's valuable tuition in the German
language-till he had explored a few more
mountains, and until he was able to boast of
some feats of slaughter on the moors, for which
the environs of Langdale were renowned.
Mr. Sutherland wrung his hand in silent emo-
tion. He thought of the wound-the galling,
grating wound-that young, noble heart had re-
ceived, and he remembered who had dealt the
blow.
Among the bereaved man's many torturing
reflections, one feeling stung him to the quick.
Some sorrows carry with them their consola-
tion: the hand of a merciful, pitying father is
seen immediately directing the event, bringing
with it manifest solace, clearly showing to the
afflicted that their God is a God of mercy; but
there are also sorrows which are far harder to
bear than even the loss of the dearest and best;
sorrows which, to the sufferer, dim for a mo-
ment the eye of confiding faith. Under their
withering influence, they look upon their Judge
no longer as the God of mercy, but of ven-
gcance! And thus it is when the conviction of
sin-of well-merited punishment, first bursts
upon the chastened heart of the penitent; when
we feel the scourge which our own sins have
made, and which our frailties have drawn down
upon us.
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd
In weariness from life."-MRS. HEMANS.
It was not until the end of July that, after
touring through the most beautiful parts of
Scotland, Mr. Sutherland and his daughter took
up their abode at Langdale, which had been
long deserted, owing to the climate having
proved too keen for Mrs. Sutherland's health.
It was a lovely possession, and Mr. Suther-Eli, he had reproved her not.
land now determined to spend there, in strict
seclusion, the remainder of the first year of his
widowhood.
And Mr. Sutherland remembered with bitter
agony that Arthur Balfour was the victim of the
over-indulged, the unrestrained will of his child !
Who, then, had been the cause of the evil-who
but himself? Placed, as he had been, as the
husbandman over the garden of that child's
heart, he had suffered to spring up, unchecked,
the thorns and briers of unruly passions: like
Affliction had taught Mr. Sutherland to exam-
ine his heart, to know wherein he had offended.
He had been awakened from the dream of self-
Arthur Balfour still formed one of the little confidence, into which great prosperity is apt to
group, though Mr. Sutherland often entreated ensnare even the most virtuous and unblemish-
him not to linger on his account; for, though ed characters. The world in which he had
the mourning husband felt that seclusion was gloried had become more barren, more desolate
the only state bearable to himself, still he judg-than the wide and waste howling wilderness.
ed that to his young relative, whose case was But we crave our readers' pardon for thus di-
so widely different, such perfect retirement gressing. We are aware that it is better policy
might prove prejudicial in many ways, under to let every one who takes up a book of this de-
nis peculiar sorrow. Active and cheerful so- scription deduce from it his own moral as he
1
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
95.
proceeds, and surely the unhappy father's error
and its consequences convey its lesson.
Lord Percival wrote to accept the invitation
to Langdale with unconcealed delight.
The party were at breakfast when his letter
arrived saying that he would be with them in a
few days; and when Arthur Balfour made the
announcement, Mr. Sutherland expressed the
pleasure he should feel in seeing him, lavishing
warm encomiums on the young man, in which
Arthur gladly joined. He rejoiced at this fa-
stinctively glanced at May to observe what ef
fect these praises produced on her. Miss Mey-
er, too, looked towards her pupil, and called to
mind the scene in the schoolroom. But a slight
sigh had been May's only notice of Arthur's an-
nouncement, and now she was grave and ab-
sent, with no expression of interest in the sub-
September still found Arthur Balfour at Lang-
dale. His absences had been merely temporary,
to his regiment, in order to arrange fresh leave
of absence. Mr. Sutherland had ceased to urge
his return to gayer society, and now begged him
to invite some friends for the shooting season ;
and although Balfour had little inclination to
change the even, quiet tenour of his present ex-vourable opening for Percival's hopes, and in-
istence, he accepted the proposal that he should
invite his cousin, Lord Percival, to spend a few
weeks at Langdalc. He knew how agreeable
a visit to the beauteous spot would be to him,
even setting aside all other attractions, and he
felt it would be selfish to deprive his cousin of
so much gratification; but, although Lord Per-
cival was his best and dearest friend, still heject visible on her countenance.
dreaded his arrival.
Many who, like Arthur Balfour, have experi-
enced severe distress or bitter disappointment,
which has shaken their enjoyment of this world
and its pursuits, and totally changed the current
of their ideas the manner of their existence,
will be able to enter into his feelings of repug-
nance to break the lulling charm, which almost
insensibly was healing the wound within his
heart.
Some, perhaps, might doubt the efficacy of
such a course, and mock at the very idea of a
life of seclusion soothing the anguish of an out-
raged spirit. The world and its exciting pur-
suits are too often considered more efficacious
in easing "the mind diseased ;" but Arthur Bal-
four thought not thus. The rational and healthy
relaxations of a country life-intellectual study
the companionship of those by whom he felt
himself beloved and appreciated (and what balm
is so healing to a wounded spirit as affection?)
-the pleasing consciousness of being a source
of comfort to those around him, exciting him to
exertion, and, it may be added, the workings of
a proper pride, all induced a more salutary ef-
fect than had he striven
"In thoughtless throngs and empty noise
To conquer half his bosom's sadness."
But still it had been a mighty struggle to attain
the point of resignation and composure to which
he had now arrived. Those who witnessed the
quivering lip, the deadly pallor which would
overspread his face when any chord was struck
which jarred upon past remembrances, could
well perceive that he was not yet the conqueror.
The name of Maud never passed his lips.
Though the cousins, and sometimes Mr. Suther-
land himself, would converse of her who was
gone from them forever, striving to recall words,
looks, and actions of the departed, the once-
loved name of the living lost one seemed to have
become a forbidden sound, though perhaps not
for an instant was she absent from the mind of
each, cherished there unconsciously with more
soft tenderness than either would have allowed.
And it was with feelings which would have
wrung poor Maud's heart, could she have known
them, that they would sadly and silently peruse,
with no comments but a sigh or a tear, accounts
of the scenes of gayety and dissipation in which
she was now moving-she, who had made
their home desolate! They knew not what
her feelings were. Human nature is ever
prone to form too hasty conclusions of the con-
duct of others.
|
·
This was unsatisfactory, and Arthur felt quite
impatient for Lord Percival's interests. It had
not failed to strike him that it was plain his
friend had not made the desired impression on
May's heart; still he did not yet despair for
him. He argued that her heart had hitherto
been monopolized by home affections; that no-
other love had as yet been admitted into it;
but now, alas! some of those ties had been
broken the mother-the sister and companion
of her early days-their vacant places must be
supplied, and Arthur, untaught by experience,
settled that Lord Percival should fill the vacuum
in the heart of the young May; and with more
of zeal than discretion, he made use of the in-
fluence which he felt that he had acquired over
her mind to prepare the way for Percival's suit,
by striving to paint him as the very model of
excellence. He would dwell on the happiness
in store for the being so fortunate as to win his
love; and so bright was the colouring he was
wont to give the picture, that May could not
sometimes resist one of her merry laughs, and
then she would sarcastically compare the inti-
macy of the two friends to the far-famed friend-
ship of Pylades and Orestes; still, at the same
time, she listened with such pleased attention,
such glistening eyes, that Arthur was fain to
congratulate himself that his plan was working
to his heart's content.
He was, therefore, quite disconcerted at the
want of interest and emotion of any kind mani-
fested by May at the intelligence of Percival's
proposed arrival, and as they rode out together
that morning, he turned to her abruptly, asking
whether she was not glad that Lord Percival
was coming to Langdale.
"Not at all," was the ready answer, too in-
genuously spoken to admit a doubt of its truth.
Arthur, though feeling provoked, could not
forbear laughing as he inquired why.
"He will be a more cheerful companion for
you than I am, May, and you must like him for
my sake."
Oh yes, I always did like Lord Percival,”
she replied, "and after all your eloquent pane-
gyrics, I ought to be prepared to esteeni him
still better; but we have been so quiet, so
peaceful!" and a sigh involuntarily heaved her
bosom, and then she continued, hesitating and
blushing, "It will certainly be more lively for
you; but what will become of our German-our`
reading? I suppose Pylades and Orestes," she
added, playfully, "will be too much absorbed in
96
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
the delight of each other's society to be able to | I am determined to take the advice he so wise-
think of aught else."
"Oh! I think Miss May will find herself
wrong in her judgment in this instance," re-
joined Arthur, in a dry, significant tone, as,
with an arch expression lurking in his eyes, he
fixed them on her sweet face. "I have an idea
that Orestes, as you so impertinently style his
lordship, will not be so entirely engrossed in
that quarter as you seem to imagine. Do you
really wish to make me believe, fair cousin,
that you are not aware that there exists a far
greater attraction for Percival at Langdale than
your humble servant?"
'May blushed. She could not mistake his
meaning; but there was no very gratified ex-
pression on her countenance as she gave her
pretty palfrey a stroke with her light whip, and
broke into a canter.
ly gives:
"All hearts in love use their own tongues.
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent.'
"Ah!" thought Arthur, as a bitter pàng
blanched his cheek, "long will it be before-if
ever-another love can heal the deep wound
which Maud so cruelly inflicted."
But on such painful and fruitless reminiscen-
ces Balfour seldom allowed himself to dwell;
and to divert his miserable thoughts, he turned
again to his fair companion, in order to bring
back the subject once more to Lord Percival.
"Do you know, May, what Lord Percival
told me in his letter this morning?"
He paused. The clear, fresh air and health-
ful exercise had brought a rich glow to May's
cheeks. The extremely delicate hues of her
complexion alone prevented her from being as
lovely as her sister, whom she so much resem-
bled in other respects; and as the young girl
now bent her beautiful eyes, beaming with un-
wonted brightness, upon him, a sudden shock
passed through his frame: he could have fan-
cied it was Maud by his side. After a moment's
pause he recovered his self-possession, and con-
tinued, though in a saddened tone, a mournful
smile quivering on his lip,
When they had again slackened their pace,
and were allowing their horses to walk slowly
up a steep hill, they happened to fall in with a
party of equestrians, composed of some of the
lairds and ladies of the neighbourhood, to whom
the recently-arrived tenants of Langdale were
naturally a source of universal curiosity, com-
ment, and interest-an interest heightened by
the strict retirement in which they lived; and
when they chanced to be encountered, as now,
in their walks or rides, they were looked upon
with an admiration which indeed each individ-
ual of the party was well calculated to inspire. There was a rapid change in the expression
The distinguished bearing of the still handsome of the soft eyes fixed upon his face-indeed, in
though dejected Mr. Sutherland, with his young the whole countenance, which might have as-
daughter by his side, whose large, soft hazel | tonished Balfour had he been allowed time for
eyes were beaming upon the aristocratic youth, longer observation; but the next instant May
was a worthy object for any female eye to rest had flourished her light whip, and as her horse
upon, and which, at first, bade fair to turn the sprang forward, a ringing, mocking laugh burst
heads of many an unsophisticated lass of Lang-from her lips, in tones of unnatural wildness.
dale. But when the pretty maidens made the
important discovery that he was not the brother
of the graceful young lady, then came a whisper
that he was her lover-nay, soon it was pro-
tested that they were engaged; and the dam-
sels began to console themselves by thinking
how much they should dislike such a proud,
melancholy-looking swain; one who never
deigned to bestow a smile or a glance as he
passed, but rode or walked on with his head as
high as if he were a crown prince.
They say, May, that you and I are en-
|gaged."
It was long since Arthur had heard a note so
gay, so peculiar, and his thoughts again flew
back to days gone by,
"When with their whole happy hearts
They loved and laugh'd away their time."
But May's laugh soon died away, and both
were grave and absent during the remainder of
their ride.
CHAPTER LVI.
"Never have the stars above
Chronicled such utter love."-L E. L.
THERE is, perhaps, to a casual observer, no
This report of an engagement between him-
self and May had reached Arthur Balfour's ears,
but it had made little impression on him hith-
erto. On the present occasion, however, the
scrutinizing look with which they were regard-scene which conveys a stronger idea of cheer-
ed by the riding party brought the circumstance
back to his mind, and his lip curled as he thought
how ready people always were to take upon
themselves the arrangement of the concerns of
others the quiet spot in the country is as busy
with gossip as the bustling metropolis.
Lord Percival, jestingly, had concluded his
letter to Arthur by saying,
"In short, my dear Balfour, I think it high
time to come and look after my own interests,
for the on dit now is that you and a certain
young lady, in whose heart you profess to be so
generously creating for me a favourable impres-
sion, are destined to be united; and as you
know our great poet says,
"Friendship is constant in all things
Save in the office and affairs of love,
fulness and comfort than the picture presented
by a social party assembled on a winter's even-
ing in a well-lighted, well-warmed drawing-
room.
But a brief glance it must be; one that will
not penetrate into the thoughts of the several
individuals gathered together; for then, alas!
the pleasing illusion might too often be destroy-
ed, the brightness turned to gloom and dark-
ness, for the next look might discover bleeding
hearts-spirits yearning and weeping for one
with whom
"The flower, the tone,
The music of their being'
have departed..
But it is not to the melancholy side of the
picture we shall now direct the attention of the
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
97
countess her mother, who had passed a night
there on her way from the northern estate of
the Balfour family.
reader in sketching the interior of the drawing-
room at Langdale. We will not intrude into
the meditations of the widower, who, seated
apart, rested his head on his hand, apparently
in deep thought, but turn to the other individu- | Sutherlands, she had drawn from her son the
als of the group.
Engaged in the sober game of chess was Ar-
thur Balfour and a pretty, graceful girl, the
Lady Cecilia, who, while her opponent was
gravely considering an important move, leaned
back in her chair, and with an arch expression
lurking in her merry eye, cast ever and anon a
sly glance on two others of the party- her
brother, Lord Percival, and her young hostess,
May Sutherland.
In the demeanour of May there was not much
to attract observation, as, seated by Miss Meyer
at the work-table, she calmly and silently lean-
ed over her embroidery frame, but Percival did
not appear equally composed. He had been
very unsettled and restless all the evening. At
one moment he would place himself by the
work-table, and fix his eyes on the delicate fin-
gers flying so actively over the flowers they
were tracing, but if the embroideress chanced
to raise her eyes or attempted to lead him into
conversation, he would answer so abruptly, so
almost impatiently, that, meeting with no en-
couragement, May again relapsed into silence.
Then Lord Percival would suddenly rise, pace
the room, stop for an instant by the chess-play-
ers, gaze as if absorbed by interest in their
game, then start off to the farthest extremity
of the apartment, and seat himself for a short
space with a book in his hand, which was again
almost immediately put aside, and thus he went
on for some time.
"Do you know, May, whether there is such
a book in the library as a work on chess?" in
quired Arthur; "Cecilia and I differ in opinion
concerning one of the rules."
"I rather believe there is," she replied,
"though I can scarcely tell you where to look
for it. Let me see I think I shall be more
likely to find it than you: I will go and seek for
it," and, lighting a candle, she moved with
good-natured alacrity towards the door, which
she was about to open, when another forestall-
ed her intention. The words, "Allow me to
assist you!" pronounced in a somewhat trem-
ulous voice, sounded in her ear, and she pro-
ceeded to the library, not alone! The door
was closed, and for an instant May stood in the
midst of the dimly-lighted library as if delibera-
ting in which direction she should commence
her search, but in the next moment all ideas on
that subject were dispersed, for her hand was
suddenly taken, and she heard that the future
happiness or misery of a life rested on her deci-
sion. In other words, one of the richest coro-
nets of Great Britain was laid at the feet of
gentle May Sutherland, with as true and warm
a heart as ever beat within the breast of a young
English nobleman.
|
|
During the brief visit of Lady Balfour to the
secret of the attraction which had, caused him
to linger so long in a secluded mansion in Scot-
land, instead of being in Warwickshire, assist-
ing in doing the honours of his father's house
to the numerous guests lately there assembled.
She ended her discourse by saying,
"Well, my dear Percival, if you are deter-
mined against Lady Fanny Beresford, which, I
assure you, is a sad disappointment to me-
still, I say, as you have quite made up your
mind on that point, it is of no farther use my
naming the many advantages of that alliance. I
am a great advocate for rank marrying with
rank: however, there is nothing objectionable
to your union with the daughter of one of the
oldest families and the richest commoners in
England, particularly if it is true that the other
sister has been disinherited."
"Mother!" was the indignant interruption
of the son.
"I would advise you," pursued the countess,
not heeding it," to do nothing hastily-rashly:
you have plenty of time: the young lady looks
very youthful, and, though certainly an exces-
sively pretty, graceful creature, will be none the
worse for a little acquaintance with the world,
to give her more of the ton requisite for the sta-
tion she would fill as your wife."
It
"My dear mother," again exclaimed Perci-
val, " let us understand each other at once.
is my intention to propose to Miss Sutherland
before I leave this house. Fortunate should I
indeed deem myself if I succeeded in winning
her as she is. Contact with the world indeed!
Why, dear mother, even poor little Cecilia's one
season in London has much spoiled her in my
opinion: she is not half so natural and unaf-
fected as she used to be. I am glad you are
going to leave her here: Miss Sutherland's so-
ciety will be a real advantage to her. But
good-night come, give me a kiss, and wish me
success.
"Success!" repeated the countess; "why,
have you any doubt on the subject ?" and she
gazed proudly on her noble-looking sʊn.
"If I had none, be assured, mother, the af-
fair would have been arranged long ago," was
Percival's answer, in a tone so earnest and
mournful that the mother's feelings turned in
their course, and her heart was at once enlisted
in his cause.
Lord Percival had entertained doubts, or
surely he would not have allowed opportunity
after opportunity to pass away, which a hopeful
lover would have seized upon with avidity,
without bringing his fate to a decisive point.
And yet there was nothing repellant in the de-
portment of May towards him; her heart, ever
susceptible of kindness, bestowed upon the
young man sincere friendship, and with this,
Firmly and decidedly, though tearfully and
gently, May pronounced his doom: he was re-or some time, he was satisfied
fused!
Two months had elapsed since Lord Perci-
val's arrival at Langdale, and on the next day
he was to take his departure with his sister,
who, a fortnight before, had, at the request of
Mr. Sutherland, been left at Langdale by the
N
But as weeks flew on, and as his anxious
feelings caused words or looks to escape him of
deeper import, May's large, clear eyes would
open wide with an air of surprise, and she
would change her frank, unrestrained demean-
our, and become cold and formal, and then he
98
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
..
was forced to return to his original more distant
manner when addressing her.
and stealthily she glided down stairs and reach-
ed the hall, but a voice there greeted her ears
which made her suddenly turn round, and then
start off like a hunted hare.
A quickly advancing footstep told her she was
followed, and she flew along the gallery towards
her father's study, and into it she darted; but
when, breathless, she stood within that sanctu-
ary intently listening, she found that her flight
had availed her nothing, for a steady footstep
was heard fast approaching.
Lord Percival grew restless in spite of Bal-
four's entreaties that he would be patient; in
short, he doubted; and a fortnight had passed
in continual fluctuations of hope and fear-in
longing, but dreading to take the bold step, and
at once decide his destiny. And now the step
was taken, and he stood by May Sutherland's
side rejected-refused-but not yet vanquished.
May did not accompany Lord Percival back
to the drawing-room; and when Lady Cecilia, She was in despair. The window, but a few
about an hour afterward, tapped at her door, feet from the ground, was open: she sprang
and then entered with a significant smile, and forward, and in another instant would have es-
archly inquired what had become of the chess-caped in safety, had not her progress been im-
book, and why they had been so long deprived
of her society, she saw by a glance that all was
not right.
With burning cheeks and quivering lips now
stood the calm being she had so lately seen
seated at her workframe, and much puzzled as
to what construction to put upon the matter,
Lady Cecilia cut short her pleasantry, and soon
withdrew.
Mr. Sutherland soon after entered his daugh-
ter's room, and folding her in his arms, play-
fully reproached her for forgetting to give him
his nightly kiss, and then May murmured,
CC
Papa, Lord Percival proposed to me to-
night."
"And you would not leave your poor father!"
he replied.
May hid her face on his shoulder, and was
silent.
Well," he continued, with an affectionate
smile, "I have told them they must not expect
any assistance from me, and I came to warn
my darling to take care of herself to-morrow."
May looked up with such an expression of
alarm that Mr. Sutherland could not forbear
laughing; but her naid entering at that mo-
ment, he again kissed her and withdrew.
The next morning, at breakfast, May scarce-
ly lifted her eyes from her plate, and when the
weary meal was completed, she hurried to her
room, unmindful that her fair guest was to de-
part that very morning, and that politeness de-
manded her presence.
And why should she be so cowardly? Even
if the rejected lover were again to request an
interview, could she not repeat her refusal ?
True, that was in her power; but could she
brook the repetition of a question breathed in
her ear-a question which, though her lips had
evaded, her heart had answered in a manner
which had filled her with dismay?
It was some relief when, from her window,
she beheld her father, accompanied by Lady Ce-
cilia, sally forth towards the stables to see a
horse brought for her ladyship's inspection.
This would, at least, fill up part of the time be-
fore her departure, and permit her to remain in
security; but still, every step she heard made
her start and tremble, till at last she could bear
it no longer. She would follow her father, and
from his side she would not move till the coast
was clear. She might have taken refuge with
Miss Meyer; but lately she had remarked how
invariably, when Lord Percival entered and
found them together, she had made some pre-
text for leaving them tête-à-tête.
In another instant she was equipped. Hastily
peded by her veil catching in the blind; and
though she hurriedly extricated it, it was too
late: an arm encircled her waist, and with gen-
tle violence detained her.
Was it Lord Percival who presumed thus?
She turned with flashing eyes and burning.
cheeks, speechless with indignation, and beheld
| Arthur Balfour.
CHAPTER LVII.
"Maiden! since I saw thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath pass'd ;
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known.
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
Maiden! thou hast loved in vain !”
MRS. HEMANS.
"FORGIVE me, my dear cousin," said Arthur
Balfour, laughing, as he drew his unresisting
captive to a large arm-chair, into which she
sank exhausted and abashed. "Why, May," he
continued, with a sigh, "this chase reminds me
of the happy days of our childhood at Suther-
land Manor, when we used so merrily to hunt
the hare;' but the little hare never trembled
then as she does now.”
"I thought I thought," murmured May,
"that it was Lord Percival; and indeed, Ar-
thur, I do not wish to be farther importuned;
therefore, if you come from him, tell him he re-
ceived my answer last night. What can he
have more to say on the subject? I was going,
to join Lady Cecilia when you stopped me: I
have already left her too long ;" and she made
a movement to rise, but again was detained by
Balfour, who, in a tone mild but firm, and which
May could not resist, said,
"I am sure, May, you will not refuse to hear
me for a few short moments, so let me remove
this cumbersome affair," and he gently untied
the strings of the heavy crape bonnet, with its
thick veil, which entirely concealed her features,
and placing it on the table, he seated himself
exactly opposite to her.
"It is true, May," he began, "that I am come
as ambassador from poor Percival, though not
to ask mercy-only to demand justice: justice
which I never can believe that, on calm consid-
eration, my gentle cousin can withhold, although
last night, on the impulse of the moment, she
refused to grant it, and in so arbitrary a manner.
To reject the addresses of Lord Percival, you
have certainly a right to do, and he only again
entreats you, through me, not to allow him to
depart perfectly hopeless.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
99
"May," Arthur continued, in a trembling, sti-
fled voice, "if you had ever known what it
was to love earnestly, devotedly-if you knew
the agony of having your very existence wrap-
ped up in a beloved object-to love, and then to
find your fondest hopes suddenly dashed to the
ground, never, never again to rise" he was
silent for a moment, and averted his face-"had
you any idea of this torture," he again contin-
ued, "you would have paused, at least, ere you
had dealt the final blow. Thank God! my own
sweet cousin, you have been spared the ordeal
I have been picturing, and may such utter mis-
ery never be your portion! Speaking from ex-
perience, I know how to feel for my friend, and
entreat you to listen to the supplications of one
whose love is a prize which ought not to be thus
hastily rejected."
Arthur did not observe, so engrossed were
his thoughts and feelings, the deadly pallor
which gradually overspread his listener's face
as he spoke, and continued:
"But to come to the point: allowing, as you
did last night, that you entertained sincere
friendship and esteem for Percival, he now only
supplicates permission to live on the hope that
time, farther acquaintance, and the knowledge
of his unalterable attachment may at some fu-
ture period change into a warmer feeling your
present sentiments. All this he would have
pleaded for himself but for the peremptory com-
mand you gave him to address you no more on
the subject."
|
|
"Oh! what is it you wish? I am not worthy
of such solicitude. If you if Lord Percival
wish-Alas! alas! I cannot
I cannot agree
to it. You have confused me," she continued,
petulantly, "and I scarcely know what to say."
There was a pause. Arthur felt a slight
sensation of impatience and disapprobation,
such as a brother might feel towards a sister
who he thought was acting unwisely. There
seemed a capricious pertinacity in her refusal;
a lack of her usually placid yet dignified bear-
ing, which he could not bear to miss in one he
honoured as well as loved, and it was in a tone
that marked that feeling that he said,
"There was nothing in what I said calcula-
ted to confuse you. I cannot account, my dear
May, for the agitation you now exhibit. Let us
at once understand each other. Tell me, calm-
ly and quietly, what I am to say to Lord Perci-
val. Shall I tell him you absolutely will not
grant his petition?"
The calm, cold voice in which he spoke, and
the idea of a speedy termination to an interview
which had become almost insupportable to her,
somewhat revived May's composure, and it was
with an air of undisguised relief and eagerness
that she rose from her seat, saying, as she
looked timidly in Arthur's face,
"I am sorry to give him pain, but I ought to
be sincere. I can never leave my father, even
if" Again she became agitated and confused.
"And this, I may tell Percival, is your rea-
son for rejecting him," began Arthur Balfour;
May offered no interruption to this speech," for do you know, May, that, had it not been
but remained resolutely silent.
really, May," Balfour exclaimed, "you do look
rather guilty; but yet who can it be?"
for my venturing to assure him to the contrary
“Although your father could not be prevailed-though perhaps it was presumptuous in me to
upon to take any part in the matter, he truly do so - for who" and Arthur bitterly smiled
sympathized in poor Percival's distress," con- and shrugged his shoulders-" who can dive
tinued Balfour, "and the flattering terms in into the secrets of a lady's heart? — had I not
which he expressed himself was a real conso- protested stoutly to the contrary by something
lation to the wounded feelings of my friend. in your absolute manner last night, he might
Indeed, he told him that to no one would he have departed with the impression that your
more joyfully bestow his child than himself, but heart was occupied by another. Surely this
he would never influence her choice by any ex- were unnecessary cruelty, fair lady. I suppose
pression of his own sentiments. And may II may relieve his mind on that point? Why,
hope" and Arthur took May's little hand in his
and affectionately pressed it" that you will
regard the words of one who, though he cannot,
What was it that made Arthur abruptly pause,
as he once did”—again his voice faltered. and why did the crimson blood rush to his face
"hope to claim the dear relationship of brother, while he darted a hasty, penetrating glance on
must ever love you as a sister? Your kind- the speaking countenance of the fair girl before
ness and sympathy, dear, kind May, has been, him, and then as suddenly avert his eyes, a
indeed, comfort inexpressible in my bitter sor-shade of something like dismay and consterna-
row, and many days both of mourning and hap-
piness have we spent together. But I meant
not to distress you, my own dear sister," he
added, after a pause, in a more cheerful voice,
as tears flowed in torrents from the eyes of
May, and her bosom heaved convulsively; "I
only wished to express my deep interest in the
future happiness of one I love so well, by thus
importuning you. But I fear I have offended,"
for May withdrew her hand which lay in his.
"Alas! alas!" she mentally cried, "I can
endure this no longer. Arthur," she exclaimed,
"leave me!" and with an air almost of despe-
ration, she waved him away. "Arthur, leave
me, I implore you!" and then Arthur's pene-
trating eyes were fixed with an air of calm sur-
prise on her agitated countenance, now raised
to his. She once more sunk back on her chair,
and hid her face in her hands, murmuring,
tion stealing over his mind? and why did May
sit pale as ashes, trembling like a culprit, her
eyes bending lower and lower to the ground?
For a few moments a death-like silence pre-
vailed, but in that short space much was
achieved, much was developed, so quick is
thought, so rapid are the workings of the hu-
man mind!
The painful stillness was at length broken by
Arthur Balfour, who, murmuring in an embar-
rassed, constrained manner something about
not detaining her, rose and walked to the win-
dow. Another pause, and then May spoke :
|
"Arthur!" she faintly said.
He turned slowly towards her. She also had
risen, pale indeed, and apparently leaning for
support against the chair, but her next words
were communicated in a firm, clear, althoug.i
low voice:
100
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"Arthur, you may tell Lord Percival that I
agree to the wish that he proposes; but time
must elapse-a very long time, before he may
again speak to me as he did last night.. You
may say that it is in consideration of your-you
may-" Her voice now died away.
And what had the lapse of a few moments
done? what a change had it wrought in both
the hearts of the young cousins! In May, the
hope that had till now, unknown to herself,
sustained a love so long cherished, seemed to
have departed. By advocating so warmly the
cause of another, poor May at once discovered
the total indifference of Arthur Balfour, and
this discovery, by bringing to her aid the proper
pride of a woman, moved her to her present re-
solve to endeavour to love another.
her disappointed heart, and she wept and sigh-
ed when she thought how truly it was her case.
"To need good counsel and to miss the voice,
The ever trusted and the ever true,
Whose tones were ever wont to cheer HER faltering
voice,
And show what holy virtue ought to do:"
for hers was a tale to be breathed to no earth-
ly ear save a mother's. Consolatory was it to
the heart of May Sutherland to remember that
there was One at whose feet she need not fear
to lay her sorrows; for though man might de-
spise her weakness, He that knoweth the se-
crets of all hearts would not refuse his pity and
support.
*
*
In a fortnight after this scene Arthur Balfour
But Arthur Balfour, how was it with him? ed leave of absence would then expire. There
was to return to his regiment; his long-extend-
Astounding to his feelings was the result of this
interview: the scales of darkness seemed sud-manners of the two cousins towards each oth-
was scarcely any apparent difference in the
denly, as if by a magic touch, to have fallen er, but there were no more tête-à-tête walks or
from his eyes. The secret of poor May's heart rides: it always happened that they were ac-
was revealed; and now that he felt that he was companied by either Mr. Sutherland or Miss
beloved by this sweet, innocent girl, a tide of
Meyer.
rich, delightful feelings rushed to his heart,
which beat with a feeling of happiness to which the last words of parting were spoken by May
The morning for Arthur's departure arrived;
it had long been a stranger. But for a moment with tearful eyes, though calmly, while Ar-
only was the sensation one of joy: he remem-thur's voice trembled, and his face was paler
bered his friend, and he groaned in spirit.
"Unfortunate! always," he inwardly ejacu-
lated; and after a struggle for composure, with
some difficulty said,
May, I think you are wise; but yet—but
yet I hope you are not influenced by the wishes
of any one it is for you alone to decide."
"You have my answer," returned May,
more faintly still, but with an air of dignity;
“and now I hear the carriage-I must go to
Lady Cecilia."
There was no interview demanded by Lord
Percival; and when, after being closeted with
Arthur a quarter of an hour, he joined her at
the hall door, where she stood with her father
and Lady Cecilia, who, ready equipped, had
been some time waiting for her brother, he pre-
sumed not even a look of that love he had so
eloquently pleaded on the previous evening;
but when May, with downcast eyes and a for-
ced smile on her lips, extended to him her
hand, there was an expression on his noble
countenance as he respectfully and gently
pressed it that went to May's heart, and was
more favourable to his cause than if he had
fallen at her feet and poured out his soul's de-
votion; and when he breathed the hope that
the circumstance of Arthur's regiment being
stationed in London in the Spring would be an
inducement to Mr. Sutherland to visit London
at that time, she smiled her willingness to the
desired scheme. When he had entered the
carriage, she turned to brush away a tear, and
sighed to think she had not a heart more wor-
thy of one so deserving of being loved.
Her next act was to fly to her room, and
there, in solitude, to call to her aid the natural |
rectitude and strength of her character, and
demand help from her only unfailing source of
comfort.
than hers.
"I shall miss you, my dear brother," said
May, with her sweet, open smile, "but I trust
that we shall soon meet again. Do not forget
your sister."
"Forget you?" he murmured, in faltering
accents, and he was gone
May stood with streaming eyes. But soon
a smile of peculiar signification curled her lip:
there was bitterness in the expression-nay,
even pain, which might have puzzled one who
sought to read its meaning; but it was, in fact,
a smile of triumph. May bad gained a hard-
fought victory--the most difficult conquest that
can possibly be achieved-a victory over her
heart
CHAPTER LVIII.
""Twas a friend of my early youth
That I met in a foreign land."
"He spoke, 'twas a voice from my home I heard,
And it struck my heart's most sensitive chord.'
HAYNES BAYLEY.
"
"Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
A settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid was charged with unshed tears.
What could her rief be? for she had all she loved,
And HE who hao loved her was not there,
To trouble with. ad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill repress'd affection, her pure thoughts:
What could be her grief?"-BYRON.
A YEAR and a half has passed away since we
parted with our friends at Langdale. It is in
a drawing-room in Arlington-street that we
again recognise two of the party-May Suther
land and Lord Percival, who now, unforbidden,
unchecked, is pouring upon her ear the full
story of his long-felt, constant love. The pa-
tient, persevering lover is rewarded, for the
fair girl whom he so long loved has at last
She felt that she had been guilty of weak-calmly and willingly consented that at some
ness in exciting in another a hope which she future time she would be his wife.
feared might never be realized. Bitterly did
she blame herself, poor girl, as she examined
But had he not waited long enough already?
Was another seven years to be added to tho
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
101
years of his bondage? for thus he styled and "And now, Lord Percival," she added, arch-
likened the time of his anxious uncertainty. ly, in conclusion, "now that I have paid my
Alas! then, indeed, her feelings were not like penalty, let me tell you that you must prepare
his, or she could not so calmly talk of " time." | for yours. You deserve punishment, both for
Still May relented not. No, she spoke again,
and not only of time, but of absence. Though
her knowledge of his excellence had won her
esteem, nay her love, as yet she loved her fa-
ther better. Mr. Sutherland was soon to re-
turn to the Manor; he was determined to yield
no longer to the weakness which had hitherto
kept him from his home; and to devote herself
solely to this dear father-to give herself up,
heart and soul, to his support and comfort du-
ring this severe trial, she felt was her duty, as
well as her firm desire.
"And how can that be done," she added,
with her own sweet smile, "if you are ever by
my side with your exigeant claims on my atten-
tion ?"
A sudden cloud seemed to dim the bright
gladness which had shone on Lord Percival's
face, and it seemed as if some painful remem-
brance had rushed back to his mind. For an
instant he was silent, but the next he raised his
eyes to her face, and with an expression of re-
covered cheerfulness on his countenance, said,
in his frank, open manner,
the suspicion which I well know crossed your
mind, and also for your boldness in questioning
me in the manner you have done. You had not
a legitimate right so to do. I believe it is not
the custom for the lovers of the present day to
dive into the past memoirs of the heart of their
lady-loves. I shall, however, be more lenient
in my sentence than you deserve, so no repi-
nings-no expostulations! Obey my orders,
and then-I promise you, with my father's
sanction, all shall be arranged."
"And where shall my place of banishment
be?" said Lord Percival, with sorrowful resig-
nation, after his sentence had been passed in
due form. "If it must be so, do you name it.
Give me some mission, some object, and if it be
to the deserts of Siberia, your having ordered
it will render the task endurable."
"Well, I will not send you there," said May,
laughing; "however," she added, in an alter-
ed, sadder tone, "you have it indeed in your
power to oblige and serve me essentially. Go
to Germany, and see my poor dear sister and
her child."
*
*
*
*
*
"You will not, I am sure, now refuse to an- And to Germany Lord Percival departed soon
swer me the same question which, in my de-after the foregoing conversation.
spair, I once presumed to ask you.
Will you
assure me, without hesitation, sincerely and
truthfully, that your father alone is the cause
of your present cruelty?"
He saw May's fair cheeks suffused with a
bright glow, though there was a smile on her
lips, as, casting down her eyes, she remained
in thought. He was somewhat startled, and
suddenly a fearful suggestion burst upon his
senses, which as quickly filled him with horror
and self-reproach for allowing an idea so base
an entrance into his mind. But her sister, he
thought, did she not betray the love-the confi-
dence of her affianced husband? With a voice
tremulous with emotion, he said, May, be-
tween us,
I am sure, you will agree it were best
that there should be no more concealments."
I do, indeed, Lord Percival," she replied, in
a firm voice; "and especially is it necessary"-
and gentle reproof mingled in her tone-" when
I see that all the love you profess does not in-
spire perfect confidence. No!" she continued,
smiling and blushing as he strove to interrupt
her, "I am aware you are thinking of my strange
confusion at Langdale when you so abruptly
asked me if my affections were disengaged.
Painful as it must be, I will now confess to you
that at that time they were not!"
แ
And she turned away her face.
"And my rival, my own sweet May! You
will complete your confidence-your beautiful
ingenuousness. Grateful indeed do I feel, but
still-"
Nay!" answered the fair girl, still averting
her eyes, "you might surely spare me farther,
for who-who," she added, in her artless man-
ner, "who could it have been-”
Lord Percival pressed her hand to his lips
and bade her say no more.
But she disobeyed him. Gaining courage as
she proceeded, frankly and fully she related the
events of her young heart's early history.
|
*
It was at a gay entertainment at Baden that
Lord Percival again beheld the bright being
who, had she not been the sister of his much-
loved May, would have been regarded with
coldness and dislike, for with her image was
associated the misery and desolation which had
clouded the opening prospects of his dearest
friend; but now his feelings towards her had
softened, and he could only think of the perjured
Maud as the sister of his betrothed.
Dazzlingly beautiful!" was his inward ex-
clamation when he first caught sight of her, as
she stood surrounded by a group of admirers,
for at that moment the bright smile of yore was
on her lip, and light brilliantly flashing from her
lustrous eyes.
"Poor Arthur," he thought, "it is well you
see her not!" He looked again: the smile was
gone, and was replaced by a look of painful
care: the eyes were still bright, more so even
than before, but their expression was changed
to one of restless excitement, as, seemingly
forgetful of those around her, she suffered them
to wander anxiously over the assembled throng.
"Fearfully beautiful!" now rose to Percival's
lips; and he thought of the calm countenance
of his gentle May, and pictured to himself how
it would be the study of his whole life to ward
off every approach of sorrow or disquiet which
might trouble the expression of that placid face.
"And this Arthur Balfour would have done for
you, false, treacherous beauty!" he soliloquized.
With an effort over his feelings, which were
not of a very softened nature towards our hero-
ine, Lord Percival shortly after made his way
through the crowd, and approached the spot
where Maud was seated. Her eyes met his :
he bowed: then, seeing a half uncertain ex-
pression on her countenance, he advanced and
said,
702
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"You have not, I hope, quite forgotten me,
Mrs. Percy-a friend from England."
her cheeks; "I dare say he will join us pres-
ently he will be delighted to see you.
Percival bowed politely, but coldly.
"How long do you mean to remain at Baden ?
Not any very great length of time, I suppose,"
said Maud, with a significant smile.
Lord Percival shook his head.
"For six months I am banished by your cru-
el sister, and I shall probably remain here some
portion of the time."
"Lord Percival!" she exclaimed, with emo-
tion, as she extended to him both her hands.
Her lips quivered, her bosom heaved, and large,
glistening drops dimmed her eyes. She paused
for a moment, and averted her head; then,
Brushing the tears away and endeavouring to
appear composed, she turned towards him again.
"Let me offer you my arm," said Lord Per-
cival, in kind accents; "we shall be able to "What! has gentle May become' a tyrant ?""
converse more quietly in the cool anteroom;"exclaimed Maud; and then she added, in a low,
and he led her through the crowded ballroom to timid tone, "Did they know that you would see
the spot he named, while with an eager yet me?"
timid voice she inquired whether he had lately
seen her father and sister.
There was something so joyous and signifi-
cant in his tone as he replied, and in the con-
scious smile that accompanied his words, that
it appeared to awaken ideas in the mind of his
anxious listener, for she suddenly looked up in-
quiringly in his face, and begged him to tell her
all he knew of her darling sister; and Percival,
100 happy by far to wish to retain his glad se-
eret, soon revealed the whole story, and claim-
ed the congratulations of his future sister on
his bright prospects. They were courteously
given, but not with the unmixed cordiality he
inight have expected.
It was in a tone of trembling emotion that
Maud next spoke of her father; and when Lord
Percival began, in a guarded and gentle man-
ner, to mention the continued oppression of his
spirits, and his having at length returned to the
Manor, in a hurried, agitated manner she stop-
ped him, saying,
"You shall tell me all about that another
time-not now." And her voice trembled, and
tears again gathered in her eyes; and then she
continued, with an effort to be cheerful, "You
must come and see me sometimes while you
are here, and give me every particular; they
will indeed be welcome, for alas !"-and there
was a slight burst of wounded feeling in her
tone-"my accounts from England of late have
been truly few and far between;"" and with
these last words, in spite of all her efforts to re-
strain them, the pent-up tears gushed forth.
/
Lord Percival related the fact of May's hav-
ing despatched him to Germany for the sole pur-
pose of bringing her intelligence of her sister
and child.
Poor Maud's eyes again glistened, but now it
was with tears of pleasure.
"Dear, sweet May !" she exclaimed, and then
a glow of maternal pride lighted up her face, "I
wish indeed she could see my boy; but, Lord
Percival, you shall see him, and tell her what a
darling he is ;" and with eager animation she
is;"
proceeded to descant on all her child's perfec-
tions, encouraged by the good-natured interest
betrayed by her listener to gratify the young
mother's heart.
And thus they sat for some time in their cho-
sen retreat, while many a cavalier of the gay
throng who caught a glimpse of the pair as they
passed to and fro from the salle de balle to the salle
de jeu, which the anteroom divided from each
other, cast a glance at the fortunate individual
who had found so much favour in the eyes of
the usually inaccessible beauty as to induce her
to unbend from her hauteur and dignity to vouch-
safe a decided flirtation with so gay and hand-
some a stranger.
At length a well-known voice fell upon Lord
Percival's ear, and the sound seemed to recall
Maud's attention to things around her. Her
cheeks flushed, and she turned her eyes quickly
and anxiously whence it came.
"That is Mr. Percy," she said, rising; "shall
we go and meet him ?"
Issuing from the salle de jeu, Harry Percy
Lord Percival was deeply touched at the sight slowly approached. Hanging on his arm was a
of the emotion shown by one whom he had hith-lady who, though she had passed la premiere jeu-
erto ever regarded as a mere selfish, unfeeling nesse, and was not strictly beautiful, was stri-
beauty. It was strange, he thought, that she king in appearance from her elaborate dress,
should have found a hear' in the world to which and lively, piquante countenance. Her face
she now belonged, and as she apologized for her beamed with gayety and animation as, laugh-
weakness, he kindly entreated her not to treating and talking, she turned it towards her com-
him as a stranger, but as a brother who could
understand and appreciate the feelings called
forth by the remembrance of "far-off friends."
44
Especially with such beautiful music sound-
ing in our ears," he added, "so plaintive in its
melody, just calculated to affect the nerves, and
particularly in a scene like this before us ;" and
he glanced from the recess in which they sat,
partly concealed by orange-trees surrounding
the spot, to the brilliant salle de balle, which,
with its multitude of mirrors, lights, and flow-
ers, and the gay circle of waltzers, looked like
a dazzling scene of enchantment, affording a
panion, who, with his,
"Graceful smile and whisper bland,"
was bending down to her.
They were passing on, when Maud, stepping
forward, pronounced his name, which caused
him to pause, and the lady to bestow one of her
softest smiles and liveliest greetings on our he-
roine, who, in return, merely bowed her head
civilly but with coldness, and then said, looking
at her husband,
Harry, here is an old friend from England-
Lord Percival!"
A momentary shade of something like embar-
painful contrast to the sorrowful. "Is Mr. Per-rassment passed over Harry Percy's face at
ey here?" Lord Percival next inquired.
"Yes," she answered, hurriedly, glancing to-
wards an opposite door, the colour mounting to
finding himself so suddenly brought in contact
with the intimate friend of the man he had so
deeply wronged, particularly as he perceived, by
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
103
the frigid civility with which Lord Percival greet-
ed him, that the wrong was by no means for-
gotten by him.
But Percy in a moment had regained his
self-possession, and expressed, with his usual
warmth of manner, the pleasure he felt at meet-
ing him; then, changing his voice to a more
subdued tone, made anxious inquiries for his
friends in England.
"And how do you think my wife is looking?"
he at length exclaimed, turning round to Maud,
who stood beside them, with an affectionate
smile; "none the worse for the Continent, I
hope! But I see she is longing to get rid of
me to have some more chat with you, so I'll be |
off. I have promised the countess to waltz with
her-a monstrous bore!" he added, lowering
his voice and looking towards the lady, who had
been drawn to some short distance, and stood
in the midst of a crowd of admirers; "I wish
you would persuade Mrs. Percy to waltz: but
she's grown very lazy."
"Dear Harry, I think I shall go home now,"
said Maud, as she saw him about to depart;
"I am rather tired ;" and Percival saw her
raise her eyes, and fix them with an earnest,
beseeching glance on her husband's face.
Whatever might have been its meaning, it
caused Percy to pause, and in an affectionate
tone to say,
Well, love, as you please. I suppose the
carriage is here ;" and Maud, accepting Lord
Percival's offer to precede them to see if it were
in readiness, placed her arm within that of her
husband, and thus they descended the stairs.
They stood together in the cloak-room when
Lord Percival again joined them, and on his en-
trance he caught the words, "Nonsense, dar-
ling!" spoken by Harry Percy, who then hur-
ried his wife into the carriage.
Lord Percival put his head in at the window
for a moment to wish her good-night.
"I shall certainly pay your son a visit to-
morrow morning," he said; but as he spoke, he
beheld, by the light of the lamp, tears in her
eyes, and her cheeks were so pale that he al-
most started as he drew back to allow, as he
expected, her husband to enter the carriage, but
he had disappeared.
Yes; and when Percival returned to the ball-
room, there was Harry Percy dancing and flirt-
ing as he used to do in his bachelor days, per-
haps even with more apparent zest, though
these occupations seemed to be but a relaxation
from still more exciting pursuits; for on stroll-
ing afterward with a friend whom he had en-
countered at Baden into the salle de jeu, there
again he found him. And who was the fair
lady who seemed to monopolize so much of his
attention? She was the wife of a foreign
Israelite of immense wealth-wealth sufficient
to maintain in splendour a wife whose gam-
bling propensities would speedily have ruined
any man of moderate revenue.
Lord Percival received this information from
his friend, and he asked no more questions.
He had heard and seen enough to make him
suspect that broken faith had already met its
reward.
But it had been her own work: a gambler's
wife she had chosen to be, and, as such, she
must reap the almost inevitable fate. Still his
heart bled for May's sister.
CHAPTER LIX.
"I saw thee in.thy beauty,
With one hand among her curls,
The other with no gentle grasp
Had seized a string of pearls ;
She felt the pretty trespass,
And she chid thee though she smiled,
And I knew not which was lovelier,
The mother or the child."
Although the print be little, the whole matter
And copy of his father: eye, nose, lip,
The trick of his frown, his forehead-nay, the valley,
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his
Smile-"-Winter's Tale.
THE next morning Lord Percival proceeded
to the private lodgings occupied by the Percys
Maud was alone, looking even more lovely in
her simple morning attire than in her recherché
toilet of the preceding evening, although by the
light of day he perceived that she was thinner
and her colour less brilliant.
Percival, in former days, used to think that
there was almost too much brightness in her
beauty-too much glare, he was wont to express
it, in her brilliant eyes and complexion, and
something almost too dazzling in the whiteness
of her teeth; but now that a shadow had, as it
seemed, been cast over her beauty's lustre,
though it were even that dark hue of sorrow
which had never before dimmed its brightness,
yet the subduing effect, he thought, had render-
ed her loveliness quite perfect, and he marvel-
led that such a peerless creature had failed to
draw even a dissipated husband from the un-
hallowed paths in which he trod.
Maud was at the piano when Percival enter-
ed, and as he ascended the stairs he recognised
the beautiful voice he so well remembered at
Sutherland Manor.
But, though the voice was the same, thie
tones were altered: there was a mournful
sound in their intonation. They seemed to tell
the tale.
"Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted-
Thou hast been forsaken long—
Thou hast watched for steps that came not back,
I know it by thy song."
Percival asked if she sang as much as ever,
and she answered with a sigh,
"Not quite. Mr. Percy is very fond of a
song now and then to my guitar, but he is not
very musical; therefore"
She paused, and the colour mounted to her
temples. Lord Percival thought to himself,
"She is thinking of one, perhaps, who was
musical."
He felt curious to know what effect the men-
tion of Arthur Balfour's name would produce,
and in order to lead to the subject, he contin-
ued by saying,
"And I am not musical either; I am sorry
to say-”
"Dues May keep up her singing?" asked
Maud, hurriedly.
She is always very good about it," he re-
plied, "and never refuses when I petition for a
song; but I do not think your father cares
much for music now.”
Maud slightly bent her head to hide a tear
that started to her eyes.
"How he loved it once!" she thought.
"And Balfour," continued Percival, "has
been so little with them lately, that, like you, I
supose for want of encouragement, May has
104
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
rather relaxed in her diligence; though, when | laughter, for the child, having for some time
I possess a little more authority over her, I
shall make her turn over a new leaf."
There was a slight pause, and then Maud
again lifted up her eyes to his face.
"Arthur is quite well, I hope," she said, in a
calm, low voice.
"Quite well," replied Percival: "he is now
with his regiment in Ireland. Mr. Sutherland
hopes to have him again with him in the winter;
but he is such a good soldier, and so wedded
to his profession, that he does not like to absent
himself for any time from his duties."
And there the subject dropped, for Maud, as
he spoke, became so pale that he felt anxious
to turn from a conversation which called up
sach painful emotion; and the colour soon re-
turned to her cheek, and a look of brighter joy
shone in her eyes than he had yet seen, for the
voice of a young child was heard on the stairs,
and exclaiming, "Oh, there is my little bird
singing," she sprang to the door, and returned
bearing in her arms a creature lovely as the
imagination could have pictured the child of
Maud Percy, and there was the bright complex-
ion, the golden hair of her childhood, although
the countenance and features were not hers,
but the miniature likeness of his handsome fa-
ther.
The beautiful boy received sufficient admira-
tion from Percival to satisfy even a young
mother's tenacious pride and tenderness, and
she smiled an arch smile at the caress he lav-
ished upon the babe, after remarking his won-
derful likeness to his Aunt May. For a time
Lord Percival could have fancied himself in the
Apresence of the joyous, light-hearted Maud Suth-
erland, so merry was her laugh as she sported
with her little Harry.
Voices at length were heard approaching, and
Mr. Percy, accompanied by some other gentle-
men, entered the room.
Oh, you here, little rogue !" exclaimed Har-
ry Percy; and, after having cordially greeted
Lord Percival, he lifted up the child, who, on
his entrance, had stretched out his arms, call-
ing "Papa! papa !" and caressed him tenderly,
while Maud's restless eyes might have been seen
watching his every look and movement with
eager pleasure, even while she gave that atten-
tion to her visiters that courtesy enjoined.
Her guests, however, secmed pretty well to
know the most effectual means of winning a
smile from their lovely hostess, for none failed
to notice and admire her child, or loudly to ap-
plaud the little feats of Percy's own teaching,
which he amused himself by making his intel-
ligent boy exhibit.
"I never saw so striking a likeness as little
Harry is to you, Mrs. Percy," murmured one
of the group, who was seated by her side. "A
lovely boy! such eyes!" and his own were fixed
on those of Maud.
pointed in one direction with his little finger,
pronounced the unintelligible words "di-di."
Mr. Percy, much amused, said,
"Do you know what the young dog is calling
for now? You shall see the best fun in the world.
Come, Maud, where have you hidden your son's
favourite playthings?"
And, in spite of a slight frown of disapproba-
tion from Mrs. Percy, and the words "I have
put them away, dear Harry," he insisted on her
producing the dice-box, at the sight of which
the babe clapped his tiny hands with glee, and,
encouraged by the plaudits of Percy and the oth-
er gentlemen, proceeded to shake and throw the
dice, his little head on one side--the expression
of his eye, every movement, every gesture so
exact an imitation of his father, that even Maud
could not for a moment forbear a smile, though,
"There's no
when one of the party observed,
mistaking now whose counterpart he is, Mrs.
Percy: he will indeed be a Harry Percy—a true
chip of the old block," the smile had vanished,
a look of care overspread her brow, and as she
gravely watched her boy, an involuntary sigh
heaved from her bosom.
"Ah! here is Mrs. Percy sighing at the
thoughts of her son resembling his father," said
Vesey, laughing. "What do you say to that,
Percy?"
“Õh, I dare say—I dare say,” replied Percy,
quickly glancing at Maud. "Of course, it is
quite unusual for a lady to consider her husband
as a model for imitation. I do not expect to be
an exception to the rule."
"Then I should advise Mrs. Percy to remove
her son from your training, for he promises to be
your fac simile," persisted Vesey.
"Oh, there's no fear of my interfering in his
education. I quite agree with Mrs. Percy as to
the policy of making him as much unlike his
father as possible."
But, though these words were spoken appa-
rently in Harry Percy's usual frank, off-hand
manner, there mingled in their tone a slight
tinge of bitterness, which did not wholly escape
Lord Percival. He saw, too, Maud's cheek flush
and her eyes turn uneasily towards hin. The
entrance of the nurse for the child, however,
changed the current of the conversation.
CHAPTER LX.
"She felt her dream of happiness was gone.
But hope, still lingering, shed its heavenly ray
Like the fair star that in the waters shoue
Still bright, though they were gliding fast away.
LORD PERCIVAL was thrown much into the so-
ciety of the Percys during his stay at Baden,
and had ample opportunity of judging how mat-
ters stood between them; but as he had no in-
clination to act as reporter of their private af-
fairs in his letters to May, his information con-
cerning Maud was principally confined to ac-
counts of the loveliness of her child, her own
beauty and attractive demeanour, her undimin-
"Little Harry's eyes are blue," was her short,
cold answer; "
any one who has once looked
at them must have seen that they are the coun-
terpart of Mr. Percy's."
"A bad hit that of yours, Vesey!" exclaim-ished affection for her father and sister.
ed Percy, whose quick ears nothing over esca-
ped, as he turned his quizzing glance on his
friend.
Presently the whole room resounded with
One oft-repeated question of the anxious May
he always evaded answering, "Was she hap-
py?" for day after day more fully convinced him
she was not so. And why not? He could easi
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
105
ly have repied to that inquiry, but he shrunk
from wounding the heart of his innocent, trust-
ing May by the communication. A brief retro-
spect of the past eighteen months will enlighten
our readers upon the subject.
We may remember how the unhappy Maud
quailed in terror before the startling reception
her pathetic expostulation received from her
husband the night of the ball at Brussels. Tru-
ly, never again had Percy been annoyed by a
word, an allusion to the awful subject, though
not the less did fervent prayers ascend to heav-
en that the work of reformation in her husband's
heart and life, which she had once presumptu-
ously dared to hope her influence could accom-
plish, might be effected by Him who can do all
things; and soon as she saw him plunge deeper
and deeper into the dreaded pursuit, and hope
gradually grew dim and then faded into resig-
nation, the words of her father, in the dark,
thinking hours of midnight, would rise fresh and
distinct before her.
Ma
"God forbid that any one I love should make
the trial should risk her happiness for the
chance of alluring the heart of a worldling from
his vices and follies, especially a gambler! Her
love and welfare would soon be less important
in his eyes than the turn of a die or the speed
of a horse !"
Agonizing thoughts and feelings would disturb
her soul; still she would exclaim,
"But he loves me still-he loves none but
me!" and that idea would lessen the magnitude
of every other evil, and she would add,
"This time last year!" she repeated to her-
self, and what bitter, agonizing pangs those
words inflicted; and as a bird, as if in mockery
and spite poured its tumultuous evening song
into her ear, she leaned her head upon her hand
and wept.
"Are you not afraid of sitting so lightly
clothed in the damp air?" were the words
which at length roused her from her painful
revery, spoken in a voice which was music to
her senses, for it was kind, and, moreover, it
was conveyed through the medium of an Eng-
lish tongue.
Maud immediately recognised the speaker.
A lady had lately taken apartments in that
house, and her sitting-room opened into the
same garden. Lucy had made acquaintance
with her maid, and even had said to her mis-
tress,
"I am sure, ma'am, it would be a blessing if
Mrs. Raymond could sit with you sometimes
when Mr. Percy is away. It is not good for
you to be moping here all day alone at such a
time; and she might be very useful to you in
many ways when you are ill, for, Lord knows!
you have nothing but a pack of ignoramuses
about you. They seem such quiet, respectable
folks, so different from the people we have gen-
erally fallen in with at these places.'
But Maud had felt no inclination to follow
Lucy's advice. With true English reserve, she
was ever averse to making advances to stran-
gers, and since she had been on the Continent,
had never met with any one calculated to lessen
or remove this prejudice.
"Oh, heavenly Father, in mercy preserve me
that love, though I deserve nothing at thy But when Mrs. Raymond thus addressed her,
hands!" and then, with glad eagerness, she she at once felt that Lucy had been right. She
would seize upon the slightest proof or symp-was different from any one she had seen since she
tom of her husband's undiminished attention
and tenderness, which still, either in society or
at home, he continued to bestow upon her.
When the time of her child's birth approach-
ed, and she ceased to mix in the gayeties at
Brussels, she was almost reconciled to the
many long, weary hours she spent alone by the
increase of affectionate endearment, the little
kindnesses and attentions which Harry too
well knew how to make doubly pleasing when
with her.
Still, at this trying period, how often had poor
Maud's heart yearned for a inother's soothing
support to raise her drooping spirits, and cheer
her in her moments of depression.
How seldom does Providence fail to raise up
some friend in our necessity!
|
left home, and the heart of the young creature
yearned gladly towards her. For the first time
in the land of strangers, she had found one of
her mother's kind.
The smile was returned, the kind words
gratefully answered, and their acquaintance
ended not there.
The hour of trial arrived, and found the hus-
band still absent, for the event had not been
anticipated until some days later. Mrs. Ray-
mond acted towards the lonely Maud the part
of the tenderest mother; and Percy, hastily
summoned back to Ems, found his wife sale
and, to his surprise, seated by the bedside a
distinguished-looking woman, who, though nei-
ther young nor handsome, he afterward pro-
nounced to Maud "a charming person."
He was all gratitude for her kindness to his
wife; entreated her not to let his return de-
prive his dear invalid of her valuable society, or
himself of the pleasure of improving their ac-
quaintance. Harry was not a person to scare
away any lady, and they quickly became excel-
Not many weeks before her confinement,
Harry Percy announced his desire of quitting
Brussels for Ems. It was April, the season
when that town is insufferably dull. Some of
his particular friends were at Ems, and it would
be quite as well, he thought, that the event
should take place there; so thither they depart-lent friends.
ed. Apartments in a quiet situation were se-
cured for them, and there their child was born.
Maud was strolling in a little garden belong-
ing to the house a few evenings before her con-
finement, enjoying the sweet Spring air. Alone
was she, for Percy, apparently much against
his inclination, had been persuaded to join a
party of friends on an expedition which was to
detain them a few days. She felt at that mo-
ment peculiarly lonely and depressed.
Mrs. Raymond's history was soon learned.
She was the widow of a distinguished officer,
and had an only son, for whose sake she had
left her own country for a residence in Germa-
ny, he having entered as a student at the Univer-
sity of Gottingen. Her income was small, but
she had evidently moved in the best society,
and her cheerful, agreeable conversation often
detained Percy chatting many an hour by Maud's
bedside when the latter was too weak to be al-
4
106
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
and blasted forever the happiness of her father;
but even in the agitation of the moment not a
word escaped her lips calculated to throw the
slightest shadow of blame on her husband,
though Mrs. Raymond could easily fill up in
her imagination all that Maud omitted in her
lowed to do aught but lie quietly listening, and,
as it were, drinking in her husband's words as
she fixed her eyes on his animated face, bless-
ing Mrs. Raymond in her heart for being the
means of keeping him so long in her sight, and
away from the constant bête noir of her own
thoughts whenever he was absent-the gaming-narrative.
table!
From that hour the affection and gratitude
Mrs. Raymond had known too much of the of Maud and the interest of Mrs. Raymond in-
world not to trace, through all the fascination creased tenfold; and not only was the strong,
of Harry Percy, his true character, and when religious mind of the latter employed most ju-
she began more fully to observe the class of diciously in calming and comforting the strick-
society to which he was so entirely devoted, en conscience of our heroine by strengthening
she marvelled not what was the silent, secret her hopes and faith in Him who is a God of
care which mixed with the ardent love that mercy as well as a God of judgment, but she
beamed forth in every look and word of his sought to render her worldly knowledge and ex-
young and lovely Maud: an expression of anx-perience also serviceable.
ious excitement, far different from the calm,
confiding affection so beautiful and gratifying to
witness in a wife towards her husband; still,
she knew not for some time the melancholy de-
tails which rendered her feelings so peculiarly
and painfully susceptible.
It was, therefore, when she saw Maud re-
established in health, and day after day more
absorbed in the delightful duties of a mother,
gratefully receiving, as a proof of her husband's
kindness and consideration, his sanction to her
not mixing in the public gayeties at Ems, that,
One evening, as Maud lay on a sofa, her in- a short time before the Percys quitted that
fant sleeping in her arms, Mrs. Raymond was place for Baden, Mrs. Raymond, with extreme
seated by her side, indulging her maternal feel- tact and delicacy, conveyed to Maud her opin-
ings by pouring forth to her young friend all ion that a wife should not allow even her ma-
the love and pride which filled her heart, des-ternal employments to prevent her sharing in
canting on the beauty-the talents of her only
son, and the mother's eyes glistened and over-
flowed with joyful emotion when she more es-
pecially dwelt upon his devoted affection for
herself.
"Oh, Mrs. Percy," she ended by saying,
may you know the blessing of possessing a
dutiful, grateful child like mine, and then, if all
else on earth is taken from you, still will you
be rich!"
Her listener's head was lowly bent over her
babe, and deep sobs burst from her heaving
bosom.
the amusements and society of her husband.
Maud, with nervous eagerness, seized upon
the hint, and once more hurried into the world,
shining forth with renewed beauty by her hus-
band's side; but alas! alas! by degrees it began
to dawn on her perception, with an agony too
great for words, that she must not expect him
to be now exclusively her own-hers alone.
It was when writhing under the first torture
of this discovery that she parted from her valu-
able friend and removed to Baden, where they
had principally resided up to the time Lord Per-
cival found them there.
Soon after their arrival at that place a scene
had occurred very similar to the one described
at Brussels, only still more painful, equally in-
effectual.
Mrs. Raymond knew that Maud had lately
lost her mother, and she attributed her emotion
to tender recollections of that parent called
forth by the last words, and she felt her love
and interest in the motherless girl increase still Maud, in a moment of uncontrolled wretch-
more powerfully. She took her hand affection-edness, ventured to remonstrate with Percy on
ately, and said with feeling,
"May that darling child be to you all that
mine is to me-all that I am sure you, my dear
young friend, have been to your mother!"
An exclamation of horror-almost a shriek,
burst from Mrs. Percy's lips, and, turning her
eyes wildly on Mrs. Raymond, she cried,
the new source of disquiet his conduct of late
occasioned her, and again she had been silen-
ced-vanquished by his never-failing address.
He plainly, rapidly, and loudly told her that,
"if her foolish jealousies were now to haunt
him wherever he went-if the innocent relaxa-
tion of talking nonsense to a few silly women
"I broke my mother's heart, and my father's now and then caused such torment to both her
bitter words are forever ringing in my ear. I and himself, he must confine his pursuits en-
proved the curse of all who loved me. My tirely to those resorts she so much loathed and
child!" she continued, in a softer but still ago-deprecated, places of gambling! His heart was
nized tone, as she quieted the cries of the babe, hers-hers only-must ever upon her alone
disturbed by her agitation, by pressing it still be fixed, until, indeed, such scenes of mistrust
closer to her bosom, "can I presume to hope-suspicion, severed the tie which bound him
that you will be permitted to prove to your to her!"
mother a blessing! Mrs. Raymond, if you
knew all, you would not be surprised when I
say that I dread to hear this little treasure pro-
nounce my name-call me mother! What have
I to do with such a sweet blessing?"
And then from her overcharged heart she
poured forth a full confession of her filial errors
her impetuous, wilful conduct, even from a
child-the selfish, sinful step which she had
taken, which had destroyed her suffering parent,
Upon this assurance had poor Maud to cling
with the tenacity of one who feels that without
this feeble support every hope-nay, even life,
must perish. But it brought not to her breast
the peace and confidence of a happy wife, nei-
ther did she feel herself free from those annoy-
ances which it is often the fate of a neglected
wife to endure.
If, as Maud Sutherland, she had turned with
scorn and indifference from the attentions of
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
107
admirers, and disdained the frivolous amuse- | constraint, far from being intended by May, who,
ment of flirting, how much more now as a wife the more she heard condemnable in the conduct
-a mother! did she loathe and shrink with of her brother-in-law, felt only the more irre-
horror from a word, a look, bordering on famil-sistibly drawn in love and pity towards the be-
iarity; and she was strengthened in the midst
of the difficulties surrounding one so young and
lovely by perceiving that, whatever might be
his own conduct, her husband was keenly ob-
servant of that of others towards his wife.
Harry Percy lived as live hundreds of his
class; that is to say, he spent exactly as much |
as was perfectly agreeable, denying himself no
luxury or enjoyment. Creditors pressed, and
their claims were not to be evaded or post-
poned. How they were satisfied Maud knew
not. She was not troubled with any pecuniary
communications; for what could she know of
money matters? He begged her not to inter-
fere with what she could not possibly under-
stånd. Thus was she always silenced when
misgivings arose in her mind, and gave her en-
ergy to broach the subject.
However, Harry Percy passed quietly from
Belgium into Germany, and for a brief moment
the cloud had been dissipated.
Mr. Sutherland had settled eight hundred a
year on his daughter, a sum sufficient to main-
tain her in perfect comfort on the Continent,
though, to mark his disapproval of her conduct,
and to prevent the object of her choice from
reaping a golden harvest in recompense for his
dishonourable course of proceeding, the father
had appropriated to the child who was once the
heiress of all his wealth an allowance far below
that which his second daughter would have
received as a marriage-portion.
The moments of tranquillity were not of long
continuance to the gambler's wife.
Debts of honour were incurred, and then she
was called upon to aid her husband in the diffi-
culty. She was desired to write to her father
to beg for money. And she had obeyed-with
what repugnance may be imagined. Her first
letter to her father since her marriage-and for
such a purpose! But Harry had told her that
his honour was at stake, and she had, for his
sake, done that which, for herself, she would
rather have starved than asked.
"I have received Mr. Sutherland's order to
advance the sum required," was the answer
through the medium of the solicitor, "with the
instruction that, for the future, he must beg that
no more applications be made to him of the
same nature, viz., for the defrayment of any
gambling debts incurred by Mr. Percy."
We all know that the cause from which the
bitterest feelings flow, rending asunder hearts
the most closely united, is "money ;" how much
more, then, may it widen the breach between
those already divided!
Harry Percy resented the terms in which the
benefit was conferred, and having been accom-
modated through the medium of the German
countess, before introduced to the reader, with
the sum required, in a moment of pique he re-
turned the money to Mr. Sutherland.
loved companion of her childhood, and who,
with sorrow even deeper than her sister's, felt
that the correspondence was dying away, or
only kept up at intervals in a constrained man-
ner, thus affording little satisfaction to either
of the beings who really loved each other so
fondly
CHAPTER LXI.
"I pray thee let me weep to-night!
'Tis rarely I am weeping,
My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping:
But oh! to-night those words of thine
Have brought the past before me,
And shadows of long-vanish'd years
Are passing sadly o'er me."-L. E.
THREE long months of Lord Percival's ban-
ishment had passed away, and he was begin-
ning to weary of Baden, a residence possessing
little to recommend it to those not wedded to
dissipation, or to its chief attraction, gaming.
Some of his friends had lately arrived at Paris,
and there he resolved to meet them.
A few evenings before the day of his depar-
ture he called at the apartments of the Percys,
whom he found were also preparing for a move
to Ems the following morning.
Maud was alone, but she told him she ex-
pected her husband home very soon, and beg-
ged Lord Percival to remain to see him. She
listened for some time with apparent compo-
sure to her companion, who, with eyes beaming
with glad anticipation, spoke to her of his future
plans, but at length her lips quivered, and she
sought to change the subject by mentioning
their own removal to Ems.
Harry's chief attraction there," she said,
"is the roebuck shooting in the Duke of Nas-
sau's preserves, for which some of his friends
have made a party."
Lord Percival rather doubted whether she
was right in her supposition.
"And you, Mrs. Percy," he said, "do you
like Ems?"
"Oh yes," she replied, "as well, if not bet-
ter, than any residence of that description, for
there my child was born, and there I made a
very valuable friend; and though I fear I shall
not find her now at Ems, still the recollection
of her affectionate kindness has left a pleasant
impression of the place on my mind—besides,
at this time of year it is quiet."
"Then you are tired of the gayeties of Ba-
den ?" continued her companion.
"It is a life of which every one must soon
weary," was her answer, accompanied by a
slight sigh; "and you, I trust, do not think me
fond of dissipation? No; tell them at home,
Lord Percival," she continued, in an altered,
faltering tone," tell them that I am not become
the heartless woman of the world which I fear
they imagine me now to be. Lord Percival,'
she added, and she lowered her voice and turn-
ed away her eyes,
She lost all ed away her eyes, "you, I am sure, were not
prepared to think well of me--how could you?
From that time Maud had the increased mis-
ery of imagining her husband sunk still lower
in the estimation of her father. She lost all
pleasure in the correspondence till then kept up
between herself and sister. In the letters she
received from home she fancied coldness and
but you will at least tell those with whom
your words will have weight all that is likely to
108
THE GAMBLERS WIFE.
·
incline their hearts towards one who, whatever "Pity! only pity!" she exclaimed; and the
she may have been-selfish-wilful-ungrate- form of Maud was instantly erect, her cheek
ful-all that is sinful! has at least a softened and brow crimson, as with a keen, searching
heart now”—and she pressed her hand upon expression she fixed her flashing eyes upon his
her bosom as if striving to still its throbbings- face; but the next moment she had recovered
"a heart which feels remorse, sorrow, and love | her self-possession, and before Lord Percival
-oh, what yearning love for them, my own be- could endeavour to explain himself, said, calm-
loved father and sister! and such a longing de-ly and sadly,
sire to see them once more, though perhaps-"
Her voice faltered, and for a moment she paus-
ed. Forgive me, Lord Percival," she contin-
ued, "forgive me for thus intruding upon you
my feelings;" and she hastily flung away the
tears from her cheek. "I was as weak as this
when I first met you here, and now the thought
that you will soon see them-for soon it ap-
pears to me has made me so envious"-and
she endeavoured to smile" and yet you look-
ed so disconsolate just now when you talked
of the three remaining months of your banish-
ment; but they do but divide you from years,
I trust, many-many years of happiness."
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Percy," said Lord
Percival, with much emotion ; "and be assu-
red that in my own happiness I shall not be for-
getful of yours, but that one of the pleasures I
fondly anticipate is being the means of bringing
you and your sister together: so," he added,
with an affectionate smile, "you cannot stand
very low in my estimation."
He was interrupted by Maud, who, with a
radiant look of joy lighting up her face, ex-
claimed,
"Now may God bless you for those words,
Lord Percival! Will you indeed bring darling |
May to see me? The dying wretch scorched
with the heat of fever does not long more ar-
dently for a drop of water to cool his parched
lips than I do for one look from those sweet
eyes. Will you promise?" and she looked
wildly and beseechingly in his face.
What could Lord Percival have refused to
that imploring glance?
"But I can hope for nothing more from him-
I ought to be grateful that it is not hatred-and
I am an object of pity, for are not my very joys
imbittered? Am I not haunted day and night.
by looks-words-remembrances? gone for-
ever-smiting with agony-oh! yes, indeed, L
am an object of pity;" and Maud looked wildly
round her.
After a silence of a few moments she again
spoke, and it was in a hurried manner and with
|
a nervous smile.
"Lord Percival," she continued, "I am going
to confess to you that, when you first told me
of your engagement to May, I was disappointed,
for I had hoped”—and here her voice trembled
and her eyes bent towards the ground-“ I had |
hoped my base conduct towards one I am not
worthy to name might have been atoned for by
a far superior blessing; in short, that May-do
not be angry, Lord Percival," she added, for
she perceived a deep flush pass over the young
man's countenance.
Balfour told me, the last time I saw him,
that he would never marry," was all he said in
reply to Maud's speech, and she fancied that
there mingled in his tones somewhat of re-
proach and sorrow, and with a sigh she con-
tinued,
"And had he married my sister, I could
never have enjoyed-no, I could never have
dared to hope for the happiness you have prom-
ised me.
How could I have expected that he,
in whose eyes I must appear so worthless,
would have suffered his wife-"
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Percy, if you ima-
gine that in Balfour's mind there dwells the
slightest shade of resentment," interrupted
Percival; "on the contrary, I assure you he
only thinks of you with-with pity!" This last
word escaped perfectly without intention from
his lips.
|
But, Lord Percival, you must not let any
one suppose that I am so very miserable as not
to be able to value the blessings bestowed upon
me: my husband!"—and her voice trembled
and the colour rushed to her cheeks-“ my dar-
ling child! Still, my dear friend, the truth is,
that my sin has found me out. But, at least,"
she added, raising her eyes, and pressing her
clasped hands more firmly together, "it is well
that I feel the full consciousness that no chast-
ening in this life can be too heavy for my sin.”
Lord Percival was deeply affected, and as he
marked the unfeigned wretchedness of the coun-
tenance of poor Maud, he was more than ever
struck by the entire change it exhibited to the
proud girl of former days. It was in a voice of
grave concern that he said,
:
But, dear Mrs. Percy, look not so sad;
May will be wretched if I cannot tell her that I
left you well and happy and your father!
think not that he has lost all interest in his
child. You are happy, I trust-independently,
I mean, of that deep affliction which time alone
can cure?"
"Oh yes," she answered, hurriedly, and ma-
king an effort to arouse herself, “I am well-
very well, although perhaps this gay life is not
very favourable to my looks; and happy-much
happier than I deserve to be. You must not
judge of my felicity from this scene to-night.
As I said before, my feelings are excited by the
thought of-of-but I must not begin that subject
again, for Harry will be here soon, I hope, and
he cannot bear to see me look miserable;" and
Lord Percival saw her give a hasty, anxious
glance at herself in an opposite mirror. “I
wish you could have seen my little boy again
before you went," she continued, "but I fear he
is gone to bed. I will go and see. You really
ought to have the impression of his sweet, in-
nocent, happy face to carry with you, and do
away with the effects of mine."
Yes, I really must take strict note of every
feature of his face, or I shall be well scolded by
his aunt," replied Percival; and Maud left the
room with a smile which it gladdened his heart
to see.
She soon returned and told him little Harry
was asleep, but looking so lovely!
Lord Percival at once read her wishes, and
offered to accompany her to the nursery. He
was fond of children; but, had it not been so,
he must have been struck by the surpassing
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
109
loveliness of the sleeping boy. The long, frin-
ged eyelashes resting on the rose-bud cheeks-
the coral lips slightly parted with that angelic
smile which the visions of childhood can alone
call forth! He stooped to kiss the fair forehead,
and well might he have said,
"I saw thee in thy beauty,
And a tear came to mine eye
As I press'd thy rosy check to mine,
And thought even THOU couldst die !"
A tremulous voice murmured in his ear,
"Is not this alone enough to make me hap-
py? Tell them what a little angel he is, and
entreat them to pray that he may never be made
an instrument of punishment to his parents.
You must take this to May," and Maud bent
over the child, and cut a bright lock from his
brow. She will keep it, I am sure, with pleas-
ure, as a token of her sister's child, should she
never behold him on earth."
When they had returned to the sitting-room,
and Maud was tying up the lock of hair, to
which Lord Percival had prevailed upon her to
add one of her own, a ring at the door was
heard, and saying it must be her husband, she
again first hastily glanced at the mirror, and
then towards the door in eager expectation;
but, instead of Harry Percy, Mr. Holloway was
announced.
Maud bowed with cold civility to her unknown
visiter.
He was a coarse, vulgar-looking man, but had
the easy, assured manner of one who felt him-
self of consequence-a deportment so peculiarly
odious in one of that stamp.
"Sorry to disturb you," Mrs. Percy, he ex-
claimed, looking knowingly at her companion
after he had favoured her with a broad stare,
"but I thought I should find your husband at
home, as I called at the rooms and he wasn't
there at the countess's, I suppose, eh ?"
"I expect Mr. Percy home soon," replied
Maud, with dignified hauteur, though the colour
first mounted to her cheeks, and then departed,
leaving her deadly pale.
"Well, I can wait a bit," he replied, as he
seated himself, "for we have a great deal of bu-
siness on hand, and I find Mr. Percy goes to
Ems to-morrow, though that does not much sig-
nify, as I intend a trip there also. You've heard
the Doncaster news, sir, I conclude ?" he con-
tinued, turning to Percival; favourite com-
pletely floored-done to nothing!-told Percy
it would be so-lucky for him he left it all to
me, or he'd have made a pretty mess of it."
Mrs. Percy is not much interested in these
details," said Lord Percival, haughtily, feeling
very much inclined to order him out of the room,
for by this time he remembered who he was-
in his estimation, very little above the level of a
common blackleg-a creature employed by his
superiors to do all the dirty work of their gam-
bling transactions, and who existed on the vi-
ces, the folly, the inexperience of others.
And," thought Lord Percival, "does such
a being dare to sit thus in the presence of the
sister of my pure May, as freely, as much at
his ease as if he were in a racing stand or a
gambling booth?" He saw the cheeks of Maud
grow paler and paler, her form instinctively
shrink with loathing at the presence of the
man. and he exclaimed to her aloud, for he
could refrain no longer,
|
"Pray do not remain here on my account,
Mrs. Percy. You will, I am sure, be kind enough
to make my adieux to Mr. Percy, should I not
see him to-night."
Maud was gladly about to avail herself of the
hint, when Harry Percy entered.
He looked a little disconcerted on beholding
the very inappropriate addition to the party, and
the familiar greeting of Holloway he met with
a degree of visible impatience; however, he
soon dismissed him by telling him, in his usual
off-hand manner, that "some of his friends"
and he mentioned several by name-" were
waiting for him at Chaubert's, all impatience to
see him."
"What in the world could have induced that
confounded fellow to intrude himself here?" said
Percy, as Holloway left the room, as if in apol-
ogy for his presence; "but he's just come brim-
ful of news from Doncaster, so, I suppose, con-
siders himself privileged."
Lord Percival did not remain much longer af-
ter this: there existed too little congeniality be-
tween him and Harry Percy to call forth an easy
flow of intercourse. The latter knew of Perci-
val's engagement to May, but, considering the
light in which he was regarded by her family,
he could only slightly touch upon the subject, and
they parted with no feeling of regret. Not so
the young lord and Maud.
He had scarcely ever felt so oppressive a
weight at his heart as on bidding adieu to this
pale, lovely creature, whose suppressed emotion
he could well discern, though with apparent
calmness she breathed her farewell words.
"You are very happy now," she murmured,
with a tremulous smile, "in the bright prospect
of so soon seeing those you love so well; when
we meet again, may you be still happier! Adieu !”
and she affectionately pressed his hand.
"God grant that so it may be with you, poor,
beautiful young creature!" was Percival's in-
ward response as he turned to depart.
We humbly trust that the prayers of both
were heard in heaven, and fulfilled.
CHAPTER LXII.
"The shark is there,
And the shark's prey, the spendthrift, and the leech
That sucks him."-CowPer.
It was on the day after their arrival at Ems,
at the table d'hôte, that both Maud and Percy
were attracted by the agreeable manner and ap-
pearance of a young man who sat opposite to
them.
There was a joyous animation in his bearing
as he good-naturedly laughed and talked with
those around him, which usually constitutes the
superiority, in such society, of a young foreign-
er over the shy, reserved youth of our own coun-
try; still, at a single glance, it was impossible
to mistake him for aught but an Englishman.
He was graceful and polite-all alacrity in the
service of every lady near him; but it was evi-
dently with more of empressement that he seized
on each slight opportunity of showing his atten-
tion to his beautiful vis-a-vis, on whom, when
first seating himself, he had for a moment fixed
an almost startled gaze of respectful admiration,
and a bright
and a bright look illumined his countenance
110
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
when she chanced to bestow on him a gentle
smile of thanks, or occasionally joined in the
conversation, which Harry Percy had soon com-
menced with him, showing that he was equally
attracted by the young stranger.
|
it from her. A college life is expensive even
in Germany; but," continued he, "a rich old
uncle of mine is just dead, who ought to have
left me something handsome, and that is the
affair which has taken my mother to England.
If such proves the case, I shall then have the
happiness of feeling that she will have no longer
pecuniary cares to trouble her, and what joy
that will be! Really, Mrs. Percy, you must
forgive me for troubling you with all these do-
mestic details, as if I had known you for years,
but from having heard so much about you, I
fancy I have really made your friendship long
| ago."
Many friends of Percy's were at the table;
therefore, long before the dinner was finished,
the repeated mention of his name seemed to
cause a new light to dawn on the young man's
mind, for he evidently regarded both Maud and
her husband with more thoughtful interest, and
on their rising was immediately at their side.
Frankly and modestly apologizing for his pre-
sumption, he begged to be permitted to ask
whether they were not those friends his moth- "At all events," replied Mrs. Percy, "I think
er, Mrs. Raymond, had been so fortunate as to you need not apologize to one towards whom
meet the previous year, and of whom (and he your dear mother acted as she would have done
glanced at Maud) he had heard so much.
for a daughter. I am, be assured, deeply inter-
With surprise and pleasure they made them-ested in all whom she loves, and I warmly wish
selves known, Maud eagerly inquiring if Mrs. her success in her present mission."
Raymond was at Ems. Alas! she was not.
She was gone to England on business of impor-
tance.
"And alone," he added; "I begged to be al-
lowed to accompany her, but she was afraid of
unsettling my thoughts just now, and left me to
study hard."
"Which doubtless you are doing at a great
rate," said Percy, with an arch smile.
Yes, I assure you till now I have been so
close at my work that I was absolutely obliged
to take a trip to Ems to clear my brains."
"Well! we must have a day together at the
duke's bucks," said Harry, as Raymond gladly
accepted the Percys' invitation to take a turn
with them in the arcade, where, in a bower-like
sort of orchestra, a full band was playing one
of Rossini's liveliest airs. "In short," added
Percy, "I hope we shall see a great deal of you.
How like he is to his mother, Maud! his voice
-his smile! I wonder we did not at once guess
who he was!"
"I thought it was a face we ought to have
known," replied Maud, with a sweet smile; "it
was very stupid of me, when I had so many live-
ly descriptions of your person, and even con-
stantly looked at a picture of Louis Raymond,
though certainly it represented a pretty boy of
ten years old."
“And as I am now an ugly boy of more than
twenty," he replied, laughing, "it is not very
likely to have assisted you in recognising me
any more than the partial picture of my dear
mother."
"How you must love her!" said Maud, with
whom he was now alone, Harry Percy having
been arrested in his progress by another group,
to whom she had merely bowed coldly as she
passed on.
"Love her!" and the young man's dark eyes
were lifted with a deep, earnest expression to
her face; "I should, indeed, be a wretch of in-
gratitude if I did not. If you only knew what
a mother she is to me--the sacrifices she makes
for my comfort and benefit !"
*
"And I am quite certain," interposed Maud,
"from all she told me, you are a blessing to
her."
"I hope, in some degree, I contribute to her
happiness; but I am full of faults, Mrs. Percy.
I fear I inconvenience her by getting rid of too
much money, though I never hear a word about
84.
|
|
At that moment a man passed close by them,
who young Raymond was surprised to see
touch his hat with an air of easy assurance to
Mrs. Percy, for his appearance did not seem
such as to give him a right to that privilege,
and he wondered not that she scarcely returned
the salutation, and averted her head with a half
offended, half disgusted air. Raymond was fa-
voured with a scrutinizing survey; and when
he turned, half inclined to resent the imperti-
nence of the man's demeanour, he saw he had
joined Mr. Percy's party, and was greeted with
the utmost cordiality: it was Holloway.
Let us listen to a few words of the conversa-
tion which took place between the group of
loungers.
By-the-by, Percy, who is that young fellow
walking with your wife?" inquired Sir John
Turton, a tall, pale man of about forty, with a
voice peculiar from its low, soft tone, his man-
ner remarkable from its insinuating address.
"His name is Raymond,” replied Percy ;
"his father was a general, who died some years
ago: an excellent family, I believe. His moth-
er was very kind to Mrs. Percy when she was
ill, and we feel bound to show him civility."
Raymond! Oh yes," interrupted Hollo-
way, with a significant wink, "I know all about
him: old Ravenhill, who died the other day,
must have been his uncle.
must have been his uncle. I used to have deal-
ings with him once upon a time.”
((
"Has he any expectations-that promising
young fellow, I mean?" demanded the same
soft voice of Sir John Turton, his serpent eyes
following at the same time the youth.
"
Oh, I take it, Sir John," resumed Hollo-
way, with another knowing twitch of his face,
as he fell back with the worthy baronet behind
the rest.
We will not intrude upon their private con-
ference.
*
*
A few minutes after, Raymond, all life and
gayety, was standing laughing and talking with
Percy and his companions, to whom he had
been introduced, Maud having returned to the
hotel with her little boy, whom she had encoun-
tered returning from his walk, and Sir John, at
his own request, was speedily added to his new
acquaintances.
No doubt the unsuspicious Raymond esteem-
ed himself most fortunate in being received in
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
111
so flattering a manner into the society of such
an agreeable and aristocratic set of his country-
men, by whom, also, his own ready wit and tal-
ented conversation seemed so well appreciated.
The flattered and inexperienced youth ceased
to heed the fact that the questionable-looking
individual Holloway was also suffered among
them, and on terms of the greatest familiarity;
that he heard topics broached familiarly and
constantly which he had ever been taught to
shun-to look upon as sin, even from his infan-
cy: a lesson impressed upon his mind with the
deepest anxiety by his mother, from the cir-
cumstance of his uncle, Lord Ravenhill, having
nearly beggared his estate by gambling. Dis-
tress and excitement had subsequently pro-
duced insanity; and when long years had con-
siderably amended the state of his affairs, he
could no longer enjoy his recruited fortune, a
part of which Mrs. Raymond now hoped might
pass to her son.
|
A shooting excursion was arranged for the
following day, and that evening Raymond spent
in the Percys' saloon, completely winning the
heart of his beautiful hostess by a good game of
romps with little Harry. They were mostly
alone, for, though a few. gentlemen, among
whom was Sir John Turton, dropped in during
the first part of the evening, by degrees they
had soon disappeared.
Are you going for a stroll this fine night?”
said Sir John, addressing Raymond before he
departed; and the young man was on the point
of declaring his willingness to do so, when, in a
somewhat hasty tone, Harry Percy exclaimed,
"What! going already, Raymond? I thought
you had prevailed on Mrs. Percy to give you
some music. I am sure she quite reckons upon
your society for the rest of the evening."
“Oh, if I am not intruding upon Mrs. Percy,
I shall be but too delighted," he eagerly replied,
and consequently remained.
Did the thought flash across the young man's Maud felt some surprise at the moment at the
mind that Harry Percy, whom his artless na- anxiety visible in her husband's manner as he
ture had begun to regard as the paragon of ev-pressed Raymond to stay with her, but often
erything delightful in a gentleman, was the very
person his mother had declared was, with all
his attractions, the last man with whom she
would wish her son to become too greatly fas-
cinated? No, Raymond only beheld in his new
friend the kind-hearted, frank, agreeable Harry
Percy by him into what coil could he possibly
be led?
and often, in after days, did she recall those few
words, and cling to them as the only means of
removing from her heart a part, at least, of the
torturing, agonizing thoughts which weighed it
down even to the earth.
In a few days young Raymond appeared to
have become almost domesticated with the
Percys; in short, never happy but in the society
of either Maud or her husband. Of the former
he became quite the cavaliere servente, seeming
to enjoy her conversation even more than that
of her husband, and to delight in the calm of her
presence rather than in the exciting pursuits of
Percy and his friends.
And, readers, do Harry Percy the justice to
believe that the base idea which filled the minds
of others never even for a moment glanced
across his imagination. Faulty infatuated!
it was his own ruin which he seemed ever bent
on achieving, not that of others; far less would
he have meditated the destruction of a young Manly and high-spirited, there was also in his
and unsuspecting friend. But whether he were nature a gentleness of manner, an almost boy-
therefore cleansed in the sight of Heaven from ish simplicity and purity of mind, which ema-
all implication in the villany that followed, who nated, no doubt, from his having from a child
dare say? Harry Percy had read the words, been constantly with a mother who possessed
"Have no fellowship with the works of dark- so richly all those qualities of heart and mind
ness, but rather reprove them." He had turned calculated to yield "the deep; controlling influ-
a deaf ear to this admonition. He had fellow-ence" which Heaven has ordained should link
ship with the works of darkness, and upon his
head fell the dreadful responsibility of example.
Might not he fall under this awful denunciation?
"He judgeth every one according to his
works."
together the mother and the son, and which, un-
like aught other on earth, even amid the strong
passions of increasing years, is seldom totally
severed.
Louis Raymond had lost no time in writing
It is well known by those who have visited to his parent to inform her of the new friends
the_different watering-places of Germany that he had made, descanting enthusiastically on
at Ems the rooms are little frequented except by their kindness-their fascination. He little ima-
the very lowest and ill-looking set of beings;gined with what feelings of dread and sorrow
nevertheless, it must not be presumed from this Mrs. Raymond would learn that the man whom
that there gambling prevails less than where it her inexperienced son held forth as the very
is less public. No, at those more aristocratic model of all perfection and excellence was Har-
and elegant meetings, held at the private lodg- ry Percy!
ings of gentlemen-nobles !-that most hateful
process, by which the cool, calculating villain
fleeces the thoughtless and wavering, is too
often in full action.
Oh! that time for once could have stayed its
course from the day the son's letter was de-
spatched to that which brought the mother's re-
ply to it; for truly, if her earnest warning could
Young Raymond was not, therefore, startled have availed to turn a wavering mortal from
by being called upon to follow his new acquaint-destruction, that epistle would not have been
ances into any of those dens of iniquity, which
it did not surprise him to see Holloway enter,
nor was he embarrassed by having to decline
so doing, as he must have done according to a
promise extracted by his mother: on the con-
trary, most of the group, and Sir John in partic-
ular, looked too elegantly refined" to have un-
locked his lips in this unhallowed air."
written in vain; but alas! ere it was penned,
Louis had dipped his feet in the magic stream,
whose property it is to draw irresistibly into its-
tide the unfortunate victim, deeper and deeper,
till he is sucked into its roaring waters, too
often there to perish.
112
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
CHAPTER LXIII.
"Lasciato ogni speranza voi ché'ntrate.”
DANTE's Inferno.
FOR nearly a week after her acquaintance
with young Louis Raymond, Maud's evenings
had been spent chiefly in his society alone, for
he never failed to beg that he might pass an
hour or two with her. He was passionately
fond of music, and it was a pleasure to sing to
him. And then he would read to her, and talk
of his mother, and thus agreeably while away
the time which would otherwise have been
spent by her in solitary sadness, or miserable
reflections called forth by knowing that, under
the very same roof, from the moment her hus-
band quitted her presence till too often the pale
gray dawn broke in upon his unhallowed vigils
and on her sleepless eyes, he was employed in
recklessly sacrificing his substance-his health,
both of soul and body-at the base shrine he
worshipped.
One evening, however, Harry Percy had sat
with her later than usual, and Louis Raymond
was there in almost mad spirits; for that morn-
ing a letter, crossing the one he had lately de-
spatched to his mother, had arrived, informing
him that, by the death of his uncle, a sum far
exceeding their expectations would devolve on
him. There was, indeed, some chance of the
will being disputed by a relative on the score of
the doubt of the sanity of the testator at the
time he made his will; still, the legal opinions
were in young Raymond's favour, and Harry
Percy good-naturedly entered with his usual
energy into the hopes and joys of his young
friend.
4
Oh, do not go quite yet, Harry!" said Maud,
with beseeching earnestness, when at length,
after one or two messages brought by the ser-
vant, he had, with a look of reluctance, risen to
depart. "I shall retire to my room in half an
hour stay with me till then."
sive countenance as she watched her husband
quickly drawn into exciting conversation by
Lord George; and as, apparently forgetful of all
besides, he soon took his arm and left the room,
she inwardly murmured, “Could you not have
left him with me in peace for one evening ?"
Sir John met with no encouragement to re-
main, but he lingered for some time, conver-
sing so agreeably with Louis Raymond that the
latter thought Mrs. Percy might have mingled
somewhat more of graciousness and less of
hauteur in her deportment towards her guest.
At length, at the suggestion of Louis, who
knew it was past her hour for retiring, both
gentlemen took leave of their hostess and de-
parted together, and Maud, not many minutes
after, left the room.
To reach the flight of stairs which led to her
bedchamber, she had to turn some way down a
long gallery, at the extremity of which was
situated the apartment given up to the use of
Harry Percy and his associates during their stay
at Ems, for what purpose Maud too well knew,
and she was accustomed to fly with rapid steps
and suspended breath from its vicinity, as
though she feared sounds might meet her ears
far more terrible and abhorrent now than even
when she first heard them at Wisbaden on the
commencement of her career as a gambler's
wife.
But this night Maud paused when she reach-
ed the staircase, for she had perceived, as she
glided up the gallery, Sir John Turton and
Louis Raymond standing at a little distance in
advance, and she heard words which painfully
arrested her attention, and made her stop on
the first step, and then stand as if rooted to the
spot.
"What are you afraid of us, my good fel-
low?" said Sir John, in a gentle, bantering
tone; "well, you are very wise, I dare say, but,
for my part, I think you are just as likely to fall
into mischief by sitting so much with that 'eau-
tiful woman."
There was a look of eager gratitude upon her
countenance, and in the tone with which, when
he acquiesced, she thanked him, which struck Maud hardly distinguished the words of Ray-
young Raymond, who, in his usual frank, art-mond's answer-her heart was beating too high
less manner, exclaimed,
"Why, Mrs. Percy, I should imagine you
need not be so very grateful. It must, indeed,
be something very powerful-some very fasci-
nating attraction, which could draw any one
away from your society don't you think so,
Mr. Percy?"
:
Probably, had the youth reflected before he
spoke, he would have had more tact than to
have made this speech, and certainly the next
moment he wished it unsaid, for he saw by Mrs.
Percy's face that he had uttered something
mal a propos, and Percy changed the subject in
somewhat a hasty tone.
A knock at the door at this moment interrupt-
ed the trio, and Sir John Turton, accompanied
by another gentleman, entered the room: the
former, with the most humble apologies for the
intrusion, seated himself by Maud.
“Damer," he said, "had come in search of
Percy, who was in great request, in consequence
of some difficult question which could not be
settled without him: he feared they were sadly
disturbing Mrs. Percy."
with indignation; and Sir John continued, in
the same mild, patronising accents, but with-
out any approach to derision,
"Oh no! I admire your prudence and obedi-
ence vastly. Don't think I wish to lead you
into playing against your conscience-no! I
have too great a regard for you. I merely
thought it would amuse you to come with us,
and look on a little while, instead of going to
bed at this early time of night; but "
At this moment the door of the room had
opened to admit a servant carrying in wine and
refreshments, and from thence issued a blaze of
light, together with sounds which, to an inex-
perienced ear, might have seemed merriment,
but to the wife of one of those revellers, how
different! "The drunkard's fancied bliss"
would not have echoed more harshly on her
senses than did the noise of those excited
voices, or rather that voice, for only one seemed
to reach her, and it was her husband's!
་
*
She forgot all but him. For one instant a
sudden desperate impulse swayed her: to fly
to him-brave all! shame derision
even his
"You are, indeed," was the answer that anger, and once more entreat him to follow her
might have been read in the listener's expres- | from that hated spot-those baneful associates!
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
113
¡
But this excitement only lasted for a moment: |
the next had told her it would be all in vain,
and her burning heart had sunk into the de-
sparing resignation of a gambler's wife! She
would have shrunk quietly away, but another
glance around her recalled her to the circum-
stances which had at first arrested her progress.
The opening of that door had produced a
totally dissimilar effect on young Raymond's
mind: nothing could have more opportunely
occurred to aid the tempter's design. An inex
pressible longing to join that bright scene of
gayety sprang to his young heart, and Maud
beheld him hurrying, by Sir John's side, to-
wards (a horrid foreboding whispered to her
heart) his destruction!
frown darken the brow of her still fondly-lovea
Harry, his eyes assume the angry expression
she could never bear to behold, and she hid
her face on his bosom, and murmured in timid
accents,
-forgive me!”
Oh, forgive me-
*
*
*
*
In the course of that day Louis Raymond ap-.
peared before Maud Percy. He was in his usu-
al high spirits, and came the bearer of a beauti-
ful and expensive toy for the little Harry, but
which, to his surprise, the mother, with some
coldness, but more of sadness in her manner,
declined accepting.
My dear Mrs. Percy, you quite distress me.
I did not think you would consider it a liberty,
my pleasing myself by thus trying to ingratiate
the favour of my little friend."
"It is very kind of you," hesitated Maud,
"but-"
The face of his mother-his doting mother,
seemed to rise up before her. She darted into
the vestibule, Louis's name faintly issuing from
her lips-too faintly for him to hear, and she
was forced to stop and press her hands over "You need not have any fear that I am ruin-
her eyes to hide the picture which from the ing myself," he continued, laughing and colour-
open door burst upon her view. When she ing;
When she ing; "you have no idea how rich I have sud-
again uncovered them, all she beheld was the denly become."
door closed on the new victim.
"Mr. Raymond," said Maud, "I must apolo-
At that moment she saw a waiter approach-gize for presuming to speak to you upon a sub-
ing. She hurried to meet him, and steadying ject which I am aware you may think no con-
her voice, desired him to go and tell Mr. Ray-cern of mine; but, for the sake of your dear
mond she wished to speak to him for a moment
in her sitting-room, whither she retired, await-
ing in breathless anxiety the result of her mes-
sage. But minute after minute fled, yet he
came not; and at length, with a sickening
shudder at her heart, she went to her bed-
room to pray that the widow's only son might
escape the snare that surrounded him.
Harry! did Louis Raymond play last night?"
was the eager, trembling question she asked her
husband the next morning.
"Play that he did, and monstrous good luck
he had, like all young beginners."
"Harry, this must not be-for his mother's
sake save him."
"I,
I, Maud? What can I do? I cannot act
the part of Cerberus to all the foolish boys who
fall in my way.'
"But you can surely speak to him? Oh, for
'mercy's sake, tell him the danger he is incur-
ring."
"I tell him! A pretty person I am to lec-
ture on such a subject: much good it would do,
truly!"
A deep sigh was Maud's answer.
“No,' ""
continued Harry, with more serious-
ness; "but really I would advise you to give
your protegé a hint that he had better keep out
of the way of mischief. You can do what to
me is impossible-and even with you it will re-
quire much delicate tact: that is, warn him
against becoming on terms of too great intima-
cy and confidence with Sir John Turton, and
one or two of the others, but especially Turton,
for, entre nous, he is a slippery hand for any
young fellow to fall into."
Must I warn him against those whom he
sees are my husband's associates? who are
even suffered in his wife's presence, and yet
whom he considers so vile?" cried Maud, in an
irrepressible tone of bitter remonstrance. "Oh
God! is it among such as these my precious
child is destined henceforth to mingle?" And
hen the poor young wife saw the dreaded
|
mother, I will frankly and at once tell you that
I have a striking horror, a superstitious dread,
of anything, even the merest trifle, bought with
the price of sin; and if my fears are rightly
founded, thus it is with the riches of which you
boast."
"Sin, Mrs. Percy!" exclaimed the young
man, astounded by this solemn harangue, and
still more by the penetrating glance she fixed
on his face with her large, piercing eyes. "Sin!
That is rather a severe term, I must say, for-
for-"
"Mr. Raymond," she concluded, "had you
last night no pangs of conscience which whis-
pered to you 'Forbear!' Could you think that
your mother would have sanctioned the deed?
Did no anxious, tender warning from her lips
ring reproachfully in your ears? If so,.what
could it be but sin ?"
"You are quite right, Mrs. Percy," replied
Louis; "I did think of my mother when Sir
John invited me into the room. I remembered
her horror at anything like play, and that ought
to have been sufficient to have kept me away;
but I don't know how it was: I saw all looking
so brilliant and gay, that it seemed dull to go off
to bed and leave such agreeable company, so in
I went, and there I found Mr. Percy."
"Yes-yes!" interrupted Maud, hastily, and
turning pale; "but why did you not come when
I sent you a message?"
"What message? I never received any, I
assure you."
"I sent a servant to say I wished to speak to
you."
"Ah! I saw one come in, look at me, and say
something to Sir John Turton, who stopped him;
but my attention was called away, and I heard
no more about it."
For one instant after these words Maud paus-
ed, and a shudder passed through her frame.
"Mr. Raymond," she then began, in a trem-
bling tone, "it is a repellant task for me to speak
ill of any one, or create suspicion of a fellow-
P
1
114
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE;
creature, but let me beseech you to be cautious
with regard to Sir John Turton-nay, as much
as possible shun his society, for I fear he will
prove a dangerous friend. You will think me
strangely officious and meddling in your affairs,"
she continued, with a sigh and a faint smile,
"but if you will take my advice, or, rather, com-
ply with my earnest entreaty, you will immedi-
ately leave Ems and return to Gottingen."
Oh, pray, Mrs Percy, do not propose such a
disagreeable scheme," eagerly interrupted Louis,
in a half-comic, half-serious manner: "do not
order me away."
word was entering like a dagger into her heart;
inflicting a wound which was to rankle there,
and never heal.
Then it was her husband of whom, in mercy
in equity, she should bid the incautious youth
beware! from whom she should, beseech him
to fly? yes, and not from the wretch whose
serpent tongue and black heart could not even
be hidden under the mask of hypocrisy-her
husband! no malicious, grovelling deceiver,
but alas, alas! whose unrivalled powers of fas-
cination she well knew could produce a far
more destructive influence over the victim be-
fore him. Should she say, "Beware of my
Should she say this-should she entreat Ray--
mond, for fear of her husband, to leave Ems-to
fly from him who himself had bid her warn the
young man of another? Still-dreadful thought!"
-it was Harry Percy who had undesignedly
drawn the young man towards the destroying
stream: he was the one to make him long to
quaff a draught of its intoxicating waters; the
first to bid him "sit down"-sit down to taste
the poisonous drops, and then desire more. Yes,
on her husband's head, if harm came of it, must
that harm be laid; but, oh God! could she say,
"Beware of my husband"-the father of her
child-her still beloved, too well beloved Harry
denounce him as a systematic gambler? No,
no, never; she could not. He was silenced.
Maud rose from her seat, and Louis Ray-
mond beheld with terror her deathlike pallor
the trembling steps with which she walked to-
wards the door. When she had reached it, she
paused, and turning, said, in a low voice, her
eyes bent to the ground,
"I do not order-I only entreat."
"Entreat! That is worse, for who could re-husband! doubt even those qualitics which ap-
sist your entreaties? You must not, indeed. pear to you so delightful; only see him as he
In a week or two my mother will return from really is-a Gambler !"
England: it is arranged she is to meet me here,
and then we shall be all together-such a de-
lightful party! You are very good, very kind
to interest yourself so much in my concerns,
but do not think me so very weak as to be in-
fluenced in any way by Sir John: he is an
agreeable person, but there is something cer-
tainly rather underhand about him, although I
must assure you he was in no way implicated
in leading me to that unlucky act which has so
justly incurred your censure. No, he is not
like Mr. Percy, whom I told my mother, when
I wrote the other day, I considered the perfect
model of a gentleman-one who bears honour
and truth imprinted on his countenance, and
who renders everything he says or does irre-
sistible. I cannot tell you how much I admire
him; and I really think I should have turned
away even at the door last night, had not I
caught a glimpse of his face-so bright, so an-
imated. Then, when I approached the table at
which he sat, and stood behind him watching
the game, I became, by degrees, as excited
and anxious for his success as though it had
been for my own; and at last-let me confess
all, Mrs. Percy," for Maud made a faint attempt
to interrupt him, "and then scold me as much
as you like I found myself betting: I really
could not help it; I was quite infected with de-
sire to try my luck. The game was at length
over; they all rose to take some refreshment :
'What, Raymond! you here?' Mr. Percy said,
in a tone of surprise; it must have been you
that brought me such luck to-night.' Following
the example of the rest, I drank more than one
glass of wine, and afterward, when a new
table was being formed, I fear it required no
very earnest pressing to make me take my
seat at it. Mr. Percy, however, at first ex-
claimed, 'No, no, my good fellow, this is not a
place for a youngster like you get along to
bed!' but when Sir John called out from an-
other table, 'I advise you to join us, Raymond ;
they are rather high for you there,' he said,
'Well, well, sit down, then ;' and I was glad
to obey him-and I played! Oh, I must con-
fess, it is most exciting work, and having once
began, I could have gone on for ever. Now
you see, Mrs. Percy, that, after all, Sir John
had nothing to do with it."
·
He suddenly paused, for something like a
groan escaped Maud's lips. During his long
speech she had leaned her brow upon her hand,
her elbow supported by the table, her face
neatly concealed by her long curls, and Louis
little knew how, as he rattled on, his every
|
"If you would follow my earnest advice, Mr.
Raymond, you would go hence, or if not, think,
I beseech, I supplicate you-I, who know from
sad experience the fatal effects of disobedience
I implore you to think whether it would not
break your mother's heart were you to become
a gambler? Beware-beware of all-all who
are such !"
"It would indeed break my mother's heart,"
thought the young man, when Maud had left.
the room, "but fear not for me, lovely lady!
No, I hope I am not so foolish as you seem to
imagine: trust me for taking care of myself. I
wonder how she could make up her mind to
marry Harry Percy, for, with all his perfections,
a GAMBLER assuredly he is!"
CHAPTER LXIV.
"I seek
to find some ease-
Ease to the body soine, none to the mind-
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone
But rush upon me, thronging, and present
Times past, what once I was and what am now."
Samson Agonistes.
Tue evening of the following day Louis had
returned from a shooting excursion, on which
he had accompanied Percy and several other
gentlemen. The whole party sat down to one
of the choicest suppers which the first-rate
artiste of the Hotel de Russie had ever prepared
for the fastidious palates of connoisseurs in the
important art of la cuisine.
There was one at the table who considered
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
115
that day the happiest of his life; whose eleva- | cred name sounded so awful, so blasphemous,
ted spirits soon drove away all thought, all care, pronounced in such a place. He looked round,
and made him forget every other idea but that and beheld Harry Percy.
he was in the society of about a dozen most
talented, agreeable companions--Harry Percy
at their head, and next to him, in spite of all-
Sir John Turton!
They rose: the doors of an adjoining apart-
ment were thrown open, and Raymond, arm in
arm with a young nobleman, followed the tide
which flowed through the portals: it was the
room in which he now found himself.
Well, Raymond, what are you for?" cried
his companion, as the tables began to be form-
ed, and he still stood as if rooted to the spot,
an uneasy feeling mingling with the excited
beating of his heart, which told him he ought
not to be there.
“I—I—” he stammered; "nothing-nothing,
thank you, just now."
Nothing how devilish slow!" was the gay
lord's cruel comment, as he seated himself at
a table with Sir John and another man. "But
who are we to have?" he exclaimed, as he
glanced around. Rouge et noir seems to be
the go to-night. Come, Raymond, down with
you; you're our man.
แ
"C
No, no, nonsense," said Sir John, in a gen-
tle though supercilious tone of voice, "Mr.
Raymond does not patronise this sort of amuse-
ment."
I am afraid I should make a poor hand of
it," said Raymond; "I should only be in your
way. Upon my word, I never touched a card
before last night."
"And a pretty lucky business you made of
it," said a third person, Mr. Fontain.
"Come, try your luck again," exclaimed Lord
C—, impatiently ; "what are you afraid of
ruining yourself?"
เ
Or us, perhaps," interposed Fontain; "I
think that's most likely to be the case—at least
with me, unlucky devil that I am!"
"Come, come," said Sir John, rising, "pray
let Mr. Raymond keep his luck: do not allow
him to learn, like others, that it will soon tire of
him the other night certainly he won; to-night
he may lose I commend his prudence."
:
This speech, delivered in the softest tones,
however, decided Raymond's fate. The idea
crossed his mind that he might be suspected of
fearing to lose his precious winnings. The
blood rushed in torrents to his cheeks: it was
so mean, so pitiful an assumption-so debasing
he resolved to play till he had lost again what
he had before won.
"Well, I'm your man," he carelessly ex-
claimed, as he seated himself, seized the dice-
box, and shook it: "what's the game?"
Hazard" was the answer; and at hazard,
a word which from his boyhood had been asso-
ciated in his mind with vague ideas of vice and
horror, did he find himself now playing, with a
degree of excitement and enthusiasm equal-
ling, if not exceeding, any other player in the
Yes! even though, at first, every time
he shook the fatal dice, the words, "Think of
your mother: would it not break her heart were
you to become a gambler?" echoed on his ear,
still he went on, still he threw again and again,
for he won-he won !
room.
"Good God, what luck!" he at length heard
pronounced behind him He started, that sa-
|
"Take care, my good fellow, what you are
about," he said, in a low voice; "take care, I
beseech you."
"Take care!" thought Raymond; "had he
not already, at one sitting, won what far ex-
So on he went.
ceeded his annual income?"
Others now gathered round the table, and he,
whose warning words had but a few moments
before rung in his ear, was now betting furious-
ly on his throws, thereby increasing his interest
and excitement.
At length Fortune seemed inclined to turn:
Raymond lost it was but a trifle in comparison
to what he had gained; his companions, how-
ever, suddenly paused: they said they had had
enough.
He remonstrated, for they made it too evi-
dent that it was entirely from consideration for
him that they ceased, and he felt quite ashamed
of sweeping off the table the gold that lay be-
fore him; but others, among whom was Harry
Percy, prepared to succeed them at the table,
the latter whispering to Louis in his quick way
as he seated himself,
Come, get off with you, my boy; your
mother would never approve of all this!"
You are a very proper person to preach to
me," was the thought which glanced across
Raymond's mind, who felt rather piqued at the
dictatorial tone of one who, at least, he thought
had no right to dictate to him on such a sub-
ject; and when he stood for an instant near the
table, and watched the game begin, and noted
the flushed features, the quick, eager eyes of
his reprover, as they flew like lightning from
the throws to the dice-saw him ever and anon
push back, with irritable impatience, the dark
hair from a brow seemingly formed by Nature
for the throne of that intellect which had been
so largely bestowed upon him-that intellect,
completely thrown away upon the degrading
passion which had taken possession of his mind
and when Raymond heard from his lips the
name of God, which he had been taught to pro-
nounce with awe, used in common with vain
curses on his unlucky attempts, the young man
shuddered, turned away, and with a dizzy, con-
fused sensation walked towards the door. But
he felt the money still in his hand, and he sud-
denly paused, murmuring, "And am I too a
gambler? Oh, my mother!"
He was on the point of dashing the winnings
to the ground, when a soft, oily voice whisper-
ed in his ear,
"That's right, my good fellow, put your
money in your pocket; you have made a lucky
hit. Don't stay to let us win it back again: it
is wealth to a young man like you, not very
flush-"
"Sir John, I have no wish to win yours, or
any man's pitiful money. You treat me like a
beggar or a child ;" and an oath burst, for the
first time, from the young man's lips. So soon
does evil communication spread its corrupting
influence around a victim!
The next instant he had stammered out an
apology for his ungracious reception of what
doubtless was said in kindness, but his pride
was stung to the quick, and as Sir John re-
turned to the table, a loud laugh from some of
116
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
the players, which sounded to his ear like one | less victim, as it perishes under the destroyer's
of derision, made him spring towards them, grasp. The repulsive task of describing the fall
and presently he heard Sir John's companion
say in a coarse voice,
"You've frightened away the bird, you see;
I'm afraid I sha'n't get my money back, if it is
on him I reckon for it.'
But the poor bird seemed neither to heed nor
to understand these words, and the next mo-
ment the fowlers perceived that it had fluttered
back to the snare..
"Faites votre jeu, faites votre jeu," cried Hol-
loway, suddenly recommencing his office as
croupier, and heaps of gold were once more
flung upon the table.
of a human being into the meshes laid by the
designing villany of his fellow-men must be
hastened over as quickly as possible enough,
however, must be related to exemplify one of
the trials of the Gambler's Wife-the most
awfully dreadful, perhaps, which it pleased her
God in His wisdom to lay upon her stricken
heart.
The next morning Raymond discovered that
he had not only gained his purpose of losing the
money he had won, but also a sum to him im-
mense. Had it not been for the remembrance
of his uncle's legacy, he would have despaired;
as it was he felt that it was impossible to write
to his mother and confess to her the situation
"Rouge, noir! rouge, noir !" resounded on
every side; and whose voice was it that min-
gled hoarsely amid the rest? Sad, sad to re-in which he had placed himself: he would have
late, it was Louis Raymond's, the widow's only
son-her only hope and joy on earth-her care-
fully, anxiously trained Louis!
braved death for his mother's sake, but he had
not courage to endure the thoughts of her grave
and mild reproach-her gentle blame!-he could
But there was one among them whose heart not bear to pain her. He would play once more,
was not wholly hardened in the furnace of in-win back his money, and then would fly from
iquity, who feared for him-pitied him; who farther temptation.
thought of his own youth-his own fatal career ;
remembered with a bitter pang his own mother's
anguish, while the cry of another rung in his
ears, "Save him, Harry-save him!" and his
heart smote him.
He felt that this entreaty had not been too
earnest, that the victim needed indeed a strong
arm stretched forth to save him-to snatch him
from destruction; he felt that to strike him
dead before his feet that instant would be an
act of mercy, in comparison to allowing him
to be that blasted, blighting being, a gambler!
Yes, Harry Percy felt all this as he happened
to cast a glance towards the rouge et noir table,
and saw Raymond drinking in the poisonous
draught, and the thought smote upon his heart
that, although man might absolve him from the
guilt of this young man's proceedings, he was, in
fact, guilty. Example-that awful responsibil-
ity-had he not a heavy reckoning to make
upon that score? For a few moments Percy's
better nature prevailed; he must, he would
save him, cost him what it might.
But alas! the warning voice sounded but in
vain; good resolutions vanished, as though
they could not exist in an atmosphere so foul.
A word was spoken in his ear-a stake pro-
posed: Percy forgot aught else, and was again
the reckless gambler, every feeling of his heart
and soul riveted on the turn of a die-the colour
of a card.
Raymond played till morn faintly dawned
upon many haggard faces, and the lights of the
apartment began to sink one by one into their
sockets; then, as if "'twas only daylight that
made sin," the assembly prepared hastily to
disperse.
Raymond did not lodge at that hotel, but at
a quieter and cheaper house, and along the
damp street, in the pale, gray light of an early
October morning, he had to skulk like a culprit
-to steal to his chamber, and without a prayer
to throw himself on his bed, there to seek in vain
for the quiet, peaceful sleep which had rarely
before deserted his eyelids.
It is a loathsome sight to watch even the
snares by which the poor fly is decoyed into the
wily spider's web, and then to note every faint
and fainter struggle, every quiver of the defence-
Once more! how often are those two simple
words the bait which lures man to destruction!
Like the hound which has once tasted the blood
of prey, he thirsted to drink of it again; once
more he played, and deeper and deeper waded
into the fatal stream, till, impelled forward by
those who had conspired his ruin, he lost his
footing, and sank never to rise again.
*
*
*
*
*
Maud, for a few days after her last conversa-
tion with the unfortunate young man, was con-
fined to her room by illness, but during that
time she failed not to inquire anxiously of her
husband concerning Louis's proceedings; and
Percy, when he saw the resigned sorrow-the
earnest, timid, beseeching look-the trembling
entreaties quivering on her lip, would strive in
his skilful way to set her mind at ease on the
subject; but when Maud heard that Raymond
had not left Ems, she judged it expedient to
write to his mother, and warn her of the danger
to which she feared her son was exposed.
It was a painful task for our heroine-it was
like denouncing her husband; and when he had
read the letter, he said with a laugh, in which,
however, there was a sound of bitterness,
Very prudent indeed, I dare say-very com-
plimentary to us, certainly; Mrs. Raymond will
decidedly think her son has fallen among a gang
of thieves."
Oh the shuddering horror that crept through
her veins.
"You, Harry-you told me to warn him of
some of thern," was her reply, in an apologetic
tone.
When she next saw young Raymond she re-
pented not the step she had taken. Gracious
Heaven! was that the fresh, joyous youth she
first beheld at the table d'hôte-the cheerful,
frank, animated boy who had sported with her
baby, and revived her spirits by bringing before
her eyes the sight of one being, at least, whom
care had never clouded, remorse had never
touched? Now his cheeks were pale, his brow
contracted; his eyes, before bright and sparkling,
dim and bloodshot; and then his trembling
hands, his nervous, embarrassed manner, all
told too truly that the poison was doing its
work.
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
117. .
In agony she again spoke to her husband, but | pacious sharks of the lowest description at the
the subject seemed to annoy him, for he answer- common gaming rooms, as well as of the more
ed impatiently that it was not her place to watch aristocratic players of the Hotel'de Russie, some-
over the health and conduct of fools. She had times a brief run of luck raising him up, only to
written to his mother-what more could be dash him, again, lower into the pit of despair.
done? For his part, he had annoyances enough
of his own, and she seemed to interest herself
as much in the affairs of a silly boy as in those
of her husband: the mother would soon arrive,
and all would then be right.
Again Maud resolved to make a last effort to
save him; but Raymond evidently shunned her
society. Once, when he happened to be with
her, she asked him if he had lately heard from
his mother. Turning deadly pale, he stammer-
ed out some incoherent words, put down the
child he was holding in his arms, and rushed
from the room.
At length, one morning, when he awoke from
his feverish, disturbed slumbers, he beheld a let-
ter on his pillow: it was from England, and
would decide his fate. With almost frantic
eagerness he tore it open. His distended eyes
scanned the contents: the room-the bed—all
seemed to swim before him.
"It is all over with me," he almost shrieked ;
and then he sunk down, and lay in the torpor
of utter, hopeless misery during the greater part
of the day, no food passing his parched lips, dim
shapes of horror and despair flitting through his
For a week after this Mrs. Per-mind and brain, which were weakened still more
by the effects of the wine and spirits with which
he had been wont lately to fortify himself for the
agitation of the day.
cy sought in vain to see the unhappy youth, till
one evening, about dusk, as she was returning
from a walk with her husband, she saw, from
the door of the low-roofed pavilion in which the
public but ill-attended gambling-table is held,
two individuals issue arm in arm, one of whom,
a tall, slender figure, with hat slouched over his
face, started violently as he came suddenly upon
them, and Maud beheld the pale face of Louis
Raymond, who, disengaging himself from his
companion, hurried on. The other was Hollo-
way, who familiarly greeted them as they pass-
ed. Maud groaned in spirit.
!
CHAPTER LXV.
"Hence with thy brew'd enchantment, foul deceiver!
Hast thou betray'd my credulous innocence
With visored falsehood and base forgery?
And wouldst thou seek again to trap me here
With liquorish baits fit to ensnare a brute?
*
*
*
T
*
*
Oh what noise!
Mercy of Heaven, what hideous noise was that ?"
MILTON'S Comus.
IN due time there came a letter from Mrs.
Raymond to Maud, in reply to her warning epis-
tle regarding Louis, and another to her son, fill-
ed with tender but firm remonstrance. There
was one also from his guardian, severe and un-
sparing in its blame of his present society and
pursuits, and ending by saying that, if he built
on the prospect of an addition of fortune to cov-
er his extravagance, his hopes were but as a
house of sand, for it seemed very probable that
the lawsuit in a few days would be decided, and
in favour of his opponent; that much expense
had already been incurred in litigating the busi-
ness, and that, in consequence, redoubled econ-
omy would be incumbent on his part.
And these despatches found the unhappy Ray-
mond smarting under the maddening conscious-
ness that in one month he had lost hundreds.
These sums had, of course, not been paid, and
his kind friends were earnest in their entreaties
that he would perfectly consult his own conve-
nience, for it was at the uncle's legacy they
aimed.
But to the mind of the poor misguided youth
it appeared that dishonour, disgrace, ruin, and,
above all, poverty to his mother, must be the
consequence of his error unless the will was de-
clared in his favour, and to drown his agonizing
suspense by the excitement of play seemed his
only alternative: he might still win once more;
he must risk it yet again! Day and night he
was now at the deadly post, the prey of the ra-
Rising once in his bed in a sudden paroxysm
of agony, his eye fell upon his father's sword,
which stood in its case in a corner of the apart-
ment, and with a groan he again sunk back on
his pillow.
The weapon, which had been wielded in the
defence of his country by the most honourable
of men, was now in the possession of a wretch
who had disgraced himself, and brought misery
and poverty upon his mother! How could he
ever meet that mother's look of sorrow when
he should tell her that, through him, she was
beggared-her son dishonoured?
A knock at the door roused him, and in a
hoarse, hollow voice he said, " Come in !”
It was Sir John Turton, accompanied by the
profligate young Lord C. and Holloway, who
entered, looking with feigned surprise at his hag-
gard appearance. Raymond threw his letter to
them, and asked them fiercely whether they
came to glory over the ruin they had caused, or
to ask for the money they had swindled from
him. Holloway commenced a bantering speech,
but was silenced by Sir John, who, in his soft
voice of provoking composure, begged him to
leave their young friend till he was in a state to
listen to reason.
The hotheaded Lord C-, however, de-
manded satisfaction for the insult, and Ray-
mond, with a bitter smile, and a sudden flash of
animation illumining his countenance, pointed
to the pistols, also his father's, which hung over
the sword, and said he would be happy to meet
him where, at least, they would be on equat
terms; and then Lord C― departed with Hol-
loway, and he was left alone with the serpent
who would not even now be shaken off. He
had his own reasons: he knew that there was
money in the family, and that Raymond, now
on the eve of being of age, would come into the
possession of some thousands on attaining his
majority.
Sir John gently rebuked him for what he term-
ed his childish despair at annoyances which al-
most every young man, on first entering life,
was destined, as a matter of course, to encoun
ter, and tried to rally him on the folly and im-
prudence of allowing the loss of money to dis-
compose him so much as to cause him reckless-
ly to asperse the characters of his friends, and
to attribute to design the freaks of fortune.
Besides," added Sir John, "the fickle goddess
118
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
is so uncertain, that perhaps in one night, if you
laid it on strongly, all might be regained, and on
your mother's arrival she might find you in statu
quo, only blaming yourself for the childish con-
duct which made you quarrel with your best
friends." Saying this, he laid down notes of con-
siderable amount, and bade him make use of
them that night without scruple : boldness and
courage might be the saving of him.
"Now let us see you come among us this
evening like a man, not a weak-spirited boy,
and depend upon my making it all right again
with Lord C- : we are all your friends for
life."
again turned towards him, and exclaimed, hold-
ing open a case of jewels,
"Harry, these are your own; you chid me
once for begging you to take them, but you will
not now refuse to ease my anxiety."
“You are an angel, Maud !" Percy cried, 'in
a voice of unfeigned emotion, as he pressed her
to his heart; "an angel too pure, too lovely, to
bless so unworthy a being as your husband."”
This was one of those brief moments in which
gleams of a nature naturally good would revive
in the breast of the poor young wife transient
glimpses of joy and hope.
"You are an angel too good for me!" again
"Yes! no doubt, after you have drawn me exclaimed Percy; "but it is not of myself I am
into perdition, and made me a demon like your-thinking just now. I can manage, at present,
selves," muttered the wretched victim, as the to rub on without robbing you, but, Maud, I am
dark and evil one left the room; then rising, he really afraid that between them all that foolish
locked the door, and with reeling brain and trem-young man Raymond is ruined !”
bling hands took down the pistols, loaded them,
and replaced them in their former position, and
thrusting the bank-notes into his pocket, called
for wine and refreshments.
In opening a drawer his mother's picture met
his sight the full, clear eyes were gazing on
him. He staggered back, and threw himself
upon a couch, drank glass after glass to drown
the remembrance of that glance, and lay in a
sort of stupor awaiting the moment which was
to decide his fate.
A note was brought to him: it was from
Maud, and as follows:
"DEAR MR. RAYMOND,
"Mr. Percy would have called upon you, but
has been confined to his bed all the day in con-
sequence of indisposition; but pray come and
spend a quiet evening with us. Do not refuse
my request, for we have something to propose
which will relieve your mind from some of the
Come ear-
anxiety you are, I fear, enduring.
ly, for little Harry has been pining for his kind
Most sincerely yours,
friend.
"MAUD PERCY."
For an instant softened feelings filled the heart
of Raymond, and tears trickled down his cheeks,
but the next he rang his bell violently, and sent
a verbal message that he could not wait on Mrs.
Percy that night. "To-morrow, perhaps," he
stammered, almost incoherently, "he might do
himself that pleasure."
*
*
*.
*
*
Maud clasped her hands in speechless agony.
"His mother!" she murmured.
"But do not look so wretched before you
hear me out," continued Percy; "I mean, I fear
that, unless his uncle's will is declared in his
favour, he will have done badly for himself. If
he gets the money, perhaps this bitter lesson
may teach him wisdom for the future. On the
other hand, if the law decides against him, I am
quite determined to make up to him the sum he
has lost in some way or another. I feel that I
have on my conscience no small weight of blame,
though how to manage in this business is the
question."
Then, Harry," said Maud, "these jewels
may indeed be put to a use of which we shall
never repent. Let us send instantly for the un-
happy Louis, and ease his mind of the agony he
must be enduring.'
>>
And, without waiting for an answer, with
trembling eagerness she had written and de-
spatched the note already mentioned.
Percy took the jewels, knowing that to refuse
them would but add to the distress of poor
Maud. He sighed to think that, even had the
relinquishment of her ornaments been a sacri-
fice, how completely, as a drop in the sea, would
be the advantage derived from their sale.
Maud was seated that night alone in her
room, Percy having, by her own concurrence,
left her, to make an attempt to draw away the
misguided youth from the scene of danger, and
bring him to receive the comfort they had in
store for him.
Harry Percy had really been ill all day, and
Maud saw that his ailment was mental more But she waited and waited, and yet they came
than bodily. She imagined that he must have not, and it was nearly two o'clock ere Harry ap-
been losing very largely; and once, as she stood peared, alone, and with an air of deep annoy-
by his bed, on which she had just laid her sleep-ance on his countenance. All that he, howev-
ing child, and he raised his head in order to kiss
its little soft cheek, and saw her gazing on his
face with a look of such tender anxiety, he
stretched out his hand affectionately towards
her, she threw herself on her knees by his side,
and forgetful of all but the overwhelming ten-
derness which filled her heart, bursting into
tears, she cried,
"My own dear Harry, what can I do to help
you?"
Conjure me up a few thousands, my dar-
ling," was the careless rejoinder, as he turned
hastily round and averted his face.
Maud instantly sprang to her feet, crossed the
room, unlocked a drawer, and the next moment
er, told Maud was, that the youth was most ob-
stinate, and that they must let him play himself
out that night. Distressed and anxious, she
prepared to retire to bed. Percy left her, but in
a short time returned.
Maud," he said, in an agitated tone, "some-
thing must be done with this boy. He has lost
again-made a scene-insulted half the room:
the party have all dispersed, and he is now sit-
ting there alone, looking more dead than alive."
"Let us go to him, Harry," exclaimed Maud,
rising, "let us go immediately ;" and very pale,
but firmly, she walked, leaning on her husband's
arm, down the stairs along the passage and gal-
lery, now quite deserted, and in which reigned
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
119
!
a profound stillness, and soon she found herself | gave one glance at the fixed eyes and bloodless
at the threshold of the dreaded door.
It was open, but the room presented a very
different coup d'œil from that which it had done
when last its interior had opened to her view.
The brilliant lights had all been extinguished;
one dim candle alone shed its melancholy flame
over the apartment which, not a quarter of an
hour before, had echoed with sounds and voices,
but now was silent as the grave. In confused
disorder on the table were to be seen, "here
piles of cards, and there the damned dice," and
in the midst of all sat the poor victim Raymond.
Yes, there he sat, his arms folded, his head rest-
ing on the table before him, motionless! only
testifying by the deep groans that at intervals
issued from his lips that he was not, like all
around him, void of life and feeling.
In what a place for Maud to find herself!
This seemed to strike her husband, for he paus-
ed and said,
"What a fool I am to bring you here! Come,
Maud, let us go back; this is not a scene for
your eyes."
But, withdrawing her arm from his, she re-
plied, in a scarcely audible voice, leaning
against the door for support,
cheeks of Maud, seized the bell, rang a startling
peal to summon Lucy to her assistance, and
rushed from the room to a scene of horror im-
possible to describe.
Enough that, as Percy stood on the thresh-
old of the same apartment in which, not a min-
ute before, he had left a being possessed of both
soul and breath, he now gazed upon a breath-
less corpse, whose soul had fled to eternity!
Yes, there, prostrate on the ground-mutilated
terrible to behold-bathed in the life-blood
his own hand had caused to flow, the fatal
weapon still clinched in his convulsive grasp
lay the son of many prayers of many hopes-
the widow's all! her bright, her beautiful, her
only joy. And around the murdered youth
stood, with ghastly faces and eyes starting from
their sockets, the hardened in vice, the reck-
less, the worldlings! Well night they tremble
-well might the lips which had long ceased to
pray murmur an "Amen" to the agonized cry
of "Lord have mercy upon me!" which burst
from the horror-stricken Percy; for might not
to each be applied, in answer to the angry de-
mand of avenging Heaven of "Who has done
this thing?" the awful response, “Thou art
"No! Go to him; tell him I am here. I the man
will wait."
Harry Percy softly, as if for the first time
he dreaded to hear the sound of his own foot-
steps in such a place, and where he now found
himself so strangely situated, approached the
spot where Raymond sat, and touched his arm.
“Come, come, my good fellow," he said, in a
loud, firm tone, "this is childish!"
The young man raised his head, and fixed
his wild, bloodshot eyes fiercely upon his face.
"Gambler!" he cried, "are you too come to
taunt me?" and he sprung to his feet.
Harry Percy seized his arm and rushed to the
door.
"Mrs. Percy is there," he said, in a voice of
sternness.
The youth started, and gazing round, beheld
the white figure of Maud, who stood looking
like an angel of light come to lead a wretch
from shades of darkness.
"My mother! my mother!" cried the wretch-
ed young man in an accent of despair, never to
be forgotten by the two persons who heard it,
and the next moment he fell senseless on the
ground.
*
*
*
"My own dearest, compose yourself; he has
recovered his senses, and is tranquil: let him
remain so till the morning, and then we will tell
him the comfort we have in store for him. The
doctor has just left him, and only recommends
perfect quiet. I have ordered Frampton to re-
main with him.”
These were the words of Harry Percy on en-
tering his wife's room about two hours after
the scene just related. Louis had been re-
moved to the apartment which he had lately
occupied in the same hotel.
Would that it could be said that even one
among them turned from this awful spectacle
-this fearful warning-with the earnest inten-
tion to endeavour "to sin no more"-to pray
for pardon; but alas! many, who the following
morning left Ems-now become distasteful to
them-fied from it only to seek to drown all
troublesome thoughts of shame, horror, and
remorse in fresh scenes of vice, dissipation, and
folly.
But all are not wholly evil: there were a
few who remained with the unhappy suicide to
do all that could be done-to perform the fruit-
less, though not worthless offices to the dead.
Among the number it is needless to say was
Harry Percy. On him devolved the painful
task of making every inquiry which could give a
clearer view to the circumstances which led to
the catastrophe.
But of what availed the whys and where-
fores? There was a doting mother yet to learn
that her son was dead; had died, not peace-
fully breathing his last, but in the darkness of
despair-of madness, had rushed into the un-
discovered country from whose bourn no trav-
eller returns.
The letter from Mrs. Raymond, received by
her son on the last morning of his life, was
found.
found. Its contents were these few lines :
"I return to you, my own dear boy, bringing
with me nothing but my earnest love unchan-
ged; but I will not say that I feel no regret
that circumstances have turned out as they
have done, for that would be unnatural, and I
have not time now to moralize on the uncer-
tainty and peril of riches; I ought to be only
too grateful that, with common prudence on
our part, we are not likely to struggle with pov-
erty. But, my dearest son, in whatever state
of life we may be placed, let us pray to be con-
tented. Almost as soon as you receive this, I
shall hope to be with you."
Scarcely had Percy ceased speaking, when
the loud, reverberating sound of a pistol shot
smote upon their ears: the startling noise was
succeeded by an interval of awful silence, bro-
ken at length by many hurrying steps, and the This letter was directed to Gottingen, it hav-
echo of the quick slamming of doors. Harrying been supposed that the young man had re-
120
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
turned to that place, according to the command
of his guardian. Tidings of the sad catastro-
phe had been despatched, in the hope of pre-
venting the poor mother from proceeding to
Ems, but this intention was unhappily frustra-
ted.
On the afternoon of the second day after the
direful event, Harry Percy paced to and fro the
darkened chamber of Maud. Haggard were his |
cheeks, and troubled was his brow.
Percy looked at Lord George with a blank air
of consternation.
"Damer," he said, "I can't do it-quite im--
possible. But, gracious Heaven, if they are
not taking her to the room!
She is going up*
stairs," and both gentlemen rushed from the
apartment.
Maud remained kneeling, her head raised,
her hands clasped, while her bloodless lips
moved in an agonized appeal to Heaven till
On a couch lay the poor young wife, her every object around seemed to vanish from her
hands clasped tightly together, and with that sight, every sound from her ears, and then fol-
expression of settled horror on her counte-lowed an instant of motionless suspense ;, but
nance, and torturing thought in her eyes, plainly
telling that she had sustained a shock which
had shaken her very soul.
But now she seemed to think more of her
husband's suffering than her own, for her eyes
anxiously followed his footseps, and ever and
anon she would speak to him in a low voice of
gentle tenderness, begging him to take some of
the food that stood untasted on the table, or to
lie down and seek for the sleep which had not
visited his eyelids for the last two nights.
at length there came a sound:
"A sound-a voice-a shriek-
A long, loud shriek and silence."
It was no common cry of agony and horror.
There was in it something supernaturally aw-
ful, and well might it be so, for with that cry
the strong intellect, the fine mind was destroy-
ed, and reason fled forever from its high seat.
Maud could not know the dreadful fact at:
that moment, and she did not hear the curse-→ ·
the fearful curse the frantic mother invoked on.
the destroyers of her son; but she heard enough.
to cause her to call aloud for mercy.
Yes! when, by the looks of those who fol--
fatal spot she was approaching, suspicions were
awakened in her mind, like a lioness in search
of her young, led by strange instinct to the
very room, the wretched mother had started
from them, and stood by the corpse of her child
lifted the covering from his face-and then--
But we will not paint that scene :
All was quiet around them: the awful pres-
ence of the dead within its walls seemed to have
hushed even the busy sounds of the hotel:
every footstep seemed to tread lightly and rev-lowed her, striving to draw her away from the
erentially. One cheerful sound alone was heard,
the merry shout, the baby glee of little Harry
in his neighbouring nursery; but for the first
time these sounds grated painfully on their
ears, and it was a relief to both parents when
the child went out for a walk. He had been
brought in to see them before he set out, and
it was with a bitter pang that Maud heard him
lisp the name of mother. She thought of him
who had been loved as dearly, of the mother
who never again would hear that sweet sound
pronounced by her child, and with a shudder
she pressed her own darling to her heart and
turned away. Harry Percy, too, somewhat im-
patiently kissed the little boy, and his face was
very pale when he again commenced his per-
ambulations.
་
"The ark of grief
Let us not touch, presumptuous."
Time passed almost unconsciously over the
stunned senses of Maud after that awful sound
had smote on her ear; she moved not, she
scarcely breathed, she even seemed not to hear
when the door opened, till, on her name being*
pronounced, she raised her eyes, and beheld
her husband, who sank into a chair, covered
his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
Thus it was, when suddenly a chaise de poste Maud tottered towards him, and with a wild
was heard rattling swiftly down the long street, expression in her eyes, and in a voice of hol-
and stop before the door of the hotel. Percy low, supplicating anguish, exclaimed, "Harry
cast a careless glance through the half-closed-Harry, is not this enough?" and fainted at
shutters at the vehicle, and was turning away, his feet.
when the tones of a well-remembered voice
seemed to freeze the blood in his veins, and he
stood as if rooted to the spot, a faintness over-
spreading his heart. A few moments more,
and a hurried step was heard approaching the
chamber. There was a quick, sharp knock at
the door, and without waiting for an answer,
Lord George Damer, who throughout the late
dreadful affair had acted with the utmost good
feeling, entered, exclaiming,
"For God's sake, Percy, come here direct-
ly: this poor unfortunate woman has arrived.
She's asking for her son-knows nothing of
what has happened is totally unprepared:
what is to be done? None of the others will
go near her: pray come!"
At that instant the clear, cheerful voice of
Mrs. Raymond was heard on the stairs, begging
to be shown the way to her son's room. Maud
sprang to her feet, and then, with a faint cry of
horror, threw herself on her knees, burying
her face in the couch.
CHAPTER LXVI.
"The love I offer'd long ago
Is but matured by time,
As tendrils round their chosen bough
Cling closer as they climb;
Then am I not a lover still,
In heart und soul the same,
As when I sought thy bower first,
And learn'd to breathe thy name?"
HAYNES BAYLEY.
To one of the "stately homes of England"
we must now transport our readers, to the
mansion of the Earl of Balfour, in Warwick-
shire, where, in the merry Christmas time, a
gay party had assembled to meet the lovely
fiancée of the heir of that noble house.
And now methinks I hear the reader say,
We trust, then, we have done for a while
with tears and woes, with sorrow and sighing
-we weary of dismalities." Would that it.
could be so!
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
1211
"Misfortune," it is said, "cuts with a two-
edged sword," and true it is, for the experience
of many will have taught them that when once
the grim-visaged monster Affliction shows its
face in a circle, like a pestilence, its infectious
breath seems to spread death and misery around.
It is seldom satiated with a single victim. We
have undertaken the task of relating the history
of a family, whom Providence, in His wisdom,
had ordained should drink largely of the cup of
sorrow. And let it not be supposed that we
are needlessly exaggerating descriptions of mis-
fortunes. The happiness of mortal men may
indeed be too highly coloured, too vividly de-
scribed, for in the midst of the utmost joy there
must ever be a shade of darkness: no lot on
earth is uncheckered by disappointment; earth |
would be too like heaven were it not so. Grief
is the natural portion of all below. We were
born to sorrow; the curse of Adam is upon us,
and his descendants feel it hourly-daily. It is
therefore nearer to truth to describe grief than
perfect happiness, which never exists but for
the briefest moment, save in fiction.
Lord Percival's time of probation was over.
He had been comforted in its tediousness by a
promise from his father that under his own
roof his son should receive the welcome of his
beloved, and hear from her own lips the words
which were to crown his happiness. And there
he had found Mr. Sutherland and May, the lat-
ter already cherished as a daughter by his pa-
rents. What cloud now could dim the bright
horizon of his future life?
In the library of Carlton Hall, a few days
after his arrival, were assembled the earl, Mr.
Sutherland, and Lord Percival. An audience
had been requested by the future father-in-law
of the young nobleman to converse on matters
of business relating to his daughter's prospects.
He knew, Mr. Sutherland said, that it was
the general belief that on his death she would
be his heiress. He considered it his duty to
undeceive Lord Balfour and his son before
matters proceeded farther. The estate of
Sutherland Manor was settled irrevocably on
another heir: but still May would be most rich-
ly endowed.
The conversation lasted some time; and
when, ready equipped for a walk, May and her
future sister-in-law peeped into the room, to
ask how long they were to be kept waiting for
their companion, she appeared to have lost no
ground in the favour of either her lover or his
father by Mr. Sutherland's communication; on
the contrary, she received a most affectionate
salute from the somewhat reserved and stately
earl.
My good friend here," said his lordship, look-
ing towards Mr. Sutherland, "has been making
one more attempt to keep you to himself. Come
in, Arthur"—for another face appeared at the
door-" come in. Percival has discovered that
this fair lady is not an heiress, so he will give
her up to you."
|
sook those of others, might have plainly told t
that, though unintentionally, the words were
not spoken quite apropos.
The youthful group sallied forth, the blushing.
Lady Cecilia leaning on her pale cousin's arm,
but scattering her smiles and gay words on oth-·
er gentlemen of the party.
Behind them sauntered the lovers, and at first
they both seemed thoughtfully observing one
of the pedestrians before them.
"Yes, it grieves me much," said May, sadly,
in answer to some comment of Lord Percival,
"it grieves me much to see him looking so far
from happy. I hoped time would heal his deep-
wound, but I think I never beheld him so dế…….
pressed as now. I have not seen him very late--
ly, and it strikes me he is much altered" and
the tears sprung to her eyes; "though still kind'
and affectionate, he no longer appears to enjoy
our society indeed, he at first refused to meet
us here."
*:
For a moment Lord Percival was silent, but:
then with a grave smile he said, fixing his eyes
on her face,
"Are you sure, dear May, it is from that first
wound he is suffering? May he not have re-
ceived a more recent one?”
May answered not immediately, but the red
blood gradually died her cheek to crimson, and
evasively she said, with a smile,
"I had some hopes that your pretty sister
might have made some impression on his fro-
zen heart. I wonder it does not warm under.
the influence of her sunny smiles."
"I marvel not at all, May, if my suspicions:
are true and tell me, dearest, sincerely, hova
this idea has arisen in your mind?"
Why, really, Lord Percival-"
"Lord Percival! May, when do you intend
to drop that formal title?"
"
Well, Percival, or Francis, if you like it bet-
ter: why will you always force me to speak
such plain, disagreeable facts? Once
Once you made
me humiliate myself by confessing that I loved
in vain, and now you wish me to-" she paused,
her smile vanishing, and her cheek growing,
pale.
"To confess that you, in your turn, are now
loved in vain!" added Lord Percival.
May was silent, and bent her eyes to the
ground.
"
:
May, I would give the world if it were not
so," he continued, vehemently; "I thought my
happiness was without a cloud: I knew not so
dark a shadow was about to encompass it."
་
}
“You take this too seriously, Francis," said
May, endeavouring to smile, "and I hope and
trust you are mistaken. I should indeed be
miserable if I thought that I was the cause of
giving one pang to that noble, generous heart;
but if I have done so, it has been most uninten-
tionally-most innocently!"
"I believe it, May; you are in no way to
blame; but I see it all clearly now: I suspect-
ed it from the first, and shall I tell you, dear-
est, what I did? You must forgive me if you
deem it rather an exaggerated act of generosi-
"Oh no, papa," cried Lady Susan, a merry
little maiden of eight years old, "we must have
May for our sister, and Cousin Arthur can mar-ty-and it makes me tremble now to think of
ry Cecilia, and then he will be our brother."
All laughed, or strove to laugh, at the speech
of both father and daughter; but the colour
which rushed to the cheeks of some, and for、
Q
|
what it might have deprived me; still, it has:
eased my mind from a weight of self reproach.
After the frank confession you made me of how
your heart had once inclined with regard to Ar-
122
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
thur, an idea flashed across my mind concern-diately to that effect-and we must have a
ing his feelings towards you. I went to him-
nay, do not look so alarmed--I did not tell him
your secret, but-"
Offered to give me up to him!" replied May,
laughing, but, at the same time, looking up in
his face with glistening eyes.
"Not quite that," returned Percival; “I
merely asked him how it was that, living so
long under the same roof, becoming day after
day more acquainted with your perfections, he
could have failed to love you. He told me he
did love you! I was petrified. But,' he add-
ed, who could fail to love her? But if you
mean, Percival, why did I never seek to make
her my wife, I will tell you. In the first place,
I would never offer so broken a heart to any
woman, especially to her; secondly, I would
not put it into the power of the world to say.
"It was the heiress he courted, so he has con-
veniently transferred his affections from one
-sister to the other;" therefore, Percival, be hap-
py: take the treasure you have gained, and nev-
er think that by so doing you have robbed me
"of it.".""
We know not what were the feelings which
rushed through the heart of May as she walked
on in silence, or what emotion called forth the
sigh which reached the tenacious ear of Lord
Percival.
"And now," he hastily continued, in trem-
bling, agitated tones, "and now, May, you are
not the heiress he supposed, and you sigh as if
as if" His voice faltered, and he paused.
May raised her clear eyes with a searching
expression to his face.
"Lord Percival," she gravely said, "am I,
then, to think that your father's words, spoken
by him in jest, were true? that-"
May! you cannot believe aught of me so
base, so ridiculous," exclaimed her lover.
"Not so base, so ridiculous, and suspicious
as that which you entertain of me," replied
May, in an indignant tone.
Dearest, forgive me; it was but for a mo-
ment. I feared that sigh—"
Lady Cecilia Sutherland! See, she is making
him laugh at one of her lively sallies: he looks
quite happy again. I wish Lord Henry Clifford
would not put himself so continually in the
way; but I have no fears for Arthur if he will
only exert himself a little.”
Before they returned home, Lord Percival
sued for the fulfilment of a promise May had
that morning made to fix a day for their mar-
riage; but she playfully told him that he again
deserved punishment for his sins: she had a
great mind to banish him for another six
months; but she would be lenient, and only
postpone the fulfilment of her promise till the
next evening. "That is to say," she added,
as she looked up affectionately into his face,
"if you come home safe from hunting;
but you
really keep me in a perpetual fright on such oc-
casions, from your reckless riding."
"And if I return to you," he replied, in a
tone of deep tenderness, pressing her hand to
his lips, "you will fix the day to be mine?”
"Till death us do part," added May, in the
same tone, lifting her tearful eyes to her lover's
face.
CHAPTER LXVII.
"It matters not at what hour of the day
The righteous 'fall asleep; Death cannot come
To him untimely, who is fit to die;
The less of this cold world, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality."-MIlman.
BRIGHT shone the sun the ensuing morning
on that most cheerful, exhilarating of scenes,
a meeting of the hounds. A slight frost in the
night had been followed by a génial thaw, and
glittering drops were trickling fast from the
leafless branches, sparkling like diamonds on
the blades of grass of the spacious lawn of
Carlton Hall.
From far and near, crowds of horsemen had
assembled in their gay scarlet coats. Sylvan
sounds of the chase resounded in the clear air :
the bugle of the well-ordered pack; the neigh-
"A happy life I shall lead, Lord Percival, if ing and snorting of the impatient steeds, as
every sigh I breathe is to be thus interpreted. they stood pawing the ground and tossing their
Ah! I may well sigh," she continued, with a graceful heads; the cries and smacking of the
sweet smile, for she saw sufficient contrition whip of the whipper-in, as he rode to and fro,
depicted on her lover's countenance to allay her calling the unruly ones to order; and then the
just anger, “I fear you will make a very jeal-long line of equipages, filled with the young, the
ous husband: But we will no longer dwell on beautiful, the noble, beaming with smiles, their
this subject; only once for all, dear Francis, happy voices mingling with the ruder sounds
let me assure you that it was from no feeling around,
of pique or self-compulsion that I consented to
be yours. Pride and shame, indeed, helped me
to cast another from my heart, but that your
chains wound round it was your own doing.
Francis, I have set my heart on seeing Cecilia
mistress of beautiful Sutherland Manor !"'
"In what way?" said Percival, looking sur-
sur-
prised.
<
"As Arthur's wife. But perhaps you do not
know that my dear father has settled it upon
him!"
"I concluded it would devolve upon your
sister," he replied..
"No-no," continued May, shaking her head
sadly, “Arthur will some day be master of the |
Manor, and will assume his rightful name of
Sutherland-a
-a patent is to be taken out imme-
|
One was there who seemed especially to claim
the observation and admiration of all beholders,
for she was known to be the bride-elect of the
hero of the scene; and well worthy of admira-
tion did she appear, as she stood erect in the
barouche, her beautiful face radiant with smiles,
her soft, hazel eyes glancing with animated
pleasure on the scene before her, meeting with
gentle, frank affection those of Lord Percival,
who was by her side, holding his fiery hunter
by the bridle, gayly answering all her questions
regarding the lively scene she now beheld for
the first time.
There were other gentlemen around the car-
riage, which was also occupied by Lady Cecilia
and her two pretty little sisters. The countess
was in another, with some of her noble guests
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
123
whom she was about to escort to the scene of
action-the throwing off of the hounds,
Among the equestrians was Mr. Sutherland,
who, on horseback, stood by his daughter and
her betrothed, and his usually sad countenance
seemed to have caught the air of cheerfulness
which breathed around him.
whole concourse of horsemen, soon leaving far
behind, though still in sight, the high road on
which the ladies were waiting.
re
Do you see him, Cecilia?" asked May,
straining her eyes after the flying red coats;
diminishing fast in the distance.
"Who-Percival? Yes, there he is, as usu-
al, the very first: now he has just leaped that
brook. And is not that Arthur by his side?
Yes; and now he is before Percival. You see,
May, he is obeying your orders, and taking care
of my brother."
The spectator who seemed the least infected
by the general exhilaration was the stately,
commanding-looking young officer, who was
reining in his horse on the other side of the
carriage, in order to listen to some gay remark
of the fair Lady Cecilia, by which she had ar- The whole hunt was now lost sight of by a
rested his progress as he was galloping past. sudden turn made by Reynard, and the carria-
It failed, however, to do more than produce a ges were directed by the countess's experienced
very slight curl of his mustached lip, and re- coachman to turn off by a short cut in the di-
moved not the melancholy expression of his rection the hounds had taken for the chance of
handsome face as he cast a hurried glance at again falling in with them; and after about
the opposite side of the barouche; and then al- half an hour's drive, the ladies' ears were once
lowing his horse to spring on, he joined a group more greeted by the welcome sounds, and poor
of horsemen at a distance, making way for Lord Reynard swept by, close behind the wheels of
Henry Clifford, who willingly took his place by the barouche, followed shortly afterward by the
the carriage.
pack in full cry and the foremost of the sports-
men, among whom was Lord Percival, who
gayly flourished his whip in answer to the wa-
ving of handkerchiefs which greeted him as he
passed. In another moment his fiery horse
had borne him far from their view, rapidly over
a hedge, which, in consequence of its extreme
height, seemed to be avoided by his companions,
who were evidently seeking for a less perilous
egress.
A rumour was afloat that day that a marriage
was on the tapis between Captain Balfour and
his cousin, the earl's eldest daughter, but many
who observed them together disbelieved the re-
port.
But at length the signal was given, the hunts-
man sounded a loud blast, and on moved the
gay procession down the noble approach, along
the broad high road, till they reached the cover,
situated on a common, over which the hounds
soon dispersed, sniffing the ground with eager
impatience in search of their intended prey,
while sportsmen were hastening on to gain a
convenient position for the expected rush.
Cecilia, do you think Percival intended to
take that leap?" said May, who had made a
faint exclamation of alarm on beholding it.
"Did it not look as if the horse were running
away ?"
During the drawing of the cover Lord Perci- “Oh no, dear May," replied Lady Cecilia;
val was stationed by the side of his beloved," you do not know Percival's boldness on
and a countenance of more happiness was sel- horseback: he can sit a leap which no one else
dom beheld. His hand was still resting on the can manage."
carriage when Balfour rode up to propose some
change of position.
•
"Arthur! take care of Percival," said May,
with a gentle smile; "bring him back safe."
"I will do my best, May," answered Arthur,
in a tone of forced gayety, "but unless you give
his bridle into my hands, I fear I shall not have
much control over his movements. I think,
however, you may rely on his taking care of
himself: he has a motive for so doing," he add-
ed, with a sad smile.
A few minutes and the pack was again in
view, but only followed by a very few hunters.
There was an exclamation from the servants,
who, standing up on the box, were endeavour-
ing to ascertain the cause of the delay, and one
of the footmen had even sprung to the ground
and rushed towards the hedge.
"I fear there has been some accident, my
lady," was the answer of the coachman to the
eager inquiry of Lady Cecilia, and his face was
deadly pale. Almost at the same instant sever-
al horsemen were seen galloping past them at
a furious rate towards a farmhouse which was
"You are right, Arthur," replied Percival;
"trust me for taking care of myself to-day. I
carry a talisman with me," he continued, low-in sight.
ering his voice as he bent over May and point-
ed to a ring she had given him that morning.
"Somebody must give Cousin Arthur a ring,"
cried Lady Susan; "somebody must take care
of Arthur."
No, no!" exclaimed Balfour, hastily, in a
would-be careless tone, "never mind me.
Don't you know that naught is never in danger,
and who-"
"Arthur!" interrupted May, in a voice of
grave but gentle reproach, as she fixed her soft
eyes upon his face; and he stopped abruptly in
his sentence.
on.
The next moment both the gentlemen darted
The cry of the hounds was heard-the
loud, ringing sound of the horn. They had
found; and with one accord on dashed the
The countess was heard, in a quick, agitated
voice, giving orders to drive on, and her equi-
page had set off, when suddenly another horse-
man was seen rapidly approaching, who, on
perceiving them, motioned to the servants to
stop.
•
It was Mr. Sutherland. The instant May
could distinguish her father's face, she clasped
her hands, murmuring, "Good God!" She felt
prepared for tidings of horror.
He stopped first at the countess's carriage,
and in another moment May saw it roll past
them, Lady Balfour supported in the arms of
her companions.
"Dear Lady Cecilia, compose yourself: God
grant it may not be so bad," she next heard,
amid exclamations of agony from the sisters.
124
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"Our brother-our darling brother! will he
die?" cried the little girls.
But no sound issued from May's lips: her
head was on her father's bosom; his arms were
tenderly encircling her; he took a smelling-bot-
tle from her hand and held it to her nose, but
thrusting it from her, she started up, exclaim-
ing,
"Let me go to him, papa! oh, take me--take
me to him!"
"
'No, no, my dear child, he is going home,
and then-then you shall see him ;" and, giving
his horse to a servant, he entered the carriage
and returned with the weeping girls to Carlton |
Hall, May leaning on his shoulder, now pale and
motionless, now springing up in horror, with
eager, frantic inquiries concerning the unhappy
Percival.
waxing faint, can alone guide them through the
dark valley of the shadow of death. Still it:
could hardly be without some keen pangs that
he felt himself rapidly departing from all the
earthly bliss which a moment before had been
within his grasp; and Arthur Balfour, who nev--
er left his cousin's side, heard him once mur-
mur, in a tone of keener agony than any bodily
torture had been able to call forth,
f
"May, my own sweet love, must I leave you?"
The countess, on recovering from the first ef-
fects of the terrible shock, had also flown to the
chamber of her beloved son, and had never
quitted her post. The father had not fortitude
to do so, nor courage to behold his noble heir
prostrated-suffering. In a state bordering on
distraction, he awaited in a neighbouring room.
the different bulletins brought to him from mo-
ment to moment.
It was about, five o'clock in the afternoon-
when the invalid requested that he might see-
his brothers and sisters, and one by one the af-
flicted young people were brought in and press-
ed in his arms. Then a change came over his
countenance, and he lay for a while as if he were
Well may be imagined the consternation now
pervading the whole family when it is related
that the horse of this much and justly valued
young nobleman, over which it is supposed he
must have lost all command in attempting to
leap an immense height, fell back and rolled over
its unfortunate rider, who, on being extricated
from beneath the animal, was found to have sus-preparing his mind for a still more agitating in-
tained the most serious injuries.
terview.
The countess and Arthur read his thoughts,.
and though they knew it must be, yet they
awaited with dread the moment when he should
ask for May: they both feared the effects of
such a scene. At length Lord Percival' spoke :
he begged to be left alone for a time with his
cousin.
"It will not be for very long, dear mother,"
he said, "but what I have to say concerns Ar--
thur alone."
He was, however, quite sensible, and even
managed to convey a wish that he might be
carried home instead of to the farmhouse, as
was proposed; and accordingly, a shutter being
procured, he was borne gently and tenderly to-
wards the Hall, his afflicted young brothers, two
fine youths of sixteen and fourteen, and his still
more agonized cousin Arthur Balfour, riding by
his side, slowly and sadly following those friends
who had been despatched on different errands,
some to apprize the earl of the unhappy event. The countess left the room. In about half
When they approached the mansion, forming a an hour she heard the door of her son's apart--
procession so different from that which so short ment open, and was hastening to return to his
a time before he had watched depart, the agoni-side, when Balfour, whom she met at the thresh-
zed father stood on the threshold to receive it,
and his eyes fell on the altered features of his
beloved son, who, with a wan smile, stretched
out his hand towards him. The unhappy earl
exclaimed, in accents of despair,
"My boy-my poor, dear boy !"
At Carlton Hall throughout that weary day
there was all the agony of suspense which at-
tends alternate hope and fear, almost worse to
endure than the certainty of evil. While life
remains the human heart will cling to hope, and
in spite of all, they hoped, though little prospect
was held out by the surgeons of the possibility
of the young man surviving the serious internal
injuries he had sustained.
The disposition of Lord Percival, always ami-
able and gentle in his days of health, shone forth
with brighter lustre in this trying hour. It seem-
ed his anxious endeavour to strive, as much as
possible, to spare the feelings of those around
him, refraining from giving vent to murmurs or
expressions that would mark the extent of his
sufferings. He, however, insisted upon hearing
from his medical attendants their real opinion
of his case, and with calm resignation listened
as they pronounced his doom.
|
|
old, murmured, in a scarcely audible voice, "Not.
yet, my dear aunt, not quite yet."
She gazed inquiringly on his face, which ex- ·
hibited traces of emotion, telling too well the
painful nature of the conversation.
"Are you going for May ?" she said, in trem--
bling accents.
He bowed his head.
Murmuring in suppressed agony, "Poor-
poor girl!" the miserable mother clasped her
hands, and raising her eyes to heaven, began
pacing to and fro the vestibule, while Arthur
proceeded on his sad mission. Shortly after
the countess beheld him again appear, and lean-
ing on his arm the affianced bride of the dying
Percival, her step faltering, her head bent down
upon her bosom. They entered the room, and
the door closed upon them.
We will not describe the meeting. When the
first agony was over, Lord Percival entreated.
May, whose sobs of irrepressible anguish echo-
ed through the chamber, to calm herself, and
listen to what he had to say. He took her trem-
bling hands within his, pressed them to his heart.
as she knelt by his bed, and motioned Arthur to
approach.
แ
The dying bed of this young nobleman was May!" he then said, "I have bequeathed to
indeed an example of how those who walk be- Arthur a precious treasure. It will soothe my
neath the bright and dazzling sun of prosperity dying moments if you will promise to fulfil my
may yet preserve within their hearts that pure | wishes, for it is in your power alone: you will.
light which, when the sun is growing dim and not refuse me, my own dearest ?"
+
(
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
125
1.
f
"Refuse you, Francis!"
dark, withering sceptre, blighting the young-
the noble in the strength and beauty of his years,
leaving many to weep over and bewail his un-
timely fate, and many to exclaim in bitterness
of spirit,
!
Then, May, promise that the love you vow-
ed but yesterday was mine 'till death should us
part,' shall one day be his-Arthur's: he will
love you as tenderly as I would have done, as
carefully shield you from the storms of this "Is there any sorrow like unto our sorrow ?”
world-to none other would I confide you thus And truly a bereavement such as we have re-
---but I know he is worthy, truly worthy to pos-lated is of all afflictions the most startling. "The
sess you. I know what you would say," he loss of one on whom we have seen many a hope
<continued, as May, overpowered by the violence and prayer fulfilled, the future giving promise of
of her emotion, vainly attempted to speak; "but still farther fruit, whose bark of life was just
The will not ask you, dearest, to forget me: he launched on smooth, sparkling waters, laden
loves me too; and when time shall have allay- with rich and precious treasures, wafted by the
ed your grief, he will be all to you 'that I would gale of honour, virtue, and prosperity-to see
have been, and in your restored happiness you it suddenly sink ingulfed forever from our sight
will talk of poor Percival whom you both loved, is indeed a fearful blow! But there are those
and you will think with feelings of satisfaction who have had to learn that there is a greater
that you have fulfilled his dying wishes-his sorrow, a sight more heart-rending. To see a
earnest hope. Arthur, take her hand: she will "pleasant vessel" glide away in all its beauty
and perfection, and return shattered and bro-
ken, its loveliness departed, its sails torn and
drooping, fluttering in the treacherous winds
which before had so proudly swelled them, its
treasures wasted on the ocean which restoreth
not again. Yes, we may live and learn to feel
there is that far worse for those we love than
death. It is the living death-the dying daily—
that withering of the heart "like grass"-the
bleeding of the wounds from the broken reeds
on which the victim leaned only to be pierced
the agonizing spectacle of a disappointed, blight-
ed, breaking heart.
not refuse me.”
Arthur fervently, but in silence, pressed the
cold, passive hand that was placed in his.
Lord Percival seemed satisfied, and he drew
from his finger the ring May had given him,
lifted it to his lips, then held it towards Arthur.
He had become too weak for more words, and
lay silently gazing on May, whom Arthur had
placed in a chair by his side. Suddenly he mo-
tioned to him to bend down, and whispered in
his ear,
"Arthur, I must now draw my thoughts from
this world, and if I look on her longer I shall
wish to live. Take her, take her; call back
my mother. I must pray-"
Arthur approached the statue-like figure of
May, and proposed that she should retire, tell-
ing her that he feared her presence was too agi-
tating for Percival.
She immediately rose, leaned on the arm he
held out to her, but the next moment threw her-
> self on her knees by the bed, crying, in a choked
voice, "I will be calm-very calm: do not bid
me leave you."
Dearest, you come between my heart and
heaven! this must not be: go, and pray that I
may depart in peace: we shall meet again
where there are no more partings-yet, stay
· one moment! once more let me look upon that
face !"
He gazed for a moment earnestly on her, then
released her hand.
*
*
*
It was at midnight that a knock at the door
‹ caused Mr. Sutherland to rise from the chair in
which he was seated by his poor child's bed-
side and leave the room. He returned to break
to her that all was over, and the morning's
light shone upon a house of sorrow, and upon
the cold, pale form of the young and gallant Per-
..cival
Song was upon nis lips,
"Yesterday
And sunshine seem'd to dwell
'Where'er he moved, the welcomed and the bless'd."
CHAPTER LXVIII.
"Oh he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel!
Might speak, indeed, of woman's blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears."
MRS. HEMANS.
MORE than a year has passed since we quit-
ted the abode over which death had waved its
She to whom we return felt all this too well.
On hearing of the sad event, she had wept, but
envied the fate of one who had departed in the
fulness of joy, loving and beloved, never desti-
ned to feel the wo of a rifled, sickened heart, a
crushed and broken spirit.
Clouds had darkly thickened round the gam-
bler's wife since we left her, although truly the
sky of her horizon then appeared sufficiently
obscure; but there had shone through the gloom
which succeeded the dreadful catastrophe of
young Raymond's death a gleam of hope and
comfort.
Her husband, for a while, seemed awakened
to a sense of the reckless, faulty career he was
pursuing, but the impression soon again faded
away. His hour was not yet come, and the
cup of the young wife's sorrow was far from
being drained its bitter dregs were yet to be
tasted.
We will not detail the particulars of her life
during the past year-how the melting away of
the sunbeam of hope rendered the succeeding
darkness still more gloomy: when it is said that
Paris became the resort of Percy, the readers
may easily guess the sequel.
Let a hungry tiger loose among a crowd, and
expect it not to destroy, rather than send a gam-
bler into such a hotbed of destruction as Paris
then was, and expect him not to play-not to
join in all the dissipation which springs up in it.
So Maud found to her cost. From that time the
crisis of his reckless course of life approached
with giant paces, and during this last winter
Harry Percy had even been compelled to retreat
to the then deserted watering-place, Baden.
A winter of misery it had been to Maud. She
had now to endure a novel grievance, the reali-
ties of comparative poverty; but it was not
this that bowed her soul with grief: no, for she
126
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
would have worked-starved-borne all cheer-
fully and willingly, could she have only had her
husband to turn to even in thought for support
and comfort, but to see him forsake her and
his child, and strive to drown his care in the
dregs of dissipation which Baden at that time
afforded, was withering indeed to her poor
heart.
Of late she had begun to feel the havoc that
care and sorrow were bringing on her spirits
and health, assisted by a winter's residence in
a spot
insuffer from its fogs and exhalations, is
insufferable to some constitutions. But her hus-
band seemed not to be aware of this. He was
ever received by her with smiles of welcome-
with the same kind cheerfulness. She would
not deprive herself of, alas! the too little por-
tion of his society which she now enjoyed by
complaints or fears on her own account; and
though often she had to listen to the fretful, dis-
contented murmurings that his health was fail-
ing, his spirits breaking, she never spoke of her
own sufferings of mind and body. Her tears
were shed in secret, her complaints poured out
to Him alone who despises not the sighing of
the sorrowful and contrite heart.

:
rounded her. How often had she longed to fly
with her husband to a peaceful spot like this,.
and panted for the refreshing sight of dark.
woods, deep valleys, and picturesque hamlets.
But time brings great changes. The mind
must be at ease to appreciate the beauties of
Nature: care casts a gloom over the very vis-
ion; every object looks dark and frowning to
the eyes that sorrow has dimmed:
"With shadows from the past we fill
The happy woodland shades,
And a mournful memory of the dead
Is with us in the glades,
And our dream-like fancies and the wind
On echo's plaintive tone,
Of voices and of melodies, and of silvery laugh-
ter gone."
But although Maud felt all this powerfully-
the dreadful solitude of the heart-there was
still ever one sunbeam dancing in her dark
path, one bird-like voice sounding in her ear,
one being who had never caused her aught but
unalloyed delight-her child—her little Harry,
who, daily increasing in beauty, and with intel-
lect beyond his age, was winding himself with
fearful intensity around his mother's heart.
How often, in her sad and solitary hours,
when her feeling of loneliness and depression
became almost insupportable, while the little-
creature sported before her in all his fearless.
glee, did she stretch out her arms towards him,
and say, in all the bitterness of a wounded
spirit,
"Love me, Harry-love me-love your poor,.
poor mother," and the child would instantly™
cease from his wild glee and fly to her arms.
Enfolded is his little, firm embrace, her over-
charged heart would be relieved by the pouring
forth of her pent-up tears on his innocent head,
and the boy would lift up his beautiful eyes to-
her face, and say,
Poor Maud! wonderful was the love which
bound her so firmly to the erring Percy, and
beautiful the feeling. There is no latitude we
would not give to the affection of a wife to-
wards her husband: even when degenerating
into weakness we cannot help respecting it;
when it clings to worthlessness it loses not its
loveliness. The love that is pledged at the
altar is intended to be stamped indelibly on the
heart nothing ought to have power to efface
the impression. The lips that have pronoun-
ced the words, "for better and for worse," have
also sworn to be faithful without any reserva-
tion "until death us do part," and never, in our
opinion, does a woman's character shine forth
so resplendently as when she clings with "the
tenacity of the ivy to the broken wall" to the Yes!" she would again exclaim, "love me
fortunes of an unfortunate, nay, even a faulty-always love me, Harry, or poor mamma will
husband, when, through neglect, unkindness,
unfaithfulness, her heart remains unchanged,
her love still ready for him to claim, panting,
hoping for one word of tenderness, one kind
look to bid her hope that still he may be hers
again.
1
A short time before the present period,
troubles of a pecuniary nature had thickened
around the gambler and his wife. The rich
heiress, nurtured in a home of luxury, had often
to meet the dark looks, the harsh, rude words
of those who came to demand their due; the
proud, the beautiful Maud, with sinking heart
and trembling limbs, her noble boy by her side,
had often to sue for patience-for mercy; and
Harry Percy, though in some way or another
he always managed to satisfy for a time impor-
tunate creditors, determined suddenly to change
his residence to one of those secluded spots in
the beautiful environs of Baden, where Mrs.
Percy would be less liable to meet with the an-
noyances to which she was now subjected.
And there, though but two or three miles
from the capital, our heroine found herself in
the month of March, in as lonely and complete
a solitude as though she had been far from the
haunts of men. Once, how she would have
revelled in the beauteous country that sur-
"Do not cry, dear, darling mamma: Harry
love you very, very much."
die."
The evening on which we return to poor
Maud a similar scene had occurred, but so ex-
cited had become the state of her nerves that
her agitation had quite overpowered her, and
at length the poor child was terrified at wit-
nessing the violence of her emotion, and sobbed
and wept bitterly as his mother.
Blaming herself for the weakness, she had,
with an effort, calmed her own agitation, and
endeavoured to allay that of her darling; and
at length, by caresses and playful words, suc-
ceeded, and the little creature lay quietly on
her knee, his head resting on her bosom.
At length Lucy-faithful Lucy-who had left
behind a brighter fate, and in all Mrs. Percy's
troubles had been the greatest comfort she pos
sessed, entered to take her young master to
bed, but the child had refused to leave his moth-
er. Passing his arm round her waist, he clung
to her, and would not go.
Maud looked at Lucy with a sad smile, as if
to say, I cannot send him from me, I have so
many weary hours to spend in loneliness; and
it seemed as though Lucy well understood her
feelings, and sympathized in them, for tears
started to her eyes as she gazed upon the scene
before her, and in a choking voice said that she
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
127
would return again in a short time for the little |
boy.
"Yes, I will sing my Harry one little song,
and then I am sure he will go with dear, good
Lucy" and she sung to him till gradually
his white eyelids became heavy, and he slept,
breathing
"Like a lone-voiced dove on her gentle breast."
Her songs had been snatches of those she had
been wont to sing of old-some she had never
sung since she had left her home-but now, as
she lay reclining in the dim twilight, in that
half-dreamy state which the exhaustion of her
recent emotion had produced, visions of the past
seemed floating round her, and after the little
boy was taken away, the strains ever, and anon
gushed forth, vibrating on the heart of poor Lucy
as she sat weeping in a neighbouring apartment.
With what thrilling pathos she chanted these
words,
•
"Oh, the home of my childhood is graven on my heart,
From its streams, from its wild-woods how could I depart?
To that home oh restore! or let me-let nie die."
Her voice gradually died away; she closed
her eyes and slumbered; and now naught was
heard save the gentle evening breeze of early
Spring, waving the branches outside the win-
dow near which she reclined.
a bright, feverish spot of crimson on each cheek!'
And then it is the countenance which alone can
speak with truth of the ravages pain or sorrow
has occasioned, for it is the index to the heart,
and in that of Maud much might have been read,
had Harry Percy dared to have attempted the
perușal; but he turned hastily away from the
window and entered the apartment. Though
he trod softly, his footsteps seemed, as if in a
dream, to have reached her ear, for she moved
her lips, and then gave a faint sigh.
Percy gently pronounced her name, and then
the spell was broken. She raised herself on the
couch, gazed for an instant around her with the
bewilderment of one suddenly aroused from.
sleep, and then, with a cry of joy, flew to him,
and clasped him as tenderly in her arms, as
gratefully as if he had never caused her tears
to flow, or stolen away the happiness of her
young life.
"I fear, dear Maud, you will find you have no
cause to rejoice at being favoured with my com-
pany this evening," said Harry Percy, as, the
first greeting over, he threw himself on the sofa.
"I am in no agreeable mood, I assure you. I
am terribly ill, and bored to death."
+
But I do rejoice," she said, seating herself
by his side and gently stroking back the dark.
But, ere her voice ceased, it had reached oth-hair from his brow; " for if you are ill, and bo-
bọ-
er ears than those of the few inmates of the red, as you say you are, should you not come
house-even that of one who, with slow, lan- home to your wife to nurse and comfort you?"
guid steps, was approaching towards it, and the
mournful pathos of its tone awoke a pang of
painful feeling in his breast. And well it might;
well, too, might a startling stab of remorse strike
his heart at what he beheld on pausing before
the latticed window of the cottage.
His thoughts but a few moments before had
been absorbed on himself, and in the harassing
cares and annoyances which his own sin and
folly had brought upon him, as if he alone were
the sufferer. He was returning home, his re-
sources gone, to vent his disappointment and
pour his complaints into the ear ever ready to
listen to him with patient sympathy, who never
troubled him with blame or reproach, who had
even learned to deck her face with smiles to
please him, though heavy sighs might be weigh-
ing on her heart, and for his sake to conceal the
tears she shed in secret.
But now he gazed upon her when she was
unaware of his presence, and what a tale might
he have read from the sight!
Was she who lay there the same bright being
he had made his wife-the proud, the beautiful
Maud? Then rose before his imagination a
bright picture of her figure, such as she had
stood before him that evening on which he had
marked her out as his victim; now, where was
all the rose-like, healthful brilliancy of her beau-
ty, which had so captivated him! the expression
of proud happiness on her queen-like brow! the
carefully arranged toilet, telling of the tender so
licitude of a mother's care!
Well, you will soon have enough of that
work," he answered, with assumed carelessness:
of tone: "I wish you joy of it.”
"Then you will remain," she timidly said,
"in this beautiful spot, and not return to Ba-
den ?"
"Confound Baden !" he muttered, between
his teeth.
"Oh, yes, stay here," she continued, with
more confidence," and see how well and happy
you will soon become."
Happy!" he exclaimed with bitterness. "I
don't see much prospect of ever again being
happy in this life!"
"In
Softened at length by her soothing caresses
and gentle words, his partly assumed ill humour
gave way, and soon he had poured out his troub-
les in her ear, and revealed to her the wretch-
ed state to which he was reduced with regard
to money-how impossible it would be for him
even to. show his face in Baden till a remittance
which he rather expected should arrive.
short," he continued, passionately, "I am sick.
of the world, and all in it; and really, Maud,”
and he changed his voice to his own quick, ear-
nest manner, "you look so peaceful here, it is
quite tempting. I shall certainly rusticate for
some time it's the best thing I can do. But.
come, you must enliven me," he added, as Maud
silently bent her head and kissed his brow to
hide the tears which mingled emotions had
wrung from her full heart.
Where is the child?" said Percy, after a
" will you
pause.
In bed, asleep," she replied;
come and look at him?"
Now he still beheld the same grace in the ex-
tended, drooping form, but how fragile did it ap-
pear! how painfully changed in the character
of their loveliness were the faultless features of Presently. I would to God I were him.'
that face, with the drooping hair, which, pushed "Shall I sing to you?" Maud then asked.
carelessly from the brow, displayed their delicate "Yes, that will be delightful; but not a mel-
outlines! and the transparent whiteness of the ancholy ditty like the one I heard just now: E
complexion, rendered still more remarkable by I have had enough of dolefuls."
128
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
She flew to bring the guitar, and placed her-
self on a low stool at his feet.
+
3
เ
Then it must be no harp of sighs,'" she
said, looking up into his face with a smile, as
she thus alluded to the beautiful song of Haynes
Bayley, a great favourite of Harry's: "perhaps
'you will prefer my harp of smiles ;" and,
striking the chords, she broke forth. She rug
gled to infuse so much life and spirit into her
voice, that in the first two verses, one who had
but a short time before heard her sad tones
must have wondered at the change.
"Oh! if upon my harp of smiles
One string may still be found,
1"
For thee once more I'll strive to wake
Its long-neglected sound,
I'MUST be gay; that smile of thine
Ne'er shone on me in vain.
Come forth, my harp of smiles,
I'll sing my cheerful songs again
I thought that in my solitude
-Such songs would ne'er be sung,
But thou art here, and I am changed-
My very heart seems young.
One link restored, we reunite
'The long-lost, broken chain—
Come forth, my harp of smiles,
I'll sing my cheerful songs again."
woman's heart of our poor Maud to have her
husband by her side, suffering her to soothe, to
comfort him; to see him delighted and inter-
ested in the playful wiles of their little Harry,
and even listening with attention to her count
sel and plans concerning their future schemes,
given by her without the slightest reproach for
the past, but with clear-sighted, judicious firm-
ness, proving her to be a being not only formed
to love and be loved, but one on whom, in trou-
ble, he might place implicit trust and confidence
-a creature formed for the hour of need, to
comfort, counsel, and command. And this was
the treasure “of price far above rubies" doom-
ed to be slighted for the sports of sin and folly.
A week, we said, had passed a week in
which Maud could rise in the morning with á
feeling of happiness, so strange, so full in its
intensity, that well indeed might she tremble
for its continuance. Well might she ask, with
a sigh of fearful doubt and anxiety, at the close
of every day, "Will this be the last? Will this
blissful peace also pass away, and leave me
more wretched than before?"
Only those who knew Harry Percy could
But when she reached the third verse, begin- possibly appreciate the attraction of his socie-
ning with
"I'll sing of love, ay, love like thine,"
her voice became choked, and she averted her
face. She sang on, but with pain and difficulty,
and with a swelling heart she struggled through
it; but almost immediately, Percy, without any
comment on the song, exclaimed, in an abrupt
but anxious tone,
ty no description can do justice to its charm ;
Nature had indeed gifted him with a beauty of
manner which was quite his own, and perfect-
ly bewitching in its influence; and when the
heavy cloud with which worldly care overshad-
owed his really fine disposition for a while dis-
persed, under the influence of softer, holier feel-
ings, then again he seemed everything that the
"Are you well, Maud ?”
imagination could picture as delightful-his
She raised her head, the blood rushing to her presence actual sunshine: the heaviest, saddest
heart, and hesitatingly answered, "Yes, dear-heart was lightened by his voice; the dreari-
est."
est prospect seemed to brighten into hope; all
his faults were forgotten; no impression re-
mained but that he was the most charming
creature in the world.
"But it is folly saying yes, Maud, if you are
not well," he continued, somewhat impatiently;
It strikes me that you are become wretchedly
thin. Are you ill? Tell me the truth, for you
ought to have advice."
"Oh no, Harry," Maud replied, hurriedly;
you know I had a cough in the winter, but
"this fine spring weather has taken it away, and
I feel well-very well at this moment ;" and she
resumed her seat by his side, and leaned her
head on his bosom.
I
"Then it is the way you dress now; and
your hair, Maud-you are not so particular
about your personal appearance as you used to
<be."
She was silent. Whose fault was that? Who
had deprived her of the means of keeping up the
appearance due to her station, of even the heart
to find pleasure in adorning her person, the mo-
rtive for arranging in the most becoming man-
mer her once much-prized, luxuriant hair?
|
Sad, sad that this beautiful, gifted specimen
of one of God's fairest works should have
wasted the gifts thus abundantly showered upon
him in works whose fruits are truly-destruc-
tion.
One morning, however, there came an inter-
ruption to the calm of poor Maud. A letter,
that vehicle of annoyance, was brought to her
husband. The contents he did not reveal to
her, but the whole of the day following its pe-
rusal she remarked that he looked abstracted
and perplexed. She longed to ask him to re-
lieve his mind, by confiding to her that which
troubled him; but there was an embarrassment
and evident avoidance of her observation in his
manner which forbade her doing so. In the
evening, however, after having sat for some
time, his head averted, and buried in thought,
he said, hastily and abruptly, but without look-
ing at her,
"Maud, I shall have to go away to-morrow
for a short time."
But it was not this thought that kept Maud
silent. She could not speak at that moment,
because these expressions of interest from her
husband-words that she had not heard for so
long a time-brought a rush of emotion to her Maud's heart sunk as if a thunderbolt had
heart which checked her utterance. "He fallen upon it, and in a low voice murmured,
loves me! he loves me!" she told herself; "it" Where?" He did not reply to her question,
was but play that drew him from me, and now but, as if he had not heard her, began to look
he will return to me. Poverty, I shall bless over some papers that lay before him on the
you, if through your means his heart may again table.
:be mine!"
Maud arose, and laying her hand upon his
A week passed, and an oasis in the wilder-shoulder, murmured, "But you will take me
mess of life did that week appear to the true with you, Harry, will you not?"
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
129
a beautiful valley, well known to tourists as a
most picturesque spot. Seldom, however, before
May is its quiet much disturbed by visiters.
Maud might have rambled some distance from
her abode without risk of encountering any in-
dividual save the inhabitants of the neighbour-
"I wish I could-upon my word I do-but
that's impossible, I do assure you. It's on bu-
siness-tiresome business-some person whom
I have appointed to meet me half way from Par-
is to settle some money matters: it will not,
however, detain me more than a few days, and
then, on my return, we can arrange about leaving little hamlet.
ing this place and going to Italy, or anywhere
you like;" and he rattled on as if to disperse
the anxious words he saw rising to her lips;
but again, when he paused for breath, she be-
sought him to allow her to accompany him.
My dear girl, I tell you it is impossible: and
the child-would you leave him?"
"With Lucy I should have no fears for his
safety; but why cannot we take him too?"
My dear love, that would be making a seri-
ous move of what I intend to be merely a few
days' trip: it would add both to the trouble and
expense; besides, if it were to reach the ears
of the people at Baden that we had taken our-
selves off together, we should have the police
after us.
Now pray let it be as I settled it first.
I ask it as a favour that you say no more about
it."
The morrow came. Maud was pressed to her
husband's heart with a tenderness which re-
minded her of days of yore. She bade him
hasten back, for she could not live without him,
and it was with passionate feeling that she
spoke, which told how this short period of re-
newed hope had revived her before timid, droop-
ing love. She had seen him kiss his boy and
gaze upon his lovely face with fervent affection
amounting to emotion, for tears stood in his
eyes. She stood and watched the vehicle in
which he had departed bear him through the
valley, till at length the winding road concealed
it from her sight, and she once more stood soli-
tary and alone.
But not, as before, with a spirit sunk in the
desponding apathy of hopeless misery, the gam-
bler's resigned, broken-hearted wife! A new
power seemed to have raised up her soul. She
felt as if her destiny were about to change-her
time of probation nearly ended--her prayers
about to be answered. The time had come
when her husband would respect her as a wife
—a counsellor-a friend. His love was hers,
she felt assured-oh, joyful thought !—all would
in future be happiness. In short, hope, blessed
hope, filled her young heart, and what cannot
be endured while a spark of hope remains?
Oh woman, shall we most admire or pity the
persevering devotion of your nature, which re-
quires but a breath of hope to raise your droop-
ing spirit,
´´And as a vine the oak has shaken off,
Bends lightly to her leaning trust again."
CHAPTER LXIX.
"Oh! thon, kind Heaven, be this my latest breath,
Here end my life, or make it worth my care;
Absence from whom we love is worse than death,
And frustrate hope severer than despair."
Cowper.
It was the day after her husband's departure
that Maud met with a most unexpected adven-
ture. She was strolling with her little boy in
the beautiful environs of her cottage, which was
situated in a secluded recess at the entrance of
R
On the day, however, of which we are now
speaking, she was tempted, by the mild bright-
ness of an April afternoon, to wander forth, ac-
companied by her child and a young German
girl who attended upon him when Lucy was
otherwise occupied. She had paused to survey
the beauties of a landscape which, on emerging
from a shady wood, was suddenly presented to
her view, when she was startled by the sound
of carriage-wheels, accompanied by the laugh-
ing and talking of many gay voices, and she had
just time to re-enter the copse with the little boy
and his maid before a travelling carriage, con-
taining several ladies and gentlemen, rolled past.
Maud, with surprise, recognised among that
gay party, as unseen she stood and watched
them pass, the two persons in the world, per-
haps, she least expected to behold-Lady Tem-
pleton and Miss Lavinia Grantley. Yes, even
if the elegant, languid form gracefully leaning
back in the carriage could have been mistaken,
that hearty, boisterous laugh-that joyous, spark-
ling countenance, could have belonged to none
but her former merry acquaintance Lavinia.
Maud stood with suspended breath till they
had disappeared from her sight, as if rooted to
the spot with amazement, when a sickening
qualm came over her heart, and then a bitter
gush of tears.
What remembrances did the sight of those
two beings recall to her memory-prophecies of
evil too surely fulfilled!
Plunged in painful revery, she again issued
from the wood to pursue her walk homeward,
which was in a different direction to that taken
by the carriage party, who were probably pro-
ceeding to the picturesque village of Geraldson
some miles farther, and she paused not till, but
at a few yards' distance on the opposite side of
the road, she perceived an equestrian slowly
proceeding over the rough, stony path. If a
hideous monster had suddenly appeared before
her, Maud could hardly have felt more dismay
than on not only recognising, but perceiving her-
self recognised by, Lord Templeton.
At once she felt that a second retreat was im-
possible: there had already been a sudden start
-an inquisitive peer beneath her bonnet-a
smile of recognition.
The horse's head was
turned toward's her, and the next moment Lord
Templeton stood by her side.
"Mrs. Percy! Ah, I thought I could not be
mistaken, though I might be pardoned for doubt-
ing at first that so great and unexpected a pleas-
ure could be a reality."
"You might, indeed," she replied, after hav-
ing accepted his offered hand with as much dig-
nified composure as the extreme annoyance of
this rencounter enabled her to assume.
"It is
a long time since we met."
Ah, there's a tell-tale that so it is indeed,"
answered Lord Templeton, glancing at the little
boy; "at least if, as I conclude-but no, I can
scarcely believe that to be your child. How
time flies! it really makes one feel quite ancient."
130
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"Lady Templeton is quite well, I hope," said
Maud, feeling no desire to listen to the morali-
zing of Lord Templeton on the flight of time, and
wishing to bring the interview to as speedy a
close as possible.
"Perfectly well, I believe," drawled Lord
Templeton; "that is to say, as well as a winter
at Paris ever leaves a.lady. Freshness and
bloom do not flourish in the heated atmosphere
of balls and routs as it does in the quiet of woods
and valleys," and he fixed a meaning, significant
look on the face of Maud, whose lip curled with
a bitter expression. Understanding the implied
compliment, she felt all its empty flattery; for
how changed must she be since the earl had last
seen her!
Could he look on her faded cheek
and altered form, and then talk of blooming
looks?
But in Lord Templeton's compliment there
was more sincerity than she gave him credit
for. The air and exercise had given her cheek
a hue like health and bloom, and there was
the dazzling whiteness of the brow, the splen-
did eyes, the graceful dignity of the form! In
short, the sudden appearance of one so fair in
that romantic and solitary spot was well cal-
culated to strike him with surprise and admi-
ration.
Lord Templeton then proceeded to acquaint
her with the cause of their meeting.
"For most likely she will think she ought to
come and see me, if only out of compassion-
or perhaps to glory over her foresight," poor
Maud soliloquized; "but no, Lady Templeton,
she continued, "your prophecy is not yet ful-
filled. I have suffered much, but I have not
sunk into the cold resignation you predicted ;
and I still aspire to my husband's love, though.
truly wave after wave has threatened to bear it
from me; but still I cling-still, while strength
is left, I will hold it to my heart: death alone
shall compel me to let go my hold."
On her return home Maud told Lucy of her
adventures.
"Now did I not say so?" exclaimed Lucy.
"I was sure that the man I saw come peering
about here, just an hour ago, with his glass
stuck in his eye, was his lordship. What
business had he this way, I wonder? It was
all curiosity, for he turned back again when he
had gone a very little past the window. I
took pretty good care to keep well out of his
sight."
On the second afternoon succeeding this
event, Maud was seated by the window of her
little drawing-room reading a letter from May:
yes, after an interval of long silence, a letter
had been brought to her.
Lord Percival, before his death, had not for-
gotten to advocate, warmly and affectionately,
the cause of one who had awakened in his kind
heart such deep interest. No, even in his last
hours he had remembered Maud, and said to
Arthur,
The young Duchess of had taken it into
her head to make an excursion to Baden before
returning to England. They had been persua-
ded to accompany her. He had been such a fool
as to allow himself to be decoyed into the par-
ty, and there he was at that horrid place: they
had only arrived two days before, and he was
expected to lionize damp vales and leafless for- |
ests, when he should be sunning himself in St. "Kind to her, Percival? I would lay down
James's-street.
my life to serve her!"
"I should certainly have cut the concern and
taken myself off, had I not luckily stumbled
upon Percy."
"Then you saw Mr. Percy before he went?"
interrupted Maud.
"Oh yes," he said, somewhat hesitatingly;
"that is, just caught a glimpse of him, for he
was so confoundedly busy that-that-"
"Yes, he was called away rather unexpect-
edly on business."
Balfour, do not let them forget Mrs. Percy
do not let them desert her, poor thing, for she
is much to be pitied. You will be kind to her,
Arthur, when you and May are—'
Many affectionate letters, even during her
own deep misery, May had written to her sister,
with kind messages, and presents of money for
her own use, from her father; but what more
could be done to serve one who was situated as
the exiled Maud, linked as she was to a being
whose conduct did not tend to decrease the prej-
udice which had become so firmly planted in the
usually generous, benevolent breast of Mr. Suth-
erland.
"Indeed!" said his lordship; and he stoop- And so, again, the correspondence had grad-
ed down and patted his horse's mane, thereby ually relaxed into constraint, and lately had only
concealing from Maud's view a somewhat dubi- continued at intervals, for Harry Percy's con-
ous expression lurking in the smile which curl-science winced at the idea of the espionnage of
ed his lip; and then, as Maud testified by a
parting bow her desire to depart, he murmured
a hope that they might meet again, made his
adieu, and proceeded on his way.
Maud, if she had looked at his face, might
have perceived that odious smile she had al-
ways so hated; as it was, however, she could
not complain of Lord Templeton's present
manner it was an improvement on his former
demeanour there had not been so much either
of the cold, sneering conceft, or the easy famil-
iarity which generally characterized his bear-
ing. However, the annoyance this meeting
caused her was great, for she was aware of
her husband's anxiety that his retreat should
be unknown to his friends, and she also dread-
ed that it might entail upon her a visit from
Lady Templeton.
his affairs which might be carried on through
the medium of the sisters' letters, and therefore
much discouraged its continuance.
But now it seemed that the desperate state
of their fortunes had reached the ears of her
family, for in the letter before her, enclosing an
order for a considerable sum of money, was also
an assurance that for her and her child there
would be a home at Sutherland ever open to re-
ceive them, and an implied desire that she should
avail herself of this refuge. For an instant came
the
"Yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sound of voices far away,
And household steps,'
""
but the next she had raised her swimming eyes
with a smile of proud devotion quivering on her
lips, and murmured,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
131
"
Never till death, or-"
Papa! papa!" cried the sweet voice of the
child from without, as he sprang from the grass
on which he was seated, filling his lap with
spring flowers. And Maud too started up with
a cry of joy, and flew to meet, as she supposed,
her husband.
he held in great contempt-he could shake off
his sickening affectation and supercilious non-
chalance, and make himself really an agreeable
companion.
On this occasion, when half an hour had elap-
sed and he rose to depart, Maud was quite as-
tonished that time spent with a guest so unwel-
come should have passed away so quickly and
in so agreeable a manner.
But when, the next afternoon, he again ap-
But no, the boy was now rapidly retreating
from the spot where stood the person he had at
first taken for his father, and Maud perceived
that it was not Harry Percy, but Lord Temple-peared, under some pretext not equally plausi-
ton. He had alighted from his horse, and was
looking round, evidently to find some means of
disposing of it.
Maud had no inclination to advance in order
to meet so unwelcome a guest, one who had
caused her so cruel a disappointment. Taking
her child by the hand, she hastily returned to
the house.
A moment after Lord Templeton was at the
door, and the next he was ushered into her
presence by the German girl, Lucy not being at
home.
"
May I hope for pardon for thus intruding?"
he said, most respectfully, as Maud, looking the
surprise she wished him to see, coldly bowed as
he entered.
Riding past this way," his lordship contin-
ued, "I could not refrain from stepping in for
an instant to tell you how sorry Lady Temple-
ton is that she will be prevented for a day or
two having the pleasure of calling upon you.
She has, with the duchess, set out on some ex-
pedition, from which I begged to be excused
really a sweet spot this," and he looked round
on the little apartment, which, though boasting
of no greater perfection than the usual habita-
tions of that sort on the Continent, possessed,
nevertheless, an air of taste and refinement, for
there were books, and flowers, and music to
embellish it, and, more than all, her graceful self,
in all her natural elegance; and although Lord
Templeton perceived how slight, almost to fra-
gility, she had become, how almost painfully
beautiful the delicacy of her chiselled features,
which her hair, carefully braided in classic sim-
plicity, so plainly revealed, all this, perhaps, in-
creased Lord Templeton's admiration, for it was
the style of loveliness most grateful to the ex-
treme refinement of taste of which he boasted.
Maud felt much relieved by his communication
with regard to Lady Templeton. In two or
three days Percy would have returned, and she
experienced a sort of nervous anxiety that, if
she must meet Lady Templeton, it should be in
her husband's company, and not as a seemingly
deserted, lonely wife.
ble as the day before, and laboured to make
himself still more charming, advancing every
moment in intimacy, she deemed it expedient
to take some step in order to prevent the repe-
tition of his lordship's visits, and on his depar-
ture she said politely, but firmly,
I hope, Lord Templeton, that Mr. Percy will
be home very soon; when he returns we shall
be happy to see you here again.'
He fixed his eyes upon her face with a pecu-
liar smile, and pressing her hand again, left her,
pausing, however, at the door to speak to Lucy,
who received his salutation with no great cor-
diality; then, untying his horse from the tree to
which he had fastened it, rode away.
Maud now began to feel more nervous and
anxious than ever for her husband's return. He
had been away five days, and that was the pe-
riod he had named for his absence. It would
not, therefore, be worth while writing, he had
said; but he promised, at her entreaties, that,
should he be detained beyond that period, she
should hear from him.
The next day, and the next, however, passed,
and no Harry Percy nor letter arrived.
It was the evening of the last that, with a
gloomy weight upon her heart, a heavy darkness
upon her soul, which had not oppressed her so
painfully since her husband's departure, she fled
from the solitude and profound stillness of her
lonely abode, and went out into the fresh air of
an April twilight to meet the little boy, who, as
usual, had been taken out for a walk by the Ger-
man girl.
It was with slow and languid steps that she
pursued her way, for, besides the depression of
her spirits, she felt weak and ill in body: it was
with difficulty she drew her breath, and she suf-
fered from the return of a painful cough. Sud-
denly, however, the voice of the child caught her
ear, and she was hastening her pace and looking
towards the spot.
The boy was not alone with his maid. On a
bank by the side of a stream two female figures
were seated. One of them, evidently of a su-
perior grade, was dressed in the deepest mourn-
It was in consequence of this feeling of relief, ing, a large crape bonnet completely conceal-
perhaps, that she somewhat relented of her colding her face. Her lap was filled with flowers,
hauteur, and, remembering that he was a friend
of her husband's, she courteously entered into
the conversation he commenced.
His lordship really possessed pretentions to
the reputation he had obtained in the beau monde,
of being a man of talent: nay, he was absolute-
ly a poet; that is to say, the Book of Beauty,
or Gem, or some such work, amid its aristocrat-
ic trash, boasted of some of his lordship's effu-
sions, and perhaps they were rather of a higher
stamp than most of the contributions.
When he thought it worth the trouble-which
was seldom the case with ladies, whose abilities
and she sat perfectly motionless, eagerly watch-
ing the movements of little Harry, who, while
his maid held him fast, was stretching out his
little hands to gather some bright blossoms grow-
ing on the banks of the stream.
Maud drew near, but still remained unob-
served by the group.
The flowers plucked, the child ran towards
the stranger, lisping in his winning manner,
"Here, ladies-here, pretty flowers," and the
lady caught him in her long, thin arms, and
pressed him to her heart with a suddenness and
impetuosity which quite startled Mrs. Percy,
132
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
who made a step in advance. The attendant
also rose hastily and approached closer to her,
but by that time little Harry was released from
the violent embracé, looking somewhat alarmed.
Maud was now sufficiently near to hear the
person say, as she took the child by his hand,
Yes, this dear little young gentleman will
go home now, and he will come another day
and pick flowers."
But the lady again stretched.out her hand and
drew the child towards her, saying fretfully, in
a sort of unnatural voice, which sounded pain-
fully on the ear,
No, no,
let him stay-he shall stay-he shall
not go I love to look at him," and she gently
stroked the child's face, and parted the hair on
his brow. "What's his name?" she at length
suddenly exclaimed, in an impatient, excited
voice, looking round at her companion.
How
very strange!" and she laughed a wild, unnatu-
ral laugh; "I have quite forgotten it. I used
to know his name, did I not? but he has been
away so long-so very long-and I forget it
now," and she put her hand to her head as if
in pain.
•
The attendant, turning towards the German
girl, made her a sign to take the child away,
and then stooping down to the latter, who had
fixed his beautiful eyes with a half fearful, half
curious glance on the lady's face, said,
"Kiss the lady, darling, and tell her your
name, and then she will let you go home. Dear
madam," she continued, as her mistress again
quickly drew the child towards her, as if she
feared his being taken from her, "it is very
late-quite time for the little gentleman to go
home: a thick fog is raising; it will do you
harm, and this dear child too."
The lady again put her hand to her head,
while she held the boy with a firm grasp with
the other, murmuring, "But I forget his name:
it is very hard they will not tell me his name."
"Tell her your name, pretty young gentle-
man," again persisted the attendant,
Harry Percy," said the child's clear,
cent voice; "my name is Harry Percy ;" and
Maud, with a scream of horror, sprang forward
as she saw her child dashed furiously from the
unfortunate being who held him in her grasp,
while the words "Harry Percy" were echoed
by her lips with a dreadful shriek which rang
through the woods around.
|
dered him ;" and again she shrieked wildly, while
Maud knelt, shielding the child from her sight,
almost paralyzed with horror and affright.
The attendant stood by the side of Mrs. Ray-
mond, for it was indeed that unhappy woman,
and endeavoured by gentle but firm remon-
strance to soothe her violence, ever and anon
glancing in the direction of the village, and soon
there was seen hastening towards them a gen-
tleman, accompanied by little Harry's maid and
another female, and at their nearer approach,
Maud, sick and faint, with feeble, tottering steps,
drew her child from the dreadful scene, and
through a thick, wet fog, which had now spread
over the valley, sought her home.
So great had been the shock to her weak
nerves, that it was long before she could ex-
plain to Lucy the origin of her agitation, which
the latter attributed to another cause. The fact
was, not long after her mistress had left the
house, Lord Templeton again made his appear-
ance.
an
On learning that Mrs. Percy was not at
home, he had even begged to be allowed to en-
ter the house and await her return, but Lucy, in
such plain terms, had denied him admittance,
that he was forced to depart, however, express-
ing his intention of repeating his visit on an early
occasion.
Maud, when she heard this relation, covered
her face with her hands and burst into tears.
She did indeed feel lonely and deserted, and she
murmured, "Oh, Harry, when-when will you
return to protect me?"
Lucy had an end in view in disclosing this
circumstance to Mrs. Percy. She entertained
secret misgivings of her own, and now strongly
concurred in Maud's determination to risk her
husband's displeasure by writing to him, and
urging him to lose no time in returning to her.
The only means of forwarding the letter was
directing it to the care of a person who trans-
acted business for Percy at Baden.
The intelligence Lucy gained of Mrs. Ray-
mond the next day was, that since her terrible.
inno-bereavement she had remained in a state of
settled melancholy derangement, for which the
physicians recommended continual change of
scene and gentle treatment. Lately she had
been subject at intervals to such fits of violence
that it was necessary to provide a keeper to
assist in managing her. Her brother had, the
day before, accompanied his afflicted relative to
Once before Maud had heard a similar scream, the lovely little village, intending to settle her
and the truth, for the first time, darted within that quiet retreat during the spring months,
fearful certainty to the mind of our heroine; and
when, having reached her child, she caught him
in her arms and pressed him to her bosoni, again
and again the cry burst forth.
The unfortunate woman had risen. Her hands
were clasped wildly above her head, and with
all the fury of madness these terrible words were
shrieked forth,
and the mind of the poor maniac had for a short
time been in a more quiescent state; but the
name of Harry Percy, so innocently pronounced
by the child, had recalled to her disordered fan-
cy, with full force, the horrid remembrance
with which that name was associated.
"Away!
CHAPTER LXX.
If thou wert honourablo,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st-as base as strango."
Cymbeline.
"Harry Percy-Harry Percy! may the ven-
geance of Heaven fall on Harry Percy, and on
all the murderers of my boy: yes, they murder-
ed him. I see them-I see them there-there,”
and she pointed upward into the vacant air.
"His blood-his blood is on them-my innocent
boy's blood; but he was here just now; I held
him in iny arms; I was stroking his pretty face; THE town of Baden had heen rendered pecu-
I was playing with his curls, and now he is liarly gay at that early season by the arrival of
bleeding-they have murdered him-yes, mur- an English duchess and party at the Badenden
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
133
Hof; a party who seemed to have come there
for the sole purpose of amusing themselves, and
who filled every place of public resort with the
gay and brilliant atmosphere of their presence.
|
At first he could hear no other sound but the
peevish fretting and murmuring of a sick child,
interrupted by a hard, hoarse cough, which
seemed to give much pain to the sufferer; the
next moment he heard the chattering of the
servant, as if endeavouring to exculpate herself
On the present evening, the splendid saloons
of Chabert were to be thrown open for a bal
paré, the first of the season, and which was ex-from some fault, and Lucy's exclamation of,
pected to be very well attended.
The duchess and her party were of course to
be there, and they contemplated no little
amusement from the strange medley of compa-
ny of which such an assemby was most likely
to consist.
"My dear Lady Templeton," said Lavinia
Grantley, who was seated in an apartment of
the Badenden Hof, "will you persuade your
worthy sposo to take me out riding? He is so
ill-natured-I do so long for a good canter this
fine day, and all the other men are so lazy. I
know he is going out, for I heard him order his
horse now are you not, Lord Templeton ?"
Well, to be sure! the impudence of that man!
What business had you to let him in ?”
Then he heard the girl's retreating steps:
the door was shut, and he had to remain about
ten minutes more in suspense. His lordship
opened every book which was scattered about,
and then took up some miniatures which lay on
the table.
the table. The first which he unclasped was
soon carelessly reclosed: it was that of a child
he hated children! The second was shut up
with even more haste, but from a different
cause: the most hardened conscience can sel-
dom encounter, suddenly, without a qualm, the
unconscious countenance of one we are medi-
tating to wrong, and it was his friend Harry
Percy whom he there beheld. The third min-
de-iature seemed to afford him more gratification,
for a pleased smile stole over his countenance
as he examined it. It was a portrait of Maud,
taken just after he had first seen her, in the
height of her youthful, blooming beauty.
Yes, I believe that is my intention."
"Then will you take me with you?"
"Very sorry, but, 'pon honour, must
cline that great pleasure," replied his lordship.
"Now that's too bad of you. Julia, how can
you allow him to go rambling and roving about
the country, Heaven knows where, every day,
all alone? Pretty mischief he's after, I dare
say. If I were you, I'd put a stop to it."
44
My dear Lavinia, you know I never inter-
fere with Lord Templeton's movements," an-
swered her ladyship, turning away with a dis-
dainful curl of her lip.
"By-the-by, Julia," continued the young lady,
"I've such a delightful piece of news to tell
you! we shall meet that dear, darling Harry
Percy at the ball to-night so William Gore
tells me."
"And Mrs. Percy," said Lady Templeton,
the cold, careless air with which she had been
listening to her lively companion's discourse
changing to an appearance of some interest;
"is she to be there also ?"
"Oh, Heaven knows what has become of her,
poor thing! Harry Percy is staying at the old
Jew count's, flirting desperately with the count-
ess; but where he has hid his beautiful wife
no one knows. I'll ask him to-night."
Lady Templeton sighed, and it was with a
sadness which rose from her very heart that she
murmured, "Poor thing! indeed!"
"
Lord Templeton again looked up from his pa-
per, and, fixing his eyes on Miss Grantley,
laughed his odious laugh," as poor Maud used
to call it; and then, without heeding Lavinia's
question of "Now, Lord Templeton, how mali-
cious you look! what are you laughing at?" he
strolled leisurely out of the room, and was soon
seen riding slowly from the door of the hotel.
He was shortly after proceeding along the sha-
dy avenue of oaks which leads from the upper
end of the town to the valley, and at length
once more stood at the door of Percy's habita-
tion.
Lord Templeton gently knocked, and, con-
trary to his expectations, was immediately ad-
mitted by Lotterchen, who, with a courtesy and
a He in, mein herr, ushered him into the little
sitting-room. It was unoccupied, but the girl
opened the door of another apartment, as he
supposed, to announce his arrival.
"By Jove!" he soliloquized, "'tis beautiful;
and although the original, to my taste, is still
scarcely less so, she must be dreadfully altered
since this was taken. Harry-
Harry-Harry, my boy!
you're a sad fellow. Now this comes of mar-
rying a woman with a heart: it is most incon-
venient-better to be content with less sensi-
bility, and then one may act as pleases the fan-
cy with impunity. How she used to idolize
Percy, and think him perfection—almost a
saint! I suppose she has discovered by this
time that her idol is anything but a divinity. I
don't know, however; he was always a sly
dog: it will only be a piece of kindness, and
forward my views to open her eyes a little.”
Lord Templeton now began to be very impa-
tient for the sound of the light footstep he was
expecting, but for some time he heard nothing
but the suppressed murmuring of a voice, and
now and then that loud, ringing cough, which
he noticed as a very unpleasant noise.
At length, however, the door opened, and
Maud appeared before him. Her cheeks were
brightly flushed, but through the displeased air
of dignity which she strove to assume there
were touching traces of sorrow, care, and anx-
icty on her countenance. She had been forced
to leave the side of her child to meet her un-
welcome visiter; the child, whose innocent
glee, for the first time in his life, she had the
grief to behold checked by painful illness, his
placid countenance disturbed by suffering.
The preceding night he had been attacked by
a hoarse cough, which Lucy attributed to the
damp fog in which he had returned home that
evening. She had sent for the doctor, who had
administered some remedies, but did not seem
to consider the case of much importance.
His anxious mother had not left him all the
day, and he was lying on her knee, fretful and
feverish, when the unwelcome announcement
of Lord Templeton's arrival was brought to her.
Maud, however, determined to see him, in spite
of Lucy's indignant persuasions to the contrary,
}
134
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
who offered to go herself, and send him about [, standing in the middle of the room, mute and
his business.
"No, Lucy," she said, "it is I who should
put a stop to this. He may have mistaken my
request that he would not visit me again until
Mr. Percy's return; if he did, he shall at least
understand it now;" and, after a few lingering
moments to collect sufficient composure for so
distasteful an interview, she consigned the now
dozing child to the arms of Lucy, who watched
her mistress depart with a heart swelling with
indignation, not only against Lord Templeton,
but against him whom now, in her own mind,
she designated as "her good for nothing mas-
ter."
She laid the little boy on the bed, and then
awaited with eager anxiety and no little curi-
osity (for good Lucy was, after all, "a lady's
maid) the result of the interview. She heard
the door close, and then the alternate sounds of
the voices of her mistress and her visiter, but
too faintly to ascertain the nature of their con-
versation.
A quarter of an hour at least passed thus,
and Lucy's attention had become more directed
to her dear little charge, for the loud, ringing
cough had again aroused him from his uneasy
sleep, and she bent over him to endeavour to
soothe his fretful calls for "Mainma !"
"Alas! alas!" thought Lucy, "if this poor
darling is going to be seriously ill, it will be all
over with us indeed."
She was not experienced in the management
of children, but the feverish heat, the difficult
breathing, alarmed her so much that she deter-
mined again to summon the doctor.
But now, once more, her attention was di-
rected in a startling manner to what was pass-
ing in the neighbouring apartment, for the still-
ness which had reigned over the little habita-
tion was broken by a sound which it was long
since she had last heard. It was the voice of
her mistress, and its elevated tones reminded
her of other days: they were expressions of
anger.
""Tis false! 'tis false, Lord Templeton! I
tell you it is false !" were the words which
clearly rang upon her ear. Do you think thus,
base, vile, dishonourable man thus do you
think to ingratiate yourself? Go! leave me!
this instant leave the house, into which, like a
coward, you have dared to creep, to insult a
poor, defenceless woman; to poison her ears
with calumny against her husband-her husband,
whom you would make her believe was like
yourself, a traitor—a—”
motionless as a statue, but with no signs of the
resentment which the sound of her voice had
indicated visible upon her countenance. Her
eyes were fixed, her parted lips were pale: she
looked like one just awakening from a horrible
dream, and still uncertain whether what had
disturbed her was an illusion or a terrible re-
ality.
At first she took no notice of Lucy's appear-
ance; but when the latter said, "Dear madam,
are you ill? what is the matter?" she raised
her eyes, sunk upon a chair, and burst into, a
flood of tears.
Long and bitterly she wept, Lucy, kneeling
by her side, mingling her tears with those of
her beloved mistress; and at length, when her
emotion would allow her to speak, imploring
her to say what she could do to serve her.
"Oh why, ma'am, why did you not call me in
to drive away the wretch who has dared thus
to grieve you? That you, indeed, should be
exposed to insult, alone, unprotected; you”
Maud, at these last words, raised her head,
and with eyes which flashed such fire that it
seemed to dry up the flowing tears, exclaimed,
"I shall go to Baden: I must have a car-
riage for to-night. Lucy, ask me no ques-
tions," she continued; "I must go to the ball
to-night."
Poor Lucy certainly thought the brain of her
mistress was turned.
"Madam!" she exclaimed.
"I go to meet Mr. Percy; is there anything
extraordinary in that?" Maud replied, so stern-
ly, so decidedly, that Lucy went to obey her
mistress, and a messenger was despatched on
the mission, and desired, at the same time, to
summon the doctor to see the little boy.
Maud again took her place by his side, and
sought to soothe his restless fretfulness, but her
thoughts were evidently far away and even
the frightful cough, which became more and
more frequent, seemed hardly noticed by her;
and as to the fever-the hand of the suffering
child pressed in hers, the lips and cheeks which
ever and anon she bent to press, burned not
more fiercely than her own. Time passed:
the child was dozing: she motioned to Lucy to
take her place, and left the room.
Lucy sat pondering anxiously the German
girl returned with the carriage and the intelli-
gence that the doctor would arrive in the course
of an hour. Bidding Lotterchen remain with
the little boy, Lucy then ascended the stairs
and entered her mistress's bedroom.
Mrs. Percy was seated before the mirror, and
had evidently been attempting to perform for
herself the business of the toilet, but, as if she
had found herself unequal to the task, she
seemed to have relinquished the trial, and sat
motionless, her eyes fixed abstractedly on the
reflection of her face in the glass, her long hair
streaming round her.
The less distinct voice of Lord Templeton in-
terposed, and Lucy could hear no more. Al-
most immediately the bell was loudly rang, and
at the same instant the door opened, and Lord
Templeton was heard to steal along the passage
out of the house; and with a feeling of triumph-
ant gratification, she fancied she could tell by
his step that he departed mortified and discom-
fited.
On perceiving Lucy, she started; the colour
She waited a few minutes with some eager-mounted to her cheeks; she leaned her face
ness, expecting her mistress to return to the
nursery, but she came not; and as the child
had been for some time impatiently calling for
his mother, she determined to go and seek
her.
She entered the sitting-room. Maud was
upon her hand, and then made her a sign that
she should dress her hair. Lucy silently obey-
ed; the shining tresses-with what different
feelings to those of past days-were by trem-
bling fingers braided on that burning brow! A
gay dress fitted on a form how shrunk since
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
135
last she had worn it! Maud smiled a ghastly
smile, and shook her head.
"One less gay, Lucy: this will not do for
me."
"Alas! dear lady, I thought it would fit you
best, for it is the last dress Mr. Percy gave you.".
Oh yes, then I will wear it; but do I not
look very ill, Lucy?" she inquired, anxiously,
passing her hand over her brow; "does not
this gay dress make the contrast too great?"
1
"Dear, dear madam," sobbed Lucy, no longer
able to restrain her feelings, "I never saw you
look more beautiful-more like an angel; but is
it well that you should go thus-all alone?
your cheeks burn-you are so feverish-so ex-
cited!"
"Alone! Lucy? Yes, alone; but fear not:
I could make the wretch quail like a coward be-
fore the lightning of my eye, the thunder of my
indignation. No, Lucy"-and she shuddered-
"would that were all; but go, dear, good Lucy,
go: I would be alone"-and she put her hand
to her head-"that man has confused my sen-
ses: I must think what is to be done: go to
that poor child-oh! the terrible, unnatural
cough; and yet, sweet darling, I cannot go to
him just now, my mind is so distracted by oth-
er thoughts. Go to him-pray go, Lucy," for
she saw her fix an uneasy glance upon her face.
"I am better now; but really all this together
is almost too much to bear. It is quite enough
to turn one's brain," she continued, when Lucy
had reluctantly left the room. 'Poor, poor Mrs.
Raymond! and oh, that curse-that dreadful
curse, how it rings in my ears! But it is not
the first curse I have heard: did I not hear one
the day I left my father's house-the day I broke
my mother's heart-and has it not haunted me
till now? Heavenly Father, thy judgments are
just, but oh! in mercy turn away thy anger
from thy weak creature-break not a reed al-
ready so sorely bruised. I thought in my pre-
sumption-I thought I could have bowed sub-
missively to all thy righteous hand deemed fit
to inflict, but forgive-thou hast given me a
woman's heart, and this-this I cannot bear !"
She buried her face in her hands, and was silent
for some moments.
"My dear madam," exclaimed Lucy, shocked
at the sight of her mistress's agitation, "you are
ill, I am sure; and the little darling, he is so
very poorly! Dear, dear madam, if Mr. Percy is
at Baden, let me go and fetch him to you here."
No, Lucy, I must go, I tell you. Don't think
me out of my senses; but they would soon de-
sert me if I remained here any longer without
my husband. I will soon be back: I will tell
him how ill the darling is-you know how he
loves him-he will be so anxious about him !”
All this Maud spoke in a hurried but cheerful
manner, as she clasped a bracelet with her hus-
band's picture on her arm, and then bent over
little Harry's bed.
Though the child's breathing was thick and
difficult, he was quieter at that moment, and
turned his sweet eyes with an air of astonish-
ment on the radiant figure of his mother.
"
Pretty mamma-pretty mamma," he lisped,
and stroked her burning cheek.
Is Harry better?" she gently murmured.
He answered by stretching out his little arms
and crying, “No; naughty cough hurt Harry :
take me-take me."
“Darling, I am going for papa. Shall I not
bring papa? and then we can both sit by our
pet, and try to send away the naughty cough.”
The child smiled, put out his little hand, and
gently pushed her, saying, "Go-go !"
Maud pressed that little hand to her lips, then
turned away.
CHAPTER LXXI.
"What dost thou among the bright and fair,
Whispering light words and mocking my despair?"
MRS. HEMANS.
"Ha ha! false to me?
To me !"-Othello.
We all know what it is to be carried away by
the irresistible influence of any violent passion;
how excitement, and the impulse of a predom-
inant feeling, has led us to act in a manner
from which, in calmer moments, we should have
shrunk with repugnant horror; and when awa-
kened from our feverish dream by the presence
of stern reality, how astounding appears the
conduct which has been so rashly pursued.
and mirth which jarred so discordantly upon
them, she stood alone in the refreshment sa-
loon she had mechanically entered before re-
pairing to the salle de bal, as she was wont to
do under such different auspices-as the court-
ed, admired Mrs. Percy!
But it is false! it is false!" she suddenly
exclaimed, in passionate accents; "it cannot
be! To deceive me thus-to revive in my heart And thus it was with poor Maud, as with her
joy and hope, and then to leave me, who left all brain whirling, her heart sinking, and wishing
for him! no, no, no, I'll believe it not until I that the earth could open and hide her from the
hear from his own lips that he has cast me away. eyes which curiously scanned her, that she
Ah, yes"—and her frame shook with agitation-could shut from her ears the sounds of revelry
"I will go to him wherever he may be; I shall
die if I remain thus in agony. Let me consid-
er! what did that base man say? If I believed
him not, I might go to the ball to-night, and
then, with my own eyes, I might see that he
had not spoken falsely-that Harry's heart and
thoughts were engrossed by another. Could
his intention have been but to make me believe
myself unprotected? Yes, I will go; why should
I fear to meet my husband? have I not a right?
And if he is not there, I shall but regret that I
listened for a moment to a traitor's falsehood."
She again rose, her cheek glowing with the
fever of excitement.
"Mad! mad I was indeed," she murmured
to herself; "what have I done? why am I
here?"
She had inquired at the door before entering
whether Mr. Percy was in the rooms, and the
name and person of Percy being well known,
she was readily answered by the receiver of the
tickets that Mr. Percy was of the countess's
Lucy!" she said, as she entered the nurse-party, who had arrived a short time before. At
ry, and Lucy started at the unnatural tone in these words she hurried on.
which she spoke.
"
Now-now," she gasped, "as I have gone
136
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
|
"Oh yes," and Maud put her hand to her
head and sighed deeply.
so far, it must be carried on. I come, Harry, "Yes, certainly or would you like me to
to claim the protection of my husband. If-if send for him here?"
you are guilty, it is you who must quail before
my sight why should I tremble to meet you?"
She cast from her her mantle, and having
swallowed a cup of coffee, sunk upon a chair in
a corner of the room, and strove to attain suf-
ficient composure to support her through her
rash undertaking.
She certainly had scarcely considered what
she was about to do. In the desperation of her
anguish, her sole thought had been to end the
suspense inflicted by Lord Templeton's terrible
insinuations. All her innate impetuosity had
been roused, and her agony of mind had spurred
it on to action.
But though the spot Mrs. Percy had chosen
for her painful meditations was retired, she
could not entirely escape observation, and many
were the impertinent glances of scrutiny she
attracted from her striking appearance: so
lovely, so distinguished looking, but with a look
so distressed, so wild, and, moreover, apparent-
ly so unprotected!
At length a large party swept into the room,
and voices fell upon her ear which made her
start and shrink back, as if to hide herself from
view. She was not seen, and she had time to
collect her scattered senses and determine on
her course of proceeding.
At length Mrs. Percy approached a lady of
the group who was standing rather apart from
the others, and adjusting before a looking-glass
her headdress, and whispered, "Lady Temple-
ton !"
The person thus addressed started as if a
voice from another world had met her ear, and
then turning, fixed a doubtful, scrutinizing
glance on the speaker.
"You do not know me, I see, Lady Temple-
ton," said the same low, melancholy, but now
calin voice, and she paused for a moment.
"Are you Mrs. Percy?" Lady Templeton
then began, hesitatingly: "Mrs. Percy, is it
really you? You must forgive me; but-but
this is so unexpected a pleasure;" and then
Lady Templeton put out her hand, but her man-
ner was somewhat embarrassed, and her look
so searching! However, Maud was in no state
to heed this circumstance. She eagerly ex-
claimed, turning her large, wild eyes upon Lady
Templeton's face,
"Will you do me a great favour? May I go
with you into the ballroom? I am alone."
Lady Templeton looked surprised at her ab-
rupt, excited manner. Again she fixed her
eyes upon her face, and said, her tone changing
to one of kindness,
Lady Templeton looked round hastily, as if
she were very willing to fulfil her request, for
suspicions as to the true state of affairs were
dawning upon her mind, accompanied by a cer-
tain feeling of uneasiness and embarrassment.
That a justly jealous wife was by her side, she
did not doubt; and the heart of the woman of
the world, though in a great degree rendered
callous to such feelings by sad knowledge and
bitterly-earned experience, was awakened to a
sensation of compassion by the sight before
her.
Was this the innocent, confiding being of
other days? the wife who existed but in the
love of her husband-who had spoken of death:
as the only alternative for its loss-on whom
she herself had smiled in scorn, deeming her
words but the enthusiasm of youth and inex-
perience? But now, in the faded, pale form
by her side-for the fever of excitement had.
faded from her cheek, and left her white as
marble, with that wild expression of misery on
her countenance which fearfully manifested the
ravages of grief-Lady Templeton read the his-
tory of a breaking heart! But still her ladyship.
felt no inclination to make herself conspicuous
as a party to a scene for which she had a fine
lady's antipathy, and a scene she foresaw would
inevitably ensue if Harry Percy, without any
preparation, were confronted by his wife in
company with the German countess, for his
flirtation in that quarter had become most noto-
rious, and threw a light upon Mrs. Percy's evi-
dent distress.
Lady Templeton cast an anxious glance in
every direction in the hope of seeing some one
whom she could despatch on her mission, but
there was no one in sight. At length she
thought of undertaking the search herself, and
said,
"I could easily go and look for Mr. Percy,
if you did not object to being left alone; and
Lord Templeton I expect every moment, and
I am sure he would be delighted to be of any
service to you.'
a
Maud started to her feet, and exclaimed with
shudder and in a tone of horror,
No, not him-dear Lady Templeton, not
him. Oh, let us go-pray let us go-pray take
me to my husband!" She seized the arm of the
astonished countess, and hurried her towards
the ballroom.
Dancing was going on as they entered, but
many eyes were turned upon them with curi-
"I shall be most happy, my dear Mrs. Percy:osity, few probably recognising in the death,
the rest of my party seem to be on the move,
but you would like to wait till—”
"Yes, if you please," gasped Maud; and
Lady Templeton whispered a few words to a
gentleman who approached to offer his arm,
and then the countess and Mrs. Percy were left
comparatively alone.
"Mrs. Percy," began Lady Templeton, as
she led her to a seat, and then she paused
as if at loss what to say next, "is Mr. Percy
here?"
like looking companion of Lady Templeton the
beauty of the Baden ballroom two seasons be-
fore.
Many of Lady Templeton's friends stepped
forward to meet her, but, making her way
through the crowd-Maud still clinging to her
arm-she hurried on to the adjoining ante-
room, to which the reader may remember hav-
ing once before been introduced, There she
determined to deposite her charge, there seek
out the husband, and thus rid herself of so an-
"He is," was the answer, in a hollow, un-noying a business.
natural tone; "will you take me to him?”
Promising to return or send Mr. Percy di-
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
137
rectly, she left Maud apparently alone, for the
salle de jeu was receiving within its portals
most of those who were in the vestibule on
their entrance.
Lady Templeton left her seated on one side
of the group of orange-trees which adorned the
apartment, and hastened to find some gentle-
man to assist in her search for the mari perdu.
But our poor Maud-was she really alone?
No, she soon perceived she was not: from the
other side of the orange shrubs, whose shade
concealed the speaker from her view, she heard
a voice! She started to her feet: she listened
with distended eyes-with a heart that stopped
in its beatings. She heard the low, eager, im-
passioned, thrilling tone of a voice which for so
long had been her joy, her support, her exist-
ence; and, oh God! oh God! its rich strains
were poured into the ear of another, and its
theme was-love! yes, love which was her own
-her lawful right-the only beam which had
brightened the dark days of her young life,
whose peace and happiness she had sacrificed
for that love alone, and now it was another's-
his vows breathed to another!
Few were the words she caught, but they
were enough--too much! "The hope is crush-
ed that lit her life;" a deep, convulsive groan,
as from a broken heart, resounded, and then
the apartment echoed the noise of a heavy fall;
and curiosity and excitement pervaded the
rooms, when from the ante-room and through
the saloon from which it was partitioned, hur-
rying with agitation and consternation depict- |
ed upon his countenance, was seen Harry Per-
cy!
And what was the burden he bore in his
arms? a form pale, lifeless, drooping as a bro-
ken lily.
Many pressed forward with offers of assist-
ance, but waving them impatiently away, Percy
hurried out into the portico, called loudly for a
carriage, and while anxiously waiting for it,
stood gazing earnestly and fearfully on the face
of her he held to his breast, on whose ghastly
cheek the fresh air was reviving faint signs of
returning life, whose bosom slightly heaved
against his own.
A carriage had just drawn up to the door, and
for an instant impeded the advance of the one
which was approaching in answer to his sum-
mons. A gentleman stepped out of it, and pass.
ing close beside them, turned upon the pair a
look of scrutiny.
"Good Heavens! Percy, is it you?
the matter? And Mrs. Percy too!
this? Can I be of any use?"
What's
How is
Only get out of the way, my good fellow,"
was the impatient answer; and with open eyes
and mouth Lord Templeton watched his friend
hurrying with his charge into a carriage, which
in another moment had borne them away, and
with a shrug his lordship exclaimed, sotto voce,
"The d- -! I've done some mischief, I
suppose;" then entered into the saloons with
supercilious facetiousness to join in the string
of comments, and listen to the varied stories to
which the late scene had given rise, and lastly
to laugh in his sleeve at being, unknown to them
all, the real author of the commotion.
"Such an affair has happened!" cried Lavi-
nia Grantley, as she bounced up to him; "poor
dear Mrs. Percy has been carried out fainting by
S
|
the beautiful Harry. How it all happened no-
body knows, but the countess was found in the
ante-room in hysterics-horrid wretch! Poor,
beautiful Mrs. Percy! I knew how it would
be: this comes of marrying such dear, delight-
ful, wicked men! Stupid, hideous old frumps,
with plenty of money, make by far the best hus-
bands, after all of that I am convinced. I
shall really take your advice, and accept that
fat, gouty Sir Geoffrey Abdy: he won't break
my heart, I think, and he is rolling in riches."
It may be gratifying to our readers to learn
that Miss Lavinia Grantley has acted up to this
determination, and that, if a spacious mansion
in Carlton Gardens, splendid equipages, plenty
of money, jewels, and fine dresses, constitute
happiness, Lady Abdy may be considered to be
in possession of perfect felicity.
CHAPTER LXXII.
"Now never more-oh! never in the worth
Of its pure cause let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly-never more: the hope is crush'd
That lit my life; the voice within me hush'd
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it.”—MRS. HEMANS.
But let us return to her who was destined to
be no gay, heedless butterfly, sporting beneath
a summer's sky, amid the flowers of the world,
but like the poor dove sent forth, to find no place
on which to set its foot, worn and buffeted with
wind and tempest, returned to the ark, there to
seek refuge, safe from the raging billows of this
stormy earth.
Maud's head was leaning against her hus-
band's breast when sense and feeling returned,
and brought back to her mind the remembrance
of all that had passed. He had chafed her cold
hands, bathed her brow with perfume, and she
had recovered. She had breathed a deep sigh,
and then suddenly raising her head, gazed wildly
around her, seeking to collect her scattered sen-
ses, and to remember where she was, and all
that had occurred. Alas! remembrance came
only too soon. She returned not to that hus-
band's arms, but shrinking into the farthest cor-
ner of the carriage, fixed one piercing glance
upon his face. Truly might
"Point of foeman's lance
Have given a milder pang"
to the conscience-stricken heart of Harry Per-
cy, as by the light of the carriage lamps it flash-
ed upon him, and well it might; for was not
there concentrated in that expression, more
surely than in a torrent of bitter words, all the
long-silenced ire of a torn and tortured heart?
Like the Huldebrand of Ondine, he had dared
to open the sluices of the imprisoned fountain,
and he found, to his cost, that the injured one
"makes her voice heard at last."
He writhed beneath the intolerable smart.
He would have spoken; fain would he have at-
tempted the power of his never-failing charms
of eloquence; but no, they would not do now:
the gentle, submissive Maud waved him author-
itatively away. She raised her eyes to Heaven,
and then to her husband's face, as if to challenge
him to gainsay her charge. From her lips there
was poured forth, with the powerful eloquence
of an injured woman, all the too just condem-
nation of her mighty wrongs.
138
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
"Nay, touch me not, Harry," she faintly ex-
claimed, as, exhausted, she sank back in the
carriage, and he would have supported her in
his arms, beseeching her, in accents of deep hu-
mility, to hear him.
"It is now too late; let me die; for what
have I now to live? But what do I say!" she
exclaimed, starting up. "My child-my angel
child forgive me; and oh! great God, forgive
me, and visit not this sin upon me: did I for-
get the blessing you still have preserved to me?
Oh, take me-take me to my child, my little
Harry; your mother left you sick and suffer-
ing, to seek-oh, Heavens!" she covered her
face with her hands.
“Sick—suffering," repeated Harry Percy, in
a tone of timid concern. "The child is not ill,
Maud, I hope?"
"Yes, ill, with no father near to care for him,
and his mother gone-what for? But no mat-
ter; why should I speak of it? it is over now.
But, my cherub, your mother returns to leave
you no more; for what has she now on earth
but you?"
And, calmed by utter exhaustion, she leaned
against the side of the carriage, with eyes
strained out through the dark night, as if to
watch the distance diminish which separated
her from her home.
At length the wretched drive was over. The
carriage stopped before the door of their seclu-
ded abode, and springing from it, Maud awaited
with trembling impatience the opening of the
door;
but she looked not on her husband-she
heeded not his presence; all her desire was
now concentrated in the little being within
those walls.
The bolted door was slowly opened. Maud
flew past Lucy, who vainly attempted to stay
her. She reached the room where she had left
her child.
"My darling-my only treasure!" she cried,
and drew back the curtain of his bed.
Great God of mercy and of judgment, look
down with pity upon her whom thou hast so
sorely smitten! Poor mother! lift your eyes
above, not on that pale, cold clay. Your treas-
ure is in heaven: he is called away from this
"thorny scene," this wilderness of wo, to blos-
som in the blissful gardens of eternity; but
alas! miserable woman, that cry of anguish
must burst forth, that mother's agony must find
vent, for there lies your flower, now mocking
you with its senseless beauty: all-all must
go into the cold, dark grave; and you, weary
and broken-hearted, will be left in this world,
now so desolate, for you are childless. And the
father! yes, it is well that he should kneel and
weep, that his heart should bleed; a heart
which had hardened-which had turned from
Him who had formed him for better things-a
God who had often called him by his warnings,
and who would have gathered him under his
wing from the destroying world, into whose
snares the infatuated man so wilfully hastened,
"but he would not." Yes, look on that young,
cold thing, and while your eyes weep and your
heart bleeds, see what sin has entailed on the
youngest and purest of mankind-death! and
after that the judgment and think how high
the price which gained admittance, even for
that innocent child, into the heaven into which
you hope his little golden harp is now sound-
ing; and think, if such as him are "scarcely
saved," where shall the ungodly and the sinner
appear? Turn, ere it be too late, to your God,
who has once more called you by his chasten-
ing rod.
*
*
Half an hour before the arrival of his parents
little Harry Percy had breathed his last. Soon
after the departure of his mother, that fright-
ful, rapidly-fatal malady, the croup, had attain-
ed its suffocating height, and the fond and faith-
ful Lucy had, with grief and terror indescriba-
ble, watched her darling nursling sink rapidly
beneath its overpowering influence: thicker
and thicker became the stoppage of his breath;
at length there was a convulsive gasp, and all
was over! his little race was run; and thus
can an evening's breath be "cold with death,"
thus can the silent dew wither the fairest flow-
er of the morning.
*
*
*
We may well imagine what must have been
the agony of this torturing stroke to the child-
less mother. So dense for some time was the
darkness of her grief, that the light of Divine
consolation could scarcely pierce through the
black cloud. She was "Rachael weeping for
her children, and would not be comforted."
:
The heart of Harry Percy was in this hour
of trial brought low. Humbled by a conscious-
ness of a well-merited punishment, he hardly
dared to lift up his voice to bewail his bereave-
ment; but those lamentations from the moth-
er, they pierced his soul, as if every cry was a
reproach to him.
Humbly, timidly, and feeling a deep sense
of unworthiness to pronounce with his lips that
holy name he had often so vainly spoken, Per-
cy approached the stricken Maud as a comfort-
er! and his words were now not those of emp-
ty eloquence, but they were heartfelt. He spoke
of Him who smites but in mercy of the blessed-
ness of their child: he even spoke of resigna-
tion! but he was startingly silenced-sent
shrinking back within his own heart to search
there whether her bitter words were not too
true!
Resignation! Yes," Maud had exclaimed,
her large, distended eyes turning wildly upon
him, "you can speak of resignation-you can
uncomplainingly resign your child, the cherub
whom you had cast off with his wretched
mother, but you could not resign the sin which
has brought this thing upon us.
"Shall I give my firstborn for my transgres-
sion, the fruits of my body for the fruits of my
soul?"
This was a bitter commentary wrung from a
bleeding heart; and these words, uttered in
the first hours of her dark grief, in those of
humbler resignation which followed she had
bewailed, and had supplicated on her knees
pardon for her impotent harshness.
*
*
*.
*
*
Maud never looked on the face of her dead
child.
"I shall meet him soon," she said, "where
he will welcome me with a heavenly smile, and
with his little arms stretched out to receive me.
Let me not again behold him so cold and stiff,
or in my despair I may, as before, sin against
J
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
130
my God, and we may never meet again in that | pronounced his name; he hastily averted his
'better land.'"
head with a shudder.
The remains of little Harry Percy were con- And why this shudder? Was it a presenti-
signed to a grassy bed in a little village bury-ment of what was coming, or the tone of the
ing-ground in the neighbourhood, and though voice in which the word was spoken? That
kindred hands be far away, his little grave is once loved name, uttered by a voice so changed,
not left unadorned by those touching tributes of sweet, even tender, but oh how altered in the
recollection which the kindly German people expression of that tenderness!
ever so religiously show to the memory of the
departed, and this bright child long lived in the
memories of many.
J
"The brightest hued, most fragant flowers,
Sweets to the passing sweet,'
·
"I wish you to read this letter," she then
said, after a moment's pause, in order to gain
his attention, with a sigh, at the same time re-
moving the hand which she had laid upon his
shoulder, "for he shudders at my touch," was
the construction she put upon her husband's
bloom round the simple stone which marks that
beneath that spot there sleeps an only child-movements.
Harry Percy-the sinless Harry Percy!
Seated by the side of the grave, ere the grass
had covered the little hillock, might often be
seen a female form spreading flowers around
it. Sometimes she would weep, even though a
placid smile was on her lips; but the tears
seemed to bring relief; and she would talk, but
with her eyes raised above, and she would lis-
ten, and her face would brighten as if she had
heard some sweet answer, and she would tell
those near her that little Harry Percy-for she
no longer cursed that name-was with her mur-
dered boy; that the blood of her Louis (the
name of her son had suddenly returned to her
recollection) was atoned for by the death of
that spotless child; that she was now at peace
with all his murderers, and that the little angel
who had brought all this to pass talked with her,
and comforted her with descriptions of the bliss
of her Louis.
Percy stretched out his hand for the letter
without turning his head, and in its stead grasp
ed the thin, cold hand that held it. A thrilling
feeling passed through both their hearts, but
at that moment Lotterchen entered and pre-
sented to her master a note which had just been
| brought.
The eyes of both fell upon the direction, and
with a shudder Maud withdrew her hand, which
was passively resigned, and turned away.
She heard not the indignant expression "fool!"
which her husband muttered between his closed
teeth, nor saw the tearing of that billet into a
thousand pieces without even looking at its con-
tents. No, she had seen that handwriting once
before, and it was graven on her memory as
with lines of fire: was it not the writing of her
who had lured him from her?
"Let him read it first," she murmured, as
she sank upon a sofa and buried her face in the
cushions; "it will better prepare him to consid-
The mind of the poor maniac never recovered
its tone but Mrs. Raymond is now calm, ander the contents of the other."
her days pass peacefully, as they roll slowly to-
wards the tomb.
CHAPTER LXXII.
"Must it be? Then farewell
Thou, who my woman's heart cherish'd so long.
*
*.
*
*
Farewell again and yet
Must it indeed be so ?"-BARRY CORNWALL.
When Maud next stole a look towards her
husband, he was reading, but it was the letter
she had dropped at his feet-the letter she had
last received from her sister, offering her an
asylum in her father's house.
Percy's head was averted, and so long did he
continue with his eyes fixed upon it, that at
length, again covering her eyes, she said,
“Well?”
"Well?" he repeated, laying down the letter
on the table.
She did not see with what a trembling hand,
or with what a face of deep emotion. His
voice, indeed, was so low she could scarcely
catch its tone.
Ir was a wretched time for the husband and
wife when all was over, and they found them-
selves left together in that awful calm which
succeeds the excitement of some severe afflic-
tion. They were together, but how separate !
“Well, Maud, what do you propose?" A
They could not weep on each others' bosoms- pause. "You wish to go?" No answer came.
they could not pray together, as once they had
Is it come to this? but of course. I have
done it seemed as if some sudden gulf had naught to say against it. Yes, your father's
opened between their hearts which both yearned house is now a fitter place for you. Would to
to pass, but which neither had strength or cour-Heaven that I-wretch that I am-had never—”
age to accomplish. The one had been too "Harry," she gently and sadly interposed,
bruised, too crushed, for hope or energy; and "self-reproach on that score is fruitless now:
the other felt too strongly shame and remorse we both erred, and we have both been punished
from the consciousness of this merited aliena--God knows how sorely punished-if it were
tion to hope for aught but coldness and repulse. solely by the anguish of this moment."
Sometimes a look, a tone of other days, and
the divided hearts seemed about to burst the
boundary which now enclosed them; but soon
recollections, associations, would once more op-
pose, and they would again relapse into con-
straint and seeming coldness.
Maud, the faded, grief-stricken Maud, feebly
entered one morning her husband's room with
a letter in her hand. She approached him and
"Maud, Maud, you will not, then, really leave
me!" he burst forth in a passionate tone.
"Harry!" she faintly answered, "if I thought
that my remaining would profit you either in
soul or body, God knows! I would no more
leave you now than when that letter first ar-
rived a month ago. Though lonely and sad, I
then still too fondly dreamed that your love was
yet my own; I fancied I was in some way ne-
140
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
1
That same day Lady Templeton paid Mrs.
Percy a visit. She had shown her kindness since
the death of her child, for which Maud could not
but feel grateful, though of that worldly nature
not greatly calculated to afford much healing
balm to the wounded spirit.
cessary to your happiness, that I might eventu- | mured some unintelligible words, and left the
ally conduce to your eternal welfare; but the room.
dream is past. What would it now avail," she
continued, in a deeper and more passionate
tone, "what would it now avail to remain a bur-
den, a troublesome constraint to await the
breaking of my heart in a loveless, childless
home; to be tempted, perhaps, again to sin in
despair, and murmur against my God, and lose
my hopes of happiness in another world? for
oh! desolate, desolate will indeed be the burden
of my weary song; and, Harry, my heart has
been so sorely wounded-I feel so crushed, so
forsaken, that I require some tender hand to
bind it up, to strengthen and raise it from its
despair, to turn it wholly to Him who has smit-
ten it now I am so weak that often I am tempt-me desirous of losing no time in reaching Eng-
ed to think that my God has forsaken me; I
cannot pray, I can do naught but groan;" and
she closed her eyes as the tears forced them-
selver down her pallid cheeks.
"Sometimes, in my sleep," Maud continued,
"I dream that once more I am at my dear
home; and then such peace is in my soul that I
am with those who love me-yes, that they have
forgiven me, that they love me again-that my
father has blessed me-that the curse of him
who curseth father and mother' is removed, and
they will bless me-they will receive her whose
sins they see have been so sorely punished; and
even should they spurn me, I could go and lie
on my mother's grave; even there my soul
would find rest, for she, oh, she has forgiven me.
My mother! my mother!" she continued, lift-
ing up her streaming eyes, "oh, happy, happy to
have been spared the grief of seeing the misery |
of the child you so dearly loved ;" and she cov-
ered her face with her hand, the tears trickling
through her transparent fingers.
Harry Percy sat, leaning his forehead on his
hands; he felt every word enter like a dagger
into his heart.
"And it is I who have brought all this upon
her!" he bitterly murmured; "and could I en-
dure the sight of all this ruin, even were I to de-
tain her? No, it is best that she should go."
"Maud," he said at length, in a hoarse, husky
voice, “be it as you desire; you will go to those
who will love and cherish you as you deserve.
What right have I to strive to detain you with
me, unworthy one? You have indeed suffered
enough already from my selfishness, you shall do
so no more. I will not speak of my own feel-
ings-I have no right to expect that they should
be considered; tell me what you wish should be
done, and all shall be arranged.
"I have seen Mr. Percy," she said, " and he
agrees with me that your health and spirits
greatly require the benefit and comfort of being
with your family, from whom you have been so
long parted, and I am glad to say he has com-
mitted you to my care. The duchess and her
party intend prolonging their route homeward,
but the critical state of my father's health makes
land; when there, I have promised Mr. Percy
to see all arranged for your proceeding into
Cumberland: if, therefore," and she fixed an
early day, "you think you will then feel strong
enough to set off, I think it would be better that
we should postpone it no farther.
We will put
poor Mr. Percy into good hands," she continued,
with a smile, for the rigid calmness with which
her auditor listened to her cold arrangements
she mistook for composure; "and let me beg
of you, dear Mrs. Percy, to spare yourself the
agitation of a parting-they are dreadful things
even for the short time your separation of
course will be," for Lady Templeton did not
think it necessary that she should appear to put
any other construction on this separation than
that of a visit to her relations.
The tacit consent was given to this arrange-
ment, and thus coldly was the time fixed which
was to separate, by mutual consent, the two
beings who had broken down every boundary of
faith, honour, gratitude, and affection to unite
themselves with one another.
And this was the end of love!
Yes, and seldom is it otherwise with love built
on the foundation of selfishness-on the ruins
of the happiness of others. Seldom does it fail
to fall at last-no, even though it may rise from
its unworthy foundation to the height of beauty
and purity such as hers whose sad story we are
relating; but still that strengthened beauty can-
not fortify the frail foundation upon which it was
first based: the curse goes forth at the begin-
ning, and cannot be gainsaid. Hearts that have
erred must be brought at length down to the
earth, though permitted, we may humbly hope,.
to be raised, cleansed, and purified from all its
earthly affections, mete for that better world,
"love's true abode.”
but no farther word relating to it passed the lips
of those who were about to be parted.
Maud's hands were removed from before her The day fixed for Lady Templeton's departure
face, and ere she answered she fixed one eager, rapidly approached. Silently, but no less sure-
searching look upon her husband. One answer-ly, proceeded the preparations of her companion,
ing glance might perhaps have been enough to
shake her purpose, but his face was again hidden.
She continued in a voice of calmness, of utter
misery: "I mentioned to Lady Templeton, the
last time she was here, that I had thoughts of
visiting my family in England, and she proposed,
if I would fix an early day, that I should accom-
pany her, for she returns alone almost immedi-
ately, owing to the illness of her father; it might,
then, be as well that I should accept her offer.”
Again she turned upon her husband that same
eager, gasping look: he merely bowed his head
in sign of acquiescence, and then rising, mur-
Like two resigned criminals, who see ap-
proaching their day of execution, with no means
or desire of averting their fate, they saw the
time roll away which separated them from that
day, and what would their parting be? Did they
not shrink with inward horror at the thought of
that moment?
It was hard to read the feelings of one of the
two miserable beings upon that point. Cold,
passionless as a marble statue did she outwardly
appear to have become; unconsciously the time
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
141
seemed to pass away. She gave no orders, ex-
pressed no sign of interest in any way, but sat
or lay, as if in a dream, the picture of her child
pressed to her bosom, watching the preparations
which were to facilitate her departure; but in
the other the observer might discern many signs
which betokened a mind ill at ease-that he was
troubled by some dread anticipation.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
"We have been sad together; we have wept with bitter
tears
O'er the grass-grown graves where slopt the hope of
many years;
!
The voices which are silent would bid thee clear thy
brow;
We have beon sad together-oh! what should part us
now ?"-MRS. NORTON.
WILL my readers now cast their eyes on a
scene to which "long, long ago" we introduced
Harry Percy had learned to look upon their
separation as inevitable, however agonizing; he
felt that under existing circumstances it was
them-to the lake's side at Sutherland? There
even desirable; but it was the moment's part- on the very spot where, on that fine autumn even-
ing-the last adieu-the last embrace-the lasting, Arthur Balfour first beheld her, May is again
meeting of each other's eyes, that he now shrank
from with such dread-nay, horror!
It was to escape from this that he was now
exerting all his powers of imagination to ar-
range.
It was the last evening but one from the day
fixed for Maud's departure that he softly enter-
ed his wife's apartment. He had heard that she
was sleeping, and found her lying on a couch
near the window in the heavy slumber conse-
quent on a wakeful, feverish night, the setting
sun of an April evening shedding on her cheek
its roseate hue, that same picture tightly clasp-
ed to her bosom.
to be seen.
But is she not changed since those happy
times? Yes, her young heart was very light
then, for it was untouched by sorrow, and as
unruffled as the clear, smooth waters over
which she bent; but grief has swept over and
disturbed its surface, as the February wind now
ruffles the tiny waves of that same calm lake.
But still it is the same heart, chastened, but not
cast down; strong even in its meekness, like
the gentle flower that bends its head beneath
the blast, only to raise it again when the storm
has passed.
But her sorrows, what were they when com-
Percy gave one earnest look, and then bent pared to those of her once bright summer sis-
down and softly kissed her lips: a flower was
ter? True, she had seen the grave close over
in her bosom; he gently removed it, and while those she loved, but there were no bitter drops
he did so, he dropped a burning tear upon her of self-reproach to mingle with the tears she
brow. He drew hastily back, for she started, shed over them; and then to be all in all to
but it was but to murmur with a smile so strange- those that remained-never in agony to droop
strange-beneath
ly, sadly blissful on those wan features, "Harry beneath the fever thirst of affection-ill-requited
Harry-my own Harry!" and then she clasp-love-despised and slighted affection!
ed the picture tightly to her breast.
"It is of her child she dreams," he bitterly
thought; "she will never smile on me again."
He laid a letter by her side. It was his fare-
well. One more eager, agonized look, and qui-
etly, as he had entered, he quitted the room.
Immediately afterward he left the house and
returned no more.
Lucy entered the chamber of her mistress sev-
eral times after Percy's departure, but still she
slept. She marked the letter, and guessed pret-
ty well its contents. She knew how it was,
from a few words of earnest directions he had
given her, and she thought it best as it had been
arranged. But at length, when she once more
entered the room, Mrs Percy was no longer on
the couch where she had left her, and on look-
ing round, Lucy perceived in the dusk a white
figure lying on the ground, the hair streaming
about her, and writhing as if in agony.
Lucy sprang forward, and in terror raised her
mistress from the ground. In her hand was
grasped convulsively her husband's letter. She
laid her on the bed, and then the agonized, sti-
fed cry of "Harry!" burst from her lips, and
she lay repeating that name till, at length, her
voice died away in a low moan, and she relap-
sed into her former gloomy apathy.
The day for her departure came, and Lady
Templeton bore back with her to her native
land, where it had once blossomed with so bright
and fair a promise, the faded, crushed, and tem-
pest-beaten flower
|
No, May, we can scarcely pity you whén we
think of poor Maud Percy and all her woes, for
are there not many to soothe your sorrow by
their affection? Why, then, do you look so
troubled, and fix your eyes upon that letter you
hold in your hand, and why one moment does
your cheek burn, and the next you shake your
head and weep? Is it not because you fear
that your wound may have been healed too soon?
that you feel your heart rebels not, as you deem
it should, against the request contained in that
letter? You will no longer keep back the leg-
acy intrusted to you by one on his death-bed:
your heart, and the promise of your hand.
That letter was from the parents of her lost
Percival, who strove to remove all scruples
from her mind, urging her to fulfil the wish of
their lamented son: they pleaded for one they
loved for his own sake and for that of him who
was gone, and who would not, dared not sue
for himself.
And, indeed, though a week had elapsed since
Arthur Balfour came to Sutherland, the bearer
of the letter, he still feared all hearts espoused
his cause save the one: no word or look from
her told him to hope.
Oh,
and thinks on that fair, gentle girl, whom once
And how he also stands by the lake's side,
he met there-" the lily of the valley" who first
charmed him, but whose pale beauty he had
slighted for the proud rose that had so treach-
erously wounded him with its thorns!
what misery might have been spared had he
been contented with the meek flower for which
he now pined in vain! He turns and sees
through the leafless branches the same lily, but
her brow is troubled, and she is apparently
plunged in painful thought.
142
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
Arthur approached her, took her little hand,
and now, as once before, it trembled in his, and
he only spoke the gentle words of a brother's
love, and told her he would ask from her no
more; he would but crave that he might be to
her again what he once had been her friend in
joy and sorrow-anything rather than be shun-
ned-he almost feared, disliked !
:
Disliked! Oh, Arthur!"
There was something in the tone of these
few words which made his heart beat with re-
newed hope.
""
May," he said, after a slight pause," say
the word, and it shall be done. If this ring,"
and he pointed to the one placed on his finger
by his dying friend-" if it rests on your heart
as a weight--a hated bond! say the word, and
it shall be once more yours; he who gave it to
me never intended it to destroy your happiness.
The promise, therefore, may be cancelled. Tell
me" and his deep, expressive eyes scemed to
pierce into the inmost recesses of her soul-
"let me hear from your own lips that you would
be free, and then-"
“Arthur!" she interposed, in a low, hurried,
but firm tone, as she turned away her glowing
face, "cast the ring into those deep waters, if
you will-if you are weary of the tie that binds
you to me, but never with my own hands, with
my own lips, will I break the promise given to
him who is no more, whom I loved so well, and
who is now raised far above my unworthy
love never will I attempt to dissever the bond
bound by his dying words; but if, Arthur—”
6.2
My own beloved May," he cried, "what
now shall part us? Yes, we shall indeed fulfil
the wish of that blessed being who, even in
death, thought but of the happiness of those
around him."
|
requested by the lady, who, the woman inform-
ed her husband, "seemed one more fit for heav-
en than earth, so sad and spirit-like she look-
ed," to send for the nearest medical man to see
her maid, who was very ill. "And true it
was," the landlady added, "there lay the poor
thing, groaning and looking as yellow as an or-
ange. I told her that at eight o'clock I expect-
ed Mr. Mason to come and see our baby, so she
said that would do; then she asked me so
sweetly what ailed the child, and when I told
her it was a bad cough, she put her hand to her
forehead, and turning away, said, as if to her-
self, 'Then it was not a dream' and after a
while exclaimed, 'Take care of the child-
oh! as you value your happiness, take care of
it !" It strikes me she has lost a baby of her
own, poor young thing! she spoke it so feeling
like; and now I am to order the chaise round
at half past seven, as she wished to go on a lit-
tle farther, and the maid is to be left behind, as
I have promised to take care of her."
It was about eight that same morning, the
last of April. A glorious spring morning it was,
the soft air wafting on its wings the glistening
vapour, the cuckoo commencing its unwearied
notes, the streams gushing merrily, and the ear-
ly flowers opening their fragrant leaves to the
sun all nature seemed rejoicing in the coming
day.
:
A chaise slowly ascended the village hill.
Four years before, she who sat pale and mo-
tionless within it had traversed the same spot a
joyful bride she returns--a wife indeed, but
alone!
The hamlet seemed astir with preparations
as if in expectation of some coming event of
joyful excitement. Garlands were suspended
at every cottage door; the village children were
"And I will love you, Arthur," she said, busily employed in forming large nosegays; but
"with the chastened love of a heart which has the traveller remarked it not: her mind was
been taught the danger of placing too great re- wholly engrossed by powerful emotion. Stretch-
liance on earthly happiness, remembering that ed far beyond the immediate presence of all out-
those we love may die!" and she raised her ward objects, her distended eyes gazed with
earnest eyes to his face with all the love and re-convulsive eagerness, but comprehended not
spect due to a future husband so good and no- what they beheld.
ble. "If such love will suffice you, I am yours,
dear Arthur."
CHAPTER LXXV.
"Life has been heavy on my head;
I came a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, in crowds which bled,
To bleed in stillness here."-MRS. HEMANS.
"I saw him stand·
Before the altar with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but not the one which made
The starlight of his boyhood."-BYRON's Dream.
It was late on the night of the twenty-ninth
of April that the inhabitants of a little roadside
inn a few miles from Sutherland Manor were
aroused from their sleep by the arrival of a
postchaise, the occupants requiring accommo-
dation for the night.
Two females in deep mourning, evidently a
mistress and her maid, were the guests who
demanded admission. They were shown to the
best bedroom the mansion afforded; but scarce-
ly had the daylight dawned, when the hostess
was summoned to the stranger's chamber, and
The gray tops of the ancient mansion rose be-
fore her, but the sight moved her not, for on
that object her imagination had so long been
fixed, that its actual appearance was scarcely
more clearly distinct than had been the visions
of her fancy.
The chaise turned at length from the high
road down a flowery lane, and then she clasps
her hands, and her head sinks upon her bosom ;
when again it is raised, she sees on one side a
parsonage of simple beauty, and on the other-
oh! it was towards that object she stretches
out her arms, and gasps with an eager voice,
My mother!"
It was a picturesque, ancient church, the gray
towers rising among the trees, and the yews
and cypresses waving among the tombs. The
driver stopped for farther directions: the wan-
derer alighted: he was signed to depart, and
then she stood alone, and gazed wildly around
her.
Her destination had been that little parson-
age-house, her purpose to go to him, her tried
and valued friend; but there steals over her
heart a desolate, sinking despair: she feels as
if, returning a stranger to her home, all would
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
143
receive her with cold surprise, and crush still been but a dark vision of sleep; to be again the
more her breaking heart. More than ever she beloved of all-of her first, her early love, the
felt the blankness of being alone in the world- noble and the good, and that it was but a dream
cared for by none-forsaken-forgotten by all! that she had forsaken him, and brought misery
Through the churchyard she passed, and on herself; to stand by his side at the altar, not
memory, meddling memory, was busy in her surrounded by grief and gloom, as when once
mind, bringing forward with painful minuteness she stood there, and plighted her faith to anoth-
scenes of the past. She could almost fancy sheer, but with smiling, happy faces, with flowers
heard the curse of the withered hag, whose ha- beneath her feet, and songs and blessings sound-
tred she had incurred, and felt the touch of those ing in her ear!
damp funereal flowers- the nuptial wreath
which had been cast at her feet on the day of
her fatal marriage; and, distracting thought!
where was he upon whose arm she then leaned
with such confiding love-who whispered words
of tenderness? Was it through him that curse
had been fulfilled? Had he, then, proved the
curse of her young life?
Could you see me now, old Judith," she
murmured, your hatred would be fully satia-
ted: the proud have fallen!'"
But the poor wanderer had now entered with-
in those sacred walls, and already the calm,
holy stillness seemed to soften the bitterness
of her soul, and with the devotion of a broken
and contrite heart she knelt before the altar of
God and prayed. But when again she rose,
her eager, trembling steps turned with haste to
the chancel, where reposed the ashes of her an-
cestors in their tombs of gorgeous workman-
ship, and filled with many a coloured marble
effigy of knight and haughty dame.
The sleeper wakes, but again she closes her
eyes. It is hard to break the spell, and return
from that world of sweet delusion; and though
she sleeps not, there are still sounds in her ear
like those of which she had dreamed-there
was a song in those strains, as if from an an-
gel's voice,
"They come, they come, oh! bind them, Lord,
In bonds of steadfast love,
And part them but to meet again
In happier worlds above."
And then it seemed to die away, and leave un-
mixed the sound of footsteps echoing along the
aisle, and then a murmur- -a pause-a hush,
and then a solemn voice is heard clear and dis-
tinct, and fully awakened the dreamer to the
consciousness that she dreams no more—that
all is reality!
The interior of the chancel situated to the
right of the altar was partly hid from those who
stood without by a light oaken partition of trel-
lice-work, which was now, however, but partly
closed on the side which concealed the marble
The sleeper had arisen, and stood gazing
with wild bewilderment on the change which
the scene now presented.
It was before a sculptured form of pure, spot-
less marble, showing like a lily amid the time-effigy of Mrs. Sutherland.
stained monuments, that the drooping descend-
ant of the Sutherlands sank, and knelt, and
gazed with the look which a mortal might fix
upon a beloved form come from another world
to cheer the fainting spirit with its long-depart-church was filled with human beings, the silent
ed smile.
"Lovely in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm."
With arms crossed meekly on her breast, and
with the smile-yes, well the sculptor had
caught that smile-with which she had blessed
her children even in death, there lay the marble
figure of her mother,
"In her love how sorrowfully true,"
and there now lies the child for whom that
love had proved too strong, who rests her wea-
ry head upon the bosom of the cold statue; and
although it could do naught but cool her burn-
ing brow-although her arms encircle only a
hard, stiff form, which returns not her pressure,
yet it seems peace to the worn-out heart of the
♦ exhausted Maud. She felt as if the blessed
spirit hovered around her; that it whispered to
her soothing words of hope-of comfort. A
smile stole over her wan features; and with the
words, engraven in golden letters above her
head, "I believe in the communion of saints,"
trembling on her lips, the weary child sank to
sleep, as in days of yore she was wont to do, on
her mother's bosom, and through the emblazon-
ed window, dimmed with armorial bearings,
streamed the sun on those marble features, lend-
ing to them, as it were, a smile of life-the
smile of a parent beaming on a long-lost child.
Two hours of sleep-what ages of bliss to a
grief-torn, weary soul! To be once more a
happy child, and dream that all her sorrow has
Before, all was still and void of iife; now, the
aisles lined with children dressed in white, their
hands filled with flowers; but over this her eyes
wander but for a moment they fix their gaze
on the altar where she had so lately knelt in
prayer, and since, in fancy, stood a bride! and
there now stands one in bridal garments, so
pure, so white, and bends her gentle head as the
words of exhortation fall upon her ear, and
echoes softly the low-toned "I will" of him who
is by her side; and then the father performs
his part-gives his child into the hands of an-
other, and for the first time a sob is heard the
fair bride weeps! The father's eyes overflow,
but they are soothing, happy tears. Did he
know that his once most beloved, most valued
child stands near him like an alien, unnoticed
and unknown, those tears of joy would have
turned into bitter, scalding drops!
*
*
*
*
*
*
It was over, the quiet ceremony which united
Arthur Balfour and May Sutherland; quiet, for,
save the humble guests who filled the church,
and were alone to profit by the festive rejoi-
cings usual on such occasions, it was but a lit-
tle group that stood with the bride and bride-
groom around that altar: the father, and two
fair little bridemaids, the Ladies Balfour, and
their sister Cecilia, she but the bride of a month,
with her young husband, Lord Henry Clifford,
and Miss Meyer, the devoted friend, were all
that were present at this agitating moment.
And now the young bride is pressed in her
father's arms, and then in those of her husband
144
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
-no new lover of a day, but one whom she had
known in joy and in sorrow, to whom her young
heart had been given in all its fresh, unsullied
purity, and for whom it seemed that Heaven
had always destined her.
But why does the bridegroom suddenly stop
as he is leading his own from the altar? He
feels the light form press heavily on his arm.
She was pale before, but now she is like death
-she has fainted! and with an exclamation of
consternation, he bears her into the air. May
had glanced, silently invoking a blessing as she
passed, towards the spot where her mother's
remains were reposing, and it was after a star-
tled, troubled gaze that she had sunk silently
upon her husband's arm, as if some sudden
shock had levelled her to the earth.
a long, nervous gaze, and a faint endeavour to
address the recumbent figure before him, he let
fall the basket of dead flowers he carried in his
hand, and tottered away as fast as his old legs
could carry him, to seek some one to share his
wonderment at this mysterious apparition.
Just as he issued from the churchyard, the
tall, bent figure of a gentleman, unfastening the
little gate of the Parsonage garden opposite, ap-
peared in view.
On hearing his name called, he turned round,
and listened to the sexton's communication,
that a lady, all in black, was lying over Mrs.
Sutherland's monument. He lost no time in
following his informer to the spot indicated,
bent over that dark, recumbent form, and with-
out an exclamation-too deep was his astonish-
But what matters this temporary gloom?ment and emotion for speech-he raised the
All visions, save of happiness and love, will poor wanderer at once in his arms. And she
soon be chased from her mind. May is with knew him; yes, she smiled, and laid her head
the loving and the loved, but she who once was on his bosom; and tears, which seemed again
so prized, so cherished, is left alone and deso- to open the current of suspended feeling in her
late, to pour forth her tears and groans unheed-heart, rolled heavily down her pallid cheek.
ed, to seek relief but in that cold marble form Mr. Merton bore her to his home; and, revived
on which she has again sunk, pressing it in her by restoratives, and still more by affection.
arms as if to warm it into life and love. Calm poured like oil upon a wound, he learned at
and immovable is the unhappy Maud, the sun-length from her lips the sad, eventful history of
beams playing on all around with the varied the circumstances under which he now beheld
light caught from the coloured window, through her.
which its streams glow brighter and brighter as
the day advances: there she lay, thinking, while
the power of recollection remained, that it
would be the last day she should feel its rays.
Complete exhaustion of mind and body had ut-
terly prostrated every faculty, and she imagin-
ed death was fast approaching.
It was between five and six o'clock in the af
ternoon that the old sexton entered the church
to set all to rights and lock the church door.
He passed along the aisle, bending his rheu-
matic back, with many a growl of dissatisfac-
tion, to collect the flowers, now dead and crush-
ed, that had been strewed before the wedding
procession.
This employment brought him as far as the
altar, and having carefully enclosed the ancient
velvet hangings of the table in its holland cov-
erings, he approached the chancel, as much the
pride and admiration of his old heart as if it
had been the relics of his own race which were
so highly honoured.
He was about to close the partition, but gave
one glance around, and, for the first time, it
was not the usual self-satisfied smile that this
scene usually called forth upon his withered
features.
CHAPTER LXXVI
"Am I so changed? and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have played.
This brow hath been all bathed in dew
From wreaths which thou hast made.”
MRS. HEMANS.
"And on my bier I'll lay
Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,
And like a broken flower, gently decay.'
BARRY CORNWALL.
IN the boudoir of the late Mrs. Sutherland the
young bride was reclining on a sofa. The ex-
pression of her glowing countenance was hap-
py, though somewhat languid, as she listened to
her husband, who murmured softly in her ear,
"Then you are now, dearest, well and strong
enough to depart, and I may order the car-
riage?"
"Yes, dear Arthur, I am ready, and only
ashamed of my unaccountable weakness: it is
so unusual for me to faint; but send dear papa
to me. I wish we could take him with us, or
that we could have persuaded him to go to
Howard Castle with the Cliffords, for I fear he
will be very lonely when we are gone."
64
'Dear May, it will be but for two or three
days; you must not grudge me so short a time
your undivided company."
With a surprised, startled, and somewhat
alarmed expression, he peered forward as he
approached the spot where stood the last erect-of
ed monument of the Sutherlands, but which was
now partly concealed by the dark funereal form
whose head rested on the same marble pillow.
She did not sleep, nor had she fainted, for her
large, lustrous eyes wandered over his face
without, however, seeming to comprehend what
object they gazed upon.
The old man never remembered having seen
but one such pair of eyes, and they belonged to
one far away, in foreign parts, and whose bright
face he could not associate with that faded
countenance before him. A mysterious awe
began to take possession of his heart, and after
I must not mention to my father," contin-
ued May, "the foolish fancy which even now I
cannot banish from my imagination."
My darling May, I must not allow you to
dwell upon the subject,” interrupted Arthur.
"But, Arthur," continued the young bride,
in a low voice, as she hid her face on his bosom,
"it was not her face-not my dear mother's
which it seemed to me that I beheld: it was as
the ghost of Maud's."
The
Arthur was silent for a few moments.
shadow of some long conquered emotion scem-
ed to pass over his countenance; but soon he
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
145
+
:
t
pressed his fair wife to his heart, soothed her | child of her mother who was gone, should re-
with words of affection, and then, gently disen turn in such a state to her father's house. Her
gaging himself from her arms, he kissed her anger was vehemently excited against poor
brow, and left the room to give orders for their Lucy to think of her never having given a
departure.
hint of the real state of affairs! Little did the
May remained alone in the soft twilight, but inhabitants of Sutherland Manor guess the con-
only for a moment, for just as a calin and seri-flicts and struggles this attached creature had
ous expression of thought was stealing over her encountered, with a degree of unselfishness,
countenance, she was startled by a voice from with fidelity beautiful to reflect upon. She had
without the window. It was Mr. Merton's, and clung to the desolate fortunes of her young
she prepared to receive him with a smile of mistress, shared with her cheerfully every hard-
welcome.
ship, partook largely of her sorrow, and with
He appeared, but not alone. By his side uncomplaining fortitude even submitted to the
stood a dark figure, who, after one hurried hardest of all trials, that of never divulging to
glance within, glided on before her companion, her friends in England the real state of her
and stood opposite May, who had risen from mistress. Maud, tenacious to the last of her
the sofa, and fixed a bewildered gaze on the husband's credit, had drawn from poor Lucy, a
form before her.
solemn promise of secrecy, and she had kept it,
"She does not know me!" cried the stran-alas! but too well.
ger, in a low voice of subdued anguish, sinking
on her knees at her feet, she does not know
me !"
i
►
'
+
:
"Maud, my sister! my own dear sister!"
exclaimed the astonished May; and she was
raised once more in a sister's arms, her face
bathed with a sister's tears.
Mr. Merton had hurried on to prepare another
for so agitating, so unexpected a meeting; but
he had missed him, and when he again entered |
the room, the father was pressing the long-sev- |
ered child to his heart, and shedding tears of
mingled emotion over her who "was lost and
was found."
And Arthur, when he saw the poor blighted
flower, withered even through him who had
torn it from the parent soil, he wept with them
all over the still fair wreck, as, exhausted by
the violence of her emotion, she now lay before
them unconscious of the love and tears poured
upon her.
:
May spent her bridal night in watching over
the sister thus strangely and suddenly restored
to her.
Often, as, during the fitful intervals of
slumber, she drew aside the curtain and gazed
upon the poor sufferer's countenance, she had to
ask herself whether it was the same being who
had once occupied that very same apartment—
that bright, joyous being, who ever awakened
with a smile upon her radiant face; to join in
the pleasures of the day: many were the bitter
tears that were shed beside the restored sister.
Indeed, Sutherland Manor was again a house
of mourning, for all who beheld the change that
four years had wrought upon the beautiful Maud
were deeply affected.
•
The startling truth burst upon their percep-
tion with: agonizing force. That she must be
changed, and that her lot was not a happy one,
they could have imagined, but they had not an-
ticipated this fearful, total change!
1
:
I
On hearing of the death of the poor child,
they had determined, immediately after May's
marriage, to go to Germany, in order that the
sisters, at least, might meet. Little, indeed,
could they have believed that four years had
worked such fearful ravages on a heart whose
peculiar depth of feeling they had never guessed
to be possessed by the wayward, spoiled child
of other days. It was a restless night, that
first which Mand passed on her return to her
home. She spoke little, but in the intervals of
short slumbers, troubled and feverish, disturbed
by incoherent words and starts, and sighs of
pain, she lay, her sister's hand locked in hers,
replying to the endearing words of those who
hung around her bed by a wan smile, and looks
of perplexed, though affectionate gratitude.
Once, when May bent over her to kiss her,
Maud passed her fingers, fondly through one of
the silken ringlets which had escaped its fast-
ening, and fell upon her shoulder, and she said,
in a low voice,
"May, did he give you the lock I sent to
you?"
May could only murmur "Yes!" for the sud-
denness of the question affected her so powerl-
fuly that she burst into tears.
Was it not beautiful?" she continued, with
a smile brightening her wan features; "and
now, how far more beautiful they wave over
his head like little angels! Ah!" and an ex-
pression of acute pain again obscured the smile,
"I had forgotten; he is an angel;" and she
buried her head in the bedclothes.
Mr. Sutherland could not bear the sight: it
was torture to his soul. He dare not look upon
his faded, sinking child. His conscience ac-
cused him of neglect towards her: the agony May took from her bosom a little locket in
of his sorrow of his self-reproach, was pitiable which she had placed the hair of her beautiful
to behold. He heard from Mr. Merton the brief boy with that of her sister, and when she could
sketch which Maud had given concerning her-command her voice, she said, as she laid it be-
self, but in which they saw plainly every circum- | fore Maud,
stance relating to her husband had been soft- "I have prized this very much, my darling
ened. They now anxiously awaited the arri-sister-you know not how much.
When you
val of Lucy, for whom a carriage and an at- are stronger and better," May continued, “we
tendant had been despatched to convey her to will talk together of the angel who is now with
the Manor. From her much information was his Saviour, and with the loved ones who have
expected.
gone before us, and where we humbly hope we
shall see him, ere long, still more beautiful-
more blessed than he was on earth.”
The feelings of the old housekeeper, Mrs.
Power, were all merged in grief and indignation,
to think that her dear young lady-the darling
T
}
+
"Yes-yes," faintly gasped poor Maud, her
:
146
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
sister's words causing tears to roll down her
cheeks," he is with his Saviour-with our
mother, May; how blessed indeed, sweet spirit!
How dare I wish him here! But, May, you
know not what he was to me: my all-of joy
-you cannot know; and, but that I feel I shall
very soon be with him-behold him, I could
not bear it as I do now: but his God is my
God."
Maud again covered her face, and spoke no
more.
happy, yet they thought, perchance, their song
might please her, who, naughty or not, they al-
ways remembered with affection and admira-
tion, so they ventured to make the attempt;
but when, after suffering thein to proceed for a
few moments, May turned to look upon her
sister's face, all traces of anything like enjoy-
ment had vanished, leaving naught but deeply-
rooted sorrow and suffering.
May signed to the children to stop, and
Maud, suffering her again to lead her back to
Just before sunrise, May, who had been lying her bed, murmured in a low, hollow voice,
down by her sister's side, and was rejoicing at "No, that will not do for me, dear sister.
witnessing a more quiet and refreshing sleep, My springtime is over with its songs and flow.
saw Maud suddenly awake: her eyes wander-ers: there is no May for me.
ed around her, as if to ascertain where she was,
and who was with her, and then she lay for
some moments in silence.
"Ah! how strange it all seems," she at
length exclaimed: "just as if it were a dream
that I had ever left you, but a long, long dream,
dear May;" and then, after a pause, she asked
for her father.
"He has just left the room, dearest Maud,"
her sister replied; "he has been in and out
every half hour during the night, though he
feared to disturb you by showing himself-and
Arthur too," she added, in a lower tone.
"Ah! dear Arthur," interrupted Maud, "does
he not hate me for coming thus to disturb all
your happiness?"
"Dear Maud!" exclaimed May, embracing
her.
But," continued Maud, after a pause, "is
not this May-day? Ah! yes, I must see the
May-day sun rise once more over beautiful
Sutherland, as we always used to do. Pray let
me, dear May !"
*
*
*
Poor Lucy arrived that day. She was great-
ly changed, what with her illness and her long
journey, added to the distress of mind the at-
tached creature had suffered; and as she sat in
the housekeeper's room, relating to her aunt,
with many tears, her tale of wo, which Mrs.
Power never rested till she had drawn from her,
no one would have recognised the smart, bright-
eyed abagail, who had so gayly chatted in that
same room four years before; but still there
was comfort for her-an approving conscience;
she had done her duty nobly as a Christian ser-
vant. And also she found an old lover faithful,
though raised lately by the sudden death of
Williams to the exalted station of house-stew-
ard, and who, far from lamenting her change of
appearance, congratulated her "that foreign
parts had worked no greater harm."
The emotions excited in every breast by the
return of our poor heroine were less vividly felt
by herself than others. Her feelings were par-
alyzed too much bowed down by suffering for
aught to have the power, after the first excite-
Supported by her sister-for, on arising, she
was herself startled by her extreme weakness-ment was over, to affect her much. Even her
she was soon standing by the window, gazing
on the distant mountains, from which the sun
was rising in all its glory, tinging with its gor-
geous hues the surrounding sky.
May opened the window, and Maud seemed
to drink in, with gasping avidity, the sweet
fresh air.
My home-my own loved home!" she fer-
vently exclaimed.
A moment after there was a murmuring and
rustling below, and the next there arose a sup-
pressed chant, which grew louder and bolder as
it proceeded, and they perceived a party of
children with garlands of flowers.
They were the children of the school, who
still continued the custom, which had been
usual since the sisters' childhood, of greeting
them at the rising of the May-day sun with a
song, and the offering of a wreath of flowers;
and now, hearing that their dear Miss Suther-
land, or, rather, Mrs. Balfour Sutherland, had
not departed the preceding night, and that Mrs.
Percy had returned, they thought it more ne-
cessary than ever that the bride should not lose
her accustomed honours; and though they had
heard it rumoured that the bright creature
whom they remembered delighting them with
her beautiful smile, as well as frightening them
with her large, fierce eyes when they were
naughty, and who, at length, had proved naugh-
ty herself, and had been held up as an example
of filial disobedience, had returned ill and un-
meeting with Arthur was calmly gone through.
He, with deep emotion, seized the hand which,
with a wan but affectionate smile, she stretched
towards him, pressed it to his lips, and was too
much overcome for speech; but Maud calmly
spoke (oh, how that voice, that changed, but
still musical voice, once so beloved, thrilled upon
his heart, like a song of other days !),
Dear Arthur, how I thank you for this kind
reception-I, who have come just in time to
disturb you in the midst of your happiness!
But I must be no longer in your way: you must
take May away, as you intended, for a few days.
I shall welcome you gladly back; but you must
let it be as I say; and now," and she flung her-
self into her father's arms as he sat beside her,
and pressed her with fervent love to his bosom,
"my father will have his other child to keep
him company, and kind Miss Meyer will help to
take care of me."
And so it was finally arranged. Late that
evening the newly-married pair quitted the Man-
or, leaving together the father and the long-part-
ed daughter in the quiet, solitary mansion.
It was an affecting sight, the father seeming
as if he would fain atone to his child for past
neglect by every mark of tenderness: he never
left her side, watching her every movement,
every look, with nervous, painful eagerness.
Sometimes it was difficult to realize to his mind
that it was his proudly blooming Maud by whose
side he sat, and walked, when occasionally she
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
147
was drawn along the gardens in a chair, or when
he supported her weak steps along the sunny
terrace.
acquaint him with their safe arrival in Cumber-
land. She had informed Mrs. Percy of this at
the time of writing, in order that she might add
any message from her; but Maud had merely
turned away her head and wept.
One day she had seemed stronger and better,
and had been walking slowly, with long intervals
of rest, leaning on Arthur's arm, along the pic-
ture gallery, the scene of many a happy hour du-
How all this recalled to his mind that dear
departed one, whom he was sometimes tempted
to fancy was again the object of his care! But
between them there was one great destinction
never, on the countenance of his wife, had he
been pained by witnessing those harrowing
signs of mental suffering which all his tender-ring the winter they had assembled together,
ness could not banish from the expression of
his poor child's features.
Never but in her first conversation with Mr.
Merton had Maud spoken of her husband, and
now to her father she was equally silent con-
cerning him. Whatever thoughts and inten-
tions were working in Mr. Sutherland's heart
relative to that subject, he never breathed his
name: he felt that it was too painful and agi-
tating to both, and one of which he could not
speak but in terms which it must wound her
heart to hear; and he was right; for why did
Maud recoil from speaking that once-loved name?
was it that she might endeavour to hate it-for-
get it? Ah! no; or why, in the dark hours of
night, when others slept, was that name gasped
with bitter, scalding tears, or why was the im-
age of him to whom it belonged brought vividly
before her by all the strength of yearning, ago-
nized affection, and a strife she once thought
had ceased with departed hope shook, day by
day, more fiercely her fragile form, bringing her
nearer and nearer to the grave?
+
No, her silence was but the shrinking fear of
exposing that name, treasured yet so tenderly,
to the breath of odium and reproach, and there
it lay unspoken, burning at her heart.
The first advice that could be obtained was
eagerly procured for Maud, but alas! the opin-
ions of the medical men were more startling
than even the fears of Mr. Sutherland had sug-
gested; and when, after three or four days' ab-
sence, May and Arthur returned, it was to a
house of sorrow and dismay. The physicians
had pronounced that the invalid was sinking
from a rapid decline.
"There has been evidently," was the remark
of the clear-sighted, experienced practitioner
who had attended the late Mrs. Sutherland, "a
slow poison working here more detrimental to
her constitution than the tendency to her moth-
er's complaint, which, under different circum-
stances, might never have heen called forth, a
long-continued wear and tear of the nerves and
spirits, which the violent agitation and affliction
you tell me she has lately undergone has now
brought to a fearful crisis; this seems to me,"
the doctor remarked to Captain Balfour Suth:
erland in a private conference, "quite a case of
which we often read, but seldom recognise in
these our days-that of a broken heart: there
is much to answer for in some quarter! Is there
anything at present particularly weighing on her
mind? if so, it should be immediately relieved,
for without mental alleviation nothing can be
done for the body."
Three weeks had passed since the patient's
arrival before that question was answered.
There had been no intercourse between Maud
and her husband since she had left him, with
the exception of a few lines, which Lucy, ac-
cording to her master's desire, had written to
She passed also into the saloon, and gazed upon
the portrait of their childhood, and then she made
his heart beat sadly by approaching gradually to
the events of later years, and at length spoke
with affecting contrition of her own conduct to-
wards him, and then of her joy that thus, in the
sequel, he had been a gainer by it, in possessing
such a treasure as her sister. Suddenly she had
broken off, and spoke in agitated terms of her
love-her undying love to him to whom she had
united her fate; and just as she reached her
room, and he was about to leave her, she turned
towards him, seized his hand, and fixing her eyes
wildly on his face, murmured in a low, passion-
ate tone of entreaty,
"Arthur-generous, noble Arthur, you will
not let them reproach me-you will not let them
refuse me what I am about to supplicate? I
pine to see him once more-the father of my
angel! I have not long to live, and if they
would have me die in peace, with no earthly
longing to keep my heart from God, let him be
sent for let me see his face-let me hear his
voice-once more !"
Arthur pressed her hand, and in a voice
choked by emotion, said,
It shall be done, dear, dear Maud: trust to
me, it shall be done.”
"God forever bless you, Arthur," she faintly
answered.
Another request she made that evening.
May," she whispered, "I have a wish: will
you grant it?"
"Dear Maud, why ask such a question?"
"I am not worthy of the privilege: but that
room-that bed-there I would go there I
would die."
Her desire was fulfilled, and to her mother's
apartment she was the next day removed, and
took possession of the bed on which she died.
From that bed she rarely rose again; for though,
since her conversation with Arthur, a weight of
painful care seemed to be removed from her
mind, and each succeeding day found her in-
creasing in holy faith and spiritual strength, the
powers of body seemed to wax weaker and
weaker, and though sometimes a bright, un-
earthly bloom, which flushed her cheek, gave
false hope to those around her, she knew that
her days were numbered.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
"What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive
Unless her prayers, whom Heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice." SHAKSPEARE.
Bur what has become of Harry Percy all this
time? After parting with his wretched wife,
he had thrown himself into the first public car-
riage he met, hardly conscious of its destina-
148
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
tion, only anxious to escape from a place which | intense to escape from any farther participation
would now have been insupportable, and found in an affair which, in his now altered and repug-
himself, not many hours afterward, at Stras-nant feeling, he only looked upon with horror
burgh; there he entered a hotel, and rejecting, and supreme disgust.
to the surprise of the landlord, all offers of putés Concerning this subject, a few words in ex-
de foi gras, ordered a bed. The next morningplanation are necessary.
found him in a state of illness as much mental
as bodily.
During Percy's residence in Germany the cha-
teau of the countess had been one of his princi-
pal resorts for gaming, which constantly went
forward within its walls.
There he lay for a week, tended only by
strangers, listening to no sounds but those of
the eternal Cathedral chimes, and the terrible The company chiefly consisted of foreigners
voice of conscience speaking loud within him. of distinction, who, in her husband's absence,
Truly Harry Percy was in a miserable state, and this lady always collected around her. Percy's
when he reluctantly arose from a bed of sick-handsome person and fascinating demeanour
ness, and went forth into that gloomiest of Ger- had early inspired the countess with a passion
man cities, to wander in the awful stillness of ardent as it was unprincipled.
the noble Cathedral, the gloom of its walls suit-
ed the sombre colouring of his feelings.
1
It is a revolting task to broach a subject
which, like pitch, can scarcely be touched with-
out defilement. Percy, miserable and deluded
man, to what has he come at last?
forced upon him by the infatuated woman, and
his necessities were too urgent for these repug-
nant favours to be rejected: he hated himself
when, with a blush of burning shaine, he ac-
cepted these wages of iniquity, but he had not
strength of mind to break the chains of vice
which entwine round the victim those conceal-
ed fetters, by which at last he is completely
bound, and thus had passed the last winter.
He felt that he was a wretch: he had become
despicable in his own sight, sensible that all
good men had reason to hate him. Conscience, True, he trembled at the view of the gulf
bringing to remembrance the reckless tenour of which opened before him; but the vice which
his past life, held his sins before his view with had through life been his stumbling-block, har-
this fearful inscription written upon them, "Godried him on to destruction. Large sums were
will bring every work into judgment." Hence
the haggard look, the restless couch, days never
free from bitterness, and nights given up to re-
morse. He was a solitary being on the face of
the earth; the two treasures he had once pos-
sessed and prized in all their value when it was
too late, were lost to him. Yes, distracting
thought! the cherub child he had loved so well,
stricken, perhaps, for his father's sin, gone down
into the dark, cold grave, never to be beloved But it had happened that the Jewish count
again by him for could he hope ever to be ad- had suddenly returned from Poland, and almost
mitted where the spirit of one so pure had flown? immediately Percy received a letter from the
And she! the angelic wife who had blessed his fair countess, hinting the prudence of his keep-
home--the blessing he had despised and slight-ing away for some little time, which Harry in-
ed-she who, in sorrow or in joy, in spite of
bitter neglect and wrong, had been so good and
kind, had endured, till she could endure no more
→she was gone, to be taught, no doubt, to hate
him to forget him. But he deserved it all: he
had cast aside his salvation; his day of grace
had passed; she who was to have been his re-
deeming angel had forsaken him; what could
he hope for now?
In the midst of all this excitement, Harry
Percy, with the enthusiasm with which he en-
tered into every pursuit, spent much of his time
in eagerly devouring the contents of his Bible,
a book which, though it may seem strange, he
was in the constant habit of reading; but those
passages of mercy, which formerly he had laid
hold of as "flattering unction to his soul,” salve
to the wounds of conscience, appeared now to
his eyes, opening to the just view of his guilt,
as threatenings of wrath and judgment.
terpreted into the probability of her lord's hav-
ing been somewhat startled at finding the large,
enormous drains which had been made upon
his purse during his absence; and this had hap-
pened at a moment when Percy was in the
most pressing need of money, and was calcula-
ting on a fresh attack upon those reserves.
Vice brings a man under a slavish depend-
ance on external circumstances: it renders him
abject, cowardly; in other words, a slave Hav-
ing once allowed passion to gain the ascendant,
he has thrown himself into a torrent, and though
he may faintly struggle, the stream bears him
along he does not go, but he is driven to and
fro-agitated and impelled-passive, like a ship,
to the violence of the waves.
Percy had arrived that night at home. What
a contrast to his sight his gentle, wronged,
drooping wife opposed to the glare, the unlove-
liness, the baseness of the things for which be
had so cursedly neglected her! It seemed sud-
denly to burst forth before his perception like a
scene, showing every object in its true light,
What might have been the consequence if he
had remained thus alone at Strasburgh we know |
not; but, remembering that the time had nearly
arrived when he might expect the letter inform-making all their deformity most conspicuous.
ing him of Maud's arrival at Sutherland Manor,
he suddenly set off as fast as diligences could
convey him across the country for Ostend, where
he had ordered the letter to be directed.
He had fixed on that place, anxious to be
within a few hours' passage of England, and he
had also determined upon abandoning Germany
conte qui conte-a country which had proved so
falal to him, and had now become odious to
every feeling of his soul. Percy's desire was
There were germes of good still remaining in
the gambler's heart, cords still vibrating to ten-
der feeling still unbroken. With all his faults
he loved his wife fondly, though scarcely he re-
vered her perfections. At this moment he felt
a desire, nay, a determination, more sincere than
the evanescent fancies which had often before
assailed him, to atone to her for the past by a
new life-a relinquishment of every folly, and
with real earnestness, and without concealment,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
149
he had conversed with her on their future plans,
and determined to abstain from the ruinous,
sinful means upon which he had before solely
relied.
Unfortunate Percy! why then had he, at this
hour of grace, when love and peace were be-
ginning once more to smile upon him, why had
he so unworthily deceived her? Why did he
abandon his poor Maud in the manner which
has before been detailed?
Yes, he had abandoned her-deceived her,
for the reason he had given for his departure
had been entirely fabricated.
The truth was, that the letter calling Percy
away had been from the countess, informing
him of the sudden departure of her husband.
She was in the deepest distress, imagining that
she had offended him, and with passionate ea-
gerness implored him to come, in order to meet
a large party she had formed entirely on his ac-
count. The countess added that a large sum
which she had inveigled from her indulgent hus-
band was at his disposal, the delight of his so-
ciety being only too large a repayment for mon-
ey which was perfectly useless to herself.
What an ordeal for Harry Percy! He had
not a sovereign at that moment at his disposal,
he was completely without resources. The
only means he had of commencing the course
of amendment he proposed was in laying hold
in some way or another of a sum of money;
for it was very fine talking, but how could he,
in his present moneyless state, leave the coun-
try and set off for any other abode, save indeed
a prison ?
"Ye must not do evil that good may come."
|
ried once more from the atmosphere of purity
into the foul precincts of vice, and there retri-
bution had tracked the steps of the misguided
man.
The task which he now imposed upon him-
self was repugnant-dreadful to his altered feel-
ings. There was a fierce struggle working
within him between good and evil: it was
therefore with the utmost difficulty that he en-
deavoured to play his part-that he uttered
words which his heart rejected with loathing.
The countess, with the quick perception of
an impassioned woman, was not slow to per-
ceive symptoms of coldness in his constrained
manner, and it was at this moment, when he
was vainly striving to quiet her jealous suspi-
cions, that he had been overheard by the ago-
nized Maud; and then followed the wretched
sequel!
*
*
For Ostend Harry Percy departed, changed
both in heart and person. He was a wan
shadow of his former self: sickness of body
and agony of mind had wrought, indeed, their
work of devastation.
He found the expected letter: with what
avidity it was torn open, not so much from anx-
iety to ascertain the safe arrival of his wife-of
that he had little doubt-but, in reality, with
the secret hope of finding in it some expression
of reawakened affection, perhaps repentant sor-
row for having left him, and the impossibility
she felt of existing without him—perhaps a sup-
plication that she might return; but no, not a
word, not a message; merely the few coldly
respectful matter-of-fact lines from Lucy, with
the information that Mrs. Percy had arrived at
Did these words ring upon his ears? At any Sutherland Manor on the day of Miss Suther-
rate, he shut out their warning sound.
To go, then, to the countess, and bring back
to his wife and child a sum which would be far
more worthily disposed of than remaining in
the possession of that worthless woman, was
but an act of wisdom-and necessity:
land's marriage with Captain Balfour: She
feared her lady was not stronger than when she
left Baden, but that it seemed a comfort to her
to be surrounded by her family.
་
"Cornfort! Yes," he bitterly exclaimed,
yes, surrounded by the friends who hate her
The slavery of vice-the chains which cling husband, she will soon learn, no doubt, to la-
around him, impeding every advance which he ment the waste of years of happiness she has
feebly made towards virtue-his hopes and fears spent with him; she will learn not only to live,
all hanging upon the world--the abject depend- but to be happy without him!" and he excited
ance under which he had been brought to for- himself into the idea that he was the aggrieved
tune-to violent passions-his habits-now ex-person, and the miserable man would stand and
ercised their direful dominion over him, and
forged the links with which he was bound, and
Harry Percy told himself to do iniquity.
But it must all be concealed from Maud. He
knew too well that a prison-beggary would to
her eyes be happiness, compared to such means
of escape. Her mind had long since revolted
from even the most distant intercourse with
one whose principles she had learned to con-
demn, and had extracted from her husband a
solemn premise to break through the intimacy.
Whether she had relied upon that promise, or
whether her fears and suspicions had been ex-
cited, Harry had never given himself much
trouble to ascertain; but now it was his most
anxions determination that she should never
again be pained by distress on that score. Once
out of the present difficulty, and supplied with
a sum of money; he vowed to forsake for the
future every pursuit that she could condemn.
Thus quieting his conscience, Percy had left
his unsuspecting, almost happy wife, and hur-
|
strain his eyes after the retreating packets, re-
penting that he had not braved all-the chance
of arrest-every consideration, and set off to
England to claim her, in spite of all opposition.
Ostend was beginning to fill with visiters,
who resort thither for the bathing season. Per-
cy kept himself as much out of the way as pos-
sible, dreading the idea of meeting any chance
acquaintance, and a very old one it was his
fate to encounter, though it was to his relief he
was not recognised.
He ventured once to watch the disembarking
of some passengers from England. Among
them he noticed a family composed of a fine-
looking man, and a lady who, though she had
lost the first bloom of early youth, was still very
handsome, and whose joyous countenance
showed that the care of life sat lightly on her.
They were accompanied by four or five children.
The plain travelling carriage, the quiet, com-
fortable air of the retinue altogether, showed
that they belonged to that happiest class of the
150
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
English, middle lite, and were neither shocked | waving hair at rest!" and the awful smile on
by the restraint of poverty, nor the constraint
of grandeur and pomp generally imposed on
rank. How happy they all looked! the chil-
dren so amazed, so joyous-the husband and
wife equally so-probably delighted at leaving
behind them the gayety of London for the un-
controlled liberty of a foreign tour, with plenty
of money to spend. And in the happy wife, |
who merely noticed the distinguished form,
though haggard countenance, of the fascinating
Harry Percy by a careless glance and the pass
ing thought "of whom does that man remind
me?" he recognised no other than the cruel,
prudent Julia Bernard, who had refused to
marry him because he was a gambler! and al-
though on that cruel prudence he had often cast
the blame of his past blighted career, he now,
with bitter feelings, acknowledged the wisdom
of the decision. His poor Maud! he thought, |
with repentant sorrow, would that she had been
equally wise! his conscience might have been
spared at least the sin of her misery!
:
44
those stiff, cold lips? And she too! why does
she come also to trouble his soul, not with the
stern look of one who had forsaken him-who
now hated him, but as a pale, weeping ghost,
| lamenting, not the health, the happiness she had
lost, but that by his sin they had been parted—
yes, parted for eternity? Maud Maud !" he
cried, in violent excitement, "take me back-
take back your unworthy husband he has
learned at length to value you: he cannot exist
without you-without you he is lost forever!
| Did you not love him with a love too firm to be
wrenched from him thus completely? Do I not
see you in my dreams stretching out your arms,
and imploring me to fly to you?" Wretched
man! his sin had found him out.
Almost frantic, Percy seized a pen and wrote
to his wife. He had often done so before, but
in his cooler moments the letters had been de-
stroyed, and this one either was not destined
to be despatched.
The next morning Percy awoke in a high..
fever, and for many days was confined to his
bed, the most part of the time half delirious.
When sufficiently recovered, he was permitted
by his friends, two of whom had kindly remain-
ed with him, to read the letters which had ar-
Harry Percy was, however, not long in re-
taining his incognito. Some acquaintances, ar-
riving at Ostend, found him out, and, to his dis-
may, his solitary apartment was invaded they
rallied him on having turned recluse, and,
malgré bongré, drew him off to the billiard-room.rived during his illness.
Languidly, without the least particle of his usual
enjouement, he was forced to play.
If billiards could not make Harry Percy him-
self again, they imagined they knew what must
revive him, and cards and dice were made
ready for his evening's entertainment.
|
He tore it
There was one which he instantly recognised
as the handwriting of Mr. Merton.
open with frantic haste, cast his eyes over its
contents, uttered an exclamation of dismay and
anguish, and then informed his friends, who
were tempted to believe that he was still suf-
The first night he escaped and went to bed:fering from delirium, of his intention to pro-
the second, smitten with a desire of banishing
his unbearable depression by the usual means
of excitement, he seized the dice-box, and-the |
gambler's heart turned sick, his hand trembled.
ceed immediately to England.
"Will that not be a dangerous hazard?" one
of them ventured to remark, when they saw he
was perfectly determined to set off.
What mattered it to him how dangerous!
Even if destruction were to be the consequence,
the delay of an hour longer should not inter-
vene before he quitted Ostend his wife was
ill, and had sent for him; was not that rea-
son sufficient?
Not greater could have been the surprise of
the guests of Macbeth at the unaccountable agi-
tation he manifested, in the largest sense, than
were Harry Percy's friends at the emotion
they now witnessed in him this night; and still
more were they astounded when, finally, finding
it impossible to proceed, he had dashed the dice- The friends shrugged their shoulders, and
box upon the table, and muttering some inco- gave up disputing the point, only hinting the ex-
herent words, arose and hurried from the room. pediency of his taking some precautions, such
Locking the door of his apartment, and throw-as an assumed name-some concealment of his
ing himself on the sofa, he gave himself up to
all the wretchedness of his feelings.
< What was to become of him now? where
betake himself? Even the pleasures of sin had
turned against him: by no virtuous struggle
with his passions had they been overcome;
but suddenly, when too late to be of use-when
all were now gone without recall, they too had
deserted him, and the exciting cup had changed
into a loathsome, bitter draught, whose property
consisted only in the fearful power of conjuring
up ghosts of the past, maddening to his senses
as the spectres of the murdered victims of the
Thane of Cawdor.
All his buried hopes-all his lost blessings-
the dread arrear of the past, why had they wait-
ed till now to rise up before him with such
awakened horror? And that bright and beau-
tiful child, with its waving hair, why appear be-
fore his mind's eye with the smile on his lips
with which he had bid him adieu for the last
time? or worse, as he saw him next, ** with that
|
person; but Percy, absorbed in his distracting
thoughts, heeded them not.
By the next packet the two friends embarked
with Percy for Dover.
Percy, have you heard that Jack Drum-
mond is dead?" said one of them, as they pa-
ced the confined deck.
"Dead!" was the abrupt answer.
"Yes, he died quite suddenly the other day.
I wonder who will be fortunate enough to get
hold of his money: he has not, I believe, a near
relation in the world.. Percy, you used to be a
bosom friend of his, so who knows?"
"Pshaw!" muttered Percy between his
teeth; "a warm friend, indeed, he proved him-
self to be!"
เ
|
Oh well, it was deused close of him, we
all thought, never to have come forward with
the least offer of assistance; but it is the way
of the world: a man will do anything in the
way of friendship but put his hands into his
pocket, however brimful it may be-But cumne,
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
151
4
my good fellow, for goodness' sake, let's have
a hand at ecarté; it will cheer you up!"
Percy gave his officious friend a glance of
fierceness, which, imbodied in words, might
have expressed an ardent desire to hurl him
overboard. Pushing his hat over his brow, he
turned away, and stood straining his eyes over
the sea till the white cliffs of Dover appeared
in sight.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
"Hush'd were HER lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die, and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more-that felt.
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair,
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt-
Of them that stood encircling his despair,
He heard some friendly words, but knew not what
They were."-Gertrude of Wyoming.
Ir had been a bright and glorious day of
early June. Maud was reclining on her couch,
the drowsy hum of summer sounds floating
around her; her eyes were fixed upon the
white, fleecy clouds sailing along the blue sky,
and a heavenly smile was on her lips, as if she
communed with things invisible.
.
Her anxious friends rejoiced to see her thus,
for during the day there had been about her a
nervous excitement, and the consciousness of
its existence seemed to distress her,
suffered to humble my proua heart; I wept
through many a bitter tear, I mourned through.
many an hour of sorrow; but the trial was from
God, and by his goodness these tears have been
converted into tears of joy, and my unhappiness
has been the means of winning me to him.
And my mother-my sainted mother! she was
taken from evil to come before misfortune gath-
ered round those she so fondly loved her gen-
tle spirit could ill have brooked the agony my
sad career would have inflicted on her tender
heart. Her life was one of pious happiness, and
she exchanged it, we humbly hope, for a world
of eternal bliss.
ι
"And my child," Maud continued, after a
pause, which was unbroken by the weeping
group, "my pretty Harry! oh, the blessedness
of the thought that he is safe! my little lamb,
safe in the heavenly fold: sorrow will never
bow his head, nor sin deface his soul-safe from
the temptation of the world. His face is hid-
den from me for a little moment, but soon it will
bless my longing sight; I shall see him far more
bright, more beautiful, more happy than he was
wont to be here below."
And then she spoke of her husband as she
had done so much of late. No breath of re-
proach or blame had she to fear from any one:
too much were her feelings respected; too much
awed were they by witnessing the enduring, the
beautiful power of an affection which seemed
almost to sanctify in their eyes the subject on
which it was poured and could he who had
preserved such a love be so utterly unworthy?
impossible! "And you will not," Maud con-
tinued, "cast him forth again on the bitter, dan-
gerous world? you will protect him-assist
Often had she started up, clasped her thin
hands, and with glistening eyes and flushing
cheeks, when some distant sound or voice had
fallen upon her, she would exclaim, in a sor-
rowful tone, as her hope vanished, and she
sunk exhausted even by this temporary excite-him by your love and kindness? Oh! if not
ment,
"It is wrong to love him still so very much."
On this day there seemed no power in outward
circumstances to disturb her tranquil, upraised
spirit.
Towards evening she requested May to raise
her on her pillows, that she might see the sun
set, and as she did so Maud whispered gently,
with something like her bright, gay smile of
old,
"I think he will come to-night!" and soon
after she bade her tell Arthur to come and sit
with them her father and Mr. Merton were al-
ready there.
When May returned with her husband, Maud
took both their hands, and looking affectionately
into their faces, said,
"I love so much to see you together, and to
think of all the happiness of your future years!
Has not our God been good and wise? Has
he not made all things to work together for good
-yes, all? Can we now discern anything in
any of the dispensations with which he has been
pleased to afflict us but mercies--mercies in dis-
guise ;" and then, with the clear-sighted percep-
tion with which those approaching the confines
of another world seem sometimes so peculiarly
gifted, and with an affecting eloquence, which
caused those around almost to hold their breath
with awed attention, she traced every past event
of Providence, and how they all had marked
the wisdom and the compasion of a merciful Fa-
ther.
for my sake, for his own-for the sake of an im-
mortal soul, you will save him from again having
recourse to the world, of which you know not
all the dangerous wickedness. Believe me, he
naturally loves all that is good and lovely: he
will but too willingly forsake the life he has
hitherto led, if you once more stretch out your
arms to receive my poor Harry. Yes," she
said, with a happy smile, "I have a sweet hope
that my prayers are at length about to be an-
swered, and that the curse of disobedience which
I have brought, not only on myself, but on all con-
nected with me, will be done away; and though
I shall not be permitted in this world to see the
fruits of them, they will be granted when I am
gone, and therefore it is that I so long-I trust
it is not sinful to do so-to see him once more;
for though I can safely confide all into the hands
of my God, yet I know that words from dying
lips are often permitted to have blessed effects
on those to whom they are addressed, and I
would tell him that, though in a moment of de-
spair of wretchedness, I forsook him, that he
is my last earthly thought; that cares for him
will haunt me even to the gates of death, and
disturb my dying moments, if with his own lips
he does not confirm the hope of our final reunion
-the blessed trust that we all shall one day
meet together,
"No wanderer lost, a family in Heaven.'"
The shades of evening were gradually closing
round them, and when she had finished speak-
"For myself," she said, "I needed all I haveing, she lay calmly and silently with her hand
1
152
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
་
:
clasped in her father's; from whose eyes many a | sir, she must not be agitated." But he heard
burning drop was falling.
nothing, saw nothing, till he had passed through
All was hushed within that chamber, the si- the chamber door, and then the sweet words,
lence only broken by the unequal breathing of Harry, Harry! is it really my Harry ?" reach-
the invalid, and now and then a suppressed oh!ed his ear, and in another instant he held Maud
from her sister, as she sat leaning her head locked in his arms; weeping over her, sobbing
against her husband's shoulder.
like a child.
!
A physician was in attendance in the house,
and once Lucy entered and whispered to May
that he wished to know if he might enter, as he
usually did at that time, to see his patient; but
Maud answered a glance which her sister cast
towards her with an impløring look, which seem
ed to say, “Let me not be disturbed just now."
So May shook her head, and Lucy departed.
having first approached the bedside to receive
a pressure of the hand, and to hear the anxious
ly whispered words, "Do you think he will
come to-night?" and all again relapsed into
their former quiet.
At length the breathing of Maud became deep
er, and they knew that she was sleeping:
No lights were brought, though it was becom-
ing quite dark, and the bright evening star alone
shone in upon them and there sat the party,
Mr. Merton even fearing to arouse the sleeper
by rising to depart.
►
If, on the first sight of the man, whom they
could not but associate in their minds as the
being who had destroyed that sweet flower be-
fore them, the feelings of the father and sister
had been chilled towards him, such a sight had
in the next moment melted their hearts, and
they too were weeping.
f
:
At length Maud released her arms from about
her husband's neck, and then they looked upon
each others' faces with a long, earnest gaze.
Candles had been brought in, and as their
light shone upon him,
66
My poor, poor Harry," Maud faintly mur-
mured, as she looked upon the pale, haggard be-
ing before her.
But Percy saw only a face of unearthly beau-
ty, cheeks flushed with such lustrous brilliance,
and a smile of such angelic happiness beaming
from her sparkling eyes, and he exclaimed, in a
low, passionate tone,
:
"My own darling, they told me you were so
ill-that you were dying, my angel! It is not
true; you will not leave me you are too good
and beautiful to die!"
She shook her head with a sad, sweet smile.
"Then, Maud," he exclaimed, with passion-
Suddenly their attention was aroused by a
sound which became, by degrees, distinct from
that of the mountain streams with which, at
first, they had confounded it; it was the noise
of carriage wheels fast approaching the house
Their hearts beat quickly, and May murmured
in a breathless voice, ""Tis him!" motioned toate vehemence, "I am a murderer! If you die,
Mr. Sutherland, who turned pale as ashes, and I call Heaven to witness, it is I who have killed
to Mr Merton, who gently left the room. But
whether it was the sound that had aroused her,
or that even in sleep her fancy was busy with
expectation, Maud started up, and gazing with
bewildered eagerness around her, cried,
"Who is here? I heard--I heard a sound:
is he here? I dreamed-I dreamed that he was
here. Father, is it you? May-Arthur? Oh,
tell me, is he come? don't deceive me !"
Dear Maud, Mr. Merton has gone to see.
You must compose yourself, for we may be mis-
taken," they said.
No, no, it is him: I hear his voice-I am
sure I hear it. Let him come to me: do not let
them keep him from me."
Arthur, knowing that all this agitation must
be more hurtful than the meeting, hastened to
ascertain if it were really her husband, and to
bring him to her. On entering the hall, he
found, in truth, Harry Percy, leaning for support
on Mr. Merton's arm, though by the light of the
lamp he beheld a face so ghastly that at first he
could scarcely recognise him.
Percy was eagerly, but in a voice hardly au-
dible from agitation, interrogating Mr. Merton,
but on seeing Arthur, who extended to him his
hand, he seized it earnestly with strong emo-
tion.
He was immediately told that Maud knew of
his arrival, therefore he had better go to her.
"Where is she-where is she?" Percy wildly
inquired.
He had reached the anteroom, and there stood
Mrs. Power with a light in her hand. The glance
she cast upon him as he rushed past her had in
it more of reproach than pity, as also the tone of
voice in which she said, “You must take care,
|
|
you I who have broken your angel heart!
Yes," and he turned wildly towards May and
her father, "curse me-spurn me I am the
wretch who has destroyed her well may you
execrate my name !"
Harry, Harry, do not talk so wildly: you
distress me. It was not you, but God, who has
laid my proud spirit low, that he may exalt me
to his kingdom, and there, through the merits
of his Son, I am, I hope, fast hastening. Father
-May-speak to him-soothe him; tell him
that you forgive him, as you have forgiven me.”
Mr. Sutherland took his hand, and implored
him to be calm for the sake of her whom they
both loved so well.
Yes," Maud continued, "my father will for-
give us-will bless us; and May-let me see
my sister in your arms. Now I am happy; you
will all love one another when I am gone; and
now, my own dear father-my darling May, kiss
me, and leave us together, for I must lose no
time, and I have much-so very much to say!”
The husband and wife were left alone.
For some time after nothing was heard in the
silent chamber but the low murmuring of Harry
Percy's voice, as, with Maud strained to his bo-
som, in broken accents he poured forth heart-
rending words of agonized affection and of bitter,
vehement self-reproach, till at length the torrent
of emotion had exhausted itself There had
been a pause, and then those who waited in the
adjoining apartment heard another voice break
the silence: at first it was scarcely audible, but
soon it rose clearer and louder, and never were
the tones of that sweet voice forgotten by those
upon whose ears they fell; and though at times
the breathless listeners turned their eyes upon
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
153
each other, as if to say, "Should this be suffer-move the necessity of taxing Mr. Sutherland's
ed to continue?" all around seemed to shrink kindness, and, it will also allow me to satisfy
from breaking in upon that solemn communing. every claim, and to remain in my own coun-
Later and later it grew, and still those words try. It is my intention to leave this place to-
flowed uninterrupted from those same dear lips, morrow for London; in order to settle my affairs,
for he to whom they were addressed had now no after which I shall be able to form some plan
eager vows, no passionate protestations to meet for the future. You will therefore, my dear sir,
the solemn exhortation. In humble, broken- be so kind as to acquaint my friends with this
hearted contrition he gazed on the angelic coun- sudden determination. It must be a relief to
tenance, and drank in the eloquent words by them all, for what can my presence be but a
which, as with an angel's voice, she besought source of agony and bitter associations? Bid
him to flee from sin and follow God; but, sud- them; for me, adieu: thank them all for the
denly the listener's attention was turned into kindness and forbearance they have shown to--
another channel: there was a total pause-an wards me-kindness of which I am so utterly
ominous stillness.
unworthy. Tell them at this moment my heart
is too broken by sorrow and remorse to profit
by any sympathy. If we meet again, I may per-
chance he more fit to receive it.
>
Mr. Merton and Arthur proceeded to the
chamber, May and her father remaining motion- |
less, with swelling hearts. The next instant
Arthur returned, and in a choked voice mur-
mured "Come.”
+
"
so many tears to flow.
+
Harry Percy persisted in this intention; and,
seeing no one but Lucy, departed on the follow-
As they entered the apartment, a deep, smoth-ing morning from the spot where he had caused
ered groan met their ears, not from the dying
wife, but the wretched husband, in whose arms
she was so peacefully reclining: a sweet smile
gleamed upon her face even through the shades
of death, which were so fast gathering round
her.
I
The father and sister each took a cold, damp
hand, which closed upon theirs with a thrilling
pressure.
$
Mr. Merton said the prayer for a departing
spirit, and ere the words had died upon his lips
there was a gentle sigh.
*
*
*
They removed the wife from her husband's
arms: he passively: resigned: her: the faithful
spirit had departed!
་
It was a strange coincidence, that the same
bright sun which a week after mocked with its
brightness the misery of the mourners, in the
noble chancel of the Sutherlands, shone also on:
the humble group which surrounded the grave
of the old beldame Judith. On the same day,
the once bright child of prosperity was laid in
the home appointed for all living: the wretched
woman, an object of contempt and disgust, was
likewise committed to the dust.
·
Once more Sutherland Manor was left to the
solemn stillness which succeeds the departure
of the dead. That same evening Mr. Merton
was summoned to the apartment now occupied
by the widowed Harry Percy.
He was seated, leaning his head on his hands ;
but, raising his head as the clergyman approach-
ed, he placed in his hand an open letter.
"The contents of this you will be so good as
to communicate to Mr. Sutherland."
Percy proceeded to say, "You see that he will
now be released from the generous offer which
I so little merit-I mean, that of assisting in
the arduous task of arranging my affairs."
Mr. Merton cast his eyes over the letter,
which, to bis great surprise, acquainted him
that, by the will of his deceased friend, Sir John
Drummond, Harry Percy became possessed of
more than half of his large fortune.
"For this," Percy continued, in the same.
calm, apathetic tone, affording a strange con-
trast to the energetic enunciation with which
he would have formerly discussed so fortunate
an event, "for this I am thankful, as it will re-
U
It was deemed a sacred duty by those who
had witnessed the anxiety of the departed Maud“
for the welfare of her husband to endeavour in
every way to promote it.
:
:
Arthur Balfour, a few days after his depar-··
ture, followed him to London with kind messa-
ges from Mr. Sutherland and anxious inquiries
concerning his future plans, inviting him to join
their party in a journey abroad for the benefit
of his own and his daughter's health and spirits,
which had greatly suffered from the late mourn→
ful event; or, if he preferred the solitude of
the Manor, it was at his disposal. But both
the propositions were gratefully declined. Sol
itude and perfect seclusion were now his only
desire the only remedy which he felt would be
the most salutary to his mind, but not at the
Manor could he seek refuge: he had not strength
to face the agonizing associations of that place.
Finding that they could be in no way of use to
the unhappy man, the Sutherland family left-
England.
In a short time all Percy's debts and liabili-
ties were paid off, and a moderate unencum-
bered income remained at his disposal.
Not a few hearts beat gladly at the prospect
of Harry Percy, a widower with improved
means, making again his appearance in the
world of which he had always been so great a
favourite as well as ornament, but all were dis-
appointed.
The first year of widowhood had even passed,
but no Harry Percy graced the clubs or the ra
cing stands, or the drawing-rooms of the bright
and beautiful.
What had become of him? Conjecture ex-
hausted itself in surmises, till at length-the
fate of all whose friends are of the world-few
ceased to care, and he was forgotten.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
""Twas a stricken dear, that left the herd
Long since. With many an arrow deep enfix'd
My panting side was charged when I withdrew
To
distant shades ;
};
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hard by the archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,
.
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live-
Since then, with few associates."
154
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
•
“I wander far from these
My former partners of the peopled scene,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come."
d.
COWPER.
And that sudden pause in the before eloquent
and fluent harangue of their much-prized, holy
brother, what would they have thought had they
known that the sight of a little uncovered head,
ONE evening in the autumn, five years after upon which waved curls of golden hue, and two
the events related, a gentleman and lady were dark, lustrous eyes fixed wonderingly upon him
returning from a ramble on the hills surround-by that child held in her father's arms, had for
ing a retired and beautiful little seaside town in
the west of England. They were touring in
that part of the country for the benefit of the
health of a child. But not the bright-eyed
creature who is carried in her father's arms,
her cheeks coloured with all the fresh brilliancy
of health. Suddenly, as they were passing be-
fere a building in the irregular, unostentatious
street, the child placed her little finger on her
lip, and whispered, "Hush!" and pausing, the
deep-toned voices of a congregation joining in a
solemn hymn met their ears.
an instant been able to shake his soul, and turn
it back to earthly remembrances, even from the
spiritual exaltation in which it had been ere
now solely absorbed, and that his mind too was
wandering back to past days-to the "gambler's
wife."
But it was over: the momentary feeling pass-
ed: again he raised his head, pushed back the
dark hair from his intellectual brow, his eyes
flashed brightly with holy fire, his form dilated,
his arms were raised with enthusiastic eager-
ness, and with the inspired tongue of an apostle
he exalted the name of Him who had called him
When the sounds had ceased, they inquired
of a person who stood near what was the na-out of darkness into marvellous light, and by
ture of the meeting.
whom, with all believers, he was justified from
all those things with which, in times past, he
had walked.
They were told that it was a congregation of
Plymouth Brethren, who had assembled on this
particular occasion in order to hear a distin-
guished preacher who was to discourse that
evening.
Of this sect the travellers had heard much
during their sojourn in Devonshire, and the lady
now proposed to her husband that they should
enter and listen to the preaching; and the lit-
tle girl, with all the curiosity of her sex to see
all that is to be seen, seconded her mother's de-
sire by pushing aside with her little hand some
one who stood in her way, and expressing a
very decided determination to go in, and see
where the pretty music came from; so the la-
dies having gained the point, the little party en-
tered.
They found themselves in a long, lighted
room, filled with people, whose eyes were all
eagerly strained towards the upper end, where
stood the preacher, supported on either side by
a party of assisting brethren, who, with their
Bibles in their hands, now bent their eyes to
the ground with an air of proud humility, now
stole a glance over the congregation, as if to
observe the effect which the emphatic eloquence
of their zealous brother produced on those who
heard him.
It was, perhaps, with no little exultation that
their eyes fell upon one face bathed in a flood
of tears, and evidently suffering from strong
emotion; one, too, whom their zealous percep-
tion could plainly discern was not of them, though
among them.
them—a daughter of the world; and though,
shortly after, she was drawn away by her hus-
band, the brethren probably breathed a prayer
that the sword of the spirit might have pierced
the heart, and that the seed sown that day
might take root and bear fruit upward.
But the worthy men would have been disap-
pointed had they known the real origin of the
emotion of their fair convert; for though, in
calmer moments, the sacred subject, set forth
with such affecting and heart-stirring power,
would not have been without its effect upon her
heart, it was not the discourse which now
moved her, but the strange and unexpected
identity of the preacher before them, which had
caused a rush of sad memories to rise before
her mind.
Yes, with May and Arthur, we may again
recognise Harry Percy, no longer the enthusi-
astic, inveterate gambler, the eager worldling,
but the zealous disciple of Him whom by his
works he had before blasphemed. No longer
the much-prized companion of the followers of
the world, but forming a distinguished member
of an isolated company of men, who, however
blameable may be the ill-directed bent which
turns them away from the bosom of that church
so wise and scriptural in its doctrines, are still,
not only in faith, but in practice, the faithful
upholders of Him towards whom the world is
ever in enmity.
Harry Percy, broken in spirit and in health,
torn with the pangs of remorse and anguish at
the death of a wife loved by him through all his
frailties with an affection sincere and tender,
had buried himself in seclusion after the ar-
rangement of his affairs and the liquidation of
his debts. He had accidentally fallen in with
a member of this religious sect, a man of talent
and powers of intellect well calculated to exert
an influence over his mind in its peculiar state.
It is not, therefore, surprising, that with all the
enthusiastic impulse of his nature, he had seized
with avidity the Gospel truths of which their
doctrine is principally composed, namely, justi-
fication by faith, and a total exemption thereby
from every past sin, and that he had rushed into
the arms held out so eagerly to receive him as
a member of the community. Those who have
ever been thrown into the way of this sect are
probably aware that among its most pious and
zealous members there are many who formerly,
like Harry Percy, had been wedded to the world
-its sins and pleasures.
The next morning Percy received an affec-
tionate note from his sister-in-law, proposing
to visit him with her husband.
The bearer of the epistle was the little Maud
Sutherland, who, they were informed by the
nurse, had spent some time alone with her un-
cle; and when he had taken leave of her, the
description of the warm embrace, the gushing
tears, and the fervent blessing he invoked upon
the little girl affected deeply the parents. It
proved that Harry Percy, changed though he
THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.
155
'was, still preserved that warmth of heart, that | involved the interest of his Master's kingdom:
kindness of feeling, which, even while pursuing for the preparation of such an undertaking, he
his career of worthlessness, were charms irre-required every power and affection of his soul;
sistible in their fascination. How beautified and knowing too well the weakness of the hu-
were these qualities now!
man heart, he would not run the risk, even for
a moment, of allowing his thoughts to be led
away from the interest of the great work before
him. Praying, therefore, for the spiritual wel-
fare of herself and those belonging to her, he
bade her adieu, commending her and hers to
the grace of Him to whose service he was now
devoted, and at whose right hand he trusted
that one day they should all meet.
May's affectionate nature yearned, towards
him whom she now only remembered as the
adored husband of her dear departed sister, and
who, however she might deplore the ill-devoted
channel of his present altered career, could only
now excite her admiration and afford her con-
solation on his behalf.
It was wonderful to hear, as she now did,
that Harry Percy, once absorbed in all the ex-
citing pursuits of sin and pleasure, was wholly
devoted, heart and soul, to the service of his
God and the welfare of his fellow-creatures.
While his own wants and mode of living were
condensed into the simplicity and self-denial of
an anchorite, his income was spent in affording
relief to the poor and needy, his hand ever
ready to smooth the dying pillow, his words of
comfort raising many a fainting heart.
However painful the interview might be,
May earnestly desired to see Harry Percy; but
this was not to be.
With all the energy of his former style, he
wrote gratefully and affectionately, but decli-
ned the meeting. He was on the eve, he said,
of setting out on an expedition which deeply
Our story is now concluded, for with Harry
Percy we have no more to do. He has depart-
ed to a far-distant land on a work of such im-
minent danger that few of the zealous little
band are ever expected to return.
We will not enter more fully, in a work of
this kind, upon a subject so sacred, so weighty,
but we may presume to hope that, while deplo-
ring the errors which drew so naturally noble a
soul from the Mother Church, and while griev-
ing that the zeal and energies of such a charac-
ter should be exercised beyond the precincts of
its blessed pale, still even the most prejudi-
ced can and must rejoice that Harry Percy, in
sincere repentance, has renounced all those
errors which broke the heart of the “gambler's
wife!"
1
THE END.
THE
BREACH OF PROMISE.
A Novel.
Mrs. H. M. CGorded Smyths
BY THE AUTHOR OF
«THE JILT," "COUSIN GEOFFREY," "THE MARRYING MAN," "THE
WATCHMAKER," &c., &c.
NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
82 CLIFF STREET.
*
1845.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
CHAPTER I.
ALL was bustle and confusion in a very
small house, in a very small street, in the un-
fashionable and unromantic neighbourhood of
St. Pancras for in this very small house, the
silly inmates had undertaken to give a great
dinner to a very great man!
(6
"Great" is of course a relative term; the
dinner, old-fashioned and mean enough in itself,
was great" to those who generally knew no
variation in their bill of fare, but that from mut-
ton-chops to beef-steaks; and the guest was a
great man" in the opinion of his hosts and
himself, although in the Levee and Drawing-
room reports, he came in so closely packed
among the other "Sirs," as to be scarcely re-
markable or remarked, and you might have
sought him in vain among the more favoured
cavaliers of the Queen's select balls or dinner
parties.
nephew he hated for many reasons, some great,
some small; but, with the little-minded, the
paltriest causes of dislike often outweigh the
heaviest. He hated him as a lady-killer of
forty-eight generally hates an elegant and en-
dearing young man of three-and-twenty; as a
middle-aged and frivolous worldling hates the
assumption of superiority implied by steadier
conduct, higher motives, and more serious
views, in a younger man; as a pretender to
scholarship hates a man of real genius and
classical eminence; but, above all, he hated him
because he had boldly criticised his Essay on
Taste, ridiculed a new carriage he had invented,
and defeated him in argument. This nephew
was not dependent on him. He had inherited
the estate, and taken the name, of a friend who
had reared him. But, as matters stood, he
was Sir Felix Archer's heir, and delighted in
teasing the ci-devant jeune homme.
This was the "great man," expected in the
Still, though a small star enough, when larger small house of the poor, the struggling, the
luminaries abounded, when alone in the heav-ambitious, and almost heart-broken Temples
ens, he attracted some attention, and found the Temples, originally his superiors by birth
some worshippers. He was rich-he was the and education, but who had been going down
first baronet of his name-he was slightly liter-hill more rapidly even than he had been going
ary, slightly supercilious, and slightly bald. Not up. Alas! in all things the going down is so
being quite forty-eight, he called himself thirty- much the quicker and easier process of the
eight; and since as yet his age had not found its two. Why, one could unravel in a few min-
way into the Baronetage, he boldly wrote himself utes what it had taken many hours to weave
thirty-eight in the Census, which at that time-one could spend in a morning the savings of
caused the Few to confess, and the Many to
fib, preferring the risk of forfeiting "a sum not
under forty shillings nor above five pounds;"
preferring, I say, the chance of that risk, to the
certainty of seeing himself "written down"
forty-eight.
|
years, and forget in one hour the lessons of a
life. In all things it is the same-how hard to
learn, how easy to unlearn; witness all ye with
little Latin and less Greek, who yet came forth
(not so very long ago) crowned with honours
from the arms of "Alma Mater." And the
Rev. Henry Temple was one of Alma Mater's
favourite sons;-from Captain at Eton, he had
become Fellow at King's;-he was a fine math-
ematician, and an elegant Grecian ;--but fool-
ishly marrying before he had got a living, he
found, too late, he had a living to get.
His name was Sir Felix Archer; he had ele-
vated eyebrows and elevated notions; a pale
complexion, good features, very white hands,
and was scrupulously neat and elegant in his
dress. He was a patron of the literati, and
piqued himself on his taste in vertu and beauty,
gazing with the same cold scrutiny on both. He The first few years of his wedded life were spent
had been twice married; the objects of his comfortably enough, in expectation of a good
choice had been daughters of Fashion, eminent living, and in possession of a poor curacy in the
for their charms, accomplished, and wealthy. parish of St. Pancras. As this curacy, with
The one, in her first youth, died of consump- the notions they had then, did little more than
tion (a natural tendency to which was probably pay rent and taxes, they thought themselves
confirmed by the ruinous dissipation of a suc-obliged, after spending Mr. Temple's small pro-
cession of London seasons.) The second, a perty, to sell out fifteen hundred pounds' worth
full-blown and very handsome widow, expired of stock, the sole dowry of his beautiful wife,
suddenly at a ball; some said from tight-lacing,
to preserve a figure growing too stout; some,
from the effects of injurious cosmetics, which |
she used to refresh a fading complexion. To
his great grief, they left him childless. He
mourned, not so much because he loved chil-
dren, as because he loathed a certain nephew,
to whom, if he had no direct descendant, his
title, and some of his estates would go. This
though she was a daughter of one of our oldest
families. Thus for some time they lived in tol-
erable style on Capital and a Curacy-on Love
and Hope; the former soon dwindled away-so
soon, that they could scarcely believe it was
gone! The Curacy, the Love, and the Hope
remained to them! They had been kind to the
poor when they had means; surely now they
were poor, some would be kind to them? Be-
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
•
+
!
sides, they both had friends. Alas! Alas! Mr. | The wine was good, and after dinner Sir Felix
Temple's friends and Mrs. Temple's friends grew gracious. He asked Temple to call upon
turned, as "friends" generally do on such occa- him, and Temple who had seen the day when
sions, into relentless foes. Poor Temple had a his notice (he being one of the cleverest and
long struggle, a fierce, protracted struggle, with most popular fellows of King's) was an honour
Fate. He was often nearly conquered, but to Felix Archer, dreamt he had found a patron,
never quite, for the wife he had chosen proved and called the next morning in Portland Place.
indeed the Angel of life. She always com- He saw several powdered footmen with tags
forted, never condemned; and not even when and sticks, and conceited airs, a fine hall, a
a plan failed or an expectation was frustrated, large chair, and heard that Sir Felix was just
did she come in with the usual matrimonial going out, in evidence of which his carriage
remark, "I always foretold it"-"I knew it
"I knew it was at the door.
was at the door. With that sickness, the sight
would be so." She blamed herself, she blamed of great wealth, and the exhibition of menial
others, she blamed the dark march of dark insolence, produces in the heart, where beat the
events, but "she never blamed him, never." sensitive pulses of the poor, but gently born, he
She loved him after eighteen years (all winters), left his card and his new article, and hastened
all struggle, hope deferred, and often bitter dis- away.
appointment; she loved him better, more ten-
derly, more earnestly, more reverently, than
when, with the trusting heart of early girlhood,
she set out with him for his sole estate, a free-
hold in the fairy-land of Hope!
He had tried everything; and as they had
nor begged nor starved, he could not be said to
have failed. He had gone through everything;
he had had pupils, and had found that with the
very poor, pupils soon become masters. He
lost his authority directly he was obliged to beg
for his money. The Temples had tried boarders
too, but they found they reaped nothing from
them but discontent and insult, and the last
proved to be a sort of private amateur maniac,
who was called "harmless," because she never
harmed herself, but who took great delight in
slyly cutting notches in tables and chairs, and
picking holes in her neighbours' coats (but that
Jast is an universal mania). This lady's friends
were glad to get her out to board, but, like the
memorable bad "half-crown," she was always
coming back to them. The poor Temples, who
The poor Temples, who
had nothing of the Jew about them, were several
pounds the losers by her mischievous depreda-
tions, and by her were finally wearied with
the profitless speculation, boarders must be, to
people who cannot learn to be sordid.
At length, Mr. Temple took to his pen-he
might almost as well have taken to his bed. A
great poet has said, "the pen is mightier than
the sword;" it may be so to destroy, but to
support, alas! a broken reed is that same pen.
Yet, with this broken reed, after many trials!
many failures! and-alas! for manhood too se-
verely tried many tears! he did keep the wolf
from the door.
This trifling success was the result of some
articles he contributed to a religious periodical
-articles remarkable at once for their piety,
their research, and their exquisite diction; their
favourable reception induced him to publish four
volumes of his best sermons-luckily on half
profits, or he might have been in gaol; as it was,
experience was all his share of the profit-it
was bought dear; many months of labour and
of hope before publication, a fever, and six
weeks in bed, after it! He returned to the
Theological Quarterly a wiser man.
At a dinner given by his publisher, he one
day met Sir Felix Archer, who had himself
published the before-mentioned Essay on Taste,
which no one had had taste enough to read,
even when sent to them gratis "from the au-
thor." He was a college friend of Temple's.
|
Mrs. Temple, although she would not own it,
was much surprised at his quick return. Hope,
like all other powers of the mind, actually grows
with exercise-no disappointment had taught
her to cease to hope. The most inordinate ex-
pectations are generally entertained by those
who have been the most constantly and cruelly
disappointed. No people have such faith in
fairies as the most destitute among the Irish
poor; and our own used at one time to all but
starve themselves, in order to purchase shares
in a lottery ticket.
However, she kept her hopes and her disap-
pointments to herself; but Sir Felix Archer was
a gentleman, and so, on the third day, he re-
turned the call. Certainly he had no idea of
going into the little house, at sight of which
his eye-brows elevated themselves still more
than usual. Out of the large dark hood of his
mysterious-looking cab, came a small hand and
a small card; and his little tiger had just given
an immense rap, when Sir Felix, glancing up
at the first-floor window, saw the beautiful pro-
file of a young girl who was seated there, and
who aroused by the unwonted uproar, turned
towards him a face which seen in full, was
lovelier still. In a moment Sir Felix had al-
tered his intention; there was enough resem-
blance between the young girl and his old friend,
for him to decide that she was his daughter;
in a minute more he was in the room with her
and her father.
Lucilla Temple, not much interested in the
stranger-
??
Upon whose forehead middle age
Had slightly set its signet sage,'
after having been prevented by her father from
leaving the room, sank quietly down again on
the old folios on which she had been sitting.
She had been engaged in reading an impassioned
poem to her father, and the enthusiasm she
had felt, still kindled her eyes and flushed her
cheeks; her beautiful chesnut hair fell on a
very simple morning dress of classic cut, and
her whole air and figure was that of a young
sibyl.
The father noted the effect she produced on
the cold connoisseur. He was a father, and he
remembered the house in Portland Place, the
footmen, the tags, the sticks, the chair, the
hall, the carriage; he drew Lucilla out; he
made her read a few passages of the poem be-
fore her, and mentioning that she was herself a
poetess, he easily induced Sir Felix to implore
à recitation. The poem was graceful and new;
a
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
5
the recitation animated and feeling; but above [ maid of all work could do nothing unprompted;
all, the poetess was lovely.
Lucilla and her mother were flushed, wearied,
The cold Sir Felix was almost warmed into and obliged to hasten to their toilets, leaving
admiration; he paid a long visit (for him), shook the fate of the dinner in the black hands of a
his friend's hand cordially, called him "Tem-girl, who originally had not two ideas, and who
ple," and hinted at something about the pleas- was now too frightened to retain one.
ure of seeing him to dinner.
Temple was half-frantic; some wine he had
ordered had not arrived, and in rushing out to
ascertain the cause of delay, he knocked down
a little boy with a large basket of glasses, hired
for the occasion.
What chronicler could record all the hopes
and fancies of the parents' hearts, that beat that
night within the walls of that small house!
The next day came a haunch of venison from
Sir Felix, and the rash Temples invited him to
dinner on the third day from the receipt of this
important but ill-judged present.
CHAPTER II.
Mr.
Then a "tiger" had been borrowed of a friend
in the street to wait at table. He was very
conceited, and ere long, Tom, who was passion-
ate, engaged in a scuffle with him. The "tiger
wiry and old, though small, gave Tom a black
eye, which gave him a sinister appearance.
Mrs. Temple, having severely reprimanded
Jock, the "tiger," for the evil deed he had done,
WHAT a mistake it is in the poor and ambi-probably awoke the vengeance of that small but
tious to fancy they increase a good impression determined creature; for even while she was
by giving a bad dinner! And what dinner hastily washing off the effect of her culinary
could the Temples give that would not have avocations in the back drawing-room, which
seemed bad to Sir Felix Archer, who was con- was converted into a bed-room, Jock actually
sidered, even in London, a first-rate Amphy-flung open the door, and ushered in Sir Felix
trion?
Archer !
But then, Mr. Temple thought if his old
friend could but see more of Lucilla! could but
hear her sing songs of her own writing! hear
her converse, when quite at ease! If he had
been so struck with her in her morning dress,
and with her dishevelled hair, what would he
be when he saw her arrayed for conquest, in
all the witchery of white muslin and smooth
ringlets!
Lucilla was not informed of her parents'
hopes, but she had a woman's instinct where a
matrimonial speculation was concerned. Sir
Felix was not her beau ideal!—as yet, indeed,
only her ideal beau. But he had admired her; he
was elegant, rich, desired by her parents, and
she was heart-whole.
And so, she was (unlike a true heroine) very
anxious to shine before him; and she combed
and brushed her hair into its brightest gloss,
and washed and ironed her muslin dress, and
spent her only sixpence in a bunch of lilies of
the valley.
Then there was her brother Tom: who could
tell but that Sir Felix, being so well disposed,
might take a fancy to this smart lad, and get
him into something? Tom was just at the age
of incipient pedantry, incipient dandyism, and
confirmed awkwardness.
His charms consisted in a jacket buttoned to
the chin, a high stock, a pair of tight welling-
tons, and a wet brush.
There had been some doubt whether he should
dine at table; but as he had resolved, if he did
not appear at dinner, not to appear at all, his
presence was prepared for.
Then there was a scream, and a rush from
the lady, and a supercilious apology from the
gentleman, who retreated to the landing-place,
where he met Lucilla, slipping down stairs to
get her dress fastened by the maid of all work.
At this moment, Tom came forth with his
black eye, and did the honours.
Having been told to spare no pains to please
his probable patron, he chattered on with a
mixture of flippancy and pedantry; and before
dinner was announced, he had heartily wearied
and disgusted Sir Felix. That grandee having
been put out of temper by the mistake made at
his arrival, coldly handed Mrs. Temple down
stairs, and sat unbending and supercilious
during dinner, eating scarcely anything, and
not even smiling at some rather old stories and
jokes Tom was relating from the renowned
"Joe Miller." As to Lucilla, who had been
placed opposite to him, after one glance he took
no notice of her; tired, flushed, her hair stiffly
curled, and in a scanty ill-made white frock,
she was not the same being he had actually
longed to see again. Expectation ended with
her, too, as it generally does with all, in dis-
appointment. Fatigue and worry depressed
her spirits, and instead of being able to amuse
her father's guest, she was scarcely able to re-
press her tears.
The dinner was horrible! Yes, there is no
disguising the fact-it was positively horrible!
The Irish maid of all work had let soot fall into
the soup; the fish was parboiled, the chickens
were in rags, the venison was raw, the melted
butter was full of lumps of flour, the custards
were turned, and the jelly melting away.
Intense fatigue preceded the important day!
There was such borrowing and hiring-such Sir Felix coldly refused almost everything, or
hopes and disappointments-such vain attempts sent away his plate after having (evidently with
at making an old lamp burn-and in everything effort) tasted its contents. The only thing he
such grand beginnings, and such "lame and seemed to approve of was a pastry cook's
impotent conclusions;" but in what human un-sponge-cake. Mr. Temple tried to talk of church
dertaking is not that more or less the case?
What genius falls not far short in his best pro-
duction of his own original conception?
It is not very easy to preside at once in the
kitchen and the drawing-room. The stupid
and state, of politics, of literature, but his guest
would not be drawn out. He refused any des-
sert, though Lucilla offered to prepare his straw-
berries, and Tom to cut him an orange into the
shape of a pig. As soon as possible, Mrs. Tem-
6
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
+
ple gave the signal to her daughter, and they
adjourned to the drawing-room to bewail their
failure and all the needless expense they had in-
curred.
Perhaps your father and his wine may get
him into a good humour, my love," said poor
Mrs. Temple, sinking, half dead, into an arm-
chair. "See about the tea and coffee, dearest;
I can do no more.”
"I told him," said Tom, "how, when first
tea was introduced, ladies used to hand round
the leaves and eat them with sugar; but he
took no notice."
CHAPTER III.
АH! before real sorrow, how paltry seem
all the vanities of life! What was Sir Felix
Archer now? All his wealth, all his patronage,
could not have soothed one pang poor Temple
felt, while "Death's dark angel" seemed to
hover over the form of that dear and devoted
wife. Every thought, every feeling, is so en-
grossed by this sudden and terrible event, that
everything else, of however recent occurrence,
seems dim and indistinct, and as if long past
away! It seemed a year since Sir Felix sat
at the wretched table, with his odious and
supercilious smile; it seemed an age since
that dear wife, now extended before him, wan
and corpse-like, was flitting about with a fever-
Tea and coffee waited, and so did the ladies, ish cheek and an anxious eye, trying, in her
but in vain. After about an hour, they heardown delicate and weakly self, to supply the
wheels under the window; the street door open-place of all the attendants necessary to the
ed, and Tom who had been watching on the
stairs rushed up aghast, to say Sir Felix Archer
was gone! . . .
"He takes no notice of anything, or any one,"
said Lucilla, arranging her hair at the glass;
“do you watch, Tom, and let me know when
they are coming up.”
In a few moments Mr. Temple came up alone:
he was pale and agitated; he merely said, "Sir
Felix left his compliments and regrets he could
not join you.'
"Did you ask him to assist you in publishing
your large work?"
“I did.”
"And what did he reply ?"
"I forget what; some superciliously polite
refusal."
"Did you beg him to enable you to meet that
dreadful bill, due next Saturday?"
"No, I did not. I could not. I can go to
prison. I could not ask him; he would take
no hint. He grew so cold, so proud, so guard-
ed when I even approached the subject of my
dreadful trials. No, no, I could not do it; but
I can go to prison, and, what is more, I
must."
"Oh! if you had but asked him."
"I tell you, I could not do it: do not irritate
me; do not goad and taunt me now-I am not
myself;" and he hurried out of the room.
"I goad! I taunt him!" cried the poor wife,
hastening after him. "Dearest, let me speak
to you; you always have found comfort in me,
and you always shall."
He had hurried upstairs, and closed the
door. "Let me in, I implore you," she sobbed, "if
only to tell you on my knees I meant no offence.
Oh, think how long we have suffered together!
What have I done that now you should exclude
me from your heart? Do not-for the sake of
the past, do not."
The husband could resist no longer; he gently
opened the door. The wife saw he had been
weeping. "I wished to escape your contempt,
my love," he said.
"Oh! do not speak thus, you will kill me;"
and she flung herself wildly on his bosom.
In a moment she was lifeless at his feet. The
odious fatigues of that wretched day, and the
intense anguish of her heart, had been too much
for the wearied frame of a very delicate woman;
she had burst a blood vessel-and Mr. Temple
-ghastly pale, and wild with alarm, raised and
placed on a bed-her white dress stained with
blood-the corpse-like form of that devoted
wife.
proper serving up of one good dinner. Then
came the countless horrors of self-reproach!
Why did he let her do it? What was Sir Felix,
what all the world, to him, compared with her?
If she died, it would seem as if he had sacri-
ficed her to Vanity and Ambition.
Alas! poor Temple! well may'st thou weep!
For some days Mrs. Temple's fate was
doubtful. The nearest surgeon (luckily, a very
clever one) was in constant attendance; Lu-
cilla, in anguish too deep for tears, watched
and waited, and did his bidding. Temple sat
by the bed, the very statue of Despair; and
poor Tom, in his own little room, nearly cried
his eyes out.
Then crowded back on the husband's tor-
tured mind, as he watched through the long
hours of twilight and of night, the ghosts of
vanished hours. The ransacked past did not
furnish one cold look, one bitter word, one
unkind deed, to make him tolerate the thought
of losing her, for a moment. No! no! Life
had not been to them the pleasure-boat upon
the sunny sea, which, sanguine and poetical,
they had expected it to prove. But storm and
tempest had made them cling to each other-
they were companions of the wreck-the wreck
that bore them to those arid realms where
Poverty is Queen. They had none to love, and
woo, and court them but each other; for who
woos or courts the Hopeless and the Poor!
And so they loved, indeed! and Temple, as he
knelt beside his wife, breathed a vow, if she
were but spared him, manfully to meet all
evils, but her loss, and never to repine at any
fate she shared: and she was spared! The
dread, the danger was o'er. Ah, who could
recognise the ruined man in that enraptured
one? His tears, which fall like rain, they seem
to freshen and revive the buds of Hope and
Joy; his difficulties, his responsibilities-he
has forgotten them all. He may talk to her,
read to her, comfort her, and she can press his
hand and smile, and weakly murmur that she
is blest.
Lucilla, too! how terrible a fear is gone!
how crushing a weight removed! She is free
to think, to act, to plan, and to consult with
Tom, who is consoling himself for past self-
denial, by making a gorgeous kite to fly the day
his mamma first goes out.
Lucilla, more provident than her father, and
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
7
reminded of their peril by her poor mother,
even when at the worst, ponders on the bill
now nearly due. She turns over again and
again in her mind the facts of the case. But
it always comes to this-in a day or two it
will be presented. She was no novice in such
matters; she knew that, whatever else failed,
an accepted bill never failed to show itself at
the appointed day; she had no hope it would
not come, but she had some faint idea, off-
spring of filial piety and self-devotion, that
without awaking her poor father from his
happy trance, she might contrive to meet it, or
get it renewed.
Her colour rose, and her heart beat, as she
thought of the difficulties she must encounter,
the rebuffs she might meet; but what were
they, if her parents could be spared at such a
time!
She knew her father had given this bill to
his tailor, and she knew where that tailor
lived! Courage! then-she would go to him
entreat him only to give time, a little time;
and so she ran up stairs to consult Tom.
sure in having one's work admired, I can tell
you."
Petikeler by the public, miss!" observed
Jock; "and they can't be off admiring that
'ere.”
"Isn't it beautiful, sister?"
"It is, indeed; I admire it very much, and
I hope to see you fly it some day, Tom."
"Well, now, there's a dear," said Tom,
reddening with pleasure; and proving by his
appreciation of his sister's praise that his con-
tempt of her opinion was indeed assumed.
Come, Jock, let's get on; I'll step down
for the other pot of paste."
"I wanted to speak to you, dear, on some-
thing of importance," said Lucilla.
"Well, never mind Jock; speak out, he'll
never tell-he's as close as wax," said Tom,
pasting on a gold border.
'But, Tom, I want you to leave the kite
now, and come out with me on business. I
want your advice, your assistance, your protec-
tion.'
"Oh! that's quite a different thing," said
Now there is nothing so unsympathizing as Tom, proudly, flattered at this appeal to his
a boy, and nothing more directly opposed in manhood. "But can't Jock help? he's a fa-
views, tastes, and feelings, than a girl of seven-mous hand at advising and assisting.”
teen and a boy of thirteen. This Lucilla was "When I make a kite," said Lucilla, smiling,
soon fated to discover; for though Tom had
"I will ask his advice and assistance; but now
felt acutely and wept bitterly at the idea of I want my brother's alone.
losing his fond and beloved mother, now that
Tom drew himself up, pulled up his collar,
she was out of danger he cared for nothing; and saying, "Well, Jock, I'm wanted now,
his joy was as boundless as his grief had been. you see; slip out again this evening, if you
He did not enter at all into the terrors about can," he strutted proudly down stairs after his
the bill which tortured poor Lucilla; he inhe-sister, calling out, "I'm ready, Lucilla; I'm
rited all his father's boundless power of hoping
of shutting-out the future; and when Lucilla
opened the door of Tom's own room, she saw
him seated on the floor, on which was spread
the giant kite, his hands and face daubed with
paste and paint, surrounded by prints, and
shreds of gold and silver paper, and by his
side, hard at work, helping and improving,
Jock, the " tiger," once his foe, and now his
bosom friend.
Privately had Jock been admitted, and steal-
thily had he skulked up stairs; though old and
cunning, there was one boyish feeling in Jock's
heart, and that was an ardent love of play of
any kind, toys of every kind; and though he
could drive and drink, and box and swear, he
was as much interested in the kite as Tom
himself.
He started to his feet at being, in his own
language, "catched out ;" and began to mutter
a ready lie, about being that moment come
from his master, with a message to know how
Mrs. Temple was.
"Pshaw," said Tom, who had a great con-
tempt for petticoat government, "never mind
her-it's only sister Lucy;-tell the truth and
shame the devil, Jock; you've been here some
hours, but that's nothing to sister! She's not
my mistress-are you, Lucy?"
"No, dear; not your mistress, only your
sister and your friend; sorry to see you wast-
ing your time so, and making Jock waste his,
and perhaps lose his place."
"Nonsense, Lucy! I wish you would'nt
look here, do you call that a waste of time?
Why, when I fly that in Hyde Park, there'll
be.crowds admiring it; and there's some plea-
your man!"
Tom's heart and soul were so entirely in the
kite he had left behind, that he gave a very di-
vided attention to the financial part of Lucilla's
conversation about the bill; but he readily ar-
gued that nothing could be done without him,
and that the idea of her going out unprotected
by him was absurd; and so he armed himself
with his father's walking-stick, that he might
be the better able to protect his sister. Having
once made up her mind to go and do her best,
and let nothing dishearten or deter her, Lu-
cilla, with the coquetry of seventeen, arrayed
herself as well as a very scanty wardrobe would
admit. Her bonnet was very shabby--but then
her mother had a black velvet hat and feathers:
it was not very seasonable, but it was very be-
coming, and so she put it on; and borrowing
too a somewhat antique
too a somewhat antique "mode" from the ma-
ternal wardrobe, she looked like one of Sir
Joshua's pictures, just stepped down from its
frame.
Lucilla looked into her mother's room, and
whispered," Papa, dear! I am going to take a
walk with Tom, as you wish it."
Mr. Temple looked up from the book he had
been reading for hours (in spite of the darkened
windows) to his suffering wife. It was "Tay-
lor's Holy Living and Dying," one of the best
of good books.
Lucilla looked so lovely, so picturesque, that
he almost involuntarily said, "It is scarcely
safe for you, Lucilla, to go out in the evening
with no protector but a boy. However, do not
be late, love. You want air and exercise after
so close a watch."
"Let me see her," said the mother, faintly;
:
4
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
"poor dear, no wonder she wishes to go out a | were so many figures stranger than even Tom,
little. We were young once," she said to Mr.
Temple, as if apologetically for Lucilla.
that he passed comparatively unheeded. It
must be something ludicrous, indeed, to be
much stared at in Holborn or Oxford Street, in
the height of the season.
Tom walked along very proudly; looked
fiercely at any one who stared at Lucilla ;
made himself as tall as he could; told her to
lean on him, and always placed her inside.
Lucilla could hardly help laughing, but she did
refrain; she would not have hurt Tom's feel-
ings for the world.
Lucilla restrained herself; she did not even
hint why she wished to go out. She sat for a
moment on the bed, and looked around the
darkened room. It was so eloquent of illness
and of suffering, her eyes filled with tears; there
was the labelled phial, the glass, the spoon, a
plate with the cut orange, which had failed to
tempt, and seemed drying up in despair; the
untasted tea, grown cold and uninviting; a
Naples biscuit or two, currant jelly, vehicle of Her heart was full of the bill, his of the kite;
a bitter potion-as flattery often is of some so of course they talked rather at cross-pur-
"censure in disguise;" the Bible-best friend poses.
poses. At length they reached the tailor's ;
of sick and well; flowers which told of the he lived in Oxford Street; at the door stood
sunny world beyond, but drooping fast in the two wax figures of boys, dressed out in jackets
sickly gloom; and on the mantelpiece the con- and trowsers. They seemed to fix their glassy
valescent leeches, still languid and inert, and eyes on her! Oh, yes, this was the shop;
paying, with ruined constitutions, for their late there was the name over the door, "Mr. Fitz
excesses; sighing, perhaps, if leeches can sigh, Pucker;" and now she had not courage to go
(as the pricked paper admitted just enough | in!
warm air to keep them alive) for their native
home in some pond, fanned by fresh breezes,
where they could revel in the cool green weeds.
Ah! to what had the thirst of blood brought
them! Oh! how sad is a sick room! any sick
room—but a mother's! how heart-rending!
Go, my love; you will be so late," said the
invalid. "Had not Norah better go with you?"
She forgot that Norah had been up for two
nights, and had everything to do; but invalids
always forget these things. Lucilla kissed her
mother's hand, and stole out, wiping away her
tears.
Tom, meantime, had raised himself at least
an inch in reality, and a foot in his own con-
ceit, by means of an old pair of high-heeled well-
ingtons, belonging to his father; he had also
donned a stiff black stock of Mr. Temple's,
much too deep for his neck, and which pushed
his ruddy cheeks up to his eyes, and made it
very difficult to turn his head. What with his
stock, his stick, his wellingtons, and his strut,
he certainly did look quite a caricature.
The boys seemed to think so; some called
out-"There's a reg'lar swell!" some-" Does
your mother know you're out?" some-" What
a shocking bad hat!" (which, alas! in spite of
damping and brushing, was true); and one little
wretch exclaimed-" Has your mother sold her
mangle?"
But Tom's air was so resolute, and his stick
so thick and knotted, that these insults only
reached him from the distance. Lucilla per-
suaded him the boys who uttered them were too
small and beggarly to be worthy of his ven-
geance, or to be noticed by him in any way;
and certainly all the young men of a better
class, who might have amused themselves in
ridiculing Tom, were intent only on admiring
Lucilla. Besides, Tom could not look round
without turning his whole body-so steep and
tight was his stock-and so he gave up the
idea.
CHAPTER IV.
It was not very long before Lucilla and Tom
got into the more crowded streets; and here
Tom was so taken up looking at some gay
waistcoats and braided jackets (which he
thought would exactly suit him), that he did
not notice his sister's hesitation, and her pale
cheek.
The thought of her parents crossed her
mind; she clasped her hands; breathed an in-
ward prayer for strength and for success, and
went in.
Tom strutted in after her.
She saw a foreman, the pink of dandies, a
great beauty in his own opinion and in that of
the "young ladies" who served and coquetted
in the adjoining shops. His hair was parted
down the middle, and curled in jetty ringlets,
and he was evidently intended to show off in
his own person the newest and most outre
fashions: he tripped up quite ready to take
Tom's measure.
"Dress coat, cut-away, or surtuot, sir?”
"I don't want either," said Tom, reddening..
"I should say you do Sir," he lisped, eyeing,
Tom through his glass, and balancing himself
on the toe of a patent leather boot; "very old
cut, Sir, that jacket-quite out-quite out, Sir
quite obsolete, Sir."
"We are here to see Mr. Fitz Pucker on
business," said Lucilla.
"Oh! that's a different thing," said the man,
altering his tone; "he haint hin, miss; this.
haint one of his 'ome hours. Sit down, miss
'ow can I tempt you?" and he tried to look
bewitching-" a 'abit, miss! noble figgur for
oss-back, miss; quite a hequestrian stature !
Her Majesty's a noble oss-woman; show you
the last Wictoriar riding 'abit; this way, miss,
if you please.
"I do not want a habit now, but I wish very
much to see Mr. Fitz Pucker," said Lucilla;
"when will he be in? it is very important to
me;" she looked up with so much anxiety in
her beautiful eyes, that even the dandy tailor
foreman was touched.
"He may be in directly, miss; sit down," he
said. "He's only just stepped over the way;
I'll run and call him. Like to look at our
book, miss? well writ-first-rate literary talent.
miss."
Mechanically, Lucilla turned over the leaves:
of a succession of puffs, some in prose, some
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
door, looking out for admirers, stood the dandy
foreman.
"Where does Mr. Trueblue live?" asked
Lucilla.
in rhyme. Their exquisite absurdity forced a
smile even from her quivering lips. Tom
meanwhile examined himself in a cheval glass
from top to toe, and as he gazed at the bran-
new garments around, fresh with that first The foreman guessed what was the matter,
gloss of novelty, so attractive in both acquaint-from her pale cheek and tearful eyes.
ances and coats, he grew more and more out
of conceit with his own attire.
The good-natured dandy skipped back, and
alighting on his toe, a la Zephyr, close to the
anxious and expectant Lucilla, said-
"He'll be 'ere hinstanter, miss; only con-
wersing with a nobleman hover the way, miss.
'Ere he is! The young lady who vants to
speak with you on petikeler business, Mr. Fitz
Pucker. Now, miss, I'll leave you in his
'ands."
Lucilla looked up, pale and trembling.
Mr. Fitz Pucker was a little, shrewd, bust-
ling-looking man; his keen eyes (keener
through their spectacles) seemed to look her
through; he was so thoroughly a business-
looking person, that poor Lucilla felt that the
passionate and elegant appeal to his feelings
which she had been framing would be quite
vain. With a chilled heart, she said, "Can I
speak to you a moment alone?"
He led the way to the end of the shop, heed-
less that the cashier, perched up in a railed
desk, could overhear every word; but Lucilla
saw he was impatient, so she began: "My
name is Temple, Mr. Temple's daughter. He
gave you a bill three months ago. It will be
due the day after to-morrow."
"And will be met, I 'ope," he said, sternly.
"I fear it cannot. Could it not be renewed?"
"I have nothing to do with it, miss. I am
not the 'older; I have paid it away, in the
course of business. It is not in my 'ands."
"Then who has it now?" asked Lucilla, pal-
lid with terror, and with starting tears.
"I dare say it has passed through a dozen
hands by this time. I paid it to Trueblue and
Co., clothiers Bond Street; but that is a month
ago."
"Oh! what will be done?" said poor Lucilla,
clasping her hands.
"Why, it will be presented when and where
it was made payable; dishonoured, noted, and
your par'll be served with the copy of a writ,
and serve him right too; what did he go for to
accept a bill for, if he could not meet it?—very
ungentlemanly."
"No. 310, Old Bond Street, miss. Stop; if
it's about a bill, ask to see Miss Trueblue-tell
her all about it; ask her to interest herself
about it; and hadd, with Mr. Frederick Smirk's
compliments, she'd petikerlarly oblige me by
getting her par to come into terms. She'll do
it, miss, or my name ain't Mr. Frederick Smirk..
I'm a gentleman, miss, and if I give you my
word, you may be easy. Though circumstances
frown on me 'now, I'm a gentleman, and noble
blood flows in my veins; but that's neither.
here nor there!"
He looked so excited, Lucilla feared he was
mad; but luckily, a pretty shop-girl passed,
and in looking after her, Mr. Smirk forgot him-
self.
Good day," said Lucilla, "and thank you,
sincerely;" and on she hurried, with Tom full
of hussar jackets and military trowsers!"
CHAPTER V.
How beat Lucilla's heart, as she reached the
large and gloomy-looking cloth warehouse of
"Trueblue and Co.!" She knocked at the
private door, and asked for Miss Trueblue. A
servant, showed her up stairs, opened the door
of a drawing-room, splendidly furnished, and
left her and Tom to contrast their old-fashioned
and old looking attire, as reflected in the pier-
glasses, with the costly and modern elegance
of all around.
The carpet seemed too bright and costly for
their dusty feet; the yellow satin chairs and
cushions too exquisite for any one to sit upon
(unless robed in white satin). A splendid harp
stood by a superb piano; a beautiful water-
colour drawing on a table in the window, and
not quite finished, announced Miss Trueblue to
be no mean artist. Brushes and colours lay
around.
"What a shame," whispered Tom, “that a
cloth-merchant should live in a palace like this,
and such a gentleman as papa in such a shabby
little hole Miss Trueblue to have such a piano
"Oh, it is not his fault. My mother has been as that, and you that old rattle at home! I
ill, almost dying, and he could not see to it, as declare it's too bad. I've a great mind to
he would have done; but he only wants it re-smash yours when I get home."
newed."
Renewed! 'tain't business-like; he didn't
ought to have accepted it."
"Tell me what I can do in it? you shall be
no loser indeed."
"Oh, I shan't be no loser, by it, only its a
very 'okard sort of thing. All you can do is to
go to Trueblue and Co., and see what they
say."
"May I use your name.”
Not by no means, if you please; I've no-
thing to do with it;" and he turned away.
"Come, Tom," said poor Lucilla, holding
down her head to hide her tears.
Tom tore himself from the contemplation of
a braided jacket with a velvet collar. At the
B
"Then I should have none, Tom," said Lu-
cilla, smiling at his petulance.
"And do look at her paint-box, and yours;
that battered old fright mamma had at school.
Well, I do hope you'll throw that out of window
when we get home."
"No, no, Tom; it is by taking care of old
things, and making the best of them, that peo-
ple are enabled to get new ones.
I dare say
Mr. Trueblue never threw away anything in
his life."
Tom was proceeding to advocate his destruc--
tive principle with more zeal than wisdom,
when the door opened, and a little deformed
woman entered.
She was dressed with the nicest care, and
10
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
in the richest materials, and her pale face had
an intellectual and amiable expression, although
that inexplicable something, which always ac-
companies deformity, could be clearly traced
there. As Lucilla drew near her, they formed
a curious contrast; Miss Trueblue, her thin
hair, parted with the greatest nicety, and its
deficiency supplied behind by bows of riband
matching it in colour; her collar of exquisite
French work, her dress of a rich light silk, her
embroidered satin apron, her elegant watch
and costly chain, everything, even to her brace-
lets and reticule, announced wealth; but the
plebeian was legible in all. Lucilla, on the
contrary, in her mother's velvet hat and fea-
thers, somewhat rusty; her quaint "mode," of
brownish black, with its once rich but now
faded lace, and her plain white dress, her
redundant silken hair, somewhat uncurled,
floating on her shoulders, her face of patrician
beauty, and her tall, fine form, seemed an in-
carnation of beautiful and well-born poverty-
Miss Trueblue, of wealthy plebeianism. Tom,
as he stared at the latter, thought, that in spite
of the piano and the paint-box, Lucilla was the
best off.
"You are come, I presume, in answer to
my advertisement," said Miss Trueblue, in a
sweet though somewhat melancholy voice.
Lucilla, blushed, and Tom coloured to the
very roots of his reddish hair, as rushing into
the discourse, before Lucilla was quite ready
to speak, he said-
Advertisement! not we! Papa is a real
gentleman, though in distress; we're come
about a bill !"
"Hush, Tom!" said Lucilla: "I ought to
apologize for intruding, Miss Trueblue; but I
was authorized to do so, by a person, who said,
if I mentioned his name, you would, perhaps,
use your influence with your papa, on our be-
half. My father (as my brother said just now)
is in great distress."
"Pa's of a very old family, and is a very
great scholar," said Tom; "he's third cousin
to the Earl of Lofty, and-
Hush, Tom, it is foolish to talk of that,
when I am just going to beg Miss Trueblue to
ask her father (as a charity) to let Papa renew
a bill Mr. Trueblue holds of his."
Charity! Lucy; I'm sure papa would'nt
like your saying that. Pa's often told me him-
self, our family goes back to the Conquest"
"And ours to the Creation," said Miss True-
blue, smiling.
Tom was quite taken aback. Oh, yes!
that's quite a different thing!" he said.
"It is an older date, young gentleman; but
let me hear what your sister has to say. I
fancy something more to the point than your
genealogy.'
Do be quiet, Tom!" said Lucilla, aside to
him; and Tom, much disconcerted, began to
smooth with his hand his napless hat.
"The simple fact is," said Lucilla, her eyes
filling with tears, "my father, the Rev. Mr.
Temple, accepted a bill three months ago, and
gave it to Mr. Fitz Pucker, in payment of his
account; it will be due to-morrow, but papa
cannot meet it. My mother has been recently
at the point of death; her illness has engrossed
all my father's attention, all his energies. It
|
will be presented, dishonoured, noted; and
papa, I suppose, arrested. I have been to
Fitz Pucker; he says he has paid the bill into
Mr. Trueblue's hands, and so I am come here,
to beg him to let papa renew it-to have it
presented, now mamma is still so ill, will be
such a blow!"
"I hope Mrs. Temple is out of danger?"
said Miss Trueblue, with an expression in her
eyes that made her look, Lucilla thought, quite
lovely.
"She is, but I dread a relapse."
"I never do interfere in business. Had you
not better see papa? He is a great invalid, but
still-
"Oh! your influence alone can avail;" and
Lucilla's tears gushed forth. "Do use it, I
beg."
"I declare," said Tom, rising, "you're going
on just like a beggar, Lucy; I'm sure papa'd
be very angry. I'll see Mr. Trueblue myself.
He won't refuse to let a gentleman like papa
renew a bill; he'll be sure to meet it."
"Do you know from what source he will
be sure to meet it?" asked Miss Trueblue,
gently.
"Oh! I don't exactly know just now; but,
oh! something's sure to turn up," said Tom.
"Ah! I think my father would consider that
poor security."
"My brother knows nothing about it," said
Lucilla, collecting herself. "Mr. Fitz Pucker
would give me no hope, but a person there
recommended me to apply to you, and kindly
told me to use his name, and to say, if you
would prevail on Mr. Trueblue to let papa
renew the bill, you would greatly oblige Mr.
Frederick Smirk."
Miss Trueblue started, and her sallow Lon-
don complexion became suffused with the
deepest blush; even Lucilla, novice as she
was, thought her emotion strange. A more ex-
perienced person would have seen at once, that
Miss Trueblue, in spite of her wealth, her su-
perior position, her first rate education, and her
great natural talents, had fallen romantically in
love with this good-natured but empty-headed
dandy foreman, the Adonis of Oxford Street.
Yes, so it was; at one time he had been in
Trueblue's service as clerk, and had been dis-
missed because old Trueblue recognised his
hand in a valentine sent to his daughter. He
expected her to marry at least a gentleman,
and had had her educated with that view; but
she, spite of her natural gifts and acquired ac-
complishments, valued nothing so much as those
charms of form and face nature had denied her-
self." Next to these, she prized birth; and it
was a curious coincidence, and as if to com-
plete her delusion and Mr. Smirk's power, that
he was an illegitimate descendant of a noble.
family. Love snatched at this; she whispered
to herself, that noble blood flowed in his veins,
and that his beauty was that of a Norman
knight, instead of being that of an English
tailor. It is an infatuation very common to the
deformed and humbly born, to prize beauty and
noble blood above all things.
"Is Mr. Frederick Smirk an acquaintance of
yours?" she said, a jealous suspicion darting
across her mind.
"An acquaintance of Lucy's?" said Tom;
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
11
"why, he's only a shopman; we never saw
him before."
Though only a shopman," said Miss True-
blue, "he is a friend of mine, and will surely
be a friend of yours, young Sir, if through his
intercession your papa's bill is renewed."
Oh, he will indeed," said Lucilla, clasping
her hands, "and I should be proud to own him
as such."
(
Pshaw," began Tom; "you silly old beg-
gar-"
"Hush, Tom," said Lucilla.
"I will go and speak to papa," said Miss
Trueblue. "Wait a little while, Miss Temple;
I hope I may be able to serve you: will you
amuse yourself with the piano till I come
back?"
the choking tears that would rise; but Miss
Trueblue understood her well.
"I had hoped, when first I saw you," said
she, "that you came in answer to an adver-
tisement I had put in the 'Times' for an ac-
complished young lady, who could play the
guitar, and read French and Italian, to come to
me four times a week, for two hours a day-
partly as companion, partly as instructress. I
have no sister, no mother, and no very intimate
friend. I fancy I should enjoy my pursuits
much more if some accomplished person, able
to direct me a little, and whom I could like,
kept me company in them. Do you see that
basket? it is full of answers from accomplished
but indigent young ladies (nay, young, middle-
aged, and even old), so sadly is the market
She rose, and as she limped out of the room, overstocked. I counted three hundred answers,
her deformity was so apparent, that Tom, net- and have had besides numbers of personal ap-
tied at her rebukes, and being a very thought-plications, and yet I am undecided. The only
less fellow, began to mimic her, in spite of Lu- person I have seen, that I like, is yourself. I
cilla's angry remonstrances, her entreaties to am quite disappointed that you came on another
him to desist, and her determination to turn errand."
away, and not see his clever but heartless
mimicry. She sat down, and ran her fingers
over the instrument; Tom went on laughing
and limping, but suddenly his mirth was check-
ed-Miss Trueblue gently opened the door, and
stood for a minute gazing at his distorted imi-
tation of herself.
"True," she said—while Tom, shocked be-
yond measure, slunk up to his sister-"I dare
say that is very like; but you are so deformed
yourself, you should be lenitent to others who
are so."
66
Why, how am I deformed?" said Tom:
"where?"
"Where !-within. Your heart must be de-
formed indeed when you could so cruelly mock
and mimic her who had just left you on an
errand of mercy!"
"Oh, Tom, how could you?" said Lucilla.
"Indeed, Miss Trueblue-" but Miss Trueblue
having returned only for her reticule, had again
left the room. "And now I dare say she will
not do anything for us; and papa will be ar-
rested. Oh, if I had but come alone!-Oh!
Tom !"
At this moment a servant entered, with wine
and cake on a silver salver.
Tom was crying; he glanced round, and his
eye brightened as he saw the cake, but he
dared not touch it.
Miss Trueblue came in. "I am happy to say,
papa consents. He will send a new bill to your
father at three months' date to-morrow; he
must accept it, and papa will then return the
old one. Don't cry, Master Temple; I freely
forgive you.
Come and take a glass of wine;
perhaps, after all, your head is more to blame
than your heart. There-let us be friends;"
and she cut him a piece of rich cake, which
would have won the regard of any schoolboy.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Tom,
quite softened; "I'm very sorry I took you
off; and now you don't look half so much de-
formed. I declare I can hardly see the hump
now."
Miss Trueblue smiled. "I hope," she said,
"if you ever know me better, you will see it
ess.”
|
Lucilla reflected for a few minutes; then,
colouring violently, she said-I can play the
guitar, I believe, very well, and am mistress
of French and Italian, acquired on the conti-
nent; if my parents did not object, I should be
very glad to come to you."
"I'm sure Pa and Ma'd never agree to your
becoming a low daily-teacher, Lucy-so black-
guard! as Jock says-teachers rank with turn-
spits; he hardly ever says ina'am to Miss Bev-
erly! Our parents consent, indeed!"
Indeed, Tom, they have often talked of
such a thing.
Why, what would all our relations say?"
"How should they know it, since they never
come near us? Shall I play you a waltz on the
guitar, Miss Trueblue?"
Miss Trueblue placed one in her hands.
Lucilla acquitted herself admirably, in spite
of her agitation.
"Let me read you a little French and Ital-
ian," she said; "and then, if I suit you, and
papa consents, is it a bargain?"
"On my side, certainly.'
Lucilla's reading was beautiful-her accent
perfect-she having spent some years on the
continent with her parents, who were beguiled
by the vain hope of living for next to nothing
in France and Italy, where Mr. Temple had held
chaplaincies, less profitable than his curacy.
"Thirty shillings a week is what I propose
to pay," said Miss Trueblue, simply; for to the
Child of Trade, there was nothing mortifying
in the mention of pounds, shillings and pence.
To the Child of indigent Aristocracy, the
subject was a more delicate one.
+
To pay!" Lucilla winced; but she thought
of the bill-of her parents-of the comfort—
the help thirty shillings a week would be to
them; and radiant with smiles from her true
and noble heart, she said :-
"Let it be a bargain, then; I am sure papa
will agree."
"I'm sure he won't," said Tom, doggedly.
"You shall know to-morrow, Miss True-
blue," said Lucilla; "but I feel quite sure of
his consent."
If so, on Monday, from ten till twelve.
Lucilla could hardly express her thanks, for Farewell."
12
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
"I cannot express half the gratitude I feel
about the bill."
"Oh don't mention that. I will let Mr.
Smirk know it is settled; you need not trouble
yourself to tell him," said Miss Trueblue, fear-
ing the effect on his susceptible heart of an-
other interview with the exquisite Lucilla, and
fancying, as the loving always do, that Lucilla
would see him with her doting eyes.
"If
If you will thank him for me, I had rather
not go there again."
"I will; good-by. Let me know to-mor-
row."
Certainly. Thank you again and again.
Adieu till Monday."
When they were in the street, Tom said-
"Is it possible, Lucy, that you, Miss Temple,
of such a family as ours, are going to sink into
a daily teacher to Miss Trueblue?"
|
"What do you mean?" said Mr. Temple.
Yes," said Tom, who had stolen in, "I and
Lucilla have got it settled. We've been to
Fitz Pucker and Trueblue, and the bill's to be
renewed for three months; but then Lucilla,
against my advice—”
An unheeded look, but a more useful hint,
in the shape of a pinch, made Tom pause with
an "Oh, my! what's that for? you nasty low
teacher!"
Hush, Tom," said Lucy: "I did not mean
to hurt you, but you must not talk and fatigue
mamma. It is quite true, Tom and I have got.
Mr. Trueblue to agree to renew the bill for
three months; and now, papa, I want to speak
to you about it in the next room."
"Bless you, my good and thoughtful chil-
dren," said Mr. Temple.
Mrs. Temple extended her wan and wasted
hand, and large tears fell down her pale cheeks,
as she murmured-"Thank Heaven! this is
indeed a relief;" and in a little while she sank
into a sweet sleep.
When Lucilla and her father rose to steal on
tip-toe into the next room, Tom, the ever-busy,
rose too, and stole in before them.
"I'm sure, beforehand, Pa'll never consent,
Lucilla," said Tom.
"I am not going to sink, Tom; I am going
to rise, into a comfort to my father, a support
to my mother-an assistance to you. Thirty
shillings a week, Tom, is six pounds a month!
In three months, the time the bill will be due,
I shall be able to meet it for papa! and then,
all I earn I can spend on them and you, as I
like, and not have to go away, as I have often
feared I might, to live in some cold, great fam-
ily, as a despised governess, but only to employ Lucilla simply told her tale; and though
a few idle hours, four times a week, and take Mr. Temple changed colour, and sat a few
a few walks. I know you will take me, and minutes in painful thought, he did consent, and
fetch me home, Tom! Oh! I think it is such clasping Lucilla to his heart he said "No, I
wonderful good luck, Tom! I had made up cannot see that this noble self-devotion can in-
my mind to earn something, if only as a teach-jure your prospects, my love; for even if known,
er in a school, rather than be a burden on our there is not a man, with a heart in his bosom,
afflicted parents any longer."
who would not love and honour you tenfold if
he knew this proof of filial piety. I do consent,
my darling; and so far from feeling any shame,
this is one of the proudest moments of my
life."
"I wish I could do something," said Tom,
his views suddenly altered. "However, I hope
Jock will never find it out-I wouldn't have
him know my sister was a teacher, for the
whole universe! He doesn't think Miss Bev-
erly, the governess at his master's, much high-
er than he, and always lets her ring twice, and
never polishes her shoes, nor walks behind
her; he told me so. Oh! I hope he'll never
know it!"
"Most likely he never will, unless you tell
him, Tom."
"I tell him! Why I always make out we're
as high and grand as possible. He knows
we're Cousins of Lord Lofty."
"And Children of Poverty," said Lucilla, as
they hastened home, through the now soft twi-
light of an evening in June.
CHAPTER VI.
"How is dear mamma!" was the daughter's
first question, as she hurried noiselessly up
stairs, and gently opened her mother's door.
Mr. Temple shook his head, and whispered,
"Not so well; her mind is disturbed-so dis-
turbed !"
"How can it be otherwise?" said the poor
invalid, with dangerous emotion, half raising
herself (and in her anguish forgetting the sur-
geon's strict injunctions as to constant recum-
bency).
Lie down, my love, and be still."
"Yes, be still, dear mamma, and listen: it
is all settled, at least for the present."
"I'm sure I wish I could do something,"
said Tom; "I wonder if I could teach any-
thing?"
My boy," said Mr. Temple, "he who would
be a teacher must first consent to be a learner..
You have been very idle lately. Go to your
Horace? I dare say in time you will help us
100."
"Lucilla couldn't walk there alone; so if I
always take her and fetch her, that's some-
thing. It'll take me two hours a day; and if
her time is worth thiry shillings a week, I'm
sure mine must be worth fifteen!"
แ
Perhaps you may make it worth as many
pounds if you will, my boy. So now to your
books; think what hours of practice of the
guitar, and close study of French and Italian,
have alone enabled Lucilla to become the sup-
port of her family at a time like this!"
"I wonder whether Mr. Trueblue knows
Latin," thought Tom. "I could teach him the
Latin grammar, at least." He went up into
his room to find his Horace, but there lay the
kite, in all its half-adorned charms.
Jock, too
The temptation was too great.
slipped in. There were gold stars to be cut
out and pasted on. Tom was still hard at
work, when he was summoned to tea.
A close cross-examination elicited how he
had spent his time.
'Ah, Tom," said his father, "you will never
be a help to your mother or me! You cannot
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
13
resist temptation. When you go to college (if
ever I can send you there), it will be, I fear,
the same; pleasure in another form will woo
you. It is a kite now-then it will be hunting,
rowing, or drinking parties. He who cannot
turn from pleasure, when duty calls, can never
be great or good. Tom, I am sadly disappoint-
ed in you."
Tom tried to atone-learnt an ode before he
went to bed, and rose early to write a Latin ex-
ercise. He could not forbear meddling a good
deal, when Lucilla wrote her answer to Miss
Trueblue. He spoilt many a tolerable pen in
trying to make it better, wasted half the seal-
ingwax in proving what capital seals he could
make, and spoilt much good paper in writing
"Thomas Temple;" but at last he started off
with the important missive, going a long round
in order that meddling Jock should not see him
go out, and follow him to find out his errand.
Lucilla was not at ease till the letter to Miss
Trueblue was fairly off, and then she gave her-
self up to the contemplation of her happiness,
in having averted such a peril from her dear
father, and the luxury of being of so essential
a service, at such a time, to the mother she
loved so well.
CHAPTER VII.
SIR FELIX ARCHER sat in high good-humour
at an elegant, nay, an exquisite repast, served
up on costly plate, in his cool, spacious, and
handsome dining-room. One companion shar-
ed, the delicacies in and out of season, which
made even a tele-a-tete dinner at the epicure
Baronets, cost, in one day, what would have
fed a hundred poor comfortably for a week.
this happy and honoured guest, the youngest
partner in the firm of lawyers, which boasted
Sir Felix as their client. The redoubted firm
of Undermine, Twist, Twine, Turn, and Under-
mine. Sir Felix's father and even himself, in
earlier days, had been members of this firm.
Mr. Renard Undermine was rather good-look-
ing, about eight-and-twenty, a showy dresser,
and tolerable talker. With those above him he
was very humble and obsequious, and a great
caterer for their amusement. He had a thou-
sand arts of winding himself into the favour of
any great man, to whom he had even a profes-
sional introduction, and has been known to be
invited to stay to dinner, where he went only
with a deed to be signed; or, even more mira-
culous still, when he presented himself to serve
a writ. But then he adroitly pretended such
reluctance-that he came out of delicacy, lest
a clerk should noise the thing abroad! He
even shed a tear! He affected to dote on
children, and knew all sorts of tricks to delight
and quiet them; always had some new toy in
his pocket; and, in short, was the idol of all
the little Lords and Ladies in the Parks and
Squares, and of their nurses too! . . . This was
a way-an indirect one, truly, but still a way-
to the parents' favour, particularly the mamma's,
If the little heir was ill, he would cry, and kick,
and pinch, till Renny Undermine was sent for;
and little Lady Cis. would not have her tooth
out unless Renny went with her to the dentist's.
This sort of intimacy was a source of great
vaunt with him in his own set, where he boast-
ed of Lady Cis. and the young Marquis-it was
not known they were babies. When he came
from dining at H-House, no one knew it was
the nursery dinner, and that he came out the
back way. Still, lowliness is young ambi-
tion's ladder, and he often made his way by de-
degrees into the drawing-room; for what was
to be done if the young Lord would not be quiet
without Renny?
He was a great admirer and supporter of the
Gilbert Unions for his poorer brethren, iand
this thought made one grudge the guineas he
daily swallowed in dainties-he, who thought On the present occasion Sir Felix was very
water-gruel and rye-bread, (in limited propor-anxious to consult with Renard whether, among
tions), quite enough for his hungry and able- all the quirks and quibbles of the law, no means
bodied (if unfortunate), fellow mortals; and could be found of cutting off the entail; so that
added, they ought to be thankful for it. He, in case he died childless, his detested nephew
who never felt thankful for every luxury in life, could be cut out.
thought they ought to be thankful for that,
which only kept them alive to suffer.
Sir Felix Archer seldom dined alone; never,
if he could help it. Not from love of his spe-
cies, but of himself; silence and ennui he
thought unfavourable to appetite, the enjoy-
ment of his repast, and to its beneficial result;
and the little excitement produced by seeing
choice morsels on a friend's plate, added to his
relish of the choicer ones on his own. The
light laugh (at his shallow witticisms), the del-
icate flattery, the amusing scandal, and the
adroit diaparagement of an enemy or a rival,
gave piquency to the dish, and flavour to the
wine.
Therefore Sir Felix Archer seldom dined
alone. But he disliked, too, the heat and bustle
of large dinner-parties. A few friends, anxious
to please, formed the sort of party he generally
preferred; but one lively, agreeable, and sub-
servient companion sometimes sufficed him,
and with such an one he dined tete-a-tete on the
present occasion. Mr. Renard Undermine was
Mr. Renard Undermine entered as warmly
into this scheme, as a philanthropist would into
some great and good object; but he was obliged
to confess, that the entail was such a strict one,
that unless the last in it-namely, the odious
nephew-joined him in docking it, nothing could
be done.
"If he were a ruined man, he'd jump at such
a thing," said Undermine.
"He's
Sir Felix's countenance brightened.
a fool, Renard an eccentric fool, too-but not
the kind of fool to get ruined; he's no gambler.”
"But at three and twenty he may become
one," suggested Undermine.
"No; he never touches a card, on principle."
"An imprudent match," suggested the at-
torney; "that might do it: a half-starved wife
and a dozen squalling, ragged children, will
make a man put his name to anything."
Sir Felix pondered; he looked rather dis-
pleased. Pshaw," he said, "you've not in-
herited your father's talent for expedients, Re-
nard. If he did marry, why should he have
14
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
a dozen children? I married twice, and have between a Hebe, a Psyche, and Carlo Dolce's
none !"
Poesy's; but lovelier than any or all. But I.
suppose you know her, Renard ?”
"Ah! my dear Sir Felix, shall I tell you
why? You married delicate, dainty daughters "Oh, very slightly, Sir Felix; and it is so
of rank and fashion-ladies who turn night into long since I saw her, I doubt whether I should
day, live in a perpetual and exciting glare, recognise her, Sir Felix; the fact is, they never
breathe no atmosphere, but that of heated, ask her except when I'm gone on some profes-
crowded rooms; in fact, you married the high-sional journey or other. They're afraid, Sír
born, high-bred belles of London seasons. Now Felix-at least the governor is-but they're
if you would listen to the expedient I would wrong, I can take care of number one. I'm not
propose, if I dared, I would say, marry some the man to do a silly thing; I can't quite afford
young girl who has never known luxury, nor it, Sir Felix. Old Temple's governor was once
seen the inside of the Opera, or Almacks; who upon a day a great nob, and my governor was
rises with the lark, and goes to bed with the his solicitor; and having had, as he says, his
sun lives on plain food, and never knew the pickings out of the Temple estate, he'll never
torture of a fashionable corset. You don't want cut them, unless I were to cast a sheep's eye at.
money, Sir Felix; nor rank, nor position, nor the daughter."
influence, Sir Felix; you have them all, Sir
Felix; and tears of plausibility stood in the
attorney's eyes. You have but one want-an
heir; take my advice, and you'll have a dozen,
Sir Felix."
"Pshaw, Renard! how do you think that I,
with my tastes, my habits, could endure any low,
under-bred girl, such as you describe. My re-
finement of feeling is such, that I believe if I
saw a woman (however blooming and beautiful)
at the head of my table, who did not conduct
herself (not merely in the proper, but in the
elegant manner Lady Archer should), I should
die of mortification on our wedding-day."
Sir Felix drew up. "Old Temple !"
the epithet wounded his ear. Temple was his
junior. Excitement and the wine he had drank
were making Undermine talkative, and bringing
out all the latent vulgarity of his nature; his
reserve was fast melting away. Sir Felix saw
he must throw a little more ice into his own.
manner, to freeze his companion into awe..
Drawing himself up, the elderly coxcomb pro-
| ceeded :-
Temple, of course, wished to show his
daughter off; she not, I suppose, knowing that
I was a regular Catch-Match, behaved with a
modest grace, and unaffected archness; (the
"Of course you would, Sir Felix; but there prettiest thing I'd seen for a long time!) read
are thousands of portionless daughters of poor me some poetry, recited some of her own verses
gentlemen, who would jump at you, Sir Archer." (at least so Temple declared they were), and
"The very way to disgust me. I've had a quite captivated me. Think of that! I, a regu-
sort of notion of this myself, Renard, and lately lar London man-angled for as I've been, too—
too; I've been half in love with, as I thought literally captivated by a flirt of seventeen, in a
at first-sight, just the being you describe. But, cotton dress, living in Pleasant Row, St. Pan-
no, no! poverty is interesting and romantic cras! By Jove! I felt quite restless, and began
enough in a book, but it's very revolting in re-to argue the pros. and cons.; longed, literally
ality, Renard. It was Temple's daughter I
mean an old College friend of mine; he was a
man of family and genius, but poor as a church
mouse-a curate in some out-of-the-way chapel
in the East.' You don't know him, I suppose,
do you?"
longed (like a sentimental schoolboy), to see
her again; sent Temple a haunch of venison,
and was delighted to accept an invitation to
dine with him. Fancy my being delighted to
dine in Pleasant Row, St. Pancras, where the
establishment consists of a wretched maid of
Why, yes, we do know them slightly-the all-work-at once cook, slut, and abigail, and a
'Governess,' (the 'Maternal,') and the girls at- nondescript horror, something between a tiger
tend his chapel, and the girls went to the same and a page-a sort of half-way house between
drawing or dancing school, or something, with a country boor and a London pickpocket!"
Miss Temple; of course, one can't be intimate Capital," said Undermine, appearing con-
with people who live in Pleasant Row, St. Pan-vulsed in his endeavour to suppress a violent
cras. But Lucilla Temple and my sister Lucilla laugh, or succession of laughs. "I should have
are great, or rather were, great cronies, name-liked to have seen the face you made, Sir Felix,
sakes, and all that; we don't encourage it much, when you sat down to the dinner cooked by the
they're so confoundedly poor, its quite disagree- maid of all work!" added Undermine, rubbing
able; one must draw a line."
his hands, his innate vulgarity peeping out as.
his reserve and awe wore off.
Sir Felix elevated his eye-brows, and smiled;
he felt a little comfortable conviction of the
luxury of great wealth, when even a moderate
fortune enabled the vulgar, low-bred Under-
mines to" draw a line" between themselves
and the well-born, elegant-minded Temple and
his family. It was pleasant to him to hear it.
Sir Felix continued
"Temple and I met at our mutual publish-
er's. I was in high good-humour; we renewed
our intercourse. He called; I returned his
visit, and saw this girl. By Jove, Renard! as
she sat on some old folios in her father's study,
her hair in beautiful confusion, and in a simple
classic-looking dress, I thought her something
"I never make faces!" said Sir Archer,.
coldly.
Undermine looked contrite and ashamed.
Sir Felix pursued, for he liked to hear him-
self talk-"Try this Lafitte, Renard. I assure
you my mind misgave me, when some time
elapsed before my knock was answered, and I
saw several flushed and terrified faces peep from
different windows of the odious little house-
where at last I was admitted by the heated little
demon of a tiger. A villanous smell of burnt
meat and coarse soup upset me. It was a broil-
ing day, and the house was like an oven.
was out of humour from the first, but what think.
I
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
15
you? the odious little tiger actually showed me
into a hole, called the back drawing-room,
which proved to be a dormitory, and where
stood face to face with Temple's pale, sickly
wife, who was washing her hands. I rushed
out, and encountered my Dulcinea skipping half-
dressed down stairs to get her dress fastened.
By this time I was in a deuce of a rage. Then
a show-off home boy, primed with the "Univer-
sal Preceptor” and “Magnall's Questions," was
let loose to torment me with his pedantry and
pertness.'
"Oh, Sir Felix, what you must have endured!
but the young lady-did not her charms atone
at all for such a martyrdom ?"
"Not at all: stuck out in stiff and starched
white muslin, her hair curling like a wig, having,
I suppose, been kept en papillotes all day, for
my sake; her face flushed and shining with
heat and yellow soap, and her hands scarlet
from recent toil, she was not the same being,
my dear Renard !"
•
and bend, and shake, while I grew each moment
stiffer and colder; a dreadful pie, such as I re-
I member at school, and a pudding that had
burst !"
"How distressing! how vexatious !"
"The charm and ease of her manners, too,
were gone. By this time she knew who and
what I was-had evidently been told to play |
her cards well. She was all officiousness and
loving compliments. Well, we sat down to
dinner, in a hole twelve feet square! the bright- |
est June sun glaring in on all the discrepancies
of that horrid repast, and lighting them up.
Spare me, oh, spare me, the recollection of that
dreadful dinner!" and Sir Felix pressed
his white and jewelled fingers before his eyes,
as if to shut out the hideous recollection.
"No! no, Sir Felix, I cannot spare you;
what is death to you is such a treat to me--a
very 'feast of reason, and a flow of soul,'" said
Undermine (by way of something new).
"Well, then, by Jove, here. goes! . . . On a
blue dish lay the mangled remains of a turbot,
in rags; and I have good reason to believe he
had long been an exile from his native ocean.
The sympathizing soup was in mourning for
his fate (a quantity of soot had fallen into the
odious mixture); the tureen, an old soldier who
had evidently seen much service, and been in
the wars, had lost an ear, and was cracked too
-was of a sort of chintz, and boasted here and
there a little tarnished gilding; the ladle, and
indeed all the spoons and forks, were of that
hideous metal called albata, which has all the
defects, and none of the merits of pewter; three
vegetable dishes, of independent hues, and wear-
ing the livery neither of the turbot dish nor the
soup tureen, formed the side dishes; one con-
tained some infant potatoes, cold and waxen ;
one, some in extreme old age, mashed, browned,
and dusted with soot; one, some bullet-like
peas; and to make up the fourth, a bit of bacon
stood in a plate!"
How could you survive the first course,
Sir Felix!"
Heaven knows!" the haunch of venison
removed, the soup, two wretched little pauper
chickens all in rags, the fish! By Jove, Renard!
that haunch was a haunch of as fine a buck as
ever played at hide-and-seek in Felix Park. It
was burnt outside and raw in. Then came
jelly, melting beneath my gaze, like the too-ready
damsel at my side; blancmange, of a grayish
tint, and which, unlike me, would get warm,
|
|
"As I shall do, Sir Felix, if you go on."
"Well, all this time I was pressed and en-
treated to eat! The damsel made doux yeux at
me, and the flippant boy, her brother Tom,
bored me with Joe Millers; Temple teased me
about old times and pedantic discussions, and
Mrs. Temple looked as if her life depended on
my endangering mine, by drinking villanous
champagne, out of little common wine glasses.
Then came the dessert, in keeping with the
dinner. The wines were hot, the fruit was hot,
and had evidently been bought at the door.
The room was hot, and I grew cooler and cool-
er; not so Mademoiselle-ma belle set about
preparing my strawberries. The odious boy
cut me an orange into the shape of a pig. Mrs.
Temple tried to show off her husband and
children, and Temple bored me about a book he
is composing. At length, the ladies and the
boy withdrew, and then Temple began to sound
me about assisting, lending, &c. Oh, there's
nothing so odious as a poor man! I evaded a
direct request for a positive loan, but could not
avoid his asking me to use my influence with
M about a great, dull, elaborate work he is
writing-the Religious history of all the Nations
of the Globe! M- who refused to publish
my Essay on Taste!... Of course I declined,
and smelling an odious old lamp in the hall, and
something very like roasted corn-meant, of
course, to officiate for coffee-I pleaded forgot-
ten engagements, and actually hailed a street
cab, to take me away from the atrocious uttle
scene of so much suffering! . . . . I have heard
nothing more of the Temples; and I think I
have had enough to disgust me with poverty
for some time. Oh, that hot, acrid wine of
Temple's," he added, with a shudder, "in the
little, dull, greenish-looking glass!" (and he
poured the iced and fruity claret into the beau-
tiful crystal)" and the warm, and smashed, and
dusty fruit," he added, as he helped himself to
the beautiful hot-house grapes, on whose ame-
thystine clusters the soft bloom lay; while on
rival bunches, of a clear sea-green, were rich
brown spots, that seemed like kisses of the sun.
"Try that pine-apple, Renard; it came but just.
now from Felix Park, as did yon fragrant melon..
I hope a slice of it will drive from my mind my
orange cut into a pig! So you see no other
way of cutting Frank out, but by marrying, eb,
Renard?"
•
At this moment a knock startled the epicure :
"I declare that sounds like his knock,” he said,
I hope they'll deny me."
"Pshaw fellow! he'll see me, if he is at din-
ner," said some one in the hall, with a manly:
voice.
"Shall I ascertain, sir?" quietly asked the
diplomatic butler.
"
No, no, I'll save you the trouble," said a
young man, opening the dining-room door, and
going cordially up to Sir Felix, who elevated
his eye-brows, and offered two fingers, which
his nephew good-humouredly squeezed, till the
elderly dandy winced. "Your Essay on Taste
reduced to practice, uncle," he said, looking
round on the costly and tempting dessert, and
16
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
seating himself, as if he must be welcome. never be said to succeed who has never had
"How are you, Undermine? Claret, if you courage to attempt. My Essay, my Barou-
please uncle; I'll take the ices mixed-straw-chette, and my Copper mine, if they have not
berry and apricot."
"What has brought you to town, Frank,"
asked Sir Felix.
brought wealth into my coffers, have furnished
employment to Industry;" and with this John-
sonian peroration Sir Felix proposed they should
take coffee in the library, and look in at the
new opera.
Oh, a wild-goose chase! you'd only laugh
at me, I dare say; but I've been much af
fected by an advertisement in the paper about
a clergyman (evidently a gentleman and a maning
of honour), in great distress, and I want to see
what can be done."
Sir Felix laughed a little, pitying, sneering
laugh; and Undermine faintly joined. "And
are you come fifty miles on such a fool's errand,
Frank?-such ineffable humbug. Sure, quite
sure, to be some impostor, that ought to be
transported."
Oh, quite sure," echoed Undermine; it's a
regular trade."
"Ah, not in this case! there's an air of truth
in this, that goes to my heart, and I think will
to yours."
(Not very likely, as they had none.)
He took out a little paragraph, cut from a pa-
per, and read:
"A clergyman in great distress, and who
fears he will, ere long, be in greater still, wishes
to borrow £200 to enable him to pay some tor-
menting debts, and devote his time to a reli-
gious work of, he humbly hopes, some promise
of usefulness. He has only personal security to
offer, and his repaying the £200 (with interest)
must depend on the success of his work. The
advertiser has a wife and family; and so bank-
rupt is he, in hope as well as purse, that none
but the warmly benevolent would dream of as-
sisting him; address, 'B. D.,' Smith's Library,
Oxford Street.”
Frank despatched a note to "B. D." request-
an interview, and then gave himself up to
the pleasure of the hour, with all the zest of an
unsatiated and warm-hearted enthusiast of
three-and-twenty. While Sir Felix Archer,
more inveterate against him than ever, turned
over in his own mind again and again how he
| should prevent one who had dared to ridicule
the Barouchette, the Essay on Taste, and the
Copper mine, from lording it one day in Felix
Park and Portland Place.
CHAPTER VIII.
fellow: in him were united those rare gifts
(rare, even apart, but much rarer together), ge-
nius, and warmth of heart; thus every source
of enjoyment, both in the intellectual and the
actual world, was open to him. He was a first-
less philanthropist, disposed to see all things en
rate scholar, and a man of real taste; a bound-
beau, and through a rose-coloured veil; simple
and even hardy in his habits, blest with robust
health; and though with a heart overflowing
with affectionate sympathies, as he had no near
and dear relations (his nearest being the cold
selves, in whose pains and perils to suffer more,
and unendearing Sir Felix), he had no other
He often thought
tenfold, than in his own.
FRANK STANLEY was a fine and noble-hearted
"A fool, as well as a knave," said Sir Felix.
"Ah! that simplicity is a mere take in. Any-how he should have loved and revered a tender
mother-how doted on a sweet and sympathi-
zing sister. But, like Cowper's goldfinch-
mother-how doted on a sweet and sympathi-
thing new, in the old trade of begging, is likely
to go down now-a-days," said Undermine.
"Nous verrons," said Frank, "I believe that
man is bona fide what he says, and I'm deter-
mined to see; and if he is, I thought you, Uncle,
as a fellow author, might help me to lend him
:the £200 he wants."
"There's a vulgar old saying, but a very true
one," said Sir Felix, mechanically buttoning up
his pockets, "That a fool and his money are
soon parted.' I am no fool, Frank."
"
Capital!" said Undermine.
"And new," said Frank; "but surely, uncle,
you would devote to such a cause some part of
the profits of your Essay on Taste?'" Frank
knew that his uncle was two hundred pounds
out of pocket by that same Essay.
"That delight he never knew,
And therefore never missed."
Then, too, how would he have felt their sor-
rows! with how incurable a grief would he have
bewailed their loss !
•
•
He was romantic-what young man of intel-
lect and warm heart is not? And yet he had
never been in love; with great fastidiousness
of feeling and of taste, he had not yet met that
woman, who could realise his poet-dream of
beauty, satisfy his intellectual craving for a
gifted companion, and come up to his high moral
standard for warmth of heart, and true benevo-
lence of feeling! It was much to require-
beauty of a rare and poetical order; genius-
Sir Felix reddened. "A very bad joke, young for no woman, with the imperfect and unintel-
man! you know very well, that owing to the lectual education given to the sex-no woman
inefficiency of the publishers, and the political is a gifted and bright companion unless she have
excitement so injurious to literature, which ex-genius (genius, the power that rends all fetters,
isted at the moment of publication, that work,
advertised as it was in the papers, caused me to
be two hundred pounds out of pocket."
Why, I thought, uncle, it was only a fool
and his money which were soon parted? But
the carriage you invented?" (that, too, had failed)
"and the mine you worked?" (a dead failure
too!)
Nonsense!" said Sir Felix, smarting under
his nephew's good-humoured raillery. "He can
triumphs over all opposition, and turns every
material to account). Beauty, genius, and,
rarer still-truth, tenderness, and charity of
heart!... all these he requires. To the woman
who unites these, and whose first love he can
win (for that is a sine qua non), Frank means to
offer all the boundless and hoarded tenderness
of his heart. But should so rare a being exist,
will she love him? and for himself alone? Ah!
there is the doubt!
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
17
It was one of that brilliant theatre's most
brilliant nights; the scattered aristocracy of the
Though elegant and pleasing, with a stately
form, and an open, manly face, Frank has no
gaudy beauty to boast. His candid and straight-three kingdoms was assembled there; many
forward manner is not very popular with women,
and as yet he has never been distinguished by
any preference which he could believe disinter-
ested. His eight hundred a year (moderate and
mere competence as it was, and his expectation
of a baronetcy and estates, doubtful as they
were), these had been admired and courted. But
Frank wished to be loved entirely and solely for
himself, and had often contemplated a Mr. Bur-
chell scheme of trying his powers as a ruined
man, whenever he should meet with a "So-
phia" worthy of the risk, exertion, and annoy-
ance of such an enterprise.
And now, Sir Felix Archer's perfect equipage
(not his barouchette, but), a softly cushioned
landau, with the most delicate and buoyant of
motions, bears them through cool, deserted Port-
land Place, into the busy world of Regent Street.
How much pomp: and how much misery!
How easily glide the plumed and jewelled fair,
drawn by the proud and glossy steeds! How
limp the ragged, lean, and shaggy wretches,
eagerly (when some slight delay occurs, and
the splendid carriages halt for a few minutes)
watching for one look of pity from the proud
beauties within, one jewelled and white hand
extending the smallest boon-and vain that
watch! Dives and Lazarus at every step. Ah,
heartless sons and daughters of Mammon! a
bitter reckoning awaits you. Ye slighted chil-
dren of Want, your day will come. Oh, the
lavish affluence of those palace-like shops, and
the lean, wolf-eyed Famine, glaring in upon
them! Poor Frank! in spite of Sir Felix's
open, and Undermine's suppressed ridicule, he
would listen, would succour, would even let in a
draught of air on Sir Felix, to fling a shilling to
a ragged, famished mother, bearing in her lean
arms a skeleton babe!
|
that were stars of the first-rate magnitude, in
their own peculiar sphere, found themselves:
lost in the brilliant galaxy of the London firma-
ment of fashion; and faintly twinkled they and
their hereditary but old-fashioned sets of dia-
monds, from remote boxes in the fourth or fifth
tier. Many a lauded country belle, and courted
county member, and many a nobleman (not
quite of the élite) learnt a bitter lesson, and
shrank into insignificance. Dukes, Marquises,
and Earls were so rife, that even they lost some-
thing of their self-importance and their pride.
There had been a Drawing-room in the morn-
ing, and forests of ostrich feathers waved to the
warm air, and mines of gems glistened un-
heeded; fair necks were arched, and proud
heads tossed, in vain! there was a very mob of
Beauty and High-birth. One only, "the First
Lady in the Land," lost nothing by the lavish
pomp and splendour around; of all those proud
ones, she was still the Queen !
In all the simplicity of real Majesty she sat,
her presence making that spot a throne; her
virtues dignifying it into a shrine. Rouged,
and plumed, and jewelled heads, bowed behind
her; no ornament bound her classic head and
silken braided hair, save the "white and red
rose," blent in her. Beside her was the chosen
of her young heart, partner of all her cares,
father of England's future King! She was pale,
save when some exquisite strain awoke some
echo in her heart and his; and then their eyes
met, and the rose of England blushed upon her
cheek. And faithless wives, and shameless
cecisbeos, and callous husbands, saw that a
Queen did not disdain to love and honour him
whom she had chosen; that conjugal tender-
ness sat upon a throne; that faithful bosoms
beat beneath a star; and they began to doubt
whether they themselves were not only bad,
but, what they heeded more, “bad ton.'
During the entre acte to a small box, far away
on the opposite side of the house, Frank often
directed his opera-glass, and each successive
time dwelt longer and more intently on some
object there. That box contained a plain, de-
formed woman, a dowdy chaperon, a pert-look-
ing, sandy-haired boy, and a very Psyche in form
and face, with glittering auburn hair, and youth's
first bloom upon her cheek-in a word, Lucilla
Temple!
At length they reach the Opera: a broad day-
light still glares-on scornful beauty, and im-
portunate famine-on Old Age, hideous with
rouge, pearl powder, jewels, golden locks, and
utter selfishness, propped up by velvet cushions,
and in pursuit of Pleasure; and on Old Age,
bent, ragged, barefoot, extending the lean hand,
and murmuring the disregarded prayer, plead-
ing for bread-and lo! the former seemed the
more revolting picture of the two! Yes, it was
still broad day without, and all the stern re-
alities of life within, by artificial light, one
listened to art's triumphs, and gazed on grace- It is about a fortnight since she began her
fully-fictitious woe. Sir Felix, unexcitable and daily visits to Miss Trueblue; and a warm and
unexcited, lounged back in an arm-chair, in the sincere regard has sprung up between them,
little crimson prison, made as luxurious as the Many little attentions, wealth can make accept-
prison discipline" of the Queen's Theatre ad- able, if united to tact and delicacy, the poor de-
mitted, and through his Opera glass he began formed pupil has paid to her beautiful young
to review the house; and many a mother's teacher; and so much has her kindness won
heart beat, and alas! many a daughter's bound-upon the hearts of Lucilla's parents, that they
ed, as the wealthy and widowed Baronet (a have consented to her going to the Opera with
professed connoisseur) deliberately scanned the Miss Trueblue, chaperoned by an old Scotch
fair features of the "demoiselles à marier." Un-aunt of that lady's, and attended by Tom.
dermine, in true parvenu style, pushed himself Lucilla's wild and new delight, in this her
forward, eager that friends in pit and gallery first Opera, might be seen in her varying colour,
should see him in the Opera-box of Sir Felix
Archer, Bart.! And Frank Stanley, to whom
the Opera was a new and rare delight, sat in
the back of the box, thrilling to Grisi's passion-
ate personation of Lucrezia Borgia.
C
<<
her tearful eyes, her animated, yet soft expres-
sions. It was certainly Lucilla's beauty that
had attracted Frank's glass to that box; but
yet it often wandered to the pale, pensive, and
amiable features of Miss Trueblue; for in Miss
18
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
As he moves with a vulgar swagger, some
men of fashion indulge in an almost audible
laugh as he passes them: "I'm sure that cursed
fellow's a tailor," says one, little deeming that
he was right.
Trueblue, Frank has recognised an early friend. I the entre acte begins, he rises, redolent of musk
Old Trueblue once had a son, and he was at and amber, resolved to pay his respects to Miss
school with Frank, in a remote spot by the sea- | Trueblue.
side, where old Trueblue had a villa, when
there were yet hopes that sea air and bathing
might restore his afflicted daughter. Young
Trueblue was a cripple, too-perhaps some
hereditary disease caused the infirmity of both
brother and sister. However, a cripple at school
is much to be pitied, and Frank was almost the
only friend poor little Trueblue found. He
alone never mocked, never bullied, never teased
him, but always defended, even at fearful odds,
and a frightful risk.
"Yes, by Jove, he is, for he's given me a
stitch' in the side. Why he's an incarnation
of his own goose. Look at the fool-nine of
such make a man! ninety could'nt do it."
Well, I think he's a perfumer, fresh from
the Civet Cat in the Strand. Just see his hair!
Oh, he must be a hair-dresser. Why his bust
would do admirably to stick in his own shop.
I'm sure I've seen him in a white apron some-
where, curling-tongs in one hand, and comb in
the other."
He often spent a holyday at Trueblue Villa,
and once a whole Christmas vacation. An in-
timacy had long subsisted, but Frank had drop-
ped it when both he and Miss Trueblue grew
up, because he fancied something more than
friendship in the susceptible heart of the poor 'No, no, Plinlimmon; ten to one, he's to be
little hunchback. However as he watched her seen somewhere in the East, unrolling his book
now, he saw her smile and sigh, and blush and of pattern with a practised jerk. He's not a
glance; and following the direction of her eyes, West-end tailor-I don't mean that. But by
he found them settle in the pit, on a young man | George, the fellow's insolent! See he's actu-
whose striking beauty of form and face only ally stuck his eye-glass into his eye, and is
made his vulgarity and mauvais ton the more staring my cousin out of countenance. Now,
remarkable. There was no expression in his Plin., now for some fun;" and the silly fellows,
countenance, which was very much that of one all a little elevated, and fresh from the " mess,"
of the handsomest of the wax heads in a hair-prepared for a laugh, which they were not too
dresser's shop; his glossy black hair, parted in refined to call a "lark."
the middle, was curled on a white hut rather
retreating forehead; his features were Grecian;
his eyes large, black, but very unmeaning; his
complexion pink and white; his whiskers black
and glossy as his hair; and he constantly drew
aside his scarlet lips in a weak smile, for no
other purpose but to show his dazzling teeth.
His figure was very tall and fine, and his dress
as absurd as gaudy taste (which his peculiar cir-
cumstances enabled him to exercise ad libitum)
could make it. No practised eye could for a
moment mistake him for a gentleman, but to
Miss Trueblue he seemed perfection!
Frederick Vernon' Smirk had very adroitly
stuck his eye-glass into his eye, and was glaring
through it on vacancy, quite innocent of any
design in what he did.
"Go it Featherhead! go it, Featherhead !"
said some of the loungers; "he'll be off-he's
on the go."
"I'd thank you to remove your eye-glass,
Sir," said Featherhead, insolently, yet colour-
ing, from a mixture of conceit and bashfulness.
Frederick made no answer, but his height-
ened colour showed he heard the affront.
"Go it, Featherhead! go it!" said the
chorus.
"If you don't remove that glass yourself, I
shall be compelled to do it for you; you annoy
my cousin!" said Featherhead to Smirk.
Twenty thousand pounds! that is his
one idea, as he gazes at Miss Trueblue; for of
that sum she, by the will of her uncle, is in ac-
tual possession. As her father's sole heir, her
expectations are boundless; but, silly as Fred- "I never suffer any one to remove my eye-
erick Vernon Smirk is, he knows offended glass, but myself, Sir !" said Frederick, with an
fathers can marry again, or leave their wealth air of dignity extremely ludicrous; and as he
to public charities, to vent their private pique. spoke, he removed it from his eye with an air'
Can Frederick Vernon Smirk, so proud of what of importance, and swaggered out of the pit,
a wiser man would blush to own-his illegiti- amid the laughter of all concerned in the attack.
mate descent from a nobleman, who spurns As he retreated, the words "snob," "cool
him-he, the admired of milliners, and adored hand," "cad," and "had the best of it, though,
of mantua-makers, who has broken three straw- tingled in his wounded and burning ears; and
bonnet-makers' hearts, made a lady's maid little Plinlimmon, and little Featherhead, flaxen-
throw herself into the Serpentine, from which headed youths in the Guards, looked very silly
she was pulled out by a policeman, whom she and very "small." Much as they despised our
afterwards married, and a pastry-cook damsel poor Frederick Vernon Smirk, they would have
take poison, and send for the stomach-pump-given a good deal to exchange their little insig-
can he, Frederick Vernon Smirk, with gentle-
blood in his veins for his father was a noble
scamp; and his mother the fond, credulous, and
beautiful orphan of a poor subaltern, toiling
away life as a nursery governess in the haughty
Vernon family!-in love and unprotected-can
he sell his matchless charms for twenty thou-
sand pounds! He is sorely tempted; he thinks
of, and mutters over to himself, 'Unters, 'ounds,
clever 'acks-a villa at 'Ornsey, a season in
Paris--my cab, my tiger, my groom!'-and as
nificant figures, and pale faces, for his Narcis-
sus-like bust and Antinous figure; but then, in
their class of life, such beauty would have been
invaluable; art would have refined, education
have polished, and patrician bearing have ren-
dered it irresistible; while in a "snob," it only
rendered vulgarity remarkable, and awakened
regret. Then, too, proud as they were, they
would not have despised Frederick's chance
of fifty thousand pounds down, and boundless
wealth at paralytic old Trueblue's death! Grand
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
19
as they think themselves, they are all in debt,
and would jump at Miss Trueblue, or rather at
her wealth, while she would scorn all the Plin-
limmons, and all the Featherheads, that ever
accepted a bill, even if they brought her coro-
nets in exchange for her dowry, and yet deem
herself blessed to follow her Frederick in beg-
gary through the world. So cheer up poor
Frederick, all tailor as thou art, and “snob" as
thou must ever be; thy beauty is not so useless
to thee after all.
CHAPTER IX.
FRANK kept an anxious watch upon the box
that held Lucilla and his old friend Miss True-
blue; the longer he gazed on the young Lu-
cilla, the more eager did he feel to renew his
old friendship with her companion.
He beholds his beau ideal of womanly loveli-
ness realized, and that for the first time! He
is romantic, and is half in love already with a
girl he has only seen through an Opera-glass,
and across the Opera-house! But, then there is
something so chaste and simple in her dress
(by the way, a white Indian muslin, Miss True-
blue had induced her to accept); the one white
camelia in her hair, with its glossy dark leaves,
was so tasteful! so becoming!-(the poor little
hunchback, had fixed it among her young friend's
shining ringlets). Then there was something
so patrician in her beauty, so modest in her
manner!
Alas! already many glasses are levelled at
her; Frank grows fretful! jealous! anxious!-
he positively dreads lest his uncle should dis-
cover his prize, and fix his cold and odious gaze
on that lovely face; he would so hate it to be
scanned by the cold connoisseur; but luckily,
Sir Felix does not seem to have discovered her.
A bevy of handsome damsels in the pit seems
to engross his attention for a time; their black
eyes flashed, their parted lips show their white
teeth, their gaze is fixed on Sir Felix Archer's
box. The old dandy simpers, gazes, glances
tenderly at them, and then eager, as he thinks
that Undermine should see his conquests, says,
"By Jove, Undermine! those are some fine
girls, staring and smiling at one of us. Do you
think they're quite-
""
They are smiling at me, Sir Felix," said
Undermine, who had long been in a fidget.
"At you !" and Sir Felix arched his brows.
"Yes, Sir Felix; the silly young gigglers are
my sisters; their first Opera-home for the
holydays. They have just found me out, and
are smiling and nodding to me.
"They are very fine girls! you must introduce
me some day," said Sir Felix, coldly, and he turn-
ed his glass elsewhere. Now, Undermine had
been in a fidget ever since he first detected his sis-
ters in the pit, chaperoned by their mamma, a
vulgar, overblown city dame. He had formed
a sort of plan for making one of them Lady
Archer, and he did not at all wish that Sir
Felix should see his sisters for the first time in
the pit of the Opera, hot, crowded, jostled, and
ill-dressed. Still, it could not be helped. It
would not do to let him fancy they were ques-
tionable girls, of very forward manners. He
|
must make the best of it, and trust to some
lucky chance of a favourable introduction.
Frank was a very long time making up his
mind to the simple step of proceeding to Miss
Trueblue's box, to renew his acquaintance with
her; but the new and fretful feeling in his heart
is a very timid one. At length, however, he
can bear suspense no longer; he must get
nearer to his unknown idol of an hour.
He hurries along the empty passages, the
quiet corridors, and up the deserted steps. Grisi
is engrossing the house, and all is still, save
her exquisite and silver roulades. What little
mean doors are alone between him and the
jewelled queens of fashion? At length, he
reaches the distant tier, in which is Miss True-
blue's box. He has looked in, for it is partly
open; all is right that haunting face was
turned smilingly round; he saw it distinctly;
lovelier, a thousand-fold, than he had deemed
it from his box. He caught a silver laugh, and
the low, musical tones of the sweetest voice he
had ever heard. He will walk up and down to
gain courage, and quiet his beating heart. He
has so much at stake-fond fool! Who enters
the lobby, and moves before him, swaggering
along, and poisoning the air with musk and am-
ber? A being, "of coxcombry's worst cox-
combs, e'en the pink!” He turns round on
Frank his handsome, unmeaning vulgar face.
He struts, he hums, and conceitedly opening
the door of that box, which is to Frank a shrine,
a voice of welcome is heard, the door is closed,
and all' is still. Frank retires, disheartened and
disappointed; he cannot seek admittance where
such a "snob" is welcomed. That wretch,
evidently, in his opinion, one of the swell mob,
to sit beside his Psyche-perhaps her accepted
lover! Oh that he had never seen her! he
feels jealous, injured, angry-almost tearful.
Alas! alas! Frank is in love.
CHAPTER X.
Poor Frank was quite mistaken in his notion
that the beautiful head and face of Lucilla had
escaped the notice of the professed connoisseur
and lady-killer, Sir Felix Archer. No! at his
first deliberate glance around the house, he re-
cognised her, but he was not at all anxious to
point her out to his nephew, whom he knew
to be as headstrong and romantic as he him-
self was cold and calculating. Besides, he was
always on his guard, and never introduced any
man who might become a rival to any woman
on whom he had any views, however vague
and remote. His first impression was re-
vived concerning Lucilla. Animated, elegantly
dressed, and in her best looks, her present ap-
pearance put to flight the memory of that she
presented at her odious dinner-party. Under-
mine's advice and his nephew's taunts were in
his ear! What joy for him, if a son and heir-
apparent were to cut out his detested heir-pre-
sumptive and presumptuous, for ever.
then, to link himself with people so odiously
poor as the Temples! And if his third mar
riage were unblest with children! To a man
of pleasure a wife is always an incumbrance!
He must think about it; there was no hurry;
But
20
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
So.
|
the dear creature said it would." He would
then hazard a bow or a nod, pretending it was
in return for one from the haughty head of
some belle of the season. And who, among the
incessant bowing, nodding, smiling, ogling and
greeting, of a crowd in Hyde Park, or Ken-
sington Gardens, could detect Renard Under-
mine's ruse?"
Perceiving Sir Felix Archer had no inten-
tion of pointing out Lucilla, and determined
to be in his confidence, he said
said-"Look, Sir
Felix, that is Lucilla Temple, I do believe!
If I remember right, that toss of the head is
hers."
at any time he was sure of her joyful accept-
ance. Why, she had made a thousand little
advances on the dreadful day of the dinner, in
Pleasant Row. Besides, what girl in her senses,
situated as she was, could refuse a Baronet with
five thousand a year, Felix Park, a house in
Portland Place, and Archer Court, in York-
shire. He had some doubt about the propriety
of pointing out Lucilla to Undermine; but if
the client was cunning, the lawyer was doubly |
He had remarked her, and remarked, too,
Sir Felix Archer's notice of her; he saw that
Sir Felix regarded her with an interest which
he could scarcely help sharing; for every man,
however vulgar, has an innate sense of, and
love for the beautiful. Of course his own
Of course his own
account of their intercourse was a garbled one.
It was true that old Undermine, who had the
stewardship of the estate of Temple's father,
had profited largely by that gentleman's ruin,
and risen in wealth and importance in propor-
tion as he sank; and it was true, too, that he
would not have sanctioned his son's address-
ing the daughter of a ruined man; and true
was it also, that young Undermine could take
good care of his detestable self, and that a
sort of girlish intimacy had subsisted between
Lucilla Temple and her namesake, Lucilla
Undermine, whose name had been given her
some twenty years before, with a silver goblet, "I fancy, I should not have to court much,"
and a coral and bells, when Mr. Temple, senior, said Sir Felix, coldly. "Courting is very well
yielded to the prayer of the then humble Un- in the lower and middle classes, but in a certain
dermines, and condescended to stand as god-set there is very little courting. Still, I don't
father to their infant daughter. All this was
true, but the colouring was false.
|
Sir Felix coloured slightly (a wonderful evi-
dence of emotion for him!) "By Jove! I be-
lieve you're right, Renard," he said, affecting
a little surprise. "All the glasses in the om-
nibus are levelled at her too! I could'nt think
what so completely engrossed Ogle and Love-
lace—and Trelawney too, by Jove!
I hope
they won't set their heads together to get hold
of her! they'll run her down if they do; and
Temple being in the church, they'd be safe
enough. I declare I'm very much tempted to
make her Lady Archer at once, before she's
blown upon. What an effect she'd produce !"
But, Sir Felix, you could never go courting
to Pleasant Row, St. Pancras ?"
wish to visit Pleasant Row again, and Temple
bores me! Besides it may come to nothing!
I'm as changeable as a woman, Renard! fasti-
dious as Byron, and uncertain as the wind.
was half in love with her the first time I saw
her; the next, I did'nt think her worth a look.
Now I'm rather struck with her again; perhaps
next time I may think nothing of her: intimacy
always wearies and disgusts me. Then the
women are so ready! I quite envy you fellows,
(who have your way to make) the excitement of
the chase. Now we never know the luxury of
a chase; we are never allowed a doubt or a wish.
And as the old song says—
"The fruit that will fall without shaking,
Indeed is too mellow for me!"
Mr. Temple was a gentleman, and he felt it
old Undermine a parvenu, and he felt it. All
the Undermines felt they were parvenus; all the
Temples knew they were, however poor, how-
ever slighted, of ancient birth, and gentle blood.
The Undermines could not look down on the
Temples-they could not help a sort of defer-
ence of manner towards them. Mrs. Under-
Mrs. Under-
mine, in her rich lavender satin, could not help
addressing Mrs. Temple, in her turned and
faded silk, as "ma'am." And however thread
bare Mr. Temple's coat, still to old Undermine
he was "sir." No dress could give the Miss
Undermines the air of Lucilla, and they felt it.
And as for Renard Undermine, with all his
boasts, and conceited inuendoes, he had often
decked himself out, and brushed his wiry brown
hair bolt upright, and sported rings on his clumsy
fingers, and bored Lucilla with his legal puns,
jokes, and quibbles; but never, to use his own
phrase, could "get on with her" at all. She
treated him with a chilling hauteur, very differ-
ent from the agaceries, of all his sisters' other
friends-misses who lived in large, handsome
houses in Bedford Row, Gower Street, Russell
Place, and other such professional purlieus, and
who all agreed that Renard Undermine was, in
their own language, "a nice young man, a gen-hint, think you ?"
teel young man, a marrying man too; but very
high, very severe, and such a quiz !”
|
|
But then he knew such "high people." In
speaking of the nobility, he called them by pet
names (which to their minds, betokened great
intimacy). "There goes Sir Bob, tired to death;
he told me he should be worn out before night.
Ah! there's sweet Lady Clem.; pale, by Jove!
that last ice upset her, or perhaps the last waltz! I
"Capital," said Undermine; "too mellow-
capital!"
"I'll tell you what, Undermine; you can
oblige me, if you will.”
Oh, Sir Felix! tell me how!" and tears of
plausibility filled Renard's eyes.
Well, then, I want to see a little more of
this girl, without encountering the horrors of
Pleasant Row, or raising hopes I may never
realize.
realize. Your house would be neutral ground;
there, unsuspected, I could meet her, and judge
of her, escape Temple, and not commit myself.
Can you contrive it, without giving any one a
"Oh yes, Sir Felix, I am sure I can."
Well, get her to dine with your sisters
quite en famille, and let me drop in unexpect-
cdly."
"Oh, Sir Felix, you do us so much honour!"
"No, no, I have an object-you'll manage it,
then?"
"I shall be but too happy to do so.
curtain rose, and the ballet of "Undine" be-
But the
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
21
}
witched even the accustomed eyes of Sir Felix
Archer.
At length it was all over. Lucilla, giddy
with delight, took Miss Trueblue's arm, while
Tom proudly offered his to the old aunt, pur-
blind and purdeaf, whose turbaned head shook
like a mandarin's in a tea shop.
Frederick Smirk had yielded to a whispered
entreaty of Miss Trueblue's, who dreaded the
watchful eye of some friend of her father's-
he was gone.
CHAPTER XI.
FRANK was lounging over a late breakfast at
Hatchard's Hotel, Piccadilly, and was busily
consulting the Court Guide, and the London
Directory, for the abode of his old school-fel-
low's father, Matthew Trueblue, when he was
informed a gentleman wished to see him, and
came by appointment.
Frank then remembered, for the first time,
that he had fixed that very hour for the visit of
It was long before our party joined the the Clergyman whose advertisement had so
moving mass, hurrying towards their carriages. interested him. The door was thrown open,
Much were they shoved, pushed, squeezed, and and a very elegant man, about forty, advanced
jostled; and constant were the exclamations into the room. He was deadly pale when first
and remarks excited by Lucilla's beauty. Her he met Frank's eye, but the vivid flush of
eyes sparkled with gratified vanity and inno-shame rose to his very temples, when Frank,
cent delight; and when the sound "Miss True- with a colour almost as much heightened as
blue's carriage stops the way," reached her ear, his own, offered him a chair.
and the footman, who daily opened the door to
the "Daily teacher," touched his hat, three or
four damsels cried out, "Lucilla !" She looked
round, and recognised the Undermines.
They were fond of Lucilla and seeing her
so elegantly dressed, and remarking the foot-
man, they were proud of her too.
How are your Mar and Par, Miss Temple ?"
said Mrs. Undermine, bowing. "Do you still
reside in Pleasant Row?”
The stranger's coat, carefully brushed, was
much worn, and his linen had the yellow tinge,
peculiar to "washing at home;" his white tie
betrayed the Clergyman, as did a something
unworldly and resigned in his noble features.
His hat was very old and rusty, and his shoes
were patched; but Intellect and Truth were
(at least so Frank thought) enthroned on his
brow; and there was a melancholy sweetness
in his smile, that went at once to Frank's heart.
My name is Temple; I am Curate at St.
's Chapel, St. Pancras, and was a Fellow
of King's College, Cambridge," he said. “I
came hither with some misgivings; poverty is
so often made the butt of thoughtless ridicule
in this great city, and the step I took was so
questionable, that I did not feel sure I might
not be exposing myself to a hoax; but I am
"Well, if papa and mamma consent, I shall satisfied now-you, Sir, I see, are in earnest."
rejoice to do so.”
"Do fix a day to dine with us, Lucilla; do
dear," said one of the girls.
"Oh do; you must-you shall," said her
friend and namesake.
"Come quite sans cérémonee, my dear," said
Mrs. Uundermine; come and take pot luck
with us."
"Come and spend a long day, do!”
Say when to-morrow?"
"No" (that was one of Miss Trueblue's
days): "to-morrow I am engaged."
"Monday, then; you know the old house,
No. 14."
"Monday, then. Good-by, dear."
"Farewell, love. My respectful compliments
to Mr. and Mrs. Temple. Ah, Tom! how you
are grown. Ill weeds grow apace. I hope that
don't hold good with you, Tom. You must
come too," said Mrs. Undermine. "You're
the very picture of your Par, Lucilla," she ad-
ded. "Do, pray, bring your sister on Monday,
Tom!" Tom was delighted.
"Ah,” thought Lucilla, "if they knew I was
only the daily teacher of the mistress of this
fine carriage and tall footman, they would have
cut me at once, and now how they court me.
Oh, this world, this world."
Frank had watched and waited till he saw
Lucilla into the carriage, and had actually se-
cured a rose-bud, which had fallen from her
bouquet. Sir Felix and Undermine, behind in
the crowd, heard the day fixed, and the former
agreed to drop in as if by chance.
“Let no one dream I am coming," said Sir
Felix. "I trust to your honour, Renard."
The honour of Renard! All his own family
did not dream Sir Felix was coming, but knew
it as a grand and important certainty, and of
course were all in a state of high preparation
accordingly.
te
"I am, indeed; the interest your advertise-
ment excited in me is now increased tenfold.
To save you all suspense, I may as well say at
once, I will advance you the sum you need as
a loan. Were my resources greater, I would
call it a subscription."
Mr. Temple tried to speak, but his emotion
choked his voice. He had come prepared per-
haps to find the answer a hoax, or at best to
be questioned, censured, ridiculed, asked for
references, security, interest, and probably
disappointed after all.
One glance at Frank assured him he was a
gentleman; and as he marked the deference of
his manner to one so unfortunate, and the be-
nevolence beaming in his eyes, he felt certain
he was a good man.
Poor Temple tried to say, "I thank you,"
but he could not do it; the unexpected trust,
sympathy, and to him, immense assistance,
overcame him. His tears gushed forth; he
took out a thin old handkerchief, evidently
from the same home wash, but carefully folded,
and its worn surface exhibiting many a patch
and many a darn, and turned away. Frank
saw by the convulsive movement of his tall
figure, that the strong man was weeping like a
young girl.
Frank, nobly considerate, left the room; and
when, in about ten minutes, he returned, Tem-
ple was pale and composed; he was looking
over a manuscript, and as Frank entered, he
said, with a faint smile, but without trusting
himself to look up "I have brought a few
22
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
chapters of the work from which I hope so
much, now that I am enabled to complete it.
Tell me frankly, I beg-would it weary you to
hear some portion of it?”
"It would delight me," said Frank; "but
first, as I know from experience how poor a
breakfast one makes when the mind is ill at
ease, and I have done no justice to this good
cheer, let us make our first advance towards
the intimacy, which I hope will date from this
day." So saying, Frank rang for hot coffee,
hot rolls, and hot cutlets. And Mr. Temple,
who that morning had only taken one cup of a
wretched decoction of British tea, and one slice
of singed bread, and that, with a sickly, throb-
bing heart, now full of hope and peace, made
the best repast he had done for many years.
He then, at Frank's request, proceeded to
the delightful task of reading the best portions
of his work, to an attentive, discriminating,
and delighted listener. It was a luxury he
could appreciate; for it had often been his fate
to cast the pearls of thought before the swine,
who either gobbled them up unheeding, or
turned to rend him-to rend the sensitive
feelings of the anxious author-by the coarse
ridicule or flippant sarcasm, often betraying a
total inattention to all the arguments that had
preceded some eloquent deduction.
No; when he timidly raised his eyes at some
favourite passage of his own, panting under
his assumed calm, to see its effect on his
hearer, he did not find Frank's gaze vacant,
and wandering, but fixed upon him with a
corresponding emotion, awake to every beauty,
touched by every noble sentiment, and con-
vinced by every close argument and true de-
duction. Often, from his own varied stores of
classic reading, he brought in some apt quota-
tion, or modestly suggested a slight alteration,
which Temple at once felt would be an im-
provement.
"To me he looked an angel!" said Temple;
"but of course I can hardly judge him calmly.
But I think, in the eyes of the most indifferent
he must be interesting. Young, he certainly
is."
"And by his lending such a sum so readily,
he must be rich. Ah, my love, what a husband
were he for our Lucilla! Did you invite him?"
"I did; but with some misgivings. You
remember all the horrors of Sir Felix Archer's
visit?"
"I do, indeed," said Mrs. Temple, with a
shudder; "but that supercilious, selfish epi-
cure and coxcomb, he is the very opposite in
everything to the delightful creature you de-
scribe. I hope poor Lucilla's having become
a daily teacher would not lower her in his
eyes. Some men are so proud on such points—
excellent men too! How I long to see him,
and for him to see Lucilla. And so his name
is Stanley; a pretty name enough. Mrs. Stan-
ley-how I long to tell Lucilla !"
"Nay, my love! do not hint at your hopes
and wishes; you did so in the case of Sir Felix
Archer, and I never saw our poor girl so con-
strained, and looking to such disadvantage, as
on that odious day; indeed she exerted herself
so to please him, that the natural grace of her
manner was quite lost. She looked flushed,
anxious, uncomfortable, and yet she told me
that she would refuse him, if he were an Em-
peror. No, no, leave things to chance, or
rather Providence-matchmaking never an-
swers-remember Sir Felix!" So saying, he
turned, high in hope, and with renewed ener-
gies, to his laborious work; and Mrs. Temple,
while her fingers were engaged on a beautiful
embroidered pelerine for her daughter, amused
herself, by weaving a fanciful web, in which
the thread of her destiny, and that of her hus-
band's generous young benefactor, were closely
entwined; and thus they were engaged, when
This pleasing occupation did not cease till Lucilla, blooming from her long walk, and es-
Temple had gone fairly through all the por-corted by Tom, rushed in, her day's toil over,
tions of his MS. he had brought with him. I to cheer their spirits, and enliven their modest
And then Frank said, "If there is taste left in dinner, by vivid accounts of the Opera, and of
the public, or justice in the scholars of Eng- all she had seen in her walk to and from the
land, that work, Mr. Temple, will make you Trueblues. But not undivided were her hon-
famous; and when you are the Lion of the day, ours; Tom, too, would be heard, and Tom's
you will not forget the poor Mouse, who nibbled account of everything was so different; a boy
away the net of difficulties that fettered such of fifteen, and a girl of seventeen, see every-
powers!"
thing through such a different medium. Tom
hated the Opera, and delighted in the Ballet.
Lucilla could find no words to paint the witch-
ery of the Opera, but had been shocked beyond
measure at the Ballet.
I should have little penetration," said Tem-
ple, "if I did not recognise a scholar in you.
But enough will you let me dedicate to you
the work, which will owe its publication to
your generous aid?"
"I shall glory in your doing so," said Frank;
"and when that work is out, I shall feel myself
a sort of Lion."
They then proceeded to the pecuniary part
of the arrangement.
Frank carried off Mr. Temple's simple note
of hand, and address, and Temple repaired
home, with two hundred pounds in his pocket,
to his anxious and enraptured wife, who was
now able to sit up in an arm-chair, and who
made him tell her again and again, though
each time her tears flowed afresh, every detail
of his interview with the noble stranger.
"And though so learned and so good, you
say he is young, handsome, and engaging?"
Then Tom began to ridicule the tailor dandy,
and declared he had felt inclined "to kick him
out of the box :" the idea of people of their fam-
ily sitting in the same box with a tailor-he
was ashamed to see Lucilla bow to him!
But Lucilla reminded him, it was through
the dandy tailor they got access to Miss True-
blue, and that any rudeness to him would have
been ungrateful and mean; that no one among
the thousands in the Opera-house knew or
cared for Lucilla and Tom Temple. He was
the only person there who had done them a
kindness.
66
Why," said Tom, "how delighted the Un-
dermines were to see you, Lucilla, and how they
pressed us to dine there. How very kind they.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
23
'were ! I was so glad that horrid tailor was
gone before they saw us."
"Do you know, Tom, to whom we owe the
Undermines' great kindness?"
No, do you?"
"Yes; to Miss Trueblue's tall footman."
"Nonsense, Lucy!"
Yes, principally to him, and a little to two
persons whom you would think less important
still."
"Who ?"
"Miss Trueblue's two magnificent grays!"
"Nonsense, Lucilla !"
"Even so, Tom; and Miss Trueblue's beau-
tiful chariot, though it is only an inanimate ob-
ject," she added, archly, "had more to do with
their kindness than any merits of ours. Do you
remember how they got out of our way once,
and would not see us, when we were in Ken-
sington-gardens, very badly dressed, and they
very fine, with a gay party?”
"Oh! I remember-nasty things! you had
on your old cloak and beaver bonnet, and I my
turned jacket, while they were decked out in
feathers and flounces !"
"Well, they got out of our way then, Tom:
last night they saw us with a lady who had a
tall, showy footman, both of us well dressed;
they have no idea of the secret of our connex-
ion with Miss Trueblue, and so they thought
us worth noticing. They were very kind di-
rectly they saw the footmon; but when they
came out to get into a hackney-coach them-
selves, and saw a splendid carriage awaiting us,
they became positively fond. Miss Undermine
almost shed tears of tenderness, and Mrs. Un-
dermine's inquiries after our Ma and Pa became
innumerable."
Oh," said Tom, "I hope they'll never find
out your only Miss Trueblue's teacher !"
"Well, I would rather they did not, cer-
tainly; but if they do, and withdraw their fa-
vour in consequence, I do not think they are
very much to be regretted. Do you, Tom?”
"No, indeed! If you were a housemaid, and
I a tiger, I should think we were above them
but if they were to find you out, and cut you,
I'd be even with them, Lucy; I'd frighten
them out of their wits, if I could get Jock to
help me. But we are going to dine there, Lu-
cilla ?"
(C
Certainly, if mamma can spare us, and papa
has no objection."
The mamma, unselfish and kind, was de-
lighted her children should have a little recrea-
tion; and Mr. Temple, who still owed the Un-
dermines the last instalment of a once huge law-
yer's bill, was glad to conciliate them by giving
his consent.
"Although they are vulgar and time-serving,"
said Mrs Temple, "they are, as all parvenus
are, rather amusing."
"I have heard he writes for the Backbiter,"
said Mr. Temple, "furnishing scandal of the
nobility, into many of whose houses he has con-
trived to get access.
"How can people of rank endure him, papa?
I think him such a vulgar, forward, boasting
creature; I cannot bear him," said Lucilla.
"Be sure, my love, he is neither forward,
boasting, nor flippant with them. How he man-
ages it I cannot tell; but I met him the other
day, coming out of H House, and he told
me he had just been lunching there; he had
with him a little French poodle, which he said
had just been given him by Lady' Cis.,' as he
familiarly called her-Lady Cecilia, I presume,
one of the Earl's daughters; and he was then
on his way to Lord Lumberton's. I saw him
to the garden gate; he seems hand and glove
there, for he let himself in sans cérémonie.”
"Well papa!" said Tom, "with all his fine
acquaintances and fine ladies, I think he very
much admires our Lucy; and I do believe, if
she were not so proud to him, he'd, what Jock
calls, keep company with her!"
Mr. Temple reddened. "He would never
presume to raise his eyes to Lucilla," he said
(from the impulse of inborn pride of birthı).
Then remembering himself, he smiled faintly,
and said-"Ah, I forgot, what we are, and
what he is-I was thinking, for a moment, of
what he was, and what we were."
'I assure you, papa," said Lucilla," without
forgetting what we are, and what he is, I should
think it great presumption in him to think of
me! He is, it is true, a wealthy lawyer, and I
am a poor teacher, but the blood of the Tem-
ples flows in my veins, and that of the Under-
mines in his. Think by what grovelling mean-
nesses his odious wealth has been amassed;
think how his father, the creature of poor grand-
papa's bounty, profiting by the distress of yours,
induced him to mortgage his estates, and sell
his reversions, for sums which he swallowed
up in his own charges. If I were, as Tom says,
a housemaid, I should still look down on Ren-
ard Undermine."
As she spoke, her fine hazel eyes flashing,
her rich cheek glowing and her graceful form
drawn up, the father thought she would shed
lustre on a coronet, or what he would prefer
for her, win the heart of his young benefactor,
Frank Stanley. He then took her into his own
room, to tell her in confidence the result of his
interview with that generous being. Tom was
not to know it, both beacause he would look on
two hundred pounds as boundless wealth, and
be idle and extravagant in consequence, and
because he might, in the joy of his heart, con-
fide the secret to his very questionable friend
Jock, the tiger.
He remained with his mamma, delighting her
maternal heart with accounts of all the remarks
"And good natured," said Lucilla; "they he had heard made about Lucilla, as she pro-
always take one to see exhibitions, and always ceeded from the Opera-box to the carriage.
contrive some novelty to entertain one. In Nor did he forget to add, how he had shoved an
one day I remember they took me to the exhi-old beau that was staring at her, and frighted
bition of the Royal Academy, the Industrious by his frown a young one who pressed closely
Fleas, the Talking Canary, Madame Tussaud's,
the Diorama, and the Polytechnic."
"They didn't pay, though," said Tom.
"Renard had admissions from newspapers.
It didn't cost them sixpence."
against her. "I don't know what Lucy would
have done without me," he said. "One thing
is clear to me-she must never go into public
without me; and when next 1 have sixpence,
I should like to have a good stout stick. A pis-
24
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
tol would be a capital thing, mamma; I spoke
to Jock about it; he can make powder and bul-
lets, and he knows of a pistol at a pawnbroker's
-and a life-preserver too! I could get the
pistol for twenty-five shillings, mamma. Don't
you think it would be a very good thing?"
"No, indeed; I think it would be a very
dreadful thing; and I forbid you to think of
such a horrible weapon. And if Jock puts such
ideas into your head, I will not have you asso-
ciate with him at all. I have a great mind to
tell your papa, Tom!" and Mrs. Temple was
pale with terror.
"Oh, don't tell papa, there'll be a regular row.
I haven't even sixpence to buy a stick, so how
could I buy a pistol? Pretty mamma! she
won't get her own Tom into a scrape for no-
thing. I only wanted to consult you about it,
for Lucilla's safety. If you think she's safe
without, its different, only Jock doesn't. Jock
saw a gentleman follow us home once, and
says he sees odd-looking people walk up and
down, looking up at our windows. Now, if
that is true, mamma, you must see the use of
my having a pistol."
'No, indeed, Tom; but I see the danger of
your shooting some innocent scavenger, or
some tradesman looking out for our house."
But, mamma, if any one should try to carry
Lucilla off? I suppose you would be glad then
that I should have a pistol?"
"No, indeed, I think you would be quite as
likely to shoot her, as her assailant; but what
can have put such ideas into your head, Torn?
Have you been reading any novels?"
Tom coloured up.
"Ah, I see you have! Now tell the truth,
and tell me what they are, and where you got
them."
"Well I will, if you'll promise not to tell
papa."
|
|
Tom, half detaining it as a treasure, held it to-
her to examine its contents; it was the ninth
volume of Clarissa Harlowe.
"Ah, Tom!" she said, "no wonder your
father complains that you learn nothing. My
dear boy, if you spend all your time now in
such idle follies, how will you ever help him or
maintain yourself? what comfort will you ever
be to me? what protection to Lucilla?"
Why, I would soon contrive to earn twenty-
five shillings to buy the pistol to protect her, if
you would let me," said Tom, returning to the
one darling idea, "and then you would be safe
if you wanted to walk out at night, if I went
with you."
"But I never do want to walk out at night,
Tom. The protection we shall one day want
from you, is that a sensible clever young man
can always afford a mother and sister. If he
is a good scholar, he can maintain them, Tom ;
many have done so, do so daily; but no one
becomes a good scholar by reading novels.
Indeed, no one can be a good scholar who
does not study very hard. Will you promise
me not to read any more of these books without
my leave?"
;
"You must just let me finish this, and then
I will; for Jock's going to withdraw his de-
posit, and not read any more, but spend his
leisure time in writing his Life and Adventures
and he means to call it 'The Tale of a Tiger,'
and says it's sure to sell; but he can't write a
good hand enough. So perhaps I-but here
comes papa; remember your promise, mamma.?
"And you yours, Tom!"
Lucilla was pale and thoughtful, and her
cheek was wet with recent tears. Her father's
account of the stranger had made a deep im-
pression on her heart; she so loved her father,
she was so proud of him; if she could not
quite appreciate the depths of his research, and
the perfection of his scholarship, she could and
did the brilliancy of his genius, and the elo-
quence of his diction. His clerical character,
too, was so much like that she had often dwelt
"Jock again! No, then, I will not scold on, through rising tears, in the good and great
Jock, if you will always consult me about any-poet Cowper's description of a Christian minis-
thing Jock wants you to do. But is Jock a
literary character?"
Not if you will listen to me, and do as I
bid you."
"Well I will, mamma, and you must not
scold Jock."
"Oh, he reads a great many novels, and he
thinks he could write a novel, and has a great
mind to try."
Mrs. Temple laughed. "And pray, what
books has he lent you?"
"He's lent me 'The Bleeding Nun,' 'The
One Fingered Monk,' and 'Fatherless Fanny,'
and Clarissa Harlowe,' and 'Sir Charles
Grandison.' And indeed, mamma, both Cla-
rissa, and Harriet Byron were carried off by
force, and I'm sure they were not prettier than
Lucilla, and Jock thinks so too."
ter. In times of great distress at home she had
known him deny himself a dinner in order that
he might be able to allow his poor parishioners
their expected and excellent supply of soup;
and that he did without any parade, any affec-
tation, cheerfully proposing tea early instead of
dinner. No fatigue, no danger, deterred him
from the sick and needy; and all the virtues
he preached from the pulpit he practised at
home. Lucilla not only loved, she revered her
father, in naïvette and endearing simplicity; he
appeared to her a younger Vicar of Wakefield;
the man who had so befriended him seemed to
her an angel. She had so often wept in silence,
to see him wearing out his life in hopeless toil
"And where does Jock get these books?"
asked Mrs. Temple, her heart somewhat soft-toil that even he owned to be hopeless, and
ened by Jock's tribute to Lucilla's charms.
"He pays a penny a volume; and when he's
done, he lends them to me. Look mamma,"
and Tom took from under a chair cushion a
torn, worn, dog-eared old volume, of which the
thin pages were almost worn away, with the
constant thumbing of the "great unwashed,"
and of which the paper was very little whiter
than the print. Mrs. Temple shuddered, as
now and then, and at rare intervals, succeeding
perhaps in getting some powerful and classical
article into magazines, where writers without
a hundredth part of his learning and taste were
courted to write, and handsomely remunerated,
and where, had he but made a name, the same
articles would have been so welcomed! And
now she sees him, high in hope, hastening with
a glad heart to what seems a task no longer.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
25
Visions of fame, of competence, of the appre-
ciation of the learned, pass before his eyes
whenever he closes them from sheer bodily
fatigue. Some few long-coveted comforts cheer
his exhausted frame; and better still, his be-
loved wife is supplied with all that can accele-
rate her recovery. On her beautiful cheek the
rose of health is unfolding again. Hope is such
a cordial both to body and mind! Ah! well
may Lucilla bless, with all the energy of her
enthusiastic nature, him who has done all this;
well may she wish she could die to reward him;
and such proofs of devotion being obsolete, well
may she indulge in a maiden-dream of the
rapture of living to bless him.
While she is pondering on what she has
heard, and her father is reading a new chapter
of his work to his admiring and delighted wife,
Tom has stealthily, and on tip-toe, glided out,
with his volume of Clarissa, resolved (for Tom
is very honourable) that it shall be his last peep
into the fairy-land of fiction. There, seated on
his little flock bed in his garret (untidy den!)
where marbles, tops, whips, half-made fire-
works, the gorgeous kite, paste, brushes, paints,
and shreds of paper, make hideous confusion-
there he sits, devouring the old novel-nothing
to him long or dull; he would not miss a word
-delights in every detail! Happy age! when
everything is new, when no weary experience
has taught us how things will end, and what
people will turn out-when the fancy is so
fresh, that every impression is lively and deep.
The evening closed in, and Tom read on by
the fast-waning light, and strained his eyes till
they ached, to read the last pages by the rising
moon. At length it was done; Tom was called
for the third time to tea; and still agitated and
excited with the denouement, he went down
stairs to take his part in the discussion, as to
what was to be worn and done with reference
to the visit to the Undermines.
CHAPTER XII.
to raise Tom two inches, by means of a pair o
heels to his wellingtons; they were to have
been brought home the night before, but oh!
faithless Jock! neither Jock nor the welling-
tons have appeared; and it is almost time to
set out for the Undermines."
"Make your mind aisy, a cuishla macree,"
said Norah, her heart boiling with all the impa-
tience for the appearance of the boots, and all
the wrath against Jock, which made the fiery
Tom literally tremble with passion. "Och, and
it's a pity you ever spoke to the little baste;
I niver thought no good of him; and now
where's the butes to the fute o'ye, mavourneen;
Och! by the blissed Virgin and all the saints,
it's myself'll give him a good bating when next
he darkens these doors." As she spoke, with
true Hibernian energy she snatched the tongs
from the fire, twitched the curl she was pinch-
ing somewhat too tightly, and as Tom flinched,
she accidently touched his irritable head with
the burning tongs. Tom started up, roaring
with pain. A frizzing noise was heard; a smell
of burning followed; and the next moment, one
of Tom's forelocks, paper and all, came off, and
was held by the aghast and disconsolate Norah
between the tongs.
Tomi, in a violent rage, darted at her to com-
mence a battle-royal for the injury done him;
but Norah, instead of the vigorous resistance
she generally made, only said, sobbing violent-
ly, "Bate me, bate me, masther Tom; it's my-
self deserves a bating this day. Och hone!
och hone! the carelessness of me; I'm the ruin
o'yer head, I'll not deny it. Och, it's myself
'ull do penance for the same. Och hone! Och
hone! Och hone!"
Her tears, and her wild Irish howl, softened
Tom; he quite forgave, and tried to comfort
her. Certainly the accident was a disfiguring
one, and no parting, brushing or oiling, could
quite conceal it; but whenever Tom's wrath
rose (as it always did after he had examined his
head-dress in the little broken kitchen glass),
Norah's howl of repentant anguish rose too.
Sadly and slowly Tom completed his toiletto,
Lucilla having twice called to announce she
was waiting for him. His eyes brightened a
little, as from the immense, worm-eaten, old
black oak chest, which served Norah as band-
box, wardrobe, and chiffonier, and had so served
her great-grandmother, Norah took out a large
old mourning brooch, of oval form, in the cen-
tre of which was a mat of the sandy hair of the
Tom's toilette was a much more tedious and
elaborate concern than Lucilla's. His red hair
was privately papered and pinched with the
kitchen tongs, by the maid of all-work, Norah,
a good-natured, affectionate creature (from
"County Cork"), whose broad face, Moorish
eyes and skin, and dazzling teeth, confirmed
some popular theories as to the original inva-lover of Norah's girlhood, poor Pat Mahony,
ders of the South of Ireland.
Though Tom, with all his squibs and squirts,
his tricks and dandyism, was the plague of her
life, she doted on him with all the warmth of a
true Irish heart. Tom and Norah were always
on the warmest terms, sometimes of affection,
sometimes of wrath and defiance-Love or
War-they knew no intermediate state; and
luckily, on this important morning, Love was
the presiding deity. At a very early hour,
Norah was up, engaged in ironing a showy
shirt, white waistcoat, and white trowsers, for
Tom. They were all ready; but still a shade
of great anxiety might be traced on Tom's
freckled face, and in his light-blue eyes."
Jock, who in his earliest boyhood had been
apprentice to a cobbler-Jock has undertaken
D
now no more. The dates of his birth and death
were recorded behind; but, as Norah said, “If
Master Tom kept his own counsel no person
would be the wiser; and the brooch was so il-
ligant, and such raal goold, the Queen herself
need'nt be ashamed to wear it at coort.
"And
the hair was illigant too-pure Pat! he died
from a cut with the shillelay on his head.
Great Red Rory Roche, the baste, had spoken
rude to myself, Norah Donovan, at a fair, and
Pat overheard him; and though he wasn't half
his weight or size, he fit him; but first, he
(pure Pat, rest his sowl!) gave myself all he
had in the world - four golden guineas—and
bade me, if he fell, as was like enough, with
such a crool great fighting baste as Red Rory,
consither it all mine, as, sure, his parents
26
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
would be only too proud and too glad to give
him an illigant wake! And, och hone!" said
Norah, "he was kilt, sure enough!-and I
spint the money in this illigant brooch; so take
care of it, a cuishla. It'll make some amends
for the curl I've burnt clane off, and you'll bring
it me safe again, Master Tom, darlint? For,
och! now father and mother's gone after Pat Ma-
hony, the brooch is all I have left me, barring
the masther and misthress, and Miss Lucilla,
and, above all, yerself darlint.'
Even Tom, boy as he was, could not forbear
smiling at the specimen of national character
poor Norah had given, in spending all her lov-
er's little legacy on this keepsake. The curious
mixture of extravagance and devotion struck
even him.
with the means, dreading the exposure of her
lovely, unprotected child, when dressed in a
manner calculated to show off her beauty and
attract attention.
Poor Tom! he had never felt a sense of more
exquisite relief than when he was able to
withdraw his pinched, burning, and tortured
feet from the hard and hot flag-stones, and to
sit down in the shady, softly-cushioned old
rumbling coach, which in its day had borne
a Duchess to many a Drawing-room and regal
banquet. But with the prospect of strutting
about all day in those tight and tilted boots,
and with every now and then a twitch of pain,
even while he sat quiescent, he was in no hu
mour to bear patiently any jokes of Lucilla's
about his brooch or his burnt hair-his high
heels or his strongly-scented handkerchief. She
soon found this out; for having playfully rallied
him on them, he suddenly turned round, and
"Don't you attempt to make fun of me,
Lucilla; if you do, I'll tell the Undermines all
about you.'
"All about me, Tom?"
Yes, that I will! all about your drawing
Renard Undermine in my book. I'll make out
you're in love with him, and I'll tell of your
tight lacing, and leaving off your petticoat to
look slim.”
"Oh, but Tom, that was so very long ago;
that was when I was a very silly little girl."
Tom, in examining the brooch (which cer-
tainly contained ten times the gold generally
seen in such ornaments), forgot his recent dis-
aster, and even Jock's cruel and faithless deser-said,
tion. With a little bergamot, from a littte phial
in the same old oak chest, Norah has scented
Tom's Scotch cambric handkerchief. He takes
a last gaze at himself—Lucilla calls again, from
the head of the kitchen stairs-he is about to
depart-when in rushes Jock, in his hand the
wellingtons, shining like jet, and with heels at
least two inches high. Tom clapped his hands
in ecstacy; and Norah, in spite of all her former
abuse of Jock, hugged him in her sympathetic
delight. Jock had sat up all night to complete
them, having been engaged the whole previous
day shopping with his mistress, and waiting at
a tea party of his young ladies. Tom, a little
tilted forwards by his very high heels, miserably
uncomfortable (for the boots, always tight, now
felt doubly so), but proud as a new knight, after
an affectionate leave of Jock and Norah, strut-
ted up stairs. Jock followed, to whisper on the
kitchen stairs-"If any one offers to tip you,
Master Tom, as they sometimes do our young
squires from Harrow, don't refuse; remember
that 'ere inwaluable pistol!"
"Well, I only tell you, if you make fun of
me, there, I will of you; that's all. Your hair's
quite out of curl already, and so you're jealous
of mine; and you've got no brooch, so you're
envious of mine. And with these boots I'm as
tall as you; and you don't like that, either. I
shan't interfere with you, if you don't with me;
but if you do, I'll tell everything I can remem-
ber about you, however long ago; your dress-
ing up in my things, and your squirting water
at Norah, from behind the kitchen door, and
burning puss's tail, and starving the canary."
Oh, Tom, I am much disappointed in you. And
so you really would amuse the Undermines at
my expense, and set such a little, vulgar fellow
as Renard Undermine to annoy me?"
"But the two last things you mention were
Tom had his own reasons for not wishing sad accidents, as you know, Tom; and how
to go up stairs and subject himself to the scru- often I have cried about poor Catalani, my dar-
tiny of his papa and mamma before setting off. ling bird. And surely you, Tom, my only pro-
His curled hair, the burnt lock, the brooch, the tector-you who ought to shield me from ridi-
high heels, and the bergamot, all were so many cule, even for the follies of my youth-would
delicate secrets, he did not wish to have dis-never expose me to it, for those of my infancy?
covered and ridiculed. Luckily, his mother had
not left her room; his papa was deep in a clas-
sical discussion in his work-so deep, that he
did not look up when Lucilla bade him good-by,
and mechanically answered "Farewell, love."
Lucilla fondly kissed his hot and throbbing fore-
head, and in all the witchery of her Indian mus-
lin robe, her lace mantilla, and a simple white
drawn-silk bonnet, trimmed with violets (a sur-
prise from her fond mother), she hurried down
stairs, and, looking like Psyche, dressed a-la-
mode, she hastened after the eager and impetu-
ous Tom, who, on his high heels, and with his
large stick, was strutting along with great ap-
parent nonchalance, and great real pain and dis-
comfort.
Many, as usual, were the gibes and jeers he
met with from the ill-dressed, sarcastic, and
envious boys-so many, that he was much re-
lieved when at the first coach-stand Lucilla
requested him to call a coach, her mother
having desired her so to do, and furnished her
|
No, Lucilla, I would'nt," said poor Tom,
trying to repress his tears; "but the fact is,
I'm in such pain with these detestable boots, I
don't know what I do or say; and when I think
of bearing them all day, and being in company
all the while, I declare I'm half mad-I'd rather
be a dwarf, that I would!"
"Don't fret, Tom," said Lucilla; "would
you really take them off if you could?"
"Oh, gladly!" said Tom; "to be sure, they
look very well, and make me very tall. If I
had but a silk sock!"
"That would do no good, Tom. Listen:
mamma has given me a few shillings, in case
of our wanting to play cards, or anything else.
Now, if you really are in pain, we will stop at
the first shoemaker's, and buy a pair of com-
[fortable shoes. I assure you, any one can see
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
27
those absurd heels, so you will get no credit for | head returned to make it indelible she took the
your height, Tom."
"Oh, I don't think that. However, if you
wish it, I agree."
Lucilla smiled, but as long as she could make
Tom comfortable she was content. A pair of
suitable shoes was bought, and the boots or-
dered to be sent home. Tom reddened, as he
saw the shoemaker's practised eye twinkle,
and his lip curl, as he examined the enormous
heels Jock had stuck on, more firmly than
neatly.
'Rough work, sir," said the shoemaker; but
Tom did not seem to hear him. The new
shoes were well shaped, and had moderate
heels. Tom cast one regretful glance at the
boots;
but as he walked out in perfect ease
and comfort, he thought of his late anguish
his spirits rose-Tom was in Elysium!
CHAPTER XIII.
:
|
fatal step, which lost Mr. Undermine a valuable
client, and Miss Undermine, perhaps, a coronet.
Mrs. Undermine was an immensely tall, raw-
boned, square-built woman, with large hands,
and feet of the useful genus. Her birth and
parentage were hidden in the most impenetra-
ble obscurity, and could only be guessed at
from her (perhaps) hereditary tastes. She was
a very excellent and industrious plain-worker,
a painfully early riser, never knew a moment's
idleness, and had hardly ever had a day's ill-
ness.
The ablutions and scrubbings so lavishly
bestowed on her house and furniture were ex-
tended to herself; no matter what the weather,
what the season, morning and night, she plunged
head-foremost into a cold bath, glorying in
lathers of soap, and rubbings, which made her
housemaids' arms and hearts ache. Owing to
this discipline, at forty-eight her hair was as
black and abundant as at twenty, no gray in-
truders having dared to appear. Her teeth
were white and perfect from ear to ear, and her
clear brown complexion tinged on her firm
cheeks with the hue of a ruddy apple. How
erect was her form! how firm her step! how
muscular her frame. Perpetual motion, and per-
petual cold ablutions, these were her secrets; on
this plan she had brought up her children while
their age justified her directing them; and, in
consequence, her daughters were tall, straight,
and, except when compared with her, active
women. Even the London air had had no
power to pale the rich red roses of their cheeks.
They wanted, perhaps, delicacy, variety of ex-
pression, and intellectual brightness, the greatest
charms woman can possess; but for rich hair,
bright complexions, dazzling teeth, Dian-like
forms, and exhaustless strength and spirits, the
Misses Undermine, first of Red Lion Court,
Fleet Street, and then of Bedford Row, might
have defied all the county bells and mountain
nymphs that ever inhaled that truest of Elixirs,
fresh country air.
DISMISSING their hackney-coach at the corner
of the street, Lucilla and Tom made their way
to the Undermines' abode. It was a large,
handsome house, with a good entrance; but, to
the Miss Undermines' great annoyance, their
papa would have his name on the door, on
his name on the door, on
a brass plate, and in very large letters; he
had often found the device bring him a stray
client, but the Misses Undermine thought it
looked so professional! Every ray emitted by
the brass plate, which was burnished by the
orders of the best of housewives, Mrs. Under-
mine, so that it formed quite a mirror for the
sun-yes, every reflected and refracted ray shot
anguish into the aspiring eyes of the would-be-
fashionable Misses Undermine. If it had been
dingy, it might have been unnoticed; but no
metal in Mrs. Undermine's menage was dingy,
from the steel grate of her best drawing-room
down to the kitchen candlesticks and savealls;
everything shone like a new needle. The prac-
tical details of the menage were her delight.
If her dignity as mistress had not forbidden it,
it would have been a luxury to her to rub and
scrub, scour and polish, herself; she revelled in
those times generally so deprecated-times of
taking carpets up and curtains down; and it
was but natural she should multiply the pursuits
she delighted in; and so she did. What was
an annual annoyance to most housekeepers,
was a quarterly gala to her. No miscreant of
the insect race ever experienced her hospitality
for a night. She estimated people almost en-
tirely by their cleanliness, order, and scrupulo-bings, as she chose; but with regard to himself,
sity in wiping and scraping their shoes, and
their care not to disturb and injure anything in
her sparkling and fragrant abode. Nay, she
once seriously offended an important client, a
young spendthrift Lord, with long hair, by re-
questing him not to lean his head against the
white satin paper of her drawing-room. It was
a sad thing, for he was an excellent client
(most wealthy spendthrifts are), and he had
shown a great propensity to flirt with Miss
Undermine. But she could not help it; she
owned, in her own emphatic language, she
must have spoken or have burst. She saw a
dark mark on the delicate paper, and before his
The greatest sorrow of Mrs. Undermine's
active and buoyant spirit was, that she had
never been able to conquer in the little attorney,
her husband, his natural dread of cold water-
yet it had been one of the great objects of her
life. He consented, when, in their early-mar-
ried life, he was extremely fond of her-he
consented that baths should be erected, springs
bored for, and every convenience supplied at
great expense; he allowed herself, her chil-
dren, her servants, down to the very dogs and
cats, as many ablutions, scrubbings, and rub-
he was resolute; he declared, that to the best
of his belief, no Undermine, since the deluge,
had ever been in a cold bath, or a bath of any
kind. He vowed he had a natural antipathy
to cold water in any shape, as his father had
before him; but as the little shivering fellow,
whose greatest delight was to sit in his little
close office, perched on a high stool, the little
room heated like an oven with poisonous coke,
was very good-natured, and hated to give his
buxom wife pain, he at last consented to a
weekly warm bath; and with this concession
she was fain to content herself.
Certainly her system was a kill-or-cure one;
28
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Renard had not yet made his appearance,
and the papa Undermine was at his office,
where he toiled like a spider in a dark corner,
spinning the web, in which the idle flies and
flutterers of fashion were caught for ever.
How hard-working a race are the attorneys
of London! and how little do they enjoy the
splendid fortunes they amass ! They live
in dark dens, perched on high stools, and
doing all the dirty work of that great tyrant,
the Law, while, dressed like a Duchess, the
lady of the poor prisoned drudge takes the air
in 'blazoned chariot, drawn by pawing steeds,
often passing in her gay equipage haughtily by
some little ricketty street cab, in which her
husband, (as a great piece of luxury) and his
blue bag, are borne along to the legal purlieus
of Lincoln's Inn or the Temple.
where it answered, its benefit was immense;
and with her four daughters and Renard it had
answered. Renard was a very puny, sickly,
ricketty child, and had grown up into a very
tolerably healthy man. True, two little wizen,
and one deformed child had perished; but Mrs.
Undermine had a strong, bold mind, and no
useless sensibilities; she consoled herself with
the recollection, that for the weakly and de-
formed, life is a great burden-often one long
illness-and that they are a source of nothing
but grief, fatigue, and anxiety to their relatives.
In her opinion, children who could not bear
cold water were better in Heaven; and so she
soon dried her few natural tears, and prepared
literally to wash away her grief and her regrets.
Mrs. Undermine found it very difficult to suit
herself with servants, as that class has a real
antipathy to cold water. Yet all Mrs. Under- Were he to ask to be set down anywhere,
mine's maids were compelled to the use of a the lady and her bedizined daughters (if she
cold bath, and all her men required to bathe in has any) would be amazed, and such incon-
the Serpentine. This the latter professed to do, venient presumption would be checked. Truly,
and probably, in hot summer weather, did; but these poor fellows remind one of the water-
as there were no means of ascertaining that they carriers of the East, who toil, ragged and ex-
did so in winter, it is probable the shivering|hausted, in the broiling sun, that their wives
idlers cheated at once their mistress and them-
selves.
Although, for some years, the Misses Under-
mine had been emancipated from their mother's
government, yet habit had become second na-
ture with them; and they were, besides, by no
means insensible to the advantages of bloom
and strength, nor to the open admiration their
buxom charms excited whenever they appeared
in public, among the pale and chilly belles of
London. They were famous, both as pedes-
trians and equestrians; and if they did not rise
as early or walk as far as their mother, they
were by no means contemptible off-shoots of
that tough parent stem.
1
|
may loll in silken luxury and jewelled splendour
at home!
However, Mrs. Undermine was, as we have
seen no luxurious loller or lazy lounger, but, in
her own way, more industrious than even her
toiling little husband.
"Make a hearty lunch, my dears, she said,
after she had drunk at one draught about a pint
of cold water, for we are not going to dine till
seven; in short we expect !-"
Here a sharp nudge from Lucilla Undermine
checked her. Remembering herself, she con-
tinued-" We expect you to go sight-seeing, my
dears; and as we've given up the horses now
the season's over, you'll be obliged to walk. I
hope you feel equal to a good brisk walk ;
there's nothing like it-plenty of walking, and
plenty of cold bathing? Look at me; I'm forty-
eight, and I havn't a wrinkle or a gray hair,
nor have I ever lost a tooth! Every morning
at five, and every evening at eight, in I plunge,
head foremost, souse, swill, scrub and rub, as
do the girls. By the by, my dear Miss Temple,
would you like a cold bath? I'll have it got
ready directly."
No, I thank you-not to-day !"
'Very bracing, and you look so delicate!"
"Not to-day, thank you."
"Well, what say you, Master Tom ?"
Tom, who liked a cold bath, and revelled
They lived a happy and a merry life, did Mrs.
Undermine and her daughters; the evil fairy
had not cursed them at their birth with any
acute or delicate sensibilities; and with nerves
braced by constant cold bathing and violent
exercise, they set all atmospheric influences
and sentimental sorrows at defiance; the ills of
life passed lightly over their erect and daring
heads. Headaches, tears, hysterics, swoons,
and all the long etceteras of woes that wait
on nervous ladies, were unknown to them;
they had, both mother and daughters, some
ambition, and abundant energies (the strong-
winged bird delights to soar). The daughters
wished to marry well-in Mrs. Undermine's
homely phrase "to better themselves ;" and in any kind of fun, started up, declaring he
their mother was ready to lend her strong help-should be delighted.
ing hand. Mrs. Undermine received Lucilla
and Tom with great favour. If not quite such
worshippers of the water-god as herself, they
were by no means backward in their homage
to him, and they both had that clean, fresh
look which some favoured few never lose, even
in London. Added to this, Lucilla, whose uni-
versal kindness of heart and quickness of per-month was July, Tom, as soon as he was alone,
ception made her attentive even to the preju-
dices of others, never failed strictly to comply
with Mrs. Undermine's, and to make Tom do so.
Tom and Lucilla were welcomed with all the
hearty energy of those blessed with rude health
and high spirits, and were quickly seated at a table
spread with a very substantial luncheon.
"There's a fine sensible lad," cried the
energetic Mrs. Undermine, giving him a most
resounding slap on the back; come along
with me."
Tom started up; the lady ushered him into a
somewhat rudely-constructed bath-room; but as
the bath was full of icy cold water, and the
plunged gladly in, and continued for some time
revelling in "the glassy, cool, translucent wave;"
he then retired into a little partition to dress
himself. While there, screened by the wall, he
suddenly heard the door open, and the next
moment a plunge arrested his attention; peep-
ing carefully out, he perceived it was Renard
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.-
29
Undermine, for whom doubtless the bath had
been prepared. To Tom's surprise, he saw a
very natural-looking toupé on a shelf, and that
the top of Renard's head was quite bald. A
phrenologist would have discovered, that nei-
ther benevolence nor veneration had any place
in the prematurely bald head of the young
attorney. Tom felt much annoyed at being an
unintentional spy. However, Renard was no
genuine amateur of cold water; he soon came
out, popped on his toupé, wrapped himself in a
huge flannel gown, and darted off at full speed,
without having perceived Tom.
attracted the iron heart even of Renard Under-
mine. He knew she had no fortune, no avail-
able connexions; and so, as even love could
not quite stifle the voices of interest and caution
in his breast, he began to calculate what value
her beauty, her grace, and her aristocratic
bearing would be of, in making him friends,
procuring him clients, and pushing his interests.
While pondering on this, watchful and cal-
culating, he had, in the depths of his reverie,
mechanically seized a pen and stuck it behind
his ear. Lucilla was laughing and talking
with the Misses Undermine, when, suddenly,
her. A slight and inexplicable shudder suc-
ceeded, which she concealed by a laugh, and
a remark that, what with his shrewd glance,
and the pen behind his ear, he struck her as a
perfect picture of a lawyer.
Nor had he completed his toilette, and appear-she caught his keen attorney eyes fixed upon
ed in the drawing-room, when Tom joined his
sister there. He was just in time for a duet
sung by the two Lucillas, Miss Undermine's
Stentorian voice almost devouring the sweet
bird-like notes of Lucilla Temple. And as they
stood together, the one so fair and delicate, the
other so robust and rosy, Tom thought their
persons were as great a contrast as their voices.
At length Renard Undermine made his ap-
pearance, an ultra-dandy in dress, and assuming
in manner a little of the supercilious indiffer-
ence to everything, and the universal hauteur,
he had observed in noblemen on whom he had
occasionally served writs, or of whose nurseries
he had the entrée.
CHAPTER XIV.
RENARD was a little startled out of his assum-
ed nonchalance when he came close to Lucilla,
who bowed very coldly to him, and did not
offer her hand. He was one of that very nu-
merous class who become courteous and em-
pressé, just in proportion as they are treated
with reserve and indifference, but who are very
cool and off-hand with those who are very
cordial and polite (an odious and very large
class, the total extinction of which would be a
benefit to that part of the community blessed or
cursed with hearts). Renard had not been in
the same room with Lucilla for two years, and
he was literally startled at the great improve-
ment these two years had made in her form
and face (for at the Opera, he was too far off
to judge her fairly); from a pretty girl she
seemed to have burst into a bewitchingly beau-
tiful woman.
She was very journaliére-one must use the
French word, as there is no English one for it;
and as the French say-
"Les beautés journalières sont les plus séduisantes.”
We hope she will be forgiven what, never-
theless, we must think a great disadvantage,
and would greatly prefer
"The beauty unchangingly bright."
Certainly, on this important day, being quite
in what is vulgarly called her best looks, she
did not appear like the same Lucilla who had
so completely disenchanted Sir Felix Archer, at
the odious little dinner-party in Pleasant Row.
Now, Renard Undermine had felt a great dispo-
sition to fall in love with Lucilla two years
before, when she was a mere girl; there
was a certain inexplicable magnet in her which
"At your service, fair lady," he said, bowing
playfully; "and if ever I can be of any use to
you in a case of 'Breach of Promise,' or any-
thing in that line, pray command me.'
All laughed, all scorned the idea of sueing for
money the man who should have disdained
their love. The two Lucillas vied with each
other in expressions of contempt for such cu-
pidity.
"Nous verrons," said Renard, "if such a
thing should ever come to pass-if any fair one
in this room ever should sue for damages a per-
jured deceiver who had rejected her hand, then
let this day be remembered. And now, shall
we forth? By George! how like Miss Temple
is to Lady Cis.,' Lord Potherton's beautiful
and accomplished daughter, and my most in-
timate friend; I was dining there yesterday.
By the by, the dear soul forced these bon-bons
on me, because I coughed; she is such an
affectionate creature-and such eyes! they look
you through; a white rose-leaf complexion, so
pure, so patrician, and hair, the gold of Ossian,
hanging on her shoulders. You musn't betray
me, but-" and he took out a pocket book-
"no, I ought not to show it-but, it is such
surpassing hair; the very shade of yours, Miss
Temple.
"Oh, you must show it, Renard," shouted
Lucilla Undermine.
"You shall show it," shrieked Marcia.
"We'll make him show it," cried Hebe.
Renard was grappled with, and soon sub-
dued by the three Amazons.
"Necessity has no law, Miss Temple;" he
said; "and what I must do, I may as well do
graciously, but I depend on secresy;" so say-
ing he unfolded a piece of paper, and a long,
thick, golden lock of hair, fine as, floss silk, and
not much darker than that taken from the silk
worms, waved before the admiring eyes of Lu-
cilla and his sisters. It was tied with blue
riband; and the piece of paper it was wrapped
in was a sheet of small note paper, with the
Potherton coronet.
"How beautiful!" cried Lucilla; "I never
saw such hair."
"It is very like your own, only lighter, Miss
Temple."
•
""
"Oh, no! mine is coarse and dark in com-
parison. How old is Lady?
"Lady Cis.? Nay, I can't say-I never
presume to judge of ladies' ages; old enough
30
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
to be firm in friendship, as I can answer, and
fond in love, I doubt not; but, on my honour,
we are not lovers, not engaged, not even flirts.
Nay, if there were anything serious between
us, I would have died on the spot rather than
have shown this beautiful lock of hair given me
by herself. Look here." In a very delicate
female hand, was written on the paper" A lock
of Lady Cicely Bouverie's hair, for her own
dear friend, Renard-Potherton House."
Lucilla sat for some time in mute admi-
ration and wonder: that exquisite hair, that
graceful hand-writing; the coronetted paper,
with its delicate scent! How could the daughter
of a nobleman give such a token, to so forward
and vulgar a person as Renard Undermine?
How could he be on terms of intimacy with
such a lady as the owner of that exquisite hair,
the writer of that graceful inscription?
Her wonder would have ceased had she
known that lady "Cis.," beautiful as a poet's
dream, and whose abundant golden locks fell to
her waist, was not quite seven years old; that
Lord and Lady Potherton were in Italy, and
that Miss Trevor, her governess, a romantic
and clever spinster, half in love with Renard,
and well disposed to change her condition, had
severed the beautiful lock from the head of
Lady "Cis.," and written the inscription which
had so mystified Lucilla.
Renard was in high good-humour at the suc-
cess of his stratagem, and so very attentive and
amiable, that Lucilla could not be repulsive
without rudeness. They set out.
Mamma proposed we should go to the Dul-
wich Gallery," said Marcia; "it is such a good
walk; I should like it!"
"Walk!" said Renard, who sported tight
boots, "it's a day's journey; Regent Street
will be quite far enough; or, at the best, let us
go to the Coliseum. Where is mamma? is she
not coming, after all?"
"No; the fruiterer at Kilburn has sent home |
some bad strawberries; and mamma has just
stepped off to him to make him change them."
"Stepped off to Kilburn! at least, six miles!
Why its death, in this weather."
"Yes, to you, Renard! but not to mamma."
"Look," cried Hebe, clapping her chubby,
red hands, "there goes mamma.
"Yes; there, nearly at the end of the row,
with a step very much like a canter (so springy,
buoyant, and fleet was it), sped Mrs. Under-
mine; while a strong, raw-boned housemaid,
with a basket on her arm, tried vainly to keep
pace with her.
"See panting' Ann' toils after her in vain,”
said Renard, offering his arm to Lucilla.
unwillingly took it.
She
"I saw you at the opera the other night,
Miss Temple. I was with Archer, my friend
and crony; Felix, as I call him in general."
"Do you mean old Sir Felix Archer ?" asked
Lucilla.
"Old Sir Felix Archer! capital-delightful;
why, you'd be the death of my poor friend, as
you will be of me; only he'd die of dismay,
and I of laughing. Old Sir Felix Archer! capi-
tal! the great Catch-match! the idol of all the
misses, and the pet of all the mammas. Why,
he fancies he's in his first bloom; that he's
quite irresistible.”
"I dare say his fortune is, to those who care
much for wealth and its advantages."
"And do not you?" (Renard spoke tenderly,
and gently pressed Lucilla's arm.)
She reddened, and drew up. "One thing,"
she said, "I do value in wealth: it awes imper-
tinence. Poverty invites the familiarity of
those who reverence a lady in proportion to the
style in which she lives, and the thousands she
has at her banker's. What awe is excited by,
and deference shown to, an heiress, whatever
her birth! while every coxcomb thinks a por-
tionless girl, however well born, is honoured by
his attentions, and ready to encourage them,
when perhaps she would reject him with scorn
were he to propose. Have you not remarked it?”
Lucilla spoke so calmly and smilingly, that
Renard was in doubt whether or not her remark
was meant at him. He strongly suspected it
was, and being vindictive, he noted it down in
an account against her, to be balanced some
day or other.
"Ah, there goes Bobby! how do! how do !"
and he waved his hand familiarly, as a car-
riage dashed past them.
"Who is Bobby?" asked Lucilla.
Oh, Bobby Peel (Sir Robert, as the world
calls him), full of care and thought, as usual—
hardly knew me. By Jove, Miss Temple, when
you smile you are so like lady Cis.'-" At this
moment another carriage passed (a coronetted
carriage); in it were several children, and a mid-
dle-aged lady, very thin, and elegantly dressed.
She coloured on seeing Renard, and pulled the
check-string."
"Excuse me a moment," he said, and darted
to the carriage-door.
The lady gave her hand, and remained a few
minutes in earnest conversation with Renard,
and when they parted she kissed her hand to
him!
"La, Renard, who was that?" asked Miss
Undermine. "What an elegant carriage!"
"And what a sweet woman!" he added.
"That's the Honourable Miss Trevor, a most
accomplished, lovely being!"
"And whose children were those?"
"Those? Oh, hers!"
"Hers! What the Honourable Miss Tre-
vor's, Renard ?"
"No; no,” he replied, colouring at his over-
sight (liars constantly get into such scrapes).
I meant they are her brother's children. She
wanted me to drive with her!"
"Oh, what a pity you did not go!" said Lu-
cilla, inadvertently.
"Do you think so?" asked Renard, senti-
mentally; but he noted down that speech, too,
in the account against Lucilla.
The Lady certainly was Miss Trevor, but
Renard had fitted her up with the Honourable,
which gave such dignity to her name; for she
was the sentimental governess before alluded
to, and the carriage was full of Lord Potherton's
children, the identical Lady" Cis." being among
the number!
CHAPTER XV.
ALL this time, Tom strutted on in front,
between Lucilla and Hebe Undermine, full of
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
31
He immediately produced a card, and said, in
very correct English, but with a slight accent,
"My mother was, like you, a daughter of Beau-
ty, and of England; so I am half your compa-
triot, lady!" He gave the card. Lucilla
crimsoned as she took it. Every artist gives
his card, she thought; and as she put it in her
reticule, she dropped a rose bud and a pink.
The artist respectfully presented her with the
former, but, as if in absence of mind, detained.
the latter.
boasts of family consequence and his own prow- She thought of Miss Trueblue, and gently
ess. They were soon initiated into the myste- | said, she would mention him to a friend.
ries of fire-works, the plots of the novels he had
read, and the existence of the much-coveted
pistol, at the pawnbroker's. Jock, too, much
embellished and exalted, was introduced to
their notice, and a very highly-coloured account
given them of the grand dinner, to which they
had invited Sir Felix Archer. They soon ar-
rived at the Coliseum. How Lucilla luxuriated
in the conservatory, and Tom in the confec-
tioner's, where he was liberally treated by the
good-natured Undermine girls, who always had
an appetite ready, and ran a race with him in
eating queen-cakes and raspberry tarts, and
drinking ginger-beer.
Lucilla was at that age when the pleasures
of reality pale before the bright but indistinct
visions of a half-passionate fancy.
Queen-cakes, raspberry-tarts, and ginger-beer
had few charms for Lucilla; but flowers and
music, and the marble images of forms, which,
inanimate as they were, she could almost love
for their pure and noble beauty-these, when
she could escape the cockney and officious
attentions of Renard Undermine, these ren-
dered an hour at the Coliseum one of varied
and poetical delight to her; but it was not
while gazing on the Apollo and the Endymion
that the snub-nosed and cockney Renard was
likely to find favour in her eyes.
Tom and the Misses Undermine were playing
a boisterous game of hide-and-seek behind the
statues, and in the Swiss cottage, the conserv-
atory, and the African glen, dashing their fa-
vourite element over each other from the foun-
tains; laughing, romping, and squalling.
The loud laughter of the Undermines was
heard. Lucilla, blushing deeply, bowed, and
hurried to meet them.
She longed to be alone, to look at the address-
of the interesting artist. But, after all, a for-
eigner, a portrait-painter, and so forward too,.
what was he to her! Ah, what indeed? Why
is she so absent, so impatient? Why does
Renard seem so much greater and more offi-
cious a bore than before? Why does she so
long to see Miss Trueblue? Why does she re-
peat to herself every word the young artist
said? Why try to recall his every glance and
smile? Poor Lucilla! but she was only seven-
teen!
;
As the morning was to be devoted to sight-
seeing, they were wound up in the box for that
purpose, to see the Panorama of London. Lucilla
could hardly believe but that it was the actual
Metropolis of the World on which she gazed.
Yes, there they were the streets of palaces.
and the streets of hovels; the abodes of guilty
Poverty and those of scarce less guilty Wealth.
There were the suburbs, dotted with villas
there the many temples consecrated to God,
but so often desecrated by Mammon and by
Vanity, While Lucilla was gazing at St.
Paul's, the Tower, the Monument, and many
other places of historic interest, Tom was en-
un-tirely bent on finding his own home, the Misses
Undermines', Miss Trueblue's, Jock's, and even
the pawnbroker's, where dwelt the pistol !
Meanwhile, Renard was taken up in finding out
the abodes of his aristocratic friends.
Renard had drawn one of his sisters aside, to
consult her about some arrangement for the
evening, and Lucilla was contriving to gratify
her curiosity, by peeping at a drawing a young
artist was taking from one of the statues.
As with girlish archness she was trying,
seen, to see, the artist suddenly turned round,
and politely handed the drawing for her inspec-
tion. Lucilla blushed-
"Not his the form, nor his the eye,
That youthful maidens wont to fly."
There was something foreign in his dress, for
he wore an Apollo cap, from beneath which fell
ringlets of a hue
"Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing."
A small black mustachio was on his upper lip,
but his large sloping eyes were of a rich blue,
and his complexion pale; his form was stately,
graceful, and perfect, as that of any of the mar-
ble dreams around him; and there was a frank
and gentle deference in his manner, which
made Lucilla forget the impropriety of looking
at his drawing, and commending it.
He spoke in Italian, and so rapidly, that
Lucilla, though well acquainted with the lan-
guage, found some difficulty in following him.
•
Seeing this, he continued in French-spoke
of himself as an artist, anxious to rise in En-
gland as a portrait-painter; but with no con-
nexions, no patrons, and little hope.
I
Lucilla listened, as woman listens when for
the first time she hears a voice which her pro-
phetic heart tells her she could love, and sees a
face which she feels, once seen, is seen for ever.
|
|
"By Jove! that's Potherton House; I could
almost fancy I see Lady Cis.' on the balcony.
There's Portland Place 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 — that's
Felix's; there's Sir Bobs's; there's York
House. How I shall get scolded when I reap-
pear there! And there's Lord Hauteville's-
havn't left a card on him for an age! But,
come; we've no time to loose. The Zoologi-
cal Gardens next, I think; then the Singing
Canary, the Infant Sappho, the Polytechnic,
and, both last and least, General Tom Thumb,
If we get through all that, it will be a good
day's work. I hope we shan't meet the Hon-
ourable Miss Trevor, the Bouveries, or Lady
Cis.,' they do detain me so. Ah, my dear
Miss Temple, the little great are so exigeant:
there's Miss Trevor wants me here-Lady
Cis.' there! the Bouveries, everywhere!"
Lucilla smiled, and said, "Indeed!" because
she saw she was expected to say something;
but her mind was too absent even for her to be
alive to Renard's vain and cockney boasts. She
was thinking of the poor young artist, and the
haunting eloquence of his eyes and smile. Not
quite so valiant and well-trained a pedestrian as
32
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
the Misses Undermine, Lucilla, by the time she | eral; that truth might be spoken in Italian as
had reached the Gardens, began to feel rather well as English; and that there was no rea-
tired. Not so her companions; they rushed son why the descendants of ancient Rome
about, followed by Tom; now teasing the state-should be impostors and vagabonds?
ly lion and royal Bengal tiger, who looked at
them with the calm contempt of Majesty in
bonds; then playing with the monkeys, feeding
the large old Polar bear, who, blind and lonely,
seems to try, by his perpetual and impatient mo-
tion, to drive away the memory of the snowy
wastes and dear familiar icebergs, which, poor
wretch! he has exchanged for a close hot cage,
a broiling sun, the grinning cockney faces of
beings he longs to hug with that hug which is
death, and an occasional bun, for which paltry
and inefficient reward he has again and again.
to climb an odious pole. The Misses Under-
mine delighted in taunting and teasing the now
subdued and captive tyrants of the forests. It
was a pleasant excitement to them, to see
how far they might go, poking slumbering leop-
ards with their pink parasols, tapping the horny
coat of mail of the silent, sulky rhinoceros,
grinning in teasing imitation of the snarling and
sarcastic-looking hyæna, and snatching back, |
just as he had deigned to accept it, some con-
temptible little cake from the stately elephant.
As for Lucilla, her poetical fancy wandered
to the distant and varied scenes, whence came
these strangely varied beings, alike in one thing
only the now blighted, useless capacities of
enjoyment, the lasting power to pine, to suffer,
and to endure. Yes, as she gazed at them, im-
agination led her now to the gorgeous East,
now to the frozen North, with the sublime
scenery of each; and then she thought of the
sunny wastes and wild jungles, the frozen plains
and snowy mountains, contrasted with the lit-
tle neat gardens, the trim gravel walks, the
confined cages, and the niggard meal.
Lucilla's eyes filled with tears, and raising
them suddenly, she met those of the young
artist, fixed intently upon her.
He approached her, and said, gently-" Ah,
lady, you pity the exile and the captive. There
is an exile more cruel than that of the forest's
king from his wild jungle to this cockney gar-
den; there are chains it is more impossible to
break than any that gall these victims. The
exile I speak of is that from the presence of
what we love; the chains I allude to are those
of an adored but unapproachable beauty."
But he had passed away after he had spoken,
and Renard Undermine came running up to Lu-
cilla; and having ascertained that the foreigner
was quite out of hearing, he assumed a martial
air, and began to bluster a little.
"Excuse me, my dear Miss Temple," he said,
"for leaving your fair side unguarded. I came
up as fast as I could, leaving the girls in a sad
state, but I thought I saw that moustachioed
scoundrel speak to you. By Jove, if he had!”—
"He did!" said Lucilla, calmly.
'Well, he'd better not do it again, that's all
have to say; I hope you checked his imper-
tinence ?"
I
"I know how to check impertinence when I
meet it," said Lucilla, "but he offered me none.
He is a foreigner, and I dare say unacquainted
with our etiquette."
"Then I should like to teach him," said Re-
nard, growing very martial, and flourishing his
cane. "By Jove, Miss Temple, if I had him
here now. Do you know his name?"
Signor Moricini, an artist."
"And a scamp, of course," he said, poking a
caged and slumbering lion with his stick.
nor Moricini, indeed! some fortune-hunting,
swindling, daubing, guitarring scamp: he'd better
never let me catch him, Signor di Moricini, in-
| deed."
Sig-
"At your service, Sare," said a deep voice
behind him, which seemed to echo the growl of
the insulted lion.
Renard turned deadly pale, and quivered in
every limb; the bully and the coward were re-
vealed, as he stammered forth-"I beg your
pardon; I have not the honour of knowing
you."
"It is to confer that honour upon you, Sare,
that I am here," said Signor di Moricini, in cor-
rect and fluent English, but with a foreign ac-
cent. "When you do know me, you will find
I am one wid whose name you can take not de
slightest leeberty. De presence of a lady may
prevent what would be a great mutual satisfac-
tion," he added, in a hissing whisper, in Re-
nard's startled and palsied ear, while Miss Tem-
ple, alarmed at the scene, was looking eagerly
out for the rest of her party.
The melancholy tone, and the foreign accent, "I cannot leave this lady unprotected," said
struck Lucilla. She felt it was wrong to listen poor Renard, who himself found a sort of pro-
to such language from one unknown; all her tection in Lucilla's presence, and who, having
prejudices were enlisted against foreigners in once raised his scared and distended eyes, saw
England; for it is certain, that it is in general in Signor di Moricini (magnified as he was by
the worst specimen of foreigners that is to be Renard's terror) a ferocious aud moustachioed
found prowling about the cheap public places in giant of martial air, and grinning hate and ven-
England, and trying, by music, moustachios, geance, instead of a slight and elegant young
and mummery, to find un bon parti among the man, of gentle bearing, and whose anger was
blooming and easily-gulled daughters of Croesus concealed by a winning smile and most courte-
and of Albion. But the prejudices of seven-ous address. So winning indeed was his smile,
teen are not very strong, and are seldom proof
against a melancholy and admiring gaze, and a
romantic sentiment uttered in a plaintive voice.
If a confirmed old bachelor has frequently found
his stiffest opinions and firmest resolves, with
the frost of time upon them, melt beneath the
sunny glance of some young coquette, who can
wonder that Lucilla at seventeen began to think
a prejudice against foreigners was very illib-
and so gentle his manner, as he whispered in Re-
nard's ear, that Lucilla began to fancy he might
be inviting him to sit for his portrait, not to
stand up and be shot, and with instinctive deli-
cacy she moved a little away.
"You must surely be as anxious as I am,
Sare," said Signor di Moricini, "to have this
little affair settled-you are a man of honour.
"Oh no! oh no! I beg your pardon," faltered
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
33
Renard, not knowing what he said; I am a man of green feathers in Miss Undermine's hat, had
of business, I'm an attorney."
removed and devoured the (to her) valuable
ornament.
"Exactly; and every attorney is by law one
gentleman, and every gentleman is one man of
honour. To-morrow morning, if you please."
"Oh, yes, to-morrow morning, said Renard,
determined in the mean time to make some
apology, however humble; to give him in charge,
to do anything rather than fight.
Ah, my dear Sare, why delay? It would be
so nice to get this over at once. Let us lead de
lady back to her party, and den come at once
wid me to my friend de Ambassador; he will
tell you who I am. Two attachés will act as
seconds, and in an hour it will all be over.
Oh yes, it is so we manage in my dear Italy.
Come."
"Come!" faltered poor Renard, now blue
and moist with terror, and clinging inadvert-
ently, in his wild alarm, to the bars of the lion's
cage-" come, indeed !"
"I await you, Sare!" said Di Moricini-but
at that moment a loud yell startled all within
hearing. The disregarded lion had suddenly and
angrily extended a claw, and before the howl
ing Renard could withdraw his hand, he had
received a wound from which the blood flowed
freely.
Tom had ridden on the elephant, and been
carried by him into the pond, where, frightened
by a goad from some wicked boy, also on his
back, the noble son of Siam had so curvetted
and bounded, as to give all his riders a good
splashing.
A dreadful cock-a-too had bitten Hebe Under-
mine's lip very severely, and an ape had carried
off Lucilla Undermine's little reticule. Sir Felix
alone, who always kept his distance from all
doubtful characters, was in statu quo, and neat
as if just stepped from a band-box.
The disasters of the day had engrossed so
much time, that any further exhibitions were
out of the question. Sir Felix having accepted
(as if now given for the first time) an invitation
from Renard to dinner, announced that his car-
riage was in waiting. Miss Temple and Lucilla
Undermine, with the wounded Renard, availed
themselves of it. Tom, who hated Sir Felix,
and the other two Undermine girls, who had
not had half exercise enough to suit their
tastes, declined, and the whole party left the
| Gardens.
CHAPTER XVI.
Oh, it is nothing, it is nothing," said Di
Moricini, as Lucilla hurried up with wild alarm,
and prepared with her handkerchief to bind the
wound. "It is nothing, lady," he said, adroitly
retaining Lucilla's poor little Scotch cambric THE active, enterprising, and energetic Mrs.
handkerchief, and substituting a very handsome Undermine (the robust disciple of exercise and
one of his own, to stanch the blood. But on cold water), had returned triumphant from the
Miss Temple's the magic word, "Lucilla," was Kilburn fruiterer's, her indomitable spirit hav-
written in her own delicate hand, and Di Mori-ing had its due influence with him (a weakly
cini either thought, or pretended to think, that
word made the poor little kerchief worth a
monarch's ransom.
and enervated spirit drinker). She had super-
intended, and even assisted, in gathering of
some of the finest fruit in his gardens, while
"Do not fret, my dare Sare," said Di Mori- Mr. Seedling, the votary of brandy-and-water,
cini to the half fainting Renard; "it is a mere afflicted with a kind of delirium tremens, could
scratch, and luckily, only your left hand; so it only look on in wonder and dismay, vainly try-
need not delay our mutual satisfaction. But
But ing to raise his palsied hand and trembling
time presses-here comes your party. Farewell, voice unheeded even by his own men, all of
Mr. Renard Undermine; you shall hear from whom yielded to the enegetic influence of Mrs.
me. Adieu," and he hastened away.
Undermine. By the time our party returned
with their honoured and secretly expected guest,
Sir Felix Archer, Mrs. Undermine, having by a
plunge into her cold bath, restored and renewed
her energies, had superintended all the prepara-
tions and arrayed her own buxom person. The
little lawyer, her husband, was still at his office,
to him a dear and safe retreat from the never-
wearied efforts of his lady to pour cold water
upon him.
"Is he gone?" asked Renard, the colour re-
turning to his cheek, and the bravado to his
manner. Ah, Miss Temple, what pretenders
and bullies all those fellows are. I was just
going to be fool enough to meet him, when,
finding I was in earnest, and resolved to chas-
tise him, off he cuts, just like them; but I vow
I should like to wing him. Ah, here they come,
and by Jove! Sir Felix with them. I wish
he had come in time to see me frighten away
the moustachioed monkey. Wasn't it a capital
scene?"
Yes, there in her showy drawing-rooms,
glistening with cleanliness, and arranged with
matchless neatness, if not taste, sat Mrs. Un-
dermine, erect and stately. She required no
pillows to prop up her form, no couches to loll
upon; no dainty fancy-work employed her fin-
Miss Temple answered by a look of surprise
and supreme contempt; and that look Renard
noted down in the items against her. Poor Lu-
cilla! the list is growing long; do not fancy be-gers-actively they pliod the large knitting
cause Renard is a coward, he will not harm
you-none but a coward would. He is a cow-
ard, and he knows it, and that you know it too.
When the Undermines, Sir Felix, and Tom
came up, Lucilla and Renard, for reasons of
their own, abstained from all mention of Di
Moricini. All had a catalogue of disasters to
recount ; a giraffe had bent his long neck over
the fence, and mistaking for verdure, a plume
E
needles, which with her were ever at work in
the manufacture of strong and useful socks and
stockings; while the young ladies retire to
their rooms to make their toilets, and Renard
Undermine, very uneasy in his mind, to plan
what he had best do in case the fire-eating "Di
Moricini" sends that worst of foes, in such a
case named, as in derision, “his friend.”
Sir Felix found himself, to his great dismay,
34
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
left to the tender mercies of one he disliked be- I
yond all other people in the world-Mrs. Un-
dermine.
The Sybarite elevated his eye-brows, shud-
dered a little, and unwillingly yielded his white,
weak hand, to the bold and hearty grasp of Mrs.
Undermine.
Mrs. Undermine, like most people of strong
nerves and robust health, was very good hu-
moured and hospitable, but she was sadly de-
ficient in tact; and having no inconvenient
sensitiveness or susceptibility herself, she made
no allowance for such feelings in others. There
was a good deal of observation, natural philoso-
phy, and even some rude eloquence, in Mrs.
Undermine. She had not much time for read-
ing, but what she did read she understood and
remembered. She was good-natured, and felt
so vividly in herself the wonderful benefits of
her system, that she never lost an opportunity
of broaching and urging them. She was a mo-
ther-a good one too-and had formed a sort
of wish to see one of her girls Lady Archer;
but that wish would have been increased ten-
fold could she have succeeded in making Sir
Felix a disciple of the water cure.
"Excuse my going on with my work, Sir
Felix," she said; "I never lose a moment!"
"I marvel that in this hot weather you have
energy to be so industrious, madam !"
"Ah, you wouldn't marvel at it, Sir Felix,
if, like me, you had plunged twice to-day into
the coldest spring water, soused and scrubbed
yourself thoroughly, and then been rubbed till
you were as red as a lobster, and as warm as a
toast."
Sir Felix shuddered, and then said "This
new system of quackery, this Hydropathy, or
Cold-water cure, is certainly all the rage; it has
driven the Homœopathists, whom I much pre-
fer, quite out of the field."
"And a good thing too," said Mrs. Under-
mine, in a loud, clear voice, strongly contrasted
with the weak tones of her fashionable guest's.
"I look upon it as an interposition of Provi-
dence, Sir Felix, to save and restore this ener-
vated and drug-ridden country. But I am no
disciple of a new system; I rejoice to see the
water cure gaining ground; but I was a Hydro-
pathist from my cradle, as my mother was be-
fore me. Before the name was coined, we
were the thing itself; and now look at me, and
then look at yourself; we're both on the shady
side of forty" (Sir Felix winced); "and now,
just look at my head of hair "" With a strong
hand the lady plucked off her turban, threw it
on the ground beside her, twitched out a comb,
and unloosed a volume of strong, black, wiry
hair.
There, what do you say to that, Sir? see-
ing's believing." (Mrs. Undermine was very
fond of an admixture of proverbs.)
"Oh, pray replace your turban, madam, I
beg; you'll take cold."
"Cold," laughed the lady, "not I;" and
seizing the turban, she strode to a glass and re-
placed it, before the wondering eyes of the son
of etiquette. "Cold! there's nothing in nature
that could give me cold: you would never hear
me sneeze, if you lived twenty years with me."
Sir Felix thought he would much rather
spend the same time in purgatory.
'Ah, Sir Felix," said the lady, with a sud
den burst of enthusiasm, "you're a fine man for
your time of life, there's no denying that;
you've the outline still, but you've ruined the
filling up. I hear you are a votary of the hot
| bath. Well, I'm such a worshipper of cleanli-
ness, that I'd rather my friends used the hot
bath than none at all; but I'm not blind to its
effects. Now you've seen my hair-compare
| that hair which is hardly ever quite dry, sum-
mer or winter-compare it with the thin, sickly,
languid crop you so carefully adjust to conceal
a daily increasing baldness."
|
"I beg your pardon, madam," said Sir Felix,
pale with passion: "your eyes deceive you;
my hair is ample."
"
"My eyes deceive me!" shouted the lady,
why I can see as well as I did at twenty. I
can see even here as I sit, where you've frizzed,
and coaxed, and trained a few poor weak locks,
to cover a part that's as bald as the back of my
hand; but don't be angry" (even Mrs. Under-
mine saw an expression of deadly rage in Sir
Felix's face); "I'only tell you for your good;
dip your head twice a day in cold water, my
dear sir, scrub and rub it with a flesh-brush, till
it burns and tingles, and I'll be bound in a year
you'll have a head of hair that'll astonish you
no one will know you.
no one will know you. With regard to teeth
-once gone, they cannot be recovered, but use
cold water still; mine are all as sound as a
roach. I never use your pastes and odontos,
and powders and trash-all catch-pennies, meant
to bring one at last into the dentist's arm-chair.
Cold water and plenty of brushing; gargle and
rince-rince and gargle. And then for the
skin, and the muscles, feel my cheek, and then
feel yours; why mine's as firm and as red as
an apple, and yours feels like a squeezed lemon,
I'll be bound. Then show me a wrinkle in my
face."
Nay, madam, I would not be so ungallant."
Oh, as to that, if I had them I should not
be ashamed of them; they would be the hon-
ourable stamp of Time, not the vile traces of
Dissipation; but even where I sit, though you've
your back to the light, I can see twenty light
crows'-feet and several deep lines: cold water
would get them out yet.'
Really, Madam," said Sir Felix, rising, “I
have hardly strength of mind to bear this cata--
logue of personal discrepancies. I think I had
better-"
"No: there it is! strength of mind falls a
victim to-to-the enervating system of hot-
bathing. But where are you going?"
"I remember a prior engagement," said Sir
Felix, with great hauteur, "and beg to wish
you a very good evening.”
"You remember no such thing," said Mrs.
Undermine, starting up in great alarm; and
seeing him still bent on departure, she darted
after him, and with the arm of an Amazon
tugged him back, and forced him into an arm-
chair. "You wish me a good evening! a fine
evening I should have of it with Undermine,
and Renard, and the girls, and Lucilla Temple,
if I'd frightened you away, as I have so many of
them. Why I'm a motherly woman, and speak
for your good. 'I tell you that which you
yourself do know,' as the man in the play
says."

THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
35
But seeing that Sir Felix continued to button | posed very much on her own set, brought hosts
his gloves, and look very angry, Mrs. Undermine of admirers to her feet, and made many of
changed her tactics.
her own circle declare she was fit to be a
Duchess.
"Why, dear me, you don't mind a lecture
from the mammas when all the girls are pulling
caps for you, do you? There are my lassies
declare you are the finest man to be seen on a
summer's day; and I believe Miss Temple is
of the same opinion, and ready to cry because
she hasn't an evening dress to show off in to-
day."
Sir Felix's features relaxed. "I believe," he
said, "Miss Temple has never expressed an
opinion concerning me!"
"Ah!" replied the lady, perceiving she was
on the right tack, "that's a regular fish."
Sir Felix laughed.
"Ah, in such squabbles as these," said the
lady, shaking his hand with the gripe of a Her-
cules, "it is not, let those laugh who win;
those who laugh are sure to lose. And now,
here come the lassies, just in time to put you in
a good humour with yourself. They've no eyes
for anything but-"
"Madam, I beg I may not be obliged to hear
a second catalogue-"
"Of the effects of hot-bathing? No, no;
mum's the word. They see nothing but beau-
ties in a gay baronet widower, who's all the go;
and if you'd listen to me, there'd be nothing
but beauties to see. You're not too far gone
yet."
As any assumption of superiority always im-
poses on the vulgar, so Lucilla Undermine,
merely by the aid of her self-appreciation, and a
little insolence, became a sort of queen among
the legal coterie in which she shone.
Many poor barristers, and many rich attor-
neys, made their professional puns, to call forth
her repartees; wrote her name, with many a
flourish (at least the idle young students did),
in their Coke upon Lyttleton, their Blackstone,
and their Chitty, and began to calculate the
daughter's certain charms, and the father's pro-
bable savings. But all in vain: Lucilla Under-
mine was bold, unscrupulous, and thoroughly
ambitious; she had often been heard playfully
to declare, that the only attorney she would
ever smile upon was the Attorney-General. In
her were curiously blent the father's petty-
fogging cunning, and the mother's moral and
physical energies; she was a dangerous girl, was
Lucilla Undermine
Sir Felix Archer soon forgets, in the flattering
attentions of the two Lucillas (and their strik-
ing and contrasted charms), the distressing
wounds Mrs. Undermine had inflicted on his
vanity. Ah! art thou too a coquette, Lucilla
Temple! How arch that smile, how playful that
glance, how bewildering that blush!-why they
are more entrancing to the old coxcomb, Sir
Felix, than Lucilla Undermine's fixed gaze, so
hurriedly withdrawn when his is met. Art thou
too a coquette? or art thou dazzled by the title
and the rent-roll, the house in Portland Place,
and Felix Park? Not so. But Lucilla Temple
is a woman, and a woman never forgets (we
had almost said, she never forgives); but she
may forgive when she has been fully avenged.
Lucilla Temple has not forgotten the super-
cilious old coxcomb of that most dreadful day,
that most mortifying and detestable dinner
party. She has not forgotten her parents' wild
hopes and projects, her own wish to shine, her
efforts to please-that day of cleaning, brush-
But he was too far gone to hear even her
loud hissing stage whisper, for, with an agility
she would not have given him credit for, he
had reached the further end of the large rooms,
and resisting all the agaceries and attacks of the
Misses Undermine, had sunk on a sofa by the
beautiful and smiling Lucilla. She formed a great
and lovely contrast, in her simple muslin dress,
and unadorned hair, to the buxom Undermine
girls, who, with consummate bad taste, had
decked themselves for a family dinner and one
professedly unexpected guest, as if they were
bound for the Lord Mayor's ball. Very low
blue satin dresses, very short sleeves, wreaths
of large pink roses round their heads, gaudy
ear-rings, necklaces, chains, and sevignès, uni-ing, dusting, ironing, borrowing-Tom's black
ted to make them ridiculous. And all this
for one young friend in a morning dress, and
one unexpected visitor himself en redingote.
They looked so gaudy, so pinched in, and
puffed out, so flushed anxious and uncomforta-
ble, that Sir Felix shuddered as he glanced at
them. To look upon Lucilla after gazing at
them, was like moonlight after gas.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE Misses Undermine were fine, blooming
young women, with good eyes, white teeth, and
fine hair; and the second daughter, Miss Lu-
cilla Undermine was something more. She
had a good head, very fine eyes, and was, in
her own style, an accomplished coquette. She
had some talent and some tact, and her head
was as full of schemes as that of Renard him-
self. Between him and her the greatest inti-
macy and closest friendship subsisted. A certain
air of dash and independence and hauteur im-
eye, and Jock's ineffable insolence-her slighted
charms, her bunch of lillies of the valley, on
which she had spent her last sixpence, and
which she took from her bosom at night, faded,
like her own hopes, and bruised like her own
spirit, and which she had wisely wrapped in a
paper, which she dated in memorial of the con-
temptible woes of vanity, and of this defeat in
her first and last exploit in husband-hunting.
Oh no! she cannot forget how scornfully he de-
clined all her poor mother, herself, and Norah,
had so toiled to provide him; his cold sneer at
poor Tom's attempts at wit, the time spent in
vainly awaiting him in the drawing-room; her
father's return alone, so ghastly and dejected,
and then the dreadful and never-to-be-forgotten
shock of the illness from which her mother was
not yet quite recovered. Ah, no! as Lucilla
Temple pondered on these things, she thought
that to reject Sir Felix Archer would be indeed
a triumph; and if, without any undue encourage-
ment on her part, the coxcomb were induced to
propose to her, there would be an unspeakable
pleasure in avenging her parents, her brother,

36
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
and herself, by the coldest and haughtiest of
refusals.
Yes, the penniless child of poor Temple longed
to see Sir Felix Archer, Bart., at her feet, that
she might scorn him, as he had scorned not
only herself, but those in whom all her pride and
love were garnered up.
really loved, to use her own words, "hammer-
ing the nails into his own coffin."
Certainly, as they stood together, striking in-
carnations of their own systems, Hydropathy
and Mrs. Undermine would have carried all
before them.
CHAPTER XVIII.
mine, who, had she suspected such a practice,
would have braved the Lion in his den, the
Tiger in his lair, or rather, Undermine, Twist,
Turn, Twine and Undermine, with all their
clerks, and all their high stools, in that hitherto
uninvaded retreat, the office in Fox Lane, Fer-
ret Square, and threatened him with personal
Sir Felix thought he knew the world and its violence before them all, and immediate separa-
women full well and yee has not the re-tion, rather than see the little lawyer, whom she
motest notion of efla Temple's real feeling
towards him. He thinks he has but to propose,
and the certainty of immediate acceptance,
makes him pause awhile. There is no hurry,
he thought-there can be none; he is not of a
nature or of an age to fall very uncomfortably
in love-he will consult Renard again. It is not
merely Lucilla: it would be pleasant enough to
shower wealth's best gifts on that graceful
head; to place a priceless tiara on that brow;
to hang those snowy arms with gems; to robe
that fairy form in the wealth of the choicest
THE dinner, though of course it wanted the
looms in Europe. How would that fair bosom epicurean elegance of Sir Felix Archer's enter-
adorn the choicest lace, and that light form set tainments, was excellent of its kind. Tom, ac-
off an Arab steed! No; all that he could con- customed to the very simple fare of his home,
template, and even delight in; but the parents! and the wretched cookery of the Irish maid of
and Tom! what could be done with them? It all-work, was so amazed by the profusion, and
was too much to shower wealth on them too; bewildered by the variety of the dainties, he
and his bride's relations must not come to Port- knew not what to select; but as Mrs. Under-
land Place, looking like parish paupers. He mine's servants, trained by herself, were not
figured to himself Mr. Temple's threadbare coat, deficient in fashionable activity in the removal
his trowsers glazed with constant wear, his of both plates and dishes, Tom found it neces-
mended shoes; or Mrs. Temple sitting on his sary to make up his mind, and to take all the
velvet couches, in an old scanty silk, that had things as they came-
been turned, dyed, and scoured; and a bonnet,
which his under housemaid would disdain.
if they would but emigrate-no matter where-He did contrive to pocket a patty, a tart, and
to Martin Chuzzlewit's Eden, as long as they some crystallized fruitsfor Jock and Norah,
were, with his special aversion, Tom, for ever quieting his conscience by the recollection, that
out of his sight and mind. But then, if he gives as Mrs. Undermine had sent them round to him,
up all wealth and interest in the object of his they were his own. Renard Undermine was
choice, and marries to please himself, and ruin not in his wonted spirits-jest and boast seem-
his nephew's hopes, nothing short of the youth, ed to die upon his lips; every now and then he
the beauty, and the indescribable charm of Lu- started, and a loud knock caused him to turn
cilla Temple can tempt him. He must confer so lividly pale, that Mr. Undermine immediate-
with Renard again, see what can be done about ly recommended a little brandy, and Mrs. Un-
the entail, take time to consider, and, en attend- dermine a great deal of cold water.
ant win the young girl's heart; that can do no
manner of harm-at least to himself.
Oh,
"And so naught came amiss."
True, he was resolved not to fight, but how
could he resolve not to be horsewhipped? Re-
nard Undermine did not like ridicule, and had,
alas! so often talked what is vulgarly called
"very big," that he rather shrank from at once
lodging a complaint, stating, that he was in
grievous bodily fear, and binding over Di Mori-
cini to keep the peace. The Editor of "the
Viper" was Renard's relentless foe (he had
once been his bosom friend); but in an action
against "the Viper," Undermine and Co. had
been the attorneys on the plaintiff's side, and
now "the Viper" took every opportunity of
stinging the luckless Renard, revealing every
disclosure he had made in happier hours, and
frequently getting the poor little fellow into
dangerous scrapes.
Poor Renard! he was suffering all the pur-
gatory of intense bodily fear; he felt quite cer-
A little manoeuvring has placed Lucilla Un-tain he should hear again from Di Moricini.
dermine by the side of Sir Felix Archer, and she
has commenced a species of indirect flattery,
which puts him in high good-humour with her
and with himself. Little old Undermine, the
father and nominal master of the house, is a
very sneaking, crouching little fellow, but with
the one redeeming point of boundless hospitality.
He was never happy but at his office, or his
table; he had a quick, watchful eye, sharpened
by spectacles, a bald head, a sharp and scarlet-
tipped nose, and a diminutive figure, much con-
tracted by rheumatism. He yielded to his wife
in most things, without dispute; in two alone,
he was as resolute as she was in all others-
nay, more so, for she was obliged to give up
these points-he would not go into cold water,
and he would drink his bottle of port every day
after dinner, and his glass of brandy-and-water Poor Lucilla Temple! it was positively with
every night before going to bed. Whether the a look of malicious and vindictive hatred that
brandy bottle ever found its way to his office we Renard regarded her, connecting her with the
will not too minutely inquire; among his inti- agony of terror he was now suffering; and as
mates some such report was afloat, but it had he gazed on her beautiful head, bent in acknowl-
never reached the sharp ears of Mrs. Under-edgement of some pedantic compliment of Sir
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
37
Felix Archer's, he muttered an oath to make | already a little in love, and every moment he
her pay, sooner or later, for all she now cost became more and more so. It was a sort of
him.
witchery, and, strange to say, he felt it for the
first time.
what he now feels, for a penniless, obscure
beauty of seventeen, with little tact or grace,
but what nature has given her.
Oh, miracle of miracles! the most selfish of
egotists and epicureans begins to think of
another before himself; and the vainest of
fêted, flattered catches, to doubt a little, now
and then, his power to please.
Still, in spite of Renard's suffering, the dinner
was a complete success. Sir Felix read lively He who has been married twice, and exposed
admiration, and even something of tender inter- for years to all the artillery of the most adroit
est, in the upraised eyes of Lucilla Undermine, coquettes, led on by those experienced gene-
and fancied Miss Temple's downcast lids veil-rals, London mammas-he has never felt before
ed a soft emotion, which her eloquent blushes
revealed. Mr. Undermine was in ecstasies, to
see the usually cold, stiff Sir Felix, so genial,
so talkative, and so willing to be pleased; hẹ
attributed the change to the charms of his claret,
Mrs. Undermine to those of her daughter. Miss
Temple had her own private opinion on the sub-
ject.^ Tom thought his jokes had something to
do with it (so warmly had Sir Felix applauded But no, no; old habit steals back into his
some which Tom had induced his sister to re-heart. He remembers, and tells over to him-
peat to him); and Renard, on whose tortured self, his many advantages; he ponders on the
mind every laugh grated, would gladly have had | fine person, of which (he thinks) the discrepan-
the whole party transported for life, if he could cies are known only to himself; he dwells on
have felt sure Di Moricini would be hanged be- his title, his rent-roll, the house in Portland
fore he himself was either horse whipped, chal-Place, Felix Park, his Opera-box; his ba-
lenged, posted, or held up to public ridicule by rouchette, and even his " Essay on Taste,'
"the Viper." Unable to endure his mental and come into his calculations; and he sips his
bodily terrors, he resolved to write a full apolo- claret with a benign smile, which makes old
gy to Di Moricini, and to throw himself on his Undermine chuckle with glee.
mercy, imploring secrecy and promising cter-
nal gratitude, and this he actually did.
The ladies remained at table longer than
usual, and when Sir Felix removed his admi-
ring gaze from the one Lucilla's countenance,
he met an almost adoring glance from the
flashing black eyes of the other; it was in-
stantly withdrawn, and a stifled sigh met his
ear.
These were trifling tributes, and such as
the wealthy baronet was used to, from the fair
of every age, and every rank; but it put him
in good-humour with himself, and convinced
him, that if the coy Lucilla Temple were silly
enough to give him any trouble (and an occa-
sional arch smile made him fear it), should he
condescend to resolve on making her Lady
Archer, he should have in her bosom friend,
Lucilla Undermine, a woman devoted to his
wishes, and whom he could make an able
coadjutrix and useful confidante; and he pi-
qued himself on his penetration into female
character. He believed Lucilla Undermine
was dazzled, fascinated, subdued by his charms;
that his notice would entrance, his friendship
delight her; but he could not believe that she
could ever hope to win him for herself: such
impertinent and eccentric ambition passed the
bounds of his limited coinprehension. What
was she, that she should dream of one whom
Earl's daughters angled for, and Honourable
Misses smiled upon his attorney's daughter,
and rather a fine showy girl-and that was all.
Now, Lucilla Temple had that beauty, which is
in itself an empire; making its happy possessor
"empress of the heart," a beauty no man could
ceny, or look coldly on-a beauty which, set
f by wealth and title, would add even to Sir
Felix Archer's influence and importance, ma-
king him, even when fettered for life, as great
..n object of interest to the men, as his unen-
gaged hand now made him to the women.
Then Temple, though poor, was of gentle birth,
and even of noble descent; and time had been,
when Felix Archer thought his acquaintance
an honour. Added to all this, Sir Felix was
|
19
How different the meditations of the two
Lucillas! Tom, who has retired with the ladies,
being a little weary of restraint, and a little
afraid of Sir Felix, has whispered to Lucilla-
"Look sharp, Lucy, and you'll be Lady Archer
yet."
I
Lucilla has replied, Not I, Tom; I wouldn't
have him, if I could; "not if he were a Duke."
"Oh! Oh!" said Tom, "that's the game, is
it? So, so, Mrs. Fox, the grapes are sour.
say, you black-browed Lucilla, you-the Lu-
cilla done brown-what do you think she
says?--"
"What?" angrily asked Lucilla Undermine,
not at all pleased with her epithets. What,
Tom? How rude you are, pinching and nudg-
ing one."
Why, think of her saying she wouldn't
have Sir Felix if he were a Duke; when I
could tell you-I say, sister, do you remember
when Sir Felix Archer-I'll tell."
"Oh, Tom," said poor Lucilla Temple, fcar-
ing the provoking boy was coming out with her
parents' hopes, her own efforts to please, and
her total failure. "Oh, Tom!" The tone
struck even his ear, and the fear and reproach
of his sister's face went to his heart.
"Tell us, dearest Tommy," said the sly
Lucilla Undermine."
What?" asked the boy. "All about Lu-
cilla and Sir Felix?"
Yes, yes!" cried some.
"Oh yes, do," said Lucilla Undermine.
"Well!" cried Tom, as if about to be very
communicative, "don't you wish you may get
it, that's all?" and then, going up to Lucilla,
he hugged her till she was obliged to cry for
quarter; and forcing her to the other end of
the room, he whispered, "Do havo him, dear
Lucilla, if he asks you, and promise to give me
a pony, when you're married."
My dear Tom," said Lucilla, "he has no
more idea of marrying me than of marrying
Lucilla Undermine."
Pshaw, you can't do me, as Jock says;
1
38
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
not but what she'd jump at him. Why, she
looks at him and sighs, just as that Italian
fellow did at you. She'll get him if you don't
take care, miss."
"She's welcome to him, Tom !"
"Oh, Lucilla! remember how you dressed
up, and did all you could to get him-I remem-
ber; and bought lilies of the valley with the
sixpence I wanted so; and then he would'nt
look at you. To be sure, you did look a fright,
with your hair so stiff, and your face so red-
looking. Jock says he never saw you look so
bad;
he wishes Sir Felix could have seen you
any other day."
"What!" said Lucilla, angry, and yet com-
pelled to laugh, "do you discuss my matrimo-
nial prospects with Jock, Tom?"
"
Ôh, no; but he asked me whether Sir Felix
came after you-because there is a rich old
fellow comes after one of his young mis-
tresses."
"And what did you say, Tom?"
"I said what I thought! Lor! no such luck
-though we should all jump for joy if he did
-you, and Pa, and all."
"How silly and tiresome of you!"
“Oh, never mind Jock; he wished it as much
as I do. I told him I was sure of a pony and
saddle and bridle if you got Sir Felix, and he
asked me to get him to be your tiger; and then
it all came to nothing, and Jock made such fun
of you but now, if you get Sir Felix, I shall
make fun of him."
"You will never have the opportunity, and I
shall never forgive you if you talk of my affairs
to Jock."
"But he's always asking me."
"Then always refuse to tell."
"Well I will, if you'll have Sir Felix, if he
asks you. Think of poor papa and mamma,
and poor ine and Jock. Ah, here comes the
coffee!" and off bounded the thoughtless and
yet shrewd boy.
But his silly prattle left poor Lucilla very
sad. The Misses Undermine were arranging
their music and tuning their harp, and their
mamma engaged with her tea and coffee. And
thus Lucilla's little tête-à-tête with her brother
had been uninterrupted, and now he was gone,
she stood a moment alone.
She looked from the window; twilight began
to shroud the many buildings around her;
homes, where human happiness nestled, and
where human suffering wept and groaned.
The sky was clear and darkly blue, and the
summer moon, round and full, met the young
girl face to face. It seemed like two worlds;
first to gaze within on the active, bustling Mrs.
Undermine, with her tea and coffee apparatus,
so eagerly and hospitably busy; the bright
tapers lighting up the household gods; the do-
mestic comforts, the over-dressed Misses Un-
dermine, giggling, chatting, and arranging their
curls before the glass; and Tom adroitly filch-
ing a piece of muffin, or a rout cake from the
silver basket, dangerously near him. How
great a contrast to the silent streets, the depths
of shadow, the figures dark in the gloaming,
flitting about like departed spirits; and the
moon, with her mysterious and poetical in-
fluence on every young heart, seeming to
purify even the great metropolis of the vain
and the corrupt, as their thousands of homes
lay bathed in her light.
And like another Juliet, Lucilla leant upon
her hand and gazed upon that moon-the same
moon which " tinged with silver all the fruit-
tree tops," and looked into the passionate eyes
of the daughter of the Capulets. Softened by
its holy influence, Lucilla began to think. Tom's
last words "Think of poor papa and mamma;
think of poor me," haunted her.
With women's instinct on such points, she
felt she might win Sir Felix Archer if she
chose; and then she shuddered, for she felt too
she could never love him; and at this very mo-
ment rose upon her troubled memory the image
of him, the stranger, the Di Moricini of that
morning's adventures; and she felt too that him.
she could love. Oh, if he could offer her (for
her parents' sake, not her own) the wealth, the
title, the influence, Sir Felix Archer could con-
fer! But no, no; a poor foreign artist-what
was she to him, what could he ever be to her?
Her father so disliked the very sort of man he
was, so ridiculed the preference shown by Eng-
lish girls to foreign pretenders over true-hearted
Englishmen. Her mother shared this prejudice,
as did she herself till now; and now this ob-
scure and foreign artist seemed to her the first
of men, and already his haunting eyes intrude
upon the memory of her heart. Reflection, too,
brings self-reproach-how often come they
hand in hand. She has coquettishly tried to
win a man she feels she cannot love and would
not accept. And why? from the paltry pique
of slighted vanity but this shall be no more;
she will not raise her parents' hopes only to
crush them; she will not win a heart to have
the doubtful triumph of rejecting it.
Meanwhile, what thinks the other Lucilla ?
Minds and hearts vary, as much as persons :
she has been thinking too; but shrewd worldly
wisdom, interest, and ambition prompt her
meditations; they ran thus:-
"Sir Felix's father was an attorney, like
mine, and a partner of my father's; therefore
he cannot despise my parentage" (false conclu-
sion). If he has wealth, title, influence, fash-
ionable importance, and an air of ton, 'I have
youth, energy, beauty, perseverance, and tact.
"He has vanity, and I have perception.
What is most against my winning him is his evi-
dent fancy-nay, almost passion-for this chit
Lucilla Temple; but that may bring us together,
and I know the romantic fool will never marry
him, for she can never love him (who could?)
Now, I shall win his confidence, and somehow
or other make it answer. I will be Lady Archer
if I can; if not-ah! a feasible scheme begins
to weave itself in my brain. Poor Rory O'Brien !
why art thou so briefless? Pride of the Irish
bar, as thou sayest thou art considered-rare
mixture of frolic, fun, boast, invention, and hum-
bug; would I had never seen thee! but I must
think of thee no more, except as an assistant
architect of my great fortunes.”
“Lucilla, gazing on one fair and cold as her-
self," said Sir Felix Archer, approaching Miss
Temple; and with a gallantry a little the off-
spring of Mr. Undermine's last bottle of claret,
extending his white and jewelled fingers to lead
her to a seat.
"Lucilla!" cried Tom, "repeat to Sir Felix
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
39
those pretty lines about the moon and the in-
constant lady. I'm sure they suit you; to see
how prim and stiff you are now, and how you
were setting your cap at Sir Felix once; just
say those lines."
"Oh, do!” cried Sir Felix, dropping on one
knee (what hast thou not to answer for, rosy
wine!) "do; poetry becomes music from such
lips. Come here, my boy!" he added: "can
you ride? if so, I'll give you a mount some
day."
"Yes, that I can, Sir Felix," said Tom (and
then added to his crony, Lucilla Undermine,
aside); "at least I suppose so; though I never
tried !"
Lucilla Temple's cheeks were crimson with
blushes; partly of anger, at the predicament
Tom had put her in, partly of vexation at the
tender gallantry of Sir Felix Archer's manner.
"Come!" he said, "I shall hold this fair
hand till you redeem it by repeating the poem
in question."
"Ah!" said Tom, "that's not the way to
make her begin; she's pleased enough to have
your hand, Sir Felix! Take my word for it,
it's what she's aiming at." (Oh what a torment
is a bold, mischievous boy.)
Lucilla tried to snatch away her hand. Every
one was laughing; even old Undermine, who
joined in with a chuckle peculiar to himself,
and who, having a sort of kindness for the
Temples, though he had helped to ruin them,
would have been glad to see Lucilla Temple
united to Sir Felix, particularly if his firm had
the drawing up of the marriage settlements.
Lucilla struggled, but in vain.
and the words and music are both hers. Now,
Sir Felix here's her hand; when I want her to
do any thing, I pinch it till she squeals, but she
always does it. Try her, Sir Felix; she's such
a coward."
But Sir Felix was a coward too, and he saw
something in Lucilla's face that made him quail.
He gently said-
My dear Tom, you are a privileged fellow;
but I, alas! am not. Where you use intimida-
tion, I have recourse to entreaty;" so saying,
he meekly proffered the guitar, which Lucilla
instantly took, and after striking a few chords,
began.
LUCILLA'S SONG.
"Why should I love ? why give a priceless treasure
For the false coin of man's deceitful smile?
Can a brief fancy, born of fickle pleasure,
This fervent heart of its deep love beguile?
"Oh! when my voice is rich in notes of gladness,
Light-hearted lover, I behold thee there!
(4
When sorrow comes and all its tones are sadness
Where is the comforter! ah, where! ah, where!
"True, he might love to bask him in the beaming
Of laughing eyes, where love's first lustre shone;
When o'er pale cheeks, the bitter tears are streaming,
Seek him not sad one! for thou art alone!
"While beauty decks, and novelty enhances,
And lovers crowd around thee, he is thine;
When others court a newer beauty's glances,
Behold thy cold apostate at her shrine!
Why should I love? ah, what avails the asking?
Bright, but unwelcome bird! thou vulture-dove,
Gnawing my heart, while in my bosom basking;
It is too late!-alas thy name is Love!"
voice, and the wild and sweet melody to which
The exquisite pathos of the young poetess's
she "married her verse," moistened even the
And are those exquisite lines yours?" he
"You can redeem your hand at once," said cold eye of Sir Felix with a tear, whose parent-
her namesake, spitefully, "if you choose to re-age was divided between love and the bottle.
peat the lines; else there is no knowing where
this romp may end." Lucilla immediately be-
gan:-
"I vowed a vow of faith to thee,
By the red rose of June:
I vowed it by the rainbow,
And by the crescent moon.
"The red rose has departed,
Fresh ones are blooining there;
The rainbow has not left a shade
Upon the azure air.
"The crescent moon has swelled
Into a golden round,
"
And a sign of chance and change
On each and all are found.
'Then say not I have broken
The faith I vowed to thee;
Change was made for all on earth,
Was it not made for me!"
said.
"They are! Do you really think they have
any merit?" faltered Lucilla, who in her turn
began to dream she had found a patron.
"Oh!" cried Tom, "she's written whole bun-
dles. Isn't it a pity she can't get any of them
into the magazines? No, not even into the
'Poet's Corner' in the country newspapers!
We've tried over and over again; haven't we
Lucilla ?"
Lucilla, though a little provoked at this un-
necessary exposure of her early disappointments,
could not deny it; but Sir Felix drew near her,
and with a kind and gentle deference said, "My
sweet Miss Temple, you have genius, and from
what our dear friend Tom says, you have in-
Lucilla, who had a soul for poetry, could not dustry and perseverance; all you want is a pa-
repeat these simple lines without taste and feel-tron to bring you forward, and a literary ad-
ing. Sir Felix's brava, brava, was torture to viser to polish, criticise, and in short, 'point up’
Miss Lucilla Undermine's ear; even Renard your writings.
forgot for a moment the terrors which blanched
his cheek, and something of love-if selfish
passion deserve that name-was busy at his
heart.
Miss Lucilla Undermine exclaimed, "Are
those lines your own?"
Oh, no!” said Miss Temple, "they were
written by poor dear L. E. L., the gifted and
the lost."
"Oh! but," cried Tom, she's written a great
deal of poetry herself. Sir Felix make her
sing you one of her songs; here's a guitar.
She's written. one called 'Why should I love?'
Oh," said Lucilla, "where should I find
such a friend?" and the tears rose to her eyes,
and the blood forsook her cheek; for she thought
of independence achieved by her, of her pa-
rents in comfort, and perhaps affluence, and all
through her; of Tom sent to school, and her-
self-for in all human feelings, there is some
alloy of human selfishness of herself fêted,
courted, praised; the young lioness of London's
literary coteries; the pride of her own age, and
perhaps immortal, through all after time; and
this, not through the base, but too common
barter of her young hopes, her warm affections,
40
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
and her unwilling hand, for wealth and title,
but free as air, unfettered in mind, heart, and
hand; only called upon to pursue the labour
she delights in.
Sir Felix Archer watched her changing cheek,
her quivering lip, her heaving bosom. He be-
gan to doubt whether he had done wisely, and
whether, in presenting her to her own fancy as
a successful authoress, he should not plant
barriers in his own path, should he decide on
proposing to her.
"Such friends are to be found," he said;
"have you written any longer poem?"
"Yes; one in four cantos."
ed; but he only gallantly pressed the fair,
plump hand, the young lady had placed on his
arm to arrest his attention; and again it struck
him, that this handsome, clever girl, would be
a most amusing, useful confidante, and a very
agreeable object, for a safe and Platonic inti-
macy. Miss Lucilla Undermine then proceed
ed to recite some adroit plagiarisms, as poems.
of her own; and then followed duets, trios,
quartetts, catches, and glees.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Undermine had half-per-
suaded Sir Felix to agree to spend a week with
her, at her villa at Richmond, called "Under-
mine House," where she carried on the cold-
had half promised to extend her invitation to
Lucilla Temple, adding, that a week of the
water system would make the poor girl as un
like her present delicate, dainty self, as "chalk
is to cheese."
"Then send it to me; I will give it my earli-water-cure in all its glory; and to induce him,
est and best attention, and forward you in re-
turn my 'Essay on Taste,' in which I will
write your name. I beg you will make that
Essay your peculiar and immediate study; I
shall ask my friend Tom to breakfast with me
to-morrow, and he can then bring me your 'At-
tempts,' and take my Essay' back with him."
At length, Lucilla resolved to depart, and Sir
Felix offered that his carriage should take her
There was a sort of assumption and pedantic and Tom home, and then return for him. This
conceit in this speech, which a little chilled the offer seemed most kind and delicate-so much
enthusiastic gratitude of the young poet's heart. more so than the mere setting them down.
However, she had some confidence in the merits would have been; but the truth was, he want-
of her poem, and not a little of that boundlessed to establish a little confidence between him-
faith in others, which rarely survives our earli- self and Lucilla Undermine-he wanted to be
est teens.
<
She had so often heard her poor father sigh
for a patron. She remembered his flushed
cheek, and bright eye, when he thought he had
found one in this same Sir Felix, and so was
resolved to be grateful; if necessary to get the
Essay on Taste" by heart, and to retire as
soon as possible from the party assembled at
Mrs. Undermine's, that she might carefully go
over, correct, improve, touch up, and in some
parts re-write the poem, on which, it seemed to
her, her very destiny depended! Poor, poor
Lucilla! she did not know, that with that vain,
selfish patron, one flattering word, one admiring
glance at himself, would go farther in her course
than a Byron's genius in her poem; and that to
conciliate the cold connoisseur and sensual epi-
curean by her side, it was more important to let
him gaze at her beauty than read her poem.
i
But a low voice whispers in Sir Felix's ear;
a scent of otto of roses is on the air, and Lu-
cilla Undermine, leaning on the back of the
couch on which Sir Felix is sitting, and against
which he leans, almost suffers her long ringlets
to sweep his cheek, while she says "I, too,
am a worshipper of the Muse; and though,
perhaps, you would not deign to look at my
poor poems, you will not refuse, even to me,
a copy of your Essay on Taste;' I do so
covet it."
"I shall be proud to send it to you," said Sir
Felix.
"And will you read my critique on it, if I
write one? I have influence with many Re-
views."
Indeed! oh, I shall be proud to see a cri-
tique of my work from so fair a judge."
Why, a fair judge in such cases is a great
rarity; else, I am sure, every review would be
full of your Essay. Forgive my enthusiasm,
Sir Felix-I am all mind."
Sir Felix looked up at the buxom and Hebe
form and face, and thought, however great the
ethereal, the corporeal part had not been stint-
flattered, praised, and petted; and he did not
wish to appear too eager in the pursuit of Miss
Temple, either to herself or others. Renard,
upon the plea of illness, had retired to bed very
early; there, at least, he felt safe from any im-
mediate peril. And while the prancing horses
and the 'blazoned and softly-cushioned chariot
bore the delighted Lucilla Temple, and the
boasting, joyous Tom, back to Pleasant Row,
Sir Felix sat a little apart, listening to the im-.
plied admiration and open praise of the hand-
somest of the Undermine girls, who seemed to
be laying siege to him with such successful.
daring, that the others kept aloof, warned by
their mamma not (as she vulgarly expressed it)
to spoil sport. And old Undermine, while his
lady watched her daughter's manœuvres, ac-
tually commenced some of his own, and helped
himself, unseen, to two extra glasses of brandy-
and-water.
CHAPTER XX.
It was with a heart full of new hopes that Lu--
cilla Temple followed the boisterously happy
Tom, as he sprang up the stairs two or three at
a time, and bounded into the room where Mr.
Temple was still hard at work, unconscious, in
the engrossing and exciting labours of author-
ship, of the flight of time. Mrs. Temple (still
very delicate) had retired to rest," after many
vain endeavours to induce her husband to do
the same. Alas! the figure presented to our
young aspirant when the door was thrown
open, was one which would have deterred any
one less sanguine and youthful, from treading a
path that seemed in its results so thorny, and so
profitless.
Mr. Temple was pale with intense fatigue,
save where one bright crimson spot betrayed
the feverish state of his spirit; his temples
looked hollow, and so bare as to give an almost
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
4t
"Leave me a moment, darling," he replied |
abstractedly, "and be quiet, Tom; only five
minutes-be still, my loves!"
|
exaggerated height to his naturally fine fore- Tom was so full of his boasts of the great
head; dark circles surrounded his eyes, which notice taken of him by Sir Felix, of the prom-
were unusually bright; and when Lucilla laidised mount, the promised invitation to breakfast,
her cool hand upon his, she cried, "Oh, papa !
Oh, papa! and the success of his own bon-mots and atten-
how your hand burns-you must be ill-do leave tions to the "great man," that Lucilla had little
off writing, dearest !"
opportunity of alluding to her own hopes and
triumphs.
triumphs. But ere long, Tom took care to let
his father know, that he thought Lucilla, “if
she were not a simpleton, had a fair chance of
becoming Lady Archer. Think, papa," he added,
"what joy, to see Lucilla driving about in her
own carriage! and me, on a pony she would give
me, I know! and of course, papa, she would
give you and mamma lots of money! Perhaps
you would live with her if you liked-think of
that?"
Lucilla and Tom sat down, and the five
minutes spread into half an hour before they
dared to intefere again; when they did, Mr.
Temple pushed his writing from him, and de-
spondingly said, "It is all in vain; I cannot ef-
fect it-the work will be a failure; oh! that I
had been taught some humble trade! My chil-
dren, I have overrated my powers. No won-
der I obtain no success-I deserve none. Here
have I been for these last eight hours, toiling as
you see, and the result is-failure."
"Not so, dearest papa," said Lucilla, press-
ing her father to her bosom; "you are no
judge at present of what you have done; you
will think differently to-morrow: you over-
strain your nerves, and this is the result. Oh,
darling father, be advised;" and she sank on
her knees before him, for she saw her poor
father's tears trickle down his face.
"You are right, my love," he said, with an
effort. "I am worn out-quite upset-un-
hinged; cold, and yet hot; languid, and yet
excited; and I have sat the fire out too. What,
Tom, my boy! cheer up!"
|
蜜
​I could only think of it, Tom, if Lucilla her-
self liked Sir Felix well enough to find her
happiness in such a match. Sir Felix is a fine
and elegant man; and though much older than
my darling, he is still in the prime of life."
How differently, at different epochs of life,
people judge of age. Sir Felix was a few
years Mr. Temple's junior, and the same man,
who appeared to Lucilla quite an old fellow,
seemed to her father in the prime of life.
But Lucilla's heart sank within her, at hear-
ing calmly discussed, as likely to promote her
happiness, what she felt would be (should she
ever consent to it) a dreadful sacrifice of her-
self to the interests of others. In her young,
ardent bosom, the wish to love and be loved
had just awaked-hill and dale, lakes and for-
Poor Tom, who had quick feelings, was sob-ests, the wild sea shore, the ocean waves, the
bing, he scarce knew why, except that by the
heaving of his father's bosom he saw he was
weeping.
"Norah is gone to bed," added Mr. Tem-
ple. "What think you, Tom, can you light a
fire, and my Lucilla make me a nice cup of tea?"
"Oh, yes!" replied the delighted Tom.
Oh, yes!" echoed the fond Lucilla; and so
actively did they set about it, that in half an
hour Mr. Temple's papers and books were
stowed neatly away, a bright fire blazed, the
hearth was swept, the curtains let down, the
sofa and the arm-chair wheeled to the fire, and
Lucilla presiding at the little tea-table; while
Tom made a plate of excellent toast for his
now pleased and comforted father.
And
Ah, who could wish to be childless!
when the joys and hopes of youth begin to fade,
and the friends and companions of early life
begin to drop away, what comfort it must be to
be thus linked with a young generation, of the
sanguine, the fond, the devoted!-to have a
right in the Future, a claim upon the trusting
love and energetic tenderness of youthful hearts!
There is such a sweet officiousness, such an
untiring zeal in the affection of good children,
whose tender ears have never been startled by
one word that even seemed to them of doubtful
truth, from a parent's lips, and who therefore
believe in all simplicity; who have never known
the slightest falling off in parental love, and
who therefore trust in it entirely; nor perceived
a flaw in parental wisdom and knowledge, and
whose confidence is therefore unbounded!
There is a second spring-a second summer
for some happy ones; but it is not for the
childless-no, nor for any but the best of pa-
rents.
F
frowning rocks, the ever-varying sea, these
formed the scenery Fancy conjured up. One
dear one by her side, who almost unwittingly
to herself took the form of Di Moricini-music,
painting, poetry, flowers, and a cottage cur-
tained with roses and myrtles-these were her
visions, till her Father spoke. No wonder,
then, at her young years, ere Romance had
yielded to Reality, and before Comfort is a God,.
she turned with a shudder to contemplate the
dwelling in a modern house, however elegant,
with the formal, artificial, middle-aged Sir Fe-
lix. All the wild landscape she had conjured
up faded away, when he was presented to her
mind as her partner for life. She felt that he
would not be in keeping with green dells, or
ocean caves that patent-leather boot so modish
and artificial, and that affected gait-they had
no business with Nature's fastnesses, accessible
only to the elastic tread and daring step of
youth. That head slightly bald, and over which
the thin hair was laid in a net-work of curls→
that could never rest upon a mossy bank, or in
some sparry cave-there was rheumatism in
the very thought. That white and jewelled-
hand was not for country toil, or country sports.
Oh, no; a sense of the fitness of things sur-
rounded Sir Felix with damask curtains, ormolu,
pier glasses, French clocks, buhl cabinets, or,
placed him in the 'blazoned chariot, or at the
utmost, in the well-kept park, fenced in from
every danger; and all these accessories, so cov-
eted by the daughters of Art and Fashion, added
to the deep dejection of the child of Nature and
of Poetry, as she tried to think of all the bles-
sings she might shower on those dear to her, if
she could win and accept Sir Felix Archer.
Her father watched her varying cheek, and
+
·
42
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
listened, while she half unconsciously murmured,
Papa, there is no real ground for such a hope!
why should Sir Felix fix on me?"
"Only because he is a worshipper of genius,
grace, and beauty, my treasure," said her fa-
ther, embracing her fondly. "But do not raise
your hopes, my love, and then you will not be
disappointed. I can only say, that though, as
yet, he has not appeared to be quite the man I
should have chosen for you, still he, by select-
ing you as his wife, proves himself capable of
disinterested love for a penniless girl. You, in
accepting him, would have my warmest appro-
bation and fondest blessing, and I am sure your
dear mother would say the same; of course the
advantages of such a match to us and to poor
Tom would be boundless, but I would not have
you dwell on them, my child; they would not
atone to any of us in the least for any sacrifice
on your part. To be candid, I had lately con-
sidered Sir Felix as a cold, a heartless, and a
calculating man, and as such, I would rather
labour to maintain you, than bestow you upon
him; but I should see him in quite a new light
my love, if he, so courted by the wealthy and
the powerful, devoted himself to you. A man
who offers himself and all his wealth to a child
of Poverty, must have something good and
great in his heart."
Alas! how our wishes bias the judgment and
warp the understanding of the best of us!
choice that halo, which fame and genius alone
can confer upon a woman.
He knows that his daughter's writings have
rare merit, and that Sir Felix has the power, if
he wills it, to make that merit known. He
knows that poems which would be unheeded
as the production of the unknown Lucilla Tem-
ple, would make no little noise if brought for-
ward by the rich Sir Felix Archer, or published
as the work of "Lady Archer," perhaps.
And so a dreary day of toil ends with bright
hopes and boundless anticipations; and as the
clock strikes one, poor Lucilla retires to her
little room to prepare her poem for its dreaded
ordeal.
Mr. Temple to court that sleep which seldom
awaits the excited fancy, and the overtasked
brain,
And Tom to dream of ponies, of Jock, of
tight boots, of Norah's brooch, and his break-
fast with Sir Felix Archer-in his opinion the
greatest of great men.
CHAPTER XXI.
How much toil would a little experience often
spare us! How weary was poor Lucilla when
she closed her eyes, and how early was she
again bending over her poem, correcting, re-
vising, retouching, unaware that Sir Felix had
not taste to judge of its merits, and that in all
probability he would find it to his interest to
crush her hopes, rather than to forward her
views.
A man may be desperately in love (as the
world calls it) with a penniless woman, and yet
marry her when her own happiness, as well as
his interests, are to be the sacrifice-such cases
are not rare; a selfish passion has induced
many men to bestow wealth, rank, and all this Certainly, as she repeated some passages to
world's blessings upon the very woman they herself, she thought he must be struck with it;
have vainly tried to humble to the dust, and to and then again, a sort of despondency crept
rank with the very outcasts of society-one over her; and meeting with Tom, she read
day, doing their utmost to make her vile, and him a passage, about the merits of which she
foiled in this offering to make her noble: and had some doubts. And Tom, new to the sense
this the world calls Love. But this was not of power, used it like a tyrant, and condemned
- quite the case with Sir Felix; a selfish passion the passage, quoting Jock's opinion of some
may make him court the young Lucilla, but he, lines Lucilla had written to him (Tom) on his
as the reader knows has other, and more com- birth-day, that they were not "spicy" enough
plicated, reasons for entertaining such a scheme; for the present day. However," added Tom,
he not only wishes to please and benefit him- "Jock and Sir Felix are very unlike: and ex-
self, but to injure another; and yet Mr. Tem-cept that they're both friends of mine, there
ple, a man of genius and knowledge, and not couldn't be two people more different; so per-
generally deficient in penetration, though sim-haps Sir Felix may like your poems, but Jock
ple, as men of books generally are, he falls into
this common error, and would have faith in Sir
Felix Archer's heart, if he were to prove to be
resolved at all risks and costs, to gratify his in-
clination.
Poor Lucilla! she cannot bear to damp her
father's hopes he looks so happy at the very
thought which makes her so wretched!-he
who has suffered so much! whose life has been
one struggle. She gazes on his face radiant
with hope and joy; she cannot bear to make it
sad; and so she only persists that there is no
chance of her becoming Lady Archer, but with-
holds the important fact, that she would rather
be in her grave.
doesn't, I can tell you; and I think with him,
they wont take! However do it up as small
as you can. It's almost time for me to be off.
I shall borrow Norah's brooch again; I saw
Sir Felix looking at it."
"I think he was making fun of it, Tom,"
said Lucilla, simply.
"Do you, Miss Spite?" retorted Tom, crim-
soning to the very roots of his red hair; "I
know you say that, because I didn't praise your
poem. Make fun of me! he's much more like-
ly to make fun of you, miss! Why, he never
asked you to breakfast."
No, of course, he knew I could not go."
"But I know that you could, and would;
And then she tells her father of her new and you're as spiteful as an old cat, that you're
hopes of Sir Felix's offer of promoting the in-not asked, but I'll pay you out. Making fun of
terests of her poem; and her father smiles, for me, indeed! I wonder what Jock would say to
he knows what promises are, and what the pen that!"
is; but it strikes him, that perhaps Sir Felix
may wish to throw round the object of his
But it was time for Lucilla to set off for Miss
Trueblue's. Mr. Temple was out visiting a sick
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
43
parishioner, and as Tom was not ready to es- thus addressed. He was immensely tall, and
cort his sister, Mrs. Temple insisted on Norah's muscular in proportion, but so well made as
going with Lucilla. Many a passenger turned not to appear gigantic; there was something
to gaze at the delicate and lovely girl, and her fashionable in his appearance, but of that kind
outlandish companion, with her huge old bon- which is called "sporting;" his features' were
net, her merry Munster face, her Moorish eyes, regular and noble, his eyes large and bright, and
her dazzling teeth, which a constant grin dis- his complexion delicate as a girl's; his some-
played, except when some push, or other acci- what round head was covered with closely curl-
dental or intentional annoyance roused her ing chesnut hair, which glittered in the sun as if
ready wrath, when with the broadest of brogues, | full of threads of gold. And a sort of cotton
she vented her displeasure in whatever words plaid handkerchief, carelessly tied round his
of Hibernian abuse she could, in her own lan-throat, showed that while in shape it resembled
guage, "lay her tongue to."
She was a woman of immense bone, broad- |
backed, strong limbed, and more than a match
for most of the delicate sons of London. Boldly
she extended her red and brawny arms, when,
in any crowded crossing, or very frequented
thoroughfare, it seemed to her that people pres-
sed unnecessarily on her young mistress, who
would much rather have suffered any inconve-
nience than have been exposed to all the re-
mark, wrath, sarcasm, and even abuse brought
upon them by poor Norah's activity and zeal.
"Never mind them, Norah," said poor Lu-
cilla, frightened at a sort of tussle between
Norah and two great louts, who were trying
to take the inside, and compel Miss Temple and
her maid to step into the gutter.
a bull's, it was white as that of the most delicate
blonde, save where the bushy auburn whiskers
concealed it. The hat of this strange being was
quite unique, being of white beaver, with a
low crown and very broad brim; his coat, too
of a kind of green, was singular in make and
colour. Lucilla had just decided from his
profile that he was singularly handsome, when
turning his front face full upon her, she saw
that his nose was scarred and bent as by a blow,
and that his front teeth were broken.
And what will we be after doing now, yer
honour ?" said Norah, to this singular person.
"Oh! hush Norah," said Lucilla half faint-
ing with alarm (as she saw her passionate
attendant, her bonnet crumpled and battered,
and her face and dress stained with blood and
dirt, ready to engage again with either of her
assailants, or both.) "Oh! hush, for my sake,
hush! and come away."
"And ain't it for your sake, mavourneen, and
for the honour of the family, that I've giv him
a bating the day? and it s myself that will re-
pate the dose wid pleasure."
"Och! then, be aisy, a cuishla ?" said Norah;
"it's myself that'll never be imposed upon,
while I've an arm with a good fist to the end
of it! The young cubs! to think to take the
wall of you, miss, and myself by to see it,
and my name Mahoney!" So saying, she ex-
tended her arm, and literally lifted one of the
youths (sqallid-looking artisans) into the gut- The little crowd, which a street row always
ter; but the other contrived to trip her up, and assembles, were laughing, jeering, shouting, and
while she floundered on the pavement, the one trying to urge on the combatants; some insult-
made off, while the other contrived to flirting language met poor Lucilla's ear, and two or
a lump of mud into the broad and crimsoned
face of the enraged Norah. "Sorrow fa' ye,
and the deevil tak' you!" cried Norah, dashing
the mud from her face, and turning on her |
luckless foe, she caught him by the hair, and
buffetted him in the face, till he roared for
mercy. Meanwhile, a crowd began to assem-
ble, and poor Lucilla, pale and tearful with
mortification and annoyance, knew not what
to do.
|
The bystanders took part, some with Norah,
some with the youth, who was decidedly getting |
the worst of it, when his companion, seeing this
from a distant doorway, where he had concealed
himself, darted forward, and was about to aim
a blow at Norah's face, when he received one
himself, which made him drop as if shot.
"Are you not ashamed of yourselves, you
young scamps?" said the dealer of the blow;
"two to one, and on a woman too."
"A woman, Sir! a devil, rather; ten fellows
ain't no match for her, I'll bear the print of her
nails for a vear to come."
"And it's myself is right glad of the same;
'you'll not forget me in a hurry, my lads, and,
may be, in future you'll not forget yourself, to
take the wall of a born lady, ye cubs. And as
for you," she added, turning to her protector,
"it's a raal gentleman you are, and the bles-
sing of the holy Vergin on the handsome face
"of ye !"
Lucilla stole a timid glance at the person
three rude, ill-bred fellows accosted her famil-
iarly. In her distress, her tears fell fast, and
not knowing what to do, with one hand she
held back the passionate Norah, and with the
other dried her eyes, as, turning to Norah's de-
liverer, she said-
"You have befriended us once
tell me
what shall we do? I want to get to Bond
Street, and my servant cannot walk through the
streets in this state."
“Trust to me,” said the gentleman she addres-
sed, "there is a coach-stand close by,” and he
offered his arm to Lucilla; "and now you, my
good girl," he added, "keep close to me, and I'll
protect you."
Faith!" muttered Norah, "it's little pro-
tection I need your honour."
"Hush! Norah, I implore, nay, I command
you," said poor Lucilla.
The crowd made way before the powerful arm
of her new protector, and she saw smiles and
winks interchanged among the crowd, and
people nudged each other, and whispered, "Tre-
lawney."
They reached the coach-stand-the stranger
handed in first Lucilla, then Norah, and finally,
to their surprise, sprang in himself.
Where shall I tell the Jarvie to drive?" he
asked.
"To Mr. Trueblue's Bond Street, 113," said
poor Lucilla.
This direction the gentleman repeated in a
→
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
44
stentorian voice, which made Lucilla, and evening to take care of herself, and not go about
Norah start, and then off rumbled the crazy old
vehicle.
"It is curious enough," said the gentleman,
"that the hotel where I am staying at present
is next door to Mr. Trueblue's; and now I think
of it, I have often seen you call there when I
have been at breakfast."
alone, with no protection but an Irish maid.
Lucilla listened in mute surprise and dis-
pleasure; and as she raised her eyes to his
handsome face, where something fierce was
blended with an expression half comic, half
tender, she decided, in her own mind, that he
was insane, or at the least, cracked, and she
rejoiced when she found herself safe in Miss.
Trueblue's house, and the hall door closed be--
"Indeed!" said Lucilla ; "I am glad we
shall not be taking you out of your way; but I
think it must be some one else you have seen, | hind her.
for I never was there at breakfast time-never,
indeed, before twelve o'clock."
"Do you think," said the stranger, in a voice
and with a manner that made Lucilla blush-
do you think, lady, that any one who has once
seen you (even for a instant) could mistake any
other for you?"
"Och!" said Norah, " then it's all of us is like
to be mistaken."
Without heeding her, the stranger continued
"Then, too, breakfast hours vary. If one is
not in bed till morning, one is not likely to con-
jure up an appetite till noon.”
"Oh, no, of course not," faltered Lucilla, not
knowing what to say, but seeing he expected a
reply.
"And what for would a dacent body be out
of his bed all night?" said Norah.
"Some kick up rows at night, some in the
day, my girl," he said, with a smile.
"And is it rowing you are all night? Faith,
that's a bad way of spending the day, any
how. I'm a quiet woman, till I'm provoked,
and I was thinking you were another, your
honour."
"Well I cannot quarrel with you for thinking
me a young woman, but I do hope you didn't
imagine me an old woman."
Och, hone! I never thought you any wo-
man at all, but just a man wid the best of us,"
laughed Norah, trying to bend her bonnet into
shape.
"There's something to get you a new bon-
net, my girl," said the stranger, slipping a sov-
ereign into her hand.
Norah tried to return it, and Lucilla begged
him to take it back, as her father would be
displeased at Norah's accepting money from a
stranger.
"Norah and I have fought on the same side
to-day," he said, good-humouredly, shaking
hands with the delighted girl; "we're no
strangers-we're brother's in arms, to use one
of her own bulls; and I beg Norah will buy a
new bonnet, and wear it for the sake of Lord
Trelawney," he added, as the coach stopped at
Mr. Trueblue's door.
CHAPTER XXII.
Miss Trueblue listened with much interest to
Lucilla's tale, summoned her maid to take charge
of Norah, and restore her to a presentable ap-
pearance, but did not at all like that part of her
young friend's narrative which related to Lord
Trelawney. She shook her head when Lucilla
suggested he was mad.
"Not so, my dear," she replied, "unless in-
deed, all extravagance, absurdity, and wicked-
ness, may take shelter under the cloak of insan-
ity. Have you never heard of Lord Trelawney?
I thought every one knew his name, and had
heard of his exploits."
"For what is he famous ?"
Say, rather, infamous; though I believe, in
the midst of his wild and reckless career, he
has shown some traits of goodness of heart and
nobility of mind, but they are few and far be-
tween. He is of a class, once the fashion, but
luckily, now almost out of date. Fun and frolic
are his gods; to them he sacrifices everything;
rashly brave, and fond of every kind of wild ad-
venture; full of wild impulse, and with little or
no principle to restrain him, the mischief he has
done is frightful. He is a celebrated boxer, or,
as he would call it, bruiser; did you not re-
mark that his front teeth are broken?”
"I did, and his nose too."
"Exactly, and in spite of this he is handsome ;
and rough and rude as is his habitual manner;
he can be gentle even to fascination.
At one
time there was a club of just such reckless,
dangerous, lawless fellows; one of their boasts
was, that they would, either by 'insinuation or
bluster,' by force, fascination, or stratagem,'
carry off any poor beauty they chose, or marry
an heiress they fixed upon.
Lord Trelawney was introduced to me, prob-
ably to see whether he could make up his mind
to wed wealthy deformity; the result proved
that he could not; our interviews were very
droll, unsanctioned by me, and yet he managed
"Och! and is it a raal Lord you are, and no so that he saw me, when and where he pleased,
wonder, and you so free with the Queen's pic- and I could not prevent it; to me, individually, he
tur, that you give a puir body like me one off-behaved almost nobly-but then I have no beauty,
hand. Now blessings on yer handsome face,
my Lord, for youre noble behaviour the day,
and God be wi' you; I'll na' forget you in my
prayers, mavourneen."
But Lord Trelawney had handed Lucilla and
her maid out. He would not let Lucilla pay for
the coach, declaring it was hired by him, and
that he was going further. He squeezed Lucil-
la's trembling hand, and told her to beware;
that he had taken a fancy to her, and that was
a bad thing for any girl; but he gave her warn-
and am protected by this fortification (and she-
pointed somewhat bitterly to her hump), even
from his cupidity. But with your rare loveliness,
and unprotected charms, I do grieve he should
have met you, have even owned his fancy for
you, and actually given you what he will con-
sider fair warning. I wish you could go into
the country for a time: a month hence we shall
be going there. En attendant, take care of your-
self, for he can be unscrupulous, persevering,
and almost irresistible, and is leagued, too, with
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
45
a set of wretches of every grade, to whom his
word is law. Perhaps you had better mention
this unlucky rencontre to your parents."
"Oh no!" said poor Lucilla, the tears filling
her eyes, "it would entirely prevent my ever
coming to you again, or doing anything to assist
them. My father would be obliged to give up
his present laborious, literary undertaking, his
mind would be so disturbed on my account;
and as to my poor dear mamma, in her still
weak and nervous state, it might be her death.
And after all it may be nothing; what he said
may have been merely to startle and terrify me;
besides, in the crowded streets of London, no
violence can be done to any one-the police are
ever at hand.”
"Why, seeing my sarcastic smile, he rather
adroitly said, that his beau-ideal related merely
to the heart and mind; that if they were sub
lime, he cared not what fleshly shape they took.
but after this little rencontre he was more defe
rential, though less grossly flattering. I hap
pened to drop a word of my passion for flowers,
and the next day--and indeed every day for the
next month-the most costly of bouquets were
left (anonymously) at our door. I suppose the
servants were bribed to take them in, for though
I, somewhat suspecting whence they came, or-
dered them to refuse, they had always some
plausible excuse for having taken them in:
sometimes a few desponding verses were hidden
in the leaves, but without a signature. At length
one day I was walking in the gardens of Caven-
dish Square, when, to my anger and surprise,
I was joined by Mr. Renard Undermine, who
made a sort of boast that he had risked his life
in climbing the gate, to enjoy the rapture of
speaking to me again. This story I disbelieved,
having, indeed, a shrewd suspicion that I had
seen him slinking in behind a good-natured
"I do not fear open violence," my Lucilla,
"but you must be on your guard against all
tricks; never, on any pretence, go to meet any
one, unless you have yourself made an appoint-
ment with the person-in fact, consult me be-
fore you take any unusual step; and now, as
we are both of us a little too much flurried for
study of any kind, I will order the carriage,
and you shall come with me to see the paint-nursery-maid, one of whose half-dozen babies
ings of a young artist, of whom report speaks
highly. I am anxious to patronize him, and as
I am not willing to transmit my own form and
features to posterity, I shall beg you to let me
delight myself, and benefit him, by giving him
your fair face as a model."
"I was just going to ask you to patronize a
young Italian artist, by name Signor di Mori-
cini," said Lucilla, blushing to the very temples.
"Oh, you know him, then ?"
15
Very slightly;" and then Lucilla, being
candid and open, related her adventures with
Di Moricini as briefly as she could, only with-
holding what no woman is called upon to reveal |
in such a case-her own wild and sudden ad-
miration for, and interest in, this young artist.
Miss Trueblue smiled, kindly and archly, par-
ticularly at that part of the story which included
Renard Undermine. How exactly like that
little, boasting wretch," she said; "I thought
he was a coward."
"Do you know Mr. Renard Undermine ?"
asked Lucilla in surprise.
"Indeed I do, my love! there is scarcely a
mean, grovelling fortune-hunter about town of
whom I do not know something. Have I not
two hundred thousand charms, my Lucilla? and
are they not magnified ten-fold? You will smile
when I tell you, that having once met this Renard
at a soirée dansante, during which he devoted
himself entirely to me, sitting by my side-al-
most grovelling at my feet, because I did not
choose to parade my misshapen form in dances,
which require more grace than falls to the share
of many who are not actually deformed-yes,
there he was, pouring into my wearied ear the
names of all the great people into whose pres-
ence he seemed to have worked himself, as a
worm might have done, even giving me broad
hints of the tender devotion of a certain Honour-
able Miss C. T., and a lovely lady (pertly called
by him 'Lady Cis.'), but delicately implying that
he had never met his beau-ideal till he met me!
I told him I judged of the elevation of a mind
by the perfection of its beau-ideal, and estimated
his accordingly."
And what did he say?"
he had lifted over a gutter. I appeared to
have quite forgotten him, and he then boldly
avowed himself as the sender of the bouquets.
I did not appear even to have heard of them,
saying, in reply to his imprecations on my faith-
less menials-Might not my maid have fancied
they were for her? how could she dream that
any one would presume to send me an anony-
mous bouquet?' He drew himself up, and said
such tributes of esteem from him had not been
scorned by the Honourable Miss T., and the
lovely and high-born 'Lady Cis.'
"I replied, they were of a rank, perhaps, to
set a fashion, or establish a point of etiquette. I
alas! was not that; I was only a clothier's
daughter; that they, perhaps, were lovely
enough to consider such offerings as compli-
ments to their charms; I, being only a little
plain-faced, hump-backed body, looked upon
them as insults to my understanding."
·
He
And my verses!' he cried; did they, too,
miscarry-verses that cost me so much?"
"They would have cost you more,' I said,
'had they fallen into my papa's hands.'
struck his forehead, and sank on his knees, in
the wet grass. I rose and left him. The next
day came a formal proposal, and among other
absurdities, he said that he had perhaps misled
me, by his allusions to the intimacy between
the Honourable Miss C. T. and himself, as also
with regard to the attachment of the lovely
'Lady Cis.,' daughter of the Earl of P— for his
unworthy self. He assured me, that in neither
case could he repay those high-born and lovely
beings with anything but friendship. And now
comes a little incident which I can scarcely re-
peat for laughing, it is so exquisitely absurd."
"Oh, do tell it," said Lucilla: "depend on my
secresy."
"Well, then, will you believe, that to con-
vince me of the devotion of these ladies to him,
and of his indifference to them, he actually en-
closed, as a sort of sacrifice at my shrine, two
love gifts of these noble, but I must think, mad
women of rank."
"And what were they?" asked Lucilla, much
amazed.
46
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
"One,” replied Miss Trueblue (you will hard- | have done so-one who considered me, my
ly believe it), "was a lock of hair, the most
exquisite I ever beheld !"
"Of golden hue, and tied with blue riband?"
asked Lucilla.
46
Exactly; then you have seen it?"
"I have."
45
peace, my prospects, my filial duty when I might
have forgotten all to be his for ever-oh, Lucilla !
can you wonder that that one, though mean his
station, seems to me most noble-though neg-
lected his education, yet to me seems he gifted
-and though poor, yet I am resolved he shall
fond father! so indulgent in all else, my father
would be but human in this-that he would
not doom me to this ceaseless struggle, and
compel me to deceive, brave, and perhaps of-
fend him for ever, or give up the only one who
ever loved me at all, for my wretched self."
Capital! and the delicate inscription, and be rich! Oh! that my father, my dear, kind,
the coronetted paper?"
Yes, all."
"Is he, then, paying his court to you? If so,
I think less meanly of him!"
'Oh, no! it was shown to me, not as a mat-
ter of compliment to me, but as one of boast in,
and exaltation of, himself."
"And did you see the other? a-"
"No!"
Oh, then that is still more absurd! What
think you of a waistcoat, and a pair of slippers?"
"Do you mean they were sent to you?"
Yes; a light-blue velvet waistcoat, and
slippers of the same, exquisitely embroidered in
silver beads. The flowers (meant to represent
forget-me-nots) formed here and there the ini-
tials (interwoven) of C. T. (id est, the Honour-
able Camilla Trevor), this silly woman; and
those of R. U., that is Renard Undermine, this
odious little boaster."
Why, it must have been quite a large par-
cel !"
"And what did you do?"
She spoke with a passionate energy, which
surprised Lucilla, who had never seen her other
than calm and self-possessed, now her colour
rose, her bosom heaved, and as she threw her-
self into Lucilla's arms, she burst into tears.
Lucilla's fell too, for she was young, and full of
sympathy. And then, kissing her fondly, Miss
Trueblue buried her face in her handkerchief,
and sobbingly begged Lucilla to await her there;
she then hurried out of the room. It was half
an hour at least before she returned; she was
then dressed to go out. Her veil was down,
but Lucilla saw that her cheeks were deadly
pale, her eyes red and swollen, and that her lip
quivered.
+
Come, dearest! a drive will refresh us
It was, indeed, and furnished me with mer-hoth; re-arrange those lovely curls," she said,
riment for a long time!"
with that sort of affectionate dejection, which
goes straight to any kind heart. If one cannot
I returned them, of course, and briefly said, help feeling some sympathy for those whose
that Mr. Renard Undermine would probably sorrows embitter their temper, one's interest is
consider Miss Trueblue's mind as deformed as boundless in those whose unselfish misery leaves
her person, since she was quite incapable of ap- their affections and cares for others unabated.
preciating his devotion, or of repaying the noble "The world, to see me, taking you about with
and disinterested partiality he professed for her; me, my Lucilla! would spitefully decide, that I
that Miss Trueblue thanked Mr. Renard Under- must be unconscious of your beauty and my de-
mine, for the warning contained, in the expo-formity - and yet, even the most malevolent
sure of the fair donors of the tokens she returned,
and that few ladies would so commit themselves,
if thus apprized of the danger of doing so. Miss
Trueblue, had only to add, that she felt herself
so unworthy of the notice of one so coveted by
the great, and the beautiful, that in future she
should not presume to open any communication
from one so distinguished; but would refer it to
her papa, who, as a man of business, would
know what was best to be done in such a case."
"And did that put an end to his persecu-
tions ?"
scarcely see either more clearly than I do ; but
the heart may be cast in the right mould, even
if the form is not; nay, till I knew you, Lucilla,
I almost doubted whether the most beautiful
could be the most amiable. But stop! my maid
has been long dying to make a Polish pelisse.
I would not disappoint her; but not willing to
show off such a garment at my own expense, I
have allowed her to make it for you-Suppose
you wear it now, my love! that old shawl is
scarcely in keeping with your pretty bonnet."
Poor Lucilla! she was very pretty, and only
"Oh, quite! but I heard that he revenged seventeen !-let that excuse the blush of joy
himself by some verses in the Viper,' on 'a that mantled her cheek, at the thought of wear-
Hump-backed Trueblue.' As I never read that ing so new, so elegant, and so becoming a dress;
paper, I never saw the effusion; but such one, too, she had often admired on others, but
things, absurd as they of course seem to you, scarcely ventured to dream of with reference to
are to me every day occurrences. Men whom herself. Miss Trueblue rang the bell, and
you would think far above such meanness- (Tucker) her maid, flushed with triumph (and
men of mind, station, first-rate education-withholding up the pelisse, as an artist would a fine
the most sudden, and I think, insulting forward-picture he had just completed), came in, and
ness, propose to me. To have seen me in the prepared to fit it on Lucilla, whose delight was
street, to have met me at a public place, any-chastened as she gazed on Miss Trueblue, so
thing is enough; the glance at me, which I know conscious of her own defects, so anxious to
must make them loathe me, is sufficient to in-show off another's charms; and though the
duce them to offer to dwell with me for ever-pelisse fitted, as Tucker observed, "as neat as
to induce them to propose, to swear to protect,
cherish, love, and honour me !-Oh, is it not too
base! And if there is one, who I believe loves
me a little, but a little for myself-one who
would not take advantage of me when he might |
wax, and that Miss Temple looked unkimmon
becoming in it, being exact the figgur to wear
sich a harticle," Lucilla's eyes were filled with
tears-yes, even while she looked into the glass.
The pelisse was not only very pretty and be-
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
47
coming, but in very good taste; rich, without
being so showy or remarkable as to attract atten-
tion to Lucilla, or make the rest of her attire seem
shabby; it was of a first-rate black watered
silk, and trimmed with black lace. And the
contrast between Lucilla in this attire, and Lu-
cilla in the old, faded, puce-coloured shawl she
had just taken off, was such, that Tucker could
not help exclaiming, "Well, miss, I'm sure fine
feathers does make fine birds. I only wish my
misses would let me make her just sich another."
"I should only disgrace your skill, my poor
Tucker," said Miss Trueblue; "but, come, Lu-
cilla, the carriage is at the door.”
"Well to be sure," thought Tucker, as she
returned from seeing her lady into the carriage;
"that 'ere Loociller is a pretty gal enough to
look at; but there's others ain't so ornary nei-
ther," and she stepped to the glass; "she's in
luck, I'm thinking. What's she better nor
me, I'd like to know? My friends is respecta-
ble too, and my cousin's gone out governess at
a lord's; we both has wages, only Miss Loo-
ciller han't no board nor lodging, and trudges
through mud and dust, sun and rain, to get
her'n, which, maybe, is a trifle higher on that
acquount; but when it comes to my working for
her, and she a lolling in our carridge, I don't
like it. Polish pelisse, indeed! for the like of
she; well, as missis won't be home till dinner,
I'll jist slip on the Polka pelisse I've made for
myself, and take a turn in the Park-that I will. |
For fashion and style, the Polka have beat the
Polish quite out of the field, and mine's the wery
figgur to set it off. Lawk a daisy, goodness
gracious from Heaven! what a hobsolete, wul-
gar old shawl this is, to be-I wouldn't demane
myself to put it on!-and she gentry! indeed!
cuss sich gentry, say I. La! how much more
genteeler a handsome young valet do look in a
gay livery, than a poor gentleman in rusty black,
out at elbows:-
"Silk stockings, powder, plush and tags,
Before gentility in rage.'"
"Oh my! how mean that shawl do look on that
hot'man; I'll leave it there for spight, that I
will, no I won't, neither, for Loociller's a pretty
young thing, and so meek and civil, and so
afraid to give trouble; and law! why should my
eye be evil, because another's is good? And to
be born a lady, and then come to work and
want must be hard! but surely! if I stays
thinking here, I shan't get no walk; so here
goes."
|
| idea of flirting and jilting, as if she were, in her ·
own language, a "Londoner bred and born."
Yet, while coquetting with all kinds of gay
valets, and civil shopmen, she is professedly
engaged to the young chandler of Mossdale, far
away. However, she is daily expecting an
offer from a young hair-dresser, and then, and
not till then, will she cease to subscribe herself
the young chandler's "affectionate lovier."
"I take a lesson from the fellers themselves,"
she said; "catch them without two strings to
their bow, or me without two beaus to my
string. In old times, it might
"Be good to be merry and wise,
And good to be honest and true;
And good to be off with the old love,
Before you are on with the new.""
"But now, my motto is-
"""Tis good to be merry and wise,
'Tis good to be cunning and bold;
'Tis good to be on with the new love,
Before you are off with the old.'"
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE carriage which conveyed Lucilla and her
friend to the house of the young artist, was in
the quiet, but good taste, which distinguished
all Miss Trueblue's appointments. No wretch-
ed, wearied, rat-like horses, dragged some
gaudy, new-fangled equipage; the coachman's
and footman's rich livery did not form a curious
contrast with their jaded, wretched looks.
A dark-green chariot admirably built, with
every modern improvement, the quiet crest of
the Trueblue family (bees and a hive), emblems -
of industry and forethought, a pair of beautiful,
sleek, well fed, happy looking horses, a fat mer-
ry-looking coachman, and a smart, ruddy youth,
his son, dressed in quiet liveries of sober brown
-these formed the turnout of Mr. Trueblue, a
man who could have bought up half the dashing
equipages that shone very often only as "comets
of a season.
As Lucilla, to whom a carriage was suf- ·
ficiently a novelty to be a source of exquisite.
delight, after leaning back for a moment, to en-
joy the swelling cushions of green morocco,
looked through the open window, she saw stand-
ing under the porch of the hotel next the True--
blues a party of fashionable young men laugh..
ing and talking; one towered above the rest,
and Lucilla, catching Miss Trueblue's arm,
said, almost with horror, "There he is there
he is! and pointing us out."
And so Miss Tucker retired to array herself
in her Polka, manufactured by stealth, and
slipped out to display it in the Park; she who
had come up from the country a year before,
simple as a flower of the field, having never
known aught gayer than a black silk bonnet
and a scarlet cloak, and whose greatest piece
of deception and coquetry had been a few unne-
cessary moments of delay at the village chan-
dler's, to hear the gay, white-aproned young
man declare "that candles couldn't be wanted
in a house where such eyes shined, nor sugar
required where she made the tea." But London-be on your guard, I implore you.
is a university where the most untaught of
country girls can soon be finished off in vanity,
deception, and coquetry-lucky if we do not
add, in dishonour and ruin.
As she spoke, Lord Trelawney bowed with
courtly grace; and an instinct of politeness
compelled Lucilla to bend her head in return.
Yes, Susan Tucker has already as good an
"He claims you as an acquaintance, my
dear, Lucilla! Oh, be on your guard, my girl!
the men around him are all sporting men, more
or less notorious, lawless, and desperate. There
was a snake-like glitter in his eyes as he recog-
nised you, which I did not like. I fear he has
marked you for his persecution, if not his prey
And now
for the young Italian artist, likewise a danger-
ous acquaintance, at least for most young girls,
only I have heard my Lucilla so often declare
her dislike to foreigners, and her contempt for
those English girls, who disdained respectable
48
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Englishmen, but ran wild after guitars,, mus-
tachois, and bon-bons, and to whose ears Don
Mein Herr, Monsieur Le Comte, and Il Signor
Marchese, were a music as preferable to plain
Mr. so-and-so, as are Bellini's airs to our country
dances.
tooked in washing, and waited on him as if he'd
been a babe; but in her last confinement she
caught a cold, along of getting to the wash tub
too soon, she was so afeared he'd have to go
to the workus. Well, she catched a cold, had
a bad breast, was laid up, and now there they
are a parted, though under the same roof, and
both dying broken-hearted, I believes. Well,
them two can't help me, miss."
It was at a large, but very dilapidated-looking
house in Howland Street, Fitzroy Square, that
Miss Trueblue's carriage stopped. An old wom-
an, in pattens, who had evidently been scrub- “And the third, can he do nothing?"
bing the hall, for a pail and a brush were beside "Lor love ye, no! it can't be expected; he
her, opened the door. A rusty, old, black bon- was always silly, and now he's downright
net, was tilted over her bottle nose; she was amazed, and the parish have took him to Bed-
regular London char-woman. Her skinný arms,
her hands puckered with recent soap-suds, her
tucked up skirts, her coarse wet apron, tied be-
hind, her black worsted legs, her snuff, her
deafness, all betrayed her profession.
It was a long time, before she could be made
to understand what was wanted of her.
At length, by bawling in her ear, the foot-
man made her aware that the inquiry was after
an artist lodging in the house.
"What, a French forinner?" growled the old
woman (the lower orders consider all foreign-
ers French); "one as draws pictures - yes,
he've took the fust floor, but I don't do for him
-don't know nothing about 'un," and she was
about to close the door.
"Give her a shilling, James, and ask her to
see if he is in," said Miss Trueblue.
This being done, the old woman's whole tone
and manner altered; she smiled, curtised, slip-
ped off her pattens, untied her apron, removed
Her pail and scrubbing brush, and having mirac-
ulously recovered her sense of hearing, she
said in a cheerful voice-"I gives you many
thanks, my lady-for a raal lady you is, and
that's more than I can say of all as looks it;
there's carridge folks, with their watches to
their sides, would have the door opened for 'em
to everlastin,' without giving a poor old body a
sixpence for her trouble."
"Will you ask if the gentleman is at home?"
said Miss Trueblue.
•
Yes, that I will my lady! leastways, I
knows he is; just let me lay down a mat for
your blessed feet! I'll have many a good cup
o' tea, to comfort my old heart out of this here
blessed shillun. I'm a lone ooman, I've brought
up twelve, and now there ain't one of 'em to
help me in the leastest."
"But how is that?" asked Miss Trueblue;
"are they all alive?"
"No, my lady, there ain't but three of 'em
left; one is in the hospital, poor soul; and
t'other, a darter with three children, in the
workus! I'm thankful to say, nine of 'em the
Lord have tooked; they're better provided for
than they'd be here, starving in a Union, on
water grool; I prayed to have 'em tooked, and
they was tooked; and I was enabled to have
'em all buried dacent, for which I'm thankful.
Yes, they're better off than poor Job in the
hospital, and poor Ruth in the Union, a parted
from her husband, whom the silly cretur mar-
ried for love, and who've lost the use of his
limbs."
แ
"Poor, poor creature!" said Miss Trueblue,
her eyes filling with tears; "may she not be
with him, then ?”
No, not she! she bore up for his sake, and
|
|
lam.
Many's the time I've begged on my
bended knees to Providence to take him, and
leave me one as could help me in my old age;
but Lor, 'tan't no use. I little thought I'd rared
twelve of 'em to come to this; three shillun a
week, that's all I earns, and find myself. Wait
a bit; I'll go up and tell the forinner.
old bones, how I aches, to be sure!"
Oh, my
So saying, she went up stairs (pretty nimbly),
moaning to herself the while. Presently a hur-
ried step was heard, and Di Moricini himself
came eagerly down to receive his visitors, and
usher them up stairs.
Though sadly out of repair, the drawing-
rooms on the first floor were handsome and
spacious, and had considerable remains of ele-
gance about them.
The light excluded below, came in from
above, with that soft and magical effect pecu-
liar to a painter's studio. Some curious old
chairs, and couches, antique and picturesque
tables, pictures, some framed and finished,
some in progress only, were placed round the
rooms; casts of celebrated statues gleamed in
the dark corners, with pieces of armour, vases,
and ancient mantles, and other garments of
velvet and fur; a piano, a guitar, books, and
several beautiful plants, completed this interest-
ing atelier.
How much more charming to Lucilla was
this room, with its chastened light, its quaint
furniture, and its triumphs of Genius; than the
gaudy drawing-rooms of wealth, all so exactly
alike, all fitted by some tasteless upholsterer,
only anxious, by overwhelming with monoton-
ous and ill-chosen ornament, to surcharge both
the employer, and his apartments.
And there stood the interesting young painter;
a tasteful blouse of foreign silk, of dark blue,
forming, with a crimson velvet Apollo cap,
which covered his clustering, auburn hair, a
poetical and picturesque costume-and thus at-
tired, with his palette in his hand, his oval face,
waving hair, and expression at once soft and
bright, he strongly reminded Lucilla, of Raphael,
in the well-known picture that represents him
with the Fornarina hanging over her inspired
lover, as he immortalizes the Italian beauty of
her haunting face. Lucilla, too, as, at Miss
Trueblue's request, she took off her bonnet and
sank into a chair of the time of Francois Pre-
mier, added not a little to the effect of this pic-
turesque retreat. Somewhat pale with a thou-
sand new emotions, as she felt, rather than
saw, that the young artist's eyes were fixed upon
her, her rich golden hair in beautiful confusion,
her snowy eyelids trembling as it were beneath
the weight of the long, brown lashes, her bosom
heaving, she knew not why-and
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
49
1
"Thought sitting on her happy brow like light;
The young pure thought, that knows no taint of sin;
Making the mortal beauty yet more bright,
By the immortal beauty from within.'
"the true sublime of simplicity; Psyche let it
be; and when you know my young friend bet-
ter, you will think with me, that it is the very
How, as he gazed upon her, the painter cov-thing, for she is all youth, freshness, and soul!"
eted a Raphael's genius, that he might give to
future ages that beauty which seemed to the
Enthusiast the ornament and glory of his own!
'You understand, Signor," said Miss True-
blue," that I wish for the portrait of my young
friend, not my own; and as fashions are ever
varying, and what looks so well to-day would
seem absurd in a few years, I should like her
taken in some simple, classic guise, that never
varies."
"Exactly!" said Di Moricini, enthusiasti-
cally in Italian; Aurora, Flora, Hebe, the
youngest of the Graces, a Madonna, a Saint, a
Muse, or an Angel!" he added, with an expres-
sion that made the warm blood mount to Lu-
cilla's very brow, suffusing her face, and even
so much of her neck, as her dress (thrown a
little open on account of the heat) allowed to be
visible.
Again Lucilla blushed, but less at Miss True-
blue's compliment, than at the gaze with which
Di Moricini signified his acquiescense in it.
How rapidly passed the two next hours; Di
with anecdote and poetry; and Lucilla, now quite
Moricini talked so well! his mind was so stored
at her ease, entered so readily into his discussions
with Miss Trueblue, and her opinion so sweetly
coincided with his; and then each discovered
that the other was a poet, and that is either
such a bond of union, or such a signal for jealous
discord: but in this case it was the former, and
mutual promises were made, of poems to be re-
cited on a future day.
And then the young artist threw open the
door of a little boudoir, and there was a table
spread with fruits, and flowers, coffee, ices, and
jellies. But Miss Trueblue did not seem to
think this strange, nor to question the propriety
Now, do talk to me in sober English, Sig- of partaking of the painter's repast, every arti-
nor," said Miss Trueblue, smiling; "Miss Tem-cle of which seemed the best of its kind; and
ple understands Italian so well, that to her you
may talk as rapidly as you please; but as your
mother was English, and you speak English as
well as I do I beg that all conversation meant
to include me, may be carried on in the vulgar
tongue. Do you not agree to this Miss Tem-
ple?"
i
(6
Except," said Lucilla (aside to Miss True-
blue), "that as your preceptress in Italian, I
wish you to seize so favourable an opportunity
to improve."
"Dear girl !" said Miss Trueblue; "well, be
it as you like; and now to decide on the cos-
tume for your portrait."
"Here," cried Di Moricini, bringing forward
a large basket full of knicknacks, and articles of
fancy costume, and playfully moving the che-
val glass, so as to give Lucilla a perfect view
of herself. "Now choose; but first, would you
object, young lady, to take off your pelisse?
Polkas are for a day, but your picture is, we
hope, to last when they are forgotten."
Lucilla did as he requested, and her simple
white muslin robe à la vierge, was all the artist
wished, and all her beauty required.
Now," said he, taking up a silver star and
placing it on her forehead, while he threw a blue
and white gauze scarf around her, "Behold, the
Morning Star, or-substituting this rosy drapery
and this wreath of opening flowers-what say
you to Aurora !"
"Flora !" he cried triumphantly, as he placed
a many-coloured garland round her head, and
showered flowers around her.
"Or Madonna, with dewy eyes, and looks of
love," he added; as he hastily arranged some
dark-blue and crimson draperies, in the style of
Carlo Dolce's Virgin," and bade Lucilla cast
down her eyes, and fold her hands on her bosom.
"I like something more herself," said Miss
Trueblue.
"Well then," said Di Moricini, bidding Lu-
cilla rise, and placing a golden vase in her hand
-"Psyche, escaping from the realms of Pluto."
And he added a light, white scarf to her dra-
pery.
"That is exquisite !" said Miss Trueblue;
G
so Lucilla followed her example, and another
hour passed by on the rainbow wings of joy;
and then Miss Trueblue rose, and Di Moriçini
having fixed an early day for Lucilla's sitting,
they stepped into Miss Trueblue's carriage, and
her young companion sank back in a delicious
reverie, from which she was not roused till
Miss Trueblue kindly asked her to dine with
her; but Lucilla remembering her lone and in-
valid mother, requested to be set down at home.
And as she passed over the worn floor-cloth,
and the ragged stair-carpets, and saw her father
toiling at his pen, her mother pale and wan,
bending over her work, and "wi' her needle,
and her shears, making auld claithes look amaist
as weel's the new," then, and not till then, did
the realities of life put to flight the first sweet
day-dream of the young Lucilla's heart.
CHAPTER XXIV.
POOR Lucilla! she had been dwelling in a
fairy-home, which Fancy (best of upholsterers)
had fitted up at a moment's notice, with all
that could please the eye, and soothe and cap-
tivate the heart. 'Twas but a thatched cot-
tage! but how much do such ideal cottages
surpass in grace and comfort the real mansions
of the rich! It was such a cottage-home as an
artist (with moderate success) might be enabled
to offer to the object of his choice; and books,
and flowers, and music, and the painter's easel,
and his own exquisite conceptions glowing on
the canvass! These were its principal orna-
ments; and Fancy had even brought the Sea-
sons in their turn to visit this fair home of Love
and Genius! There was so sweet a garden!
(innocent object of a young and loving couple's
mutual care and pride); and in its sunny nooks,
the first coy violets nestled beneath those Dow-
agers in dark green, the Chaperon leaves-and
the snow-drop, whom we love so well, because
she braves stern winter, to cheer us with her
spotless beauty; and the port crocus, gilded
and confident as a city heiress; and the shel-
50
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
tered bower, curtained with ivy, evergreen of as money is wanting, so shoals of small individ-
Nature, as the Friendship, which forms the best uals sported in the gutters, crowded the pave-
part of Love, is of the heart! And then Springment, and thronged the door-ways; and loud
melted into Summer, and the bees were busy squalls, and noisy squabbles, came constantly
with their hives on the pretty lawn. And Flo-in at the window, which the heat of the day
ra is no longer a coy maiden, charily bestow-compelled the Temples to keep open.
ing a half unwilling favour now and then, but At such irritating interruptions, a gesture of
a fond young matron, lavish of her loveliest distress, an impatient tone, a frown, a biting of
treasures, her most blooming children; and the the lip, a clenching of the hand, or worse still,
familiar faces of the roses smiled beside the a low moan of dejection or despair, escaped Mr.
well-kept path, those old-fashioned roses, known Temple, but did not escape his anxious wife,
and loved from our childhood, such roses as who, while she toiled at her ungrateful task (the
Eve might have tended in the happy garden, mending a pair of trousers for Tom), was alive
and Adam have offered, ere Sin and Shame to every look, tone, and movement of him sho
were known; such roses as our good fore-mo-loved with such painful devotion, and watched
thers wore in their simple bosoms not the
as women only can watch.
new-fangled triumphs of science, with their Silently Lucilla sat down on the ricketty
Latin names, and complicated natures-but the old sofa, on which her mother and her ungainly
dear Maiden's Blush, the Damask, the darling work were placed, and as she did so, a detesta-
Moss Rose, the York and Lancaster, the Cinna-ble creaking and groaning of the old and crazy
mon, the "Rose of Snow," the Yellow Rose,
once deemed so rare, that it figures still on many
an ancient screen, painted by hands that now
are dust the Rose unique, with its red bud ex-
panding into a flower of snowy white, as the
little, merry, rosy girl expands into the maiden
of spotless purity, the dear old Cabbage Rose!
and even the Monthly, with its faint perfume,
its delicate tint, and its ever ready smile. These
roses figured in Lucilla's fancy garden, roses of
Nature, not of Art: and by their side the stately
lily grew-
"A fair imperial flower;
She seemed designed for Flora's hand,
The sceptre of her power."
piece of furniture startled Lucilla, caused the
colour to rush to Mrs. Temple's wan cheek,
and to the horror of both, induced Mr. Temple
to rise, push away his table, and exclaiming-
It's no use, I must give it up; how odd it is I
can never have one moment's peace!" to walk
in sullen, and resentful haste from the room,
taking with him his pen and ink, and his closely
written, crabbed-looking, MS.
Lucilla and her mother gazed at each other in
dismay the poor wife, not without a little re-
proach at her daughter, as she heard Mr. Tem-
ple, after rushing up stairs, lock the door of his
room, which was over their heads; and per-
ceived that he was walking hastily up and down,
in all the impatient agonies of a disturbed and
unsuccessful authorship.
Oh, Lucilla, what have you done?" said
Mrs. Temple, her eyes (which looked unnatu-
rally large from the thinness of her face, and the
dark hollows that surrounded them) filling with
tears. I have sat here all day, without disturb-
Full of fragrance, and dew, and sunbeams seem-
ed that ivory urn, so redolent of the summer
prime! But words and time would fail to de-
scribe all the treasures of the parterre that blos-
somed in Lucilla's day-dream, in delicious June,
or all the gorgeous flowers and rich fruits, and
yellow corn fields of autumn, or the winter sce-
nery, from which the warm heart of youth diding him, and now you come and drive him away
not shrink. The glittering hoar frost, lending a
sparkling foliage to the trees; the frozen stream,
the snowy hills, and the dear fire-side, so trebly
welcome, when the sleet falls, and the wind
howls, and the desolation without, contrasts so
pleasantly with the warmth and happiness with-
in.
And from these vivid dreams of a happy cot-
tage home, shared with one, whose eyes and
smile were wonderfully like the young painters,
Lucilla was suddenly aroused to all the discom-
forts of her little town-home. Never had it
seemed so dingy, dull, and close, to her before!
No wonder, fresh from the fairy land of fancy,
the beau-ideal of Arcadian bliss, the flowers, the
streams, the breezes-she shuddered at the dis-
comforts of the little squalid room, where her
father toiled at his pen, and her mother at her
needle, both looking so wan, and worn, that Lu-
cilla wondered how she could have dreamt of
happiness; she the child of sufferers, like these!
As Lucilla entered, her mother made her a sign
to come noiselessly to her side, for her father
was wrapt in thought, and nervously alive to
the least disturbance! His health and temper
were gradually yielding to the exciting nature
of his toil; and in the small mean street in
which he dwelt, quiet was almost unattainable;
for as children generally abound in proportion
at once. His sweet temper is giving way before
this perpetual toil and close confinement, and
you must be more gentle. Strong, healthy young.
people should try to feel for those whose nerves
are not like theirs, proof against every kind of
irritation." Mrs. Temple did not seem aware
that the same influences were in some degree
actuating her in this unwonted rebuke, and Lu-
cilla did not, by a sharp vindication of herself,
irritate her poor mother, nor wound her sensi--
tive love for her husband, by any comment on
the uncalled for impatience of his behaviour.
She merely said, "I will be more careful in fu-
ture, mamma, how I avail myself of this groan-
ing old sofa; but the change even into another
room is good for dear papa, and for you, a little
relief from such a watch is most desirable. Now
give me that tedious and hard task, mamma! I
am quite well, and will soon complete it; and
do you lie down and rest till dinner, by which.
time papa will have embodied his conception,
and be quite himself again.”
With sweet officiousness, the daughter took
the coarse work from the wan and almost trans-
parent hands of her mother; shook up the pil-
lows, laid her gently on the sofa, threw her
shawl over her, and sitting cheerfully down on
a low stool at her side, began, while patching,
darning, and stitching, to give her now smiling
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
51
mother some account of her new pelisse, and
her morning adventures. Fearful of alarming
her, she made as light as possible of the battle
of Norah and the boys, and took care not to
awaken any uneasiness in her mind about Lord
Trelawney; and while she minutely described
Miss Trueblue's kindness, her drive with her,
the old char-woman, and all the curiosities of
the painter's abode-for some reason or other,
we cannot stop to inquire into-she made little
or no comment on the young artist himself.
By degree's Lucilla's voice grew less ani-
mated, and her laugh less frequent; she sank
into a reverie, and plied her needle almost me-
chanically, when, turning round to pick up the
scissors, she saw, to her great joy, that her mo-
ther had fallen into a refreshing sleep.
Yes, there lay that best of mothers and of
wives, so still, so pale, and wan, that a little
stretch of imagination would have made one
think that her sleep was the sleep "that knows
not waking." Lucilla was not familiar witli
death, but she had seen the dead, and the like-
ness of that sleep to death chilled her heart,
even while she heard her mother's gentle
breathing, and saw her bosom beat beneath her
robe.
child; the pallid and almost holy beauty of the
mother, contrasting exquisitely with the rich
and radiant loveliness of the weeping girl. How
faintly beat that bosom, which had often throb-
ed wildly so with a wife's thousand and name-
less fears, and a mother's ceaseless cares!
How pale the cheek so often wildly flushed
with despair, or with the restless oft-deferred
hopes which are scarce less hard to bear! How
many secret tears have dimmed those closed
eyes! and, oh, more touching still! how often
has Lucilla seen them bright with groundless
expectations, and delusive hopes! Those pallid
lips! how often have they smiled, and whis-
pered comfort and peace to her husband's ear,
and in private murmured words of dejected an-
guish, generally succeeded by the humble pray-
er of resignation and of faith. Often, often, when
a child, too young to be heeded, but not too
young to heed, Lucilla has heard that moan and
that prayer, but never did its reality affect her
then (though it saddened her childish heart too),
as its memory tortures her now! Then busy
fancy presents that attenuated form, animated
by sleepless love, up early and late, bending
over the couch of sickness, flitting with sweet
cheerfulness about the home in health and
those dear hands-ah, what a language is there
in the hand of those we love! how have they
toiled, all frail and delicate as they are! with
what untiring zeal at midnight, and at early
morn, they laboured in the husband's or the
children's cause! Lucilla looked back even to
early childhood, on her garments, above her
parent's means (save that they were the work
of those dear hands)-such comfort, and sucla
taste. Oh, the rich treasures of a mother's
love! She sighed as she sank on her knees
beside the couch, and prayed; and when she
raised her eyes they fell upon the drooping
But, oh as Lucilla pondered on all that
mother's love, and all her sufferings, with what
unutterable anguish did she forsee, for one brief,
harrowing moment, the time when she might
see her thus resting, to wake no more! She
gazed and thought, and gazed and thought
again; although each moment sent fresh tears
to her eyes, fresh anguish to her heart. Strange
anomaly !-the more she dwelt on all her mo-
ther had suffered here, the more she trembled
and writhed at the prospect of her, one day
being here no more! And yet this universal
feeling of the young, in contemplating the death
of any sufferer they wildly love, can be explain-head, the soft brown hair! once celebrated far
ed, in a youthful and boundless faith in the
"world to come." They think the future must
atone, and they cannot bear that their darlings
should have known only the bitter past, and
dreary present; while they are cut off from,
what seems to them, the golden and atoning
future. We know so little, so very, very little
of the secret hearts of our nearest and dearest,
that even Lucilla was not aware how much of
late her mother had looked to the future beyond
the grave, for the recompense of all her suffer-
ings; how perpetual disappointment and priva-
tion, were weaning her once sanguine spirit
from this disappointing world; and how little
its best gifts could charm her now, save only
those she already enjoyed-her husband's and
her children's love.
And, yet she had been too much a Martha,
once, of that worldliness, which in its care, its
anxiety, and its ambition for others, rather than
self, ceases to warn and to revolt, and becomes
dangerously beguiling and engrossing. But, as
the Psalmist says so well.
are the
uses of adversity;" and ill health, by subduing
earthly energies and worldly hopes, and even
physical powers, has a purifying and ennobling
influence, which, if purchased at the expense of
much and long suffering, is yet not too dearly
bought.
Yes! there lay that pure and gentle matron;
and there watched that tender and devoted
and wide for its glossy abundance! It was
parted on the high, pure brow, but here and
there a line of premature silver showed that
care and sorrow can do the work of time; and
Lucilla could still remember when those now
thin and weakly braids were her father's open
boast, and her mother's secret pride-when,.
ere sad experience had taught them caution,
and pleasure's voice sometimes drowned the
whisper of prudence, and the husband could
not resist the pleasure of seeing his wife shine,
nor bear to deny her all the amusements of the
young-those tresses were braided with pearls,
or trained into glossy ringlets, or crowned with
flowers; and where the snows of winter now
began to peep out, the golden sunbeams seemed
to sport. How often in childhood have her
little hands played with and twisted their long
silken wreaths, her father joining in the idle
sport as fondly as herself. Now they were
simply drawn across the pale forchead, and no
one seemed to deem them worth a thought or
care: but oh, not so Lucilla-she loved them,
worn and faded as they were; no locks that
ever waved round beauty's brow, could be one
thousandth part so sacred, or so dear-no,
not the rich brown curls of the young artist,
though they did pass before her mental vision,
and she did pause and dwell upon them; and
this transition has given a turn to her thoughts
her mother's refreshing slumber has cast a
52
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
7
soft roseate tint on her cheek, and in her sleep
she smiles. The present and the future resume
their empire over the young heart, and hope is
at her post again.
|
fare and comfort are dearer to them than their
own: but the glory is gone from their house,
the comfort from their hearths; she may visit
their home, but she cannot dwell there-she is
no longer a part of it.
Oh, she will yet be well, yet be happy,"
thought Lucilla. "She is not old-life may In such a family as the Temples a daughter
have much in store for her yet! and I will so like Lucilla was indeed an atoning blessing.
cheer, so watch, so tend her; she must know She was so very fond, so true, so real, so
him, she will like him! But, no, no; a foreign- | brightly intellectual, so winningly playful, hu-
er, an artist-alas! alas! and yet my prejudices morous, and merry; and yet so sensitive, so
faded away at once before his smile-why not sympathizing, and so anxious!
hers!" Ah, Lucilla, the prejudices of forty are
more rooted than those of seventeen.
<<
her."
Ah, there's papa's step; he must not wake
Gently Lucilla stole to meet her father, gently
she warned him not to rouse her mother-and
so, fondly parting her hair, and kissing her fair
brow, he whispered his intention of walking for
half an hour before dinner; and as he gently
opened the street door, Lucilla noiselessly re-
turned to her mother's side.
"Ah, my darling! are you there, still?" said
Mrs. Temple when she woke ; "how refreshed
I feel! Where is your father? Have I slept
long?"
"No, about an hour, dearest !"
"And is your papa writing still, love!"
“Oh, no, mamma! he is gone out for a short
walk before dinner; I would not let him come
in, lest he should awake you."
"You saw him, then-how did he look ?”
"Quite cheerful, and he spoke in such a hap-
py voice, I am sure he has succeeded at last.
So cheer up, dearest mamma, and come up
stairs, and let me dress you; a new cap, and
another dress, will make you feel and look quite
yourself."
Under her cheerful superintendence, Norah
has neatly served up a modest, but inviting din-
ner; she knows her parents delight in her
beauty, and so she has dressed herself as neatly
and arranged her "soft alluring locks" as grace-
fully, as if to her it were as dear an object to
please the eyes that loved her, as to captivate
those of strangers; and this duty she seldom
neglected, for even in his poverty, Mr. Temple
always set the example of a rigid attention to
the proprieties and courtesies of life (a broad
distinction that, between the gently and the
lowly born). There is something touching in it
at all times; it brings so forcibly to the mind
the contrast between original prospects, and ac-
tual position, between early hopes, and ultimate
realities, hereditary habits, customs, nay, almost
instincts! Sad inheritance, where they are un-
attended by any other!
It was affecting to see Mr. Temple's careful
toilet for his humble dinner; the old dress-coat,
almost threadbare; the silk stockings, now
almost one darn; the shoes, of which hardly
any of the original leather remained; but the
scrupulous cleanliness, the exquisite neatness,
the very tie of the home-washed, white neck-
cloth, in all, the thorough-bred and perfect gen-
tleman might still be traced; and the same he-
"But I wanted to see a little to the dinner;
your papa cannot make a dinner on Norah's un-reditary spirit might be seen in the somewhat
aided efforts."
"But I can help her, and I will; I think I
have quite a genius for cookery, and you shall
let me exhibit it. Now darling, mamma! first
let me be your femme de chambre; then give me,
'Mrs. Rundell,' and when I return, having dress-
ed the dinner and myself, to the drawing-room,
you shall see papa will not know I have been
anything but a fine lady all the time.
CHAPTER XXV.
old-fashioned and faded, but well preserved
wardrobe of Mrs. Temple; the blonde cap, so
often washed by Norah, and re-made by Lucilla,
the turned silk dress, and the long-hoarded black
lace shawl.
As with a courtesy as graceful as that with
which an Earl would have handed his Countess
to the banquet-hall, Mr. Temple led in his lovely
and invalid wife to the little shabby dining-room,
and placed her at the poorly supplied table, Lu-
cilla felt her eyes fill with tears, and an earnest
prayer rose from her very heart, that she might
yet be the happy means of restoring those dear
ones to the station they were so calculated to
adorn.
But there is a triumph, and a joy in Mr. Tem-
ple's eyes, which is ever reflected in those of
his wife. He has conquered a difficulty which
had long impeded his progress in his work; he
feels he has eloquently and irresistibly proved
an important truth, and his heart is full of a
happiness, known only to an author.
How much delicious and graceful comfort can
one affectionate, intellectual, and energetic
daughter, infuse into the whole establishment!
What a perpetual sunbeam may she be, lighting
up the gloomiest, the poorest home! What or
nament to a house so charming as her loveli-
ness?
What luxury can supply the place of
her sweet officiousness? What hirelings (how-
ever accomplished and expensive) can do things
as she does them, guided by her clever head
and warm heart? What music is there in her
cheerful voice, her merry laugh? What com-
fort in her very presence? Ah! no marvel
that to the parents of such a daughter, the mar-
riage bell (which is music to the ear of the sor-heard of since he set off in the morning to break-
did parents of the artificial and the vain) is the
knell of domestic happiness. They do not op-
pose, they will not complain; their child's wel
The chickens (a present from Miss Trueblue)
are pronounced excellent; and an omelette, Lu-
cilla has superintended, is considered a complete
success. But we anticipate.
On sitting down to dinner, Mr. Temple asked
with some anxiety for Tom, who had not been.
fast with Sir Felix Archer. After some discus-
sion on the subject, it was decided, that in all
probability Sir Felix had detained him to spend
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
53
•
•
the day; and some hopes arose in the parents' | lescent, the latter for your accomplished daugh-
hearts that their boy had found a powerful ter, herself a fairer flower.'
friend.
At this very moment a knock was heard, and
Norah rushed in, to say a footman in livery
had brought a letter, and waited for a message.
This letter proved to be a large, curiously-
folded epistle, in a round hand, and sealed with
an immense coat of arms. It was from Tom,
and ran as follows:-
"Sir Felix Archer's, Bart.,
'101, Portland Place,
London, July 1st, 1840.
"DEAR PAPA,
"I and Sir Felix mean, with your leave, to
spend the day together; we have had breakfast
and lunch, and are going to dine at seven; after
dinner he is coming with me to tea, if agreeable
to you.
"I am ever, dear Temple,
Your's, most truly,
"FELIX ARCHER."
"P.S.-I have a private box at the Haymarket
this evening, and Tom and I have formed a
plan for inveigling you there. The School for
Scandal' will surely tempt the ladies, but of
this when we meet. I shall be quite hurt if
you write, as I find from Tom, this will arrive
at your dinner-time. Yes, or no,' will suffice."
"Now do take him at his word, dear papa,*
said Lucilla; "let me ring for Norah, and if
you like to have him to tea, just say so, with
your compliments."
A
"If I like," said Mr. Temple; "ah! little
rogue, of course I like it, as you do too."
"Indeed that is not of course, papa; however,
don't let your dinner get cold, but while you
write, just send word, as he begs you to."
"My love, do you think he will not expect
more ceremony?"
"I hope Lucilla will make herself a great
swell, as, if she does not look sharp, some one
else will cut her out, I can tell her. Her name-
sake has been writing a letter to Sir Felix
Archer full of palaver, begging for a copy of
his Essay on Taste,' and a great deal of humn-rous
bug. I and Sir Felix had a good laugh at it.
"I hope you will have something good for
tea, and I dare say Jock would wait, as the
family is out of town. Treacle is nice, but I
don't know whether Sir Felix Archer likes it,
and I suppose it would be rude to ask. Sir
Felix is sending off his Essay' and a note, to
Lucilla Undermine, sealed with such a tiny crest,
but I have borrowed his large seal for my letter.
Perhaps some day Lucilla may seal her letters
with it. So no more at present from, dear
papa, with love to mamma and Lucilla,
"Your affectionate and dutiful Son,
"THOMAS TEMPLE."
“I have been to a Morning Concert with Sir
Felix it was very grand, and rather dull; our
cousins, the Temples, of Temple Grove, were
there, and made up so to Sir Felix! they were
mighty kind to me for the first time; but as they
cut me dead two years ago, I did not notice
them much. The six Miss Temples were there,
all dressed in green; Sir Felix says he calls
them Temple Grove,' they always wear green,
and are so tall they look like trees. They asked
me and him to dinner, but we refused. They
said it was so long since they had seen my sis-
ter; I replied, it was so long, that I wondered
they remembered I had one.
"I assure you, papa, he is one of that nume-
class who behave the better the less they
are courted; do you remember the dreadful
day he dined here, when we all immolated our-
selves at his shrine, and how he spurned the
sacrifice?"
Ah, but a change has come o'er the spirit
of his dream,'" said the papa, smiling archly;
"however, be it as you like; I do not wish to
interfere with your management of him, my
darling treasure."
"No, no," said Mrs. Temple, who generally
saw through her husband's eyes, and felt through
his heart, "leave him to Lucilla. I think this
pretty humble note is a good specimen of her
schooling."
There was a sickness at Lucilla's heart, as
she heard these words of much meaning, and
marked the hope and pride that sparkled in her
parents' eyes, and flushed their cheeks. How
could she damp the joy so rarely felt, how crush
the hope so often crushed before! She turned
to the bell to ring for Norah; and while her
father sent his message, which from Norah's
absurd misapprehensions and blunders, he was
obliged to give to the tall courtly footman him-
self, Lucilla came to the decision, so common
to the young, to shut out the future, and enjoy
the present; to give Sir Felix no encourage-
ment, but to receive and treat him with the cor-
"Sir Felix told me afterwards that was a diality and kindness due to her father's friend-
capital hit! One gave him a pink, another a
not to admit, even to her own heart, that he
rose, a third said she had knitted a purse for him.
wished to be her suitor (which, whispered so
Lucilla had better look sharp, for every girl is phistry, no woman has a right to presume un-
setting her cap at my friend the baronet. I en-til a formal declaration to that effect has been
close a note from Sir Felix."
On glazed and scented paper the baronet had
written :-
MY DEAR TEMPLE,
made to her); and then, as at seventeen we
dwell on the lights rather than the shadows of
the picture of life, she thought that as a friend,
Sir Felix so wealthy, so elegant, and so atten-
tive, would be a great acquisition to her parents,
"Your sweet boy insists that I shall not be and perhaps a benefactor to Tom. And there
nwelcome this evening at the tea-table of my lay the beautiful basket of rare fruits, with their
charming friends, your lovely wife and daughter. first bloom; while the refined and exquisite
I'ray offer my best respects, and beg them to fragrance of the choice hot-house flowers he
confirm by a verbal message this pleasing asser-
had sent her, filled the room. And it is plea-
tion of my friend Tom. I have presumed to sant to be admired and flattered by the elegant
send a little fruit and a few flowers, just arrived and the refined. And then the play-so rare a
from Felix Park the former for the fair conva-pleasure! and such a play! and a private box
54
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
200! All, even the very drive to the theatre | quisite Henrietta Maria. It was in the early
and home again, were joys to the new, unsated
heart of the young Lucilla.
CHAPTER XXVI.
days of those dreadful troubles, which made
this great King so much more dear and sacred
to all true hearts, that this high honour had
been conferred at once on the tea-pot and the
Temples; but it was a cherished heir-loom in
consequence, and had been treasured so, that it
had escaped the wreck of all beside; and with
bowing cavaliers, and dames whose long locks
and taper waists Lely has transmitted to us. It
was quaint, worn, small, and originally incon-
venient, and had besides every vice to which
tea-pots are addicted; for though a wretched
pourer of the tea, it was lavish of the tea leaves ;
closed very imperfectly at top, had even a pro-
pensity to leak, and the handle being of thin,
sharp silver, was very hot and painful to the
hand. However, the choice lay between this
old aristocrat, with its poverty and its pride,
around which gathered the imperfections and
the hallowed memories of the past, and a coarse,
large, black, plebeian tea-pot, of the true kitchen
breed, warranted as a drawer and a pourer;
and a capital drawer and pourer it was—a tea-
pot of the modern Utilitarian school. The past
and the present seemed embodied by these
two tea-pots. Lucilla, whom, as tea maker, it
most concerned, hesitated for a moment; but
she was a Temple, and the aristocratic offspring
of the past triumphed over the vulgar utility of
the present.
THE little dinner ended merrily, and the units antique shape, it seemed to tell of Charles's
expected dessert (worthy of a palace) was a
treat indeed! and as Lucilla marked her mother's
enjoyment of the matchless fruit—an enjoyment
she had not for years seen her feel in anything
she took-she for a moment tried to figure to
herself the probability of accepting Sir Felix,
should he indeed propose, and thus securing to
her dear parents for ever, many comforts and
pleasures they could not else enjoy. But the
next moment she pressed her hand upon her
eyes, to shut out as it were the very picture her
own fancy had conjured up; she could not bear
it; it blanched her cheek, and sent a shudder
through her very heart. Luckily her parents
were intently discussing the prospects which
the partiality of Sir Felix might open to Tom;
and when Lucilla left the room to see to the
arrangement of the drawing-room, and the prep-
aration for tea, Mrs. Temple, with a woman's
tact and a mother's instinct, suggested to her
husband the propriety of not seeming to wish
to bias Lucilla in Sir Felix's favour, and of ap-
pearing to consider him rather as a family friend
than her suitor. "We shall make her dislike It is only a few weeks since that wretched
him, and ruin her prospects, if we appear anx-day on which Sir Felix Archer was expected
ious to bias her in his favour before he has won to dinner-that day of toil, of misery, of morti-
apon her affections by his attention and his ele-fication, and defeat; to the outward eye all is
gance. Woman's heart is always of the oppo- much the same, Pride and Poverty, preparing
sition; and many girls would marry happily and to receive supercilious Wealth. But yet how
for love too, if not injudiciously urged by others great, though silent and secret a change is there
to do what if left to themselves, they would-Lucilla is no longer eager, flushed, and anx-
naturally decide upon."
Cleverly and quickly the neat-handed Lucilla
decked the little drawing-room with the exqui-
site flowers Sir Felix had sent her, reserving a
choice bouquet for her own bosom, and an ex-
quisite camelia for her hair. What with the
flowers and the fancy works, Lucilla's harp,
piano, and guitar, the embroidery she displayed,
and the screens she had painted, the little room
had such an air de fête, and Lucilla with her
flowers and white dress, looked so fresh, and
Flora-like, that Mr. and Mrs. Temple, on enter-
ing, exchanged glances, which seemed to say,
"Love has something to do with all this," and
joined in exclamations of delight and pleasure,
which amply repaid Lucilla for her toil and
trouble.
ious; she feels in her inmost heart an indiffer-
ence, nay, almost a contempt for the preference
she has won; she has beheld and listened to
one whom she could love, and she now feels
that no other can make her heart beat, or her
cheek glow. The calm beauty of her expres-
sion, and the graceful nonchalance of her man-
ner, are however much more fascinating than
the nervous anxiety of her demeanour on Sir
Felix's former visit, her watchful eye, and her
burning cheek.
Since that time much has happened. Lucilla
has acquired some degree of self-dependence:
she has been called upon to act; she has felt
the pride of being useful; and whatever draw-
backs there may be to the enjoyment of the
sensitive and the gently-born in bartering ex-
ertion for money, there is no one who does not
feel an atoning satisfaction and pride in being
able to earn.
The tea and coffee were in readiness, and
what with a few cakes, and some of the fruits
Sir Felix had sent, the table looked very pretty
and inviting; although the old china, with the
Temple arms, was disfigured by sundry cracks
and rivets, and Time had laid his withering
touch on the little thin silver spoons, worn by
the cleanings of many years to a painful and
knife-like sharpness. The tea-pot, too, was one
from which legends told that two centuries be-
fore a lovely matron of the Temple line (ances-
tress of our young Lucilla) had had the honour
of dispensing the then modern beverage to
Charles the Martyr, and to her who was at once But the unusual sound of a carriage at the
the Queen of Beauty and of England, the ex-door makes Lucilla leave the tea-table she was
The talents that others are ready not merely to
commend but to remunerate, gain a new value
in the eyes of their possessors; and to every
woman of spirit there is comfort in the convic-
tion that she can support herself, and assist
those dear to her by the exercise of her talents;
a source of profit so noble when compared to
the meanness of selling her hand to one she
perhaps loathes, for wealth-or, it may be, for
mere maintenance.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
55
arranging and take her seat beside her mother, "Well, Lucilla, you are determined to rivet
whose heart beat much higher than did the Sir Felix's attention," said the enraging boy,
young girl's, when Jock, whom Norah had bor-pointing to the rivets in a plate of cakes he was
rowed on her own responsibility, threw open
the door, and announced Sir Felix Archer.
requested to hand. "Really, we ought to tell
Sir Felix that we use this old china because it
Tom came in shortly after, having stopped has the Temple arms on it, and has been in our
on the stairs to pour a few boasts into the will-family so many hundred years
ing ear of Jock. How gracefully cordial was "And for the still better reason, that we have
Sir Felix's manner-how earnestly he inquired no other, Tom!" said Lucilla, gently, ashamed
into Mrs. Temple's symptoms-how softly he of her silly brother's palpable and ill-placed
pressed Lucilla's hand-how cordially shook boasts.
her father's, calling him, "Temple, my dear
fellow."
"I hope you'll excuse that crack, Sir Felix,'
continued the pert and provoking boy; "Lucilla
being a little cracked herself, is very fond of any-
thing that is so too."
Sir Felix, seeing Lucilla's annoyance, appear-
ed not to hear Tom, but turned to Mrs. Temple
to praise the painting of one of Lucilla's screens.
Can he be in love! We know that no age,
from fifteen to eighty-five, forms any exemption;
but some natures, it has been thought, do. An in-
terested, selfish, cold-hearted, fashionable, who
had been twice married, and had been angled
for by all the belles of many seasons, and their "I desire you, Tom," whispered Lucilla, "not
more experienced and adroit mammas-can he to allude to any defects you see in the things
be in love, and with an artless girl of seventeen, we have; you well know we have no others."
her father a poor curate, her mother so simple "You desire, Miss Cross-patch! don't think
and sincere, her brother unprovided for, and tɔ order me about, you cross thing; you're as
what had ever been his especial horror, a boy-jealous as a cat because I've dined with Sir Fe-
a pert, forward, sarcastic, prying boy-a girl, lix, and not you, and so I'll tell him.”
surrounded by all the attributes of a poverty he "Oh, Tom, I implore you not to do so
so loathes. Dan Cupid, thou art indeed the eagerly whispered Lucilla.
prince of archers, if thy shaft has pierced the
crust of selfishness of that cold heart! It can-
not surely be.
•
And yet, though Sir Felix is always elegant
in his dress, there are symptoms (generally un-
erring ones); a long consultation with M. Ala-
mode, the Court coiffeur, has ended in a toupé,
which, though perfect of its kind, adds, as such
contrivances generally do, to the age they are
meant to take from. It gives an artificial and
a harsh expression to the face, ill-atoned for by
the formal and jet-black curls and the juvenile
head. Then the waistcoat, embroidered as if
by a fairy; the choice flower in a dress-coat, as
gay as modern taste permits, lined with a rich
figured satin; the point-lace jabot, and ruffles;
the white muslin cravat, edged with the same;
the exquisite pumps and silk stockings, and the
one costly brilliant on the little finger of the
white and well-trained hand: in all this there
was more than the ordinary attention to the
toilette, which is one of the distinguishing marks
of the far niente class. And Tom, how full of
conceit and assurance was Tom! Tom, who
had had the run of Sir Felix's boudoir, how had
he plastered his hair with fragrant pommades
and bandoline, and darkened it with composi-
tions "pour lisser et pour teindre les cheveux."
How foppishly had he arranged his bushy and
clustering red hair, how proudly he sported a
brooch and a ring, which Sir Felix, detesting
his taste for ornament, had insisted on his ac-
cepting (stipulating only, that Norah's ridicu-
lous loan should be consigned to his pocket).
All Arabia" seemed to breathe as he moved.
Atkinson and Delcroix were advertised in his
person. He ordered Jock about with something
of the hauteur he had remarked in Sir Felix to-
wards his servants, and whispering to Lucilla
-"We left the dessert to come and take you
to the play, so look sharp with the tea," he be-
gan most inconveniently to ridicule and com-
ment on the defects of the arrangements, taking
care, however, to introduce the tea-pot and its
history to Sir Felix's notice.
"I say, Sir Felix," cried the enraging boy;
"what do you think of Lucilla ?”
"More than I dare to tell," interrupted the
admiring baronet, as a vivid blush mantled her
cheek.
"Oh, yes! that's all very fine! but what do
you think of her being ready to scratch me, be-
cause I've dined with you, and she hasn't?"
"Oh, Tom! indeed, Sir Felix!" began poor
Lucilla.
"Tom! you tease your sister," said Mr. Tem-
ple, in a voice so stern, that his son changed his
tone; "alter your conduct, sir, or I shall send
you to bed !”
Tom, in spite of his scent and his finery, look-
ed very "small" on hearing this; and a sup-
pressed titter was heard from the end of the
room, where Jock, coming in with a kettle, stop-
ped to stifle a laugh at Tom's expense, failing in
which, he and the kettle hastily retired.
But Sir Felix, evidently much flattered, said,
"Let me plead for my dear friend, Tom! and
to punish his impertinence, Miss Temple, let me
beg you to honour me by saying what day I may
hope for the happiness of seeing you and your
papa and mamma in Portland Place; I hope
Tom will make himself so agreeable in the in-
terim, that his company will be as desirable to
youon that occasion, as it will be to me !”
This seemed so amiable and conciliating, that
Lucilla could not but express her readiness to
accept the invitation, if quite agreeable to her
parents; they cordially consented, even Mrs.
Temple declaring she would make an effort to
go, although she had not dined out for more
than five years. The important day was fixed
at a week from that time, and Tom began to
exhibit great impatience to be off to the theatre
---an impatience not at all shared by Sir Felix,
who, although accustomed to the most luxuriant
couches, seemed particularly charmed with the
creaking, groaning, ricketty old sofa, where,
seated beside Mrs. Temple, he could contem-
plate at his ease the animated and graceful Lu-
cilla.
56
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
CHAPTER XXVII.
At the approach of our party, a little giggle
and scuffle was heard; for Norah had been
amusing herself with the two powdered beaux
fectionate courtesy (which became him well),
took leave of Mrs. Temple, and handed Lucilla
AFTER much pursuasion, Mr. Temple con- into his carriage. As they came down stairs,
sented to accompany his children to the thea- his two tall powdered footmen, in their ma-
tre. He had declined at first, and thus, as Mrs. | roon coats of the graceful cut of the olden
Temple was too delicate for public places, and time, their silver buttons, their white silk stock-
Lucilla could not well go without one of herings, white gloves, and long sticks, looked ab-
parents, the project must have been relinquish-surdly out of keeping with the little mean pas-
ed. Sir Felix seemed perfectly content to re- sage (with its worn and faded oil-cloth) where
main where he was; plays were no novelties they stood.
to him, but Love and Lucilla were; and his
faint "Do come, Temple, Farren's Sir Peter
Teazle is such a hit," would have had little
weight but for the passionate and persevering
entreaties of the half-sobbing Tom, and one
silent but resistless tear which he half detect-
ed in the appealing eyes of his Lucilla! Mr.
Temple remembered how little she had seen of
the pleasures so lavished on others of her age;
he saw that Tom would burst into an open fit
of crying; he saw that his meek, fond wife even
pleaded, though she did not speak, and so he
agreed to go. Tom evinced a very unaristo-
cratic degree of boisterous joy; and even Lu-
cilla blushed with a pleasure a fashionable belle
would have marvelled at and despised.
Sir Felix somewhat unwillingly arose, and
as he detected Lucilla's gaze wander from him
in all his modern elegance, and his glossy, new
toupé, to Mr. Temple, in his shabby attire, and
with his thin hair tinged with gray, he felt con-
vinced that to stand for a few moments in a
graceful attitude by her father, would be to
complete the conquest he felt sure he had
begun.
But the contrast was affecting Lucilla in a
very different manner; she was thinking, as
she gazed alternately at her father and Sir
Felix, how almost unattainable is the heredi-
tary air noble, sole visible heritage of poor Tem-
ple; she was deciding how much better nature
managed than art; that on the brow of middle-
age the locks of boyhood were unsuitable, and
therefore ungraceful; and that her father's
black suit, worn and shabby as it was, was
much more dignified and endearing than Sir
Felix's bridegroom-like finery.
How artificial was his smile! how studied
his attitude during this little interval! how
carefully he exhibited a white hand, with its lace
ruffle and diamond ring, and how jauntily ex-
tended a foot for which nature had done much
and art more. And all this while he cast up
his eyes as if in rapturous thought, but in reality
to show them off; and he felt, though he did not
see it, that both Lucilla and Mrs. Temple were
looking at him, and so they were-Mrs. Tem-
ple, with a prepossession in his favour, which
made her see all he did en beau, was deciding
that he was still a very fine man, and one any
girl might be proud to marry; and Lucilla,
with a much keener sense of the ridiculous,
and her feelings enlisted against him, that he
was a regular show-off, a complete antidote to
love; and when, stealing another glance at
him, she saw him still in the same attitude, she
was obliged hastily to turn away to conceal
the mirth which she feared her countenance
would betray.
Her shawl furnished her with a good excuse,
and Sir Felix gracefully darted forward to help
her to put it on. He then, with an almost af-
and being fully impressed with the idea, that
for all their fine coats, they were, "no more,
nor her aquals," had engaged them in a conver-
sation which showed that in ready wit they
were very far from being so. The merry laugh,
white teeth, and black eyes of the broad-faced,
good-humoured Munster woman, roused them
a little from the apathy and inanity they had
assumed in imitation of their successive mas-
ter, and Jock coming to Norah's aid, a lively
discussion was in progress; but at the sound
of Sir Felix's voice, they drew up, assumed the
stiffness and stillness of sentinels, and Norah
crying out, "Och hone, it's myself wouldn't be
in the shoes of ye, for all yer pride and finary;
for when Sir Felix spakes, it's not the like of
ye prasume to tell yer sowl's yer own, even
if ye had any, which it's meself is by no means
sure of. Come, Jock! you're the boy for my
money!" She then darted down stairs, her
merry Munster laugh ringing in the ears of the
stately footmen, who were so perfect in their
metier, that no automatons could have been
more unmoved.
Tom assumed an air of great importance as
he stepped into the carriage after the rest of the
party; indeed, in his eagerness to enter the
vehicle with grace, he slipped and severely cut
his heel; but Tom was a hero, though in a
wrong cause (the cause of Vanity), so he forced
a smile while he ground his teeth with sicken-
ing anguish, and with a flourish meant to im-
pose on the tall footmen, and to dazzle short
Jock, he called out, "To the Haymarket Thea-
tre!" and the perfect equipage was soon in
motion.
Sir Felix smiled with princely condescension.
and benignity at the pride and impetuosity dis-
played in Tom's breach of etiquette; but Mr.
Temple calmly reprimanded the flushed and in-
flated boy, for presuming to give an order to
Sir Felix's servants in their master's presence.
"Nay," said Sir Felix, in a tone and with a
manner that made Lucilla think him almost
amiable, "do not blame my dear friend Tom ;
you do not know, Temple, how great an in-
timacy and how warm a friendship Tom and I
have struck up and friendship has privileges,
hasn't it Tom? Come, cheer up my boy!
Papa is quite right in taming you betimes to
the etiquette of that society in which I hope
some day too see you shine; but as far as I
am concerned, nothing refreshes me so much
as the happy confidence and eager hope of the
very young. I remember when a play could
so gladden my heart and bewilder my brain-in
boyhood, our sources of joy are so many,.
so harmless, and so accessible-in man-
hood," he added with a sigh, and stealing a
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
57 1
譬
​glance at Lucilla, "these wells of joy may be
deeper, and the draught more delicious and
more intoxicating; but oh, what a search,
what toil, ere we find it; what greater toil ere
we win it; and even then, what poison and de-
'spair may lurk in the cup!"
Lucilla could not help understanding his
meaning, nor blushing to the very temples, be-
neath the ardent gaze Sir Felix fixed on her.
To laugh off her embarrassment she began to
rally him, and said, "So, Sir Felix, my name
sake has been committing to paper her admi-
ration of you and your genius."
"Tom, have you then betrayed me?" said
the baronet, reproachfully.
A start and a shriek from Lucilla followed.
Tom, unable to contain his wrath at her be-
trayal of his report, at once trod heavily on her
foot, and sharply pinched her arm.
"What is it?" sternly asked Mr. Temple,
who had his suspicions.
"What is it, fairest ?" tenderly inquired Sir
Felix.
"I trod on her foot," said Tom, terrified at
the expression of his father's face.
your pardon, dear Lucilla," he added, with so
"I beg
appealing a look and in so broken a voice, that
Lucilla could not resist them, and merely said,
"She should be better presently, Tom had
trodden on her foot."
"On such a fairy foot! Oh, Tom, Tom!"
said Sir Felix.
“Come and sit here, Tom," said his father,
angrily, "and the next time I have cause to
reprimand you, I send you home!"
Tom sat sulky and abashed.
"We were speaking," said Sir Felix, "of
the letter of your fair young namesake, which
I, as Tom was present, asked him to read to
me, not aware that it was any thing more than
a formal note of invitation or so. Now, as
Tom has made the most of it, I, in justice to
the young lady, and lest your quick fancy should
wrong her, will show you the epistle myself.
wrong her, will show you the epistle myself.
It is sweetly written, and I think it does the
writer much honour."
"Perhaps it is hardly fair to show it," said
Lucilla, with instinctive delicacy.
"Allow me, my dear Miss Temple, to judge
of that," said Sir Felix, with an assumption of
injured dignity which startled and awed Lucilla.
"It would be perfectly impossible for me to
offer to show this letter, if, by so doing, I in the
slighest degree violated the fair writer's confi-
dence, or trifled with her feelings."
“Oh no, of course not!" said Lucilla, much
confused.
"Of course not; there we agree; and now
for the letter. I never show a woman's letter
unless it redounds in every way to her credit.
Lucilla, quite awed, took the letter in si-
lence.
Oblige me by reading it aloud," said the
baronet.
Lucilla hesitated. "I am unacquainted with
the hand," she said.
"Read it, my love," said Mr. Temple; "all
wornen write alike."
"Pshaw!" growled Tom, "if you cannot
read writing, Lucilla, I can, and that is like
print."
or lawyer's clerk has been the lady's writing-
master. Read, child.”.
Lucilla began :—
"DEAR SIR FELIX,
"I have been vainly trying all day at the
different libraries and booksellers to procure
your Essay on Taste.' In vain, in vain! Can
a greedy, yet discerning public, have devoured
every copy? I have a little enlivened this dis-
with those most au fait in these matters; and
heartening search by discussions on its merits,
except where a malignant envy and base hos-
tility were hideously apparent, I found but one
opinion, namely, that it is perfection. Oh, Sir
Felix! I gloried as I heard the music of your
praises from the lips of the initiated; I gloried
in the thought that I had sat in your presence,
listened to your converse, basked in your intel-
gifted hand! Nay, more; in my inmost heart
lectual smile, and even at parting, touched your
have ventured to register a vow that I will win
-the silly heart of a wild, impassioned girl-E
your friendship, great and gifted as you are!
For oh, how often the great may need a hum-
that woman, the slumbering poetry of whose
ble friend; and what friend, oh Sir Felix! like
nature your genius has kindled into an ungov-
ernable flame. I can fancy no pleasure (and
yet I am of that age when pleasure seems
most bright and boundless), I can fancy no
pleasure like that of sitting at your feet and
drinking in the musical philosophy of your elo-
quent sublimity!
"I do not expect you to reciprocate such a
reverential admiration as this. I am not mad;
he is the life of life; but what are they to him?
the sun shines on countless violets; to them
And so with you, and the many, many maidens
who feel, I doubt not, something of the enthu
siasm you have kindled in your poor Lucilla ! ·
the beautiful. The tau kalon found in your
"In me this feeling is merely appreciation of
genius, but tinged by my woman nature with
something of that anxious and protecting watch-
fulness never separated from woman's interest
and woman's friendship!
"The maternity of her nature colours all her
feelings. Oh, Sir Felix! even the man she re-
veres, looks up to and clings to, she yet pants
wish to shield you from every ill; so could I
to shelter, to comfort, to protect-so could I
revel in your every joy, so love and serve and
she must be an idol, being yours.
revere the happy being you may love. To me
ship with some trust, some confidence; tell me
Only repay this boundless and wild friend-
the hopes of that noble heart-the plans of that
gifted head. Above all, send me the Essay
on Taste.'
(for my pen is ever busy in translating my
In many periodicals to which I have access
thoughts), I can tell the world how great a
treasure it possesses. Adieu! ponder on this
letter, and deign to answer it--but that I know
you will; for you are as distinguished for chiv-
alry and courtesy as for genius and learning.
•
LUCILLA."
Several times Lucilla could scarcely suppress
a laugh at the most high-flown sentences of
this inflated and yet rather eloquent rhapsody;
'Exactly," said Mr. Temple; "some lawyer-but she did not keep her countenance, for
H
•
}
58
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Sir Felix was listening with half-closed eyes,
elevated eye brows, smile of satisfaction, and
the dignified composure of a mandarin, nod-
ding his head at the most extravagant perora-
tions, and keeping time as it were with his
foot and hand.
Mr. Temple, after listening to the first sen-
tence, had been lulled by the cadences of Lu-
cilla's voice into a reverie about his book, and
Tom was taken up with the shops.
"What soul! what mind! that girl has
evinced," said Sir Felix. "Is it not wonder-
ful?"
"It is, indeed," said Lucilla.
sent her your Essay.""
"Have you
"I have; and I shall much like to compare
your opinions on it. Tom has a copy for you.
I shall request you to commit your impressions
to paper.
"Oh, no,” said Lucilla, "I am no critic, no
reviewer."
"Every one who forms an opinion of a work
is a critic, and every one who expresses that
opinion a reviewer, my dear Miss Temple; so
oblige me, I pray. I long to see that gifted
girl's notices of my Essay.' I have answered
her letter, and I wish to submit that answer to
you. But here we are at the entrance of the
Haymarket."
"That's right, Tom! (Tom had bought a
supply of play-bills ;) I meant to persuade you,
my fair friend, after the play to take a petit-
souper at my house, and then I can submit to
you my reply to this letter; it is right you
should see it.”
clench his fist and turn upon his revilers; a
scuffle would certainly have ensued, had not
Mr. Temple and the tall footman come up and
threatened the young warriors with the police;
and as 'the Police' were words which sounded
harshly in their ears, they made off. And it
was not till Tom was proudly looking from the
stage box, that he discovered to his dismay,
that his pocket had been picked of sundry
pence and halfpence, and that the pin given by
Sir Felix, and which he so valued, had been
removed from his cravat.
Great was his wrath, and poignant his dis-
tress-he wished to rush out and endeavour to
recover his lost treasure, but Mr. Temple for-
bad so Quixotic an expedition; and Sir Felix,
who found tears and groans disturb his enjoy-
ment of Lucilla's presence, promised him an-
other pin, and quietly slipped a sovereign into
his hand.
An expressive glance from Sir Felix warned
Tom to keep his secret; and Tom, who had
never before possessed a sovereign, forgot his
losses in the contemplation of his gains, and
grew dizzy with delight, as he dwelt on Jock,
the pistol, queen-cakes, raspberry tarts, the
Wax Work, and even "ices for two," namely,
himself and Jock; a little while later, it must
be owned, a penknife for his papa (who suffer-
ed, as most authors do, a martyrdom from bad
pens), a bottle of Eau-de-Cologne for his mam-
ma, and a geranium for Lucilla, were added to
the treasures to be purchased with this inex-
haustible sovereign, which, in addition to all
this, was to be applied to a hundred other pur-
poses, the whole forming a sum total which
ten pounds would have barely sufficed to cover
While Tom is revelling in the pleasures of,
anticipation, Lucilla is enraptured by one of the
greatest delights of reality-every sense en-
thralled, and intellect almost sated with enjoy-
ment.
Lucilla was a woman, and she certainly felt
some little curiosity to see, what she suspected
would be a rather pedantic. egotistical, and
coxcombical effusion; but she did not like Sır
Felix's manner of offering her this amusement,
it was so much as if he looked upon her as in-
terested and concerned in all his proceedings
with another lady-as if he established and re- That best of comedies, "The school for Scan-
cognised in her a right to his confidence, which dal," with what the initiated call an "unrival-
none but his affianced, or his wife could pre-led cast," might well charm an accustomed
tend to.
However, there was no opportunity for ma-
King Sir Felix understand her disapproval and
annoyance; for with a courteous deference
which always excites some softening gratitude
in a young girl's heart, the great Sir Felix was
handing the poor Lucilla Temple from his car-
riage, as if she had been a princess alighting
from her own. Proudly he put back some
among the most forward of the mob assembled
at the doors of the theatre, and who, seeing
so aristocratic an equipage and so beautiful a
girl, pressed round her, murmuring, "Who is
she "
My eye, what a beauty!" "He's a
regular old swell!" "He's a tip-topper!" and
so on.
Lucilla, though nervous at the sensation she
excited, could not but feel that little flutter at
her heart, which the unequivocal symptoms
and expressions of admiration excite in any
girl to whom they are new.
Tom looked very belligerent, and his hauteur
of manner and dandy style of dress infuriated
some radical boys in rags, who coarsely vented
their anger in ribald jests and remarks, full of
revolting and personal sarcasm, not without
their cutting and wanton wit, which made Tom
play-goer, but it positively entranced the young
and intellectual Lucilla.
The delicate and peculiar humour of that
fine artist and unrivalled comic actor, Mr. W.
Farren, with his powerful conception of char-
acter, his minute and brilliant finish, and his
gentlemanly and thorough-bred ease, lulled her
into a sort of dream, that the whole was a re-
ality. Mr. Charles Mathews, as Charles Sur-
face, won from her that affectionate interest we
should actually feel in the candid, witty, brave,
and yet reckless young fellow, who was, as the
vulgar say, no one's enemy but his own (as if
that could ever be truly said of any one whom,
another loved and cared for); and the dashing
and brilliant talent of Mrs. Glover (as Mrs.
Candour), caused Lucilla to laugh with so
heartfelt a merriment, that, had she not had a
silver laugh, and a most graceful manner of
laughing, she would have shocked the cold and
apathetic beau, accustomed to belles as cold
and apathetic as himself. Altogether, Lucilla's
delight in this intellectual banquet was so great,
that she could not but think with gratitude on
him who had procured it to her; and when the
curtain fell upon the third act, she turned with
beaming eyes and a bright smile to thank Sir
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
59
Felix again and again for the high and rare de- | tellectual joys, share her young delight, kindle
light she had experienced.
"Is it not exquisite? is it not enchanting?"
said Lucilla, her heightened colour and her
sparkling eyes, testifying to the sincerity of her
feelings.
and weep with her. "But he is middle-aged
and time-worn," she thought, as she looked at
him: " poor fellow! one should try to comfort,
rather than condemn him."
By jove! there's Temple Grove in the op-
"I know but of one thing either exquisite or posite box," said Sir Felix, with an interest the
enchanting, my charming friend," said Sir best of plays and the first of actors had not
Felix, in a low voice; "but the play is very tol-been able to awaken in him; he was proof
erably cast, very fairly got up. Had I not against Sheridan's wit, but the poorest joke of
been pretty sure of that, it should not have his own could excite him to rapture.
been honoured by your presence, nor sanction-
ed by mine."
Lucilla looked towards the box he named,
and there she saw a tall stout matron and five
may-pole daughters, all dressed in bright green,
with green feathers in their hair, and the effect
produced being certainly that of a summer
They were all singularly alike, having hair
varying from so deep a red, that a poet, a
mamma, a lover, a lady's maid, or its possessor,
would have called it auburn, down to the light-
est sandy ever fondly called flaxen; this hair
in all, was abundant, and made the most of
French ringlets, frizzed inside, and of great
length, standing out a foot from each face:
these faces were singularly alike, only some
were in their first Hebe bloom, and others told
of time, of late hours, and (greater destroyer
still), of discontent!
This speech was meant to be the ne plus ultra
of aristocratic conceit, and proved Sir Felix to
be of that false and fast-waning school whose
disciples considered enthusiasm about any-grove.
thing, however excellent, as mauvais ton, and
conceived that a lively sense of merit in an-
other, argued a conviction of inferiority in one-
self. These disciples of the cold heart and
shallow brain, were seldom known to do more
than “damn with faint praise," or indulge in a
kind of witless carping at, or sneering dis-
paragament of, those whom they could never
hope to approach, their private conviction being,
that if one man was raised on a pedestal by any
success, he who contrived to appear to despisc
and look down upon, to sting him and hiss his
venom in his ear, might pass for being more
exalted and greater still. They did not see
They did not see
that on such a principle a snake might be
greater than poet, sage, or hero.
"Very tolerable, indeed! by no means bad;
a very fair performance," continued Sir Felix,
elevating his eyebrows, and by gentle and in-
audible pattings of his white kid fingers, signi-
fying that he slightly joined in the tumultu-
ous applause of the house. As for Tom, he
clapped his boyish hands till they smarted; and
Mr. Temple, calm and quiet as he generally
was, applauded warmly.
All had bright colours, but the younger were
indebted solely to nature, the elder sisters to art,
for their bloom; white eyc-lashes, large round
light eyes, and rather retreating chins, united
to form a strong family likeness among this
family of fair daughters, called by Sir Felix
from their height and predilection for green,
"Temple Grove," their name being, like our
friend's and their cousin's, Temple, and the
name of their estate "Temple Grove.”
for the mamma (Mrs. Temple), the chief differ-
ence between her and her fair shoots, was, a
green turban, a much stouter figure, a double
As
"What is all this row about?" said Sir Fe-chin, a ferocious front, and a pair of diagonal
lix, "does it not stun you, my fair friend?"
เช่
Oh, no?" said Lucilla, "I should like to
join in it; I wish it were tenfold! think what
days and nights of toil it must have cost to
produce such perfection! what can repay the
performers so well, as the sense of the grati-
tude and delight of the audience?"
be
"You are a novice, fair friend! that would
poor pay, I fancy, to most of them; but re-
ally we, who lounge in and out of public places,
till we weary of them, we cannot conceive the
enthusiasm of those so very new as yourself!
it is above us, quite !"
eye-brows, pencilled by art; while a close ob-
server would have perceived traces of pearl-
powder on her once brilliant complexion, and a
daring red on her cheeks, which no eye but her
own (used to it for years) could have conceived
to be natural.
A small-quiet-looking thin-man might be
seen now and then at the back of the box, be-
tween the glaring green plumes of the damsels,
and that was Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove, a
henpecked, literary husband, absent and meek,
who had inherited an estate he had not fortune
to keep up, and had married a resolute, penni-
less woman, who had him because she had re-
This was said with an air which meant, "it
is beneath us, quite ;" and Sir Felix thought no-solved to do so, and who, being determined to
thing so likely to impose upon and exalt him sacrifice nothing of outward pomp in her estab-
with Lucilla as this sublime apathy.
lishment, economized in articles of comfort to
a frightful extent.
|
But he mistook her nature! she pitied him,
looked upon him as an elderly and passé beau, Two footmen, a coachman, and a butler,
to whom every thing was "stale, flat, and un- were obliged to have the usual number of hand-
profitable;" a sated and souless man, languid some suits; but Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove,
and inane. Yes, she actually pitied him, when seldom boasted of a new coat, and dyeing, turn-
he thought she must almost worship in him aning, and scouring, were arts to which his wife
incarnation of that disdain and apathy which and daughters were much indebted. Indeed,
he conceived to be so truly aristocratic! At it had been whispered, that Mrs. Temple of
that very moment her heart was sighing for Temple Grove, had been known to leave her
some kindred spirit, some one whose enthusi- carriage at the corner of one street, and, ac-
astic sympathies would answer to her own,companied by two or three of her tall daugh-
some one who could revel with her, in her in- ters, privately to proceed to some vender of
60
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
ladies' wardrobes in another, there to fit them | need of, by Tom, who certainly was very fiery,
out at a small expense, with articles, which,
sooth to say, seemed to have lost little, but
that first gloss of novelty, the world in all things
so overrates. However, with regard to the
green satin dresses which had procured them
Sir Felix's nickname of Temple Grove, and
which for several seasons had been their staple
wear at parties, the history was as follows:
Mrs. Temple of Temple Grove, very proud
of her five tall, showy daughters, resolved
when the eldest was five-and-twenty, and the
youngest seventeen, to introduce them all at
court.
In consequence, a whole piece of the cheap-
est white satin was bargained for, and bought
of course, at a reduced price.
After the drawing-room, being remade into
ball-dresses, this white satin figured at ball,
opera, concert, and soirée, till it was white no
longer.
And then, as all the Temples, of Temple
Grove, considered green singularly suited to
their bright complexions and showy hair, Mrs.
Temple, of Temple Grove, contracted with a
dyer, who for a very moderate sum dyed not
merely the dresses, but several of the court
plumes; and whenever she saw her five tall
daughters, looking to her partial eye, like
damask roses peeping through green leaves,
and put on her own green turban shaded with
its drooping green plumes, and her green vel-
vet robes, she congratulated herself upon what
she considered the showy and distingué nature
of this durable colour; nor did she dream that
a spiteful beau, whom she had imprudently ex-
cluded from a party at Temple Grove, had, al-
juding to herself and her elder daughters, given
the whole party the odious soubriquet of "The
Evergreens."
and ready primed to attack and resent, was,
with Tom's haughty and rather rude beha-
viour, construed into a wish to break off all
connexion.
Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove, constantly
intended to write to his cousin, and ask an ex-
planation of this rupture; but he was, as his
wife well knew, a great procrastinator, and
there is no character so completely in the pow-
er of the prompt and energetic; and so for two
years all intercourse had ceased; and Mrs.
Temple, of Temple Grove, hoped that either
"the poor wretches," as she called them, had
emigrated, or were sunk so low that they never
could meet on any kind of equality again. Mr.
Temple, of Temple Grove, sometimes exclaim-
ed, "I wonder what is become of Temple?
I want to see Temple about that 'Greek Ode;'
he promised me a version of it. Wonderful
scholar Temple was! I must see about him!
I must write to him! I will have him dine
here!"
On such occasions, Mrs. Temple, his lady,
would exchange a furtive smile with the bit-
terest of her daughters, and there it would end.
Judge, then, of the angry surprise of the
"Evergreens" when, at what was considered
the "crack" concert of the season, they saw
Tom on terms of such familiar friendship with
the great "Catch-match," Sir Felix Archer.
Spite of two years' growth, well did they re-
member Tom's abundant spiral curls of bright red,
his sharp laughing eyes, and fair but freckled
face. Tom, it is true, was wondrously improved,
and, spite of this red hair, and these freck-
les, his aristocratic outline, bright expression,
delicate white skin, and large sparkling eyes,
with his lithe and slender figure, made him a
very striking and showy boy. They writhed-
yes, they positively writhed, mother and all, as
they saw him whisper in the ear of the great
Sir Felix-he, the despised Tom-and that
august person positively smile, nay, almost
laugh, at jests which they shrewedly suspected
were aimed at them.
As Mrs. Temple, of Temple Grove, was su-
preme in her own household, and had a dislike,
amounting to horror, of all poverty, especially
that of relations, every means had been used
by her to dissolve the intimacy which at one
time had subsisted between our Lucilla's fa-
ther and Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove. To Vainly, as we have seen, they smiled and
make her husband dislike, despise, or openly nodded, and tried to conciliate Tom. Tom
slight, a man whose scholarship he revered, was hard to conciliate when his parents had
and whose company he delighted in, was impos- been slighted; but all this was nothing to their
sible; with him nothing could be done to di- inward rage, when they saw Lucilla,
"into
minish his intimacy with his cousin ; but with such beauty blown, and sprung so fair," with
our poor, proud, and sensitive Temples, every-Sir Felix so fondly deferential at her side. He
thing could be done, and very little indeed was
found to be needed.
A few impertinent questions from Mrs. Tem-
ple, of Temple Grove, as to what Mr. Temple
was doing what Mrs. Temple, Lucilla, and
'Tom were doing-a few cold looks-a few
"Not at homes" from the lady, destroyed what
had been an intimacy, nay, almost a friendship,
of years in the husband.
But then, for Mr. Temple's sake, we must
observe, that supine, indolent (except in litera-
ture), and dreadfully afraid of his energetic
wife, his cousin was sadly misrepresented to
him. That cousin's natural dignity of manner
was described to the husband as an insolent
defiance of the wife; the rude questions were
represented as gentle inquiries, made with a
view to serving and assisting; and our Mr.
Temple's sending for some books he was in
might have a fancy for a boy like Tom, but a
fancy for a girl like Lucilla was quite another,
and a much more serious thing!
Now, Sir Felix had actually had desperate
flirtations with all the belles of Temple Grove.
in succession, as each made her debût in the
beau monde; and when very angry with his
nephew, and more than usually eager for an
heir, he had passed them all in mental review,
sometimes, before he saw Lucilla, dwelling for
a few minutes on Hebe, the youngest and
handsomest of the family, a fine Rubens-look-
ing girl, but always rejecting her, as not having
sufficient inducements to rouse him from his
habitual Sybarite repose; as having too many
sisters, a propensity to grow fat, red hair, and
a questionable ankle. Why," thought he,
"when so many of more faultless beauty, with
no poor connexions, and some fortune, would
(6
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
61
There was an evident commotion in the
Temple Grove box, when Sir Felix Archer was
perceived; feathers nodded, eye-glasses were
raised and adjusted to anxious eyes, finger tips
were kissed; Sir Felix, however, having made
one courteous bow, took no more notice of the
eager fair ones, but continued to whisper his
delicate flatteries into Lucilla's ear, telling her
in reply to her remarks on the charms and at
tentions of her fair cousins, that Nature, unjust
mother! had lavished on her too-bewitching
self, all the beauties, graces, and talents which,
even if shared among the Misses Temple, of
Temple Grove, would have made each irresis-
tible.
accept me with delight, why should I fix on | out, Sir Felix was the first person who noticed
Hebe Temple? She is evidently easy-temper- and courted her.
ed and fond of her sisters, and I doubt not,
if I made her Lady Archer, I should have Ar-
cher Court, Felix Park, and my house in Port-
land Place, swarming with her sisters: her
elder sisters, too, who will ere long, be con-
firmed old maids (my especial aversion). No,
no! Hebe Temple will not do." But Hebe
Temple was by no means of this opinion; of
her doing only too well, she had no doubt; and
if her heart of two-and-twenty occasionally sug-
gested a doubt whether Sir Felix would do,
she looked at her unmarried sisters, her over-
bearing mamma, her very scanty wardrobe,
her very weak tea and dry toast, her back
seat in the old 'blazoned landau-in short, on
all her discomforts and privations; and then
she thought of the elegant comfort of Sir
Felix's house in town, the varied delights of
Felix Park and Archer Court, the costly ward-
robe Lady Archer must command, the epicu-
rean table Sir Felix was celebrated for, the
dashing equipage, and at last (for she was not
all evil), of the pleasure of receiving her sis-
ters, and atoning to them, by their comfort at
her home, for their misery in their own. Poor
Hebe! for this last trait we forgive her, much,
that was interested and selfish, in her almost
passionate desire to captivate Sir Felix Archer;
and he actually did contrive to excite an inter-
est in her heart; and in extenuation we may
observe, that being rather too candid and wil-
ful to be a favourite with her mamma, she had
never enjoyed much of that lady's affections,
till the attentions of Sir Felix altered her place
in the maternal estimation, and her position in
the family.
In the meantime, those startled and indig-
nant belles were communicating to each other
their mutual discovery, that it was no other
than that little Lucilla to whom the great Sir
| Felix was paying such court.
"I did not recognize her at all at first," said
Miss Temple, senior; "I really thought she
was some one of importance; how wonderfully
she is grown and improved."
"Yes, grown!" said Miss Bridget, "but
surely not improved; I should say, on the con-
trary, gone off sadly; she used to be a little
insignificant mignonne, but, as papa used to say,
quite a pocket Venus. Now, she is neither
one thing nor the other. Oh! she was much
prettier two years ago."
"How oddly her hair is done," said Miss
Eleanor, carefully touching her own abundant
bunches of frizzed ringlets; "no style at all!
so thoroughly English, those long smooth
curls; so unlike the French!"
laugh in that uncontrolled manner, and all at a
play, too! Well, if anything is likely to disgust
Sir Felix, that is! Oh! she certainly is sadly
gone off."
For this, she felt somewhat too grateful to "She is very coquettishly dressed, though!"
him, who had only sought his own amusement said Miss Almeria; "and how she is flirting
in his devotion to her. He liked to be the with Sir Felix! I declare it's quite disgusting!
first admirer of any girl; the first blush, the Oh! as for beauty, now she laughs I think her
first sigh, the first wistful glance, the first re-positively plain; I declare it's quite indecent to
proachful gaze, the first trembling tear, the first
squeeze of the hand, the first flower, nay, even
when he could venture so far, the first kiss,
were highly valued by this Epicurean in flirta-
tion, as in everything else; "but then, he
meant nothing; how could he presume to be
in earnest he who had seen her in her cradle!
(a mere boy at the time, to be sure), but still
l'ami de la Maison! papa's old chum &c., &c.,
&c. His lovely young friend would not be
severe on one who had called her his little
wife ten years ago!" and so on-thus did Sir
Felix escape, if any serious motives were im-
puted to him, and this had been done. He had
often, by being the first to pour the balmy |
flatteries in a young girl's thirsty heart, by
being the first to make her feel herself of im-
portance, the first to offer an ornament, a bou-
quet, a ball ticket, or an Opera-box (aided by a
certain dignified tenderness of manner, and
gallantry of devotion); he had often, we re-
peat, excited a vague and tender impulse in a
young heart, and raised fond and unacknowl-
odged hopes in both mothers and daughters,
only to draw off when the amusement palled,
or things looked serious, or a prettier débûtante
appeared elsewhere. And so with poor Hebe;
she had been kept back till one-and-twenty for
her elder sisters' sakes; and when she came
But poor Hebe, who had begun to look upon
Sir Felix as her own, and had almost beguiled
herself into loving him, she watched her young
cousin and the Baronet with a choking sensa-
tion in the throat, and eyes which, slowly fill-
ing with bitter tears, rather magnified than
diminished her rival's charms. Just at this
moment, Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove, whose
perceptions were not very acute, suddenly
exclaimed, "By Jove! that's Temple, I do
believe. Oh! yes, it is! it is! and that exqui-
site beauty by his side is Lucilla-wonderful!”
so saying, he darted out of the box, before
Mrs. Temple could exert any art, influence, or
authority to detain him; and, in a minute or
two, he was seen affectionately shaking hands
with our party, and soon after, settling himself
into an earnest classical discussion with his
cousin, our Mr. Temple.
"I shall take care," said his august lady to
her daughters, "to make your papa feel the
impropriety of leaving me and ny daughters
unprotected in a public place, while he goes
dancing attendance on those insolent paupers.
I think the men are mad," she added; "there's
* 62
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Sir Felix Archer continues flirting with that in love too-he doubly a widower of forty eight
little chit of a Lucilla, though I have bowed-in love for the first time in his selfish and
two or three times so graciously, that he must Sybarite life.
see he would be welcome here. How bold
that girl must be, to go on flirting in that way.
If I were on terms with her silly thread-bare
mother, I should warn her, for Sir Felix can
only be making fun of her-he can have no
serious intentions, though, I dare say, the little
flirt thinks he has."
"I do not see that she is flirting, mamma,"
said Hebe; "she seems to me very quiet,
except when something on the stage amuses
her!"
"There are many ways of flirting," said the
mamma, "and your quiet flirts are always the
deepest; however, flirt or not, she seems to
have cut you out with Sir Felix; but I'm sure
I hope he won't come here now, for your nose
and eyes are so frightfully red! It's quite pro-
vidential his not coming, I declare, mortifying
as it certainly is."
Long had Sir Felix vainly sought some new
excitement, some new interest, some new unex-
hausted source of enjoyment; and now, though
his to him novel and extraordinary emotions,
were not all of unmixed pleasure, still they
seemed to waft him out of this common-place
world of satiety, to exchange "the portion of
weeds and worn-out faces," for a sort of moon-
light dream in melodious fairy-land, of which
the young Lucilla was the Titania, the all-en-
gaging and irresistible empress. Now as love
even in the most vain, egotistical, and self-con-
ceited natures, always comes attended by some
doubts, some fears, some misgivings, some un-
due disparagement of self and exaltation of its
object, so even Sir Felix felt a sort of instinct
of humility in the presence of Lucilla, a tend-
ency to underrate his own advantages, and to
exaggerate hers. Under this influence he would
Hebe was glad enough he did not come, for sometimes think her youth, her beauty, grace,
her heart grew fuller, her head heavier, her talent, virgin heart, and boundless faith in the
eyes and nose redder, every moment, with sup-future, above his rank, fortune, position, experi-
pressed emotion and jealous disappointment. [ence, well-preserved person, and well-matured
If, before, she had only felt a sort of half pre- powers of pleasing; but this was an instinct of
ference for Sir Felix, jealousy now fanned that love-on reflection old habits of thought and
preference into love. Oh! how long and dull feeling resumed their sway; and then he had
to her this brilliant performance! how she no doubt of the preponderance of his own ad-
writhed beneath her mother's taunts, and vantages, nor of Lucilla's joyful acceptance,
shrank from her elder sisters' jeers; how she whenever he should deign to propose.
longed to be alone in the dark, on her hard
mattrass in her little attic, where she could
relieve her sad disappointed heart by weeping
over her ruined hopes. Strange, strange world!
strange mixtures are we all! who would have
believed that a daughter of Mrs. Temple, of
Temple Grove, a handsome young woman of
twenty-two, and one not at all indifferent to
the substantial advantages that a rich man
could confer, was behind the crimson curtain
of a private box, shedding large and silent tears
of disappointed affection for the wily, artificial,
elderly jilt, Sir Felix Archer himself-tears,
that the offer of affluence, without him, would
not have dried! Yes, there she tries to check
the frequent sob, shrinking from cold and
strange eyes, from the dazzling lights, and,
more eagerly still, from the gaze, the surprised,
chilling, inquiring, and indignant gaze, of her
own mother!
+
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LITTLE did the inconstant and selfish Sir Fe-
lix dream of the storm he had raised, or the in-
terest he had excited; people seldom trouble
themselves much about those passions they do
not reciprocate. With Sir Felix they had been
in earlier life the frequent results of his insinu-
ating attentions, and looked upon hy him as
gratifying tributes to his charms and his fasci-
nations; and if they did not interest or engross
him much when he was fancy-free, it is no
marvel they did not even occur to his mind now
that he was-yes, the truth must out (there is
no concealing it)-in love! really in love! in
that state of delicious, dreamy, rare, inexpres-
sible entrancement, called being in love! and
|
But about this he was in no great hurry; his
present position was so full of novel charms to
him, there was something so engrossing, so re-
freshing to him in this unsated and lover-like
state; and a romantic wish to win not merely
the maiden's hand but her love, soon awoke in
his hitherto selfish heart. It would be so easy
for him at any time, when this love became a
painful instead of a delicious emotion, to make
Lucilla his; but he was not so blinded by pas-
sion as not to know he would by so doing, at
the outset curtail his own enjoyment. The
courtship over, the pursuit onded, the exciting
romance was closed for ever. Lucilla would
be a lovely and graceful wife, and that was
what it must come to; and the appearance of
a rival, or the acupunctuation of that unsparing
fiend, Jealousy, might accelerate matters; but
for the present Sir Felix wished only to be the
welcome, the suspected, but not the acknowl-
edged, not the affianced lover.
"
My dear Temple, do you see Lord Lofty in
that box?" said Sir Felix, directing our absent
friend's attention to a box where a middle-aged
nobleman, of most distinguished and patrician
mien, stood behind a very thin, scraggy, aquiline-
featured dowager, and an impassive, haughty-
looking young lady, whose proud and perfect
features seemed moulded in plaster of Paris, of
which the primrose tint not unfitly represented
her sodden and sickly complexion; "Is he not
a cousin of yours, Temple?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Tom, "Lord Lofty is
papa's first cousin on his mother's side.”
"It is a capital connexion, Temple,” said Sir
Felix, "and ought to be turned to account.
"It is perfectly useless to me," said Temple,
reddening, "Lord Lofty and I have not met for
years; he, long ago, after repeated solicitations,
promised to do something for me, but it came
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
63
ter."
to nothing; and I believe Lady Lofty and her | disagreeable man. I suppose that is his daugh--
daughter have taken some offence, or imagined
some; the wolf and the lamb on all sides it is
the same.
"Why I do not wonder that you, my dear
Temple, are proud and sensitive with these
people; I in your place should be the same; but
you must not forget, my dear fellow, that Lowli-
ness is young Ambition's. ladder, and for your
sweet Lucilla and dear Tom, you must brave
and bear what you would not tolerate for your-
self. In the Whigs' day Lofty was a cipher, a
mere cipher, but he is a great man now with
the big-wigs; he has been looking this way a
long time, and I almost think he bowed! Now
Lady Lofty and Lady Marcia are for pride two
she-Lucifers, and I doubt not they would do
their best to outwit you; but I would circum-
vent them yet; I would indeed, Temple."
"Alas! I know not how; it is always the
women who ought to feel most for their poor
relations, who most heartlessly drive them away,
shrinking from a poor relative as they would
from a viper."
Exactly; there is nothing so heartless as
a heartless woman, and our fashionable life
withers the female heart in its bud; then, too,
they are very jealous of appearances, and can
see no merit in a threadbare coat and napless
hat, but Lofty himself has heart and mind.
Now, see he bows; he is a great connoisseur in
beauty, and he has been perusing Lucilla's face
till he is obliged to own it faultless! Do, dear
Temple, do go to his box."
"Never, never," said Mr. Temple, redden-
ing, and with flashing eyes; not if a good
living to-morrow were to be the result, would
I so sacrifice my dignity as his fellow-man and
cousin. What think you, when urged by his
promises and the hopes he held out, I went
several times to his house, and waited with
other applicants in his ante-room, on one occa-
sion that I called in the afternoon, a powdered
menial, my lady's footman, came to me, and
said that his lordship never saw people on busi-
ness after one o'clock.
"Were you told to say this?' said I.
"Yes, such are my orders.'
Then,' said I, tell his lordship that his
cousin, Mr. Temple, has called for the last
time.'
"Oh yes, that lovely little girl who was with
them at Dartmoor; don't you remember her,
with long gold curls down to her waist? She,
I doubt not, is grown up into that very beautiful
young woman.
"A very plebeian-looking person, I think,'
drawled Lady Marcia; "I wonder Sir Felix.
Archer, who has some taste and some fashion-
able importance, should associate with such an
unformed, milk-maid kind of person."
The Lofty's were poor, and Lady Marcia had
sometimes thought of the rich Sir Felix for her
august self; particularly as, though a belle of
many seasons, she had as yet made no import-
ant conquest.
“Oh,” said Lord Lofty, "Archer's evidently
in love with her, and no wonder, she's the
prettiest person. I have seen this season. I hope
Archer will propose; and if he does I might get
his vote and influence. I have often thought,
Lady Lofty, we did not behave well to the Tein-
ples; they are my cousins, you know."
"They are very impertinent people," said her
ladyship; "more than once when that person
officiated at Dartmoor, if I was late I found the
service had commenced; I gave him several
hints, which he never took; at last in town I
gave him one he did take."
"Do you mean," said Lord Lofty, calmly,
"that you had any hand in getting rid of him?"
"I do; you may thank me for it. I sent my
footman (when he came boring one day, actu-
ally in the afternoon) to say your lordship never
saw people on business after one o'clock. The
fellow, being an incarnation of pride and pov-
erty, went off in high wrath, and you may thank
me that you were rid of his impertinent solici-
tations."
"What tact and talent you showed, mamma,"
said Lady Marcia. "I cannot endure such
people."
If
You have taken an unwarrantable and in-..
excusable liberty, Aurora," said Lord Lofty;
giving way to his suppressed emotion, his eyes
flashing, and his cheek pale with rage; an:
insult to my cousin is one to me. It remains...
for me to make the best atonement I can.
I can induce Temple to visit us again, let me
beg you, Lady Lofty, to be very kind to him;
and you, Marcia, you must learn to endure my
relatives, or to endure going down into York-
shire next week with the housekeeper.”
"The powdered puppy looked thunderstruck;
he was a new comer; hurried out several apolo-
gies, in which my lady was the predominant
word; begged I would wait while he went to So saying, Lord Lofty left the box; his gen-
my lord, and so on; but I reached the inhos-eral demeanour was so very calm and courte--
pitable door of Lofty House, and passing out,
I have never entered it again."
•
"I cannot but blame you; do you not see it
was all a ruse of Lady Lofty's to get rid of you!
and that you play into her hands? do go, Tem-
ple, it is due to his lordship's rank; and your
children's welfare, as well as your own, may be
at stake."
Mr. Temple would not stir. Meantime some
discussion took place in Lord Lofty's box. "I
declare," said his lordship, "I do think that is
Temple; look my dear, is it, or is it not?"
Why, really," said her ladyship, "it is a
matter of so little importance, I wonder you
take the trouble to inquire; but since you ask
my opinion, I believe it is, that ill-bred and
ous, that his wife and daughter were not a little-
startled at this angry and resolute resistance of
their influence; a little titter of scorn and de-
fiance escaped them, when he was quite out of
hearing, and Lady Lofty murmured" He may
bring those insolent beggars to my house and
my table, and he may compel me to receive them
with apparent courtesy, and you, my sweet
Marcia, to degrade yourself by associating with
them, but he can never make me their friend,
nor you either, I should think, my love; and if
I have any power, they will gain nothing but the
empty honour of sitting unwelcome guests at
my table, and be exposed besides to an enmity
which this injudicious behaviour of your father's,
will change from passive into active. No peo-
64
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
late."
ple shall be forced upon my darling and me with | to breakfast, and saying all he did to him about
impunity, and that they will discover when too doing something for him! I like that; I only
wish you were a boy, I'd thrash you! As it is,
I can hardly keep my hands off you, and I will
pay you out some of these days, miss."
"I hope they may, mamma," sneered Lady |
Marcia; " papa is so absurd about Sir Felix
proposing to Miss Temple, because he sees him
flirting with her a little. Such nonsense! I
believe he is not a marrying man, and that no-
thing but the union of beauty, rank, and talent,
would make him wish to be one;" at this mo-
ment both the ladies crimsoned with wrath, for,
just as they were speaking, and just as Sir Felix,
on his side, was urging Mr. Temple to go and
pay his respects to Lord Lofty, a request in
which Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove, joined,
the door of our Temples' box opened, and the
shining, bald, aristocratic head of Lord Lofty
bowed to them all, and the next moment he was
warmly shaking hands with Mr. Temple, calling
him his dear cousin, and reproaching him with
ceasing to visit him, and keeping him in igno-
rance as to his abode.
Mr. Temple's stiffness and resentment wore
away before Lord Lofty's endearing familiarity,
his evident admiration of Lucilla, and his cor-
dial notice of Tom, whose pride and joy were
boundless, at being actually in the presence of
that great Lord, of whom he had so often boast-
ed to Jock, without any distinct or positive
knowledge of his existence. Yes, Lord Lofty
was gracious to all; but it was evident to Sir
Felix that neither to his wealthy self, nor to Mr.
Temple, of Temple Grove, was his manner half
so earnest and warmly cordial as to our poor
friend.
|
Hush, Tom," said Sir Felix, "you disturb
people; let me return to my place-you can al-
| ways have your sister's company.”
"Yes, too often, by half," muttered Tom; and
he retired to the back of the box, privately to
revel in some bulls' eyes and lollypops with
which he had provided himself.
While Mr. Temple is brooding over his new
hopes, his cousin of Temple Grove, who has
returned to his own box, is undergoing the
sharpest reprimands and cross-examinations of
his lady and several of her daughters, whose
wrath and envy were increased tenfold, when
they saw Lord Lofty, who always shunned
them, actually entering their poor relations' box.
So little could Mrs. Temple, of Temple Grove,
elicit from her frightened and absent husband,
that she determined to find out the Temples'
abode, and calling, as if from motives of friend-
ship, ascertain whether any change of a benefi-
cial kind had taken place in their circumstances,
as she was a person who always trimmed her
sails according to the wind. The performances
of the evening were at an end, and our party
rose to depart.
Lucilla had been seated during the evening,
with her back turned to a box in which were a
rather noisy set of young men, and more than
once she had felt the mantle on which she
leaned, and even her arm, touched, as she be-
Sir Felix began to look forward. With Lof-lieved, inadvertently; now, as she stood for a
ty's interest, Temple might yet rise; Lucilla
might be seen and courted by men of higher
rank than himself, and fewer years. He would
be on the watch, and if he saw any symptoms
of such a result, he would propose at once, and
marry her before her head was turned, as it
would surely be, if once admitted into the beau
monde.
“Come and breakfast with me, Temple," said
Lord Lofty, " and we will talk over your affairs,
perhaps I may be able to help you, now. Let's
see, this is Tuesday-will Friday suit you?"
The hectic of hope mantled Mr. Temple's
cheek as he accepted the invitation; and shortly
after, Lord Lofty left the box.
"Your fortune's made, Temple!" said Sir
Felix, grasping his hand.
"God grant it may be, dear cousin!" said
Mr. Temple, of Temple Grove, with a tear in
his eye.
"Perhaps," whispered Tom to Lucilla, "Lord
Lofty can get papa made a bishop, or an arch-
deacon, or some great thing."
|
|
moment collecting her fan, her handkerchief,
and her bouquet, she unintentionally glanced for
a moment into this box, and an indescribable
thrill passed through her, and her cheek paled;
for, with his eyes fixed intently on her, and
with a smile of familiar recognition on his face,
she beheld Lord Trelawney, that strange and
alarming person, of whom she felt an instinct-
ive dread, increased tenfold by Miss Trueblue's
account of his character and conduct.
He was surrounded by men of elegant exte-
rior, but insolent and dissipated expression;
and Lucilla, trying to appear not to see his
lordship, turned abruptly round, and took up her
cloak, which hung over the edge of the box; as
she did so, she became aware that a note was
pinned into the lining. Her first impulse was
to point this out to her father and Sir Felix, but
luckily, her woman instinct and tact came to
her aid, and her exclamation died on her lips.
What if this daring, insolent, and lawless man,
had addressed some communication to her, and
taken this detestable means of compelling her
to receive it in silence? what dreadful results
might ensue upon its exposure? what publicity,
what commotion, what disgrace! Her father
might not be able to restrain his just indigna-
tion, a personal conflict might ensue! Lucilla
shuddered, as she thought, in one brief but
wretched moment, of all that might happen;
and hastily putting on her cloak, she determined
to let the paper remain where it was, pinned in
the folds of the lining, till she had an opportu-
nity of removing it unnoticed. As, leaning on
Sir Felix's arm, she hurried down the crowded
'Nothing comes of Lord Lofty's asking papa stairs, she felt some one pluck her sleeve, and
"Oh!" returned Lucilla, "if he only gave
him a pretty little vicarage, and a small living, I
should be wild with gratitude and joy. How I
long to get home, to tell dear mamma!"
Do tell Miss Trueblue," said Tom; "she
so sneered when I said Lord Lofty was papa's
cousin."
"I think we had better wait till we see what
he does for papa."
"Oh, no, that's just like you! I shall go with
you to morrow, and tell her myself."
"And if nothing comes of it?"
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
65
thinking it was Tom, she looked round, but to | saucy, but Sir Felix was in no mood to take of-
encounter with a shudder the bold and cunning fence; and indeed, much of Tom's conversa-
eyes of Lord Trelawney, who, almost hissing tion was lost, as he "drank in the silence of
in her ear the word "Beware," hurried past Lucilla's beauty."
|
her, leaning on the arm of some laughing
fashionable, and thus inducing poor Lucilla to
cling close to Sir Felix, whose vanity sadly
misconstrued her trembling and yet tightened
grasp.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Lucilla herself, young and impressionable,
could not be insensible to the novel and delight-
ful luxuries of Sir Felix's house and table. It
certainly did occur to her how agreeable it
would be always to be waited upon by such
diplomatic and courtly footmen-always to be
surrounded by such pictures, such statues, such
plants, and such a mixture of elegance and
comfort; always to see her father so happy, and
Tom so delighted. And this Sir Felix had
hoped she would feel, but he had not anticipated
the thought that mingled with this longing,
namely, that another than his august self should
at once share and double these delights. Oh!
could he have dreamt of such a result, how
would his smooth eyebrows have been elevated,
his benign lip contracted, his admiring eyes
have flashed with jealous wrath, and his grace-
ful courtesy have changed into vindictive malice
and repelling hauteur.
LUCILLA was still pale and trembling at the
horrible idea of being engaged in any sort of
clandestine correspondence with Lord Trelaw-
ney, and the still more frightful dread of the
consequences of revealing to her father the po-
sition in which she was, when handed up stairs,
with proud and tender courtesy by Sir Felix
Archer, she suddenly found herself in the full
blaze of his brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms.
They were a minute or two in advance of Mr.
Temple and Tom, and Sir Felix hastily led Lu- But if there is an arch-enchanter who, in the
cilla through the rooms; when they came into middle age, supplies the place of poetry and
the farthest and were out of hearing of the foot-passion, which make a fairy land for the young
man, Sir Felix gazed at her for a moment as
she stood before him, trembling and pale, her
long golden hair, half-uncurled by the night air,
falling on her exquisite shoulders and snowy
neck;
and thinking that her altered manner
was attributable to a feeling most flattering to
him, he caught her unwilling hand and pressed
it to his lips, and exclaiming-"Listen to me,
sweetest one," he was about to pour forth his
feelings in a passionate declaration, when Tom,
who had followed them on tiptoe, suddenly
rushed in between them, shouting-" Bo! don't
you think to make love to Sir Felix, Miss Sly,
without my finding you out."
Sir Felix, though at first much provoked, was
reconciled when he remembered that he was on
the eve of committing an irremediable impru-
dence, and of putting his fate out of his own
power. After a moment's confusion, he laughed
off the affair as a joke; and Lucilla, who thought
little of it except as a piece of silly gallantry,
which awoke no feeling in her heart but one of
annoyance, was intent upon so folding up her
cloak that the dreaded note might escape all
eyes but her own, and indeed during the whole
evening this detestable charge occupied her
mind. Although Sir Felix had not made up
his mind to offer to place Lucilla at the head of
his establishment, it is certain he was very
anxious, by showing it off to the greatest advan-
tage, to make her covet the honour of presiding
over it.
even in this wilderness of life, it is Self-love.
Touched by his wand, Lucilla's pale cheek,
thoughtful eyes, abstracted manner, and soft
voice all contribute to a dear delusion, which
makes Sir Felix feel himself almost a God.
And often in the exhilarating delight of that
hour he was tempted to sacrifice prudence, and
proclaim himself Lucilla's lover, but as often a
thousand selfish motives interfered and saved
him, not as he imagined, from a delighted ac-
ceptance, but from a decided and mortifying
rejection.
*
It was just as the Temples were about to de-
part, at about three o'clock in the morning, for
the little shabby house, which must seem doubly
shabby and distasteful after so much elegance
and splendour, that while showing Lucilla a cu
rious antique on a reading-table, Sir Felix saw
a copy of the magazine, and with it a note in
the hand of Lucilla Undermine. He smiled,
and opened the note. "Poor girl!" he said, "I
must call on her; she is partial, certainly, but
evidently my poor Essay has struck her fancy,
and convinced her judgment. Will you oblige
me by reading this aloud?”
"DEAR AND ADMIRED FRIEND:
"I send you the Magazine. You will find
the first article, which is from my pen, to be a
poor attempt to do some little justice to your
sublime Essay. I fear it is not in my best style,
A more elegant and tasteful petit souper could for I am, alas! at once bewildered and dis-
not have been devised, had he, instead of the heartened by my recent close contact with your
portionless daughter of "poor Temple," ex-dazzling genius; my mental vision is affected,
pected a Princess of the Blood Royal to sit at
as my bodily one might be by a long scrutiny of
his board. He was in the most delightful spirits, the sun. There are some of your exquisite.
and a mixture of tender deference might be seen and original_thoughts I wish to discuss with
to soften the habitual courtesy of his manners. you, some of your grandest conceptions I want
Mr. Temple was cheered by this brief return to you to help me to analyze, and here and there
that style of life to which he had been born.a comet-like thought you must assist me to
Tom was wild with joy, and, under the influ-
ence of the champagne, he privately poured into
his glass, while his father was wrapt in pleasing
thought, he became very talkative and rather
contemplate. I have several other notices en
main, but I must see you about them; I shall
be alone and disengaged to-morrow, if you will
honour me by a call, any hour you please.
I
66
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Patiently as the Chaldean of old might have marvelled as he read, to find so extensive and
watched the dawn of a new planet, will I await so sublime; then judicious and somewhat spar-
your approach, most gifted of the sons of mening extract, with an artful suggestion, that to
"LUCILLA."
It was wise in Sir Felix to cause Miss Tem-
ple to read this absurd note aloud, as, had he
done so himself, it would have been trebly ludi-
crous; as it was, Lucilla by a cough disguised
her irresistible merriment, and Sir Felix was
luckily so fascinated by the rhapsodical eulogy
of his Essay, contained in the Magazine,
that she had time to recover her composure be-
fore she again attracted his notice.
To see himself thus praised and almost dei-
fied in print, was to him as new as it was fas-
cinating.
wrongs, he was obliged to bury his face in his
handkerchief to conceal his emotion.
It was some little time before he quite reco-
vered his graceful calm, and then he said to
Lucilla, "It is sweet to be appreciated, although
reprieve of an unjust sentence, namely neglect,
which to an author is death, may upset the
strongest nerves for a moment. Tom, I see,
is asleep, and your father deep in that book of
Historical Autographs; this being the case,
I
must beg your patience for a mioment, while I
read you the note I wrote to that gifted girl, in
return for her first flattering tribute;" so say-
ing, Sir Felix took out of a writing-case a formal
copy of his production.
lavish more would be to reward an ungrateful
and niggard public, but that the fountain was
opened to all; they had only to drink and be
wise. The whole was wound up by a personal
sketch of the great author of so great an "Es-
say ;" and so touchingly was this mighty son
of Plutus and the Muse brought before the pub-
lic, so boundless was his philanthropy repre-
sented to be, so simple his natnre, so earnest
his love of science, so sublime his devotion to
study, and so simple and endearing his charac-
ter as a man, that the tearless eyes of Sir Felix
moistened for the second time for many a year;
and as Lucilla (not without emotion, for the
He was quite unacquainted with the ma- tribute was eloquent. Sir Felix had been kind
chinery and dessous des cartes of publishing. He as a friend, and unsuccessful as an author, and
had therefore used no influence and exercised she was young and impressionable) read the
no arts to get puffed and praised into notice. grand final tribute to his great and unacknow-
He had had his Essay printed at his own ex-ledged genius, his silent merits, and his patient
pense by an unenterprising publisher, who,
aware that it had neither originality nor talent,
thought the less it was brought forward the
better; he did not like to refuse the job, but he
was a little ashamed of it, and the result was
that it fell still-born from the press. Among
the underlings of authorship, and the hacks on
the literary high-road, Sir Felix had no ac-
quaintance; of course the higher reviewers were
not likely to notice an Essay in which they saw
no merit, and which was not published by the
proprietor of the periodicals they edited, nor
written by one of their personal friends; and
so, entirely through mismanagement and want
of experience, the "Essay on Taste," though
written by a rich baronet, was as dead a failure
as if it had been written by some poor scholar
who paid for his hobby by incarceration at his
printer's suit. Now though the Essay was bad,
meager, borrowed, and pedantic, many much
worse, have by judicious management, been
puffed into celebrity, advertised till people in
sheer weariness felt compelled to take what
was ever so obtrusively and constantly offered,
and an ephemeral reputation had been purchased
at a tolerably high price. But though he would
not have grudged the price, Sir Felix had never
been put in the way of making the purchase,
and therefore he considered himself an ill-treat-
ed author, an unrecognised, unappreciated ge-
nius, a step-son of the Muses; therefore the
puffs and praises of others filled him with envy,
and a bitter sense of slight and wrong rankled
in his heart; and therefore like oil into a wound,
or balm upon an irritated spirit, came the printed
and enthusiastic eulogies of Lucilla Undermine's
daring pen. Roundly she rated and abused what
she called "a supine and venal press," for its
neglect of that genius, which, to all its other
celestial attributes, added that divine and ro-
seate modesty, which like an attendant spirit,
betrays the presence of the God! then followed
an erudite, and by no means contemptible list
of those sons of Fame, who entitled at their
very birth to a heritage, had to conquer where
they ought only to have claimed, and often only
received after death those honours which should
have gladdened their lives. Then came an
analysis of the " Essay," and a view of its
scope and its design, which Sir Felix himself
The style was somewhat stiff, and so was the
writing, and Lucilla could not but smile when
she contrasted its pompous condescension and
inflated common-place, with the almost insane.
rhapsody which had called it forth.
"MY DEAR MADAM,
"I take this opportunity of expressing my
sense of the honour you have done me, and the
confidence you have shown in my discretion—
an honour which, I beg to say, I fully appre-
ciate, and a confidence, which allow me to add,
you will not find misplaced. Permit me to state,
in reply to your flattering proposal that our ac-
quaintance should assume the more lively garb
of friendship (this last sentence Sir Felix read
with peculiar emphasis, as if convinced it was
at once figurative and fine)-permit me, I say,
to state in reply, that to a lady of your discern-
ment, I shall be proud to pay the tribute of a
lasting friendship, and a well-won regard. Al-
low me to add, that I beg you will accept the
accompanying copy of my Essay on Taste,' as
a small token of my consideration and esteem.
In conclusion, let me say, that although cir-
cumstances over which I have no control (here
he looked up, as if this were very bright) may
compel me to postpone the pleasure of waiting
on you, I will yet take an early opportunity of
paying my respects in person to my fair critic.
And with compliments to your circle, and re-
newed acknowledgments for the high opinion
you have been pleased to form of my poor
talents.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
67
"I am, dear madam, with a high sense of your
merits, and best wishes for your welfare,
"Your obliged and obedient,
"FELIX ARCHER."
There were very few things Lucilla could
have said which would at all have satisfied the
omnivorous vanity of Sir Felix, or have ap-
peared to him as a just meed of praise, for a
composition which he considered as unequalled
in epistolary chef-d'œuvres.
rising, fair Lucilla, just as to me it seems to
set! Farewell!"
"Good night," faintly murmured Lucilla, as
she sank back in the carriage, and a feeling of
dislike and impatient scorn of Sir Felix mingled
itself with the bitter disappointment of all her
hopes connected with her poems.
She remembered the complacency with which
he dwelt on his own praises, the silent rapture
with which he revelled in his own prosaic com-
mon-place, and a feeling of resentment and de-
He was about to propose to her to read her rision swelled her bosom, as the large tears
some other letters of his own on different sub-filled her eyes. "I will hear what Di Moricini
jects, of all of which he had copies, neatly writ-
ten, dated and stitched into separate covers, but
Lucilla's quick eye caught the dimensions of one
he was about to commence upon, and wearied
past endurance with a prosing egotism of which
she had to bear the whole brunt, she said "I
must deny myself this pleasure, Sir Felix, for
poor mamma will be watching for our return so
anxiously, and she is still so delicate!"
"Mrs. Temple will feel sure you are enjoy-
ing yourself, my sweet friend," said Sir Felix,
taking up the dreaded paper.
"And your horses ?" said Lucilla.
"True, they are waiting all this time in the
cold night air, and one has recently had a ten-
dency to a cough. Ever considerate and self-
denying," said Sir Felix, gently pressing her
hand, "how charming does such forethought
and unselfish conduct make you appear, to one
accustomed to those reckless women of rank
and fashion, who, to gratify themselves, would
sacrifice the finest horses in my stud. Come,
Tom, my boy! your sister will not be detained."
Now that his horses were fairly brought be-
fore his mind, Sir Felix was as eager to speed
his guests as he had been to detain them.
Have you looked over my poems," said
poor Lucilla, anxiously, as he handed her down
stairs, not having had courage before to ask the
egotist what he thought of her beautiful effu-
sions.
Scarcely, my dear Miss Temple; certainly,
not sufficiently to give you a valuable opinion;
but I see at once, that though you have talent,
you want the handling,' as we say of painters,
the conception is very fair, but the versification
often careless. However, I will not disappoint
you-you shall have an opinion which you may
find profitable.. A running commentary of mine
may be of great use to you. You have much
to do."
Then," faltered Lucilla, "in the present
state of the poem, you do not think it available
for publication?"
(C By no manner of means. I doubt, now I
have your writings before me, whether they
would do for the public; however cultivate
them to the utmost-they will enrich your con-
versation, and serve to adorn private life."
thinks of that poem," she said to herself, "he
is a man of genius. That cold pretender! how
should he appreciate poetry-he whose very
prose is made up of old copy-book sentences.
I am afraid if I see much of him I shall quite
hate him. And with his conceit, toleration will
pass for encouragement. At any rate, he will
not help me forward in the world of letters. I
wonder whether Di Moricini has any influence
in the literary world?"
But the carriage stopped at the humble home
of the Temples, and woke Tom out of his sleep,
and Lucilla and Mr. Temple, the former out of
a mournful, the latter a delightful reverie.
CHAPTER XXX.
•
WHILE Mr. Temple hastened to the room of
his watchful and anxious wife, to re-kindle from
the newly-lighted lamp of Hope in his own
heart, the half-extinguished glimmer in hers—
in other words, to communicate to her the
boundless and well-founded expectations Lord
Lofty's conversation and invitation had given
rise to, Tom stumbled, half-asleep, into his at-
tic, and Lucilla hurried into her own little room.
The sun was now fairly rising-the east was
gay with rose and amber clouds, and the rest
of the sky looked cold and gray. It was a chill
and comfortless light that came into Lucilla's
room, where, as Norah was no lady's maid, and
had enough to do in her own department, every-
thing remained in the confusion in which Lucil-
la had left it, when she had hastily dressed
herself.
Drawers in disorder and half-open, boxes
scattered about, her little toilet-table (generally
so neat) all
so neat) all in confusion, gloves here, slippers
there, artificial flowers and bows strewing the
bed, and the morning sun beginning to peep in
and light up and laugh at all this discomfort and
disorder.
Now Lucilla was by habit and nature very
neat, and what in old times was called notable
and tidy, and this chaos of confusion added not
a little to the sense of desolation, discomfort,
and depression, which weighed upon her spirits.
The great exhilaration and delight she had
felt at the Theatre naturally brought a reaction,
and produced feelings of weariness and gloom,
but everything tended to confirm and increase
this depression.
"But you gave me hopes, Sir Felix."
"Then Sir Felix was rash and premature,
fair friend; at least, so it seems to him now;
but I will go over the lines, and, as I said be-
fore, give you a full commentary on them; but
much as I admire them, I feel sure they are not She looked round the little room, and the pre-
suited for publication. Au revoir, fair friend! sent seeming a dreary chaos-the past all_pain
God bless you, Temple! Good-bye, Tom, my-the future all fear, doubt, and danger. Even
boy! Remember, Wednesday! Salute Mrs. the thought of Lord Lofty was tinged with the
Temple for me! Why, positively, the sun is dread and hopelessness of her spirit, and she
68
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
could not believe that any good could really | ernor. Shame on him, to let such a daughter
await her fallen and fated family.
Of Sir Felix she thought with a distaste,
which was fast growing into aversion. Of
Lord Trelawny, with an angry terror and re-
sentment at the unjustifiable annoyance he
caused her, and which a complication of feelings
and circumstances seemed to compel her to
bear in silence, and thus almost to seem to con-
nive at. On Di Moricini she dwelt with a ten-
der regret, which, when she thought of her pa-
rents, and their deep disappointment (should
she form a preference for a foreign and penniless
artist), was almost a foretaste of remorse!
And all this time she has done nothing with
the dreaded paper, which continues pinned in-
side the cloak, which has fallen around her.
She looked into the little oval glass which
had so often reflected her smooth and Hebe
face; she started, so wan, so cold, so worn did
she seem to herself. "I am quite a model for
a picture of Desolation," she thought, as she
looked on her long hair, quite uncurled, the
troubled expression of her heavy eyes, the cold-
ness and ruefulness of her whole expression.
"Habitual discontent would soon make me
look old and ugly," she murmured, with a youth-
ful naivète peculiarly her own. "And after all,
yhat have I to complain of so bitterly? Are
not my parents spared me? Do they not love
me?
Am I not enabled to comfort and assist
them? Did not the God of Mercy's hand seem
almost visibly out-stretched to guide me, where
I should be able to turn my talents to account
in their dear service? Have I not health,
youth, powers of mind, and in the opinions of
some, charms of person? Have I not dear, tor-
menting, but beloved Tom? Oh, I am most un-
grateful! I have never lost one dear one!
Never known, what my heart foretells me must
be the irremediable, the unbearable grief. Then
up, thou thankless one! I ought to dance for
gratitude and joy, not droop in weak and futile
anguish, that a few trials are sent to try of
what materials I am made! A few minutes
will make this den of disorder the neat and
maiden bower it is wont to be. Allons courage!"
So saying, the ready-handed girl set seriously
to work, and in half an hour no chamber of in-
nocence and beauty, though it might look cost-
lier, was more pleasing to the eye.
She then arranged and bound up her match-
less tresses, bathed her face and hands, closed
her shutters, refreshed her soul with prayer, and
was about to seek her pillow, when the thought
of the odious billet haunted her; at first, she
had resolved not to read it, but female curiosity
prevailed: sophistry persuaded her it was ex-
pedient, nay, necessary to do so, and snatching
it from a drawer, where she had put it, she read,
(written in pencil) :
"Haymarket.
"I knew you would be here to-night, and I
was impatient to see you again. Your beauty
surpasses my expectations, now the envious
bonnet and shawl are gone! What coldness in
man, and injustice in fate, that such a creature
should be doomed to wear out the rosy hours of
her brilliant youth as daily teacher to a clothier's
daughter. You see I know your story. I pre-
sume, the staid old bird behind you is your gov-
wear herself out, in the degrading and thank-
less task of teaching. Sir Felix Archer I know,
by report and sight; beware of him! he is a
notorious jilt! I hope soon to see you, when I
can tell you more fully of my plans and feelings.
Do not betray this confidence; you cannot de-
feat me, but may bring ruin, and even blood
shed into your family, by any want of discre
tion. Be silent, and happiness awaits you.
"Yours, as you make me.”
Poor Lucilla! timid and inexperienced, she
trembled as she read this bold and mysterious
communication. It was written very closely,
and the longer she dwelt on it, the more mysti-
fied, alarmed, and bewildered did she feel. How
had this man learnt her private history? How
ascertained what she so wished hidden from all
the world-her occupation at Miss Trueblue's?
How found out that she was going to the Hay-
market that very night? She would tell her
father-yes, she was resolved. But, no; ruin
and bloodshed, this mysterious and evidently
powerful man told her would be the result! and
if that were but a threat used to alarm her, still
she well knew that directly her parents heard
of this affair, their peace would be gone. All
assistance for them, through her attendance on
Miss Trueblue, would be at an end.
Her mo-
ther would never let her leave her side. Per-
haps her father would seek out this insolent
and bold man, and then who could foresee the
result? No, she would consult Miss Trueblue,
and her alone. And so saying, she closed her
shutters, and in spite of the many perils and
distresses that surrounded her, the sweet sleep
of seventeen soon stole over her wearied spirit;
nor did she awake till the broad sun, and Norah's
broad face peeped in at once, and the Irish maid
rousing her hy her merry laugh, exclaimed—
Faith, then, Miss Lucilla, it's yourself is
wanted below to make the tay! and I'd have
rung the bell long ago to rouse ye up, if I hadn't
thought you'd have done it yerself; but make
haste, a cuishla! for the masther has had the
pin in his hand this hour, and done a sight
o' writin', and the misthress is getting up to
breakfast wid ye the morn, and lukes for all the
world as fresh as a rose !"
Lucilla needed no more; her poor father al-
ready at his work, her mother actually getting
up to breakfast, for the first time since her
dreadful illness! Rapidly Lucilla made her
neat and simple toilette, and was in the parlour
with the tea made, when Mr. Temple led in,
with a sort of triumphant courtesy, his fond
and beloved wife. Lucilla darted forward to
embrace and welcome them; she saw that her
father, though pale and worn, was full of hope;
and as for her mother, her eyes sparkled, her
cheeks were flushed, and her whole appear-
ance betokened a feverish kind of joy. Lu-
cilla knew full well that to Lord Lofty all this
exhilaration was owing, and she shuddered to
think what would be the result of that disap-
pointment which her less sanguine nature taught
her to believe was not quite impossible. At
first, as if by mutual and tacit consent, the
subject of these new hopes was avoided, but by
degrees they began to give utterance to those
thoughts of which their hearts were full.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
69
"Nothing very cheap can be very good, my
darling," said her husband, "and our dear Lu-
cilla does her best to keep our housekeeping
within the narrow limits we prescribed; but I
hope the time is fast approaching, when we
shall be able to give her a little more scope,
and then we shall see a very different result."
"You think, dearest," said Mrs. Temple,
"from Lord Lofty's manner, that he must have
something immediate in view for you."
"This tea is not very good, my love," said | peace and competence, Mrs. Temple was en-
Mrs. Temple.
abled to take a walk, leaning on her hus-
band's arm. He led to the Regent's Park,
where the air, the scene, the trees, the water,
everything filled her heart with hope and peace;
and not even in the blissful period of their im-
prudent courtship, the stealthy walks of unut-
terable bliss had they clung more fondly to
each other, or looked forward with a happier
confidence than now, though Mr. Temple is
obliged to sustain his wife's tottering steps, and
often to make her rest on the benches they pass,
and though all who see her, look with pity on
her wan and wasted cheek, and prophesy, in-
wardly or to each other, that she is not long for
this world of care.
Yes, I certainly understand so; either some
appointment, or a living."
A living in some lovely country is what I
pine for," said Mrs. Temple. "Oh! to look
out on hills and woods, to breathe the pure
balmy air, to see the ruddy children of the
poor peasantry, instead of the squalid offspring
of want and vice; the very picture revives my
spirit."
"God grant it may soon be realized," said
Temple, fondly pressing her feverish hand;
"and then, if other anticipations prove founded
-eh, Lucilla, little blushing rogue!—we may
indeed hold up our heads."
Lucilla did indeed blush, but earnestly de-
clared she blushed without a cause, as no an-
ticipations connected with her had any founda-
tion.
“Of course not," said her father, guided by a
look from his wife.
And here Tom came in, and having heard
Lord Lofty's remarks to his father, and being
himself of the most sanguine of tempers, he
proceeded to enlarge on their brilliant prospects,
to build episcopal palaces in the air to foretel
all that could delight and comfort, and, even
though his parents knew how much of what he
said, sprung from ignorance and inexperience,
they listened with pleasure, and were beguiled
the while.
Fain would they have induced Lucilla to send
an excuse for that day, at least, to Miss True-
blue, and spend it with them, in delightful anti-
cipations; but, besides that, Lucilla saw no
justifiable excuse for such a step; she had her
own private reasons for wishing to consult Miss
Trueblue; and, much against Tom's wish, she
insisted on his escorting her there. Tom had
a very important object in view, in which Jock
was the only coadjutor he required; and he was
so angry with his sister for delaying this object,
that he said-
"Papa, I assure you Lucilla is so mean, that
when you are a Bishop, if you don't prevent her,
she'll still go out to teach Miss Trueblue.'
|
We must leave them for a while sitting fondly
together under the shady trees, going over and
over again all Lord Lofty had said, and hasten
to inquire why Sir Felix Archer's carriage
stands so long, and at so early an hour, before
the private residence of Mr. Undermine, in
Bedford Row.
CHAPTER XXXI.
GREAT had been the commotion produced at
the Undermines by a note from Sir Felix Ar-
cher to Miss Lucilla Undermine, which arrived
there at about eleven A. M., and signified, in
language pompously condescending, that if per-
fectly convenient, he would have the honour of
waiting on her in the course of an hour; ad-
ding, that he wished to thank her in person
for her matchless criticisms on his "Essay on
Taste," and to consult her on many important
matters.
Now Lucilla Undermine possessed a very
prominent and well-developed organ of Secre-
tiveness, and it required all her sister's organs
of Causality and Acquisitiveness to obtain any
idea, in a general way, of what Lucilla was
about.
Her rhapsodical epistles to Sir Felix, and
her critique in the Magazine, she had kept
to herself; so that when she read aloud this
note, it was universally considered that the
lucky girl had made an impression on the
wealthy Baronet, and that he was feeling the
way to make her a proposal.
"As to all that about critiques and Essays,"
said Mrs. Undermine, "I consider it a mere
blind, but I can see with half an eye what he's
after; however, we had better seem to suspect
nothing-you girls and myself will set of to
walk to Highgate, then we shall be out of the
way; and as you, Lucilla, cannot take a walk
before Sir Felix comes, I advise you to have
the cold bath again, to strengthen your intellects
and freshen your beauty."
"Then she shall go in a mitred carriage, my
boy," said Mr. Temple, rubbing his hands, "for
whatever Lucilla wishes to do, I shall be quite
sure is 'wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.'"
Lucilla felt a strong inclination to deserve
this praise better by telling her father of Lord
Trelawney's conduct and communication; but
she could not bear to damp his rare and de-traordinary occasions," said the mother; "you
lightful mirth, and the threatened result held
her back.
Taking the arm of the unwilling Tom, she
hastened to set out, leaving her father and mo-
ther to discuss their brightened prospects, and
to feed each other's hopes. Under the influ-
ence of her newly-awakened anticipations of
"I have had the cold bath once, mamma."
"Once may do for ordinary, but not for ex-
have just time for it, and you really do not look
at all yourself."
The daughter yielded, for she saw her cheek
was pale, and she felt some kind of nervous
anxiety and misgiving, when her eldest sister
sneeringly said "And if you become Lady
Archer, what is to be done with Mr. Rory
70
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
O'Brien? I suppose you don't expect to keep | every mile, let us see what their sister Lucilla
them both to yourself."
is doing in Bedford Row.
"You are welcome to him if you can get him,"
was the reply of the lip, but unconfirmed by
Lucilla Undermine's heart; for whatever pre-
ference she was capable of feeling, she felt for
this hotheaded, clever, eloquent, boasting, ro-
mancing, and intriguing Irish barrister. And
though she could bear to think of giving him up
for title, wealth, and position, she could not
calmly contemplate his belonging to any one
else, and, least of all, to her sister, between
whom and herself there had always been a
spirit of rivalry and dislike:
66
:
Why did you remind her of that briefless
barrister, who'll never earn 'salt to his por-
ridge,' "" said Mrs. Undermine, angrily, to her
eldest danghter, as they strode to Highgate;
"didn't you see she changed colour? She has
a sneaking kindness for that 'beggar on horse-
back,' who'll ride to we know who, and that
soon. All who care for her should try to put a
stop to that dangerous intimacy; and I'm sure,
even if Sir Felix were not the great match he
is, I should rejoice to see her engaged to him,
or to any honest man with a competency."
If you so dislike Rory O'Brien, why have
you not forbade him the house, mother," said
Miss Hebe.
"Oh, I cannot do that, if Lucilla wishes him
admitted."
"But you did, with young Squander," pouted
Hebe.
"And with young Dashington," said her sis-
ter; "But Lucilla's quite your pet, and whatever
she does is right."
Lucilla, my dears, has a masculine mind—
my energy and your father's cunning; whatever
she does, is right-she's seldom 'in the wrong
box,' as you will say when you drive about in
Lady Archer's carriage, and are chaperoned by
Lady Archer, perhaps at Almack's, and at Court.
And now walk on, for I hate lagging, and I have
much to do when I get home. I would cer-
tainly forbid Mr. Rory O'Brien the house, if I
did not think my doing so might rouse Lucilla's
spirit of opposition; besides, I feel sure she is
bent on securing Sir Felix, and so you see I
might be putting the saddle on the wrong
horse.'"
"That, I fancy, you are doing now," mur-
mured the eldest Miss Undermine; "It seems
no one is suspected of the power to attract or
win Rory O'Brien, but Miss Lucilla; however,
that may not be the case, after all. Nous ver-
rons."
"Come, girls! don't let the grass grow under
your feet," shouted the stalwart mamma, who
was in advance. "Take care of the minutes,
those wandering elves. The hours, my girls,
will take care of themselves; a minute saved
is a minute gained.'"
And so, with many a wise saw, and shrewd
proverb, in some instances, verbatim, in others,
adapted for their use, the mother hurried them
on. Many people turned to gaze at this hand-
some and powerful woman, whose crimson
cheeks and buoyant, active step, her daughters
vainly strove to emulate, although they walked
as for a wager, and their glowing cheeks were
such as Hygeia might have been proud of.
While they inhale new health and vigour with
|
;
A little revived and invigorated by her cold
bath, Lucilla Undermine made the most be-
coming toilet she could devise; and, aware
that to such men as Sir Felix, delicacy and sen-
timent are woman's greatest charms, she as-
sumed the airs of a belle defaillante, shaded her
plump cheeks with a little softening blonde cap,
with a few lilies of the valley in the border,
and a demi-vale thrown over it: simply braided
her glossy hair, put on a most becoming white
muslin morning gown, trimmed with white lace
and knots of pink ribbon, and threw round her
buxom form a white lace shawl, lined with rose
silk; her hands, which a little betrayed the ple-
beian, were concealed, as much as possible, in
fancy mittens, and her foot judiciously kept out
of sight.
She let down the light-blue curtains of the
library or morning-room, where she meant to
receive her visitor, because she knew, through
that coloured medium, a softening pallor would
be given to her very blooming face. An armed
chair was placed, as if accidentally, by the couch.
on which the young lady reposed, and near her,
was a table furnished with writing materials,
reviews, magazines, papers, MSS., and we need
scarcely add, Sir Felix Archer's "Essay on
Taste;" a few cards of men of some literary
eminence were also there-they were clients of
her father's, most of them at law with their pub-
lishers, but Lucilla Undermine chose to have it
appear that they were personal friends of hers.
She certainly did look unusually attractive,
piquante, and even delicate.
The idea of adopting a style of dress and ap-
pearance so different from her usual one, had
been taken from her observation of the great
effect produced on Sir Felix, by the intellectual
delicacy of Lucilla Temple's style of beauty,
and his admiration of the simple and softening
style of her dress.
It wants about a quarter of an hour of the
time of Sir Felix's visit, and that gentleman, if
he possesses no great virtues, has, at least, all the
minor ones, and punctuality among the number.
•
Lucilla Undermine hears wheels approaching,
and she steps with a beating heart to the win-
dow, and peeps through the blue curtains like
Aurora through the azure canopy of heaven;
but she sees not the faultless and elegant equi-
page of Sir Felix Archer, moving smoothly
along, with the glossy high-bred horses, and
brilliant harness, the chariot in such quiet, yet
perfect taste, and the handsome liveries of the
well-trained servants; no, it is a very different
vehicle which is fast approaching; one of the
gaudiest and dirtiest of the little street cabs,
with a raw-boned horse, wall-eyed, and groggy,
whose legs are bound up with sundry pieces of
dirty rag, and who looks what, in a biped,
would be called singularly knock-kneed.
large driver, with a battered hat, and an old
ragged and whity brown coat, is the Phaeton of
this equipage; but yet it makes Lucilla's heart
beat more than Sir Felix's chariot would have
done; for instead of the elegant Baronet en-
sconced in the soft cushions of his chariot, a
young and eager face is peering out of the win-
dow of the little street cab; nay, not only a
face, but head and shoulders are eagerly thrust
A
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
71
(6
out, on beholding for one moment, the face 'Rory," said Lucilla Undermine, relenting as
of Lucilla Undermine, which was instantly she saw him retiring in anger-yes, relenting,
withdrawn; the "fare," which was before dash- though every movement betrayed some new
ing through Bedford Row, pulled the check-discrepancy in his miserable toilette.
string, and with an Irish oath, ordered the Well, darlin', what would you wid Rory,"
coachman to stop. This was no very easy he replied; "speak out, for my time's gold."
matter, as the horse once set in motion, could
not be easily or safely pulled up; another Irish
oath ensued, but Coachee was by no means be-
hind-hand, and a loud wordy conflict was the
result. However, at last, the horse was brought
to a swaggering sort of stand-still, and Mr. Rory
O'Brien, for it was no other, let himself out at
some risk.
The street door of Mr. Undermine's house
was half open, for a pretty maid was joking with
the postman, who had just brought some letters,
and Mr. Rory O'Brien, darting past her, and
saying to her
!
"Don't incommode yourself, mavourneen,
I'll be me own trumpeter; I know the young
mistress is at home;" he scampered up stairs
and stood on the landing, just as Lucilla, alarm-
ed at the stopping of the cab, in which, from the
window, she had detected Rory O'Brien, called
out from the library, "Mary, I'm not at home
to any one but Sir Felix Archer; I'm not at
home to Mr. Rory O'Brien to-day.'
Very well, Miss," said a soft maid-like voice
at the door; "walk up Sir Felix, if you please."
"Sir Felix Archer, Miss."
"If it were," said Lucilla, "I should speak dif-
ferently. We cannot marry, Rory !"
"And what's to hinder us? we're both of
age."
"Yes! but what should we live on?"
"On Love and Hope, a cuishla, to say nothing
of the pretty fortune your father of course will
give you, and my lucrative and honourable pro-
fession, which alone would support you like a
Queen."
"The Queen of the Beggars!" said the lady,
nettled at his allusion to her expectations from
her father, which a little threw in doubt the else
flattering passion he professed for her.
"Besides," said Rory, "if I were once his son-
in-law, old Undermine would see the sense of
bringing my talents and ganius forward-briefs
would come pouring in like hailstones in a storm:
I'd have the finest practice in London, that is,
if I'd time to attend to more than I have now,
which is a noble practice as it stands."
"The only practice that you can boast of,
Rory," said Miss Undermine sharply, "is by no
means a noble one; it is that ignoble Irish prac-
tice of boasting and hoaxing, with which, al-
though you quite fail to deceive others, I actually
Under-though
believe you do sometimes half deceive your-
self, like your absurd boasts, and Captain Con-
olly's and Major Fitzgerald's, of the hundred
thousand pounders,' as you call them, whom
you could marry if you would."
The door was thrown open. Lucilla Under-
mine came modestly forward, her eyes cast
down, and raising them, met the jolly laughing
face of Rory O'Brien, who, being an excellent
mimic, had shammed the maid's voice, and now
exclaimed-
แ
So, so! you bewitching, deceiving, bewil-
dering daughter of Eve and Evil, you're not at
home, are you? Faith, it's myself has found
you out then, betimes. Och, ye drive me wild
with your cruel coquetry, and yer beautiful div-
ilry! Why you look lovelier than ever the tinth
muse, and the fourth grace; you darlint of the
world."
"Mr. Rory O'Brien," said Lucilla Undermine,
withdrawing the hand he had raised to his lips,
"this is an unjustifiable intrusion, and as I am
particularly engaged, I must beg you'll with-
draw; my parents do not allow me to receive
gentlemen alone."
Faith, then I'd better dismiss my equipage
yonder, and stay wid you, else you'll be com-
pilled to receive Sir Felix Archer alone, for it's
himself you're expicting this minute. It's my-
self would not countenance your rebelling against
the parintal ones, and committing the sin of
disobadience."
"Mr. Rory O'Brien," said Miss Lucilla Un-
dermine, much agitated, as the time for Sir Fe-
lix's visit was fast approaching, "it is to my
receiving you alone that my parents particularly
object; Sir Felix is coming on business."
Business, indeed! then it's myself has a
mind to send him about his business. What
business has he wid a pretty girl, I wonther. If
I wasn't engaged myself in a cause, that makes
my time worth a hundred pounds an hour, I'd
soon find out his business here. But I must be
off, for nothing can be done widout me; and so
good day, Miss Lucilla, and the next time I
come, I'll be welcome."
"It's as thrue as that we're min of honour."
Exactly," said the lady-"just as true."
"I'm glad I've brought you to raison; and
now I must be off, else I'll be a mint of money
out of pocket.
"Poor Rory!" said Lucilla, "it's a curious
thing, that false and foolish and boasting as I
know you are, I cannot help taking an interest
in your fate."
Lucilla, I'm an O'Brien, of a race of kings!
I'd be a king now, if Ould Ireland-
"First flower o' the earth, and first gim o' the say,"
had justice done her; then do you think that I,
wid royal blood in my veins, will demane my-
self to own to poverty and want? Not I; while
I'm alive I'll talk as if I had all the money the
Saxons have robbed me of.
But for their envy
I'd have the first practice at the bar! I've got
it in me, I only want an opportunity."
Well, go now, Rory; we will talk of this
another time."
Why will ye doubt that the heiresses are all
mad for me? ye feel in your own little heart
I'm the man to make a woman go wild."
“You'll make me go wild, Rory, if you stay
now."
"I cannot stay, or indeed I would. You're
on a wild-goose chase, Lucilla, after that elderly
gander, Sir Felix. It won't do, my darlin', the
purse-proud Southron will sneer at one, an
O'Brien has sued to, but it's myself is as full of
expadients as Sir Robert Pale himself. You
love me, Lucilla, and you know it, and you care
more for my little finger than for the whole el-
72
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
derly body of Sir Falix. Let us put our heads | his abundant hair washed, oiled, and properly
together, mavourneen, and if Sir Falix won't
have you, I'll show you a pretty revenge upon
him. Meet me in Russell Square Gardens this
evening; do, there's a swate sowl, and I'll put
ye up to something; say yes, and I'm off."
Yes, yes! I will," said Lucilla; for it
wanted but two minutes of Sir Felix's appointed
time.
"Then there's a kiss that a quane might covet,
for O'Brien's lips are red with royal blood, and
so 'mate me by moonlight alone,' darlint! and
don't deceive me, for the O'Briens are sure
friends, and sure foes too. Remember, love
or vengeance, on the faith of an O'Brien. Och!
the minutes run away as if they were wather
instead of gowld. A ce soir."
And so saying, this odd mixture of talent and
folly, pride and meanness, passionately embraced
the alas! willing Miss Undermine, and threw
himself again into the crazy and miserable ve-
hicle which awaited him; his object being, not
as he had so falsely boasted, any law business
likely to profit him, but an appointment with a
city usurer, to try to get and oft-rejected accept-
ance cashed at frightful interest, and in which,
we may here observe, he totally failed.
cut, and who would have enforced the most
scrupulous neatness and cleanliness in all re-
spects, have burnt all his sham jewellery, and
compelled him to wear clothes of a subdued
colour and usual cut, would have been repaid
for her trouble, for he had that hereditary air
peculiar to the well-born, and that variety and
charm of expression intellect alone can give.
Of his own powers of pleasing the fair, he
had a boundless opinion; and even with all his
disadvantages, he had made many useless con-
quests, among whom he might rank the selfish,
ambitious, and scheming Lucilla Undermine,
whose mind and person he certainly admired,
and whom he resolved to make useful to him,
and if he found it expedient-to marry. Parents
shunned and dreaded him; and directly he
showed any symptoms of preference in any
quarter, the doors were closed against him;
but this he looked upon as a tribute to his
charms, not as a tacit sentence passed on his
disreputable appearance, and doubtful position.
"Sure," he would say, "the next thing to
being loved and petted by the girls, is the being
dreaded and expilled by the ilderlies; for if it
were not for fear of my charms wid the spal-
peens, they'd only be too proud and too glad of
my condiscinsion in enlivening their dull dinner
wid my sparkling wit and humour."
Spite of his gaudy, ill-judged dress, his silly
Rory O'Brien was, as he had boasted to Lu-
cilla, of a very ancient and once illustrious Irish
family; but poverty had thrown him much
among demoralizing and worthless associates :
he was witty, droll, eloquent, boasting, passion-boasts, and careless scapegrace manner, he had
ate, and unscrupulous. He was tall, but very
awkwardly made, and though his face was very
plain, his personal vanity was boundless; his
only real charm was that winning smile, so
common to talent in any country, and to the
clever Irish in particular; and which revealed a
beautiful set of teeth.
In other respects, if he did not actually
squint-
"A cast in his eyes, to his looks added vigour."
He had a massive and knobby forehead, from
which stood out a profusion of shaggy rust-
coloured hair; of this hair he was very proud,
though not judiciously so; and a frill of bushy
whiskers to match surrounded his long face, of
the shape called "underhung;" sometimes a
reddish mustache or imperial peeped out, but,
as unprofessional, they were generally removed
in Term-time. He had a spirit of ill-directed
dandyism and poverty and bad taste united
to make this a misfortune, for neatness and
cleanliness were unknown to him, and finery is
indeed revolting where they are not her hand-
maidens. Imitation jewellery (large and showy),
gay colours of unusual shades, a "varmint
hat, generally ill-conditioned, boots out of re-
pair, and showy lemon-coloured gloves (bought
cheap, because soiled and spotted), these were
ingredients which good taste must at once con-
demn; and when we add to this, that a brick-
dust sort of tinge on his cheek was suspected
of not being laid on by Nature's cunning hand,
and that an old Spanish cloak of a bright cobalt
blue, with a fur collar, and large ormolu clasp
and chain, was used summer and winter to cover
all discrepancies, we shall, we hope, have brought
vividly before our reader, a person of some im-
portance in this tale-Mr. Rory O'Brien. A
good sensible English wife, who would have had
a keen eye to his own interests, and had in-
wardly vowed to rise "by hook or by crook," as
Mrs. Undermine would have said. He was
keenly on the watch for any opening, but a
friendless barrister has long to wait. Mean-
while he kept himself in finery and cook-shop
fare, by writing inflammatory articles for Repeal
papers and magazines in Ireland, and by con-
tributing to Radical periodicals in England. He
gave a few private lessons in law or classics
when he could get a pupil, copied MSS., revised
works, and in short, poor fellow, did anything
he could privately to prevent the descendant of
kings from being publicly pointed at as a pauper.
Had he been neat and quiet in his dress and
manner, his talents, which the shrewd and
powerful had remarked more than once, would
have brought him into some little practice; but
who would give a brief to a young barrister,
with a light blue cloak, an incipient mustache,
an enamel brooch (with a view of Lucerne in
an ormolu setting), lemon-coloured trowsers,
and primrose gloves, and to crown all, a strong
smell of musk?
Some few acquaintances, before they knew
him well, had tried to quiz him out of his ab-
surdities, and some friends to reason with him;
but he was obstinate beyond belief, and so furi-
ously passionate, and so great an advocate for
the pistol, that he was soon left to his own sad
want of taste and judgment.
He had a mother old and ill, who, out of a
small annuity, had saved and stinted as a mother
only could, to give her only son an education
and a profession; and even now that he was,
as the teachers say, "completed," and she had
to pay off some incumbrances and loans con-
tracted during his youth, she generally con-
trived to insert a dirty old bank note in the long
annual letter she wrote him, full of Irish news,
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
73
every Christmas; boundless love and praise,
accounts of her own aches and pains, and earn-
est inquiries into his progress in life, and ma-
ternal prognostics of boundless success in law,
literature, and matrimony. He had some little
affection and gratitude for this admiring and
adoring parent, and that was one redeeming
point in his vain and selfish nature.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"There is but one atmosphere in which my
soul can revel and expand," said Lucilla, fixing
her eyes upon him with what was meant for an
impassioned softness. "An intellectual atmos-
phere, and if that is too ratified, my frame suf-
fers for my spirit's ecstacy. In short, a night
spent with such a companion as this," and she
touched the crabbed-looking, uninviting Essay
on Taste,' may well account for a pale cheek
and a heavy eye."
This speech admitted of two interpretations;
but Sir Felix's bow, and the ineffable conceit
of his smile, left no doubt how he took it.
"I am so glad you like it," he said, almost
unconsciously taking her hand.
"It is so
sweet to be appreciated." The hand was not
withdrawn, and thus they sat for some time,
Miss Lucilla Undermine going rapidly through
a most flattering resumee of the "Essay on
Taste ;" and though Sir Felix certainly felt his
situation to be an awkward one, yet he could
not resign the lady's hand, until she withdrew
it; and therefore he certainly verified another
of Mrs. Undermine's old sayings, that "when a
lady is willing, a man looks like a fool."
However, the sudden entrance of a maid-
servant, to ask Miss Lucilla for the keys, in-
duced her to withdraw her hand, and after she
was gone, Miss Lucilla was so engaged in sub-
mitting to Sir Felix various critiques on his
work, which, although in papers of no conse-
quence, were still manna to his hungry vanity,
that this somewhat too lover-like position was
not resumed.
THE emotion Rory O'Brien had rekindled in
Lucilla Undermine's bosom, made her approach-
ing interview with Sir Felix rather distasteful
to her, and it was lucky that the difficulty of
drawing on a new pair of Parisian patent
leather boots caused Sir Felix to be a quarter
of an hour later than he had intended in Bed-
ford Row. This quarter of an hour gave Miss
Lucilla Undermine time to recover herself, and
to calculate. One of her mother's favourite old
saws was "It's better to be an old man's dar-
ling, than a young man's slave ;" and the pow-
erful imagination of Lucilla Undermine placed
vividly before her her future life, as Lady
Archer; and as Mrs. Rory O'Brien. Rory's
insinuating smile, irresistible manner, and ar-
dent embrace, faded from her memory; while
his jaunty, napless hat (in which he wore, with
some pride, the hole a bullet had made in the
rim, in one of his many duels), his thread-bare
coat, soiled gloves, and broken boots, came
back to arouse her contempt and prophetic fear; Time passes on rapidly when we are listen-
and at this very moment, a carriage stops at ing to our own praises, and Sir Felix had no
the door, a thundering rap follows with light-idea how long he had been thus engaged; and
ning speed. Lucilla steps to the window, and
catches one delicious glimpse of the most ele-
gant of equipages, the most perfect of horses,
and dashing of liveries. The love of opulence
and show, and parade and comfort rushes back
into her worldly heart; and so very desirable a
husband did Sir Felix seem at that moment, so
greedily did she covet that place by his side,
and so much was her scheming and intriguing
spirit roused by the difficulties she had to con-
tend with, that her cheek grew actually pale at
his approach, her eyelids drooped, and the hand
she mechanically offered trembled and grew
chill.
Sir Felix was a little surprised: this soft,
pale, femenine, and shrinking girl-was this
the bold-eyed, buxom, rosy-cheeked damsel,
whose glances had so courted his, and whose
forwardness, admiring as it seemed, had a lit-
tle annoyed his correct taste? Poor thing! it
was flattering to possess such power; a power
useless, nay, dangerous, but not without its
charın. Sir Felix's condecension became quite
regal. "My charming friend!" he said, detain-
ing her hand for a moment, "I am delighted to
see you well," was, alas! all his fancy suggest-
ed.
"I am not very well," said the lady, pen-
sively,
but that I can easily account for;
that "
"The weather is a little gloomy," said the
common-place Sir Felix, "and perhaps, like a
choice flower, you are under the skyey influ-
ence, and acutely sensible of any atmospheric
change."
K
even when that theme was a little exhausted,
and Miss Lucilla Undermine's raptures savour-
ed a little of sameness, Sir Felix was in no
hurry to go.
Like all men of the world, he dreaded above
all things, any misconception, and would not,
on any account, place himself in a false posi-
tion. Now, though Miss Lucilla Undermine's
attentions flattered him, and the adroitness
with which she mingled the eulogizing critic
with the admiring woman, gave a sort of nov-
elty to her homage, yet he had been too much
courted, petted, and admired, by women in
general, to have been at any time long amused.
or interested; and now that he was positively
in love with another, it was a marvel that two
hours should have glided by so fleetly; his
watch however, has told him that they are
gone, and yet he lingers-and the theme is no
longer himself, his genius, or his Essay; a tri-
umphant hope flutters at his fair companion's
heart, but it fades, as she, with a woman's
tact, perceives that his object is to lead the
conversation to her namesake, the fair Lucilla
Temple.
Yes, the soft and sentimental devotion of his
young companion has alarmed the cautious Sir
Felix; and he is very anxious, while securing
the friendship of so agreeable, clever, and use-
ful a friend, that no doubt of his sentiments, no
possible misconstruction of his motives should.
arise. "You are, I think," he said, “an inti-
mate friend of the beautiful Lucilla Tem-
ple?"
His companion winced a little, but with well..
74
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
•
*
acted enthusiasm replied, "We love each other
like sisters."
"Can one pretty woman love another?" said
Sir Felix.
"Can any one see Lucilla, and not love her ?"
archly asked the damsel.
of her mother's bold vulgarity - she was a
young Amazon for strength and energy, and
for health, and a sort of rustic bloom and beauty,
deserved her name of Hebe.
((
After she had clapped her hands, and cried
"Whoop," Sir Felix looked up with undis-
"No, I really believe not! Lucilla! it is guised horror, tinged with disgust; but recov-
another name for beauty, grace, affection!ering himself, he rose, and seeing a full-grown
Nay, you will think me an enthusiast, when I woman before him, he bowed in courtly style;
tell you, that the very name of Lucilla brings while Miss Lucilla Undermine vainly tried, by
an angel before my eyes
sundry frowns, signs, and mysterious head-
There was a vindictive sparkle in his com-shakings, to warn Hebe not to commit herself,
panion's eyes, as he spoke (assuming quite a and to induce her to retire.
youthful rapture), and a dark flush of jealousy No, no, Sir Felix," cried Hebe, with a sten-
and angry malice crossed her brow; for she torian voice, which made that gentleman flinch;
saw, by his making no allusion to it, that Sir "the days of bowing and scraping are at an
Felix had quite forgotten that her name, too, end between us. Let's shake hands and be
was Lucilla; she felt too angry to remind him | friends; I think it's high time, don't you, sis-
of it, and a dark and unprincipled vision cross-ter?" and seizing Sir Felix's delicate white
ed her mind for a moment, and suggested si- hand, she shook and wrung it till his very
lence on that point; the next moment, she shoulder ached.
smiled, and said "Mamma intends to invite "How long have you two been closeted to-
Miss Temple to spend a week with us, at Un-gether?" she began.
dermine Villa. She hopes you will be of the
party; we have little to offer by way of tempt-
ation."
me."
Nay, you offer everything that could tempt
Mamma, bade me renew the invitation."
"Lend me your pen, while I accept so
charming an offer. Are there pleasant walks
near your country seat?"
Yes, exquisite ones! so retired! so tho-
roughly rural! There you may court the
Muse."
Hebe, what do you mean?" stammered
the angry Lucilla Undermine.
"What does she mean, Sir Felix, by all her
winks and nudges? And what do you mean by
'pulling such a long face,' and sitting there as
grave as a judge? I twig, I twig,' as Renard
says. I'm de trop. Well, well, I'm off; I
never spoil sport.'
>>
"I do not understand your allusions, Miss
Undermine," said Sir Felix, haughtily.
"Don't you! then you're duller than I took
you to be! 'dull as ditch-water!'"
"There, I hope fair friend, to court some-
thing lovelier than the Muse; there, I willing."
open my heart to you;" and, at this very mo-
ment, he looked up: Hebe Undermine peeped
from behind an armed chair, laughingly clapped
her hands, and said, "Whoop!"
Really, your language is far from flatter-
"Well, then, why do you provoke me?"
pouted the romp. "You're as cross as two
sticks! I only wanted to have a bit of fun with
you."
"A bit of fun!" oh, how Sir Felix shud-
dered.
"I am a stranger," he said, "to what a bit
of fun' means.
"Ah! so I might have guessed; and that
being the case, I can tell you, you wouldn't be
the man for my money; and grand as you are,
I don't envy Lucilla-I pity her."
Lucilla! Sir Felix did not doubt for a moment
that Hebe meant Lucilla Temple; he had, as
we have said, quite forgotten (if he ever knew
it) the existence of any other Lucilla. These
words struck him; he knew how much young
girls are influenced in their opinions of men by
their companions' remarks, and he did not wish
to be represented to his beloved as a dull,
morose, and elderly beau. He therefore play-
fully rose, and taking Hebe by both her hands,
said "Perhaps, you may find out some day,
that I do know what a bit of fun' means, as
well as any one. We will play hide-and-seek
She had been some little time in the room,
which she had noiselessly entered, and stood
concealed by the high-backed chair, listening
to a conversation of which she mistook the
import, for, coming in just as Sir Felix, with
such enthusiasm, had proclaimed that the name
of "Lucilla" brought an angel before his eyes,
she had no doubt that the Lucilla meant was
her own sister; she therefore playfully crouched
down behind the chair, thinking in her own
hoydenish language, to "hear some courting
and see some fun;" and looking upon the
stately Sir Felix as her future brother-in-law,
a good deal of her awe of him vanished. When
she saw him, instead of the fondling and phil-
andering she had expected, preparing to write
a note, she grew weary of her place of con-
cealment, and jumping up she startled Sir Fe-
lix's delicate nerves and offended his refined
taste by the exclamation we have recorded.
Now, of all things in the world, Sir Felix held
a romp in the greatest horror and aversion-in the gardens of Undermine Villa; and you
most middle-aged dandies do; such have been will see that I can cry Whoop!' as well as
known, in their odious sport, to twitch off you can, my 'rosiest Amazon;' but say a good
toupés, to allude to pads, wrinkles, and gray word for me to Lucilla. Don't tell her, that 'I
hairs; they have all the rudeness of schoolboys, pull long faces, and look as grave as a judge!'
and all the privileges and immunities of women; I never do when she smiles. Give me a
but a vulgar romp was of course trebly detes-
table to Sir Felix, and Hebe Undermine was
(we grieve to own it) a very vulgar romp.
She had much of her papa's low cunning and
good character, and I'll give you-"
He took
a vinaigrette from his pocket, "this." And he
added suddenly, and with assumed gallantry,
kissing her plump and peony-like cheek, “this."
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
75
+
Hebe was not prepared for this “bit of fun ;”
nor was Sir Felix for the smart and rustic box
on the ear he received in return, which Hebe
instinctively applied, and which made lights
dance before Sir Felix's eyes, and his pale ear
tingle.
"For shame, Hebe !" cried Lucilla Under-
mine; "you ought to be proud, child, of Sir
Felix's notice !"
It was this-
"For my soul's idol, the beautiful Lucilla !"
He twisted the paper round the stem of the
flower, and handed it to her: "Will you place
this where you know I wish it to be?”
'I will," said the lady.
"Then God bless you?" fervently said Sir
Felix, handing her the flower, and at the same
time, with an instinct and a habit of gallantry,
"I'm not the girl to be proud of any man's raising her hand to his lips. Renard return-
kisses," said Hebe, wiping her cheek as a dairy-ing at that very moment, heard the benedic-
maid would have done; "I always give a
spanking box in the ear in return, that's the
way I pay them out.' It's for you to be proud,
and delighted, and honoured. I say, Sir Fe-
lix, you'd get a box in the ear from her. Well
I never !-why you're not a bashful man, sure-
ly? she's ready and you're not. Huzza!
Poor Lucilla! say I again!"
Sir Felix thought it would never do to be re-
ported as backward and bashful in such cases,
and so, in spite of a feeble show of resistance,
and a little struggle and demur, he succeeded |
in kissing Lucilla Undermine, too. Hebe du-
ring this struggle playfully made her escape,
and just at the moment Sir Felix kissed Lu-
cilla Undermine's cheek, Renard Undermine
entered at another door; he was about to with-
draw as if unperceived, but Sir Felix, a little
disconcerted, said—“ How do, Renard? come
in, and don't look so fraternal and terrible;
only a joke-no harm done, I take it; that lit-
tle romp, Hebe, challenged me to kiss her and
her fair sister: what man could resist such a
challange?"
|
|
tion, saw the caress, and beheld his sister col-
ouring with the flower in her hand. He, how-
ever, appeared to see nothing but the open
letter over which he was running his sharp at-
torney eyes.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE communication Renard Undermine had
to make, was one which caused Sir Felix Ar-
cher to elevate his eye-brows, and draw down
the corners of his handsome mouth; indeed, it
affected nothing less than the tenure by which
he held Felix Park-a place on which he had
lavished every modern refinement and Sybarite
luxury. The letter Renard Undermine held in
his hand was from Ferret and Scrape, lawyers
once employed by Sir Felix's eldest brother,
who, after a life of extravagance and folly, had
died of a broken heart. This unfortunate man
was father to that nephew of Sir Felix's whom
we have introduced to our reader. Felix Park
had belonged to him; he mortgaged it in a
time of disastrous anguish and peril; and as
he really doted on his child, upon whom it had
been as it were entailed, the struggle between
a prison and his son cost him his life. Al-
though it was cruelly unfair to his son, it was
not legally unjust to dock this entail, since, in-
heriting the estate from his grandfather, Sir
Felix's brother, Ralph Archer, was the last
person mentioned in the deed of entail, and of
course he had nothing to do but to suffer re-
Lucilla thought it looked graceful and femi- covery; this at last he did, the estate was mort-
nine to be submissive, and as she rose, she ex-gaged, and his brother, Felix Archer, even
tended her hand to Sir Felix, and said, "Let
me thank you, Sir Felix, for the intellectual
banquet your conversation has been to me."
"While you are making your adieus," said
Renard, "I will just run up stairs and fetch
a little document essential to my communica-
tion, Sir Felix."
"Hebe is only a silly child," said Renard,
rather gravely; "but my sister there, is a dis-
creet young lady, and as I have never had any
reason to accuse her of the slightest deviation
from the strictest propriety, so I exonerate
both her and you on the present occasion, and
feel the most perfect confidence in both. I
came here to speak to you on business. Sis-
ter, I wish to see Sir Felix alone; you had
better take a walk."
then a wealthy man, was the mortgagee. Now
Sir Felix Archer's conduct to his brother had
always been of that kind generally displayed by
the careful and rising members of a family, to
the extravagant and sinking.
Sir Felix did not quite refuse to assist his
brother, as long as there was any tolerable se-
"Are you likely to see Miss Temple, short-curity to be given for his advances. He pur-
ly?" asked Sir Felix, partly from a wish to
know, partly to renew in his companion's mind,
the impression of his attachment to Miss
Temple.
I shall probably see her this evening."
"Will you remember me to her?" he said;
"will you tell her all that has passed between
us?"
"Can you doubt me! ah, how little you
know of your poor friend's heart?"
Nay, I do not doubt you; and believe me,
fair friend, that though the world calls me the
favourite of fortune, I need the cordial and the
balm of your friendship, more than you can
guess. Stop," he said; and he took a splen-
did carnation from his buttonhole, and turning
to the table, wrote a line on a strip of paper.
chased several valuable policies of him, which
Ralph might, but for his brother, bave had some
difficulty in disposing of, and had found it quite
impossible to pay up; and the comfort Ralph
Archer found in this temporary relief, quite
hid from his mind that Felix had made a very
good thing of it, indeed! Then all the family
plate which Ralph, as eldest son, had inherited,
Felix bought of him at a somewhat higher
price than five shillings an ounce, which is
what he would have got for old silver at a
silversmith's; the same generosity was shown
him with regard to all old family relics, books,
pictures, furniture, china, &c., &c., Sir Felix
constantly reminding his brother that the value
of any given thing-
"Is just as much as it will bring."
76
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
And certainly no stranger would have given for | estate in Yorkshire, which had belonged to a
these heir-looms quite as much as did brother client of old Archer's, but somehow had glided,
Felix.
as such possessions often do, into the hands of
his solicitor.
Ralph quieted his own aching conscience
a little, by the conviction, which he did
his best to nourish, that Felix would never
have any children (he had then been twice
married); and that, if childless, he would
naturally leave his acquired fortune to his
nephew, while Archer Court was positively
entailed on his heirs male. But the time did
come, and with giant strides too, when Ralph
Archer had no more security of any kind to
offer, nothing else to dispose of; and then it
was that the heartlessness of Felix's character
dawned fully upon him. Ralph had ever been his
father's pride and his mother's darling; he was
one of the handsomest men of his day, and the
old solicitor determined to make a gentleman
of him for this, nature had evidently intended
him; even as a child he was ever ready to
give-while Felix hoarded his sugar-plums,
Ralph was lavish of his. The old solicitor
took the hint, but in the wrong way; he sent
Ralph to a public school, thence to Oxford,
then bought him a cornetcy in a flash dragoon
regiment; he married the Hon. Matilda Stan-
ley, the belle of a season, with matchless beau-
ty and illustrious birth, but alas! not only with
nothing, but worse than nothing, as the beauty
was in debt. They lived extravagantly, and
Ralph forstalled much of his property and sold
many of his reversions, so that at his father's
death he came into little except Felix Park.
His wife, the beautiful Matilda, had died in
giving birth to a son, our friend Frank, and |
Ralph Archer went on "faster and faster," till
disease of body and anguish of mind, laid their
heavy hands upon a ruined man; meanwhile,
Felix was bred up as an attorney; his boyhood
was darkened by envy of his brother's advan-
tages, his parents' lavish preference, and a
determination to beat him in the worldly race,
sullied hiselse praiseworthy industry and en-
ergy; the scapegrace and spendthrift played
into his hands. Very early indeed the dashing
cornet began to borrow of his attorney brother,
very early to sell small reversions to the wily
and watchful Felix; but Felix, though a man
of business at heart, had all the tastes of a
man of pleasure-tastes which he vowed to
gratify one day, but not yet. Felix was very
handsome too, and a rich widow of fashion,
whose late husband was client of the firm of
Archer, Undermine, Twist, Turn, and Archer,
had so many interviews with the insinuating
young Archer about her splendid jointure, that
at last she could not bear to lose sight of him,
and they were married!
It was not very long after this, that old Ar
cher died; and Mrs. Felix Archer, from the
imprudent use of a dangerous cosmetic, and
the still more injurious use of a tight corset at
a ball, entered the family vault of the Archers,
at Felix Park, a few weeks after it had been
opened to receive the old solicitor, Ralph Ar-
cher. So seldom does death, entering a family,
satisfy his greedy maw with one victim.
Yes, there they lay, side by side, the once
gay widow, his young son's wife, so lately dis-
playing her full-blown charms and gorgeous at-
tire, her rouge, and her ringlets, her turban,
her jewels, and her train; and there lay the
spare and worn little lawyer. She died at
forty-five, and he at sixty-nine, and both died
victims to the ruling passion. Oh, how often
is it thus! The immediate cause of her death
was as we have said, tight lacing at a ball, and of
his, a wet walk over the estate of a half-ruined
nobleman, previous to lending him a sum on
mortgage.
Felix Archer, free, and so well off! having,
through his late fashionable wife, been intro--
duced into good society, and now having that.
still better introduction, an income of about
£5,000 a year, and an unfettered hand-his
prospects are brillliant, indeed!
But now he aims at a title. In those days a
baronetcy might occasionally, though privately,
be purchased-such a thing was in the market.
Felix Archer presented a petition to Royalty
on an important occasion; Feilx Archer be-
came Sir Felix; but whether the petition, or a
sum of a few thousands, or his own personal
merits, procured him this honour, who shall
determine? And now it was plain sailing for
Sir Felix Archer on the ocean of fortune; now
was he like a fine picture, in a fine frame-
handsome, clever, insinuating; now was he
the darling of the mammas, and the desiré of
the daughters. And all this while Ralph Ar-
cher, his brother, was going as rapidly down
hill, as Sir Felix was hastening up. After the
mortgage of Felix Park, and the sale of every-
thing of value to his wealthy brother, poor
Ralph knew not what to do: luckily, a rich
member of his wife's family, Hugh Stanley,
adopted his sons, and poor Ralph retired to
Ostend. While living there in obscurity, and
almost in want, his brother, Sir Felix, married
again the beautiful daughter of a family of
rank, with £30,000.
Ralph applied to his brother for the third
time, since he had had no security to offer, and
for the third time in vain-more in vain, indeed,
than ever-for his former letters had been an-
counsel, and absurd assertions of incapacity to
assist him. This last letter was unanswered,
and the next tidings he heard of his brother,
were, that he was dead-dead in want, and
sorrow, and neglect and Sir Felix Archer be-
came master of Felix Park.
Yes, shortly after the marriage of the dash-
ing young dragoon with the Hon. Matilda Stan-
ley, with £2,000 of debt, the young lawyer re-swered, though with sarcasm, reproach, hollow
ceived the hand of the handsome widow, Mrs. |
Flaunterton, with a jointure of £2,000 a year.
Aide toi et je t'aiderai, is a French proverb, full
of wisdom and knowledge of men. No sooner
was Felix well off, than his father decided it
was necessary to do something handsome for
the dear boy, and so he did; in addition to his
share in the firm, which hitherto had been but
nominal, he made him an allowance, and se-
cured to him Archer Court, an ugly, but large
Felix Park was beautifully situated on the
borders of Windsor Forest. The building was
spacious and old, and united every charm of
historic association, picturesque dilapidation,
1
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
of the neighbourhood, how the prettiest of the
little coquettes smiled on the frank and hand-
some heir-and how even his mother looked
with pride and fondness (seldom shown to him)
on her eldest hope.
and discomfort. Much of the best part of the | suffer) ;-then, too, in the little juvenile parties
house was sacrificed to an immense old hall,
interesting to an historian or an antiquary, but
in which a modern gentleman would shiver
and shake, even in summer, and lay in rheu-
matics and agues. Then there were long dark
corridors, very convenient for the ghosts and
goblins which report said traversed them at
inidnight, smoky chimneys, and small windows,
but the whole was rich in draperies of ivy, and
in many a legend of siege and defence. And
the old building was rendered habitable. It
had belonged to the De Courcys for centuries,
but in the time of the father of old Ralph Ar-
cher, himself a lawyer, and by name Felix, it
had come to the hammer and been purchased
by him, just as it was-the ruinous old build-
ing, and the lands, which owed little of their
beauty to art or cultivation, and in fact. had al-though he inwardly vowed to revenge it; the
most regained-
"The raggedness of nature."
What evil joy and triumph were in his heart,
when it was all his! The woods, where he had
so often roamed in moody envy; the fields,
over which it was once such bitterness to see
the young heir canter; the waters, beneath
which his dark heart had wished (a Cain-like
wish) that his brother were laid; the stables,
where with boyhood's playful but provoking ar-
rogance, that brother had denied his donkey's
right to enter, switching him the while, with
a galling though sportive insolence, which the
younger and smaller boy could not resist,
ball room, scene of his brother's youthful
triumphs, and his own precocious anguish-
how all these crowded on his mind when first
he led his beautiful and high-born wife through
the rooms of the old hall, and the groves of the
park, and thence to the new and elegant man-
sion! And if a pale phantom would cross his
path of that brother, as he saw him on his poor
bed in a foreign inn, pinched with want, and
care written even on the brow of Death-that
love-phantom has no power over him in the flush of
triumph and success; but such phantoms bide
their time. It were no marvel if the day should
come, when he would give the very woods he
now so proudly gazes on, not to see that pinch-
ed, contracted form, that anxious look of an-
guish and despair, so awful on the face of the
dead; those bony hands, that desolate room—
oh! then, all the music of Italy, or dearer still,
the bleating of his flocks and herds, and the
welcome of his tenants, will not drown the em-
phatic words of the poor Flemish hostess as
she showed him the body previous to its being
coffined to be conveyed to the family vault of
Felix Park :
However, old Felix Archer did much for this
place, and changed its name from De Courcy
Castle to Felix Park, altering its nature almost
as much as its name; but yet, guided by a
clever architect, it was done in good taste.
Ralph, his son, followed in his steps; and when
it came into the possession of the second Ralph,
the fashionable dragoon, it was one of the
liest seats in the lovely county of Berks.
The man of fashion, whose chosen resorts
were London, Paris, and Baden-Baden, only
dwelt at Felix Park at seasons, when he could
fill the house with sporting friends; but when it
came into the possession of Sir Felix Archer, it
struck him that in one of the meadows there
was a delightful site for a modern mansion;
and a quarry of beautiful stone having been re-
cently discovered in an adjoining field, he im-
mediately set about building a house, which,
with the assistance of the first architect of the
day, was the beau-ideal of elegance and refine-
ment. No expense was spared, and as, luckily,
the old hall of the De Courcys stood out of
the way, and in a sort of hollow, while the
mansion of Felix Park smiled on a hill, Sir
Felix did not pull down the old place, but
allowed his steward, almost a gentleman him-
self, to inhabit it.
"Mon Dieu qui aurait dit qu'il avait un frere.
Il a manque de tout. Il est mort dans la mi-
sere! moi j'ai fait mon possible, mais je suis
pauvre-et il etait fier le pauvre homme. Il
ne voulait rien accepter, j'ai fait cela pour
l'amour de Dieu; qui aurait dit qu'il avait un
frere-et un frere comme Monsieur. Dieu aye
pitie de nous.'
pointment, or Sickness, inake one gap in the
fence that surrounds the prosperous man, they
will follow close, like hell-hounds, on the track,
steal on his solitude, dog him in his lonely walks,
hunt him to his pillow-house him to that last
home, the grave!
Sir Felix loved Felix Park, and gloried in it;
the estate had been his grandfather's, and to a
man of no birth that was something. Then he These words, and the poor woman's tears,
was popular and courted in the neighbourhood, as she crossed herself; these and the image of
and it was so near Windsor, and the air agreed that dead brother as he saw him last! these
with him, and he had obtained it in spite of are not for the rosy days of Hope and Happi-
what he had always considered the unjust par-ness, and Triumph; but if ever Grief, Disap-
tiality of his father; the brother he had always
envied and loathed, had been obliged to yield
it to him. How often had his narrow heart
been galled, even in boyhood, by the deference
paid in the neighbourhood to the young heir of
Felix Park-how as a child had his heart
swelled, and the bitter tears of premature pas-
sion rolled over his eyes, when a beautiful and
well-caparisoned pony was brought round for
the young heir, and a donkey was provided for
poor Felix-how the imprudent gibes and jeers
of his silly brother and his brother's tiger ate
into his very heart-and how heavy were the
blows inflicted on the long-eared son of toil
(but how often in this world do the innocent
|
And it is the best part of this very Felix
Park, so long the object of his dastard envy,
and later of his vile ambition, that by a mere
oversight of an attorney, seems now to be al-
most lost to him, now that he has half decided
on marrying the girl he loves with such selfish
passion-one (who being, neither like his first
wife a widow of forty-five, nor like his second,
a delicate creature, with a constitution ruined
78
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
+
said; "Ferret and Scrape conducted the whole
affair, made out the mortgage deed; had there
been any such flaw, they would have opposed
my taking possession."
"That was old Ferret and Scrape; they have
long been in another world. What their ob-
ject was, I cannot say; whether attachment
to your brother, who was the making of them;
whether to have you in their power, out of re-
venge, about that little case, in which they
made out that you jilted Scrape's daughter, and
struck old Ferret: or whether it was an over-
sight; but, as you know, old Ferret died before
your brother, and old Scrape of an apoplexy
soon after. Now, my own opinion is, that the
present Ferret and Scrape, juniors, knew noth-
ing about it; besides, we have had the deeds
all along in our possession."
by late hours, and naturally with a consump-
tive tendency), he confidently believes would,
by giving him an heir, save Archer Court at
least from his detested nephew-a nephew
who, if he inherited nothing else, did certainly
inherit his hatred of his brother-and save him
from the necessity of making a will, and of
outraging public opinion by leaving Felix Park
away from his family, to some public charity,
in which his uncharitable heart felt no interest.
Long and painful was Sir Felix Archer's
conference with Renard Undermine. It seemed
that a part of the estate, and that the very part
on which the mansion and the ornamental
grounds stood, and the field containing the
stone quarry, were held by a different tenure
-that is to say, Sir Felix's share consisted of
the old Hall of the De Courcys, and the farms
and meadows round about. But for the rest, "And have still?" asked Sir Felix eagerly."
it now became alarmingly clear to Sir Felix, "Yes, but it seems they have a copy; this
that not merely of the fields on which the mod- copy, which they met with lately, and looked
ern mansion stood, and in which he had laid over by chance, has set them on this scent. It
out his pleasure grounds, but also of that field seems your nephew Morice, did Ferret some
containing the stone quarry, so freely used by great service in Italy-risked his life, to save
him, in the construction of the modern man-him from banditti, or some such romance, and
sion, some necessary legal formalities had not
been gone through; and therefore the entail
was, with regard to that part, in full force,
and his hated nephew was the tenant in tail,
and not only entitled to it, but to all the back
rents, which had been accumulating in his fa-
vour for the last ten years, and which would
almost enable him to redeem the whole.
For some time, the workings of Sir Felix's
face, on first perceiving the probable truth of
this statement, resembled the approach of
paralysis; and his ghastly pallor, and the ner-
vous twitching of his limbs, made Renard Un-
dermine fear he would have a fit of some kind;
however, after a few minutes, and after drink-
ing a glass of French brandy, which Renard
silently went in search of, and tendered to him,
he recovered with a sigh so deep, that it was
almost a groan.
It had often been a source of mean and vin-
dictive delight to Sir Felix, to reflect, at how
absurdly small a price his brother's pride and
necessities had induced him to mortgage Felix
Park; even though the stone quarry had been
discovered, and they had sometimes discussed
the erecting of a mansion on the slope of one
of the meadows. Could this rash, foolish,
spendthrift, have leagued with old Ferret to
outwit him, the lawyer! did his brother, know,
while receiving the small and inadequate mort-
gage money, that this valuable part of the
estate would ultimately belong to his injured
and disinherited son; that he must succeed as
tenant in tail? was that his view in advising
him to build this new mansion? Who could
tell, who shall cross-question the dead? and old
Ferret and old Scrape were dead, and they had
conducted the whole affair; Ferret had died
before his ruined client, Ralph Archer, and
Scrape had died suddenly a year after. Per-
haps these men were in the plot against Sir
Felix Archer; perhaps they meant to hold
their knowledge interrorem over him, or, at their
own convenience, to let loose the tenant in
tail upon him, just when his splendid mansion
and grounds were completed.
"I am sure there is some mistake here," he
a great friendship has sprung up between them.
Now, partly friendship, and partly the hope of
profit, have set Ferret and Scrape up to this."
"It will require great caution, and much
consideration; luckily, the onus probandi rests
with them; and, as I paid my poor lamented
brother the mortgage money for the whole
estate, so, in equity, I feel justified in retaining
it, if I can."
Why, they state that the mortgage money
was not more than a very moderate price for
the freehold estate, namely, the old De Courcy
Hall, with the lands, farms, &c., thereunto be-
longing, without the fields on which your mo-
dern mansion stands, those which you have
laid out as pleasure grounds, and the quarry;
and if I am not much mistaken, they are pre-
pared to prove, that your eldest brother, Mr.
Archer, and his solicitors, Messrs. Ferret and
Scrape, were fully aware (and will pretend to
infer that you were so too) that that part of the
estate was copyhold, and it was always meant
by all parties that your nephew should continue
heir in tail. You see, as for all copyhold pro-
perty (entailed) recovery must be suffered in the
Court of the Lord of the Manor; and Mr.
Archer, being driven by his difficulties abroad,
when no such Court was sitting, was guilty
perhaps of a little ruse, in outwitting you; but
however, had not old Ferret and Scrape been
leagued with your brother, Mr. Archer, to de-
ceive you, and had not the former deceased
before you came into the estate as mortgagee,
and the latter so soon after, it would have been
seen to ere this; and I really believe, Sir Felix,
old Scrape managed the whole matter out of
revenge against you (and it might be some
feeling of attachment for your brother and his
son); you see, the latter being a minor, and
the whole estate being supposed to be included
in the recovery, and the mortgage, and the
transfer, at old Scrape's death, of all the deeds
to our office, your title never was disputed;
and, but for this infernal copy of the deed,
newly found by Ferret, junior, and that pry-
ing, meddling, blockhead, young Scrape, that
title never would have been arraigned."
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
79%
"But my nephew is so romantically high- | Felix's arm, who first flinches and then smiles;
flown and honourable, such a Quixotic ass in and for the first time, Renard lolls back in Sir
all worldly affairs!" said Sir Felix, trembling | Felix Archer's carriage.
with despair and terror, as with an ague.
"Ah!" said Renard, shaking his head, "but
if they prove to him that the mortgage money
was very inadequate, even to the value of the
estate, without the fields in question; if they
convince him his father always looked to this,
to indemnify his disinherited son a little-you
know he cherishes a deep love, even for the
father who ruined him!-Oh! Sir Felix, he
will proceed at once!”
"Damnation!" shouted Sir Felix, rising and
stamping with wrath, "that I, a lawyer, should
have been guilty of so damnable an oversight. |
What fiend possessed me! oh, yes! that driv-
elling idiot Ralph, outwitted me, and those
hell-hounds, Ferret and Scrape, helped him.
Doubtless, after the receipt of the mortgage
money, of which he paid £5,000 into the hands
of Hugh Morice, for the use of his son he got
abroad, that if the question were mooted, as it
would have been, had not I been the most ac-
cursed of asses, he might be out of the way;
to have been outwitted by him, Renard, it is
enough to kill me.
Nay, Sir Felix! if it comes to the worst,
you must resign!"
"I would rather die than resign," said Sir
Felix, gasping with passion, and turning deadly
pale;
"why, I have spent a fortune on it! nay,
if it came to that, I suppose Renard, those
rogues, Ferret and Scrape, would rejoice to
compromise, eh? My nephew knows nothing
of it yet, I presume!"
"I must see them, Sir Felix," said Renard;
"I must feel my way! I must sound them!
every man has his price."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MISS TRUEBLUE listened with the deepest and
most anxious interest to Lucilla's narrative.
She had no doubt whatever, that the note which
had so alarmed the poor girl, came from the
insolent and much to be dreaded Trelawney.
Poor child!" she said, "these are the trials
of beauty; the penalty to be paid for the costli-
est and most love-inspiring gift nature bestows
on her most favoured daughters. The plain,
the ugly, and the deformed, my Lucilla, while
mourning (as in their hearts they ever must)
over their loveless, joyless, and monotonous
destinies, are too apt to look upon the life of a
beauty, as a perpetual fête. They do not con-
sider what dangerous passions that beauty may
kindle in lawless men, what snares those sad
wretches, called the "Gay," are always spread-
ing for, in every class. Pleasure tries to make
it its prey. They overlook the bitter envy, the
ceaseless calumnies, of one sex, the terrible
conflicting jealousies and fierce revenge of an-
other, the pain of useless conquests, the neces-
sary torture attendant on slighting and refusing
many true lovers. I begin to think, my Lucilla,
that though the life of a beauty may be one of
varied and brilliant romance, it is not a happy
one; and then the day must come when she is
beautiful no more, or to see the matchless locks
grow scant and gray, the liquid lustre leave the
speaking eyes, the smoothness and the sheen
of beauty's cheek depart, wrinkles where all
was so glossy, but no more. I have pined, I
have prayed for beauty, in the despair of defor-
mity, but I am not sure it is the good fairy's
gift, my Lucilla."
"Act for me, my dear fellow, and if you
manage this well, you shall not find me either
ungenerous or ungrateful. By George! it is
near six-come home to dinner with me, and
we will discuss this terrible affair more at "No," said Lucilla, her eyes filling with
length. It seems like a hideous dream! Felix tears, and fondly embracing her poor friend,
Park, indeed! I'd sooner lose my right hand-"but a mind and heart like yours, they are, in
nay, my head!”
"Oh, it must not be, Sir Felix," canted
Renard!
Well said, my friend," replied Sir Felix,
excited to tears; "it must not, and it shall not
be, if there is power in law can help it."
"It is not law, but lawyers, must do that,"
said Renard.
"You shall be that lawyer, my Renard, and
it shall be the making of you. Come! I try
my new French cook for the first time to-
day."
"Come along, then. I suppose we must go
the entire pig,' Sir Felix, now we're in for
it.'
199
For the first time, Renard was thus vul-
garly familiar with the "great Sir Felix."
|
your own playful language, the best gifts of the
good fairy; and indeed they lend a charm to
your eyes and smile, which make you lovelier
than any outline or gaudy colouring could.”
"Ah, Lucilla, you can afford to be generous-
nay, I will believe that to the discerning and
grateful heart of a woman, there may be some
atoning substitutes for beauty of form and face,
but not to man. Believe me, the devotion of
years can be effaced by a beautiful countenance
seen for the first time; and a fine fòrm can cast
a lasting shadow on the destiny of the truest.
and tenderest of hunchbacks."
Oh, your judgment is biassed on this point,"
said Lucilla; "your feelings mislead you."
"Well, a French maximist, dearest, is not
likely, on such a subject to be biassed or mis-
led. It is La Bruyere who remarks so wisely,
how many sacrifices, how much devotion, how
much merit it requires to awaken after long
years those feelings que produisent dans un in-
But there was a dishonourable secret be-
tween them now, and it is astonishing how
that levels distinctions. Sir Felix is a wealthy
baronet and a client of the firm; Renard is a
little petty-fogger, but both are acting as felons.stant un beau visage, ou une belle main."
And Sir Felix is so condescending, and Renard
so presuming, that they almost meet on an
equality for the first time.
For the first time, too, Renard takes Sir
"Une belle main," said Lucilla; "what would
be the value of a love won by une belle main."
Nothing to one who need only be seen to
be loved; but I, Lucilla, I wish I had even that
80
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
one charm. A beautiful hand is a very beauti-
ful thing to look at; see, lavish nature did not
forget to add it to all your other gifts; but who
could covet such a hand, or rather claw, as
this ;" and seizing Lucilla's white hand, with
its taper fingers, exquisite nails, and rosy palm,
she held beside it, in derision, her own, of a
tint half leaden, half yellow, the joints knotted
and projecting as those of the deformed gener-
ally are, the nails flat, and the thumb unnatu-
rally short.
"Any one," said Lucilla, "who knew how
good and gifted is that hand, how eager to as-
sist, how ready to give, would love it better, far
better than-"
"Than beauty, as I said before; a woman
might—'
"And a man of sense still more."
"Ah, my love, a man of sense! such sense!
ou n'enfait plus,' as the French song says.
Why, even La Bruyere observes, 'If an ugly
woman is loved, it is passionately, either be-
cause her lover is more than usually weak.'"
Ou," said Lucilla with animation, interrupt-
ing her, "ou qu'elle possede des charmes, au des-
sus de celles de la beauté. That is your case,
dear Miss Trueblue; and when you are loved,
I am sure it will be passionately."
|
"Everywhere that horrid man haunts me,"
she said; "I feel as if he were my evil ge-
nius.”
'He will persecute you, I fear, till you have
a husband to protect you."
"A husband, I a husband."
Well, and why not?"
Why, who would marry a penniless girl?”
"Who? come, do not finesse with me, Lu-
cilla; I so love your naïvéte and your candour
-you know you believe Sir Felix Archer
would."
No, I am not certain of that; since you
insist on candour, I believe he likes me, but
as to his having positively made up his august
mind to offer me his mighty and matchless
self, I am not sure of it; he is a great flirt,
nay, even a great jilt, I believe; his intentions
I have great doubts of, but I have none of my
own.
"How so?"
"That I would rather be an old maid and a
beggar than be Lady Archer."
"And Renard Undermine? you know that
he likes you."
"And that I loathe him. But I am not at
all sure he would offer me his trickery hand.”
"And Lord Trelawney?"
"Ah, do not joke about him! he fills me with
dread; but even if, instead of the insulting at-
tentions he wishes to offer me, he were to throw
himself and his coronet at my feet, I would re-
"And the young artist ?"
Lucilla started, but was silent; however, the
unbidden tears which filled her eyes, and the
scarlet blush that spread over her face and neck,
answered for her, even before she found cour-
age to say-" Oh, Miss Trueblue! a foreigner,
an artist, and perhaps as poor and friendless as
myself."
"When I am loved! Chaos is come again,"
said Miss Trueblue, and the tears filled her
eyes, she dashed them away, and said, "but
enough of me and my follies, Lucilla! you are
in peril, and I think the best thing you can do,ject them both.'
is to come quietly down into the country with
us; give no one out of your own family any
hint of your destination. We are not going to
our accustomed retreat, where perhaps that
terrible Trelawney might suspect you had taken
shelter, and which he knows full well. To di-
vest all suspicion, we will mislead all our peo-
ple in London, and indeed perform rather a
round-about journey that all clue may be lost;
my dear father, whose health is much impaired,
will promote my wishes to the utmost, in all but
one instance," and she sighed; "our secret is
perfectly safe with him, and if you allow me to
impart it, we shall have all the benefit of his
-experience and advice."
"Do as you please, dear, kind friend!" said
Lucilla; “I am sure my parents will gladly
agree to my spending some time with you, they
so highly respect, esteem, and admire you.
But are you quite sure Mr. Trueblue will not
consider me an intruder?"
|
"A bond of sympathy between you. If I
were loved and lovely, I would rather marry a
man who could never doubt the sincerity and
disinterestedness of my love."
"But you do not know the miseries of penu-
ry. I have always hoped, if I did marry, to be
able to make my dear parents comfortable. Oh,
no, I must not think of such happiness as mar-
rying for love only."
"But if the young artist could win their
consent, and prove that he could maintain you
in comfort, and even elegance, and assist them,
then-"
said-
"You do not know my father, dear Lucilla ! "Oh, do not suppose such bewildering im-
and therefore you cannot understand how re- possibilities, dearest friend ! Such dreams
joiced he will be to have an opporunity of in- make the cold realities of life too real! No, I
dulging me in this respect, in order to atone for will not give my hand to one I loathe, even for
the pain he knows he gives me in another. my beloved parent's sake; but I cannot sacrifice
And now let us hasten to the young artist's; them, and with God's help, I never will!" As
we ought to have been there an hour ago." she spoke, her tears fell fast, and MissTrueblue
As Miss Trueblue and Lucilla drove through |
Bond Street, the latter suddenly drew back,
and Miss Trueblue pressing forward to ascer-
tain the cause of her emotion, beheld Lord Tre-
lawney, with his accustomed body-guard of
sporting men; they were all laughing immoder-
ately, as if at some excellent joke of his Lord-
ships's connected with our friends. Lord Tre-
lawney bowed familiarly to Miss Trueblue, as
he had done to Lucilla. Miss Trueblue turned
very pale, but Lucilla was pale and trembling. |
"You are a dear, good girl, and I know no
one so worthy of you as the young artist; but
nous verrons, if your parents only wish to
see you respectably and happily married, I
think if he covets your hand he need not des-
pair.'
|
'True," said Lucilla, archly smiling through
her tears; "we are taking that for granted."
"I dare say you have some good reasons for
doing so.
doing so. Well, I prophesy, that if you fall in
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
81
Jove with each other, I shall see you married
with the full consent of all parties.”
Oh, if you knew how papa dislikes foreign-
ers; and suppose this gentleman should be a
Roman Catholic?"
“But I know he is not, and his mother at
least was English. Besides, did not papa's
daughter at one time share papa's prejudice
against foreigners, and artists?"
"But papa is not likely to fall in love with
him."
Then you own you have done so !" said Miss
Trueblue, joyously clapping her hands"
"I did not mean to own that," said Lucilla,
blushing deeply; "but I do admire him very vcry
much, and I do think any woman might fall in
love with him."
"Very well, and now here we are; smooth
your hair! I hope he will perceive no traces of
tears. Have you brought some of your poems?
Here, take a peep in this ;" and Miss Trueblue
handed Lucilla a hand-glass out of a pocket of
the carriage. "It always puts me out of humour,
but I should think it would have a contrary effect
with you."
They found the young artist ready and wait-
ing, and the picture on his easel; the exquisite
Psyche already far advanced. The likeness
was perfect, and proved how vividly Lucilla's
face must have been impressed on his mind.
CHAPTER XXXV.
URGED by Miss Trueblue, and passionately en-
treated by the young painter, Lucilla repeated
many of those poems, which had been so coldly
received by Sir Felix Archer; and disheartened
as she had been by the faint praise, and even
disparaging criticisms, of the author of the
Essay on Taste," she was scarcely prepared
for the enthusiastic eulogies of her present au-
dience.
་་
"And now, dearest, give us that lively ballad
you call 'Moonlight,' and then I will tease you
no more," said Miss Trueblue.
"My brother Tom says it ought to be called
'Moonshine,' said Lucilla, laughing; “and in
this opinion I believe he is borne out by his two
friends, the great Sir Felix Archer, and a little
tiger belonging to some neighbours of ours, of
the name of Jock, who also considers himself
the Muse's boy."
•
"Sir Felix would be a poor judge," said the
artist, "at least, if his Essay on Taste' is a
fair criterion of his merits."
"You know it, then ?"
"Too well."
"I am glad you do not like it; I feared it
was my want of taste prevented my appreci-
ating it, and perhaps, a little revenge on Sir Fe-
lix's Muse, for his visible contempt of mine."
"Ah! do not believe in that contempt, my
dear Miss Temple; he must have been astound-
ed, as all dull, heavy writers are, at a facility of
expression, and a brilliancy of thought, so rare,
and so remarkable; but as to Sir Felix himself,
he (in himself) mistakes obscurity for depth,
forgetting that nothing is so dark as a hollow;
however, to waste no more time on him, let me
beg for the ballad; it is folly indeed to throw
L
away on Sir Felix's Muse, hours that might be
winged by yours; begin, I implore you!"""
LUCILLA'S BALLAD.
"Twas the dend of the night, when Emily stole
From beneath her mother's eye;
And she paused not, to mark the light clouds roll,
O'er the queen of the midnight sky :
“She paused not, to see how the dew-drops hung,
On folinge, flow'ret, and all;
Nor how some midnight fairy had strung
The blush-rose's coronal.
"Bright things, and beautiful, passed she by:
For 'tis in the moon's pale light
1
That the rosebud rewards with her sweetest sigh
The song of the bird of the night.
"And the water-lily floats on the breast
Of the lake, that mirrors the sky;
And the silver ripple, to lull her to rest,
Is murmuring Lullaby.'
"And the noon-beams revel the dark leaves between
Like spirits of mystery ;
And a thousand wood-nymphs might lurk unseen
In the shade of the sycamore tree.
"Beautiful scenes! when the mind is at rest,
"Twill form a mirror for thee;
As calm, as clear as yon lake's pure breast;
But the troubled heart, like the sea,
"Reflects thee not. Wild thoughts, like waves,
Rush rapidly on each other's graves,
And the troubled, and the troubled sea,
Reflects not at all, or brokenly.
"But when she passed the fold, where warm
And safe by its mother's side,
The young lamb lay--a thought of harın,
Of danger that might betide,
"Made Emily pause-Ah, why these fears?'
She cried, I will trust to him, to-night
He has sworn by the glittering star that he wears
To-morrow his vows he will plight!
“To-morrow, my mother! a noble Knight's bride,
Shall Emily kneel to thee;
And her trembling feet brushed the dew-drops aside,
And she reached the old trysting-tree.
"He was not there! and the withering thought,
That he yielded in love to her,
Stole over her heart, and she eagerly sought
To conceal in the shades of the fir
"Her trembling form, and as she kneit
Alone with the moon that night,
Her pale cheek told that the maiden felt,
That love is not all delight!
"O'er the moonlit glade, comes a lengthening shade;
There's a horse's tread-Tis he!-
And a coy thought came, half frolic half shame,
And she sighed, he shall seek for me!'
She is not here! In angry voice,
As he leapt from his steed, he cried;
And the moon shone down on its angry frown,
And the gentle Emily sighed.
"The first angry frown of the brow that we love,
Oh, how much of wo is it worth!
The throb of her heart made her mantle move,
But the maiden came not forth.
"Then a silver whistle he took from his breast,
And uttered a low clear sound;
And it roused the deer from their slumb'ring rest,
And as Emily gazed around,
"To her beautiful brow rushed the boiling blood,
Convulsed was her bosom's swell;
For slowly from 'neath the underwood,
Came one whom she knew too well!
(6
Yes, shuffling along with his crab-like gait,
Came the hunchback clown who had sighed
For Emily's hand: Sir Knight, I wait;
I have done your bidding,' he cried;
"By the river's side are horses and guide,
To carry the maiden away;
And I in disguise will pilot your prize;
But where does she tarry, I pray
·
?'
"Tis strange,' the knight cried, though she wept and
sighed,
She vowed she would hence to-night,
And await me where I ventured to swear,
To-morrow my vows I would plight;"
82
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
“And I shall plight such vows as knight
May plight to a cottage maid.'
A faint feeling came over Emily's frame,
And her heart grew chill. Then said
"The knight of the Star-'It is late, and far
She must journey ere rises the sun;
And so I will roam towards her cottage home,
Perchance I may meet her anon.
"No time have I for tear or for sigh,
I must see her on her way;
And then hasten where waits a wealthier fair,
For my bride will not brook delay.'
"He fastened his steed to the very tree
That concealed the trembling maid:
"Hunchback, beware that she does not see thee-
To thy post! And they left the glade.
"Queen of the Night, how I bless thy light,'
Cried the maid, as a wild hope rush'd
Through her whirling brain; and again, and again,
Her heart's quick throbbing she hushed.
"She thought of the by-path that led through the
grove,
It was known to her lover's steed :
She feared not the river for ford it he could,
And then she were safe indeed.
"Now, snorting, as proud of his burden light,
The horse treads the winding lea;
ment she did not heed it. After a few mo.
ments spent in irresolution, Lucilla threw her-
self back in the carriage, and burst into tears.
Miss Trueblue bent over her affectionately, and
by earnest entreaty, induced the agitated girl
to reveal the cause of her distress.
"You were
so cheerful, dearest, till you went to the win
dow; what could you possibly have seen?"
"The only thing that could have so disturbed
me," said Lucilla; "I saw that bold, designing,
and terrible man, whom I never see without a
shudder, and yet seem doomed to see every-
where-whom I feel to be my evil genius, and
yet have no power to shun."
"What Lord Trelawney?"
"Yes, and with a look of such cunning and
depraved insolence."
"But still, dearest, I see no cause for such
extreme alarm and distress. He might have
been passing by accident."
Passing! Oh, had that been all, I should
not have heeded the incident much, though his
And glorious and bright shone the Queen of the Night, aspect always dismays me; but he was not pass-
For the daughter of purity.
"The ford is passed: she has reached at last,
The fold where the young lamb lay;
A few moments glide, and she kneels by the side
Of her sleeping mother to pray.
"Then she sought again her bower, and when
All hushed were her bosom fears,
Mingled joy and grief sought nature's relief,
In a passionate burst of tears.
"As she sunk on the ground, a well-known sound,
Mude her start, and a voice from the grove
Sighed, Emily, dear, I'm awaiting you here:
Oh! why do you tarry, my love?
·
"The moon shines bright to assist our flight,
My Emily, linger not;
A princely tower shall be your bower,
Then leave this lowly cot.'
"To the lattice she stole, and the pride of her soul
Flash'd forth from her beautiful eye;
And the knight thought 'Ne'er was maiden so fair,
Ne'er lover so blest as I'
.
"If the moon shines bright,' she cried Sir Knight,
'Tis to light you on your way
To the custle where waits thy dowried fair,
For thy bride will not brook delay!'"
There was a mingled pathos and archness in
the young poetess's recitation, that added greatly
to the effect of her ballad. The painter dropped
his brush, and Miss Trueblue her needle. Lu-
cilla, to escape the admiring and too eloquent
gaze of the former, hastened to the window.
She stood there for a short time, but suddenly
withdrew so pale, and looking so scared, that
Di Moricini darted towards her, and Miss True-
blue asked, in wild alarm, if she felt ill? Lu-
cilla made no reply, but sinking on the couch,
took a glass of water the young artist offered
her. Her colour did not quite return, and her
spirits seemed gone; no inquiries could induce
her to explain what had so shocked and dis-
turbed her. She seemed anxious to depart,
and hurried Miss Trueblue away. The young
artist implored her to leave her MSS with him,
and she placed them in his hand, but in an ab-
sent and abstracted manner. Di Moricini look-
ed pale, anxious, and wretched-so much so,
that the kind Miss Trueblue invited him to
come to tea on the next day, and pressed Lu-
cilla to meet him. Declining any refreshments,
the ladies rose, and were soon en route. The
young artist's look of reproachful inquiry haunted
Lucilla through the after-day, but at that mo-
ing. No, no! When I went to the window, I
stood there for a few minutes without perceiv-
ing anything, and then my eye was caught by
the dazzling rays of the sun playing on the tube
of a telescope in a drawing room opposite. That
telescope was held by that dreadful man; of
course he was there to watch us, and I doubt
not he had been thus engaged ever since we en-
tered the room. I well remember a bill an-
nouncing apartments to be let, furnished, in that
very house, the very last time I sat, and indeed,
in that very window. So you see the wretch
must have taken the rooms, merely to be a spy
on our proceedings. Think, dearest friend, how
dreadful to feel one's self' thus dogged and haunt-
ed by such a man. Would he take all this
trouble without some terrible design; and how
is it all to end?"
Nay, my love, do not distress yourself thus;
if you do not expose yourself to danger, the man
cannot harm you. Keep as quiet as you can for
a week, and then you shall leave town with us,
and will quite mislead him as to our destination,
for, I doubt not, he will inquire or cause some
of his gang-for I can call them nothing else—
to inquire where we are gone. But now cheer
up, dearest; with a little prudence and cunning
we shall outwit the wretch, and in England
people are not easily carried off against their
will."
By degrees Lucilla recovered from her alarm,
and then she began (being, as all imaginative
people are, an ingenious self-tormentor) to tease
herself about her cold and abrupt departure from
the artist's.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"As you are not very well, dear Lucilla," said
Miss Trueblue, "
suppose we drive round the
Parks. The scene may amuse you; it is one
I generally shun: I hate to see the impertinent
surprise and disappointment of the men about
town when peering into the chariot, and expect
ing to see a beauty, they beheld the poor little
hunchback (who, however, pays them back their
contempt with interest); but to-day I shall have
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
83
"Ah, now I know he is not the chosen one,”
she said; if he were, you would not part with
one leaf, one bud, no not one thorn offered by
him."
Little did they know, as they laughingly divided
the flowers, how much selfish anguish was in
the worldly donor's heart. Those flowers came
from Felix Park-that place now the object of
so much alarm and solicitude. Sir Felix had
been there early in the morning, and brought
them thence; never had the place looked so
enchanting, never had he loved it so well.
no such feeling," she added, while an amiable | himself that honour some other day; he hoped
triumph in another's beauty lighted her eyes; she would not be late at his dinner-party, the
"I think I may defy both the Parks to produce next day." Lucilla sent him a polite message
a fairer or a sweeter face than that I am going of thanks, &c., and divided the exquisite flow-
to show them. Come, Lucilla, if beauty has its ers with Miss Trueblue.
perils and its pains, it has its pleasures too.
There, smile; put on your bonnet a little more
la coquette-smooth your golden ringlets, and
put on this cachmere. There, now you are a
first-rate élégante. Now we will go and get an
ice at Gunter's, and then drive round the Parks."
Miss Trueblue was right; the beautiful, and,
better still, the "new" face of Lucilla attracted
universal admiration and excited general curios-
ity; and in the pleasure of being gazed at and ad-
mired, Lucilla forgot her griefs; old beaux, who
had probably ogled her grandmother, fixed upon
her a gaze, the same, yet oh, how different; How lovely," he thought, "would Lucilla, as
young Englishmen stared, and foreigners glanced Lady Archer, look on that terrace, or walking
at her; the stare conveyed much conceited ap-on that parterre, rowing on that exquisite water,
probation—the glance, much reverential admi-sweeping over those lawns, or gliding, support-
ration. Miss Trueblue was as much interest- ed by my arm, through these woods! How
ed in every new conquest of Lucilla's, as the would she grace these drawing-rooms, how
smiling, animated girl herself; a landau passed, shine at the head of this banquetting hall! I
and five or six heads bowed, and as many faces never, never, can résign the place; I do think
smiled-It was the Temples', of Temple Grove, I would rather, if the whole affair cannot be
who seeing Lucilla in so elegant a carriage, and compromised and hushed up, purchase it of my
so nicely dressed, kissed their hands most ea- odious nephew, at his own price, and retire here
gerly to her. Then came an aristocratic coach, for ever with Lucilla. At any rate, I will see
with a coronet on the panels, with servants her here; she shall see the place in all its glory.
powdered and in costly liveries; an elegant The Temples shall spend a week here; and
middle-aged lady was in it, and several lovely here, still master of the enchanting place, I will
children looked from the windows. Looking propose to make the poor Lucilla Temple, Lady
through their flower-like faces, Lucilla beheld Archer! They will not proceed at once, and I
Renard Undermine seated by the lady's side, feel almost sure, that Ferret and Scrape only
and a beautiful little girl on his knee, pulling require a bribe." But in spite of all this, Sir
his whiskers, and playfully slapping his face. Felix Archer was ill at ease; all this bribing
and compromising was very different to having,
as he had always believed he had, a clear and
undisputed right to the estate. However, Sir
Felix thought of his party, and that nothing
makes people look worse than fretting; so he
culled the choicest of bouquets from his spacious
conservatories for Lucilla, and every flower had
a thorn. With those flowers, Lucilla and Miss
Trueblue were now sporting.
"How strange it is," said Lucilla, "that Mr.
Renard Undermine should be so intimate with
people of such distinction."
"There is some mystery in it," said Miss
Trueblue; "that is an Earl's coronet, and you
see he is quite at home in the Earl's car-
riage."
Renard perceiving them, put his head out,
and waved his hand to show where he was, and
the playful little child did the same.
Oh, he is evidently very intimate with that
family," said Lucilla, "and then that beautiful
girl, daughter of some nobleman, whom he calls
Lady Cis., and who positively gave him a lock
of such exquisite golden hair; I cannot think
how he gets the entrée of such houses, for I
think him the most vulgar, disagreeable crea-
ture."
Oh, so he is: I am sure there is some mys-
tery in it, I console myself with Madam De
Maintenon's remark, Songez qu'a la fin, tout
est su,' and I soothe my feminine curiosity by
the conviction, it will come out some day-there
must be some excellent reason why people of
importance tolerate such a little upstart. I
should really like to fathom it; he must I think,
be a money lender."
At this moment Sir Felix Archer drove by;
he looked pale and care-worn, but on seeing
Lucilla, actually coloured, and kissed his hand;
a few minutes after, a footinan from his carriage
came running up with a bouquet, and a mes-
sage, saying, "That Sir Felix, when he saw
Miss Temple, was going to call on her with the
nosegay, but seeing her in the Park, would do
"Shall we leave this crowded drive, dearest?"
said Miss Trueblue, suddenly; "you have made
every man your lover, and every woman your
foe. Suppose we drive round the park."
but
Lucilla agreed with more outward alacrity
than she felt; but though beautiful, she was not
selfish, and she remembered that the scene, so
full of varied and personal interest to the ad-
mired belle, might be one of monotonous pain
and mortification to the despised hunchback.
In this she was mistaken: Miss Trueblue felt
a lively interest in Lucilla's triumphs;
along the banks of the Serpentine, her quick
eye had caught a tall and gaudily-dressed fig-
ure; though indistinct in the distance, her heart
forboded whose it was. Poor Dorcas Trueblue!
She only wished to be certain, to exchange one
smile, to catch one kind glance of those beloved
eyes! How slowly the carriage moves, how
quick her heart beats; the horses crawl, her
fancy gallops; they can go no faster-they are
in a line; it is ten minutes before they leave the
drive. How eagerly Miss Trueblue looks from
the carriage window! Lucilla cannot under-
stand her anxiety, but suddenly the poor little
hunchback draws back, puts her hands before
84
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
her eyes, and utters first a sharp cry, and then | difficult for a man to repel, even where he does
a low moan of extreme pain. Lucilla looked not love: it is woman's nature to do so. That
from the window, and in one moment she un-horrid girl was evidently (perhaps against her
derstood her friend's anguish. On a bench was will) making love to him. Is he not exquisitely
seated the handsome object of Miss Trueblue's handsome, Lucilla ?"
boundless but ill-placed love, Frederick. Smirk,
and by his side a smart, pretty-looking girl,
whose hand he held in true lover-like style, and
whom he was evidently courting, in the most
approved style of that class; one arm was round
her neat and slender waist, and his fine eyes
were fixed upon her.
He is certainly very good-looking.”
"Good-looking! you might as well call the
Apollo Belvidere good-looking.
66
Well, then, I think him extremely handsome,
but (be not offended) I think he wants that,
without which no beauty in a man can interest
me, an aristocratic air, and intellectual expres-
sion.
Lucilla felt for her friend, but was not with-
out a hope that such a discovery might cure so "Indeed!" said Miss Trueblue, with an hys-
superior and gifted a woman of a partiality soterical gasp; "what next?" and there was such
degrading and injurious to her; for beyond his sharp resentment in her usually kind eyes, that
mere personal beauty, and a sort of weak good Lucilla drew back frightened.
nature, this fellow seemed to have nothing to Nay, I did not mean to offend you," said Lu-
recommend him. His love was evidently as-cilla, a little roused, as she thought she read a
sumed, and that powerful charm with the un-kind of defiance in Miss Trueblue's expression,
loved, the captivating conviction of being be- and something very like a sneer on her lip;
loved by, and necessary to another, must fade "but your anger emboldens me to say, what in
from Miss Trueblue's heart, now she had seen your sorrow I had not the heart to tell you. I
him courting' another. Lucilla feared to look think Mr. Smirk may have good nature, as he
round, but presently Miss Trueblue's hand certainly has uncommonly good looks, but I con-
dropped from her face; Lucilla turned to her, insider him every way beneath you; and if any-
haste and terror. The poor deformed one's thing would in the least diminish iny boundless
face was as the face of the dead-she had faint-respect, esteem, and affection for you, it would
ed. Lucilla rested the sufferer's head on her be the seeing so gifted, so cultivated, and so re-
bosom, fanned her, applied a vinaigrette to her spectably connected a lady lavish the love any
nostrils, and Eau-de-Cologne to her temples, man might be proud to win, on one whom I can-
and in a little while the sense of existence and not but think a silly plebeian and low-born TAI-
of anguish returned. The tears of a disappoint- | LOR!
The tears of a disappoint- LOR! Now that is what I have often wished
ed heart coursed each other down the pallid to say to you, but till you roused me I never
cheeks of the unloved. She pressed Lucilla's could rouse myself to do it. I add to this, that
band, and said "I do not blame him! how I believe he is a coxcomb and a flirt, and that in
could it be otherwise? Who would love me? nourishing for him the preference you do, you
Forgive this disgraceful weakness. I am calm sacrifice to a very doubtful love, the devoted af-
now-now and for ever. Let us go home-fection of a life, namely your father's. You
home! Ah, where there is no love, there is no
home."
"Oh, do not say there is no love," said Lu-
cilla "think of your father-think of me!"
:
"True, I would not be ungrateful; but he did
seem to love me with that love, which it is the
instinct of woman's heart to covet. Oh, I am
sure he loved me; perhaps some wiles have
estranged him, and of late I have not written to
him, have sent him no token by which he may
know, that spite of all opposition, all absence, all
difficulties, I am unchanged.”
Lucilla did not speak-she was disappointed
-she had no idea of
..
"This unrequited tenderness,
Living on its own sweet excess:"
·
disobey the first commandment with promise,
and I fear you will find, if you do not resign this
unhappy attachment, that you have 'sown the
wind, and that you will reap the whirlwind.'"
+
As Lucilla spoke with unwonted animation-
she usually so gentle and so meek-Miss True-
blue listened in amazement, but with a respect
she had never felt before for her young friend.
What nettled her woman heart, were the epi-
thets, "silly," "low-born,” and “a tailor," and
these she therefore proceeded to combat. With
regard to Frederick's being silly, she said, “I
can only say that, in wordly conduct many of
the most gifted have been so styled, but that I
know him to be not only not silly, but a GENIUS!
To establish this I need only show you some
of his compositions-wild, irregular, and unpol-
-this changing faith, this blind devotion. Flat-ished, perhaps-but full of that originality and
tered, courted, loved from her cradle, as the
beautiful in all stations always are, she could
not conceive the power of the only eyes that
even looked fondly on the woman, whatever the
tongue might have professed to the heiress.
However, she saw this empty, contemptible
man's affections, was with the poor little hunch-
back a matter of life and death. She had made
an idol of this silly, handsome coxcomb, and
her own void and poetical fancy had lent it a
thousand god-like attributes Lucilla had not
the heart to undeceive, to rob her of the sweet
delusion of her life. "So beautiful, so very
beautiful, as he is," said Miss Trueblue, "he
must be so followed, so courted; and it is so
|
fancy which constitute genius.
Lucilla bit her lips to hide her smiles.
Plehian and low-born he certainly is not
and I see you are biassed by a preconceived
notion. In his beautiful veins flows the noblest
blood the Norman boasts!"
"How so?" asked Lucilla with unfeigned
suprise.
"His father was the son of a Duke."
Impossible!"
Not the lawful son, alas!
"Nay, most true.
else how different had been my Frederick's fate.
But the blood of the oldest family in England
flows in his veins.
"And his father-what was he ?"
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
85
cer.
not last forever, from fifteen to this time that I
am three-and-twenty, I have loved Frederick,
and Frederick only; and till this miserable day,
he, all beautiful, all bewitching as he is, has
never cost me one jealous pang. Ah, Lucilla!
we may endure the pleasing anguish of love,
but the poisoned darts of jealousy we cannot
brave, and live. Till now, I have sacrificed
| Frederick to my father, but I feel this cannot be
much longer."
His father, provided for and pushed on in that the legitimate son of a bangman ranked
some degree by his noble relatives, was an off-higher than Frederick. But this struggle can-
Under a promise of marriage, he seduced a
poor and innocent girl. He inherited the beauty,
the fascination, and the vices of his ancestors.
Of that unhappy girl Frederick is the son; but
while I deplore the treachery which has made
him illegitimate and an outcast, I cannot con-
ceal from myself that he is the grandson of a
Duke. He may be a tailor, but the blood of the
Plantagenets warms his heart and colours his
cheek. There are two bars sinister in his
escutcheon, and twenty in his fate; but in
every glance of his proud and beautiful eyes, I
see the old Norman. Every limb is cast in a
Patrician mould; every movement has a sort of
chivalrous grace; his thoughts too, are full of
romantic daring. He loved me; yes, he did
love me; and feeling he was the descendant of a |
Duke, he thought it no such great presumption to
love a clothier's daughter, because he loved me
with the bold wild love of his ancient race. My
father dismissed and degraded him. To avoid
beggary or a work-house, he became not a
tailor, for he never held a needle in his fingers
fingers in whose delicate and taper form I read
his origin-but foreman to a tailor. But what
matter if he were a working-tailor, he would still Miss Trueblue melted into tears, and said-
be the the descendant of the Dey's-he" Ah, would you were ever near me to strength-
would still be the descendant of a Duke.”
Oh, do not talk so wildly, dearest!" said
Lucilla; "forgive aught I may have said in a
|
warmth which has offended. Remember your
father's feeble health, remember that a shock-
particularly such a shock as your desertion and
disobedience would be-would perhaps cost
him his life; and you, oh, more than life: all
peace, all self-approval, all joy on earth, all
hope in heaven! Think what remorse would
dog you to the grave. Think if the Recording
Angel had to give in such a verdict of black in-
gratitude against the best of parents, no Angel
of Mercy would blot such a record out." The
water sparkled in Lucilla's eyes, and unwitting-
ly she clasped her hands.
en me against myself. • Ma vie est un combat,"
Lucilla did not speak. To her mind, the legi- and they stopped at her door. Miss Trueblue
timate son of a legitimate tinker was better than looked to the drawing-room windows: a large
this base-born son of a base-born son of a Duke. elderly man was standing there,
there, evidently
But she knew that things of no form and dig-watching. He looked ill, but smiled, nodded,
nity Love can transpose to form and quality.
The enamoured imagination of Miss Trueblue
had fastened on her Frederick's irregular de-
scent from the great of yore; and doubtless
Frederick himself, who was not without his
cunning and the love of boast so common to
the weak mind, had improved on this strange
prepossession.
*
I think," she said, "you will own now that
he cannot well be called plebeian or low-born;
I hope yet one day to place him, if not in the
rank of his ancestors, at least in one where his
genius will be appreciated, and where he will
shine a model of aristocratic beauty and Patri-
cian grace. I think, Lucilla, I have now exon-
erated myself from your charge of loving a
silly, low-born plebeian-of loving with a wild.
a boundless, a passionate love, in secrecy and in
sorrow, in disobedience to-nay, in defiance of
-the very best and kindest of parents. Of that
charge I cannot clear my fond and wilful heart;
and I am so wedded to this ambrosial and be-
guiling sin, that wretched as this devotion makes
me, wild and pure as are my struggles between
love and duty, and dearly as I reverence and
cherish my father, I would not cease to love,
even if I could, and yet it is indeed—
"A passion without hope or pleasure
In my soul's darkness buried deep;
It lies like some ill-gotten treasure,
Some idol without shrine or name:
O'er which its pale eyed vot'ries keep
Unhallowed watch, while others."
"You will hardly believe, oh, Lucilla that
one of the very causes of my father's immov-
able opposition and enmity to Frederick is his
illustrious, though I own irregular, descent.
He has often wounded my ears by declaring
and waved his hand affectionately when he saw
Miss Trueblue. "Poor papa, how ill he looks,”
said Miss Trueblue, kissing her hand to him.
Oh, miss!" said Miss Trueblue's maid
coming out, "your papa has been so anxious
for you, and so hill and hirritable, it's been
almost too much for my narves; there ain't no
doing nothing to please him, and if he've asked
for you once, he have asked for you fifty time.”
"
"Farewell, then, dearest; for the present,'
said Miss Trueblue, "the carriage shall take
you home as you wish it, and call for you
at seven to come to tea; so mind you are
ready."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Is there any where you wish to go, Miss!"
said the footman, who was very partial to Lu-
cilla, and rather proud of attending on such a
beauty.
At first Lucilla said, "Only home, I thank
you, Jacob;" but then she remembered some
articles for fancy-works, which she wanted to
get in the Pantheon; and she told Jacob to
drive her there.
The Pantheon! it is really a very pretty place,
concentrating all sorts of elegant knick-knacks,
scarcely to be met anywhere else, forming a
pleasant lounge in bad weather; rich in flowers,
birds, pictures, and a thousand pretty nothings;
and yet, no one ever seems to go there, who
has any other place to go to; so much, that a
wit, has justly named it, "The Refuge for the
Destitute;" people who have no carriage, no
friends, and often no money, lounge in; but as
86
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
a regular resort of fashionable purchasers, it
seems quite deserted. For this reason, Lucilla
felt no particular dislike to going there alone;
and Jacob good-humouredly suggested, that she
should walk through the Pantheon; and, that
he should take the carriage round to the en-
trance in Marlborough Street, where she could
step in.
"Are you in any hurry to get home, Jacob?"
said Miss Temple.
Oh, no, miss! take your time, miss-it's no
odds to us!"
Lucilla went in. Though a fine day, and
though town was full, nothing could be more
quiet and gloomy than the entrance; a sort of
twilight showed some stone statues, antique
vases, and specimens in Terra-Cotta, and Gallo-
Antico; a beautiful female figure asleep on a
mattress (carved in stone), seemed the pre-
siding Genius of the place; and coming from
the bustling world, and garish day, it seemed
almost like entering a vault. Lucilla passed
through the cool and gloomy entrance, and
pushing open a glass door protected by brass
gratings, it swung noiselessly on its hinges,
and she stood in the Bazaar itself; but here,
too, a sleepy dullness reigned-the counters
were hung with every kind of bauble, showy
knick-knack, pretty toy, and inviting trifle;
bazaar girls, or bazaarians, as they call them
selves, always neatly and often coquettishly
dressed, came eagerly and watchfully up if
Lucilla paused a moment even to look at any
article exhibited; and, angry at having sold
little or nothing, seemed to revenge themselves
by looking suspicious that our Lucilla came
there not to buy, but to steal. Showy and
trumpery jewellery seemed placed as if pur-
posely to hook itself on to fringes of shawls
and mantles; and had the rooms been crowded,
one could not have steered clear of them, and
would probably have been politely requested
to step into the matron's room to be examined
as a shop lifter, and shown up in the police
reports the next day; but as it was, there was
room enough: none were there but a few soli-
tary old maids, taking with their weary eyes
patterns of new specimens of fancy work, by
which they earned a scanty subsistence; a few
bare-legged children, in flap leghorn hats and
feathers, and short tunics, dragged along by
cross governesses; and one or two country
parties, who ranked the Pantheon among the
Lions of London: these formed all the company
of a place so prettily decorated, so conveniently
situated, and so very well arranged. These
people stared, and the bazaarians popped up
with provoking suspicious faces, and asked
"What shall I do for you, mem?" but pur-
chasers there seemed to be none. There hung
pretty dresses for children, braided as by fairy
fingers; neat and showy caps of every variety,
cuffs and mittens, and purses of every hue,
shape, and texture; aprons worthy of Titania,
so neat and so fanciful; and gay little reticules,
that would just hold a small square of laced
cambric, and perhaps a billet doux, glittering
with beads of glass or steel, or worked in a
thousand varieties of shaded silks, coloured
braids, or penny riband; and every kind of
pincushion, and pen wiper. It was wonderful
how much inventive genius was displayed in
things that seemed to a casual observer to ad-
mit of no flights of fancy; each stall seemed
richly piled with its own peculiar wares-Vic-
toria dolls, Albert dolls, Prince of Wales,
Princess Royal, Princess Alice, and even
Prince Alfred dolls, with real hair and moving
tongues and eyes, stared at the few who stared
at them. Flowers of Loveliness, and Galleries
of Beauty, smiled in vain from the print stalls;
perfumery enriched the air.
"The Tortoise there, and Elephant unite;
Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white."
There, British plate made a goodly but de-
lusive show; for if all that's bright must fade,
of all bright things, British plate fades the
soonest. Ices melted away, and cakes and
tarts hardened and withered in the close and
sultry air.
1
Lucilla soon provided herself with the silks
and beads she needed, and then, being a pas-
sionate lover of the Arts, she bethought her of
taking a view of that exhibition, whose chief
merit is-that it is "gratis;" for, to the poor
Temple, even a shilling was an object of not
little consideration.
Some of these pictures are certainly most
daring daubs, but some have merit, and Lu-
cilla gazed at them with interest; but while
looking at a large picture, before which a gen-
tleman stood, it suddenly struck her, that his
figure bore an alarming resemblance to Lord
Trelawney's. The same giant limbs and thick-
set neck; the same broad shoulders and closely-
curled chestnut locks; the same green cut-away
and sporting-looking cravat; and, oh, horror!
oh, certainly the same curious cane, with a
silver horse's head by way of top.
Lucilla's very heart stood still, as noiselessly,
and, she hoped unperceived, she hurried out
of the room before he turned round. Could
he have followed her, and, knowing she would
pass through that room, have placed himself
there to surprise her! She almost ran through
the picture rooms, and down the stairs; she
hears steps behind her, nearer and nearer; she
felt a hand upon her shoulder, and a voice in
her ear exclaims, "Miss Temple, I must speak
to you." Now, Lucilla was very inexperienced
and very imaginative. Miss Trueblue's ac-
count of Lord Trelawney and his exploits, had
worked upon her girlish and romantic fancy,
and her ignorance of the world made her trem-
ble, when no cause of fear really was. A little
more knowledge of realities, and a little less
romance, would have prevented the dreadful
and disabling terror which emboldened Lord
Trelawney to attempt, for there was no one
near, to pass his arm round Lucilla's waist;
but, at this startling and audacious insult, poor
Lucilla recovered some degree of energy, though
before, she had been clinging half-fainting to
the balustrades of the large staircase, above
which is placed that strange large picture by
Westall, "The Raising of Larzarus," which
(whatever its imperfections) has this merit,
once seen, it is never forgotten.
We have said that Lucilla's indignation, when
she felt the bold hand of Lord Trelawney on her
waist, was such as to conquer all terror, all
timidity; she turned round and confronted him
with a face, deadly pale, it is true, but the pal-
lor was that of indignation, not fear; the water
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
87
sparkled in her eyes, and all the pride of her an- | sulting persecutions to my father, because he
cestors curved her lips, as she said "Lord has, God knows, too many sorrows already;
Trelawney, as you are a man of rank, it is right but, unless you immediately desist from tor-
to suppose you are a gentleman; and as such, menting and insulting me, I shall let him know
I cannot do better than appeal to your chivalry, all that has passed; and I am quite sure-for
to protect me against such persecutions as no he has powerful friends-that I can be pro-
man of honour would offer to a lady, who tected."
acknowledges his power to terrify, and to wound "Well, didn't I offer to protect you?"
her; and yet implores him to shield her even
against himself."
"Nay, my dear Miss Temple;" stammered
his lordship, a little "taken aback." "I am sure
a few minutes' quiet conversation would make
you see that I have no wish to persecute you;
that I desire nothing better than to be honoured
by the name of your protector."
The hidden meaning of these words escaped
Lucilla, who might have been taken in by them,
had not the bold manner of the man, as he tried
to take her hand, convinced her all was not
right. Her woman instinct supplied the want
of experience, as she said "I need not inform
your lordship, that it is an insult to address any
lady to whom you have not been formally intro-
duced."
Now, there you're wrong-are, upon my
honour, as you'll own, when you know a little
more of the world the fashionable world;
there's nothing so obsolete as an introduction.
But as you insist on it, so be it, then; I'll intro-
duce myself. Lord Trelawney! Miss Temple!
But upon my word, after fighting your battles,
and risking my neck, drawn with you in the
most crazy of old hackney coaches, it's very
cruel of you to treat me like a stranger! It is,
indeed."
"Sir! you are quite a stranger to me," fal-
tered poor Lucilla, almost in tears.
"Well, that's your fault, not mine; if you
were half as willing to become acquainted as I
am, we should soon make it out, and be capital
friends! Now, don't be silly; it must come to
that it will come to that."
It will never come to that," said Lucilla.
"Why, that's giving me the lie; oh, fie! and
you a teacher, my dear! Why, that's very bad
manners, indeed." And he watched her with
his sly, malicious, glittering glance, to see if he
had roused her, for his object was to put her in
a passion, and lose her self-command.
"It is true," said Lucilla, clasping her hands,
and the tears gushing from her eyes, "the ne-
cessities of my parents have induced me to turn
my talents to account-"
"And" (interrupted Lord Trelawney, in a
coaxing and sarcastic tone) “to give instruction,
on moderate terms, in Italian, French, and Ger-
man, Music, Drawing, and Dancing, History,
Geography, and the Use of the Globes.
"But," continued poor Lucilla, "I am as well
born as yourself, and-"
"And better bred, I dare say!
"I hope so! at any rate, I could never add
to the troubles of the defenceless and afflicted."
"Come! come! come! I'll show you an ante-
room through the conservatory, where, if you'll |
indulge me with half an hours conversation, I
have no doubt we shall perfectly understand
each other."
"Lord Trelawney," said Lucilla, "in two
minutes I can make myself understood. I have
hitherto refrained from complaining of your in-
|
|
"With regard to your offering me any further
outrage here, I warn you not to attempt it;
there must be some people to whom the injured
can apply, in a public place like this; and if you
presume to address me or touch me again, I
will make my case known to the woman of the
Bazaar. If you had attempted to steal a toy,
you would have been immediately in the hands
of the police; and you shall not, with impunity,
rob me of my good name, and spotless reputa-
tion, which must be impaired by your insulting
persecutions. Now let me pass you, my lord,
and detain me no more; I will instantly cry
out for help."
Lord Trelawney, who had recently figured in
a police report, and that under peculiarly ridicu-
lous and disgraceful circumstances, did not wish
so soon to be held up again to public derision.
He saw Lucilla was in earnest, so drawing
back, and politely bowing, he said, "You are
very severe, Madam, on a poor fellow who,
fairly captivated by your charms, wished with
all reverence to tell you so; I hope you will
never repent of this severity-but I have done
it is the last time. You shall escape me,"
(he added, in a hissing whisper), as Lucilla,
looking at him with ineffable scorn, swept past
him, and with as much speed as she thought
consistent with dignity and defiance, made her
way through the conservatories and ante-room
into the carriage that awaited her.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LORD TRELAWNEY stood for a moment look-
ing very silly indeed. He had been, in his own
slang, "done,"
"done,” “done brown," "done uncom-
monly brown;" made to look "small," and
shady," and all sorts of disagreeable things.
"What would W. say? and what would
D think? and how C. would sneer, and
J- laugh." Still so it was, and for a mo-
ment his bullying impudence forsook him.
"I couldn't kick up a shindy here," he said
to himself, as a sort of apologetic soliloquy;
"I should have had all the women in the bazaar
screaming in chorus, if that little jade had set
them going. By Jove, though, I'll pay her out
for this. I declare, though, the girl's a regular
brick, a bean; by Jove, she is! How she flared
up
when I touched her! I declare I'm more in
love with her than ever. What a wife she'd
make! A woman who can take care of her
own honour will never endanger a husband's.
Pshaw! wife indeed! what a spooney thought.
If I ever do marry, it must be some one who
has the blunt, and can redeem the old castle,
acres, and estate. A daily teacher, too! Little
vixen she ought to feel highly honoured.
full of old romances-Pamela and Clarissa Har-
lowe! Still, I'll never give her up. If I do
envy, I— but what's this. Ah, ah! dropped
But
88
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
by her. Come; all stratagems are fair in love
and in war, and this is both love and war."
at his ease. At length, he reached his hotel:
a waiter came up to tell him that Black Sambo,
Deaf Burke, with Lord Neck-or-Nothing, and
Captain Rook, were in the drawing-room, await-
ing him.
So saying, he picked up a little black silk bag,
which Lucilla, in her terror, had dropped on the
stairs. Lord Trelawney really coloured up with
excitement and pleasure as he put the little. An impatient oath met the waiter's ear; he
shabby looking relic in the breast-pocket of his bowed and smiled as if it were a compliment,
coat-for he was in love. That Lucilla had a while his Lordship added, "They might wait,"
strange knack of making all sorts of people in and wait they did; for mounting the stairs three
love with her; no matter how different in age or four steps at a time, Lord Trelawney listen-
or character, they were alike in that. Sir Feed for a moment at the drawing-room door, and
lix Archer was in love with her; so was Renard
Undermine; so was Di Moricini; so was Lord
Trelawney; so; but we anticipate.
heard they were sparring; and then he rushed
up into his dressing-room, locked the door, and
threw himself, panting, on the sofa.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
It was not merely her beauty, for beauty of
every kind is common enough. Take one walk
up and down Regent Street in the Season, one
drive round the Parks in the warm and bloom-
bestowing June, and you will own that this is
indeed The Isle of Beauty ;"-beauty in every LORD TRELAWNEY's room betrayed the tastes.
style, every variety; and yet beauty alone never of its inhabitant: portraits of horses, dogs, and
excites the sort of love Lucilla awoke in the boxers (who seemed the most brutal of the
least loving hearts. Nor was it talent, good-three) were hung around: hunting-whips, box-
ness, genius, grace; they might assist to forming gloves, and foils, were piled up with knock-
an harmonious and irresistible whole; but there
was an indescribable load-star in the young Lu-
cilla, now and then, but very rarely, bestowed
by Beauty on her most favoured daughters. It
won upon you, you knew not how; captivated,
you knew not when; and subdued, you knew
not why.
Sir Felix had passed season after season, un-
scathed by women of more dazzling and perfect
beauty-more striking and finished talents; yet,
he was in love for the first time.
The old man respectfully drew back, and when
the door was locked said, "I wonder what's in
the wind now-not another duel, I hope; if it
is, I'll find it out, and give the police notice.
Poor boy, he looked pale!" Then tapping
gently he said, in answer to an impatient
"Who's there!" "Does your lordship require
my assistance?"
ers and bell handles, wrenched from doors, the
result of a late midnight exploit. There lay a
barber's pole and basin, and, greater triumph
still, one of the wooden images of Highlanders
in full costume, taken from a tobacconist's shop,
with a daring skill and dexterity worthy of a
better cause; a domino, a mask, a wig, a life-
preserver, a pair of pistols, and two or three
bludgeons were on the table, in rude contrast
with the glittering contents of a very costly
dressing-case, displayed by his lordship's valet,
Lord Trelawney, before he gave himself up to an old, staid, respectable looking man, the last
lawless associates, and deeds of the bully and person in the world one would have expected to
the bravo, had been an idol at Almack's, and a see in such a situation as valet to Lord Trelaw-
pet of the fair élite. In those days he had flirt-ney-but thereby hangs a tale. His lordship
ed, and since he had done worse; but he had nearly ran over him as he hurried into his dress-
never felt any woman necessary to his happi-ing-room, but he did not swear as he had done
ness, till he saw Lucilla. Then, Renard Un- at the waiter; he only said—“ Stand out of the
dermine there was the greatest and the mean- way, there's a good old bird, will you?"
est triumph of her charms; even that sordid
little pettifogger would have wedded the penni-
less girl; while Di Moricini, poor Di Moricini,
his very soul is full of her; his "heart is dark-
ened by her shadow;" he pours forth his love
in poetry and song; his pencil is ever tracing
her face, her form; he goes over, in memory,
every word, every tone, every look of hers;
when she is gone, he begins to count the hours
till he shall see her again; his life is a restless
watch. And Sir Felix's nephew? events must
speak for him. Nous verrons! as the French so
lightly say, about events that may affect their Lord Trelawney doubted and paused for a
destiny, or a world's destiny; nous verrons, let moment, for even he knew what was right; but
us inquire what Lord Trelawney is doing with the next he yielded, and emptied the contents of
Lucilla's bag. Fearful of being joined or im- the bag on the sofa. First came an attenuated.
peded by some one or other of his idle compan- purse, with two leaden-looking sixpences, and
ions, Lord Trelawney called a cab, and ordered a bright "fourpenny bit;" then the beads and
the driver to take him to his hotel in Pall Mall. silks Lucilla had purchased in the bazaar; then
Lord Trelawney had a handsome family man- a few halfpence done up in whity-brown paper;
sion in St. James's Square; an old housekeep-a miniature in a small crimson case-some fa-
er had the benefit of its spacious rooms and once
costly but now antique furniture; a set of bach-
elor rooms at an hotel in Pall Mall suited the
free and easy taste of our young nobleman bet-
ter, and hither he hastened with his prize; in
the cab he had taken it out, examined it, peeped
in, and put it up again, reserving it, like an epi-
cure does a bonne bouche, till he could enjoy it
No, Abel, thank you; I'll ring when I want
you."
And so the old valet retired into the ante-
room, there to watch and wait.
1
voured lover's, doubtless-and Trelawney felt
he could stamp on both it and its original; he
opened it, fully expecting to see a self-conceited
face, round eyes, pink cheeks, perhaps a white
waistcoat, blue coat, and brass buttons; perhaps
mustaches, scarlet, and epaulettes; but, no!
the angel face of the young Lucilla seemed al-
most to blush beneath his gaze! Yes, there they
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
89
་་
are, and he can scan them at his ease, those soft
and childlike features, those sloping violet eyes,
those long loose curls of shaded gold, those arch
and scarlet lips. At one side Ipse fecit" is
written, and at the back, "Lucilla Temple," aged
seventeen; painted by herself, for her dear
friend, Dorcas Trueblue."
"Never shall that dear friend possess it," said
his lordship, taking up a little worn pocket-
book:
It was the "Christian Lady's Polite Remem-
brancer;" but for about fifteen years before.
However, it seemed to have been only re-
cently used as a diary by Lucilla; for in a faded
hand was written by Mrs. Temple, "Given me
on the first day of the new year, by the best and
dearest of husbands."
And the only insertion by the same hand
was, "Lucilla, two years old to-day; the coals
came in, two chaldron's; paid Norah's wages."
On another page was written, "Lucilla; given
her, at her own request, by her dear mamma;
an old pocket-book being better than none.”
And certainly Lucilla's pencil had not been
idle; here an epigram, there a sonnet, here a
recipe, there a caricature; here an ostentatious
"cash in hand," 2s. 6d. ; there, expenditure, a
bun for mamma, 1d.; beggar, ditto; hair-pins,
2d.; white gloves, 8. a pair-(mem.) worth
nothing, split in all directions; strawberries for
mamma, 6d. ; bouquet for ditto, 3d.; lent Tom,
2d.; stiff calico for a bustle, 3d.; muslin for a
tucker, ditto, and so on. Lord Trelawney, the
squanderer of tens of thousands, laughed hearti- |
ly over these penny purchases, so carefully
noted down. It was strange how great an in-
terest love lent to these girlish, and even childish
memoranda, and with what avidity he ran his
eye over the more recent parts of the diary, to
see if these was any mention of the meeting
with himself.
It was like looking into the young girl's se-
cret heart, was this diving into the little pri-
vate record, never meant to meet any human
eye; and the naïvéte, the goodness, and the
purity, revealed in many of the confessions, for
such they were, often made the bold, bad man,
who was so dishonourably prying into them,
blush at the contrast of such a nature with his
own.
a very long visit, exit Sir Felix. I see papa
thinks I have made a conquest. Well, he is
not all my fancy painted.' What then? mam-
ma's cyes sparkled as in fun; papa called me
Lady Archer. He is so rich. What would I
|
not do for papa and mamma and Tom? Oh,
but how dull, how desolate, to marry without
love! Selfish Lucilla! what! make no sacri-
fice for such parents? However, there's time
enough for fretting; you've not been asked yet.
I fear I grow vain and egotistical. I damped
and ironed my ribands, and re-trimmed my own
bonnet, and forgot the little bed-gown for Betty
Blake's baby. To atone, sat working at it in
my room till midnight.
May 11th.-Head-ache and heavy eyes from
working late; dreamt I was the Lady Bountiful
of a beautiful village, giving away piles of baby-
clothes, red cloaks, straw bonnets, blankets,
loaves, and cauldrons of soup. As Lady Ar-
clier, that might come to pass. How great a
happiness to be able to afford to do all the good
one's heart suggests. Mem.--Another item in
his favour, should he propose. Spoke very cross
to poor Tom. One fault always leads to another.
Vanity made me trim my bonnet instead of
making the poor baby's dress, and sitting up
made me ill and cross to-day. Gave Tom a bun
to make it up.
66
May 12th.-Eureka! a haunch of venison.
from Sir Felix Archer. I see papa and mamma
augur all they cannot help writing, all I cannot
help dreading, good luck as it would be for a
poor child like me to marry such a great man.
They do not speak, but their eyes are full of
hope, that almost makes me weep. In writing
out papa's sermon for him, his thoughts often
wandered, and so did mine. Remarkable event
of this reign-Sir Felix Archer asked to dinner!
It is difficult to shine in the kitchen and the
drawing-room; but there is no glory where
there is no difficulty.
"May 13th.-A dreadful day! mamma poorly,
Norah cross and contrary, Tom very provoking.
Papa out all day visiting the poor and sick;
planned the dinner, went to market; borrowed
the baker's silver forks, and the grocer's spoons;
hired glasses, made a cap for dear mamma-
white blonde, with blush roses-complete suc-
cess; how pretty she still is! how beautiful
In one place there was a concise but humour- she must have been! and to have come to this!
ous account of Sir Felix Archer's first visit, and My heart bled to see her in the damp kitchen,
the hopes it had given rise to, but we will give among rats and cockroaches, burning her deli-
it in Lucilla's own words :-
cate face over the fire, making the soup and
May 10th. While sitting with papa-he in-the jelly; how anxious and tired she is, and
voking those old maids, the Muses, and I that
perverse bachelor, Apollo-we were both start-
led by a thundering knock at our door. A cab,
a private cab, groom and all. I saw it from the
window; a pair of delicate gray kid gloves held
the snow-white reins. Who could it be?' said
papa. I thought it might be the elegant young
man I see wherever I go-come, oh romantic
Lucilla! to ask of papa a daughter he has never
spoken to! And there I was, in an old morn-
ing dress, my hair hanging about like Madge
Wildfire's. Tried to escape. Papa forbade.
In came an oldish beau. Papa's old friend, Sir
Felix Archer. Nice old dear! he seemed much May 22d.-Thank God, she is out of dan<
struck with me. Papa delighted. Poor dearger. My dear, my blessed mother, I knew I
papa! he is so seldom pleased. I did my best loved you well, but, oh, I knew not half how
to please Sir Felix, or rather poor papa. After well. Saved! Oh, may my life be one long act
M
the jelly will not clear; and the soup, I could
not own it to her, but I do fear Norah has let it
burn a little. Mamma and I at work all day,.
and yet there is so much to do to-morrow; no
time for dinner. Made mamma come to tea,
and go to bed. Papa not in. After doing all I
could towards the dinner, valiantly set to, to iron
my white muslin dress, and wash and curl my
Oh, that to-morrow were well over!"
Tom unbearable.
hair.
"May 14th. Of the important day there was
no note, nor indeed for a week after, and then
was written-
90
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
of praise and thanksgiving to the merciful God,
who has spared me a blow, I shudder even to
think of. But she is saved! The last week!
it seems an age since it began, and yet it is
gone like a dream. Odious Sir Felix, he caused
it all; vain fool that I was! he scarcely even
looked at me! I, who had been persuading my-
self to accept him. Never say no,' till you're
asked; sage advice of our quaint, cautious
foremothers. Can I recall, the events of the
dreadful day, a wretched day? Mamma pale
and poorly from the beginning, yet restless and
anxious; would get up at six, and toil all day
about the odious dinner for that odious man.
My dress a bad colour by daylight, and much
too stiff. Mamma at last so faint from the fire,
I was obliged to take her place. Alas! one
may be born a poet, but one is not born a cook.
The custards turned, I know not how or why!
Borrowed Jock, the tiger, to wait; clever, but
conceited and saucy; made fun of our contriv- |
.ances. Tom had a battle with him, and got a
black eye-a great pity, as we hoped Sir Felix
would have taken to Tom. But this accident
made him look sinister, and proved him to be
pugnacious. The wine kept us in suspense for
hours. Papa in his anxiety knocked down the
boy with the basket of hired glasses. Alas! to
punish me for my anxiety to look well, I looked
horrid-never so bad in my life. Half dead
with fatigue; the fire, while I was cooking,
caught my face, and no washing or fanning
would cool it: my nose and my eyelids were
crimson, and so were my hands. My hair, from
being washed and pinned up, curled like a white
negro's; brushing only made it worse! My
dress stood out like a balloon, I spent my last
sixpence in a bunch of lilies of the valley, but
the heat soon made them droop.
"Before any one was ready, odious Sir Felix
came. Jock, he says in mistake, I fear in spite,
showed him into the back drawing-room, where
mamma was washing. Coming hastily out, look-
ing very sneering, he met me rushing down to
Norah to get my dress fastened. He was stiff
and cold all dinner. Dinner vile! Everything
spoilt. He ate nothing. Saw tears in mam-
ma's eyes.
Waited long for him to come up to
tea; he went away without. Papa in despair!
He had refused to help him. Mamma-oh, can
I write it ?—all but taken from us; perhaps to
show us, by a real grief, the miserable folly of
fretting over trifles. May I never forget this
awful lesson!"
not what a lawless, dreadful, wicked wretch he
is ! so desperate, so powerful, and with a
whole club of companions, lawless ruffians like
himself.
"Miss Trueblue says that any heiress who
excites their cupidity, or any poor girl whom
they admire for her beauty, they vow to obtain
by stratagem or force, and are seldom foiled.'
However, forewarned, forearmed.' How I
dread this terrible man! he seems to me as if
he possessed the evil eye, the Italians tell us of
but,' forewarned forearmed.' I would rather
fall into a den of lions, than into the hands of
Lord Trelawney and his vicious myrmidons.
But again, I may presume, perhaps as in the
case of Sir Felix, I fear without cause; but
that was without cause, then, but not now.
Now, I do believe, were my heart free, I
might-”
"Were her heart free," Lord Trelawney
started; "Who then has won a delicious power
over that noble, frank, and tender heart?" Can
it be himself--oh, if it were! he almost fancies
such happiness, such unlooked-for, undeserved
happiness would make him human, make him
good-this were worth every sacrifice. Eagerly
he reads on :-
"Were my heart free, I might become Lady
Archer; but now, oh rash and weak Lucilla!
now that thou hast so selfishly yielded to the
dear delight of loving one beneath even thee,
at least in the world's estimate; a foreigner,
an artist-all thy poor parents would most
disapprove, most grieve over-now it is vain;
princes would sue in vain now-now indeed it
were perjury to swear to love another! What
then-I must toil daily for daily bread. My
Muse seems to be an ignis fatuus, leading me into
the Slough of Despond. I can never wed thee,
thou dear one, and I will never wed another.
"Mem.-Silk and blue beads for mamma's
purse.
"A small oval morocco-case and glass, for
my miniature of myself, for Miss Trueblue.
"One yard of cheap flannel for old Mary
Webb's rheumatic leg.
"One dose of James's Powder for little Nelly
Trudge. Black cotton to darn papa's stockings.
"A money-box for Tom.
"Mem. To put a pink lining in my straw
bonnet, before I go from home. I look so pale
in the blue one."
There was much more in this style, and then
there were some such notes as these:-
passers-by, there being often, in reality, more
of impertinence than admiration in it.
"To try to take no pride or delight in useless
conquests. To love exciting amusements less,
and quiet employment more.
Then came the account of the bill-Frederick "Mem.-Not to wear my hair in ringlets
Smirk-Miss Trueblue-The arrangement to walking to and from Miss Trueblue's, as it at-
teach her-The Undermines-Sir Felix again-tracts attention. To try not to be flattered by
The young Painter-and after his introduction,
much said of the wickedness and misery of
marrying except for love; and soon Lord Tre-
lawney saw his own name: his colour rose as
he read-"Walked to Miss Trueblue's attended
by Norah; she got into a row-true daughter
of Erin; rescued by a strange being: at first,
I fancied him some professional prize-fighter;
it turns out that he is still worse-an amateur
of that brutal pursuit. This man would be sin-
gularly handsome, but that his nose and front
teeth are broken; there is a glitter in his eye,
and a resolve in his mouth, that make me shud-
der. Frighted and thankful to him for his aid,
I let him lead me like a child; but then, I knew
"To think less of myself in every way, and
more of others.
"Not to wear flowers or light gloves in the
street, and never to wear dear Miss Trueblue's
present the polka pelisse, except in the carriage
with her.
"To ask Signor Di Moricini if he has any in-
terest in the magazines; to try to find out who
his father really is. Not to shake hands with
him if I can help it.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
91
"To devote the evenings of next week to
mending mamma's things.
"To read novels less, and serious books more;
to think less of this bright, beguiling world, and
inore of a better state.
"Not to flirt with Sir Felix, as to revenge
former slights by rejecting a man, if one has in-
duced him to propose, is far more degrading to
the lady than the lover.
me to this lawless, reckless life; that was your
triumph, and I doubt not your heart beats high
with it, beneath the ermined robe of the Duchess:
but you, Lucilla, you might have won me back
to peace and virtue; that would have been a
triumph worthy you, you good and lovely one!
And yet," he added sadly, as he stood before
the toilet glass, "thus defaced, these marks of
brutal conflicts on my features, would a timid
girl love me? and that too when frighted by the
stories of my wild and mad career? No, no!
She night have loved me once! Pshaw! dolt
If I have strength to do all this, may I be
spared the bitter fruits of sin, sorrow and shame.
May I be happy in my heart's devotion, though
I see not now, or how, or when. May my pa--idiot-spooney that I am. She shall love me
rents be comfortable, and Tom sent to school;
and may I never again behold that bane of
my existence, the bold and vicious Lord Tre-
lawney."
As he came to this last wish, Lord Trelawney
laughed; but it was a bitter, hollow laugh.
|
now, or at least she shall seem to. Abel! Abel!
In an instant, the old valet came so quickly
that he must have been very near at hand.
Abel, is his Lordship there still?”
"No, my Lord, he is gone!"
"And Captain Rook?"
"Gone too !"
"And Sambo, and Burke ?"
They, too, are gone, my Lord !”
"How so? did they know I was in ?"
"I think they did, my Lord!”
"You think! Abel, de not trifle with me;
did you send them away?"
"I told them you were not very well, my
Lord !”
"And how did you dare to do so?"
"I thought your Lordship looked pale and
agitated!"
"I
I pale! Ha, ha, ha; le girls and old men
look_pale."
They do, my Lord when they see you."
"And so they ought. Abel, I am very angry ;
I fear they are all offended."
Oh, my Lord!" said Abel, clasping his with-
ered hands, God grant they may be."
"Why so? they are excellent company."
For each other, but not for you. Oh, my
Lord! when I promised my Lady, your mother,
to watch over you and never to leave you, I
little thought what scenes and people that pro-
mise would bring me in contact with."
You have made him your foe, my dainty
moralist," he muttered, "who might have been
your best friend-the best friend, too, of those
you love so well. And so you adore a cheating,
intriguing impostor, who either is, or pretends
to be, an Italian-a fellow all mustache and
mummery; a wretched dauber, who slanders
the human face divine, and picks John Bull's
pocket, with his goggle eyes open. I see not
why I should feel any compunction; I doubt not
the scoundrel has one wife already, if not half
a dozen, so that the fate I destine for you will
be a brighter one than that of being the victim
of a mean heartless foreign beggar, who will
starve and desert you. Beautiful and simple
child if you had but loved me-if in this tran-
script of your silly thoughts and fancies I had
seen one glance of preference for me!-what
then? who can tell?—I might have made a fool
of myself; and now I will persevere, my dainty
damsel, till I make one of you. Stop, I will lock
this book and picture up. I must read the silly
jumble of love and housewifery, and morality,
and piety through again. Strange that such
folly should interest me-but then it belongs to
this face!" and he gazed on it till he thought Well, Abel, you are welcome to go-nay,
it were a pity to dim those eyes and blanch that if you provoke me, I shall give you warning."
cheek, and rob that lip of its innocent archness,
"It would be vain for you, my Lord, to give
that smile of its happy purity. Could he, the me warning to go, when my heart and my con
bold, the lawless, the profligate, really be look-science warn me to stay. Even if you were to
ing at that face through the softening medium
of a human tear? Even so; but then came the
thought of her love, her lover-a foreign artist,
too! A bitter envy, a fiendlike jealousy, and a
derisive wrath swelled his heart, as he said-
He will change all this, if I do not; she is
marked to be his victim or mine. Let us see
who will conquer; it were better for her to fall
into my hands, than into his. Allons c'est une
guerre à la mort. And now for Black Sambo
and Deaf Burke, Lord Neck-or-Nothing and
Captain Rook, bruisers and gamblers; they
suit me better than sentimental young ladies,
sly mammas, and formal papas. With a life
blighted, a heart half broken, a fortune half
ruined, what have I to do with love, except
light love, that Venus smiles on and that Bac-
chus crowns? Am I to blame? was this my na-
ture? Oh, Eva De Vere! read how I did love
you in the change your falsehood wrought; and
yet that wild and boyish passion which coloured
a destiny, was not such love as this baby-faced
Lucilla might have awakened. You, Eva, drove
turn me into the street, I should watch eves
round your dwelling like a faithful dog, and, liks
a faithful dog, be one day found dead at your
door."
"In that case," said Lord Trelawney, soft.
ened, "I must put up with your impertinence,
but really, Abel, you look ill. Now, if you
would go down to Trelawney, you should have
Woodbine Cottage, just as it stands, furniture
and all, as my late steward had it; and you
could get things into a little order there.”
"Do not tempt me, my Lord; this is my post.
It was you, and not your estate, I promised my
lady to stick to; and even Woodbine Cottage
would be no place of rest for me-it would be
haunted by my lady's ghost, or, worse still, my
own remorse; bad as things are, but for me they
would be worse but for me, you would per-
haps have been shot through the heart by a
blackleg. Who but me would have defended
the plate and deed-chests at the risk of his life?
Look at these scars, my lord," and he showed a
deep cut under his silver hair, and several marks
|
92
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
sembled them; but listen Abel- my father
loved my mother in early youth. Was it
not so ?"
of once frightful gashes on his hands; "a modern you are the only person to whose censure I
valet would have escaped these, and yielded up would listen. I love to hear of my parents. I
his trust. It is true that I have little peace by remember them and love their memory. Had
day, little sleep at night; that I live in a perpet-they been spared, perhaps I might have re-
ual fear, lest your dreadful companions should
some day bring you home to me on a shutter; but
while I am here, you have one by you who is
true to you-one who, owing all to your late
honoured parents, will repay the debt, as far as
may be, to their only son. Never till I see you
married and leading the life Lord Trelawney
ought to lead, will I leave you. Who nursed
you through that dreadful fever? Who found
the hired nurses asleep, when your life depended
on their care? Who gave the medicines they
forgot, and on which, under God, existence |
hung? No, I will never leave you till the
bearers take me out feet foremost, and then I
know you will grieve, and that grief may per-
haps reclaim you.”
"Oh, yes, he loved her better than his life,
before he was twenty; and well he might, for
she was almost too beautiful to look upon, and
good as she was lovely. I've known him ride
fifty miles in snow and sleet to get one glance
at her. Riding was all the fashion then, and
fifty miles in the depth of winter would try the
mettle of horse and rider. I know that, because
I rode behind him, and not being in love, I felt
it bitter cold and wretched, but he was warm as
love could make him. Oh, when there was a
talk of my lady's marrying the Marquis of
Richlands, my lord vowed he'd fight him to
the death for her, and if he survived, he'd
make away with himself; but lor! my lady
hated the Marquis like a blackamoor, and so she
did every man but my master."
"She was true to my father?”
"True as steel, my lord."
"And they were married?"
I
"Reclaim me! Abel, you are very bold."
“I am bold. Love and long service make me
bold, my lord, when you, my lord, bring home
such prizes as these-and he pointed to the bar-
ber's pole and the wooden Highlander. My late
lord used to capture the enemy's frigates. Black-
legs and bullies praise you for this. The king
and the parliament thanked my late lord for that. "Married! yes, the day he was twenty-one.
If my late lord played it was an honourable fancy I see him now, in his naval uniform,
game of whist or picquet, with noblemen like bless him! and his beautiful brown hair tied
himself; he would not sit down with sharpers. behind in a bag, with just a sprinkling of pow-
His name was an honour to the first of clubs.der, and his laced ruffles and cravat, and a
He has played at the same table with his Gra-diamond ring, Louis the Sixteenth gave him;
cious Majesty, George the Good;' and it was and my lady, her beautiful hair all hanging
whispered, the queen herself-old, particular,
Queen Charlotte-commented on his perfect
breeding and fine play. Oh, had he known that
his only son would have frequented hells! He
hated bloodshed, but he lived in days when
swords were worn, and gentlemen were prone
to use them; he was a master of the noble art,
and always punished impertinence, though he
skilfully shunned taking life. But would he
have risked a life so dear to his king and coun-
try with idle bullies, who shoot at a mark till
they can snuff a candle, or extinguish a life—or
with brutal boxers, who sell their blood for hire?
He loved one dear and noble lady, the flower of
England for beauty and for virtue-AND HE WAS
TRUE TO HER. I knew his every secret; I was
ever by his side; and I can truly say he was
true to her. Oh, my lord, it is not too late-it
is never too late; forget the errors of your youth
tread in his steps, and be indeed his son."
Lord Trelawney was ever strangely patient
with this old man, to whom his parents had been
singularly attached, in return for his devotion to
them, and to whom he himself had been more
than once indebted for his life; but on this
occasion the old man's remarks struck upon a
chord which had scarcely ceased to vibrate; he
sank in a chair, covered his face with his hands,
and listened.
Without removing his hand, he said-" Go
on, Abel, I can bear it."
Abel was frightened at this gentleness, and
feared he had gone too far. Oh, my lord," he
said, "have I offended? forgive me! I have at
length spoken out what has long been in my
heart; but it ill becomes one like me to censure
a nobleman like you."
"I am not angry, Abel; you are privileged;
down in curls to her waist, with a beautiful
Brussels lace veil and a diamond bandeau, and
her white satin dress, with a long train, and she
a-blushing like a rose; nothing ever matched
'em, nor ever will, and so every one said when
they opened the ball with a minuet, for they
didn't hurry away directly they were joined,
my lord, as if they were ashamed of each other,
and wouldn't behave themselves; they were
proud of each other, and of what they'd done,.
as they well might be; and before a year my
lady presented my lord with a fine boy—a son
and heir-yourself, my lord.”
"A fine present, truly," said Lord Trelawney,
bitterly; "had my mother jilted my father,
would that, think you, have broken his heart?"
Yes, my Lord, or made him desperate; he
told me when 'twas said she'd marry the Mar-
quis, he felt as if his brain was on fire, and all
his blood seemed turned to gall."
"Abel, as he would have been, had my mother
deceived him, I am. I loved as he did, but
did not love an angel like my mother; I loved a
false, base woman, who jilted me for a loftier title,
and a larger fortune; my blood is turned to
gall, and now I have told you the secret of my
life; now blame or pity me as you will.
"Oh! my lord, pity! my heart bleeds for you;
but you are young-you may love again."
"I may? I do! but am not loved again, and
swear to avenge on her I loved, and all her sex,
the perjury that has blighted my life and blasted
my soul to me. Folly! weakness, old Abel!
you would make me a girl, an idiot, a driveller
like yourself. Order my cab! come, I must
seek pleasure, to atone for lost peace."
"Oh! do not go out in this mood my Lord!""
"Do you disobey me?"
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
93
"No, no; I will go and order the cab.
my! Oh, my !"
Oh,
or a care; and when his elegant and fashionable
toilet was complete, he looked a finished gen-
tleman, and, but for his blemished nose, and
broken teeth, it would have puzzled St. James's
to produce so fine and noble-looking a fellow.
Good-by, Abel! Don't expect me till you
see me! and go to the play, or the meeting-
house, or do something to cheer up your old
Abel watched him till even his tiger was no
"Go! why the devil don't you go, then? So
well-now I will go and see if I can catch
another glimpse of thee, thou hated, loved Lu-
cilla; yes, by every fiend in hell, I swear thou
shalt be mine; if flattery cannot beguile, nor
wealth dazzle thee; if love cannot win, nor
fear subdue thee; force and fraud shall bring heart! I'm off!"
thee to my arms; you shall be mine, if I pur-
chase you with my life. Allons! vive la baga-longer visible, and then he wiped his eyes, but
telle! that is to say-vive l'amour! vive la fem-
me! now for a careful toilette: women are so
caught by show. Why, Byron when he tried
incog. to win a country girl, found no success
in a shabby coat; and only began to win a
smile, when he appeared in a good one. She
hates my sporting coats, and coloured chokers.
Abel, I want a hot bath."
แ
Yes, my Lord. It has long been ready."
"Stultz's last new frock coat and waistcoat;
Gobby's trowsers, and a pair of Paris boots; my
new hat, and a pair of kid gloves; now come
and shave me! How your hand trembles;
pshaw give me the razor. What if I rid you
of so bad a master?" and he drew the knife
across his throat, as if in earnest.
The old man turned deadly pale, and caught
his arm.
Confound it! what a gripe! why I was
only joking; there" and he darted at old
Abel, brandishing the razor; "shall I put an
end to thy miserable life, old man ?"
It were a mercy," said Abel, without flinch-
ing.
|
|
with a sudden recollection, hurried down stairs,
saying to himself "I do believe the wine's out,
and the key in the cellarette. I must leave off
fretting, or I sha'n't be worth salt to my por-
ridge. Ah! just so; the decanter's emptied, and
a bottle of Curaçoa gone bodily off! Safe bind,
safe find! It's as much my duty to take care of
you, as it is my Lord's to take care of his es-
tate. Yet, I am ready enough to blame him.
Oh, my! oh, my! how my old heart does ache!
and though I'm as weak as a cat, I can't eat a
mouthful. I'll go and lie down on my bed-
but first, I'll pray for him. It's never too late
with God. Poor boy, poor dear boy! Oh, I'm
very faint, but I'll go and lock the dressing-
case and drawers; there's no safety for property
in an hotel. And to think we've a house in St.
|
James's Square ready to receive us.
I'll step
there, to see things are looked to. A breath of
air will do me good, and the full lengths of my
dear Lord and Lady do always quiet my poor
toiling, restless spirit. Oh, my! oh, my! I'm
not quite easy in my mind about Mrs. Comfit.
She's old now, and hard of hearing, and of sce-
ing too, and her married daughters go there,
and take their children. How can I tell but what
the furniture may be injured, so that if it please
God my young Lord should marry, and lead a
new life, it will cost sums to repair and replace?
but I never go there but I see children playing
about, and it's against my orders. Mrs. Com-
fit's an old servant, but she's only a woman; and
there's no trusting a woman, always barring my
late and blessed Lady-and she was more of an
angel than a woman. I'll step into the house
by the area-steps, and then I shall see how
things are really going on. Ah! I fear I'm too
"Poor boy! poor boy! said the old valet, about a many things.' What with the family-
like 'Martha,' in the blessed Scripture, troubled
busying himself getting the things ready," and
to think there's a broken heart at the bottom of plate, and the family-pictures, and the family-
all this, and a woman the cause that the last and my young Lord, all put under my care on
all this, and a woman the cause that the last linen, my Lady's jewels, and the sets of chaney,
Baron Trelawney is a disgrace to the name. her death-bed, it's almost enough to turn my
Except my noble mistress, I always hated wo-
men, and there never was any love lost be-old head. Well, there ain't not a salt-spoon
tween us. They're just like snakes-shining kin soiled; and, oh, fine work I've had to keep
missing, nor a tea-cup cracked, nor a table-nap-
and twining and venomous. Well, there's no
she living, can say I ever listened to her beguil
she living, can say I ever listened to her beguil
ings. And now my Lord's going out in this
reckless, desperate mood, to drink and gamble;
reckless, desperate mood, to drink and gamble;
and, may be, to fight and do worse. And a wo-
man at the bottom of it all!"
"To many-for I should be hanged. Quick!
now for my bath; be here to dress me on my
return. Where's my dressing gown? so-'
And then in a fine voice he began to sing:
"When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his faults and his follies behind,
Oh! say, wilt thou sigh, should they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?
"Yes, weep! and however my foes may condemn,
My tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee !"
Thus gaily and loudly singing, he went to the
bath.
While thus soliloquizing, Lord Trelawney re-
turned, singing-
'C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour."
and,
"Ce que je disire et que j'aime,
C'est toujours toi!
Pour mon ame le bien suprême,
C'est amore toi."
He seemed as if he had never known a pang
my Ladyship's jewels-hers that she wore on
her good, noble bosom and brow—from being
notion, sweet soul! that there could be such ser-
given to them, so bad she never could have a
pents in her dear form. Oh, dear! oh, dear!
I've done well by all-the old coach horses, and
my lady's pony, and her lap-dog; and all, ex-
cept my Lord, and over him I've little control.
Well, if he were but married, and had a lady to
see to him, and take care of him, I'd be thank-
ful to lay down my burden and give up the keys
-for it's almost more than I can bear. But
I'll get home, and look the plate and linen over."
94
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
CHAPTER XL.
POOR Mr. Abel Watchful! as he hurried along
the gay and crowded streets, intent only on his
own thoughts and fears--so neat, so dignified,
so venerable in appearance, and yet without the
slightest attempt at stepping out of his own
station in his dress or manner-he looked a
perfect specimen of the old servant of the last
century; but no one would have guessed that
he was the valet of the most reckless, profligate,
and hair-brained nobleman of the present day.
Abel, though he carefully concealed his age,
lest it should be considered to render him unfit
for service, and compel him to be pensioned off,
away from one he had sworn never to forsake,
was turned seventy, and his years were
stamped, and legibly too, on his marked and
faithful features. His once blue eyes were be-
come gray and dim; but to atone for what
they wanted in brightness, they were ever rest-
lessly looking about, lest any one should wrong,
or injure, or ridicule the only being he loved
and lived for, his young lord! His silver hair
was carefully powdered, his white cravat and
frilled shirt were spotless, and in the latter was
an oval mourning brooch, containing the black
and the golden hair of his late lord and lady
worn together in a little mat. Not a speck was
to be seen on his black coat, his knee-breeches,
his black silk stockings, or his shoes, that sent
back the rays of the sun in a sort of sheaf, so
brightly were they polished! A large gold
watch-chain and seals, that had belonged to his
first master, the grandfather of the present lord,
descended in obsolete grandeur from his fob;
his own seal was an immense cornelian slab
set in gold, on which A. W. were written in
large letters, fair as his fame and legible as his
character, but he had a perfect collection of old
seals, with coats of arms belonging to members
of the Trelawney family, and one little delicate
bloodstone signet, given him by his late lady in
her days of courtship, with the simple word,
"Juliet," her own sweet name.
His first master's cane, a sturdy gold-headed
fellow, had been bequeathed to him, and propped
his steps; and the cuffs of the whitest of shirts
peeped over his black silk gloves.
As Mr. Abel Watchful walked along, his
thoughts were with the past. It was fifty
years since, in the bloom and hope of twenty-
two, he first came to London in the service of
Lord Trelawney, grandfather of the present lord.
Ah, thought he, with a sigh, I was fleet
of foot and light of heart then; how beautiful,
how wonderful I thought the scenes that now
seem so guady, so noisy, and so wearisome!
But things are changed; it is not merely that I
am old-revolutions and radicals have shaken
the world like a cup of wine, and the dregs mix
with the froth. All people seem to me to look
Where are the beautiful distinctions
of rank? No swords, no solitaires, no point
lace and embroidered silks, or cut velvets, to
mark the gentleman; all crop-eared round-heads,
and plain clothes; the noble art of hair-dressing
(which I was sent to Paris to study) of no avail!
Ladies and ladies' maids, high and low, all
drest in cheap silks or cheaper cottons, and
straw bonnets. Oh, the days when ladies, in
dresses that none but ladies could afford to wear,
alike now.
|
|
silks and satins that could stand alone, with
heads, that it took the hair-dressers hours to
dress, stepped in their high heels, towering (as
they ought to do above the lower orders) into
their coaches and six!
their coaches and six! Then a lady was some-
thing to look at-then it was something to ride
in her own coach; but now, every upstart gets
a pair of rat-like horses, and lolls in a hired car-
riage.
It's all the same at the theatres; I hate them,
they're like bear-gardens, full of the lower or
ders, or the higher, lowering themselves to them.
What a sight the dress circle used to be! what
stately ladies, what nodding feathers, and daz-
zling jewels, and diamond snuff boxes, and fans
that freshened the scented air, and waved the
beautiful plumes! How much like Queens they
sat, and how the gentlemen waited on and wor-
shipped them-gentlemen that a lady might be
proud to smile on-such a gentleman as none
but a first-rate valet could "turn out;" then it
was something to have a fine taste, a good va-
let, and a good leg. Now lords and ladies sit
together like lads and lassies at a country fair,
cheek by jowl, any how-the ladies done up in
shawls and looking like shop-girls-the gentle-
men booted, and spurred, and splashed-all,
"hail fellow! and well met," with the daughters
of those their fathers treated like Queens. It's
the ladies' faults after all, they make themselves
too cheap! Fancy my lord coming to my lady
in his courting days, smelling of the stable;
why, much as she loved him, she'd have given
him his conjée, or my name isn't Abel Watch-
ful.
And the shops full of boast and trumpery-
everything cheap and everything bad. The ob-
ject used to be to be good; the object now is
to seem so.
"FINE FRUITY OLD PORT, (he read with scorn)
twenty-six shillings the dozen !" (fine old poi-
son!) "BEST CONGOU!" as he passed another
shop, "three shillings and nine-pence a pound!
and upwards:" (yes, and upwards! there's the
roguery.) "FINE MOCHA COFFEE, one shilling
and three-pence," and so on; and here, "Best
Paris Kid, eight-pence halfpenny a pair!" and
not worth the odd halfpenny. And what's that?
oh, I see "The Patent Funeral Omnibus!"
with patent mourners-patent coffin, cheap,
gaudy, and made to last a month. Well, I do
hope I shall never be rumbled along the street
to some patent burial ground in that irreverent
manner.
Twelve hours to Newcastle," he read on a
railway advertisement. Twelve hours! and it
used to take my lord a week; and what's the
end? Cocknies and pickpockets swarm every-
where the railways cut the country to pieces
no place is secluded or sacred--there's no
country now. Apprentices pic-nic now, where
none but the great and their attendants could
go. But I'm weary of it all! everything to me
looks mean, and cheating, and boasting-all
advertising and puffing-everything done by
steam. It's time the old were swept from this
new world-old limbs can't keep pace with
steam.
"Ah, there's the house," he said, as he turned
into St. James's Square, "how well I remember
my first arrival there, behind the noble coach
drawn by six long-tailed black horses; such
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
95
horses are not to be had now for love or
money!
"Mrs. Comfit was a girl then-Lady Cecilia's
own maid, and a smart, flirting, enticing, dressy
wench. She thought to play off the country
lad, but he was a good scholar, brought up with
his young master, and more than a match for
her!-though he had never seen London before.
She'd have had a chance though, if she hadn't
wanted to have two strings to her bow, and to
play the young valet and the old butler (red nosed
Comfit) off against each other. But it wouldn't
do; I saw her game and told her so, and in spite,
she married Comfit.
"Well, I'm glad of it—I've enough to do to
see after my young lord-I don't want a dozen
children to provide for; sons and daughters ain't
what they were; instead of helping their old
parents as I used to do, they live upon them!
all must be a sort of half-gentry, none know
their stations. Why, what's here? surely I hear
music in the house! why, goodness gracious,
surely there's dancing going on! why, that's my
late blessed lady's own spinnet, and her guitar
too, as sure as my name's Watchful. Now I shall
come to words with Mrs. Comfit, and get my
young lord to give her warning!"
So thinking, Abel stole gently down the area
steps, and looked into the kitchen; no one was
there, but a goose and two ducks were roasting
before the fire, and there seemned other prepara-
tions for a feast. Abel passed stealthily by the
housekeeper's room; the cloth was spread there
for a dozen persons. Abel gave a sigh of relief
and inexpressible comfort.
"Thank heaven," he said, "she's not going
to feast her company in the dining room nor to
head the table where my lady used to preside.
Oh, dear! dear! that is a relief to my mind;
and it is not one of the best table cloths, no;
and it's her own plate and china. I'm thankful
for that. Why, I do think she's in her still
room-I fancy I hear her snore; if so, what can
the noise up-stairs be?"
Abel stole on tiptoe to the door opening into
the still-room; it was ajar, the upper half was
glass, and a green curtain screened it; but
being partly drawn aside, Abel could look into
the room.
In a high-backed arm-chair was a venerable
looking old woman asleep. A towering muslin
cap, trimmed with old lace (in the fashion of fif-
ty years ago, the beau ideal of clear starching),
gave an additional height to her very tall and
stately figure; her silver hair, cut straight like
a charity boy's, was neatly combed over her fur-
rowed forehead. Her dress was a rich and am-
ple black lutestring, once Lady Trelawney's-
and its fashion unchanged. A white muslin
handkerchief was neatly pinned across her ven-
erable breast, and a large white worked muslin
apron completed her attire. From her side hung
From her side hung
a large bunch of keys, a pincushion shaped like
a heart, and a large pair of scissors; her chair
was placed so that no one could approach an
iron safe containing plate and other valuables
without disturbing her. Her thin hands, the
age of which might be traced in their prominent
joints and large projecting veins, were clasped,
and on her knee lay a large fan, and a quaint
worn silver snuff-box. She occasionally twitch-
ed and murmured in her sleep, now and then
|
stamping an old shapeless foot in an antique
quilted silk shoe, while she murmured, as if di-
recting the servants: "For shame! a cobweb!
Waste! waste! waste not, want not. And
then in a meek tone, "Yes, my lady! Of course,
my lady! Depend on me, my lord!"
"Poor old soul! she's guiltless! her very
dreams are full of the departed," thought Abel;
"but I'll fathom this. Deaf as a post, and blind
as a bat, I've no doubt her children and grand-
children take advantage of her to run riot all.
over the house. Well, I'm thankful I've none.
"And to think that silver-haired, stern look-
ing old dame was laughing, ogling, flirting Jenny
Primrose! It seems but yesterday I saw her
first in this very room, standing behind the
housekeeper's chair! old Mrs. Graves, her own
aunt! What a bright creature she looked! her
hair glossy and black as a raven's wing, strained
off her white smooth forehead, and a jaunty lit-
tle cap and blue ribbons perched on the top; the
ribbons not more blue than the veins that seemed
to try to hide themselves under the black hair;
and then her dark, saucy eyes, black as sloeg,
her cheek like a china rose, her scarlet lip and
brilliant teeth, and the kerchief pinned so co-
quettishly over her white neck and fastened by
a knot of blue ribbon! And how her aunt used
to frown, and hint, and nudge and shake her
head, if that kerchief didn't sit quite as firm and
close as her own. How pretty I thought Jenny
in her chintz cotton roquelaire and her quilted
petticoat, with her light foot and neat ancle !
| And there she is now-and here am I, almost
as changed! and the old aunt who used to
watch us so, she is dust long ago; we need no
watching now! And red-nosed Comfit, who
used to puff and blow and spite me so, long
years since; and my beautiful lady! no sound
of her light foot, her merry laugh, or her sweet
song. She doesn't come to the stair-head to
listen for my lord! And the boy she so loved
and so begged me to watch over on her death-
bed, what is he come to! Ah! there's the
worst of all! and how can I help it—what can
I do?"
Abel stole softly up stairs. He looked into
the dining-rooms. All was still, all stately, all
in beautiful order; not a speck of dust on the
old high-backed chairs and black mahogany ta-
bles; the Turkey carpet bright and soft as ever..
The shutters were closed, but the door admitted
a soft light, and Abel gently unfastened one
shutter and admitted sufficient light for him to
gaze on the full length portraits of his late lord
taken in his naval uniform at five-and-twenty.
and his lady, according to the taste of the day,...
as a shepherdess, in white satin and a little
scarlet jacket, her hair combed off her forehead,
and hanging in a powdered fleece on one shoul-
der; a little straw hat, and a crook crowned
with flowers.
with flowers. It was, spite of the quaint attire,
exquisitely painted by Reynolds, and the face
equalled in feminine loveliness the manly beauty
of his lordship.
Old Abel gazed at them till tears filled his
eyes. "Heaven rest their souls!" he said, rev-
erently kissing the canvass, and then turning
to gaze on a bright picture of his young lord by
Lawrence, as a lovely laughing boy, playing
with a blood-hound; and finally turning to two
stiff portraits of his first master and mistress,
96
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
the old Lord Trelawney, in a wig, hanging like
two flaps of curls to his waist, and his lady, a
severe dame in a hoop and a high powdered
toupé.
Would he were like either of them!" said
the old man, glancing from the boy to his father
and his grandfather; but times are changed-
there's nothing now like it used to be! It's
time the old left this new world!"
CHAPTER XLI.
FULL of these thoughts, Abel stole up stairs,
and stood on the landing, listening at the door |
of the drawing-rooms; the angry colour mount-
ed to his hale old cheeks, and he clenched his
withered hands. In those rooms, sacred to the
stately memory of his departed lady, he heard
the sounds of vulgar mirth and riot; nay, more
unhallowed fingers were running over her spin-
net, and touching her guitar. Abel could con-
tain his wrath no longer, he opened the door,
and stood among the revellers.
ing the furniture, disgracing the place that to
me is as sacred as a church. Get up, you
young scamps," said old Abel, pulling up two
boys who were on the floor playing with the
sofa pillows.
Just at this moment a baby's loud shrill
scream was heard from up-stairs.
"What, more of the family? In my lady's
own room I suppose," said old Abel, hurrying
up-stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
"Touch my baby at your peril, you old kill-
joy!" shrieked Mrs. Gubbins. "Of course I
could'nt come out for the day without the
blessed babe !"
What an old wampire!" said her sister,
Miss Comfit.
Old Abel rushed into the room that had been
that of his lord and lady; Mrs. Gubbins, Miss
Comfit, and all the others in procession follow-
ed him.
On the state bed, whose draperies were of
crimson damask, and surmounted by the Tre-
lawney coronet, lay two children of five and
six years old, fast asleep; and in the little fan-
ciful and costly cot where once the young heir
was proudly cradled, a bundle, which proved to
be a baby, almost black in the face with crying.
It kicked and screamed. The mother caught
it up, patting it, coaxing, dancing, and finally
silencing its grief through the medium of its ap-
petite.
Old Abel when he saw this, to him, hallowed
spot so desecrated, sat down, took out his hand-
kerchief, and wept. All looked on in conster-
|
nation and alarm.
"That was their bridal bed!" he said at
"In that bed my young lord was born
A party of ten or twelve were romping in the
drawing-rooms. A woman of about five-and
forty, gaudily dressed, and whom he knew at a
glance to be Mrs. Comfit's eldest married daugh-
ter, was strumming at the spinnet, she having
in her youth been indulged with a 'finish' at a
boarding-school; her sister, a maiden about a
year younger than herself, thrummed the old-
fashioned guitar; a pretty blooming young girl,
dressed all in white, with orange flowers in her
hair, and a veil over her head, was waltzing to
her mother's old tunes with a young dark-look-length.
ing man, dressed in blue coat, gilt. buttons, white-in that bed my lord died-in that my lady
waistcoat, and white ducks. And no one could died! Get up" he cried, suddenly darting at
doubt that he was the happy bridegroom of the the children; "how dare you!" He pulled one
fair and merry bride, who was vainly trying to off, the mother snatched away the other; the
teach him the Polka, when Abel entered. Two frightened children roared, the baby screamed,
smart girls and their sweethearts, and two chil- Mrs. Gubbins cried, Miss Comfit scolded, the
dren playing on the floor, completed the party. bride and bridegroom laughed and clung to-
Abel went at once up to the damne at the spin-gether, and in the confusion exchanged a kiss
net, and said in a voice hoarse with passion: and all joined more or less in the uproar,
Pray, Mrs. Gubbins, may I know by what right which became so loud, that it roused even poor
you presume to touch that instrument, never deaf Mrs. Comfit out of her sleep down stairs;
opened to my knowledge, since my honoured and up she came, the quaint old woman, like a
Aady closed it last?"
spirit of the past, and leaning on an ivory head-
ed staff.
Why, la, Mr. Abel," said Mrs. Gubbins,
what 'arm can I do it by playing a few toons
for the young ones to dance to?”
66
Every harm! It's a disgrace to the house,
to my lady's memory, to Mrs. Comfit, to me!
Dancing too! in my lady's own drawing-rooms!
Mrs. Comfit shall find, if she permits this, that
this is no place for her! It's a regular breach
of trust, and so she shall find. What have you
to do with that lute ma'am? the lute my lord
gave my lady when she married! Give it me
this moment."
Lackadaisy goodness gracious patience
me!" said the maiden of forty-four, tossing back
her long false ringlets, and turning up her point-
ed red nose! "why it's the most obsolete old
thing, of no good to nobody—I only tried it for
fun !"
|
|
"What's all this?" she cried, hobbling up-
stairs. "Robbers! fire! murder! why are you
all up-stairs? why have you left my parlour?
where are you? what are you doing here all of
you?"
'Oh, Mr. Watchful," cried Mrs. Gubbins,
turning very pale," don't make mischief for us!
she'll never forgive us—turn us out on Jenny's
wedding day-cut me off with a shilling-do
speak a kind word for us.'
Oh do, oh do!" cried all at once; the
pretty bride coming up in all the confidence of
her beauty and her bridehood, and taking his
hand.
“Do make some allowance for young people
like us!" said the old maid.
"Here she comes!" all cried at once.
"What's fun to you is death to me, ma'am !
"What is this?" said the old woman at first
That ribbon my lord placed himself round my not perceiving Abel Watchful;
"how dare you
lady's throat. Oh, these are fine doings! and come up-stairs or enter this room-my lady's
dancing those horrid foreign new dances, spoil-room? Where did you get the keys? Down
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
7.97
with you, down with you all, and out of the
house. No wedding supper here to-night! Away
with you all-you deceitful, false, encroaching
wretches-taking advantage of my infirmities
"out of the house, I say, trespassers!"
The rooms being restored to perfect order,
the shutters closed, and the doors locked, old
Abel, fondly caressed on one side by the pretty
and thankful bride, and on the other by the for-
ward Miss Comfit, was seated at the supper
"Do let a body speak, mother," bawled Mrs. table.
Gubbins in her incensed parent's ear.
66
Speak! the thing speaks for itself. Away
with you all!" And she flourished her staff
like a witch on the stage. "Not one sixpence,
Mrs. Smith, need you expect for your wedding
present, and I had put you up a fifty pound
note."
Mrs. Smith, the bride, began to cry, as did
the bridegroom.
"As for you, daughters, I cut you both off
with a shilling, and all your brats!”
Mrs. Gubbins and Miss Comfit fell on their
knees.
Why, good gracious, Mr. Abel Watchful, is
that you? How did you come here? did you
give 'em leave, sir? Oh no, tisn't likely.”
"Oh do! do say yes!" sobbed Mrs. Gubbins,
"I'm ruined else, and Gubbins 'll break every
bone in my skin for this day's work. It's my
girl's wedding-day, and mother falling asleep,
we meant no harm, just playing a little in the
drawing-room, and putting the children here
for the leastest bit of a nap, for their poor
blessed little legs wouldn't carry 'em any
longer."
"Do make peace for us," said the pretty
bride, kissing with her soft warm lip the old
man's hand.
Abel was not proof against this. Miss Com-
fit followed the bride's example.
Meantime old Mrs. Comfit, after shaking
hands with Abel Watchful, had seated herself
near him.
"Isn't it a profanation?" said the old woman,
"and can it be too severely punished, Mr.
Abel ?"
"Do you all swear," asked Abel, in a low
tone, "never to act thus again ?"
"We do! we do!"
"Don't they deserve all I have threatened?"
said the old housekeeper.
They do indeed," replied the old man;
"but Mrs. Comfit!" and he raised his voice for
her to hear him, "those whom we served so
long, and loved so well, and still revere so much
-those for whom we hold all here sacred till
my young lord takes possession-were ever
more prone to forgive than to punish. In their
name I beg you to overlook the great evil these
giddy young people have committed in pro-
faning spots sacred to the memory of the great
and good. They pledge themselves never so to
sin again. I forgive them-do you the same?
I ask it of you for the sake of old times.”
The supper was excellent, the punch made by
Abel was worthy of his skill. Old times were
busy at his heart; and though Miss Comfit did
her best to charm him with what she considered
her modern graces, and certainly having decided
an old husband was better than none, encour-
aged him as much as might be to propose. He
turned from her to talk with her mother of old
times. His heart was with the past.
He preferred her old ballads-
"'Twas down in the meadows one morning in May."
and
whch he had heard her sing fifty years before,
to all the fashionable airs screeched by Miss
Comfit; and when the young people, by which
terms he designated all under fifty, took to
romps and forfeits, Abel asked Mrs. Comfit to
give him a cup of tea in the still-room, where
half a century before he had been allowed that
luxury by her old aunt, and in the presence of
pretty Jenny.
"At once I'm in love with two nymphs that are fair."
+4
those they had served so long and loved so well,
They talked and talked of old times, and of
till the clock striking twelve warned Abel to
depart; and bitterly bewailing the old watch-
men, in which regret he was heartily joined by
Mrs. Comfit, (another worshipper of the past)
he took his way back to his master's abode in
Pall Mall.
CHAPTER XLII.
X
It was the day fixed by Sir Felix Archer for
the Temples to dine with him; and as he was
very anxious to impress them with his taste,
liberality and refinement, he was more than usu-
ally fidgetty, or what is vulgarly called fussy, in
his long and frequent interviews with his butler,
his housekeeper, and his valet. With him,
however, it was l'embarras des richesses, the
choice between different sets of china, different
services of plate, different delicacies of every
kind; and in his own dress, a dozen different
waistcoats were displayed, half-a-dozen dress
coats extended before him by the voluble and
obsequious valet, who, being French, pronoun-
ced them all d'un gout parfait ! But in spite of
all his wish to shine and to enjoy himself on
this particular day, he felt unusually anxious,
nervous, and depressed.
"Well, then, if you can pass it over, I sup-
Renard Undermine had had an interview
pose I can, and must-I will forgive them on with Badger and Bright, solicitors, and though
condition you stay and partake of the wedding for his own purposes he choose to hold out some
supper. Get up, children, and never, never faint hopes to Sir Felix, and thus make himself
again attempt in this house to enter any rooms of importance to his client, yet Badger and
but mine. Let us restore everything to order." Bright were good men and true.
To possess
With her own hands she smoothed the bed Felix Park themselves, they would not have
and the cot. Old Abel hurried down stairs, and done a mean or treacherous deed even by a
reverently wiping the keys of the spinnet, lock-foe, and for Sir Felix's nephew they had a warm
ed it, and took possession of the key; he did
the same by the guitar, kissing the ribbon as a
papist does a relic of a saint.
N
and sincere regard, which made them more
than professionally eager to see him righted,
and this small share of his entailed property
198
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
↑
restored to him. They were not in posses-
sion of the address of Frank Stanley, and be-
lieved him to be abroad, so that they could not
take any decided steps in his case, without his
instructions.
··
But Renard Undermine clearly saw, that al-
though till the nephew's return he might play
upon Sir Felix's hopes and fears to suit his own
purposes, that the case was clear as an Eastern
moon, and that Sir Felix would not only be
obliged on his nephew's return instantly to re-
sign, but for the sake of his own character to
do it with as little delay and as good a grace
as possible. Sir Felix knew the land well, and
he trembled ; but he thought he knew lawyers
better still, and his hopes rose. He judged by
himself, by his father, by Twist, Twine, Turn,
and Renard Undermine, senior and junior. It
never struck him that there are great and good
and honourable men, aye, moral men and chris-
tian men, more than the world wots of, even in
a profession so peculiarly beset with temptations,
and cursed with the facility of doing evil with
impunity-and Badger and Bright were honest
lawyers as superior to a bribe as any bishop
on the bench. With such men Sir Felix Ar-
cher had not the shadow of a chance.
In spite of the delusive hopes Renard Under-
mine held out, the general impression left on Sir
Felix Archer's mind was one of alarm and
despondency-and he longed in the fascination
of Lucilla Temple's society to forget his gloomy
presentiment of evil and of loss. Urged by his
restless hopes and fears, he had called late in
the evening at the Undermines, in Bedford Row.
It was some little time before he was admitted,
and then he was told that one of the young
ladies only was at home, but that Mr. Renard
was expected in every moment.
his recent agitation about Felix Park, that he
positively did weep. He who had not wept for
years-no, not since his last caning at school,
we will not say how long ago.
IN
"Oh, do not, do not give way. What can
you covet? What can you desire? You to
whom all so love, so glory to minister to!"
And she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
j
"I am weak, my sweet friend," said Sir Felix,
"and you know that my state of mind at pre-
sent is even in its happiness allied rather to
tears than smiles.”
Nay, nay, you can have no doubts, no fears."
Why no?" said Sir Felix, with the most
artificial of smiles. "Scarcely, fair friend, in
the common sense of the word; but it is aston-
ishing what an ingenious self-tormentor I am.
As you so sweetly hint, I cannot well fear re-
jection, I am not stretched, like most suitors,
on the rack of jealousy, but as I look forward
ask myself whether my present interest in a
certain fair one will last. I try to divest her of
the halo love throws round her, and to ascer-
tain whether when, as the poet says, Cus-
tom comes with its inevitable curse' whether
I may not wish I had still the power to select, and
the right to rove. What say you, fair casuist?"
"I am no fair judge; I can never think any
one worthy of you?"
"I must not accustom myself to the luxury
of your intellectual converse, my friend !" said
Sir Felix, "or I shall really be spoilt for all less
gifted women."
Sir Felix did not perceive that flattery of
himself formed the charm of the lady's converse.
"What think you of her?" he added; "can
she love?"
"Oh, if she loves hot you, whom could she
love?"
"You evade, fair one! That she loves me
as well as she can love, I doubt not, but what
depth of passion and tenderness is there in her
Sir Felix was shown into the library. Miss
Lucilla Undermine was at her desk, writing
with eager haste. The lamp which alone
lighted the room, threw a soft light on her intel-nature?"
lectual forehead, from which the dark masses of
dishevelled hair were pushed wildly back.
She did not seem aware of the entrance of
any one; but when the servant announced Sir
Felix Archer, she uttered a little cry of surprise
and joy, and rose to welcome him with the soft
empressement which she had perceived he liked
so well.
(
"I was with you in spirit, Sir Felix," she
said, pointing to the Essay on Taste;' "I had
just completed one notice of this sublime mas-
terpiece, and commenced another."
"Thank you, my fair and gifted friend," he
replied, taking her hand. "Oh that all felt as
kindly by me as you do!" And at the thought of
the world's neglect of his Essay, and the chance
of losing Felix Park, a tear positively softened
his fine eyes.
"You are in sorrow," cried the lady, clasping
his hand in both hers; "you look pale! Oh,
heavens! there is a tear in those eyes! How
beautiful is grief in a face where the features
are perfect and the expression sublime. I can
now understand the poet's rapture about 'smiles
still lovelier than tears.'"'
"Fair young enthusiast!" said Sir Felix, "he
who has such a friend ought to defy sorrow.'
But as he spoke, he was so excited by the lady's
rapture and his own touching merits, added to
"I must see you together again before I
answer that."
You shall-you shall see us often."
Miss Lucilla Undermine had a specific object
she was not to be put off by so vague and
general a promise. She had heard of Sir Felix's
dinner-party, and had set her heart upon being
there. Renard also had resolved to go.
"The Temples dine with you to-morrow!"'
said the young lady.
They do a small family party."
"It is just in such a party a woman's heart
reveals itself the most. Your poor friend must
be there to study the feelings of the happiest
and most honoured of women.
!
"Confound it," thought Sir Felix; but he
said, for he was a gentleman—“may I indeed
hope for an honour I had scarcely ventured to
request-and your papa and mamma-
"Oh by no means, I am not going to crowd
your tables, or impose on your politeness. Re-
nard will be a sufficient chaperon, for me."
Well," thought Sir Felix, "she's presentable
enough, and keeps me in spirits, and it will not
do to slight or offend Renard. I must make
the best of it, and submit with a good grace."
"I cannot tell you," he said, with well-as-
sumed animation, "how much your presence
will enliven this little party. I had scarcely
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
$99
dared to ask it, because I had an impression, I
scarce know why, that your family and the
Temples were not quite on good terms."
"Oh quite ! There was a coldness, but that
is past. My intimacy with Lucilla compels
them to be friends. And now let me read you
my last notice of your Essay. I cannot satisfy
myself--I want a little encouragement !"
The praises of his genius, conveyed in flowing
language, and read by a handsome girl, who
seemed to think him perfection, naturally put
Sir Felix into a good humour with himself and
her. When she had done, he took her hand,
and slipping an emerald ring, set in diamonds,
off his own finger, with playful gallantry he pla-
ced it on her's, saying: "I hope you will always
wear it for my sake; yes, even when some
happy man has a right to place a dearer and
holier ring on that fair finger."
i
He kissed her hand as he spoke, and at that
moment Renard Undermine entered, with the
servant carrying lights and his desk.
"Ochone, it's myself is half dead with the
hate and the cramp," he said. "Och, the old
cob, I thought he'd never have done! And so
mavourneen you'd die to serve him? the old
coxcomb! You'll live ma cuishla to serve him
out!"
"Did'nt I act my part well, Rory ?"
"Did'nt you? You're the world's wonther,
and the darlin of the airth you are. But
come, the moon's almost as bright as your face,
and they won't be home these three hours yet,
so let's just slip out and walk in the square, and
talk matters over a bit. The young May-moon
is shining, love.”
Oh, Rory, I'm afraid."
"Afraid! the girl that loves Rory O'Brien
must know no fear."
"Save that of losing him," said Lucilla Un-
dermine, tenderly.
Och, niver fear, if you were to lose me, I'd
soon find myself.' I'm used to that-so come,
put on your bonnet that the saucy stars mayn't
be winking at you; I'm as jealous as Otello.
Come, 'There's nothing half so sweet in life
aas love's young dream.'
Lucilla hastily withdrew her hand, but the
sparkle of her stones caught Renard's eye, and
he took the first opportunity of exchanging
meaning glance with his sister.
Sir Felix then gracefully asked Renard to
escort his "fair friend" to his house the next
day, and to oblige him with his company to a
family dinner. A little conversation on busi-
ness ensued, and then Sir Felix, observing to
Renard that he wished to show him some
papers connected with the discussion, invited
him to sup with him. Renard rose to fetch his
hat, and Sir Felix, taking a paper from his
pocket-book, said :-
•
So saying, Rory offered his arm and the
clandestine lovers noiselessly glided down stairs
and out into the street, and Lucilla having a
key of the Square they were soon safe from all
remarks and censures, save those of Lucilla's
own conscience, which was not quite so har-
dened as not to reproach her and prick her a
little for the double part she was so adroitly
playing, both with her parents, her brothers
and sisters, Sir Felix Archer, and, as she
thought, Rory O'Brien. But he was too deep
for her.
Two young lovers gliding by moonlight among
the dark shrubs, and over the silvery lawns-
now sitting fondly hand in hand-now moving
"Poetry is not my forte, my fair and dear
confidante, but you know it is, and ever will be
the soft interpreter of passion. I wish these
lines to meet the eye of her who inspired them.
I would not object to their being a little re-lovingly and slowly along, watched only by the
touched and remodelled by a more gifted hand
than mine. I do not like to commit myself by
formally offering or sending them, and I have
a foolish wish to know whether the object of
them guesses their author, and, in short, ad-
mires them. I think I can trust all these deli-
cate manœuvres in that fair hand; and now I
must say à demain."
"I shall count the hours till I see you again,"
said Lucilla Undermine, bowing with a reve-
rence tinged with tenderness as she shook his
offered hand: "And I will do my poor best to
serve you in every way.”
1
"Good-night, darling sister," said Renard;
"when they all come from the play, tell them I
should have joined them but for our dear friend
here."
Our dear friend here! Sir Felix winced, but
said: "And why were you not of the party,
fair friend?"
"This," she said, touching the Essay on
Taste, "interests me more than any play. Good
night."
.
"Farewell," said Sir Felix, while Renard
walked to the window; "do not forget my
commission."
"Forget! I would die to serve you-adieu!"
They are gone-Lucilla listens a moment for
the rolling wheels, then darts across the room,
and unlocks a book closet, and out springs no
less a person than Rory O'Brien.
stars-how much of poetry and passion does
one connect with them. But what had poetry
and passion to do with the false, plotting Lu-
cilla Undermine and the Irish fortune-hunter,
Rory O'Brien.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE poor Temples? What management did
it require in them and what labour did it give
them to act a respectable figure at a dinner
party; they with little more than the poor
profits of a curacy, to be obliged to betray little
outward difference between themselves and
the possessors of annual thousands. But they
were high in hope, for it was the eve of that
important day on which Mr. Temple was to
wait on Lord Lofty. It was probably the last
day of "danger and distress" the last day of
minute and trembling economy-the last day
of terrible fear for the future-the last day per-
haps that Mr. Temple must deny himself the
luxury of doing good.
Oh, the comfort, the delight, to that good
and long-suffering-man, of a certainty of com-
petence for himself, and those so dear! The
exquisite happiness too of being able liberally
to assist those wretched ones of his large, his
hungry, and his ragged flock-whom he had
100
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
hitherto so´stinted himself to benefit but a lit-
tle! So little, as far as their bodily miseries
went, but of spiritual comfort he had been no
niggard. If he had little else to give, he gave,
and lavishly, his time, his health, his energies,
his very life; but often he felt that the cravings
of the vile body must be supplied before man
would care for hi
immortal soul.
When in the low dens of despair and guilt,
(children of poverty) he tried to teach the lean
and wolf-eyed little ones not to steal, a haggard
mother, with a skeleton babe at a breast that
'yielded no relief," has almost shrieked, "No,
no! The minister's right; it's a sin to steal,
but it's no sin to starve!" And a jaundiced
unshorn man, too ill to work, has growled.:
"Let me starve, I only wish it was over, I
can't bear to see it, and as to the Union, I'd
rather die here, for here I have her beside me,
and I can see them! and there I should die like
a dog.".
Scenes like these were rife in the little courts
and alleys that abounded in his parish. The
incumbent was on the continent and poor Tem-
ple had the sole charge of a poor and populous
district. True there were Union workhouses,
and hospitals, and public charities for all, but
what Mr. Temple so sighed for, was the power
of relieving the wretched without breaking up
their homes and their hearts, and wounding
their spirits and embittering their bread. And
now, if Lord Lofty either procures him a living
or a lucrative appointment-how many a case
he has vainly wept over, he will effectually re-
lieve.
There had been great difficulties to be over-
come to make all presentable, and the Temples
had been obliged to ask credit, as a favour of
vulgar and suspicious shopkeepers; some had
rudely refused, some had civilly declined, but
at last some had agreed to furnish what was
necessary at credit price, and thus this dinner
involved the Temples in a debt, a nothing if
their prospects are realized, but heavy and
alarming should Lord Lofty disappoint them.
"That is not all likely," said the still san-
guine Mr. Temple, as he insisted on his wife's
selecting a handsome gray satin for her dress
on the important occasion, instead of the mis-
erably poor and tolerably cheap dark silk she
had meekly fixed upon, as being less of an out-
lay, and fit for many uses.
"The satin is so dear, my love," whispered
Mrs. Temple anxiously to her husband, as the
pert shopman unfolded it in a true haberdash-
er's most dashing style-" besides it will not
turn."
|
the original price of this harticle, mem, was
eight-and-six, and now I only ask you seven-
and-nine."
"If it would but turn!" again whispered
Mrs. Temple.
"Why, mem, if you're so economically dis-
posed, it will dye, dye equal to new! only sev-
en-and-nine! it's giving it away."
"Why, so it will! it will dye! I had not
thought of that."
i
Well, then, my love, as the young man so
recommends it," said the simple and unsuspi-
cious Temple, "and it does seem a great bar-
gain, having been so much reduced you see,
let me decide for you. Twelve yards, my love,
did you not want twelve?"
"I think eleven would do," faltered Mrs.
Temple, frightened when she saw so much ex-
pensive satin unfolded with a jerk for her.
"Twelve is the shortest quantity, mem, we
ever sell for a dress; but as you please."
"Oh, do have enough, my dear," said Mr.
Temple; "in a few weeks," he whispered
fondly in her ear, "as a rector's lady you will
want not merely one dress, but a whole ward-
robe-and do have it handsome!"
+
"The whisper was low, but the haberdasher
had very large, quick ears; he caught enough
to supply him with the meaning, and his man-
ner gradually became much less abrupt, and
more coaxing and confidential.
"What's the next article, mem?"
66
Nothing more, thank you," said Mrs. Tem-
ple, anxious to get out of the shop.
But before she could remove, the counter
was covered as if by magic, with long white
paper boxes, edged with blue, and full of gloves,
silk stockings, ribbons, and artificial flowers.
1
"These gloves, sir, a first-rate article, best
quality, and lowest price; allow me to put up
a dozen pairs."
"Oh dear no," said Mrs. Temple in alarm,
"one pair, or if you like two, as Lucilla will
want a pair."
}
"Only two pairs, mem? let me say half-a-
dozen, mem. There'll not be a pair left by this
time to-morrow. To tell you the truth, they
are part of a bankrupt's stock, or I couldn't sell
them for the money."
"A bankrupt?" said Mr. Temple; "poor
man, I do not like buying his goods under
price."
"Fraudulent bankruptcy, sir; all snug, took
care of number one!"
66
Nay, then," said Mr. Temple, "I will not
buy them at all! I wish to pay an honest price
for an article honestly obtained-put them
away. This system of underselling ruins trade
and tradesmen."
"Why certainly mem," said the haberdasher,
who had overheard her, "it would be a novel
thing to turn a satin-quite a horiginal idear- The young man was caught in his own net;
you'd have the honour of setting the fashion, he tried to unsay what he had said, he proved
mem! but just compare the harticles-allow himself a liar, he ate his words, but all in vain
me-oblige me, sir-I'm sure you wont hesi--Mr. Temple would have nothing to do with
tate when you see them together."
They do look very different certainly," said
Mr. Temple; "my dear, you must have the
satin."
"It is so very dear," replied Mrs. Temple,
deprecatingly.
"Dear! mern!" interposed the haberdasher,
"we're selling it at cost price-postively cost
price, because we wish to clear off the stock;
the gloves.
The haberdasher turned aside and took an
opportunity of putting his tongue in his cheek
-of pointing over his left shoulder, and of
whispering in his partner's ear the expressive
word" Walker." But the gloves were still his
own; however he produced other packets, and
now distrusting his powers of invention, he
sold gloves for all the party. He contrived too
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
101:
to tempt Mr. Temple with a very elegant light | "You must, you must now," said Mr. Tem-
evening shawl for his wife, and a wreath for|ple, as with an authoritative dash Mrs. Crimp
Lucilla.
put the receipted bill into his hand.
"Anything in the cap or turban line, mem?
Our show-room is on the other side-my wife's
concern this way, if you please, mem-do
allow her the honour of showing you her as-
sortment; the most tasteful articles at the
lowest prices; as I supply her at cost price,
she can afford to do it."
"Of course that must make a difference, my
love," said Mr. Temple; "let us look at the
caps; you said you wanted one."
"But I meant to make it myself."
"
No, no, I wish you to look your best."
"Mrs. Crimp," said the haberdasher, "show
the lady some caps, turbans, turban caps,
et cetera."
Mr. Temple took out two sovereigns-alas !
all he had, except a few shillings; Mrs. Tem-
ple's heart sunk within her.
The milliner was all thanks, courtesies, and
professions of her own merits, and devotion to
her business and her customers.
At length they are in the street.
"Dearest, how could you be so extravagant?
We could not afford that satin or that turban."
"We can afford nothing yet, but that I hope
will not be the case long. I must see my
Matilda once more dressed (as she always was,
till I linked her with poverty and grief) in the
best and most tasteful of attire. Come, Sir
Felix will not be ashamed of us. I think it
Mrs. Crimp, a little dandizette, with the will puzzle him to match the matron beauty of
most fanciful of French caps stuck at the back my wife, and the girlish charms of my daugh-
of her head, was not at all inferior to her hus-ter. This is the first handsome dress I have
band in powers of persuasion and puffing, but
added thereto a great deal of direct flattery
suitable to her craft.
"Will you try this blonde cap with the blue
flowers, ma'am?"
“Blue is such a trying colour."
"To most ladies, ma'am; but not to you,
your complexion will stand any colour, ma'am."
"Ah, but I am generally very pale."
"Oh, but that's so haristocratic, ma'am-it's
not to be regretted the lily above the rose at
any time; and with such hair, ma'am. Wo-
man's greatest ornament is her hair. It sets a
cap off, do fine hair.”
"The cap ought to set the hair off, I think," |
said Mr. Temple.
"A becoming cap do, sir; they mutually
accommodate each other.”
"Try that turban, my love," said Mr. Tem-
ple, pointing to one of silver lama, tastefully
made up.
"Ah, sir, you gentlemen have such a taste!
There's not a sweeter thing in London than
that turban."
The turban was very becoming to Mrs. Tem-
ple's still beautiful face.
It was forty shillings.
Mrs. Temple demurred; Mrs. Crimp declared
forty shillings could not be better spent, and in
order to show it off she put it on her own
mean plebeian head, a manœuvre that very
nearly put the Temples out of conceit with it.
When it was packed up, Mrs. Crimp asked
where she should have the pleasure of sending
it. Mr. Temple gave the address, and was
about to depart, when Mrs. Crimp having
hastily written in pencil on a shop bill—
"To one silver lama turban, £.2 Os. Od."--
she presented the bill.
"I have arranged with Mr Crimp to pay him
in three months," said Mr. Temple.
"This is a different concern, sir," simpered
the milliner; "we charge ready-money prices,
my principle being small profits and quick re-
turns; forty shillings is such a trifle for such
a turban, sir! the silver lama is worth more,
to say nothing of the work, style, fittings up,
&c. &c.—allow me to receipt the bill, sir!"
Mrs. Temple turned pale, and her husband
red. She pressed his arm and whispered, “I
will not have it.”
|
bought you for years, my darling, my unrepin-
ing, blessed darling!-you who, as Matilda
Thornhill, were the observed of all observers-
the setter of fashions rather than their follower.
Think not the sweet contentedness and resig-
nation of years have been lost on your husband.
No, he feels high in hope that he will be able
to atone he can never reward you."
Tom had been allowed to consult his own
taste, and his parents saw with regret that he
had availed himself of the license to order the
tailor to make him a dress-coat instead of a
jacket. A boy always looks mean when first
he dons the modern toga virilis; from a fine
boy as he seems in his jacket, he slinks into a
small insignificant man. Tom's coat was a
light claret, with silver buttons; a gay waist-
coat and white ducks completed Tom's attire.
Mr. Temple, in a new black suit, looked the
perfection of a gentleman and clergyman, and
Lucilla and her mother surpassed even his
expectations. The rich gray satin, silver tur-
ban, and blonde shawl of the latter were as
well suited to her, as the white-rose wreath
and tunic dress of white gauze over white silk
to Lucilla.
Mr. Temple was in high spirits; and when
he was glad, it was not in his wife's nature to
repine. Tom seemed to tread on air, which he
did indeed, all but the tip of his toe and heel,
for he had donned the torturing wellingtons,
which had been nominally stretched, but were
agony still.
Sir Felix sent his carriage to convey them-
a kind and considerate attention, and a great
convenience. With it came an exquisite bou-
quet for Lucilla, and one for Mrs. Temple.
Sweet Lucilla, as she stepped up stairs, crown-
ed with roses and her flowers in her hand, glad
in her parents' joy, and having inherited all
their power of hoping-one felt that Di Mori-
cini could not have chosen a fitter personifica-
tion of Psyche, goddess of youth-" soul in her
eyes, and love upon her lips."
Tom was rather cross, but then he was in
pain. As Lucilla said, no philosopher could
stand the test of a tight high-heeled boot, but,
added archly, "no philosopher but Tom would
subject himself to their torture."
102
THE BREACH OF PROMISE. ·
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE party assembled to meet the poor Tem-
ple's was small but select. The elegant draw-
ing-rooms seemed to have assumed new beauties
for the occasion; as if in compliment to Lucilla,
whose taste for flowers was well known to Sir
Felix, the rooms were abundantly decorated
with the choicest bouquets and most fragrant
shrubs, and a white moss-rose bud, which he
always declared to be her badge, figured in his
tasteful, well-fitting coat, fresh from Stultz.
1
There was a ferocious looking old dowager
marchioness, who looked at first sight start-
lingly unnatural, and no wonder, for eye-brows,
hair, teeth, complexion, and figure, all were ar-
tificial; but the brilliants glistening in her jet
black wig, and forming a tiara on her whitened
forehead, they were real-so were all the gems,
of which she had a galaxy-and yet her noble
and card-playing coterie hinted that she wanted
"one more jewel."
"
She was naturally haughty and imperious,
and had been a beauty in days when beauty's
great pride was to conquer, not to win. At the
house of a commoner she was generally either
mortifyingly proud, or as mortifyingly conde-
scending; but she was at once fond of money,
of good living, and of play. Her bon-vivant and
epicure propensities were never better suited
than at the table of Sir Felix Archer. Since she
had begun to hoard, she had liked to dine out,
and having relinquished the giving of expensive
dinner-parties, she did not find invitations
among her own circle of the élite so rife as of
yore. She therefore proudly condescended, and
prided herself on that condescension, and ac-
cepted invitations from some wealthy common-
ers who had French cooks. Indeed in her in-
most heart she liked to grace their dinner-par-
ties, for the stingy old dowager, who was not
much esteemed among her sister marchion- |
esses, &c. &c., was an object of pride, rever-
ence, and a sort of idolatry among tuft-hunting
parvenus, who thought themselves amply repaid
for all their trouble and expense, and her hauteur
and scorn, by being able to invite people to meet
the Dowager Marchioness of Hauteville, and be-
ing able to dilate afterwards on what her lady-
ship had said and done.
1
*
Mrs. Temple of Temple Grove, her husband,
and three of her daughters, in their everlasting
green satins, and green feathers waving in their
elaborately curled auburn hair, (in two instances
auburn by courtesy) were among the guests.
k
Then came Lord Derrynane-a bald old Irish
gentleman, who from an impediment in his
speech was quite unintelligible, but who prosed
eternally, and bored any one hapless enough to
be placed near him (if a lady, almost into hyste-
rics-if a man, into a dogged despair.) No one
understood him, but every one understood he
was a lord, and so he never dined at his club;
home he had none.
He brought with him two sons, heavy unin-
teresting men, the Hon. Miles Sansterre, and
the Hon. Phelim Sansterre; their sole object in
life was to barter their hon. for a plumb, or at
least as near an approach to it as they could
meet with; but they had a powerful rival in
their own papa, who being a widower, was also
on the look-out, and had the advantage of being
|
able to make his heiress Lady Derrynane, while
the sons would only make theirs the Hon. Mrs.
Sansterre and the Hon. Mrs. Phelim Sansterre ;
in other respects there was not, as the vulgar
say, a pin to choose between them. The father
was of course older in years, but in heart they
were all the same age; they had but one idea,
the sordid one of turning their little distinction.
of rank to account; they looked upon that as
their charm, their virtue, their accomplishment,
their stock-in-trade, They saw wit, personal
advantages, real merit, yield before it, and first-
rate men slighted by silly girls, who wished, in
telling over their partners after a ball, to reckon
a lord, though he was an old lord with a hollow
roof, a more hollow head, and still more hollow
heart, and two honourables, though, except in
name, they were a disgrace to their taste.
A handsome widow of about eight-and-twenty,
a Mrs. Maltstone, whose husband, a great brew-
er, had left her five thousand a year, was the
object of attraction with both father and sons.
She was a pleasant sprightly creature, and found
it so pleasant to be an idol, that she had as yet
no great desire to be again a wife. Her domin-
ion was, however, unexpectedly divided with
two very pretty girls, each having fifty thousand
pounds by way of tocher, who came with their
papa, an old M. P., a Mr. Ogle, whose red bot-
tle nose and purple cheeks, jovial manner, and
courtly carriage of a pursy form, betrayed him
to have been of those days when Bacchus was
indeed a God, before whom sooner or later all
fell prostrate.
Then came a brace of foreigners, with long
names, long mustaches, long noses, long hair,
very short purses, and many orders. The one
was a German Baron-Von Holstein Von Rhein-
berger-a tall, thin, rather handsome man, but
evidently made up, his whiskers and musta-
ches being of so artificial a black, his cheek so
brightly pink, his lips so scarlet, and his figure
so pinched in and padded out! Around his
neck he wore a broad scarlet ribbon, to which
an order of some kind was attached, and several
others glittered on his breast. He spoke many
languages, fluently but not very correctly, and
when he took off his white kid gloves, his hands
were not the thorough-bred and nicely kept
hands of an English gentleman; but then he
was only a foreign nobleman. He had many
rings, but in the cheaper article of soap he had
sadly stinted himself. His conversation was a
rapid succession of boasts and compliments, and
little ejaculations; but there was a naïveté, a
joyousness, and a wish to please about him,
which made one kind to him, and contrasted
favourably, at least so the rich widow seemed to
think, with the dull Lord Derrynane, and his
duller sons.
The other foreigner was an Italian marquis,
at least so he said-Il Marchese di Terraincog-
nita. He was very short and Jewish-looking,
with a very long face, which was even length-
ened by a pointed beard. He was more silent,
and less at his ease, than the baron, and had a
suspicious watchful glance; he, too, wore orders
and ribbons, and glanced tenderly at all the la-
dies, even the ferocious old marchioness, whom
he fancied immensément riche.' However he
was a foreigner and a marchese, and so the
Miss Ogles smiled and chatted, and he soon gút
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
103.
into a flirtation with both, in that soft and silent | sphere he was born to move in, looking in her
manner a foreigner only can.
Renard Undermine and his sister arrived a
few minutes after our party. Renard looked
pert and professional, but Lucilla Under
had dressed herself with consummate taste, and
she had never looked so handsome or so lady
like; her sleek black hair was dressed
Duvernay, and a few tasteful Marabou feathers
of gold colour and white, waved like a helmet
plume over one shoulder; her dress was a
gold-coloured satin, tastefully trimmed with
blonde. We have said she was handsome; but
on the present occasion many feelings are busy
at her heart, many plots fuse and simmer in her
head; her plump cheeks are in consequence
almost pale, and her usually flashing eyes are
full of thought and passion. Sir Felix looks at
her with surprise, and the Marchioness of
Hauteville, who thinks she bears a faint resem-
blance to her august self, says, pointing her out
to Sir Felix:
|
wife-like estimation so far above all the other
men around him-listened to, admired, appre-
ciated-his friend and cousin Temple, of Tem-..
ple Grove, hanging on his words, and even the
old Marchioness pausing to ask, "Who is that
elegant and handsome man?" Then stole over
lahe heart the hope that the morrow was to real-
ize even at that table that heart sent up
its meek tribute of praise and gratitude to the
Giver of all good. In the buzz of conversation
which mingled with the clatter of glasses, plates,
knives, &c. &c., a listener could occasionally
catch the words-Grisi-" La Blache"-Ce-
rito-Adêle Dumilâtre" Guy Stephan"-Sir
Robert Peel- the Income Tax“ Punch”
-the Quarterly-the Queen-Longchamps-
Flounces-the Surplice, the Offertory and an
ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! quel tapage pour si
peu de chose! s'il était question d'une mode
pour une jolie personne, à la bonheur ! Mais
surplice où non surplice qu'estce que cela fait-
offertoire ou non c'est égal-Il faut tonjours
donner aux pauvres-n'estcepas? from the Ba-

"Who's that?-rather a stylish girl?-what's
her name?"
Sir Felix coloured as he said, "Miss Under-ron-and soon, and "Ah, Mademoiselle, est
mine."
"Undermine ! what a curious, ominous name,"
sneered her ladyship; "well, she's a pretty
person, much prettier than that blonde, with
all those ringlets; I hate blondes, and I detest
ringlets!"
The marchioness was a brunette, and her
hair never would curl.
trop bonne-vous me ferez veiller et pleurer en
pensant a une honté si angelique une beautie
aussi rare!" and similar rhapsodies from the
Marchese di Terraincognita.
this gorgeous scene, in the cool and quiet atelier
of the poor artist; and Hebe Temple, the young-
est of the 'Evergreens,' the only woman in the
world who really loved Sir Felix Archer, thought
she would rather be to him what her cousin was,
than be on the throne of the world without him.
Her mother, Mrs. Temple, of Temple Grove,
was in a very ill humour, and her sisters tossed
their green plumes in vain, for no one heeded
them. They were some of the unfortunate and
abundant population of English young ladies,
without dowries, who having no very peculiar
charm, talent, or advantage, where hundreds of
others of the same class are destined from their
cradles to joyless old maidenhood, pass the rosy
hours of youth in neglect and anxiety, fluctua-
ting hopes, and horrible fears-often reproached
and taunted at home, and generally slighted and
wounded abroad, falsifying the old proverb about
Joe and Jill, and in themselves living witnesses.
of the untruth of the distich :
Lucilla Undermine, seated by the Hon. Mr.
Phelim Sansterre, who took little notice of her,
watched with growing envy the devotion of Sir
Felix to the young and guileless Lucilla Tem-
Sir Felix, like most men, was much influ-ple, whose thoughts were now far away from
enced by the opinion of others, and the opinion
of a marchioness was all-important to him. Lu-
cilla Undermine, after this, more than once was
honoured by a glance and even a smile. But
though the marchioness was the lady of the
highest rank of the party, Lucilla Temple felt
she was in reality its queen; and she blamed
herself for the flutter of pride and pleasure she
felt at seeing that elegant host to whom all
were so courteous, treating her, the step-child
of fortune, the daily teacher of Miss Trueblue,
he clothier's daughter, as if she were a younger
and a fairer marchioness. Though obliged by
etiquette to lead the Dowager Lady Hauteville
in to dinner, Sir Felix contrived to have Lucilla
so placed, that he could gaze at her, and occa-
sionally hear her voice, and whenever Lucilla
looked towards him, she saw that his eyes were
fixed on her with a kind of restless passion.
He was evidently not in his usual spirits, though
he made a great effort to conceal his dejection.
Lucilla feared she was the cause of his distress;
but it was the thought of Felix Park that
troubled him; for of her delighted acceptance
he could scarcely permit himself to doubt. It
grieved him, as he looked at her, to think that
perhaps she might never do the honours of that
exquisite place, but that was all she had to do
with his sorrow.
萨
​The dinner passed as most great dinners do,
the dishes were more piquant than the conversa-
tion, and the wine more sparkling than the wit.
The dinner service was magnificent-the dinner
the greatest triumph of a first-rate "artiste." -
Mrs. Temple, who for years had not attended
a dinner party, felt her spirits rise, particularly
when gazing at her husband, her soft dark eyes
sparkling through tears; she saw him in the
"There's no gray goose that files but, soon or late,
Will find some stupid gander for her mate."
Disproving the general opinion that every
woman has one offer at least in her life, and
seeing years go by and premature gray hairs
and wrinkles come, and too often asking them-
selves the sad question, why was I born? The
immense overplus of unmated young ladies of
this generation must, alas! fill the next with a
preponderance of that desolate race-penniless
old maids!
Tom, however, was seated between two of
the Miss Temples, of Temple Grove; and Tom,
if he did not amuse them, at least kept them
alive. He helped himself most liberally, and
was no bad pioneer of the table for them-his
boasts amused them, and before dinner, was
104
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.

over, they knew all his hopes both about his
papa's preferment and the pawn-broker's pistol,
Sir Felix and Lucilla; and, in short, being
adepts in pumping, and Tom overflowing with
news, they were in possession of every thing
the poor Temples would most have disliked
their hearing.
But if there is a secret in a family, a boy will
find it out and let it out too.
That eye so darkly bright, that soft brown hair,
Braided beauty oe'r a brow so fair;
That Juno form, that ever dimpling smile,
That heart so warm, that wit so free from guile-
Say, shall such charms as these, too cruel maid,
Inaugle blessedness be doomed to fade?
Tell me, thou fair enchantress, is it so?
Those lips say 'Yes'-thuse beaming eyes say 'No.'
Well, then, bright eyes! fair mirrors of the soul,.
Thy power alone, can my fond heart control
There is a God, my lovely one, above,
The evanescent, winged God of love;
His robe is saffron, everlasting flowers
And brilliant evergreens bedeck his bowers;
He has no wings to quench his torch's flame-
Say, lovely tyrant, can you guess his name?
And having guessed, wilt come with all thy charms,
Thy maiden blushes, and thy wild alarms,
And hide them in thy Felix's fond arms.
F. A."
Miss Undermine read with as much gravity
as she could command, and Lucilla Temple
tried to emulate her decorum, but her sense of
the ludicrous got the better of her, and she burst
into a fit of irrepressible laughter.
While the gentlemen discussed politics in the
drawing-room, the ladies discussed the politi-
cians, sipped their coffee, praised each other's
dresses where they were intimate enough, and
criticised those of ladies to whom they were
strangers. The Marchioness deigned to ex-
change a few syllables with Mrs. Temple, of
Temple Grove, who, disdainful as she was with
those she thought beneath her, was seated on a
low chair by the couch on which the Marchion-
ess sat the former in a sort of obsequious
ecstacy, the latter in a kind of august torpor, Oh, it is evidently meant for you," she said
varied by little condescending smiles, when to Miss Undermine, "and I should say it is no-
Mrs. Temple, of Temple Grove, placed an otto-thing more nor less than an offer of marriage.'
man under her Ladyship's feet, picked up her
fan, gazed at her with reverential rapture, and
did all she could to show at once her admiration
and her meanness.
"
"
Nonsense," said Miss Undermine, “I as-
sure you it is intended for you-inspired by you?”
Pshaw, dear! as for inspiration, I believe
it is copied out of some old valentine book, or
Miss Undermine was doing all she could to obsolete song book-for, such as it is. I believe
win Lucilla's confidence, now coaxing and flat-fond Felix' could not have produced it. Per-
tering, now joking with her about Sir Felix, and
anon throwing out hints that he was a general
lover, and had latterly become very marked in
his attentions to herself.
haps the Lady's Magazine for 1700 may have
the best claim to it; we have whole rows of it
at home, and I shall look it out in the poetical
department; but it has certainly been adapted
for you.'
""
"What can make you think so?-it seems to-
me so much better suited to you.'
"I have," she said, "a copy of verses which
I have reason to believe are written by him;
how I became possessed of them matters not;
they are simply headed "To Lucilla ;" we will
read them together, dearest, and as two heads
are better than one, we shall perhaps between
us be able to make out to whom they are ad-me to quit Parnassus-so the title of 'daughter
dressed."
"Oh, if there is any doubt, pray take the ben-
efit of it."
"Not I, I only joke, of course they are meant
for you, but come into that little quiet room,
and we will read them." Lucilla Temple felt
some curiosity to see them, and so she rose;
but first she placed H. B.'s caricatures before
her mother, and whispered in her ear-" I shall
be with you again directly, darling mother."
"To me! oh, fie! As for genius, I tell you
he thinks nothing of my poetry; indeed he has
done his best to dishearten me and persuade
of genius' cannot be meant for me, dear'
Then have I dark eyes, or brown hair, or Juno
form? No, no, it is your portrait."
"No, no, your eyes might be called darkly
bright by a poet."
"But not by Sir Felix
brown?"
M
and my hair
"A golden brown I think it might."
"And the Juno form?"
Why who can say what form Juno had !
every poet has his own idea of beauty—his own
beau ideal."
The fact was she had so seldom enjoyed a
party with that dear mother, that to her the
chief delight of the evening was to sit by her "But, as I said before, Sir Felix is a matter-
side, to look at her in her elegant satin, to ad-of-fact-man, and says what he means, and
mire her matronly beauty, and with her to en-
joy all that was beautiful, both animate and in-
animate, and laugh over all that was ridiculous
or absurd.
The two Lucillas glided arm-in-arm into a
little boudoir half full of shrubs, and Miss On-
dermine having led her beautiful and envied
companion to a sofa behind the door, took a
paper out of her tiny reticule, and her. com-
panion looking over her, she read.
"TO LUCILLA.
Daughter of Genius! Pride of Albion's Isle,
Once more fond Felix woos thy roseate smile;
Once more, proud priestess of Diana's power,
Venus invites thee to her myrtle bower.
Say, lovely rebel, to her sovereign will
Shall I be blest or doom'd to languish still;
Say, with those ripened beauties which impart
The fondest wishes to the coldest heart;
means what he says. To tell you the truth,
I am very glad of it-I would much rather you.
had him than I!"
"You surprise me! do you really mean that
you would refuse him?"
"I do indeed, but I speak in confidence-
quite entre nous; I was silly and vain enough
to fear he was serious in his attentions to me,
and I dreaded the pain of rejecting so kind a
friend, and one all parents would so commend
as a suitor; but those verses, which I am sure
are meant for you, convince me he was only
trifling with me, and on the whole I am very
glad of it!"
"I assure you, you are wrong, but I must
implore you to let this be a secret between us;
do you promise me not to allude to it, directly
or indirectly?"
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
105
"I do; and now let us return, I hear the
gentleman, and if you like him, I sincerely wish
you joy, but warn you he is a flirt and a de-
ceiver, for I really had no doubt of his affection,
and very little of his intentions."
Sir Felix was so interested in his discussion
that he was not aware how much like a serious
flirtation with Miss Undermine this close con-
ference looked.
The handsome and animated girl was watched
with envious and angry eyes by all the Tem-
ples, of Temple Grove. The rich widow and the
pretty co-heiress, eager for universal conquest,
"You will yet see you were right."
"No, no, I consider those lines conclusive!"
Lucilla returned with a lighter heart (although
her vanity was a little wounded) to her moth-began to quiz the haughty marchioness to
er's side; Sir Felix was talking to the Mar-
chioness; Miss Undermine contrived to waylay
him on his road to Lucilla Temple, and lure
him into a chair by her side.
"I have been working in your cause," she
said.
"
"Indeed! how shall I thank you!"
"How beautiful you look to-night, Sir Felix,"
she said with an air of playful simplicity; go
away, you are a dangerous man. There, don't
look at me, what's the use of captivating me
too? Do you want to make a conquest of me
too ?"
"It would be a glorious one."
"And a useless one too; but how exquisitely
you are dressed."
"I can return the compliment; the Mar-
chioness of Hauteville admires you exceedingly,
far more than she does Lucilla."
sneer and frown at the idea of any commoner,
so engrossing the Amphitryon of the day in her
august presence. Mrs. Temple felt disappointed,
but our Lucilla secretly rejoiced. Meanwhile
the baron's guitar had been adroitly drawn by
him from beneath a couch, where he had caused
it to be hidden by a footman.
As he saw no "Monsieur le Marquis," he had a
sort of conviction that "Madame la Marquise,"
was a widow. He felt she was the great lady
of the party, and imagined she must be "imensé-
ment riche." He had a truly French idea, that
any widow, however old or decripid, must be on
the look out.
"Sans doute cette vieille est toute prête à se
remarier," he said to his friend the Italian Mar-
chese di Terraincognita; elle est vieille, elle
est laide, c'est egal, elle doit, avoir une fortune
énorme cette femme la ! Je lui ferai la cour;
“And you agree with her?" And she play-ah, ca c'en est fait, tu sais que cela presse un peu
fully raised her finger and smiled archly in his
face, shaking her head at him the while-"Ah,
you know you don't!"
"I do admire you very much-perhaps in
some respects as much, but-
""
I understand, however il n'est pas question de
moi, I have a great deal to say to you about
her."
"About her! then say it; do say it, sweetest
friend !"
"I cannot here, this is neither the time nor
the place--I must see you alone!"
"Shall I have the honour of calling on you in
Bedford Row ?"
“No, it looks so particular, and makes people
talk so."
"I may not presume to hope you will call
on me ?"
'No, that would not do.
"Nor meet me anywhere?"
"I don't know-perhaps I might be able to do
that; let me see, in the gardens of Russell
Square, I could see you alone there if you come
to the gate to-morrow."
"To-morrow I am engaged all day at Felix
Park, and the next day too."
|
avec toi et moi. Nous n'avons pas de temps à
perdre, mon cher? nous voilà déjà un an et
demi Angleterre et nous n'avons fait que nous
amuser
יי!
The Marchese di Terraincognita shrugged his
shoulders and said: "Comme tu voudras, mon
cher ! pour moi je la crois d'un commerce très
difficile! Je crains que c'est perdre un temps:
qui devient tous les jours plus precieux-Dans
notre Appartement ou commence à nous faire la
mine-situ m'en crois tu feras la cour à une de ces-
petites demoiselles Ogle; pour moi je crois que
la jolie Veuve Maltston, me fait les yeux doux;
elle est un peu bourgeoise, mais que voulez vous
-ou fait ce qu'on peut et non pas ce qu'on ven!
Ah, mon Dieu! que ta vieille Marquise à l'air
fière, farouche même !'
Ne t'inquietes pas, mon cher! replied the
Baron, with ineffable conceit; "elle est femme,
elle est veuve, c'est tout dire cela aura de la
peine à me resister-allons nous verrons.
"Je te parie dix louis, mon cher, que tu ne
feras rieu avec cette femme hautaine et fa-
rouche."
"Attendons que nous ayons de quoi faire des
paris, mon ami, et ne te mêles pas trop de mes
affaires."
Well, the day after that, at eight in the
evening, I will contrive to meet you there. "Tes affaires sont les miennes-ne sommes
Mamma and the girls are luckily going to a nous pas associes ensemble dans cette entreprise
party, I will plead a head-ache and retire to my-n'avons nous pas juré de nous entreaider, soit
Papa and Renard will have no suspicion
and will not miss me, and I will then slip out
and reveal all I know to you."
"A thousand thanks !"
room.
"Has Lucilla seen the verses?"
"She has, but do not allude to them, till I
tell you all that has passed on the subject be-
tween us. ""
"You would keep most lovers in an agony of
suspense, my sweet friend, but I am vain enough
not to fear."
Nay, if you are impatient I give you up."
"Give me up! Oh, in pity !"
par conseils, soit par autre chose, et quiconque
se marie, ne doit il pas maintenir l'autre jusqu'a
ce qu'il recissit à son tour! Mon Dieu! dis,
n'en est il pas ainsi? Sacre! ou ne joue pas
avec moi entends tu?"-" Qui voudrait jouer
avec toi ?" asked the Marquis a little intimida-
ted. "Faisons de notre mieux-les femmes
nous aiment, nous adorent, nous avons l'entrée
de plusieurs excellentes maisons, nous y sommes
fourrés comme des Rois-on nous traite en
grands seigneurs-tachons de profiter de notre
bonheur et soyons amis. Allons courage!"
The Baron took up his guitar, slung the broad
+
0
1060
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
blue ribbon across his shoulder, approached the
haughty and chilling Marchioness, placed an
ottoman at her feet, looked up into her enam-
elled face and purblind eyes with a sort of die-
away adoration, and began in a fine voice and
with considerable execution :-
"Objet charmant! toi que mon cœur adore,
Ton souvenir sue poursuit en tous lieux,
Le jour, la nuit, au lever de l'aurore,
C'est toujours toi que j'ai devant les yeux."
After this first verse, the Marchioness, whose
countenance had expressed a sort of haughty
disgust, rose, and with a cold-"Allow me to
pass you, sir!" attempted to move towards the
bell to order her carriage.:
The Baron, who had been very much petted
and even courted by certain inferior sets in
London, in which he had found impudence and
boast avail him much, had no idea of the dis-
dain and anger he would excite in the bosom of
an elderly and real aristocrat. He did not the
He did not the
least understand the immense distinctions of
rank in England, and following the indignant
lady in a tender and even amorous manner, he
attempted to detain her by gently touching the
end of her jewelled girdle, while he continued
to sing:
blement laide, et elle n'aime pas la musique!
allons il faut captiver une des petites demoisel-
les Ogle! cela ne sera pas difficile."
And so it seemed, for these girls, pretty, well-
born, accomplished, and co-heiresses, were.
wonderfully taken with the music, the musta-
ches, and the absurd flatteries of these two
fellows; they had refused many respectable
English gentlemen, and were generally super-
cilious to their admirers; the two Hon. Sans-
terres did not get on at all with them, and they
quizzed the old Lord Derrynane unmercifully;
but they were soon engaged in a deep flirtation
with the Baron and the Marchese, who emula-
lated each other in boasts, lies, and compli-
ments. As old Ogle was asleep, the daughters.
invited the foreign beaux to a ball at their house;
and seeing this, the gay widow Maltstone did
her best to win them to her; and as she was a
meilleur parti" still, she did not smile and
glance in vain.
The Baron and the Marchese left the party
ivres de joie,” as they owned to each other, and
convinced as they said, embracing each other
in true French style, before they retired to bed,
that their matrimonial expedition would end in
un grand succès."
(C
"Objet charmant! faut il te dire adieu!"
The unfortunate departure of the Marchio-
But in the midst of a roulade on the word oness threw a gloom over the spirits of Sir Fe-
adieu, he was positively startled by the glance lix. Lucilla Temple, surrounded by the Tem-
of rage and scorn the Marchioness darted at ples, of Temple Grove, gave him no opportunity
him, as snatching away her girdle, and sweep- of addressing her; she felt a sort of girlish sat-
ing past him, she said in very good French :-isfaction in thus punishing what she considered
"Monsieur, je n'ai pas l'honneur de vous con-
· noître !"'
For a moment the Baron looked abashed, but
recovering himself he said: "Ah, Madame la
Marquise, c'est mon malheur ce n'est pas ma
faute;" and cringingly he stooped to pick up a
glove she had dropped; she took it as she might
have done from a footman, and with the slight-
est and haughtiest of inclinations of her ugly
head, swept past him; and as he seemed in-
clined to approach and offer his arm, she said :-
"Sir Felix! come hither."
to be his impertinent trifling with her. He was
the more annoyed at this because business.com-
pelled him to go out of town early the next day,
and not to return for three whole days—a long,
long interval in a lover's almanack.
:
To show her indifference, Lucilla sang, play-
ed, talked, and laughed with old Lord Derry-
nane and the two honourable Sansterres. The
two foreigners were much struck by a beauty
so purely English; but ascertaining that she
was not merely poor, but penniless, they con-
ceived a positive terror of her charms, only oc-
Sir Felix, who was still talking to Miss Un-casionally glancing at her as they might have
dermine, darted forward.
done at some beautiful apparition, and assu-
"Let me trouble you to hand me to my car-ring each other-"C'etait une jolie personne,
riage!" said the lady.
"So soon?" said Sir Felix.
"
"So soon!" said the lady, with one of her
dreadful glances at the Baron. 'Say rather,
not quite soon enough."
And as she passed through the rooms and
down-stairs, she begged Sir Felix never again
to invite that forward foreigner to meet her, as
she was resolved never to sit in the same room
again with so audacious and ill-bred a person.
mais dangereuse, fort dangereuse même !"
The youngest Miss Temple of Temple Grove,
seemed to take a great interest in Lucilla; she
watched her every look and tone, and if possi-
ble, magnified to herself the power of her
charms; but that is common in a woman in
love, with regard to her who has won the object
she covets. The evening was a painful one to
her; her mother, angry at not having been able
with all her obsequious attentions to get on
much with the old Marchioness, was very bit-
Sir Felix was in despair; he offered to order
him out--he apologized-he implored-he hum-ter to her, particularly about the pointed neglect
bled himself-but in vain.
The Marchioness coldly said: "Remember,
Sir, Felix, I never meet him again."
And her old coach, drawn by her old horses,
bore her proud old ladyship away.
The little Baron, nothing abashed, declared
to the Marchese: "C'est une regueur effectée,
mon cher! C'est qu'elle m'aime, la pauvre
vieille, et comme elle est avare, elle craint de
céder à son inclination pour moi; ah, je con-
nois les femmes moi, si jo voulais m'en donner
la peine, elle serait à moi, mais elle est horri-
of Sir Felix, and his devoted attention to Miss
Undermine. This attention he paid in the hope
of piquing Lucilla. She, however, only saw in
it a confirmation of what her cunning namesake
had wished to imply. But poor Hebe Temple
watched with an almost hysterical anxiety, and
could scarcely restrain her feelings, when her
mother, bending down to her with a bland
smile, said :—
"To be eclipsed and outwitted by Lucilla
Temple is bad enough, but to be cut out by that
flippant, vulgar, low-born creature! I'm sure if
THE BREACH OF PROMISE..
107:
1
•
I were a girl it would drive me mad! I can While the Temples retired to their humble
scareely sit here and see it. I'm sure I'm a dormitories, Sir Felix Archer paced with anx-
most unhappy mother, doomed to watch youjous steps up and down the now deserted rooms.
all one after the other wither on the virgin thorn. The thoughts of Felix Park and of Lucilla's
I am sure I cannot think what I have done to coldness by turns tormented him..
deserve such a fate, as to be the mother of five "The little coquette!" he said, "she wants
old maids; and I declare, what with your anx- to make me propose. She is offended at the
ious, forlorn looks, and your red noses, you are delay, perhaps angry that I gave the verses to
becoming five ugly old maids. And then to Miss Undermine instead of sending them direct
see your father, instead of cultivating Lord to her. But she must not give herself airs. If
Derrynane and his sons, or those two distin- I do make up my mind to marry for love, I
guished foreigners, devoting himself entirely the expect the sacrifice to be appreciated; I do
whole evening, to that old pauper and his im- expect gratitude, devotion, and entire submis-
pertinent wife. How she is dressed! I wonder sion. Poor thing, perhaps she is jealous-no
|
how she got that satin and that turban !-I hope wonder, that Undermine girl looked very hand-
by fair means! I cannot see that Lord Lofty some,
some, but about as much to be compared to my
has done anything for them yet, and I believe Lucilla as Reubens's wife to Titian's Venus.
he never will-they're much too proud! There,
There, Well, I see no reason for keeping her, (poor
don't be watching Sir Felix in that way-it's little beauty!) in an agony of uncertainty and
quite disgusting-that's not the way to get him suspense. I'll hear what Miss Undermine has
-ah, what fools you all are all take after your to say about the verses, and if I'm pleased with
papa! I shall go and break up his conference, what I hear, I'll make up my mind and propose
and order the carriage."
to Lucilla. At any rate she'll be happy. Ah,
so should I, but for this cursed affair of Felix
Park. I shall never get over that.”
.
1
Poor Hebe started; wretched as she was,
she did not wish to go away. Her eldest sister,
the one who had so sympathized with her on a
former occasion sat down beside her and gently
pressed her hand.
Hebe lifted up her eyes, swimming in irre-
pressible tears.
:
"Don't fret, sister," whispered the elder Miss
Temple. "Lucilla will never have Sir Felix,
and he will never have that bold, dark girl. I
feel a presentiment you will be Lady Archer
yet!-here comes Sir Felix-so be cheerful."
He did come, and a few happy minutes atoned
to poor Hebe for the miseries of the day.
:
;
CHAPTER XLV.
THE morning came-the morning on which
Mr. Temple was to wait on Lord Lofty, and
probably receive the assurance of immediate
presentation to some excellent living, or else
some clerical appointment of equal value.
"I dare say, dearest," said Mrs. Temple, "he
will offer you a little immediate assistance, or
if not, you could borrow a small sum to be paid
directly you are in the receipt of your income."
"I.suppose I must do something of the kind,'
said Mr. Temple; "but I rather shrink from it."
"I hope he will offer it," said the sanguine.
wife.
"God grant he may," said Mr. Temple.
"I did not much like Sir Felix Archer's be-
At length all the guests rose to depart. Lu-
cilla Temple, in playful pique, scarcely touched
Sir Felix's extended hand, and he, in what the
French so cleverly call le dépit amourens, coldly
bade her good night, and offered his arm to
Miss Lucilla Undermine, who parted from him
with the rapturous regret of a Corinne with an
Oswald.
Sir Felix's carriage bore home the Temples.haviour last night to our Lucilla," said the lady.
Tom, after dinner, had, with his mamma's con-
nivance, slipped upstairs to see what could be
done with his torturing boots; there an arm-
chair and a pair of slippers so tempted him, that
he availed himself of them, and somewhat affect-
ed by various wines and good cheer, he soon
fell fast asleep. Here, he was found by the
valet, who announced to him that the carriage
was ordered, and kindly lent him a pair of
boots he had cribbed from Sir Felix. Tom, still
giddy and sleepy, got down stairs and into the
carriage he scarce knew how, not having been
missed by any one.
:
Mrs. Temple had spent a pleasant evening,
for her greatest delights were in seeing her hus-
band happy and her Lucilla appreciated; but
her pleasure was a little damped by Sir Felix's
defection-only her happy knack of hoping came
to her aid, and she felt sure it would all come
right, and that he could never really hesitate
between the two Lucillas.
"Indeed I noticed nothing; but as Lucilla
never seemed to care much about him, when
we are well off I shall feel no anxiety about it;
indeed I always thought him rather old for her.
Oh, directly I can repay the £200 so nobly lent
me, and receive him in any comfort, how I
should like to introduce my young friend and
benefactor to you and to Lucilla; he is of all
the men in the world the one I should most like
to bestow my darling upon."
"Poor dear! it is to-morrow she leaves us.
How kind of Miss Trueblue! but no wonder,
Lucilla is such a charming companion. I could
not have consented to part with her only of late
she has looked sometimes so pale and wan, I
quite tremble for her health. I expect she will
return from this little tour looking quite bloom-
ing, and then if we are settled in some delight-
ful Rectory, and you like to bring your young
friend to call, why then, if he is fancy free, I
think he must fall in love with our Lucilla ; and
Mr. Temple was in high spirits, and so full of if she is not attached to Sir Felix, I would soon-
a literary argument in which he had beaten er see her that excellent young man's wife with
Temple, of Temple Grove, and of the brighten-five hundred a year, than Lady Archer with ten
ing prospects of himself and his dear ones, that
he could scarcely be got to bed at all...
thousand."
Well, dearest ! Fortune has befriended us
108
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
so well hitherto that we will trust that your her, all had been arranged. She had become
mysterious young friend may prove to be heart-acquainted with Mr. Trueblue, whom she had
whole. And now come to breakfast; I heard
Lucilla go down half an hour ago.”
It was a merry and a happy breakfast, and a
few unwonted delicacies betrayed Lucilla's share
in the inheritance of hope. A pot of marma-
lade, a dish of strawberries, and some new-laid
eggs, had been added to the ordinary breakfast
of tea and dry toast, rather with reference to
their expected than their actual resources.
Mrs. Temple did not quite approve of this
practical illustration of her own faith, but she
did not like to damp Lucilla's spirits, and she
said nothing; but the little incident brought to
her mind traits of her own inexperience and
trust in the future, for which she had bitterly
atoned, and when she remembered how often
disappointment had succeeded to hopes almost
as bright, her spirits sank, and she wished this
eventful day happily over.
·
་
After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to array
himself to the greatest advantage for his visit
to Lord Lofty, whose breakfast was a luncheon
to an early riser. As he went upstairs a sa-
voury steam issued from the kitchen, and
asking what it was that smelt so good, the
ever-ready and prying Tom replied: "Oh, it's
Lucilla has had in an immense piece of beef to
make the broth for the poor, and all sorts of
good things are being boiled in it, papa! I told
her I thought you would not approve of it, but
she only called me a meddling urchin and Paul
Pry, for which I promised I'd tell you, papa."
only seen now and then for a minute or two
before; he was a large, heavy man, with one
whole side palsied; he saw no company, and
seemed to care for little on earth but his money
and his child. To please that child he was de-
lighted that Lucilla should accompany them,
and he paid her every attention his crippled
state allowed him to offer. To Di Moricini he
seemed particularly kind, although he seldom
spoke to him; but it struck Lucilla he would
not be sorry if the handsome young artist could
supplant the to him odious and audacious Fred-
erick Smirk.
Poor Lucilla! that evening had confirmed all
her prepossessions in favour of Di Moricini; on
that evening she inwardly confessed that her
happiness was in another's keeping. She was-
no longer a girlish thing, ready to love where
she was bid, and see through her parents' eyes.
She might have said with Julie de Mortemar:
"I am a child no longer;
I love and I am woman."
Her gradual distaste to Sir Felix Archer's ad-
dresses became positive disgust-worlds could
not have induced her to wed him. The even-
ing passed in a sort of feverish delight, as it al-
ways does with lovers. Di Moricini was so
openly devoted in his attentions, that Lucilla felt
a trembling conviction, half joy, half fear, that
ere long he would propose to her. Then came
the thought of her parents-what a bitter dis-
appointment to them should she marry a foreign
artist! What a blow to Tom-Tom who was
so certain that Sir Felix would send him to
Eton; and that he should pass his holidays at
Felix Park-riding his own horse, of course a
gift from Sir Felix; sporting with his own gun,
followed by his own dogs. How Tom had talk-
ed all this over with Jock, and then to have to
waste-own that his sister had married a foreign por-
trait-painter.
"I don't like tale-bearers," said Mr. Temple,
coldly, waving his son away, "and particularly
when become so from revenge!"
But, papa, I wish Lucilla didn't keep the
keys; since she has had them I'm obliged to
ask her for everything. I don't mind asking |
my dear mamma, but I hate asking such a chit
as Lucilla; and you see, papa, she's very waste-
ful; if you'll come into the kitchen and peep
into the boiler, I'm sure you'll say she isn't fit
to keep house."
"And I dare say you are, Tom!"
Why, I'm sure I'd never have the charity-
soup made better than our own, papa."
No, no, I suspect you think-Charity begins
at home, Tom. Lucilla may be too kind to
others, but you are too kind to yourself. I like
Lucilla's fault best."
"Oh, love will still be lord of all," since Lucilla
can turn from these mortifying thoughts, to meet
her unacknowledged lover's gaze with timid
tenderness, and since she has resolved when
once away from home to open her heart on the
subject to her parents, and even to Tom, and if
necessary to get them to let Sir Felix know that
her affections are engaged.
But this is a retrospect of an evening which,
"Lucilla often leaves the closet unlocked, as the reader knows, preceded Sir Felix Archer's
papa."
"How do you know that, Tom?"
Tom coloured to the roots of his red hair.
“Ah, Tom, you were on the look out or you
would not have known that. Go and get your
Horace, sir; and remember how often in try-
ing to expose others we condemn ourselves."
Tom slunk away.
dinner party. After that day she had no more
anxiety about his preference; and convinced
that he had been trifling with her, and perhaps
preferred Miss Lucilla Undermine to herself,
she saw that even Tom could not reproach her
with refusing an alliance which she had never
in reality (as she now believed) had any
chance of
Mr. Temple said to his wife: "My love, till It was with a wild flutter of delight she look-
our hopes are quite realized, you must checked forward to her visit to the Trueblues, as she
this sanguine disposition in our young house- could not but see that Miss Trueblue rather en-
keeper. After all, if we should be disappointed!"couraged the evident devotion of the young art-
"Oh, that can scarcely be !" said his wife;
"but I will warn the dear girl. Come, I have
mended your stockings and your gloves, and
put everything ready for you.”
Meanwhile Lucilla had retired to her little
room, to prepare herself for a visit to Miss
Trueblue. On the evening she had spent with
ist, and frequently commended him in glowing:
language to her, pointing out to her the insuffi-
ciency of wealth and titles, and the comfort of
love in a cottage.
Lucilla had a presentiment that she should
see him soon, and that this visit to the True-
blue's would probably colour her destiny, perhaps.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
109
1
decide her fate. And now she is going with | vant of fashionable exterior and insolent man-
Miss Trueblue to give the young artist one last
sitting, no wonder that her nerveless hand drops
the comb again and again, and that she tries by
turns every article in her little wardrobe, and
cannot please herself after all.
At length she is dressed, and is about to leave
the room, when a note, which in her hurry she
had not noticed, meets her eye as she takes up
her gloves. It is directed to her, and her cheek
grows pale, and her heart beats wildly, as she
sees it is the odious hand of Lord Trelawney.
She tears it open, and reads:-
"Forgive me, Lucilla, if I seem to persecute
you. I have much to say to you-much that
you perhaps may not object to hear. Grant me
an interview in the name of mercy; do, for I am
wretched, and you can make me desperate. I
will see you, but if you consent kindly, and name
time and place, you shall have no cause to com-
plain of me.'
"Am I then for ever and in all places to be
dogged and haunted by that bold bad man?"
said poor Lucilla, turning deadly pale, and clasp-
ing her hands in agony of mind, while tears
started from her eyes. "I will endure this no
longer-I will reveal the whole to my father,
and he will protect and counsel me! perhaps
my want of confidence in so good and kind a
parent is punished thus! He is a clergyman;
a Christian, an all-enduring, all-forgiving Chris-
tian gentleman; this ruffian cannot provoke his
gentle spirit to aught unworthy of his sacred
character, but his wisdom and his love can pro-
tect his child. God knows it is only the fear of
adding to his sorrows that has kept me silent;
but now he is high in hope and well and happy,
now I will tell him all !"
Lucilla then rang for Norah, but Norah had
no idea when or how the note was conveyed to
'her young mistress's dressing table, and the
consciousness that some mysterious agency was
used to watch over and communicate with her,
added to Lucilla's resolve to endure this no
longer.
There's a note, Miss, has just come for your
papa," said Norah, "brought by such a shuperfine
futeman-bates Sir Falix's all to fits-it's from
my Lord Lofty he's come !"
"From Lord Lofty !" said Lucilla.
wait for an answer?"
เ
"Does he
Faith, then, not he, macuishla; he was too
fine to spake to a body, but give me the bit
o'writin as if I'd been dirt, the fule; and when
I said, Won't ye be afther waiting a bit to see
if there's an answer to be sent back by ye?'
"My orders is not to wait,' he said, looking as
proud as Punch.
'Och, then,' said I, 'it's not
myself would be afther detaining ye;
6
So joy be wid ye, and a bottle o' moss,
liye niver come back, you're no great loss.'
Upon which he called me a pert Irish girl, and
I called him a vile Saxon; and hearing that
same, and seeing my blude was up, he started
off, and I called afther him
ner. A terrible fear agitated poor Lucilla; she
hurried down stairs. One glance at her father
and mother told her all! Hastily and silently
she put Lord Trelawney's letter in her reticule;
she felt this was no time for adding to her poor
father's distresses and alarms.
He was sitting, his arms on the table and his
face resting on them, and his devoted wife was
kneeling beside him, pouring out words of hope
and comfort, which her pale cheeks, stained
with tears, seemed to contradict.
"What is it, dear papa-what is it, mamma
what has happened?"
Read that!" said her mother, pointing to a
note which had fallen on the ground.
Lucilla read-
CC
a
"Lofty House, July-
Lady Lofty begs to inform Mr. Temple
that Lord Lofty is called into the country, and
therefore cannot keep his appointment with Mr.
Temple; as Lord Lofty does not see how he
can benefit Mr. Temple at present, he will not
trouble him to call; it is very uncertain when
his Lordship may be again in town."
Lucilla felt inclined to crush this glazed and
scented note, so coldly insolent, such ruin to her
poor father's apparently well-founded hope. Oh,
how ever after the scent of that paper was as
poison to her.
"My poor wife! my dear, dear girl, I have
yielded to a moment's weakness, but it is over.
What am I that I repine at a chastisement sent
me no doubt for a wise purpose.
Am I to judge
what is best for me? I have been too san-
guine, my dear ones-too much gladdened by a
bright earthly prospect-too much elated with
the thought of your happiness, my loves! Why,
Tom, my boy, what is this?" Tom had stolen
in to hear the news, and was roaring with dis-
appointment and grief. Hush, Tom, this is
childish."
"And," sobbed Tom, "I had told Jock we
were sure to be so well off, and to leave this
nasty mean little house, and this disgraceful
neighbourhood."
"Ah, my boy, leave off boasting; it is a dan-
gerous trade. We shall leave this house ere
long, I fear, but for a much worse!"
Well, I hope Jock won't know where we
go," sobbed Tom.
(
Papa!" said Lucilla, "did you not always
say that Lady Lofty was inimical to you?"
"Yes, my love, she ever seemed so because
I would not degrade my sacred function to suit
her caprices-I would not keep my congrega-
tion waiting the whims of a lady of fashion, nor
neglect my poor and sick to escort her to pro-
menades and concerts."
Well, papa, I think there is yet hope; you
know how very intriguing and vindictive she is
reported to be-how she persecuted any poor
creature at Dartmoor who offended her, and she
often did cruel things, which Lord Lofty after-
wards atoned for when he knew of them. Now
I know she hates, as much as Lord Lofty likes
'Fair weather afther ye and snow to yer heels.'
you. I dare say he has been called out of
Och it was myself that made him luke fulish." town; perhaps his mother, who was always so
But Lucilla was in no mood to listen to No- ill, may be dying, and he may have asked her
rah's battles and triumphs-battles and tri- to write to you and tell you so. She, glad to
umphs, by the by, which were generally the have the opportunity, has done it thus.
result of an interview with any new man-ser- I think you, might it not be ?"
What
MO
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
;
1
"Couldn't I help?" said Tom; for he had a
great opinion of his own judgment and diplo-
macy.
"It is not impossible, my darling," said Mr. | you intact. And now, Tom, go to your book
Temple, with a gleam of comfort and hope in and your room-I want to consult with mam-
his eyes, alas! alas! red with tears. "Perhaps ma."
he may yet do something for me; but it is the
present moment that so requires assistance.
Look at those bills, my love, and those lawyer's
letters. Now any one of those threatening duns
would become obsequious and patient if I could
tell them I was presented to a living, or sure of
an appointment, and now what can I do?"
"
Again he hid his face in his hands.
"Mamma, I must give up this excursion with
the Trueblue's," said Lucilla; "how can I go
and leave you to struggle alone against such
trials as these?"
"My love," said her father, pressing her
fondly to his heart, "you can do no good here,
and you will not refuse to go when I tell you
that anxiety, caused by your altered looks, is
one of the greatest cares of your mother and
-myself."
"Besides, dearest," suggested Mrs. Temple,
"Miss Trueblue told me when she called, she
should continue her studies, and hinted as deli-
cately as she could, that your remuneration
would be continued too. This is no time, my
love, to give up any source of profit. Go my
child, there is Miss Trueblue's carriage-leave
your papa with me--I have had many years' ex-
perience in comforting," she said, with a faint
smile; "but go now, my sweet darling, you
cannot please or comfort us more, than by ad-
hering in all things to your original plans; in-
deed, my girl," she added, with a tear, "just at
this crisis the fewer we are in family the better.
Kiss your father and go at once.
·
"Only by going and doing your best to fit your-
self for some situation, Tom," said his father.
Boys as young as you are, if good scholars,
are taken as junior ushers, or assistant pupils
in schools, where they get board, lodging, and
washing, and often some small remuneration
besides; think of that, Tom."
Tom did think of it, and with ineffable dis-
gust and dread, lest the all-penetrating Jock
should discover that any such plan had been
devised for the last of the Temples, and the
fifth cousin of Lord Lofty.
Meanwhile Mr. Temple, after sitting for some
time holding his throbbing head between his thin
hot hands, called for writing materials. Meekly
and gently his wife placed them before him.
+
we
"I have resolved, my love," he said;
have only two days now before the baker and
butcher must be paid. I cannot ask any help
of Sir Felix, because it would seem like taking
advantage of his attentions to Lucilla, and as
you seem to think he now means nothing, but
prefers Miss Undermine, I cannot humble her
by appearing to reckon on his friendship. Lord
Lofty is of course quite out of the question;
but my cousin Temple made such offers of
aiding me with my new work that I have re-
solved to apply to him. If he will lend me fifty
pounds, we shall do, till something turns up.
So now for the degrading, odious task of bor-
Lucilla was obedient, and with a cheek dead-rowing, in other words, begging. Oh that I had
ly pale, and a quivering lip, she embraced her been brought up to a good trade."
parents and was gone.
i
"What is it, my boy?" said Mr. Temple, as
Tom pushed something into his hand.
The letter, written in desperation, was soon
dispatched.
Meanwhile Mrs. Temple glided from the room
She did not re-appear
for some time, but what she did with that impor-
tant communication the sequel will prove.
It was Tom's money-box! Yes, Tom's money-with Lady Lofty's note.
box! containing all he had saved for many a
long month towards the dear object of his every
hope and desire-the pistol at the pawnbrokers!
This sacrifice was very well of Tom, for he
knew that Jock was as anxious about the pistol
as himself, and that much of his importance
with that all-accomplished friend, was owing to
Tom's being looked upon as the future posses-
sor of that long-coveted weapon.
66.
There's one pound three 'in it, dear papa,"
said Tom, the tears glittering on his sandy eye-
lashes, and the blush of a proud and heroic self-
sacrifice tinging the snow-white skin of his head,
where the parting of the thickly tufted spiral
curls of bright red allowed it to be seen. "I've
been saving it up for a very great object indeed,
papa; but to comfort you and dear mamma is
a greater still. One pound three, papa, will be
a great help."
+
:
Mr. Temple smiled (a sickly tearful smile),
even in the midst of his disappointment and
anguish, at Tom's idea that the little hoard, so
all-important to him, would be a great help in
the complicated difficulties of a whole family.
But the boy's affection and self-sacrifice touched
the father's heart, and he said, "Sweet are the
uses of adversity," if they teach us betimes to
prefer others to ourselves. I hope, my boy, it
may not be necessary for me to touch this
treasure, and if not, be sure I will restore it to
.
On her return she found her husband busily
engaged with his "Religious History of all Na-
tions." Quietly she took her work and sat down
beside him. Presently Norah came up with two
basins of excellent and savoury soup.
"Och, Masther!" she said, "it's long since
you and the Misthess broke the fast of you; so
I've brought you up a drop of the soup the young
misthess has made for the poor, and faith, it's
richer than any you've had for yourselves, and
you raal gintry !"
"How much is there, Norah ?" said Mr. Tem-
ple.
"Och, there's enough for the back attic in
Paradise row, and the front parlour in Cabbage
lane, and the poor Hubbards in the Mews, and
the Grims in Job court, and Pims in Sharp-
set alley and, faith, that's a pretty lot of
them."
"And poor Grub with the ague in the cellar,
and the starving baby in Pig street," said Mr.
Temple, "is there none for them?”
"They had a fine pitcher last week," said
Norah, evasively.
“Ah, Norah, it is small comfort to the hungry
to have had food last week. I had an excellent
breakfast this morning, and in due time shall
have a good dinner, or at least something sub-
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
stantial with a cup of tea-what say you, my
love?"
"That one basin of this inviting soup must go
to poor Grub, and the other to the starving babe,"
said Mrs. Temple.
"Och hone! och hone," said Norah, fairly
crying, "to go to prefare the pure before your-
selves, and you both of you looking as white as
the inside of a pratie! Jist take a sup, do, Mas-
ther dear; it'll may be tempt ye.”
"But I wish not to be tempted, Norah," said
Mr. Temple, kindly but firmly; "I assure you,
Norah, the savoury smell of this soup is quite
temptation enough, so take it away, there's a
good girl, and carry it at once to Grub, and to
But stop, get
it ready, I must go and see them you shall
come with ine, and carry it."
"Let me come too," said Mrs. Temple, kiss-
ing her husband's hand.
i
}
To such dens as these did the gentle and
gifted Temple constantly repair, trying to soothe
the body and awaken the soul, incurring every
kind of risk, enduring every species of annoy-
ance, bent only on fulfilling his high mission as
a minister of Christ; and many who would not
shrink from the comparatively healthy cottages
of the country poor, would have been conquer-
ed here-here where dirt and distemper, des-
peration and defiance met him at every turning.
There is always something sweet and fresh in
a country home, and generally some attempt at
cleanliness and order in the meanest cottage;
there is the large old chimney, admitting air,
and sometimes through its wide chasm glimp-
ses of the blue sky; there is the little garden,
and a few flowers, humble but yet fresh; and
the beautiful heaven, the heaving trees, and the
delicious air, free to all! But here, here was
nothing but squalor, and loathsome dirt. Then
in the country there is a kind and cordial feel-
1
"No, dearest, Pig street and Grub's cellar in
Dust alley are no places for you when you looking towards "his Reverence;" the poor are
so wan; I will not be long. Come, Norah.”
:
1
Norah went away with her soup to put it in
jugs, howling almost as if she had been at a
wake, and Mr. Temple hastened to the wretched
cellar where, surrounded by earwigs, spiders,
and cockroaches, pour Grub lay in a dreadful
ague, on a bed made of a few potatoe sacks and
bits of old carpet. Much against his will, one
ragged, yellow, hungry-looking grand-daughter
was sent by his son, her father nominally, to
watch over and wait on him, but in reality to
diminish his own numerous and half-starved
claimants for bread. Her father thinking that
she might be fed, for a time at least, on such
good things as Mr. Temple and other neighbours
sent old Grub--and Grub himself declaring that
he didn't want her, and couldn't maintain her,
and that she'd eat him out of house and home,
and bring him to the Union after all.
proud to see him, feel comfort in his advice and
his prayers; they cannot die in peace without
their minister. But here, a radical feeling, born
of wretchedness, like vile weeds springing from.
a dunghill, poisoned the hearts of the poor
against all of that class they looked upon as
their oppressors, and it was long before Mr.
Temple could overcome it. But kindness and
patience and true charity did conquer it at last,
and he had good reason to hope that even in the
worst part of that wretched district, he had
saved many a soul.
hands.
She
At the hovel in Pig street he had met a lady,
who, once a gay daughter of fashion and plea-
sure, had been brought by his preaching to see
the vanity and folly of the world and of her own
heart; he found her in her rich and grand at-
tire, now humbly worn, bending over the
wretched cradle of the half-starved baby.
"And how could I bear that?" he said; "I told Mr. Temple that she was about to become
who always had my liberty, and ain't so bad off the head, under his guidance, of a committee of
here," he added, looking round on the wretched lady district visitors, and she meekly placed in
hole" and but for she," pointing to his grand- his hands a sum already collected by her for
child, am to myself and at peace-how could the poor. This was just the sort of help Mr.
I bear to be bullied and half-starved and may be 'Temple wanted, and had long been trying in
set to some hard work-I who can't sit up? I vain to induce the ladies of his congregation to
never give up work till it give up me. I hope offer, and now it was done; and Mrs. Onslow
to die comfortable here! and not at last to be was not only herself perhaps rescued from a.
imprisoned and starved after never for seventy life of frivolous sin, but was become the hum-
years having one parish penny. If I wasn't bur-ble instrument of mercy and charity in his
dened with she, I'd be very well off even now."
Still he was too weak forcibly to eject the It was late when he returned faint and hun-
girl. And there she was (thriftless and useless, gry to tea. Dinner he refused, but he was hap-
as the untaught children of the wretched Lon- py; a blessing had been sent upon his earnest
don poor generally are), sitting, half naked, on and yet gentle ministry. The past and the fu-
the floor, playing with the earwigs and cock-ture were all gloom; he had just received a
roaches, who seemed much more neat and re-bitter and unlooked-for disappointment. Pecu-
spectable than herself; and there lay her lean, niary cares thickened around him, and yet he
unshorn, leaden-coloured grandfather, acting the was calm and even cheerful.
dog in the manger with the food Mr. Temple
and other poor neighbours sent him, growling
if the girl attempted to touch what he was yet
too ill to eat. And there she squatted, with
her wild, matted, rust-coloured hair, her dark,
hollow neck, and ragged and jagged little brown
stuff frock, watching with imbecile mouth wide
open, and yet cunning cat-like eyes, till the old
man slept, when she would seize on some of his
food and return to her corner and devour it
more like a wild beast than a Christian child.
་
He sat at his humble repast, to which Norah
had contributed eggs and bacon unordered (a:
present from herself), and enjoyed it far more
than Sir Felix Archer did his epicure and
Frenchified banquet. He felt sure all would be
well, and pressing his fond wife's hand, he
said, "Let us but be of the righteous, my be-
loved one, and then we shall reap the reward
God has promised to them and to their children."
112
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
eyes, or know him with my heart! Oh, that
he were but a poor English curate !”
CHAPTER XLVI.
LUCILLA's pale cheek and the tears that still It was strange, 'twas "passing strange" to
moistened her soft brown eye-lashes, could not hear this girl of such rare beauty and such rar-
escape the anxious and affectionate observationer genius-genius and beauty which a woman
of Miss Trueblue, and after much solicitation,
Lucilla revealed the sad disappointment they
had just met with at home, and timidly and
with many sobs acknowledged her reluctance
to leave her parents in so much peril and pov-
erty.
|
of the world might easily have bartered for a
coronet and a brilliant fortune-wishing in the
beautiful humility of her pure young heart that
her lover were but a poor curate!
A poor curate! how would match-making.
mammas have scowled, and husband-hunting
daughters have sneered !
"But I will go, dear friend," she said, "for
they wish it, and my fear of the persecutions of The day was a bright enchanting day in
that bold bad man, Lord Trelawney, of which August, and even in London the air was balmy,
as yet they know nothing, make me determine as Miss Trueblue's chariot bore herself, Lucilla,
still to encumber you with a sad and anxious and the young artist to the abode of the latter.
companion."
There is always something pleasing and sooth-
"You shall be neither, Lucilla," said Missing in the subdued light of an artist's studio,
Trueblue; trust to me, by some means or stealing as it does on marble dreams of beauty,
other we will leave your dear parents in com- and pictured visions of more than mortal loveli-
fort."
Lucilla smiled a faint incredulous smile, and
at this moment Tucker came up to say the
young artist was below waiting to escort the
ladies to his house.
Lucilla was in love; she looked at the glass,
at her dishevelled hair and hurried dress.
"Go to my dressing-room, love," said Miss
Trueblue; bathe your eyes and sleek your
soft alluring locks.' I will entertain Signor di
Moricini till you are yourself again.
It was half an hour before Lucilla felt equal
to a meeting with her adoring and adored,
though unacknowledged lover, and une bonne
demie-heure, as the French say, before she was
at all satisfied with the face Miss Trueblue's
glass reflected; and yet to the eye of taste and
love, the drooping lid, the quivering lip, and the
heaving bosom of the afflicted daughter, were
lovelier even than the radiant bloom of the joy-
ous Psyche.
Miss Trueblue and the Signor had spent in
earnest discussion about Lucilla, her parents,
and their affairs, all the time she had been
strengthening her heart, bathing her eyes, and
smoothing her hair.
This is not the place to reveal the exact na-
ture or result of their conversation, but when
the pale Lucilla raised her eyes to meet those
of the young Francesco di Moricini, she saw
that he was pallid and trembling as herself, and
that his passionate eyes were full of tears.
There was a gentle and earnest deference in
his demeanour which Lucilla had never before
noticed, and which was more soothing to her
in her present state, than the joyous and play-
ful manner in which he generally accosted
her.
"Oh why, oh why," said Lucilla to herself—
"why is he not an Englishman in even moder-
ate circumstances, that I might own to my own
heart and to my parents that I love him as I
can never love again. Were he the poorest of
curates I should be so proud to share and cheer
a little cottage home, to do my utmost to be in
all respects a help meet for him--with him to
visit the sick and the sorrowful, to teach in his
Sunday school, to do all the good the poor can
do the poor; but a foreigner and an artist,
good as he is, noble and pious as I feel him to
be, how all my parents' prejudices will rise
against him; they cannot see him with my
ness.
As Lucilla looked round on the statues, the
casts, the pictures, and the flowers and plants
profusely displayed in her honour, she thought
that the most gorgeous drawing-rooms of the
wealthiest peeress would seem gaudy and cold to
her, compared to this temple of genius and art.
A curtain is thrown over the picture on the
easel, it is drawn aside, and there, in an ex-
quisite frame, and almost completed, she recog-
nises the Psyche; how must the young artist
have toiled at that picture to bring it so quickly
to such perfection.
But though the ladies pronounce it perfect,
the artist knows there is much to do. Lucilla
gradually recovers her spirits under the influ-
ence of Miss Trueblue's cheering good sense
and Di Moricini's eloquent and passionate lan-
guage.
"And now," he said, "at this our last sitting,
do enchant me, dear Miss Temple, with a poem
or two; I want to see again the inspiration of
the Muse on the eyes and the lips of Psyche."
"She has written a new poem," said Miss
Trueblue, called, 'The Italian girl to her
English Lover.'"
Lucilla blushed deeply.
'Indeed!" said the artist; "ah, how I wish
it had been the English girl to her Italian lover;
but perhaps the prejudice of the English maidens
against Italian lovers is too great for such a
theme."
"Probably," said Miss Trueblue, with an arch
smile, while Lucilla looked down and blushed
more deeply than before.
"And now for the poem."
Lucilla in a faltering voice began.
THE ITALIAN GIRL TO HER ENGLISH LOVER.
The early violets you gave were sweet,
And withered will endure through many a year;
Faded and pale, when they my gaze shall meet
In after-life, I'll greet them with a tear!
A tear of passionate regret for hours,
Winged by thy presence-hours that would seem,
But that I fondly clasp those deep blue flow'rs,,
Less a reality than some fond dream!
Yet why, when all around me tells of love,
Of spring, of hope, and all their buoyant tra.n,
Why boding spirit to the future rove?
Why turn from present bliss to coming pain ?
Alas! alas! twin-born with love is grief,
Co-heirs of this warm woman heart of mine ;
Vainly Love wreathes the rose; in dark relief,
Sorrow the tear-gemmed cypress will entwine!
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
113
1
Thou wilt go forth, and in that hallowed isle,
All unforgotten even by my side,
Warm hearts will welcome, deep blue eyes will smile,
And gentle sighs thy long delay will chide.
And household words and home's sweet welcomings,
And that warm fire-side you love so well;
I sing them, dearest, like the swan who sings,
With breaking heart, her own prophetic kuell.
Do not disturb this current of sud thought,
A word would make it seem reality;
. Were this dark future by thy fancy wrought,
Death should immortalize my memory!
It may be, must be, from my own sad heart,
I can endure this deadly prophecy;
My spirit whispers, 'tis decreed-we part;
When time confirms it, dear one, I can die!
I marked the honey-bee, the summer rose,
He won, he left her for an humble flow'r;
Vainly warın zephyrs woo'd, ere evening's close,
The fair rose droop'd and perish'd in her bow'r.
There is a master-hand, that hand can bring
>Sweet music from an else aye silent lute;
Vainly a stranger's hand would touch the string,
That loyal lyre for all but thee is mute!
There is a master spirit-one alone
'The deep devotion of this heart can wake
That master-hand, that master-spirit gone!
Lyre and heart all silently will break!
The trembling earnestness of Lucilla's voice,
and the deep and even tearful attention of her
two listeners proved, that the passionate love
of the Italian girl found an echo in the hearts of
all three.
Rapidly and sweetly the hours glided by, and
still at this last sitting there was something to
be done, some finishing touch of grace and beau-
ty to be added-an earnest prayer for a few
moments longer, and a look of entreaty more
eloquent than the prayer. Ices, jellies, fruits,
and lemonade had been placed on the table by
the dingy, voluminous, old char-woman, with the
red bottle nose, the canting voice, and spite
of her professed rheumatics, the ever ready
curtsey.
Disagreeable as was this specimen of a whi-
ning, dram-drinking, snuff-taking race, Lucilla
connecting her with Di Moricini and "Love's
young dream," could not but take an interest
even in her old bonnet of rusty silk, which
perched upon her dirty cap and tilted on her
tell-tale nose, was actually worn, though she
was little aware of it, in a recent French fash-
ion, of all fashions the least graceful, modest,
and feminine, and now luckily sinking, grade by
grade, till ere long it will only be worn by its
original inventors, the char-women of London!
And as it makes pretty women look plain, and
plain women plainer still, while it gives to both
a coquettish and vulgar "pretension," we shall
rejoice, to see it resigned again to those who
for so many years have monopolized it.
Among these our friend of Howland street
was preeminent, and a little caricature Di Mori-
cini had taken of her, would surely have put the
few tasteless belles who still wear their bonnets
à la char-woman, completely out of conceit with
this bold and now by-gone fashion.
The time came at last when Lucilla and Miss
Trueblue were resolved to go, and when even Di
Moricini dared no longer to implore.
'Let us," he said, "on this last and lovliest
day drive into the Regent's Park, and take one
turn by the water there, and then I will say I
am content and ask nothing more.”
The ladies agreed. They got out in the
inner circle of the Regent's Park - dismissed
the carriage, having determined to walk home,
P
and Di Moricini having given an arm to each
they walked through the grounds which, always
so pretty, were on this day of dawning love and
ripened summer, a scene of enchantment.
>
After walking on in silent but intense happi-
ness for some time, Lucilla felt so tired that she
was obliged to sit down, and Di Moricini was
obliged to sit beside, and Miss Trueblue thought
herself obliged to gather some leaves and blades
of grass at a little distance, and look perpetually-
away from our lovers. But lovers are dull
people, and seldom avail themselves of an op-
portunity of an explanation, however much
longed for; then too they procrastinate most
shamefully, and have often not only to learn
that procrastination is the thief of time, but find
it often that of love; in short they seem to have
no ready wit at all.
Di Moricini sat for a long time looking at
Lucilla and blushing because he did so, and
Lucilla sat looking at her shoe, and blushing
she knew not why. At length he has, with the
desperation of bashful love, seized her hand,
and murmured, "Lucilla," and she has' faltered
"Francesco," when up ran Miss Trueblue, white
as the dead, panting, and in wild alarm and fol-
lowed by an ill-looking man, a sort of beggarly
bye-gone clerk.
"What is it?-what is it !" shrieked Lucilla.
"For God's sake, say what is the matter,"
cried Di Moricini.
"My father! my poor father!" sobbed Miss
Trueblue. "Come with me, in mercy come !',
she said, catching Francesco's arm; "he has
sent for me, for you! he is dying! Oh, God!"
Dying!" said Lucilla, faint at heart.
((
self.
Dying!" echoed Francesco, pallid as her-
"Come this moment!" shrieked Miss True-
blue.
"I advise you to make haste, mem-there's
not a moment to be lost," said the man.
"Lucilla, stay here, you cannot walk; you
will only impede us; do stay," said Miss True-
blue.
"Shall I fetch the young lady a coach ?" said
the man.
"Yes," said Di Moricini, "she cannot walk,
and we must hasten on till we meet with some
conveyance."
46
Go, go, with her Francesco," said Lucilla;
"see how wildly she rushes on; I will stay
here till that man brings a coach, and then I
will go home."
"So be it, and farewell-God bless you!"
They were soon out of sight. Lucilla sank
back on the bench to await the coach-presently
she heard a rustling in the trees behind her, a
light laugh, a well-known and dreaded voice,
uttered her name, and leaping over the paling
behind her, Lord Trelawney was at her side.
CHAPTER XLVII.
POOR LUCILLA! a deadly faintness came over
her heart when she found herself alone in the
inner circle of the Regent's Park, now almost de-
serted, for it was getting dusk, with this daring
and desperate man; but she determined not
to show a fear which would be a confession of
114
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
:
weakness. She looked pale but haughty, and
tried not to seem aware of her persecutor's
dreaded presence, till he said :-
"Lucilla! you drive me to do these things."
"What things, my lord ?" said the poor girl,
quite off her guard.
"To use these subterfuges to see you for a
few moments alone."
*
Subterfuges!" exclaimed Lucilla, the truth
dawning upon her terrified heart.
"Yes, subterfuges! Why do you squander
with a clothier's daughter, and a beggarly for-
eign sign-painter, the hours I would give my
life to spend with you-hours I pine, and sue in
vain for five minutes on which my fate depends,
while I see five hours spent with an Italian im-
postor and a tradesman's daughter!"
"I am compelled to hear you, sir," said
Lucilla," because I cannot go hence till a coach
I have sent for comes; but as I do not even
recognize you as an acquaintance, I shall cer-
tainly not listen to your animadversions on my
conduct."
"You must and you shall; such a wild
strange love as I bear you gives me a right to
be heard."
Lucilla turned away, her cheek grew more
deadly, but she did not speak.
"I have watched you all this day."
Lucilla started.
"I see by that start you do listen to me-it
is well-I mean you no wrong, no outrage; I
only asked what any gentleman has a right to
from any lady, a hearing! If you grant me
this, I will behave to you as if you were my
sovereign lady; but if you refuse to hear
me-
"I do not refuse-speak on," said Lucilla,
tears choking her utterance; "but be quick,
for I hear the coach I ordered."
My poor child, that coach will never come,"
said his enraging Lordship, laughing.
"Why so?" shrieked Lucilla.
"You defied me! you would not listen to
my prayer. I said you should grant me an in-
terview. I only asked for a few minutes con-
versation with you-a boon a duchess would
have granted."
"But as I am no duchess, I declined,"
"Pretty Lucilla, then if you had been, you
would have listened to my suit?"
"At least the protection that would then have
surrounded me would have saved me from all
cowardly insult !"
"You are severe, prettiest, and cruel too,
but I am patient and indomitable; I can watch,
aye, watch like the wiliest cat, and trifle and
purr, and let my little mouse fancy herself at
liberty, but I never release my prey. I watch-
ed you all day, traced you here, and sent that
man to remove your companions-he will re-
turn no more.'
"And they?" cried poor Lucilla, sick at
heart.
66
Why not just yet!"
And was the story of Mr. Trueblue's illness
a falsehood, sir?" said Lucilla, trembling.
Nay a ruse, sweet Lucilla."
"Then I should be ashamed to fear so false
and base a man; cruel and mean to give a
daughter's heart so horrible a shock in order
to compel a poor young defenceless girl who
loathes and despises you to listen to your un
manly insults."
"Then why compel me, sweet Lucilla, to
use force or fraud to see you alone for one mo-
ment?"
"Because I hate to see you-because your
aspect fills me with horror!"
"But I do so love you!"
"And even if it were so, that love is not re-
turned, and never can be; your wealth-your
coronet have not a charm for me."
"Nay, my pretty Lucilla, do not say 'no' till
you are asked. My coronet I never dreamt of
offering," said Lord Trelawney, with a venom-
ous smile.
"Then you are baser than I thought you,"
said Lucilla, rising, while a proud flush mantled:
her cheek. "Thank heaven, I hear voices; be
it who it may, if you dare to follow or to speak
to me
to me I will claim that protection no English-
man could refuse me. Nay, do not touch me,
or I cry aloud for help, and here comes a party
to whom I will at once appeal if you dare to
follow or molest me. Thank heaven for this!"
Silly girl, you make me your enemy, I who
so wish to be your friend; be it as you will,
but you shall not escape me-we must meet
again. There is now between us à guerre à la
Make no idiotic disturbance-there, I
mort.
am gone!"
So saying, he bounded again over the paling,
and Lucilla following in the wake of a gay par-
ty of ladies, gentlemen and children, reached
the opening of the inner circle just as Di Mori-
cini and Miss Trueblue drove back in search of
her, full of the cruel and base hoax that had
been played off upon them, and which Lucilla
prudently forbore to explain to Miss Trueblue
till she found herself alone with her.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
WHEN Lucilla returned to her poor home,.
she found her parents at tea, and from the
cheerful content of their countenances and the
happy serenity of the scene, she fancied some
comforter must have been with them.
she was right, two angel comforters had visited
them-Faith and Resignation.
And
Again Lucilla's dread of Lord Trelawney sug-
gested the wisdom of revealing his detestable:
persecution to her father, and again the dread
of destroying his comfort and her mother's
peace deterred her. While she presided at the
little tea-table a double knock startled the little
party.
Tom suggested it was Sir Felix Archer come
to propose to Lucilla. Mr. Temple felt sure it.
was Temple, of Temple Grove, bringing the fifty
pounds. Mrs. Temple agreed with Tom, and
her heart beat at once with hope and fear; but
Lucilla, her very spirit sank with intense emo…
tion, for she believed it was Di Moricini come
to ask her of her parents.
A minute of intense anxiety passed, and then
Norah came up and presented a card, and add-
ed, "The gintleman wishes to see yourself,
sare, a minute alone; I told him you were all
at tay, but he persisted he must see yourself for
one minute."
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
115
"Who is it?" faltered Mrs. Temple.
"Mr. Stanley, my love," said her husband,
rising in joyful agitation; "if I can induce him
to come up, I will."
"Oh do! I do so long to see him!"
"Well,” said Tom, "let all this beggarly tea
be swept away; fine people he'll think us! at
tea before he has dined."
Rapidly Tom, Lucilla, and Norah removed
the tea, and eagerly did Mrs. Temple smooth
her daughter's hair, and gaze upon her lovely
face; dut it was all in vain. After about an
hour, the street door was heard to open, an ele- |
gant Brougham, with two sleek and noble grays,
drove up to the door. Lucilla, shrouded by the
curtain, caught one glimpse of a tall and ele-
gant figure, and the next moment her father,
radiant with hope and joy, returned to them.
For a few minutes he could not speak, but
pressed his wife and his children alternately to
his heart, and then murmuring, "Thank God!
thank God!" he wiped away the manly tears
of gratitude and love.
After a little while he was sufficiently calm
to tell them that his young benefactor, Mr. |
Stanley, had been indefatigable in his cause
since he saw him last, and had induced a spirit-
ed and enterprising publisher to offer him five
hundred pounds for the copyright of the first
edition of his work, and to advance him at once
one hundred and fifty.
Think, dear ones," he said, "this will meet
all present difficulties, pay all degrading debts,
and enable us to live in peace till the work is
completed. We can be not only just but gen-
erous, my darlings; and in addition to all this
present relief, Mr. Stanley is using his interest,
and he seems to have much, to get me a living;
but this is not all, nor half the source of my
present deep delight. From some remarks he
made, and some questions he asked, I have
reason to believe that he has seen Lucilla-to
see her is to love her, as we all know-and I can-
not separate in my own mind his boundless kind-
ness and delicate generosity to me from the admi-
ration I see he feels for her. If there is one thing
I earnestly wish, it is to see her the wife of
such a man. But do not fear, my child," he
said, perceiving the unhappy and conscious Lu-
cilla turn deadly pale-"he is going away for
some months, and has only begged my permis-
sion to call on his return, and has made me
promise then to introduce him to your mother
and you!"
Lucilla made no reply, but the tears gushed
from her eyes.
"See, Lucilla," said Tom, not a little jealous
of the importance attached to his sister and her
charms, "what a fool you are to be crying like
that when you know, you sly thing, in your
heart, you're as pleased as Punch! I should hate
to be a girl-poor, weak, stupid things as girls
are! but I know if I were a girl I'd have fifty
lovers, whereas at the utmost you've only got
three. Jock is often surprised to think you've
got so few; he says, even the governess at his
master's has four, though she's got red hair,
and a squint, so you needn't give yourself
airs."
"It is not the quantity, but the quality, of
the lovers a lady has, which makes them a
source of pride or of shame," said Mrs. Temple.
|
"I never wish my girl to have more than one,
and that one, a man worthy to be her husband.
All flirtations, tender friendships, half attach-
ments, and coquettish intimacies, I, from the
depths of a true woman heart, despise, and
trust my daughter will inherit my abhorrence
and contempt of them. On the man she loves
and selects, whether Sir Felix Archer, or Mr.
Stanley, or any other, I do hope she will bestow
her first affection in all its purity and fervour,
It was my happy fate to give to your father,
Lucilla, a heart that had never for one moment
been darkened by another's shadow-a hand
that no other had ever pressed, and I do hope
you will be able to say the same in presence
of your husband, for it is a source of honest
pride and joy. And now finish packing, sweet-
est, and get to bed, for you look very ill and
weary."
Silently Lucilla embraced her parents. How
would they bear to hear she loved Francesco di
Moricini! Why had she now no power to re-
ward the generous benefactor of her beloved
father? He seemed to be everything a maiden's
heart could covet and glory in. Would she
then for his sake be fancy free? Alas! alas!
there is so beguiling a fascination, so wild a
delight, so ambrosial a bliss "in first and pas-
sionate love," that Lucilla owned to her own
heart she would rather indulge in this half
painful ecstacy-this hopeless passion-this tu-
multuous and unreal joy-than be again the
happy heart-whole girl she was before she knew
the blissful misery of love.
Tom lingered some time in the drawing-room
in the hope that his father, now in the posses-
sion of a cheque for one hundred and fifty
pounds, would return the money-box containing
his treasure. There it stood untouched on the
mantel-piece. Tom thought that like a heroine
in a novel, it "had never looked so lovely."
Sometimes he thought of boldly repossessing
himself of it, but then he had his doubts what
right he had to what he had bonâ fide given away.
At last he placed it on the table near his father,
who was engaged writing a sermon.
As Tom placed it exactly where the inkstand
usually was, Mr. Temple, who was rather ab-
sent, two or three times dipped his pen into the
slit in the money-box.
Tom had great hopes, but Mr. Temple only
quietly pushed it away, and proceeded with his
work.
At length Tom said, "A money-box is a very
useful thing, papa !”
Very, my boy," said his father, abstractedly.
"Shall I break this one open, papa ?"
"Don't talk to me, my dear, just now!"
Tom was ready to cry.
He sat for some time in moody silence; at
length Mrs. Temple coming into the room he
went up to her, and whispered his fears that
now his papa was rich he had forgotten the pro-
mise made when he was poor.
Tom's voice was so tearful, that Mrs. Temple
was moved.
"You do not want Tom's money now, my
love, do you?" said she to her husband.
Why do you ask?" he said, looking rather
displeased.
"Because he is so anxious about it."
"Indeed! then let him take it; had he been
116
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
less so, I would have added to his store. Those
who lend, Tom, should never betray a haste to
be paid-they lose their right to one's gratitude
if they do; take it-in your place, I would
rather have sacrificed some childish toy than
my father's approbation and thanks."
Tom took it, abashed and dismayed, and hur-
ried up-stairs to hide his box and his tears. Ere
long, however, he went to Lucilla, nominally to
assist her packing, but in reality to encumber
her with offers of help, never realized. He
scrawled "Miss Temple, Passenger," on all her
cards, blotting and smearing them, and leaving
no space for any direction-he burnt his fingers
sealing these useless cards on boxes-strained a
lock of one box, and broke a key into another-
corded a trunk that was to be left behind-set
fire to a curtain, and overturned the ink on a
toilet cover; and, in short, was so conceited,
imperiously active, boasting and tormenting,
that Lucilla felt it a great relief when he grew
sleepy and retired to bed, in order, as he said, to
be up to get her off in time the next day.
When he was gone order was restored, and
though packing up for a first visit is a formi-
dable thing, Norah and her young mistress did
get through it at last. Lucilla, fairly worn out
with fatigue and emotion, fell asleep, her own
sorrows forgotten in the rapturous remembrance
that she left her beloved parents in comfort and
peace. Oh, how fervently she blessed and
prayed for him, her poor devoted heart could
not even wish to love; and oh, how fondly she
wished that poor Francesco di Moricini had
been that good and kind and wealthy benefactor |
of her father-the young and generous English-
man to whom he would proudly have given his
child!
CHAPTER XLIX.
In spite of all Tom's assertions that he should
be up the first in the house, and make the tea,
and call Lucilla (if not Norah), and see his
sister off, he slept the next morning as only a
boy can sleep-the broad bright sun shining
through the unshrouded window on his curtain-
less bed-lighting up kites, marbles, half-finish-
ed fireworks, tops, walking sticks, fishing-rods,
pots of paste, shreds of gold, silver, and colour-
ed papers, useless bullets, which had once been
good leaden spoons, and in the centre of all, the
money-box!
Yes, there he slept like a young dormouse,
and so well were his teasing, meddling, boasting
propensities known, that no one thought of
awakening him-when, after a hurried, tearful
breakfast, (for a first absence from a dear home |
and fond parents is a heart-sickening thing) Lu-
cilla tore herself from her weeping mother and
pale father, she ran up-stairs and embraced the
sleeping Tom, who waking, declared it was an
infamous shame he had not been called, and
darted out of bed in time to see the Trueblue's
carriage drive up to the door-Lucilla spring
into it, with her handkerchief to her eyes-the
luggage rapidly packed by adroit footmen-his
sister wave her hand-aid all was over.
hack into bed, and was soon once more in "the
sweet land of dreams."
It was arranged by Miss Trueblue that Lu-
cilla should join them at at hotel near Lon-
don Bridge, for in order to outwit the bold per-
severing, and unscrupulous Trelawney, the True-
blues had determined instead of going, as they
had led their household to imagine, at once to
their seat in Berkshire, they would first spend
a week or two at Ramsgate. The sea-air was
always beneficial to Mr. Trueblue and his
daughter, and Margate, Ramsgate, and Brighton
were alternately honoured every autumn by a
visit from the wealthy paralytic citizen, and his
poor deformed and only child.
It would have mortified many a self-sufficient
beauty, accustomed to hear a great deal of the
"might, the majesty of loveliness," and many
an accomplished and brilliant girl full of "the
power of thought, the magic of the mind"-it
would, I say, have mortified such a good deal
to have known how many of the loungers they
met on pier, esplanade, parade, and sands, and
believed brought there by the loadstars of their
eyes, or the fascination of their wit, were in
reality eagerly and tremblingly on the look out
for the little deformed, plain-spoken, quiet
daughter of old Trueblue, that these idlers would
at any time have left the loveliest and wittiest
on the sands, to the certainty of wet feet and
rude shrimp boys, for the chance of showing
off one grace of person or dress before the little
Hunchback.
Yet so it was; among the fine, showy, inso-
lent looking men who professed to despise her,
there were perhaps only a very, very few whom
a look of encouragement would not have brought
to her feet; but this knowledge gave her no
pleasure, no pride; she blushed for human na-
ture when proposals poured in upon her; when
men, some with tall strong persons, and others
with sharp bright wits, all able to earn a liveli-
hood by the sweat of the brow or the brain, and
all originally poor, and growing daily poorer and
poorer, wasted their little remaining substance
in dressing to dazzle her, and their time in
watching her outgoings and incomings.
But then her heart was given past recal
given to a vulgar, ignorant, unworthy being,
with nothing but personal beauty and some
good-nature to recommend him, else so many
lovers might well have made her believe herself
lovely. But she was so entirely attached to
her Frederick Vernon Smirk, that she had not
a thought for any other man. The love we
cannot the least share or return never seems
very real, and so to her, these followers were
objects of positive ridicule.
Lucilla had seen so little of the world, partic-
ularly of late years, that everything was new
and exhilarating to her. She found Mr. True-
blue and his daughter in a drawing-room of the
London Bridge Hotel-Mr. Trueblue taking,
early as it was, a glass of brandy and water, for
the good of the house, and as he believed to
prevent sea-sickness. He was a verylarge, un-
wieldly, corpulent man; he had been a joyous,
florid-looking bon vivant, but now his eyes were
heavy, his skin a sort of sea-green, his flesh
seemed loose, and his countenance expressed
Seeing this Tom, with a litter sense of unre- pain. His affection for his daughter was un-
cognized merit and unappreciated genius, stole | bounded, but it betrayed itself principally in a
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
117
:
fretful and fidgetty desire to have her ever by
his side-in querulous and minute inquiries after
her, if she absented herself for a few moments
—and in a determination to punish her, by suf-
fering the greatest discomfort rather than allow
any one but herself to do any of the thousand
things his palsied state required.
|
"The use of the room, sir! why I havn't
been ten minutes in the room, sir. You know
who I am, sir, and because you do know, you
fancy I'm made of money; but I'll not be impo-
sed upon-there's a shilling, and that's double
what you ought to get.”
We'll see about that, sir; my master's the
person for you to deal with," said the waiter,
doggedly; when, turning round to leave the
room, he caught a glimpse of Miss Trueblue
His conversation was made up of boasts
which betrayed the pride of wealth-jealousies
and suspicions so common to rich parvenus not
born and bred to affluence and importance-holding her purse in her hand, which induced
groans and lamentations complaints of his
own uselessness-and now and then a touching
but unreal desire that he might soon cease to
be a burden to any one.
Poor Mr. Trueblue, he was one of a numer-
ous class; after a youth of toiling, painstaking |
abstinence, he had married his employer's
wealthy daughter; riches and city honours had
poured in, and with them public dinners and
private indulgences. The spare, active, watch-
ful apprentice soon became the bloated bon
vivant, he enjoyed some years of civic banquets
-bowls of punch abroad, and hogsheads of
brandy and water at home; and then came a
second change-the strong constitution, tried in
youth by abstinence, and in middle age by ex-
cess, gave way, and rheumatism, palsy, and
gout claimed him as their own.
He welcomed Lucilla with tolerable cheerful-
ness, for in happier days he had been a great
admirer of the fair, and still paid a sort of in-
voluntary, unconscious homage to indisputable
beauty; besides his daughter was rubbing his
shoulder, in which he felt, or fancied he felt, a
dull pain.
"Good morning to you, ma'am," he said to
our young Lucilla, extending a palsied, leaden-
coloured hand, which felt cold as death; "I
hope you found the 'charrut' comfortable and
the servants handy and attentive; with their
wages they ought to be!"
Miss Trueblue coloured. (How much the
sensitive and educated children of the vulgar
rich are to be pitied!)
Oh, nothing could be more comfortable than
the carriage, or more attentive than the ser-
vants," said Lucilla.
"I'm glad to hear it, ma'am ; my servants
had better be attentive to my friends, and
my daughter's friends; they'd better not let
me hear anything to the contrary. I'll not
stand it."
And an orange flush suffused his primrose
face-and he clenched his cold gray hands, and
compressed his blue lips. Lucilla looked alar-
med. Miss Trueblue tried to reassure her with
a glance which said, "It is often thus-never
mind it."
|
him to remain, alas! just long enough to receive
a rather severe blow from old Trueblue's cane
across his shoulder.
He turned sharply round to attack the old
man, but Miss Trueblue and Lucilla threw them-
selves between them, while Tucker rushed in
from an adjoining bed-room, armed with salts,
eau de Cologne, and a fan. Mr. Trueblue, quite
exhausted by his rage and sudden effort, had
fallen back in his chair almost insensible.
“I've a great mind to have the law of him,”
said the man rubbing his shoulder-" an old
wenomous wampire, hitting a man in that
way for nothing. It's assault and battery, and
nothing less."
My father is very ill," said Miss Trueblue,
quietly slipping a sovereign into the man's hand
-"be content, and help us down with him."
Poor dear old gentleman!" said the waiter,
quite pacified-“ not right in his dear old head,
I'll be bound.”
"Send the coachman and footman here to
help my father into the steamboat."
Yes, Miss," said the waiter, gladly escap-
ing; "they're used to his ways; he ain't right
in his head," he muttered to himself, “but, by
jingo, he's strong enough in his arm. What an
old sarpent it is to be sure."
Lucilla began to have some doubts of the
comfort of visiting such an invalid, and began
to perceive too how nicely good and evil are
balanced in this world, and that Miss Trueblue's
wealth has a serious drawback in such a father.
As she dwells on her own kind, gentle, endear-
ing parents, she prefers poverty with them to
wealth with the poor, vulgar, fretful, invalid,
now carried by the servants into the saloon of
the "Water Witch."
Miss Trueblue having administered a sedative,
propped him up with pillows; and covering him
with shawls and cloaks, took her knitting, as
did Lucilla; they sat beside him till he was
fast asleep, and then Miss Trueblue, summoning
Tucker to watch him, took Lucilla's arm, and
they left the close and crowded cabin, to enjoy
on deck the fresh breeze, the passing vessels,
the blue water, and the smiling banks of Father
Thames.
And so it was. Poor Mr. Trueblue was, from
constant suffering, so very irritable, that if no-
thing happened to annoy him, he put himself in
a passion for some imaginary cause. It would
probably have been so now, had not a waiter
entered to say the boat would start in five
minutes. As he was darting off with profes-young delight the green hills, the smiling villas,
sional celerity, Mr. Trueblue called him back.
"What have I got to pay?"
"Five shillings, sir."
CHAPTER L.
WHILE Lucilla watches with an innocent and
the soft ripples, and the sunny sails, herself the
unconscious object of a world of cockney ad-
miration; and while Miss Trueblue takes that
"Five shillings! what for five-pennyworth of pride and pleasure in her friend's beauty which
brandy?"
And the use of the room, sir."
most women do in their own-while old True-
blue sleeps, a sort of surly sleep, in a fur trav
118
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
everything; in due time playing with our chil-
dren-and if this devoted friendship for me
makes her, as I foresee it will, despise all other
men, and live on unwedded for my sake, she
will be useful in a thousand ways, gifted as she
is. Half friend, half underling,, she can revise
my literary productions, correct proofs, sing
seconds, take a hand at whist, and teach the
children. With her feelings, all this will be a
sort of elysium !"
elling cap, nominally watched by the smart | moting my views, and seconding my wishes in
Tucker, who is silently coquetting with many
a mustachioed apprentice and clerk, sporting
an imperial of recent growth-while stewards
and waiters cover the saloon tables with hams
and sirloins, chickens and cheeses, and Lon-
don's sons and daughters eat and drink till they
can eat and drink no more-while Bass's pale
ale smiles and sparkles like a pretty blonde in
contrast with her rival brunette Brown Stout
-and the steam of brandy and water and gin
punch poisons the air, and ginger beer makes With these thoughts Sir Felix Archer be-
as much noise and fuss as a would-be-wit, and guiled the way from Portland Place to Bedford
the vulgar many grow familiar, and the higher, Square. He sprang from his cab, resigned the
and more refined few retire into the deck cab-snow-white reins to his expert little tiger, and
ins, or, if full, into themselves-we must leave stepped daintly in his neat and dazzling French
for awhile this little world upon the waters, boots, to one of the gates of the gardens of the
to inquire what our hero par excellence, Sir Fe- Square.
lix Archer, has been doing since we saw him
last.
He had then, if we remember right, a very
important engagement in the gardens of Bed-
ford Square, with her whom he so condescend-
ingly called his "charming and intellectual
friend"-her whom he believed ready to die to
serve him-her on whose adoring friendship
he had pinned his faith-her for whom he al-
most felt a little half supercilious regard, and
not a little of that sort of interest every mid-
dle-aged beaux feels, in any handsome and
clever girl who persuades him that he is the
first and most fascinating of men, and that she
thinks him so.
CHAPTER LI.
FROM a bench, concealed by ample lilac
bushes, and trees of guelder roses, and over
which acacias hung their graceful festoons, Miss
Lucilla Undermine watched the gate at which
she thought it probable Sir Felix would present
himself. By her side, and holding her hand, in
earnest and close converse with her, sat Mr.
Rory O'Brien, the countless discrepancies of
his attire concealed (although it was the au-
tumn's hot and gorgeous prime) by his cobalt
blue cloth cloak with its scarlet shalloon lining,
its catskin collar, and ormolu chain and clasp;
his old hat with the bullet-hole in it looked worn
and shining, and betrayed in many places that
it had been both washed and ironed; in a stiff
black stock he had stuck his gaudy brooch, with
the view of Lucerne in its china slab. A thick
chain of mosaic gold, and an eye-glass, studded
with bits of emerald coloured glass, adorned his
unseasonable waistcoat of faded pink plush.
The worn button-holes of a green cut-a-way
were linked together by a clasp made of two
foxes' heads in German silver.
His tight
shrunken trowsers had once been white ducks ;
and his lemon-coloured gloves, by a strong smell
of turpentine, and a certain consumptive look
a resuscitated glove always has, betrayed the
secrets of their recent prison-house. A pair of
incipient fawn-coloured mustaches, and an im-
perial to match, completed the odd and disrepu-
table appearance of this strange being. But so
great to woman's heart is the power of origin-
He forgot, yes, even in conferring with him-ality of thought and superiority of mind, that
self, that he originally belonged to the very
class of which he professed such contemptuous
ignorance. He had tried to deceive others on
this point, till he had, failing in that, succeeded
in deceiving himself.
"Poor little Undermine," he said to his au-
gust and egotistical self as he drove to Bedford
Square, how perfect and yet how humble is
her devotion; I hope she will do herself no in-
jury in the plebeian and professional world in
which she lives, by this silly and too percepti-
ble adoration of me. I should be sorry to let
her injure herself, poor thing, pleasant as I find
her meek yet ardent regard! Yet surely it is
a dangerous thing for a girl so much beneath
one, not only to feel, but to glory in parading,
this sort of worship (for it is little less) of such
an enfant gâté des dames as I am. I must put
it to her-women are so blind in these things
-I must ask her, what in her own set would
be the feeling of such among her own class as
might wish to propose to her, about her pas-
sionate friendship for me. Perhaps after all
they might think her rather honoured than
otherwise by my attentions; I know so little
of the feelings and modes of life and thought
of these 'quill drivers.””
Miss Lucilla Undermine looked up to the phos-
phoric eyes and intelligent lips of this caricature,
with "swimming looks of speechless tender-
ness. She felt that she, shrewd and gifted as
she was, was but a tool in the hands of this
strange being-that her growing love for him
was fast making Sir Felix and every other man
odious to her, and that she was almost ready
to resign the game of her destiny to him, to
play it out as he chose, and into his hands if he
so desired.
However, there is no nonsense about her;
if she does love me, as I cannot but perceive
she does, it is without a particle of hope-a
state of things which maximists and moralists
cooly tell us is an impossibility. Well, she is
an amusing and piquante little girl, and when
I am married to the beautiful Lucilla, as they As peeping through the lilac bushes, she saw
are such great friends, it will be pleasant to the modish shadow of Sir Felix Archer's form
have poor little Undermine staying with us now cast by the setting sun upon the orange coloured
and then, admiring all I do and say-an unex-gravel walks, she hastily snatched her hand from
ceptionable companion for Lady Archer, pro- Rory O'Brien's, and said: "I think I quite un-
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
119
derstand the game you wish me to play-I will
do my best-Farewell."
"I am off, dear girl," he said, "do as I bid
you, and the queen of hearts will be trumps;
the king of diamonds will fall to her, and we
shall win the game. I shall expect to have a
line from you to-night at Clifford's Inn, to tell
me how you have played your cards. You
have the game in your own hands-play it
boldly but cautiously to the end. You'll niver
repent it."
Sir Felix did not know what to say, or which
way to look. The selfish are generally poor
comforters, and in cases where the distresses of
others impede their services, are apt to betray
more annoyance than sympathy.
At length he did say, "Of what nature are
your sufferings, my poor friend, mental or
bodily?"
"Both," said Lucilla, in a hollow tone.
"Both?"
"Yes, both; in fact, Sir Felix, I am torn by
conflicting emotions, rent by contending feel-
ings; on one side duty and filial affection re-
proach me for my clandestine conduct on the
other, confidence in you, and a devotion which
is almost idolatry, urge me to commit myself
thus."
"
Sir Felix Archer was a little near-sighted,
and of course he could not tell that the white
muslin drapery, floating on the evening air,
glistening in the setting sun, and gleaming
through the dark trees, belonged to his "poor
little friend." There were other ladies sprinkled |
about the gardens-a few old ladies, who consi- My poor, poor friend!" said Sir Felix, think-
dered them a safe retreat from the perils of ing that in the wildness of her passion she had
horses and carriages-a few young ones, whose betrayed-that to please and to serve him, even
parents thought by locking them into those in his attachment to another, she risked her
gardens, they were safe from detrimentals-a parents' displeasure, the world's misconstruc-
few sentimental ladies of middle age, with a tions, and her own disapproval.
book and a work-basket, two or three groups
of children, and a nursemaid or two-these
formed the habitual company of the Square
.gardens.
"Ah, poor indeed-I deserve pity," she said,
"for to love is to suffer, and yet I am rich in a
treasure I would not part with for a kingdom !"
"And what, sweet friend, is that treasure?”
said Sir Felix, expecting to hear it was his
friendship.
But dashing, designing, flirting damsels, like
Miss Lucilla Undermine, were not to be found
there; Kensington gardens and the parks were "What? Oh, Sir Felix, what? your love-
their favourite resorts; and so after a few turns this noble, this disinterested, this deep, deep
and a few deliberate gazes through his eye-love-so delicately veiled, so witchingly be-
glass, Sir Felix's practised eye discerned the
form of his " poor friend."
She sat apparently in deep thought, and did
not raise her eyes at his approach; but the con-
sciousness of the deep and double game she
was playing curdled the blood in her heart, and
for a moment blanched her cheek. Her pallor
did not escape our egotistical coxcomb, and
gratified vanity softened his voice, as he said:
My sweet Miss Undermine! my charming
friend! how shall I thank you for this amiable
punctuality?"
At his words, his voice, and the gentle pres-
sure of his hand, the conscious blood flew back
to the false one's cheek, and again Sir Felix
misconstrued these tell-tale blushes.
He sat beside her, and he delayed (kind and |
considerate Sir Felix) for a few minutes to
force upon her agitated heart the real object of
this meeting. He dreaded to mention his love
for another while she trembled thus, although
to promote that love he believed her to be there;
he feared to name Lucilla Temple, although
this appointment was made expressly to dis-
cuss and analyse her feelings and his own hopes,
or rather, as he thought, certainty of a delighted
acceptance.
|
|
trayed!"
Sir Felix turned pale and looked aghast; he
positively could not speak.
"It is true," she continued, "there is a dis-
parity, a great disparity in our years, and my
parents have other views for me; but this can
form no reasonable objection, and is a point
that can only concern myself; hearts that love
must be young. Some minds never grow old,
and souls can never die. Had my friends been
really resolved never to consent, they would
not have allowed us to correspond or to meet;
they may not quite approve, but they will not
finally prevent our union. My sufferings arise
from inward struggles about risking the telling
them at once what I now see they more than
guess."
It was a wonder, a great wonder, that the
surprise and shock Sir Felix Archer sustained
at this to him astounding speech did not cause
him a paralytic stroke. His complexion grew
leaden, and the muscles of his face twitched
and worked with a ghastly activity over which
he had no control. This meek, this humble,
this adoring being, whom he had looked upon
as the devoted creature of his will and slave
of his whims, his attorney's daughter, a girl of
no birth, little fortune, plebeian stamp and mere-
The weather, the sun set, the probability of a
fine day on the morrow, were of course dis-ly average good looks-to presume to expect
cussed. What Englishman was ever fairly
launched into conversation without that preface?
Then came a gentle inquiry about the lady's
health, and thence questions as to the health of
all her family. After this Sir Felix, a little
seasoned, said; I need not have asked my
tovely friend how she felt, for Hebe might al-
most envy so delicate a bloom."
"And yet," said the lady, "I am not well."
"Not well?”
66
No, I suffer-I suffer much."
not merely to be made Lady Archer, but to
have the ineffable insolence to imply that her
union with him would be a sacrifice her parents
would not readily consent to. He, too, despe-
rately in love with a girl who, whatever her
parents' difficulties might be, bore the unmis-
takeable stamp of ancient birth upon her beau-
tiful face and form-a girl with that aristocratic
bearing, that innate elegance, that inborn taste,
that instinct refinement, and that peculiar style
of beauty which made her worthy of a coronet,
120
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
and would have amply excused a duke for ma-
king her his duchess. When he, the wealthy
baronet, has been doubting and debating in his
own mind the propriety of sacrificing his pre-
cious self to a Lucilla Temple, without title or
fortune, to find a little low-born Undermine ex-
pecting a proposal from him, and calmly discuss-
ing such a frightful sacrifice, as less advantage-
ous to her than to him. There is no knowing
how long he might have remained palsied by
anger, disdain, and astonishment, had it not
suddenly struck him that hopeless love had
turned the head of his poor little friend, that
she was either permanently disordered in intel-
lect by her passionate admiration of him, or at
least labouring under a great temporary de-
rangement.
This thought calmed him sufficiently to allow
of his stealing a glance at her; she had hidden
her face in her handkerchief, and was apparent-
ly sobbing.
He took her hand and said: "Do not weep,
fair friend, let us talk of other matters."
'old man's darling,' and got up and hobbled and
said:
"The old man he comes grumbling in,
I'm weary of my life
The young man he comes jumping in,
Come kiss me my dear wife.'
"I had no idea she was so vulgar, and such
a mimic too. However, seeing she had found
us out, I owned our attachment, and told her
that if she did not show you proper respect for
your own sake she must and should for mine;
and then she begged my pardon and wished me
joy, and said, how curious it would be if I
were to marry one who had once been in the
firm;' and told me all the story of her own love
affair, and how she is going to Ramsgate to
stay with his friends; indeed she is there now,
I believe; but all this was in strict confidence,
so you must not betray me; only of course I
have no secrets from you now, and never will
have!"
During this speech an intense hatred of 'his
poor friend' had stolen into Sir Felix's heart..
The many falsehoods she had strung beside
some pearls of truth, were so adroitly intro-
duced, and had so natural and real an air, that
Sir Felix did not doubt them, and he was al-
ready planning in his heart a tour on the con-
tinent, a total resignation of Lucilla Temple,
and a final break up of all acquaintance with
the Undermines, and this now odious and de-
tested girl. He rose, and dissembling his wrath
and his revenge, he said: "I will write to you
my sentiments on what you have been good
enough to tell me-Farewell."
"No, no," cried the lady, clinging to his arm,
take me to my parents, and tell them that if I
have endangered my reputation and perilled
my fame by meeting you thus clandestinely and
alone at this late hour, it is because we are en-
gaged that they must sanction our union
now!-now that if they do not do so, the world
will wrong their child! Come with me; they
will not be cruel we will kneel together
come!"
"Yes," she said wildly, "of other matters! of
Lucilla Temple, whom to induce me not to de-
lay my decision, you have pretended to admire.
Ah, Felix, the poor subterfuge will deceive no
longer; even she sees through it-even she has
discovered what I knew so well, that those too
eloquent verses were addressed to me! As
she said, with more discernment than I gave
her credit for: 'Would he address me as 'daugh-
ter of genius,' think you? I who have no pre-
tensions to talent-I whose few poor verses
even his politeness could not prevent his con-
demning, while you do indeed possess the fatal
gift of genius and of song, and he has often ex-"you do not go! you cannot go! you must
tolled your wonderful powers himself.' 'Then,'
she added, would he remark on the ripened'
charms of one who to him must seem a mere
child-at his age (here Sir Felix winced) a wife
of two-and-twenty seems unsuitably young,
but one of seventeen absurdly so! Are my
eyes 'darkly bright?' can my golden locks be
described as 'soft brown hair'-my girlish fig-
gure as a 'Juno-form'-and is there in this
strange world any man so very a coxcomb, as
to address in such impertinent and sanguine
language a young lady with whom he has never
been on terms of intimacy-who has never felt
for, or shown him the slightest preference—
never encouraged, never flirted with him-one
to whom he seems so elderly and staid that she
would as soon think of marrying her great
uncle-and who besides has already given her
heart to one young enough to be his grandson!
No, no,' she said, 'even mamma has remarked
his devotion to you. And who that sees and
hears you, love, can marvel at it? If you can
consent to barter for wealth and title your
youth, your genius and your beauty, do; but I,
who have only the former, and a smaller share
of the latter, I should laugh in his face.'”
“Do you mean to say," said Sir Felix, trem-
bling with passion, "that Miss Temple made
those remarks, when you showed her my
verses?"
"Oh, yes, and many more! she made such
fun of you and them, ridiculous hoyden that
she is that I quarrelled with her, she declared
the verses were taken out of an old lady's mu-
seum for 1700, and teased me about being an
A faint glimmer of some deep scheme to en-
tangle him, now dawned on Sir Felix's rather
obtuse brain; his anger got the better of him as
he said :-
"Madam, you know full well that I have
never given you any reason to hope that I should
make you my wife."
"Oh, wretch! oh, barbarian!" shrieked the
lady" do you mean to imply, false viper, whom
I have fostered in my poor, warm, unsuspecting
heart, that a daughter of the house of Under-
mine ever admitted any addresses but those of
the most honourable nature."
"I mean, madam," said Sir Felix, grinding
his teeth and digging his heel into the gravel,
"that I never paid you any addresses of any
nature whatever."
"Then why am I here?" asked the lady,
wildly.
Why? to discuss with me the propriety of
offering myself to another-to your friend."
"Ha! ha ha!" laughed, with a well-acted
hysterical phrenzy, the designing damsel. "No,
no, Sir Felix, a woman may risk name and
fame for her own lover, but not for another's,
I do not deny that you wooed and won me un
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
121
der a flimsy veil we both smiled at, and possi-
bly, now you have won my love, you may be
weary of it. The mere circumstance that it is
yours may make you prefer another, now too
that you have compromised me.. You are well
known to be faithless, Sir Felix; many a weak
girl weeps over your perfidy; but I am no weak-
ling-I am no coward!"
Her agitated manner and hysteric shrieks at-
tracted the attention of the ladies in the garden,
many of whom drew nearer.
"Hush," said Sir Felix, "you attract atten-
tion."
|
escaped the ladies, as Sir Felix cast a hopeless
glance at the tall iron gates, and one, more hope~
less still, at the form of Miss L. Undermine,
supported by one group of ladies, while another
advances towards him. What was to be done
now? He put himself in an attitude, and as-
sumed an expression he believed to be, and had
often found irresistible, and then he stepped.
daintily and deferentially forward to meet the
vanguard of the little batallion.
I make no apology for addressing you, sir,"
said one lady, "because I suspect from your
having evidently no key, that you are an in-
"I will attract the world's attention to your truder here, a trespasser on our rights, and in-
matchless treachery, your ineffable falsehood, deed on our premises, since these are not public
your insolent inconstancy," shrieked the lady.gardens, but appropriated to the use of such as
"Come with me to my father, and own our
attachment."
"How completely I have been taken in and
bamboozled," thought Sir Felix; "however I
must get out of this absurd position as soon as
possible."
Sir Felix was a sort of man who dreaded a
laugh more than a loss. He had not self-con-
fidence and self-respect enough to brave the
ridicule of fools; he might have said with the
Frenchman-" Je crains le rire moqueur plus
que la mort." He was in a positive fever at
the glances and remarks his companion's frantic
manner elicited among the ladies in the garden,
many of whom he could see nudging each other,
and drawing as near the scene of action as
politeness permitted. His great object was to
get away, but how to effect this, without a still
more violent scene, he knew not. At length he
said:
"We can discuss this subject better by letter,
Miss Undermine-it is growing late-I fear I
must leave you now!" And he rose.
"Leave me, sir!" cried the lady-" leave
me! a young and defenceless girl, here clandes-
tinely, and at your earnest prayer-leave me to
make my way alone and unprotected to my out-
raged and justly incensed parents !"
I shall commit you still farther if I see you
home," said Sir Felix, hastening away.
But with a wild shriek the lady darted after
him, calling him aloud; and as he still sped on,
she took the opportunity, when near a group of
elderly maiden ladies, to sink on the turf as if
in a fainting fit.
dwell in the adjoining mansions, and pay for the
keeping up of these grounds. Will you oblige
us by stating your right here?"
"I was admitted, madam, by a friend, who
having a key, and residing in the neighbourhood,
was, I trust, justified in admitting me.
Certainly; may we ask who that friend is?
It behoves us particularly to be very sure what
sort of people gain access to grounds where we
wander in imagined security."
"I shall not endanger the sancity of these
gardens, still less will my friend do so. Allow
me egress now I beg. That lady will, I am sure,
satisfy you about both her respectability and
| mine."
"The lady with whom we saw you convers-
ing just now, sir, if it be she to whom you al-
lude, sir, is in no state to be questioned; she
has fainted," said one tall commanding spinster,
with a ferocious-looking black front, coming up
like a tragedy queen; "where is she to be con-
veyed? It is scarcely manly, sir, to leave her
in such a state to the protection and assistance
of timid and defenceless, though sympathizing
ladies, who not knowing who she is, or the
nature of the wrong you have evidently done
her, cannot tell how far they may endanger
their own spotless fame by rendering her any
assistance!"
"I heard the lady call after you by the name
of Sir Felix Archer," said another-" a name
but too well known to the credulous and unwary
of an ill-treated and defenceless sex!"
"How heartless and treacherous is man,"
sighed a lady of thirty-nine, dressed in white,
with a broad green silk sash, and a straw gipsey
hat, tied with green ribbon.
Ladies," said Sir Felix, with a deprecating
smile, and appearing to tremble and almost
crouch before them, "do not be severe upon me,
nor mistake for guilt the awe I naturally feel
in the presence of so much virtue, talent, and
The ladies screamed and rushed to her assist-
ance, rejoiced to have an interest in any kind of
love affair, and glad of any romantic incident to
agitate a little the even current of their life of
confirmed spinsterhood, nor were they sorry to
have an opportunity of venting on one individual
of the bachelor race, those wrongs and slights
and perfidies each had to complain of from man-beauty."
kind in general. While some raised Miss Lu-
cilla Undermine, others tried to arrest the pro-
gress of Sir Felix.
"Stop, sir!" cried one.
"In the name of common humanity, stop!
the lady has fainted," cried another.
“If you are a man, stop! Inhuman being!"
shouted a third.
But still on he sped; he reached the gate.
Ha! is the old fox trapped at last? it is
locked!
The last person who went out secured it, and
Sir Felix has no key! A little shout of triumph!
K
"
Sir," said the first spinster, with the fero
cious black front, "to flatter us is not to justify
yourself." This lady was a great reader of
Johnson, and had imbibed at once something of
his masculine intellect and antithesis of expres→
sion; but even she was a little softened by Sir
Felix's humility of manner, and adulatory lan-
guage. "I ask you, sir, who and what is the
unfortunate lady so lately and so evidently re-
ceiving you and sitting by you, as none but an
affianced woman (if of character) ever does?
and now after having in vain tried to arrest your
flight, now lying in a fainting fit upon yonder
122
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
7
bench-a fainting which proves at once the
weakness of woman's nature, and the strength
of man's duplicity, or perhaps the strength of
woman's love, and the weakness of man's faith.
Now, sir, I ask you again, is your desertion of
that lady of such a nature as to render her no
fit visitor in these gardens, and no proper object
of our sympathy?"
"She is as spotless as yourselves; the cause
of our little disagreement is absurd and intri-
cate; but I am not to blame-the lady is under
a delusion, that is all."
warranted not to speak English, who came from
one of the houses in the square in search of her
pupils, and was armed with a key, unlocked the
gate. Sir Felix, though he stood with his back
to the gate, heard the key turn in the lock.
The ladies for a moment were intent solely on
scrutinizing, criticising, and commiserating the
deserted damsel, who came forth with tottering
steps, and dishevelled hair, leaning on two of
her new-made friends. At this critical moment
the Parisian governess opened the gate, and
herself stood gazing in amazement at the scene
before her. Sir Felix seized the moment, turn-
ed, darted to the gate; the surprised and ter-
In confidence, this un-rified Mademoiselle La Grace drew back, with
an-"Ah, mon Dieu! qu'est ce que c'est que
cela donc! Mon Dieu! que les Anglais sont im-
polis! est il permis de se presenter ainsi? Il
m'a presque renversé malhonnete; ah, que je
voudrais être de retour à Paris! Vilains An-
glais-vilain pays! Je les abhorre!"
"A delusion as to your sentiments and inten-
tions, I suppose you mean, sir.”
""
Exactly, madam.
happy lady attributes to me motives and feelings
I never entertained."
"The old story," sighed the lady in white
and green.
"Plausible treachery!" said another.
But the disciple of Johnson said, "Was this
lady here by appointment to meet you, sir, at
this hour, and unknown to her friends?"
"She was-but———————'
11
"But what, sir?"
"It is so delicate a subject"
"So is a woman's peace, her name, and fame.
Proceed, sir." All crowded round with faces
sharpened by curiosity.
"Well then, ladies, heaven knows what my
poor friend may have hoped-
'Hoped, indeed!" said the spinsters, with a
toss of their heads.
"Well, I withdraw the expression, as unguard-
ed and unsuitable; but have some mercy;"
and he glanced at the key with which each lady
was armed. “What I mean to say is, that in
this hurried moment I cannot explain or account
for my poor friend's mistake; but that I came
here to consult her about the propriety of my
addressing her friend!"
"Her friend!" almost screamed the ladies,
in their surprise at what they believed to be
the mockery and insolent effrontery of this in-
vention.'
Sir," said Miss Martinet, the Johnsonian
dady, "I am surprised that if you have the treach-
ery to frame, you have the effrontery to proffer,
so paltry and absurd an explanation."
"A counterpart of the conduct of Orlando,"
murmured to herself her of the white robe and
green sash.
"A palpable invention," said another; "did
I not see you kiss her hand? Is that the way
a gentleman and man of honour offers himself
to one's friend?"
"
Besides," said a fourth, "to cut the matter
short--when we raised her, she said, in a frantic
manner: Stop him-he is my affianced! he
would desert and deceive me, now I have per-
haps incensed and estranged my parents by
meeting him thus. He is a man of title and
fortune, and I am his affianced.' Saying this
she again fainted away; and indeed but for
this you might have left these gardens, sir,
where you seem to me to be an intruder on our
privileges, without our deigning to interfere."
Here comes the poor lady herself, support-
ed by Miss Primrose and Miss Lamb," said an-
other;
now we shall probably hear the rights
"of this."
But at this moment a Parisian governess,
While poor Mademoiselle La Grace was soli-
loquizing thus, her little French face flushed
and her black eyes flashing, Sir Felix had gain-
ed the out side of the gate. Vainly the ladies
cried, "do not let him out !"-lock the gates!"
'stop him!" The Parisian probably did not
understand them, and probably would not have
heeded them if she had; her French amour pro-
pre had frequently been wounded during her
wretched fortnight in London, by the hauteur
and ridicule with which the spinsters of the gar-
dens treated any little advance of hers towards
acquaintanceship, when in her forlorn and un-
friended state, sitting for hours on a bench,
while her pupils romped in the gardens, and
sighed for "celle chère, cette belle France," and
over "un destin trop sévère," she had with the
humility of the miserable tried to make a friend,.
and hazarded a remark on the weather, or a
courteous resignation of her seat, a rude stare
and a "nous je remercie vous" had been her sole
return from those who, like Chaucer's abbess,
were
"Well versed in French of Bowe,
Tho' French of Paris, they did never knowe;"
and this was followed by rude whispers and
titters, announcing their hatred of her as a
Frenchwoman, and their scorn of her as a
governess.
It was therefore no marvel, that she took no
pains to ascertain what their exclamations
meant, nor what their wishes were.
"C'est probablement quelqu' affaire de cœur
avec une de ces détestables Anglaises," she said
to herself. "Le Monsieur fait bien de se sau-
ver! ce n'est pas moi qui l'arrêtera elles ont
beau crier! Le voilà dans son cabriolet; il les
salue én triomphant! cela me rejouit! Ha!
ha ha! c'est la première fois depuis que je
suis à Londres que je ris de bon cœur! Allons,
Mademoiselles Pemberton, il faut rentrer pren-
dre le thé."
.
But it was some time before the three Misses
Pemberton, tall, raw-boned girls, from twelve to
fifteen, with their hair tied in clubby plaits, and
wearing round straw hats, black spencers, white
shorts and frilled trowsers, and armed with
skipping ropes and hoops, could be torn away
from a sort of ambush whence they were watch-
ing the whole scene, and making faces at every
one concerned. Poor Miss La Morale had to
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
123
hunt, dodge, threaten, and coax them, a weary | Bedford Row. Sir Felix Archer, my treacher-
chace, that of a French woman of forty-five, un ous affianced, formerly was a partner of my
peu poitrinaire, after three self-willed English father's, but having retired from the law, now
girls from twelve to fifteen-active in mischief, is only a client of our firm. Both my father and
and quarreling in everything else, but united in my brother look upon him as their bosom friend!
rebellious mockery of Mademoiselle.
Alas! what a viper have they warmed in their
unsuspecting breasts!"
At length, baffled in straight-forward warfare,
she had recourse to ruse.
Miladi, va au spectacle," she cried, "et elle
y menera celle qui a été la plus sage d'entre |
vous ! Miladi fait sa toilette et la voiture at-
tend."
Here she wept.
And "villain" and " poor thing!" were re-
peated in chorus.
"He has been twice a widower," she con-
tinued, "and of course is skilled to win. To
be brief, he has latterly distinguished me by a
most flattering preference, and by most pointed
attentions. My parents wished me to favour
another, but my own heart decided for Felix.
At his own passionate entreaty I have received
him alone, corresponded with him, dined at his
house with no chaperon but my brother, and to-
night met him, as I believed, to name the day
that was to put a period to my power and to his
sufferings."
"Just where they always fall off!" said one
lady.
At this all these hoydens were arrested, and
followed poor Mademoiselle, crying out: "Chère
Mademoiselle! parlez pour moi! Chère chose! |
voulez vous! s'il vous plait! And so, by very
questionable means, she ushered them into the
presence of an austere mother and father, out
of temper for some private reason, and then
pouring out her wrongs and their impertinences
in rapid and passionate French, they received
some severe boxes on the ear from their papa,
and were by their mamma sent supperless to
bed. And poor Mademoiselle, thus released
from her odious charge, went to take her coffee
with a French modiste, her only friend, and
with her to the French theatre, when she for-school-girl, a pretty little nimble friend of mine,
got a while in the fullness of her national enjoy- and named like me Lucilla. In the innocent
ment, heightened by the attentions of two or confidence of my heart, knowing my lover's
three mustachioed beaux, and a bonbonnière taste for beauty, and disposition to flirt with
full of jujubes, and bon-bons de Malte, "la rev- every pretty woman, which you ladies must have
olution, la méchaniete, et la perfide des hom- seen in his conduct to yourselves, I used to joke
mes (for she had been jilted), cette vilaine An-him about this child, for she is little else."
gleterre, les abominables Anglais, et les de-
testables Anglaises! Surtout cette famille Pem-
berton, qu'elle avait un horreur!"
But while we have been attending to poor
Mademoiselle, the type of the unprincipled but
oppressed race of inferior French governesses,
we have left the spinster ladies outwitted, de-
feated, and aghast!
They can scarcely believe their eyes, until
from under the dark hood of the cab which had
been awaiting him, they see Sir Felix Archer
wave his hand (gloved in light gray kid) in to-
ken of triumphant farewell.
After a pause, however, they agree that this
confirms his perfidy and the lady's statement.
He who so dreads to be confronted with his
accuser, and flies from her presence, tacitly ac-
knowledges his guilt," said Miss Martinet.
Orlando, too, escaped!" murmured Miss
Willow.
Poor thing," exclaimed the others, "she is
weeping; that detestable French governess has
caused this defeat. Let us go to the poor
victim."
"We are come to counsel and to condole,"
said Miss Martinet. "Women are an oppressed
and outraged race; but union is strength, and
were we united, we might still make some head
against our oppressors. Those who are known
to be ready to resent and to resist, are not
likely to be called upon to submit. Tell us your
tale. All women are fellow-sufferers from the
tyranny and perfidy of man, and where there is
a community of suffering, there ought to be one
of resistance.
My tale is soon told, noble-minded and gifted
ladies," said Miss Undermine, sobbing. My
name is Lucilla Undermine; I am the daughter
of a most respectable and wealthy solicitor in
|
"Just like Orlando," sighed Miss Willow.
"Well, we had had a little joke about a young
"And he has forsaken you for her?" asked
Miss Willow, eagerly.
Why, no, I cannot think that; I do not be-
lieve his desertion can have even the poor ex-
cuse of sudden preference for another. What
I believe is, that his delight is in the chase, that
the heart he has won he no longer cares for;
his verses, letters, and presents to me, are all
addressed simply "to Lucilla," and when after
vainly urging him to ease my heart from this
clandestine engagement, and go with me openly
and kneel to my father, I taxed him with them,
he had the face to tell me, they were meant for
my friend and namesake, and that all his atten-
tions to me had reference to her! You cannot
marvel at the state this threw me into."
"I wonder you did not tear his eyes out!"
said one.
"There is yet redress for you and punishment
for him!" said Miss Martinet.
"Alas! there is no redress for the heart,"
sighed Miss Willow.
You will not tamely submit to be jilted?"
said another.
"Ladies!" said Miss Undermine, rising and
pushing back her hair--I have done with grief,
and now for vengeance! I am a child of the
law, bred in its bosom, reared in its arms; copy-
ing clerks rocked my cradle; articled clerks
danced me on their knees; Blackstone and Coke
have been to me what Byron and Moore are to
other girls; and I have often hidden them under
my pillow. Child of the law-the law shall pro-
tect and avenge me!"
Bravo! bravo!" cried all; "we will stand
by you."
'If," said Miss Martinet, "woman's weak
subserviency did not generally render the theft
of her peace an unpunishable felony, perfidy and
124
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
desertion would cease to be, and bachelors and
spinsters would be names unknown save where,
as in my own case, a woman feels a natural
scorn and antipathy to the unfair sex."
"It is late, and I must go home!" said Lu-
cilla.
"Let us meet here to-morrow!" said the
ladies.
And several cards were proffered and ac-
cepted. Lucilla Undermine handed her own in
return.
"We will appear as witnesses for you and
against him," said Miss Martinet. "She were a
poor champion of her sex who refused to bear
witness in public to the treachery of man in pri-
vate life; and that sympathy is of little avail
which, while it is ready with words of condo-
lence, shrinks from an act of justice."
Farewell, then, till to-morrow!" said Miss
Undermine, solemnly; "accept my best thanks;
your counsel decides, your sympathy supports,
your witness will probably decide the verdict.
I shall no longer seek to recover his affections,
but I shall seek to recover damages! and dam-
ages I believe I shall recover of no trifling
amount. Farewell. He revels in the breach
he has made between my parents and me, in
the breach of faith he has so heartlessly com-
mitted; let us see how he will relish the next
breach he will be concerned in-an action
brought by Lucilla Undermine, spinster, against
Sir Felix Archer, widower, to recover compen-
sation in damages, for a BREACH OF PROMISE
OF MARRIAGE!"
CHAPTER LII.
WHILE bitter feelings, contending interests,
and coming events of great importance, engross
the attention of the Undermines, Sir Felix
Archer, and Mr. Rory O'Brien, Barrister of the
Inner Temple, Lucilla, with all the exqusite en-
joyment of early girlhood, is revelling in the
varied delights of a fine autumn by the sea-
side.
Ramsgate happened on this particular season
to be well attended, full indeed of very tole-
rable company. Bathing, riding, driving, sail-
ing, attending the promenades and the libraries,
all were sources of new and intense delight to
Lucilla-of perfect delight indeed, for after a
few days spent in a whirl of new amusements,
just when her "heart distrusting asks if this be
joy?" the young artist arrived at Ramsgate,
took lodgings on the Fort very near their own
-and the question was answered in the affir-
mative.
The letters Lucilla received from her home
were all of the most hopeful and comforting
nature; her mother gained strength daily, Tom
had turned over a new leaf, not only in his
book, but in his conduct, and took a sort of
pride in supplying to his parents his sister's
place. How long this would last no one of
course could tell, but as Lucilla's absence was
not to be a very long one, perhaps it might en-
dure that time, and that would be a great com-
fort to all parties. The only doubt on Lucilla's
heart, the only cloud on her happiness, was the
question conscience would ask again and again
-"Would her parents receive the young artist
as her suitor?" When in his presence, she
looked at him and felt sure they must see him
with her eyes; but when alone, fears and doubts
prevailed, and then she rushed to Miss True-
blue, who was ever the young artist's warmest
champion.
It was a lovely day, and our friends agreed to
go down on the sands (then a delightful prom-
enade), and discuss together all that weighed
on poor Lucilla's heart. As they walked along
-purposely avoiding the approach of the ad
mirers of wealth and beauty-Miss Trueblue
said :-
"I do not advise you to write about him-
wait till you can present him to your parents;
one glance at his honest and noble face will do
away with all prejudices against artists and
foreigners."
"Ah, dear friend," Lucilla would reply, "you
do not know how deeply rooted those prejudices
are!"
"Yes, to a thorough-bred foreigner, of foreign
habits and language, and of the Roman Catholic
religion, but surely our dear friend, more than
half English, protestant, speaking our own lan-
guage like ourselves, and so truly English in
tastes, feelings, and habits-indeed, Lucilla, E
can see no objection they can have, unless in-
deed they expect that your beauty and talents
will restore you and them to their natural posi-
tion in society, and I must own if, when they
find your happiness is concerned, they let any
other consideration weigh much with them, they
will not prove themselves the excellent parents
I believe them to be!"
"I should have more hope were it not for
this kind, this excellent Mr. Stanley, my father's
young benefactor and best friend, as I told you.
Papa says he has seen me, and (do not think me
vain, for indeed I deplore it much) that from
what he said and the way in which he said it,
papa is sure he has taken a fancy to me. Papa's
admiration of and gratitude to him are bound-
less. I believe he would rather give me to
him than to any one else in the world, and that
nothing could happen so delightfully in accord-
ance with his wishes as my marrying Mr.
Stanley."
"Well then, dearest, had you not better see
him and try to love him."
"What!" cried Lucilla, turning pale and
starting, "what, Miss Trueblue, did love ever
come with trying after it, and do you, who know
the secret of my heart and have watched its
progress-do you believe that I can ever, ever
feel the slightest interest in any man on earth
save Di Moricini?”
"But yet you own that at one time, had he
proposed, you would have accepted Sir Felix
Archer."
Yes, I believe I might have done so, but
then I had never loved-never thought. My
parents thinking (a common error I believe)
that if so wealthy and important a person as
Sir Felix offered himself and his all to their
poor girl, he must have a good and noble heart,.
were very desirous to see me restored to that
place in society they had lost, and to behold me
not merely secured for ever from all the mise-
ries of want and dependence, but possessed of
such ample power to do good-and I, heart-
#
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
125
watch the waves wooing the shells on the
beach, and behold yon crested warrior bringing
a seaweed coronal to the feet of some bathing
nymph. In half an hour papa will have had
his warm bath, and then we must walk by his
chair up and down the parade tedious work
for you, dear!"
"Oh no, it is never tedious to soothe those
who love us and whom we love."
"And he does love you, Lucilla-the only
person besides myself he seems to care for,
cross as he is to both of us!"
whole and fancy-free, almost began to wish
what they wished; however I have often made
you laugh over the failure of the first matrimo-
nial speculation ever made for me, and I must
own that at that dreadful dinner Sir Felix ap-
peared so very unamiable that something like
disgust stole into my heart, accompanied by a
good deal of mortification that I should ever
have tried to please one who so evidently des-
pised us all. When with singular caprice Sir
Felix again seemed disposed to realize my poor
parents' hopes, I was a new being-you know
the magic that had changed me-to be empress
While Lucilla watched the waves and the
of the universe I would not have smiled on Sir glittering beach, Miss Trueblue ran her eye
Felix then. But from the past I had learned over the papers-a little exclammation escaped
not to attach too much importance to his atten-her-she remained for a few minutes intent
tions and flatteries, and unwilling to offend one
who might be a valuable friend to my family, I
received him with the courtesy due to his rank
and the attention his apparent friendship de-
served; but I was with inexcusable vanity
beginning again to take alarm at his seemingly
great admiration and marked partiality, when I
luckily discovered that he meant nothing, could
mean nothing, for that he was desperately in
love with Lucilla Undermine, to whom he paid
most marked attention in my presence, and
who (perhaps at his request) showed me some
verses he had written to her, containing not
merely the most impassioned love, but a pro-
posal of marriage."
upon a paragraph in the Morning Post, and
then, with a little exultation of manner, as one
who would say "was I not right?" she put the
paper into Lucilla's hand.
Lucilla's hoping violet eyes slowly distended
into a look of amazement as she read, and the
orient blush of quick surprise mantled her
cheek. The paragraph ran thus :—
(( BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.
"It is rumoured that a fracas has taken place
in high life, which will ere long furnish employ-
ment to the gentlemen of the long robe. The
defendant is a well known and gay Lothario,
a baronet of great fashionable importance and
"Ah!" said the shrewd Miss Trueblue; immense wealth, who does not live a hundred
"there is something in all that I cannot fathom; miles from Portland Place, and has hitherto
I fancy Renard Undermine must be deeply been so petted by the fair, as to have deserved
concerned; I can believe that the sort of man
the epithet of Felix, while as one of Cupid's
you describe Sir Felix to be, might fall in love marksmen he might be termed, par excellence,
with Lucilla Temple, might resolve to make the
'the Archer.' This distinguished cavalier has
loveliest girl in England Lady Archer-might been twice married to beauties of fortune, and
bid, as he would at an auction perhaps, half his to console his doubly widowed heart, after
fortune for the Medician Venus!
With your
fluttering through many a season from fair to
beauty, your birth, grace, tact and talents, were fair, and raising hopes only to disappoint them,
you a beggar in rags, I could still understand he at length fixed his affections on the young,
it, and see the selfish Sybarite even in such a
the gifted, and incomparably beautiful daughter
choice; but that he should select so common-
of his friend and late partner, a certain eminent
place, so plebeian, so every-day a person as Lu- solicitor. Report says that the lady was wooed
cilla Undermine—with no more beauty than and won, the day fixed, the wedding clothes
every other English girl of her class in good and jewels bought, and the friends of both par-
health may boast-no style, or rather, worse ties bidden "to haste to the wedding," when
still, a bad style-no connexion except that the gentleman suddenly changed his mind, and
which Sir Felix would fain forget, and with the lady her orange wreath for the willow.
such a little old pettyfogging papa, basket- Her parents, much against her own will, insist
woman mamma, port professional brother, and on her bringing this action. We hear that the
sisters remarkable only for what would surely gifted and eloquent Mr. R. O'B. conducts the
excrimate him, 'vulgar dash'-I never can
case for the plaintiff, and Sergeant F and
believe that there is not some deep trickery of Mr. S
Master Renard's at the bottom of all this, and
I feel intense curiosity to see how it will all
end."
"Well I, for my part, believe that Miss Lu-
cilla Undermine, rather by her genius than her
beauty, has made a conquest of Sir Felix. I
think he wishes to marry, and perhaps had
some thoughts of me before he fell in love with
her."
"Fell in love with her! Lucilla, I am ten
years older than you, and I have a hump-the
ten years have given me experience, the hump
has taught me distrust; added to this, I am
naturally shrewd and practical, while you are
imaginative and poetical; come into the tent
and let us look at the papers, or rather while I
see who is born, dead, and married, you can
are retained as counsel for the de-
fendant. The affair engrosses all the attention
of the fashionable world, where the defendant
is so well known. The damages we hear are
laid at £20,000! We regret to add, the un-
happy, young, and lovely plaintiff is said to be
dangerously ill. The defendant gave a party
last week at his elegant mansion, in Portland
Place, and seemed in high health and spirits,
and quite confident that the learned Sergeant
(one of his guests) would bear him safely and
triumphantly through."
Lucilla read this paragraph twice through
before she returned the paper to Miss True-
blue.
Wonderful!" at length she said.
By no means, my dear," replied her more
experienced friend. "I told you there was
126
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
some mystery, and now I begin to find the clue | the case, and the great public injury done to
to it; however, not to be uncharitable, I will the plaintiff, insure heavy damages.
say no more at present, but I think I see through
it. There is a secret here."
country, distinguished for genius and legal lore,
but comparatively little known in this country.
The more wily defendant has engaged the cel-
ebrated Sergeant Ferret, with whom we hear
will be Mr. Snarl. Few similar cases ever en-
grossed such a share of public attention."
"The plaintiff's father seems to rely on the
justice of his daughter's cause, for he has con-
"A very common one, I believe," said Lu-fided it solely to a young barrister of the sister
cilla. "Sir Felix, like men we read of in
novels, grew weary of the love he had won;
his inconstancy is the secret of all this. Thank
heaven, I am not its victim! But how can any
woman bring such an action against any man?
Much as I revere my parents, nothing they
could do would induce me to sue a man for
money, to pay me for the loss of his love-how
can her parents require it! how can she con-
sent!"
I believe they all rejoice in it-I believe
her father to be not a respectable solicitor, who
looks upon the law as the handmaid of justice,
but a little mean pettifogger, delighted to make
the worse appear the better cause.
"But the poor girl herself?"
"Is a scheming and unprincipled creature;
but I said I would not be severe-time will
show."
"Do you think she will recover these enor-
mous damages ?"
What, £20,000? Not I; I believe the
damages will be 'one farthing.' See this other
paper."
"The celebrated Sir Felix Archer, in spite
of the peculiar position in which he finds him-
self, entertained a distinguished party to dinner
last evening at his mansion in Portland Place.
Among the guests were Sergeant Ferret, Mr.
and Mrs. Temple of Temple Grove and family,
the Marchioness of Hauteville, Mr. Ogle, M.P.
and the Misses Ogle, the Marchese di Terrain-
cognita, the Baron Von Holstein Von Rember-
ger, Lady Maltston, the Rev. Mr. Temple, &c.
&c. &c. Sir Felix was in high spirits and ex-
cellent health, and the party was unusually an-
imated."
A little lower down was another.
"We regret to state that the young and
beautiful daughter of Mr. Undermine, of the
highly respectable firm of Undermine, Twist,
Twine, Twin, and Undermine, solicitors of
Bedford Row, continues in a precarious state of
health. The position of this young lady (com-
pelled by her father's inflexible resolve and
rigid sense of justice to appear as plaintiff in a
court of law, to recover compensation in dam-
ages for a Breach of Promise against a certain
gay and wealthy Baronet) is peculiarly trying,
and it is reported that the struggle between
duty and inclination have caused her present
severe illness. The sympathy she excites is
so intense and universal, that not merely all her
friends, but many strangers of distinction, have
sent to inquire after her. It is rumoured that
a footman in the royal livery was seen at the
door of her abode yesterday, and a royal car-
riage drove up in the afternoon. The last re-
port was that the young lady was better, and
after a few hours' sleep had requested an inter-
view with her father, and agreed to appear in
court as plaintiff. All who have heard of this
determination, while they sympathize in her
sufferings, applaud her resolution. The dama-
ges are expected to be very heavy. The im-
mense wealth of the defendant, the lucidity of
Poor girl! I say again," exclaimed Lucilla..
Wily baggage! I say," replied Miss True-
blue. "But see, here comes papa in his wheel
chair-come, this is news that will make him
laugh-he knows a good deal of the Under-
mines. Oh, he will enjoy this-allons, ma
belle !"
CHAPTER LIII.
By the side of old Trueblue's wheel chair-
walked the young artist, rendering to the cap-
tious and complaining old invalid every atten-
tion a feeling heart could prompt, and amply
repaid by the pleasure of finding himself
(though growled at and scolded by old True-
blue) within the light of Lucilla's approving
eyes and Miss Trueblue's smile of filial thank-
fulness.
"Don't lean on my chair-you make it un-
steady," said old Trueblue, pushing away the
young artist's hand.
"Indeed," replied the young man kindly, "I
did it to guide and support it."
"To guide and support yourself you mean,"
"Tabitha! where are
muttered the old man.
you, child? how is it I can never have you with
me?"
Meekly Miss Trueblue hastened to her
father's side.
"How do you feel now, dearest?" she said.
"Worse," he replied; "nothing injures me
so much as being alone all day."
All day! he had been one hour at the baths,.
and the whole morning before and during a
great part of the night his daughter had been.
anxiously tending him.
"Alone, papa!" she said, tenderly taking his-
hand.
I dare say
Yes, alone!" he said, feebly struggling to
take away his wasted hand, on which the glove
looked large and loose. "But I must expect to
be alone I suppose! to live alone and die alone!
I'm no company for any one now.
it's quite natural for my own child, the idol and
darling of my heart, to get out of my way, to
shun and reproach me. Oh, quite! quite—I'm
used to it-it's to be expected."
Miss Trueblue, nettled at the injustice of this
remark, was about to make some exculpatory
reply, and a little sense of injustice coloured
her thin cheek; but looking at her father she
saw the large tears roll over his loose hanging.
and lemon-coloured cheeks-tears he was too
helpless to wipe away—and at the sight all
anger changed into contrite love and filial piety.
Why don't I go on the pier ?" he asked
querulousy, when his daughter had gently
wiped his cheeks and pressed his hand to her
THE BREACH OF PROMISE..
127
م
"Let us go on the pier," said Lucilla, ami-
ably anxious the old man should have his way.
"Thank you, Miss Temple," he said spite-
fully; "thank you for interceding for me with
my own child; I suppose now we shall go on
the pier."
Miss Trueblue cast up her eyes in patient ap-
peal, and the party proceeded to the pier.
The
lips. "I suppose you and Miss Temple want | the handsome, tall, and showy vulgarian, Fred-
to see all these puppies, and so I must be jolted | erick Vernon Smirk. Oh, had old Trueblue but
along any how. Confound it, Job! if you give seen that, by him, dreaded and detested being,
me such another jolt as that, I'll discharge you how soon would he have been roused from a sort
on the spot.”
of grumbling apathy into deadly rage.
mere mention made him livid with anger, and
quake with vindictive emotion.
The mere
suspicion that Tabitha cherished a fond remem--
brance of him had more than once endangered
his life. Well might filial terror mingle with
the fluttering surprise and ecstacy of poor
Tabitha! Well might she fear even to recog-
nize her lover till her father was safe in his arm-
chair by the fire, no degree of heat induced him
to dispense with, and which he was inconsid-
erate enough to expect his daughter and Miss
Temple to endure with closed windows, from
which they could see the soft wind of early au-
tumn swelling the sun-lit sails, and sporting
with the ripples on the beach, and the muslin
draperies of the young and free fluttering like
their happy hearts; and while within all was
heat and gloom, without all looked fresh, and
bright, and glad.
And they did go on the pier, and Miss True-
blue and Lucilla beguiled the way by an amus-
ing account of what they had read in the
papers.
Old Trueblue knew something of Sir Felix
Archer, and something of the Undermines, just
enough to give him a great interest in, and an
intense relish for this tale of scandal; and to a
deep and moral observer, it was painful to see
one so evidently on the brink of eternity, taking
so keen an interest and delight in the scrape
they all seemed to be in, and laughing over Sir
Felix's probable damages, till a fit of coughing
nearly sent him into that world he seemed so
ill prepared for.
When he recovered, he said angrily: "By
the by, what's the reason I never see the
papers? I'm sure I pay enough. Take in the
Times, the Post, and the Herald, and never see
one of them."
"They are always on the breakfast table,"
said Lucilla.
"Are they, Miss; then I should wish to have
one at least, Tabitha, sent up into my room; I
suppose you think I have no concern with the
world now. Don't touch my chair, sir."
The young artist withdrew his hand, which
he had extended to assist it over a roughness in
the path, and the next moment old Trueblue
was overturned!
if
The dismay of Job, and the alarm of Miss
Trueblue, the artist, and Lucilla were extreme,
and old Trueblue, though not seriously hurt,
choose out of spite to remain for some time as
insensible. When at length they raised the
chair, and himself closely packed therein,
growls and groans were exchanged, alas! for
threats and curses at Job, and bitter complaints
against the trio in attendance on him, accom-
panied by hints that he was going fast enough-
there was no need to hurry him out of the
world-he had one foot in the grave already,
and so on.
But like most invalids, old Trueblue was very
uncertain-at times so inconsiderate and selfish.
as almost to provoke to resistance, and at others
so yielding, self-sacrificing, and amiable as to
make it quite painful to leave him.
Probably some bodily anguish or physical
irritation, none could appreciate or perceive,
caused his bitter moods, and that his natural
disposition peeped out in his intervals of free-
dom from pain. Certain it is that his daughter
loved him as the truly unamiable and selfish.
never are and never can be loved, and that Lu-
cilla Temple was so touched by his occasional
acts and expressions of goodness, as quite to
forgive his inconsiderate and petulant conduct
in other instances.
When he returned with the young artist, his
daughter, and Miss Temple to his own sitting-
room, the latter, after taking off her bonnet and
cloak, took her knitting, the former his pencil,
and Miss Trueblue, restless and anxious, moved
about from window to window, watching Mr.
Frederick Vernon Smirk, who was walking up
and down before the door.
Old Mr. Trueblue soon fell fast asleep, the
young artist stole Lucilla's hand, and Miss
Trueblue left the room.
The lovers! they were alone; "but not alone ·
as they who, shut in chambers, think it loneli-
ness."
No, though shut in this hot close
chamber, with the dear blue sea, and the bright
sky, and the glittering before their eyes, and
the sea-birds wheeling round, and sails gliding-
by like sunny dreams-they did not think it
"loneliness."
What brings the quick vermillion to Miss
Trueblue's cheek-what makes her lip quiver
and her voice tremble, and yet induces her to
resolve, in spite of her father's contrariness and It was the happiest hour of their glad young
complaints, to turn back, and not go to the end lives, and the setting sun looked into eyes that
of the pier? Lucilla knew, perhaps the young swam in happy tears. And Di Moricini said:
artist knew, but old Trueblue had been so sud- "If I can bring you your father's blessing and
denly turned round in his chair that he did not your mother's consent to our union, will you
know.
be mine, oh, my Lucilla? Can you endure to..
Nor was he likely to discover. At the pier-share the poor artist's struggle for competence?
head, seated on a parapet of stone, a gaudy
figure in many colours, with long hair, black and
scented mustaches and imperial, dressed in
the extreme of vulgar fashion, with a white hat,
a horsewhip, a pair of spurs, and a cigar, sat the
idol of poor Tabitha Trueblue's secret heart---
-can you limit your wishes to his humble lot?
can you subdue all prejudice against the
foreign artist, and let your home be his home?"
"Yes," murmured Lucilla, and her head sank.
upon his shoulder.
In that moment she forgot all improbabilities,
128
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
Poor Tabitha, she had no doubt that in such
a resort she should find him she loved, "not
wisely, but too well"-the Adonis of Oxford
street; and it was affecting to see how vainly
| she tried to dress herself to advantage-how
many times she rearranged her thin hair, and
changed her shawl for a scarf, and her scarf for
a mantilla, and tried this coloured ribbon and
then that, and at last, with swelling heart and
rising tears, put on her plain straw-bonnet, and
| least remarkable shawl.
Nor was Lucilla indifferent to her appear-
all impossibilities; the poorest cottage with
that adored one seemed to her a fairy palace;
she would not believe her parents could refuse
him, and doom her to a broken heart. Oh, no!
no! Hope shed her rosy light on the landscape
of life, and before Miss Trueblue returned, and
her father woke, Lucilla Temple was the affi-
anced of her young heart's idol. Rash, thought-
less, inexperienced, what has she done? Can
she after so clouded a morning brave a noon of
storm and tempest-a night of starless gloom?
And do not men and women of the world tell
us that life is and must be such to the strug-ance on this evening, the first on which she
gling children of poverty and gentle birth. Yet went forth the affianced and the chosen of one
who could pity him? Who that saw her bosom she wildly loved. But lavish beauty rendered
heaving with its wild and secret rapture, would her task a pleasant one; those abundant locks
believe that she was on the threshold of des- of silken gold so well repaid each touch of her
pair, and that misery and pining want were to trembling hand; all colours suited that white-
be her portion? And yet there was not a match-rose skin; all fashions seemed adorned by that
making mamma, nor an husband-hunting daugh- Psyche-form; her little white lace bonnet, with
ter in all the crowded lodging-houses on the its snowy roses, her clear muslin dress, and
coast of Kent, who would not so have prophe-black lace scarf, seemed devised to set her off to
sied, so have decided, had they heard that the greatest possible advantage, and yet almost
"the beautiful Miss Temple," already cele- any other garb would have had the same effect.
brated for charms, which were known to be
her only dowry, had accepted the young half-leave the hissing urn, the cheering tea and
foreign artist, whom, though scorning as a
husband, they were not too proud to try to
captivate as a lover, by peeping at him from
under their ringlets, smiling, kissing their
hands, and other similar agaceries.
At length, hurried by old Trueblue, they
fragrant coffee-the warm, close room, with
that medicated smell an invalid's retreat must
have-and with hearts bounding, in the one
with happy confidence in her power to please,
the other with anxious doubt and trembling
fear, and perhaps even more passionate love,
they go forth into that sweet autumnal evening
But so it is; in their vulgar and interested
envy, they had often decided that the beautiful
Miss Temple was on the look out for a lord-sea-breeze which is an elixir to all, but most
that she "wouldn't stoop to pick up nothing".
"that she would marry to her carriage," and
"make a market of herself"-and so on.
Could they see her joy-lit eyes, they would
feel sure their prophecies were accomplished,
else why that pride, that ill-suppressed delight?
Alas! alas! poor Lucilla! thou art not like
them, "of this earth earthy," nor is thy joy
the joy of a daughter of this cold and scheming
world.
CHAPTER LIV.
THERE is something peculiarly affecting in
any token of self-forgetfulness and considera-
tion in an invalid habitually encroaching and
selfish, and our young party felt this when Mr.
Trueblue, on awaking from his sleep, instead
of as usual insisting on their remaining with
him, proposed in the kindest and gentlest
manner that they should adjourn to the library
for an hour or two in the evening, to divert
their minds a little from the contemplation of
sickness, and, he added, he much feared sel-
fishness.
What a useful lesson might this be to the
old, the suffering, and indeed to all dependent
on the kindness and care of others--the con-
finement they had always considered such a
penance, they now looked upon as a privilege,
and were as anxious to stay with the poor old
invalid as they had formerly been to escape
from him.
But he was positive, and so after much per-
suasion they agreed to adjourn to Sackett's
library after dinner, for a little variety of scene
and mental recreation.
exquisitely so to the loving and the young.
The walk to the library seemed long and
dreary to Miss Trueblue, who half dreaded she
might see her adored one engaged in some
deep flirtation with some gaudy beauty; but to
our lovers it was one brief moment of rapture
and wild delight.
The library was crowded and hot to suffoca-
tion, but they did not feel it so. In all direc-
tions gay ringlets, bright eyes, vulgar charms,
gay polkas, light tunics, deep flounces, showy
if not valuable ornaments, and scents, not
choice, but overpowering. The raffle tables
were thickly thronged, and the incessant mana-
gers, with their impassive gambler faces, court
on hour after hour, burdening their souls with
lies, swearing German and British plate were
genuine silver, that ormolu snuff-boxes were
pure gold, and that articles, which would have
been dear at fifteen shillings, were prizes at
what they called four pounds ten.
And so great is the power of the tongue of
another, even in defiance of the testimony of
senses of one's own, that the raffles for palpable
trumpery were filled up with eager speed, and
men with mustaches, and grown women, threw
the dice with trembling hands and beating
hearts, and watched as if the stake had been
a soul instead of an albata bauble. It was a
marvel with what a variety of showy and use-
less nothings the glass cases of this depot of
frippery were filled, and what wretched music
people, under the excitement of this petty gam-
bling, listened to with patience.
But the best description of such a scene is
to be found in the Pocket-book of that popular
and inexhaustible satirist 'Punch ;' and to bring
the scene before our readers, we cannot for-
!
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
129
bear quoting an appropriate fragment from the | weary of even the semblance of work, and
sly old humourist's "Evenings at Ramsgate."
“There's a library built on the brow of a hill,
Or rather 'tis perched on the top of a rock;
"Old novels the shelves of its reading-room fill;
Clocks, vases, et cetera, serve for its stock.
And though those old novels belong to the past,
The pliant subscribers keep reading them on;
So those very old novels preserve to the Inst
All the value of new when their novelty's gone.
*
*
*
*
The room is lighted by a pound
Of goodly composition sixes;
Upon the company around,
His eye the old librarian fixes.
He takes the dice-box in his hand,
The dice within he loudly rattles,
A sale he trusts thus to command
*
For many of his goods and chattles.
He looks towards a bright-eyed girl;
What does his enger glance reveal?
It bids the maiden give a twirl
To Fortune's ever-changing wheel.
She turns it with a nimble hand,
So fair and delicate her fingers,
That amid those who pass the stand
One captive youth beside her lingers.
He softly murmurs in her ear,
And she replies in accents thrilling;
"That gentle murmuring, I fear,
Has cost the captive youth a shilling.
*
*
*
*
But one there was surpassing far
All others in that gay bazaar—
A creature fair, a creature young,
A creature such as poets sung,
When they described the fairest features
That graced the loveliest of creatures.
She was a thing of life and light,
That looked extremely well at night;
Her well-macassared raven tresses
Hung o'er her whitened neck and shoulders,
Which the most low of low-necked dresses
Kindly revealed to all beholders.
The centres of her cheeks disclose
The deep vermilion of the rose,
While at the sides, that lovely girl
Wears the rich powder of the pearl,
Adding by its unequal whiteness
Unto the deep vermilion's brightness.
Her eye-brows (truth 'twere vain to blink)
Are partly made of Indian ink;
But oh, has India aught too rare
To lavish on a maid so fair?
Her form would shame the sculptor's art;
No stone, no chisel could impart
The beauty of that wasp-like waist,
Where that sweet girl is tightly laced;
Her waist to sculpture all must own
Would only be a waste of stone.
*
*
*
*
*
*
The opening bars of a popular air,
ashamed of his connexion with the Oxford
street tailor, had at length, after many strug-
gles, many tears, and a painful parting with the
penniless girl of his heart, resolved to throw
himself and his charms away on Miss Trueblue
and her thousands. A ball was to take place
the next evening at Margate, to which, in her
father's present amiable and unselfish mood,
she thought she should have no difficulty in
inducing him to let her go with Lucilla and the
young artist, chaperoned by a lady she had
known slightly in London, and who was always
ready for any public entertainment.
At this ball Miss Trueblue was to meet her
Frederick; he was to come to the hotel at which
they were to sleep at Margate; they were to be
married the next morning-Miss Trueblue
making sure Lucilla would act as bridesmaid.
Frederick had the license ready. Some excuse
was to be made to old Trueblue for a visit to
Canterbury, where the bride and bridegroom
meant to spend their wedding-day, and then
Mrs. Smirk was to return to her father, and on
his health and temper it was to depend whether
she owned her marriage and knelt before him
with her bridegroom, or whether the marriage
remained clandestine for some time longer.
Lucilla
The evening passed rapidly away.
won some trifles, dear to her from their con-
nexion with this delightful day. Miss Trueblue
was in a wild tumult of joy and fear, love and
duty struggling in her heart. The young artist
was half wild with joy, and Frederick Vernon
Smirk was trying to look like a victim, but only
succeeded in looking like a fool.
Lucilla gladly agreed to the Margate ball-a
ball with him! Oh, was she not too fully,
richly blest? could this last? And her own
dear parents, they must know it-they must
approve; but it were best to let them see her
beloved one-what were the use of writing!
could any pen describe him? No, no, all
must be concealed till she could lead him
to their feet! and then all must be well. Ah,
sanguine Lucilla! but at seventeen, who is not
sanguine?
All that's bright must fade-and "the pound
A beautiful ballad of feeling and grace,
of goodly composition sixes" are all but ex-
Are played on a Broadwood piano-a square
tinct; our party "leave the gay, the glittering
With several notes out of tune in the bass;
scene," and come from the close, hot, garish
And there on the top of a kind of box-
A platform they term it-a maiden there sits,
room, and are at once in the cool night sea-
Who gives the piano such violent knocks,
breeze, and face to face with the lady-moon.
They threaten to break all the keys into bits.
The moon! she's looking in her glass, the sea.
She dreams, she is dwelling in marble halls,
The stars are winking at her vanity. So en-
But carried away by the words she is saying,
So heavy her fist on the instrument falls,
chanting a night is too great a temptation for
She must dream on a marble piano she's playing. our lovers; and a proposal to take one turn on
In just such a scene, now raffling with assu- the pier is joyfully acceded to. Who can des-
med nonchalance, now flirting with imperti-cribe the rapture of such a walk, at such an
nent freedom, as the girl at the wheel of fortune hour, and beneath such a light, to those whose
and the maiden at the piano-absurdly over-
hearts beat beneath a delicious burden of yet
dressed and over-scented; and in an assembly unacknowledged love?—love in his first sweet
chiefly of caricatures, by far the greatest carica- dawn-love when he seems to bathe the whole
ture of all, Miss Trueblue saw her handsome landscape of life in a sunny mist! before doubts,
idol. Lucilla and her lover were too much and jealousies, and fears, his constant attend-
taken up with each other to notice the almost ants, have had time to track the young God of
tearful anxiety of Miss Trueblue, or the cox-love to the maiden's bosom, and before custom
comb-like airs of her Frederick, who deigned and ennui have brought their curse to the
after a time to elbow his way to her side. In lover's heart.
the universal bustle and hum their whispered Leaning on her affianced one's arm, Lucilla
conversation was unheeded. The chief pur-glides after Miss Trueblue, who has taken her
port of it was, that Frederick Vernon Smirk, Fredericks. At any other time the young
R
130
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
artist might have objected to the attendance on a stone bench. Lucilla saw Lord Trelawney
of such an absurd vulgarian, but he hardly
sees more than that. Miss Trueblue has an
escort, and that he can devote his very soul to
Lucilla, whose hand flutters almost as wildly
as the heart against which he has ventured to
press it.
To record their conversation were difficult,
and even, if effected, some Johnson would say,
would it had been impossible. An ejaculation,
now and then, which spoke volumes to the heart
—a sigh-a trembling smile-a fond glance at
the moonlight in each other's eyes-a few mo-
notonous and, alas! egotistical sentences-a
few incoherent exclamations-this was all; but
love is not eloquent, and lovers, if their discus-
sions were accurately reported, would seem
even to themselves sad fools.
and his companion pass them, and hasten on to
the pier head--she then begged her lover to
go to them, and tell them she felt poorly and
weary and wished to get home.
They rose and returned home with her.
The young artist and Mr. Smirk left the ladies
at their own door. Lucilla followed Miss True-
blue to the sitting-room, and closing the door
told her all she had heard. Miss Trueblue grew
pale with terror as she listened.
'I must leave this place, dearest, to-morrow,"
said Lucilla, "and where shall I go-where can
I be safe from such wretches?"
"We must outwit them," said Miss Trueblue,
whose own plans were dependent in a great
degree on Lucilla. "To-morrow morning after
breakfast we will quietly remove to Margate,
leaving an impression here that we are gone to
Boulogne via Dover. Those wretches or their
emissaries will be sure to inquire here, and will
thus be put on a wrong scent. They will never
dream of our being at Margate. And as our
carriage may attract attention, we will, if you
One part of the pier was bathed in mysterious
shadow, and one in no less mysterious light.
Along the former, shrouded in the deepest
gloom and wrapped in cloaks, walked two men,
one very tall, the other of middling size; they
were engaged in deep and earnest conversation;
the tone of the one was haughty and authorita-like, walk over to Margate early in the morning,
tive, that of the other humble and coaxing.
Well," said the taller of the two, and Lu-
cilla being close behind, the voice startled her
ear and blanched her cheek-"I can only say
you've been of deuced little use to me as yet,
Renard, in this chace, whatever you may have
been in others. She may be in Ramsgate, but
how am I to get at her if she never goes out
alone?"
"Oh, trust to me, my Lord," said the wily
Renard; "within a week she's yours. I assure
you I had much ado to find out her retreat; my
sister got it out of her brother, and now I am
here to help you, you'll not be done, I promise
you. I owe you many a service, and her dainty
ladyship many a grudge; but my time's short
here, for my sister's Breach of Promise case
takes up all my thoughts just now-so you must
make short work of carrying her off."
Ha, ha, ha!" laughed his Lordship, "she's
fairly defied me, so I shall stand on no ceremo-
ny, Renny. Capital, Sir Felix's wings being
singed at last. Your sister's a girl of spirit
it's a plucky thing to do. I hope they'll lay it
on-ha, ha, ha!"
|
leaving Di Moricini to take papa a drive on the
Dover road, as a blind, and then bring him to
us at Wright's Hotel. I will manage this, and
while those wretches follow us to as they think
Dover and perhaps to Boulogne, we will enjoy
ourselves at the Margate ball, and thus outwit
that most cunning of pettifoggers, Renard Un-
dermine!"
CHAPTER LV.
ALL was arranged according to Miss True-
blue's plan. Early in the morning, long before
Lord Trelawney and Renard Undermine, who,
in their own language, had "made a night of
it," had turned in their luxurious beds of down,
Lucilla and Miss Trueblue had set off to walk
to Margate, leaving a note for the young artist,
with ample directions as to how he was to act.
As to old Trueblue, he continued in the same
strangely amiable and touchingly complying
mood, and readily and uninquiringly agreed to
follow his daughter to Margate in the carriage
her friend set off in high spirits, full of love and
hope, and not without a little feminine pride
in outwitting the two dastards, who had made
so sure of success in their base and cowardly
schemes.
These words only came indistinctly and bro-undert the escort of Di Moricini. Lucilla and
ken to Lucilla's terrified ear, and had she not
known the speakers and the circumstances,
might have escaped her notice; as it was, her
own quickness supplied every link, and she
thanked Providence for giving her this timely
notice of the desperate villany of Lord Trelaw-
ney and the viper-like enmity of the base Re-
nard. But caution and anxious care for others
were remarkable in Lucilla, young as she was,
and however agitating the circumstances in
which she might be placed. It struck her at
once that a word of terror or a symptom of
alarm might awaken her lover's curiosity, and
perhaps involve him, already engaged as she
knew in a quarrel with Renard Undermine, in
some fatal conflict with the odious and terrible
Trelawney.
Assuming then a composure she was far from
feeling, she paused for a moment as if tired, and
leaned against the parapet of the pier. Miss
Trueblue and her lover had seated themselves
The morning was enchantingly bright and
sunny, but so warm that the friends gladly
availed themselves of the assistance of some
long-eared, ill-fed sons of toil, grown stubborn
from ill-usage, namely, donkeys, with side-
saddles, which surrounded by a crowd of cla-
merous, ragged boys, stood for hire at a corner
of the road.
In less joyous spirits the excursion would
have been a wearying one, but in their present
mood our travellers found sources of mirth and
jest in every discomfort. Miss Trueblue was
decidedly the best mounted, and had the most
energetic boy, and many were her boasts to
Lucilla of the speed of her Rozinante. As for
Lucilla's, he had an incurable propensity to
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
131
jam her feet up against every wall, bush, and I company which in the days of our mothers and
hedge: his pace was habitually that of a snail, grandmothers made it the watering-place par
but when beaten by the hallooing and relent- excellence; but with the exception of a few res-
less boy, he would kick in such a manner as pectable residents, and a few aristocratic visi-
nearly to throw his rider, and then set off at a tors who valued the excellence of its bathing and
sort of half trot, half canter, the most torturing, the extreme salubrity of its air, and who were
shaking, and alarming pace Lucilla had ever far above all plebeian fears of losing "
"caste,"
experienced in her life; frequently her mental it was crowded, thronged, nay choked with the
alarm and bodily pain forced from her a scream, gormandizing porter and spirits and water drink-
which made Miss Trueblue look round in play-ing sons and daughters of the "last." The city's
ful ridicule and triumph, as she cantered
smoothly along enjoying her ride, and laughing
at instead of pitying Lucilla's disasters.
"How I wish I had such a donkey as that,"
said Lucilla to the boy.
"This here's the best," said the boy, "only
he ain't in the mind to go; and as for yer side-
saddle, it's worth ten of hurn-she'll be off now
afore you. Gee up, Nelly !"
gaudiest and most flaunting dames and damsels,
who bore on their persons traces at once of the
healthy furnaces where they had earned it-
wealth they had earned, and of the smoky, un-
while purple and portly husbands and fathers,
care-worn, squalid, but over-dressed young
Londoners, with segars and sand-shoes, and
countless, dingy-looking, London children, made
the jetty creak and groan beneath them-poi-
soned the air with snuff and segars, and chatter-
ed, laughed, and shrieked with a new and intense
Nelly, after receiving a blow, which she
answered with a kick, set off at a jolting trot,
and Lucilla soon came alongside of Miss True-delight. Every hotel, inn, ale-house, and eat-
blue.
"What a much better donkey yours is," she
said.
Nay," replied Miss Trueblue, laughing,
"what a much better rider I am !"
She had scarcely spoken, when to Lucilla's
dismay, she saw her gradually disappear over
the side of the donkey. A shriek from Miss
Trueblue was followed by a laugh, and an assu-
rance that she was not hurt. The old tattered
girths of the saddle had given way, and Miss
Trueblue's boasts ended in a total defeat.
ing-house of every description, was crowded to
suffocation. The steam of brandy and water
seemed the atmosphere all the London visitors
delighted in; hecatombs of oysters, shoals of
shrimps, myriads of plums and pears, for it was
now the end of September, lakes of porter and
of Bass's pale ale, scarcely sufficed for the
consumption of one day.
And many thousands under the pretence of
coming to Margate to enjoy "the sea air," shut
themselves into close lodgings, eating and
smoking from morning till night.
Miss Trueblue and Lucilla, from their draw-
ing-room window, gazed with extreme curios-
ity on the many-coloured crowds on the quay
before them; and thus occupied they found
ample occupation for their time until Mr. True-
blue arrived, propped up by pillows and air-
cushions, wrapped in shawls and Mackintoshes,
spite of the heat, and attended by Di Moricini
and Tucker, and Miss Trueblue's maid.
It was some time before the saddle was re-
paired, during which space the shaggy, dusty,
donkeys cropped what they could of grass and
hedge, and so enamoured did the half-starved
wretches become of their miserable fare, that
when the friends were again mounted and en
route, no efforts of theirs or of their donkey boys
could prevent their stopping at every opportu-in
nity to nibble a little more.
Seeing this, Lucilla and Miss Trueblue, when From this diplomatic and ready-witted per-
they reached the half-way house, plentifully son, whom nothing in the way of love or lovers
regaled these wretched outcasts of the brute | escaped, Lucilla and Miss Trueblue learnt that
creation on corn and water, and treated the inquiries had been made which were easily
boys as liberally to bread and cheese and beer. traced to Renard and Lord Trelawney; and
Thus renovated, both donkeys and boys, and Tucker, who by listening at the door, had be-
all in high good-humour, the ladies were re-come mistress of the facts of the case, had
warded by a painful but very efficient succes- shown her waiting-maid skill in setting the
sion of trots and canters; and except that Lu-emissaries of the bold bad Trelawney on a
cilla was once pitched over her donkey's head, wrong tack.
going up a hill, and that Miss Trueblue's once
It was in a wild flutter of delight that Lucilla
laid down with her in the dusty road, they dressed for the ball to take place that night, at
reached Margate, with no injury but a few that once splendid, once justly named Royal
aches and pains, soiled garments, hands blis-Hotel, now scorned and deserted by the vulgar
tered from vain attempts at pulling in, voices throng-a dilapidated monument to departed
hoarse from laughing and shrieking, and stitches grandeur, inhabited only by the memories of
in the side from terror and jolting.
the past.
apartments.
At the entrance to Margate our friends dis-
Perhaps the hour in which she made her
missed their montures, and after a little smooth-toilet for that ball was the very happiest of her
ing and shaking themselves, walked quietly to brief career. She had just parted in hope and
Wright's hotel, where Miss Trueblue was well joy from her lover, and he had placed in her
known and quickly accommodated with suitable hand a packet, which proved on opening it to
be a magazine, containing-oh, sweet surprise!
oh, triumphant delight of dawning authorship!
oh, unspeakable fascination of seeing one's first
essay in print!-all the poems of which she had
given him copies, with a most flattering and
eloquent critique from the editor, and a letter
which contained not only a most complimentary
CHAPTER LVI.
It was the height of the season, and Margate
was full to an overflow. Not of the aristocratic
182.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
tribute to the young girl's powers, and a grati-
fying request for further contributions, but a
ten-pound note!
It is a little altered since those courtly days
when Monsieur le Blas, master of the ceremo-
nies, opened the ball with the lady of the high-
est rank in the room-days when reform was
undreamt of and unneeded-when there was a
broad line drawn between the classes-before
A ten-pound note! thus earned by herself.
The prospect of more such delightful gains-
the consciousness that she had so available a
mine which it was delightful to her to work-railway trains bore everybody to every place,
and the new and striking beauties the poems
revealed to her own mind, in all the magic of a
broad margin, a beautiful print, asterisks, italics,
pauses, dashes, and notes of admiration; oh,
happy Lucilla! a beautiful ball dress a present
from Miss Trueblue-and a set of pearls, a gift
from poor old Trueblue-an exquisite bouquet
from her lover-her fair and happy face reflec-
ted in the mirror-and boundless hope for the
future, added to all the ecstacy of the present
-that ten-pound note, which to the inexperi-
enced girl, not yet eighteen, seemed sufficient
to purchase all covetable things for herself and
all dear to her the approaching ball, to one to
whom a ball wa sa delightful novelty, not an
ever-recurring, half-exciting half-wearing bore
-pondering on all her happiness, Lucilla sat,
soft tears stealing over her cheeks, and her
heart full of pious thankfulness to the Giver of
all good, until Miss Trueblue came in, over-
dressed, (poor fond one !) flushed and trembling
to tell them the carriage was at the door.
and machinery enabled all to dress so much
alike when the high-born and the wealthy
travelled in stately coaches and six-and Inns
were important places-and none but gentlemen
and ladies dressed as such-and tradespeople
| stayed at home, or were satisfied with a Sunday
jaunt to Hampstead, or a holiday row to Green-
wich.
The ball room of the Royal Hotel, still left in
statu quo, speaks of the past and those brighter
days. There is the music gallery, whence
issued once the " menuet de la cour," the gavotes,
the cotillions, and the sprightly country dances,
ill exchanged for the questionable waltz, the
inert quadrille, the romping gallop, and the awk-
ward madcap polka. The richly carved fes-
toons still ornament the walls with an antique
grace; white and wan they look like the ghosts
of vanished flowers. In each oval and carved
pannel is the mirror that once reflected the
loveliness which now is dust. The chandelier,
massive and handsome, speaks of those days of
reality when glass was cut, not moulded-be-
fore paltry imitations made all things common.
How exquisite looked Lucilla in the eyes of
her lover!-how manly and endearing did he
seem to the fond girl! Old Trueblue as they
were leaving the room, called her to his arm-
chair, and said, kissing her hand with a touch-
ing tenderness, "Be ever a sister to my Tabi-
tha, and in my heart you will rank as a daughter.
You are very beautiful, and there is but one
lovelier in my eyes, my own child. You smile!
You smile!
-ah, you know how beautiful to a father's
heart is the face of an affectionate and dutiful
daughter. Come here, my Tabitha; kiss your
old father, and may God bless you. If it should
please God to snatch me suddenly from you, I
wish you attentively to examine this pocket-pered behind her ample fan the gracious words
book.
that had coloured her destiny.
And as our party entered the room, Lucilla
was carried back for a moment to the times her
mother had described to her, when ladies,
plumed and jewelled, with short waists and
| long trains, stood opposite to beaux in black
silk stockings, knee-breeches, and buckles; and
even to the time of her mother's mother, the
belle of her day, with her powdered tête, her long
taper waist, point ruffles, high heels, and digni
fied hoop, who in that very room had made a con-
quest of the Chesterfield of his day—and at the
bottom of the longest of country dances, whis-
And he touched an old and very corpulent
Now what a different scene! True the mas-
morocco letter-case, with worn straps and mas- ter of the ceremonies was worthy of those
sive clasps, which he ever wore in his dressing-graceful bye-gone days when. Etiquette was
gown pocket.
C
t
Why did Tabitha Trueblue turn so pale?
why did she sink on her knees, and bury her face
in her father's lap? why did a choking sob for-
bid her utterance? Her gaudy lover is forgot-
ten for a moment, and filial affection for a mo-
ment triumphs over love; but rising from her
knees, and going for a moment to the window,
she sees him, the Adonis of her heart, watch-
ing, his fine form shown off by a graceful at-
titude, his dark eyes raised, and his white teeth
shining through his vermilion lips and beneath
his jet black mustache; and then the father
is forgotten, and hastily kissing his lemon-
coloured cheek, she hurries Lucilla and her
lover to the carriage.
CHAPTER LVII.
THE ball-room of the deserted Royal Hotel is
one of the most elegant, spacious, and delight-
ful rooms in England.
Queen. He was a naval officer, of excellent
family, courtly demeanour, and in his manners
that happy mixture of cheerful benignity and
gentle dignity which form the beau ideal of the
English gentleman, and are all-important in the
peculiar and somewhat exposed position of
master of the ceremonies. He knew how to
make the humblest feel at ease, and yet his
quick glance detected, and his dignified reserve
promptly punished, the least approach to im-
pertinence or impropriety. But it was a thank-
less office. The M. C. was worthy of Mar-
gate's best days; the company with some ex-
ceptions, namely, a few county families and
aristocrats, there out of respect to the presiding
genius, his high character and unremitting
exertions to raise the standard of Margate
society-were, alas! of the most vulgar and
ormolu cast; and as lovers are generally early
at a ball, eager to enjoy that "solitude" they
find in a "crowd," the master of the ceremonies
was when they entered the room, the only
| gentleman there.
The company such as it was, was thin and
ピ
​THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
133
scattered; for the vulgar population of Margate, startles the silent and arrested throng, and the
and the visitors from the London city, preferred undutiful daughter throws herself upon the life-
the crowded, hot libraries, where gratis they less form of the father, who had so loved her,
could squander their shillings, and indulge aand to whom she had been all on earth. Alas!
sulky spirit of gambling, to the elegant arrange- alas! how has she requited him!
ments made for their enjoyment, at a rate
almost absurdly moderate, but which still they
grudged by one who was in their own language
"Too igh, and too much of a nob, to be the
man for their money.'
Lucilla, as she looked upon him, felt that
they were right, and though convinced that
never had the quaint medal and the blue ribbon
been worn with a more courteous grace, or on
a more manly and gallant breast, she felt he
was thrown away upon such a place, and was
fitter for the Queen's drawing-rooms than the
Margate assembly.
It was not very long before Miss Trueblue
espied her beloved, curled, oiled, scented, and
tricked out in the extreme of gaudy taste, in
imitation of some loftier fops; he carried a
jewel-headed cane, and made frequent use of a
showy eye-glass; many vulgarians watched
him with an audible titter, half ridicule, half
envy, for he was beyond all comparison, in
mere physical beauty, the handsomest person
in the room. One sprightly city belle, famed
for repartee, seeing that he had in his listless
affectation dropped his cane, while eyeing her
through his glass, picked it up, and handing it
to him, said; "I am very appy, sir, in this hop
portunity of giving you the cane"-a jest which
all her admirers took, laughed at, and applaud-
ed to the echo.
Lucilla and her lover bear the fainting daugh-
ter after the father's lifeless form; but over
the sacred anguish of that night we draw a
veil.
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE secret of poor old Trueblue's change of
conduct and feelings was now explained. Some
inward mortification had succeeded as usual to
acute and torturing inflammation; he was in a
state of comparative ease, and he felt in his
own heart a conviction that release from suffer-
ing was at hand. Although, under the influ-
ence of acute and maddening pain, he had often
been irritable and violent, his heart was kind,
and his life had been comparatively pure and
good.
When, therefore, he found himself relieved
from unbearable suffering, a meek and earnest
repentance and an all-sufficient faith filled his
heart, and its practical fruit was anxiety for the
comfort and happiness of all whom he felt he
had in his late trials treated with too little con-
sideration; he panted to atone. Poor old man,
no suspicion or misgiving led him to the ball
that night; he went there thinking how de-
lightful a surprise it would be to his child to see
him once more in such a scene!
But when the first object that met his view
was that adored and trusted child, so evidently
eloping with the man he most despised and
hated on earth-the man he had so forbidden
her to hold any communion with, the shock
was too great for his shattered and failing con-
stitution, and a succession of fits closed his sad
career.
Lucilla and her lover were soon engaged in
a delightful waltz, and Miss Trueblue had at
length yielded to her Frederick's entreaties and
stood up with him. So many had been the
requests for the honour of dancing with her,
from men who knew who she was, and what
she had, and so universal the court paid to her,
that Frederick resolved to enforce a plan he
had arranged, for carrying her off that very
night. In order to effect this, he assumed a Weep not for him-weep for that sad, re-
most passionate devotion of manner, pressed morseful, self-accusing daughter, who now
her corkscrew waist, and squeezed her trem- looks upon herself as the murderess of her fond,
bling hand, and then whispered into her delight- confiding, idolizing father. Remorse is an aw-
ed ear his love and his hope. Alas! poor Ta-ful guest in any bosom, but in the feeling breast
bitha! she was not proof against this; the
post chaise was at the door, her lover's breath
fanned her hair, his eyes scorched her heart;
her father, Lucilla, all were forgotten, and she
whispered-"Yes."
"Yes" on these words her Frederick act-
ed;
he threw her shawl around, and in the
confusion of the waltz he led or rather carried
her to the door-she in a wild and guilty tu-
mult of forgetfulness of all but love and him.
of one so truly good-one who had never felt
his deadly presence in her heart before-one
whose only fault was that feminine and touch-
ing one, the loving too well, and too trustingly,
and too constantly-who can paint an anguish
such as hers?
She could not tear herself, poor wretch!
from the mortal remains of that devoted father!
Kneeling by his corpse, her fevered head upon
his cold unyielding bosom, his shroud bathed
in her hot tears of ineffable anguish, of incon-
"The post-chaise is in waiting, dearest," he
said, as they were about to leave the room,ceivable agony, her lover forgotten as though
when a shriek from Miss Trueblue met his ear.
He looked up. There, like one wan from
the grave, leaning on a staff, ghastly pale, and
with working features, stood old Trueblue.
Oh, horrible! his hue grows more deadly, he
tosses his arms aloft, his features work with a
frightful emotion, he tries to speak, but an in-
human kind of gurgle is all he can produce. I
His eyes roll, his lips foam, his tongue black
and swollen protrudes, he falls headlong to the
earth in a hideous apoplexy. A wild shriek
1
he had never been-yes forgotten, after one
harrowing moment laden with the discovery of
his falsehood and her father's just and yet pa-
rental source of constant opposition to her
wishes and to his-and thus it came to pass
that she was doomed to learn that she had
deceived, and to her excited mind it seemed
destroyed, her father for a mere fortune-hunter,
who loathed her person while he coveted her
wealth.
1
When her father was what is commonly cal-
134
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
led laid out, and she aided by the true and
faithful friend of her heart, Lucilla Temple, was
trying to nerve herself to gaze upon what had
been her father, before entering his solemn
room, the chamber of the dead, it flashed upon
her mind that he had bade her examine the
pocket-book he ever wore next his heart.
With many sobs and blinding tears, she
opened it. An envelope, directed in old True-
blue's hand, trembling and blotted, contained
these words. "I charge my beloved child to
read the enclosed, if that bad and heartless
man, Frederick Vernon Smirk, still retains any
hold on her affections. After its perusal she is
free to act as her own dignity and conscience
shall suggest; and she will now learn why her
poor father, though he could not bear to wound
her by an explanation, yet so opposed what
seemed for her happiness. But if the man in
question has ceased to be dear to her, I charge
her on my blessing to spare herself the pang of
perusing the enclosed."
Even at that moment he was dear to her
very, very dear-for what woman who loves,
does not turn in her anguish to him she loves,
for comfort and for hope
With fevered hand she tore open the paper,
and read with eyes whence the large tears
welled, first a letter to her father, which ran
thus:-
“Sir,
"As a friend of your family, I warn
you that F. V. S. is still after your daughter, or
rather her fortune. The enclosed has fallen
into my hands, and will prove to you the nature
of his views and feelings.
"Your obedient servant,"
"A LOOKER-on."
The letter enclosed was from Mr. Smirk
himself-it had no direction, but ran thus :—
Necessity, my love, has no law. No man
can live on nothing, and least of all a gentle-
man, with the Vernon blood in his veins; and
so little Humpy for ever, for she has the tin;
and yet I love you better than my own soul,
and would rather live with you on £300 a year
than with her on £10,000: but where is £300
or even £30 a year to come from, my beauty?
It's a terrible cut up, after keeping company so
long; but want, and debt, and duns, drive me
to anything, even to the arms of little Humpy.
The worst of it is, she is so confoundedly fond,
and all that. I enclose a sketch of my future
bride-compare it with my picture of my Emma,
and pity your miserable
"FREDERICK."
A vile caricature accompanied this odious,
heartless note. For one moment a deadly faint-
ness came over the wretched daughter; Lucilla
flew to her side; silently she placed the letters
in her friend's hand, and in a hollow voice said,
"Read!" She then buried her face in her
hands for some moments. Lucilla saw she
was in prayer. At length a deep groan issued
from her very heart; she murmured, "It is
over! Thank God, I can bear it! the dream of
1
a life has passed away, and I can yet forgive,
and I say, may God forgive him!"
called again, she merely enclosed that envelope,
and said it would in itself be an all-sufficient
reply to Mr. Smirk's professions of affection and
proposals of marriage.
CHAPTER LIX.
WHILE the unhappy daughter weeps and will
not be comforted-while in order to convey her
father's remains to their last home they are
obliged forcibly to keep her from his lifeless
form-while Lucilla tends and soothes her like
a sister-let us inquire what has happened to
the actors in this drama.
Di Moricini never leaves the retreat of the
unhappy mourner, and is as earnest as his own
Lucilla in the effort to comfort and to soothe.
Old Trueblue's will has not yet been opened
because it is in the hands of a lawyer, who had
been with the testator a few days before his
death, but had crossed over to France.
Mr. and Mrs. Temple always self-sacrificing,
are ready to spare their daughter still longer to
her sorrowing friend, much as they love her
sweet company; and a visit from Lord Lofty,
with hopes of an early presentation to an excel-
lent living in a lovely part of the country, are
owing entirely to a spirited letter Mrs. Temple
wrote him, in which she enclosed Lady Lofty's
note, and asked him whether it had been writ-
ten with his knowledge and approval.
Tom was often and mysteriously absent, but
what engrossed him is yet to be learnt; his
father trusted his son was preparing him some
classical surprise-his mother had her mis-
givings.
The Breach of Promise case engrossed pub-
lic attention; but the Felix Park affair had been
decided in favour of Sir Felix's nephew, who
was said to be still abroad.
And Renard Undermine and Lord Trelaw-
ney-let us take a retrospective view of their
proceedings. They have sustained a singular
and absurd defeat, which, if known, and sooner
or later all things are known, would make them.
the laughing stock of the fashionable and pro-
fessional world. They were too shrewd, keen,
and practised in their own vile sport, the hunt-
ing down innocence and destroying virtue, to
be put off the scent as easily as their simple
opponents had expected they would be; not
that they traced them to Wright's Hotel at
Margate, but they learnt their intention of
going to the ball, and a few minutes before old
Trueblue's fit, they were in close and vicious
discussion.
They had arranged a plan, the leading feature
of which was, that just as Miss Temple was
leaving the ball, a man was to come in haste
and say that Mr. Temple had just arrived at
the Rose Hotel, and wished to see his daughter
immediately on business of vital importance-
that he had sent a carriage for that purpose, and
to render the deception more complete, Renard,
whose skill in copying handwriting was miracu-
lous, and who contrived to get from Tom a
bread seal made from Mr. Temple's crest,
From that hour the fortune-hunter was no-wrote a few hurried lines, which none would
thing to the heiress; and when, after the have suspected, but least of all the inexperi
funeral, he wrote and called, and wrote and enced Lucilla.
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
135
Their object was to get her into a carriage,
and convey her to some little distance, when
Lord Trelawney was to present himself, and do
his best to induce the wretched victim to listen
to his cruel and insulting proposals.
All this was arranged with a skill worthy of
Renard Undermine, and he and Lord Tre-
lawney awaited the important hour of Lucilla's
capture the one his heart full of base ven-
geance, the other burning with as base a pas-
sion. Yes, there they sat after a gorgeous
repast, sipping the iced claret and the fruity
port, revelling in hot-house grapes, sunny
peaches, and confectionary worthy of a mo-
narch's festival; and this choice dessert they
seasoned with ribald jokes, and cruel jests, and
cowardly_triumphs; and Renard told over to
himself Lucilla's slights, and repeated again
and again the words "She shall pay for it--
I said she should, and so she shall !"
"I have watched her well," he said; "she
is in white, her long golden locks hang down
but in return our Lucilla's black silk calash and
scarlet shawl were on a chair beside her.
Well," thought the lady, "exchange is no
robbery, and this change is not for the worse."
And so she wrapped herself up in the hand-
some shawl, a present from Miss Trueblue, and
hid her face and head in the calash, but from
under its black flounce the golden ringlets
hung in glossy abundance, and, alas! caused
the catastrophe and mistake we have to re-
cord.
Weasel, who was on the look-out, watching
the exeunt of the company from the ball, no
sooner saw a damsel in white gauze, scarlet
shawl, and black calash, than he made sure of
his victim; he placed the note in her hand;
she glanced at it, full of Mr. Thomas Tomkins,
love, and wedlock. It ran thus:
"Dearest and best of children-come to
me this moment, I have much to say to you,
all is well at home, but do not delay.
"T. T.
her snowy neck, her head is shrouded in a
black calash, and she has on a scarlet shawl;
"A carriage awaits you-come at once."
thus equipped she has just stepped into the Miss Lydia Lovebond, convinced that this
carriage. I have noted this, that Weasel may letter, meant for Lucilla, and pretending to be
have no difficulty in giving her the note at once, from her father, Mr. Thomas Temple, was from
when she comes out of the ball-room.
her admirer, Thornas Tomkins, without dis-
Quite convinced that all was right, the plot-closing her face, said to Weasel-"I am ready
ters took their cigars, and their champagne-take me to him at once!"
punch, and awaited the hour of what they called
triumph!
When the wretched Miss Trueblue rushed
half frantic after those who were bearing away
her father's lifeless body, Lucilla, thoughtless
of self, darted after her, and thus like maniacs
they reached the hotel, where superior medical
assistance to that obtained at the ball was
promptly summoned.
In the meantime the company at the ball,
thinking that Mr. Trueblue's illness was mere-
ly a fit, and their wish being father to that
thought, they, after a brief suspension of the
evening's amusements, proceeded with their
lively succession of waltzes, polkas, and qua-
drilles.
Weasel felt as if he had already clutched the
fifty-pound note to be the reward of his suc-
cessful management of this affair - handed
the spinster into the carriage, which set off
at a rapid rate for Ramsgate. Here she
was, still unresisting and at the summit of
human bliss, smuggled by the dexterous Wea-
sel into Lord Trelawney's yacht-and here
his lordship, wild with love and triumph,
and attended by Renard Undermine, came on
board.
When his lordship sent a message craving
admittance to the state cabin to behold his idol,
she, rejoicing in the thought that her lover had
turned out in true romance style to be a
"lord," sent word that she pined to behold his
lordship.
At length the ball was over, and the last
damsel that lingered was a certain Miss of "Come, Renard," said Lord Trelawney,
forty-five, who was at Margate on a matri-"this is the way your prudes always surrender
monial speculation, and who, her head being at discretion; come, you shall witness our first
turned by novels and romances, fancied every meeting-it will be so capital !"
man who looked at or was tolerably civil to her,
meant to propose.
As cruel time had carried off her once abun-
dant golden locks, she had substituted a wig,
whose bright and silken ringlets hung over her
whitened neck; her dress was simple white
gauze, looped up with lilies of the valley. The
evening had passed without her obtaining any
partner, save a boy or two, brought her out of
sheer compassion by the amiable master of the
ceremonies, and she had sustained a bitter dis-
appointment in not meeting at this ball with a
Mr. Thomas Tomkin's, a banker's clerk, of
whom she fancied she had made a conquest,
and who imagining by her modish style of dress
that she must be rich, had given her broad hints
of an intention to elope with her.
"You know the sex better than I do, my
lord!" said Renard; "I own I could not have
believed this."
And so they proceeded to the cabin, and
there on a couch, her face concealed, but her
long golden locks sweeping the crimson velvet,
lay Lydia Lovebond.
My darling, my gentle, my kindest girl,"
said Lord Trelawney.
At these words-" my Tomkins!" or rather
"my lord !" shrieked Lydia Lovebond, and
starting from the couch, she threw back her
hood and disclosed a grim face, bright with
rouge and pearl powder, and extended her
lean long arms to clasp his lordship to her
bosom.
"Confound it!" said Lord Trelawney, draw-
When after the ball Miss Lydia Lovebonding back, "what's this? why that cursed Wea-
(for such was our spinster's name) repaired to sel has made some infernal mistake."
the cloak room, she found that some unscrupu-
lous person had carried off her cloak and hood,
"What a capital coup de théatre,” said Re-
nard, laughing till he was almost in convulsions.
136
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
46 Alas, my lord," said Miss Lydia Lovebond, | worth a thousand a year, situated in the exqui
you are not the Tomkins of my early dream, sitely picturesque village of Ashford, in the
but you are fair to look upon, and I find at this county of The Rectory was one of the
moment that a woman's heart is indeed a trans- loveliest spots in the world, with sloping woods
ferable thing !"
and feathering cedars, and yew and box trees
cut into grotesque figures. The house, an old
spacious Elizabethan mansion in gray stone,
was a very temple of elegant comfort. The fur-
niture, suitable to the place, Lord Lofty bought
at a valuation, and presented to his cousin.
And here the weeping, blushing Lucilla owned
her love, and here her parents, now no longer
poor, yielded a sad consent, for on that very day
young Mr. Stanley had written to them, begging
their permission to do his best to win their Lu-
cilla's heart.
The deuce you do!" said Lord Trelawney,
now laughing in his turn. “Well, Renard, if
this is known, we shall be the laugh of the
yacht-club, and I suspect a man who carries
off such a prize as this will find the Isle of
Thanet too hot to hold him; so we must go on
our cruise after all and make the best of it. I
saÿ, my beautiful ‘Delia,' are you willing to
visit the isles of Greece?"
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece,
where burning Sappho loved and sung," sighed
the lady'; "nothing would delight me more;
but is it maidenly? You are not my Tom-account of the action for Breach of Promise,
kins!"
“No, no, there's been a cursed mistake; I
am not your Tomkins, and you are not my Lu-
cilla, but to save you from scandal and our-
selves from ridicule we must not return till we
have made our projected voyage; so make
yourself useful and agreeable, and when we
return I will add to your portion what will
make you trebly welcome to your Tomkins."
"And my garb !" said Miss Lydia; "are
white gauze and lilies of the valley raiment for
a sea-voyage?"
In' that chest you will find attire provided
for my inamorata, so equip yourself to your
taste, and Renard, order supper. Oh-
. The heart's like a tendril accustomed to rove,
And is sure to find something that's blissful and dear;
And if we are far from the lips that we love,
We have but to make love to the lips that are near.'
"The supper will be ready in ten minutes,
old girl," said his lordship, lighting his hooker.
"I'm going on deck. Come, Renard! what
a sell, but the coad won't do just yet!"
That morning's paper had brought a ludicrous
brought by Lucilla Undermine, spinster, against
Sir Felix Archer, Bart., widower. Mr. Rory
O'Brien had conducted the plaintiff's cause
Sergeant Ferret the defendant's. There was
the usual amount of sarcasm and sophistry, of
quibble and cross-examination, of legal punning,
brow-beating, knocking down and summing up.
But who will rush in like a fool where Dickens.
has deigned to tread?
All London was, or tried to be, present; the
fashionable world, the professional and the lite-
rary, all were crazy to hear this famous trial
for Breach of Promise of Marriage. Sir Felix's.
luckless verses went sadly against him, and the
plaintiff, robed almost in widow's weeds, and
white from watching and fear of detection, won
the jury's heart by the vivid contrast her counsel
drew of what she had been and what she was..
The witness of the maid who had peeped in.
when Sir Felix was kissing the plaintiff's hand
of Renard, who detected the ring on her
finger-of the guests who noted his devotion to
her at his own party-and above all, the clear
evidence of Hebe Undermine, who bona fide be-
dam-lieved she spoke the truth; but above all, Sir
Felix's character for flirtation, and an adroit and
complimentary appeal of O'Brien's to the jury,
all middle-aged, on the power of men past forty-
over young girl's hearts; this and the Johnso-
nian lady's evidence, with her friends, decided
the verdict and damages.
"I shall win him, I feel I shall, lovely and
munificent, but lawless corsair !" said the
sel, as she turned over some rich raiment
meant for poor Lucilla. "This amber satin
robe and crimson velvet polka, with this shawl
turban, will become the unwilling captive of
this lordly pirate. Alas! alas! why do I love
him? can I so easily forget my Tomkins?"
So saying, the old fool awaited her summons
to supper, where every luxury abounded, and
champagne was drunk in tumblers, and where,
having a tolerablé voice and good ear, she was
made to sing our ruffians to sleep.
When she retired to her own cabin, it was
with a conviction that she was now indeed a
heroine of romance, and should probably re-
turn, not to wed the vulgar Tomkins, but to
lord it at Trelawney Hall-a loved, admired
bride!
And thus were Lucilla Temple's dangerous
foes carried for a time away from her whose
ruin they had so vowed to compass.
CHAPTER LX.
THE narrative of the next six months can be
briefly told. Lord Lofty's interest secured to
Mr. Temple the beautiful living of Lilydale,
The Sergeant's defence, namely, that his client
was courting another Lucilla through the medi-
um of Lucilla Undermine, completely damned
his cause. The jury, without any hesitation,
returned a verdict, damages £20,000.
Sir Felix, minus Felix Park and such a sum,
sped to Paris, where for six weeks he kept his
bed.
Her parents having yielded a reluctant con-
sent, insisting only on her giving herself her
refusal and its reasons to their noble benefactor,
young Stanley-the maiden sat, her heart wild-
ly beating, and her pale cheek bathed in tears,
watching for her lover; her father and mother,.
sad and silent, were with her, and traces of
tears told what it cost them to give her to a
foreign artist, instead of bestowing her on their
beau ideal of manly grace and goodness-Frank
Stanley.
Tom, now possessed of a pony, and with Jock
as his own tiger, had ridden out to meet his
sister's lover. At length chariot wheels were
heard; Lucilla grew faint, her mother's colour
1
THE BREACH OF PROMISE:
137.
1
rose, her father's hand trembled as he laid it on
her head, and said, “God bless thy choice, my
girl! it is at least a disinterested one!",
"Who is it?" asked the mother.
"Frank Stanley, I presume," said the father,
"by the dark green cháriot."
"Yes," said Lucilla, with a wan smile, "he
has no chariot:”
The library door is thrown open. Jock an
nounces:-
"Mr. Frank Stanley."
"And Signor Di Moricini."
The door is closed again-Lucilla scarcely
dares look up, her parents rise to meet the
stranger. One visitor alone stands there!
"Mr. Stanley, welcome!" cries Mr. Temple.
"Francesco!" exclaims Lucilla, rushing to
meet him.
"The plot is unravelled-the secret is out,"
cried the lover, clasping her in his arms, and
then kneeling with her before her now half-en-
lightened parents-
in adversity, Miss Lucilla-begging your par-
don, Misthress Stanley, my jewel-for both
have their thrials, and ye've thriumphed in one
state, and now we'll see how ye'll thrive in the
other; God bless the purty faces of ye both
ye juice of my heart. Och hone, and what's
Masther Tom afther with that son of a gun, that
big pistol?"
1
That pistol, so long the object of Tom's am-
bition, the priming, cleaning, and letting off of
which with Jock had been his private pursuit
so long, was now formaly presented to the
wedded pair to protect them in the perils of
travel.
!
It was gladly and graciously accepted, Lu-
cilla thinking it much safer in her husband's
keeping than in Tom's; but all felt it was,
coming from Tom, as the gift of his right hand
They are gone on their glad career they
have set out together on that journey they
must share till they reach the gates of death,
or rather the portals of eternity. A blessing
"Frank Stanley and Signor Di Moricini are on them for their faithful love! We have not
one! Lucilla, I have won you as the poor half-sought to conceal their faults-they are not
foreign artist, know me now as one your parents perfect; but to them much is forgiven because
can join with your own heart in advising you they loved much.
to bless."
In Paris they saw Sir Felix Archer and the
Poor Temple! how he sobbed! Sweet Lu-Temples of Temple grove; he was sneering,
cilla! how she blushed! And Mrs. Temple, how cold, and bitter, and so fearful did he become
fondly she embraced her future son!
that his more than ever hateful nephew, and
the now detested Lucilla, should come eventu-
ally into possession of Archer court and the
house in Portland Place, that he suddenly pro-
posed to the only woman who ever really loved
him, Hebe Temple; and before our newly mar-
ried pair left Paris, Sir Felix had made poor
Hebe, Lady Archer.
The wedding took place not long after in
Mr. Temple's own church; he himself united
his daughter to the man of his choice as well as
hers. Many of the miserable poor of his
wretched London district, now clean and good
and happy, were placed in small cottages, where
health enabled them to labour, and labour to
live. Five hundred pounds, left to Lucilla by
old Trueblue, purchased her trousseau, and on
the eve of her wedding she received from Sir
Felix at Paris, a pompous offer of his hand. Too
late! too late!
Miss Trueblue, broken in spirit and haunted
by remorse, settled near the Temples, and found
unspeakable solace in Mr. Temple's spiritual
care. She nobly, on coming into her father's
immense property, enabled the wretched Frede-
rick to marry the Emma of his choice, by pre-
senting him with £10,000, which, knowing his
extravagant folly, she stipulated he should set-
tle on his wife; and then, convinced she had
not long to live, a fact apparent to all, she made
a will, leaving her whole fortune to Lucilla, who
thus is heiress to one of the finest fortunes in
England.
As for Lord Trelawney, a brain fever, caused
by rage and disappointment, ended his mad ca-
reer in Greece, where, possessed of his yacht
and all his valuables, Miss Lovebond married a
Greek pirate.
Poor Abel Watchful did not long survive
his master, and the heir-at-law came in for
all the well-hoarded heir looms of that noble
family.
After the happy ceremony had taken place at
Lilydale, the bride and bridegroom set off for
Paris, and among the many blessings showered
on them, none were more hearty than those of
poor Norah, who, sobbing and laughing alter-
nately, cried: "God bless you both, mavour-
neens; the holy Virgin have you in keeping,
and make ye as good in prosperity as ye were
S
And Renard Undermine, he too was in Paris,
on a visit to his sister Lucilla, now Mrs. Rory
O'Brien.
One day walking in the Tuilleries, Lucilla
and her husband found themselves close behind
a party consisting of a young man, a middle-
aged lady, and some lovely children. Lucilla
pointed the beauty of the little ones, one of
whom had long silken locks of paley gold, reach-
ing to her waist.
The lady called to this child, who lingered a
little behind, playing with a young lordling in
tartan.
"Come, Lady Cis!-come."
"Don't go," said the boy, "don't go, Cis;
we never mind our governess."
Oh, but," said the little lady, "Miss Trevor
is so cross !"
"Are you coming, Lady Cis?" cried Miss
Trevor. "Do go, Renard, and carry her, little
obstinate thing!"
Renard snatched up the child and said:
"Come, Lady Cis, there's a dear-come!"
At this moment he perceived Lucilla and her
husband, in whom he recognised the terrible
Di Moricini. He saw that Lucilla fathomed
his tale of Lady "Cis" and the Hon. Miss Tre-
vor. He feared Di Moricini's vengeance,
though he had sent him the basest of apolo-
gies, and so setting down the screaming, kick-
ing Lady Cis, he fairly took to his heels and
fled.
Lucilla and her husband laughed, and Miss
Trevor indignantly bridled up and hastened after
the fugitive.
138
THE BREACH OF PROMISE.
*
In this same walk they met a woman, care-
worn, pale, and alone-alone in this gay scene,
and yet with orange flowers in her bonnet-a
bride, and all alone!
It was the once joyous Lucilla Undermine,
now Mrs. Rory O'Brien. She slunk away
when she saw Lucilla. The punishment of
perjury had fallen promptly and heavily on her!
With the heavy damages of her false and
perjured suit she had bought herself a husband,
namely Rory O'Brien, and she found too in him
her punishment and retributive curse.
A liar, a gambler, and a most passionate and
violent brute-a drunkard and a profligate
she secured to herself with the wages of false-
hood and perjury. Poor wretch! she is amply
punished; loving the ruffian too well to leave
him, her fortune all at his disposal, for she had
eloped with him on its receipt-likely to be the
mother of a villain's child-at variance with
her family for her foolish and rash marriage-
she pines away with a broken spirit, and is al-
ready only the wretched shadow of her who
was once the belle of Bedford Row, and the
toast of Lincoln's Inn! Lucilla found out her,
abode, and tried to comfort her; but there was
no comfort for her, and she lived to curse in
actual poverty and bitterness of spirit the
wretched day when first she engaged in so base
a plot, to see that she had sold herself to sin
and shame for £20,000, and to weep for ever
the luckless hour when first she commenced in
folly and in sin an action for "BREACH OF PRO-
MISE,"
THE END.
MABEL THE ACTRESS,
OR
THE PERILS OF ILLICIT LOVE.
"OUR SINS ARE LIKE THE DRAGON'S TEETH,
SOWN BY CADMUS - THEY RISE UP
AGAINST US IN THE SHAPE OF
MEN ARMED FOR OUR DESTRUCTION.”
NEW YORK:
BURGESS AND STRINGER.
1843.
ADVERTISEMENT.
"Our sins are like the dragon's teeth,
Sown by Cadmus-they rise up
Against us in the shape of
Men armed for our destruction.”
In offering this deeply interesting and extraordinary tale to the public, the publish.
ers do so, in the full conviction that its moral tendency will be found, not only unex-
ceptionable but healthy. It is a tale of passion and of guilt; but such is the power
with which it is told-the truth and earnestness of the style-the fidelity to nature
and to life of all its incidents-and its perfect freedom from every thing that might
offend the most virtuous taste, that none who read it could be disposed to exclude it
from the most refined family circle. The motto from Lord Bacon is a fair exponent
of the moral conveyed. Well would it be for our youth of both sexes if the lesson
should sink deep into their hearts; for its aim is to show, that-
"The only amaranthine flower on earth
"Is Virtue-the only lasting treasure, Truth."
MABEL THE ACTRESS,
OR
THE PERILS OF ILLICIT LOVE.
CHAPTER I.
She had the Asiatic eye,
Dark as above us is the sky;
But through it stole a tender light,
Like the first moonrise at midnight;
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam:
All love, half langour, and half fire,
Like saints that at the stake expire.-Byron.
dark eyes, and jetty hair, and embrowned com-
plexion, assorted admirably with the partially
Oriental costume which they seemed to affect.
The men were clad in loose trowsers-(a
fashion which then had scarcely obtained even
among sailors)-short jackets, ornamented with
a multitude of buttons after the German mode
--and caps rounded at the top, and encircled at
the brim by a large and protruding band of fur,
lt was in the last quarter of the seventeenth which gave it somewhat of the air of a Moor-
century, that the Count Adrian von Oberfeldt ish turban-thus conjoining in their costume
chanced to be at the fair of Leipzig. He was the fashions of the country in which they were,
there, not for purposes of business, nor directly and of that from which they claimed their ori-
of pleasure; but to unite, with the dissipating, gin. The dress of the women was of somewhat
a certain portion of time, the chance of meet-
a similar nature-the petticoat of red cloth
ing, in the crowded and bustling scene, some might have been the garment of a German pea-
object or adventure which might give him that sant, while the dark scarf which was wrapped
excitation, the want of which made his time so in fantastic folds around their shoulders, as-
heavy on his hands. Oberfeldt was a person sumed the form of Oriental drapery. Their
very different from the race of Thonderten-head-dress also was shaped into the fashion of a
troncks, then so common in his country-he
had had advantages which few of them pos-
Oberfeldt paused a moment to gaze upon this
sessed, and his natural gifts had enabled him to singular group, when three of their number
profit by them to the utmost. He had, at the struck up a wild and spirited air upon a flute
age of eighteen, become attached to the Saxon and two guitars, and a fourth, with a tambou-
embassy at Versailles; and had resided, for rine in her hand, sprang into the centre of the
several years, at that brilliant and cultivated circle-which had, by this time, gathered
court. Endowed by nature with great quick-around them-to dance. The dancer was a
ness of perception, and susceptibility of tem-
perament, he had imbibed much intellectual im-
provement from the atmosphere of wit and of
literature by which he was surrounded; and, at
the same time, he graduated in that system of
polished gallantry, which, at that period of
Louis XIV.'s reign, was so prevalent at his
court. In love, as in play—
On commence par etre dupe,
On finit par otre fripon-
He was lounging through the great square,
on his return to his inn-when he saw, advanc-
ing towards him, a party of Bohemians. They
consisted of two men, and several women.
Their appearance was wild and peculiar their
turban.
young girl apparently about sixteen; she was
slender, and finely formed, like most of her
race; but she was already of a height beyond
their ordinary low stature, and had the appear-
ance of not being yet arrived at her full growth.
A petticoat of bright scarlet displayed an ancle
combining, like the fetlock of an Arabian horse,
delicacy, activity, and grace, in a singular de-
gree. The fine voluptuous outline of her limbs,
at her early age, gave token, to a practised eye
like that of Oberfeldt, of the perfection which
it would attain in the maturity of womanly
beauty. Her scarf was disposed around her
bosom in a manner somewhat fantastic indeed,
but highly picturesque and graceful-while her
abundant tresses of coal-black hair were, for
6
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
R
their only covering and ornament, intertwined
with a few ears of wheat and cornflowers, appa-
rently just plucked from the fields. Her skin
was dark in complexion, but of that exquisite
clearness, and extreme delicacy of texture,
which almost render it doubtful whether it be
surpassed by the most perfect fairness. It might
be called
That clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
which we may suppose to have existed upon
Cleopatra's cheek. Of her eyes-those gems
which form the crown and completion to the
golden circle of beauty-the description has
already been given in the motto at the head of
this chapter.
The air to which she danced was wild and
irregular, and the dance was accommodated to
its varying expression. Now, it was spirited,
animated, and even triumphant-and, in such
parts, the young Bohemian's step became more
rapid and decided--her eye flashed, and she
swung her tambourine into the air with a free
and even fierce gesture, bespeaking exultation
and pride. Then would come a sudden pause,
and the music would recommence with a slow
and soft measure: the bright eye then became
languid and beseeching-the movements and
the whole bearing insinuating and subdued.
Next, the tone was of sorrow and dejection—
and this versatile creature sank her head upon
her breast, drooped her instrument by her side,
and trailed her steps slowly and sadly on the
ground. Then again the music burst forth into
liveliness and joy-and again she sprang into
the air like the wild deer starting from the co-
vert, and the dance ended, as it had begun, with
the display of mingled activity, brilliancy, and
grace.
The Count gazed in wonder upon a creature
so beautiful and so striking. The graceful agi-
lity with which she danced, the picturesque
movements and attitudes which were displayed
in the performance on her instrument, and,
above all, the face of youthful loveliness which
beamed and sparkled with exercise-all these
were calculated to impress, surprise and delight
one who loved, and could appreciate, beauty as
much as Oberfeldt. A man, who has studied it
as he had done, is necessarily something of a
physiognomist; and, as he contemplated fixedly
the countenance of this fascinating being, he
thought he could perceive in it something supe-
rior to the lot which seemed to be hers, together
with a consciousness of that superiority. The
expression of her eye was not always in accord-
ance with the smile upon her lip-a glance,
now of weariness, now of disdain, was very per-
ceptible to one who looked with scrutiny and
the smile itself was frequently "in such a sort"
as though "her spirit scorned itself that it could
be moved to smile" for such purposes, and upon
such people. These indications were not, in-
deed, open and plain. To the great majority of
the spectators she appeared as mirthful as well
as active, as Terpsichore; it was only to him
who possessed the talisman of refined observa-
tion and acute deduction, that they were visi-
ble. At least, he read them thus; though, per-
haps, he might be so quick-sighted as to see
that which did not exist; he might invest her
with the feelings he thought most suited to her
position, and then imagine that he traced them
in her aspect.
As the dance ended, she held the tambourine
horizontally, though without any more direct
supplication. The spectators showered money
upon it; and the Count threw in a golden dol
lar. The largeness of the sum caused the eyes
of the Bohemian, which were cast down during
the whole of this proceeding, to be raised to
the person who bestowed it. She looked into
the face of Oberfeldt, as though to read the
motive of his lavishness; and it seamed that the
expression which she found there was peculiar
and apparent; for her eyes were, on the in-
stant, again lowered, and a suffusion of blushes
spread over her face and brow.
As the crowd began to move from the spot,
the Count drew near to the side of the young
Bohemian-"You dance enchantingly"-he
said to her, in a low tone; "I never beheld
such exquisite expression. By whom were you
taught?"
66
By the women of our tribe," she answered.
"Had you no other instructers ?"
"None."
"There can
Strange!"-muttered the Count. He was
silent for a short time, but still continued by the
Bohemian's side with his eyes riveted upon her.
She seemed conscious of his gaze: for she kept
her eyes fixed upon the ground, and the "elo.
quent blood" spoke in her cheek.
be no deception in this," thought Oberfeldt;
"this is either nature, or the perfection of art--
and a creature so young cannot have attained
such power of simulation; the soul which now
burns in blushes upon that cheek was surely
not meant to inform the frame of a wandering
Bohemian."
66
May I ask your name?" he added aloud.
They call me MABEL ;" answered the Bo-
hemian.
"Have you no second name?"
"Our tribe are all sprung from the same
stock-we are distinguished among each other
but by one name.”
"Are your parents among your companions?"
asked Oberfeldt, glancing his eyes, as he spoke,
over the rest of the party.
"My parents died while I was yet an infant;"
said Mabel: and the Count felt pleasure at the
answer; for, in the wild features of the Bohe-
mians, he traced expression too suited to their
lot, to make him feel willing that any of them
should have given birth to a being so interest-
ing as that by his side. He was again silent
for a few moments, and then added-“ Do you
stay till the end of the fair?”
"We do"-
"We shall meet again, then"-said the
Count-" farewell!"
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
7
As he turned from her, Mabel raised her
large eyes upon him; and for the first time fix-
edly surveyed him, as he walked away. She
looked after him till he disappeared in the
crowd; and a heavy sigh struggled from her
bosom, as she followed her party to exhibit in
another quarter of the fair.
CHAPTER II.
She was an Abyssinian maid ;
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
COLERIDUE.
As the Count sat over his flask of Rhenish,
after his solitary dinner, he was surprised to
find how strongly the young Bohemian inte-
rested his mind. Oberfeldt was, at this time,
pining under the oppression of idleness; his
mind craved some employment;-his fancy
was excited in the present instance, and he de-
termined to indulge it. By the time he had
finished his wine, he had resolved to see Mabel
again the next day, and then to be guided by
circumstances. Alas! how much evil both to
ourselves and others, has been perpetrated by
our committing ourselves to that guidance!
Accordingly, the next day Oberfeldt sought
the Bohemians in the fair. He found them just
as a crowd had gathered round them to witness
their exhibitions-and again the performance
devolved on Mabel. She was standing in the
centre of the circle, with a small instrument of
the guitar kind in her hand-she preluded a
few notes upon it, and then began her song.
Her delivery, however, was rather that of reci-
tative than of positive singing; and, though
her voice was both sweet and powerful, the
chief interest of the piece was in the vivid ex-
pression which she threw into the successive
passages, and the appropriate and animated ac-
tion with which she illustrated the whole.
eye, the blood into her cheek-her lip quivered,
her brow was bent-she seemed wholly en-
grossed and carried away by her subject, and
unmindful of the admiring crowd around her,
to give herself up to the inspiration of the mo-
ment.
"This is no ordinary being,"-thought Ober-
feldt. "Here are, indeed, capabilities and pow-
ers which education would draw out into per-
fection. The Desceuillet herself has not the
natural gifts of this young untutored creature.
If she can thus speak the language of all the
passions by the mere force of inherent genius,
what would she not do when art had lent her
aid to cultivate and fashion the first form of na-
ture. I must see more of her."
Mabel, at the conclusion of the legend, stood,
with her arms drooping by her sides, and her
eyes fixed upon the earth, changed from the in-
spired sybil which she had seemed so lately,
into a form so motionless that it might have
been mistaken for a statuc, if it had not been
for the heaving of her bosom, quick and full,
from the exertion she had undergone. This
time her companions collected the contributions
of the audience; and Mabel stood thus appa-
rently unheedful of all around her, while they
were so doing. She chanced, however, to raise
her eyes for a moment, and they encountered
those of Oberfeldt fixed upon her with the ex-
pression of approval and admiration to which
the thoughts I have detailed above would natu-
rally give rise. A flood of crimson poured over
her neck, face, and forehead, as she became
conscious of the intensity and the expression of
the Count's gaze. She moved towards her con-
panions, and endeavored to mix with them in
the crowd.
But Oberfeldt was in an instant at her side.
«So," he said in that tone of soft insinuation
which he knew how to assume so well-“ I
saw yesterday but a sample of the gifts which
nature has showered upon you so lavishly-this
vivid and exquisite expression, in which the
soul bursts forth in every variety of passion and
of power-this could not have been taught you
by the women of your tribe. From whence,
then, do you derive accomplishments which
would be wonderful in any one, still more won-
derful in one in your position-from what source
have you acquired these?”
Mabel was silent.
"Will you not speak to me ?" said Oberfeldt,
a voice and with a manner, which had seldom
failed to extract an answer.
How can I answer such questions as you
have asked me?" said Mabel in a low yet firm
tone.
Few objects, indeed, could be more attractive
and enthralling than that before his eyes. Ma-
bel wore, this day, a roll of scarlet intertwisted
with her hair, which showed its exquisite tint
and texture in strong and beautiful relief. From
this, however, in the energy of her action, a
portion had escaped, and streamed down hor
back in long and waving tresses. Her finely-in
moulded arms were bare-and as they were,
now pressed to her bosom, now outstretched
towards heaven, now trembling in supplication,
and now again only striking a few notes upon
her lute-it seemed wonderful that gestures so
varied, so rapid, and to all appearance so per-
fectly free and unrestrained, should all and
each, be still within the limits of grace, and of
picturesque beauty. Her eloquent counte-
nance, too, varied with the varying sense-now
calm-now bespeaking sorrow-now fond af-
fection-now the agony of entreaty-now the
extremity of despair. The fire rose into her
"I must answer it myself, then," returned
the Count-"It is from nature that you have
received these gifts-no other hand can give
them-and yet it is strange," he added, as
though in soliloquy, yet taking especial care
that no word should escape his companion, "it
is strange that unassisted nature should produce
→ A celebrated actress in Louis XIV.'s reign.
8
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
instant.
such fruits as these! what would she not have | loosed his grasp, and she was out of sight in an
done with cultivation!"-Mabel slightly started
at these words-and raised her eyes as though As the next day wore away, the Count was
to scrutinize Oberfeldt's meaning. They sank surprised, at the strong hold which he found
again before his gaze of undissembled admira- this singular creature had taken upon his imag
tion. He saw that the arrow had struck-ination. Her manner, during their conversa.
"Should you not desire," he continued, "to re-
ceive some instructions to develope talents so ex-
quisite ?"
tion, had fully confirmed his first impression as
to her capabilities of improvement. There was
none of the affectation of a vulgar genius-not
the least shadow of the airs of a vulgar beauty.
There was, indeed, all the freshness arising
from the peculiarity of her race, and of her hab-
"Alas!" she answered, in a voice in which bit-
terness mingled with depression-"who would
instruct the poor outcast Bohemian? who would
think one of that despised race worthy of kind-its of life, without any alloy of that coarseness
ness or care? No!-I may continue to please which might have been expected to attach to
the ignorant rabble, or to draw an inquiry of
it. He saw that her disposition was ardent, and
passing curiosity even from such as you, sir. But he believed it to be yet unstained. The pain-
that is the boundary which I can never pass-ful consciousness of the degraded condition of a
there is the line that has been drawn between | Bohemian was evidently the ruling feeling of
my race and the rest of mankind-they shrink | her mind; and it would seem to embitter a tem-
from us, we prey on them"-her feelings seemed
to rise in anger as she spoke--this chord seemed
to jar all her feelings, and to be one that she
touched on often.
"Nay," said the Count, "you do wrong to
both yourselves and us. You surely cannot be-
lieve that it is mere curiosity which impels me
to address you. Do you think that I am blind
to beauty and to genius, because it exists in a
people different from that of which I am one?
-Do you think that I can bear to see qualities
of person and of mind such as you possess thrown
away upon the purposes to which I have seen
them applied?"
perament otherwise enthusiastic, to turn the
display of her talents into matter of shame rather
than of pride-and thus to make what would
have been the trial of another, humiliation to
her.
The shades of the autumnal evening were
beginning to fall when Oberfeldt arrived at the
appointed place of meeting. He paced up and
down with a degree of anxiety and impatience,
which he himself was surprised at feeling for
such a cause. "She surely does not mean to
baulk me, and not come," he muttered, as he
took his fifth turn along the square, without see-
ing her-"'faith, it would almost serve me right.
Adrian Oberfeldt to be jilted by a gipsy! the
"If I do possess," said Mabel, "any portion |
of those powers which you exaggerate so ex-story would tell well in the Marrais*—it would
travagantly, such are the purposes to which
they must ever be devoted-such are the issues
towards which they must ever tend. I thank
you for your generous commiseration-but it
can be of no avail. I am the puppet of which
my people pull the wires-the praised and flat-
tered puppet I may perhaps become-but I re-
main the puppet still."
The crowd had, in some degree, separated
the Count and her from her companions. At
this moment, as though to verify her speech, a
woman's shrill voice was heard over the hum
of the crowd-“ Mabel !”
Hark! I am called; the wire is pulled,"
she added with a melancholy smile," and I must
needs obey it."
Oberfeldt seized her hand-" Nay," he ex-
claimed, "we part not thus-I cannot, I cannot
thus lose sight of you"- "Mabel!" again
shouted the old Bohemian.
“Loose me, Sir,” she said in violent agita-
tion; “you know not what. I may suffer for this."
"First, then, promise that I shall see you
again"- "No, it is impossible-I cannot--in-
deed, I cannot.'
"Here, on this spot-to-morrow, at twilight"
said Oberfeldt-"say that you will be here."
Mabel was again called-"Nay, I will not let
go my hold till you say you will!"-Again the
woman called her name, and in an angry voice.
"I will," she murmured in a scarcely audible
tone. But Oberfeldt heard it full well-he
|
furnish excellent matter for a lampoon; I have
a mind to indite it myself.
a mind to indite it myself. The cozened Count,
or the Bohemian bite.' 'T would make a nice
variety for the minx to sing at her next fair, in-
stead of her Moorish ballad." But while he
thus grumbled, with all the sensitiveness to rid-
icule of a true Parisian, he continued to walk
close to the appointed place, as though he did
not think the hope so forlorn as he chose to rep-
resent it to himself. At length, he perceived a
female figure wrapped in a cloak, crossing the
square towards the spot where he was; and, as
it drew near, he recognised Mabel. He was
about to begin the conversation with some al-
lusion to her want of punctuality—for his ruf-
fled self-love was not yet quite composed-but
the serious and even melancholy expression of
her countenance, in which modesty, though not
bashfulness, was mingled, checked at once the
half-jest, half-sneer, that was on his tongue;
with that tact which no one possessed more
than him, he saw in a moment that it would be
misplaced and mistimed; he was about to
change his key, when, to his surprise, the Bo
hemian spoke first.
"I have kept my promise, Sir," she said,
which you wrung from me last night, I may
say, so ungenerously; I have kept my promise,
to show you that a Bohemian can hold her
word sacred. I have come hither because I
*Probably the Count alluded to the circle at Ninon de
l'Enclos'.
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
9
said I would do so; but I cannot remain here:
but I cannot remain here:
I did not promise that—and it is not fitting that
I should-
Nay," interrupted Oberfeldt, "but it was
implied, though not expressed in words. You
acceded to my request; you could not think
that that meant only that you should appear at
this spot, and then vanish in an instant. But
come-this is idle-believe me it is not for the
indulgence of curiosity, or of a casual and pass-
ing sympathy, that I have desired to converse
with you. I have been moved deeply to see a
creature so young, so lovely, so gifted, devoted
to a fate such as that of most of your race. I
speak frankly to you, Mabel; for I think you
have intelligence and strength of mind to un-
derstand what I would infer, and not to take
offence at my inferring it. The talents I have
seen you display on a scene so unfitted for such
talents, need but slight cultivation, or rather
direction, to place you upon the eminence to
which they so well entitle you. It grieves me
to the heart to see them thrown away in your
wandering exhibitions-shall I add, to see you
destined to follow such a course of life?"
| up-Trust yourself to me--to one whose first
and dearest wish will be to contribute to your
happiness-to advance your welfare. The in-
terest to which you have given rise within me
is not to be measured by the date of our ac-
quaintance;--your beauty, your natural gifts
and superior acquirements, the contrast be-
tween your position and your inerits and feel-
ings-all these things have wrought the work
of time-through my sentiments of admiration
and compassion they have touched my heart."
"Alas!" answered Mabel, after a pause, and
in a voice of melancholy, "this is another of
the curses of my wretched lot! There can be
for me no such thing as disinterested kindness;
-you seemed to have felt it--and lo! it is chan-
ged at once into the selfishness of dishonoura-
ble solicitation. No, sir! believe me the fath-
erless, unhappy Bohemian girl prefers her
wretched condition, with all its pain and humi-
liation, to the ignominy of escaping from it by
acceding to propositions made to her, in the
trust of that very wretchedness itself."
(6
By heavens! you do me wrong;—it is not
as a poor Bohemian that I regard you; if I did,
you would be subject to no solicitations from
me. It is as one on whom Heaven has bestow-
ed beauty the most touching, talents the most
exquisite-gifts, in a word, which dazzle the
imagination while they enthral the heart-
which engross the whole being in wonder and
delight. I do not use the language of exag-
geration-I speak the merest truth when I say
that since yesterday I have never for a moment
been able to drive you from my thoughts-[
have even (you will believe now,) I have even
been angry with myself for allowing your im-
age to occupy my mind so absolutely. And it
is this which will scarcely permit me to believe
that two days ago I saw you for the first time
It was in a low and tremulous tone that Ma-
bel answered him. Alas! Sir," she said,
"the voice of kindness is so new to me, that I
can scarcely control the emotions to whi ht
gives rise. I am praised and flattered often, it
is true; but there is no kindness, no feeling,
towards the object to whom that heartless com-
mendation is addressed. I will not affect, Sir,
wholly to disclaim the belief that I am fitted
for something better than the wretched life I
lead-but I cannot escape from it! It is to me
what his caste is to the Indian-however hate-
ful, however loathed, there is no outlet from it
-every other condition is barred against me."
"I was confident," said the Count, "that the
life of a Bohemian could not but be distasteful-My feelings have been so accumulated and
to you!—"
crowded together during that period, that it
seems as if months were necessary for their
sensation. And yet you say that I presume
upon your unhappy situation-that I should not
thus address a person of happier fortunes.
Perhaps this may be true-for towards one so
placed my feelings would not have been thus
excited that discrepancy would not have ex-
between your destiny and your deserts,
which awakened sensations first of surprise
and then of tenderness."
Distasteful!-Oh God! did you but know
what it is to smile when the heart is bursting
-to strive to gain the applause of those you
scorn-to display your acquirements, like the
paces of a managed horse, by word of com-
mand-to be the show for a mob to gaze and
gape at-watching their nod, seeking their
smile,-you would indeed think my lot deserv-isted
ing of compassion! To be scoffed at as one of
an outcast race-to be despised for the very
blood which flows within my veins-nay, to
live among those who prove the slur to be
wholly unjust-the distance and suspicion to
be in some degree deserved-these things are
indeed bitter ingredients in the cup of life;
they may well make my soul sicken at the
prospect that lies stretched before me!-and
she paused, as though from the pain arising
from the picture she had drawn
"If such be your feelings," said the Count,
with the rapidity and warmth of strongly exci-
ted feeling--"there is no reason why you
should be longer exposed to their operation.
You are an orphan-you have no natural ties
to the band among whom you have been brought
"You speak but too plausibly, Sir-your
sophistry is too subtle for me to be able to re-
fute it--but I am not in the slightest degree the
less aware that it is sophistry. There is but
one right and one wrong;-colour them as you
may, the voice within proclaims which is
which,-it remains with ourselves to choose
what we shall follow. I am grateful, believe
me, most grateful for the interest which I am
willing to believe you feel in the fate of one
so forlorn and desolate as I am-I am touched
most deeply, by being an object of interest to
any one. You have spoken to me considerate-
ly, also, as well as kindly--you have respected
my feelings-and the sensation that you have
2
10
MABEL, THE ACTRESS.
done so now felt for the first time-is, heaven
knows! most delightful. Do not, therefore,
stain your conduct towards me by the blot of
the common and selfish temptation you have
striven to set before me. Between your rank
and mine-(for I am well aware who you are)
-there is an impassable bar-All attempts to
draw them nearer to each other only tend to
the degradation of both.”
Oberfeldt was amazed. It is seldom that
when the heart is warmed and touched, the
reason can remain firm and cool-and least of
all did he expect to meet with this phenomenon
in a young uneducated Bohemian.
CHAPTER III.
Chateau qui parlo, et femme qui ecouto, tous deux vont
se rendre.
FRENCH PRoverd.
OBERFELDT was now in his element. He
was no longer the yawning, dawdling, bored
being, that had come to the fair of Leipzig,
from sheer weariness of his own society;-he
had an object-there was just doubt enough of
its attainment to excite him in the pursuit, and
his feelings were sufficiently engaged to render
the result a matter of considerable interest. It
At this moment, the clock of the Town Hall, is seldom, indeed, that a man of the stamp of
near which they stood, began to strike. May- Adrian Oberfeldt engages fully in an affair of
bel counted it with eagerness, almost like that this nature without having his affections far
of poor Cinderella at her fated midnight-it more touched than, at the beginning, he intend-
struck eight-"I must be gone!" she exclaim-ed they should be. They remain, it is true, at
ed, her whole feelings undergoing a sudden re-
volution-the visions of the moment vanishing
at once, and the reality of life becoming again
apparent,-"I must go!-I cannot stay one in-
stant longer! I have already staid too long"
and she began to cross the square at a rapidly heard and felt.
pace.
an immeasurable distance from that headstrong
uncontrollable love which causes the reason
wholly to merge in the impulse of the heart ;--
he keeps them still under his own power-but
at the same time, they make themselves strong-
The Count now considered and determined
"You inust see me again," said the Count-what should be his conduct in regard to Ma-
"I will be here at the same hour to-morrow." ""
"Oh! no, no-I did not mean to have staid
to-night, but come again I cannot.'
""
Nay, this is not treating me with fairness-
it is not showing fairness to yourself. What-
ever may be your determination, surely what
I have said does not merit to be broken off thus
abruptly-surely I have given you no cause to
distrust me. However you may finally deter-
mine, see me once more; do not let us part
thus hurriedly-give the thought of four-and-
twenty hours to what I have proposed, and
here, to-morrow, I shall expect your answer.
I think I may ask thus much of you. I hope I
have not deserved a refusal at your hands
have I?"
bel, in the event of her yielding to his solicita-
tions ;-for his offer had been, in truth, the im-
pulse of the moment in which it was made.
The determination to which he came smacked
strongly of his Parisian education and habits,
He resolved to bestow every pains upon the
perfecting her abilities;-that, during this pro-
cess, she should reside at Oberfeldt as much
as possible, consistently with her receiving the
instructions of professors--and that when he had
nursed this exceeding promise into equal excel-
lence, he would take her to Dresden, and bring
her out upon the stage there, at that time the
most brilliant in Germany. It was during the
reign of the celebrated Elector, Agustus I.,
King of Poland,-and the tone and footing of
his court, in every respect, fitted it for such a
project. Its polish and cultivation would render
it, far more than any of the German courts of
"Nay," said the Count, taking her hand, and that period, capable of appreciating talents like
assuming a manner in which tenderness seem- those of Mabel--while its extreme laxity of
ed to break through all other considerations- manners would render his connexion with an
"if it be only to say farewell-after what has actress less liable to censure than was elsewhere
passed, I cannot bear that we should part thus, the case with reference to delinquencies of this
and you seem too urgent to press on homeward kind, which had a plebeian for their object.
for me to ask you to stay now. Let me see Such was the plan which Oberfeldt conned over
you to-morrow, if it be only for you to say that during nearly the whole day that followed the
you have maturely weighed my proposition-interview with Mabel that I have detailed in
and for me to assure that, come what may, you the foregoing chapter.
will ever find a friend in Oberfeldt-say, say, I
may hope to see you!"
"I cannot say but that you have acted by
me most kindly, most generously; but indeed,
indeed, it is better we should meet no more!"
She answered, "you may!"
He folded her to his bosom, and pressed his
lips upon her brow." Good night!" he said,
"remember to-morrow."
Alas! was it likely that she should forget it?
In the evening they met again-and this
gave rise to another, and another meeting,
Oberfeldt shunned rather than sought bringing
matters to a crisis; for he felt that, in the first
instance, the decision would have gone against
him. He exerted all his powers to attract, to
soften, to engage her heart. He saw plainly
that the road to her conquest was through her
affections, and for these he strove.
Poor Mabel, although she still struggled,
might be considered as already lost. Let not
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
11
the reader smile at the slenderness of the
virtue that could be undermined in the course
of one week. But let him reflect, that there
are many circumstances under which the actu-
al space of time is increased tenfold in power;
that these few days to Mabel were as much as
wecks, or months, under combinations less
peculiar.
During these days, her public tasks became
irksome and odious to her, in the last degree.
Oberfeldt kept away from these exhibitions;
and, since her acquaintance with him, she felt
doubly their degradation. Her heart grew sick,
as she came forward to dance before the rabble;
the feeble smile faded from her lip, as she at-
tempted to sing as she was accustomed; her
mind reverted to her evening interviews with
Oberfeldt, and she shrank at the contrast be-
tween her situation at the two periods, respect-
ively. This again led her thoughts to what
she might be; and when the music of her
companions struck to call her again to the
dance, she shuddered as she reflected upon
what she was.
but should you prove false hereafter, what. pro-
tection have I?"
“The lack of all protection is surely the
strongest of any. You will have cast your
whole destiny into my keeping; wo to me if I
prove an unfaithful steward!”
Wo, indeed!" said Mabel; "such a deed
would, in truth, deserve it!" Her voice was
hollow while she spoke these words, and a stern
light for a moment burned within her eyes, as
though to indicate how they could flash, if they
were fired by indignation. But she looked up
into the face of Oberfeldt, and the expression
which she read there renewed all the softer
feelings in her breast.
"And can you think, Mabel, I would act
thus-and to you?"
66
No, no! I cannot think aught of you that
bears the semblance of ill. You have pitied
the poor outcast orphan; you have regarded
the wandering Bohemian as though she were
worthy to be classed among human creatures;
you have spoken in the language of courtesy
and kindness to one who has been accustomed
only to the expression of brutal scorn, or of an-
other feeling more brutal still; I cannot think
that the same bosom can be treacherous and
cruel!"
Still she was undecided; she felt that no-
thing could compensate for the loss of self-re-
spcct; she was sensible that the path of duty
led her to part from Oberfeldt forever. Thus
she reasoned when they were asunder. But As Mabel spoke these words, her counte-
when they met,-the sound of his voice modu-nance kindled into a degree of beauty which
lated to affection's key; the gaze of his pas-
sionate eyes, in which fervor and fondness
equally mingled, changed at once the complex-
ion of her thoughts; and all was hope, and
confidence, and love.
"The fair ends to-morrow," said the Count,
"the time is come, Mabel, when we must part,
or be united, forever! The season of doubt
and delay is past. The fate of both of us hangs
upon your next word; I almost dread to hear it
spoken. And yet I cannot bring myself to
doubt its import. Oh! Mabel, at a moment
like this all words are weak; I cannot find ex-
pression for the thoughts which crowd upon me
for utterance; my heart chokes me-
Mabel did not speak; but the tears flowed
fast and heavy down her face; and she suffered
Oberfeldt to enfold her within his bosom unre-
proved. The thought of rudely tearing away
this fairy vision forever-of returning to her
former life after the delicious witchery of the
week which was just closing--was more than
her resolution was equal to. Thus is it ever
with the tumults of a forbidden passion. They
break through our habits of occupation, (our
surest safeguard against them); they unsettle
our mind; they render every thing vapid and
distasteful in the comparison. In the case of
Mabel, there were circumstances to occasion
just repugnance towards the usual course of
life; and they operated but too strongly in af-
fording a foil to the brilliant temptations which
glittered before her eyes.
"Alas!" she said, "what security can I have
that it will be as you say! I do not distrust
your sincerity now; I am willing to believe
that what you promise you mean to perform;
Oberfeldt had never witnessed before. The
expression of gratitude and affection first shed
its beautiful tints upon it; these were overcast
for a moment by a cloud of disgust and scorn,
as she referred to the indignities to which her
past life exposed her; from which again her
lovely and eloquent face beamed forth in all
the majesty of noble confidence and undoubting
faith.
"There is a fiery spirit within," thought
Oberfeldt, as he gazed upon her in admira-
tion; "but it inclines to lofty and honorable
issues. It will need care to guide; but, or I
mistake her greatly, its character is that of the
generous ardor of the high-spirited horse, not
the headstrong wilfulness of the vicious jade.
Most surely, this creature was never meant for
a Bohemian !”
Perhaps at this moment he experienced more
than he had ever done, what, without abuse of
words, may fairly be termed warm and tender
feelings of affection towards Mabel.
"No!"
he exclaimed, and he pressed her to his heart
as he spoke; "you commit yourself to my ho-
nor, and you never shall find it fail; you trust
your destiny in my hands, and again I say,
Evil be my lot when I betray my trust!"
The next morning saw them on their way to
Oberfeldt.
12
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
CHAPTER IV.
"Il arrivera, je crois, une époque quelconque ou l'on don-
nera une attention sérieuse à l'education que les femmes
doivent recevoir
Ce que reussit aux unes perd les
autres; les qualités leur nuisent quelquefois les défauts
leur servent; tantot elles sont tout, tantot ellos ne sont
rien.
MME. DE STALL.
As few changes could be more sudden, so
none could be more complete, than that in the
condition of Mabel. From a life of wandering
and of want, she was laid at once in the lap of
luxury; from being slighted and despised, she
found herself the object of all the eager and
affectionate attention which springs from the
first hours of indulged passion. Oberfeldt who,
in the first instance, had sought only for some-
thing to fill the vacuum in his mind, found his
heart warmly touched, and every feeling of in-
tellectual interest called into full play. Their
mutual attachment seemed daily to increase.
Oberfeldt gave, more and more, the reins to his
inclinations; and the loving disposition and
ardent mind of Mabel had now an object to
cling to, and to love. Besides the advanta-
ges which, naturally, would render the Count
a person fitted strongly to call forth her feel-
ings of admiration and of tenderness; besides
the fact that he was her first love' he was,
from the position in which they stood to each
other, all her world in one. Her thoughts
had no other subject to rest on; her feelings
were excited by him alone. His intellectual
powers, and the brilliancy of their cultivation,
caused her to look up to and admire him, at
the same time, that their exercise gave her di-
rect gratification by the excitation and the ali-
ment which they afforded to her own mind.
The constant tenderness and kindness of his
manner towards her called forth her fond gra-
titude; the ardor of affection which he evinced
gave rise to a far more than corresponding pas-
sion. Those fiery properties of her character
that Oberfeldt had shrewdly discerned, as yet,
served only to render her love for him more
strong and fervent. No heart, indeed, could be
more formed to be actuated by the impulses of
a passionate attachment than that of Mabel.
The evil and the good of her disposition alike
make her feelings strong, single, and engross-
ing; sensitively alive to kindness; kindling to
a blaze at insult; stern and even fierce at the
infliction of wrong. The love of such a heart
is among the most ardent and overwhelming of
human affections; what its darker passions
may be, it is beside my purpose, at this mo-
ment, to inquire.
The first endeavor of the Count, with regard
to Mabel, was to give her mind that cultivation
and polish which literary acquisitions can alone
confer,—and which one who was newly come
from a long residence at the court of Louis
XIV. was likely to appreciate so well. The
task of directing, and witnessing the effects of,
the studies of such a person was one of the
highest curiosity and interest. The contrast
between the ripeness and vivacity of her natu
ral understanding, and the lack of acquired
knowledge, gave rise to points equally new and
striking.
In Mabel, the maturity of mind and of heart
had both taken place; and it was a soil thus
prepared that education was now to till. Its
productions would thence, naturally, be very
different from those of instruction beginning
when both understanding and feelings are in
the uninformed and flexible state of infancy.
Things which a child takes upon trust, gave
rise, in Mabel, to a series of inquiries and rea-
sonings that Oberfeldt often found it very diffi
cult to satisfy. Frequently, also, the unyielding
condition of her mind led her to resist the con
clusions ordinarily admitted from given premi
ses, and to draw from them deductions of her
own. The developed state of her affections was
also sensibly felt. Instead of the representa-
tions of passion and of feeling tending, as in
younger persons, to the direction and formation
of her own, she had already a standard of com-
parison within, whereby to measure them.
There was another circumstance, also, which
operated very materially upon her education;
and yet it is one that I find difficult to do more
than allude to. Mabel was fallen from that
which is the point of honor in her sex. The
value and beauty of female purity had, perhaps,
never been fully displayed to her imagination.
But still that (almost instinctive) consciousness
of virtue, if not of delicacy, which exists in ev-
ery female mind, had in hers been strong and
vivid though,-not being founded on the rock
of Principle, it had sunk before the storm of
Passion. And now, though there were many
circumstances that tended to blind her to her
degradation, in the inmost recesses of her soul
she felt it still. And every now and then, in
the midst of the blandishments of love, and the
contrast of enchantment between her present
and her former condition of life,—the irrepres
sible pang of shame would shoot across her
heart, and embitter the cup of happiness which
sparkled at her lip.
Of this Oberfeldt was aware; and he, con-
sequently, found it a task of no slight difficulty
to cull for her works that would not jar upon
her feelings on this point--and yet, which were
not objectionable for faults of the contrary na-
ture. The latter, indeed, he shunned with an
anxiety rendered more acute from the fact of
his having led her astray. Virtue being gone,
he was the more scrupulously desirous that del-
icacy should remain. On the other hand, the
books which he was most willing that she
should read, could not fail occasionally to pre-
sent passages, which were a reproach both to
her and to him-which set before her her fal-
len state, and drew, now the tears of shame into
the eyes, and now the flush of angry and im-
penitent remorse into her burning cheek.
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
13
CHAPTER V.
Are not these woods
More free from peril thun the envious court?
SHAKSPEARE.
In this manner eighteen months rolled away.
The Count and Mabel lived very nearly alone;
for Oberfeldt, who had mixed but little with his
neighbours since his return from France, now
estranged himself from them almost entirely.
For obvious reasons, their visits were now ad-
ditionally unpleasant. The real situation in
which Mabel stood at Oberfeldt could not long
remain unknown-and to be, or to fancy her-
self to be, despised by those whom she despised,
was indeed wormwood to a spirit of pride like
hers. Her former mortifications, incidental to
her condition as a Bohemian, had arisen from
the general stigma belonging to her race. It
did not attach to herself individually; on the
contrary, she had the inward consciousness
that she deserved to be an exception from the
common estimation of her people-that, in her
instance at least, it was undeserved. But now
she felt that, if she was condemned, it was for
her personal errors; her conscience now took
part against her, instead of being a source of
consolation and pride.
In the mean time Mabel continued to im-
prove-much in person, very much in mind.
Her form expanded, and became more marked
and set. Without losing any of the freedom of
her carriage, she acquired more dignity. Her
brow bespoke increased decision and self-reli-
ance-her eyes now beamed with the light of
knowledge. As Oberfeldt gazed upon her per-
son of ripening loveliness, and witnessed her
rapid progress in intellectual accomplishment,
his heart dilated with pride, as he mentally ex-
claimed, "Eighteen months ago this radiant
creature was a wandering Bohemian! What
she has now become is my work!-But it is
not completed yet-"
"Mabel," said he to her, one day that these
thoughts were passing through his mind, "I
am not fulfilling my duty towards you;--our
life here has been to me the source of such
sweet happiness--happiness I never knew, nor
believed in till now--that it has lulled me into
forgetfulness of all beside. But we must re-
main here no longer. At first, I was your suf-
ficient instructer-but you have some talents I
cannot cultivate. It is sad to seek change,
when what is is so delightful. But it must be,
Mabel; we must go to Dresden."
"Alas! I had dreaded this!" she answered;
"I knew the time must come; and yet I had
driven the thought from me as often as it re-
curred. Dear Oberfeldt! and must we break
through all our daily habits, which have twined
themselves around our very hearts; at least
round my heart; till it will be like parting from
friends to lose them? We have been so hap-
py here that I dread all change. Here we
have lived with and for each other alone. But
in the bustle and splendour of the capital and
the court, it cannot be thus. Others will share
your thoughts and steal much of your time from
me. But your heart, Adrian? I need not; I
do not fear for that !".
It was fixed that they should go to Dresden;
that Mabel might receive those instructions
which none but artists can give. Her
talents for music the Count appreciated at their
just rate; and he determined that they should
have the advantage of full cultivation. Dres-
den was, at this period, probably the most bril-
liant court in Europe after that of Versailles.
It was in the earlier part of the reign of the
celebrated Augustus, King of Poland; while he
was still in the vigour of his youth; and before
adversity had laid her hand upon him.
It was not without many pangs that Mabel
left the Castle of Oberfeldt. What a change
had been wrought in her since she had come
thither first! what a multitude of emotions and
of thoughts had she experienced during the
months she had passed there ! All her recol-
lections of this place were connected with the
tenderest affections of the human soul.
On the evening before they were to leave
Oberfeldt, the Count and Mabel strolled out
together upon the turfen terrace which skirted
two sides of the old castle. Between the huge
buttresses which, at given intervals, protruded
from the line of the wall, were beds of flowers,
of which a portion were trained against the
wall itself. It was late in the spring, and the
day had been one of those which that season
sometimes steals from the fulness of summer,
and which possess double charms from their in-
frequency. The sun was resting his disk upon
the surface of the river, with hues far warmer
and richer than he ordinarily possesses so early
in the year, and the soft breeze from the south
seemed to bear upon its wings the breath of
June.
Mabel's heart was heavy in her bosom; she
leaned on Adrian's arm, and walked in silence.
When they came to the extremity of the ter-
race they paused, and gazed together upon the
scene beneath. It was a peculiar one. On
each side were hills, inconsiderable in height,
but, from their nearness to each other, and the
rapidity of their slope, entirely shutting out the
country beyond. In front, at the distance of
about a quarter of a mile, was a thick and
tufted wood, consisting chiefly of oaks and
horse-chestnuts, whose tops mingled into a
dense mass of foliage, while below, their stems
allowed vistas, here and there, into the green
recesses of the wood. The space thus enclosed
between the wood, the two hills, and the castle,
was a little valley, covered with singularly rich
and deep verdure; and with one, and only one,
tree, about the centre of its extent. This was
a thorn, extraordinary from its size, and of pe-
culiar beauty of outline. Beneath that tree the
Count and Mabel had, the preceding summer,
passed many hours together, and it was en-
deared to her by a thousand recollections of the
14
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
heart. Its arched and overshadowing branches,
bending nearly to the ground, had, together
with its being her constant haunt, gained it the
appellation of "Mabel's Bower." One even-
ing, in particular, when the trec was laden with
its fragrant and beautiful blossoms, Oberfeldt
had intertwisted a garland of them in Mabel's
hair, and, in allusion to Antoine Hamilton's
fairy tale, then in all the vogue of its first suc-
cess, called her Fleur-d'Epine, a name by
which, in moments of fond playfulness, he often
addressed her still!
I make no apology for the apparently trivial
minuteness of these details. Many and many
a heart has felt the real strength and value of
such as these, before mine, or yours, reader,
ever beat; many and many a heart will do so,
after ours shall be cold.
At least Mabel's did; as she gazed upon this
dear spot, with all that increased tenderness
which the feelings of departure never fail to
call forth. "Shall I ever see my bower again,
Adrian?" she said, with a long deep sigh, as
they stood looking upon the young leaves of the
budding tree-"Oh! how I love this spot!".
she continued, with a burst of that energy
which so often broke forth in her manner-"It
is to me what the threshold of the paternal
roof is to others--I had no paternal roof-we
led a life of wandering-I never knew the
dear ties of home, till I came here, Oberfeldt,"
and her voice varied from the tone of gloom
and bitterness with which she still alluded to
her former life, to one of the most melting and
enthralling fondness, and she clung closer to
his arm, and looked up, as only woman can look,
into his face, as she added, "May I not indeed
call it my home, dear Adrian?"
"Your home, Mabel? Where else but in
my dwelling should your home be? Ah, Ma-
bel, I never knew till you taught it me, what
home might be made. I had lived in a society
where all its soft and gentle charities are
mocked and scoffed at; and I had learned to
place its happiness among the dreams of poets,
and the visions of romance. But you, Mabel,
have shown to me that all the brilliancies of
the world, and all the splendours of the court,
shrink into nothing before the touch of real
affection;
their cold-blooded wit, their sneers,
their sarcasms, are all hushed at once by one
whisper of the voice of the heart! Yes, dear
Mabel, I too love this spot; dearly, deeply love
it; where indeed should your home be but in
your own bower?"
"It seems," continued Mabel, gazing on the
thorn till the tears rose into her eyes, "it
seems to have bedecked itself with its new
leaves, as though to bid me farewell! you can-
not crown me Fleur-d'Epine this year; and the
next-heaven knows what may happen before
bloomed a second time. And when we do re-
turn, the very first day we will come down to
this spot, and you shall bid me welcome to
your bower."
"I shall not forget the tryst-" said Mabel,
And she did not.
CHAPTER VI.
And then he gave prodigious fetes-
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates
To gaze upon his splendid court,
And demes, and chiefs, of princely port.
BYRON.
AUGUSTUS I., Elector of Saxony, and King of
Poland, was, at the time of which I write, in the
flower of his age, and at the climax of his for-
tune and reputation. His early successes had
not yet been tarnished and eclipsed by his re-
verses before the dominant star of Charles XII.
Young, ardent. licentious, gifted with quick and
bright talents by nature, and polished by edu.
cation, his tastes and qualities alike conduced
to his surrounding himself with a court, bril-
liant, gay, and voluptuous. Accordingly, in the
scandalous chronicles of the day, (always ex.
cepting the Court of France,) no one figures so
often and so prominently as Augustus.
It was to a court thus corrupt, and ruled over
by a prince such as I have described Augustus
to be, that Oberfeldt now brought Mabel.
One evening Oberfeldt was about to attend
a great fête that was to be given at court; and,
after he was dressed, he remained loitering with
Mabel, before he went. She gazed on him in
silence, with that deep, soft, sensation of admi-
ration which suffuses the whole soul as we look
upon a loved object in the hour of the pride of
beauty. And such it was now with Oberfeldt.
He had all the advantages of dress; his fine
form was displayed: his cheek was bright with
the glow of full manhood, and his dark eyes
beamed with the radiant expression of uncheck-
ed and overflowing fondness. It is indeed at
such moments as these that love seems to pos-
sess some power like that of the fabled cestus;
when the features mantle with affection, they
do exhibit a degree of beauty superadded to
their own. It is the soul's loveliness reflected
in the corporeal frame.
Mabel had been singing; her guitar hung
loose from her neck; one hand gently rested
on it, and the other drooped by her side. Her
eyes were fixed on Adrian, and she remained
silent. As the lamp shed its rays upon her
face, where the feelings which passed through
her mind were manifest, the Count thought he
had never beheld a creature so lovely; he felt
that he had never (but once) loved any one as
"Why, Mabel," returned the Count, "you he loved her; he felt that he had never been
talk as though we were setting out on a voy-beloved as he was now. "I wish to heaven,"
age of years, instead of a journey to Dresden Oberfeldt said at last, "that I were not obliged
we shall be here again before your tree has to go to the palace to-night. You have changed
then!"
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
15
my nature, Mabel," he added smiling, and, says that in your own mansion exactly such a
stretching out his hand kindly as he spoke~ | Phoenix is caged. Prithee, who is this fair in-
"You have made me love nothing but home."
The truth of what he said was stamped upon
his brow. Mabel did not affect any common-
place disclaimer.
"Dear Adrian," she murmured, as she twined
her long fingers around his, and a world of love
was breathed in those brief accents. All the
softer ingredients of her nature, were at this
moment, uppermost; and the softness of a soul,
to which sternness is at times no stranger, is
probably the most enthralling and delightful or
all the moods of womanly feeling. "I know
not," said Oberfeldt, "why it is, but I feel a
strange disinclination to-night to leave you.
This quiet room, and your sweet voice, and
our books and daily occupations, I grieve to
quit them for the glare and bustle of the Court,
where all is noisy, and showy, and false, and
heartless. Ah! Mabel, one touch of real na-
ture is worth all the gaud and glitter that ever
shone in a palace! But I must go. Good night,
sweet love; my heart remains with you."
་
cognita? Do you bring her from the banks of
the Seine, a Gallic Helen to console her Paris
for returning to his dull Troy? Report speaks
her beautiful as Fontanges and gifted as Ninon.
It was but yesterday that my kapel-meister
told me he never had a pupil with so enchant-
ing a voice; and he spoke of her beauty in a
manner that might have made you jealous,
Oberfeldt."
There was much in this speech highly gal-
ling to Adrian's feelings; and he muttered an
inward curse upon the chattering musician who
had thus excited the King's curiosity. There
was a lightness in the tone with which Augus-
tus spoke of the woman he loved, which was,
to Oberfeldt, what many of us must have felt
it to be, one of the most irritating things in the
world, when circumstances prevent our crush-
ing the impertinence in an instant. In this
case, the privileges of royalty compelled Adrian
to swallow the bitter pill as best he might, and
even to affect ease, if not gayety, in his an-
sigh|swer:-
As the door closed behind him, a deep
struggled from Mabel's lips. Even in such brief
partings as these, the contrast between the
feelings of her who is left, and of him who
leaves, is extreme. The heaviness is all with
her.
Oberfeldt arrived at the palace. The band
had just finished playing a piece of music of
Luill's, beautiful in itself, and, in those days,
considered the ne plus ultra of art, when the
king came up to Oberfeldt, and said to him,
"Does your Parisian composer, Count, bear
transplanting to our Gothic Saxony? Do you
recognise these as the same notes to which you
listened at Versailles?" The Count made an
appropriate answer, asserting as was the truth,
that such execution was worthy of any music,
be it what it might.
"But 1 hear," continued the King, "that the
new opera, concerning which the whole world
is running wild in France, cannot be produced
here. It is of a nature that requires the as-
sistance of the theatre, both as to the drama
and as to the scenery; for the music, as I am
told, depends, in a great measure, for its effect
on the situations and on the acting. My di-
rector informs me that they have no person in
the troop who is at once sufficiently an actress
and a singer to undertake the chief woman's
part. It demands, as they tell me, a person,
young, beautiful, with an exquisite voice, and
considerable musical knowledge, with great
grace of deportment, and dramatic powers of no
ordinary kind. Know you where such a per-
son might be found, Count Oberfeldt?"
The look with which the king accompanied
these words, proved to Adrian that his meaning
glanced at Mabel. He contented himself with
saying, "Such qualities, Sire, are, indeed, sel-
dom to be found conjoined.”
"But they are sometimes," replied the king.
"Come, come, Cant," he continued, smiling,
"it is vain to affect unconsciousness. Fame
"Your majesty must make allowance for the
exaggerations of rumor.
exaggerations of rumor. There is a young
person under my protection, who has some
share of beauty, and is not devoid of accom-
plishment; but both these circumstances are
very possible, without her being the Phoenix
your Majesty has been pleased to paint; and,
if there be no person among your Majesty's
comedians, confessedly the best in Germany,
capable of representing the heroine of this new
opera, assuredly it were vain to expect it from
one so young and so untutored as my protogee."
66
Young, I grant it," said the king, "but I
question much as to her being so untutored.
What! the fastidious Count Oberfeldt, with
his ideas formed upon the model of Versailles,
never can have a protogee (if that be the word)
unpolished and unformed. Moreover, the ka-
pel-meister said he had gathered, when he first
attended this fair siren, that it was your object
to have her instructed for the stage. Was this
so, Count?"
A second, deeper and direr curse, did Ober-
feldt invoke upon the kapel-meister's head.
Such, as I have mentioned, had indeed been
his original intention; but it had been gradu-
ally fading from his mind, and now, recalled
thus suddenly, and from such a quarter, it jar-
red upon it with extreme pain. He foresaw
all the consequences of an affirmative, yet to a
direct question how could he answer falsely?
He sought refuge in evasion; and, as usual, he
incurred the guilt, without obtaining the ob-
ject, of falsehood.
"As yet, Sire, she is not fitted for such an
undertaking."
"Come, Count, a short time more or less
can make but slight difference, if she be but
the tithe of what she has been represented to
me. And, to speak plainly, you would oblige
me if your would give the assistance of this
young person's talents to the production of the
16
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
opera of which I have spoken. It shall be
brought out at my own theatre here in the
palace; and you may take what time you
think fit in its preparation, only let it be set
about in carnest and at once. I will desire the
director to wait upon you to-morrow on the
subject." So saying, and without waiting for
an answer, the King turned away.
The distress of Oberfeldt was extreme.
Once having admitted, as, by inference he
could not avoid doing, that he had intended
Mabel for the stage, he felt that it was im-
possible to avoid compliance with the King's
desire.
He knew well the King's fondness for wo-
men; and he saw plainly that the passion for
music was here but the cloak; that the real
object was to see, himself, this person, the ac-
count of whose beauty had been sufficient to
inflame his imagination. Oberfeldt had not the
shadow of a doubt of Mabel's faith and truth;
but he wisely, as well as naturally, shrank from
exposing her to any solicitations, to say nothing
of their being from a royal wooer. And be-
sides this, his feelings for Mabel had, of late
become so domestic that it galled him even to
expose her to the view of an assembled audi-
ence, on the stage.
"Fool that I was," said Oberfeldt to him-
self, as he paced his way homewards; "I might
have foreseen this when I brought her to
Dresden; and yet then I voluntarily intended
it myself! Strange, contradictory beings that
we are when passion sways us! But it is vain
tó moralize; Le vin est tiré! il faut le boire.
And now to break it to Mabel.”
CHAPTER VII.
Je n'ai pu lui parler qu'avec saisissement:
Que j'etais penetre que je la trouve belle!"
GRESSET-Le Mechant.
WHEN Oberfeldt arrived at home, he found
Mabel still up, awaiting his return. She was
in her dressing-room, wrapped in a morning-
gown, and, as he entered, was murmuring,
rather than singing, to the low accompaniment
of her guitar. He paused to gaze on her; he
had scarcely ever seen her look so lovely!
Her hair was bound up in a silk net, through
the interstices of which its richfulness swelled,
while in front it was plainly parted, which
gave to her brow an expression at once sim-
ple and picturesque. Her cheek seemed paler
then usual; but this only caused the con'rast
of her dark eyes and rich red lips to be more
pronounced and beautiful. The wrapping-gown
enfolded her figure almost completely; but it
had partly slipped from the right shoulder,
as she held her guitar, and revealed a partial
glimpse of the unspeakable beauty of her bo-
som. Her delicate foot rested in a furred slip-
|
per, so small and shapely that one would swear
the celebrated glass one of the nursery-tale
would have fitted her with ease. The notes
died upon her lips as she saw Oberfeldt enter;
and, with a smile, which irradiated the whole
expression of a face already of surpassing love-
liness, she stretched out her hand to welcome
him home.
"What, not yet gone to rest, Mabel? Why
it is almost three."
I could not rest till you came, dear Adrian;
and I have been sitting here with my guitar
whiling away the time. I scarcely thought it
had been so late; I have been practising that
new song you liked so much to-day, and which
I could not conquer; I have it quite perfect
now; shall I sing it you?"
"No, dearest, not now," answered Oberfeldt,
with a deep sigh, while a cloud gathered over
his brow; "I could not bear to hear you sing
just now; I alınost wish you could not sing at
all!"
"What do you mean dear Adrian? and what
has happened? I see something has distressed
you. What is it, dear, dear Adrian, tell me?"
"Nothing of moment; I cannot speak of it
now."
Nay, dearest, why not now, while it op-
presses you? I shall think myself robbed of
my right unless you confide your vexations to
me."
"Mabel," said the Count, though scarcely
in answer, "have we not been happy of late?"
Why do you ask? You know we have;
happy in the extreme; almost too happy?"
46
Too happy, indeed, for it to last. Mabel,
our quiet studies, and lonely walks, and peace-
ful evenings, must all have an end. I may no
longer hang upon your voice while you sing to
me, nor look up into your speaking face as
read to you from your favourite volumes; in
short, we can no longer be the whole world to
one another, as we have been of late; the
world without; curses be on it! has fastened
its gripe upon us; we must live for that also !"
"And wherefore? If you do not wish it;
and you speak as though you did not; wherefore
should we change that life you say you love so
well, and which is so very dear to ine? Dear
Adrian, what is the world to us? We never
needed it at Oberfeldt; we were not contented
merely, but happy, most happy, in ourselves;
and here, when you have been compelled to go
into the world, it has always been with reluc-
tance, and you have always seemed to enjoy
our dear home doubly when you returned;
Unless your own wishes have changed, why
should aught else? What new claims can the
world have acquired over us in the space of
one night!"
"It has acquired none; but it has asserted
those it already possessed. Those who dwell
in courts, Mabel, are not free to follow the dic-
tates of their own wishes: God knows mine
have not changed; never, never were they so
strongly and fondly bent towards the continu-
ance of our life such as it has been of late, as
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
17
at this moment. But it cannot be; Mabel, the
king has heard of you."
"Heard of me! and what can he have heard
of me that can in any way influence our mode
of life? What has the King to do with it?"
Alas, much! everything. Listen ;" and
Oberfedlt detailed to her the conversation
which had passed between him and the King
that evening.
Mabel received this communication in per-
fect silence; but her feelings were tumultuous
within. As it had been with her lover, so
with her the idea of her appearing upon the
stage had, by degrees, passed from before her
mind. Her studies had originally been prose-
cuted with that object distantly in view; but,
latterly, they had been followed for their own
sake; for her own enjoyment, and that of Ober-
feldt. The subject of the stage had not been
alluded to between them for months; on the
contrary, the tone of Oberfeldt's conversation
had virtually, though not expressly, treated the
idea as one that had been abandoned. And
probably there never had been a moment dur-
ing the whole of their intercourse at which its
revival would have been so painfully unwel-
come. Their affection had never been so
thoroughly imbued with that tenderness, which
above all sensations, shrinks from the interven-
tion of the garish world. Her thoughts were
forcibly rolled back; the fabric of happiness
which existed, not in hope merely, but in actu-
al possession, crumbled from her in an instant;
her heart was chilled. A thousand fond re-
grets and tender feelings crowded over her
inind as Oberfeldt spoke; and as he narrated
the King's final command, her heart failed her
altogether; she threw herself upon her lover's
busom and sobbed unrestrainedly.
When her head sank upon Oberfeldt's breast,
feelings the most tumultuous struggled within
her; before she raised it, her mind had ac-
quired the calmness of resolution; she had
summoned her stronger faculties to her aid;
she saw it was inevitable; she "screwed her
courage to the sticking place:" her determina-
tion was formed; and, with one deep sigh to
bid farewell to the visions which had flitted
from her grasp, she raised herself from Ober-
feldt's arms, and said to him, with a firm voice,
"Since it must be so, Adrian, it shall be done
cheerfully. This is the last weakness you shall
witness in me regarding it. I will exert my-
self in earnest, and without repining. You
have been only too kind to me, Oberfeldt; too
good; too considerate; you have forgotten
what I really am, and that has caused me to
forget it myself."
"Do not say that, dearest," interrupted Ober-
feldt, drawing her to his bosom, as he spoke
"I have never ceased to remember that you are
the most beautiful, the most gifted, and more,
far more, the most affectionate and the most
beloved of human beings. This is what you
really are; what I have never forgotten, what
I never can forget."
“Ah, Adrian!” she replied, with a smile that
was half a sigh, "your flattering tongue will
never forsake you; but it is the flattery of af-
fection, and that indeed is bewitching. But I
must not think of these things now; 1 must
rouse myself to real exertion, that your pupil
may not disgrace you. Come," she added,
fondly, "I will sing to you the song you
praised to-day, to show you I have mastered it
for you. You will not say again, you wish I
could not?".
"No! dearest," said the Count, and he
kissed her brow. And she sang. The words
adapted to the air may be rendered as follows:
they smack of the fondness of conceit and point
common at the period-but the taste was then
common, and they were, therefore, not the less
relished on that account:
Music is always sweet-but, oh!
When loved lips sing,
Like ring-doves' notes the measures flow-
Love's murmuring.
Music is always sweet-but, when
A dear one hears;
"Tis like the sounds which pious men
Name of the spheres!
Music's the shape Prometheus formed
Of loveliest fashion-
And Love's the fire by which 'twas warm'd
To life and passion!
The next day the preparations began for Ma-
bel's appearance. Once it was determined that
it was to be, the Count resolved to throw no
unnecessary impediments in the way. He only
stipulated that Mabel should not be required to
rehearse in public; but, that the director should
come to her at home, to go through the neces-
sary repetitions. With the impurities of the
coulisse, he was determined that Mabel should
not be contaminated; and she remained, con-
sequently, as much, or more, secluded up to the
very time of her appearance.
The Count's anxiety took also another direc-
tion. As Mabel was to act and to sing, his ar-
dent desire was, that her success should be more
dazzling and transcendent than anything that
had been witnessed in Dresden. Fair and good
success he spurned-if it was not everything,
it was nothing; and the powers of Mabel gave
him just ground for expecting success equal
even to his wishes. Since he witnessed the
representation at the fair at Leipzig, which had
struck him, with all his Parisian exclusiveness
of ideas, as one of the most extraordinary de-
lineations he had ever beheld, Mabel had be-
come nearly three years older, and those years
been devoted to the unremitted cultivation of
natural parts thus brilliant. Her mind was now
stored with the master-pieces of the great
writers of the Great age, as the French then
chose to style it; musical knowledge had been
added to musical taste and power; and her
voice had, with her increasing years, become
richer, more flexible, and of greater compass;
sweeter it could not be.
She now gave up all the energies of her
strong and active mind to her new undertaking.
In addition to the ardent desire of success,
3
18
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
which every sanguine temperament must ex-
perience, she saw how deeply Oberfeldt's feel-
ings were implicated in the matter, and this
consciousness gave her exertions double fer-
vour.
CHAPTER VIII.
Il faut se rendre a ce palais magique
Ou les beaux vers, la danse, la musique,
L'art de tromper les yeux par los couleurs,
L'art plus heureux de seduire los cœurs,
De cent plaisirs font un plaisir unique
VOLTAIRE.
Though Mabel had been trained among those
whose ideas and habits were equally lax, and
had never had principle instilled into her mind
in her early years; yet the sensation, almost
instinctive, of shame, which follows a woman's THE night of her debût at length arrived.
lapse from what, in her sex, is called, emphati- The whole Court was crowded into the theatre;
cally, Virtue, had constantly recurred to embit- for the secluded manner in which Mabel had
ter the happiness of even her happiest days. lived at Dresden-the occasional rare and
As her education proceeded, this feeling natu- brief glimpses which some few had obtained of
rally increased; for it is, indeed, almost impos-her-and the reports which had gained cur-
sible to read twenty pages of any author, ex-
cept those of severe science, without meeting
with some passage to excite that shame, and to
tinge the cheek with its blushes. The awk-
wardness arising from this cause, Oberfeldt, as
I have said, had keenly felt in choosing books
for Mabel; and it was wholly impossible to
avoid the occasionally lighting upon passages
painful to both.
Even'
rency, chiefly through the medium of her mas-
ters, of her extreme genius and accomplish-
ment, had alike contributed to raise expecta-
tion to its tiptoe pitch. As in all cases, mys-
tery increased interest-and, as in all cases,
the mystery itself was exaggerated by all man-
ner of vague and contradictory rumours.
the King had been able to obtain no satisfac
tory accounts of her. Eager admirer as he
This feeling of shame, therefore, though it was of beauty, and unceasingly as he sought
did not amount to remorse, had continued the excitement of novelty, his curiosity was
silently gathering strength in Mabel's mind; doubly raised by the difficulty he had found in
and it was probably the calm, equable, tenor of gratifying it-and this, in fact, had been the
their lives which had prevented its breaking chief motive tor his so strongly urging Ober-
forth. But now, she felt that she was to pre-feldt to fulfil his original resolution.
sent herself to the public gaze; and that every
eye which rested upon her would know her to
be that thing which she could not bear to name
even to herself.
Sometimes, indeed; very, very rarely, but
still sometimes; a remote and faint recollec-
tion that there was a method by which this cor-
roding worm could be quelled for ever, glanced
across the mind of Mabel. She never, indeed,
formed the thought into distinct words even in
her mind, that if she were Oberfeldt's wife, her
happiness would be unalloyed by shame, for
even yet she would not call it guilt. But still
the thought did sometimes rise unbidden, and
these occasions were the chief among those on
which the fiercer qualities of her disposition to,
which I have several times alluded, awoke, for
a moment, into life. It was true he had never,
even in the manner the most remote, held out
to her the prospect of marriage; he had not, in
the least, deceived her; but still she felt that
if he loved her as she loved him, all considera-
tions of birth and rank would vanish in a mo-
ment, and she would be his bride.
The piece in which she was to appear was,
as has already been hinted, an Opera which
had recently been produced at Paris, and was
now to be represented in Germany for the first
time. The subject fitted it peculiarly for the
introduction of music, and for the displays of
every kind which have since been generically
designated by the term spectacle. The scene
was laid in Peru, which was then, for the dra-
ma, untrodden ground-and the novelty of its
singular and picturesque costume, as well as
the splendour incidental to the sway of the In-
cas and the worship of the sun, rendered this
drama beyond measure striking and even start-
ling to the spectators. The story was one of
deep and tragic interest; and the character
which Mabel personified was eminently capa-
ble of displaying her great and varied powers.
When the curtain rose, the stage represented
the Temple of the Sun-how gorgeous that
representation can be made, we who, in these
days, have witnessed the performance of Pi-
zarro, can well judge. The altar was in the
centre of the stage, and before it the nuptials
of the Inca's daughter were in the act of cele-
bration.
Eagerly did the spectators turn their eyes to
the spot where Mabel stood, and never, per-
haps, did they alight upon a figure more beau-
tiful-certainly never upon one at once so fas-
cinating and so striking. She was, at this
time, something more than nineteen, and her
form had ripened into almost the maturity of
womanly beauty, while it retained all the fresh-
ness of earliest youth. She was tall-yet so
graceful was she, that it was ly when she
I would express the grander movements of the
J
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
19
|
soul that her full height was discernible. Her it was as the snow, "and fell to the earth as
limbs had the exquisite roundness of outline mute," as she stole towards the spot where the
which is necessary to confer that voluptuous- weapons of the sleeper lay. At every step,
ness without which the perfection of female the excitement of those who looked on grew
beauty cannot exist while they yet retained keener and deeper: they felt (as we have all
that degree of lengthiness (if I may be allowed felt at some acting) almost as though it were
the word) which is essential to grace, the their own lives which hung upon the event.
grace of motion especially. The peculiarities They held their breath as Mabel drew the
of the Peruvian costume tended to display her gleaming dagger-they shuddered as she slowly
beauty to its utmost advantage. Her raven pressed her finger to its point and edge, to try
hair seemed struggling, in its profusion, to its temper; and when, casting her eyes to
escape from the rich gems with which it was heaven as though to appeal to it that the deed
braided and confined-her arm of sculptured she did was just, she smote the sleeper to the
symmetry was bare almost to the shoulder, heart, a scream burst from the whole auditory,
while the light robe of feathers, which formed as though they had witnessed a real murder.
her dress, gave to full view her fairy foot and
the exquisite ankle above it. As she stood be-
fore the altar, her figure was in perfect repose
--her head drooped upon her breast, and her
eyes were downcast. The agitation natural
to her real situation befitted also her theatrical
one; the confusion of the debutante was not
unbecoming to the bride.
Her own death yet remained. She gazed
for a few moments on her victim-then raised
the dagger against herself. But it reeked, and
was dripping with the Spaniard's blood, and
from that, even in death, the Peruvian shrank.
She cast the weapon from her, but in vain she
sought another, still they were the Spaniard's.
At length, she seized her floating hair, and,
A few moments sufficed to convince the dividing it into two parts, twisted it round her
spectators that, with regard to beauty at least, throat; thus making it, like the Carthaginian
report had not exaggerated. They therefore women, a patriotic instrument of death, she
looked with the greater confidence to its reali- there held it, till the hold seemed uncon-
zation in other respects. Nor were they dis-sciously to relax, and she fell, without a groan,
appointed. In the softer scenes in the early upon her face.
part of the piece, her tenderness, her gentle-
ness, her deep devotion to her husband, were
pictured with such exquisite softness and such
fond love, that the sternest were melted, the
most envious admired. The tones of her voice
were so sweet as she spoke, that it was thought
singing could add to them no beauty; but
when she sang, the swelling sound sank so into
the soul, that it craved for the delight to be
prolonged, and wished the music never to be
changed again to speech.
But it was in the later scenes of the play,
where the interest deepened, and the distress
amounted almost to horror, that her full powers
were needed, and were displayed. Her unre-
served and almost frantic agony at hearing her
husband's death and the manner of it, was
strikingly contrasted by the firm, fixed, con-
contrated determination of her demeanour in
the scene in which she gives herself to the
Spaniard. The ghastly smile which she cast
upon him, as she placed her hand in his, and
the effort with which she suppressed the shud-
der which would have pervaded her at his
touch, were so perfect in their illusion as to
strike the spectators with a chilly dread, as
they awaited the result with doubt, and almost
with awe.
But, at the catastrophe the awe quickened
into terror-and well it might. As the scene
drew, she was standing near the couch of the
abhorred Spaniard. Her dress, now changed
to white, was loose and disordered-her long
hair streamed down her back, its jet black hue
in strong relief against it-her face, her very
lips, were ashy pale, while her fixed eye gleam-
ed with the fire of desperation and revenge.
Her foot was, or seemed to be, naked; white
The applause of the audience had been very
great at the commencement of the piece; but
latterly, it had been hushed under the interest
which the situation and its embodying excited.
But, after the curtain fell, and a few moments
had passed to relieve them from what was op-
pressive in that interest, their plaudits rang in
a peal of that full burst of sound, which be-
speaks so plainly unanimity and ardor of feel-
ing. Every one must have felt, who has been
present among a considerable body of people
at a moment of strong excitation, what an ex-
traordinary and entrancing effect the simulta-
neous manifestation of their sentiments exerts
upon our sympathies. We are literally carried
away by the force of the currrent, and our own
sentiments are increased tenfold by their being
thus reflected back to us from others. What,
then, must be the power of a burst of the nature
I have described, upon its object! It is scarcely
possible for any draught more intoxicating to be
proffered to the lip, and Mabel was not of a tem-
perament to feel such matters coldly. Yet, even
this token of success and tribute to her powers
was barely heeded; for as Oberfeldt hurried for-
ward to raise her from the boards, and spoke to
her a few words of that praise which is at once so
sweet and so strong from the lips of affection,
she forgot all else, and, throwing herself upon
his bosom, wept there. The heart will always
prove too strong for the vanity, under circum-
stances calculated to soften and to touch it-
that is, when the former is worthy of its name.
And thus it was now. The sweetest ingredient
in Mabel's triumph was that Oberfeldt witness-
ed and enjoyed it.
Mabel hurried home; the bow had been bent
to its full pitch for several hours, and needed
20
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
relaxation. The heat, and the lights, and the
fluctuating waves of faces, all turned towards
her, and intent upon her, to say nothing of the
violent physical fatigue which strong mental
exertion is sure to cause, had combined to make
her brain dizzy, and her eyes and temples to
ache-and she longed for quiet. They reached
the house of Oberfeldt. What a contrast did
the spacious and calm apartments, and all the
various luxuries indicative of seclusion and re-
pose, present to the glare and crowd of the the-
atre, before the curtain, and the heat, the con-
finement, the mingled gorgeousness and squa-
lor, behind it! There stood the harp to which
she was accustomed to sing-not to humor the
capricious taste of the multitude, and to gain
their heartless applauses-but to pour cut the
music of her own soul in song, and to gratify
the one whose approbation she valued beyond
the whole world. On the table lay still open
a volume of her ordinary studies, untouched
for some days from the engrossing nature of
her occupations latterly, but still typical of that
quiet course of elegant and cultivated life,
which now, alas! she had abandoned, or which
had abandoned her-forever!
CHAPTER IX.
* * * You could witness then
That I was precious in the eyes of men;
So, made by them a goddess, and denied
Respect and notice by the women's pride;
Hero scorn'd, there worshipp'd. *
* *
CRABBE.
| her disposition. She was compelled to hold
herself aloof, and to look upon approaches with
suspicion. This certainly contributed to call
into more frequent action those ingredients of
bitterness which had never been wholly eradi-
cated from her temperament. The admiration
she excited was sometimes of a humiliating na-
ture: her disdain had often in it a mixture of mor-
tification, and what can be so painful as this?
The first attack of this kind that was carried
sufficiently far to excite these feelings to an
outbreak was from the King himself. He found
that rumor had spoken too feebly rather than
too loud, concerning her; and he at once mark-
ed her as his prey. Extravagantly devoted to
women, little scrupulous either of who was the
object, or what were the means of his pursuit;
and, above all, a royal wooer, Augustus seldom
had reason to complain of the cruelty of those
for whom he sighed :-
Lightly from fair to fair he flew
And loved to plead, lament, and suc;-
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain!
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain;*
and, in addition to the advantages he derived
from his situation, his personal attractions were
great, and his experience in the "commerce des
femmes" was unbounded.
was unbounded. Without any hesi-
tation, therefore, and with but little precaution,
were his advances made to Mabel.
ing with which she recoiled from the King's
touch, were in strong and admirable contrast
with the expression of his worldly, but hand-
some, features. Surprise, and a touch of mor-
tification, and a slight sneer of mingled, or
rather alternate, incredulity of her high and
pure motives, and quiet, profligate, contempt
for them, if they did exist-such were the sen-
sations which his countenance presented.
There could scarcely, indeed, be a finer
scene for the contemplation of a student of char-
acter, or for the study of a painter, than the
scornful and indignant rejection by Mahel, of
the propositions made to her by Augustus in
terms very little measured. The flashing of the
MABEL's career continued. The success of passionate eye, the heaving of the indignant
her first appearance was but a prelude to a rep-breast, the lip of unspeakable scorn and loath-
utation the most splendid and unrivalled. The
master-pieces of Racine were produced for the
purpose of her personating his heroines; and
the operas of that time were almost too limited
for the due exhibition of her musical powers.
She would occasionally introduce into them
some of those simple ballads, accompanied only
by her own guitar, which first had charmed
Oberfeldt, and to which he always recurred
with fondness and delight in the midst of her
more elaborate acquirements. She became the
rage; and those who have witnessed one of
those sudden bursts of celebrity, which have
attended successful efforts in our own days, can
form an idea of all that is included in the term.
It is not to be supposed that so great an al-
teration in her habits of life had no effect upon
a character not yet fully developed. On the
contrary, it operated upon it much. In the first
place, the necessary firmness and self-posses-
sion under the public gaze tended to brush
away the finer particles of perfect delicacy of
mind, and, to a certain degree, to indurate her
whole nature. Her mind was altogether of too
proud and high an order for her to be soiled by
the corruption she witnessed around her; but
the very habit of repelling that (and it was
much) which she deemed unworthy, undoubt-
edly had an effect the contrary of adding soft-
ness, or confiding warmth and tenderness to
"Moderate a little of your scorn, belle en-
ragée," said the King; "I meant not to excite
it, I pray you, for the stage-such scenes befit
such a display of virtuous indignation. Reserve
not real life, and suit not me. For the rest, men
do say, that that pretty lip hath not always
thus pouted at similar speeches, and that those
eyes have beamed upon some, with a softer ex-
pression. But I conclude these are among the
wicked slanders of the world; she who yielded to
a subject would scarcely frown upon his prince."
The bitterness of Mabel's soul at these words
"She
agitated her frame almost to suffocation. The
unmanly insult would only have moved her un-
qualified contempt had it not been for the ago
nizing sting of truth which lurked in it.
was Count Oberfeldt's mistress, and as such
only was she regarded!"-that was the reflec-
tion the shame of which was wormwood to her.
* Marmion.
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
21
"All her successes, all the praises amounting | could scarcely bear the consciousness which
almost to idolatry, which they called forth, all revealed it to herself. But though she was
sufficed not to make it forgotten for one moment never exposed to a repetition of what had pass-
that she was the concubine of Count Ober- ed, yet its effect upon her was strong and last-
feldt!" Rage and despair maddened her; and ing. It was the first time that the general es-
if her glance had had the power, as well as timation of her condition had been absolutely
the brilliancy, of lightning, she would have brought home to her. It is true, vague suspi-
stricken the king into dust where he stood. cions, and passing pangs of shame, had from
At last, she found words, and she burst into a time to time shot across her mind; but she had
torrent of scorn, and anger, and reviling. The always resisted such sensations, and driven
rank of the offender was totally forgotten; his them forcibly away. They were too galling
offence was too keen and flagrant not to throw for her to allow herself to dwell on their pos-
all else into the shade. "And yet," she con- sibility. But now, it was in vain to resist the
tinued, after recapitulating to him what he had conviction any longer. Not only the overtures
done, in the base light in which she viewed it, of Augustus in themselves, but still more the
"you who do this call yourself a prince-you manner, confident and undoubting, in which
are not even a man who can thus insult a de- they had been made, carried the certainty of
fenceless woman! You first obtrude upon me, her shame into her inmost heart. And, oh
with the air of a brutal Turk among his slaves, God! to so proud a spirit, what was it; what
your insolent expressions of admiration, and must it be!
when I spurn them as they merit, you prove
how justly I measured your value-you insult
my condition! If there be upon earth an ob-
ject deserving unmingled scorn and detestation,
it is such a being-if," and her feelings seemed
to undergo a sudden revulsion, as she added in
a lower and hollow voice, while the scalding
tears of shame and degradation sprang from
her cyes, "if there be one whose wretched and
desolate state deserves pity, it is such a lost,
despised, degraded thing as I am!" And she
sank upon a seat, and sobbed aloud.
Augustus, with all his faults, did not lack
good nature; and, though he had spoken harshly
and insultingly in the moment of irritation at
the rejection of a suit, of which he thought the
bare mention would have insured success, yet
when he perceived how deep as well as real
the feelings were which he had called forth, and
how thoroughly he had mistaken the character
and the mind of the beautiful creature whom
he saw before him choking with a paroxysm of
shame and anger, his heart smote him keenly
for what he had done; and, with a manner as
respectful as it had previously been offensive,
he endeavoured to soothe and calm her.
With the restoration of her composure, her
self-possession also returned. She saw at once
that the king spoke from his heart in the ex-
pressions of regret and self-reproach, as well
as in the entreaties for pardon, which he used;
he had taken her hand in the eagerness of his
expostulations; she rose and withdrew it, but
this time with calmness and dignity. "It is
enough, sire," she said, "it is not for one in
my position to hear such language from your
majesty. I can have no pardon to grant, where
he who solicits it is so far removed above the
ties and claims of society." So saying, she
bowed and quitted the room.
Mabel never mentioned this occurrence to
the Count. She reflected that it must grieve
him and render him indignant, without any
possibility existing of his finding vent for either
feeling and, moreover, she shrank, with in-
expressible repugnance, from informing him
that she had been thus insulted. Nay, she
The effect of Mabel's appearance upon the
stage worked also upon Oberfeldt. That she
whom he loved; she who had so long been
the cherished friend of his privacy; the pre-
cious object seen and valued by him alone;
that she should be exposed to the general gaze
was to him a most galling reflection. And,
such is the selfish and monopolizing spirit by
which men are actuated as regards women,
that, although her conduct was such as not
only he could not but approve, but even was
compelled to admire; so firm, and at the same
time so graceful was the manner in which she
preserved around her, inviolate, a circle which
no one dared to penetrate; yet for the one un-
avoidable circumstance of public exposure—a
circumstance inseparably interwoven with the
very situation in which he himself had placed
her he felt towards her a degree of displea-
sure which occasionally amounted to a senti-
ment nearly approaching anger.
Again; there was another change of feeling
wrought by Mabel's appearance in public,
which as, however perverted it might be, it was
still a matter of sentiment, contributed, per-
haps more than any thing else, to change and
weaken the Count's feelings towards her. She
was now an actress; she was now in the posi-
tion so common in occurrence, and so low in
consideration, of an actress under the protec-
tion of a nobleman. All the romance of their
connexion was gone at once; and to a mind
like Oberfeldt's this involved much. All the
peculiar but indescribable charm of their for-
mer relative position; the slight mystery and
the real singularity, of the origin of their inter-
course; the reflection that a wild and unculti-
vated Bohemian, gifted by nature with quali-
ties of heart and powers of mind of the rarest
order, was through his means formed into that
superior being which such gifts were qualified
to make; that, while the world either sneered
or wondered, he alone knew the value of the
object upon which he lavished so much anxiety
and care, and was repaid by the young, fresh,
and impetuous affections of one of the most ar-
dent hearts that ever throbbed to the impulses
22
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
of human passion; these things were now all
destroyed: the charm was broken, the mystery
solved, the romance vulgarized.
These changes could not long remain un-
perceived by Mabel. Sometimes, at moments
when her heart expanded towards him with all
the unreserve of fondness, a cloud would pass
over his brow, a chilliness would pervade his
manner, which struck her to the soul. At first,
she attributed such passing symptoms-for they
were rare to accident, to pre-occupation, to
fatigue, to sickness; to anything but diminish-
ed affection. "I am a self-tormenter," she
would mentally exclaim, "I ain giving import-
ance to the merest trifles, to absolute nothings;
it is I who deserve reproach for entertaining the
shadow of a doubt for a moment." But soon
again some expression of impatience, some cold-
ness or irritation of demeanour, which in hap-
pier days had never been, cast anew, across her
mind, the agonizing idea that she saw but too
truly; that he was changed in fact! But how?
but why? What had occurred to alter the
sentiments but lately so warm and fond? Of
the ordinary effects of satiety, Mabel obviously
could have no knowledge; and, moreover, if
she had, they would not have been attributable
in this case; for in temperaments and instances
where they supervene, they do so sooner. Of
the truth she likewise could have no idea.
How, indeed, was it possible for a woman who
loved, to conceive the degree of selfishness
and injustice which it is possible for man's love
to reach?
"Alas!!
The change cut Mabel to the soul.
she said to herself, "the time has not long gone
by when he would as soon have trusted me in
a lazar-house of the plague, as in that house
alone. Is this confidence? or is it indifference?
Oh, God! the answer is but too plain!"-the
blood rushed to her cheek-the scalding tears
sprang to her eyes-her emotions almost burst
forth-but she suppressed them-I might al-
most use the term she swallowed them; for the
expression is scarcely a metaphor. Who has
not felt that convulsive gulp, with which we
overcome the choking sensation arising from a
violent and sudden emotion? Happy is he
who can say he knows it not!
The colour faded from her cheek as rapidly
as it had gathered there, as she answered, in a
voice, low indeed, but firm," As you please."
The Count said nothing more, but went to his
engagement.
Mabel was, that night, to act Phedre; and
never had her own spirit been so much in uni-
son with that of the fiery Cretan.
The deep red, burning in the centre of the
cheek-the almost consuming fire flashing from
the eyes-the bursts of alternate tenderness
and rage which the embodying of this splendid
portraiture called forth, were attributed by the
spectators to the perfection of Art. Alas! they
were the effects of the intensity of the imper-
fections of Nature. It was remarked with sur-
prise that Oberfeldt did not accompany her;
and Mabel had to endure the repeated inquiries
of those who accosted her, as to where he was.
There are, perhaps, fewer of the minor annoy-
ances of life more galling and vexatious than
having to listen to, and to answer, the careless
questions of indifferent inquirers, on a subject
which is torturing our own soul to madness.
Mabel, at last, was fretted "to the top of her
heart"-and, making some brusque answer to
the person who spoke, she broke from him, and
went and shut herself up in her own room, till
it was time for her to re-appear upon the stage.
She soon, however, became too certainly as-
sured that his feelings towards her were im-
paired. It would be vain to attempt to paint
the revolution which this conviction occasioned
in hers. Mortification, self-abasement, despair,
violent indignation, bitter sense of wrong; all
these alternately raged within her heart; and
in their turn were superseded by bursts of old
affection, of unextinguished love. It was now
that the shame, and misery, and remorse, inci-
dental to her fallen state, came upon her in
When she did, the first thing she beheld was
their real force. She felt, what all women in Oberfeldt seated in a box near the stage, be-
her unhappy condition must at some time feel, tween an elderly man, whom Mabel concluded
that by surrendering her virtue she had deliv- to be the Baron Lindenheim, and a young lady,
ered herself up, bound and defenceless, to her who appeared to be his daughter. As she en-
lover's mercy; like the hair of Samson, in thattered, which she did with rapidity, she beheld
lay her strength; in losing it she lost all.
One night that she was to act, Oberfeldt ex-
cused himself from attending her to the thea-
tre, alleging an engagement that was indispen-
sable. "Baron Lindenheim," he said, "was
one of my father's oldest friends. He has lately
come to Dresden, and, often as he asked me to
his house, 1 have never been thither. I meet
him and his family constantly at the palace,
and he has pressed me so much to go with him
to-day that I can no longer refuse. You can
You can
go to the theatre in your chair, and I will come
to your room, before the play is over, to bring
you home."
It was the first time that the Count had ever
omitted to go with her to the theatre, and to
remain there during the whole performance.
Oberfeldt speaking to this young person, with
an expression upon his countenance, which she,
alas! had seen but too often not to recognise
in a moment. With her,
to be once in doubt,
Was once to bo resolved;
She instantly attributed to the Baron's daughter
the anxiety to visit him which Oberfeldt had
that day manifested; she gave to him the full
maturity of intentions of which, as yet, perhaps,
he scarcely possessed the germ-she saw in
the lady at his side, his future wife! It takes
some time to note down, even thus briefly and
imperfectly, the sensations which came in one
instant to a climax in the breast of Mabel.
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
23
She turned deadly pale, and would have fallen
to the ground had she not seized the arm of the
actress who was playing Enone, to support
herself-while a low and half-suppressed groan
struggled from her lips. The audience mis-
took her agitation for a delusion of the scene-
and a long and loud peal of applause gave her
time, by a desperate effort, to recover herself:
-she did so, and went on with her part.
The moment Mabel appeared upon the stage,
Oberfeldt's apparent attention to the baroness
ceased. But Mabel had beheld that expres-
sion, which nothing could make her forget or
mistake it was enough. She proceeded with
the tragedy, her mind was in but little, and,
for her, she played feebly. But at length, as
she approached that part of the piece, in which
Phedre discovers the attachment of Hippolyte
to Aricie, the sentiments became too nearly
akin to her own, for her not to deliver them
with an energy almost terriffic. Her anima-
tion returned her cheek again burned, her
eye again blazed, with the influence of tumul-
tuous passion. The "winged words" of the
poet spoke, with slight exception, her own feel-
ings. Excepting those expressions which al-
lude to the peculiar nature of the passion of
Phedre for Hippolyte, the following passage
exactly portrays her feelings at that moment-
what must their bitterness have been?
Ah douleur non oncore eprouvec!
A quol nouveau tourment je me suis resorvee
*
*:
*
*
*
*
Ils s'aiment! par quel charme ont-ils tromp mosyeux ?
Comment se sont-ils vus? depuis quand ? dans quels lieux ?
*
*
*
*
Les a-t-on vus souvent se parlor, se chercher ?
Dans le fond des forets allaient-ils se cacher?
Holus ils se voyaient avec pleine licence;
Lo ciel de lour soupirs approuvait l'innocenco.
Ils suivaient, sans remords, leur penchant amoureux;
Tous les jours so levaiont clairs et screins pour eux.
Et moi, triste rebut de la nature entiere,
Je mo cachais du jour, je fuyais la lumiere-
~These, these, were the very reflections which
stung her to the quick ;-
-no bar intervened be-
tween their affections-no stigma of blood, no
brand of guilt was stamped upon her happy ri-
val:-
Et moi, triste rebut de la nature entiere!
The expression was prophetic!-it was the
very feeling, they were almost the very words,
with which she had so often lamented her own
ill-fortune; but the bitterness of immediate
contrast had been absent from her till now.
And still her cup of mortification was not
full. When Oberfeldt, at the end of the play,
came behind the scenes, it was not, as he had
promised, to conduct her home, but to excuse
himself from so doing. "I am going to sup
with the Baron Lindenheim," he said, "I have
found it impossible to avoid it-your chair is
waiting-I will see you into it." Mabel raised
her large cyes upon his face with a steady
gaze-in the expression of that gaze there
mingled disbelief, scorn, anger, despair. She
gave him her hand, and passed onward without
speaking. Oberfeldt observed her glance, and
what it conveyed to his mind strongly influenced
his future conduct.
CHAPTER X.
She stood a moment, as a Pythoness
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full
Of inspiration, gathered from distress,
When all the heart-strings, like wild horses, pull
The heart asunder.
BYRON.
WHEN Mabel reached home, she strove to
calm the storm of feelings and thoughts which
raged within her, that she might extract from
them some principle of action, whereby to regu-
late her course. The whole mystery which
overhung Oberfeldt's change of conduct was,
to her apprehension, cleared at once. Having
no conception of its original causes, she had
mistaken one of their effects to be itself the
sole cause. "He had," she reasoned, "be-
come attached to a person in his own situation
of life-he purposed to marry her—she was for-
gotten-abandoned!" And Mabel was a wo-
man, young, beautiful, gifted, eminently proud
-what must such a one feel at dereliction?
"But I"-this reflection ever occurred to her
--❝but I am a poor destitute Bohemian-I
have been his toy-a petted and pampered one,
it is true-but still his toy. I have no claims
upon his serious thoughts-no hold upon his
real affections-1 am a Bohemian !-a defence-
less, wandering, stigmatized, abject outcast!
Gracious God! and can such be the feelings of
the man whom I have loved-of the man to
whom I have given up my whole being-to
whom I have sacrificed my good name, and
more, more a hundredfold-my self-respect?
Can it be possible, that the trebly-accursed
prejudice of blood can thus dry up in him all
generous and natural feeling? And can it be,
that all that affection which I have scen him
display was thus founded upon sand? Was I
then "and her brow gathered, and her eyes
darkened, as the supposition crossed her
thoughts-"was I, then, but the plaything of
his unoccupied mind-the miserable, bought,
object of gratification to his senses, whom he
always meant to cast aside, as some thing tri-
vial and vile, when the maturity of life opened
upon him?
Was it really thus? Could I be-
lieve this in very deed"-her lip, though she
spoke not, quivered with the bare thought-
by the living God in heaven-by the eternal
fiend in hell-my hate should be like my love,
immeasurable-my vengeance like my wrongs,
unparalleled! What!and does he think that,
because he took me from poverty and toil, and
lodged me in a palace, and bedecked me with
these jewels"-looking upon the costly brace-
lets which glittered on her arms-"does he
think he may treat me like his horse, or his
hound, whom he pampers.for his service, and
24
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
casts off when his fancy tires of them? Does
he count the feelings of the human heart for
nothing? Is the devotion of my whole soul to
him nothing? Is the disgrace of my whole life
nothing? Is the stabbing of every affection
to the quick-Oh, God! is that nothing?".
and suffering once more got the mastery over
indignation-she sobbed almost to choking.
"But he shall not see me thus!" she ex-
claimed, through her tears, after a pause; "he
shall see in me no grief, though my heart burst.
How shall I act? Sleep by his side after what
I have seen?-my soul shrinks from it. And
yet, unless I break out into womanly upbraid-
ing, what can I do?-Oh, God! I am most
wretched!"
exhaustion, and she slept long and heavily.
When she awoke, Oberfeldt was gone. He, too,
had thought as deeply, (in other respects how
differently!) concerning the position in which
they stood toward each other; and he deter-
mined to bring inatters to a crisis at once. He,
too, had read the expression of Mabel's glance
the night before; and in it he beheld both that
she had discovered his present feelings, and
what hers were in consequence. He knew her
too well to suppose that she would brood long
upon them in silence, and he determined to
avoid the explosion. There was, likewise, a
certain degree of truth in the belief of Mabel
that he had formed some idea of making the
young Baroness Lindenheim his wife. She was
young, she was handsome, she was amiable;
her birth was distinguished, her fortune was
considerable; in every respect she was a suit-
able match.
"A suitable match!" alas! how
much misery and how much crime have sprung
from those words! They are held to be a sub-
An hour rolled away, and still Mabel lay on
the couch upon which she had thrown herself
on her entrance, and still Oberfeldt did not re-
turn. At last, she sprang up--" I must decide
quickly-it is past midnight-he will soon be
home. Home! alas!-how he loved it once!"
--and her eyes wandering round the room, rest-stitute for all the charities which belong to a
ing, in turn, upon all those objects which form,
as it were, the features that constitute the phy-
siognomy of an apartment we constantly in-
habit--"my_harp!"--and she brushed her fin-
gers across the strings" how he used to hang
over it in delight as I sang to him!
'Music is always sweet, but, oh!
When lov'd lips sing-'
Alas! they are loved no longer-I have now
no power to touch his heart-it is estranged
from me forever!
"I never shall look like this again," she add-
ed, advancing towards a picture of herself, in
which she was represented singing to the gui-
tar, with an expression of happy fondness on
her face, which, she well recollected, had been
called forth by her gaze being fixed on Ober-
feldt-"I shall never again feel as I did then
-I shall be happy no more! Yes! I then
was happy! The shame of my condition I
then thought of but little-its delights cast it
into the shade-Alas! I am punished for it
And yet, my lot should not have been
what it is-I might, I ought, to have been
happy-for 1 feel that I could be so to a degree
almost too great for this world-I feel it by
the very depth of my present misery!
-But"
now!
--and she roused herself "I must decide
oh, no! I cannot, I cannot do anything to-night
-My throat burns, and my head throbs as
though it would burst-I will feign sleep.
Feign? how I despise dissimulation!--but the
guilty and the miserable cannot avoid even that
which they contemn and loath!"
The softer turn which her feelings had taken
wrought upon her thus. When the fierceness,
which was the stimulus necessary to the scene
she meditated, had faded away, her depression
drove her to seek repose, or at the least, silence
and quiet.
She feigned sleep at Oberfeldt's return; but
sleep came not near her for many hours. At
length, towards morning, nature sank under its |
union of affection; mutual confidence, mutual
love. A marriage founded upon such a basis
may indeed be coldly fortunate in its issues;
but it may, and often docs, lead to deep guilt
and utter misery; it never can possess that
high and holy happiness which springs from a
marriage of love!
But Oberfeldt thought not of these things.
Passion he did not feel for the Baron's daugh-
ter; but he admired her; he respected her;
she was the daughter of her father's friend;
she was "a suitable match." He had already
formed his final plans, and he did not delay put-
ting them into execution. He determined to
avoid a personal explanation with Mabel; and,
in order to do so, he purposed going to Ober-
feldt, whither he had engaged Baron Linden-
heim and his daughter to accompany him. Ac-
cordingly, he returned home in the afternoon,
and informed Mabel that he was obliged, by
business, to go to Oberfeldt for a few days;
and that, for so short a time, it was not worth
while for her to go with him. She was pleased
at the information; for it gave her time to ar-
range her thoughts, and determine upon her
line of action. She little imagined that, at
that moment, the Count had decided it for her.
The time came for them to part. Let me do
Oberfeldt justice. Spoiled as he was by the
world, hardened as was his mind by the preju-
dices of rank, selfish as his conduct had been
towards Mabel, and cruel and treacherous as it
at that moment was, still the tenderer and more
passionate feelings of nature were not all dead
within him--the idea of parting from her for
ever shook his soul to its centre. The thought
came over him of all that she had been to him;
of the many days of happiness they had passed
together; of the endearments by which their
love had spoken to each other!
"God bless you, Mabel!" he said, as he
stretched out his hand to her, and, drawing her
towards him, folded her to his heart, "God
Almighty bless you!" he could not add, though
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
25
he strove, "I shall soon return."
Mabel, at
"That I have loved you, Mabel, with a love
far surpassing all the affections of my life.
united, it is, I am sure, needless for me to as-
sert. The experience of daily intercourse must
have proved it to you undeniably. That I love
you, now that I am bidding you an eternal fare-
well, as fondly as ever, may appear paradoxi-
cal, but it is not the less true. It is no dimi-
nution of my affection for you: it is no lessen-
that moment, for the first time, allowed herself
to doubt the reality of all she had felt; it
seemed to her like a horrid dream, that still
clung to the mind after waking. At all events,
she would not think of it then. Oberfeldt's
manner was what it had been in his fondest and
kindest days. Oh! if she could have read his
heart, and seen the cause! "Good-bye, dear
Adrian," she murmured, “God bless you; doing of my esteem, which occasions our separa-
not be long away!"
He answered not; but, straining her closely
to his bosom in a long embrace, and pressing a
passionate kiss upon her lips, he tore himselt
from her, and rushed out of the room.
It was thus they parted.
Mabel sat herself down sadly, when he was
gone. "And can it be ?" she thought, "can
it be that he has ceased to love? No! he can-
not be such a hypocrite. If true affection did
not speak in his voice, there is no truth in na- |
ture. Something of which I am ignorant must
have been hanging upon his mind; and I have
mistaken absence and pre-occupation for cold-
ness and slight." But, at that moment, the
manner in which she had seen him look upon
the Baroness Lindenheim shot across her me-
mory, like the sting of an adder; and she again
doubted. "But no-" she resumed, "I must
have been in error; love never existed in a
human bosom, if it did not in his but now !"
tion. It arises from causes wholly unconnected
with yourself; from causes which, however I
may lament, nay, however I may detest them,
cannot shun: it is my fate, not my will, that
guides me. It is necessary that I should marry :
the honours of my name must be continued; I
cannot allow the long line of our house to de-
termine in my person. It is a duty upon which
I have wilfully shut my eyes: but which has
knocked at my conscience till I can no longer
deny it admittance. Sore, indeed, have been
the struggles which this reflection, growing
stronger with the lapse of time, has cost me.
I ought, you may say, to have considered this
before our connexion commenced. But passion
hears not reason; and, moreover, as you cannot
but remember, the circumstances under which
it was formed were of a nature so sudden and
overpowering, that there was no room or time
for foresight; even if I had been as much ac-
customed to the discipline of looking to the
future, as I was the reverse. But, even early
in our intercourse, this reflection has risen
across my mind, and dashed with bitter some of
our sweetest hours. Still I always drove it from
my thoughts, as an evil which, though ulti-
mately inevitable, ought not to be tasted before
The Count had been but a few days at Ober- its time-but be thrown back, as much as pos-
feldt, before he was the accepted suitor of Ba-sible, wholly upon the period when it must
ron Lindenheim's daughter. She was a person
mild, amiable, and somewhat cold, whose sub-
mission to her father's will would have induced
her to accede readily to matches of a very dif-
ferent nature from that with Count Oberfeldt;
and who, therefore, esteemed herself highly
fortunate in the chance which had allotted to
her one in every way so calculated to please.
And she was right: but, alas! how sadly,
how miserably right! It was the act of leaving
her forever that had called his expiring affection
into new existence. At that moment he did,
indeed, love her as he had done of old; but it
was at that moment only.
No sooner was this arranged, than the Count
bent his mind to effect his separation from Ma-
bel. He had already determined how to act,
and he now proceeded to put his resolution into
practice. He wrote to her the following let-
ter:
I scarcely know in what manner to make
known to you that which I must communicate;
but, as it is inevitable, perhaps, the most direct
and simple way is the best. We have parted to
meet no more. The painful surprise with which
you will read these words, cannot exceed the
pain with which I write them; it certainly can-
not equal that by which I have been agitated
during the time that has been necessary to
bring myself to this. It is due both to you and
to myself, to explain to you the motives by
which I have been actuated: read them, I be-
seech you, calmly; judge me, I entreat of you,
fairly, kindly.
come.
"At last, it has come. It had for several
years, before his death, been the nearest wish
of my father's heart, that I should marry the
daughter of his oldest and best friend, the Ba-
ron Lindenheim. That lady is now about to
become my wife. Filial duty, and the claims
of my blood and rank, here unite to guide me
to one course; they are too sacred to be re-
sisted.
"Thus, then, dearest Mabel, our intercourse
must have an end. I could not bring myself to
encounter the pain of a personal farewell; I
shrank from making this communication to
yourself.. I felt the trial would be more than
I could bear; I could not even answer that I
should have resolution to fulfil my purpose.
My anxiety for your well-doing; my interest in
your fate; will remain unceasing and extreme.
Would, oh! would to God! that the restraints
of my condition in society could be given to the
winds; and that I could continue, as I have
done, myself to guide, to cherish and protect
you! The days that we have passed together
will ever be the dearest remembrances of my
life; in misfortune and in gloom, my heart will
turn to them as to a season of bright happiness
and peace such as it is given to few to know,
4
20
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
and which once to have known is in itself a,
blessing. What, then, must I feel at now my-
self cutting the thread of that dear life! at
thus myself pronouncing the sentence We
must part.' 'Oh, Mabel! my heart bleeds
when I think that I shall see you no more; that
I shall never again gaze on your beautiful face, |
nor behold your eyes beaming upon me with
affection! And doubly, doubly, do I suffer
when I reflect upon what you must suffer;
when I consider that it is I who give you pain! |
But it is vain to write thus; it must be;
what avails it to struggle againt fate?
"And now, Mabel, dearest, dearest Mabel, I
must pronounce the dreaded word 'Farewell!'
that God Almighty may pour every blessing
upon your beloved head is my most earnest
prayer."
If this letter had reached Mabel on the day
which preceded Oberfeldt's departure from
Dresden, it would have been only a confirma-
tion of an evil, great indeed, yet still expected.
But since he had left her, she had been buoying
herself up with new hopes. His manner, at
their parting, had tonded to revive her confi-
dence in his affection; and, if doubts, still, oc-
casionally, shot across her mind, assuredly
they did not give to it its predominant tone and
colour. What, then, must have been the blow
which Oberfeldt's letter now gave to her!
"Thus, then, it was he loved me!" she
would exclaim; "from the first, and through-
out, the thought that he would thus cast me
off was never absent from his mind. The base,
cold, heartless villain! while he was draw-
ing forth, and instigating and heightening,
all the strongest and most ardent passions of
my soul, it was merely to pamper his leisure!
he never, for one instant, lost sight of the con-
temptible consideration of his paltry rank; and
my feelings and affections, the purity of my
person, the peace of my mind, the happiness of
my whole life, were to be offered up as a
scarce-worthy sacrifice upon its shrine? The
very worm, when it is trampled upon, will turn,
but he will not find me stingless. Evil,' he
said, 'be my lot when I betray my faith to you!'
Evil, indeed, shall it be! The shaft that he has
stricken home to my heart shall return to his,
poisoned. 'Judge me fairly'-I will, be as-
will, be as
sured. Judge me kindly,'-the two can
scarcely be the honours of my name must be
continued,' ay 'the honours!' that is the word.
To them have I been immolated; it shall go
hard, but I will trample on them yet! It is
my anxious desire you should possess affluence'
-Ha! ha! ha!" and she laughed convulsively.
"He thinks to pay me for my heart, life and
soul; to pay me! he gives the harlot her hire;
he pays me for myself. And this man I have
loved! No-no-this man I never loved; I
loved the semblance; the reality I never knew
till now; and I loathe it."
•
which your letter must have cost you. If you
had merely said, 'I am about to be married,
and I therefore thrust you from my doors,' it
would have saved you much uneasiness, equi-
vocation, and falsehood, as well as the exposure
of a long continued tissue of selfishness and
hypocrisy, which 1 would not believe of the
most contemptible of mankind, on any evidence
less than his own assertion. It is impossible
for a low-born peasant, such as I am, not to
bow with unspeakable humility and submission
before the claims of that rank which you ven
erate sufficiently to sacrifice to it your own ho.
nour, humanity and truth, and the feelings and
happiness of one who had the folly to trust in
their existence. To your bride, I wish all the
happiness she cannot fail to derive from be-
coming the wife of a villain; for yourself, I hope
that all the good you merit may befall you, and
I trust to witness some of it. I quit your house;
its roof shall never shelter me again. Your
alms you will receive with this; I despise the
gift; I spit at the giver.
CHAPTER XI.
"MABEL."
She hath songs for man or woman.
SHAKSPEARE.
MABEL hesitated much as to whither she
should bend her steps. The first and the last,
the one object of her mind, was revenge upon
Oberfeldt; and she was resolved that it should
be a revenge such as the world had never seen
deep, dreadful, striking upon the tenderest
part, retributive in its character, and working
upon the very causes of the injury she had her.
self endured. She was strongly desirous that
the Count should entirely lose sight of her;
and this, with other considerations, determined
her upon leaving Germany altogether.
It was to Italy, at last, she went. France
which, in the first instance, had suggested it-
self to her, she conceived to be (morally) too
near to Dresden. Oberfeldt had numberless
connexions at Paris, and it was not at all im-
possible that he should return thither. Mabel,
therefore, chose Italy.
Mabel went straight to Naples. Her object
was professional employment, and there she
knew she should find it. She did so. Her beau-
ty, made more noble and commanding, if it was
less brilliant and varied, by the suffering she
had undergone; her voice now matured to full
perfection; her unrivalled dramatic powers,
more energetic and forcible than ever, all com-
bined to ensure her success, and to render it
decided and triumphant. As her great desire
was to conceal her very existence from Ober-
feldt's knowledge, on her appearance at Naples
she adopted an Italian name. She was now
"It was needless for you to be at the pains known as the Signora Zerlini; and when the
Her determination was soon taken; she thus
communicated it to Oberfeldt.
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
27
fame of this surpassing actress and singer,
spread abroad in Europe, Oberfeldt little thought
that he was listening to the praises of his own
Bohemian.
The Count had married immediately after
Mabel's departure from Dresden; and he had
one child a daughter. Ardently, deeply, did
he long for a son to inherit and continue his
name; but none was granted to his wishes.
The Countess Oberfeldt had no second child.
Adrian almost thought that Mabel's curse was
upon him, and that the passion to which he
had sacrificed her was fated not to be gratified.
His disappointment, however, with reference
to the sex of his child, had not upon him the
effect which that circumstance frequently pro-
duces. So far from slighting his daughter, he
held her in the fondest affection; and as time
rolled on without his hopes of an heir being
fulfilled, he became more and more ardently
attacked to that solitary shoot of his noble tree.
He lavished upon her all the accumulated pa-
rental feelings of his nature.
On the day that she was three years old, a
fete was given in the park, at Oberfeldt, to
celebrate it. All the usual festivities of baro-
nial grandeur were practised on the occasion.
Oxen were roasted whole; wine and swartz-bier
flowed in rivers; the gates were thrown open;
all comers were welcomed; the old woods
rang with the revelry. It so happened that
the marquee in which the Count's own party
assembled, was pitched close to "Mabel's bow-
er." This spot was, indeed, the most beauti-
ful in the whole domain; and the Countess, ig-
norant, of course, of any such associations at-
taching to it, had chosen it as the scene of the
birth-day fete. Many were the games, athletic
and of skill, which the peasantry exhibited be-
fore the Countess' tent, on that day. There
was archery, there was wrestling, there was
dancing;-and the little Clara, in all the infan-
tine beauty of blue eyes and flaxen hair, and
rosy cheeks, and all the infantine joyousness of
spirits excited by novelty, kept running to and
fro among the archers and dancers-now join-
ing, jumping in the dance, now screaming with
the very excess of her delight, and now running
back to leap upon her father's knees, and display
to him the fruit or the flower some peasant had
given her, or to relate in her sweet broken ac-
cents, to her mother, the events of her last sally.
Towards the fall of the day there was, of a
sudden, a bustle in the crowd; and then a circle
was formed, and into it sprang a party of six
dancers, such as had not exhibited before.
They were Bohemians. They consisted of three
men and three women, all clad in the curious
and picturesque costume of the Cyganis, or
Hungarian gipsics; each held a tambourine,
with which they accompanied their movements;
and they began a dance which though occa-
sionally grotesque, still afforded great display
of agility and grace.
Oberfeldt's heart smote him. The phrase is
a hackneyed one; but those who know how
import. He longed to order the Bohemians
away; but there is no reason which he could
give for so doing; the exhibition seemed to
please his party; and the Countess especially
bestowed loud praises on the performance. As
for little Clara, she was beside herself with de-
light. She could not be restrained within the
tent; but, running into the midst of the dan-
cers, would have impeded their movements,
had not one of them, a girl of about nineteen
or twenty, snatched her up with an arm far
stronger than its apparent slenderness would
indicate; and, dancing one turn with her so
upheld, brought her and placed her at her
mother's side. This feat called forth great ap-
plause, and the young Bohemian gracefully
bowing her head in acknowledgment, sprang
back to her place in the dance.
Oberfeldt could scarcely contain himself.
Far different, indeed, was this girl from what
Mabel had been when he first beheld her; yet
he could not fail to recall her vividly to his
mind; and never did that image cross it but
feelings of self-reproach, regret, and remorse,
followed in its train.
This girl evidently filled, in her troop, the
same post as that from which the Count had
rescued Mabel: immeasurably inferior, indeed,
to her-but still she surpassed much those
whom she accompanied. The dance over, she
stood forward to sing. Oberfeldt started and
turned pale, when his eye lighted upon her.
It was the close of May; and she had gathered
from Mabel's thorn a branch of the blossoms,
and had twisted it into a chaplet, which she
had placed upon her black hair, resembling
exactly in form and fashion that with which
he had crowned Mabel, "Fleur d'Epine," here
in her own bower. This may appear trivial;
but "trifles light as air" are strong in the re-
collections of love.
The Bohemian advanced alone; she had still
her tambourine in her hand--and striking it,
and jingling its bells high in the air, she burst
into the following song:
**
Flow'ring chaplets bind my hair-
Nature's blossoms wreathe them—
Gems and gold might shine more fair,
But there is guile beneath them!
Oh! from the bonny May-thorn bough
A lesson you may borrow-
Its flow'rs are sweet and blooming now-
But dead and dry to-morrow.
I saw the maiden bright and brave,
Her lover rode beside her;
But now she has the unknown grave
And the nameloss stone to hide her!
Oh! from the bonny May-thorn bough
This lesson you may borrow;
Its flow'rs so sweet and blooming now
Will all be dead to-morrow!
Oaths are but words, and words but broath,
How strong soe'er you make them-
And fickleness as well as death
Perhaps may chance to break them!
Then from the bonny May-thorn bough,
Maidens, this lesson borrow-
That flow'rs so sweet and blooming now
Will all be dead to-morrow!
the heart can smite, will not deem it of light The Count shrank at this song. Trivial as
28
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
was its burthen, and vague and general as it
was altogether, still there was something in
it which, coming from the lips of a Bohemian,
struck hone. "Is it possible," he thought,
"is it possible that this girl can have any pe-
culiar application for her verses. Can Mabel,
then, be dead? has she indeed the nameless
stone to hide her;' and is this girl come hither
to tell me so? And yet, it cannot be. Her
own race are the last persons with whom Ma-
bel would have communed, far less in whom
she would have reposed confidence. She al-
ways shunned them; and assuredly she would
not again have sought them out. Yet there
are lines in that ballad I cannot shake from
my mind so easily; and the garland, too? how
all this cuts me to the heart! Poor, poor
Mabel!
"Whence comes your tribe, my pretty lass?"
said Oberfeldt, as he gave the singer a piece
of money.
"From Hungary, my Lord;" she answered.
"And where did you learn that song, which
you have just now sung so sweetly?"
"Oh! it is an old thing, my Lord, that has
been handed down in our tribe for many gene-
rations; and our maidens always sing it at
May-tide, in honour of the haw-thorn bough,
and to bid young girls beware," she added,
smiling archly, "of flattering tongues, in that
month which is called the moon of love, my
Lord."
"You seem learned in these matters," said
Oberfeldt, smiling in his turn, and adding to
his gift, as he turned away. "It was but ac-
cident!" he said to himself; "but thus it is that
• conscience doth make cowards of us all.'"
The dance now again became more general;
and the incident of the Bohemians passed
away from the minds of all, except Oberfeldt,
in whom they had awakened so painful a train
of feeling. But they were speedily recalled to
attention, in a manner equally surprising and
shocking. As the evening began to close in,
the Countess' party assembled to retire to the
Castle. But little Clara did not return to the
tent. That little mischievous elf," said the
Countess, her smile of fondness contradicting
the reproach of her words, "is always playing
the truant. I must have a long string made
to tie her to my girdle, that she may not stray
too far. Oberfeldt, pray search for her on the
green."
|
|
"Where are your fellows?"
"Scattered among the crowd, my lord.'
"Call them all hither, instantly"
The man put his knuckle to his mouth, and
whistled three times, loud and shrill. In a
few moments, the remainder of the Bohemians
began to gather round him.
66
My comrades are here, my lord;" said the
leader of the troop. But Oberfeldt's eye in
an instant saw that the singing-girl was
missing!
"Villain! where is the girl who sang!" ex-
claimed the Count, almost choaking between
rage and terror.
"Indeed, my lord, I know not; she will be here
anon, doubtless ;" and again he whistled three
times; but she did not appear to the signal.
No one had seen her for nearly an hour and a
half. The conviction of the terrible truth
flashed but too strongly upon the wretched
father: his child was gone, she was carried
off by the Bohemian !
The chief of the band either felt, or feigned,
the utmost surprise and consternation. He de-
clared it was impossible that the disappearance
of the chill and that of Zitza-so the singer was
called-could have any connexion with each
other. He said he doubted not that she was
gone to their encampment; and thither, accord-
ingly, he led the way--but there she was not.
It is needless to prolong this scene; every
search was made, and every search was made
in vain. No trace nor idings of the Bohemian
or of the child could be found. The rest of the
troop were most vehement in protesting their
innocence and ignorance of the whole matter;
and indeed there was nothing, beyond the fact
of the girl's disappearance, that tended to throw
any suspicion upon them. Her mother was dead,
and her father, who had remained at the en-
campment on the day of the fete, was, or seemed
to be, as much surprised as the rest at his
daughter's flight. It was impossible to extract
any information from these people; they could
not vary in their story, for it consisted, in one
and all, of a simple declaration of total igno-
rance. Their repeated and unswerving asser-
tions at length gained credit even with Ober-
feldt himself.
He, alas! had a belief upon the subject pe-
culiarly his own; and which he could not com-
municate to any one. The allusions of the
song were to him an undeniable proof that Zit-
Oberfeldt searched, but in vain. He grew za had been in cominunication with Mabel; but
uneasy; some had seen her at one time, some how much of those allusions was founded in
at another, but none for upwards of an hour. fact-whether indeed she was dead, and this
At last the alarm spread; servants ran to and was a blow of posthumous revenge, or whether
fro; her name was shouted again and again, the Bohemian acted under her present direc-
but she nowhere appeared. At length a tion, he could not determine. He again renew-
thought, like a stroke from the fire of light-ed with ten fold eagerness and exertion, his en-
ning, shot upon Oberfeldt's mind, "The Bohe-deavours to discover what had become of Mabel.
mians!" he exclaimed, "where are the Bohe-
mians? who has seen them?"
"They were here but now, my lord;"
answered one of the crowd. "See, yonder
is one of them!" And he was brought to
Oberfeldt.
But, as before, he was totally unable to trace
her farther than Paris, which route Mabel had
taken for the very purpose of rendering his in-
quiries fruitless. Thus, after weeks of the most
agonizing suspense, the wretched Oberfeldt was
compelled to resign his search, and to return to
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
29
his childless home. If Mabel could have known
the feelings which bore him company on his
journey, she must have considered herself as
fully avenged already.
CHAPTER XII.
'Tis education forms the common mind,
And as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd
POPE.
BUT her vengeance was only begun. Ever
since the birth of this child, she had fixed her
eyes upon it-for she kept herself perfectly in-
formed of what passed in Saxony-as the in-
strument of her revenge upon its father. And
she conceived a scheme of retaliation (if it may
be thus termed) so far above all ordinary human
atrocity that one must almost suppose that it
was prompted by the great Father of Evil him-
self. But, truly, our own bad passions are suf-
ficient instigators: we need, we can have none
worse. Mabel had allowed herself to com-
mune with hers-the darkest, the deadliest of
them till scarcely a trace was left of that gen-
erous and feeling spirit which had been hers in
happier days: the gloom and ferocity of revenge
had swallowed all.
|
pletely. She communicated to Mabel the birth
of Oberfeldt's child, and also that he continued
to have no others. At length the time came
for the blow to be struck, and Mabel came into
Germany for the purpose. Their precautions
were admirably taken, and they succeeded as
we have seen; in a very few hours, Mabel,
with Zitza and the child, were on the Elbe-
and the same vessel which had brought her
from Italy (an Italian one, which she had hired
for the voyage) carried her back thither.
"This, then, is Oberfeldt's child!" she ex-
claimed, as she parted the fair hair on the
brows of the infant, which slumbered in her
lap, as they sailed rapidly down the broad Elbe;
"it has its mother's complexion, but there are
the father's lip, and the father's brow-has it
also the father's heart?-It will be beautiful,"
she added, after contemplating it more minute-
ly, "it will have sufficient beauty to prove its
curse-to make its own heart ache, and to rive
those of all who love it. Poor thing! I wish
thee no ill! But it must be-thou art but the
tool, the instrument: in striking at thy father's
heart, it must be through thy side: it is fated ;"
and she clenched her teeth, and the dark fire
of vengeance flashed from her eyes:
"And you saw him, Zitza?" she said, turn-
ing to her attendant. "Did the ballad move
him?-Did you mark him as you sang?”
"Ay, madam; I saw his brow grow dark,
and his breath heave quick-and he went into
a corner of the tent that none of those around
might see him-and then he fixed his eyes up-
on my face as though he would read my soul:
but he could find nothing there, I warrant me.
And when I come to the lines
But now she has the unknown grave,
And the nameless stone to hide her,
Her plan was this: family-pride had been
the cause of her wrongs, through family-pride
she was determined to avenge them. She re-
solved to possess herself of this only child, and
to breed it up to be such, that its father would
rather that it had been strangled in its birth |
than that it should have come to that maturity.
Mabel maturely digested all the details of this
plan. Revolting, horrible, as they were, the I saw him shrink as though a sudden blow
constant, ceaseless wickedness, and that of the had stricken him. And, afterward, he ques-
blackest sort, which they would need, did not tioned me as to whence I had the song ;-and
appal her. The one great feeling, thirst of re- I could see his brow clear, and his eye grow
venge, sufficed to stifle in a moment the com- calm, when I told him it was an old one of the
punctious yearnings of nature which, at first, tribe."
occasionally touched her. Her plan was ma-
tured, and the time fast approached to execute
it. Before her departure from Germany, she
had selected a person who might act as her
agent, in transmitting her information of what
passed, and also in the ultimate execution of
her design when the time came. With this
view she sought out some of the people to whom
she had formerly belonged-of course, not of
her own tribe, lest they might recognise her
but others of the same generic race. She
knew that she could attach one of these wild
and singular people to herself, if she took her
measures rightly-and her experience prompted
her how to set about it.
She fixed her eye upon Zitza:-she was
then about sixteen, shrewd, quick, intelligent.
little scrupulous, and thirsting for an opportu-
nity of raising herself beyond the hardships of
the life she led. Mabel's kindness, large gifts,
and larger promises, all of which were kept as
they successively became due, won her com-
"Thought he that I was dead?" muttered
Mabel to herself" That must have shaken
him. And in my bower, too! I have a tryst
there with him still unperformed-but it shall
be kept yet! He shrank from the Bohemian
singer! No wonder-no wonder-Oh! what
a load of guilty thoughts must have arisen upon
him then! And that pale, puling Countess-
if she could have seen the inside of her noble
husband's heart-poor, weak creature, it would
be a startling sight to her!-little thinks she
of such things-why, the tale that I could tell,
would make her swoon, and it is not finished
yet! There is a chapter to be added which shall
make them both curse the hour in which they
met-the hour they were born."
Mabel never had been a mother. Oh! no!
if she had, the devilish scheme which engrossed
her mind could not have even dawned there!
No! the heart which has once throbbed with a
mother's feelings, could never thus have re-
solved to act a mother's part for an end so hor-
30
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
rible! Had Mabel ever pressed a child of her | all the concentrated bitterness that existed in
own to her bosom,-had she ever experienced
that softest, sweetest, and purest of all human
affections, a mother's love for her child-she
would have felt that the daily endearments of
the young and dependent infant, that the daily
cares and fostering which she must bestow on
it, would annihilate the fierce and fearful pur-
pose for which she had taken it to herself. In
that case, no soul, however darkened and made
stern by brooding over feelings of revenge,
could have withstood the unconscious eloquence
of a child towards her who rears it. But Mabel
never had been a mother.
They arrived safely in Italy. The remem-
brance of the land of her birth, of its language,
of its habits, quickly faded from the child's
mind. Mabel soon became to her the only
mother she had known. Her feelings toward
her assumed that character of love, and confi-
dence, and up-looking, which, if it always at-
taches to the sentiment of a child toward its
mother, does so doubly when they are of the
same sex. But what were the feelings of the
(so called) mother towards her child? Ay,
there, indeed, there existed a constant struggle
and conflict between all the softer, better, and
more natural emotions with the stern, fierce,
and deadly passions which Mabel fed and fostered
in her breast-the very existence of which con-
flict was, in itself, a continuous punishment for
the evil which she had done and was meditating
against this unhappy and unoffending infant.
It was impossible to see a creature so lovely,
so innocent, and so engaging as the little Clara
(for Mabel still continued her Christian name)
growing at once, in beauty, in intelligence, and
in affection, without sentiments of correspond-
ing fondness springing up. The caresses of a
child
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly,
cannot, in a bosom where once tenderness has
held sway, be received with indifference; and
often, when the little Clara sprang upon her
lap, and with her blue bright eyes sparkling,
and her fair curling hair clustering on her neck,
held up her rosy lips to be kissed,—a gush of
irrepressible fondness would, for the moment,
fill Mabel's heart, from that well-spring of feel-
ing, which, in a woman, so seldom becomes
totally dry. And, at such moments, the terri-
ble purpose of her soul has slackened: and, as
she has stooped her face towards the child's
to give the sought caress, she has almost felt
it impossible to repay such affection with a re-
quital so deadly. But then the thought of the
father has recurred to her-and all that he had
been to her and all that he had sworn to be;
and then the terrible reverse-the cool, indif-
ferent casting-off, the proffered payment, her af-
fections slighted and cast back, her ignominy,
her wrongs, her scorn, her sorrow, her revenge!
Then the storm of dark passion has again
arisen, ar, starting from her seat, and thrust-
ing the child violently from her, she has, with
|
her nature, renewed her oaths that no softer
feeling should interpose between her and her
revenge: the desperate sentiment of Lady
Macbeth-
* * * * I have given suck and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me :
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluckt the nipple from his boneless gums,
And dasht the brains out, had I but so sworn
have done to this- *
As
you
*
was in her even aggravated; for, though the
infant was not hers by blood, yet she had fos-
tered and reared it till it "smiled in her face"
as in its mother's; and the murder which she
meditated was its moral death!
Flattery! base, poor, and common as the en-
gine seems, what mighty evil has it not occa-
sioned!-of how much guilt and crime has it
not been the root!-of how many souls the
perdition! It is the lever which can move the
moral world, and it has our self-love for a ful-
crum. Like a poisoned arrow, it flies silently,
it strikes keenly, and it imbues the whole sys-
tem with death. What a weapon is not this
in a skilful hand! and, oh! what power must
not that hand possess, which is to point our
youthful path, and to guide and support us as
we tread it!
With this did Mabel prepare the soil in
which she purposed the sensual and corrupt
passions to bloom in full richness and luxu-
riance. Scarcely, indced, had Clara emerged
from infancy, before the consciousness of her
opening beauty, rendered more striking by the
contrast of its character with that of those by
whom she was surrounded, and the extreme
importance she attached to it, showed a mind
ready to receive the next gradation towards
corruption. Mabel was still on the stage, and
her celebrity continued undiminished. To the
theatre Clara constantly accompanied her; all
that was voluptuous, all that was exciting, in
the exhibitions presented there, Mabel took
care she should witness; and that coarseness
which might have proved an antidote, she con-
cealed, with equal assiduity from her view. In
her comments on what passed there, Mabel
would dwell on the topics most calculated to
inflame and corrupt; singling out the brillian-
cies and the enjoyments of vice, and throwing
into the shade its grossness, its indignity, its
certain retribution. There were not wanting
productions to assist her in this process.
But Mabel did not allow her doctrines to rest
in such generalities as these: there existed at
that time in France, a real person who embo-
died the whole system I have sketched above.
Her life had been notoriously and avowedly li-
centious from her youth upwards; and the very
intensity and extremity of that licentiousness
had gained her the most widely-spread celeb-
rity and fame: not the celebrity and fame, if I
may use such an expression, of infamy; not
that notoriety which serves, like the mark of
Cain, to exclude its possessor from all inter-
course and communion with her species; but
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
31
a celebrity which attracted all the civilized,
world to her feet, a fame which rendered ad-
mission to her society an object the most keenly
desired and sought after by every one-women
as well as men. Beauty and talents she pos-
sessed transcendently; riches were hers--all
save virtue; and the very extent of her vice
served her, as I have said, in lieu of it. She
was now old, but age had not cooled her blood
or purified her mind; it brought with it no re-
formation. My readers will long since have
seen that I am speaking of Ninon d'Enclos.
This most extraordinary woman was, at the
time of which I write, at the zenith of her
still more extraordinary celebrity. And this
also Mabel made subservient to her one great
purpose. I shall proceed to show in what
manner.
CHAPTER XIII.
"Votre vie, ma tres-chere, a cte trop illustre, pour n'etre
pas continuce de la meme maniere jusqu'a la fin: * * *
Pronoucez donc le mot d'Amour hardiment, et que celui de
Vielle ne sorte jamais de votre bouche."
St. EVREMOND; Lettre a M'lle. de l'Enclos.
Oberfeldt in the course of her own instruction.
So far from having to shun all books which
might brush the delicacy from the young mind,
or place there loose and impure images, it was
her chief endeavour to select them. And,
though their abundance was not so ample as
arose afterward under the regency and the sub-
sequent reign, yet, in the groves of Epicurean
philosophy (in its grosser and corrupt sense)
in which she mingled, there was no lack of
works to embody, and that in attractive and
fascinating forms, the precepts which were there
put into such constant practice.
It would be equally painful to me and un-
pleasant to the reader, to pursue, in detail, the
progress of Clara's education. I have already,
indeed, dwelled on it as lightly as was consis-
tent with rendering my story clear; nay, I
have, perhaps, even sacrificed the full develop-
ment of character to the desire of not painting
too minutely that from which the mind re-
coils. I shall, therefore, having, in what 1
have already said, indicated, though imper-
fectly, the means by which Mabel worked,
proceed to the period when the end, which she
had so long had in view, drew near to its ac-
complishment.
Clara was now in her seventeenth year;
tall, fair, and finely formed, her beauty pos-
WHEN Clara was about twelve years old-sessed the characteristics of the country of her
(for I shall not pause to go through the minor
and earlier gradations of her fearful education)
-Mabel came with her to Paris. At this time
the War of the Succession had begun, and but
slight intercourse existed between Germany
and France. Oberfeldt, as she knew, had en-
tered the Imperial service, and, belonging to
the army of Prince Eugene, Paris was the last
place in which he was likely to be found. To
Paris, therefore, Mabel came: hcr great repu-
tation accompanied her, and was confirmed to
her there. She became the mode; and, in Pa-
ris, a vogue of this kind becomes more an epi-
demic passion even than with us.
It was here, and by these means, that Mabel
became admitted to the society of Ninon de
l'Enclos; and she at once saw how it could be
made available to her one great object. Ninon
was, at this time, very far advanced in years;
but her house was still the rendezvous of all
that was most distinguished in France.
One night she was at Ninon's, and Clara had
accompanied her thither. The rooms were
crowded. The gay, the witty, the wise, the
profligate, the frivolous, the silly, the young,
the old-all were gathered there. She would
not be contented unless Oberfeldt's daughter
became like Ninon herself, a very proverb for
female vice.
Time wore on; and they still continued at
Paris. Clara advanced, not in beauty only, but
in intelligence, in cultivation, and in all those
indescribable qualities which arise from ming-
ling in polished and intellectual society. Close-
ly, carefully, unweariedly, did Mabel watch the
progress of her education. She was not im-
peded by those obstacles which had hampered
birth. The contrast, indeed, between the sup-
posed mother and daughter was often a sub-
ject of remark-nay of contention; for some
maintained that, in despite of the difference of
age, Madame Zerlini still deserved the apple
of beauty in preference to Clara. Many, it is
true, preferred the bloom and freshness of per-
fect youth; but it was, at all events, certain
that the style of beauty of the younger lady
was not formed to last like that of her moth-
er;* and it was observed that there was small
chance that any similar controversy should
ever arise with regard to Clara and her daugh-
ter. But one circumstance there was which
rendered their respective trains of suitors by
no means so equally balanced as were the
partizans of their respective beauty: it was
this. Madame Zerlini had now been for
some years in Paris, and yet no one could boast
of any advance in her favour beyond that general
free amenity with which she treated all. She
had been exposed to every solicitation; attacked
by every art; but, now by lively and skilful eva-
sion, now by direct and indignant repulse, she
had foiled all those who in turn had presented
themselves; each conceiving with faiuite of the
petit-maitres of that day that his predecessors
had failed from lacking the skill and attractions
which he undoubtedly possessed, and which
were now to ensure his speedy victory. But
all failed alike; and those who still fluttered
round her were, either the few who delighted
Here, and in several other places I have, for the sake
of brevity, and to avoid periphrasis, used the terms mother
and daughter, when speak ing with reference to the ideas
of third persons. The reader is too well aware of their
position for my so doing to mislead him.
32
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
in brilliant conversational talents for their own would have heen sufficient to place him in the
sake; or those who hoped to render their ap- ranks of the disputants-for, even at this early
proaches to the daughter more easy by estab-age, the fame of his success was always more
lishing an interest with the mother in the first
instance.
the objects of his endeavours than the success
itself. He was, indeed, the very coryphæus of
that school to which the possession of a woman
was as nothing unless it were followed up by
her dishonour. To carry off the prize, there-
fore, from so many rivals, was so much the
more attractive that the triumph would be uni-
consequence, devoted all his energies.
Clara, on the other hand, was surrounded
with a crowd of admirers, the greater from her
already practised coquetry giving all reason to
hope, and from her being prodigal of those in-
dications which promise ultimate success to
those who are versed in the commerce of wo-versally known. To achieve it, Fronsac, in
men. But her entrance upon the stage of
vice was destined to be as marked and as bril-
liant as even Mabel herself could have desired.
Among the butterflies who fluttered around
Madame Zerlini and her daughter, the most
distinguished in rank, fortune, person, talents,
was, beyond all question, the young Duc de
Fronsac.*
He quickly perceived that his every move.
ment was watched by Madame Zerlini-he
was convinced that she distinctly saw his ob-
ject, and yet she threw no impediments into
his way. But as no obstacle was placed in his
path, he cared little whence the motive arose
-but pursued it. "He thinks me," said Ma-
Fronsac was, at this time, in his first youth bel to herself," he thinks me pandering to the
(to use a French idiom, the adoption of which dishonour of my own child! Gracious God!
into our language is greatly wanted) but he what must be the mean, the grovelling heart-
had already displayed the dawn of that career lessness of these people-to believe that it is
which, afterward, rendered him, par excellence, possible that their wealth and rank can thus
the hero of gallantry of the eighteenth century. paralyze in us the most intense and deep-
The scandalous chronicle associated his name seated feelings of humanity! And are there,
with that of the Dutchess of Burgundy- the indeed, mothers who can abet their daughters'
direct heiress of the throne; and though it ap- ruin and disgrace?-who can be so lost to
pears that there was no real ground for the every sentiment, I will not say of self-respect,
imputation, yet the very circumstance of its but of the very instinct of human nature? It
existence could not fail to add great additional is not possible! The very fact of my present
celebrity to one who, still in his boyhood, could apathy ought to prove to all these heartless
give rise to rumours of an importance such as fops. that Clara is not my child. If she were
this. Several adventures also, of the comple--oh, God! if she were-how would I crush
tion of which there was no doubt, rendered
Fronsac's name already formidable in that
career in which he afterward went so far.
Handsome, clever, with his whole thoughts
devoted to women, and utterly devoid of heart,
there could not be a person more fitted for an
homme a bonnes fortunas. This last quality
was the cause of multiplying his adventures to
a countless number; and many of those which
have reached our days would possess an in-
terest of the strongest order, were it not for
the revolting excess of that very heartlessness.
The remorselessness with which he exposed
his victims; the total absence of compassion
or human feeling at the tragic fate of some of
them; cause our hearts to shrink from him
with a shudder; and our pity for the sufferer is
increased by our scorn and indignation against
him who inflicts the suffering.
But as yet, the former only of these two
qualities had been displayed; and it was that
which caused Mabel to fix her eyes on him as
her instrument. She believed him to be likely
sufficiently to attract her daughter to succeed
-and she knew that, if he did so, it would,
without delay, be known to all Paris.
When the Duke first entered the society of
Madame Zerlini, he found that the conquest of
her daughter was the object for which nearly
all its members were contending. This alone
into the dust these poor paltry usurpers of the
names of gentleman and man-these cold,
creeping selfish beings, who would shrink into
their real nothingness before one indignant
word from a woman of sense and virtue! How
is it possible for these creatures to be the fa-
vourites of our sex?-but they are not, save of
those who, in this lewd France, ape the lives
of the poor harlot, who at least has the plea,
which they are without, of need, to goad her.
Fronsac, indeed, is of another stamp. He has
qualities which may gain him the heart of
women of a far different order. He has youth,
beauty, wit, talents-all the grace of anima-
tion and high-breeding-and much, even al-
ready, of that which is far more dangerous
than all, knowledge of women, and the habit
of success among them. Yet even he does not
deserve it. He may excite affection, but when
did he ever return it? He may attract confi-
dence, but when did he ever fail to betray it?
His qualities are those of person and of mind-
heart he has none. And by which of his
dainty stratagems does he mean, I wonder, to
obtain his object with Clara? Will it be by
a false key, or a false panel? Or will he pit
into requisition his appartement meuble in the
Fauxbourg St. Antoine ?-It matters not--I
will be like a Pagan Idol, my eyes shall not
see, my ears shall not hear--I will understand
nothing. But he sees I am observing him--
* Afterward the celebrated Duc, and ultimately Marech-here he comes--what! is flattery to blind me
al de Richelieu.
too? Well, I shall submit."
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
33
"How delightful was your Hermione, last | Duke. The daughter's shame was notorious
night, Madam!" said Fronsac, approaching-but still the mother was blind; the world
her,--" you gained all suffrages. The Duke thought that gold had closed her eyes.
of Orleans said to me he could not conceive the
existence of a Pyrrhus to such an Hermione.
It was no wonder that she nerved the hand
of Oreste even to murder."
"His Highness, flattered me, as you do, Sir."
"Permit me,"--said the Duke, as if the
thought had suddenly struck him, "permit me
to ask whether your daughter* be intended to
follow in your steps in the profession to which
you add so much lustre ?"
I have at present no intention that she
should go upon the stage. But wherefore do
you ask?”
"From curiosity, merely," replied Fronsac.
"It is scarcely fair to keep such beauty in re-
tirement."
"She will not always remain there, I trust,"
said Mabel,--and, rising, and passing to an-
other part of the room, she broke off the con-
versation.
Fronsac scarcely knew how to interpret her.
"She is not to be blinded by ordinary flattery,"
said he to himself--" she sees, I am convinced
she sees, what I am about--and yet she neither
checks my progress, nor obliges me to pay my
way. This is strange: but n'importe-as long
as that way is clear, it is my business to fol-
low it-by what means it is opened to me I
need not care.
""
(6
But it was not in person alone that the un-
fortunate Clara became poiluted—it was im-
possible to pass through the hands of Fronsac
without the mind also becoining corrupt. Ma-
bel watched the progress of the poison, and
beheld with delight the extent of its effect.
My hour approaches," she said in thought,
"the hour whose prospect has supported me
through long years of sorrow-ay, and of guilt
--is now at hand. He struck my heart to the
very core; let us see whether his own be
sheathed in proof. If, indeed, he be in aught
the Adrian Oberfeldt I once knew him, my
words will wither up his soul. His own curse
upon himself will be accomplished; his lot
will indeed be evil!"
CHAPTER XV.
I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor, and cou d tell
A whisp'ring tale in a fair lady's car,
Such as would please. *
*
*
SHAKSPEARE.
THE pupil of Ninon--the mistress of Fron-
com-
And what did Clara feel? She felt but lit-sac-the work of corruption was now
tle. Her vanity was gratified at possessing plete. It remained only to display that work
the homage of so distinguished a lover-her to Oberfeldt, and the crime and labour of a
senses were excited by those means which he lifetime would be consummated.
so well knew how to put into practice for that
Mabel had, among the reasons 1 have al-
purpose: nay, her heart was touched, accord-ready mentioned, been influenced in singling
ing to the interpretation of those who consider
a captivation of the fancy to be an impression
upon the heart--she was in love" as much
as those of corrupted minds can love. Yes!
even at this early age, corruption can make
callous;—those (and there are many so unfortu-
nate from circumstance, if not from design) who
are bred as Clara was, never, at any period of
their lives, love-in that sense, at least, which
alone is not an abuse of the word.
For this compound of vanity, of imagination,
of physical sense, we have no term-but often,
alas, how often!-it passes under the name of
love. And such love as this Clara felt for
Fronsac. To him it mattered little; so as he
prevailed, the value of the heart he sought, or
the extent to which he gained it, were as no-
thing; success was all he desired, and suc-
cess he obtained. The daughter of Oberfeldt
became the mistress of Fronsac.
She did not, however, quit Madame Zerlini's
house, and she would understand nothing of
what passed.
The affair became the talk of all
Paris-in the coulisse it was talked of, on ac-
count of Mabel-at Court, on account of the
*"Mademoiselle votre fille "a locution which avoids.
the awkward recurrence of proper names, without being
familiar a locution which we have not, but which we want,
in English.
out the Duc de Fronsac as her instrument in
the completion of Clara's dishonour, by the no-
toriety which she knew would attend the con-
nexion. Still that notoriety was far distant
from the sphere in which Oberfeldt moved.
She wished to bring his shame home to his
own door--and the recollection of a passage of
her youth suggested to her the means of ac-
complishing it. Oberfeldt was, at this time, at
Vienna, whither his military duties called him.
Of this Mabel was aware, and she determined
to go with Clara to Dresden.
Clara made little opposition to leaving Paris:
Fronsac, as Mabel had perceived, was begin-
ning to grow weary of her; and as her heart
was not strongly interested in the matter, the
decay of his attentions, instead of stimulating
or galling her, caused her own attachment to
"On se convenient, on s'arrange; on
wane.
s'ennuie, et on se quitte,' was a maxim
already acted upon, though it remained to
the profligacy of a subsequent generation to
put it into these aphoristic words.
therefore, was well enough pleased at the idea
of going into Germany; it was new to her, and
she was well satisfied to go.
Clara,
Upon their arrival at Dresden, Clara ob-
served, with some surprise, a great change in
her mother's life. Instead of being engaged at
5
34
MABEL THE ACTRESS,
the theatre, and mixing widely in society, she
hired a small house in the suburbs, and scarce-
ly ever went out; and when she did, it was
only in the dusk of the evening, and for short
distances. Although not a person to be ques-
tioned even by her daughter, Mabel thought it
better to give to her some reason for this in-
cognito, more especially as she passed under a
feigned name; that of Zerlina being, as she
said, and as in truth it was, too widely known
to admit of the privacy she desired. The
cause of that privacy she alleged to be some
business of a pecuniary nature which had
sprung out of some old connexions at Dresden.
To the reader, Mabel's motive must be plain
although upwards of twenty years had elapsed
since she left Dresden, yet she was far from
being so much altered as to be safe from re-
cognition; and the time was not yet ripe for
discovery. Clara she allowed to go out freely,
attended by Zitza; for the latter had scarcely
ever been in Dresden, and there were few, if
any, there who had known her at any time. In
her own instance, it was widely different. She
had been, for a considerable period at once the
prima donny, and the premier tragique; and at
that time there was scarcely a person in the
whole city to whom her person was not fa-
miliar.
One day, after they had been about a month
in Dresden, Mabel said to Clara that there was
to be a public masquerade at the theatre of the
Opera that week, and that, if she pleased, she
would take her thither. Of course, she was
but too glad to go. It was determined that
Clara should appear as Calypso, and Mabel
was to accompany her as Mentor. Telemaque
was, at that period, in the full vogue of its first
popularity; and these characters were certain
of universal recognition. "It will not be ne-
cessary for you to wear much mask Clara,"
said Madame Zerlini; you are not known here,
and a slight black silk, on the upper part of the
face, will be sufficient. For myself, as I am to
appear as an old man, I must have a mask to
suit my long white beard; for I must look, al-
though I am not, a very severe Mentor."
The night came. No pains did Mabel spare
to add every advantage of dress to Clara's un-
doubted beauty. Her magnificent diamonds,
which had been given to her at Florence
by the Grand Duke, glittered upon Clara's
neck, mingled in the profuse braids of her fair
hair, and formed the knots by which the sleeve
was looped, so as to give to full view the ex-
quisite rounded arm and falling shoulder. The
dress of the island-goddess afforded every op-
portunity for the display of the beauties of
form; and they were all taken advantage of to
the utmost. Mabel gazed at her, when she
was dressed, with that admiration, with which,
it may be supposed, a slave-dealer looks upon
the beauties of a young Circassian; "yes? she
is indeed beautiful; this cannot fail. If he be
the same man that he was-and in this I am
told he has not changed-success is certain."
As soon as they had entered the theatre, which
|
was already crowded with motley figures, the
dazzling appearance of Clara excited general
attention; the more so as no one could give
any answer to the universal question of "Who
is she?" Mabel was by her side: but she
was totally enveloped in a long tunic, and her
mask wholly concealed her face. It was with
no slight emotion that she found herself within
these well-known walls again. Every step re-
minded her of the eventful days during which
she had come thither so constantly; and her
heart swelled almost to choking, as recollec-
tion after recollection rose upon her mind.
She remembered the agitation and excitement
of her first appearance; the intoxication of un-
limited success; but, above all, the affection-
ate joy and pride with which he had greeted
her, as her triumph had become complete.
"Yes!" she exclaimed mentally, "yes! he
loved me then; no shadow of coldness had
passed over his affection-and I-oh God! man
never was loved by woman as I adored him!
And oh! for that love to turn to hate and
scorn; what a convulsion of the heart must
such a change have needed! And it did-it
did nearly wrench my heart in twain. Alas!
how can a mortal being endure such agony
and yet live? Twenty years and more have
passed since then; and yet it seems as yester-
day. This long lapse of years seems as no-
thing when compared to the time I passed with
Oberfeldt, though that did not amount to one-
fourth of them?"
At this moment, as they walked round the
theatre, (the pit of which was made level with
the stage,) they came opposite the box in which
they had seen Oberfeldt and his present wife
on the memorable night which preceded their
separation. Her memory placed them in in-
stant presence before her; and she again saw
that smile which had, that night, stung her to
the heart; which had slain all her hopes and
happiness forever! "Accursed be his false
heart!" she muttered, as she ground her teeth
together in bitterness and anguish; love like
mine was wasted upon one so selfish. Oh! if
he had ever known what that word Love meant,
all the pride and pomp of ancestry and rank
would have shrunk into their real pitiful size,
if indeed such poor trumperies could ever have
crossed his mind. I must continue my race!'
yes! it is continued! Proud may he be of
this tawdry, meretricious creature by my side,
the heiress of sixty quarterings, the cast off
scum of the profligacy of Paris! the contami-
nated in body and corrupt in mind, who has
not even the excuse of passion to plead for her
impurities! Truly, Count Oberfeldt, it was
worth thy while to bruise the only heart that
ever loved thee, for this!"
"Fairest Calypso," said a voice by her side,
addressing Clara, which roused her from the
deep contemplation that engrossed her. "Fair-
est Calypso, how is it that thou art accompa-
nied by Mentor? Has Telemachus grown so
wise that he needs him no more? or wherefore
do you subject yourself to such control? It
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
35
was not so of yore; assuredly,
himself were a fitter companion.
I might bring one to you!"
"What, sir!" said Clara, "do you deal for
others?"
"Alas! no,” replied the stranger; "I plead
only for myself-it is that unworthy wight
whom I would recommend."
Telemachus | Augustus replied; for "German organs never
Would that can adapt themselves to the real delicacy of
accent with which you speak. And what in-
telligence bring you from the metropolis of gal-
lantry and wit-from that worthy island of
Calypso herself? What though Versailles be
become a monastery, where frock and cowl,
bell, book, and candle, have superseded the
splendour and gallantry of the days when Louis
was indeed Louis le Grand,--Paris still retains
her supremacy in the reign of pleasure. My
cousin of Orleans, if all tales be true, main-
tains his palace of luxury and love with the
greater brightness from the contrast of the
gloom of the court--while his fair daughter of
Berri follows, and closely in his track. Are
not these things so, fair lady? for one so fair
must needs have been one of the brightest stars
in this shining galaxy."
The person who spoke thus, in the ordinary
jargon of the place, was not disguised; he
only wore a domino, and carried his mask in his
hand. Mabel knew him well; it was the
King.
"I knew it would be thus," she muttered;
"I knew so brilliant a thing as this would bring
the foolish moth to burn his wings in the flame.
Pour le coup, Phillippe, je te tiens.'"
The lapse of twenty years, and the vast vi-
cissitudes of fortune which had befallen him
during their course, had caused no diminution
in the gallantry of Augustus. On the contrary,
his tastes becoming vitiated by over use and
excitement, he needed the stimulus of variety,
and he sought it constantly; and Mabel had
calculated confidently that one so strikingly
beautiful, and so highly cultivated as Clara,
could not fail to attract him, if once she came
within the sphere of his observation. It was
with this view that she had now come to Dres-
den. Of this Oberfeldt could not remain igno-
rant.
Mentor, by changing the person of his pupil,
seemed to have changed his nature also; for
he kept aloof, and in no degree interrupted the
conversation which was proceeding with spirit
between Calypso and the King. She commu-
nicated to her protegee in a whisper who her in-
terlocutor was; for, she thought, it might need
a royal name to carry off the tell-tale marks
which Time had left of his progress upon the
kingly brow, handsome, eminently handsome,
though it was. The manner of Clara, which
had, at first, been cold and indifferent, if not re-
pulsive, changed at once. Alas! what vast
additional effect the wooing borrows from the
rank of the wooer! If it be true that
"You speak truth, Sir," Clara answered;
"The town, is indeed, if possible, the more gay
on account of the gravity of the Cour!.*
The
fanaticism of St. Cyr has not spread to Paris;
there Ninon was always more powerful than
the Maintenon herself.”
"Ah, la Ninon!" interrupted the King; "Ni-
non the Queen of Love, and of Beauty, and of
Wit-who reigned, absolute and infallible as
the Pope, over the true disciples of all three-
no wonder that within the circle of her sway
the wand of that gloomy precision should lose
its power-armed though it was with all the
spells of influence and ambition. But Ninon
has passed away; you scarcely," he added, look-
ing at Clara more fixedly, "you scarcely could
have known her. At your age a few years
are more than four fold their number later."
"As a child, I knew her well," said Clara;
"child though I was, she honored me with her
notice and kindness."
Augustus was struck with some surprise
that a person who had come to Dresden in a
condition so as not to have appeared at Court
after some weeks' residence, should have been
accustomed to mingle, from her very childhood,
in the most distinguished society in Europe.
"This is very strange," he said, turning and
speaking in German to one of his attendants,
of whom he had two with him, who had drop-
ped to a short distance on seeing their master
engaged in a conversation likely to be so inter-
"A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn,"
there is still less doubt that "a king's name is
a tower of strength" even in matters such as
these, in which, one would think, "the gowd,"
and not "the guinea-stamp," would be the ob-esting as one with a person of Clara's appear-
ject looked to.
"You can but lately have left your isle,"
continued the King, "to come into these re-
gions; for it is impossible that you can have
been long at Dresden, and yet remain unknown."
"I have been here but a few weeks," an-
swered Clara, "and have been out but little."
"And from what quarter of the heavens did
so brilliant an Avater descend?" asked the
King, who was becoming more and more inter-
ested in proportion with the increasing encour-
agement displayed by the goddess.
"I have lived for several years at Paris"-
said Clara.
"I might have known it without asking,"
ance "This is very strange--I wonder who
she can be! Nobody knows her, though she
tells me she has been here some weeks; and
from her conversation it is evident that she has
been accustomed to the first society in Paris.
She was an élève, she says, of your old friend
Ninon's and from the manner in which she
speaks of her, it is manifestly true. I wish you
would talk to her, and sec what you can make
of it."
*La cour et la ville: that true Parisian antithesis of the
old state of society in France which is scarcely recoguinn-
ble in English; for the mere words do not strike upon the
car as conveying the crowd of familiar ideas which they do
in French.
36
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
The courtier obeyed: "I understand, Mad-
am, you are a Parisian," he said, advancing to
Clara;
-but Clara did not answer him;
for, at the moment, she felt Mabel, who still
had hold of her arm, grasp it with the sudden-
ness and violence of a convulsive seizure, and,
on turning to her, beheld that she was nearly
sinking to the earth. She staggered to a seat,
Clara and the whole group crowding round to
render her assistance. Clara was about to re-
move her mask to give her air-but Mabel vi-
olently stopped her hand, and, drawing her face
close to her own, said rapidly and vehemently
in Italian-"Not for worlds-touch not the
mask-I shall be well in a moment-get me
to some private place-call for water-and send
these people away." Clara was accustomed to
obey her implicitly. She knew that, in despite
of her ordinary kindness, when she spoke per-
cmptorily, her will was not to be disputed or
questioned.
"She will be well directly," said Clara to the
King--"a little water, and a few moment's
rest will restore her-come into this cabinet,"
she added, turning to Mabel-" and now" (wa-
ter had been already brought) "leave us to-
gether." With a smile of mingled thanks and
tenderness, she dismissed the King-and, clos-
ing the door, went to assist her mother.
ing her dishonour. The inference was not
violent; for to one who knew Augustus as
well as Oberfeldt, the means, object, and issue
of the whole scene must have been palpably
apparent.
When Clara saw the state in which Mabel
was, she was greatly frightened; the more so,
when the applications which she hastily used
to restore her appeared to have no effect. At
length, in despair, she was about to go in
search of farther assistance, when Mabel seem-
ed to regain her strength suddenly from the
alarm; for, springing from the couch on which
she lay, she arrested Clara's arm, which was
outstretched towards the door, and exclaimed,
"No, no! 1 am well; I shall be well directly;
fetch no one." The sudden impulse did in
fact restore her; for, as she sank again upon
the sofa, a deep groan-like sigh struggled from
her breast, and seemed to relieve it from a
weight intolerable.
"Come," she said loud to Clara, "I am re-
covered now. We will go forth again. The
royal admirer of Calypso will be anathema-
tizing Mentor for thus keeping the fair goddess
| from his sight.”
But, mother," said Clara, though without
any great earnestness of persuasion, "we had
better go home; you will not be equal to stay-
ing in these hot rooms longer."
"I am sufficiently recovered," replied Mabel,
"to stay for a short time: we will at least bid
the King good night before we go; that is,”
she added with a smile, "if his Majesty be suf-
ficiently interested to seek us out again."
Clara gave one glance at a mirror which
hung on the wall of the cabinet, and felt that
that question was not doubtful.
by the same means as she had him. She,
therefore, only bowed and muttered her thanks
and assurances of recovery.
As soon as they were alone, she removed
her mother's mask: she started at the coun-
tenance she beheld. It was pale as clay; the
eyes were fixed; the cold drops of sweat stood
clammy on the brow; and blood was slowly
trickling from the lower lip, as though it had
been bitten almost through in the violence of
some sudden and powerful motion. It was, in-
deed, the vehement effort of self-command
which accompanied and caused this act, that In effect, it was not: for no sooner had the
had silenced the wild scream which arose into two ladies emerged into the large saloon, than
Mabel's throat for utterance, as after the lapse the King's party again joined them with anxious
of so many years she had again heard the voice inquiries and offers of service. Mabel scarce-
of Oberfeldi! It was, indeed, he who, in at-ly spoke, for fear of Oberfeldt recognising her
tendance upon the King, had stepped forward
and spoken to Clara as I have above described.
He had returned from Vienna but the day be-
fore, and being disguised by both domino and
mask, and thought by Mabel to be absent, she
had not recognised him till he spoke. But then!
the first tone which struck upon her ear called
into life a flood of emotions which were almost
more than she could bear. Of the power; the
magical power; of the voice of one we have
loved, need not speak. Oh! it lives in the
heart, although unheard for years; and if,
after their lapse, it suddenly speaks again, it
thrills through us with a shock which checks
our blood and respiration, and renders the whole
frame trembling, unnerved, and powerless. And
under what circumstances did Mabel hear it
now! The father spoke to his own child,
whom he knew not; he was close to herself,
yet of her very existence he was doubtful;
what had he been to both these persons? what
was he to them now? He spoke to his own
child; and what was his object in speaking?
Indirectly at least, to assist the King in effect-
He now renewed his conversation with
Clara. He talked of Paris, and of those whom
he had known there; and inquired as to which
of them remained, and which had passed away.
"And so Ninon," said Oberfeldt, " continued
the same to the last! In my day, she was
already no longer young; but she congregated
around her all that was most distinguished in
Paris, ay, and in Europe: the most brilliant
society I have ever met in my life was at her
house."
"In that respect," said Clara, "as in so many
others, she underwent no change. It will be
long, indeed, before we again see society such
as was gathered together in the Marais. There
is no similar point of reunion now. That most
near it is the Dutchess de Berri's at the Lux-
embourg, but there are many points in which
her circle differs from, and falls below, that of
Mademoiselle de l'Enclos."
•
"Alas!" said Oberfeldt, "and can I be so
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
37
old? I recollect assisting at the fetes given in | gled deprecation and gratitude, completed the
honour of her father's marriage !"
conquest of the King's often and easily-won
heart.
(1
Nay, Sir," interrupted Clara, "that does
not argue you to be old for that father himself
is still the gayest of the gay; the most gallant
among the many gallant of Paris."
"Does he retain his personal beauty?" in-
quired the King, who was interested in this
discussion, as the Duke of Orleans was but
very slightly older than himself; "in his early
youth, he was distinguished for it."
Oberfeldt now returned, and announced that
the carriage was ready. The King took Clara's
hand to lead her out, and Oberfeldt was ad-
vancing to offer the same courtesy to Mabel,
but she, perceiving his intention, drew back
and, as though not seeing him, gave her hand
to the other nobleman who was in attendance
on the King. Oberfeldt, who did not remark
that this was done purposely, led the way to
the carriage; and, placing himself by the step,
assisted first Clara and then Mabel to get in!
She could not draw back, without her so doing
being conspiuously obvious-she placed her
"Yes, Sire," said Clara, who now undis-
guisedly addressed the King as knowing to
whom she spoke, "the Duke is still a very
handsome man, though he is yet more remark-
able for the grace of his manners, than for his
advantages of person. His noble presence be-hand in that of Oberfeldt!
speaks his elevated rank, yet the suavity and
playful ease of his demeanour soften and em-
bellish the dignity of his aspect."
Clara pronounced these words in a tone, and
accompanied them with a look, which proved
to the delighted King that the Duke of Orleans
was not the royal person who suggested the
features of this flattering portrait: it was evi-
dent, from the manner of the fair painter, that
her original was nearer at hand. Augustus
drank in the sweet flattery, without suspicion
or reserve. "Oberfeldt," he said to the Count,
withdrawing him slightly aside, "this creature
is manifestly of no common order: who can she
be, and what can she be doing at Dresden?
You must discover for me where she lives, and
who and what they are the mother's silence is
almost as extraordinary as the daughter's con-
versation. I cannot make them out at all. Fair
ladies," he added, turning to them as he heard
Mabel say they must be gone, "allow one of
my friends here to call up your carriage. For
whose shall he inquire?"
"For that of Madame Rovelli," said Clara,
giving the name which Mabel had assumed
upon her arrival at Dresden. Oberfeldt went
to seek it and the King said to Clara, “You
are then of Italian origin ?"
"I am an Italian by birth," said Clara, " and
lived in Italy all my childhood."
"I should scarcely have thought you to be
a daughter of the South," replied the King;
"their beauty is seldom of a kind so brilliant
as yours. The golden hair' which the poets
of old Rome celebrate so much, is scarcely
known on the banks of the modern Tiber,
Perhaps, indeed, it was so admired by the an-
cients from its rarity: and undoubtedly," he
added, lowering and softening his voice, "beauty
such as yours must be rare everywhere. It has
not its parallel in Dresden!" And Augustus
accompanied this speech with a gaze so ardent,
and the meaning of which it was so impossible
to mistake, that it needed all Clara's Parisian
self-possession not to feel abashed under its in-
fluence.
She looked abashed, however, as she answer-
ed, "You should not, Sire, turn the head of a
poor silly girl by your courtly flattery:" and
the blush, and smile, and gentle look of min-
Let those who have loved, and who after
long years have met the object of their " old
affections," remember how, when, in the
chances of society, their hands have met, the
touch shot through every nerve, and thrilled to
their very marrow! What, then, must have
been the emotion of Mabel! The ancient love,
the subsequent hatred, the longing thirst of
revenge which had preyed upon her for so
many years; how did the concentration of
these passions press upon her heart, and con-
vulse her frame, as her hand once again rested
in that of Oberfeldt! She conquered her agi-
tation, however, and springing swiftly into the
carriage, threw herself back to seek refuge in
darkness, as it drove rapidly away.
CHAPTER XVI.
My lord chamberlain,
Pr'ythee, come hither; What fair lady is that?
SHAKSPEARE.
MABEL now stood upon the very threshold
of that event to which she had devoted her
whole life. And, as she approached it, as the
fruit seemed almost within reach of the hand
outstretched to clutch it, the anxiety, lest by
some unforeseen occurrence it should escape
her grasp, rose to a feverish and sickening
degree.
It is true that Clara was already corrupt;
that she had passed that bourne from whence
no woman can ever return; but these events
had taken place at a great distance; they
might remain unknown, they might be hushed
up; the shame was not glowing and glaring as
she had resolved it should be. Her work, she
felt, would be but half accomplished if Ober-
feldt were to discover his daughter now. "She
shall be ranked in the royal harem; she shall
be the favoured sultana of a moment's fantasy;
her shame shall be apparent in Dresden as is the
noon-day sun; and then all the world shall
know that the strumpet of the hour is the sole
heiress to the noble name of Oberfeldt!" And
she paused as her thoughts turned upon the

38
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
adventures of the night. "Little, oh how little!
"Little, oh how little! seems that this old lady had some distant rela-
did he think who stood by his side this night-tions in Saxony, and that she is come hither to
whose hand it was that trembled in his. Trem- look after their inheritance. Truly, I hope the
bled?-yes! the weakness of poor humanity daughter will not fail to find her German kins-
did for the moment prevail over the firmness of folk, for a creature so lovely should be fixed
even my resolution; the nerves did quail, but among us. Does not your Majesty think so?"
the mind, the mind is unshaken. I remember "In good sooth, ay; and so, as it seemed to
when before my hand quivered in his grasp; me, did the fair Rovelli also. Unless I very
when, as a poor gipsey at the fair of Leipzig, far misread some certain expressions both of
he first whispered his accursed poison in my the tongue and of the countenance, she has
ear; but then the hand was tremulous with had bad taste enough to prefer our poor Saxon
tenderness; and now! Oh God! what have I capital to all the attractions of Parisian society
endured since then! Innocence, heart, hope, itself."
love, ay life-all lost, all blasted, all accursed
by that one false step! Well, well might I
pause before I yielded to his sophistry, igno-
rant and unnurtured as 1 was, and fair and
temptingly as he bedecked it to the view!
Yes! the sword which has hung suspended
over his head so long is now ready to fall; the
blow must be struck at once!"
beautiful person, as when he was in the early
bloom of his youth, or the full vigour of his
manhood. He was much struck with the
young stranger-his jaded fancy was excited
his sensitive vanity was gratified-his palled
senses were irritated by novelty-and this he
called Love!
The courtiers smiled inwardly-for the
King's manner plainly betokened that he con-
sidered his royal self to be the occasion of the
brilliancy of the Palais Royal and the Luxem-
bourg vanishing from the memory of the lovely
stranger. It is true that she had endeavoured
to convey that impression to his mind-and
alas! how easily do the most wary of us fall
How different were, at the same moment, into any trap which holds out so tempting a
the feelings of him from whom this misery had bait. But Augustus was far from being either
originally sprung, and over whom so dreadful cautious or diffident in such matters.
His po-
a stroke impended. The King had carried sition in society had pretty thoroughly secured
Oberfeldt to the Palace, to a supper at which him against repulses even up to his present
only the chosen members of his own particular time of life; and he was as ready to suppose
set were present. Augustus was in high spir-himself the object of attraction to a young and
its, and talked of nothing but the new beauty
whom he had that night discovered. "Have
none of you ever seen her before ?" he exclaim-
ed. "It is strange that she could have been
in Dresden even the short time she says, with-
out some of your hawk's eyes discovering her.
An Italian, too! and yet her French was de
Paris meme. And then, with all the rich vo-
uptuousness of her native country, and all the
arch vivacity of her adopted one, she united the
full blue eyes, and fair hair and skin, of our
own northern beauties. The scrap of black
silk upon her face-for it did not amount to a
mask-did but slightly veil, yet not conceal,
her features the bright, yet languishing eyes
--the brow of dazzling whiteness, and the full,
rich, pouting lips through which those rows of
pearls appeared, as though a lily was budding
within the leaves of a rose-all these were vis-
ible, and gave undeniable promise of the beau-
ties which were not revealed. And then that
silent mother, Madame Rovelli! Who can she
be? Oberfeldt, you must discover for me."
Wine went round. The health of the fair
stranger was toasted again and again; and
Oberfeldt, heated with wine, and flushed with
the excitement of loose revelry, went to his
rest that night with the determination of seek-
ing her out the next day, with a view- it is
useless to mince the matter-with a view to
rendering her subservient to the King's appe-
tite. And this was his own child!
The next day, Oberfeldt took his way to
the dwelling of Madame Rovelli. Alas! if
he could but have known who the person was
whom that name concealed, how different would
his actions have been! But the action was in
itself evil-and when we swerve from the path
of right, who shall foretell at what point the
consequences of our deeds shall stop?
The office thus imposed has often been call-
ed by certain unsavoury and degrading appel- Mabel was informed that the Count von Ober-
lations; yet there was not one person at that feldt was below, and begged permission to wait
table who did not envy Oberfeldt the task the upon her. "Go, Clara," she said, "it is you
King had given him to execute. Neither did whom he wishes to see-tell him I am weak
he himself seem to consider it an insult or de- from the attack of last night, and not equal to
gradation-so true is it that menial, and, as in see a stranger. A stranger!" she repeated, as
this case, mean services rendered to a King Clara closed the door behind her. "A stranger!
acquire in the eyes of courtiers a character-alas! if indeed he were a stranger to me how
wholly distinct from their own debasing nature.
"Sire," answered Oberfeldt, "I discovered
from their servants that they live in the
suburb that they have been at Dresden some-
what short of a month-that they came from
Paris-and that they speak Italian and French
almost indiscriminately, but never German. It
different would have been my lot! But it is
vain to look back now; the present needs all
my_energies."
The father and the daughter met. Ober-
feldt beheld a person very beautiful; and
though, of course, in a dress far simpler than
the splendid one of the night before, t, by the
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
39
grace and self-possession of her manner, arising | ter not to reveal her name or station; and as,
as they evidently did from habitual intercourse in the present high game which she was play-
with the best society, she appeared still more ing, Clara felt, or fancied, her own interests to
certainly a person of distinction, than she had go along with the enjoined secrecy, her silence
done in the gorgeous trappings of Calypso. on these topics, skilfully and repeatedly as
Clara, on her part, saw in the Count a hand- Oberfeldt led to them, remained impenetrable.
some military-looking man, something under Still he remarked this; namely, that, with the
fifty-his hair grizzled, not gray, and his eye exception of the ladies who had been in the
still retaining, in the giance of mingled family habit of frequenting the circle of Ninon de
and military pride, a considerable degree of, at l'Enclos, and of those who might be considered
least the semblance of, youthful fire. Still, in their successors in society, Clara's acquaintance
the lines immediately under the eye, and around lay almost wholly among men. This circum-
the mouth, a keen physiognomist might have stance could not fail to strike so keen an ob-
observed the expression of care and disappoint-server as Oberfeldt: but, if it gave rise to some
ment-that saddened, soured aspect which arises
from the stings of remorse, or the gnawings of
frustrated hopes. Clara, as it is natural to sup-
pose, saw nothing of this; but beheld, in the
person who approached to address her, only the
accomplished and courtier-like friend of the
King of Poland.
"I am commissioned by the King," said Ober-
feldt, "to inquire after your mother's health,
and still more after your own. His Majesty
hopes anxiously that the unpleasant circum-
stance of Madame Rovelli's illness last night
has not been productive of inconvenience to
you, and that your mother herself is entirely
restored."
"His Majesty is too good," answered Clara,
with a smile of pride and conscious triumph-
"His majesty is too good, to interest himself
about us.
My mother is much recovered,
though still too weak to receive you, Sir-and,
for myself, the natural anxiety for my mother's
state, has been all that I have suffered in conse-
quence."
“The King has, farther," resumed the Count,
"desired me to express his hopes that he may
be permitted to profit by the fortunate chance
of last night, and to prosecute an acquaintance
from which he cannot but anticipate so much
delight."
"His Majesty honours me exceedingly," said
Clara, the flush of gratified vanity kindling
more and more visibly on her speaking face:
"but mother lives in a very retired manner at
my
Dresden, and of course my conduct must be de-
cided by hers. But I beg, my lord, you will
express to the King my humble gratitude, and
say that I never can forget the honour of hav-
ing been distinguished by his notice."
"This girl," thought Oberfeldt, "seems to
have a good idea of the value of a royal lover;
I wonder who she is?" And he turned the con-
versation upon Paris, upon Italy, upon the court
of Louis XIV., and of the Grand Duke: and
though he found that manifestly she was ac-
quainted with the most distinguished members
of the former, personally, and of the latter from
youthful recollection and her mother's report,
yet could he in no degree discover in what
situation of society she had stood, nor how she
had mingled in circles so distinguished as those
with which she was evidently familiar. For
Mabel had given strict injunctions to her daugh-
vague suspicions, they did not strike deeply-
first, from the evident reality and sterling de-
gree of the accomplishment of Clara's manners
and mind; and, secondly, from the very rare
existence, at that period, of persons of the class
to which suspicions of this kind would, in our
days, point.
"You remain some time at Dresden, 1 hope?"
said Oberfeldt, at last, when the time approach-
ed at which his long visit must be closed.
""
"I believe so," she answered, "but my mo-
ther's movements are uncertain.'
"I hope I may be permitted to visit you
again?"
"Certainly; it will give me great pleasure."
"That girl," he said to himself, as he pur-
sued his way to the palace, "is an enigma;
but I think, if I understand these things, that
be she what she may, the King will have no
great cause to complain of being an unsuccess-
ful wooer."
Oberfeldt's report to the King still more ex-
cited feelings which were already highly raised.
"I must see that girl again, and speedily," he
said, "but how to effect it, is the question. I
cannot visit her at her own house-and, just
now, if I were to bring her hither, I should
raise a storm in another quarter, to whose fury
I should be sorry to be exposed. Stay, Ober-
feldt, a thought strikes me; I have often pro-
mised to visit you at your castle of Oberfeldt; I
will do so now. The Countess is at Vienna;
and there need be none but our own set.
vite," and he named a dozen of his more inti-
mate favourites, "and a sufficient number of
ladies, to prevent it seeming strange that these
fair strangers should be asked also. I fix it for
this day week; and now, away and about it."
Oberfeldt asked no better.
In-
His first object was to ensure the presence
of those for whom the party was projected.
He wrote, therefore, to Madame Rovelli; and,
apologizing for the liberty he thus took with
one whom he knew so slightly, gave as his ex-
cuse that he had the King's commands to re-
quest that she and her daughter would grant
him their company at Oberfeldt, where his
Majesty had signified his gracious intention of
being present the following week. This, which
was the real purport of the communication,
was clothed and bedecked with all the honeyed
phrases which the vocabularies, both courtly
40
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
were received by Madame Rovelli in an equal
spirit of sincerity with that in which they were
made; the old lady put Clara into her carriage
and set out with her for Oberfeldt.
CHAPTER XVII.
*
*
*
but we will see
How our villeggiatura will get on.
The party might consist of thirty-three,
Of highest caste. *
*
*
*
BYRON.
}
and gallant, could suggest to ensure its success. | upon her charming charge; promises which
Mabel's answer was as follows: I need scarce-
ly say it was not in her own hand-writing.
"Madame Rovelli is penetrated with grati-
tude for the notice which his Majesty has con-
descended to take of her daughter and herself
-and begs to express to the Count von Ober-
feldt her sincere thanks for the very courteous
manner in which he has conveyed the King's
commands. It is with the very greatest regret
that Madame Rovelli is compelled to state the
impossibility of her complying with the injunc-
tion, at once so flattering and so gratifying
with which she has been honoured. But her
health is in a state which puts it wholly beyond
the pale of practicability for her to present her-
self at the castle of Oberfeldt, next week. At
the same time she can scarcely reconcile it to
herself to deprive her daughter of so great and
so distinguished a pleasure as obeying the
King's commands in this instance must neces-
sarily prove; and she is, therefore, tempted to
throw herself upon the Count von Oberfeldt's
known kindness and complaisance to obviate
this difficulty. It has occurred to Madame Ro-
velli that, as doubtless there will be many la-
dies of rank at Oberfeldt on the occasion in
question, it might be feasible for the Count to
engage the good offices of one of a fitting age
and station to act as protectress to Mademoi-
selle Rovelli. Madame R. is perfectly aware
of the extent of the obligation which she is re-
questing at the hands of the Count von Ober-
feldt; but the peculiar circumstances of the
occasion will, she trusts, plead her excuse."
THERE was a large party assembled at Ober-
feldt-but it was wholly composed of that clique
which the King had gathered around him in his
intimacy-the general character of which I
can best describe by saying that it closely re-
sembled that which, shortly afterward, was so
well and so disgracefully known in Europe as
forming the society of the Regent of France-
and which has come down to posterity in the
graphic and lively pages of St. Simon, and gen-
erally, in the Memoirs of which that period
was so fertile.
It was, then, a party such as might, a few
years later, have been assembled in the Palais
Royal that Clara found at Oberfeldt. It was
now early summer, which is probably the sea-
son of the year in which the country displays
more of its beauties conjunctively than at any
other period. The verdure has already reached
What a contrast is there here from the last its full richness and abundance, while it still
letter which Mabel had addressed to Oberfeldt! | retains that beautiful tint of delicate green
In that, all was open, undisguised passion- which passes away with the earlier months of
fierce and fearful, it is true-but still direct the appearance of the leaf. The sun, too, is
and out-spoken. In this cold, heartless epistle, | brilliant and inspiriting, but without that fierce
the dissimulation was treble and fourfold. Sup- and overpowering heat which it possesses later
posing it to have been written by a real Mad- in the year. Above all, it is the season of flow-
ame Rovelli, it masks the basest abandonment ers and of blossoms, which both, by their fra-
of her child to the King's lust, under the sem-grance and variegated beauties of colour, add
blance of the utmost modesty, and delicate re- the crowning loveliness to the aspect of rural
liance upon the distinguished nobleman to whom scenery.
it was written. But, as being the composition
of Mabel, and addressed to Oberfeldt on the
subject of his own child-words are too weak
to express its awful quality and degree of evil.
Nothing but the demon of vengeance, inspiring
the heart of a slighted woman, could have
prompted wickedness like this!
""
It is almost needless to say that a lady "of
fitting age and station was readily procured
to "act as protectress to Mademoiselle Rovelli."
No court is ever without a plentiful stock of
dowagers of this most estimable and useful de-
scription; and undoubtedly that of Dresden
was the very last in which it would be difficult
to find them. A Baroness, "of the highest
respectability," as Oberfeldt's reply assured
Madam Rovelli, received Clara from her moth-
er's hands, the day before the assemblage was
fixed; and, after a multitude of the most sol-
emn and reiterated promises of the utmost and
most vigilant care and attention being bestowed
The grounds immediately surrounding the
Castle of Oberfeldt were, as I have already
stated, highly picturesque and striking. The
scene which is described in the Fifth Chapter
of this story, was, at this time, in its perfection.
The hawthorn-tree, so often mentioned, was
in full bloom,-and shedding its delicious odour
to a wide distance around, completed, by its
singular beauty, the loveliness of this charming
valley. Oberfeldt never could look upon that
tree but the recollection of his child flashed
across his heart-and, his memory then turn-
ing to Mabel, he would marvel whether indeed
she were connected with that dreadful event-
whether her unseen agency had stricken this
terrible blow-whether she were still alive?
And when, as now, the hawthorn-tree was cov-
ered with its blossoms-his thoughts would re-
vert to still earlier days, when, in the playful ·
ness of fond affection, he had crowned Mabel
Fleur-d'Epine-and, as gazing upon her with
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
41
the fantastic garland gleaming through her
jetty hair, he had thought that he never had
beheld any thing so beautiful, and had felt that
none had ever been to him so dear. Alas!
how little could he conceive how near Mabel
was to her own bower-and that his child was
actually once again under the roof beneath
which she had been born!
It was understood that the King was to re-
main about ten days at Oberfeldt; and before
half that time had elapsed, it was equally ap-
parent how much the situation of the young
and unknown foreigner had changed: she was
understood to be the maitresse en titre, and re-
ceived accordingly that homage which is al-
ways rendered to the occupant, for the time be-
ing, of a situation so influential in an absolute
court.
Oberfeldt used every endeavour to make the
King's visit to his castle as agreeable and as
brilliant as possible. Every day, new schemes
of pleasure were invented, and practised. Par-
ties on the beautiful river, and long rides into
the surrounding country, occupied the morning;
feasting, music, dancing, all those jeux de sociele,
which ingenuity and grace have devised to di-
versify the monotony of a country life, crowned
the night.
"Truly," said the King to the Count, one
evening that they were walking on the ter-
race which partly surrounded the castle, "Truly
the reputation of Oberfeldt for beauty has not
been gained undeservedly. How picturesque
are these hills, and that river how beautiful!
And that hawthorn standing in the valley alone,
with its beautiful flowers, so delightful both in
odour and to the sight, it looks like a natural
bower formed by the fairies for their summer
dwelling. Oberfeldt, let us have a fête cham-
pêtre there, and the fair Rovelli," added he,
turning to Clara, "shall be the Queen of the
May."
Sire," said Oberfeldt with much emotion,
"in all else it is my delight, as well as my
duty, to obey your Majesty's commands, but in
this instance, I entreat to be pardoned, as I am
confident I shall be when I have stated what
associations are connected with that spot.
Your Majesty has probably heard that I had
once a daughter, and that that child was lost
to me in a manner the most extraordinary.
Sire, she was stolen from me by Bohemians at
a fête champêtre given around that tree, in
celebration of her third birthday. Last week
this was sixteen years ago.
The tree was, as
now, in its full bloom; its shade was our point
of our reunion; it was there that I last beheld
my child, my only child. Judge, Sire, if I
could bear to renew the scene!"
"Assuredly no," answered Augustus. "I
am distressed infinitely that I should have
touched upon such painful recollections. I
had heard this melancholy story only imper-
fectly, and, of course, its scene was wholly un-
known to me. And have you never heard any
tidings of your child?"
peared at the same time; and I was never able
to trace either. I believe also that she did
not act in concert with her troop, for I had it
narrowly watched for years, and I know that
she never returned to it; nor was I ever able
to discover any communication between them
and her. It was a fearful mystery which, at
this distance of time, is still as much so as at
first. It has left me childless !"
The reader will perceive that Oberfeldt did
not here speak the whole truth. He could not
bring himself to enter into the story of Mabel.
When in Dresden, under his protection, she
was not known to have been a Bohemian; and
the small, but terrible light which had by these
means been shed upon the disappearance of his
child, he had never revealed to any one.
had acted upon it, how fruitlessly the reader
already knows, it had served but to throw
greater certainty upon his misfortune, in no
degree to guide him to repair it.
He
It may well be supposed that the Hawthorn
Tree had, of late years, been no favourite
haunt of the Count's. He had, in truth, been
a great deal absent; but when he was at Ober-
feldt he had seldom or never sought its shade.
None of the recollections attached to it could
be very agreeable to him. At "Mabel's
Bower," it smote his heart with remorse, pity,
and regret; and as the scene of his child's
loss, the feelings it excited could not but be of
unmingled pain. The conversation, however,
which he had had with the King, so operated
upon his mind, that he determined once again
to visit the spot with which his destiny seemed
to have been so singularly connected.
It was after sunset when Adrian reached the
tree. How strongly and painfully did his heart
beat as he approached it! Who, indeed, has
not felt the overwhelming power possessed by
mere locality? who has not felt that choking
sensation which renders the calling the heart
the seat of the feelings scarcely a metaphor,
upon drawing near, after a lapse of long years,
to a spot which has witnessed one of the most
agitating passages of his life? Happy is he
who can answer that he has no such events to
remember! happy indeed is he, and rare also!
Oberfeldt entered "Mabel's Bower." The
seat which had once surrounded the trunk of
the tree was partly decayed, but a great por-
tion of it remained. On this the Count sat
down; and, as his mind reverted to past time,
the strong scent of the May-flowers recalled
into almost instant presence the days in which
he used to sit there with her whose name the
bower bore.* "How I loved her then!"
thought Adrian, "I loved her, far, far more
than I have ever loved. And can it be that I
now doubt whether the dreadful stab which
this spot also witnessed was not inflicted by
her hand! She loved me too; loved me as
are
* In the last chaptor of "Lord Lovel's Daughter
some observations upon the power of the sense of smelling,
in recalling past scenes, and absent persons, to the mind.
They are equally applicable here, and are not repeated,
Never, Sire. A young Bohemian disap-only because it would be a repetition.
6
42
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
clue by which light would be cast upon this
extraordinary recurrence.
"Those were the very words of the Cygani's
song. Well, well do I remember them! What
can they mean? Could it be herself? And,
if so, why come hither, and thus forcibly at-
tract my notice? It is an enigma all!”
He found the garland lying where it had
been dropped. He hastily snatched it up-
there was a small note intertwisted with the
flowers. Oberfeldt tore it open; it was too
dark for him to distinguish a word. With
frantic impatience he flew to the Castle. The
note contained only these words, "If you de-
sire to receive tidings of your lost child, be at
the hawthorn tree to-morrow, at an hour be
fore sunset.
only an ardent heart and a strong mind can
love; as they, alas! can love who can hate
fiercely also! The days I passed here with
her were the happiest of any life: what were
the dissolute pleasures of my earlier youth, or
the ambitious pursuits, successful though they
have been, of my manhood, in comparison with
that period of peaceful happiness? As I wit-
nessed the powers of her fine intellect expand-
ing and becoming cultivated by my means, as
I beheld her warm and keen affections growing
stronger and firmer, as they clung to me as
their only object, I experienced more enjoy-
ment than all the intercourse with women of
my whole life, united, has yielded me ! Well,
oh! how well, do I remember the last time
we were here together! poor thing! she wept
at leaving this her own bower, and foretold "And whom shall I meet there?" mattered
she should not see it again! I remember, too, | Oberfeldt, as he stood in amaze with the open
promising her that, as soon as we returned, we note in his hand. "Good God! can it be-
would come hither-and that she should bid can it be ". -and even in his own mind he
me welcome to her bower. And how have I scarcely dared add the name of "Mabel?"
kept that promise? Curses be on the bar
which Fate had placed between us!-would to
God that she had been born my equal!"
Even in this moment of strongly excited
feeling, and regretful recollection, the preju-
dices of his rank were thus inseparably inter-
woven with his thoughts. The idea never
The idea never
crossed his mind of the possibility of his having
been united to one of inferior birth!
"I acted ill by her," he continued. "What
a sore blow to feelings such as hers must our
parting have been! Yet could her whole self
have become so changed with regard to me,
as to rob me of my child? Impossible! Yet
who else could have a motive for such an act?
If all the Bohemians had been implicated, the
child's ornaments might have been temptation
enough-but I am well assured they were not
and for one girl to encumber herself with a
child of that age, and to give up forever, as
she did, her father and friends-the inducement
was not sufficient. Strange, strange mystery!"
At this moment a small wreath of May-
flowers fell at his feet: he started up, and, to
his still greater amazement, a voice, which
seemed as if it were receding, sang at a high
pitch-
Oh! from the bonny May-thorn bough
This lesson you may borrow;
Its flower so sweet and blooming now
Will all be shed to-morrow!
By Heaven! the very words!" exclaimed
Oberfeldt, as he rushed from beneath the tree.
He fancied that he saw a dusky figure gliding
into the nearest point of the wood; and thither
he followed at his utmost speed, but he caught
only this glimpse of it, if indeed it were so;
when he reached the wood, the increased dark-
ness, arising from its deep shadows, prevented
his seeing a dozen yards around him. He
saw that search was fruitless. Accordingly he
returned rapidly to the hawthorn tree, to see
whether the garland, which had evidently been
thrown to him by the singer, contained any
Thoughts and feelings the most tumultuous
rushed through his mind. At one moment, he
determined to send out and scour the country in
every direction, in order to ensure that infor-
mation which even now might be promised
only to disappoint him; while, the next, he de-
termined to await the appointment; feeling
that such a search must be, at best, very un-
certain, and that, if attempted unsuccessfully,
it would almost certainly cause the disappoint-
ment which it was his object to obviate.
therefore awaited, with what feverish and al-
most maddening impatience I need not say,
the rendezvous of the next evening.
CHAPTER XVIII.
He must be told of it, and he shall ;
* I'll take it upon me;
*
*
If I prove honey-mouth'd let my tongue blister.
He
SHAKSPEARE.
Now all is known-a dreadful price I pay
For my revenge. *
**
CRABBE.
Ir was an hour before sunset," and the
declining rays of that sun as it approached its
bourne, shone in full splendour upon Mabel's
Bower. Mabel herself was there! she was there,
on the spot which had been the scene of the hap-
piest of her only happy days; she was there, on
the spot which had witnessed the tenderest hours
of a season of surpassing tenderness, which she
had left loving and beloved, to which she re-
turned at once wronged and wronging, whither
she came to keep, in hatred and revenge, a
tryst made in the spirit of overflowing fondness.
It may be thought that the actual sight of a
scene which had once been so dear, and which
had ever lived so vividly in memory, would
have stricken her, were it but for a moment,
with some touch of tenderness, that she could
not, after this lapse of long years, and such
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
43
+
come will I give to him, the remembrance of
which he shall carry to the grave. The hour
is arrived; let me but retain strength and calm-
ness to go through this task, and then I care
not what comes; my work will be accom-
years, have re-entered her bower unmoved! |
But no! She knew how terrible would be
the interview which awaited her-and she had
summoned all the energies of a determined
nature to meet it. What efforts this must
have cost even one so habituated to self-con-plished."
trol as Mabel, it is needless to say-but the
effort had been made her mind was wrought
up to her fearful purpose.
Oberfeldt was punctual to the hour. He
came; and once again he and Mabel were face
to face! The agitation of both was extreme;
Mabel was again in her bower;-but dif- but that of Adrian was far the greater. The
ferent indeed was she who came thither now scene at the masked ball, the suddenness of
from the young and beautiful creature who which had overpowered her, had in some de-
had left it. Her beauty, it is true, had not gree forestalled the feelings which would oth-
passed away. Time, merely as such, could erwise have been accumulated upon this mo-
not, indeed, have yet had any very deterio-ment; as, when a person is precipitated from a
rating influence upon it for Mabel was not height, his striking against some substance
quite yet forty years of age; but neither had midway, renders his fall less severe. More-
sorrow had that withering effect upon her over, she had had full preparation for this in-
frame which so often attends its visitations. It terview, and had fearfully schooled herself to
is when sorrow assumes the character of de- meet it. Oberfeldt, on the contrary, had, up
spair that it thus dries up the current of our to the moment of his arrival, still been in sus-
blood, and makes us old before our time. pense. It is true that the inclination of his ex-
When hope is absent-when there is nothing pectations had been that it must be Mabel her-
left for us to expect or to desire, then it is that self whom he should see, but his doubts were
the frame, ere long, partakes of the decrepitude great and various; at times he believed Mabel
of the heart. But in Mabel's case, there had to be dead, and that he should see only the Cy-
been through life an object of ardent hope, of gani; at others that it might be his daughter
intense pursuit-no matter to how evil an issue herself, to whom, in dying, she who stole her
that hope and that pursuit looked forward- had revealed the truth. It is hard, indeed, to
they existed-and that, in itself, prevented the say to which alternative his wishes pointed.
numbing stagnation which, as I have said, is Fears, of many kinds and colours, mingled
the chief agent in destroying the juices of life. too strongly with his expectation of meet-
For years, Mabel had been actively and cease-ing Mabel, for him to hope for that result, more
lessly employed to the furtherance of one ter-
rible end-and the very ceaselessness of that
activity bore her through the dreadful task.
Her bloom, it is true, was gone. An ha-
bitual paleness and gravity of aspect had re-
placed the more brilliant attributes of her
beauty of which I have earlier spoken-but at
the same time they rendered it more severe-I
might say more sublime. For though perhaps
those who read the human countenance mi-
nutely might have traced the marks of the
darker passions-yet they also have their sub-
limity, although of a lower nature, as well as
the calm, the holy, and the pure. The fallen
angels are fallen it is true-but the traces of
their heavenly nature still beam upon their
brow.
than during those occasional moments, in which
the remembrance of the love that once had
been between them bore down all before it.
His doubts were now solved! It was Mabel
herself! She stood pale, motionless, and erect:
her lip slightly quivered, it is true, but her dark
| eyes bent upon him a fixed, searching, and
fiery glance.
But much-oh, how much! passed in her
heart, which her countenance did not reveal!
The lover of her youth stood before her,-
the only man whom she had ever loved! Ober-
feldt was a good deal altered; his temples and
forehead were bare, and the forehead was fur-
rowed by time; but he had still the same erect
and noble form, and his eye, although it now
quailed under Mabel's glance, had lost none of
its early fire.
It is then you, Mabel!" he exclaimed, as
soon as he had recovered himself sufficiently
to speak.
Mabel's aspect now bespoke that dreadful
composure which checks and covers a storm of
the wildest and most terrible passions; that as-
pect which I have seen somewhere compared
to the snow which lies on a volcano. Her face "Ay, Count Oberfeldt," she answered in a
and brow were deadly pale, with the exception firmer voice than his, “it is I indeed. You
of a spot of burning red in the centre of the have sought me often and long, now you behold
cheek; her eyes were dry and bloodshot; her me." She paused for a moment; but, as he
lips parched and white; the very extremity of remained silent she continued in a calmer and
excitation operated its usual effects upon her somewhat ironical tone, "You may remember,
frame, but, in her mind, her stern determina-Sir, when we were here last, I promised that,
tion kept its power at bay there.
|
on the very first day of my return to Ober-
"I shall not forget the tryst' were the last feldt, I would come to this spot, and bid you
words I spoke beneath this tree," muttered welcome to my bower"-her voice slightly
Mabel to herself, " and I have not forgotten it. faltered as she pronounced these last words,
The first day of my return I promised to give but, recovering herself immediately, she pro-
Oberfeldt a welcome to my bower; and a wel-ceeded, "This is the first day of my return to
44
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
Oberfeldt; I am come to keep my tryst, and
the welcome I have to give you is tidings of
your child !"
Oberfeldt could scarcely answer her. Two
different trains of emotion, the deepest and the
strongest his life had known, were called into
violent action by Mabel's words. She alluded
to the days of their union, and to his breach of
it, and also to the fate of his child: the crowd
and conflict of his feelings almost choked him.
"Mabel," he said at last, "my emotions at
this moment scarcely will suffer me to speak.
I scarcely know what I do speak. Your fate
has been to me; Heaven can witness; subject
of deep anxiety and distress; but my child;
oh! Mabel, I am a father; remember how I
lost my child; you cannot know how I loved
it; tell me of it-I beseech you; tell me; does
it live?"
If there were one or two expressions in this
which might have touched Mabel, there were
others which caused her heart to remain steel-
ed and vindictive as before. "She does live,"
she answered; "but I have much to say, and
must say it in order. Sit down, Sir, and hear
me calmly and without interruption."
They seated themselves on the remains of
that bench which had so often borne them;
and all Mabel's preparation and self-schooling
could not prevent this thought from shooting
powerfully across her mind. She paused for
an instant to recover her full self-possession,
and then spoke thus:
timent, that the unprotected had the strongest
protection in their very defencelessness. A
man who feels thus,' I thought, cannot but be
worthy of trust.'”
6
Here again the recollections of the time to
which she recurred so vividly, gave a dash of
sorrowful tenderness to her thoughts and man-
ner, from which, the moment the full con-
sciousness of it struck her, she hastened to
shake herself free. She rallied at once, and
went on: " Again the last words you spoke
when we parted that night were, You trust
yourself to my honour
it fail,' and you added the imprecation, Evil be
you shall never find
my lot when I betray my trust!' How truly
you fulfilled that trust, how faithful a steward
you were, I leave it to your own heart to
judge.".
•
"Nay, Mabel," interrupted Oberfeldt, "you
do me wrong".
"Sir, hear me out," returned Mabel, “I
speak only of facts; you may draw from them
what inference you please. You need not
think that I recall these things to upbraid you !
The time for upbraiding, if, with a proud
spirit, there can be ever such a time, is long
since passed. I would not stoop to it at the
moment of our parting; it is not likely I should
do so now. But what I have said, and am
about to say, is necessary to myself. I choose
to detail to you my motives before I tell you
my actions. To resume: For some time; in-
deed, during the whole period of our residence
at this place; you acted fully up to your promi-
ses and my hopes. You cultivated what talents
nature had given me; your tenderness was
unremitting; and (for all considerations of
petty bashfulness are lost in the purpose for
which I have sought this day) I loved you
with a warmth, a fondness, and a devotion, such
as have never been surpassed in the affection
which woman has borne to man!”
"Adrian von Oberfeldt," said she, it is
needless for me to recall to your mind the
circumstances under which we were first
known to each other. I was a poor wandering
Bohemian; devoted, as it seemed, by nature to
live the life of my race, but being at the same
time gifted by that nature with a soul to scorn
and loathe it. You were, as you are now, a
man of great wealth and of rank, and we were
both young. But my youth was extreme, and
my ignorance of the world and of mankind "Dear Mabel," said Oberfeldt, encouraged
more than proportionate. You, on the contrary, at once and softened by these words; and he
had arrived at full manhood, and had lived for took her hand as she spoke. But she snatched
years in the most polished court, and the it violently from his grasp, and starting back,
most refined city in the world. How you won exclaimed, "Touch me not, Sir! I came not
me, these our relative positions and characters hither for folly and mockery such as this: there
might sufficiently explain; but there was yet is a gulf placed between us, vast and immova-
another circumstance which strongly contri-ble as that concerning which these words were
buted to that result, and without which proba-
bly, it would have never been. I mean that
you pledged to me your honour, and that I
believed you. You spoke, undoubtedly, with
a tone and a manner of sincerity which would
have misled persons far less ignorant than I
was; me they deceived entirely. I remember
as minutely as though the words were spoken
yesterday, your expressions in the market-
place at Leipzig: when I spoke of being de-
fenceless, you said, 'The absence of any pro-
tection is the strongest of all! you will have
placed your whole destiny in my hands; wo
be unto me if I prove an unfaithful steward.'
These were your words; and I remember being
struck and touched by the delicacy of the sen-
first spoken. It is necessary, as I have already
said, necessary, for myself, that I should recapi-
tulate the sentiments which, successively, I
have felt towards you; but as your fancy is so
nimble that you cannot hear the fact related
that I once, no matter how long since, loved
you, without jumping to the conclusion that
you may cajole me still, I will so far anticipate
the progress of my tale, that I will tell you
that now I hate and scorn you with all the
strength and bitterness which wrongs like
mine may well excite. And now, Sir, hear me
calmly; or even yet you shall know nothing
of your child.”
Mabel's sterner and fiercer feelings were
aroused; and she now proceeded with fewer
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
45
touches of sadness, if not of regret, and with | for you to pore upon the thought that your line
less calmness and caution.
must be continued; that it was a duty imposed
upon you by Heaven to marry a woman of your
own rank; by Hell, rather!" she continued,
her voice thickening, and her countenance dark-
ening, as she spoke, "for it was founded on
perjury the most foul; on cruelty the most sa-
vage; its motives were mean, cold, and inhu-
man; and its issue" but she found she
was going too far, and, suddenly checking her-
self, she added, in a calmer tone, “but I will
not forestall what I have to tell you; you will
know it soon enough!
"Well, Sir; we went, as you know, to
Dresden; and there, after a time, I was brought
upon the stage. This first cutting through the
peaceful and domestic habits we had formed,
struck ne severely. The step, though it had
been our original intent, had latterly fallen into
oblivion; and the pang was, consequently, most
painful. But still, I did you justice: I saw it
grieved you also; I saw that you acted, not
from choice, but from unavoidable necessity;
and I consequently obeyed, and, though not
willingly, cheerfully.
"I now was exposed to every solicitation;
temptation I will not call it, for there was none
which the profligate of your sex urge upon
the exposed of ours. This, likewise, you knew
not; you knew not that the King, your friend,
and master, and patron, was the foremost, the
most eager, and the most persevering, in endea-
vouring to corrupt me. I told you not these
things; for I did not need your protection-in
such points, a woman can always sufficiently
protect herself. But from the disgust which
they caused me; nay, from the feeling of de-
gradation, that I should be thought a fitting ob-
ject for such attacks, I could not shield my-
self: but I suffered in silence for your sake.
"And it was at this time that you first be-
came estranged from me; it was now that your
affections began to slacken, and your manners
to grow cool. Oh God! with what agoniz.
ing pain did the first hesitating doubt that such
was the case, strike upon my mind! With
what unspeakable anguish did I admit the un-
deniable certainty that so indeed it was! And,
even then, I could not discover the cause! I
knew it not till your own mean, poor, equivo.
cating letter betrayed it! I had, the night be-
fore we parted, seen sufficient to prove to me
that your attentions at least were devoted to
another; I then thought your affections also!
But your letter revealed to me the grovelling,
abject meanness of your soul; it dispelled at
once the illusions of affection; for it rendered
non-existent the being whom I had loved. I
saw that it was not attachment to another
which had estranged you from me-but that
you had grown ashamed of the connexion which
subsisted between us, because I was a lowly-
born Bohemian-"
(C
By heaven! No!" exclaimed the Count,
"such an idea never crossed my brain! How
could it? Did
Did I not know that from the first?
Did I not know.
"You knew," resumed Mabel, “what I was,
but the world did not. When I became an act-
ress, (which, remember, you yourself had made
me,) and was daily before the world, you grew
ashamed; I repeat it, ashamed-of the nature
of our intercourse-that is, of your affection,
and (I believe it) also your respect, having
been devoted to one whose calling that world
thinks so lightly of.
And this it was which
gave room for the accursed blight of ancesto-
rial pride to regain its hold upon your heart;
"You married; and you sent me gold to pay
me for myself-body, heart, and soul !—you
thought you knew me; you believe that you
had fathomed the depths of my spirit, and yet
you sent me money! Thought you that I had
lived with you till I had imbibed your own
baseness? I went forth from your house, and,
as I shook the dust from my feet, I made that
vow which you will this day learn how tho-
roughly I have kept. I left Germany, and
went, by way of Paris, to Italy. I passed at
once to Naples, as being the place the farthest
removed from hence, and, taking the name of
Zerlini, re-appeared upon the stage."
"Good heavens !" exclaimed Oberfeldt, “and
is it possible that you and the Zerlini are one?
How extraordinary that in all my search for
you, the stage never crossed my mind! But,
in any case, the celebrated Italian was the very
last person upon whom my suspicions would
have fallen."
“I judged so,” said Mabel," and therefore it
was that I determined thus. But although I
was thus completely hidden from your view,
you never, for a moment, passed from mine.
My agents never had their eyes removed from
you; all that happened to you, all that you did,
whither you went, and what your habits were,
were known to me as intimately as to any ser-
vant within your walls. You were like the
prey into which the barb is stricken. I gave
you line and allowed you to run at pleasure,
but it was stricken-you could not escape me.
At length I determined you should feel my
power. Your child was stolen from this spot
by my order. The Hungarian gipsy-girl, whom
you questioned concerning her song, brought
the child to me within an hour after it was lost;
and, before your messengers had well left the
castle in search of it, we were floating rapidly
down the Elbe to a vessel which had brought
me from Italy, and which lay awaiting my re-
turn."
Oberfeldt groaned deeply. He had indeed
made some, though few inquiries among the
seafaring people on the Elbe; but the Italian
vessel which had conveyed Mabel, had been
there only a few nights, had attracted no atten-
tion, and had been forgotten by the time Ober-
feldt,--nearly a month afterward, for his suspi-
cions had naturally at first been directed in-
land,-made his inquiries. No one belonging
to the river knew any thing of the matter; for,
it will be remembered, it was already dusk
46
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
when the child had been taken from Oberfeldt,
and it was quite dark before the boat, which
contained Mabel and her victim, began to de-
scend the Elbe.
"And it was thus, then, that all my search
was vain! My thoughts often, nay almost un-
changedly, turned upon you; but never could
I find any trace of whither you had gone be-
yond Paris, any more than I could some years
before. The Signora Zerlini !-Heavens !
How little when I heard the name, did my mind
revert to you! and yet, now that I know the
truth, it seems wonderful that it should not
have flashed upon me at once! The Cygani
then was employed by you?"
"You shall see her," was the answer; and
Mabel blew loudly upon a silver call which
hung to her waist. She was determined that
Oberfeldt should have the fullest conviction of
the identity of his child, before the horrible
fact which she was about to reveal should in-
duce him to shrink from the knowledge of his
daughter's fate, as much as he had before ar-
dently desired to possess it.
In a few minutes Zitza came; she brought
with her a basket. The Count knew her at
once. The dreadful circumstance by which
his previous acquaintance with her had been
marked, had impressed her image too strongly
upon his mind, for the effects of sixteen years
upon her person to efface it.
"It is she indeed!" said Oberfeldt. "Mis-
creant!--and what could tempt you to so hor-
rible an act?"
"Count Oberfeldt," said Mabel, "restrain
yourself or even yet the fact so nearly di-
vulged shall never be revealed to you. Zitza,
open the basket.”
She did so; and displayed to Oberfeldt the
dress and ornaments which his unhappy child
had worn on the day of her abstraction. He
had described them too often in the researches
which followed, not to recognise them in a mo-
ment.
"This person," said Mabel, "brought the
child to me, as I have said, within an hour of
its being taken hence; she has been in my
service, as its attendant, ever since. Are not
these things so?"
They are," said the Cygani.
"'Tis well," rejoined her mistress,-"retire.
And now, Count Oberfeldt, it remains for me to
give you knowledge of what has become of
your child."
|
strong, firm, and clear, as she said, "You will
remember, Sir, that I was discarded and tram-
pled under foot for the sake of your family pride.
You thought it right and necessary that you
should marry in your own class of life, in order to
continue your noble house. For this considera-
tion you forfeited your pledged word of honour;
you betrayed that trust, to which, if you proved
unfaithful, you invoked the malediction of heav
en upon your head:-
-Evil be my lot,' you
said, if I prove an unfaithful steward;'-you
have so proved-what your lot will be you
shall now judge. Count von Oberfeldt, your
race has been continued in the person of a
daughter-that daughter you have seen-that
daughter is Mademoiselle Rovelli, the King's
concubine!"
If the painter of old threw a veil over the fa-
ther's face, in despair of representing the ex-
pression of parental agony, assuredly I, whose
powers of representation are so infinitely more
feeble, from the difference both of the arts and
of the artists,-may be permitted the same priv-
ilege now. In that case, the sacrifice was only
of the daughter's life, here, it was of her hon-
our-and in this, as in the ancient tale, the fa-
ther had delivered up the victim himself!
"
Ay!" exclaimed Mabel, springing up, and
speaking now with unrestrained fury!" She
is your child!-Clara de Rovelli, Clara Zerlini,
Clara von Oberfeldt are one! Your race is
continued! and nobly! Seek out your tribe of
profligates in Paris, your friends and their suc-
cessors! ask them of Clara Zerlini; they will
tell you what she was; you can tell them who
she is. The offscouring of Parisian corruption;
the discarded mistress of its minions of debauch-
ery; such is the heiress to the name of Ober-
feldt! You spurned me because I was of lowly
birth, and had trusted to your truth and honour.
Your pride, forsooth, must cause you to marry
a noble lady, and to continue your noble line!
Ha! ha! ha!" and her convulsive laugh of hor-
rible triumph caused her wretched victim to
writhe anew in agony. "And now," she con-
tinued, "and now the noble, the proud, the
haughty Lord of Oberfeldt, cringing in his char-
acter of courtier, panders to the King's lust,
and procures for him his own daughter!"
66
""
"Fiend!" exclaimed the Count-but the
very excess of his shame, rage, and anguish
stopped his imprecations in his throat-he bu
ried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud!
"By this time," resumed Mabel, "the King
"Torture me no more!" interrupted Adrian, knows to what extent he is beholden to you
driven almost to madness by suspense-" tell-Oberfeldt shuddered-" Nor he alone; it is
me my fate at once-tell me where is my dear public to the whole Court! all your friends
child tell me
whom you have gathered round you here, are
at this moment commenting on your shame.
You will have their cutting sneers, and their
still more cutting pity. The Count of Ober-
feldt's lost child is found! The heiress to that
long and noble line is at length discovered.'
Found!-where? Discovered which is she?'
She is the Parisian prostitute for whom the
Count von Oberfeldt played pander to the
King "'"
"Count Oberfeldt, you will gain nothing by
this intemperance. I will tell you anon." Her
eyes glared upon him with the expression of a
fiend the veins of her brow and throat were
swelled almost to bursting-the muscles of her
lips quivered with a convulsive spasm, which
gave a slight distortion to a countenance al-
ready approaching to the expression of one of
the Furies of Mythology-yet was her voice
•
MABEL THE ACTRESS.
47
Mabel gazed upon Oberfeldt as he sat; his
arms supported by his knees, and his face
buried in his hands. It seemed that some re-
vulsion took place in her mind; for when, after
the lapse of several minutes, she again address-
ed him, she dropped the fearful tone of irony in
which she had hitherto spoken, and continued
with less of fury, and perhaps more of sorrow,
"You cast from you," she said, "a heart which
adored you, for the paltry considerations of rank
you would have broken it, had not scorn pre-
served it from breaking; you turned its kind-
ness into gall; its good into evil; its fond af-
fections into the very spirit of hell! Oh God!
The miserable, heart-stricken man cowered | ed into the human heart, in one moment of ac-
beneath the storm of contumely and scorn with cumulated misery.
which he was thus assailed. The pride of birth
lad, indeed, been one of the strongest feelings
of his mind--I was about to say of his nature,'
but with such feelings nature has no concern-
and the agony of insupportable shame with
which he was overwhelmed, was proportionably
terrible. But a deeper and more horrible
thought also mingled with this. He had, he
could not deny it to himself, been accessary to
the dishonour of his own child! His life had
been passed amid the laxity both of idea and
of action which was prevalent in the courts of
that period; but his heart was neither so cor-
rupt nor so hardened as not to shrink with hor-
ror unspeakable from a thought like this. In my heart was formed to love and to be grate-
all the various images which his fancy had con- ful; and, for long, long years it has cherished
jured up concerning the fate of his child, a life nothing but hatred and revenge! The very
of wandering, of want, even of guilt (for at times being "and her voice grew hollow as she
he believed her to be with the Bohemians) had spoke-"the very being whom I nursed, reared,
occasionally crossed his mind. But this terri- and fondled; who caressed and siniled upon
ble certainty of corruption and irretrievable me; I fed with poison instead of food; day by
profligacy, far, far worse than the worst dream day I instilled corruption into her young heart;
his imagination had ever pictured; and then, I made her what she is now!"-Oberfeldt
the soul-sickening thought of his own share in groaned in anguish.-"And it was to this hour,"
her present shame-Oh! God! the agony of continued Mabel, "it was to this hour of tri-
that man's mind at this moment would, could umphant vengeance that I looked for repay-
she have seen its full extent, almost have ex-ment for these years of horror! It is come at
cited the compassion even of her who had in-
flicted it!
Who could have thought, when the young
and gay Count Oberfeldt first addressed the
pretty Bohemian at the fair of Leipzig, that
such would be the result of his so doing? who
could have supposed that the tryst of affection
made at this tree would have been thus kept?
Truly,
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vicos
Make instruments to scourge us!-
well may it be said, that "our sins are like the
Dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus-they rise up
against us in the shape of armed men.
""
It takes much time even imperfectly to de-
scribe mental sensations such as those which
Oberfeldt then experienced; yet, alas! far
more than I have here set forth may be crowd-
last! my work is accomplished! and," sum-
moning, as though by a strong effort, her de-
clining fierceness to her aid "I am repaid!”
A pause of several moments followed, when
Oberfeldt again heard her say, in a broken and
choking voice, "Repaid?-am I indeed repaid?
-can aught repay me for what I have suffered
-for what I have done?"
She was again silent; and a considerable
time elapsed before Oberfeldt, buried in the
feelings of his despair, raised his head from the
posture in which he had hitherto remained.
When he did, he beheld Mabel stretched upon
the ground-her face covered with blood, which
flowed in streams from every outlet through
which its torrent could find a vent. Passion
had claimed its victim in the storm of her
emotions a blood-vessel had burst; and, when
Oberfeldt went to raise her, he found that she
was already dead.
:
THE END.
THIRTY YEARS
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS
IN
ENGLAND AND AMERICA:
INTERSPERSED WITH
ANECDOTES AND REMINISCENCES
OF A VARIETY OF PERSONS,
DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY CONNECTED WITH THE DRAMA DURING THE
THEATRICAL LIFE OF
JOE COWELL, COMEDIAN.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
IN TWO PART S.
PART I-ENGLAND.
"No author who understands the boundaries of decorum and good breeding, would presume to think
:
all the truest respect which you can pay to the reader's understanding is to halve this matter amicably,
and leave him something to imagine in his turn, as well as yourself."-STERNE.
NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1844.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
1
!
4
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE WICKED READER.
In addressing for the first time a per-
son-or body corporate or incorporate
some embarrassment often arises as to
"the eftest way" of commencing your re-
quest or apology; but as I intend making
neither the one nor the other, I feel no
hesitation in adopting the above, as being
most likely to suit the character of the
class of persons into whose hands this
work may fall. I have "turned over many
books," and have found "Gentle Reader,
and "Kind Reader," and all sorts of ami-
able "Readers" by dozens, but the "Wick-
ed Reader" I think I have got all to my-
self. And if we only take notice of all
that occurs to us every day in the week,
and believe half what is said to us every
Sunday, this book will certainly be perused
by a very large majority who fully de-
serve the title I have selected for them.
""
beginning of this very book. Faults are
beauties to the eye of friendship; he de-
clined accepting it, deeming it of higher
value; and so strongly urged me to pro-
ceed with my recollections, that, having
the luxury of leisure during the following
summer, I wrote at random the first vol-
ume. But since then till now, having
had to get my living by putting the non-
sense of others into my head, I have had
no time to spare to put my own upon pa-
per. This long wait between the acts will,
therefore, account for my speaking of my
old friend Barnes and others as if they
were still alive, when they have been
foolish enough to die in the interim.
In the second volume, as I wrote care-
lessly along, I found I was recollecting too
much, and was therefore compelled to
take shelter in an abruptness which I had
not at first contemplated. A smile of ap-
probation from my old associates is the
Depending solely on memory for mate-
rial, the incidents in the following pages
are told without any strict regard to chron-chief reward I look for from this truth-tell-
ological order, but as they naturally con-
nected themselves by "relative sugges-
tion," as far as possible, with the im-
pressions they made at the time. In fact,
encumbering a book of this kind with
dates, and heights, and distances, is like
throwing a man overboard, to swim for
his life, buttoned up in buckskin breeches
and boots, when, by "going it with a perfect
looseness," he might have a small chance
to escape.
ing gossip; but if I told the whole truth, it
might cause a laugh on the wrong side of
the mouth. And even you, wicked reader,
wouldn't wish me, though in joke, to wound
the feelings of a class of persons the cant-
ing world has for ages made most sensi-
tive to wrong, because it has never done
them right.
And now, to borrow the extemporaneous
language of the members of my profession,
when "respectfully" informing an audience
that some villanous tyro will be substitu-
ted instead of the sterling performer they
have walked a mile and paid their dollar
The way I came to undertake this task
at all was simply this. In the winter of
1841, my esteemed friend F. W. Thomas,
Esq., the successful novelist, requested to see,
me to give him some anecdotical sketches
of my life, to be prepared by his practical
pen, as matter for a periodical he was
then providing with suchlike insufficient
food; and I wrote for that purpose the
Most Wicked Reader,
“I rely on your usual indulgence.”
JOE COWELL.
Baltimore, August 1, 1843.
THIRTY YEARS
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
CHAPTER I.
"But what's his name, and where's his hame,
I dinna choose to tell."―Coming through the Rye.
"But whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say.”
Childe Harold.
On the seventh day of August, Anno Domini
one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two, I
came "into this breathing world."
CHAPTER II.
beauties of the passion-flower, the blood so
smoothly flows to work its task of life, that
man's nature partakes of the serenitude of the
atmosphere, and all is health, and peace, and
calm content.
At the period to which I allude (I shall pur-
chosen rendezvous of the Channel fleet. The
posely avoid all useless dates) Tor-Bay was the
satirical couplet of
"Lord Howe he went out,
And, lord! how he came in,"
would have been equally applicable to the fleet
then under the command of Earl St. Vincent,
but that the Saint precluded the pun. Adverse
"I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emula-winds, in that most adverse channel, and the
tion; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the cour-
tier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious;
nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is
nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melan-
choly of my own, compounded of many simples, extracted
from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation
of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is a
most humorous sadness."-SHAKSPEARE.
THE only spot on earth to which my memory
turns with that peculiar feeling which they alone
can appreciate who can remember the cot where
they were born, is the little village of Tor-Quay,
in Devonshire. But it was not where I was
born: all I can recollect of the place of my na-
tivity is, a very large, dark-looking room, and a
very large, black-looking chimneypiece. Chil-
dren always imagine every object much larger
than it really is, and generally much brighter:
it appears I was an exception to the latter sup-
position. I remember no little window
Nor
"Where the sun came peeping in at morn ;"
"Fir-trees close against the sky,"
as Hood says so prettily; nothing but the large,
dark room, and large, black chimneypiece: per-
haps a sad prognostic of my future fortunes.
The local inhabitants of this insignificant lit-
tle village-it was so then, and I suppose is so
now-were fishermen, pilots, and boatbuilders;
a simple, industrious, kind-hearted people. How
often have the little shoeless urchins slyly thrust
me a slice of their dark-brown bread through
the trellis-work of the flower-garden, in front of
"the house; and many a weather-beaten handful
of forbidden fruit has been dropped into the
ready pin-a'-fore of "Master Joe," and devoured
with ecstasy in the most private place on the
premises.
The county of Devon is called, and justly so,
the garden of England. Climate gives charac-
'ter to all animals, and in that calm, yet genial
spot, where, in the open air, the simple jessamine
twines its perfumed tendrils amid the dazzling
nothing-to-do-duty this then terror of the ocean
had to perform, made even mooring and un-
mooring a precautionary employment, for thou-
sands of men to be kept in subordination literal-
ly by one: all old man-o'-wars men know it is
safe policy never to let Jack have time to think
of anything but his duty. Frequently the fleet
would be in harbour two and three weeks at a
time, diverting the people with cleaning, paint-
ing, polishing, and punishing; then to sea for a
like period, and into port again.
The beauty of the climate, the facilities for
sea-bathing, and the joy which every sailor feels
at being surrounded by "wife, children, and
friends," induced many of the superior officers
to hire the better sort of houses which could be
procured, or build slight compact ones for the
accommodation of their families. In a large
fleet, carpenters, masons, mechanics of all sorts,
and labourers by hundreds, are readily obtained;
houses were built, furnished, and occupied as if
by magic, and the country, for miles around, be-
ing thickly studded with the rural residences of
the nobility and gentry, Tor-Quay, at that time,
became suddenly the most exclusively fashion-
able watering-place in the kingdom.
In a small, neat house, fitted up in elegant
simplicity, situated on a gentle ascent from the
beach, and overlooking the whole harbour, lived
my protectress-my more than mother. Here,
loving and beloved, I passed three innocently
happy years.
The arrival of the fleet was the signal for joy
and festivity; sailing-matches, boat-clubs, pony
races, banquets, balls, and concerts occupied a
portion of each day and evening. In compli-
ment to Earl St. Vincent, on his birthday a
more than usually splendid festival was given at
Carey Sands, a country seat a few miles dis-
tant from our house, and "the children," indul-
ged in everything (which health and morals
would permit), were allowed to see the com-
8
THIRTY YEARS
00
mencement of a masked ball, walk through the mind to disobey; and I did. To her supposed
rooms, and return early home. Here I first saw superior judgment in juvenile matters had been
Lord Nelson, a mean-looking_little_man, but left the control of the entertainment, and she had
very kind and agreeable to children; he prophe-selected "Hamlet" (only a portion of the trage-
sied a very different fate for me from what it has dy, I suppose), but whether to suit her own
been, and some trifling anecdotes of himself, taste, or her pupils, I can only imagine. She
which he probably invented to please a boy, was a romantic little body. She hated me with
made so strong an impression on my mind as all her heart, but was too prudent to say so;
greatly to influence my conduct while in the and I hated her with all my soul, and said so to
everybody. She had a very pretty, ill-natured
looking face, and small neat figure, in despite of
one very crooked leg; this fact I discovered in
consequence of her tumbling, head foremost,
over a stile one slippery day; and for laughing
most heartily-who could help it ?—I was locked
up in a cupboard, at the door of which I kicked
so lustily for half an hour, they were obliged to
let me out, "I made such a noise!"*
navy.
A spacious hall, fitted up as a theatre, attract-
ed our particlar notice. As I afterward learned,
a company of players, from the adjacent town
of Totness, were engaged to give two or three
exhibitions, the festival lasting a week. The
fireworks, ox-roastings, balls, and concerts were
all described and explained to us, and all per-
fectly understood, excepting the play, and that
was incomprehensible. To satisfy our tortured
curiosity, this angel woman (her name is too
sacred to be put on record with the adventures
of a poor player) actually engaged a portion of
the company to give an entertainment at our
house to please the children. Shrink not, ye props
and ornaments of the profession, when I tell you
you have often, perhaps without thinking it, been
placed in the same position. How frequently
have I heard a fond parent say, "If you are
good children, I'll take you to see Kean, or For-
rest, or Macready." For my own part, many a
time has some fat-headed patron of the drama
said, "Cowell, my boy, I'm going to take my
little girls to see your Crack to night, so do your
best."
I forget if there was any overture, or an apol-
ogy for one in any way; but music, from my
infancy, being as familiar as a household god,
it was not likely to live in my memory. I sup-
pose they began the play where Horatio informs
Hamlet of his "last night of all" adventure, for
I recollect nothing preceding that dialogue, which
I was astonished to find I had often read in that
excellent book for children, "Enfield's Speaker.
I love that book still; it gave me the first relish
for more substantial food, and if I can sell this,
I'll buy a copy for my grandson. Presently the
Ghost glided in from behind a French flag-there
was one on each side of the room, with the Eng-
lish ensign over it-enveloped in a white sheet,
something white on his head, his face white-
washed, and a white truncheon in his hand. All
was breathless attention; but, before he had
time to reply to Hamlet's earnest inquiries, I
shouted out, with all my might, "That's the man
who nailed up the flags!" For, in defiance of
his white-all-over-ness, I recognised in the Ghost.
my friend in the knee-breeches, for whom I had
held the hammer, and helped so nicely (as he
said) in the morning. The governess gave me
one of her withering looks, but all the rest of the
audience laughed most heartily; so did Hamlet,
so did the Ghost, till his white sheet shook again.
The day, big with fate, at length arrived, and
"the best actors in the world"-I think four in
number. One didn't speak, but merely rung a
little bell, and snuffed the candles, and when he
put one out we all laughed, and he made a very
formal bow; he was a comical-looking creature,
dressed in large, white Turkish trousers and a
footman's jacket. Preparations immediately
commenced; the dining parlour was speedily
unfurnished, and the adjoining room "thrown
into one," that is, as far as wide-opening a com-
mon-sized door could make two rooms into one.
Chairs, sofas, and ottomans were placed in Hamlet-" methinks I see him now"-was a
rows, and elevated, in the back apartment, where slim, round-faced, good-looking young man, and,
the servants and humble neighbours were to be I imagine, rather effeminate in his manner; for
accommodated, to peep through the open door all agreed he was very like our very pretty house-
over our heads. All the flat candlesticks in the maid Sally. He was dressed in a suit of mod-
house were put in a line, in front of the seats intend-ern black, a frill about his neck, with a silver
ed for the family, and separated from them by a cord and tassel, his head powdered (the fashion
long board nailed on edge. How well do I re- of the time); a spangled red cloak; the order of
member with what wonder and admiration I the garter around his leg; a broad-brimmed,
looked on at the adroit manner in which signal black velvet hat, turned up in front, and a large-
Jacks, ensigns, and blue-peters, window and bed diamond shoe-buckle, supposed to enclasp one
curtains, were furled, puckered, tacked, and tied, tall, white feather. But Horatio had five (we
by a slim, long-nosed young gentleman, in shirt- all counted them); his waistcoat, too, was near-
sleeves, knee-breeches, and blue worsted stock-ly covered with gold, and his cleak was spangled
ings, to form the wings and drops of this mimic all over; he wore light blue pantaloons, and red
stage! At length all was completed-the per-shoes-I forget the colour of his hat. He was
formance was to commence "at early candle-
light:" never do I recollect so long an afternoon
as that was but once since, and that was, five
hours passed in a sponging-house waiting for
bail. At length the day drew in, "and night,
the lover's friend," advanced; the bell was rung,
and the seats in the rear immediately occupied,
according to the age and grade of the party.
We were placed in front, the governess at our
backs, ready to explain any doubtful point, and
direct our deportment: our general instructions
were, to clap our hands when she did, and not
to laugh; this latter command I made up my
decidedly my favourite, and I believe the favour-
ite of all; at any rate, the children and servants
thought as I did, that he was worth all the rest of
them put together; besides, "in the course of the
evening," he sung a fine loud song, about ships
and the navy, and danced a sailor's hornpipe;.
but whether they were introduced in the tragedy
or after it, I know not. He appeared to have
twice as much to say as Hamlet had, and what
he did say he said three times as loud; all the
hood, which, like the fine colours we see when our eyes
* I cannot but regret these delightful visions of my child-
are shut, are vanished forever.-ALEXANDER POPE.
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
9
CHAPTER III.
"Truly, in my youth I suffered much extremity for love."
auditors in the next room could hear every word
he uttered; and, as more than half could not see
him through the open door, it was quite enough—SHAKSPEARE
to make him a great favourite in their estima-
tion. The coachman said he heard one speech
while he was feeding the horses; and the stable
while he was feeding the horses; and the stable
was at least one hundred yards from the house;
no doubt the same speech which frightened two
of the youngest children. They cried, and, at
their own request, were sent to bed.
Hamlet made several long soliloquies, and as
he looked me straight in the face, I thought he
addressed me in particular; so when he inquired,
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles-"
I replied, "If I were you I'd go to sea." This
called forth a most joyous shout from the next
room, for even then I was the low-comedian of
the household; but my female Mentor said I
was a very bad boy (I was used to her saying
that), and if I spoke again I should be sent to
bed. So when I thought Hamlet was going to
make me another long speech, I shut my eyes,
and made up my mind to go to sleep till it was
over. But my friend Horatio soon roused me.
In fact, he was one of the many actors who are
determined to be heard, at any rate; and "tired
Nature" must be very tired indeed if she could
take her "second course" while he was declaim-
ing. I have met with many Horatios since, and
they, like my first impression, are always great
favourites with children and the uninformed.
There was a star Horatio engaged in the last
company I played with, and nine tenths of the
audience thought and said he was a very fine
actor. Well, let them think so; I'll not contra-
dict them; I was sorry myself when I was un-
deceived.
Hamlet spoke Collins's beautiful "Ode on the
Passions;" he didn't deliver it as the governess
read it; I thought then he was right and she
was wrong: I have changed my opinion since.
The Ghost sang a comic song, and the whole
party
"Ye mariners of England,"
the candle-snuffer giving his "powerful aid” in
the chorus.
|
I was just "turned sixteen," as the children
say, but in manner and appearance much older.
Three years in the navy, the usual hardships of
a sailor's life, a complexion stained with salt
to make boys into men at very short notice. I
water and the sun of many climes, are materials
twelve months' cruise on the West India sta-
had three weeks' leave of absence, prior to a
tion. My mother lived next door to Grosvenor
Chapel; and on Sunday morning, determining
to see all that could be seen (as my days were
numbered), I "dropped in" to witness the service..
In using Paul Pry's flippant expression, I must
not now, nor then, be understood to have any but
the most profound respect for all religious cere-
monies; but, having been educated a rigid Ro--
man Catholic, at that period my entering an
Episcopal house of God was induced by pure
curiosity. In the adjoining pew sat an elderly,
tradesmanlike-looking man, with a pug nose,
and a round, unmeaning face, resembling alto-
gether a very good-natured bulldog; with him
a plump old lady, and an elegantly-dressed
young creature-their daughter, of course; but
where could she get such an abominable, ple-
beian-looking father and mother? I felt angry
that nature had made herself so ridiculous. She
was most beautiful, refined in her deportment,
and a perfectly aristocratic face. Her fine eye,
I thought, sometimes wandered towards me; a
naval uniform, in those days, was quite as at-
tractive as a soldier's is in these; she sat close
to me, nothing but the abominable bulkhead of
the pew between us,
"Where she kneel'd, and, saint-like,
Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly."
An angel's whisper! there is no preaching I
ever heard can produce on my mind such a pure
devotional feeling as listening to little children
and pretty women saying their prayers; I al-
ways want to go to heaven along with them di-
rectly. I thought I heard her sigh. Our eyes.
met as she said Amen; my heart palpitated, and
"Amen stuck in my throat." I had been in love
two or three times before, and have been in love
ever since, and perfectly understood all the symp-
toms; but, as Óllapod says, there were "matri-
monial symptoms in this case." In my own
mind, I had got the consent of my mother (who
could refuse to permit a union with such a di-
vinity ?), and had retired, on a British midship-
man's half pay, to a "cottage near a wood," with
a cow, cabbage-garden, chickens, and children.
The only impediment that appeared to cross my
path to pre-eminent felicity was her pudding-
faced, pug-nosed parents; my mother would de-
cidedly object to them, whatever she might think
of their daughter. In my confusion of thought,
Before I closed my eyes again that night, II stood up in the pew, and popped on my hat
made up my mind that I would rather be that
Horatio, and do "all that," than be Horatio Nel-
son, though he had lost an eye, and banged the
French.
Exhausted with wonder and delight, I went to
bed. I prayed every night that I might be made
a good boy and go to heaven. I fell asleep, and
dreamed that I had got there, and was surround-
ed by dozens of Hamlets, and Horatios, and
Ghosts in red wigs and striped stockings, dan-
cing, and singing "all manner of songs," and the
angels applauding them in the most boisterous
manner; but when I waked, I didn't "cry to
dream again," for, to my astonishment, I heard
Horatio singing away with all his might in the
housekeeper's room, amid clapping of hands
and shouts of laughter.
"Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low;
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many autumns, many springs,
Travell'd he with wandering wings;
Many summers, many winters-
I sha'n't tell half his adventures."
COLERIDGE.
with the cockade behind; the old gentleman
pointed out my error; I thought I saw a child-
like giggle play over the beautiful face of my
adored; I would have given two years' pay to
be shot on the spot, or tossed overboard in a gale
of wind, or mast-headed, out of sight of land or
petticoats, for the rest of my life. The service
ended, I gained the door as they did, and tender-
ed an awkward acknowledgment of thanks to the
old man for correcting my ridiculous position.
"Sir," said he, with a plethoric kind of chuckle,
you gentlemen of the navy, sir, don't often go
10
THIRTY YEARS
o'clock, and kept a sort of livery-servant. I had
barely time to think so much, and peep through
a glass case, the width of the shop, covered with
a demi-transparent green curtain, behind which
at least thirty men were employed on a platform,
stitching away at his royal highness's small-
clothes, I suppose-when Mr. Creek appeared.
His fat face was buttered from ear to ear, which
he proceeded to wipe with his folded handker-
compliments of the day. When he came to a
pause, I begged him, in my most urbane man-
ner, to measure me for a suit of clothes.
Sir, with pleasure, sir. A uniform suit, of
course, sir? I pride myself on my uniform fits,
sir. This coat is a little too much-"
to church, I suppose, sir; but, sir, I love a sail-
or, sir; I'm a loyal subject, sir; God bless the
king, sir, and God Almighty bless the queen,
sir. She, sir, is, sir, the mother, sir-that is, the
queen-mother, sir-and I'm blessed, sir, if she
oughtened to be blessed, sir, for blessing the
country, sir, with such a blessed lot of royal
highnesses, sir. Sir, I'm a true-born English-
man, and a loyal subject, sir, and have the hon-
our to be leather-breeches-maker, sir, to His Roy-chief, while in his peculiar style he paid me the
al Highness the Duke of Sussex, sir," pointing,
at the same time, to a sign over a bow-window,
by the side of which he stopped, and rung a bell
at the private entrance. The door was opened
by a boy in undress livery; we bowed and part-
ed. I looked up. Sure enough, there was "the
precious evidence,"
""William (I think) Creek,
Tailor and Breeches-maker in ordinary to His
Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex," in green and
gold letters, and the King's Arms in a semicircle
over it, exactly four doors from my mother's
house. I had followed my charmer (who was
-on the outside) at an angular distance of about
three feet, sometimes on the curbstone, some-
times in the gutter, or, as a sailor might say,
about two points to leeward. Now this was not
mauvaise honte on my part, but prudence; for,
upon coming alongside in the first instance, I
found, to my astonishment, she was at least
three inches taller than myself. In everyday
language, she was what is called a magnificent
-creature,
"With beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear;'
a very effeminate, Miss Clifton style of woman.
Over her sculptured form she had thrown a
splendid scarlet mantle, trimmed with white er-
mine; a white hat, with a drooping red feather,
adorned her classic head. I am still, and for
years have been, allowed to possess great taste
for ladies' dress, but at the time I speak of, per-
haps, it was a little Goldfinch-ish: " "Sky-blue
habit, scarlet sash, white hat, yellow ribands,
gold band and tassel-that's your sort!"
I interrupted, no doubt, a learned lecture on
what a uniform coat should be, by quietly say-
ing, "I wish a plain suit, Mr. Creek."
"A plain suit, sir? Bless me, sir! have you
left your ship for any length of time, sir?"
"I may shortly leave the navy altogether,"
said I, with a sigh. I thought of the cottage
and the cow; and as my mother cheerfully paid
my bills at that time, and might not after I had
retired from the service and married the tailor's
daughter, prudence prompted me to order a green
coat, red waistcoat, and leather breeches-a very
fitting dress for rural felicity. The red vest I
ordered in compliment to the colour of my wife's
cloak-that was to be; and I hinted, that if it
could be made off the same piece of cloth that
his daughter's mantle was composed of, I should
prize it more highly. I imagined it was cabbage
on an extensive scale.
"Oh, sir,” said the old man, his little blue eyes
twinkling on either side of his bit of putty-like
nose, "she's not my daughter. I-"
"God be praised!" exclaimed I, not waiting
for his "wish she was" conclusion of his sentence,
I suppose.
"Sir!" said he, his face suddenly assuming
an expression of gravity which its fat-encumber-
ed muscles seemed impossible for it to achieve,
I was in love-most horribly in love-
"sir-I beg pardon, sir-but I should like to
""Twas through my eyes the shaft had pierced my heart; know, sir, why you should appear so thankful,
Chance gave the wound that time could never cure."
sir, that Anna is not my daughter, sir?"
But she was (oh horrible thought!) the daughter ANNA! I heard her name for the first time;
of a leather-breeches builder, and my mother, a pastoral, poetical, and pretty name-a real sail-
like Rob Roy, had "an utter contempt for weav-or's name:
ers, and spinners, and all such mechanical per-
sons. "But then he made breeches for His Roy-
al Highness the Duke of Sussex! how might
that soften down the bowels of aristocratic au-
thority? There was hope in that thought, and I
determined to be measured for a pair the next
day: though I had but little time to wear them;
for, on the station to which I was ordered, even
if the service would permit the costume, the cli-
mate would not.
On the following morning I called on Mr.
Creek.
"I call her Anna, Anne,
Nan, Nance, or Nancy."
I blundered out, that I had thanked God that,
in addition to her natural protector, she had a
friend of his age and respectability to guide her
moral deportment, of which I judged from the
sacred place to which he had conducted her
when we first met. A shade of doubt passed over
his countenance; but he recollected I was his
customer, and his natural good-humour and
common sense prevailed. In his own way, he
went on to explain that Anna had no father; he
had died when she was an infant, and had left
her mother "well to do in the world," with three
children, all girls, two much older than Anna,
"Do so, sir; I wish, sir, to see him, sir, di- and one long since married to a cousin of his
rectly, sir," said I, following the sir-ish fashion. wife. She was a native of -, in Berkshire;
The bow-window apartment I had entered at her father's death, her mother had taken a
was covered with a handsome carpet; in the milliner's shop, where Anna had learned the ru-
centre a billiard-like table, on which were wri-diments of the business, but had been sent to
ting materials, and the papers of the day; and
the walls decorated with numerous mirrors. My
prospect of consent began to brighten. If he was
a breeches-maker, he didn't breakfast till ten
"Sir, he's at breakfast, sir," said the knock-
kneed boy in the gray livery I had noticed the
day before; "but, sir, if 'tis anything partic'lar,
sir, I'll call him, sir."
London under his care, and was now articled
for three years (two and a half of which were
yet to stretch their slow length along) to the
Misses Twicross, the celebrated dressmakers
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
11
in Bond-street, with a premium of fifty guineas,
to be finished, as he called it.
Upon giving my name and address, the old
man exclaimed, "Why, bless me, sir! I have,
sir, the honour, sir, to be in great favour with
your mamma, sir; my neighbour, sir; and, you
know, sir, it's very few people as is, sir-" with
a kind of confidential chuckle. "You see, sir,
her kitchen-chimney was on fire, sir, and the
maid-servants set up a terrible screeching, sir;
and there was so much smoke, sir, that you
could not see where the fire was, sir; and the
parish engine, sir, being in the basement story
of the chapel, sir, next house to hers, sir, as one
may say, sir; I, sir, and my boy, sir, and the
poor apple-woman, sir, that she kindly gives
leave, sir, to sit at the corner of the court, sir,
pulled it out, sir, and I dragged the hose into the
passage, sir; but the fire went out, sir, before
we could get any water, sir; but your good
mamma, sir, coming down stairs, sir, and seeing
me with the brass nozzle in my hand, sir, thought
had extinguished it, sir; and so, sir, whenever
she speaks of me, sir, she always says,' The good
man that saved my property by putting out the fire
-Mr.-what's his name? something that puts my
teeth on edge?' Mr. Creek, ma'am,' says Mary.
Yes, Mr. Squeak-that's it.'" The jolly old
man chatted himself into a most familiar good-
humour. I recounted some of my ship-shape
adventures, and, well pleased with each other,
we parted, with my promising (oh, how gladly!)
to take a cup of tea with himself and wife, and
Anna, "just in the family-way," that evening.
I am not going to tantalize my readers with a
rodomontade of love-making; suffice it to say,
Anna had received an education far above her
station: affable, nay, even free in her manner,
"than those who have more cunning to be
strange," but with a mind as simply pure and
unpolluted as the stream that wanders through
and adorns her native village. I readily obtained
permission, to save Mr. Creek the trouble, of
conducting her to Bond-street in the morning.
The jovial old tailor had made us stand back to
back, to decide our height; and he declared,
"Anna, sir, is only an inch taller, sir, than you
are, sir-good measure, sir." When, at an early
hour the next day, we met, I had heels to my
boots that placed me on a level with her at any
rate; and, before we had crossed Grosvenor
Square, I had good reason to believe that our
hopes and wishes were more on an equality than
our persons. Doubt not I was most punctual
in my attendance to and from South Audley-
street to Bond-street. Three times that week,
and four the next, accompanied by the old peo-
ple, we attended the theatre. The first legiti-
mate play I ever beheld Anna sat beside me-
'twas Romeo and Juliet. "They must have
played it on purpose," said the innocent Anna,
in a whisper, and her cheek wet with tears; and
I, in my heart, damned the author for not letting
them live and be happy.
Charles Kemble was the Romeo-the great
Lewis, Mercutio-Miss Norton, Juliet-la, la
(but I never saw a Juliet such as Shakspeare |
intended) the glorious Mrs. Davenport, the
Nurse-and Murray, the silver-toned, serene,
and beautifully-natural Charles Murray, was
the lovers' friend, the botanical Friar Lawrence.
I passed two whole, dear, delicious Sundays in
her society.
Oh how sweet
"To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray
יי!
I spoke not of my difference of creed, for, for her
sake, I would have turned Turk.
The old man was our confidant and council-
lor. "Sir, you must join your ship, sir, at the
proper time, sir; and Anna, sir, must finish her
time with the Misses Twicross's, sir, and get the
worth of her fifty guineas, sir; and you must
fight the enemies of Old England! Ŏh! I'm a
loyal subject, sir; and when you're a lieutenant,
sir, and the old lady won't consent, sir, if you
both, sir, think, sir, as you do now, sir, and
there should come a peace, sir, you'll get your
half pay, sir; you can teach transportation, nav-
igation I mean, sir, and drawing, and painting,
sir" (I had been well instructed, and had taken
his and his wife's portraits, and Anna's "picture
in little"); "and she will be mistress of her art,
sir; I am well to do in the world, sir; have nei-
ther chick nor child; Anna's father was a good
friend of mine, sir-lent me money when I first
went into business, sir; but never fret, sir; take
things cool, as I do, sir," wiping the perspira-
tion from his fat forehead; "all will be right,
sir; take my advice, sir.” I wish to God I had.
The fatal second Sunday at length arrived--
I thought, in the middle of the week. I had to
set forth post, at 7 P.M., to ensure my being on
board by gunfire on Monday morning; but it
was past nine before I could finish all my oaths
of constancy, and exchange those tokens sailors
think so sacred.
With hope decking the future in the rainbow
colours of love at seventeen, I rushed into the
chaise, on a bright autumnal evening, and, faster
than the sun, I seemed to travel on the same road
to Portsmouth, to overtake him in a few weeks
in the West Indies.
The tedium of many a weary middle-watch
in that sunburned sea has been relieved of its
monotony in (castle-) building, the cottage, and
the cow, the chickens and the children; and then,
"Look'd on the moon,
And thought of Nancy."
CHAPTER IV.
"Hope, thou hast told me lies from day to day
For nearly twenty years."
YOUNG.
WITH my last shilling in my pocket, and my
heart pretty nearly in the same place, I was
seated about the middle of the high flight of stone
steps leading to one of the entrances of the dock-
yards, watching the gambols of some boys ba-
thing on the shore beneath. "To myself I said,"
if I could only take courage, and keep my head
under water as long as that lad does, "in a merry
sport," I might speedily end all my troubles, and
the anxiety of those who still care for and love
me.
The red sun was dodging now and again be-
hind some fantastical long gray clouds, and ap-
parently descending with more than usual rapid-
ity, as if in derisive imitation of the friendship of
man. "Good-by-I'm sorry for your misfor-
tunes, but-I'm in a hurry-good-by."
I had arrived at Plymouth Dock about three
weeks previous to this period, with "time cut
from out eternity's wide round" before me, and
fifty pounds in my pocket-an inexhaustible sum
to my nineteen years' old experience-probably
five guineas was the largest amount I had ever
had in my possession before, at one time, in my
12
THIRTY YEARS
1
life; all my necessities had been amply supplied,, been my father, I am sure I should have felt as
and every member of a cockpit knows that, as I did then, but
cap-
"I never a father's protection knew-
Never had a father to protect."
"He has passed it over easy," said I: "he has
obtained my discharge by sick-list, to save me
from a court-martial, who, in its mercy, might
have condemned me to be shot. Damn the ser-
vice! and all that belongs to it."
to money," man wants but little there below."
Young minds are more easily depressed than
those which have had long experience of "for-
"Dinna fret man, dinna fret; there's na use i'
tune's buffets and rewards;" my landlady at the
White Horse, who was the gray mare of that fretting-I ha' heard o' your scrape. Deil scoup
establishment, had that day given me notice of wi' the feller as caused it-he's an awsome body
no liquor and no credit," and two days more that, and naebody su'd care till anger him—but
had elapsed than necessary to bring me an an-ye was a'ways a rattling cheel. But ye ha' a
swer to my letter, praying for positively the last gude friend i' the admiral, and he'll pass it a'
assistance I would ever ask for. I had wasted ower easy."
myself out of my means" in boarding every out-
ward-bound merchantman, and treating the
tains to
"five-pound suppers and after-drink-
ings," to bribe my way as a mate in some craft
bound to any land," so not again to mine." But
in those days my finished theoretical knowledge
was an impediment to a command under these
prejudiced, ignorant, petty traffickers." The
British navy, with two wars at her back, seized
upon all who could be serviceable, and many a
three and four hundred ton merchant vessel
would go to sea with a skipper, two mates, and
five or six landsmen or boys, to follow in the
wake of a convoy, content with a dead reckoning,
if any at all, kept on a black board with a piece
of chalk.
In the frame of mind I then was, I might, when
the sun and little boys got out of my way, have
wet myself at any rate, but that just as they were
all preparing to depart, the arrival of a man-o'-
war's boat immediately at the foot of the stairs
where I was sitting formed a new impediment
to my cold-water experiment. "A gross, fat
man," in a warrant officer's uniform, landed, fol-
lowed by a seaman bearing a large-sized chest:
as he reached the step on which I sat, I rose to
let him pass; he, in a rough, authoritative man-
ner, exclaimed, in a broad Scotch dialect," Od,
but it's queer what can mak shore people sae
fond o' sitting on sic a gangway as this-it's fu'
small way-and no' intended for ony but his
majesty's officers and sic like."
Before the conclusion of his rude address, I
had recognised him for an old shipmate; our
eyes met he stood for an instant the picture of
penitent astonishment, and in the next I was half
crushed to death in his ponderous embrace.
|
"Nay, nay," said he, soothingly, "ye wold na'
damn ine?"
I could not speak-my heart felt as if it had.
overflowed up to my neck-I grasped his honest
hand.
“I didna' ken the case was sae bad," said he:
"let's say na mair about it; you must awa home
wi' me. Oh, you need na stare, I ha' got a home
and a wife too-
"In every port we find a home,
In every home a wife, sir.'
"Oh, she's a real wife-I was na' but bleating
out an auld snatch of a song just to cheer ye up
like. Heave a head wi' the trunk, Steeney-
to the seaman, a long, red-whiskered fellow; a
countryman, no doubt. "I ha' gotten a wee drib-
ble o' Port wine in a keg in it, whilk I'm taken
right through the yard"—with an amateur smug-
gler's look" so they mayna' suspect onything;
the puir body at home is fond of a wee sup, hot
wi' sugar, afore turning in."
His explanation of the contents of the box was
superfluous, for I heard the well-known squish,
squash, as the man again lifted it on his shoul-
der. After passing unmolested through the dock-
yard, a few short turns brought us to a shoe-
maker's shop; behind the counter was a little
man with wax-ends and upper leather written in
his face (what a strange thing it is that shoe-
makers always look like shoemakers): he was
employed in lighting a second candle, for it was
then dark.
He had been before the mast of a sloop of war "Awa' above wi' the prize, Steeney, and tell
I belonged to for a short time, and in boarding Missus Mackay," with a strong emphasis on the
a French lugger privateer, was wounded twice, | Missus, and a twinkle of his good-natured eye at
and his bravery was instantly rewarded by ma- me, "tell Missus Mackay to put a' to rights, as
|
king him a quartermaster, the first step for pro- | she ca's it-I ha' gotten a gentleman wi' me.
motion to a warrant. Our corvette was con- Mr. Hobblin," to the shoemaker ('twas his real
demned as no longer seaworthy on her arrival
at the very port where we now again met, and
by accident he was sent on board the same ship
I was then ordered to join. He had always
been a great favourite with me, for, apart from
his being a brave man and a good sailor, his
childlike blessing in the hour of peril on his old
father and mother and his native home, proved
the kindness of his nature; and though he had
not seen either since he was a boy, his tongue
still retained as strong a love for its language
as his heart did for its soil.
Trinculo says,
"Misery acquaints a man with
strange bedfellows:" it certainly levels all dis-
tinctions. Pride and poverty had so struggled
away the strength of my boyish mind, that
even the rough kindness of this weather-beaten |
Scotchman so subdued my care-devil nature, that
tears, the heart's best balm," flowed in torrents,
and I sobbed long and loud in his arms; had he
name), "this is the gentleman I tell'd ye of, as
got me made" (here he gave me another disa-
bling shake of the hand). "I'll tell ye a' about
it-and that'll gi' the auld woman time till get a'
ready-she's a wee bit fussy; but, gude sir,
gude-take a chair-I can sit anywhere," poun-
cing his ponderous person on a pile of sole
leather in the corner, which his weight brought
immediately to within a foot of the floor; "ye
need na' mind, Master Hobblin; no harm done;
it's got till be hammered, ony how. Weel, ye
see, I was on liberty, taking a cruise on the Holy
Ground, as they ca' it; if ye was ever at Cove o'
Cork, ye maun ken, there's na sic a place for
fun in a' England, or Scotland till boot-weel, I
was having a crack wi' an auld shipmate as be-
langed till the Yolus-he was braggin' o' his ship,
but na braggin' o' his captain; ye ken when fel-
lers are afore the mast," here he polished one of
the anchor buttons on his sleeve, "they will a'
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
13
•
vial evening-in vino veritas-I tolu all; and
Mrs. Mackay insisted that she should make me
up "a nice bed on the sofa," and remain and
take "pot luck" with them till pay-day came,
when my old shipmate would settle up arrears,
and I should quit the mess at the White Horse.
His vessel was undergoing repairs, and he was
on shore-duty at the navy yard, having flint-
locks shipped on the carronades. "A maist
abominable invention," as he said, "just as
much as till say that every captain o' a gun at
the Nile, St. Vincent, or Trafalgar was o' no
gude till the service."
To gratify my friend and amuse myself, I had
taken an "inveterate likeness" of my old ship-
mate, and another of his little wife; these were
shown to Mr. Hobbling, their landlord. His
brother was the deputy-mayor of the little Rotten
Borough of Saltash in Cornwall, at that time
called so with justice, for it could boast of send-
ing two members to Parliament to represent a
population six or eight houses were sufficient to
contain; while Birmingham, and Manchester,
and other large and densely-inhabited places,
had no "sweet voices" in the councils of their
country. The chief magistrate, as I have ob-
served, was " despatched by deputy," and this
dignitary requested I would take two such like-
nesses of himself and wife, for which he was
willing to pay any price. I undertook the task
for thirty guineas, and gave such satisfaction
that I received twenty more for making copies.
During the time occupied in this operation on
the mayor and his wife, I called, with my friend
Mackay, at an extensive manufactory of glazed
leather hats: a regulation had just been intro-
duced in the navy, to have an initial of the ship's
name, or some fanciful device, on the hat of each
of the crew, as a good mark to know what ves-
sel he belonged to, in the event of desertion or ill
conduct on shore. All the mystery of the pro-
cess I learned by looking on, the design and ex-
ecution "came by nature;" and I actually dec-
orated with a D, in genuine gingerbread style,
the hats of the crew of a ship on board of which,
a short year ago, I was an officer.
grumble sometimes wi'out cause-but in his, I ever met with before or since. We had a jo-
case, I dare say, he was na' far out in his reck-
oning. Weel, ye see, as I could na' brag my
ship against his, I bragged on our captain-he
comes frae puir auld Scotland-and naebody had
muckle chance till say onything against him;
he wad but just walk up the 'commodation lad-
der every day at twal o'clock, and if there was
na' ony punishment, he'd mak his bow and gang
down again; and if there sud be a needcessity to
punish some puir dewil, he'd na' seem to tak ony
pleasure in it—just read the articles o' war, and
ask the feller if he wad prefer till be tried by a
court-martial, and mair than likely get hanged,
or take twa or three dozen at aince. In course
they a' did, whiles I belanged till the ship, but ane
puir, daft toad o' an Irishman, and he wad insist
till be tried by the laws o' his country, as he ca'd
it; and he dangled at the ear-ring o' the foreto'-
sail yard—there's na gude in being ower obsti-
nate-weel, ye maun ken, if it was for naething
mair than owerstaying liberty, or the like o'
that; when they'd gotten a dozen or sae, he'd
whisper till the doctor, and the doctor wad whis-
per till the captain, and he'd say, 'Master-at-
arms, take him down;' then they'd pipe the sides-
men, and he wad make his bow and shove off.
Weel, ye see, as I had got till windward o' him
as till our commander (that is, our captain--the
admiral was the commander, o' course, though I
ne'er seed him but aince, and then he was a
horseback; I bow'd till him as in duty bound,
and he bow'd till me becase he liked it), I
thought I wad brag o' the ship a wee bit; ye ken
frae Mother Oakley's door ye can see her,
moored off Haul-bowlin Island; weel, ye see,
just as I was pointing out the beauty o' her
model--crack! crack! goes the muskets o' the
twa centries o' the Tender, and in a minute a'ter-
wards three out o' four marines blazed awa frae
the Trent, but they did na' ken at what; the Ten-
der lying in-shore, they could na' see, as I did,
that four men had cut the painter o' the yawl
frae the guess-warp o' the Tender, and were ma-
king for shore. I gave chase till overhaul 'em,
as they made up hill, and just came up as young
master, here, had brought them to; ye see, the
sight o' a uniform till a round jacket, is like till
a constable's stave till you landsmen; they were
fresh press'd men, and wad a' gaed quietly
aboard, but, in a minute or sae, full a hundred
women and bairns a' thegether, set up a yelloch |
that made a' ring again, and came rampanging
like so many devils, wi' sticks, and staves, and
a' kinds o' kitchen furniture; the women fought
like furies, and the bairns a bletherin a' the
time in full chorus, we suld ha' been murdered
but that his boat was a' ready at the landing, and
sae we managed till get the men o' board. I gat
this gash on my cheek, and young master wi' a
big bump on his head instead o' his hat. We
had baith been in a real fuss thegither, a short
time afore, and was baith on the list for promo-
tion; there's naething like untill a friend at court,
Mr. Hobblin; he had gotten the ear o' the ad-
miral, and sae he put baith this and that thegith-
er, and I was made a gunner, and sent on board
the Dryad. But let's awa aloft and see the
auld woman."
Eve, they tell us, was made out of one of her
husband's ribs; Mrs. Mackay (as far as bulk
was concerned) could have been made very ea-
sily out of one of her husband's legs; he was
a remarkably large man, and she a remarka-
b.y small woman, but the best brewer of punch
An old messmate, a lieutenant of marines, who
had borrowed a guinea of me "for an hour"
three weeks before, called one day (perhaps to
borrow another) and caught me at my degrading
employment, as he chose to consider it, and the
next morning he crossed a muddy street to avoid
speaking to me. But for my own part, conscious
pride and confidence in my own resources made
me for the first time in my life feel independent,
and that feeling has never forsaken me midst
many turns of
"Giddy fortune's furious, fickle wheel,
That goddess blind."
But for meeting with the character to whom I
devote the next chapter, I might have been paint-
ing hats or faces "at this present writing."
CHAPTER V.
feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids; sigh a note,
"Jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your
and sing a note; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop
of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-
doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pock-
ets, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too
long in one tune, but snip and away. These are accom-
plishments, these are humours; these betray nice wenches,
14
THIRTY YEARS
that would be betrayed without these: and make them men | shifting his hands from his coat pockets to thosɑ •
of note that most are affected to these."-Love's Labour of his tights, "who have drudged in the profes-
sion for years, are kept in the back-ground; 'tis
enough to make a fellow sweat!"
Lost.
((
You, then, sir, are an actor ?" said I, calmly.
"An actor! yes, sir, I am an actor, and have
been ever since I was an infant in arms; played
the child that cries in the third act of the comedy
of The Chances,' when it was got up with
splendour by Old Gerald, at Sheerness, when I was
only nine weeks old; and I recollect, that is, my
mother told me, that I cried louder, and more
naturally, than any child they'd ever had. That's
me," said he, pointing to the play-bill—Horatio,
Mr. Howard.
"A thought, more like a dream than an assu-
rance," flitted past my mind, and I was about to
ask a question, but he proceeded.
I WAS seated in the reading-room of the hotel, |
thinking away the half hour before dinner, when Very adroitly blowing his nose with his fin-
my attention was attracted by a singularly-look-gers, and cleaning them on a dirty, once-white
ing man. He was dressed in a green coat, pocket-handkerchief.
brass-buttoned close up to the neck, light gray,
approaching to blue, elastic pantaloons, white
cotton stockings, dress shoes, with more riband
employed to fasten them than was either useful
or ornamental; a hat, smaller than those usually
worn, placed rather on one side of a head of dark
curly hair; fine black eyes, and what altogether
would have been pronounced a handsome face,
but for an overpowering expression of impudence
and vulgarity; a sort of footman-out-of-place-
looking creature; his hands were thrust into the
pockets of his coat behind, and 'in consequence
exposing a portion of his person, as ridiculously,
and perhaps as unconsciously, as a turkey-cock
does when he intends to make himself very agree-
able. He was walking rather fancifully up and
down the room, partly singing, partly whistling
"The Bay of Biscay O," and at the long-lived,
but most nonsensical chorus, he shook the fag-
ends of his divided coat tail, as if in derision of
that fatal "short sea," so well known and de-through it, speak the words, and make it a poor,
spised in that salt-water burial-place. I was
pretending to read a paper, but, in fact, puzzling
my brain in endeavouring to recollect on what
side of this many-manned world I had met this
human being before, when a carrier entered,
and placed a play-bill before me on the table. Í
had taken it up and began perusing it, when he
strutted up, and leaning over my shoulder, said,
"I beg pardon, sir; just a moment."
I put it towards him.
"I used to make a great part of Horatio once;
and I can now send any Hamlet to h- in that
character, when I give it energy and pathos;
but this nine-tailed bashaw of a manager insists
upon my keeping my 'madness in the back-
ground,' as he calls it, and so I just walk
spoony, preaching son of a how-came-ye-so,
and do no more for it than the author has. But,
sir, I'll pledge you my honour that when I be-
longed to Old Lee's company, at Totness, a lady,
who resided at Tor-Quay, had heard so much of
me in this very part, that she engaged me, at an
enormous expense, to represent the character at
her own house."
I was right in my suspicions: it was, indeed,
an old acquaintance, the beau ideal of my child-
hood, the identical Horatio.
"And after," he continued, "I had enchanted
"No matter, sir, no matter; I've seen all I
want to see-the same old two-and-sixpence-
Hamlet, Mr. Sandford, in large letters; and La-them with my performance, I was had into the
ertes, Mr. Vandenhoff-oh!"
And with an epithet not in any way alluding
to the "sweet South," he stepped off to the Bis-
cay tune, allegro. I was amused; and perhaps
the expression of my face encouraged him to re-
turn instantly, and with the familiarity of an old
acquaintance—and that he was, I was convinced,
in some way or other-said,
"My dear sir, that's the way the profession is
going to the devil: here, sir, is the 'manager "—
with a sneer-" one of the damnedest humbugs
that ever trod the stage, must have his name in
large letters, of course; and the and Laertes, Mr.
Vandenhoff-he's a favourite of the Grand Mo-
gul, as we call old Sandford, and so he gets all
the fat; and d'ye know why he's shoved down
the people's throats? Because he's so damned
bad the old man shows to advantage alongside
of him. Did you ever see him?"
I shook my head.
drawing-room, had a damned good supper, gave
them the 'Bay of Biscay,' one of my best songs-
'There she lay, all the day-›
You know the thing, I suppose; the old lady
plied me with bottled porter, hot, with nut-
meg and
meg and sugar" (I thought of good-natured
C, the housekeeper), "plenty of preserves,,
cold chicken, and pickles; and in the morning,,
after a thundering breakfast, she clapped a
knuckle of ham and a piece of pound-cake into
a clean sheet of paper, as she said, to pass away:
the time in the coach."
"That was a high compliment, Mr. Howard,"
said I, without knowing what I said: I was
again at home, with all my hopes unblasted..
"A high compliment, sir! it was the most high:
compliment that ever was paid to any tragedian
of eminence, except the compliment that was
paid to John Kemble, when he was engaged, at
Why, sir, he's a tall, stooping, lantern-jaw-two-and-sixpence an hour, to read to the Duke
ed, asthmatic-voiced, spindle-shanked fellow."
Here he put his foot on the rail of my chair, and
slightly scratched the calf of his leg. "Hair
the colour of a cock-canary," thrusting his fin-
gers through his own coal-black ringlets; "with
light blue eyes, sir, trimmed with pink gymp. He
hasn't been long caught; just from some nun-
nery in Liverpool, or somewhere, where he was My dear sir," he replied, "nothing could
brought up as a Catholic priest; and here he give me greater pleasure than to cut your mut-
comes, with his Latin and Lancashire dialect, ton and tap your tankard, as we say; but I have
to lick the manager's great toe, and be hanged a very particular engagement at three o'clock,
to him, and gets all the business; while men of to promenade two charming girls, the Misses
talent, and nerve, and personal appearance," | Buckingham-splendid creatures, I assure you
of Norfolk, when he was laid up with the gout."
I cannot vouch for the authenticity of this
anecdote, as I never heard of the circumstance
before, nor since. Dinner was announced; with-
out expecting or intending him to accept my
cold invitation, I artificially said,
"Will you join me, sir ?"
PASSED AMONG
15
THE PLAYERS.
-I'll introduce you. I want to beau them up
and down George-street once or twice, just to
make a widow of my acquaintance miserable,
who lives in that neighbourhood. You under-
stand me; ha, ha, ha! Have you the time ?"
"I have hot," said I, with a suppressed sigh.
I thought of my watch, pawned past hope of
redemption. "But as I ordered my dinner at
three, I presume that is the hour." And was
slightly bowing my way between him and the
door, when, suddenly hooking his arm within
mine, he exclaimed,
Anna. I only remembered Kemble in the cast;
who but a professor could or would remember
any one else? "A combination and a form, in-
deed, where every god did seem to set his seal,
to give the world assurance of a man."
I was well acquainted with the text; having,
when quite a boy, been presented with an ele-
gant edition of Shakspeare by a scholar and a
gentleman, the chaplain of a ship I belonged to;
and, next to the Bible, he recommended it to my
particular perusal.
The manager-the large-lettered humbug-was
decidedly deserving the distinction "himself had
made," but the rest were villanous, and Horatio
the worst of all. I was shocked and angry at
my boyish judgment.
"But what have we to do with the time of
the day? unless minutes were capons, and hours
were cups of sack, as jolly Jack Falstaff says.
I have taken a great fancy to you, and shall be
happy to befriend you in any way in my power.
How is it that children-I mean children with
I'll get you an order for the play to-night, and if a fair proportion of brains-are so contradictory
you'll go, dam'me if I don't let out a little. The in taste? I have heard a little girl bestow such
girls will play the devil with me for disappoint- pretty praise on a primrose or a butterfly, that I
ing them, but I'll gammon 'em; say I had a part have blushed for my own incompetence so rich-
to study; it does me good to tease 'em some-ly to express my feeling; and, in the next half
times, they like you the better for it; and, as hour, have seen the same child in ecstasies of
you're so very pressing, I'll accept your kind admiration and delight at the antics of some vul-
invitation."
gar clown in the arena of a circus.
I had seen enough of the world to perfectly
understand all this; but I was amused, so led to
the dining-room and ordered another chop.
"Two," said he, "two; and harkye, sweet-
heart," picking up a pickle with his fingers and
popping it into his mouth, "let's have a pot of
porter directly."
I always adored character, and though I didn't
believe him to be a very estimable one, to me,
then, he was an original. He ate fast and
slovenly, frequently using and praising the good
old adage of "fingers were made before tongs;" he
called, in a tragic tone, for "another chop and some
cheese!" and "a PINT of porter at my expense!"
The last part of the order I instantly contra-
dicted.
"Well, well, just as you say," said he. “Then
bring Mr. Cowell another pot of porter, and make
haste, d'ye hear!"
Not being aware that I had mentioned my
name during our conversation, if it might so be
called, where he had had nearly all the talk to
himself, I inquired how he had learned it.
|
"Why, my dear sir, I happened to be in the
bar-room this morning, and the landlord came
in, and says he to his wife, 'What do you think,
my dear Mr. Cowell has paid his bill.' 'He
has!' says she; 'well, now, I declare, I always
thought he was a very nice young man; and, no
doubt, as he has got the reminiscence as he ex-
pected-' Remittance, of course, she meant. 1
know well enough what remittances are; I often
have occasion for them myself. For, with the
paltry sum of five pounds a week-my salary in
the theatre-I find it very difficult sometimes"-
retying his shoestring in a large bow-"to make
both ends meet. You happened to pass by at
the time she was speaking. There goes Mr.
Cowell,' says she; the most perfectest gentle-
man as ever stopped at a house.' I was pleased
myself with your appearance, and resolved to
form a friendship with you. But I must be off
I'll call and take a cup of tea, and make it up
with the girls. I've got to break the neck, too,
of a blasted part for to-morrow night. Nay,
keep your seat. 'My love as yours to mine.'
Adieu !"
True to his word, he sent the order. I visited
the theatre-and was disgusted. It was one of
the plays I had seen in my halcyon days with
My visit to the theatre that evening glanced a
ray of sunshine on my clouded path, and I ar-
gued thus: "If such a man as this Howard can
get five pounds a week for what he does, I can
do the same, or more. By I'll turn actor!"
I went to my room and wrote the letter which
will be found in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
""Tis easy then for a new name,
And a new life, fashioned on old desires."
SHELLEY.
TO GEORGE SANDFORD, ESQ.
Plymouth Dock, January 11, 1812.
"SIR-I wish to become an actor. I will be
content to receive a small amount of pay, until
I get acquainted with the duties I have to per-
form. I have learned Iago, in Shakspeare's play
of Othello, and could easily get perfect in Bel-
cour, in Cumberland's comedy of The West In-
dian. I have seen Elliston in that character in
London, and have vanity enough to believe I
could play either of them. Your early reply
through the postoffice will oblige
"Yours respectfully,
"LEATHLEY IRVING."
LESPILLY
Leathley Irving!" was all I could gefrom the
Three anxious days passed, and "nothing for
postoffice. On the fourth, "one penny!" was
demanded and a very gentlemanly-looking note
was pushed through the hole to the following
effect:
George Sandford presents his compliments
to Mr. Leathley Irving, and will be happy to
have a conversation with him at his house on
Thursday next.
"To Leathley Irving, Esq. Tuesday evening.
"
His address, I found, was at a handsome fan-
shop in George-street. Of a tall, sedate, el-
derly lady, seated behind the counter, I inquired
for Mr. Sandford, and handed my card. An an-
swer returned in a minute, "that Mr.. Sandford
had an appointment with a gentleman at that
hour, but I might name my business, or please
to call again." I was turning towards the door,
with an indignant "no matter," when the thought
occurred to me that I had sent in my real name;
16
THIRTY YEARS

by industry and perseverance, may become an
ornament to the stage. But 'tis a briery path to
preferment in this profession; it requires time
and laborious study to make even a passable
performer; your figure, face, and voice must be
I replied in the negative.
and, in some embarrassment, I stated that I had
made a mistake in the card-that it was Mr.
Leathley Irving, with whom he had an engage-
ment, who desired to see him. I was immedi-
ately conducted through the parlour at the back
of the shop, then through the kitchen, by a pret-apprenticed, day and night, to nature A refined
ty little servant-maid, who, after knocking at a and well-educated mind may be formed by art
door on one side, and waiting for a pompously- and industry; but it must naturally possess the
sounding "Come in!" on the other, lifted the wonderful instinctive capacity to seize upon and
latch, dropped me a courtesy, and I found my- feel the thoughts and language of others, and use
self in the presence of a rather (had been) hand-them with the same ease and freedom as if they
some man, of middle stature, about forty years were your own To be a great actor is to be
of age, with a profusion of hair (the remains of one man picked out of ten thousand.' Have you a
last night's powder still discernible), rubbed up good study?"
in all directions and striking individual attí-
tudes, resembling the angular, dislocated curls "I'm sorry to hear that; without a good study
shreds of leather would make if suddenly pop-your labours will be so severe you'll be disgust-
ped into a broiling-hot frying-pan. He was en-ed with the undertaking before you reach the
veloped in a large-patterned calico morning-threshold of success."
gown (will anybody tell me why managers of
theatres have such a predilection for morning-
gowns? I have found but one exception to the
fashion in eight-and-twenty years, from George
Sandford down to Ludlow and Smith). He was
pacing, with "
Tarquin's ravishing strides," an
apartment as large as "parlour, kitchen, and
hall;" a book in one hand, and my card in the
other. "Sir," said he, as he turned and met me,
"whom have I the honour of addressing-Mr.
Cowell or Mr. Leathley Irving?"
Oh, sir," said I, "that I can easily remedy."
How, sir? how? Practice will improve it,
I'm aware, but how can you so easily rêmedy a
bad study ?"
"By changing my apartment," I replied;
"my chamber is next the dining hall, and unless
they give me one more privately situated, I'll
move to another house."
"You reprove me well," said he, with a smile:
we actors use the term study for the attributes
of memory; the place and time for its exercise
are varied by circumstances and the habits of its
owner."
He appeared pleased to hear me say I had
great facility in acquiring anything I wished to
| learn.
"Come, to the proof, then," said he, jovially;
"let's have a speech straight. You say you are
perfect in 'Iago;' let's have one of his solilo-
quies, with good emphasis and good discretion."
He saw my embarrassment, and, in pure good
taste, waived the subject; not like some puppies
I have since seen sit, in satirical pomposity, en-
joying the tortures of some trembling tyro, though
that very sensibility is the best indicative of tal-
ent, and the sure attendant upon genius.
"Sir," I replied, in the same authoritative tone
in which he had asked the question, "the card
bears the name I'm known by; but, if I turn
player, I choose to be called Irving." "What
for, sir?" said the manager, handing me a chair,
and drawing another close to me: what the
devil for, sir? I have been an actor more than
twenty years, and have known many serious in-
conveniences occur to men in after life from the
folly of changing their names when boys. It's
damned nonsense, sir! There can be but one ex-
cuse for a young man's assuming a false name
upon entering my profession, and that is, that
his previous course in life has made him dam-
nably ashamed of his own." I felt the blood
mount to my forehead, and I instinctively rose "Sir, I propose you shall make your appear-
from my chair. Oh, sir," said my new friend, ance in Belcour this day week; but-" he contin-
with a peculiarly bland and placid smile, "keep ued, "be most dreadfully perfect, not only in what
your seat; don't imagine I suspect you of hav- you have to say yourself, but in whatever any
ing cause to be ashamed of your name; 'tis the one else has to say to you; get so awfully perfect
reverse case with you: you assume another that, if you are suddenly awoke in the night, you
name because you are ashamed of a pursuit will be able to repeat the whole character with-
either your taste or your necessities induce you out hesitation. In the mean time, it will smooth
to adopt. Now, sir, with such a feeling you can your path to get acquainted (in the way of bu-
never be an actor. No man can ever be emi-siness) with the company-and I am proud to
nent in a profession he considers it a disgrace to
follow. The Drama, confess bears but an ill
name in the forest,' but the blame lies with the
professors, and not with the profession
here are myriads of men who are a dis-
grace to the pulpit, the bar, or the stage; but the
frightful responsibility of daring to unfold the
cloak pretended piety assumes, and the legal
cunning of the advocate, often lets the parson
and the lawyer pass unscathed, while the poor
player walks, with his hundred errors, stark na
ked through the world, for every daw to peck aim
There was much good sense peeping through
his enthusiastic style of thought; and I, in very
honesty of heart, told him, in few words, my
painful history.
"My good young friend," said he, in a tone of
voice well trained to assist his meaning, "keep
the name you say you have a claim to, and now
are known by-you have good requisites, and,
say I have some gentlemen in my employ; Mr.
Moore, an excellent low comedian, and a prop-
er man, and Vandenhoff, though with very lit-
tle talent, possesses a superior mind, and an ex-
cellent education. Inquire for me at the stage-
door this evening, and take a tête-à-tête dinner
with me at three to-morrow, and any advice or as-
sistance you may require, and I can give, you
may command."
This was the man "Horatio" had described
as an insolent, tyrannical blackguard.
Poor George Sandford. He died a few years
since, regretted and respected by all whose good
opinion he would have condescended to care for
while living. He was a native of the city of
New-York; and 'tis somewhat strange that my
best theatrical friend and manager first saw the
light in the same city where my last born open-
ed her eyes, and in a country I by choice have
been a citizen of for more than half my thinking
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
17
life. I shall like to meet that man in the other
world, and tell him all about his native country.
He was an excellent general actor. I have rea-
son to believe his education was intuitive (the
better, after all). His King Lear and Doctor
Pangloss were the most finished representations
of the characters I ever saw.
ly the best first appearance I have seen for
years."
I gained courage as the comedy proceeded; and
at its conclusion, the manager, amid thunders of
applause, announced it for repetition on the Sat-
urday following: "The part of Belcour by the
young gentleman who had been so favourably re-
The barbarous fashion was not then invented
of demanding the presence of the object of sup-
posed admiration or ridicule, to add to his mis-
eries, by expecting him to speak, or bow, or
make a fool of himself in some way or other,
which, nowadays, these victims of vanity on both
sides usually do.
I visited the green-room, where I was favour-ceived that evening."
ably received, particularly by the ladies, among
whom was a sister of Alec. Drake, for many
years the favourite comedian of the "West."
She had a pretty voice, pretty face, but waddled
like a duck. She was my Louisa Dudley. I
tried very hard to be really in love with her, for
the sake of increasing the effect, but I believe
she succeeded better than I did in the experi-
ment. I had three carefully-conducted rehear-
sals, each one serving to convince me more
strongly that I was incapable of the task my
self-esteem had induced me to believe so easy.
The night arrived-January the twenty-third,
1812.
"The part of Belcour by a gentleman, his first
appearance on any stage," attracted a full and
very fashionable house. Admiral Calder, the
commander of the port, and a large party, occu-
pied the stage-box. I had many shipmates in
harbour at the time, and some relatives: all, of
course, attended, induced by pity; how I hate the
word-scorn or curiosity.
I had been used to danger in many shapes, and
fear is not an attribute of my nature, but I was
most damnably frightened on that occasion. I
spoke the words mechanically, but I could nei-
ther see nor hear; my mouth was parched; what
to do with my hands I knew not; I deposited
them in all sorts of places; if both arms had been
amputated, I felt assured I should have been re-
lieved of an abominable encumbrance. Embar-
rassed by my embarrassment, Stockwell bungled
in one of his speeches: I repeated it, and then
spoke mine in reply; the audience, confound
them, laughed and applauded. I felt I had done
wrong: my brain whirled in confusion, and I
rushed off the stage before the conclusion of the
scene, amid deafening shouts, yells, and huzzas,
such as are generally humanely bestowed upon
the retreat from a butcher's-stall of some poor
devil of a dog with a tin kettle tied to his tail; and
at that moment, I have no doubt, I experienced
precisely the same sensations.
"For God's sake give me a glass of grog!" I
stammered out; "and, my dear sir," grasping the
hand of the manager, kindly extended to me at
the entrance, "finish the part for me: I feel my
incapacity, and only regret my conceit caused
me to make such a jackass of myself."
"Pho, pho! you must conclude what you have
begun," said he, in his positive but gentlemanly
manner; "the first plunge is over, you'll feel
your power in the next scene; your great fault
is, you try to do too much; stand still, don't act,
and speak louder; think you are talking to some
one in the gallery, and then, if you only whisper,
you'll be heard all over the house: take another
sup of brandy and water-there-that's your cue."
I felt encouraged by grog and good advice,
and the next scene is a very effective one: I im-
itated Elliston as well as I could, and was ad-
mirably supported and encouraged by the manner
of the excellent actress who performed Mrs. Ful-
mer, and I retired amid the unbounded applause of
a brilliant and overflowing audience.
"There," said my mentor, triumphantly,
"didn't I tell you how it would be! 'tis decided-
C
CHAPTER VII.
"What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather would subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood."
SHAKSPEARE.
EVERYBODY said my performance was most
excellent for a first appearance, but I felt no self-
satisfaction. To the inexperienced, the more
pure and true to nature acting is, the easier it
appears; but to rant, and shout, and "out-herod
Herod," distort the face and form in a way that
no human being ever did off the stage, in his
senses or out of them, seems a most arduous un-
which laboured. In the seven plays I saw with
dertaking This caused the delusion under
I
Anna (we ne'er shall look upon their like again),
all difficulty was so concealed by the refinement
of art, that I foolishly, yet firmly, believed I could
sustain of the characters quite as well, with-
any
out dreaming I should ever be put to the test. I
have no data of any kind, I am sorry to say, but the
impression they made on my memory is as fresh
at this distant period as it was the morning after
the "casts" of some of them.
I saw the performance, and I will name part of
Belcour
The West Indian.
Elliston,
James H. Caldwell is the only actor on this
side the water I have seen approach him in gen-
teel comedy.
O'Flaherty
Johnstone.
Worth a hundred Powers, if even Power had
been really what he had the tact to make the
public believe he was.
Charles Dudley
De Camp.
Then a most elegant young man, and an ex-
cellent actor, in spite of his conceited, paw! paw!
voice.
Varland
Dowton.
Then in his prime; a shadow of his former
self came to this country about three years ago.
"All that's bright must fade."
Stockwell
Charlotte
Powell.
Miss Duncan.
A delightful actress in such characters.
Louisa
I forget her name, but she was a most beauti-
ful creature (almost all that is necessary for the
part). I remember I praised her so highly, that
poor Anna declared she thought "she was a per-
fect fright."
18
THIRTY YEARS
Hamlet.
I recollect nothing but Kemble, and that his
brother Charles was Laertes; but "the King, the
Queen, and all the Court," are all buzz.
Isabella.
The principal characters by Brunton, Charles
Kemble, Kemble, and Mrs. Šiddons.
On the Saturday I was more collected; my
hearing and sight were restored; though I was
often interrupted by some sea-phrase applicable
to the sentence I was uttering, or a well-meant
expression of encouragement, every now and
then, from, probably, some old shipmate, to the
great amusement of the rest of the audience; and,
at the conclusion of the performance, "Three
cheers for the blue jacket!" was announced, and
performed in full chorus. This latter compli-
ment I was in the habit of receiving upon the
slightest occasion, during the season; for, though
I had been dismissed the navy with a "flea in
my ear," my offence was "a feather in my cap"
in the estimation of my comrades of my own
grade, or those beneath me. "By the Eternal!
I had the popular vote," as my friend General
Jackson would say.
coat; ye looked mair like a sailor than a' the
rest thegither, wi' ye'r bonny leg a leetle bow'd,
and baith ye'r taes turned in, as if ye'r war
stonding firm on ye'r shanks in a chappin sea;
an' the hitch ye gave ye'r small claithes when
ye said onything clever was the best o' a'. I
ne'er seed but ane actor as guid, and he was na
sae much better nether-'twas a leetle Scots
pony, at Portsdown Fair. He was a saucy
wee bit toad that, that when his master wad
say till him, 'Billy, what's the hour, my chiel??
he'd paw, and paw-ane, twa, or as mony as
it was, as natural as a quartermaster makin'
eight bells."
Now this I considered the highest compliment
paid to me by any of my friends; and how often
since would I have preferred being said to be
"almost as good as a learned pig, or pony," than
"to be nearly equal" to some two-legged baboon,
with a red tail, black eyebrows, and a mouth
from ear to ear!
didly tell you, I have no doubt on my mind as
to your ultimate success in the drama. Mr.
Fisher, a friend of mine, who has a small com-
pany travelling in Cornwall, writes me here to
recommend (if in my power) a young man to
supply a vacancy in juvenile tragedy and light
comedy; there you will gain confidence by con-
stant practice, and next season I will be happy
to receive you. I will, therefore, if you say so,
write to him to-day, and name you.'
The following day (Sunday) I dined with the
manager. After the cloth was drawn, his good
lady had retired, and he had twice thrust the de-
canter towards me, he said, "I requested this
interview, Mr. Cowell, that we might talk over
The pit, gallery, and upper-boxes of the Dock and consider in what way I could serve you
Theatre, at that time, were crowded with sailors but a letter I received this morning, most fortu
and marines, with their wives for a week, and dock-nately, points out a path for you at once.
I can-
yard ma-tes, as they were called, between whom
and the round-jackets existed a continual "well-
fought war." These jolly "gods" had a nick-
name for nearly every member of the company.
I found they greeted my friend Horatio with,
"Hurra for Sky-blue!" This appellation he
had gained in consequence of his great attach-
ment for the very tights" he wore the first
morning I met with him. He played Major
O'Flaherty; there they were, with a gold band
down each side. He rendered them, as actors
say, a very useful property."
property." They could be
worn, "for a change," with black Hessian-boots,
or russet, or shoes of any colour with stockings;
but sandals they set at defiance; for shabby-
genteel characters, a red or white patch or two
made them "very characteristic ;" and as to
stripes, they would bear any but blue.
"
""
I thanked him, but respectfully declined his
offer: to engage to play juvenile tragedy and
light comedy, without knowing a single charac-
ter, with a stranger for my manager, and per-
haps a stranger company, was an undertaking
too appalling for me to accept. "But, my dear
sir," I continued, "if you will permit me to re-
main with you, and play at intervals any parts
you may think me capable of sustaining, I will
paint portraits and teach drawing in my interims
of leisure for a living, and not require any pay."
the profession never to dispossess an actor of a
character he has once played, if he is at all ca-
pable of sustaining it."
About this period there was a certain "odd
kind of a new method of swearing" ran through
the fleet, and "By Cheeks the marine" was a fa-
vourite oath. A very old actor, of the name of Sir," said he, with emphasis, an amateur
Chambers, whose weakness it was to boast con- I have a horror of; we have actors enough al-
tinually that he had "had his ancestors too," ready, 'c'en as many as can well live one by an-
on that evening was struck by an apple, thrown other; the line of business you are fitted for at
from the gallery; taking it up, he stepped for-present is already filled, and it is the etiquette of
ward, and very pompously said, "I'll give twenty
pounds to know who threw this apple!" "Cheeks
the marine!” cried a voice from above. When
the shout the response created was over, draw-
ing himself up, and glancing at the commander
of the port in the stage-box, he said, with a sigh
to bygone greatness, "In my schoolboy days I
knew an admiral of that name." "Huzza, boys!
huzza! three cheers for Admiral Cheeks!" He
had christened himself most effectually forever
in that company, to his own annoyance, and the
destruction of any serious scene in which he
was concerned. For the last five-and-twenty
years I would have gloried in them as a low
comedy audience; but at that time they often
played the devil with my juvenile tragedy.
Mackay and his wife were loud in their en-
comiums.
"Ye looked sae slick-like," said my honest
friend, "wi' ye'r white silk wash-boards till ye'r
I felt and looked, I imagine, mortified and dis-
appointed. "Then," said I, "since there is no
hope of an engagement this season, I will teach
drawing and navigation (if I can get any pupils),
and wait till next year."
After a pause of a minute, with his expressive
eye looking through me, he said slowly,
"I know what it is to have our youthful ar-
dour blighted. I adore my profession," he con-
tinued, with enthusiasm, “and am always proud
to enlist a gentleman in its ranks: my only
reason for hesitation in the matter is, that though
I have the whole control here, I am connected
with Mr. Hughes, the proprietor of Saddler's
Wells, and he is unwilling to add to our ex-
penses; but," he continued, carelessly, "I'll
manage it. Let me see; we must try you in
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
19
Shakspeare. Can you get perfect in Ross and |
Lennox, in Macbeth, by Thursday? We make
the two parts into one, for want of numbers.
Wednesday we wish to do it, if you can get
ready--the lines are difficult."
((
Easily, sir," I replied. "I believe I'm per-
fect in the whole play."
"Well," said he, "that's more than the last
gentleman was, even in the parts I speak of,
and he has been on the stage these twelve years.
As to the teaching, get Mrs. Sandford to place
one or two of your beautiful drawings in her
shop, and I'll engage she'll obtain you more pu-
pils than you can attend to, as you cannot possi-
bly spare more than two or three hours a day
from your studies. Now as to the shillings and
pence part of the business. The highest salary
we give is a guinea and a half per week, and I
will put your name on the books for one-pound-
one.
I thought of Horatio's boasted five pounds a
week, and I felt, and appeared, astonished, I sup-
pose. The manager, with disappointment and
anger joined in the expression, gave me a severely
scrutinizing look; this increased my embarrass-
ment, and, with the blood mantling in my face at
the horror of his suspecting (after all his kindness)
that the small sum he offered me was the cause
of the feeling I displayed, I exclaimed, with en-
ergy, "You wrong me, sir, indeed you do. I
have not the power to give utterance to the high
sense I have of your kindness to me; the sum
you name is much more, I am confident, than I
can at present earn, and you have wrongly con-
strued my thoughts if you imagine, for a mo-
inent, it was that which caused my surprise; it
was my astonishment that Mr. Howard should
have gratuitously told me that he received five
pounds."
My dear young friend," said he, stretching
across the table to shake me heartily by the
hand, “you have much to learn of my profes-
sion yet. I make it a rule never to name the
amount of an actor's salary to anybody, but in
this case it is necessary. Mr. Howard receives
twenty-five shillings a week, and if his intellect
was valued, instead of his utility, he wouldn't
obtain five."
I expressed my indignation that he should, un-
asked, have told me such a falsehood.
|
view. "My conscience, hanging about the neck of
my heart, said very wisely to me, ""If you take
this step you must resign all hope of your ever
regaining your past position." Pride-revenge-
yes, revenge!-I know no other word nearer to
my meaning-and a sort of "dam'me-if-I-care-
for-anything-or-anybody" sensation, carried the
point. I went home and read Ross and Len-
nox from the acting copy, and have been an
actor ever since.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on;
Or sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild."
MILTON
On the Monday morning I was formally in-
troduced as a member of the company, and most
kindly welcomed by all; but particularly by the
gentleman with whose interests I was most like-
ly to interfere. This display of indifference by
those who are suffering in dread and dismay lest
you push them from their stools, is very common
in the profession, and generally overdone: they
are usually what may be called too d-d affec-
tionate. In England, they conclude a sort of
negative complimentary chat with " Suppose
you take your dinner with me?" supposing they
have got one to offer; and on "this side of the
water" they always say, "Let's go and take a
drink?" The arrangement of my dress for the
twin Scotchmen the manager had promised to
attend to; but the loan of "properties, or anything
I have, is perfectly at your service," was itera-
ted by all. Howard said, "My boy, by —, I'll
lend you my blue tights-oh, you're perfectly
welcome, I don't wear them till the farce; Ban-
quo's one of my flesh parts—nothing like the na-
ked truth-I'm h-1 for nature. By-the-by, you'll
often have to wear black smalls and stockings;
I'll put you up to something: save your buying
silks, darning, stitch-dropping, louse-ladders,
and all that: grease your legs and burned-cork
'em-it looks d-d well 'from the front.'"
All my worldly experience had been gathered
in a cockpit, the members of which are hetero-
geneous enough in all conscience, but they have
all exactly the same duty to perform, the same
pay, same living, same law to abide by, and,
generally speaking, are of about the same grade
in the scale of society, even before the service
has levelled all distinctions. Judge, then, how
incapable I was of understanding or apprecia-
ting the eccentric and contradictory habits and
manners of my new allies. The quantity of
materials thought necessary by the three witch-
Both apparently well pleased with the termi-es in Macbeth to "make the gruel thick and
nation of our negotiation, we parted, with a glass
of wine to my success as an actor.
"Oh! he meant no harm," said he, laughing;
"'tis the fashion or habit of nine actors out of
ten to declare their income is at least three times
as large as it really is, and their benefits are al-
ways said by them to be fashionable and over-
flowing houses; they boast on these points so
continually, that they at last actually believe it
themselves, and run in debt, generally, in the
same proportion."
What strange animals we poor human beings
are! I had, for two hours or more, felt as if my
very existence depended on my obtaining this
employment, and I had scarcely let the door
close behind me when I felt as if I ought to go
back and decline the engagement. A thousand
contradictory feelings filled my mind at once. I
hurried on, as if to outwalk my own thoughts.
I stopped, out of breath, at the corner of a street
-looked up at the new moon with the inquiring
gaze of an old acquaintance, but before I had
time even to ask advice from that quarter, a
cloud, “black like an ousel," hid her from my
slab," are not more opposite and various in their
compound than the origin and character of the
"Ladies and Gentlemen" attached to the theatri-
cal profession. "There lies the villany:" if
there could be instituted a college-a school-an
ordeal of any kind to be passed before man or
woman were admitted to be an actor or actress,
the Drama, blazing in its own brightness, would
be honoured and respected. 'Tis true, many
have risen from the lowest dregs of society to
the topmost pinnacle of theatrical ambition-
Mrs. Abington and Kean may be named as ex-
traordinary instances-but how many remain
floundering in their original mire, sullying the
fair fame of those deserving moral estimation!
20
THIRTY YEARS
the man off with a shilling, and requested the
great actor to go on with the rehearsal.
"We have waited two hours for you already;
your letter stated you would be here last night,"
said the manager.
The world never thinks of drawing a distinc- The law might have been argued, according
tion; and, indeed, by what rule could it make to the statute in that case made and provided,
one? We don't stop a man in the street with a till Munden had made the fellow laugh himself
muddy coat to ascertain if he had soiled it by help-out of his pay altogether, had not Sandford sent
ing some blackguard out of a gutter, but con-
tent ourselves with thinking he's a dirty fellow.
The kindness of the manager, and the preju-
diced indulgence of the audience, made me a fa-
vourite with both. Sandford's prediction was
verified as to the teaching, and I was in the re-
ceipt of a handsome income immediately. I
charged a high price, and undertook to instruct
those only who had already gained some profi-
ciency in the art, with one exception. I did
teach one "young idea"-a lovely girl of about
fifteen, a step-daughter of Major Watwyns-
a Jewess-like divinity. Is there a style of
beauty on earth that can compare with the Ori-
ental, poetic loveliness of those chosen females
when they are young? But then, they will get
married, and make it a rule to "increase and
multiply," which undoubtedly makes them more
interesting as wives and mothers, but it spoils
the poetry. There are, to be sure, exceptions,
and the lady I allude to is one of them.
"How long hath Chronon wooed in vain.
To spoil that cheek !”
A few years since I had the pleasure of being
again introduced to my charming pupil, at Cin-
cinnati. She is the wife of a merchant there,
has a large family, and is as handsome as ever.
Incledon, "the inspired idiot," was the first star
I ever played with. He has helped, most inno-
cently, to make so many books, that in his case
"the wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees is
left (for me) to brag of;" so let him rest with
the sainted Jane and Mary."
((
Munden, who had been underlined for a week,
arrived at last; the company were engaged in
the rehearsal of the "Road to Ruin," he having
written from Exeter to desire that he might be ad-
vertised for Old Dornton and Crack for that
night; and his nonappearance at the time he sta-
ted had caused some uneasiness; he was fol-
lowed by a porter with a large trunk. After cor-
dially greeting the manager and the members of
the company, with whom he was before ac-
quainted, he said, "Sandford, my dear boy, lend
me sixpence." And (in a voice, oh, how rich-
rich is a mean phrase to convey an idea of its
round, articulate, expressive power) he contin-
ued:
"I have had my wardrobe brought to the the-
atre; it saves trouble, and the expense of little
boys bothering you for a penny a piece to carry
a bundle. You left the other trunk at my lodg-
ings, my good man ?"
"Yes, sir," said the porter, shaking into the
crown of his hat a tattered handkerchief, with
which he had just removed the sweat of his
brow.
"Here's a shilling, Mr. Munden," said Sand-
ford; "I haven't a sixpence."
"Have you the change, my man ?" inquired
the great comedian.
ter.
"Have I change for what, sir?" said the por-
"For the shilling, my dear boy," replied
Munden.
"And is it less than a shilling that a gentle-
man like you would be offering a poor devil
like myself for wheeling two big boxes nearly a
mile? Sure the law allows sixpence a parcel,
if it's only as big as your fist."
"And so I should; but I couldn't come
without wheels," replied the comedian; "the
stage broke down just as we got to Ivy Bridge,
on purpose, no doubt, that the robbers might pil-
lage me at the hotel there; the bloodsuckers
took every shilling I had for bed and board, and
bit me to death with fleas into the bargain. I
had but threepence left when I made my escape
from them this morning; I offered them to the
guard, after he had collected my baggage, and
he told me to keep it, sir! the impudent scoundrel
told me to keep it, and so I did," he continued,
with a laugh worth the whole stage fare from
London to Plymouth, "and treated myself to a
pint of porter, and the odd ha' penny I gave to
Roache's children to buy lollipops-to buy lolli-
pops, sir, and bull's eyes; I stopped there on my
way, to let them know I had arrived, and see if
my room was ready."
This said Roache was an old friend of Mun-
den's, and it is highly probable he had the room
without charge. He kept a circulating-library,
of dirty, worn-out books, quack-medicines, job-
printing, and children's toy kind of shop. The
same man had exactly the same sort of estab
lishment, a few years since, at the corner of
Frederic and Market-streets, Baltimore, where
he died; the members of his large family, who
shared Munden's lollipop, are now all engaged
in increasing the population of different parts of
the Union.
"Sandford, it will only be necessary to go
through my scenes-who's the Harry Dornton ?"
I was introduced. Surveying me from head to
foot with a serio-comic look from such an eye!
setting at defiance description, and the shade of
enormous shaggy eyebrows, one of which would
be amply sufficient to make two pair, even for
Billy Wood.*
"Are you perfect, sir, in the words?" said
Munden.
"Quite, sir," I confidently replied.
"You will find Mr. Cowell," said the mana-
ger, "though a young actor, very attentive to
any business you may instruct him in, when ex-
plained to him in the manner you are so well
aware a gentleman expects."
Probably the hint was superfluous, for I ever
received from that great actor the most marked
attention. The day was so far advanced that
* William B. Wood, Esq., formerly manager, and still a
member, of the Chestnut-street Theatre, Philadelphia, has
of which nature has very kindly made him excessively
remarkably long eyebrows, amounting to a deformity; but
proud; this amiable weakness, as well as his passion for
speaking "an infinite deal of nothing," is notorious among
his friends; and 'tis said "once upon a time," finding him-.
self a stranger on a steamboat, and in vain ndeavouring to
get into a fine weather" conversation with a gentleman
whose acquaintance he was anxious to make, after failing
in several efforts to get a "talk," at length abruptly ac-
costed him with, "I beg your pardon, sir, but by
is a perfect natural curiosity-a genuine N. K. I pledge
you my honour, sir, I just pulled this extraordinary hair
out of my eyebrow," holding his hands up to the light,
about five inches apart. He carried his point, and had a
ment, or inconvenience to the human form divine, from the
most delicious hairy discussion on the merits of that orna-
crown of the head to the first joint of the great toe.
-, sir, this
PASSED AMONG
21
THE PLAYERS.
we couldn't repeat our rehearsal, and he invited
me to take a chop with him at his lodgings, and
after dinner go over the scenes we were together
in; which, for the sake of such instruction, I
readily agreed to-it was literally a chop; we
had one a piece, and a single sole between us
(a very delicate flat fish about the size of the sole
of your boot, both cheap and plentiful at Ply-
mouth), and a pint of porter, of which I declined
partaking, apparently to his great satisfaction.
The whole dinner, which he praised both as to
quantity and quality, he explained to me with
great glee, "Had only cost a shilling: sixpence
for the chops, three ha'pence for the fish, and the
remainder for the bread, potatoes, and porter."
The extreme parsimony of this most delicious
actor induced every one to believe he was enor-
mously rich, but at his death his fortune was
proved much below the general calculation.
Even his meanness was smothered in fun. He
once told me in the Drury Lane Green-room,
very seriously, that he had that morning adver-
tised his grounds for rent, and discharged his gar-
dener, because he had met a girl crying radishes
"at three bunches a penny!" On asking a lady
for the loan of an umbrella one wet day, she re-
torted, "Why, Mr. Munden, why don't you buy
one? you are rich enough."
((
My dear, I've got a bran new one at home,
I've had these two years.
"Then why don't you use it, sir?"
"My dear child, if I brought it out it would
be sure to rain, and I should get it wet and spoil
the beauty of it."
Till the hour of going to the theatre we went
over the scenes again and again; my willing-
ness to receive instruction appeared to give
him great satisfaction, and he prophesied a
glorious reward for my perseverance, and in-
stanced himself as a proof of the consequence:
who could doubt he practised what he preached,
when, in defiance of the labour before him for
the night, and the fatigue of a journey, he, with
all the enthusiasm of youth, for hours directed
the support he required in his great character,
which he had then played probably two hundred
times ?
He was, in my opinion, the best comedian I
ever saw. He identified himself with a charac-
ter, and never lost sight of it-his pathos went
to the heart at once, and his humour was irre-
sistible. In his latter years he was accused of
sacrificing too much for the sake of gaining
applause, but I believe he endeavoured to alter
his pure and natural style to suit the declining
taste of his auditors, and compete with the car-
icaturists by whom he was surrounded.
playing Ralph to his Old Brumagem, at Drury
Lane, I objected to some business he pointed
out, as being unnatural. "Unnatural!" said he,
with a sneer: "that has been my mistake for
years. Nature be d-; make the people laugh."
But he's gone! and if there is any fun in the
next world, he's in the midst of it.
"Sic transit gloria Munden."
In
By great industry I rapidly improved, and be-
fore the close of the season I had become a very
useful performer at any rate. My connexion as
an artist was of great service to me at my bene-
fits, and I had two really "overflowing houses;"
the last, "By desire of the officers of his majes-
ty's ship York," nearly the whole of the crew,
with the band at their head and the marines
bringing up the rear, marched to the theatre,
crowding the pit and upper portion of the house.
The play was the Iron Chest, which I had se-
lected for the sake of acting "Wilford," to per-
form which character I had been sighing all the
season; but Moore, the comedian who was to
play Sampson, thought proper to be taken ill at
four o'clock in "the posteriors of the day," as
Shakspeare hath it, and Sandford urged me to
undertake the part, as the best apology to offer
to my friends instead of this general favourite.
Laughter and applause, no doubt, much more
than I deserved, rewarded my first effort in low
comedy; and all declared it was the line of busi-
ness in which I was destined to excel; and I
thought so too; but for the next six months I
had engaged for the amiable and interesting, at
fifteen shillings per week, at the Theatre Royal,
Plymouth, so that my comical propensities had
to do penance for that period, at any rate.
During the performance that evening, a re-
quest was made by an officer that one of the
crew, who had written a comic song, might be
permitted to sing it, which was readily granted;
and between the acts a fine black-whiskered, six-
feet-high fellow made his appearance, amid the
cheers of his shipmates, and sung at least fifteen
verses, each ending with a Toll-loll-de-iddy-tiddy-
toll-loll-loll. The composition consisted of a long
string of sailor's wit at the expense of Poll, and
Sue, and Jack, and Ben, and so on, which ap-
peared to be greatly relished by those who under-
stood the joke. At length he came to a pause-
looked embarrassed-hitched up his trousers-
turned his quid-scratched his head-and said,
"Shipmates, you know there's two more verses,
but they are not fit to sing before the ladies; they
are rather b-. Toll-loll-de-iddy-tiddy-toll-loll-
loll," and away he went. Either as a tribute
to his modesty, or in the hope of hearing the
other two verses, he received a general Encore!
from all parts of the house; but at the same
place he stopped again, made his bow, and said,
You know I told you why I left off here be-
fore," and quitted the stage amid shouts of
laughter.
CHAPTER IX.
"Meantime, I would not always dread the bowl,
Nor every trespass shun. The feverish strife,
Roused by the rare debauch, subdues, expels
The loitering crudities that burden life;
And like a torrent, full and rapid, clears
Th' obstructed tubes. Besides, this restless world
Is full of chances, which by habit's power
To learn to bear is easier than to shun."
ARMSTRONG'S Art of Preserving Health.
THE borough-town of Plymouth is about two
miles from Dock, and literally connected with
that (then) densely-populated depository for sail-
ors and soldiers of every grade, from admirals
and generals down to the after-guard and awk-
ward squad; marines, ma-tes, Jew pedlers, pick-
pockets, blackguards, and bum-boat women, and
other ladies with a claim to only half the title,
by a long lane with no turning, called "Stone-
house," on either side of which, leaving room for
a barracks on the right, was then a row of small
houses whose inhabitants were notoriously of
the feminine gender. For the information of
the curious in topographical knowledge, I must
state, that Dock can now boast of a mayor and
corporation, and the name of Devenport, but in
my day its fame emanated from
"The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nation's quake,
22
THIRTY YEARS
And monarchs tremble in their capitals;
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs inake
Their clay creator, the vain title take
Of lord of thee (the ocean) and arbiter of war."
The Plymouth Theatre, at Frankfort Gate,
by courtesy called Royal, because the Duke of
Clarence had once entered it, probably without
paying for his ticket, was then conducted by
Mr. Foot, in connexion with Mr. Percy Farren,
of the Dublin Theatre, whom I never saw. His
son, George Percy Farren, is now in this coun-
try, and in the same cast of characters, I think
quite equal to his uncle of the London theatres.
Foot had been a captain in the army, and look-
ed like a gentleman of the roué school. Talking
of looks, he had one real eye for service, and an-
other, of glass, for show; if he got gouged in
love or war I never learned, but a side glance
conveyed the most irresistibly comical kind of
squint ever invented by art or nature. His man-
ners were agreeable, and what is falsely called
gentlemanly, but his mind was most depraved;
all moral obligations he set at defiance, and his
charming daughter, innocent and young, was
even then in training, by her father, for the life
of splendid infamy in which she moved for years,
with pity's finger pointing at her fallen state.
Poor Maria! A few days before I left England
I met her with a servant following in Colonel
Berkley's livery: "She was beautiful, and if
ever I felt the full force of an honest heartache,
it was the moment I saw her."
As I before observed, my teaching put me in
possession of a handsome income; I therefore
readily entered into a bond with Foot to receive
only fifteen shillings per week, and play nothing
but good parts; thereby curtailing my utility as
an actor, and increasing my leisure.
"Cowell, you're a queer fellow; you have
never taken any notice of my raising your sal-
ary.'
"Yes, I am rather queer," I replied, with a
laugh. He gave me a look with his real eye
over his nose, right through the glass one, and
walked away.
"What do you smile for in that satirical man-
ner?" has been often asked of me, after listening
to an eulogium on "dear Mrs. Foot being so
kind as to save one the trouble of going to the
treasury, and handing one one's salary in such
a ladylike manner."
The Dock Theatre closed on a Saturday
night, and Plymouth opened on the Monday fol-
lowing, with the comedy of the "Heir at Law,"
as best calculated to display the strength of the
company, and I was cast the good part of Henry
Moreland; but, on the Sunday intervening,
Sandford gave a dinner to Foot, my manager
that was to be, Vandenhoff, Moore, D'Arcey,
and myself, and a few private friends. Though
a very retiring, business-like man in his mode
of conducting his professional duties, he was a
his own house. Wine of the best was passed
bon-vivant, in the fullest sense of the word, in
rapidly round; speeches were attempted till we
were all speechless; songs were sung till we
couldn't remember the first line; and the mana-
ger's, our own, and everybody's health drunk,
ill we were too "far gone" to swallow. My
Scotch friend D'Arcey, well seasoned with usque-
baugh in the Highlands, and myself, were the
last to retire. I make it a rule, up to the present
hour, to be last at a feast, whatever I am at a
fray. D'Arcey couldn't remember the beginning
of Burns's ballad, but all he could recollect I as-
sisted him in singing:
The salary for each performer was put up
weekly by the treasurer, sealed and directed, and
"We are na' fu', we're na that fu',
handed round to the company, during the re-
Only a wee drap in our c'e,"
hearsal, by Mrs. Foot. After I had been in this and that's all I do recollect of the matter, but
employ a short time, I had (in consequence of was told I was found, long after daylight the
not being wanted at the theatre during this show-next morning, seated on a turned-up washtub,
er of gold) allowed my pay to accumulate for drinking gin with a dozen damp women em-
five or six weeks; but one day, after making my ployed in washing sheets and table-linen in Gen-
bow to the lady of the house, and putting my eral Nelson's coach-house. I went to bed in-
little arrears in my pocket, was walking off, stead of the rehearsal, and sent the plain state of
when Mrs. Foot stopped me, in evident embar- the case to the manager, and Polly Lambert, as
rassment, and said,
he was most appropriately called by the gods,
for he was a very ladylike man, played the part.
I, of course, concluded I had forfeited my en-
gagement, and I think it more than probable
I should, but for the weekly profit I was destined
to prove to the "wide-awake" partner, while the
other was sleeping at Dublin.
"Mr. Cowell, I have made a mistake; be
kind enough to let me have that money again." |
I immediately restored to her (as I then
thought) the whole of the packets; in a few
minutes, the call-boy handed me (as I supposed)
the amount due, in one parcel; but, on gaining
my lodgings, I discovered 1 had unknowingly
retained one of the little billets she at first gave
me, directed and dated two or three weeks gone
by, and containing, to my astonishment, twenty-
five shillings, and the larger one the whole of the
balance due me, for the time, at the rate of fif
teen shillings per week. In the evening I called
on the treasurer and explained the circumstance,
and presented him with the five-and-twenty shil-
ling parcel I had unintentionally retained; he to
my disgust assured me that my salary had been
always charged on the books at one pound five;
that he had regularly enclosed me that amount,
and such was the sum named as paid to me on
the balance-sheet, copied by him every week
and sent to Percy Farren at Dublin. I kept
my own counsel; played, when I did play, very
good parts, and got the twenty-five sealed up
every Saturday.
Once Foot said,
The second morning, while sipping chicken-
broth and reading "Taylor on Drunkenness"-
by-the-by, a more philosophical and physiologi-
cal work than any temperance pamphlet pro-
duced for five-and-twenty years-I received a
pleasant note from Foot, and the next morning I
went to the theatre. He appeared to think it
an excellent joke.
>
"I know my friend George of old," said my
new manager; "he's a d- high fellow in his
own house; a regular Charles Surface, though
demure as a Joseph in his business. By
I think you got off very well; I knew the con-
sequences, and made my escape about ten
o'clock, for the d- rascal laid me up for a
week once, and, by
I'm called an honest
four-bottle man."
The company was more efficient than the
first I was associated with, the best portion of
which had been selected, and several of consid-
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
23
erable talent added to the list, among whom |
was my friend Barnes, even then called "Old
Jack," and "Old Barney," and he admired the
title then, for so he used to designate himself in
his benefit-bills; but now, when he has an hon-
est claim to that venerable appellation, he don't
apply it to himself, nor appear quite so well
pleased at being named so by others. His ami-
able wife, in addition to her well-known talent,
was then the most sylphlike, beautiful little
creature in existence. Ye gods! how awfully
I was in love with her! Platonically, of course,
I imagined then; but, in thinking over the events
of that period, I confess I recollect catching my-
self accusing Anna of being a little too tall.
Byron had not then made his Don Juan ex-
cuse for inconstancy, but I was very much of
the same opinion at that time, in prose, that
"That which
Men call inconstancy is nothing more
Than adoration; due where nature's rich.
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er
Some favoured object; and, as in the niche,
A lovely statue we almost adore,
This sort of adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the beau ideal."
But, then, more than once I remember wish-
ing most earnestly that my friend Jack was di-
vorced, or dead, and decenily buried-but it's all
over now. What an abominable contrivance this
getting old is!
Young Betty, the Roscius that had been, was
our first star. He was of my age, within a
month one way or the other; a great, lubberly,
overgrown, fat-voiced, good-tempered fellow,
with very little talent, and just tolerated as a
man by those who were ashamed to confess they
were deceived in thinking him a divinity when
a boy.
I have seen many infant phenomena in the
course of my theatrical career, and witnessed the
"drillings and trainings;" and if the humane
Martin had known as much as I do, he would
have included these little prodigies in his act
"for the suppression of cruelty to animals."
¢
I once had a conversation with a fellow who
exhibited a learned dog at the Adelphi Theatre,
and he assured me that he had found, from ex-
perience, that the description of animal best fitted
for his purpose was, as he expressed it, "A cur
that's not good for nothing else in the whole
world;" and the poor beast I saw playing cards
and casting accounts fully came up in appear-
ance to his idea of the necessary requisites: even
Burns's "Tanted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie," had
some fun in his composition, but the pitiable
wretch I saw get all the applause" did not de-
serve even to be called a dog-a long-backed,
short-legged, sleek-haired, ungentlemanly-look-
ing thing, went slouching round a circle with his
stupid-looking eyes half closed, and his tail be-
tween his legs; had he been a calculating boy,
he would have done precisely the same, only, for
the want of a tail, he would have had his hands
in his breeches pockets. Astonishing animals
and astonishing children are schooled in exactly
the same way-extreme and continual rewards
and punishments--raw beef and a whip for the
one, and sugar-plums and a rod-in-pickle for the
other. It cannot be denied that there are many
instances of precocious genius, both in the theatri-
cal world and out of it, and if such favoured
creatures were left solely to nature, they would
be always pleasing, though never astonishing in
after life; talent and time must walk hand in
hand to form the clever man. But should a
|
|
child unfortunately "sing a little song," or imi-
tate some caricature actor, God help the little
creature! especially if the parent be a player;
and I have generally found these scions are of
some stick," not fit, as Garrick coarsely said,
"to carry guts to a bear:" they are instantly
taught to play on the pianoforte, and the drum,
and the fiddle, and the flageolet, and jig about at
the same time (as Ellen Tree's sister used to do),
and fencing, and dancing, and everything but
reading and writing, till their poor susceptible
little brains are so overwhelmed with the mass
of knowledge crammed into their little box, that
no wonder they sink under the weight of their
own pressure; and if they live long enough,
prove to be extremely stupid men and women.
So as some bud which nature in a freak bids
to peep forth before its usual time, if forced and
nurtured by artificial means, soon sickens,
droops, and withers, and in the excess of its own
luxuriance, dies, and is forgotten; but if left in
the care alone of Him who made it, it would
have bloomed its bright and brief career, and its
sweetness would be remembered and regretted.
It is necessary to state that about this period
I got married by accident-but not to Anna.
CHAPTER X.
"How changed since last her speaking eye
Glanced gladness round the glittering room
Where high-born men were proud to wait-
Where beauty watch'd to imitate
Her gentle voice-her lovely mien-
And gather from her air and gait
The graces of its queen!
Now-what is she?"
PARISINA.
CHARLES YOUNG succeeded Betty; a delicious
change; equal to a squeeze of lemon after a dose
of jalap-a perfect gentleman and most amiable
man. I have often heard him called an imita-
tor of Kemble, but I never saw any resem-
blance; it is true, his good sense made him be-
lieve he had not the genius to soar above his
great coadjutor, and he prudently contented him-
self to adopt his conceptions; if you saw Kemble
in Hamlet one night, and Young the next, you
would discover no beauties stepped over, and nc
new ones displayed; but all that Kemble had
done for the character would be done by Young,
twenty-four hours after him, in every sense of
the expression. During his sojourn at Ply-
mouth, he played several characters to prepare
himself to sustain them at Covent Garden, among
them Richard and Sir Giles Overreach; of course
he was worse than Kemble was in both of them,
and I don't know if he ever attempted their mur-
der in London.
1
For the sake of comparison, I presume, soon
after Young departed, Foot played the Stranger.
I was Francis; and a very bad actor, but a tal-
ented, eccentric man, of the name of Reymes,
the Tobias. The house was very thinly attend-
ed, and on such occasions actors in country
theatres are very likely to try more to please one
another than the audience.
"Nay, should I lose my son, still I should not
wish to die. Here is the hut where I was born.
Here is the tree that grew with me; and-I am
almost ashamed to confess it-I have a dog
which I love," he should have said; instead of
which, he substituted, "a duck I love.”
This unexpected alteration, of course, made
me laugh.
"Smile if you please," he continued, with per-
24
THIRTY YEARS
fect gravity, "but hear me. My benefactress
once came to my hut herself. The poor bird,
unused to see the form of elegance enter the door
of penury, quacked at her. I wonder you keep
that waddling, ugly fowl, Mr. Tobias,' said she.
'Ah, madam,' I replied, 'if I part with my duck,
are you sure that anything else will love me?'
She was pleased with my answer."
"Eh! egad, I never thought of that," said the
whimsical, good-hearted creature. "I'll suspend
operations until I've made the inquiry, and if
I've wronged him I'll make amends.”

Being acceptable to the audience, and a very
youthful appearance, the manager was induced
to cast me for George Barnwell, "though, heav-
en knows, against my own inclining;" for I nev-
He was excellent company, and being very er had a particle of sentimental tragedy in my
fond of a ramble in the country, would frequent- composition. On reading the character, I was
ly attend me in my sketching expeditions. I was disgusted with the "fool, as well as villain."
employed one day in making a drawing of Stoke My whole life had been passed in the unrestrain-
Church-strange, too, that I should desire a like-ed society of young men, but I never met any-
ness of that matrimonial manufactory, for it was thing like a George Barnwell in any mess I ever
there I was bound in the holy ties of wedlock; belonged to; and I felt my incapacity to invent
but it was very picturesque and pleasing on pa- the delineation of a character I did not believe
per, for all that. Several times I was disturbed ever existed in nature; and I entreated Foot to
in my occupation, to look round to inquire the take me out of the part. But my objections ap-
cause of a crash, every now and then, like the peared to him extremely comical; no prayers I
breaking of glass; and at length I caught a had "wit enough to make" could move him, and
glimpse of Reymes, slyly jerking a pebble, under he persisted, I believe for the sake of the joke,
his arm, through one of the windows. I recol- that I should perform the character. As usual,
lected twice, in walking home with him, late at I had waited till the last hour to swallow the bit-
night, from the theatre, his quietly taking a brick- ter morsel, and on the day it was to be perform-
bat from out of his coat-pocket and deliberately ed, I was fuming and fretting up and down the
|
smashing it through the casement of the Town room, endeavouring to get the mawkish lan-
Hall, and walking on and continuing his con- guage into my head, when an old messmate, an
versation as if nothing had happened. Crack! assistant-surgeon, whom I had not seen for two
again. I began to suspect an aberration of in-years, paid me a visit. I excused myself from
tellect, and said,
attempting to entertain him, by explaining the
torture I was enduring.
'Reymes, for heaven's sake what are you
doing?"
(C
'Showing my gratitude," said he; and crack!
went another.
"Showing the devil!" said I; "you're break-
ing the church windows."
"Why, I know it- certainly; what do you
stare at?" said the eccentric. "I broke nearly
every pane three weeks ago I couldn't hit
them all. After you have broken a good many,
the stones are apt to go through the holes you've
already made. They only finished mending
them the day before yesterday; I came out and
asked the men when they were likely to get
done;" and clatter! clatter! went another.
"That's excellent!" said he, in great glee.
"I hit the frame just in the right place; I knock-
ed out two large ones that time."
Reymes," said I, with temper, "if you don't
desist, I must leave off my drawing.'
(C
"
Well," said he, "only this one," and crack!
it went; "there! I've done. Since it annoys
you, I'll come by myself to-morrow and finish
the job; it's the only means in my power of pro-
ving my gratitude.
"Proving your folly," said I. "Why, Reymes,
you must be out of your senses."
"
'Why don't you send word you're ill?" said
the doctor.
Why, my dear fellow," said I, "I have made
so many objections, that Foot would suspect at
once that I was hoaxing him, and be here on the
instant."
"Give me a pen and ink," said my old com-
panion.
|
"I've saved many a good fellow from
disagreeable duty in the same way-there-send
that, and a shilling, to an apothecary, and let
me know about half an hour before you want to
be very sick, and I'll make you so, without do-
ing you any harm; go myself as your physician
to Foot, as you call him-bring him here to be
convinced of the dangerous state you are in-lay
it all to excessive anxiety of mind, and make
him believe you won't live the night out. So
throw away the book, and let's have a glass of
grog together. I met Spencer, and he told me
who you were, and where to find you."
The plan succeeded to admiration, and, thank
Heaven, I have never played, or read, that worse
than an emetic since.
Wilson the rope-dancer, long since forgotten
by most thinking beings, was then all the rage;
crowding his own pockets and the houses wher-
ever he went; but, in my opinion, he was very
inferior to John Cline, now in this country, and
christened in German, very appropriately, "the
little gentleman rope-dancer," by Charles Gilfert,
who took out the first patent for theatrical hum-
buggery in the United States.
Why, did I never tell you?" said he. "Oh!
then, I don't wonder at your surprise. I thought
I had told you. I had an uncle, a glazier, who
died, and left me twenty pounds, and this mourn-
ing-ring; and I therefore have made it a rule to
break the windows of all public places ever
since. The loss is not worth speaking of to the At about this period the British government
parish, and puts a nice bit of money in the pock- took it into their heads that the Duke of Clar-
et of some poor dealer in putty, with probably a ence-having, as it was supposed, in all proba-
large family to support. And now I've explain- bility, sowed his wild oats, should take unto
ed, I presume you have no objection to my pro- himself a lawfully-wedded wife, leave off break-
ceeding in paying what I consider a debt of grat-ing the ninth commandment, and use his roy-
itude due to my dead uncle."
"Hold! Reymes," said I, as he was picking
up a pebble. "How do you know but the poor
fellow with the large family may not undertake
to repair the windows by contract, at so much a
year or month ?"
al highness's best efforts to produce an heir
to the throne in the event of its ever com-
ing to his turn to supply such a deficiency.
Whether the novelty of the thing tickled the
old gentleman's vanity, or if "just for a bit of
fun," as the boys say, he consented to the oper-
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
25.
ation, I know not; but he did, and thrust forth
from his protection the mother of his children,
to earn a living, for her few remaining days, by
the reputation of her transcendent talent, the ex-
ercise of which, in its zenith, had literally sup-
ported him in luxury for years. She might well
exclaim, with the creator of her own Rosalind,
"My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf:
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have."
And with probably just such feelings, slaking
former fire, the great Mrs. Jordan arrived at
Plymouth, to play a round of characters.
She opened in the "Widow Cheerby;" I was
the "Chanes Woodly."
"Can you laugh, Mr. Cowell?" said Thalia
herself. "I used to laugh very naturally once;
and to laugh well is of great importance, even
to a tragedian."
"Upon my life, madam, I do not know what I
can do," I replied; "I have only been on the
stage five months."
I
"Then you are a very promising young man,
and your good sense will make you think you
don't know what you can do when you have
been upon the stage five hundred years."
laughed. "Oh, I see you can be merry," con-
tinued this Momus in petticoats-perhaps with
an aching heart. "The effect of this scene de-
pends entirely upon you; keep it up, no matter
where you are, and, scarcely, what you say; but
be most joyous; I want the whole scene to go
well while I'm upon the stage; I don't wish the
foolish people in front to praise Mrs. Jordan
only; I want them to be intoxicated with the
general effect; but don't go so far forward-act
between the second entrances."
Munden, a short time before, had particularly
desired me to get close to the footlights; but it
was very easy to account for the contradiction
in the instructions of these great artists. The
fact is, she was getting old; dimples turn to
crinkles after long use; besides, she wore a wig
glued on; and, in the heat of acting-for she
was always in earnest I have seen some of the
tenacious compound with which it was secured
trickle down a wrinkle behind her ear; her per-
son, too, was extremely round and large, though
still retaining something of the outline of its for-
mer grace;
For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth?
An audience, too, deceived, may find too late
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date."
And in the United States, at the present day, the
very same feeling exists to a nicely. In every
city on the Continent-for I have visited nearly
all of them-you will meet some half dozen or
more Paul Pryish old bachelors to inquire of
you, "How old is Fanny Drake ?" or, "How
old is Fanny Kemble? or Fanny Jarnian? or
Fanny Fitzwilliam ? or Fanny Hill ?" And just
now they were all full cry to discover the birth-
day of Fanny Ellsler. Ellen Tree had scarcely
made the usual theatrical tour before dates were
collected in circumstantial evidence. I played
with her during an engagement in Baltimore,
and was cross-examined on the subject by Col.
Jack Thomas, and other amateurs in such mat-
ters, but I didn't tell.
In this country, too, particularly,
"The eye must be fed."
A fine-looking young man and a beautiful girl
can get an excellent living on the stage by such
material alone; but when they begin to get old,
God help them!
Always an adorer of genius in any shape, I
worshipped Mrs. Jordan. Her encouragement
fired my ambition, and her advice and example
I adopted as my creed. Sandford made up a
company to play with her at Exeter, and she in-
sisted that I should be one of the party. I felt
flattered by her good opinion, and gave up my
teaching for the honour, and received a compen-
sation for the loss of my benefit at Plymouth in
an increased salary, of which she paid the half.
Sandford, she declared, “was like an old horse;
would neither go with begging nor beating."
The fact is, he had a style of his own, and was
too old to bear dictation or alter his manner. I
was young, and would do as she bid me, as well
as I could, and therefore was selected to play all
the off-parts to her that it was possible for me
to undertake; among others, Beverly, in All in
the Wrong, to her Belinda. All the principal
actresses that I know of always choose to play
Lady Restless in preference; but when Mrs.
Jordan was the Belinda, you would not remem-
ber, at the end of the comedy, that Lady Restless.
was even in the piece. Her Nell, in the Devil
to Pay, was a huge lump of nature throughout.
Her making the bed, smoothing it down, admi-
"And, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where ring the quality of the linen, and the simple ex-
It would not spoil a charm to pare.'
pression, "I've often heard of heaven, and this
There is no calamity in the catalogue of the is it," defies description. I have seen many Job-
ills "that flesh is heir to" so horrible as the ap-sons, but I never saw but one Nell.
proach of old age to an actor. I must beg it to At the close of the Exeter campaign I return-
be clearly understood, I am not speaking from ed to Dock, with a better salary, and a share of
my own experience in this matter. In the line the low comedy business with Barnes. I was
of business I profess, a few gray hairs some- the original Gregory, in the Turn Out, in that
times saves a wig; and a wrinkle or so super-company; the scene being laid at Plymouth, I
sedes the trouble of marking the face, which I thought myself privileged to correct some inac-
was obliged to do for many years, till lately; but curacies in localities and other matters. Among
juvenile tragedy, light comedy, and walking gen- them, the author speaks of "pickled salmon,
tlemen with little pot-bellies, and have-been pretty which is an article scarcely known there: I sub-
women, are really to be pitied. Fancy a lady, stituted the very popular delicacy, pickled cock-
who has had quires of sonnets made to her eye-les, using the same abbreviation the old women
brow, being obliged, at last, to black it, play at
the back of the stage at night, sit with her back
to the window in a shady part of the green-room
in the morning, and keep on her bonnet unless
she can afford a very natural wig. As long ago
as Garrick's time, Churchill tells us,
"All actors, too, upon the back should bear
Certificate of birth-time when-place where,
>>
used, to call them about the streets-it was very
effective then. Barnes was Restive;, his wife,
Marian Ramsay; and Vandenhoff, Forage, an
excellent actor in such characters. I saw him
make his first appearance in London afterward,
at Covent Garden, and it was either too bad or
too good an imitation of John Kemble for the
public to more than tolerate then: I have not
seen him perform since.
26
THIRTY YEARS
Barnes was an overwhelming favourite at
both Plymouth and Dock; he owned some houses
in the neighbourhood, and appeared to be settled
for life; and, therefore, it was no place for my
advancement in the line of business I was de-
sirous to sustain. Out of a number of applica-
tions I received three offers. One from Mac-
ready, the father of the great actor, at Newcastle-
upon-Tyne; one from Kelly, Collins, and some-
body else at Portsmouth; and one from Beverly,
at Richmond, in Surry, which, being the near-
est to London, I accepted.
rr
CHAPTER XI.
"But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride nae pride had he :
But wad hae spent an hour caressin',
Ev'n w' a tinkler gipsy's messin':
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tauted tyke, tho' o'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroant an stanes, an' hillocks wi' him."
TWA DOGS.
SIR LUCIUS O'TRIGGER boasts of there being
very snug lying in the Abbey" at Bath; now,
in my day, I can boast of there being very snug
lodging in the churchyard of Richmond-upon-
Thames; in a very nice little house, intended, no
doubt, as the parsonage, and most conveniently
situated for such a purpose, immediately oppo-
site the door,
"Where sinners enter, and like saints come out-
but be that as it may, there I took up my
quarters, and there my first child was born, now
nearly nine years older than his father was then.
This circumstance makes the yard interesting to
me, while the church must be so to everybody,
in consequence of a brass plate in one of the
aisles: "To the memory of James Thomson,
author of the Seasons."
But all this has nothing to do with theatricals.
But if my readers will only imagine this a "long
stop," and walk with me through a crowd of
cricketers, and "playful children just let loose
from school," across the "grassy-vested green,"
I will introduce them to William R. Beverley,
Esq., manager of the Theatre Royal, Richmond.
Richmond.
Of a great lubberly boy of eighteen or nine-
teen, who was leaning against the stage door, in
a long begrimed apron and shirt sleeves, with a
pound brush in one hand, and half a pound of
bread and butter in the other, I made my inqui-
ries. In addition to his face being very much
marked with the smallpox, it was well daubed
with blue and yellow paint, and its assumed ex-
pression of "serious gravity" formed altogether
an excellent broad hint for a caricature of Lis-
ton looking through a rainbow. After rubbing
his nose against his knuckle, and at the same
time the brush against his ear, with an air of
importance he directed me to the dwelling part
of the establishment, where, he told me, I should
find his "pa," for it appeared I had been ad-
dressing Henry Beverley, the son of the proprie-
tor. His extraordinary likeness to the great
comedian I afterward found was notorious,
and on which much hope of future fame was
predicted, but never was realized.
Mr. Beverley met me at the entrance, and I
introduced myself.
"Oh, you are Mr. Cowell-walk in-take a.
seat. Well, my young 'un, what part have you
ever gone on for in Alexander the Great ?" said
my third manager, in a slang kind of voice, after
the manner of a coster-monger or a hackney-
coachman, without a hoarseness.
"Sir!" said I: "Alexander the Great! There
is nothing in the play in the way of low comedy
but Clytus, and I'm not able to play that."
"Able or not able, you must play what I want
you to play, or I shall not choose to be able to
pay you your salary; but as to Clytus, it's one
of my pet parts-I do that myself. Young Betty
opens on Monday in Alexander, and I want you
for Hephestion."
'But, sir, your letter of engagement," which
I produced, "expressly says that I am to play
all the low comedy, save only such characters
as you think proper to perform yourself."
Well, that's all very fine, my pin-I know
all that--but you see I engaged you expressly, as
you call it, to supply the place of little Dornton,
who was to have gone to the Haymarket, but
Coleman, Winston, and Morris have had a b—
row, and the little theatre don't open this season,
so Dornton keeps his situation. But I'll tell you
what I'll do: if you'll agree to make yourself
generally useful, I'll give up some of my charac-
ters, and I play all the best; if not, I can get
plenty of young 'uns at the Harp or Finches"
time), "and there's no harm done."
(favourite haunts for would-be actors at that
But there was a great deal of harm done; I
had taken a long journey, which I could not re-
peat, with Mrs. Cowell "in the way that women
wish to be who love their lords," and had re-
fused the other two offers I had received. I
therefore very prudently put a good face on the
matter, and made my début in Hephestion, and
Ralph in Lock and Key, which the manager
gave up for this night only.
He was a tall, gaunt-looking man, vulgar,
both in appearance and manner-a dirty shirt,
open at the neck; worn-out sandals for slippers;
and an old drab greatcoat, his dressing-gown, I
suppose. But I was rejoiced to find, upon ac-
quaintance, that he was a very different human
being from what might be imagined from a first
impression: he proved to be a kind, open-hearted,
honest man; I was in his employ for more than
a year, greatly to my advantage; and we part-
ed, and continued the best of friends.
His circuit consisted of Richmond, Wool-
wich, and Croyden; and the villages being all
within a few miles of London, the distinguished
members of Covent Garden and Drury Lane
were able to pay short and continual visits-we
had a "star" nearly every night; in conse-
quence, all that was required of the stock com-
pany was utility; and I was the most useful of
the party. When I entered the profession, I had
determined to succeed, and, therefore, no labour
could appal me; I played anything and every-
thing, from high tragedy to low comedy; and
to the excess and variety of practice I had in
that company, I feel myself indebted for all the
experience I have put up in one parcel since. I
have played Mr. Oakley to Miss Smith's (the
successful imitator of Mrs. Siddons, now Mrs.
Bartley, if she's alive) Jealous Wife, one night,
and Squire Beadle, with Charles Young as Oak-
ley, another; Caleb Quotem to Paddy Webb's
Looney; Captain Beaugard to Matthews as Ca-
leb, and so on.
leb, and so on. Beverley used to boast that
"The young 'un"-that was his affectionate ti
tle for ine "in case of necessity, could go on
for Hamlet, from night to night, without missing
a line."
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
27
Among the celebrated actors I played with in after a desperate effort, at the back of the pas-
this company, I remember the following: Mcs-sage which surrounds the pit, from whence I
dames Glover, Davidson, Edwin, Smith, Kel- could, by straining to my utmost height, catch a
ly, Matthews, Cubit, and Booth: Messieurs glimpse of the corner of the green curtain near-
Young, Matthews, Munden, Webb, Elliston,est to the top, but little Bob hadn't even that sat-
Emery, Sinclair, Incledon, Taylor, Blanchard, isfaction. There, at any rate, we could not see
Samuel Russell, Dowton, Oxberry, Rae, Betty, Kean, nor live to see anything else at the end of
Richard Jones, with fifty others, and the ridicu- a few hours' squeeze such as we were then en-
lous "Amateur of Fashion," Romeo Coates. during, and we agreed to pay the extra three
He played six or seven times during the season, and sixpence and go into the boxes; but as to
gratuitously, to crowded houses; and, as Bev- obtaining a pass check, it was impossible. We
erley expressed it, "The nasty beast paid the had nearly as much trouble to get out as we had
rent." He was like a very ugly monkey in the to get in, and were content to lose our three and
face, with long, frizzly, black hair, turned up sixpence apiece, and pay fourteen shillings more
behind, usually with a woman's comb; but in for the privilege of standing on a back seat of
Romeo it was allowed to take the natural posi- the upper tier of boxes, at the corner next the
tion of a horse's tail, which it resembled, and stage, an excellent point of sight for a perspect-
was decorated with a large bunch of white rib-ive view of the crown of a man's hat, or a bald
ands. His wardrobe was of the most costly ma-spot on a lady's head in the pit, who had been
terials and ridiculous fashion; his jewelry was obliged to take off her bonnet whether she liked
said to be of great value, and for its protection he | it or not.
was always accompanied by Bishop, the Bow-
street officer. I had the misery of playing Mer-
cutio, Ensign Dudley, and Horatio to his Ro-
meo, Belcour, and Lothario. His dying scenes
were always encored, and so were many of his
speeches, amid shouts of laughter, and he seem-
ed to relish the ridicule heaped upon him quite
as much as the audience.
After one of his exhibitions, I performed Ar-
taxomines in Bombastes, in imitation of him
throughout, and the identity was so great that
many wagers were laid that I was really the
man. A piece at this time called At Home was
in rehearsal at Covent Garden, in which Mat-
thews had a part intended to represent Coates,
and the great mimic used to drive to Richmond
during its preparation to get me to read the part
in the way Coates would be likely to play it.
"Bruised in body," and "sorely afflicted in
spirit" and pocket, we were just in the mood
not to be easily pleased with anything or any-
body.
When Kean came on I was astonished. I
was prepared to see a small man; but diminish-
ed by the unusual distance, and his black dress,
and a mental comparison with Kemble's prince-
ly person, he appeared a perfect pigmy-his
voice, unlike any I had ever heard before, per-
haps from its very strangeness, was most objec-
tionable-and I turned to Keely, and at once
pronounced him a most decided humbug; and, if
I could have got out then, I should have said so
to everybody, because I honestly thought so;
and if, afterward, I had been convinced of his
enormous genius, I might, like Taylor, the ocu-
list, and editor of the Sun newspaper, have per-
sisted in my denunciation, rather than confess
my incapacity, at the first glance, to comprehend
the sublimity of Shakspeare and Nature being
upon such familiar terms. But I was obliged
to remain, and compelled to be silent; so invo-
king patience, and placing my hand on a young
lady's shoulder for support, I quietly gazed on,
through three tedious scenes for all the actors
seemed worse than usual-till it came to the di-
alogue with the Ghost, and at the line
"I'll call thee Hamlet-king-father-"
It is notorious that an imitation can be much
easier caught from an imitation than from the
original; the very best must partake of carica-
ture, and the outline, in consequence, is bolder,
as a copy is much easier made from a drawing
than a drawing is made from nature. The
stock company are not worth talking about on
the stage, and off of it I knew nothing of them,
with the exception of Klanert, Hughes, and lit-
tle Bob Keely. The first was our principal man;
he had been for some years at Covent Garden,
and his name will be found, in the original cast
of "Speed the Plough," as young Handy's ser-
vant, and in that line of business, I have no
doubt, he was excellent. Hughes went to Drury
Lane that season, and has been there, with
scarcely anybody's knowing it, ever since. Kee-
ly was a sort of second prompter, a very talentedmund Kean in Hamlet.
young man in every way but as an actor then,
nor did he give any promise that he could ever
become the excellent comedian I am told he
now is. He was very successful as a star in
this country, a few years since, but I never saw
him act.
The immortal Kean had this year burst from
his obscurity, to dazzle all the world with his
transcendent talent. I was most anxious to see
this wonder, and the first night I was out of a
performance, Keely, who was my sworn friend
and companion, walked with me from Wool-
wich to London, and at about four o'clock in the
afternoon we joined a crowd already assembled
at the pit entrance of Drury Lane Theatre, which
continued to increase by thousands before the
doors were opened.
Half crushed to death, we found ourselves,
I was converted. I resigned the support of the
lady, and employed both hands in paying the
usual tribute to godlike talent. Father is not a
pretty word to look at, but it is beautiful to hear
when lisped by little children, or spoken by Ed-
In private life Kean was the most contradict-
ory character I ever met with: affable and over-
bearing by turns-in either case without suffi-
cient cause. Lavishly, nay, foolishly liberal, or
niggardly mean and suspicious. With a refined
taste for music, he would listen attentively, and
laugh heartily, at a blackguard's song in a beer-
house. Devotedly fond of children and animals,
he was sometimes brutal in his domestic behav-
iour. An enthusiastic admirer of flowers, birds,
shrubs, and Nature in her simplest garb, he
would spend days and weeks in a den of vice
and depravity. His chosen associates were se-
lected from the lowest dregs of society—prize-
fighters, thief-catchers, and knaves and fools
of low degree, as gross as ignorance made
drunk"-though sought after and courted by all
the rich and noble in mind or station. When
((
28
THIRTY YEARS
1
sober, he was elegantly courteous and gentle-
manlike in his deportment, if he thought proper;
but when intoxicated, he was disgustingly coarse,
and vulgar in the extreme.
Kean had his degrees of drunkenness, accord-
ing to a calculation made by a faithful servant
of his, I think named Miller. This man was
devotedly attached to his master-all menials
adored him—and if Kean happened to be dining
with a party of gentlemen, which he was obliged
to do sometimes, Miller-who was as anxious
about his conducting himself with propriety as
a father could possibly be-when it was getting
late, and the servants were ordered to leave the
room, would take his station near the door, and,
from time to time, make the following inquiries
of any of the party who might pass him.
"How is master getting on, sir?"
"Oh, very well, Miller," would be the prob-
able reply.
"Is he getting eh?" says Miller, significantly.
"Getting what?" says the stranger.
"Getting tipsy, sir! if you must have it."
"Oh, just a little."
"Ah! I thought how it would be," Miller
would say, with a sigh. "And he promised me
he'd behave himself!"
In half an hour he would make another in-
quiry to the same effect, and receive for answer,
"Oh, he's just a little high-glorious company!
He's going to sing us a song.
Thus sung the pious Milton, but our perse-
cutors used language better suited to convince
their feeble-minded flock that Paradise could
only be Regained by prostrating the playhouse.
After six weeks of patient endurance, we made
our retreat to Woolwich. Beverley had no scene-
painter employed, and to aid my worthy mana-
ger, I engaged gratuitously to "get up,” as the
phrase is, some showy pieces. At that period
of my life I was an enthusiast in anything I un-
dertook. Through the kindness of Mr. Murray,
of Covent Garden, I obtained an introduction to
Phillips, the then celebrated scenic artist, and
gained from him some general instructions as to
the colours, &c., and the privilege of visiting the
painting-room. He was of the old school, and
though his productions were beautiful specimens
of art, the elaborate finish he bestowed on them
rather decreased than added to their effect; and
while in the same room, the elder Grieve (who
first pointed out the path Stanfield has since trod
to fame) was every day splashing into existence
a cottage or a cavern, with a pound brush in
each hand; Phillips would sit for hours with a
rest-stick and a camel's hair pencil shading the
head of a nail. My success in this department.
of the arts, in the opinion of the kind-hearted
Beverley, was superlative. He said, and I am
sure innocently believed, I was "the best scene
painter in the kingdom!" and as he was too poor
to pay me the price at which he valued my talent,
he, like an honest, liberal-minded man, recom-
mended me to Trotter, who had become the lessee
of the Brighton Theatre, and with him I engaged
as actor and painter, at the highest salary I ever
got in England, out of London. Harley was the
principal comedian, and as I would not play a
secondary part, I appeared less frequently than
Another half hour would pass, and he would he did, but shared equally with him the favour
listen at the keyhole, or, perhaps, open the door of the audience. He was only a few years old-
quietly, and thrust his head into the room, with-er than myself, but the most parsimonious young
draw it in an instant, and, shutting the door, turn
man I ever knew. The next season he appear-
round with a look of horror, and exclaim, "It's ed with great success at the English Opera
all over! he's past hope! he's out of his senses! House, and has continued a favourite in the
he's talking Latin! And now he's sure to make metropolis ever since. A weak-minded, wanted-
a damned beast of himself!"
to-be-thought-great actor (he was foolish enough
to drown himself a few years since), of the name
of Faulkner, was a member of the company.
He, with a Mr. Anderson, who had got rich in
the employ of Stephen Kemble, as his treasurer,
had leased the northern circuit from that good,
easy man, and Faulkner, the acting partner, was
recruiting for the establishment.
made an offer to lead the low comedy business,
To me he
but with a salary of less than one half of what Í
was then receiving, which his persuasion, my
own vanity, I called it ambition then, and the
flattering prophecy of Mrs. Jordan, induced me
to accept; and after due notice, Trotter and I
parted, with sincere regret, I believe, on both
sides.
"Going to sing?" says Miller, with anxiety.
"What is he going to sing, sir? What's the
name of the song ?"
"The Storm.'"
"The Storm! Ah! I see how it is; if he's
going to sing 'The Storm,' he must be getting
very drunk."
CHAPTER XII.
“The same persons who would overturn a state to estab-
lish an opinion often very absurd, anathematize the inuo-
cent amusements necessary to a great city, and the arts
which contribute to the splendour of a nation."-VOLTAIRE.
AFTER an unprofitable campaign at Rich-
mond, the company moved to Craydon, a very
small, anti-theatrical town at any time, but then
made more so by a long and severe controversy
between two popular preachers, who, having ex-
hausted their identical rhetoric, and the patience
of their congregations, agreed, as a last resource
of notoriety, to unite their whole remaining stock
of damnation, and hurl it wholesale at the drama
and its humble professors. The effect of this
fire and brimstone eloquence, if it may be so
called, was to half ruin poor Beverley, and half
starve some ten or twelve poor players.
"The first and wisest of them all professed
To know this only-that he nothing knew.
*
*
*
*
*
*
Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead,
Ignorant of themselves, of God much more ;
And how the world began, and how man fell,
Degraded by himself, on grace depending?
Much of the soul they talk but all awry,
And in themselves seck virtue, and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none."
|
Faulkner and Anderson's circuit consisted of
North and South Shields, in Northumberland;
Sunderland, and the city of Durham, in the
county of that name; Stockton-upon-Tees, and
Scarborough, in Yorkshire. Upon my arrival
at the first-named place, I found, to my astonish-
ment, four low comedians besides myself, en-
gaged on precisely the same terms as to busi-
Four to one were great odds, but I dis-
tanced them all. First, "Lewis;" he got too
drunk to play the first night, and was dischar-
ged, and for spite, kept the " same old drunk," as
the sailor said, for the six weeks we remained
in the town, and may not be sober yet, for any-
ness.
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
29
J
thing I know to the contrary, for I have never,
seen him since. Next, Brown, a brother to John
Mills Brown, for many years in this country, but
unlike him in talent; he did more good than
harm. Then Smith, nicknamed Obi, from his ex-
cellent pantomime acting in Three-fingered Jack;
but he was a most melancholy low comedian,
and couldn't sing. And last, Porteus; he was
an elderly, baldheaded gentleman of forty-five,
who had made his first appearance on any stage a
few months before, as a last resource, having
failed in a saddler's shop at Liverpool. I had
everything my own way, and was, of course, a
great favourite, but the treasurer-manager had
so cunningly contrived the terms of the benefits,
that if an actor didn't lose by taking one, which,
by his engagement, he was compelled to do, he
thought himself well off. The journies were
long and expensive; I was the father of two
splendid children, and only a guinea and a half
a week, and my good spirits to feed and clothe
them; I never suffered the inconvenience of
poverty, while on the stage in England, but du-
ring the year I was in this company.
At Durham I had the happiness to gain the
firm and lasting friendship of the great and good
Stephen Kemble; he there resided in a beautiful
little cottage, a short distance from the city, on
the bank of the river. In early life he had mar-
ried a Miss Satchell, the daughter of a then
celebrated pianoforte maker. She had retired
from the profession before my time, but had left
a high reputation behind her, and in parts re-
quiring simple pathos, was said never to have
been excelled; her sister was still on the stage,
and married for some years to a distant relation
of Mrs. Jordan's, by the name of James Bland;
as actors, they were without talent, but had two
fine children, from ten to twelve years old.
When Stephen Kemble leased his theatre to
Faulkner and Anderson, he made a proviso that
they should receive each five-and-twenty shil-
lings per week for the services (such as they
were) of themselves and children. The boy
made the calls, the pretty little girl "went on"
for one of the Stranger's offspring, or a Child in
the Wood; the mother played short old ladies;
and the father delivered the messages. Thus
the claims of Plutus bound them to a daily in-
tercourse, though those of Hymen had been
broken for years; the man's dissipation, I ima-
gine, was the cause of their separation-I be-
lieve that women are never in the wrong-but they
met and spoke to each other as indifferent per-
sons would, and 'twas droll to hear the old gen-
tleman say, "I must put on my other shirt to-
day, for I'm invited to take a friendly cup of tea
with the old lady," meaning his wife. His
carelessness of character was naturally increas-
ed by the certainty he had of receiving his sal-
ary. The theatres, as is usual in all countries,
were surrounded by some half dozen taverns,
and at one or other Jemmy would wait to be
called;
for 'twas his boast that he had never
been known to be in a theatre a minute before or
after he was wanting. He was a great shot, and
always dressed in a hunting-coat, with large
leather gaiters, and small-clothes; and no mat-
ter what the costume of the play was, he never
changed any part of his apparel but his coat.
He was well informed, a ready wit, and of
great amiability and simplicity of manners; his
company was, therefore, unfortunately, much
sought for as a brother sportsman, or a pot com-
panion. When his services were required on
the stage, his son, from long practice, would
have him at the wing just in time to slip on a
tunic or a jacket, pop a little red on his face, and
push him on. He knew every message in every
old play that ever was delivered, but the new
ones he either would not or could not learn.
In the opera of the Devil's Bridge he had to say
a couple of lines to the effect that "The Count
Belino's escaped from his confinement," instead
of which he rushed on and said,
<<
My lord, the Count Belino's taken pris-
oner."
"No, no!" said his son, who was always his
prompter.
"No, no," echoed Jemmy, "and so they've
cut off his head."
((
Escaped! escaped!" said the boy.
"And so he has made his escape," said Jem-
my, amid a roar of laughter. The part of Cates-
by, in "Richard III.," he boasted he was "let-
ter perfect in ;" and so he was; but Richard
had so impressed on his mind the high impor-
tance of his being very quick in saying, "The
Duke of Buckingham is taken," that he an-
nounced the joyful tidings two minutes too
soon. Again, at the first pause, he popped on
his head and stammered out, "My lord, the
Duke of Buckingham is taken," and again was
pulled back by the tail of his tunic; when the
right time actually arrived, he was a little too
late, and Richard, foaming with rage, shouted
| out,
Now, sir?"
"The Duke of Buckingham," said Jemmy,
very calmly, "is taken now, by God."
He was intrusted with the part of the Priest
in Hamlet, who really has one very difficult
speech, beginning with
"Her obsequies have been as far enlarged
As we have warranty;"
instead of which, Jemmy substituted,
"Her obsequies arc as large as we can make 'em ;"
and the audience heard no more of the excuse
for the omission of the usual forms at the fune-
ral of the "fair Ophelia.'
>>
As he "opened an account" at every grog-
shop in the town, his benefits were always fully,
though not very fashionably, attended; he used
to call them "a meeting of creditors." His son
was a good-tempered, intelligent boy, but show-
ed little respect or deference for the opinion of
his father. "Children soon learn to neglect that
duty when they see a parent neglecting to respect
himself. On a Saturday they usually held a con-
sultation as to how the five-and-twenty shillings
should be disposed of to the best advantange.
"Now, John, my boy," the old man would
say, "let me see: I owe eight shillings at the
sign of the Saddle; well, that's that," putting the
amount on one side; "well, then I promised to
pay part of my score at the Blue Pig-well,
say five shillings; there, I'll stop Mother Pep-
per's mouth with that. How much does that
make, John?"
Why, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen
shillings," says the boy, touching his five fingers.
"But I mean, you goose, how much have I
got left?"
"How should I know ?" says John; "why
don't you count it? you've got the money."
"But you ought to know, you young rascal,"
says the father, with true parental authority;
you ought to know: take thirteen from twenty-
five, how many remain? why, twelve, to be
<<
30
THIRTY YEARS
!
master."
sure," counting the balance slyly in his hand; | comedy, with the highest salary in the company.
"that's the way you're neglecting your educa- I, of course, was delighted; instantly accepted
tion, is it? I shall have to talk to your school- the proposal, and informed my managers of my
anxiety to leave at the end of that season; but
no prayers could move them; they insisted on
their bond of six weeks' notice, which obliged
me to go to Shields for two weeks, and take a
very long journey out of my way to get to Hull,
where I was to join the York company. I was
very poor, too, and "more proud than poor."
"And the worst of it was, the little ones were sickly,
"Yes, you had better talk to him," replies
John, "for he told me, yesterday, that unless you
let him have a little money, I needn't come to
school no more."
"Ay, true, my dear, that's true; you mustn't
lose your education, at any rate," says the kind
old man; "take him round five shillings after
dinner, my dear. I had a pot with him last
night, and he agreed if I would let him have
that much now, he'd take the rest out in tickets
at the Ben, and treat the boys,"
"I want a pair of shoes, father," says John,
taking advantage of the old man's softened
mood.
How much will they cost, my boy?"
"Why, father," says John, "I can get a capi-
tal pair for three and sixpence."
"You must get them for three shillings, John;
we owe the butcher four, and he must be paid,
or we get no beef; there, that ends it," says the
poor old fellow, with a self-satisfied air; but his
vision of independence was in an instant de-
stroyed by John's simply saying,
"You've forgot the landlady, father."
"Yes, that's true, so I have; yes, d- her,
she must have her rent, or out we go. John,
my dear, I'll tell you how I'll contrive it. I'll
put the Saddle off with four shillings, and open a
branch account with the Yew-tree."
"Yes, that's all very well," says John, very
quietly, "but we owed her sixpence on last
week, and she paid for the washing."
"Well, how much does the washing come to,
John ?"
"Two and tup'ence," says the boy.
"Well, then," argues the old man, "Mother
Pepper must be content to take three shillings
instead of five."
"But then, father, that won't do; and we want
tea.'
""
"Who wants tea? I don't care a d-- for tea."
"But I do," replies the boy, with provoking
calmness.
"You want tea! you'll want bread, you young
scoundrel!" shouts Bland, in a rage.
"Bread! that's true," exclaims John; "you
forgot the baker."
The old man's schemes to pacify his creditors
with the distribution of five-and-twenty shillings
were all knocked on the head by the recollection
of the baker, and sweeping the money off the
table into his breeches pocket in a passion, he
roared out,
((
They may all go to hell together; I'm damned
if I pay any of them."
The frequenters of the theatre, both at Shields
and Sunderland, were of the sort Shakspeare so
excellently describes: "Youths that thunder at
a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no
audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill, or
the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are
able to endure."
At Durham they were fastidiously refined,
and at Scarborough exclusively fashionable;
but I was fortunate enough to suit their varied
tastes, and was a great favourite everywhere.
We had a month to remain at the latter town,
when, through the influence of my good friends,
Major Topham, of sporting and dramatic celeb-
rity, and Stephen Kemble, I received an offer
from Fitzgerald, of the York circuit, to lead the
And if they'd live or die, the doctor didn't know."
Both my children were ill with the measles,
which parental anxiety magnified into the small-
pox:
"The dragon now,
Which Jenner combats on a cow.'
The last night arrived. With scarcely enough
to pay my stage-fare alone to Shields, broken in
spirit, I was bustling through Blaisot, in one of
the "Maid and Magpie" translations, for the
first and only time-Heave⚫ be praised-when
I was informed a gentleman at the stage-door
wished to see me. I had two or three creditors
in town, very gentlemanly men, but they had
kindly promised to wait-for their money, I mean,
though not at the stage-door-but at the end of
the act a very elegant man handed me a card, on
which was engraved Mr. Alston, which he ex-
plained, understanding I was engaged, he was
about leaving with the porter. On the back of
it was written, in pencil, "Lord Normanby, and
a few friends, will be happy to see Mr. Cowell
at supper this evening." I was not in the hu-
mour to make myself agreeable to Lord any-
body, but politely declined the honour, and sta-
ted, as a reason, the indisposition of my children,
and the necessity of leaving town in a couple of
hours, in the mail-stage, for Shields. Before the
conclusion of the performance I received a pack-
et, which I found contained fifty one-guinca
notes, with the following epistle:
"Messrs. W. T. Denison, Mr. Alston, and
Lord Normanby, great admirers of Mr. Cowell's
comic powers, beg he will accept the enclosed
as their contribution to his benefit, which they
were unable to attend; any influence they may
possess he may freely command. They wish
him every success in a profession of which he
is already so great an ornament."
debts in the morning; wrapped my dear children
I paid off my four or five pounds' worth of
in blankets; hired a postchaise; played out my
two weeks at Shields; and, in high spirits, start-
ed for York, as the theatrical phrase then was,
the stepping-stone to London.
CHAPTER XIII.
"I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made
after supper of a cheese-paring; when he was naked he
was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head
fantastically carved upon it with a knife: he was so forlorn,
that his dimensions, to any thick sight, were invisible he
was the very genius of famine; and now is this vice's dag-
ger become a squire.”—Henry IV., part ii.
THE York circuit, under the long and able
management of the eccentric Tate Wilkinson,
had for years held the first rank, next to London,
in theatrical estimation. In this school the tal-
ent of a Siddons, Jordan, Kemble, Emery,
Knight, Matthews, and a host of other celebra-
ted actors, had been matured; but, at the time I
speak of, it had fallen from its high estate, though
1
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
31
it still maintained a feeble superiority among its
compeers from the recollection of what it had
been. Learning, at the theatre, that Fitzgerald
(the manager) was confined to his room with
the asthma, I called at his lodging over a seed-
shop, on a short, wide, flat street, called Corn-
hill. I had taken up my abode at a watch-seeming otherwise." But the audience claimed
maker's opposite. I found my new ruler seated
on four chairs (all there were in the apartment),
before a large fire, wrapped in a white flannel
gown, a pair of green slippers peeping from un-
derneath, and a crimson velvet cap, confining a
head of hair which might with justice have been
called red-hot red, but that the contrast with the
cap cooled it down to a yellowish tinge. His
reception was the north side of friendly, that I
must say," to use Nicol Jarvies' expression, but
that might be attributed to bodily suffering-peo-
ple are not often sick and civil at the same time
-but a poodle dog made ample amends for the
lack of hospitality of his master (he had been
trained by some other gentleman), for he insist-
ed on taking my hat, licked my hand, and, no
doubt, would have wagged his tail if he had had
one; but as the negro said of a similar animal,
"dat tail must ha' been cut berry short off, or
else him drave in." Poor Dragon deserves this
much notice as 'connected with the drama; he
was the real original dog in the Forest of Bondy,
and shared the applause with the great Liston.
The old saw says, "Judge of a man by the
company he keeps;" but the companionship and
apparent kindness of Fitzgerald to this animal
must not be placed to his credit as the outward
sign of goodness of heart. He liked the dog be-
cause he drew him money; on the same princi-
ple that Elliot was civil to his amiable wife Ce-
leste, until Fanny Elssler interfered with her
theatrical preferment was the M'Adamizing
means most in his power to smooth the path to
the wife's dishonour. They had, of course, an
excellent situation, and a large family; and the
good woman, I believe honestly, for the sake of
her husband, did "beguile the thing she was, by
the exclusive privilege of protecting and reward-
ing a favourite actor, "all in the olden time,"
and, with the exception of some petty annoyan-
ces, I passed a pleasant and profitable year in
the York circuit. The manager feared and ha-
ted me; I have explained how innocently I had
caused the latter feeling, but the first must also
be accounted for. His extreme rudeness indu-
ced me, after my first visit, to make my neces-
sary communications in writing, and, in reply
to one, he, in plain English, called me a liar. I
have the will yet, but I had most powerfully the
way then, to fulfil, "on good occasion," old Sco-
tia's motto. I entered his apartment, and firmly,
yet civilly, desired him to unwrite the expression;
he refused, and I cured his asthma for that bout.
I had not then heard the anecdote of the rough-
mannered and celebrated Dr. Moseley, setting-to
with a patient suffering under the same disease,
and, after pommelling him all round the room,
and ultimately flooring him with a "hit in the
wind," standing over him, and saying, very
calmly, "If
calmly, "If you ever draw your breath again,
you'll be entirely cured." And I have no doubt
in the efficacy of the remedy myself; but people
are so averse to take "what will do them good,"
if it's at all unpleasant, that many sufferers from
this long-lived disease, I have little hesitation in
supposing, would rather wheeze, and cough, and
smoke stramonium, sitting upright for a month
in bed, than take the thrashing I gave Fitzger
ald. The dog Dragon, not having the cause of
After standing a reasonable time, I took a seat quarrel explained, was too prudent to show a
on the table; he took the hint, and kicked to- preference; but his canine feelings becoming
wards me the chair on which his feet were par- excited, he had a little fight of his own, taking
tially resting; and, in the unnecessary energetic the odds, and a small bite out of the calf of my
action he used, he displayed a leg, in point of leg, and half a mouthful of skin off the bone of
size, very much resembling half a pair of large his master's. Fitzgerald promised to be more
kitchen tongs. He was a tall, good-looking man civil for the future, and I promised never to
when made up, but had a bad countenance; "his name the matter to the company-"the lion preys
prow, like a pent-house, hung over" his small, not upon carcasses"-but he and the dog had
gray eyes, a fine Roman nose, and a mouth called murder so loudly, when the voice of the
struggling to be handsome in defiance of a con- one was cleared and the other exasperated, that
tinual sensual expression. He professed to be a the landlady "came in at the death," and, not-
very gallant man; and his poor little wife-who withstanding her assertion "that she never med-
could not bring herself to rejoice with him at dled with anybody's business but her own," it
his triumphs in that department of the arts-leaked out, and I encountered several anonymous
through excessive love, or folly, attempted to shakes of the hand, behind the scenes, a day or
poison herself a short time before I made his ac- two afterward.
quaintance. Her life was saved by miracle, to
drag out a wretched existence, with prostrated
nerve and a broken spirit. Some plausible, but
peremptory objection, was raised to every char-
acter I named for an opening; and, after some
heat on both sides, he wheezed out his consent
that I should play Crack the next night, without
previous announcement, or any of the usual for-
malities thought favourable to all parties in ma-
king a first appearance. But I made a great hit
notwithstanding. The fact I found to be, that
his offer of an engagement to me he had been
obliged to make at the suggestion of my power-
ful friends; but that Mr. Bailey, an objection-
able actor to the audience in general comedy
(poor fellow! he died long since in a poor-house),
had a wife, "all of her that was out of door most
rich," and on her the lion had put his paw; and
the advancement of the husband on the road to
attraction.
He was actually the unnatural son of old Ger
ald, the manager of a little strolling company
through some small towns on the coast of Kent;
the same man with whom Howard made his first
appearance in his successful crying capacity.
Ashamed of his father and his name, when he
joined the Norwich circuit, some years before,
he clapped the Fitz to it-wished it to be under-
stood he was an Irishman--and gained some
sympathy as a supposed descendant of the pa-
triot of that name. He was a tyrant, in the full-
est sense of the word, to his inferiors; but, as is
always the case with such animals, he was
fawning and sycophantic in the extreme to those
above him.
Johnny Winter (by the excellent imitation of
whom, and the anecdotes related so exquisitely
by my lamented friend Charles Matthews, he
could alone have supported a large family) had
!
32
THIRTY YEARS
been for years the tailor and wardrobe-keeper of
the theatre, but, when Wilkinson died, he had
gone into business as a breeches-maker; for the
cut of which article, "according to the fashion
of the time," he was inexpressibly talented. And
to use his own words, in reply to "How are you
getting on, Winter?" "Eh, beautiful, beautiful!
I ha' gottin a large shop and no custom-Ize
doin' fine!"
I was introduced to this curiosity by Cum-
mings, the contemporary of John Kemble, who
had been in the York company for more than
forty years! and died upon the stage, while per-
forming Dumont, in the tragedy of Jane Shore,
the season after I left the company. Winter
must then have been at least seventy years of
age, but retained, in figure and manner of ad-
dress, all the flippancy of youth in an extraordi-
nary degree. He was a great admirer of the
turf (all classes of Yorkshiremen usually are),
and always dressed like a jockey, or trainer, in
a frock-coat, small-clothes, topped boots, striped
waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, with a horse or
dog brooch, and a whip or ash-sapling in his
hand. His opinion in theatrical affairs-which
he always (often without being asked) gave
without respect to the feelings of the party-was,
from its whimsicality and blunt honesty, both
sought for and dreaded. Matthews he couldn't
"abide;" his great and admired particularity in
his dress was very objectionable to Johnny, and
he used to say,
66
Dang the feller, he's niver sooted; there's
John Em'ry 'ull put on ony ko'it as cums to
hand, an' gang on, an' mak the peepl' laagh
twice as much as what he can."
It was part of his duty to provide clean tow-
els for the gentlemen; and the nervous, anxious
Matthews would soil a napkin from one end to
the other in cleaning, and painting, and marking |
his face, again and again, to obtain some par-
ticular expression; this was a great offence to
Winter; and when he had left the room he'd
hold it up and exclaim,
"Did ye iver see sic a nasty beast as that
Mathoos? all'ays a washin' himsen; noo Mis-
tre Cummins is the cleanest man amang ye, an'
he ne'er washes himsen at all."
Poor Cummings, being afflicted with a dis-
ease of the heart, generally dressed at home, or
nearly so.
The sensitive, fidgety Matthews was actually
annoyed that he couldn't obtain any approbation
from Winter; and when the farce of the Re-
view was first produced, he prevailed upon John-
ny to go in the front, and give him his opinion
of his personation of Caleb Quotem, in which
he intended to make (and did) a great hit. At
the conclusion of the performance, while un-
dressing, Matthews inquired,
Well, Johnny, how did you like it ?"
Beautiful, sir! beautiful! I ne'er seed nau't
like it."
Ay, indeed!" said Matthews, delighted;
"I'm glad you were pleased, Johnny."
"Wha could help but be pleased?" said Win-
ter: "i'twar the varri best actin' I iver seed i' my
life."
Yes, I think it was a decided hit," said
Matthews, gratified at having at length made a
convert of Winter. "And how did you like my
song? it went capitally, didn't it ?"
ha' seed mony sic creturs as thim, an' i'twar
na'thral as life; i'twar beautiful, sir! beauti-
ful!"
Rejoiced at obtaining such unequivocal ap-
probation from Winter, who had never praised
him before, Matthews continued,
"Yes, Winter, I never was in a better hu-
mour for acting; I think it's decidedly my very
best part; don't you, Johnny ?"
"Me, sir?" said the implacable Winter: "I
niver thou't nau't aboot ye-not I!"
"Why?" said Matthews, astonished, "haven't
you just been paying my acting all sorts of com-
pliments?"
"You?" said Johnny: "I niver once thou't o'
ye; I wur praisin' Mistre Hope i' Dubbs; he
wur th' varri best i' th' hul piece."
Fitzgerald, though a vile actor, to give the dev-
il his due, had a very superior, and even clas-
sical knowledge of costume; and he had em-
ployed Winter to make him a suite of dresses for
Macbeth. When he was a lad, and bearing his
real name, he had been engaged by Wilkinson,
but discharged after a week or two, in conse-
quence of his impertinence and incapacity. This
Winter recollected, and, while fitting on a robe,
some departure he had made from his instruc-
tions caused Fitzgerald to fly into a violent pas-
sion, and use some coarse and insolent language
to the old man, who very calmly said, when the
gust was over,
Now, ye see, ye mun get some ane else to
finish t' job, or do't yersen; ye see, I recollect
ye when ye wur a poor ragged lad, an' wur
kick'd out o' theatre, Mistre Gerald; ye hadn't
Fitz then!" and very coolly walked away.
Charles Wood was another heir-loom in this
establishment; no manager dared discharge him;
he had been a member of the company even
longer than Cummings, and was a much older
man; he was stone deaf, but the most cheerful,
good-tempered creature in existence; he had
been a singer in his youth, and was the original
Eugene in the Agreeable Surprise, at the Hay-
market; he was always humming or whistling
a tune about the theatre, as "gay as a lark;"
his wife was in her dotage, and he had a large
family of children, most of whom had turned out
badly; id est, the boys were all very wicked, and
some of the girls very good-natured; but he
drew comfort even from them, and would say,
"Ay, ay, plenty of and rogues in my family,
but no cowards," in reference to the care-for-
nothing behaviour of one of his boys on receiv-
ing sentence for some petty crime.
In endeavouring to pull on a tight boot one
night in a hurry, I boasted that I had "the pa-
tience of Job"-which people are very apt to do
when they have lost all their own-in the hear-
ing of Winter, who, from long habit, was a fre-
quent visiter of the dressing-room.
"Talk o''the patience o' Job!" said John-
ny. "Look at Charley Wood, wi' twenty-ane
scamps o' childer, a queer wife, an' a guinea a
week! 'Patience o' Job,' indeed! Job be d-!
look at Charley Wood a whislin'!"
During my sojourn in this company I formed
some friendships both lasting and valuable.
Among them I made one in rather a singular
manner. Paul Bedford, an actor and singer,
had introduced me to his brother, a professed
gambler, and a partner in a fashionable hell in
"Ye'r song?" said Johnny, with a vacant Pall Mall. During the York races he attended
stare. "Oh, e'es, I remembers; i'twar a poor an E. O. table in the gentleman's stand, to which
jibber-jabber thing; I thou't nau't on't-but I│I had the entrée. There were three horses to run
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
33
for the cup-Catton, Fulford, and, I think, Ever-
lasting. Catton was the favourite, at great odds,
but the knowing ones had some notion of Ful-
ford; and Bedford instructed me that if, at a cer-
tain point of the race, Fulford was ahead, to
"bet all I had." He was ahead at the right time
and place, and I did bet a guinea with an ele-
gant little old man, with powdered hair and a
cue; and when the sport was over, he inquired
loudly for the gentleman to whom he had lost a
guinea. I presented myself.
"Why, my dear sir," said he, with great glee,
"how is it possible you came to bet on my
horse? Why, I had not the most remote idea
he could beat Catton; my dear sir, it was my
own horse I was betting against; I merely en-
tered him for the sake of the sport, and to please
some friends who were anxious to see what he
could do. Why, you must be a most excellent
judge; haven't I the pleasure of knowing you?"
"Cowell, sir, is my name," said I.
What, of the theatre? why, certainly, cer-
tainly! I thought I knew your face; I saw you
in Goldfinch last night; an excellent perform-
ance-excellent. Allow me to give you my
card-Neville King; you must dine with us to-
day; I'll introduce you to my friends."
"That poor ignorant thing knows more aboot
na'thral actin' than I iver thou't he did."
During Colonel Neville King's stay at York,
he showed great attention to myself and family.
I painted a portrait of Fulford, with which he
was highly delighted, and had it splendidly
framed and sent to Lincoln, where he resided.
Probably in the history of the turf, no two hu-
man beings were ever so perfectly pleased at
Losing a guinea and winning a guinea.
CHAPTER XIV.
"Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess! (address-
ing myself to Liberty), whom all in public and private
worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till
Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy
with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain
snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron:
is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art ex-
iled."-STERNE.
Or all the members of the York company at
that time, none ever arrived at any eminence in
the profession excepting Mrs. Humby. She
had been educated a singer, was excessively
pretty, and in simple, innocent characters, a
charming actress. She was the best Cowslip I
ever played with; her husband was a very esti-
mable, and in money matters, an extremely pru-
dent young man, and went by the name of
"Young Calculation." Playing Solomon, in
the Quaker, one night, I made use of the usual
distich,
"Who sees a pin and lets it lay, may want a pin another day.
I'll pick it up and stick it here; a pin a day's a groat a
year."
When Humby met me in the morning, he
said, "Cowell, you must alter that rhyme of
yours: it isn't correct; I've made a calculation,
and a pin a day is tenpence ha'penny a year, if
you purchase by retail."
And the bustling, agreeable little old man,
named me to some dozen noblemen and gentle-
men as his friend, "Mr. Cowell, of the theatre,
a great judge of horses, and a winner on the race.'
His invitation to dine with the club was earnest-
ly repeated by several, and as I only had to per-
form Tiptoe, in the farce of " Ways and Means,"
I consented. We had a jovial time; I sung them
some songs suitable to the occasion, was indu-
ced to remain longer than was prudent, and when
I got to the theatre I was conscious that I was
very drunk. I had, fortunately, little change to
make in my dress, merely a footman's jacket in-
stead of my coat, and a silver band round- my The circuit consisted of York, Hull, Leeds,
hat, for, of course, I always wore topped boots Doncaster, and Wakefield, and at the latter
and breeches in the race week. Johnny Wintertown I left the company-I am glad to say, to the
dosed me with tea and pickles, for, to his taste, 1 great annoyance and inconvenience of Fitzger-
had suffered in a good cause, and my brother ald, for I was an enormous favourite, and at
actors managed the first scene among them- that time there were few professors of my line of
selves; the last chiefly consists in a very long business out of London. Kilner succeeded me,
speech, in which Tiptoe is supposed to have been an excellent actor in hearty old men, which then
taking a drop too much, and in depicting which I didn't play; he came soon after to this country,
I had gained some reputation; but it had "pleas- and was long a great favourite at Boston, but of
ed the devil drunkenness to give place" to qualm- late, like the genius of old, he has kept himself
ish stupidity. I cunningly avoided any effort corked up in a bottle. I was tempted to join the
at acting, and as a large portion of the audience Lincoln circuit, by the offer of one half more
were suffering, probably with exactly my sensa- salary than I received at York, to play only four
tions, the whole affair passed off insipidly times a week; to have the book sent to me to
enough. I had just gained my dressing-room, choose the character I preferred performing in
and began to sip some brandy-toddy, which every piece; to visit seven towns in a year, near-
Winter had declared "the sovereign'st thing only close together, and have half the clear receipts
earth," when Fitzgerald strutted into the room.
Why, Cowell!" said he, "I never was so dis-
appointed in my life! Some of your admirers,"
with a sneer, "told me you were very fine in a
drunken character, and I was induced to see the
last act. Why, my good sir, you have mistaken
the style of Tiptoe's intoxication altogether; he
has but a very short time to get drunk in, and, of
course, is highly excited from the immediate ef-
fects of wine, swallowed in large quantities; but
you lost sight entirely of the exhilarating char-
acter of drunkenness, which the author intends,
and looked like a man who had been very tipsy,
and wanted to go to bed and sleep off its narcotic
remains. It was very bad, I assure you-you
were entirely mistaken."
((
When he had closed the door, Winter said,
D
of one night in each for a benefit. This com-
pany had been for many years under the direc-
tion of Thomas Robertson, but through the ridic-
ulous speculations he had entered into at the in-
stigation of a particular friend, he had been
thrown into prison for debt, and I was engaged
by a committee of gentlemen who had under-
taken to regulate his affairs, and had secured to
me the strict fulfilment of their contract. It was
sundown on Sunday when I arrived at Lincoln.
I had, with my wife and two children, posted all
day from Wakefield, where I had finished my
engagement the night before, and performed
Domine Samson and Baron Willinghurst; and
after putting my person in repair, I accompanied
my friend Armstrong, the leading actor (whom
I had known in the York company), to the lodg-
34
THIRTY YEARS
ing of the lady manager. I am not considered | Mr. Cowell," said this St. Peter: "I am devoted--
ly fond of the drama, and have given him liberty
to walk in my heaven on earth, as I call my ru-
ral sanctum.
a faithful historian where women are concerned.
In consequence of my adoration of the sex, I
have been accused of being too partial in my
descriptions; but if any of my readers are ac-
quainted with John Mills Brown, the comedian,
and will imagine him dressed in a very low-
necked, short-sleeved, black velvet gown, large
black necklace and ear-rings, dark sorrel hair
turned up behind, with ringlets in front, and a
very beautiful hand, and arm bare to the shoul-manager, the privileged Jonas.
der, they'll have a very correct likeness of Mrs.
Fanny Robertson, whose half-sister she was on
the mother's side. Her maiden name was Ross,
and her father the manager of the Edinburgh
Theatre, "long time ago," and celebrated in
Irish characters; and her mother was said to be
equal to Mrs. Jordan,
Unlocking a huge iron bar, which secured a
small, though high gate, overarched with two
prodigious jaw-bones of a whale, the merits of
which, after explaining, I have do doubt, in very
scientific, ossified language, we thridded the
narrow pathway" till we overtook my new
He was a small, handsome-featured man, with
amiability and humility quietly claiming pos-
session of the only expressions his countenance
was capable of. He was dressed in a dark-col-
oured morning-gown, soiled with powder on the
collar, though he had none in his hair; his beard
was long, shoes untied, and his whole appear-
saw in prison in my life always looked as if he
owed money and could not pay it-though I'm
told sometimes their looks belie them.
I was never introduced to a queen, but the et-ance forlorn and slovenly. Every debtor Tever
iquette observed and exacted by Mrs. Robertson,
I imagine, is all that will be required, if I ever
do go to court. Her boudoir was small, but ele-
gant; an easel with drawing materials on a
stand in one corner, a superb harp in another, a
pianoforte and a profusion of books, music,
drawings, and other "knick-knacks." Her re-
ception of me was most favourable, and had she
really been a queen, I should have felt certain
of a seat in the cabinet.
The next night the theatre opened with the
comedy of Speed the Plough, and a Chip of
the Old Block; I playing Sir Abel Handy and
Chip. The house was crowded, and I made a
prodigious hit.
|
His welcome was painfully polite, and our
short conversation ended with his expressing a
hope that he might shortly meet me in some
other than "this wretched place." Looking round
upon the most beautiful garden I ever beheld, I
thought of Sterne's Starling, and imagined I saw
"I can't get out" glistening in his moistened eye.
On my return to my lodging, if Falstaff had
met my landlady in the passage as I did, he
would very probably have said, "Heigh, heigh!
the devil rides upon a fiddlestick," for as she
described her sensations, she was all in a "flus-
terfication." Following me up stairs, she flounced
herself into a chair, and with scarcely breath to
utter, exclaimed,
Oh, sir, what do you think? the high-sheriff
has been here and inquired for you, asked me
when he could be sure to find you at home, and
has left his card. Heaven help me, that I should
have ever let my lodgings to a player; but as
what's done can't be undone, get out the back
way as fast as you can, and make your escape."
|
As a visit from this important functionary in.
England is never paid, in his official capacity,
but to gentlemen who are either suspected, or
guilty of high treason; and as my poor landlady
couldn't imagine he would call upon me in
any other way, she had pictured to herself my
incarceration in the keep of the Castle, thence
drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution, my
head popped upon a pole like a robin redbreast,
and the balance of my body dangled from a gib-
bet.
The following morning I paid my respects to
the manager at the Castle, and was introduced
to the deputy-governor, alias the jailer, a very
pleasant, intelligent man, as everybody descri-
bed him, by the name of Merriweather. Though
his appellative didn't agree with his gloomy oc-
cupation, he had the reputation of being highly
qualified for his office; he was formerly a tailor,
but having " a soul above buttons," he preferred
the name of his trade should begin with a J in-
stead of a T, had chosen to turn keys instead of
coats, and to lock up rather than to cut out. He
was a great amateur in horticulture, mineralogy,
conchology, zoology, and perhaps all the "olo-
gies" excepting, probably, ontology; his power
of expression in matters of science was a per-
fect oglio, and in attempting to convey his "use-
ful knowledge" to the uninformed, he more un-
intelligibly mixed it up for his own exclusive
gratification. The walls of his dining-room (he
gave excellent dinners) were decorated with
stuffed ducks, distorted cockle-shells, and "other
skins of ill-shaped fishes." His admiration of
the arts and sciences had caused him to enclose
nearly the whole of the Castle yard for a private
garden; though it was originally intended for
the use of prisoners for debt (then often for life) "A friend o' yourn, sir!" said the woman, al-
and traitors, and other delinquents to stretch most in a scream. My goodness gracious! a
their legs in, before the law decided upon stretch- friend o' yourn? Why, he's one of the greatest
ing their necks; but as the dessert-tables of the gentlemen in the county; he's the high-sheriff,
bishop, the sheriff, and the judges were seasona-sir: only to think of his being a particular friend
bly supplied with the delicacies it produced, his
taste, and that of his pineapples, were greatly
admired. It was cultivated with both care and
skill, under his direction, by some petty rascals
who were indulged in digging to the clanking
music made by their own fetters encountering
the blade of a spade; all wicked gardeners were
sentenced to six months' prison discipline at
least, if he had any influence in their case.
"Mr. Robertson is a particular friend of mine,
The direction of her astonishment was chan-
ged, though rather increased than diminished,
when, on reading the card, I calmly said, "Colo-
nel Neville King-oh, my dear madam, he's a
particular friend of mine."
o' yourn. Why, sir, I assure you he never
darkened my doors afore, though I've always
had the most genteelest of lodgers. Sally! put
some more fire on in Mr. Coward's parlour!
That's your name, I believe, sir ?"
"No, madam-Cowell," I replied.
'Yes, Mr. Cowen. I'll recollect," said she;
"only being so put out makes a body forget.
That gal has never dusted these chairs, I de-
clare. My last lodger was a lawyer's clerk and
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
35
his lady, and Colonel King never once thought
o' calling upon him. I can't help thinking of
the colonel's being your particular friend. I
must get another gal; she's too lazy for any-
thing, I do declare; there's not a drop of water.
Sally! bring a nice fresh pitcher of water for
Mr. Cowitch! There, I believe I have called
you wrong again."
(6
Cow-cll, madam," said I, with emphasis.
Yes, sir, Cow-hell; yes, hell, hell! I shall be
sure to recollect it now. As I said before, Mr.
Cow-hell, I always let to none but genteel peo-
ple; never took in a player before, and wouldn't
you, only you was so highly recommended. I
must make that gal put this room nice to rights
every day; perhaps Colonel King may call
again. What sweet children you've got, Mr.
Cow-"
Ell," said I.
Yes, Mr. Cowhell. Send 'em down to get a
cake when they're hungry. I'll have your win-
dows cleaned to-morrow, and put you another
little strip of carpet in the bedroom, and try to
make you nice and comfortable. If Colonel
King calls, I'll tell him to walk up?"
The parson thought it excellent; I thought it
capital, and the next day, Wednesday, he was
to go electioneering for "our benefit," as he
called it, and I was to open a box-sheet in the
morning. I did, of course, as he desired, and on
the following day every seat was taken; the re-
ceipts were larger than any ever before in Lin-
coln. Singular to relate, the manager, who was
respected by everybody, was released from prison
on that very evening, and I led the good old man
on the stage amid the deafening cheers of the
audience.
After a pleasant and profitable season, the
company moved to Newark-upon-Trent, the
distance performed in about two hours. Í had
introductions to everybody from everybody. The
pride of the theatrical population caused an ef-
fort to be made to exceed the Lincoln receipts,
on my benefit night there, without the aid of in-
dividual patronage; and, though the house was
smaller, some well-applied guinea tickets gave
them a powerful pound-and-shilling victory over
their more aristocratic neighbours. The same
success attended me at Grantham, Spalding,
Boston, Peterborough, and Huntingdon; and
nodded, and away she bustled to tell the my return through the circuit made assurance
wonderful event to her husband and her custom-doubly sure." The only unalloyed period of per-
ers, for she kept a pastry shop. It was still long fect content and comfort I ever experienced (in
before a decent dinner-hour, and, minutely di- a theatrical point of view) were the nearly two
rected by my landlady, I set off to return the years I passed in this company. We never
colonel's call. On the almost inaccessible hill, played more than four nights in a week, with
called the Strait, which divides the lower from the exception of the race week at Huntingdon,
the upper town, I met the "fine old English gen- and then we received one third more salary. To
tleman" on his way down to request me to dine the off-play days the manager laid no claim, for
with him and his brother, a clergyman, with rehearsals or any other purpose; the actor's
whom he was desirous I should be acquainted, time was his own; it was considered not paid
which I readily accepted, and we continued our for, and, therefore, not taxed; excepting prob-
walk through the city; he introducing me, as ably twice in a year, the production of some
we went, to those who were worth knowing, and showy piece would make a night rehearsal ne-
stopping several times to relate the guinca anec-cessary; and then, the voluntary assistance of
dote and extol my judgment in horseflesh. His
brother I found more of the man of the world
than the colonel, but extremely kind and agree-
able; my picture of the horse was criticised
with judgment, softened by politeness and parti-
ality; he was very conversant with Shakspeare,
and regretted that the theatre, being under the
"shade of the Cathedral," he couldn't with pro-
priety witness my performance; but, out of the
Fulford cup, drank to his speedily having that
pleasure in London. I believe the prayers of
priests are attended to sometimes. A conversa-
tion between the player and the parson, on the
inutility of the drama in a moral point of view,
he armed with kind feeling and George Barn-
well, I with experience and the Beggar's Opera,
was suddenly interrupted by the colonel's say-
ing abruptly,
the company was requested in a respectful and
affectionately-worded note addressed to each in-
dividual, from the highest to the lowest, and the
business of the evening closed with an econom-
ical repast. Stars were never engaged to "strut
their hour upon the stage," for twenty pounds, to
the disadvantage, by comparison, of the poor
stock-actor, working hard for twenty shillings a
week. The performers were selected with a rigid
regard to moral worth and deportment, and with
as much talent as is (I am sorry to say so sel-
dom) met with, hand in hand. The consc-
quence was, the actors and actresses were treat-
ed like human beings by the citizens, and, ac-
cording to their grade and acquirements, had
social intercourse with their fellow-men: they
remained, generally, in the company for years.
Among themselves they were like brothers and
sisters, but paying the respect due to age and
superior talents always observed in well-regula-
ted families.
Show me a manager on this wide continent
of America who has ever had (or has) the in-
stinctive moral propriety of feeling to pursue
such a course. No: they say, "Any way to make
money or get a living." But, as Colman ob-
serves in one of his plays, "the ways be so foul
and the bread be so dirty, that it would turn a
"Brother, I have an excellent idea. Mr. Rob-
ertson has for years been urging me to lend my
name to patronise a house-you know what I
mean-to put at the top of the play-bill, 'By de-
sire of Colonel King,' and all that sort of thing;
but, though I wish him well, yet I have always
refused, for I should feel mortified by having
anything to do with the matter unless I had a
good house, that is, an overflowing house; but
was thinking Mr. Cowell and myself could
make a great thing of it between us at his ben-nice stomach to eat on't."
efit, eh? High-sheriff of the county, and all On each play day we rehearsed the perform-
that-Lady Monson's in town, and she'll get the ance of the night, with scenery, properties, and
Earl of Warwick to go; and then there's Heron-the most scrupulous exactness; this over-and-
I never asked any favours of these people be-
fore, and I'll ask everybody; and, eh-what do
you think, brother ?"
over-again drilling was a nuisance to those who
understood their business, and I was one who
thought so, but it secured the pieces being letter
36
THIRTY YEARS
1
sense."
perfect, and you were sure to have a subordinate | been appointed manager of Drury Lane by the
stand where you wished, say what he should, committee for the trustees, and immediately
and when he ought. No Richard in that com- proved his friendship, and the high opinion he
pany would say, "Hark! the shrill trumpet," entertained of my talent, by offering me an en-
and then hear a Too-ti-to-too! two minutes af-gagement of six pounds per week, to be increas-
terward; but there the sound was "echo to the ed to seven and eight, in the event of my success,
The same plays and farces which were for the following seasons; explaining, that the
performed in one town were repeated in the salaries were greatly reduced, but that this sum
next, in the same rotation; and each performer gave me all the privileges of the theatre usually
retained the same entertainment he had at first granted to the principal performers; that neither
selected for the whole year; as, for instance, I Harley nor Munden were expected to return, and
took Charles Dibdin's very agreeable operatic the opening, therefore, was an excellent one;
play of the Farmer's Wife, and Midas, for my and assuring me he had the greatest confidence
first benefit, and they were only played on that in my being received most favourably by a Lon-
occasion everywhere through the circuit, and the don audience.
next year considered stock property. In every Highly elated, I instantly submitted the affair
town one or two plays or farces were "got up, to Mrs. Robertson, for her advice and opinion.
of which the performers were provided with "It cannot be disguised nor denied, Mr. Cow-
books or parts at least a month before; and ell," said this clever woman, "that the loss of
these collectively formed a fresh list to start with your services will be severely felt by Mr. Rob-
at Lincoln. The manager, with very good taste, ertson; it may be long (if ever) before he may
proved his superior confidence in the probity of be able to obtain a gentleman so highly esteem-
the softer sex, by employing a female money-ed by the friends of the theatre to supply your
taker or treasuress, a fine, fat, handsome woman, place; but I most solemnly pledge myself that
by the name of Stanard, and mother of the ami- no selfish consideration influences my advice
able "Sister Rachael," now in this country. one atom, but, in the spirit of sincere and disin-
Mrs. Robertson was a highly-accomplished, terested friendship, I urge you to refuse this offer.
strong-minded woman, and, notwithstanding her Your income here, you are aware, with your
uninteresting appearance, a very superior ac- benefits for the last year, was eight pounds per
tress; but often loose and careless, from the ab- week, within a few shillings, and this year it will
sence of that wholesome stimulus to ambition-exceed that sum; this, you must recollect, is for
competition. Her husband was humility per-
sonified; he employed a stage-manager, and
when he visited the theatre of a morning, you
might, from his manner, imagine it belonged to
any person but himself; as he passed round the
scenery on tiptoe, to take a seat at the corner of
the prompter's table, he'd bow to each actor he
met in the most respectful manner. The inner
lapel of his coat would be literally lined with
scraps of paper about two inches big pinned to
it, on which were written his memoranda for the
day; watching a leisure moment, he'd beckon |
you towards him, and unpinning one of his little
manuscripts, read as follows: "Mr. Cowell will
be good enough to name what song he will sing
on Thursday evening, the 17th day of June
next"-it would then be probably the latter end
of May-"the performance being by desire of
the Lincoln Sharp Shooters."
"Oh, any you please, sir," I would reply.
"I would rather you would be kind enough to
name one," he'd say, timidly.
"Well, sir, the Nightingale Club."
"Wait an instant, if you please;" then turn-
ing the paper, he'd write on the back, "Mr.
Cowell is good enough to say he will sing the
song of the Nightingale Club on Thursday even-
ing, the 17th day of June next, the performance
being by desire of the Lincoln Sharp Shooters,"
and repin it in the vacant place. Now this was
all very ridiculous, but it was very inoffensive,
and infinitely preferable to the arrogant, insolent
manners of some living managers, whom I shall
as faithfully describe in the next volume.
CHAPTER XV.
"Why, everything adheres together; that no dram of a
scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous
or unsafe circumstance-What can be said? Nothing that
can be can come between me and the full prospect of my
hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to
be thanked."-Twelfth Night.
Ar about this period, Stephen Kemble had
every week in the year; there you have a vaca-
tion; and without a name long and conspicu-
ously known in London, you can employ your
talent to little profit during that period in the
country. Lent, Passion-week, and other holy-
days, with the respect demanded to be paid at
the death of every member of an aged and ex-
tensive royal family, will reduce your yearly in-
come nearly one half, and your expenses in
London will more than double what is required
to live as you do here. There is not the most
remote probability of a diminution in your pop-
ularity, and the fact that you have refused a
London engagement for the sake of remaining
in this company, would so flatter the vanity of
these kind-hearted people, that they would feel
bound by gratitude to support you, with their ut-
most means, forever. Mr. Robertson is getting
old"-here she gave a little shake of her head,
and curled down her mouth as people usually do
after taking a glass of sea-water, or a seidlitz
powder without sugar-" and he has more than
once spoken of your succeeding him in the
management; nature never intended you to be
in a subordinate situation in life; here you have
everything your own way; but in London, no
matter what success you may meet with, envy,
jealousy, and various petty annoyances (the
most tormenting of any), will inevitably sur-
round you; the management encumbered by a
committee of noblemen and gentlemen totally ig-
norant or unmindful of the feelings and rights
of actors, and quarrelling among themselves
who shall most embarrass the interests of the
theatre to advance-in defiance of public taste-
some favourite mistress, and, through her influ-
ence, probably those who may impede or inter-
fere with your advancement; and you may fail
-and then, to return here, with diminished lustre,
would be vexatious to yourself; and these good
people, relying on a London judgment, might
suspect they had been mistaken in your talent,
and adopt their opinion. There, I have made
you a long speech, and given you my most hon-
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
37
est opinion; and now do as you please; I shall
never say a word farther on the subject."
to represent, or all of them at once, if the part re-
quired their varied powers; but out of the patch-
work he made a very agreeable performance, and
only a nice observer would discover the stitch-
ing together. He was most indefatigable in
his profession, and in private life an inoffensive
man, though worldly-minded, and extremely pe-
nurious. We had been old friends at Brighton,
and when I first went to London he took me to
his lodgings to see his collection of prints. He
had a handsome apartment over a book-shop in
Bedford-street, Covent Garden, the wall of which
was decorated with a large number of portraits
of actors, all guarantied to have been given to
him in the handwriting of each on the margin.
Being so early in the day that a refusal was cer-
Half convinced of the truth and policy of her
advice, I might probably have adopted it, but
that she unfortunately said, "You may fail,"
this wounded my pride, and, to remove all doubt
of such a possibility, I "screwed my courage to
the sticking place" and accepted the engage-
ment. Every day, prior to my departure, I be-
came more fully satisfied with the decision I had
made. From the first hour I became an actor,
every energy of mind and body had been stretch-
ed to its utmost to achieve this grand desidera-
tum, and now the hoped-for stake for which I
played came to my hand without my seeking it,
with advantages unprecedented-Stephen Kem-
ble, my proved friend, the manager, and a va-tain, he ventured to point to the sideboard and
cancy in my line of business in the theatre that
might not occur again for years. My suc-
cess with the public my vanity and experience
would not permit me to doubt for a moment, for,
after passing, with the highest approbation, "the
rough brake" of a York audience-the most dif-
ficult to please in England-I had little to fear
from the acknowledged liberality of a London
one. On my last night the company and the
manager gave me a handsome supper, and,
with the good wishes of a host of friends, I set
off for London, and the first play-bill I saw, on
entering the metropolis, announced Mr. Mun-
den's re-engagement at Drury Lane.
invite me to take a little brandy, and made me
promise, very faithfully, that some day I would
take a chop with him, which promise, while in
England, he more than a dozen times made me
repeat; but the day never arrived, nor did I ever
hear of any human being ever taking a meal at
his table. He was a good son and brother. His
mother and two sisters resided with him. They
kept no servant, and when he played they would
be seen seated above, at the corner next the
stage, in the second tier of boxes, for the double
purpose of starting the applause and saving fire
and candle at home; and frequently, when it
happened to be a dull, poor house, they would
have all the applause to themselves, and, being
very persevering in their approbation, they were
often noticed by the audience, to the great
amusement of the actors and the constant vis-
iters of the theatre. But they continued most
faithfully to discharge this duty for years, and
to their timely hints Harley was indebted for
many an encore and round of applause.
I found the theatre in a deplorable condition;
an indifferent company, and badly selected, play-
ing to literally empty benches, excepting when
Kean performed, and his attraction had, from
the constant repetition of his plays, been worn
to a shadow of what it had been. To appear on
any night when he didn't act, was assuredly to
have an empty house; therefore, by the advice
of Stephen Kemble, I opened in Samson Raw- Mr. Barnard, who was the walking gentleman
bold, in "The Iron Chest," and Nicholas, in the of the establishment, had solicited the services
“Midnight Hour." My success was equal to of Russell, Gattie, Oxberry, myself, and Harley,
my warmest wishes. Ševeral members of the to play for his wife's benefit, who belonged to
committee, particularly Colonel Douglass, paid the Greenwich company. We hired a glass-
me some high compliments, and Kean, Keinble, coach, alias a better sort of hack, for the day,
and the enthusiastic "little" Knight were warm and at about ten o'clock in the morning we
in their congratulations. The song, which is called and took up Harley, the last of the party.
not an effective one, was loudly encored, which After the rehearsal of Wild Oats, with "the fol-
Mr. Smart, the leader, assured me, in the green-lowing powerful cast," Rover-Russell (who
room, he did not remember to have been so hon-
oured since the part was originally played by
Suett. The newspapers were all very appro-
ving; numbers of my Lincolnshire friends had
visited London for the simple-hearted purpose
of giving me their support, and, by using their
influence with their friends in town, the house
was better than usual, though it was the same
night that Farren made his bolstered-up hit at
Covent Garden.
Everything in the power of Stephen Kemble
to aid my advancement was attended to with
great care; I was never called upon to play any-
thing but a principal character, and his personal
kindness gave me an enviable position in the
company; my chiefest annoyance was my not
having enough to do. The Lyceum closed, after
a few weeks, to make room for Matthews with
a new entertainment, called "A Trip to Paris,"
and Harley rejoined Drury Lane; he was an
established favourite with the audience, and a
very general actor. He had founded his style
originally on Fawcett and Bannister, but he
didn't hesitate to draw largely on Munden, Lis-
ton, Knight, Matthews, De Camp, and others,
according to the nature of the character he had
would cheerfully travel a hundred miles, get up
in the middle of the night, and give five pounds
into the bargain to play that character at any
time); Ephraim--Oxberry; Sir George-Gat-
tie; Sim-Cowell; and John Dory-Harley,
it was agreed that each should write down an
order for a cutlet, or chop, or anything they
pleased for dinner, without the knowledge of the
others, and then make it a general repast; when
it came to Harley's turn he declined, stating, as
an excuse, that he had dined before he set out.
What, before ten o'clock?" says Russell:
why, Jack, you dine as early as poor Tokely
used to do, but I hope it's not from the same
cause." Tokely was a very intemperate, but
extremely clever man. Fawcett was stage-man-
ager of the Haymarket Theatre, where Tokely
was an immense favourite; he frequently came
quite inebriated to rehearsal, and Fawcett under-
took to advise him to refrain from drinking liquor
in the morning.
"I am fond of my glass of wine after dinner,"
said Fawcett, "and a glass of grog after supper,
but to taste liquor before dinner is a vile, ungen-
tlemanly habit; and for Heaven's sake, Tokely,
oblige me and yourself by refraining for the fu
38
THIRTY YEARS
ture; promise me you'll never drink anything
till after dinner.'
>>
Tokely pledged himself that he would not;
but a few days afterward he was absent after
the time called for the last rehearsal of a new
piece; when he arrived Fawcett was about to
rebuke him for his neglect, but caught a whiff
of his breath.
"Faugh!" said Fawcett, "Mr. Tokely, I'm
ashamed of you; you've been drinking again;
remember what you promised!"
"But, sir, I've dined," said Tokely, very de-
murely.
"Dined?" said Fawcett: "what, before eleven
o'clock in the morning?"
"Yes," said the comedian, "I dined early,
and that caused my being rather late at rehear-
sal."
Poor Tokely continued to dine early, and
died very soon afterward.
When the varied dinner was served, Harley
seated himself at the window with a newspaper,
but the savoury odour of the viands was too much
for his hungry resolution.
"That smells deliciously," said Harley: "al-
low me to take a little bit on a morsel of bread."
And though we all invited him to have a plate
and chair, and partake, he still continued to re-
fuse, and "pick a little bit" of everything, and
cheerfully took a glass or two of wine with us
all. Russell, who was a great wag, borrowed a
pound note of him; and when we made the set-
tlement, before starting home at night, he char-
ged Harley for his equal share of the dinner,
supper, and wine, and handed him two and six-
pence as the change of his note. He looked
daggers, but he never uttered a word the whole
way to London.
The eldest Miss Tree, a most amiable wom-
an, was the principal dancer of the theatre.
She had been married to, and separated from
an advertising dancing-master by the name of
Quin. Harley paid her great attention, and
everybody imagined it would be a match.
Some one was praising her very highly for her
performance of Columbine, in the Christmas
pantomime:
"Yes," said Tom Cooke, "she's very clever
as Columbine, and I'm told shortly she's going
to be Harley Quin,”
|
they obliged my good friend the manager) were
rather pleasing to me than otherwise; and they
| occurred so frequently, that it became a joke for
the actors, and when I entered the theatre, at
morning or night, they'd salute me with,
"Here he is! Munden's sick!" or, "Cowell,
my dear fellow, you can go home; everybody's
quite well," as the case might be. Even Kem-
ble would join in the joke, and say, in his fine,
fat, good-humoured manner,
"Doctor Cowell, I'm very sorry to inform you
that all your patients are in fine health this
morning."
I had just finished playing Cosey, in "Town
and Country," one night, when a message came
to me in my room that Harley, while pre-
paring for the afterpiece, had been seized with
an epileptic fit, and inquiring if I would under-
take the part of Goodman, in the Barmicide;
a splendid spectacle, which had been long in
preparation, and produced for the first time the
night preceding. It was a very long character
some melo-dramatic business, interspersed
with two concerted pieces of music and a song,
I undertook to get through it, with the part in my
hand; the only advantage I had was, that I had
seen it the night before, for there was no time to
read it—nothing puts an audience so out of hu-
mour as delay. An apology, stating the dilemma
the management was placed in, was made, and
was received with the hearty encouragement
a London public know so well how to bestow.
During the intervals of the scenes, I got so far
possession of the part that I referred to it but
seldom, and in the last act did without it entirely.
To show the aptness with which an audience
there seizes upon and applies any portion of the
dialogue which serves to express their feeling,
I'll state the following as a proof. The lovely
Mrs. Orger had to say, in reference to some aid
I had afforded to the virtuous part of the plot,
"I'm sure we are all greatly indebted to Good-
man; I don't know what we should have done
without his assistance." The house applauded
to the echo that applauds again; and at nearly
the end of the piece, my last speech was to the
effect, "Giaffar has done his duty, somebody else
has done his, and I trust, with submission, I
have done mine." And the curtain fell amid
deafening peals of applause. The management
and the critics gave me infinitely more credit
for the undertaking than it deserved, and 1, of
course, retained the character during the run of
the piece. Harley's illness was continuous,
and I pledge myself I never once prayed for my
friend's recovery. Actors are the most selfish
people in the world, and feel for one another on
the same principle as the midshipman's favour-
During this season I played as an apology for ite toast, "A long and bloody war!" explains
Munden, Knight, Harley, and Oxberry, in con- their sentiments.
their sentiments. His death, or absence from
sequence of the indisposition of one or the other, the theatre, would have greatly aided my ad-
at very short notice, and frequently with their vancement; but, unfortunately for me, and for-
names in the bill, and was always most favour-tunately for the theatre, about this time Howard
ably received by the audience; as I made it a Payne's tragedy of Brutus made a prodigious
rule all my life to be at the theatre every morn-hit, and was played nearly the whole of the sea-
ing at ten o'clock, whether wanted or not, and
generally in the green-room at night, if any one The theatre was so entirely prostrate at this
was sick whose place I could supply, I was the epoch, that the salaries failed in being paid, and
first to be called upon; as it placed me frequent- as a last resource, Payne's play, which had long
ly in a favourable point of view before the audi-lain neglected, was, by Stephen Kemble's good
ence, in characters in which I was prepared-
and even if I had never seen the piece, having
an extraordinary quick study, great presence of
mind, and tact to get through anything-these
sudden calls upon my services (particularly as
But she never was, for she was in this coun-
try with her sister Ellen, and still Miss Tree.
In society Harley was agreeable and gentle-
manly, could sing a comic song extremely well,
and tell a studied, droll story with effect, but I
don't believe he was ever known to say a witty
thing naturally, or perpetrate a joke of his own
in his life.
son.
taste, put in rehearsal, and Kean was prevailed
upon to study the part. After a number of vexa-
tious delays, which Payne bore with exemplary
patience, walking with the permission of a "day
rule" to the theatre (for he was a prisoner for
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
39
:
CHAPTER XVI.
"Love's very pain is sweet;
But its reward is in the world divine,
Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave."
SHELLEY.
debt at the time in the Fleet or Bench) to meet | revived the drooping laurel on the brow of Kean,
Kean by appointment, and then find him nol to and with his overwhelming assistance saved
be found, or not fit to be seen, it was at length Drury Lane Theatre at that time from total ruin.
produced to an indifferent house. It was shock-
ingly cast; Harry Kemble, whom the audience
would hardly tolerate, was the Tarquin; D. Fish-
er, who had good sense enough since to turn
dancing-master, was the Titus; and the balance
of the characters unsupported by a parcel of peo-
ple that it would be annoying even to mention
their names; the fat, vulgar, housekeeper-look- IF
If you were to listen to and believe half the
ing Mrs. Glover, who now plays a line of busi- gruntings and grumblings of the peevish atoms
ness she was only ever fit to sustain, was the who inhabit this "wretched world," as they call
Tullia; Water-gruel Mrs. W. West was the it, you might be led to imagine they were most
other woman, and the pretty little dawdle, Mrs. anxious to "shuffle off this mortal coil." This
Robinson, the Lucretia. On the first night, a goodly frame, the earth, is described by them as
scene between her and Harry Kemble nearly a "steril promontory," a foul and pestilent
ended the fate of the play; but the next, Tar- congregation of vapours ;" that man delights not
quin smothered her, or did something or another them- "no, nor woman neither!" as Hamlet
to her immediately, without saying a word about says; and they try to persuade you and them-
it, much to the satisfaction of the audience. selves that any change must be for the better.
The public were greatly prejudiced against the And yet I never saw one of these "discontented
establishment, and assisted, no doubt, by the papers" who didn't use "the little left of strength
emissaries of the rival theatre, the play, on its remaining," in struggling with the grim tyrant
first representation, made three or four narrow when it came to the awful pause. Now I be-
escapes; greatly to my annoyance, for, independ-lieve that there are quite sufficient delicious lit-
ent of my interested motives, I had a warm tle inventions for our gratification to amply
feeling in favour of the author, both for his tal-keep pace with all "the natural shocks that flesh
ent and amiable deportment. But Kean was
the Atlas of the night, and took the whole play
on his shoulders; his assumed folly elicited the
first general approbation from the house, and his
speech to Titus ending with
•
"Tuck up thy tunic, train those curled locks
To the short warrior-cut, vault on thy steed:
Then scouring through the city, call to arms!
And shout for liberty!"
is heir to," and among them, can any one be
more delightful than the unexpected renewal in
manhood of a sincere boyish friendship? This
I experienced in an unushered visit from George
Maryon.
((
He had been a midshipman in the navy, and
at the close of the war, had been left with a bul-
let in his body to remind him of his youthful
folly, and a very superior education for his fu-
caused John Bull to shout too with all his ture support; his brother was an artist with con-
might in fact, he always does shout when liber-siderable talent, and together they had establish-
ty's mentioned, whether because he thinks he's
the possessor of the blessing, or "wants to," as
the Yankees say, I know not. The oration over
the body of Lucretia was the most heart-thrill-
ing, pathetic appeal to the passions I ever heard:
equal in soleinn beauty to his manner of bid-
ding farewell to the attributes of war in Othello,
which never was spoken by any actor but him-
self as Shakspeare conceived it. At this time
Le Thiere's large painting of the Judgment of
Brutus was exhibiting at the Egyptian Hall,
Piccadilly, and being the work of a Frenchman,
everybody, of course, went to see it. The last
scene was grouped exactly after its manner; Le
vivant tableau had a most happy effect, and the
play, to my great delight, after all its struggles,
was announced for repetition amid universal
approbation.
ed an academy for young gentlemen at East
Lane, Walworth. My dear boy Joe, who al-
ways loved everything and everybody his father
admired, took a great fancy to my sworn friend,
and he was intrusted to his care as a pet and
'parlour boarder." Each succeeding Sunday
they paid us a visit; but my uncertain engage-
ments at the theatre deprived me, for some weeks,
of the power of absenting myself so far from its
purlieu. But the death of Queen Charlotte,
causing the establishment to be closed till she
was enclosed in the vault at Windsor, among
her poor relations, gave me an unenviable holy-
day "no play, no pay"-and on a fine day af-
ter dinner, I set off to walk to Walworth, which
I understood to be only two or three miles dis-
tant. All my life I have suffered great incon-
venience from the absence of the faculty of re-
membering names. Once, in playing Lazarillo,
in "Two Strings to your Bow," I insisted that
my name was Pedrillo, to the great amusement
of the actors. Calling at the stage door to look
for letters, I inquired of West, the messenger
of the house, my shortest route to Wandsworth
instead of Walworth.
In defiance of its almost unprecedented suc
cess with the public, nearly the whole newspa
per press seized their dissecting-knives to cut
up it and its author; columns were filled with
extracts from obsolete dramas, which Payne had
used for his purpose with all the freedom of an
old acquaintance; though scarcely one actor or
playgoer in fifty had ever heard of, or read them, "Why, sir," said this experienced directory,
with the exception of himself, and those cross-"it's a pretty good walk to Wandsworth-but
examining critics; one long and able article, 1 it's a straight line. Your best way will be to go
remember, was wittily headed: "The labour we over Westminster Bridge; and you'll find dozens
delight in physics Payne.”
of coaches will set you down there for a shilling
or eighteen-pence.
At all events, he deserved higher praise than
the compiler of Shakspeare's play of Richard the
Third, as it is called, for out of far inferior ma-
terials, he placed in the front rank of public opin-
ion an excellent tragedy, on a subject four or five
authors of celebrity had failed to make dramatic;
I did as he advised, and, soon after passing
the Marsh Gate, I was overtaken by a long four-
horsed stage, with "Wandsworth" named on its
end, as its place of destination. I hailed the
driver, and took a seat by his side. As he was
40
YEARS
THIRTY
not able to give me the desired information, when
we reached the village I alighted at the first tav-
ern, and requested to be directed to East Lane,
and Mr. Maryon's academy.
"I knows of no Heast Lane," said the land-
lady-I suppose, for she was very fat-" but
some calls this Heast Hend, I'm sure I don't
know for what; and there's Mr. M—, he's a
harchitect, and keeps a sort of a 'cademy. He
teaches some young men to draw churches, and
build 'ouses, and such like, I believe."
"That's the very man, madam," said I. 1
thought of his brother, the artist, and the name
(which I purposely suppress, for fear, even at
this distant date, of creating a difficulty between
an elderly lady and gentleman, if they are still
alive) was as much like Mar-yon, as Mar-von
is, as she pronounced it. According to her di-
rection, I entered a small garden, and rang the
bell at the door of a handsome house, standing
back from the road. After waiting a reasonable
period, I repeated the summons more energeti-
cally, and in a few seconds I heard a female
voice say, pettishly, "That boy is never in the
way;" and the door was instantly opened by-
Anna! I caught her in my arms-I was afraid
of her falling, and, if she had, she would have
hit her head against the foot of the stairs, for the
passage was not more than eight feet long, and
she was standing on the inner edge of the mat--
a little, fat man, and a maid-servant, made their
appearance but how they got there, Heaven
only knows!-and, with their assistance, I pla-
ced her, senseless, on the sofa in the parlour. |
After the lapse of a few minutes-passed by me
in a delirium, and by the man and his maids in |
applying, in hurry and confusion, the usual rem-
edies, all which I remembered as a dream after-
ward, but then I had not the power to assist
she opened her heavenly eyes, gazed, with a va-
cant stare, around the apartment, concealed her
face with her hands, and burst into an agony of
grief.
(C
Anne, my dear, Anne !"-if he had called
her Anna I believe I should have knocked him
down-"why, Anne, my dear," said the little fat
man, looking up at her as she was leaning back
on the sofa, with "the heart's blood turned to
tears" oozing through her taper fingers over her
wedding-ring, and chasing each other, like dew-
drops tinted with rose-leaves, down her snowy
arm, "what is all this, and who is this gentle-
man ?"
C
"The surprise-the--no, not the joy-the as-
tonishment, overcame me it's my cousin
you've heard me speak of," and again sunk
upon the sofa.
"Thank Heaven! I'm her cousin, for the sake
of all parties," thought I.
"Oh yes; why, bless me, no wonder!" said
the little fat man. "Oh dear, yes, I remember.
I'm glad to see you, sir. I caught Anne one
day crying over your picture; she told me that
it was her cousin—why, really, no wonder you
were surprised, my dear-she said, I think, you
were shot, or drowned, or something. I'm glad
to see you.
to see you. She's got your picture yet. There,
that's it, tied to the black riband. Show it your
cousin, Anne-well, never mind, by-and-by-I
declare it's an excellent likeness! a little too.
fresh-coloured, perhaps-but, then, the uniform
makes a difference. But you must take a glass
of wine-Anne will get over it presently—and
I'll send for the children."
The
And away the nasty little fellow went.
only balm I could lay to my tortured feelings at
that moment was, that he was very fat-and I
knew Anna could not bear fat-and that he was
a head and shoulders shorter than myself. But
"the children" made me sick at my stomach; I
felt faint; and, without my saying a word, Anna
answered my look,
"Don't despise ine. What could I do? You
never answered my letters. Everybody said you.
were dead, or had married some one else. God
help me! he was rich, and all my friends per-
suaded-
>>
Me she would have said, and perhaps a great
deal more I'm glad I did not hear, but that the
door opened, and in came the father, without
doubt, of a little pot-bellied brat, the image of
himself, whom he was leading by the hand, and
followed by another "like the first," crying, and
sliding into the room, with a dirty nose.
"Take the baby up, Betsey," said the father.
"He won't let me, sir," said the maid.
"Ah, he's a spoiled child; but here's a fine
fellow," said the foolish-fond parent; "only three
years and a half old; shake hands with the gen-
tleman, Joseph; come, that's a good boy-it's
ma's cousin, my dear, that you were named
after."
But, thank Heaven! my namesake wouldn't
do anything of the sort.
(C
"We only breeched him yesterday," said the
father, his eyes half out of his head with delight.
"Wait a minute-don't speak to me!" sobbed And a pretty business they had made of breech-
poor Anna; "you shall know all-indeed you ing the little beast. A nankin jacket and trou-
shall-I-I'll tell you what a wretch I am-in-sers all in one piece, bedizened with mother of
in a minute."
pearl buttons all over the top, and daubed with
The little fat man looked at me for informa-gingerbread over the bottom; and a slit in the
tion, but I was so stultified with horror and re- back, wide open, to let the little ball of fat in or
gret at this promised confession, which would, out, I suppose.
in all probability, involve the happiness of her I
had so purely and innocently loved, that my be-
wildered thoughts deprived me of the power of
words to arrest the "evil communication;" and
I stood firmly, with the same apathetic, indiffer-
ent expression of face and manner, so often seen
in some poor wretch, listening to be told quietly,
that he is to be hanged by the neck until he is
dead, and his body given to the surgeons for dis-
section-and which natural display of intense
suffering is always placed to the account of un-
doubted courage and magnanimity of soul, in
Newgate Calendar criticism. After a lengthen-
ed pause, she suddenly rose up, and, with hys-
terical playfulness, said hurriedly,
Well, I'm heartily glad to see you—take a
glass of wine," said the good-natured man,
though I hated the sight of him." Sir, here's to
ye. Oh do, my dear, take a little; it will do you
good-now indeed it will; well, if you won't, you
won't, I suppose. Anne has fretted a good deal
about you, I assure you."
I took my hat.
"Oh, you mustn't think of leaving us so soon.
Anne will be quite lively presently, now you've
got back. I've often heard her declare she
couldn't die happy unless she either saw or heard
something certain about you."
I moved towards the door.
"You mustn't think of going to town to-night,
PASSED AMONG
41
THE PLAYERS.
we have plenty of spare beds, and you must tell
us how you escaped getting drowned, or shot, or
whatever it was."
I felt that victory could only be gained by an im-
mediate retreat; pleaded that business of the last
consequence demanded my presence in London
that night, but promised to return early on the
morrow, and pass the day with them; took the
privilege of an affectionate cousin to embrace
his wife-whispered an eternal good-by-stumbled
over the mat, down two steps at the street door,
and departed.
"She gazod as I slowly withdrew :
My path I could scarcely discern.
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return."
But I didn't, and have
Never seen Anna since.
CHAPTER XVII.
"Say what abridgment have you for this evening?
What mask? What music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?"
SHAKSPEARE.
Stephen KembLE, and his sister, Mrs. Sid-
dons, to my poor thinking, shared between them
all the genius of that wonderful family. Extra-
ordinary natural advantages, highly-cultivated
minds, and long and intense study of the me-
chanical attributes so important to an actor,
rendered both John and Charles Kemble (but
particularly John) for years "the observed of
all observers;" though I, in defiance of general
opinion, always considered Charles the superior
artist. "An two men ride on a horse, one must
ride behind;" and when John Kemble was at the
very zenith of his glory, with no shadow within
reach of his shade, his brother, with a better
voice, and finer face, was playing walking gen-
tlemen in the same theatre-Alonzo to his Rolla,
Lewson to his Beverly, Laertes to his Hamlet,
Cassio to his Othello, Prince of Wales to his
Hotspur, and so on. How would it have been
How would it have been
had their positions been changed? And even
in those comparatively subordinate characters,
Charles gained a most exalted reputation, and
the recollection of his excellence in that descrip-
tion of business painfully derogates from the
merit of any performer in that walk of the drama
since. After the retirement of the "great Kem-
ble," his most prejudiced worshippers were
obliged to admit that Charles was his equal in
most characters, and even honest enough to al-
low his superiority in some, and in a certain
grade of high comedy he stood alone-Mercutio
and Don Felix, for instance; and it was witting-
ly said of his brother John, when he attempted
the latter part, "that he possessed too much of
the Don, and not enough of the Felix."
|
ter, while keeping a retail shop in the city.
Dowton made him a very large-sized Sir An-
thony Absolute. Matthews played it as he did
Grunthrum, in "The Fortunes of War," or the
very whimsical character in one of his enter-
tainments, who inquires of everybody, "Am I
thinner, think ye?" Warren had a great repu
tation in the part in this country, and a sign for
a porter-house was painted in compliment to his
performance, in Philadelphia; but he, though a
very sensible actor, portrayed Sir John as if his
favourite beverage was beer, not sack. Hackett.
and John Quincy Adams have paid one another
some high compliments lately through the news-
papers on their true conception of the character,
which I think is highly probable to be the case;
but when I saw Hackett in the part, some years
ago, I thought it was a very excellent imita-
tion of Matthews.
Stephen Kemble's face and figure were a guar-
antee for the character he gave himself: "Sweet
Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack
Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and, therefore,
more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff;"
and alive to all the minute beauties of the au-
thor, he pointed them naturally, without force or
effort; and if the cavillers to excellence deny
that the performance was perfection, they must
admit that it put all competition in the back-
ground. In private life he was a good man, a
ripe scholar, a warm friend, and a delightful
companion.
During this season the principal green-room
was conducted with all the etiquette observed in.
an apartment designed for the same purpose in
private life, and very properly too. A well-ap-
pointed room, especially when ladies are part of
its occupants, has great influence on the conduct
of its visiters in all classes of society, from the
magnificent drawing-room down to the splendid
"gin palace.'
'gin palace." There was an obsolete forfeit of
one guinea for any one entering it in undress,
unless, of course, in character. This being per-
fectly understood, was never likely to be incur-
red. But Alderman Cox, one of the committee, in
defiance of this well-known rule, dropped in one
evening in a riding-dress, with very muddy
boots and spurs. Tullia's train getting entan-
gled in one of them, Oxberry good-humouredly
reminded the alderman of the forfeit, which he
appeared to take (and I think did) in high dud-
geon; but the next day a note was addressed to
the gentlemen of the green-room, begging them
to accept a dozen of very fine Madeira in lieu
of the guinea forfeit; pleasantly stating that,
"as he was a very bad actor, he must be a mem→
ber of the second green-room, if of any, and,
therefore, did not consider himself amenable to
the laws of the first.
the laws of the first." To meet the matter in
the same spirit, with this wine, and other, we
agreed to give the alderman a dinner at the
Freemasons' Tavern, and a non-playing day in
Stephen Kemble's extraordinary bulk depri- Lent was selected. Sir Richard Birnie (the
ved him of the power of entering the arena with Bow-street magistrate), Mr. Vaughen, M.P. (an
his gladiatorial brother; but his Macbeth and esteemed friend of Kemble's), and Fauntleroy
Hamlet, by the adorers of mind, not body, will (the unfortunate), were invited to meet him;
never be forgotten; and his readings of Milton and the party completed by Stephen Kemble,
and the Bible were superhuman. In his latter his son Harry, Carr, Hughes, Rae, Gattie, Ox-
days, from necessity, not choice, he only per-berry, Harley, Kean, Munden, Henry Johnston,
formed Falstaff; but even in that resource, for Irish Johnstone, Russell, and myself. Who
his transcendent talent, he stood without a rival. would not like to be one of such a party once a
Fawcett delivered the wholesale wit of Fal- week? But they are nearly all gone now to-
staff in small parcels, with the pungent quaint-"not where they eat, but where they are eaten: a
ness of Touchstone. Bartley would make you certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at
believe the knight had got fat behind the coun- them." "Oh, the mad days that I have spent!
42
THIRTY YEARS
and to see how many of my old acquaintance |graphy; and, therefore, I think Graphy is a very
are dead." Kean was observed to refrain from proper name."
wine, and when urged by his jovial companions
to "drink and fill," Alderman Cox said,
"In my official capacity" (he sat opposite to
Stephen Kemble), "I have excused Mr. Kean,
The fact is, I have made a promise for him that
he shall spend the evening with my wife, and if
he takes too much wine, I don't know what may
be the consequences."
On the last night of the season, for the benefit
of Old Rodwell, the box-book and housekeeper,
a gentleman was to make his first appearance
as Sylvester Daggerwood, and give imitations
of celebrated performers. I had played Frisk, in
My Spouse and I, on the same evening, and
could, therefore, only go in the orchestra to see
an excellent performance. He possessed all the
ease and familiarity of an old favourite, and his
mimicry was admirable. This was no other
than the irresistibly comic actor, and emperor of
topers, John Reeve, who a few years since paid
a visit to this country.
The alderman laughed like an accommoda-
ting-alderman, and we smiled at his very con-
siderate philosophy. Kean withdrew early in
the evening, and the good-natured husband re-
mained with Kemble and four or five others,
myself among the number, till three in the morn- The theatre closed in a state of bankruptcy,
ing. This is the same Alderman Cox who was and was advertised for rent soon afterward; but
awarded heavy damages in a court of justice I had been prudent enough to provide an expe-
against Kean, for destroying his domestic feli-dient for the vacation, at any rate. Matthews
city; and this is the very Mrs. Cox whose in-
jured innocence "bellowed forth revenge" across
the wide Atlantic, and induced the good people
of Boston and New-York, in very purity of pur-
pose, to use her name as a watchword to drive
from the stage, as a punishment for some offence
given to the audience, "Shakspeare's proud rep-
resentative."
Though not a member of the institution, I
received the compliment of being appointed one
of the stewards at the annual Theatrical Fund
Dinner, at which the Duke of York presided,
with Kean facing him as master and treasurer;
and the talent of that great actor was even dis-
played in the simple matter of reading over the
list of subscribers. The amount given, or the
name of a popular donor, elicited, generally,
some demonstration of approval, according to
the sum or character of the party, and his pecu-
liar mode of announcing, "the veteran Michael
Kelly, ten pounds,” obtained three rounds of ap-
plause. In the anteroom, appropriated to re-
ceive our distinguished guests, I met, for the
first time in London, my friend W. J. Dennison,
Esq., M.P., who had so unexpectedly assisted
to help me out of my scrape at Scarborough.
Shaking me heartily by the hand, and pointing
to the bit of blue riband at my buttonhole, he,
laughing, said,
had been most successful in his entertainment
called "A Trip to Paris," and had rendered that
description of performance popular; and by se-
cretly robbing him of all his jokes and songs,
and localizing them to suit my hemisphere, I
compiled an excellent three hours' olio, called
"Cowell Alone," or a "Trip to London." The
use of all the theatres in the Lincoln circuit I
obtained gratuitously, and my success was enor-
mous. I played two, but never exceeded three
times, in each town to crowded houses; wisely
leaving off to the regret of my friends, with the
intention of returning. I merely visited the the-
atres belonging to my old circuit, with the ex-
ception of Louth, in Lincolnshire, thirty miles
from Boston; and at the urgent solicitation of
my friend Jackson, the printer (whose name was
nearly always found at the foot of the last page
of schoolbooks for boys of my age), I consented
to become his guest for a week, and "show my
show" in the town-hall, the use of which was
tendered me, through his influence, by the author-
ities. It is the only picturesque spot in the
country, and the inhabitants the most hospitable,
jovial set of fellows (if they have not degener-
ated) that can be found anywhere; here I gave
three entertainments, and had some difficulty in
getting away at the end of a fortnight. There
was a sort of moving festival among Jackson's
friends while I was there. Smoking was great-
ly used as an abracadabra, in that fever and
ague country; and a certain set had a room, or
“snuggery," as they called it, detached from their
houses, for the purpose of freely enjoying that fu-
migating propensity. At about three o'clock one
morning I was assisting Jackson home, in broad
daylight, from one of these noctes ambrosiæ, but
Tom Dibdin, the author and celebrated pun-being full of wine, he couldn't find his way there;
ster, also one of the stewards, arrived very late,
on a very miserable-looking nag, and his ap-
pearance altogether called forth some remarks
and merriment from those at the windows.
"You see, Cowell, I told you how it would be."
Grimaldi, the celebrated clown, whom I had
never before seen without a red half-moon on
each cheek, was one of the stewards, and I don't
know why, but I felt astonished at finding him a
very agreeable, gentlemanly-looking man: we
formed an acquaintance which lasted while I
remained in England.
"Gentlemen," said he, on entering the room,
"you mustn't judge of anything by its looks;
that's the pony that plays the marble horse in
Giovanni in London, and can get as much
applause as any of you; it's the celebrated
Graphy."
Graphy! that's a strange name for a horse,
Dibdin," said some one.
and Ï, being a stranger, couldn't conduct him in
a town so laid out that every house is, in fact,
in the country; and, after a number of efforts to
gain the right path, he stopped and inquired of a
country boy,
"My lad, can you tell me where John Jack-
son lives?"
"Eh," says the boy, "why you be John Jack-
son."
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" said my un-
steady friend: "I know I'm John Jackson, but
where do I live?"
"Most appropriate, though," said the punster. Elliston, that "diverting vagabond" and
"When I made up my mind to buy a horse, I scourge to actors, had become the lessee of Dru-
said, I'll bi-o-graphy; when I mounted him I was ry Lane, and made me an offer of four pounds a
a top-o-graphy; when I want him to canter, I week (it was said he made Munden an offer of
say, ge-o-graphy; and when I wish him to eight) to return, with great inducements as to bu-
stand still, and he won't, I say, but you au-to-siness-which, of course, I declined.
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
43
leaving room for a small shop, on the right, in
the same building, led you to the entrances of
the boxes and pit, the latter being placed in the
back cellar. Though comparatively small, it
was most excellently planned, both for seeing
and hearing. The name was changed to the
Adelphi; a good direction, being nearly opposite
to the street leading to that well-known terrace
on the Thames, where the immortal Garrick
once resided, and appropriate in reference to the
brotherly managers.
I had got as far as the beautiful little city of
Peterborough, and had still two towns untouched,
when I received a letter from Mr. Lee, stating
that the two young Rodwells, in conjunction
with Willis Jones, had purchased the Sans Pa-
riel from old Scott, and intended opening it with
as strong a company as they could get, and a su-
perior style of performance; and offering me an
engagement for the light and low comedy, and
that if I accepted, to come immediately to town;
which I did. I performed that night, and the
next I was in London.
The whole of Scott's engagements had been
Scott's fame for manufacturing ink, pink sau-purchased, with the property; but of the merits
cers, and liquid-blue dye, was coeval, and equal- of the performers there was no means of judg-
ly notorious, with Day and Martin's blacking.ing, for they were put far in the back-ground by
At the time when all the little boys and girls in the new company, with the exceptions of Jones,
London wanted to be Master Bettys and Miss the singer-the "Braham of America," as he
Mudies, Miss Scott developed strong symp- was foolishly called till Braham himself came,
toms of this dramatic disease; and though her in his old age, to dispute the title-and Gomer-
extraordinary talent was undoubted by her fa- sal, who had been Miss Scott's "amiable foot-
ther and her friends, it was delicately hinted that pad" for years, and he grumbled through the
the greedy public not only expected intrinsic heavy business. Our party consisted of Mr. and
merit (which she possessed) for their money, but Mrs. Chatterly, who had both been great favour-
also that it must be hallowed o'er with beauty to ites at the English Opera-house-he in old men,
secure the first impression. No paragraph, how- and she in high comedy ladies; Mrs. Alsop, a
ever laudatory in its imbodying, would ever ex-daughter of Mrs. Jordan's, but no relation, by
cite curiosity, the grand point to be obtained, un-blood, to William the Fourth. She had been at
less it commenced or ended with, "This tran-
scendent little loveliness, this sylphlike master-
piece of Nature in her most bounteous mood,
whose cerulean beauty conjures the wandering
stars, and makes the little cherubim close their
wings with envy, to think they are not so fair,
last night astonished and delighted an over-
flowing house; among the distinguished persons
present, we observed Lord Castlereagh in the
stage-box, and Mrs. Siddons (as she thought, out
of sight) in the corner of the orchestra, with tears
in torrents bedewing their experienced faces."
Or, to bring the position more home to the
feelings of old Scott, argued his worldly adviser,
"How could you expect to sell your true blue,
if not to be equalled, and to imitate this is forgery,
were not flourished all over the label in pink and
green ?"
Drury Lane, and was highly admired in romps
and chambermaids; Mrs. Waylet, who has been
a great favourite in London ever since, played
boys, and lively singing characters; Mrs. Ten-
ant, long favourably known at the nobility's
concerts, the principal singer; Mr. Watkins,
who was in this country some years, with Bur-
roughs added to it, the principal serious young
man; Wilkinson, the celebrated Geoffrey Muf-
fincap-and if he had never played anything else
but that and Dogberry, he would have been con-
sidered a great actor-was the low comedian;
John Reeve-a changeable part, and two other
characters, suited to his style then-and myself,
eccentric light comedy. Beautiful walking la-
dies, well-dressed young gentlemen, and dancers
by dozens.
The pieces were all original, and written ex-
pressly to fit the peculiar talent of the principal
performers; and Wilkinson and myself, both
overpowering favourites, had the privilege of
producing any piece that we thought we could
make successful. The elegant little Planché
was my chosen author; but a piece was acted at
the Olympic, called "Where shall I Dine?” in
which Wrench had a part called Sponge, to
which I took a great fancy, and, by introducing
an appropriate song, which I was always re-
quired to repeat twice, I had the advantage of
him-supported, also, by our superior company
Now Miss Scott, in addition to some natural
defects, had had the smallpox and rickets unfa-
vourably; but as genius comes in all disguises,
she really had talent both as an actress and a
writer; and as a resource for the world's preju-
dices, old Scott gutted the back of his warehouse
and fitted up a theatre, where his daughter might
safely indulge her predilection for the stage.
Here for two or three years, assisted by some
young people, her pupils, she dramatized and
acted away to a subscription party of her own
friends. In all cities there are certain sides of
the way in certain streets which the population, and I played it every night, with the excep-
from some cause or other, prefer to crowd, and tion of three weeks, during the remainder of the
leave the opposite comparatively empty: just so season, and for six in succession, twice on each
it is with the location I speak of; the best in evening. Wrench was taken sick, and, to save
London for a theatre, hundreds of people enter the run of the piece being stopped at the Olym-
there attracted by the red baize doors and a gal-pic, and show the magnanimity of the rival es-
axy of gas, who, when they set out on their ram-tablishment, after performing the part first at the
ble, never dreamed of visiting an establishment Adelphi, while our ballet was proceeding I drove
of the kind at all. And old Scott very wisely to the other house, played it there, and returned
obtained a license for a minor performance, in time to dress, and act my character in the
chiefly provided by his clever daughter; and
thinking of her alone, called it the "Sans Pa-
riel," opened the doors to the chance customers,
and made a fortune; and this was the very place
Rodwells and Jones had purchased.
I had never seen the interior in Scott's time,
but its origin was still strongly developed. A
wide passage under the first floor of a house,
farce.
As this book professes to be exclusively a his-
tory of my theatrical life, my domestic joys and
sorrows should remain "untouched, or slightly
handled;" but, in common justice, and to show
the difference in the hearts of men I am bound to
describe, I must in this instance deviate from
my allotted path. Mothers and fathers who read
44
THIRTY YEARS
this page will readily believe I considered my
attendance on the deathbed of my youngest child
-a daughter, nearly five years old-paramount
to any other duty upon earth, and I absented
myself from the theatre. But every pay-day the
sum supposed to be due to me was enclosed,
with the earnest good wishes and anxious in-
quiries of Jones and Rodwells-though my sal-
ary was a large one, the run of two favourite
pieces suspended, and my absence from the the-
atre highly injurious to its interests, and pain-
fully inconvenient. At the end of three weeks,
Maria died; and setting at defiance "all forms,
modes, shows of grief," I instantly sent my de-
sire to be announced, and played the same even-
ing. Even at this distant period this recital is
painful to me, and, for some years after its oc-
currence, I dared not trust myself to refer to it;
but Time, who smooths the wrinkled brow of
care, has long since taught me to thank God, in
the same spirit that inspired the pretty lines of
Coleridge, that
"Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care,
The opening bud to heaven convey'd,
And bade it blossom there."
CHAPTER XVIII.
"If thou wert honourable,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report as thou from honour."
Cymbeline.
who produced the articles drawn as I wished,.
and only wanting signatures, and all parties re-
gretted the hasty proceeding. But they prophe-
sied, from Elliston's dishonourable reputation,
that he would be sure to break the engagement,
and if he did, I promised to return to them.
Among many verbal inducements held out to
me by Elliston (whose powers of persuasion
amounted to fascination), he suggested that I
might always command a few days, or a week,
to take a trip with my entertainment, and so in-
crease my salary, and relieve the treasury.
"As," to use his own words, "I shall not bring
you out till Harley goes to the Lyceum, which
doesn't open till June, and then I'll place you so
carefully before the public, that that prince of
impostors will never want to come back again."
It so happened that Crisp, the manager of the
Worcester circuit, made me an offer to go to
Chester for three nights, in the race week, com-
mencing on Easter Monday, for which he of-
fered me twenty pounds, and to pay all my ex-
penses there and back. Fully relying on my
services not being required at Drury Lane, I ac-
cepted the proposal, and, as a mere matter of
form, mentioned the arrangement I had entered
into to Elliston.
"You can't go, sir," said the barefaced cajoler.
"Why, sir," I replied, "you yourself pointed
out the advantage to the treasury my occupy-
ing as much of my time elsewhere as possible
would be between this and June."
Why, so I did," said he: "that's all true
enough; but if you refer to your articles, you
will find that permission for your absence must
think proper to write; for," continued he, in a
very important tone, "I find the interests of the
theatre demand that I should immediately bring
you before the public, and I intend to produce
"Blue Devils' on Thursday next, with a powerful
cast, and you must make your first essay this
season in the part of James!"
The man's style was so bombastically comic,
that to be angry, or even refrain from laughing,
was impossible; but I never asked for leave of
absence afterward. Though I generally played
excellent business-for, for the sake of annoy-
ing Munden, Harley, and others, he'd frequent-
ly cast me into parts they had a better claim to-
I still had my share of disagreeables, though al-
ways carefully kept within the letter of the law;
for, secure in my engagement at the Adelphi,
which was purposely kept open, I was rather
desirous than otherwise that he should "tear the
bond." At length he cast me for Aruns, in
Payne's play of Brutus, and I remonstrated.
WHILE I was in treaty with Jones and Rod-be first had and obtained in writing, and I don't
wells for an increase of salary for the next sea- |
son, I very unexpectedly received a note from
Elliston, requesting to see me. I found him
seated in his room, enveloped in a morning-
gown; his hair thrust up from his forehead, and
standing in all directions, after the manner of a
mad poet; a pen behind his ear, and another in
his mouth, and before him, on the table, a quire
or two of scribbled paper, and a folio edition of
Shakspeare, open at King Lear, which he in-
formed me he was revising, and intended to
place upon the stage "in a garb 'twas never
dressed before." In his bland and most insinu-
ating manner, "he regretted, with all his heart
and soul, that such enormous talent should be
wasted at a petty minor theatre-the Sans Pariel."
"It's called the Adelphi now," said I, inter-
rupting him. "I know it, my dear sir," he con-
tinued: "these young men have called it the
Adelphi; but old True-blue's connexions, and
the apprentice boys, who constitute the audi-
ence, will see thein d-d before they call it any-
thing but the Sands Parill, and look upon an
actor, no matter what talent he may possess, as
a Sands Parill player." After pointing out the
degradation attending belonging to a minor thea-
tre, though he had conducted one for years, that
"best of cut-throats," who had "a tongue could
wheedle with the devil," induced me to sign an
engagement for three years, at the same salary
I was receiving at the Adelphi, to commence the
Monday after Passion-week. The description
of business I was only to be called upon to sus-
tain was named in the following form: "All
such parts as are usually played by Messrs.
Munden, Dowton, Knight, Oxberry, and Harley,
or other performers holding the same grade in
the profession." This unexpected arrangement
greatly annoyed my friends Jones and Rodwell,
Sir, this part of Aruns must surely have
been sent to me by mistake," said I; "it was
originally played by Mr. Yarnold, or some sec-
ondary young man, without any pretensions to
comedy.
"That, my dear sir," said he, in his soft, sooth-
ing manner, was a great oversight in the man-
agement; its being given to the serious young
man you speak of was a great injury to the
play, which is a very dull, tedious affair, at any
rate, and this little bit of delicious comedy will
be a great relief to its monotony.
((
'Comedy, sir!" said I: "my dear sir, read the
part; there is not a comic line in it."
"I know it," said he, calmly, "I know it; the
author has left the character entirely to the actor,
as he has every part of the play; who could tell
what Brutus was meant to be, if Kean didn't
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
45
act it? This part is intended as a comic relief,
such as Shakspeare desired Oswald to be in
King Lear; only this is infinitely more capable
of effect, and in your hands 'twill be irresist-off, the dear kind soul, instead of being angry, as
ible."
Thus assured as to its comic capabilities, for
the sake of the mischief, I learned the few lines.
On the night, I dressed myself, with the assist-
ance of the wardrobe-keeper, who entered into
the joke in the most outre manner possible, and
kept out of sight till the very moment I was
wanted. Kean not being at rehearsal, was un-
prepared to meet a comedian in the character,
and when I ran down the stage, after the man-
ner of Crack or Darby, in the burlesque dress, he
burst into an uncontrollable laugh, in which the
audience heartily joined, and after gabbling over
the few lines, to which Kean couldn't reply, I
made a comic exit at the opposite prompt side,
amid yells, shouts, hisses, and applause, and the
first person I met was Elliston.
"You can take off your warrior's dress, sir,"
said he, with a half laugh, for he was as fond of
mischief as I was; "we'll not trouble you any
farther; Mr. Russell will finish the part."
"You know you told me to make it as funny
as I could," said I.
"Yes, that's very true," he replied, "but I
didn't expect you to make it so d― funny."
And Russell retained the part for the remain-
der of the season.
J
|
the musicians, and making the people in the
front of the pit giggle all through the song; but,
to my horror and disappointment, when we camé
I wished and expected, said she thought "it was
extremely comical, and begged I'd do it every
night." Harley was the only one I succeeded
in annoying; I could give an excellent imitation
of him, and by speaking outside, and going
down the stage after his manner, I got the recep-
tion intended for Leporello, and when he came
on, the audience, for fear of being again taken in,
took no notice of him at all. The first night Í
even deceived his mother and sister, and got the
first and last approbation I ever received from
them, I'm quite certain. After about five weeks
of this never-likely-to-end vexation, I consulted
my friend Rodwell, and we agreed to have two
guineas worth of Chitty's opinion, the celebrated
Chamber counsel, and he gave it decidedly as
his conviction that the article was rendered
void; and relying on this authority, Rodwell
bound himself to keep me harmless, and I signed
and sealed for the Adelphi, on my proposed
terms, for three years. Rodwell retained Adol-
phus as counsel in the event of an action, and
Elliston was apprized of my leaving the theatre
according to law; and after some preliminary
forms, meaning nothing, I suppose, the affair
was dropped.
66
Elliston was a magnificent actor and delight-
A burletta, called Giovanni in London, founded ful companion, but a most unprincipled man:
on the pantomime of Don Juan, had been drama- his "Liar" could only be equalled by his "poeti-
tized in rhyme by Moncrief, and produced by cal prose" off the stage. When manager of the
Elliston some time before, when he had the Olympic, an actor by the name of Carles, who
Olympic, with great success; and to the great was an overpowering favourite with the audi-
astonishment of the old school, this illegitimate ence, had been discharged, in consequence of
manager had it rendered into prose, and some intemperance, and, of course, he stated to his
additions made to it, for Drury Lane; engaging friends that he had been shamefully ill used.
the fascinating, and much-wronged Madame Ves- The frequenters of the Olympic, in Elliston's
tris, to represent the gay seducer. And the time, were a very different class of persons to
number of hard male hearts she caused to ache, the elegant audience Madame Vestris, in after
during her charming performance of the charac-years, attracted there; and they, with fellow feel-
ter, I am satisfied, would far exceed all the fe- ing, sympathized with his supposed injuries;
inale tender ones Byron boasts that Juan caused for though he told the truth, all his offence was
to break during the whole of his career. Har- only taking a drop too much ;" and a most pow-
ley was cast Leporello, and I was desired to un-erful party was arrayed, one evening, to demand
derstudy it, and left out of the piece; but at the
first rehearsal, Oxberry and Knight both refused
the parts allotted them, and Oxberry's was given
to me "Mr. Porus, a coachmaker," without
one redeeming line, and on the stage, with little
to do all through the piece. I remonstrated, but
was answered that it was according to the spirit
of my engagement; that it was Mr. Oxberry's
part, or such as he ought to play, and that, for
his refusal, he had been forfeited; and that, if I
declined the character, my night's salary should be
stopped during the run of the piece, though the
fulfilment of my articles would still be claimed.
For an ambitious actor to have to play an objec- "My best, my warm friends! this ebullition
tionable part for one night is bad enough, but he of feeling in behalf of one you suppose to have
can grumble through it, and forget the annoy-been wronged shows the nobleness of your na-
ance in the morning; but every night in the
week, for months, to be so afflicted, is putting
patience to a severe penance. Every scheme 1
could invent to distress the performers, so that
I might be taken out of the piece, failed; in fact,
rather rooted me more firmly in my disagreeable
position. Madame Vestris had to sing a very
long song, to the tune of "Scots wha' ha' wi'
Wallace bled!" which was always encored, and
to which I had to stand quietly, by right, and
listen; but I made up my mind I would get
clear from that nuisance, by "cutting mugs" at
his reinstatement, and Carles took a seat in the
pit to await the joyful result. When Elliston
appeared, he was greeted with one universal
shout of "Carles! Carles! engage Carles! let's
have Carles! Carles! Carles! Carles, or no play!
Carles! Carles!" When, with his hand on the
spot the uninformed in anatomy imagine the
dwelling-place of the heart, and a face express-
ing veneration and submission, which he pos-
sessed such unequalled power to portray, he,
in action, entreated silence, and with all the un-
hesitating bluntness of truth, he burst forth with
pathetic energy,
ture, and I adore you for it:" intense silence.
"The man who would hesitate to stretch forth
his utmost might to rescue from the bitter fangs
of oppression the object of tyranny and persecu-
tion, is unworthy to enjoy the blessings of that
liberty for which our forefathers fought and
bled!" loud applause, and one little "huzza”
from an apprentice-boy, nearly out of his time,
in the pit. "I loved that man," pointing to Carles:
"oh! how I loved him; I idolized his tran-
scendent talent, and took him to my heart like a
brother:" here he produced a white handker-
46
THIRTY YEARS
seat.
">
chief, and several gentlemen were heard to blow
their noses in the gallery. "To my poor think-
ing, he appeared the moving picture of all that
could adorn humanity; he would, to be sure,
get a little tipsy sometimes:" here there was a
slight murmur among the audience; "but I al-
ways looked upon it as an amiable weakness-strength of heart necessary to begin the task:
we all get tipsy sometimes-I do:" here there
was an acknowledgment of the fact in the shape
of a little laugh. But for the last week"-here
he looked directly at Carles-" he has been in a
continual state of intoxication, and has never
been near the theatre." Carles rose from his
"Down in front! hat's off! down in front!"
was declared in a voice as double as the duke's,
and Carles sat down, and Elliston continued, with
a thick voice and hurried manner: "And on
going to his lodging this morning, to coax him
to return, which I have often done before, judge
of my horror and astonishment when I found
his wife and children starving for the want of
the common necessaries of life:" here some
one in the gallery was imprudent enough to
shout out, "Carles hasn't got no wife!" but a uni-
versal cry of "Pilch him over!" prevented any
farther remarks from that gentleman, and Ellis-
ton proceeded: "His lawfully wedded wife, the
most lovely, thin young creature I ever be-
held, whom this villain”—pointing at Carles in
the pit-"had torn from her fond, gray-haired
father's arms, to bring to misery, and leave her
to perish for want: the infant at her breast
screaming for the nourishment the starving
mother couldn't give; the little ones, four lovely
boys, clasping my knees and shrieking for
bread; and in the corner of the room lay his in-
fant daughter, the most lovely, angel form I ever
beheld, a frightful, distorted corpse, too horrible
to look upon, who, the day before, had died for
want of food." Here there was a general mur-
mur round the house, but Elliston interrupted
its explosion by continuing, "I instantly sent
for food for the little ones, and with the sum this
villain," looking at Carles, and blubbering,
"could easily have earned, I provided a coffin
for the little cherub, and only half an hour ago
I returned from the funeral. Now, I appeal to
you as men, as husbands, and as fathers, should
I engage this inhuman monster ?" pointing at
Carles. "If you say so, he shall instantly be re-
instated."
"No, no!" Carles got up to speak. "Knock
him over! out with him! pitch him out!" and
a hundred such expressions, issued forth in one
enormous torrent, and poor Carles, who never
had a wife in his life, nor a child, to the best of his
knowledge, escaped, by miracle, from the infuria-
ted multitude, into the street, and Elliston got
peal on peal of applause, and the performance
proceeded.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Oh, gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use:
Whose harmony was first ordained above,
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
Oh, wretched me! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adult'rate age
(Nay, added fat pollution of our own),
T' increase the streaming ordures of the stage!"
DRYDEN.
WHEN Stephen Kemble took the government
of Drury Lane Theatre, his ambition led him to
believe that he could replace the drama on that
proud and purely classic pedestal from which
the rude hand of ignorance had hurled it head-
long; and his refined taste gave him the intel-
lectual power for the Augean labour, but the
kindness of his nature deprived him of the
dozens of actors and actresses he had remem-
bered when a boy, grown gray in the theatre, and
passed the day of pleasing, he humanely retain-
ed to choke the outlet of a limited treasury, and
thereby fettering the means which should have
been applied to furnish material for a market al-
ways requiring a quick return. His very name,
too, contradictory as it may appear at the first
glance, was an impediment to popularity. The
exalted station his brother John and Mrs. Sid-
dons had achieved, rendered them unapproacha-
ble to the multitude; this was a heinous fault.
The mob must ever have their idol, whether
in religion, politics, or the drama, upon familiar
terms; the privilege of calling them, behind their
backs, "Old Sall Siddons," and "Black Jack,'
was not sufficient; they must meet them at the
Harp, or Finche's, or the Coal-hole, as they
could "Charley Incledon,” or “Neddy Kean,"
or they were not content; they therefore looked
up to their splendid talent with awe for its sublim-
ity, with wonder at its attainment, and with envy
at the feeling distance at which, by comparison,
it placed themselves; and, in consequence, the vul-
gar public worshipped and hated them. Though
past the reach of prostration from their "high
estate," every trifle was seized upon with avid-
ity for the purpose of annoyance. Kemble, in
Prospero, alive to Shakspeare's meaning, that
the smooth current of the language should flow
with no grammatic bar to ruffle its enchanted
calmness, changed the harsh plural of the ear-
piercing" ache, and filled the measure of the line
with pure poetic propriety. The scribblers by
rule seized upon this piece of pedantry, as they
called it, to cavil at, and, ridiculous to relate,
every night a portion of the audience, too igno-
rant to know the patois of St. Giles's was not their
mother tongue, whooped, yelled, and shouted at
the justly "lengthened line." With such a
prejudice existing against these two ornaments
of the profession, no wonder the scions of the
race were doomed without mercy to "expire be-
fore the flower in their caps ;" and, instigated by
this feeling, poor Henry Siddons, with every ad-
vantage of mind and education, was written off
the London stage for no offence but his name;
and, sad to tell, his disappointed ambition helped
to dig his early grave. His amiable wife, too,
an overwhelming favourite as Miss Murray,
suffered from the same cause, and the metropo-
lis of England lost the adornment of talent infi-
nitely superior to the overrated Miss O'Neil's.
((
Stephen Kemble, playing only one part, al-
ways appeared as a stranger to the audience,
who valued him merely as the "gross fat man"
who could play nothing but Falstaff, and his son
Harry was, unfortunately, too nearly fair game
to easily escape. The committee, too, had five
opinions in every proposed amendment, and, of
course, made bad worse, though I must do them
the credit to say that, thanks to them, there were
more pretty women in the first and second green-
rooms than any one manager was ever able to
collect together again in my time; among them,
the beautiful Mrs. Mardyn, who a short time
before, in the Plymouth theatre, was considered
incapable of delivering a message; but at Drury
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
47
Lane she played four or five principal charac- | and Kean was clad in a crimson velvet gown, be--
ters during the season, to empty benches, and 'twas dizened with gold buttons and loops down to his
said (and I believe, for I know the cost of such feet! and Russell, as Oswald, in white silk stock-
material) received thirty pounds per week! No ings and the same dress he wore for Roderigo!.
wonder the theatre went to ruin, and my esteem-But the chief dependance of success was placed
ed friend, Stephen Kemble, retired in disgust to on a bran-new hurricane on shore, “ designed
his pretty cottage at Durham.
and invented" by somebody, "after the celebra-
Elliston took the reins under very different ted picture, by Loutherburg, of a Storm on
auspices. He was the lessee, and literally un- Land;" but, to give this additional effect, the
controlled, and a long and distinguished favour-sea was introduced in the back-ground, the bil-
ite with the public; his nature, too, admirably lows, painted after nature, "curling their mon-
fitting him not to allow old friendships, human-strous heads and hanging them with deafening:
ity, or kindness of heart to interfere with his in-clamours"-trees were made to see-saw back
terests. His theatre, to use his own expression, and forth, accompanied with the natural creak!
was not "intended as an hospital for invalids;" creak! attending the operation; Winston had
all the old servants of the public were, therefore, hunted up, without any expense to the management,
discharged, or those only retained on salaries every infernal machine that was ever able to
graded to the extreme of what their abject neces- spit fire, spout rain, or make thunder, and to-
sities obliged them to accept. For years the gether were brought into full play behind the en-
manager of the Surrey and Olympic, he brought trances. Over head were revolving prismatic
with him the experience purchased in that coloured transparencies, to emit a continual-
school to add to his admitted knowledge of the changing supernatural tint, and add to the un-
legitimate drama, and followed by crowds of earthly character of the scene. King Lear would
the utile, who, for the honour of belonging to one instant appear a beautiful pea-green, and
Drury Lane, would act for little salary, or none the next sky-blue, and, in the event of a mo-
at all; always ready, and possessed, in an une-mentary cessation of the rotary motion of the
qualled degree, of the fascinating power of per-magic lantern, his head would be purple and his
suading the public to anything he wished, he legs Dutch-pink. The common fault of all man-
took the direction of the theatre with the best kind is vaulting ambition, and, in the true spirit
possible chance of success-for a time, at any of that feeling, every carpenter who was intrust-
rate. His right-hand man was Winston, long ed to shake a sheet of thunder, or turn a rain-
associated as the drudging partner with Cole- box, was determined that his element should be
man and Morris, at the Haymarket. He had the most conspicuous of the party, and, together,.
been disappointed in his hopes of becoming an they raised a hurly-burly sufficient to "strike
actor himself, and, with the same acrimony of flat the thick rotundity o' the world," and not a
feeling an elderly virgin hates a blooming bride, word was heard through the whole of the scene.
he detested the professors of an art he hadn't Kean requested that it might "be iet off easy"
warmth of soul enough to advance in. It was the next night. "I don't care how many flashes
his province to measure out the canvass and of lightning you give me," said he, "but, for
colours for the painters, count the nails for the Heaven's sake, Winston, expel your wind and
carpenters, pick up the tin-tacks and bits of can- cut out your thunder."
dle, calculate on the least possible quantity of To keep his own name and that of his thea-
soap required for each dressing-room, and in-tre constantly before the public, he knew, from
vent and report delinquencies that could in any every quack's experience, was most important,.
way be construed into the liability of a forfeit; and every means to achieve this object was re-
of course, his prey was "such small deer" that sorted to by Elliston. A portico to the front en-
the gentlemen of the theatre wouldn't even con- trance was built on one night by torchlight, and
descend to spit upon him; but Smart, the lead- the police reports, were continually decorated
er, who, in the legitimate sense of the word, de- with a long account of an aggravated case of as-
served that title, literally did void his rheum upon sault and battery, committed by R. W. Elliston,
his face, one night, before the company, which Esq., on the person of a check-taker or an apple-
the dastard wiped off, and, "with 'bated breath woman. The poor, persecuted Queen Caroline,
and whispering humbleness," sued for pardon for about this time had arrived in England to de-
some dirty act. In the course of my experience mand redress for the unmanly accusations
I have noted many such "valuable creatures," brought against her by her husband, and Ellis-
as they are always called till they are found out, ton, taking good measure of the weak point in
pinned to the fortunes of a manager; and gen- the character of his "friend, George the Fourth,'
erally they get rich, and their employer gets as he always called him, showed his one-sided
poor, and, in his tattered authority, exclaims, loyalty and ignorance at the same time, by
"How strange it is that I should have been so omitting "et regina" at the bottom of the play-
deceived in that man!"
bills, and leaving "vivant rex." And so the sin-
gular plural remained for weeks till noticed by
the newspapers, which, perhaps, was what he
desired. But this paltry attempt to wound the
feelings of a suffering female, for the dirty de-
sire of pandering to the malignity of her de-
praved husband, was held in contempt and de-
rision by every thinking mind, and, I hope, by
even his King among the number.
King Lear, as threatened, was produced after
loud proclaim of preparation, and the tragedy
published as revised by the manager, and the
poor “nice-fruit-and-a-book-of-the-play" women
were obliged, on pain of dismissal, to add to their
ancient melody, "as adapted to the stage by R. W.
Elliston, Esquire !"
Full measure was taken of the taste of the
Surrey and Olympic audience, in rendering the
beautiful play as much like a melodrame as
the nature of its action would permit. I wish I
had a bill to refer to; but I remember great
credit was advertised as due to the management
in correcting the hitherto inaccurate costume,
>"'
By a succession of degradations, heaped un-
sparingly on the drama and its professors, he
laid the groundwork of that ruin to which his
followers brought
Poor Drury Lane.
48
THIRTY YEARS
CHAPTER XX.
"Sir, I desire you do me right and justice :
I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of your dominions; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding."
King Henry VIII.
AFTER leaving Drury Lane there were six
weeks to elapse prior to the opening of the Adel-
phi, but, fortunately for me, when it was first ru-
inoured that I was about retiring from that es-
tablishment, Moncrieff applied to me to under-
take the character of Leperello, which he offered
to prepare expressly for me, in a new piece called
"Giovanni in the Country," which he was then
dramatizing for the Cobourg. I consented, on
condition that my salary should commence im-
mediately, and that I should have the privilege
of resigning before the Adelphi opened, which
was readily acceded to; and on a Saturday night |
I bade farewell to "Old Drury," and on Mon-
day commenced an engagement "over the wa-
ter," in my favourite character of Sponge.
claim to a place in these pages; suffice it to say,
I was one of her most enthusiastic supporters;
for, admitting all they brought against her were
true, she was a woman, and I always make it a rule,
in taste, to be on their side, whether they are right
or wrong. In our theatre, both the Rodwells and
all the actors were of my opinion, excepting
good-natured, foolish old Lee, the stage-man-
ager, Willis Jones, his father, who was the
treasurer, and Mrs. Waylett; she declared she
thought the queen had acted very imprudently!!
On the night of her acquittal the excitement was
terrific; the military were ordered out, to intimi-
date the multitude by their presence, and in-
stantly suppress any treasonable outbreak by the
joy-intoxicated myriads who were parading the
streets, and rending the air with shouts of tri-
umph. Our theatre was crowded, and it so
happened that in the first piece some fifty su-
pernumeraries were employed. Highly elated
by the success of my party, I met these fellows,
ready dressed for the stage, awaiting the com-
mencement of the performance; and, without
Glossop was the manager; a very vulgar, ig- thought, in the fulness of my feeling, I proposed
norant man. I had little to do with him but in "Three cheers for the queen!" which was instant-
the way of business, and he was always ex- ly given, with due dramatic precision, and re-
tremely civil and correct in his dealings where I sponded to nine times by the audience, in a voice
was concerned. His father was a soap-boiler of thunder! All the actors rushed upon the
and candle-maker, and through some specula- stage, dressed and undressed, and old Lee, the
tions he had made, which appeared most ridicu- stage-manager, in his morning-gown; but no
lous to everybody, had unexpectedly, perhaps remark was made, and, delighted at so excellent
even to himself, realized an immense fortune. an opportunity of expressing my joy, I proceed-
His son married Miss Fearon, whom I knew at ed to dress for the performance. At the conclu-
Plymouth as the " English Catalani!" She was sion of the first act, there was a universal cry
the pupil of a violin-player called Cobham, had for "God save the Queen!" The number and
a delicious voice, and, from having been taught temper of the audience were tools too dangerous
from that instrument, her execution ever retain- to trifle with, and old Lee, who was foolish
ed the brilliant, articulate character peculiar to enough to adore the king, and, in consequence,
the "soul-awakening viol." She was, soon after hate the queen, had to address them in his "of-
her marriage, separated from Glossop, and, as ficial capacity;" after, in his usual style, stating
Madame Feron, visited this country as a prima that he was instructed "by Messrs. Jones and
donna some years since. His connexion with Rodwell to inquire their pleasure ?" and being
that lady probably induced him to dabble farther answered by a thousand voices, trumpet-
with theatricals, for which he was totally unfit-tongued," that they wanted "God save the
ted, "and the way he made the old man's soap and
candles melt was curious," as poor Moreland
would say. The decorations of the theatre were
the most gorgeous and costly of any in London;
good taste was thrust out of the way to make
room for gold, and silver, and brass, and glass,
and gas, in all directions, till "the sense ached"
at the dazzling profusion. No expenditure was
spared in the production of the pieces; and the
house was crowded every night. I was a great
favourite, and I passed a pleasant and profitable
time till the day arrived to walk over Waterloo
Bridge, and be once more welcomed at my pet
theatre, the Adelphi.
""
Queen!" he went on to say that "we agnize no
anthem called 'God save the Queen,' but if it
be the wish of the audience, at the end of the
first piece, the company will sing 'God save the
King.' As he had stated, the whole of the la-
dies and gentlemen (as is usual on such occa-
sions) appeared at the appointed time, and Mrs.
Tennant commenced the first verse, amid some
interruption by the audience,
"God save great George, our king;
Long live our noble king; God save the-”
"Queen!" I shouted with all my might. The
effect on the actors and audience was electrical,
and peal on peal of applause drowned the hear-
The trial of Queen Caroline, at about this ing of the termination of the verse; the second
time, created the most intense and universal was intrusted to Jones, now of the Park, who,
excitement among all classes of persons ever in a very gentlemanly manner, paused for my
witnessed in London during my recollection. "Queen!" some followers of my own and the
There were two parties, equally violent in their audience joined in the chorus according to my
opinions-the king's, cruel and vindictive in reading, and after an encore, either I or the
their accusations; and the queen's, boisterous "anthem," as Lee called it, got nine rounds of
and vehement in their declarations of her inno- applause. Not a word was said by the manage-
cence. It absorbed every other topic of conver- ment; Rodwells appeared delighted; and Lee's
sation; and the rancour with which either posi- opinion no one considered worth looking at;
tion was maintained severed the bonds of old but, before the pay-day came, I heard it rumour-
friendships, and ruffled the social compacted that I was to be forfeited a week's salary,
round the domestic hearth. Politics, of course,
made "confusion more confounded;" the Radi-
cals took side with the queen, and had a most
overwhelming majority. The particulars of the
non mi recordo,” and if I did, they have no
case
and my participators in the treason, whom I had
seduced from their allegiance, were to be pun-
ished in proportion; I was, therefore, prepared
for a defence, and proposed we should all go in
a body to the treasury, and that I should enter
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
49
·
alone, and endeavour to obtain a mitigation of
the sentence. When I presented myself, Mr.
Jones, an amiable and most gentlemanly man,
addressed me in the following manner:
"Mr. Cowell, I assure you it is with feelings
of the deepest regret that the management con-
sider it a duty they owe themselves to mark, by
the highest penalty in their power, the most un-
paralleled breach of decorum ever committed
within the walls of a well-regulated theatre. Of
the correctness of this charge against you you
must admit the justice; and of the offence itself,
I have no doubt your calm good sense has long
since made you both sorry and ashamed."
Here was a loophole for me to sneak out of,
but, heartily despising such means of escape, I
replied, "You are greatly mistaken, sir, if you
imagine that my conduct was influenced by any-
thing but a cool, deliberate feeling of a right I
had, as an honest man, to unite my poor voice
with thousands to rejoice at the escape of a
wretched lady from her malignant oppressor."
"Sir!" said he, with some warmth, "you and
I hold very opposite opinions on that subject,
and, however romantic yours may be, the thea-
tre was no place to express it in.”
"Sir!" said I, with equal temper, "my ro-
mantic feeling in the cause of an injured woman
will ever cause me to set at defiance any arbi-
trary law oppression can ever invent; and there
is no admitted one, in any theatre, under which
my supposed offence can be comprehended."
((
On the night our beloved queen was acquitted of
the vile and infamous charges that were fabricated
to achieve her ruin, a poor actor, in the fulness of
his heart, substituted queen' for 'king in a ful-
some song the overstrained loyalty of the managers
of the Adelphi Theatre endeavoured to thrust upon
the patience of the audience, and for this heinous of
fence, in their opinion, these lawmakers have taken
from him his week's wages, and his only means of
support for a wife and large family of children.”
"Why, surely, Mr. Cowell," said the old gen-
tleman, placing his spectacles on his forehead,
and leaning back in his chair, "you never in-
tended to publish such a mischievous article ?"
"Most decidedly I do, sir," I replied. "In
yesterday's New Times, that queen's scourge, as
it's properly called, there's a very mischievous
article at my expense, which I know emanated
from the theatre, for the expression, that I am as
illegitimate in my politics as I am in my acting, is
the very words Lee appeared so tickled to have
hit upon, when I confessed to breaking his win-
dows."
"Well, Mr. Cowell," said the good old man,
"I see 'tis vain to convince you of your error-
there's your salary-destroy that foolish paper,
and let us forget the circumstance."
"But there are others implicated,” said I.
"Oh, never fear," said he, "I shall not men-
tion the subject."
We conspirators met on the stage after re-
hearsal, and gave three loud cheers, but "named
no parties.
Why, I admit," said he, hesitatingly, "that
there is no specified rule, but you are aware the My engagement at the Adelphi being for three
management has the power-"
years, with a probability of a lease, renewable
Yes," interrupting him, "they have the pow-forever if I pleased, I was desirous of establish-
er over those—”
But, my dear Mr. Cowell," said the kind old
man, not allowing me to end my angry sentence,
"if your feelings were so violent in the cause,
why didn't you control them till after the per-
formance, and then give vent to them in the
:street ?"
ing myself in some other theatre for the summer
months. Glossop offered me an increase of
salary, provided I would remain the whole sea-
son; this, of course, I couldn't consent to. Mor-
ris made me an offer for the Haymarket, which
he intended to open that season by himself,
which I accepted; but in arranging the points
"So I did!" I replied: "I assisted some hack- of business, he stated the opening play was to be
ney-coachmen to break old Lee's windows, and the "Belle's Stratagem:" Dorecourt, Charles
made him light up, in spite of the love he bears Kemble; Flutter, Richard Jones; and I refused,
to George the Fourth. But, sir, instead of con- very foolishly, to open in Courtall, and ended
demning this ebullition of mine, it ought to be that affair. I had made up my mind to another
applauded as an act of policy; for, if the singing trip to Lincoln with my entertainment, when, at
of 'God save the king' had been persisted in, the the seventh hour, I received an offer from Will-
exasperated public would have possibly destroy-iam Barrymore, the author and stage-manager
ed the theatre."
((
Well, sir," said he, firmly, "I would rather
the property had been razed to the ground than
that an expression of partisanship so different
from my opinion should be bruited abroad. I
think very differently, though quite as enthusi-
.astically on the subject as you do; the friend-
ship of many I hold dear would be jeopardized
by my allowing such a wanton abuse of deco-
rum to pass unnoticed; I therefore must, in
self-defence, retain your week's salary; but no
doubt your general anxiety to forward the in-
terests of the establishment will soon give the
management an opportunity of justly restoring
the sum."
"Sir, I shall decline receiving it in any shape
but as a right!" I replied. "Understanding that
this stretch of power was to be assumed, I pre-
pared for the Times newspaper this little para-
graph, which, to prove how anxious I am to ex-
onerate you from any participation or approval
of my conduct, I'll read to you." And I produ-
ced the following:
"UNPRECEDENTED CRUELTY AND OPPRESSION.
E
for Astley, to undertake the principal character
in a magnificent equestrian drama, 'called "Gil
Blas," he was preparing. To obtain admitted
talent in those days, a high price had to be given
at a minor establishment; and Astley, following
the example of the Adelphi, and the fashion of
the time, had already engaged Henry Johnston,
and Mrs. Garrick, a delightful singer, from the
Haymarket. Astley's always opened on the
Easter Monday, and we closed in Passion-week,
and their season ended about the time the Adel-
phi commenced. The time suited me exactly; the
salary was unexceptionable; I should probably
have to play but the one part all the season,
and, in consequence, no rehearsals. I therefore
made the engagement, and with the assistance
of a jackass, caparisoned like a mule, with false
ears and a tail, for he had been "curtailed of his
fair proportion" of either to make him some-
times look like a pony, I was carried up hill
and down dale as the renowned Gil Blas, with
great success.
50
THIRTY YEARS
CHATER XXI.
"Poins. Come, your reason, Jack-your reason.
"Falstaff. What, upon compulsion? No: were I at the
strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell
you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if
reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man
a reason upon compulsion, I."-First part of King Henry IV.
STERNE says, in one of his sermons, "There
are secret workings in human affairs, which
overrule all human contrivance, and counter-
plot the wisest of our councils, in so strange and
unexpected a manner, as to cast a damp upon
'our best schemes and warmest endeavours."
Some such a "secret working" induced me
about this period to be most anxious to bid "my
native land good-night."
meeting. The hesitency in his style of delivery
didn't convey an idea that he was waiting for
words, for he appeared a very well-informed
man; but rather, that he was weighing the value
of each, and its probable consequences, before
he gave it utterance. As some one remarked of
him, "Stephen Price is not a man to eat his
words, but he always chews them well up before
he spits them out." Of his person no opinion
could be formed, in consequence of its attitude
and costume; his countenance was anything but
what would be called good, though capable of
an extremely agreeable expression; small, bright,
mischievous eyes, an abominable nose-looking
like a large thumb very much swollen, and near-
ly "coming to a head," but decision and firm-
Oxberry was publishing an edition of plays, ness strongly marked around his mouth; his
with portraits of the principal performers; his appearance and manner were greatly at vari-
engraver lived immediately opposite to my lodgance, for he looked like fifty, and talked like
ing, and when he had business with him he gen-
erally paid me a visit. He was in some trouble
one day in consequence of his not being able to
procure a likeness of Charles Kemble, in Romeo,
for which the publication of the tragedy was de-
tained, and though I had never spoken to Charles
Keinble in my life, his face was so "screwed to
my memory," I undertook to make a drawing.
He stayed to dinner with me, and during our
conversation while employed upon the sketch
(which was published with my name as the
artist), he happened to mention that Stephen
Price, the American manager, was a constant
visiter of the Drury Lane Green-room, intro-
duced by Wallack, who had been to the United
States, and went on to say that he had made him
an offer to cross the Atlantic. "Upon this hint
I spake."
By Heaven, Oxberry, that would be the very
thing for me."
"Why, that never entered my head," said he
he knew my reason;
"but how will you be able
to manage with your engagement at the Adelphi?
Price will jump at you, for to get a comedian is
the principal object of his visit to England."
แ
Why, Rodwell and I are old friends," said I,
"and the management collectively have a warm
feeling towards me, and under the circumstances,
I have no doubt of their consent; at all events,
if this American and I agree, I'll go at any risk."
Oh, of that there is no danger," said Oxberry,
"and I'll see him to-night, and name you to him;
he's a devilish pleasant fellow, when you get
used to him, but his manners are coarse in the
extreme; if he is a fair specimen of the Yankees,
they must be a d- rough set. But they say
he's very rich, a counsellor, and a colonel in the
army, and the devil knows what. He's the Mr.
Harris of America, and owns all the theatres in
the United States!”
twenty.
"I must apologize to you, Mr. Cowell," said
he, "for asking you to take your breakfast in
my bedroom; but after calling in at Astley's to
see you, Jeemes Wallack and myself finished the
evening at Vauxhall, and I didn't get home till
four this morning; and the cons'quence is I
caught cold, and have got a fit of the b- gout
I'm very subject to the d- thing. But Wal-
lack's the d-b- I ever met with—nothing ever
hurts him."
I, of course, was exactly of his way of think-
ing.
"Mr. Oxberry informs me, sir," said he, "that
you have a desire to visit New-Yo-ork."
"I have, sir," I replied.
“Well, sir,” said he, "I'll tell you, cand'dly,
that I'm d- if you'll do for New-Yo-ork, if you
are not a better actor than you a'peared last
night. I'll tell you what 'tis, there's a little b-
in the Park Theatre of the name of Nexon, who
can play that character quite as well as you can,
and he merely d'livers messages there."
"You have, I conclude, then, an excellent
company," said I, a little nettled, "on your side
the water?"
"A d― deal better company than they have in
any theatre in London," said he, faster than any-
thing he had said yet. "I have a young man,
a countryman of yours, of the name of Simp-son ;
he's a much better actor than your cel❜brated
Jones, somewheres about his size, and the most
industrious b- in the world. I have given him
one quarter of the Park Theatre, and made him
my stage-manager," looking at me as if to give
me a hope I might get a quarter if I minded my
hits; but I said, as if ending the treaty,
Well, sir, surrounded as you are by such a
galaxy of talent, it will be advisable for me to
remain in London ?"
66
'Why, sir," he replied, quickly, "I'll tell you
what 'tis: Jeemes Wallack and sev'ral of my
friends say that you're a b-good actor, but that
you won't act at Astley's. What will you take
to go to New-Yo-ork?"
"Fifteen pounds a week," I replied.
"I'll give you ten pounds a week for the first
season," said he, "and twelve for the second."
"Agreed," said I.
On the following day I got a note from Stephen
Price, requesting that I would breakfast with
him at ten o'clock the next morning. He lodg-
ed in Norfolk-street, in the Strand. The door
was opened by a servant-girl; in answer to my
inquiry, she said, "I'll see," and in a minute a
negro man appeared, and showed his own teeth
and me into the parlour, where a cloth was laid
for breakfast. In a short time he returned to say,
"Mr. Price would be glad to see me up stairs." I
was conducted to a chamber; and on the bed, with
his feet wrapped in flannel, and his body in a wad-
ded silk morning-gown, lay Stephen Price. In
a peculiarly distinct, drawling manner, which,
till you got accustomed to it, had a very singu- If he had known, however, as much as I did,
lar effect, he said the usual civil things on a first | he would have offered me a guinea a week, and
"When can you go?" said he.
"To-morrow," said I.
"Well, sir," said he, smiling, "I'm d- but
you are certainly the easiest man to make a bar-
gain I ever dealt with."
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
5L
I would have taken it; but, Heaven be praised!, ced to the captain, who was our witness on the
he didn't, and he continued,
occasion, and on Sunday evening I joined the
ship at Gravesend.
"There's an eternal fine ship, called the T'ames,
sails from London on the first of September, and
another, called the Albion, on the same day from
Liverpool, in which I shall sail. The only dif-
'rence in the thing is, you get to sea a d- deal
quicker by going to Liverpool.'
">
|
ways remind me of a little lot of specimen sheep
from different flocks, put together for the first.
time in the same pen; they walk about, and
round and round, with all their heads and tails
in different directions, and not a baa! escapes
them; but in half an hour some crooked-pated
bell-wether, perhaps, gives a South-down a little
dig in the ribs, and this example is followed by
a Merino, and, before the ending of the fair, their
heads are all one way, and you'll find them bleat--
ing together in full chorus.
It was a dark, drizzly, melancholy night—a
fair specimen of Gravesend weather and the
parts adjacent-no "star that's westward from
the pole" to point my destined path, and furnish
food for speculative thought; and, after sliding
I gave the London ship the preference, as five or six times up and down some twenty feet.
more convenient on account of baggage, and of wet deck, I groped my way to the cabin. The
that I might once more visit my old cruising-captain was not on board, and I found myself a
ground the British Channel, and perhaps forever stranger among men, for there were four besides
bid farewell to the scenes of my boyhood. myself, or, rather, three, for one was asleep, I
The terms of benefits, and other important suppose, for he was snoring very loud, in a berth
items of the engagement, were pointed out and next to my state-room. Such stopped-headed.
specified in a plain, honest, business-like man- gentlemen are an abominable nuisance, near, or
ner. He was to see Captain Charles H. Mar- in your dormitory on shore, in harbour, or
shall, and secure the passages, and have the arti- "caught in a calm;" but under way on the At-
cles prepared for signature, during the little week lantic, he may breathe as loud and in any way
that was to elapse before my departure. We he thinks proper, without inconvenience to any-
had a long and extremely pleasant conversation, body but himself. Of all gregarious animals,
chiefly descriptive of the country I was about to man is the most tardy in getting acquainted:
adopt. His style was peculiarly suited to mi-meet them for the first time in a jury-box, a
nuté detail, and information in that shape, then | stage-coach, or the cabin of a ship, and they al-
so interesting to me, was highly entertaining;
and, to his honour be it said, I did not detect
by experience the most remote exaggeration in
any of the matters he named, always excepting
the talent of his dramatic corps, and even there
"his failing leaned to virtue's side." And upon
acquaintance, I found he made it a rule to speak
of all, while in his employ, in the most exalted
terms of praise, but, the moment they left him,
they were "d- impostors and b- scoundrels."
The coarse and highly objectionable epithets
with which he unsparingly larded his conversa- Now, in the case of man, a snuff-box, or a
tion were delivered, apparently, so unconscious- mull, instead of the sheep's horn, is an admira-
ly, and, from long habit, were mixed up so mi- ble introduction; for, if he refuses to take a
nutely with his discourse, that by those familiar pinch, he'll generally give you a sufficient reason.
with him the peculiarity would pass unnoticed. why he does not, and that's an excellent chance
My lamented friend Rodwell met my case to form, perhaps, a lasting friendship-but to
with the feeling of a brother, but Jones was out "scrape an acquaintance" to a certainty; and
of town, and, without his concurrence, the neces- if he takes it, perhaps he'll sneeze, and you can
sary form of release from my obligation could come in with your "God bless you!" and so on,
not be effected; but, as "the affair cried haste," to a conversation about the plague in '66, or the
he undertook to write to him. As Price very yellow fever on some other occasion, and can
justly said, "
Anybody could play Gil Blas as "bury your friends by dozens," and " escape
well as I did;" the part itself was little better yourself by miracle," very pleasantly for half an
than a walking gentleman, and the jackass sus- hour. But in this instance it was a total failure:
tained that part of the character; and though one said, "I don't use it;" another shook his
the author intended we should divide the ap- head, and the third emptied his mouth of half a
plause, I quietly resigned my share in his favour. pint of spittle, and said "he thought it bad
I felt, therefore, confident that Astley would be enough to chaw." Well, as I couldn't with
delighted to save my useless and large salary for propriety ask why he "didn't use snuff," and
the next four weeks, but, to my great astonish- the mandarin-man might be dumb for anything:
ment for I put the cause of my wishing to re- I knew to the contrary, and expect me to talk
sign on that footing-he declared himself more with my fingers; and if I had contradicted the
than satisfied with my engagement, and refused, last I might, from his appearance and manner,
in the most positive manner, to give up my arti- have got into a fight instead of a chat, I quietly
cles. To him, of course, I said nothing of my took a seat at the table, snuffed two tallow-can-
intention of sailing to America. On Friday dles, and took a synopsis of the floating apart-
evening Willis Jones sent for me to the stage ment. There were two horse-hair sofas on
door, presented me with a letter, full of kind either side a table, twelve berths with red cur-
wishes, from Rodwell, and the documents of our tains and sea-sick-yellow fringe, and, properly,
agreement, and we parted-as warm friends al-four state-rooms forward of the mizen-mast, one
ways part. I complained of indisposition, and of which Price had engaged for myself and Mrs.
Astley, who, unlike his father, was a most gen-Cowell, and the one next to it was used as a pan-
tlemanly creature-in manner and appearance try. I was speculating as to what kind of hu-
more like an eminent physician or a clergyman man beings were shut up in the other-two, when
than the manager of a circus-insisted that I my curiosity was half removed by a female
shouldn't play; and some young man, who had leading out a beautiful little boy from one of
been instructed, in case of an accident, to under-them. No matter what I may be with men and
study the character, took the jackass ride for me, women, I am always a great favourite with
and I packed up my baggage. The next morn- dogs, and cats, and infants of a certain age, and
ing I signed and sealed with Price, was introdu- we generally get acquainted in an instant.´ He
52
THIRTY YEARS, ETC.
((
upon asking his name, he replied,
sea-monster;"
"If you're an Englishman, and I once tell
you my name, you'll never forget it."
you my name, you'll never forget it.'
"I don't know that," I replied; "I'm very un-
fortunate in remembering names."
"Oh, never mind!" said he, with a peculiarly
sly, comical look: "if you're an Englishman
you'll never forget mine.
had just gained that delightful period when chil- | drowning marks upon him." The mate was
dren think more than they have power to utter; a weather-beaten, humorous
and I love to translate their innocent thoughts.
I had been obliged to leave my two dear boys to
follow me; and this little fellow, by reminding
me of them, seemed to have a claim to my af-
fection; his mother was a simple, amiable crea-
ture in her deportment, and myself and wife
were rejoiced at meeting companions for our
voyage so suited to our feeling. She, with art-
less eloquence, told us that her husband, an Eng-
lish farmer in good circumstances, had sailed
for America more than three years before, and
that she had been prevented accompanying him
in consequence of the sudden illness of her
mother, "who is in heaven now," and, with her
beautiful baby, whom his father had never seen,
was journeying to her new home in the United
States.
In the morning the captain arrived, and in-
troduced me to the gentleman who didn't use
snuff, as Mr. Scovell, a part-owner of the vessel;
he was a resident of New-York, and in partner-
ship with his brother, a merchant in South-street,
but a native of Connecticut; and after the river
in that state, which wanders "his silver wind-
ing way," the ship was named, and pronounced
by him as spelled, the Thames; contrary to the
usage of
"Full many a sprightly race,
"Then I certainly am," I replied.
Bunker! and I'm d- if any Englishman will
"Well, then," said he, dryly, "my name's
ever forget that name!"
"All in the Downs the fleet lay moored," as
usual; perhaps twenty sail, bound to all sorts
of places, and waiting for all sorts of winds, and
we were obliged to follow the fashion of that
abominable stopping-place; but the few days'
detention gave our small party time to get ac-
quainted e'er that
"The vessel spread her ample sail
From Albion's coast, obsequious to the gale."
My pet and playfellow and myself were
sworn friends; and 'twas delicious, each night,
to listen to him while, with his little hands to-
wards heaven held, kneeling at his mother's feet,
and gazing with childish earnestness on her face,
made beautiful by the expression of pure piety,
repeat in lisping tones, soft and sweet as music
at a distance, prayers and blessings on a father
he had never seen. On a Saturday night he went
to bed apparently well, and the next morning he
was a corpse! he had died of the croup.
Disporting on the margent green"
of "father Thames;" whether "bound 'prentice
to a waterman," or "on earnest business bent,"
all there agree to call it "Tems." The gentle-
man who shook his head was a Presbyterian cler-
gyman, of the name of Arbuckle, of Pennsylva-
nia, a most amiable young man. The chaw
individual had a sick wife on board, a sufficient
excuse for his being very disagreeable; and I
make it a rule never to remember the names of
persons I don't think it worth while to like or
dislike. My friend with the impediment in his
nose was Mr. John Kent, who claimed to be a
brother actor; he was engaged by Mr. Price,
but I had never been introduced to him before.
The captain was Charles H. Marshall, a very
good-looking, and very fine fellow, with "no | I'll here end the first volume.
A fair breeze had sprung up, and orders were
necessarily given to unmoor. He was hurried
to the burial-ground at Deal. The mother's
agony was frightful; and when she saw him
placed in "his narrow cell," "Oh! the cry did
knock against my very heart!" and the last tear
I shed upon my native land moistened
AN INFANT'S GRAVE.
"As one who, in his journey, bates at noon,
Though bent on speed,"
THIRTY YEARS
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS
IN
ENGLAND AND AMERICA:
INTERSPERSED WITH
ANECDOTES AND REMINISCENCES
OF A VARIETY OF PERSONS,
DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY CONNECTED WITH THE DRAMA DURING THE
THEATRICAL LIFE OF
JOE COWELL, COMEDIAN.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
IN TWO PART S.
PART II-AMERICA.
"So many particulars may perhaps disgust a philosophical reader; but curiosity, that weakness so com-
mon to mankind, deserves a higher name when it is employed upon times and persons of which posterity
has no other means of forming an opinion."-CHAMBAUD.
NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1844.
Entered, "according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
THIRTY YEARS
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.

CHAPTER I.
Home of the free! Land of the great and good,
Whose heritage is glory! IIail to theo!
Thou oft, undaunted, nobly hath withstood
Europa's best and proudest chivalry;
And, conquering, won a mighty destiny
First mid the notions; and thy flag of light
Gleams on all climes, a brilliant galaxy,
To guide to Freedom from foul Slavery's might;
Typing thy hero-sons' apotheosis bright."
LEWIS FOULKE THOMAS.
WE left the Downs on the 8th of September,
1821, and, after a tedious and most boisterous
passage, on the 23d of October, as the sun "went
down into the sea," the welcome cry of "Land,
ho!" from the foretop, cheered the spirits of the
mind-tired passengers and worn-out crew. We
had a light, fair breeze and fine weather, and we
stood boldly on all night. For though "the A.
No. 1, copper-bottomed, good ship Thames," as
she was rated on the books at Lloyd's, had well-
nigh sent " Old Kent and I," parson and all, to
the bottom, the captain was "of very expert
and approved allowance," and at daylight-for
be sure I was in his watch-for the first time in
my life, I beheld the Highlands of Neversink.
Marshall and myself had become great friends,
and, being most anxious to get to the city, he kind
ly allowed me to take the yawl with four hands,
and as Scovill was equally desirous, he accom-
panied me. After four hours' good rowing we
met the tide, and were obliged to make a landing
on Staten Island, about two miles from the Quar-
antine ground. Leaving the boat in the care of
the people, the owner and myself walked to the
ferry. The steamer Nautilus, which was still
puffing and blowing in the same line of business
when I was last in New-York, six years ago,
landed us at the Battery. Scovill took me to
his counting-room and introduced me to his
brother, who very sedately, yet kindly, welcom-
ed me to his country, and their porter conducted
me to the Park Theatre. Price was standing
on the steps, and as the ship was not yet even
reported "below," he had no expectation of see-
ing me, and, in fact, had begun to suspect the
ship was below in the genuine sense of the word.
It was after the time of rehearsal, and Simpson
had left the theatre. Price gave me the address
of a boarding-house he had kindly provided for
me, and, of course, asked me to dinner, which I
declined, on the score of having placed myself,
as it were, under the conduct of Scovill for the
day, and he would, of course, expect me, but
proinised to be at the theatre in the evening.
to London?" and so on; handed me a news-
paper, turned the top of a candle-box inside out,
and begged I would be seated. For an hour or
more they continued in conversation, and I to
read the National Advocate, every advertisement
decorated with a woodcut of little boys pulling
on boots, ladies having their hair dressed, and
other useful and necessary arts illustrated, on a
sheet of paper about the same size as two pages
of the Penny Magazine. I had read it all through
once, and got so far the second time as the price
for advertising, and "published by Phillips
and edited by M. M. Noah," when one Scovill
looked at his watch and the other asked the
time-they were partners even to a watch-and
they both agreed it was the dinner-hour; took
their hats; begged I wouldn't disturb myself;
would be happy to see me at any time; I should
always find the morning news," and walked off.
During the passage Scovill had been very un-
well, and very frightened, and, under the cir-
cumstances, I had been able to render him some
very valuable services; any attention while suf-
fering from terror or sea-sickness is very apt to
produce strong symptoms of gratitude at the
time, and I don't know what Scovill had not
promised to do for me when he got to New-York.
after leaving the ship in the morning, in conse-
But I had a right to expect a dinner; for soon
quence of shipping a spray now and then, and
leaked a little, we were obliged to bail; at the
the boat, having been so long out of the water,
sight of this operation his heart failed him, and
him that there was not the least cause of alarm,
he entreated us to go back; but upon assuring
to change the subject of his thoughts, I presume,
"Trembling and talking loud,"
he said, "Of course you'll dine and spend the
day with me and my dear brother?" and I said,
"Yes." But I conclude his dear brother didn't
calculate there was any advantage to be gained,
in a mercantile point of view, by an acquaint-
ance with a play-actor, and as I was not likely
to be of any farther use to my sea friend, the little
expense was very prudently saved.
Tumbling by accident over such specimens of
humanity, on first landing in a strange country,
frequently lays the foundation of a lasting prej-
udice against a whole people. I stood for a few
seconds on the threshold of that inhospitable
door,
"And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds."
My acquaintance with Price was too slight
to return to him and explain my disappointment,
I returned to the counting-room. Both the and accept his proffered dinner; and, indeed,
merchants inquired if I had seen Mr. Price-how could I tell but that he had also repented of
how I liked the city. “Wasn't it very superior | his impulsive civility, and that I might receive
56
THIRTY YEARS
a second, and, from him, a more severe mortifi- | hind" at the red herrings in the barrel, and turn-
cation? I had refused to be introduced to the ed the corner of the street, where I encountered
boarding-house Price had selected, preferring two young men picking their teeth, for which I
that my dear wife should form an unbiased have never forgiven them.
opinion of the necessary comforts required for
our new home. There was no human being to
my knowledge I was acquainted with in New-
York, with the exception of Barnes, who, I found,
was a member of the company; he had ever
been very kind to me while at Plymouth-he
used to call me his son-and if I had been, he
could not have shown more anxiety to give me
every instruction in his power, in my early at-
tempts at low comedy. But some years had
elapsed since we parted, and the Atlantic rolled
between the land where our friendship had been
formed, and inviting myself to dinner was rather
an odd way of renewing it. I could not tell, too,
if change of air, as well as circumstances, might
not have an effect on that "charm that lulls to
sleep," and give likely cause "to steep his senses
in forgetfulness."
The feelings created by the war with Eng-
land, then long since over, was still rankling in.
the minds of the lower order of Americans, as if
it were yet raging, and their hatred of an Eng-
lishman they took a pride in showing whenever
in their power. In every quarrel, domestic or
national, it will always be found that the con-
queror is the last to forget, and generally the last
to forgive. The language necessarily used in
boasting of success rekindles the fury of a fire
the dews of peace should always quench. In
England it had ceased to be spoken of, or even.
alluded to. But, it must be acceded, a war
there, or in any monarchical government, cre-
ates very different feelings (if any at all) from
the "one spirit" which actuates a free and sov-
ereign people, whose lives, whose fortunes, and
whose sacred honour were pledged by their fa-
When we left the ship, Scovill had provided thers to defend their homes and liberty, and who.
himself with a "hunk" of gingerbread-that is, if with one accord exclaim, "United we stand,.
a cake of molasses and flour, without spice, could divided we fall." But in my country, such an
be so called-and myself and the men with some event being declared against any power, with a
bread and pork, and a keg of water; nearly all large portion of its inhabitants only occasions re-
the luxuries the ship could boast of, with the ex-gret, or delight, according to how much it may
ception of some sea-sick ducks, a pig with the
measles, and a sheep in a consumption; for, as
the never-to-be-forgolten Bunker said,
"It coughs like a Christian, don't it, parson ?"
It will readily be imagined that I had a most
devouring appetite, for, with the exception of a
"bite" in the boat, I had not tasted food since
the night before. I had put in my pockets, more
for show than service, some thirteen or fourteen
English shillings: New-York was then a very
different place of accommodation for travellers
from what it is at the present day; no oyster-cel-
lars that you could tumble into at every corner;
restaurat" staring you in the face in every
street; and coffee-houses, and all sorts of houses,
capable and ready to accommodate a stranger.
The only two places of the kind in existence
then, even when you were directed where to find
them, was "Morse's," a very humbly-fitted-up
cellar, where a table-cloth was never seen, and
a clean knife only by waiting till the operation
was performed, under a store in Park Row, where
now, I suppose, there are thirty; and there you
could get a fried beef-steak, raw oysters, or soup
made of the same material, which at that time I
considered sauce for codfish by another name;
and one of a little better class, kept by a French-
man, under Washington Hall, then the second
best hotel in the city. After wandering about I
knew not whither, "oppressed with two weak
evils," fatigue and hunger, I entered what in
London would be called a chandler's shop, put
some money on the counter, and inquired if they
would sell me for that coin some bread and but-
ter and a tempting red herring or two I saw in
a barrel at the door.
((
'Why, what coin is it?" said a fellow in a
red-flannel shirt and a straw hat.
|
interfere with or advance individual interest;:
and the combatants themselves, hired to fight,.
never care for what, nor even inquire the cause
of quarrel, but, with bulldog courage, seek the
"bubble reputation, even at the cannon's mouth."
The turning I had made from the grocery was
into a badly-paved, dirty street, leading up a
slight ascent from the river to Broadway, and at
about half the distance, to my joy, I beheld, over a
dingy-looking cellar, "Exchange Office. Foreign
gold and silver bought here.” I descended three
or four wooden steps, and handed my handful of
silver to one of "God's chosen people,” and, af-
ter its undergoing a most severe ringing and
rubbing, the (I have no doubt) honest Israelite
handed me three dirty, ragged one-dollar bills,
which, he said, “s'help me God is petter as
gould." As all I wanted then was that they
should be better than silver, my politics at that
time didn't cavil at the currency, and I hastily
retraced my steps to the red-shirted herring deal-
er, and, placing one of the dirty scraps of paper
on the counter, I exclaimed, with an air of con-
fidence, "There, sir, will that answer your pur-
pose?" He was nearly of the Jew's opinion, for
he declared that it was "as good as gold," and I.
gave him a large order, and made my first meal
in the United States seated on a barrel, in a grocery“
at the foot of Wall-street.
The best sauce to meat is appetite, and my
herrings and bread and butter put me in a much
better humour with myself and everybody else.
From information gleaned from my anti-English
friend and his customers, I was assured that the
ship would be up by the evening tide, and anchor
for the night in the stream, by nine or ten
o'clock, and I engaged an owld counthryman to
take me on board. Thus relieved in mind and
body, I sallied forth again, up Wall-street and
through Broadway. The pavement was horri-
ble, and the sidewalks, partly brick and partly
flagstones, of all shapes, put together as nearly
as their untrimmed forms would permit. The
I thought, under all the circumstances, and Park, which Scovill had spoken of with en-
from the appearance of the brute, it might be thusiasm, I found to be about the size of Port-
imprudent to extol or explain their value, and man Square, but of a shape defying any gec
therefore I "cast one longing, lingering look be-metrical term to convey the form of it. It had
'English shillings," I replied.
No," said the fellow, "I know nothing about
English shillings, nor English anything, nor I
don't want to.'
"}
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
57
been surrounded by a wooden, unpainted, rough
fence, but a storm on the first of September, the
power of which we had felt the full force of,
twenty days after, on the Atlantic, had prostra-
ted the larger portion, together with some fine
old button wood-trees, which either nature or the
good taste of the first settlers had planted there,
and the little grass the cows and pigs allowed to
remain was checkered o'er by the short cuts to
the different streets in its neighbourhood. The
exterior of the theatre was the most prison-
like-looking place I had ever seen appropriated
to such a purpose. It is not much better now;
but then it was merely rough stone, but now it's
rough cast, and can boast of a cornice. Ob-
serving the front doors open, I ventured in, and,
opening one of the boxes, endeavoured to take a
peep at the interior of the shrine at which I was
either to be accepted or sacrificed; but, coming
immediately out of the daylight, all was dark as
Erebus. A large door at the back of the stage
gave me a glimmer of that departinent, and gro-
ping my way through the lobby, I felt, at the ex-
tremity, a small opening, and proceeding, as I
intended, very cautiously, tumbled down three
or four steps, and was picked up at the bottom
by some one in the dark, who led me on the
stage.
"Have you hurt yourself?" said this im-
mensely tall, raw-boned fellow, with his shirt
sleeves rolled up over an arm the same size
from the wrist to the shoulder.
No," I replied, "but I wonder I didn't."
"Have you any business here?" said he.
"No, nothing particular," said I.
|
which they were made, were in my opinion a
vast improvement to the unfurnished appearance
of the house.
Phillips as Lionel, and Mrs. Holman as Clar-
rissa, shared equally the approbation of the
audience: the current of whose simple, unso
phisticated taste had not then been turned awry
by fashion, obliging them to profess an admira-
tion of the enormities of the German and Italian
school, which, in these days of humbug and re-
finement, they alone pretend to listen to. Simp-
son was the Jessamy. As it happened, 'twas one
of Jones's very good parts. The audience ap-
peared to back Price's opinion, judging from the
applause, but, for my own part, I was of a very
different way of thinking. Barnes was Colonel
Oldboy: in vulgar old men, such as Delph or
Lord Duberly, he was excellent; but, though
Oldboy is extremely coarse in his language, he
is still a gentleman of that school, and, therefore,
a character out of Barnes's direct line. It was
either the very first or second appearance of my
friend Peter Richings, one of the best general
actors now on the continent; he was the Mr.
Harman, and I honestly believe he was even
more stupid than I was at the same point of ex-
perience. But for the friendly interference of
the amiable Miss Johnston, through his embar-
rassment he would inevitably have been shut
outside the drop at the finale to the first act, and
his narrow escape seemed greatly to add to the
amusement of the good-tempered audience.
Fully satisfied that I had nothing to fear,
judging by the way the portion of the perform-
ance I had witnessed that evening had been ap-
"Then you can go out," said he, and he point-proved of, I set off in good spirits to my appoint
ed to the opening at the back.
whole distance; 'twas about eight o'clock, and
every store was shut; nor did I meet more than
thirty persons during my walk. Look at Broad-
way and Wall-street now! I found my Irish
Charon true to his appointment, but the ship was
not expected for two hours at least. I inquired of
mine host if I should be an intruder by remaining
in his shop, and being answered in the negative,
I ordered some more bread and butter, and a her-
ring "to close the orifice of the stomach," and
took my old seat on a barrel of pickled shad, as
it proved to be; for, after a while, the head slip-
ped in, and so did the tail of my new black coat,
which I had had made out of respect to the
memory of poor Queen Caroline. To make my-
self as amiable as possible in the estimation of
four or five gentlemen, short of shirt and long.
in beard, who may frequently be found in such
places, I treated, "like a man," to two or three
rounds of grog and cigars. I was then no con-
noisseur in the latter article, having never smo-
ked tobacco in any shape in my life; but to act
up to the pure agrarian principles I professed, I
undertook a "long nine" and a couple of glasses
of "excellent brandy," as old red shirt said. On
the passage I had never even tasted wine or
spirits, though those luxuries were included in
the thirty-five guineas apiece cabin fare. So illy
prepared, the "long nine" soon knocked me over
as flat as a nine-pounder: I was sick;
ment at the foot of Wall-street. The night was
I took the hint and direction, and found myself very dark, not a lamp was to be seen, save a
in an alley knee deep with filth the whole width twinkle from a little light through the closed
of the theatre. I continued my walk up Broad-glass door of a solitary chemist's shop, in the
way, and as I went the houses diminished both
in size and number, and in less than a mile I was
in the country. On my return, the theatre doors
were open, and the audience already assembling.
Phillips, the singer, was the "star," and the per-
formance, "Lionel and Clarrissa." The opera
had not commenced, but I took a seat, with about
twenty others, in the second tier. The house
was excessively dark; oil, of course, then was
used, in common brass Liverpool lamps, ten or
twelve of which were placed in a large sheet-
iron hoop, painted green, hanging from the ceil-
ing in the centre, and one, half the size, on each
side of the stage. The fronts of the boxes were
decorated, if it could be so called, with one con-
tinuous American ensign, a splendid subject,
and very difficult to handle properly, but this
was designed in the taste of an upholsterer, and
executed without any taste at all; the seats were
covered with green baize, and the back of the
boxes with whitewash, and the iron columns
which supported them covered with burnished
gold! and looking as if they had no business
there, but had made their escape from the Co-
burg. The audience came evidently to see the
play, and be pleased, if they possibly could, with
everything; the men, generally, wore their hats;
at all events, they consulted only their own opin-
ion and comfort in the matter; and the ladies, I
observed, very sensibly all came in bonnets, but
usually dispossessed themselves of them, and
tied them, in large bunches, high up to the gold
columns; and as there is nothing a woman can
touch that she does not instinctively adorn, the
varied colours of the ribands and materials of
"The dews of death
IIung clammy on my forehead, like the damps
Of midnight sepulchres."
I was perfectly in my senses, but was incapa-
ble of sound or motion, or, I should more proper
1
58
THIRTY YEARS
ly say, voice or action. In these days the march, Cowell was all over the store and the two par-
of improvement in such matters, would have
doomed me to the certainty of having my throat
cut, then stripped, and thrown into the dock;
and the next day a coroner's inquest would have
quietly brought in a verdict of "found drowned," |
and no more would be said about the matter.
But at the untutored period I speak of, they were
content to take only my movables, id est, my hat,
cravat, watch, snuffbox, handkerchief, and the
balance of the dirty dollars. My incapacity to
make resistance saved my coat, for I was so lim-
ber they couldn't get it off whole, and after, in
their endeavours, splitting it down the back, and
the tail being in a precious pickle, they con-
cluded it would be more honourable to let me
keep it carried me down to a boat, rowed me
off to the ship, and delivered me to Old Bunker,
as "a gentleman very unwell."
This is "a full, true, and particular account" of
my manner of passing one day out of upward of
EIGHT THOUSAND I've seen in the UNITED STATES.
CHAPTER II.
"My name is Pestilence: hither and thither
I flit about, that I may slay and smother;
All lips which I have kissed must surely wither,
But Death's-if thou art he, we'll work together."
Revolt of Islam.
of our own.
lours into the bargain; a sort of sized room that
any strolling company in England would be de-
lighted to meet with, in the event of not being
able to procure the Town Hall. There were
eight large windows-three on one side and five
on the other; a little fireplace in one corner, with
four bricks, instead of andirons, supporting two
or three sticks of green wood, hissing and boil-
ing to death, and making water instead of fire
all over the hearth; a bedstead, without posts or
curtains; four chairs, about twelve feet apart,
by way of making the most of them, and a piece
of ragged carpet, about the same portable size of
those used for little spangled children to dislo-
cate their bodies on, to a tune on the tambarine,
about the streets of London. After starving with
cold and hunger, and taking lessons in the Cock-
ney dialect, whether I liked it or not, for two
weeks, I moved to a plain, honest Yankee wom-
an's - Mrs. Gantley-where I remained till I
could procure a house.
There is still a remnant of the custom, but
then it was universal, for all classes of citizens,
tradesmen or otherwise, no matter how advan-
tageously they were situated for either business
or comfort, to change their abode on the first of
May. From that date all houses and stores
were rented for one year; and the hurry, bustle,
turmoil, and confusion into which that day threw
the whole population of New-York, from the
highest to the lowest, cannot be conceived; it
THE next day the ship got into her berth long could be compared with nothing but itself. A
before I got out of mine, and it was nearly sun- town besieged, or a general conflagration, would
down when we drove to our new abode at the fail to convey an idea of the ridiculous effect of
corner of Greenwich and Dey streets. Price an immense mass of men, women, and children,
had selected a boarding-house kept by an Eng-loaded with articles of household utility or orna-
lish widow, considerately thinking our tastes ment, taking shelter, with much seeming anx-
would be better understood by a countrywoman iety, in some abode, from which another party,
It is too late in the day to give ad- loaded in the same manner, were making their
vice on this subject; but I soon learned that in escape. The streets crowded with carts, wag-
any dealings in which an English man or woman ons, and carriages of every denomination-en-
should properly be the subordinate party, to avoid gaged, perhaps, three months before-teeming
them as I would a pestilence. Intoxicated with over with chairs and tables, in the hurry, appa-
the supposed sudden possession of what is called rently, packed on purpose to tumble off, to the
liberty and equality, they mistake "impudence for great delight of the cabinet-makers and others,
independence." To use a homely phrase, "They who took no interest in the matter beyond the
don't know which way their 'ed 'angs," and their mischief. No better proof of the national for-
unbridled ignorance, as well as being inconve- bearance, and government of temper natural to
nient, has often made me blush for my country. the Americans, than such a trial of patience as
This lady had been a lady's maid according this could possibly be invented; and yet even
to her own account, and, to use her idiom, "Had the demolition of a favourite basket of china, or
moved in the first society, till left by her dear hus- a dray carrying a load of furniture nobody could
band, who was gone to Abraham's bosom, to keep a find out where; or the porter's placing a ponder-
boarding-house!" She had two very genteel youngous piece of furniture in the fourth story of Nc.
women for daughters, who, in London, might
have got a living by clear-starching and stitch-
ing; here, the foolish mother prided herself upon
"their not being able to do anything at all."
It was a large house, the lower story occupied
as an extensive grocery. The private entrance
was carpeted all over, and crowded with house-
'hold furniture; some of it appeared as if it had
no business there, but I soon found out it was
all the fashion; for example, there were two di-
ning tables, one with mahogany leaves down to
its ankles, very much in the way, against the
wall, and another more so, making believe to
get out of it, by being turned up on its tripod
leg behind the street door.
There were two well-appointed parlours, one
for dining and the other for sitting, with sofas,
mirrors, and a pianoforte, upon which, I was de-
lighted to hear, the ladies couldn't play. The
apartment allotted for the use of myself and Mrs.
80, when it was expected in the front parlour of
No. 1, were causes for merriment, especially to
those who had the right to be annoyed; and, with
the exception of some disputed points of etiquette
among the Irish carmen, the whole day's "toi..
and trouble"--for
"My business in this state
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna”-
appeared to be considered an excellent frolic.
Simpson I found to be a blunt, plain man,
who welcomed me without either warmth or
ceremony; he hadn't a morning-gown, but the
most amiable expression of countenance I think
I ever beheld. For the convenience of the the-
atre, I was to appear in L'Clair, in the "Found-
ling of the Forest ;" and Crack, in the "Turn-
pike Gate," was suggested, or, rather, insisted
upon by Price as the farce; for, having formed
a" Gil Blas" opinion of my talent, he was de-
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
59
termined to be satisfied at once if I was equal to | M. M. Noah, then the high-sheriff, who has ever
what my friends in London had represented. since, when in his power, shown me great kind-
Barnes was a great favourite in that character, ness and attention.
and him, I found, I was expressly engaged to ant, self-salisfied sensation, I never experienced be-
That night I felt a triumph-
supplant in the favour of the audience.
fore nor since.
I was merely underlined "from Drury Lane," Simpson had only been married a short time,
my "first appearance in America," on one of and, like myself and others, was waiting till the
Phillips's off-nights, and, in consequence, the first of May to go into housekeeping; but he
house was very little better than it probably gave a very handsome dinner, on Sunday, at his
would have been without my playing at all. My boarding-house, kept by the widow of George
reception was kind in the extreme; and at the Frederic Cooke, where I met Price's two broth-
end of the first piece, Price came round and paiders, William and Edward, Noah, Jarvis, the cel-
me some very high compliments. Simpson said ebrated painter, and most eccentric character,
some civil things; but I could plainly see peep-and a large party of gentlemen. Simpson, true
ing through then that he thought me "very dear to Price's description, was the most industrious
for the money." I was then only twenty-nine man I ever knew; he generally played in every
years of age, and the contrast between the young piece that there was any necessity for his appear-
soldier and Crack was very great; and my ap-ing in, whether in his line or not, greatly to his
pearance, when disguised for the latter part, I own disadvantage, for in a certain range of
suppose, gave hope to the junior partner, from characters he was excellent. For six days in
his altered manner, that I might be worth my the week he was scarcely out of the theatre; but
salary. Old Kent and Simpson had been to- on Sunday, it must be a very urgent point of
gether in the Dublin theatre. I had never seen business that would induce him even to write a
Kent play, but I found great expectations were letter. He seldom visited, but generally gave a
formed of his making a hit. He had selected dinner to a choice circle of friends; and it was
Sir Anthony Absolute and Looney M'Twolter, some engagement, more for policy than taste,
"to astonish the natives in," and, without any which prevented my being his guest on those
consultation of my taste on the subject, I, of occasions while I remained in New-York. At
course, was cast Acres and Caleb Quotem. His the end of some twelve nights 1 had a benefit,
next night was to be the "Road to Ruin," for the the profits arising from which I had sold to Price
sake of his Old Dornton-I to play Goldfinch-for our passages, which it considerably exceed-
and to show his versatility, he was to sing Bel-ed, and he generously offered me the overplus;
ville, in "Rosina," and I to play the pretty part of but I, like John Astley, stuck to my bargain,
William. To all this I had no right or cause to whether good or bad.
make the least objection; but the first act of the
"Turnpike Gate" changed the state of affairs.
Captain Marshall, whenever it didn't blow,
would blow the flute, exclusively to please him-
self-
"How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no pro-
portion kept!"
I was now strongly urged by Simpson and
Price to go to Boston for two weeks, and receive
half the proceeds of an engagement there; but
to this no persuasion could induce me to con-
sent. My argument was, that as I had never
country, I would not subject myself to ridicule
achieved the position of a "star" in my own
in attempting to shine out of my sphere in this.
and two tunes, which I couldn't discover to be My foolish modesty on this point, if it might so
at all like any air I had ever heard before, I be called, has been amply compensated for by
found were great favourites with my friend, and the host of impostors who have yearly scoured
these, I was informed, were "Yankee Doodle" the country since, till they have drained it dry
and "Hail Columbia;" and unexpectedly intro-as hay; with nothing under heaven to recom-
ducing these then unhackneyed tunes in a song
1 manufactured for the occasion, produced a
great effect, and my success altogether was im-
mense.
Simp-son," said Price, hobbling down the
same steps I had tumbled, "look here; as to
playing the 'Review' on Thursday night is all
d-nonsense; the farce will be this Crack-thing.
Cowell," giving me a hearty shake of the hand,
"you've made the greatest hit, sir, that ever was
made in Ameri-ca. Look here, Neddy, what's
the play o' Thursday?"
"The 'Rivals," said Simpson.
<<
Well, here, Cowell," said Price, "if you
don't like that part of Acres, say so, and you can
play whatever you choose."
"I have already said so to Mr. Cowell," said
Simpson; "but he assures me 'tis a favourite
character."
And so he had, and, like a sensible man, he
paid me all the attention the good opinion I had
earned deserved. I became at once a decided
favourite with the audience; and that enviable
position, I am proud to say, I have maintained,
in all the principal cities of the Union, up to the
present hour. At the termination of the per-
formance I was introduced to some half dozen
critics and admirers of the drama, among them
mend them but an announcement from one of
the London theatres, and T. R. C. G. or T. R.
D. L., in gilt or conspicuous letters, on every
book or manuscript they have an opportunity
to place upon a prompt-table. The managers,
secure in a profit, aid the imposition; they de-
mand their charges, and, should the he or she
humbug prove too gross, even for the indulgence
of the most indulgent audience in the world, no
blame can attach to them for introducing novel-
ty so highly self-recommended. The theatres
being numerous and "far between," if some
well-paid-for puffs succeed in exciting curiosity
for a night or two, they travel round the Conti-
nent, and escape to Europe before they are fair-
ly found out; often with a well-lined purse, as
proof of the easy gullibility of the hospitable
Americans, and send "his fellow of the self-
same flight the self-same way."
Some years since, in travelling down the Mis-
sissippi, a Swiss or German steerage-passenger
made himself conspicuous by singing all man-
ner of outlandish songs an octave above com-
mon sense-a squeaking falsetto, resembling
the excruciating appeals to humanity a pig
makes while having his nose bored, or under-
going other necessary or ornamental surgical
operations- and collecting, by this unnatural
60
THIRTY YEARS
exertion of the lungs, divers bits and picayunes nights; but I looked upon him as a brute, not-
from the deck-hands and other admirers of "mu- withstanding; and he never spoke to me, nor I
sic out of tune, and harsh;" and, a few days af- to him. One night, while he was performing
ter my arrival at New-Orleans, Caldwell under- Virginius, I was seated on a sofa, placed under
lined "Signor Carl Maria Von Bliss, from the a large glass, in the green-room, when he came
Royal Academy of Music at Vienna!" or some-in to adjust his toga. I moved my head out of
where; and, to my astonishment, it proved to be his way, and not my person; he came close up
this yelling German, who had put my ear out to the glass, and then stooped his head within
of joint, and helped to wood the boat on the pas- six inches of mine, and stared me straight in the
sage down. Of course, this was too much of a face, and I said, "Booh!" He looked perfectly
joke; but the warm-hearted Southerners, find- astonished, and walked out amid a hearty laugh
ing the fellow was in poverty, made him an ex- from the ladies, for I was an excellent clown in
cellent benefit, though they couldn't endure his their estimation. A day or two after he address-
music.
ed me behind the scenes with,
Cooper succeeded Phillips, then the theatrical
god of America; and he behaved like a most
disagreeable one to all the mortals beneath him.
He was to open in Macbeth; the rehearsal was
called at ten o'clock; Mrs. Wheatley, Barnes,
and myself were the Witches; we went through
our first scene, and so far in the second as Mac-
beth's entrance; he had been on the stage an in-
stant before he was wanted, but then he was
missing.
"Call Mr. Cooper!" says Simpson.
"He's gone in the front!" says the boy.
"Go for him, sir!" said Simpson.
Mrs. Wheatley, Old Jack, and myself told, or
listened in turn, to two or three excellent jokes
before Cooper arrived. Then he gave long and
particular directions to Anderson, the prompter,
as to the exact time of the commencing of the
march, and the exact time of its leaving off, and
had just got as far in the dialogue as to inquire,
"What ar-re these,"
when the thought occurred that we should look
better, or he could act better, if he had a witch at
each entrance. He appealed to Simpson, who
grumbled out something, and the Fuselli groupe
was desired to take open order, and Mrs. Wheat-
ley went half up the stage. This wouldn't do,
unless the meeting was supposed to be with
three old women, in different streets; and the
word was given, "As you were!" and 'twas
finally agreed that Barnes and I should stand at
the first entrance, and Mrs. Wheatley close to
the wing at the second. The manner of direct-
ing these alterations and improvements, and the
time occupied in making them, put my patience
to a severe test; and at this critical juncture a
boy entered, and delivered him a note, and he
coolly sat down to the table to answer it. This
was the climax; and, leading Mrs. Wheatley
off the stage, I said, with much temper,
"Mr. Simpson, I can put up with this rude-
ness no longer; I'm going home!"
Simpson, whose endurance was the wonder
of everybody, followed me off the stage:
"Oh! nonsense, Joe! nonsense! come back!
it's only his way."
>>
"D- his way!" said I; and home I went.
At night Barnes explained to me the altera-
tions which had been made in the usual busi-
ness, but I had made up my mind to play the
part exactly as I had done it with Kean, at Dru-
ry Lane, with Munden and Knight as my allies,
right or wrong; and when Barnes and Mrs.
Wheatley were stirring the boiling gruel at the
back of the stage, I was very coolly standing in
the corner. I couldn't but admire the man's
splendid talent; and he had administered to my
vanity by waiting every night to see my farce,
and making it part of his bargain, as he receiv- |
ed a per centage, that I should appear on his
"Mr. Cowell, no one has been civil enough
to introduce me to you, therefore I'm compelled
to do it myself!" and, after paying me some
very handsome compliments, ended with invi-
ting me to dine with him; and we have been
very intimate ever since; nor do I know, in my
large list of acquaintances, a more agreeable
companion than Thomas Cooper. During my
residence in the Northern States, I was a fre-
quent guest, for a day or two at a time, at his
delightful cottage, at Bristol, Pennsylvania;
where the luxuries attendant upon affluence
were so regulated by good taste, that Cooper
never appeared to such advantage as when at
home. His family was numerous, and very in-
teresting. He used to boast of never allowing
his children to cry.
"Sir, when my children were young, and be-
gan to cry, I always dashed a glass of water in
their face, and that so astonished them that they
would leave off; and if they began again, I'd
dash another, and keep on increasing the dose
till they were entirely cured."
His second daughter, Priscilla, who is marri-
ed to the son of John Tyler, the present Presi-
dent of the United States, is perhaps indebted
to some of her father's lessons for that affable,
yet dignified deportment which commands the
admiration of all parties.
The Park company was not extensive, but
very useful, consisting of
Messrs. Simpson, Barnes, Pritchard, Ritch-
ings, Phillips, Nixon, Anderson, Reed, Banker,
Maywood, and myself. Mesdames Wheatley,
Barnes, Holman, Barrett; Miss Johnson, Jones,
Brundage, and Bland.
If there were more, I have forgotten them. Of
course, we all had to play nearly every night,
and I never escaped. Gillingham was the
leader; a good-tempered, eccentric fellow, with
an odd kind of nervous affection, which made
him appear as if he was continually endeavour-
ing to bite his own ear; this singularity was
most conspicuous when he was under the influ-
ence of liquor, which was very frequently the
case; and one night, while accompanying one
of my songs, he made a more than usual ener-
getic snap over his shoulder, lost his balance,
and fell into the orchestra, carrying with him
the second violin, his own stool, and a music-
stand, to the great amusement of the audience.
He was, strange to say, as fond of eating as he
was of drinking, and, when searching for a lodg-
ing, his first inquiry would be, "Madam, have
you a gridiron ?" and if the answer was "Yes,"
the kind of rooms, or the price of them, was a
secondary consideration; but if "No," he turn-
ed on his heel and vanished without another
word. This efficient conductor, with six or
eight other professors, formed a very wretched or-
chestra, but then even so many, and of such a
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
61
"An angel of love in the morning,
And then an old woman at night.”
The season terminated on the fourth of July,
to commence again on the first of September.
Rather as an acknowledgment than a return
for the many acts of kindness I had received
from both Price and Simpson, I undertook to
decorate the theatre gratuitously. Henry Isher-
wood I selected for my assistant, a lad of great
promise as an artist; but the little that Robbins
was able to teach him he had neglected to impart,
and his after success in his profession I have
been much flattered by his attributing to my en-
couragement and instruction. Glass chande-
quality, could only be obtained at a very high resented. Few pretty women will sacrifice their
price; they never came to rehearsal but on very love of admiration, and consent to be
particular occasions, and even then they were
paid extra, and all the music in the performance
was gone through, one piece after another, and But Mrs. Wheatley was an exception to the gen-
an hour selected the least likely to interfere with eral prejudice, and whenever there was an ap-
their teaching, or other out-door avocations.propriate part in a new piece in which I was in-
Times are sadly changed. I wonder how many terested that Mrs. Wheatley could with propri-
good musicians there are at this day out of em-ety be cast, I used to urge all my power with
ployment? I know fifty at least. Robbins was Mr. Simpson to have her in the character; and
the principal artist, and also played the double I boldly assert, that had she had the good luck
bass; he always came to rehearsal, for he'd do to have commenced her career in London at
anything rather than paint. H. Reinagle, Ev- that same period, she would have established a
ers, and H. Isherwood, an apprentice to Robbins, distinct path in the intricate maze of the drama,
completed this department, and among them where alone nature, leading truth, and exquisite
they would perpetrate two scenes in a month. humour would have ever dared to follow.
By a law, of their own making, I suppose, they
only made believe to work from ten o'clock in
the morning till four in the afternoon. In short,
at the period I speak of, performers, and others
employed in a theatre, couldn't be obtained; nor
were there a sufficient number of American actors
on the whole continent to form a company: for-
tunately for the young population of that day,
they had something better to do. Out of the
members I have named at the Park, all were
English with the exception of Reed, Woodhull,
Phillips, Banker, and Nixon. Woodhull had
considerable talent, though he contented himselfliers were purchased to supply the place of the
with being an imitator of Pritchard, and natu-
rally so like him that a stranger could scarcely
tell the difference. He died soon after he had
formed a style of his own and began to be es-
teemed a good actor. Phillips was an uncle to
Noah-I don't mean "the ancient mariner," but
the editor-and through his influence, perhaps
to aid his own talent, he was engaged to play
walking gentlemen, but was anything but inter-
esting in his appearance; if a profile of his per-
son had been taken in black, you couldn't have
told the difference between it and the shadow of
a boy's top with two pegs. He very prudently
took to playing old men, and, in a secondary
line, became very respectable. Poor Banker
didn't live long enough to "come to judgment;"
and Nixon delivered messages then, and was
still explaining that "the carriage waits" when
I last saw him. All the females worth speaking
of were English, with the exception of Mrs.
Wheatley, and she, I believe, is a native of
New-York, and a much better actress, in my
opinion, than all of them put together, without
in the least degree intending to speak slightingly
of the acknowledged talent of the other ladies.
When I joined the company, Mrs. Barrett, the
mother of George, played the old women. She
was a very ladylike creature, excessively tall,
and in her day, no doubt, had been very good-
looking, and greatly esteemed in the higher
walks of the drama, but brought with her for the
task she then undertook nothing but her appro-in one hour the thickly-inhabited and largest por-
priate age and knowledge of the profession.
iron hoops; the procenium was arched and rais-
ed; no expense was spared for material; and,
dressed in gray and gold, the next season the
"Park" assumed the responsible appearance it
has maintained ever since. Price went to Eng-
land for recruits, and Simpson and the larger
portion of the company into the country,
"To keep the flame from wasting by repose."
The season was unusually warm, and about
the middle of August great alarm was created
by some cases of yellow fever occurring in the
northern part of the city. In a day or two the
contagion crossed Broadway, and a death be-
ing reported at the Custom-House, in Wall-
street, the panic became universal and frightful-
ly ridiculous. The whole population in that
section of the city who were well or able, beat
a retreat with bag and baggage-the sick and
poor at the expense of the authorities-the move-
ment on the first of May would bear no compar-
ison. Well-dressed women with "a blanket, in
the alarm of fear caught up," were seen drag-
ging along a squalling child, without a hat,
through the blazing sun, and the fond father fol-
lowing with a bed on his head, and perhaps a
gridiron or a pair of tongs in his hand. All the
ferry-boats to Hoboken, Powles Hook, Staten
Island, and Brooklyn were constantly plying,
loaded down with passengers, who seemed to
think drowning a secondary consideration; and
tion of New-York was deserted by every human
Light comedy men and interesting ladies, being. The district supposed to be infected was
when they get into years, as a last resource un- boarded up, the streets covered ankle deep with
dertake to play old men and women: this is a lime, and all intercourse prohibited. My family
great affliction to the audience, and to those who were fortunately in New-Jersey, and my house,
have to perform with them; memory, hearing, though far enough from the point of danger to
and seeing, all impaired; the recollection of what ensure my own safety, was still too near, in the
they have been distressing themselves, and what estimation of my friends, for them to make it a
they are everybody else. Acting is-acting; sanctuary, so John Kent and I kept bachelor's
and a young woman of eighteen or twenty is just hall, for not a soul would venture to pay us a
as capable, or more so, of playing Mrs. Mala- visit. He was a faithful old negro, who for
prop, or the Duenna, than an old lady of forty-five years had been employed in the theatre as a
is to play Juliet, or Sophia in the Road to Ruin; sort of deputy property-maker; he professed a
and yet those latter characters are often so rep-great regard for me in consequence of my being
62
THIRTY YEARS
"a countryman!" for, happening to be born on the | ated having in part subsided, a number of the
Island of Jamaica, he prided himself upon being inhabitants had returned to the city, though but
"English." Twice a week we made it a rule few to their houses; and, in consequence, the
late at night to trespass on the uninhabited re- town and village were crowded with idlers, in-
gion, John loaded with a huge basket of coarse cluding the actors, with long faces and empty
provisions for the starving cats, who instinctive-pockets. As a resource, it was proposed to fit
y believe "there is no place like home," and, up the Circus in Broadway, belonging to West,
after a donation or two of the sort, the numbers as a temporary theatre; the same building that
that would surround us, the moment they heard is now called Tattersal's, and then literally out
us approach, would be past belief: I found it a of town. My friend, Sam Dunn, the long Yan-
most whimsical mode of cheating a long, dull kee carpenter, who picked me up and trundled
night of part of its death-like solitude; not an- me out the first day I tumbled on an American
other thing that breathes and stirs would we stage, had all prepared in a few days, and we
meet in our walk, excepting a single horse, per- went into successful operation; playing to busi-
haps, trotting along with an unattended hearse, ness which enabled us to pay all the expendi-
and the driver smoking a cigar or whistling ture, and two thirds salary the first three weeks,
"Yankee Doodle."
and then the whole amount, till the Park open-
ed. When the affair was past a doubt, Simpson
packed up his fishing-tackle and took the reins
of government. Like most large cities, places.
of public amusement in New-York depend for
their chief support on strangers and visiters;
but the inhabitants then attended the theatre from
the fact of there being nowhere else to go; even
most of the churches were shut up-I have fre-
quently found the parsons, whether at sea or on
land, the very first to run from danger-and the
houses were well filled nightly. I took one of
my benefits there, and had upward of eight hun-
dred dollars at circus prices.
I had once witnessed the full horrors of this
scourge to mankind in the West Indies, and
though a great number fell victims in New-York,
yet, by comparison with what I had seen, to my
mind it was disarmed of its terrors; but not so
with the generality of the inhabitants, and I firm-
ly believe half the deaths were caused by fright
alone.
!
A fine, jovial fellow, a jeweller, by the name
of Irish, had "a dog he loved," who a day or
two after his master's flight, it was supposed,
had strayed back to the old dwelling, in the very
heart of the infected district; and though he
valued the animal as dearly as he could a child,
and danger in "any shape but that" he would
have despised, yet, though suffering actual ago-
ny at the thought of the poor little wretch being
starved to death, he could not summon strength
of mind enough to go in search of him, nor hire
any one who would. Though "to do good is
sometimes dangerous folly," I undertook the task,
and after a fight on the steps with the half-fam-
ished wasp, I succeeded in tying him up in
my handkerchief, and bundled him back to his
master.
|
That excellent actor, John Clark, whom Price
engaged upon my recommendation, and Watkin-
son, to play the old men in the place of Barnes,
who had left for England at the end of the
season, arrived at the very height of the sickness;
and poor Charles Matthews and Price popped
in in the thick of it, but, fortunately, none of
them suffered from anything but fright.
Matthews made his appearance in Goldfinch,
and was very coldly received; he introduced his
two excellent songs, "The picture of a play-
house," and "A description of a ring-fight;" nei-
Many of the retail dealers from Broadway ther being then understood, they were not en--
and Pearl-street, after the first alarm had subsi- | cored, and the whole performance might be con-
ded, had erected temporary sheds for the sale of sidered a failure; but, fortunately for him and
their various merchandise at Greenwich Village, the management, he had studied on the passage
which could then only boast of a state-prison M. Morbleau, and Price, who was a great di-
and some dozen scattered houses, and, in conse-plomatist in theatrical politics, knowing the ad-
quence, the place suddenly assumed the appear- vantage of an original part, urged him to play
ance of a fair. The young clerks and appren- that character in the farce, and in that he made
tices, having little else to do, had displayed their a tremendous hit.
wit in various jokes in rhyme on their make- Little dependance was placed on his entertain-
shift signs; Irish applied to me for one "accord-ments; but, contrary to all expectation, his main
ing to the fashion of the time," and I perpetra-
ted the following:
Charles Irish, that brave-looking fellow,
Watchmaker, late of Wall-street,
Took fright at the fever called yellow,
And to this place has made his retreat;
Now in this don't you think he was right?
For had he stayed there and got sick,
He'd no more wind his clock up at night,
Or sell you a watch upon tick.
CHAPTER III.
"E'en ere an artful spider spins a line.
Of metaphysic texture, man's thin thread
Of life is broken: how analogous
Their parallel of lines! slight, subtle, vain."
Sickness, a Poem, by WILLIAM THOMPSON.
THE first of September came, the then regular
period of commencing the season at the Park,
and no abatement of the epidemic. But the
panic which this unexpected visitation had cre-
success was hinged upon them. He was more
highly relished at Philadelphia and Boston than
at New-York, though he drew crowded houses
everywhere he went. Price followed him like
a shadow, and nursed him like a child. He was
really an amiable, good-hearted man; but his
nervous irritability-commenced, no doubt, in
affectation, and terminated in disease-rendered
him extremely objectionable to those who were
not inclined either to submit to, or laugh at his
prejudices; and his uncontrolled expressions of
disgust at everything American would have
speedily ended his career, but that Price man-
aged to have him continually surrounded by a
certain set, who had good sense enough to ad-
mit his talent as ample amends for his rudeness.
He actually came to rehearsal with his nose
stopped with cotton, to prevent his smelling "the
d-American mutton chops!" who could even
laugh at such folly? It was positively neces-
sary to his health and happiness to have some
fresh annoyance every day. He hadn't been in
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
63
+
"Captive. My faithful Goodman, do I behold once more
That honest form?
"Goodman. Master, most dearly loved,
New-York a week, when he got a letter from, ered, in the first scene, digging away in a Turk--
some poor woman, who craved his assistance, ish garden; I was a sort of overseer, and enter-
on the score of having known him before at Old ed to them, after the manner of Sadi, in the
York: this was most deliciously disagreeable; Mountaineers, and recognised, somehow or an-
he showed the letter to everybody-explained the other, in the captive I was chiding for idleness,
persecutions he had experienced in the same "a beloved master,
"a beloved master," and Simpson and I were
way in England: "And now," said he, "dam'me, proceeding with an interesting dialogue after
they are full cry after me in America!" Upon this fashion :
this hint, Price and myself, in disguised hands,
sent him two or three epistles every morning,
dated from the Five Points, or Chapel-street, from
"disconsolate English widow," or "a poor
forsaken young woman." And by introducing
the names of persons he might happen to men-
tion in his convivial anecdotes, or those whom
I had heard speak of him while at York and
other places, he had no doubt of their authenti-
city, and one purporting to be from Johnny
Winter's niece, stating that "she remembered his
playing Lingo when she was a child, was now in
great distress, and for the love he bore her uncle,
claimed his aid," kept him fully employed in ima-
ginary misery for a week.
some
At his last engagement that season, his attrac-
tion decreasing, Price cajoled him into playing
Othello, which drew a full house; and he was
actually childish enough to believe he could play
it-not in imitation, but in the manner of John
Kemble! But no matter whose manner it was
intended to convey, he made the Moor the most
melancholy, limping negro I ever beheld. The
audience were exactly of my way of think-
ing; and but for the high favour he had gained,
they would have smothered him, long before he
smothered Desdemona.
|
Let an embrace assure me that I do not dream."
And as we were suiting the action to the word,
he whispered in my ear,
"Dam'me, Joe, look at the books."
And, upon turning to the audience, every one
in the front had a copy in his hand. To in-
crease the attraction, the play had been publish-
ed, and every purchaser of a box-ticket had been
presented with a book, which arrangement I had
never heard of till then. I am not easily embar-
rassed, but this annoyed me exceedingly. If I had
not been the principal victim in the business-
for I was on the stage nearly the whole of the
piece-I could have enjoyed the anxiety of the
audience endeavouring to find out where we
were. You might see one thumbing over the
leaves one after another, then turn them all back,
listen an instant, and then begin again. An-
other appeal to his neighbour, and he shake his
head in despair. I was assured very seriously
by a young critic, the next day, that I had actu
ally sometimes cut out a whole page at a time. But
I could not laugh at it; I was angry, and con-
sidered the arrangement a rudeness on the part of
Mr. Phillips. At nearly the close of a long and
laborious season, a whole company had cheer-
fully, for the sake of serving him, undertaken
to get through with a composition that the author
himself could never wish should see daylight;
and though Phillips knew that not a soul could
learn more than the action, he, for the sake
of a few dollars, lets an audience into a secret
which, for their own sake as well as ours, they
had better not have known.
Before I left England Tom and Jerry was in
preparation for the Adelphi. Burroughs, alias
Watkins, was to be the Corinthian; Wilkinson,
Logic; and Jerry, Moncrief had written for me,
but when I came to America, by omitting the
songs and otherwise altering the character, from
what was exclusively meant to suit my style,
Burroughs played the part, and Wrench was en-
gaged for Tom. Simpson had had the manu-
script for some time, but was under the appre-
hension that an American audience would never Towards the end of the first act I had to be
tolerate the vulgar slang nonsense. At my ear- seized and taken off to prison. Supernumeraries
nest solicitation, at length the experiment was were not easily obtained in those days; gener-
made, but so positive was he that the piece could ally they consisted of young men with souls above
not succeed, that little or nothing was done to buttons; Booths and Forrests in the shell, full of
assist it; it was even carelessly rehearsed at the starts and attitudes, and terribly in earnest in all
back of the stage while business of more sup- they had to do. If they had to seize you, they
posed importance occupied the front; but, not- really seized you, and left the print of their fin-
withstanding, Tom and Jerry, in its day, drewgers on either arm for a week; and if they had
more money than any other piece ever played in to knock you down, the odds were large against
the United States!
your ever coming to time. I was well aware of their
M. M. Noah, who had already produced sev-reality propensities, and had particularly requested
eral dramatic pieces with success, manufac- them in the morning to "use all gently."
tured a play called The Grecian Captive, which Woodhull-"a pestilence on him for a mad wag,"
was performed for his uncle's benefit, A. Phil- he's in his grave long ago-delighted at my an-
lips. I was cast for what was said to be the noyance, and determining, if possible, to increase
best part in the piece; at all events, it was the it--having taken a leaf out of my own book—
longest; all I ever did know about it was the told these gentlemen, who were engaged to do
name, and that was Goodman. The drama was as they were bid by everybody, that I had chan-
supposed to be written in blank verse, that is, ged my mind, and that at the word they were to
good, wholesome, commonplace language, the rush upon me with all their force and trip me
wrong end foremost, after the manner of Sheri- behind, which, I being off my guard, they did
dan Knowles;
most effectively. When I could scramble on
my feet again, with all my might I floored the
first man I met with, and then rushed off the
stage. Poor Nixen was my victim, and he
"only gave the order," was not to blame, and
therefore promised to thrash me after the play;
but as I had bunged his eye up by mistake, he
looked over the matter with the other. I was
""
"And to cram these words into mine ears
Against the stomach of my sense,'
for one night only, was out of the question, and
I made up my mind to speak the meaning of the
part after what flourish my nature prompted, and
so, indeed, I believe, had all the performers.
Simpson and some other captives were discov-
But
17
64
THIRTY YEARS
most ridiculously angry, and vowed I would noted crowds every night, to the great injury, "in
go on the stage again. But Simpson smoothed the springtime of year," of the theatre. Price
me down, and my friend Noah acknowledged the put in force some fire-proof law, prohibiting all
bad taste of the books being distributed, and canvass or skin-deep establishments within a
confessed the language "was very hard to learn." certain limit, and the old Frenchman was obli-
"And so is Peter Piper picked a peck of ged to strike his tent; but, with the ice-cream
pickled pepper," I stuttered out; "but it's hor-profits, he purchased bricks and mortar, and
rid trash for all that."
built the Chatham Theatre.
In the last scene, Phillips, half frightened While this was in embryo, Mrs. Baldwin, a
to death, came on wriggling, on the back of a sister to Mrs. Barnes, turned the brains of some
real elephant; and an unexpected hydraulic ex-half dozen would-be-acting young men and wom-
periment he introduced-I mean the elephant-en, and a private house in Warren-street-into a
to the great astonishment and discomfiture of
the musicians, closed the performance amid the
shouts of the audience.
Now, though I and my numerous assistants
had effectually damned the piece, the kind-heart-
ed Noah, the next day, in his own paper, wrote
an excuse for the performers, and placed the
whole blame to his imprudence in permitting
the books to be given away.
West, with a fine company of performers, and
a magnificent stud of horses, paid a yearly visit
to New-York, to the serious injury of the thea-
tre; and, in self-defence, Price and Simpson
were desirous to buy him out. To effect this,
resort was had to stratagem, in which I played
a very useful part. My particular intimacy
with the management being notorious, with
binding oaths of secrecy, I named to those well
fitted to instantly convey the news to West, that
the Park proprietors intended erecting a most
splendid amphitheatre in Broadway, on the va-
cant lot where the Masonic Hall now stands;
a model, somewhat after the plan of Astley's,
was placed in the green-room, and imagination,
aided by the whisper abroad, soon gave it a lo-
cal habitation and a name. A delinquent from
the circus (Tatnal) was engaged, and employed |
to break two horses in a temporary ring, boarded
round, in a lot on the alley at the back of the
theatre. These broad hints at opposition soon
brought matters to an issue; and at a fair
price, and easy mode of payment-for a large
portion of the amount was raised by the re-
ceipts after they were in possession-Simpson
and Price, and some others, who then objected
to be known to be interested, and, through
my means, shall not now, purchased the build-
ings, lease, engagements, horses, wardrobe,
scenery, and a prohibition against West again
establishing a circus in the United States.
And, well pleased with such a winding-up to
his experiment, West, with a handsome fortune,
went to England; for, when he arrived in Amer-
ica, he had not the means to pay for the passa-
ges of his company until Price and Simpson ad-
vanced the money, and engaged the horse and
foot to "Timour the Tartar" and "Siege of
Belgrade" for the Park Theatre.
theatre, and opened a show there. Tom Hilson
had been seduced away from the Park, where he
had been a great favourite in my line of busi-
ness, by Charles Gilfert, a German musician,
who had married Miss Holman, and was, in
consequence, manager of the Charleston, South
Carolina, Theatre. On Hilson's necessary re-
turn to the North in the summer, being shut out
by me from the Park, he accepted a star engage-
ment at this old lady's concern, and drew crowd-
ed houses. Gilfert, who was a very enterpri-
sing, talented man, with some powerful friends,
already began to talk of a theatre in the Bowery;
and Hilson, in such an event, being a dangerous
ally, I sacrificed my taste to aid my friends, and
on the fourth of July, 1823, took the control of
the circus, vacating my position at the theatre,
to be filled by Hilson, and Harry Placide as his
assistant, in my very extensive round of charac-
ters.
Hilson was the son of a picture-dealer by the
name of Hill, a man of some wealth; for in
that day, copying and repairing pictures, and
giving them an ancient name and appearance,
was as profitable as passing counterfeit money,
and relieved of the disgrace and danger; and,
indeed, I have seen copies of pictures so excel-
lent, that they were cheap at the price the origi-
nals could command. Who ever grumbled at
paying a dollar to see Booth play Richard the
Third, provided they had never beheld Kean in
the same character?
His family being averse to his imitating Na-
ture instead of art, Tom bade adieu to his coun-
try, denied his father by putting the son to his
name, and came to America, where he might
freely indulge his predilection for the drama.
But, having entered the profession more after the
manner of an amateur, than an actor who had
regularly and patiently climbed the rounds of
the Thespian ladder, the drudgery of the trade
he never could surmount. He required time for
study, and a choice of characters, in which for
years he was indulged; while Harry Placide
quietly filled up the interstices with such care
and skill, that ultimately the trifling space Hil-
son occupied was not worth paying largely for
by the management, nor the vacancy likely to be
A Frenchman, by the name of Barriere, had noticed by the audience. Poor Hilson took ref-
fitted up a small garden at the back of a confec-uge in the West, and left Placide the undisputed
tioner's shop in Chatham-street, with two or master of the field.
three dozen transparent lamps, and
"Seats beneath the shade,
He died suddenly, about two years afterward,
at Louisville, Kentucky. In characters requi-
For talking age and whispering lovers made;"
ring homely pathos, if they can be so described,
such as the old father in "Clari," he could not
and, by selling "sweets to the sweet" at a shil- be equalled; in humorous parts, in endeavour-
ling a head, had made a great deal of money; ing to be broad, he was coarse. As a man he was
which, to rapidly increase, he raised a plat-most estimable. He married Miss Johnson, one
form, called it an orchestra, covered it with can- of the very few who make you feel truly proud
vass, engaged a French horn, clarionet, fiddle, that you belong to the same profession. They
and a chorus-singer from the Park, with the lived but for each other; and when he died, a
gentle name of Lamb, who bleated a song or beautiful little girl was all that tied her to the
two, and with this combination of talent attract-earth, who, shortly after, being seized with a ma-
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
65
lignant fever, the widowed parent vowed one
grave should hold them, and wildly inhaled her
infant's poisoned breath till saturated with dis-
èase. But God spared the child, and the poor
mother perished.
I loved them both as I would a brother and a
sister, which is much to say "in this all-hating
world."
CHAPTER IV.
"Have they not sword-players, and every sort
Of gymnic artists, wrestlers, riders, runners,
Jugglers and dancers, antics, mummers, mimics,
To make them sport?"-Sampson Agonistes.
I Now look back and laugh at the contradict-
ory feelings I experienced the first day I walked
through the aisle-like stable, to be introduced to
the members of the circus as their future man-
ager; each stall occupied by a magnificent ani-
each stall occupied by a magnificent ani-
mal, knee-deep in unsoiled straw, platted into a
kind of door-mat fringe on its outer edge, to se-
cure the particles from littering the snow-white
pavement. The childish pride I felt as "to my-
self I said,"
"I'm monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,"
was checked by the recollection of the sacrifice
I was about to make of my profession; and for
the life of me I could not suppress the thought
that there might be some of my legitimate asso-
ciates who, in speaking of my appointment,
would apply to me that coarse but common com-
bination of words and wit, "horse and saw-
dust" manager; which, though, in point of fact,
it amounts to the same thing as "sole director
of the celebrated equestrian company," yet, by
taking away the dignified name of the office, all
that remained was mental slavery of the worst
kind, because totally at variance with my taste
or former pursuits. But Tom Ash, the chair-
maker and celebrated financier, said I should
make a fortune "by the operation," and, with this
imaginary gilding, I swallowed the pill.
|
chance of perquisites-stage and stable door-
keeper at night, and through the day a variety
of duties, to designate half of which would oc-
cupy a chapter. He was strict to a fault in the
discharge of his duty, as every urchin of that
day who attempted to sneak into the Circus can
testify. Conway the tragedian called to see me
one evening, and in attempting to pass was stop-
ped by Billy, armed, as usual, with a pitchfork.
"What's this you want? Who are ye? and
where are you going?" says Billy.
"I wish to see Mr. Cowell," says Conway.
Oh, then, it's till to-morrow at 10 o'clock, in
his office, that you'll have to wait to perform that
operation."
of the theatre; Mr. Cowell is my particular
"But, my dear fellow, my name is Conway,
friend, and I have his permission to enter."
explination—and it's a mighty tall, good-looking
"By my word, sir, I thank ye kindly for the
gentleman you are too," says Billy, presenting
his pitchfork; "but if ye were the blessed Re-
deemer, with the cross under your arm, you
couldn't pass me without an orther from Mr.
Cowell."
Bob Maywood, on his benefit night, during
my first season at the Park, mistaking the noise
made by the call-boy and some of his playmates
frolicking behind the scenes, before the curtain
was up, for the commencement of the perform-
ance, poked his nose through the door in the
flat to take a peep at the house before he went
on, when one of the lads, supposing Bob's nose
was that of his comrade, sneaked softly by the
side of the scene and tweaked it most abomina-
bly; discovering his mistake, the boy was off
and under the stage before Maywood could get
to the front. I was greatly amused at poor
Bob's astonishment and anger at this mysterious
insult. A reward was offered for the discovery
of the offender, but as I alone was witness to
the deed, he wasn't likely to be found out.
the course of the evening a fine-countenanced,
bold-looking, red-headed rascal, with an extra-
ordinary large mole on his chin, exhibiting half
a dozen hairs of the same complexion, came
sidling up to me, and, with a roguish smile, said,
"Don't you go to tell on me, sir.”
((
In
Oh, oh," said I, "then you are the villain
who pulled Bob Maywood's nose, are you?”
Yes, sir," said the boy; "but indeed I
thought it was George Went's."
This was my first acquaintance with Tom
Blakeley. I faithfully kept his secret; and he,
in gratitude, was always on the alert to run of
an errand, or do any little job I required; but if
he should see me and Maywood in conversa-
tion, he'd come up, with a mischievous twinkle
in his eye, and say,
My few weeks' experience at Astley's I found
of infinite service in my new undertaking; at all
events, it gave me the power of backing my di-
rections with "that's the way we always did it at
Astley's," and such authority was indisputable.
To successfully command an army, a banditti,
or a circus, it is all-important that the corps
should have implicit confidence in the capability
of their leader; and who could doubt mine, when
I had graduated at Astley's? Large additions to
horse and foot had been made, and the company
was both extensive and excellent: a stud of
thirty-three horses, four ponies, and a jackass,
all so admirably selected and educated, that for
beauty and utility they could not be equalled "Will you have a stick of candy, sir?" or
anywhere. The concern was already popular," an apple," and give me an imploring don't-tell
and the powerful influence of the proprietors in-
cog. made it (oh, enviable democratic distinction!)
a very fashionable resort, and our success was
enormous. Of course, like others when first
placed in power, I made a total change in my
cabinet. John Blake I appointed secretary of
the treasury and principal ticket-seller; and to
prove how excellent a judge I was of integrity
and capacity, he was engaged at the Park at the
end of the season, and has held that important
situation there ever since. A delicious speci-
men of the Emerald Isle, with the appropriate
equestrian appellation of Billy Rider, received
an office of nearly equal trust, though smaller
F
look.
I liked the young rogue, but the run of the
piece in which boys were required being over, I
lost sight of him; but a few days after my ta-
king the circus, a well-grown lad presented him-
self as an applicant for a situation, and by the
extraordinary mole on the chin I instantly rec-
ognised my young friend of nose-pulling celeb-
rity. For old acquaintance' sake I gave him a
small salary to do "anything," but his great in-
dustry and propriety of conduct soon made him
a most valuable member of the company. He
afterward became an excellent actor, and for
some years was a great favourite at the Park
66
THIRTY YEARS
loss to the concern; and he was such a kind,
good creature."
Why, as to his kindness, I can't agree with
you there; he was most difficult to manage;
but his loss, as you observe, will be irreparable.
When did he die?"
Early this morning. I was up with him all
night. He kicked and rolled about in great ag
ony, and you might have heard his groans for
half a square."
"Poor creature! And what did they say was
the matter with him, Mr. Rodgers ?" I inquired.
"The colic, or something of that sort; and
we think it was brought on by his eating cu-
cumbers."
"Cucumbers!" said I: "why, where did he
get cucumbers ?"
and Bowery. He was the first to introduce ne-
gro singing on the American stage, and his
"Coal Black Rose" set the fashion for African
melodies which Rice for years has so success-
fully followed. While at Philadelphia, Tom
was called upon by the city authorities to give
security for the maintenance of a "little respon-
sibility;" this he appeared to consider a most
vile plot against his moral character, and, indig-
nantly declining any parental honour of the sort,
retained Colonel James Page as his counsel, and
the cause went to trial. An alibi-that most im-
portant point in any case, but particularly so in
one of this kind-was, with much plausibility,
very nearly established, when the prosecuting
attorney begged permission to introduce what
he called a very material witness. A young
woman, dressed in virgin white, with a black
veil, advanced, and, removing a cap from the
head of an infant, disclosed to the eyes of the
court and jury a fine head of bright red hair, and
the fac-simile of Tom's mole on the chin. The
cause was instantly decided to the satisfaction
of all parties-perhaps excepting the unexpected
father; though I thought I saw a smile of re-
sponsible parental pride play over his counte-veterinary manner: "that's a disease as horses
nance as he named me as his security to the
parish, and declared that, "As I have to pay for
a child, I'll have the worth of my money, and
keep it myself." And to his credit be it told,
that he did, and educated it respectably, and
is now proud of an amiable and interesting
daughter.
Among the horses was a cream-coloured Han-
overian charger, of extraordinary beauty and
immense size, and went so proud in action, "as
if he disdained the ground." Though nothing
in his life was applicable to his name but the
leaving of it (he was killed at sea), he was called
Nelson.
Immediately after taking the direction of the
establishment, I made myself acquainted with
the titles and general character and qualifica-
tions of all the horses, but was not so well in-
formed as to how the grooms, minor people, and
musicians were called; and among the latter
was a clarionet player, with less talent but with
the same name as the horse-Nelson. But, as
Juliet says,
"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
On a Sunday, in the forenoon, Rodgers, an
equestrian performer, and father to one of the
first riders of the present day, called at my house,
and requested to see me on very particular busi-
ness. Upon inquiring his errand, he said, with
much solemnity of manner,
"I'm very sorry to inform you, sir, that poor
Nelson is dead."
"Dead!" said I, with astonishment: "why,
Mr. Rodgers, it's impossible! he was well enough
last night;" for, in passing through the stable, I
had stopped to caress the beautiful animal, and
he was as full of mischief and spirit as usual.
((
"Oh no, sir," said Rodgers, "he was very un-
well for two days, and scarcely able to perform."
Why, I knew nothing of it," I replied; "why
didn't some of them let me know? There was
no necessity for his being employed in anything
but the entrée; and, indeed, if he was sick, he
shouldn't have been used even for that, if I had
known it."
“You're very kind, sir, I'm sure,” replied the
friend of the dead musician. "He'll be a great
"Mr. Blyth," he replied, "received some as a
present, and he gave poor Nelson two or three."
"Well, my dear sir, they never could have
hurt him; and if they were likely to do so, Mr.
Blyth, of all others"-he was our riding-master
"would never have given them to him; you
may depend upon it, Rodgers, it was the bots."
"Oh dear, no, sir," said he, with a confident
often dies on; but his was quite different; his
body was all drawn up in a heap, and the sweat
poured off him in pailfuls; we dosed him with
brandy and laudanum, and kept rubbing of him,
but before the doctor arrived he was a gone
horse;" and then, with a sigh, he continued,
"There's George Yeaman, and Williams, and a
few more as came out with Old West along
with him, wishes to pay him the compliment of
giving him a funeral, and wants to know if you
would be good enough to attend ?"
Oh, pooh! that's perfectly ridiculous, Rodgers.
I respect your innocent-minded, good-hearted
feeling; I have quite as good a right to be sorry
for his death as any of you, but a funeral is all
nonsense; we'll have him hauled away early in
the morning, and thrown in the river."
"Sir!" said he, looking aghast.
"Are you going back to the circus, Mr. Rod-
gers ?" I inquired.
No, sir," said he, "but I live within a dour
or two."
Well, then, you will greatly oblige me if
you will call and tell Peter, or any of the grooms
you may find there, to employ a butcher, or any
one who understands the business, and have
him skinned."
"Sir! what! skinned?" said Rodgers, in as-
tonishment.
"And if you please, tell them to have it done
carefully, and be sure not to cut off his ears and
tail; I intend to have him stuffed."
"Stuffed!" said Rodgers.
(3
Yes," said I; " and on the fourth of July, or
other great occasions, we'll have him hoisted
out for a sign, or use him for a dead horse, at
any rate."
This brought our equivocal conversation to a
climax; and, highly delighted at finding it was
Nelson the musician instead of Nelson the
horse who had been killed with cucumbers and
kindness, the next morning I joined the mourn-
ers, and saw the poor fellow "quietly inurned.”
During the time Lafayette was travelling
through the Union, receiving the enthusiastic
homage of all classes of persons, and, by the only
mode in his power, showing his gratitude by
kissing all the young women, shaking hands
with the old, and blessing the little children, it
PASSED AMONG
67
THE PLAYERS.
:
so happened that my company was always in Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye, equally
Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must dye;
some city where he was not; but on his return
And, as sin-burden'd soules from grave will creepe
to New-York, I fortunately encountered him,
At the last day, some forth their cabbins peep,
and through the influence of the committee of
And tremblingly aske, What news?"-JOHN Donne.
arrangements, he honoured the circus with a
THE following towns constituted our circuit:
visit, which, of course, produced an overflowing New-York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore,
house. The box appropriated for the use of Washington City, and Charleston, South Caro-
himself and suite I had decorated with as many lina. At the last-named place a large building
flags as I could borrow from volunteer and fire had been erected, but without a stage; and
companies, mechanic and masonic societies, Blythe had been usually sent there with an ex-
with the French and American ensigns enfold-clusively equestrian company, to perform during
ing each other in divers affectionate attitudes,
interspersed with a profusion of every descrip-
tion of vegetable matter, with the exception of
boughs of oak and laurel, which Billy Rider had
been desired exclusively to obtain.
66
There, sir, that's what you sent me for," said
Billy, throwing down a huge bundle of shrubs.
No, sir, it is not; I said oak and laurel.”
"Divil a sprig of laurel is there, I believe,
in the whole State of Jarsey. By my word,
sir, it was down to Weehawk I was, and back
again twiced.
As to oak, by the powers,
there's plinty o' that at the tops o' trees where
no mortal man could touch a leaf of it, av he
had the legs of Goliath. By my troth, now,
they are mighty green and pretty see the
red birries on that darling there-depend on it,
sir, d- the difference will the ould gineral
know; he's had something better to do than to
be bothering his brains about bothany; and all
those flags and finery, that's the thing itself, sir,
to tickle a Frenchman."
―
And I believe Rider was partially right, for
upon conducting the marquis to his box, for the
sake of saying something, I apologized for the
lack of preparation in consequence of the short-
ness of the notice I had received of the honour
he intended; and with earnest sincerity of man-
ner, he exclaimed,
Sir, it is most superb!"
the winter months; but, on Kean's revisiting the
United States, as he had never been to the
South, it was thought good policy to engage
him, hire the theatre there, which was to rent,
make some additions to my dramatic corps, and
open both establishments on alternate nights.
Eighteen of the most valuable horses were se-
lected; the remainder, with Blythe, and a few
of the grooms who couldn't "cackle," were left
to occasionally perform equestrian pieces at the
Park; and, with fifty-five souls, including mu-
sicians, artists, and carpenters, I set off for the
sunny South.
The journey by land, in the depth of winter,
was out of the question; it was therefore deter-
mined that we should sail from Baltimore; and
the ship Orbit, Captain Fish, was engaged for
the purpose.
the purpose. She was a fine, roomy vessel, and
built expressly for one of the line of packets be-
tween New-York and Liverpool, but not proving
fast enough to compete with her magnificent al-
lies, had been taken out of the trade. We paid
one thousand dollars for the use of her, furnish-
ing our own bedding and provisions, and fitting
up, at our own expense, the stables upon deck,
and the temporary berths and state-rooms be-
tween.
On a fine, sunshiny Sabbath morning, though
unseasonably warm for the month of January,
we hauled off from the wharf, and were towed
into the tide, to float down the beautiful river-
harbour of the "Monumental City,”
"With glist'ning spires and pinnacles adorn'd."
There was not a breath of air stirring, nor a rip-
ple on the water to disturb the equilibrity of
man or horse-a calm so profound as to realize:
the immortal Donne's beautiful illustration,
"In one place lay
"offi-
It was notorious that he never remained more
than half an hour, at farthest, at any theatre he
attended; but (in my opinion) he showed his
taste by witnessing the whole of our perform-
ance, and expressing his admiration at the prac-
tical jokes of the clown. I had, of course, sent
refreshments to the party, which the committee,
like all committees, appeared to enjoy most
heartily; but observing the general didn't par-
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday;"
take, I inquired personally if there was anything
he "particularly wished," and he requested "a and, in the language of naval postscripts,
glass of sugar and water." Old Hays, the cele- cers and crew all well, and in fine spirits." The
brated police-officer, whom I had stationed at ladies had the exclusive use of the regular cabin,
the door to prevent his being killed with kind- and forward of it some divisions were made to
ness, I despatched for the desired beverage; and form state-rooms for myself and family, and the
wishing "to take a drink" with the good old married folks; and berths, or bunks, were erect-
inan, I ordered two glasses, slyly whispering ed on either side of the remaining space for the
Hays to put some gin in mine: when he return- rest of the company. They formed themselves
ed, he gave me a cunning sort of thief-catching into different messes; the subordinates, espe-
wink to direct me to my "sling;" but the gener-cially those who had had experience in mari-
al having the first choice, got the gin, and I the
sugar and water. We drank without a remark;
I don't know if the marquis ever repeated his
dose, but I pledge my honour I never have
mine.
CHAPTER V.
"The south and west winds joined, and, as they blew,
Waves, like a rowling trench, before them threw.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
**
Thousands our noyses were, yet we, 'mongst all,
Could none by his right naine, but thunder call.
Lightning was all our light; and it rain'd more
Than if the sunne had drunke the sea before.
time matters, acting as stewards. Billy Rider
was in great request; he had crossed the Atlan-
tic three times, and once been cast away in a
The horses,
British bark bound to Belfast.
well trained to go through fire or water, appear-
ed to care little about the novelty of their situa-
tion. The grooms and carpenters were divided
into three parties, one of which was appointed
to constantly watch and attend them, and every-
thing appeared to promise a pleasant trip.
About noon a light breeze sprung up from the
northward, and we made sail; towards sundown
it freshened considerably, and, as only a solitary
lantern was allowed to swing below, all the
{
68
THIRTY
YEARS
landsmen unemployed had a good excuse for We heard it rushing on us! "Look out there,
sneaking quietly to their berths. The next day men; take care of yourselves!" was a broad hint
the wind still continued favourable; and the fol- from our jolly fat-headed captain for all my val-
lowing morning I was rejoiced to find we had iant party, with the exception of worthy John
got rid of our pilot, and cleared the Capes. The Hallam and little Sloker, to tumble head over
wind kept in our favour the whole of the day heels below-and well they did. It struck us
and night, though blowing unequally, in sudden forward, and with such overwhelming violence
gusts and flurries, with cold and drizzly rain, we could feel her tremble to the core, as she in-
demanding an additionaľ allowance of blankets stantly keeled over on her side. The sea was
for the horses, and an extra glass to the men. fairly lifted up and hurled over us in torrents,
About midnight it suddenly chopped round to with a noise so great and uniform it knocked alí
the southeast, and soon increased to a violent sound out of the world; we could not hear, and
gale, which lasted five or six hours, knocked up we could not see, but when the instantaneous
a tremendous sea, and then lulled away to an flash showed a glimpse of horror which made us
awful calm. The swell was dreadful; and the shut our eyes. By the gasping sensation in my
rolling of the ship, being accelerated by the throat, I believed she was quietly settling down,
treading of the horses on either side up and and all was over. I could not pray for cursing
down, according to the action of the vessel, my foolhardiness in not skulking below with
caused everything that was movable below to the rest, and being drowned with my wife and
roll and jump, according to its specific gravity, children. I had lashed myself to the belaying-
from one side to the other, at regular intervals; pins, near the weather mizzen rigging, and was
and among trunks, boots, books, demijohns, literally hanging over the "black profound,” and
broken pitchers, and plates, in a sitting posture, to stir from thence with life was impossible. How
looking the picture of patience, was poor Harry long we were in this predicament I cannot even
Moreland, arm and arm with William Isher- guess at, but, of course, not long-real hurri-
wood, sliding to and fro, and exclaiming at ev- canes do not last long. The ship seemed to la-
ery pause, "Curious!" Rider had fast hold of bour to get her keel once more under water,
the hanging part of the chain-cable, a portion and by the more frequent but less effulgent
of which was upon deck, and the rest in the flashes of lightning we could see the fore-top-
hold; he had mistaken it, I supposed, for a mast, yard and all, hanging overboard, but not a
stanchion, and was dangling backward and vestige, on the leeward side, of the poor horses
forward like the pendulum of a clock, express- nor their stables; but on the other I fancied I still
ing, with a woful countenance, his contrition at saw a head or two. The mountain-like waves
having "aten a meat dinner with a frind the had been blown into something like smooth
Saturday before." I gave him absolution and an water by the extraordinary violence of the wind,
order on deck in the same breath. His boasted which had greatly abated, though it still blew
experience was now required. During the blow tremendously. The clouds began to separate,
the spar on the starboard side, that was lashed producing a supernatural kind of light, which
fore and aft to partly support the divisions of would be considered awful even in the last scene
the stalls, and keep the horses in them, had part- of a melodrame. Close by me I found the cap-
ed, and caused some confusion; and now the tain made fast, without his hat, and the mate
ship rolled so heavily, and the horses backing, and several of the crew huddled together around
or actually hanging by their halters at every the mizzenmast. I could see them screeching
lurch, it required all the exertion of all the hands to each other, and the mate, a capital sailor-I
I could muster to replace it: from the crew I wish I could remember his name-partly tum-
could get no assistance; they were too busily bled and partly rolled from his moorings, and
engaged in sending down the royal-mast and with a desperate effort, with life or death at the
top-gallant-yards, close-reefing topsail, bending ends of his fingers, caught hold of the ropes be-
storm-stay-sails, and making "all snug," to re-layed to the main bitts, jerked himself forward,
ceive the coming tempest, full warning of which
was given in the most unequivocal and terrific
forms. The air felt hot and thick-you could
actually touch it-the swell increased; and
when the helpless ship rolled over the sullen
liquid hills, the little sail she carried flapped
against the masts, which shook to their founda-
tions, as she tumbled, as it were, into the abyss,
which seemed yawning to receive her. It was
about ten o'clock in the day, but pitch-black
clouds, so slowly moving that you couldn't see
them move, appeared to crawl all over us from
every point-above, about, or underneath"
and in a minute we were in "darkness more
dread than night."
You could not see your hand, nor the ropes to
which you clung with instinctive horror; weath-
er-beaten "old sea dogs" trembled and stood
aghast, mumbled out God, and mixed up pray-
ers and oaths in whispers. Suddenly the zig-
zag lightning seemed to tear asunder the curtains
of eternity, plash on the deck, and struggle at
your feet! And, on the instant, thunder, SO
loud and dread" it shook your very heart, made
you hold your breath, and feel both deaf and
blind.
((
seized the lashings of the long-boat, which still
maintained her station, though emptied of her
contents-two learned ponies-crawled along
under the lee of her gunwale, and, with some-
thing like the agility of a drunken monkey,
gained the weather fore rigging, and with the
assistance of two of the crew, who
"Claimed the danger, proud of skilful hands,"
the wreck was cleared from the ship, and she
righted! A good imitation of a storm-staysail
was with some difficulty rigged and set, and a
mizzen topsail, and she was once more under
some control, and very nearly the right side up-
ward.
All the horses on the side that had been under
water, of course, were gone
"No man knows whither,"
with the exception of a pretty little mare called
Fanny.
Fanny. Poor Fanny! she was named after an
angel in heaven now. She was nearest the bow,
and had, through fright, accident, or instinct, got
her fore feet over the spar, intended to secure
the stalls in front, and when the ship lay over,
some booms and masts belonging to the vessel
had shifted, and jambing against her legs, had
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
69
there held her fast; though skinned and torn, no | scull was split open; but on examining more
bones were broken, and in this cruel manner her closely, we found the clotted blood to be nothing
life was saved. On shore a similar accident more than diluted molasses-candy, a large cake
would have sealed her death-warrant-but who of which was still fast in his hair. His father
could give an order for her execution then? Char- had been a confectioner, and inheriting his par-
ley Lee was her doctor, and she recovered suf- tiality for sweets, he had provided himself with
ficiently to be made a pet of. To windward, a large stock for the trip; which had fallen from
three of the horses, wonderful to relate, were à ledge where it was "safely stowed," by the
still on their legs, Platoff, Wellington, and Jack-side of his berth, and, in his fright, he had slapped
son. They were rightly named. They stood next his head into it.
each other, and the farthest forward, near where
the hurricane first struck us, and where even
now the "ruffian billows" were
"Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them,
With deaf'ning clamours, in the slippery shrouds."
Of the remaining six two were still alive-Julia
and poor old Jack-though dreadfully mangled,
and lying panting and groaning in a heap with
their dead companions: as soon as possible,
with the assistance of the crew, Hallam and
Stoker got them overboard.
The gale continued with more or less violence
for five days, the ship hove to all the time. Our
captain had had no experience on that coast, and
the weather not permitting an observation to be
taken, he didn't know which way to run, so pa-
tiently awaited the termination of the tempest.
The company became accustomed to "the
great contention of the sea and skies;" and Hal-
lam's favourite slut "Molly" having produced
a fine litter of pups in the hour of peril, amply
repaid that worthy fellow for all his toil and
danger. Platoff and Wellington both died be-
fore the termination of the blow; but old Jack-
son stuck it out till we got into smooth water,
and then, as Billy Rider said, "Poor creature,
he kicked the bucket in comfort, any how."
Soaked to the backbone and stupified, I scram-
bled below; and there a beautiful scene present-
ed itself. There had not been time to batten
down the hatchway after my lubbers had made
their retreat, and, in consequence, tons of water
at a time had been thrown down, to the amaze- After mistaking Georgetown light for Charles-
ment and dismay of those between decks; and ton, and bumping us half to pieces on Frying-
men, boxes, beds, and barrels of oats were float-pan Shoals, we succeeded in reaching our des-
ing about in "most admired disorder."
tined port, in the "ship Orbit, Captain Fish, fif-
teen days from Baltimore, with loss of a deck-
load of horses."
Alarm for my absence had diverted from the
mind of my wife all terror for the real danger,
and my children were too young to understand
it; therefore, my reappearance made all right in
an instant "at home," and a "thundering stiff"
glass of grog and a dry shirt soon restored me to
myself. The companion gangway having been
secured, the cabin was all tight and dry, and so
were the ladies, I suppose; for on my arrival at
Charleston, I found a barrel of bottled Scotch
ale, which my friend John Boyde had put up for
me, and placed in the cabin for safe keeping,
full of empty bottles. Old Jones and his wife
were hugging one another in a corner of my
state-room; misery loves company, and they
had crawled from their own to make up a pleas-
ant party for the other world. Sam Wisdom,
my master carpenter, a fellow six feet and a half
high, and stout in proportion, was sitting in his
shirt on the deck a foot deep in water, like a
wringing wet mandarin, blubbering over his
children, and persuading the poor little innocent
creatures that they were going to be drowned
along with "poor pa" in a few minutes!
The gale having sensibly abated, all made
snug, and the ship hove to, part of the hands
were set to bail and swab. Henry Isherwood
was discovered coiled away in his berth, for-
ward, half smothered in wet oats, and immedi-
ately reported to me as "killed.”
"killed." When the
ship was thrown on her beam-ends, some barrels
of "feed" for the horses, piled up in midships,
had been tumbled over, and one of the heads
coming in contact with his, had started, and its
contents emptied all over him; and the sea rush-
ing down the gangway at the same time, he,
stunned with the blow, believed he was drown-
ed, and, in his own mind, had quietly given up
the ghost.
"Don't touch me," said he: "oh,
don't touch me; it's all over with me; my brains
are knocked out;" placing his hand to his head,
and looking up most piteously. Sure enough, he
appeared in a woful plight: large black streaks,
resembling congealed blood, were trickling down
his pale face, and I had no doubt but that his
!
CHAPTER VI.
"But ye ye are changed since I saw you last;
The shadow of ages has round you been cast;
Ye are changed-ye are changed-and I see not here
What I once saw in the long-vanish'd year."
MRS. HEMANS
"Alas! poor gentleman,
IIe look'd not like the ruins of his youth,
But like the ruin of those ruins."-JOHN FORD.
LEAVING the ship, as a climax, thumping on
the bar with which Nature has defended a har-
bour in appearance only excelled by the Bay of
Naples, the Cove of Cork, and perhaps equalled
by New-York, the custom-house officer politely
landed myself and family at the Battery in his
boat. As recommended, I took up my abode at
the Broad-street House, an excellent hotel, con-
sidered the first in the city, and, to my surprise,
kept by a gray-headed negro called Jones. Í
found letters from Simpson, as yet, of course,
ignorant of the loss, stating that, depending on
the high reputation of the vessel, he had saved
the expense of ensurance, which he had nder-
taken to effect in New-York at a much lower
rate than I could get it done in Baltimore. It
seemed as if we had struck a vein of bad luck,
Another "discontented paper" gave me an ac-
count of Kean's having been driven from the
stage in that city, and inquiring if, under the cir-
cumstances, his engagement had not better be
cancelled. The painful responsibility of my po-
sition at this juncture is even now irksome to
refer to: a large amount of property, owned by
various individuals, exclusively at my disposal,
and deprived, by distance, of their advice or as-
sistance. To the performers, whose travelling
expenses we paid, and a salary every Saturday
in the year, I was indebted, in consequence of the
length of the journey, nearly three thousand dol-
lars. A very doubtful point if Kean would be
· 70
THIRTY YEARS
received, and without him, my company, select- This from the largest sufferer, and the most
ed exclusively for his support, most unfit to play responsible of the firm, in case of a failure,
even a saving game; the very sinews of attrac-speaks volumes in proof of the calm, Atlas-like
tion torn from the circus, and the man-end of my support with which, for so many years, he sus-
numerous Centaurs walking about with nothing tained the fortunes of the Park Theatre.
but their hands in their pockets, and heavy wa-
ges hourly accumulating.
I was seated at the dinner-table, making be-
lieve to eat, when a servant handed me a note.
The address "To Howell, Esq.," would
have prevented my examining the contents, but
that the man assured me I was the person in-
tended. It ran as follows:
"Colonel M'Clane presents his compliments
to Mr. Howell: through the newspapers has
heard of his loss, and begs he will send some of
his riders to select from his stable as many horses
as he may consider likely to aid him in opening
his circus. He has a number of horses, and
among them some well adapted for the purpose;
and all, or any, are at Mr. Howell's service, for
as long as he may have occasion for them.
“Charleston, Wednesday.”
This from a stranger, who did not even know
my name, spoke the current language of the
warm-hearted natives of South Carolina. I, of
course, accepted the offer, and in an hour the
grooms, with much glee, paraded under my win-
dow some dozen animals, as beautiful as were
"E'er created, to be awed by man."
<< City Council, February 7, 1826.
The amateur horses, whose “ very failings
set them off," were an attraction. Dr. Porcher,
Mr. Kennedy, and several gentlemen, followed
the example of the colonel, and parties were
made up, by persons who had never before vis-
ited a circus, to see how a favourite horse would
behave in the ring. The inefficiency of my the-
atrical corps was hoodwinked by sympathy for
quence, to much better business than we prob-
my misfortunes, and we performed, in conse-
ably should have done had we offered a supe-
rior entertainment, without the difficulties at-
tending its preparation.
smooth the path for Kean's reception; having it
Every means in my power I artfully used to
generally understood by the public that on his
success was hinged the hope of redeeming my
fallen fortunes. But still the Eastern papers
were torturing his offence into a national insult,
and calling on the chivalry of the South to
avenge the wrongs this immoral play-actor had
heaped upon the country! I had determined
that there should be no time allowed to organize
a plan of hostility, at any rate, by having the
bills already printed, announcing "Kean's first
appearance this evening," and intending, no mat-
ter when he arrived, that he should perform the
in part defeated, by the ship Othello, in which
same night; but in this point of policy I was
Simpson had advised me he was a passenger,
"below" early on a Sunday
being reported
Cheered by this unsought-for proof of kindness,
I addressed a commonplace note-for I despise
the usual "your-petitioner-will-ever-pray" appli-
cation—to the intendant and wardens, to request,
under the circumstances, a diminution of the
usual sum charged for a license for each estab-morning. I boarded the vessel before she cross-
lishment; and the next morning I received the feeble in body, and that brilliant, poetic face, a
ed the bar, and found this wreck of better days
following:
Raphael might have envied for a study, "sick-
first inquiry was, if the public were hostile to
lied o'er with the pale cast of thought." His
his appearing; and like a child he appealed to
me: "Cowell, for God's sake-by the ties of
not to let me play, if you think the audience
old fellowship and countrymen-I entreat you
will not receive me. I have not strength of
mind or body-look how I'm changed since
you saw me last-to endure a continuance of the
persecutions I have already endured, and I be
lieve a repetition of them would kill me on the
spot."
"Read a letter from Joe Cowell, requesting
Council to remit a portion of the license impo-
sed on the Theatre and Circus for the ensuing
season.
"Resolved, that the whole of the license be
remitted. Extract from the minutes.
"WILLIAM ROACH,
"Clerk of Council.
(C Joe Cowell, Esq."
This was five hundred dollars saved, and,
what was almost as valuable, a farther proof of
a strong public feeling in my favour. I'instant-
ly wrote to Simpson to send me Kean,
"With all his imperfections on his head,"
having hope that the interest created by the
drowned horses would gain him leave to swin.
I have an objection to publish a letter intended
by the writer only for the perusal of the party to
whom it is directed. But the following laconic
epistle so much better conveys an insight of the
character of my friend Simpson than any de-
scription that I might undertake to write, that I
cannot forbear making it public:
"DEAR JOE,
"New-York, February 13, 1826.
"The Othello reported the ship Orbit on
Charleston bar, with the loss of a deck-load of
horses, before I got your melancholy letter.
God be praised, we can stand it! I didn't en-
sure, depending, as I said in my former letter,
on the high reputation of the vessel. Keep up
your spirits. I'm sure you will get out of the
scrape somehow. Yours truly, E. SIMPSON.
"What shall we do about Kean?"
I, of course, encouraged him to hope all would
go well; but on landing from the boat, some
twenty idlers collected, and as we turned from
hateful sound seemed to enter his very soul, and
the wharf, hissed and groaned; the well-known,
looking up in my face, with "God help me!"
quivering on his parted lips, he clung to my arm,
the disapprobation was meant for an officer of
as if for succour, not support. I assured him
the customs, in whose boat we had landed, who
was objectionable to the people; and doubting,
yet hoping it was true, I conducted him to my
house next to the theatre, which had been left
handsomely furnished by the improvident Gil-
fert, and which I had hired for the season.
He passed the day with me and some new-
found friends, and made himself, as he always
could when he thought proper, most agreeable.
"The sweetest morsel of the night we left unpick-
ed," and early in the evening I conducted him to
his quarters which I had prepared for him at
Jones's. He was delighted with his black land-
lord, and astonished to find that a negro could
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
71
amass a fortune, and possess all the rational ad-
vantages of a well-behaved white man, in the
same situation of life, in a slave state. His no-
tions of slavery had more than likely been al-
together formed by acting in the opera of Paul
and Virginia.
Though most comfortably lodged, he assured
me the next day he had never closed his eyes;
his anxiety had brought alone such rest
"As wretches have o'er night
Who wait for execution in the morn."
What would be the night's event, who could
tell? The public is a hard riddle to find out,
but when you do happen to hit upon it, how sim-
ple it is. Fifty friends gave fifty different opin-
ions, each with an "if," so that each might after
say, "There, I told you so." For my own part,
I, of course, most earnestly desired his success,
and therefore honestly believed his genius would
triumph.
Not a place was taken, but the house was
filled soon after the doors were opened. Before
it was uncomfortably crowded, I stopped the sale
of tickets, for nothing puts an auditor so soon
out of humour as a disagreeable seat.
Kean had set his "soul and body on the ac-
tion both," and I never saw him play better. At
his entrance, all was "hushed as midnight"-a
quiet so profound "that the blind inole might
not hear a footfall;" and this awful attention
continued during the whole performance, when-
ever he was on the stage; and when the curtain
fell, some few “amazed spectators hummed ap-
plause."
There was but one lady in the whole
house! the wife of the district attorney, and a
warm friend to the drama. Woman, in thy pu-
rity, how powerful thou art! The presence of this
one acted like a charm. She sat alone, the
beauteous representative of the moral courage
of her sex, and awed to respectful silence the
predetermined turbulence of twelve hundred
men!
Poor Kean was in ecstasies at his escape.
The next morning nearly all the places were
secured for Wednesday, and a splendid house-
ful of ladies, as well as gentlemen, assembled to
witness his master-piece, Othello. At his en-
trance, some ill-advised applause was instantly
drowned in a shower of hisses; and in the early
portion of the play, several sudden expressions
of disapprobation occurred; and in the third
act, at nearly the end of his fine scene with Iago,
the storm so long pent up burst forth; some or-
anges, thrown on the stage, appeared to be the
signal for a general tumult
"Of roaring, shrieking, howling,
With strange and several noises,'
in the midst of which I had the curtain lowered,
opened the stage door, and presented myself to
the audience. It was my intention to have made
an appeal to their indulgence on my own ac-
count; but remembering
"The silence, often, of pure innocence
Persuades when speaking fails,"
I assumed as innocent an appearance as I knew
how, proceeded quietly and slowly to pick up
the atoms of oranges and apples, looked unut-
terable things, and once
"I lifted up my head, and did address
Myself to motion, like as I would speak;
But even then-"
I bowed myself across the stage and departed,
amid thunders of applause! and, before it had
subsided, thrust Kean on with Desdemona, who,
"As a child, would go by my direction ;"
and the same people who, a minute before, were
pelting him with rubbish, rose on their seats,
and with "caps, hands, and tongues, applauded
to the clouds," and the play proceeded with un-
disputed approbation!! At the end, Kean was
loudly called for; but, from experience, know-
ing that for him to open his mouth, filled with
language of his own, would probably ruin all,
I pleaded his exhaustion as an excuse for his
making me the means to express the grateful
sense he had of their kindness, and tendered his
respectful acknowledgments.
The next day some of the first men in the city
left him their cards; dinner-parties were made
expressly for him; carriages were proffered for
his use; the rarities of the season or climate
poured in upon him; and the numerous atten-
tions shown him by the kind, yet aristocratic
inhabitants of Charleston, equalled, and were
more gratifying to his feelings, than the hollow-
hearted homage paid to him by a crowd of flat-
terers in the sunshine of his career. He receiv-
ed fifty pounds sterling per night: that is, two
hundred and twenty-two dollars and twenty-two
towards redeeming the pecuniary part of our
cents; but our profits, notwithstanding, went far
losses.
I had some really talented people in my em-
ploy; but, from the want of numbers, many of
my grooms and riders had to be trusted with
subordinate characters, and their Shaksperian
blunders were actually serviceable in keeping
the audience in good humour. Charley Lee-
the father of the now juvenile rival to Ellsler-
a most valuable creature in a stable, and excel-
lent in a monkey, performed one of the officers
in King Lear, and in reply to Kean's saying,
"I killed the slave: did I not, fellow ?"
answered, in his natty manner,
"Tis true, my lord! see where the good king
Has slew'd two on 'em!'
My king was an ignorant, dissipated brute,
whom I had, unfortunately, engaged on his own
recommendation. His incapacity was most
vexatious, but sometimes very droll. As Dun-
can, where Lady Macbeth enters to receive
him at the Castle, instead of a speech of some
four or five lines, he merely said, “Ah! here's
the hostess! we thank you for your trouble."
And after her speech, in lieu of continuing the
dialogue, in a pompous but familiar manner he
said, "Where's Cawder? Is he not home yet?
Well, no matter; we'll sleep with you to-night.
Give me your hand; walk in, madam; we in-
tend to be very particular with you;" and off he
went, with a good laugh at his heels. His
King, in Hamlet, could not be described. In the
last scene, after mixing up "the kettles and the
trumpets, the cannons, the thunder, and the
heavens," in a most ludicrous manner, he ended
with, "Stop a minute! give me the cup; here's
your good health! Come, Hamlet, take a drink.”
The easy, tavern-style in which this was said
was too much for Kean's gravity; the audience
caught the laugh from him, and the curtain
went down, as it ought to do, at the termination
of a very broad farce; but it ended his career with
me. The next day I gave him two weeks' sal-
ary, paid his passage to New-York, and have
never seen the poor devil since.
Kean was so delighted with the place and the
people that he determined to remain until the
season was concluded. A friend gave him the
72
THIRTY YEARS
herself his aunt, poked him in the back with her
umbrella "to entreat listening," beckoned him.
to the wing, and petitioned him not to persevere
in playing: explaining, that all the actors and
use of a country house on Sullivan's Island-a
most romantic sandbank in the centre of the
harbour. With two Newfoundland dogs of
mine, a pet deer, and the Fanny mare, he was
"alone in his glory;" for it was literally unin-good judges were laughing at him; and point-
habited in the winter, with the exception of a
few soldiers in the fort. He played Bertram for
my benefit, on the last night, to the largest
amount then ever received at the Charleston
Theatre. He took his passage with me in the
ship Saluda, and with
"Calm seas, auspicious gales, and sail so expeditious,"
that in three days, recruited in mind and body,
he arrived at New-York, "in the merry month
of May," 1826.
Poor Kean! I never more saw him act; and
though, for years after, his brightness flickered at
intervals on the gloomy path of the declining
drama, it never blazed again with its uniform,
unequalled brilliancy. His neglected early life
had grafted habits on his nature totally at vari-
ance with his pure poetic taste, and giant-like
strength of admiration of all that was great and
noble in art, and made him the contradictory,
and, at times, objectionable creature which, in
general, he is so exclusively described. The
truth of the adage in his case was painfully pro-
ved: he knew not who was his father. When all
the thinking world were awe-struck in contem-
plating his genius, several were named as hav-
ing a title to that honour, and among them the
late Duke of Norfolk; and Kean was weak
enough to appear proud of this parental appro-
priation. A Mrs. Carey, who was an inferior
actress at one of the minor theatres, claimed him
as her son; and whether he believed her to be
his mother or not, he supported her and her
daughter for years.
The startling effect of his style of acting, bold-
ly and suddenly setting at defiance the law and
decorum of the long-accustomed school of which
a Siddons and a Kemble were the models, can-
not be conceived at this day, where every aspi-
rant to dramatic fame totters in the path his
genius boldly trod, and "drags at each remove
a lengthening chain;" for, though he left behind
no parallel to his excellence, he created a host
of imitators, down to the third and fourth gener-
ation. The novelty of his manner may be un-
derstood by the following anecdote, which he
told me himself. At his first rehearsal at Drury,
Lane, steeped in poverty to the very lips,"
wrapped in an old, rough greatcoat-though it
was warm weather-and his appearance alto-
gether bespeaking his estate, several of the well-
clothed and well-fed minions of the drama did
((
presu-
ing out to him the horrible disgrace of his inev-
itably being pelted from the stage would be to her,
as she had acknowledged him as a distant rela-
tion, and introduced him as such to some per-
formers of her own class in the second green-
room!!
Wounded in spirit, he left the theatre, half in-
clined to follow her advice; not in consequence
of any doubt in his own mind of his capacity--
for true talent is always self-informed-but to
shrink from the dirty annoyances attending its
assertion. But, fortunately, he met at the door
an old comrade, from some country theatre, to
whom he unburdened his "o'er-fraught heart,"
and the poor disciple of Thespis being in pos-
session of the extraordinary sum of five shillings,.
Kean accompanied him to a tavern. After a
good dinner, a pot of porter, and the warm en-
couragement of his ragged but sincere friend,
he went to the theatre, desperate in his determi-
nation to succeed; played Shylock to a very in-
different house, but sealed his fame forever.
CHAPTER VII.
"The first tragedians found that serious style
Too grave for their uncultivated age,
And so brought wild and naked satyrs in
(Whose motions, words, and shape were all a farce)
As oft as decency would give them leave;
Because the mad, ungovernable rout,
Full of confusion and the fumes of wine,
Loved such variety and antic tricks."
ROSCOMMON's Horace.
BOOTH, though not a servile imitator of Kean,
founded his manner exclusively on his style.
He played precisely the same round of charac-
and, being naturally like him in appearance, the
ters, dressed them exactly in the same costume,
similitude was extraordinary. Kean's trans-
cendent genius had so dazzled the public taste,
that his defects of voice and figure, "by the aid
tributes, and Booth possessed the same advan-
of use," were actually considered necessary at-
tages. Old Dowton morosely said, when Kean
cessary nowadays to be under four feet high,
first appeared, "God renounce me! 'tis only ne-
have bandy legs, and a hoarseness, and, mince
my liver! but you'll be thought a great trage-
dian."
Soon after Booth's arrival in this country, he
not condescend to rehearse with him at all; and declared his intention of becoming a citizen, and
those who did, refused to deviate from the ac-purchased a small farm, if it might so be called,
customed business of the stage, which, right or
near the village of Belle-air, in Maryland-the
wrong, they had followed for years, and turned only steril section of land I know of in the
into unconcealed ridicule his temerity in
ming to suggest any alteration of the acknowl-
edged laws. Among others, he particularly
named De Camp-he, poor fellow, long since
died of a dysentery, mixed up with old age and
abject poverty, in Texas! He eloquently, yet
playfully, described the laceration of his feelings
at hearing his peculiarities of voice imitated be-
hind the scenes, accompanied by
"The loud laugh, that speaks the vacant mind."
Amid these "outward and visible signs" of con-
tempt for his talent, old Miss Tidswell, who had
played small characters in the theatre since Gar-
rick's time, I believe, and who afterward called
whole state; deposited his wife and family in a
log cabin, and shone himself, periodically, as a
star of the first magnitude through the theatrical
hemisphere. Scrupulously avoiding all osten-
tatious display, he adopted the reverse extreme:
would take up his quarters at some humble tav-
attired in a conspicuously plebeian garb, he
ern or obscure boarding-house; and when he
visited Baltimore (being near his home), he usu-
ally attended the market with some vegetables,
a load of hay, or sat with a calf, tied by the leg,
till time to rehearse "Richard the Third." His
simple Republican deportment, well spiced, when
occasion served, with "the jolly dog" and "the
good fellow," who was "not too proud" to sing
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
73*
"Billy Taylor" in a beerhouse, or give you a
taste of his quality in an oyster-cellar, rendered
him most popular with the multitude; a scholar
and a linguist, he was an intelligent listener to
the pothouse pedant, and could "drink with
any tinker in his own language;" carefully con-
cealing any advantages he possessed above the
capacity of his companions, his acquirements
were lauded and admitted: for it is the charac-
teristic of the nation, as I have read it, some-
times to allow a foreigner to be equal, but never
superior in anything. This probably accidental
mode of conduct, naturally enough, compared
with his prototype Kean's arbitrary offences,
aided by Booth's undisputed talent, for years
caused him to be greatly followed and admired.
His father, who was a devotee to the doctrines,
civil and religious, which clogged with blood
the wings of liberty during the French Revolu-
tion, named him Junius Brutus, as a type of the
stern Republican character he hoped his son
would achieve; and with an excellent education
mixed the seeds of those dogmas which, no mat-
ter how gilded o'er by the poetic imaginings of a
Voltaire, a Byron, or a Shelley, are to a mind
early tutored to adopt them, and undefended by
Christianity, dangerous to the happiness of the
social compact, and fatal to the ties with which
conscience should bind the intercourse with our
fellow-man.
It is a dreadful mischance to be early cast
upon the world without a guide or protector;
but worse, far worse, to have our way of life
pointed out by those in whose direction nature
tells us to believe, and pursue, at their instiga-
tion, a path through this world's pilgrimage at
which our young, pure feeling hesitates at the
outset, and experience proves leads to a death-
bed divested of hope beyond the grave.
"everybody knew Mr. Booth was an oddity,"
and "at times supposed to be insane." A sketch
of his numerous eccentricities would alone fill a
volume; but, being generally divested of wit or
humour, and, for the most part, mischievous in
their character, an account of them would be
painful to either write or read. I don't mean to
assert that his having been called after the pat-
tern of severe justice, who assumed the mask of
folly in the cause of virtue, had any influence on
the conduct of Booth; but baptizing children as
if to designate their character is a nonsensical
custom, and ought to be condemned. There are
enough good, homely Christian names, in all
conscience, to satisfy the varied tastes of the
most fastidious, and this deviation from the beat-
en track to please the doting folly of a mother,
or the political prejudices of a father, is often, in
after life, a positive affliction to the bearer; for
if they equal, in mind or station, their illustrious
namesakes, the glory they achieve is liable to
be passed to the credit of their predecessors;
and should their talent, appearance, or opinion
be at variance with their title, it will often place
them in a painful or ridiculous position. Ima-
gine a politician writing a long tirade against.
"removing the deposites," and then being obliged.
to sign himself "Andrew Jackson
((
'Napoleon."
"In the name," &c., says the clergyman,
baptize thee John."
or
"I..
Apollo," a knife-grinder, with a hump at his
back; or "Diogenes" apprenticed to a washing-
tub maker. I feel positively obliged to my god-
fathers and godmothers for having unostenta-
tiously named me after the amiable, ragged-
coated, modest Joseph; and the etymology of
the designation I have been fortunate enough to
prove the appropriateness of, by being already
the father and grandfather, to a certainty, of chil-
dren in two quarters of the world, at any rate..
When Bonaparte was First Consul, an honest
Kean's irregularities were coarse and brutal, old Church and King parson, at Manchester, in
but their ill effects recoiled exclusively upon England, who was wearied with the frequency
himself; Booth's involved the destiny of those of the name of the future emperor being claimed
nearest and dearest; for years he sheltered him- for a child born to be a weaver or spinner, at
self from their consequences by assuming mad-length determined to christen no more so ridícu-
ness; and the long practice of this periodical lously; and upon inquiring the name intended
"antic disposition," like Hamlet's, ended in its for the next infant presented, was answered, as
being, I believe, partially the fact. In one of his usual,
trips to New-Orleans, two itinerant preachers
were on the same boat, whose zeal in distrib-
uting tracts, and obtrusive interference with the
usual amusements on a steamer, made them
objectionable to all, but particularly to Booth,
and he invented the following severe scheme
of retaliation. He had a large sum of money
about him, and, when all were asleep in bed, he
placed his pocket-book, with a portion of the
notes, under the mattress of one of the par-
sons, and the balance, with some papers easily
described, in the pocket of the other. Early in
the morning, before the clergymen were up, he
loudly proclaimed his loss, and a general search
was ordered by the captain, to which all cheer-
fully submitted; when the property was found,
the astonishment of all could only be equalled
by the supposed culprits themselves. In vain
their protestations of innocence; the boat was
landed, and they, according to "Lynch law,"
were to receive a severe flagellation, and then
De left in the wilderness. This, of course, Booth
could not permit, and he explained the joke heified; for the establishment given to him to con-
had intended, without dreaming of the conse-
quences.
The indignation of the passengers, influenced
by their excited feelings, might fearfully have
turned the direction of their revenge, but that
"John!" says the astonished father; "I tell'a
thee to call the lad Napoleon."
"Pooh, pooh, nonsense!" says the parson; "I
have christened him John. Take him away,
and call him what you like." I wish all parsons.
would do the same.
The yellow fever gave so broad a hint as to
the necessity of buildings being prepared in the
upper sections of the city, that New-York in-
creased in that direction with a rapidity that was
truly astonishing. A very superior theatre was
erected on the site of the old Bull's Head Tav-
ern in the Bowery, a short time before consider-
ed out of town, and used as the cattle mart. The
control was placed in the hands of Charles Gil-
fert, a highly-accomplished German, whose chief
ambition was to manage a theatre on an exten-
sive scale, and be considered "more knave than
fool," in both of which desires he was fully grat-
duct infinitely exceeded in its extent and appoint-
ments any then on the continent, and everybody
agreed he was a consummate rogue. Thought-
less, extravagant, and unprincipled as to the
means used to obtain on the instant his real or-
4
THIRTY YEARS
friends and admirers. Early left to the care of
a widowed mother, her fond indulgence or pain-
ful necessities had deprived him of an educa-
tion even equal to his peers. This stumbling-
block to his success he most keenly felt. With
praiseworthy ambition, and the means his ad-
vancing fortunes furnished, with unwearied in-
path to fame, and may now compare in acquire-
ments with those whose early life was cradled in
ease, and learning made a toy. Having had an
opportunity of witnessing his unschooled efforts,
I strongly urged his engagement at the Park;
but, while the dollars and cents were under con-
sideration, Gilfert secured the prize, and, cun-
ningly enlisting the natural national prejudices
of the Americans in the cause, Forrest filled the
coffers of the Bowery treasury, and received the
unthinking, overwrought, enthusiastic admira-
tion of his countrymen, which, after years of
unceasing study and practice, he now so justly
merits from all admirers of genuine talent.
imaginary wants in his private station, he car- | fortunes had thrown him, that he could call to
ried with him the same reckless spirit to control his aid requisites well calculated to make both
the fortunes of others. Large inducements were
held out to the various members of the profession
to join the concern, and an excellent, but very
costly, company was engaged; and though the
overflowing houses attracted by the newness,
and, perhaps, superiority of the entertainments,
were ruinous to the Park, the expenditure quite
equalled the receipts. Barrett was the stage-dustry he laboured to remove this obstacle in his
manager; and though at that time not distin-
guished by the title of "Gentleman George," he
was as deserving of the appellation then as now.
But if one had been selected which would have
more clearly conveyed the idea of an inconsid-
erately liberal, kind-hearted man, it would better
have described his intrinsic character. As an
actor in smart, impudent servants, eccentric
parts, bordering on caricature, and light comedy,
where the claims to the gentleman do not exceed
those required for Corinthian Tom, he is excel-
lent. He has attempted to perform some old
men lately, in consequence, I suppose, of his
whiskers getting gray; but, if he'll take my ad-
vice, he'd better dye them, and stick to his old
line of business: six feet four is too tall to fit the
common run of elderly gentlemen nowadays.
He went to England a few years since, and very
imprudently made his appearance at Drury Lane
as Puff, in the "Critic," a character requiring a
long acquaintance with both the actors and audi-
ence to be made effective; the innocent jokes, at
the expense of either, always introduced, and
the principal means of rendering the character
amusing, if called in aid by a perfect stranger,
would either be not noticed at all, or considered
a liberty. According to Bunn's sore-minded book,
the performance was a failure, which he merely
mentions in proof of the general inability of the
Americans to become actors; but for his partic- |
ular information I beg to state that George Bar-
rett was born in England, of English parents,
though he arrived in this country when a boy;
and, therefore, his incapacity, according to Bunn's
judgment, must be "all owing to the climate,"
as poor Watkinson said when he was dying, in
consequence of drinking too much brandy-and-
water.
The destruction of the Bowery Theatre by
fire, to such a mind as Gilfert's, seemed only to
increase his energies; and in an unprecedented
short space of time-sixty days-it was rebuilt
and opened, even with increased magnificence.
Agents had been despatched to Europe for talent
of every description, and the first good theatrical
orchestra ever brought to America Gilfert could
boast of having congregated. William Chap-
man, an excellent comedian, was engaged, and
George Holland, inimitable in the small list of
characters he undertook, proved a deserved at-
traction, while Forrest, if possible, increased in
public estimation. A very capable man, by the
name of Harby, was employed, at a handsome
salary, to "write up" the merits of the theatre,
and such members of the company as the inter-
est of the management desired to be advanced.
This, being the first introduction of the system
of forestalling, or, rather, directing public opin-
ion, had a powerful effect; and the avidity with
which a large class of persons, in all countries,
swallow, and implicitly believe what they read
in a newspaper, is truly and quaintly enough
described by Mopsa, in the "Winter's Tale:"
"I love a ballad in print a' life, for then we are
sure they are true." All these circumstances
combined, and the theatrical population of New-
York not being then equal to the support of
more than one establishment of the kind, the
tide of opinion sat full in favour of the Bowery,
while the Park was trembling on the brink of
ruin.
In defiance of the somewhat prudish charac-
ter of the Americans at
"That blushing time,
For years the drama had been generally under
the control of foreigners, and the better class of
actors were, as I have before observed, exclu-
sively English; but the increase of theatres ex-
tending the inducements to make the stage a
profession, a number of young Americans be-
came candidates for fame and fortune in that
hitherto European monopoly. Of course, they
commenced as Keans and Booths; for it is the
marked character of the nation to begin at the
top of everything, and the energies of the people
increase in proportion to the difficulty or danger.
In arts or arms, they might with propriety adopt When modesty was scarcely held a crime,"
as a motto, individually, "What man dare, I Gilfert, whose moral feelings never interfered
dare." Foremost amid a host of tyros stood with his interests, introduced a troupe of French
Edwin Forrest. He had had the advantage of dancers. The experiment was considered a
some useful practice, and had already achieved dangerous one; and though all, at the onset,
a trifling reputation in the South and West, to were loud in their denunciation of the immodest
which almost "undiscovered country" in that exhibition, all crowded to witness it. By com-
day but few foreigners had dared to venture. parison with what I had seen in Europe, they
He possessed a fine, untaught face, and good, were of the fourth or fifth class in the way of
manly figure, and, though unpolished in his de- talent; and the exposure of the persons of the
portment, his manners were frank and honest, females, unexcused by elegance and grace, and
and his uncultivated taste, speaking the language the ribald remarks indulged in aloud, at the
of truth and Nature, could be readily under-close of every pirouette, by the gross-minded por-
stood; and yet so intrinsically superior to the
minds of the class of persons among whom his
tion of the audience, rendered the performance
most disgusting to the feelings of the virtuous
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
75
and refined; while the poor half-undressed su-
pernumerary women, made, for the first time in
their lives, to stand upon one leg, bashfully tot-
tering, and looking as foolish, and about as
graceful, as a plucked goose in the same posi-
tion, were pitiably laughable.
This was the first relish given to that false
taste which has taken the place of the whole-
some mental food furnished by the legitimate
drama; and,
"As if excess of appetite had grown
By what it fed on,"
"dancers, mimics, mummers" have usurped the
claims of poetry and morality, and brought the
stage to its present degraded position.
Mrs. Watkins Burroughs-can never be forgot-
ten by the admirers of the
"Last and best
Of all God's works !"
But eighteen or twenty years make an awful al-
teration in all such matters. Poor Mrs. Tatnall!
she died at Texas a short time since-that last
resource for
"Talent struggling with despair and death!"
Many years gone by, I strongly recommend-
ed her to Simpson, to play the Lady Macbeths,
and other would-be queens, with Cooper; he
turned up his nose at my circus heroine then,
but not long after she was a most successful
star in such characters at all the principal the-
atres, and in many of them she was eminent.
A comparison with her personation of Massero-
ni, in the melodrame called the Brigand, would
make even James Wallack and
"All the stars
Hide their diminished heads."
She was really an excellent general actress,
Among the corps was Celeste, then very young
and beautiful, and though not in the first rank,
there was a native grace and modesty in her
manner, by comparison with those by whom
she was surrounded, which gained her many
admirers. A young man by the name of Elliot,
who had nearly squandered a handsome fortuné
left him by his father, who had been a livery-
stable keeper in Baltimore, became enamoured, a warm-hearted friend, affectionate mother, and,
and after a short courtship, if it might so be call-I have no doubt, a most desirable wife. She
ed-for, as she could not understand English, had but one failing that I know of, if it could so
and he could not speak French, recourse was be called, for even that "leaned to virtue's side,"
had to an interpreter, to say the usual soft things, and that was an extraordinary propensity to get
which, Heaven be praised, I never had occasion married every now and then; allowing for the
to trust any one to say for me-they became man difference of sex and position in society, Henry
and wife; and for years she maintained the very the Eighth was "no wheres," as Stephen Price
first reputation in her line, and supported her would say, in comparison with her conjugal
husband in affluence. Perhaps prejudiced by propensities. She was the lawfully-wedded
placing her estimable private deportment in the wife of five husbands to my certain knowledge,
scale with her acknowledged talent, and my ig-three of them all alive at the same time, and
norance of the art, may cause me to think she
has never been excelled, for, to my untutored
taste,
"An antelope,
In the suspended impulse of its lightness,
Were less ethereally light. The brightness
Of her divinest presence trembles through
Her limbs, as, underneath a cloud of dew,
Imbodied in the windless heaven of June,
Amid the splendour-winged stars, the moon
Burns inextinguishably beautiful."-SHELLEY.
CHAPTER VIII.
"When, in this vale of years, I backward look,
And miss such numbers-numbers, too, of such,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and better far
To play life's subtle game-1 scarce believe
1 still survive."-Night Thoughts.
two, I believe, not dead yet. But for the bury-
ing part of the business, she might have sung
with feeling Colman's Irish song:
"To the priest says I, 'Father O'Casey, dear! don't my
weddings and funerals plase ye, dear?'
Says he, 'Ye bla'guard, betwixt church and churchyard
you never will let me be aisy, dear !'”
Her maiden name was Pritchard, and, as far
as I know, her first spouse was the Mr. Pember-
ton who some years since played Virginius
with some success in London; he was acknowl-
edged to be a gentleman of education and talent,
though somewhat eccentric in his mode of dis-
playing his acquirements; from him she was
separated, and married Tatnall, one of the ear-
liest American equestrians; from him she was
separated, and, undismayed by his notoriously
cruel conduct-for Tatnall treated his wife very
nearly in the same way he did his horse-she
married Hartwig, a very inferior actor, and a
widower, in consequence of his first wife having
poisoned herself three months before; her sep-
I HAVE already said that my company was
extensive; and for talent, in many instances it
could compete with the best on the Continent.arating from him very speedily caused little sur-
William B. Jones and his lady, omitting their prise, and she married Hosack, a nephew of
just claims to excellence on the stage, by their the celebrated physician of that name in New-
private worth alone were ornaments to any es- York, and, by the desire of his family, resumed
tablishment. I have just heard of the death of her own of Pritchard in the playbills. Hosack
my old friend and companion. I am not one of had a small annuity, and was a very worthy
the crying sort, but the paper got blotted while young man; they had two or three children, and
placing Young's thought upon it, which very appeared to live most happily together, but death
appropriately came to my mind on hearing the interfered with that arrangement, and shortly af
sad news. Roberts, too, gone long ago, will be terward she became the wife of Riley; he claim-
remembered by many a lover of fun, as a mosted the author of the "Itinerant" as his father,
chaste and capital comedian. And my ladies! | and, I am told, had been a good actor, and a re-
for beauty, utility, in fact, for every decoration spectable man. This connubial career soon came
but docility, would not suffer by comparison to an end, and she left him to close his wander-
even with our magnificent stud of horses. ings and his eyes in the hospital at St. Louis.
Mrs. Tatnall, Mrs. Williams, Mrs. and Miss I doubt much if she ever had an offer of mar-
Pelby, Mrs. and Miss Virginia Monier, Mrs. |riage since, for I don't believe she had the heart
Parker, and the lovely Mrs. Robertson-now to refuse one; and in the brief notice of her de-
76
THIRTY YEARS
mise in a Texas paper, "no afflicted husband" | served up in unceasing variety. Every specta-
cle "got up" had no rival but its predecessor,
and even at this day it is admitted that the Cat-
aract of the Ganges, and other gorgeous affairs
of the sort, have never been excelled in splen-
dour and effect.
was named "to bewail her loss," which, in the
familiar idiom of that country, might, under all
the circumstances, be called "d- hard luck."
It couldn't be expected that during the increase
of successful theatrical establishments, the cir-
cus should remain quietly and alone in posses- Mine was a genuine Democratic government:
sion of the field. A large building was erected the man who swept the stable received quite as
in Grand-street, New-York, and, like everything much courtesy from me as he who could vault.
new, for a time had its supporters; and though, over all the horses in it, and balance the broom
through bad management, and its then out-of- on his nose into the bargain. I, in consequence,
the-way situation, it was ultimately a failure, it had a very high reputation for even-handed jus-
interfered for a time sensibly with our receipts. tice, and," against my own inclining," was cho-
The loss, too, of the horses was severely felt; sen arbiter in all the private and domestic quar-
for though their place was supplied as regardedrels and troubles, and the causes of either were
numbers, those that were gone had each been sometimes very amusing.
worth the price of admission merely to look at,
and while they were alive, we could defy any
competition "that stood upon four legs.
|
Most of my performers, both horse and foot,
had a claim to some share, large or small, of
the receipts of a house as a benefit in each sea-
son; but to avoid trouble to others, and save
them from the very common folly of selecting
some piece likely to keep money out of the treas-
ury, for the sake of playing a part they are par-
ticularly unfitted for, I always controlled the na-
ture of the performance.
Mr. Sandford, now General Sandford, who
had married Mrs. Holman the singer, and the
widow of the well-known old actor of that name,
erected a very extensive amphitheatre within
pistol-shot of our encampment, and called it, as
everything was called at that time that wanted
a name, from an oyster-cellar to an omnibus, The benefits, on one occasion, came on during
Lafayette. With every horse that could be pur- the very successful run of El Hyder, and, of
chased with a long tail and a spot in its neigh- course, I would not have its career interrupted.
bourhood, a few runaway rascals of ours, with Mrs. Tatnall played Harry Clifton —ay, and
Tatnall at their head, and some nothing-better-to-played it better than anybody ever did or could
do boys, who had tumbled into the notice of the
amateur manager, outside of our stable on a pile
of straw, but whose "vaulting ambition" has
long since rendered them superior in gymnastic
talent to any that can be produced in Europe,
he commenced his campaign with Watkins
Burroughs, from the Surry and Adelphi Theatre,
to conduct the dramatic department; and by
forcing us to an expensive competition, and, at
the same time, drawing off a portion of our au-
dience, this powerful opposition took largely
from our former profits, though it ultimately
brought the proprietor to a state of bankruptcy-
was closed in a year or two, burned down, and
never rebuilt.
Price, who visited London every year, sent
me periodically all the come-at-able talent, hum-
bug, or nonsense to which the English show-
shop had given a name, or that he knew from
experience would suit the wonder-loving public
here. Hunter proved an immense attraction;
he was the first rider in this country who dex-
terously and fearlessly went through all the usu-
al antics on the bare back of the horse, instead
of on the oldfashioned flat saddle, the size of a
sideboard.
Stoker, a rope-vaulter, was another wonder;
he, among a variety of liberties he took with
himself, used to hang by the neck, not till he
was dead, but just long enough to give his audi-
ence reason to believe that he might be; and
this faithful imitation of the last agonies of a
malefactor, in a spangled jacket, drew together,
nightly, quite as large a crowd as a public exe-
cution always does. Fortunately for the man-
agement, several ladies fainted the first night he
appeared; and this fact being named in some of
the papers, and the exhibition described as most
shocking to witness, and certain on some night,
when least expected, to cause the death of the
performer, the boxes were always filled with the
fair sex whenever the feat was advertised. In
short, every novelty that money could procure,
tact invent, or unwearied industry produce, to
excite the creative appetite of curiosity, was
|
play it. Mrs. Williams, who was exclusively
an equestrian, when her night came, thought it
would be an attraction for her to undertake the
part, and I gave my consent that she should
show her versatility, to the great annoyance of
Mrs. Tatnall. Mrs. Pelby, in turn, claimed the
like indulgence on her benefit, and, in common
justice, she had as good a right as Mrs. Will-
iams to amuse herself, at any rate, and I adver-
tised her for the character. Mrs. Tatnall was
outrageous at this accumulated infringement of
her rights, and vowed to be signally revenged.
The part is really an excellent one, and any
circus lady might be justified in even using more
than "wild and windy words" to maintain the
possession of it. A dashing young midshipman,
after the true Saddler's-Wells model, in white
tights, fighting broad-sword combats to no par-
ticular tune, audante, with three or four giant-
like assassins at a time; shouting for "liberty!"
at the end of every speech, and a
"dam'me" at
the end of every line, and surrounded by blue-
fire and piebald horses in the last scene, is not to
be sneezed at. I was the old sailor, and quite
as unlike a sailor as my master, and, of course,
quite as effective.
While the performance was proceeding, I ob-
served Mrs. Pelby to be particularly restless and
odd in her deportment, standing sometimes upon
one leg, then balancing herself on the other, rub-
bing the upper ends of them together, thumping
herself with her cocked-hat in all sorts of places,
twitching her beautiful face about as children
sometimes do in the green-gooseberry season,
and at the end of every highly-relished Repub-
lican sentiment whispering such disjointed sen-
tences as, "I can't bear it!" "What shall I do?"
"Good Heaven! it's dreadful!" "I shall cer-
tainly go mad!" "I must pull them off!" and
bang would go the cocked-hat against the skirts
of her coat, both before and behind, with her
fingers extended as if itching for the luxury of
an uncontrolled scratch. During a pause, in a
confidential manner and imploring accent, she
said to me, "Oh! I am in torture; for Heaven's
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
my my
sake, make an act at the end of this scene. You
don't know what I suffer; I must change them
or I shall die. That beast, Mrs. Tatnall, must
have put cow-itch in my pantaloons!"
And so, no doubt, she had-"to what ex-
tremes may not a woman's vengeance lead!" but
the supposed culprit strongly denied all knowl-
edge of the ticklish transgression, and very truly
said "that no lady could be capable of anything
half so villanous." I, and everybody else, be-
lieved her to be the irritator, but as there was no
law, even of my own making, applicable to the
offence, I was glad she did not confess. The
usual remedies, whatever they are, were appli-
ed, and in a pair of blue trousers, a little too
large in one place and not big enough in an-
other, Mrs. Pelby finished the part without any
farther apparent titillation.
son to advise and control, they had a right to be-
lieve would economically, yet amply, supply my
place.
My new company, if not eminent for talent in
every department, was highly respectable; and
having been trained by my predecessor Wood,
a gentleman and a man of taste, to submit with
cheerfulness to the wholesome subordination on
which a well-conducted theatre so much de-
pends, the direction was divested of its prover-
bial annoyances, and the season proving profit-
able beyond all precedent, I have reason to recur
to this period of my life with both pride and
pleasure.
Wood and his lady still continued members
of the company. He was a most mechanically
correct actor, and when his great peculiarities
happened to exactly fit a character, which in the
extensive range he allotted to himself was often
the case, he might be considered excellent by
those who had long been acquainted with his
style; but the singularity of his voice, to a
his sensible delivery demanded. There was a
kind of comic pathos in its two distinct tones,
which, though it did not assist a laugh where it
should occur, was very apt to cause one in the
wrong place. Mrs. Wood was a sterling actress,
indebted to nature for a very superior mind, and
then-the account was closed. They were both
enthusiasts in their art, and most ardent admi-
rers of each other's talent; and in parts they
frequently played together, such as Mrs. Haller
and the Stranger, they infused so much reality
into the scene, that they literally appropriated all
the sorrow to themselves; positive sobs and tears
by turns, at each other's plaints and penitence,
would so interfere with and divert the sympa-
thies of the audience, as to drown all recollec-
tion of the imaginary characters in pity for the
sufferings of Billy Wood and his wife.
Though my income was large, my outlay was
on the same scale; wherever I went, Mrs. Cow-
ell and my younger children went; and in that
day, travelling, with all the comfort that could
be bought, was a very costly amusement, and liv-strange auditor, took largely from the pleasure
ing at the principal hotels, with private parlours
and other privileges, beyond a joke to pay for.
It is not of the least consequence in this coun-
try what a man's profession may be; he obtains
a station, and is respected in society, not accord-
ing to how he makes money, but according to how
much he makes; wealth is the aristocracy of the
land, and a poor gentleman an incomprehensible
character to the million. In my doubtful position
—a circus manager-there was no proof so con-
vincing of my being the possessor of wealth,
and, therefore, having a claim to consideration,
as by lavishly squandering it away. My liber-
ality got quite as much applause as my comic
songs; and though the interests of the sleeping
partners in the concern were advanced at my
expense, at the end of three years of intense toil
and annoyance, I awoke to the consciousness
that if I had remained in New-York and follow-
ed my profession, of which I was then proud, I
should have been quite as well, if not better off.
All I had gained by my management was a high
reputation, which continued success in any pur-
suit is sure to obtain. I once heard a man who
had just lost his last stake at roulette, a game
which sets all calculation at defiance, say to an-
other, who was staring with astonishment at
winning, thrice in succession, thirty-six times
the amount of his bet,
"Ah! I wish I understood the thing as well
as you do I'd make a fortune at it."
Warren and Wood, who for years had been
associated as managers of the Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and Washington Theatres, at about
this period dissolved partnership, and Warren,
who by purchase had become the sole director,
made me an offer of a very handsome salary to
undertake the acting management, which hith-
erto had been Mr. Wood's department. I had
long since selected Philadelphia as my home,
though I could only enjoy the pleasures of one
three months in the year; this arrangement,
therefore, held out domestic inducements that
jumped well with my humour, and at the latter
end of 1826 I took the reins of government at
Warren was highly esteemed as a man, and
admired as an actor.
He had obtained a great
reputation as Falstaff, which character his bulk
admirably adapted him to represent; and, as far
as "unbuttoning after supper, and sleeping on
benches after noon," there was an extraordinary
similarity in his habits, and the "cause that wit
is in other men." Poor Warren was a man of
wealth at the time I am now speaking of, but he
unfortunately outlived his fortunes.
Jefferson was the low-comedian, and had been
for more than five-and-twenty years! Of course,
he was a most overwhelming favourite, though
at this time drops of pity for fast-coming signs
of age and infirmity began to be freely sprinkled
with the approbation long habit, more than en-
thusiasm, now elicited.
I am told "Mr. Jefferson was a native of Lon-
don, and arrived at Boston, at the age of nine-
teen, as a member of Powell's theatrical com-
pany, in the year 1795.”
Literally born on the stage, he brought with
him to this country the experience of age with
all the energy of youth, and, in the then infant
state of the drama, his superior talent, adorned
by his most exemplary private deportment, gave
him lasting claims to the respect and gratitude
both of the members of the profession and its ad-
My seceding from the circus, I was pleased to mirers. And perhaps on some such imaginary
find, met with less opposition from the proprie-reed he placed too much dependance; for the
tors than I had anticipated. My income was a
large item saved in the general expenditure, and
Dinneford, who had been some time in my em-
ploy, and Blythe, the riding-master, with Simp-
the Chestnut-street Theatre.
whole range of the drama cannot probably fur-
nish a more painful yet perfect example of the
mutability of theatrical popularity than Joseph
Jefferson.
78
THIRTY YEARS
drama in this country, Price was well aware,
required more substantial food. Fanny's per
fection of art, too, always savoured of the kitch
When Warren left the management, "young-
er, not better," actors were brought in competition
with the veteran; and the same audience that
had actually grown up laughing at him alone-en, or, at any rate, it never got higher than the
as if they had been mistaken in his talent all
this time-suddenly turned their smiles on for-
eign faces; and, to place their changed opinion
past a doubt, his benefits, which had never pro-
duced less than twelve or fourteen hundred dol-
lars, and often sixteen, fell down to less than
three. Wounded in pride, and ill prepared in
pocket for this sudden reverse of favour and for-
tune, he bade adieu forever to Philadelphia.
With the aid of his wife and children he formed
a travelling company, and wandered through the
smaller towns of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and
Virginia, making Washington City his head-
quarters. Kindly received and respected every-
where, his old age might still have passed in
calm contentment, but that
"One wo did tread upon another's heel,
So fast they followed."
back parlour, or the bar-room of an inn; and
then, indeed, if she happened to be "Mary the
maid," you would see the most consummate skill
so skilfully concealed, that acting ceased to be;
all she did was reality, but it was the reality of
humble life, and, therefore, she couldn't even
make believe to be Beatrice or Lady Teazle;
and those were the sort of characters that were
the most attractive here. Now Lydia could in-
troduce us to the drawing-room: it was one of
her own, to be sure, but she was very free, and
easy, and agreeable there, and she showed us the
fashions; they, perhaps, were her own too; but
she was a splendid-looking woman, and they
were very dashing and effective, and, therefore,
much admired; and so were her songs, and her
legs, which she showed her good sense by show-
ing she was not ashamed of showing, when the
part she had to perform required such a display.
To be sure, some ladies who are engaged to
be" generally useful" are often thrust into
"breeches parts" whether they like it or not;
and then, poor dears, they have a right to seem
ashamed of themselves if they like it, and it is
highly probable that sometimes they really are.
His eldest daughter, Mrs. Anderson, and his
youngest (I believe), Jane, both died in quick
succession, after torturing hope, with long and
lingering disease. His son-in-law, Sam Chap-
man, was thrown from a horse, and the week
following was in his grave. His son John, an
excellent actor, performed for his father's bene-
During the run of the pantomime called "Jack
fit at Lancaster, Pennsylvania; was well and and the Bean Stalk" at Drury Lane, Miss Povey,
happy; went home; fell in a fit, and was dead who played Jack-by-the-by, it was singing a
on the morning of September the 4th, 1831. And solo in the opening of this very pantomime that
"last, not least," to be named in this sad list, the first brought Miss Povey into notice: I think I
wife of his youth, the mother of his thirteen chil- hear it now; how exquisitely it vibrates on the
dren, the sharer of his joys and sorrows for six-memory, as deliciously as the never-to-be-for-
and-thirty years, was "torn from out his heart."
"The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity,
but a wounded spirit who can bear?”
Joseph Jefferson died at Harrisburg, Pennsyl-
vania, the 6th day of August, 1832.
CHAPTER IX.
"The book of man he read with nicest art,
And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart;
Exerted penetration's utmost force,
And traced each passion to its proper source."
CHURCHILL.
gotten warble of the tame redbreast, the pet of
my childhood! What a pity it was she married
little Knight!
Well, Mrs. Knight-Miss Povey, I mean-
played Jack, climbed up a pole, and sung like
a cock-robin. But the pretty flaxen-headed lit-
tle creature felt embarrassed in breeches, and,
therefore, had permission to use the principal
green-room, which, though not more private
than the general one, was safe from vulgar eyes.
And there, in the right-hand corner next the
window, the siren would take her station-look-
ing more like a boy than a girl-at least two
hours before she'd be wanted in the last piece..
Her little feet, " and the demesnes that there ad-
jacent lie,"
" "folded like two cross boughs;" the
skirts of the little brown coat tucked over her
knees, and her hat on her lap with the crown up-
ward; and without scarcely moving or looking,
there she'd sit, the perfect picture of purity, in
I HAD Secured a galaxy of stars of the first
magnitude: among them, Macready, Cooper,
Forrest, Mrs. Knight, and others of distinction;
but for attraction, none could compete with the
brilliant Lydia Kelly; her extraordinary success
must have astonished herself. When she was
first underlined at the Park, one of those well-pantaloons. But this was all
known theatrical insects who flutter round a
box-office, and because they are free of the house,
conceive themselves privileged to be imperti-
nent, said to Price,
'Why, Price, they say this Miss Kelly is not
the celebrated Miss Kelly, but a sister of hers.
Is that the fact?"
Why, doctor," says Stephen, "I'll tell you
what it is; there are three celebrated Miss Kel-
lys in London, and as I had my choice, I should
have been a b― fool if I hadn't picked out the
best,'
If Price had his "choice," he certainly showed
his wit in the selection. Fanny, the celebrated,
was a delicacy, a nice little bit-five or six green
peas on a plate to prove such things can be in
the world at Christmas. Now a London audi-|
ence can afford to pay for such luxuries, but the
"The fault and glympse of newness ;"
when she did as she pleased, boys of all sorts
were her favourite characters.
What a pity it was little Knight died without
hearing Father Matthew lecture on temperance!
John Greene and his wife were both members
of the company, but in very subordinate situa-
tions. He happened to be cast the Irishman in
"Rosina," and I was amazed, both at the fine rich
brogue he possessed, and his quaint, natural
manner of personating the Paddy. I was the
more surprised, because Wood, to whom I had
applied for information as to the talent of all.
the strangers to me in the company, had descri-
bed this couple particularly as only fit to be trust-
ed with a line or two. I inquired of Greene if he
could study O'Dedimus, a very long part in the
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
79
comedy called "Man and Wife," which I wished,
to do for Miss Kelly, and, from necessity, had
cast the part to myself. Of course, he under-
took it, and played it gloriously, astonished
everybody, and Billy Wood into the bargain. I
got up John Bull, principally for the sake of his
Dennis, and though, altogether, the play was
very well performed, Greene made the great hit;
it was acted on the stars' off-nights for many times
more than the usual number of running a stock
piece, to crowded houses, and for four or five of
the benefits, his own among the number, filled
to overflowing. I have no doubt I have seen a
hundred Brulgruderies in my time, including Jack
Johnstone and Power, but none of them are fit
to hold a candle to John Greene, and I feel cer-
tain old George Colman "the younger" would
have been exactly of my way of thinking.
Johnstone was the beau ideal of Major O'Fla-
herty and characters of that class-the Irish gen-
tleman, of the Jonah Barrington school, he looked,
and was-and Power-the thing itself for the val-
ets: the insolence and coxcombry of such parts
he hit off delightfully on the stage, though the
same style of manner made him exceedingly ob-
jectionable in a green-room.
But for the Teagues, the Murtochs, and the
Looneys, "the boys," the genuine, unsophistica-
ted Paddy, with a natural genius for cutting ca-
nals and drinking whiskey, give me the Native
American Irishman, John Greene.
His good lady, of course, did not remain long in
the background. Her high respectability is now
too generally known to need any commendation
from me.
She can play the Queen in Hamlet
better than any one I ever saw in America; and
for the simple reason, that she can play Lady
Macbeth much better than many who would con-
sider the Queen in Hamlet as derogating to their
talent.
|
a style on; but Booth, keeping, with truth and
purity, a living likeness of Kean's beauties full in
view, had, of course, all the smaller-sized mad.
actors as his satellites; but I know of none worth
naming among them except C. H. Eaton. He
achieved a sort of popularity, and the distin
guished title, in the playbills, of the "Young
American Tragedian." In addition to his giv
ing a most excellent imitation of Booth's acting,
he assumed a lamentable caricature of his eccen
tricities off the stage. Now there was niethod
in Booth's madness: however ridiculous his an-
tics were, they only excited pity, but never laugh-
ter. There was a melancholy responsibility, if
it may so be called, about all he said and did
while in "phrensy's imagined mood," that if you
believed he was insane, it would grieve you to
the heart to see a noble mind thus overthrown;
and if you thought it was assumed, it would
cause quite as painful a feeling to think that one
so gifted should condescend to ape degraded na-
ture. But Eaton's secondhand vagaries were
disgusting; his distorted fancies, too, like other
monstrosities, had to call in the aid of alcohol to
perpetuate their first-conceived deformity. Poor
fellow he carried the joke too far at last, and fell
from a balcony at his hotel, after performing one
night at Pittsburgh, last May, and died in a day
or two afterward.
During this season, 1826-7, I had the gratifi-
cation of introducing two of the "fairest of crea-
tion" as candidates for histrionic fame-a daugh-
ter of Old Warren and a daughter of Old Jeffer-
son. They were cousins, and about the same
age. Hetty Warren had decidedly the best of
the race for favour at the start; but Elizabeth
Jefferson soon shot ahead, and maintained a de-
cided superiority. Poor girls! they were both
born and educated in affluence, and both lived to
see their parents sink to the grave in compara-
tive poverty. Hetty married a great big man
called Willis, a very talented musician, much
against the will of her doting father; and, like
most arrangements of the kind, it proved a sorry
one. Elizabeth became the wife of Sam Chap-
man in 1828; he was a very worthy fellow, with
both tact and talent in his favour, and her lot
promised unbounded happiness. Who could
have imagined that this young creature's heart
should have been lacerated, and the entangle-
ment of a first and fervent love unravelled and
let loose for life, because the Reading mail was
robbed? but so it was. Now is this fate? What
should it be called if it is not?
About this time actors began to be manufac-
tured by wholesale. The great and deserved
success of Forrest induced, of course, a host of
athletic young men to follow at a distance his
career. But something more than a mere imi-
tation of his powers being needed to command
attention to their early efforts, native talent was
the medium through which their claims to ex-
cellence were expected to be viewed with in-
creased brilliancy, and their failings entirely ob-
scured. Some few have attained high consider-
ation; but, unfortunately for themselves, keep-
ing you constantly in mind of their great master,
they oblige you to take largely from their own
intrinsic merits. Pelby was one of the first “na- The Reading mail stage, with four fine, fast
tive American tragedians;" that is, the first who horses-for Jemmy Recside had the contract-with
made a living exclusively on amor patriæ capi- nine male passengers and the driver, was stopped
tal. He had a clumsy figure, rather a good face, by three footpads-Porter, Potete, and Wilson--
and a very peculiar voice; he could boast of a few miles from Philadelphia, in the middle of
originality of style, at any rate, for he was to- the night. The horses were unhitched, and fast-
tally unlike anybody I ever saw in my life. John ened to the fence, the driver's and the passen-
Jay Adams was taught to read Hamlet by Pritch-gers' hands tied behind them with their own
ard on condition that he would appear for his handkerchiefs, and quietly and civilly rifled of
benefit at the Park, which he did during my first their property, without their making the slightest
and I thought it the very best first at- resistance! A watch, I think, said to be the
tempt I ever saw. He was a wholesale tobacco- gift of a mother or wife, and some other matters
nist, and retail dealer in literature; he wrote very of private value, Porter, an Irishman, and the
pretty poetry for some of the Sunday papers, and principal robber, politely returned; helped him-
only played now and then; but got worse by de- self to a "chaw" of tobacco, and replaced the
grees; and when I last saw him he was "shock-"plug" in the passenger's pocket; gave another
ing bad."
season;
Cooper's faults had been so long copied, and,
of course, increased in the appropriation, that
there was not an objectionable, and, at the same
time, original bit left for a new beginner to found
some loose change; and, in fact, conducted the
whole affair with most admired decorum, and
then took a respectful leave of his ten victims, sent
his aides, with the mail-bags, into the woods, and
departed. The entire operation was considered
'80
THIRTY YEARS
the most gentlemanly piece of highwayism that | This great practical example of the power of
had occurred for some time, and caused much
excitement. Potete turned state's evidence; Wil-
son's life was spared by President Jackson, and
Porter, whose courage and urbanity were the ad-
miration of everybody, was hanged.
Chapman, who was extremely clever at dram-
atizing local matters, took a ride out to the scene
of the robbery, the better to regulate the action
of a piece he was preparing on the subject, was
thrown from his horse, and slightly grazed his
shoulder. He had to wear that night a suit of
brass armour, and the weather being excessive-
ly hot, he wore it next his skin, which increased
the excoriation; and it was supposed the verde-
gris had poisoned the wound.´´At any rate, he
died in a week after the accident, and left his
young wife, near her confinement, and a widow |
in less than a year after her happy marriage.
"Oh! grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolute
In the wide world."
It is the custom in Philadelphia for a vast
number of persons to attend all funerals. Chap-
man being popular, his death sudden and singu-
lar, and his poor little wife a native of the city,
and adored by everybody, an immense concourse
assembled. I walked and talked, as is the fash-
ion, at the heels of some two hundred peripatet-
ics, arm in arm with Edwin, the well known
and excellent stipple-engraver, and the son of
the great comedian, the original Lingo, and
Darby. We were deep in disputation, and over
our shoes in mud in crossing a street, when an-
other large funeral procession passed through
ours, in another direction, and caused some con-
fusion. Absorbed in listening to anecdotes of his
father, and Lord Barrymore's private theatricals,
we reached the cemetery, and I proposed that
we should make our way towards the grave,
that the poor father and brother might be aware
of our attendance; we did so, and listened to a
portion of the beautiful service, then looked
round, with that timid glance always assumed
on such occasions; but no sorrowful look of
recognition was exchanged; every face was
strange; I nudged my companion; we peeped
under the handkerchief of each weeping mourn-
er; there was no Old Chapman with spectacles
bedewed; turned round at a stifled sob; it was
not Williams; no, nor anybody that we knew;
all were strangers. The truth stared us in the
face-we had got mixed up in the other proces-
sion, and had been making believe to cry over
the wrong corpse!
A mind such as Forrest's, running, riot, like
the vines of his native woods, in uncultivated
luxuriance, was predisposed to be impressed
with an enthusiasm amounting to adoration by
the electrical outbreakings of such a genius as
Kean's,
"Who, passing nature's bounds, was something more."
But a model, whose excellence was inspira-
tion, gave an impetus, rather than a check, to
its own naturally wild, spontaneous growth;
and, untrained by art, Forrest's splendid talent,
choked by its own voluptuousness, might even
now be rotting in obscurity. Macready's arri-
val in this country may, therefore, be said to
have formed an epoch in the history of the
American drama.
"In ancient learning train'd,
His rigid judgment fancy's flights restrained,
Correctly pruned each wild, luxuriant thought,
Mark'd out her course, nor spared a glorious fault."
art over impulse was not lost upon Forrest.
Without condescending to imitate the manner,
he imitated the means whereby such eminence
had been attained, and has achieved a glorious
reward for his industry and self-government.
I had only seen Macready three times before
I met him in Philadelphia, and that was in
London-once in Rob Roy, and twice in Pes-
cara, a most extraordinary and original concep-
tion. The impression that comprehensible per-
formance made on me, time still permits me to
enjoy in full recollection, though at the same
period I only remember that Charles Young,
Charles Kemble, and Miss O'Niel sustained
the other principal characters.
Macready could neither boast of face nor fig-
ure, but both were under such command, that
they were everything which was required, in
every character he undertook. By-the-by, it has
been often remarked that we are very much
alike of course, I mean off the stage-but I beg
most particularly to request those who are not
acquainted with my personal appearance to un-
derstand that I am much the better-looking fellow
of the two.
CHAPTER X.
"The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, com-
edy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pasto-
ral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral,
scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too
heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ, and the
liberty, these are the only men."-Hamlet.
MEANWHILE the circus had become so unprof-
itable that the amateur stockholders were well
inclined to sell out. I parted company with
Warren, and Simpson and myself became the
sole proprietors.
The best of my dramatic company having
"got half lost and scattered," I had to form a
new one. Fortunately for me, John Hallam
was most anxious to go to England for a wife
he had chosen there. People often fall in love
when they cannot afford to pay for it, but now
he thought he might prudently indulge in this
expensive luxury; and I gave him an agency, at
the same time, to engage any talented people he
might meet with likely to suit me. He dis-
charged this trust as he did everything, most
faithfully; but, of course, he secured the ser-
vices of Mrs. Hallam and her sister, Miss Ra-
chel Stannard, and her sister Mrs. Mitchell, and
her husband Mr. Mitchell; the rest of the fam-
ily wouldn't come, I suppose. The only females
he introduced to an American audience, with
the exception of his new relations, were Mrs.
Lane and her talented little daughter, now the
beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Hunt, of the
Park Theatre.
to supply my place; a very worthy fellow, proud,
Warren engaged Francis Courtney Wemyss
and justly so, of being the descendant of several
earls in Scotland, and some lords in England;
he has been buffeting with the spotted fortunes
of management ever since, till very lately, and
now I see he advertises to sell, in a cellar in
Philadelphia, perfumery, tetter ointment, and
cheap publications. I hope he will recommend
this book to his customers.
As soon as Hallam's mission was known,
Warren despatched Wemyss on a similar er-
rand;
but Hallam was limited to give only three
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
81
"If this is Cowell's great gun," said he, "why
he's a pop-gun.'
"}
But it was not: W. H. Smith became an im-
mense favourite. He was one of those pink-
looking men, with yellow hair, that the ladies
always admire, and in his day was considered
the best fop and light comedian on the continent.
I doubled his salary directly.
guineas per week, as the highest salary. We-ceiling. I stood for a few minutes behind poor
myss had to pay much more, of course, as he old Warren.
selected persons who, by talent or circumstances,
had achieved some kind of reputation in Eng-
land. Now my lot had never been heard of out
of their own little circle, with the exception of my
principal man, Grierson, and Hallam prided
himself on having secured the original Duke of
Wellington in the "Battle of Waterloo," at Ast-
ley's. I was in successful operation at Philadel-
phia when Simpson sent me an account of their John Sefton was a sort of a failure; though
arrival in the ship Britannia, my old friend, C. very queer and excellent in little bits, he did not
H. Marshall, commander. They could not com- hit the audience till he got to Baltimore; and
plain of their mode of conveyance; they had the there, his skilful personation of the Marquis, in
same skilful captain who landed me here safe the "Cabinet," made his two pounds ten into
and sound, and a magnificent vessel. Charles twenty dollars. Some years since he played
Irish, of yellow-fever memory, then kept a sec- Jemmy Twitcher, in the "Golden Farmer," at
ondary kind of hotel, where Hallam was in- New-York, in a little theatre called the Franklin.
structed to put up and remain a day or two, that The audience were peculiarly capable of appre-
the party might recover the fatigues of the voy-ciating his talent, and his fame is hinged entirely
age and see the lions of New-York. The bill of
expenses rendered to me on this occasion re-
minded me of Falstaff's:
"Item. Sack, two gallons
Item. Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d.
Item. Bread, a halfpenny."
This was supposed to happen during the reign of
Henry IV. The following did happen during
The following did happen during
the reign of Simpson and Cowell:
"Mr. John Hallam
5s. 8d.
To Charles Irish.
One day's board and lodging for self
and party
Refreshments at bar
·
on that one part; his appearance is the thing it-
self-equal to Sir Joshua Reynolds's picture of
'Mercury as a Pickpocket."
(C
The equestrian business ceasing to be so at-
tractive, I determined to get rid of that portion
of our expenses-sent the company to Wilming-
ton, Delaware, where a temporary building was
prepared, and had the ring fitted up as a spacious
pit, and in September, 1827, opened the Phila-
delphia Theatre, Walnut-street.
dred dollars a night; when the Chestnut-street
would prepare an expensive performance, or,
rather, display an expensive company to thirty
persons.
Wemyss returned from England with his par-
ty. But too much was expected from them;
and in this interim my company had got licked
$18 50 into shape, and had grown into favour with the
56 00!! audience. They underlined Venice Preserved and
$74 50." the Young Widow, to introduce some of their
new people-Belvidera, Miss Emery; Jaffier,
Hallam was a jolly dog himself, and, of course, Mr. Southwell; and Pierre, Mr. S. Chapman;
he took care that the representatives of the Brit- their first appearance in America-there were
ish drama, at that day, should do the thing hand-not more than two hundred persons in the house.
somely by their new associates. They were very │I had the same pieces performed on the same
foreign, both in appearance and manner-Eng- evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hamblin in the princi-
lish country actors are very odd-looking people-pal characters, and had upward of fourteen
but, on the whole, I was well pleased with hon-hundred! The full tide of public opinion was
est John Hallam's selection. Of course I made in our favour. We could play three light pieces
the most of them, and they all had opening for a week in succession, to six and seven hun-
parts. Grierson chose Rolla for his début, and
the same play served to introduce Mrs. Mitchell
as Cora. She had a very pretty face and a broad
Lincolnshire dialect; and her person strongly
reminding me of the great Mrs. Davenport, I
doubled her salary, on condition that she would
undertake the old women, in which she was
highly successful. Pretty women always con-
trive to get well paid, even to make themselves
ugly. Grierson was very tall and very uncouth
in his deportment, and so near-sighted that it
amounted to blindness; and in the scene where
he has to seize the child, not having the little
creature thrust into his arms, the necessity for
which he had pointed out in the morning, he
fumbled about for an instant, and then caught
Charley Lee instead by the nape of his neck,
and would have whirled him off if not rescued
by the soldiers. The public were well inclined
to believe all I did was right at that time, but I
had put their temper to a serious trial that night.
But, fortunately, a most vehement appeal in
good plain English, by the beautiful little boy
who played Cora's child, to have some domestic
matters attended to immediately, and being dis-
regarded, the evidence that it should have been,
trickling down the stage, put the audience in
such high good-humour, that the play escaped
disapprobation. The house was crowded to the
G
Among other stars, I engaged Cooper, who
took his leave of an American audience, with
whom he had been so many years the idol, prior
to his departure for Europe; and he played his
round of characters to crowded houses. He had
prepared an excellent farewell speech; but it be-
ing his own composition, he had not thought it
necessary to fasten it so securely on his memory,
as no doubt he would have done had it been
the production of another's pen. The veteran,
too, evinced much feeling at having to say good-
by, perhaps forever, to a people among whom
he had made so long and happy a sojourn; and,
in his embarrassment, forgot the words. He is
a very incompetent extemporaneous speaker;
and thinking it a pity some very pretty thoughts
he had put on paper should be wasted, explained
the dilemma he was placed in, and begged per-
mission to read what he had written; but, un-
fortunately, the manuscript was in his own
hand; and believing it,
"As our statists do, a baseness to write fair,"
it was almost illegible, and occupying both sides
of a sheet of foolscap, which became transparent
82
THIRTY YEARS
when held behind the foot-lights, both pages were
mixed up together, so that it became impossible
to smoothly deliver the sense, and he was obliged
at last to give up the task, said a few words
warm from the heart, and some honest tears
were shed on all sides.
Baltimore had for years been visited by War-
ren and Wood, with the same jog-trot company
and the same old pieces, till they had actually
taught the audience to stay away, and it had
then the reputation of being the worst theatrical |
town in the Union. I had always had enormous
success there with my circus company; and, en-
couraged to the undertaking by a host of friends,
I leased the theatre from the committee, all of
them my personal well-wishers. I had the house
thoroughly repaired and decorated, the lobbies
carpeted, and stoves erected there and under the
stage. The gallery, which had become an un-
profitable nuisance, I dispensed with entirely,
and made that entrance serve for the third tier,
effectually separating the visiters to that section
from the decorous part of the house. There was
a corporation tax of ten dollars on every night's
performance, which Warren and Wood had for
years been trying to get removed; but the influ-
ence of my powerful friends got it instantly re-
duced one half! Strict police regulations were
adopted, and carried most rigorously into effect;
and in November, 1827, we commenced the sea-
son.
Hamblin was my first star, to whom I paid
one hundred dollars per night, and played to
half the amount: a very dingy beginning, but I
had "confidence, which is more than hope," of
a good season yet.
I was sitting one night at the back of one of
the boxes: the play was the Revenge; there are
but seven characters in the tragedy, and necessa-
rily they are all very long. Smith was Alonzo,
and Grierson, Carlos. In the same box with me
was a tall, Kentucky-looking man, alone-the
house was literally empty-and during a very
tedious scene of theirs, he leaned back, and said
to me, in a loud tone,
"I say, stranger, has that long-legged fellow
got much more to say in this business?"
I answered in the affirmative.
((
Then," said he, striding over the seats, "they
are welcome to my dollar, for I can't stand list-
ening to his preaching any longer;" and away he
went.
in the same favourite corner; laugh old matters
over, and refine upon the refinements of the
gout, which we have both so honestly earned.
Simpson sent me all the stars, in increasing
attraction; and the season of 1827-8 is spoken
of up to this day as the most brilliant ever known
in Baltimore. Forrest, Hackett, Barnes, Horn,
Pearman, Hamblin, Mrs. Austin, Mrs. Knight,
Miss Kelly, and the captivating Clara Fisher-
worth the whole of them at that day-appeared
in rapid succession. She played with me for six
weeks, to a succession of overflowing houses. No-
thing could exceed the enthusiasm with which
this most amiable creature was received every-
where. "Clara Fisher" was the name given to
everything it could possibly be applied to: ships,
steamboats, racehorses, mint-juleps, and negro
babies. Charles Fisher established a newspaper
in New-York, called the "Spirit of the Times,"
and, to secure popularity to it and himself, ad-
vertised it as "edited by C. J. B. Fisher, brother
to the celebrated Clara Fisher.”
A hack propri-
etor started an omnibus, and, of course, called it
the "Clara Fisher;" and another had another,
called "the celebrated Clara Fisher;" and another
yet, determined not to be outdone, named his
Brother to the celebrated Clara Fisher!" But
anything so overdone was not likely to last, in
her evanescent profession. She married Mæder,
a very pleasing composer and talented musician;
and though no diminution could be discovered,
by the calm observer, in her intrinsic merit, the
charm was broken, and she only now, as Clara
Fisher, in remembrance lives.
((
Washington City could then only boast of a
very small theatre, in a very out-of-the-way sit-
uation, and used by Warren and Wood as a sort
of summer retreat for their company; where the
disciples of Isaac Walton, with old Jefferson at
their head, might indulge their fishing propensi-
ties, without having them interfered with by
either rehearsals or study.
Now Miss Fisher had so turned the heads of
the public in Baltimore, that I thought it a safe
experiment to try if she couldn't turn the heads
of the government, then in session, and I hired
the theatre for an optional number of nights.
"There is nothing like getting up an excite-
ment," Pelby used to say. I immediately set a
swarm of carpenters at work to bang out the
backs of the boxes and extend the seats into the
lobbies, which, in all the theatres built since the
My company could boast of little tragic talent, awful loss of life by the Richmond fire, were
but in comedy we worked together very happily. | ridiculously large in proportion to the space al-
Wells was my ballet-master, and that depart-lotted to the audience. As the house had seldom
ment, under his experienced direction, was very or ever been full, small as it was, my preparing
effective. The business continued most wretch- it to hold twice the number which had ever tried
ed for two or three weeks; but, fortunately, to get in appeared somewhat extraordinary.
we were able to make all our payments reg- Mashing down thin partitions, in an open space,
ularly, and I professed to be perfectly satisfied plastered into a ceiling, is a most conspicuously
with the certainty of having a fine season ulti-dusty and noisy operation, and attracted, as I
mately. Messrs. Dobbin, Murphy, and Bose, wished, numerous inquiries-the doors being all
the proprietors of the American, had always thrown open-and my people were instructed
been our printers; but General Robinson then simply to say, that "the house wasn't half large
kept a much-frequented, fashionable circula- enough to accommodate the crowds which would
ting library, and I gave him the printing, that it throng to see Clara Fisher." The plan succeeded
might be to his interest, as well as inclination, to a nicety. Never had there been such a scram-
to talk in our favour, which he did most success-ble for places before in the capital-I mean in
fully and kindly. My worthy host, too, David
Barnum-the emperor of all hotel-keepers-was
most enthusiastic in his efforts to promote my
interests. It is delightful to think that, after so
many years of checkered fortune passed, that
this very night, here in Baltimore, in July, 1843,
we should take our glass of "old rye" together,
the theatre. At the end of two days every seat
was secured for the whole of her engagement.
On the afternoon of the first performance I got
a note from John Quincy Adams, then the Pres-
ident, requiring a certain box for that evening,
directed to " Mr. Manager of the Theatre;" and I
sent a reply, regretting that he couldn't have it
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
83
""
till five nights afterward, directed to " Mr. Man-
I was afterward told
ager of the United States.'
that the kind old man was highly amused by the
response.
CHAPTER XI.
Quince. Have you sent to Bottom's house? Is he come
home yet?
"Starveling. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is
transported.
"Flute. If he comes not, then the play is marr'd; it goes
not forward, doth it?
"Quince. It is not possible. You have not a man in all
Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he."
\
Midsummer Night's Dream.
"List, love, 'tis ay-ay-I,
Rum tum ti di-i-ay ;
Where art thou, runi tum ?"
Then he should rush on, and, embracing Miss
Mannering, most energetically sing,
"I'm here, I'm here!"
but, unfortunately, forgetting, in the anxiety of the
moment, that there was a threshold to the folding
doors of the flat, his toe caught the impediment,
and with the tune in his throat, he came sprawl-
ing down the stage on his face, close to the foot
lights; in an instant he was on his feet, and, at
the very top of his fal-sello, shouted,
"I'm here, I'm here!"
and he probably got a more joyous reception
than he would have done under the usual cir-
cumstances.
IN consequence of the extraordinary success
which had attended the temporary alteration of
the Walnut-street Circus, the proprietors were
easily persuaded to convert it into a permanent
I left Boston in the mail-stage, after a jolly
theatre. A lease on my own terms was grant- supper, at one in the morning, and arrived at
ed for ten years. To my experience was left the Providence, Rhode Island, in time for rehearsal,
general detail of the improvements, and the cel- the same day. The weather was excruciatingly
ebrated John Haviland was chosen as the archi-hot, as hot weather always is in high latitudes
tect, and the present Walnut-street Theatre was when it is hot, and after dinner I determined to
erected withinside the walls of the old building. take my lost share of sleep. I took a file of
Scarcely had the note of preparation been sound- papers, that most efficacious lullaby, from the
ed, when an entirely new theatre was proposed to reading-room, and finding a mattress thrown in
be built in Arch-street by some property-holders the corner of a balcony, where all the air Provi-
in that neighbourhood. Building theatres was
dence could bestow appeared to flutter, I ar-
supposed to be an excellent investment of capital ranged a siesta. When I awoke it was dusk,
at that time, and a good excuse for elderly, se- and after repairing my toilet, I set off for the
date, Quaker-bred gentlemen to take a peep at a theatre, all my companions being there, though
play, or a look at what was going on behind the I only had to play Crack, in the last piece. As
scenes in the character of a stockholder.
I passed through the bar I inquired of a servant
sweeping it out, "What is the time?"
It had already been proved past a doubt to my
mind and poor Warren's pocket, that Philadel-
phia would not or could not support more than
one establishment of the sort; and the one the
public would most probably select, in despite of
my popularity, would most likely be the new one,
and I began to tremble for the consequences.
While I was wavering as to the course I should
pursue, through the instrumentality of my friend
Hamblin I received an offer from the proprietors
of the Tremont Theatre at Boston to undertake
its direction for forty weeks, for the sum of four
thousand five hundred dollars, which, after duly
weighing all the consequences, prudence, and
the persuasion of my friends, induced me to ac-
cept. And that I did I have most heartily regret-
ted ever since.
"About four, sir," said he.
"About four!" said 1: "about eight, more
likely," and on I walked.
The shops were all closed, and everything
appeared_particularly quiet; but the steady
habits of Providence I was prepared for by long
report, and, therefore, its appearance was not
extraordinary. The carriers hanging the even-
ing papers on the knobs of the doors, or in-
sinuating them underneath, were the only hu-
man beings I met with on my way to the thea-
tre, which, to my astonishment, I found closed
and quiet. A thought flashed across my mind-
Could it be possible? I made an inquiry of a
milkman, and found, to my amazement, that it
was not to-night, but to-morrow morning.
To return to the hotel and make an explana-
tion I knew full well would be at the expense
of remaining to perform that night; so I sneak-
It was then late in June, and I instantly set off
for Boston. Nearly all the proprietors there
were my personal friends, and they readily
agreed to take off my hands such engagementsed on board the Connecticut steamboat, which
as I had entered into-among them Miss Stan-
nard, Hallam, and Smith-and all other stipula-
tions which I suggested were readily agreed to;
and with two thousand dollars in cash to bind
the bargain, I returned to Philadelphia.
As I passed through Providence, on my way
to Boston, I had promised Arthur Keene that I
would give him notice of the exact day I would
return, that he might advertise me to appear for
his benefit.
He was a sweet, untaught singer, in the style
of Paddy Webb, an Irishman by birth, and over-
flowing with fun and national modesty. He made
his first appearance in America at the Park, in
Henry Bertram. A duet, his portion of which
is sung behind the scenes, with the exception of
the last line, was to introduce him to the audi-
ence. The air is very pretty, and the words, as
I have ever heard then, very innocent, at any
rate:
was to take me to New-York, leaving my bag-
gage behind. My old friend Captain Bunker
met me with astonishment; he had been at the
play, and fully described the consternation I had
occasioned. The theatre had been crowded,
and after every room in the Franklin Hotel had
been searched, and every conceivable place in
the city, it had been unanimously agreed that,
in walking to the theatre after dark, that I had
walked off one of the docks, and already a re-
ward had been offered for the recovery of my body.
But that my business was too urgent for me to
spare the time, I would have delivered myself
up, for the joke's sake, and claimed the ten dol-
lars; but as it was, I got Bunker to keep my
secret, and laid perdue in the ladies' cabin till
the boat was off, and took the news of my sup-
posed untimely end, to personally contradict it
at New-York and Philadelphia.
So popular was I at that time with the pro-
81
YEARS
THIRTY
prietors of the Walnut-street, that I had as
much trouble in getting rid of the lease as most
persons would have had in getting one granted.
It was opened in the fall with an excellent but
most extravagant company, under the direction
of William Rufus Blake and Inslee, the latter
having made a supposed fortune as keeper of
the almshouse, and the former only wanting
one to be fully considered one of the best fellows
in the world.
mental endowments of that refined and critical
portion of Great Britain. And his uncle, Will-
iam Murray, the manager, who, when a mere
boy, was intrusted by his sister's husband, Hen-
ry Siddons, with the direction of the National
Theatre, has been for years universally admitted
as the most finished disciplinarian now remain-
ing to uphold the good old school.
I was most heartily rejoiced when this en-
gagement of mine terminated. The gentlemen
Nearly the whole company had been selected composing the committee of arrangements for
for the Tremont prior to my engagement, and the proprietors, all with separate tastes and in-
Booth had been appointed stage-manager for a terests-some, but few, influenced by the prob-
month. And it was whimsical enough, in ig-able loss and profit to themselves; others by the
norance of my having the whole control, his of-
Tering me a situation for the season, of fifty dol-
lars a week. I thanked him, and did not tell
him then why I declined the offer.
he or she actor they wished to patronise; some
for the sake of seeing a play acted as they would
like to see it would beg me to give them "some
good casting." One of these actually proposed,
that to support James Wallack, who was to do
Macbeth, that Hamblin should play Banquo-
all well enough-and Booth Macduff! to Wal-
lack!!
"No!" said Booth, "I'll not play Macduff to
Wallack, but I'll tell you what I will do-I'll
play either Fleance or Seyton!"
The arrangements at the Tremont Theatre
were both costly and injudicious; and therefore,
though the season was a brilliant one, it was
most unprofitable. Booth received one hundred
dollars for each night's performance; and Ham-
blin, for twenty or twenty-four, the same terms.
On one occasion, the "direction" wished in
some other way to occupy one of his nights;
and they not only paid him the one hundred dol-lowing spring, and I was engaged as his princi-
lars for his supposed playing, but gave him an-
other hundred for not playing; or, in other words,
they gave him two hundred dollars to be kind
enough not to perform at all for one night only.
Hackett took the Chatham Theatre the fol-
pal comedian. For so long a time having been
encumbered with the toils of management, for
myself or others, a plain, well-paid stock en-
gagement was a delicious change. But it did
He was on a visit to my house during his so- not last long; for, after a month or so, the busi-
journ at Boston; and while amusing himself ness not continuing very profitable, some reduc-
with my children, during a leisure morning, tion of wages, or some mercantile arrangement
made the discovery that my dear boy Samuel of Hackett's, which I will not explain, being
was perfect, both in the words and music of proposed, I backed out. My experience taught
Crack, in the Turnpike Gate, and could give me, that when a manager asks you to take a
an excellent imitation of his father in that char- little less one week, he will expect you to take
acter. After dinner we had a full rehearsal. nothing the next, and be perfectly satisfied. So
The pianoforte was put in requisition, and I went home to Philadelphia. There I found my
Hamblin and myself played the off-parts by own-made theatre, the Walnut-street, under the
turns. I confess I thought he was extremely management of Messrs. Edmunds, S. Chapman,
clever—what father would not? Hamblin was and Green, on a commonwealth principle. Ed-
in ecstasies of admiration, and Sam's talent fur-munds had been a clerk of mine, recommended
nished food for a chat in my room at the theatre
that evening; and Dana, the principal of the
committee of management, pertinently said,
"Now, Cowell, if you were to have the profits
of your benefit," which was then advertised,
you would let your son play for it."
6
This legitimate Yankee suspicion, of course,
I had no better means of removing than by let-
ing Sam perform. He was delighted at the
novelty, and no farther instructed than by a
usual rehearsal; he made his first appearance
three nights afterward. Whatever he may be
now, he was a very little boy, even for his age,
in 1829; and he certainly eclipsed anything in
the way of juvenile prodigies which I had ever
seen-and so an overflowing house said too.
But from long experience of the consequences
in after life of forcing precocious talent, I never
urged him to learn a line. For some two or
three years following he played and sung such
parts and comic songs as he thought proper, for
his own amusement and my emolument; but in
the course of that time he never studied more
than six characters-Crack, Chip, Matty Mar-
vellous, Bombastes-I forget the other-and one
of the Dromios; and his impersonation of me
was me, at the small end of a telescope. He
chose, when it was time to choose, the stage for
his profession, and is now an admitted favourite
in the Edinburgh Theatre: no small boast at his
age, for there the drama is considered one of the
to me by Cooper as a starving countryman of
ours, with a large family, great honesty, and a
good handwriting. Out of several proposals
which he made me, which he had learned in my
school, I accepted a sort of stock engagement
for two weeks, to receive no salary, but the
whole receipts of my last night, in the shape of a
benefit, as payment; by which I cleared twelve
hundred dollars.
John Boyd, of Baltimore, the Christopher
North of South-street, and the laughter-loving
and mirth-provoking Wildy, who cannot possi-
bly have a higher caste in this world's estima-
tion than by being acknowledged as the grand-
father of the benevolent order of Odd Fellow-
ship in the United States, had built an amphi-
theatre on some property that they and others
owned on Front-street. Wildy and Boyd had
both made me an offer of the establishment,
which I foolishly declined accepting, and Blanch-
ard became the lessee, and cleared, the first sea-
son, at least fifteen thousand dollars. I was en-
gaged there for five consecutive nights-the sixth
to be my benefit-on my favourite terms, receiv-
ing the whole receipts. I merely played six
farce parts, and got nine hundred dollars by the
job.
This establishment was burned down while
occupied by Cooke's company; and the destruc-
tion of property and unoffending animal life on
that occasion is too dreadful to speak of. It is
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
85
CHAPTER XII.
now rebuilt by the same spirited and liberal pro-
prietors; and, with its complete and substantial
appointments, either for a theatre or a circus,
"In no country, and in no stage of society, has the drama
is by far the most perfect building for such pur-in which this company presented it."—The Doctor.
ever existed (to my knowledge) in a ruder state than that
poses now in the United States.
A fat-faced gentleman, buttoned up to the their own discretion to choose a God, should so
I AM not surprised that savages, when left to
chin, with a queer hat and a lisp, called upon
me at Barnum's, and introduced himself as Mr. frequently select the sun as the object of their
Flynn, manager of the theatre at Annapolis, the adoration; for, in his absence, even the Allegha
capital of Maryland, the authority of Boz to the ny Mountains may be crossed, and Nature re-
contrary notwithstanding, who bestows that hon-ceive no homage for her wonders.
our upon Baltimore. He offered me half the re- It was one o'clock in the morning, at the lat-
ceipts of his theatre there per night, for three ter end of November, that my dear boy Sam and
nights, explaining that it would hold one hun-myself left Baltimore in a stage-coach and a
dred dollars. I accepted the proposal on hav-snow-storm; and in three days and two nights,
ing good security for the payment, which, in a acle, at Wheeling, Virginia, where we fortu
through mud and mire, we arrived, as if by mir-
very business-like manner, he immediately gave.
I was to commence the engagement on the nately found a little steamboat, called the Poto-
Monday following; and at dark on Saturday mac, ready to start for Cincinnati. The Ohio
night I arrived at that very pretty little oldfash- River is notorious for being twelve hundred miles
ioned city. I must stop one instant here to say long, but as nothing is said about its width, to
that the graveyard, with a few innocent sheep my imagination it proved sadly out of proportion;
nibbling the short grass, and giving intensity to I knew nothing about; and I was disappoint-
it happened to be a low stage of water, which then
the repose of the romantic spot, would almost
tempt anybody to be buried "quick" there. ed in not finding it wider than the Delaware, and
There is one grave where an Irish blacksmith not half so picturesque. The French christen-
is de-composed, with the iron anvil on which he ed it La Belle Rivière, but a Frenchman's opin-
worked for years for a tombstone: and a sim-ion should never be taken where the beauties of
ple tablet "To the memory of a good woman;"
only think of having "dust to dust" shovelled on
you just there!
The hotel I found entirely deserted, with the
exception of a negro, who was asleep outside the
latticed portion of the bar-room. I had not been
there an instant when I heard the chorus of the
old Lincolnshire ditty I had introduced to this
country:
"Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night,
In the season of the year. Now, then!"
and in walked Booth-for 'twas he, followed by
a clever young printer, by the name of Augus-
tus Richardson, who afterward married Sam
Chapman's widow, and a gentleman called
Franciscus, whom I saw the other day at New-
Orleans, and who didn't sow his wild oats with
such good taste.
"Why, hallo!" said Booth, "what are you
doing here, Cowell?"
I, like a true Englishman, answered by asking
the same question.
"Why," said Booth, "I am engaged for three
nights and a benefit by Flynn; I open here on
Monday.'
"So do I," said I, "and have the same nights."
"I am to get half the receipts," said he.
"So am I," said I.
"But I have it all signed and sealed, and
Gwynn is security for the payment," said he.
Exactly the same case with me," said I.
The fact is, Flynn had engaged us both on
precisely the same terms, and as he explained to
me, not having the slightest reliance on Booth's
promise to be there, he had engaged me to save
him from the anger of the audience if Booth
should disappoint them; and was good-humour-
edly prepared to give us all between us. And it
was with some difficulty-for, where money is
concerned, Booth has sometimes a queer method
in his madness-that he was induced to agree to
take one third a piece all round.
But this chapter is getting to be something too
much of this, and I have a journey before me to
"The Far West."
Nature are concerned, unless they are fit to be
cooked. John Randolph went to the other ex-
treme, but was nearer the truth, when he descri-
bed it as a paltry, nonsensical stream, dried up
one half of the year, and frozen up the other.
Winter had just taken Autumn in his rude em-
brace, and the country on either side looked wild
and dreary, though divested of romance.
'There stood the faded trees in grief,
As various as their clouded leaf;
With all the hues of sunset skies
Were stamp'd the maple's mourning dies
In meeker sorrow in the vale,
The gentle ash was drooping pale;
Brown-sear'd, the walnut rear'd its head,
The oak display'd a lifeless red,
And grouping bass and white-wood hoar
Sadly their yellow honours bore."
;
Habitations were "few and far between," and
then only a miserable log hut in the midst of "a
clearing" of, perhaps, a dozen acres; the trunks
of the fine old trees still standing, though burned
to the core; and this evidence of their violent
death adding artificial desolation to the natural-
ly dreary landscape. At a wood-pile you would
sometimes see a group of dirty, "loose, unatti-
red" women and children,
"With a sad, leaden, downward cast,"
destroying at a glance all your visions of primi-
tive simplicity or rural felicity. These "early
settlers," by a strange chain of thought, put me
in mind of Paradise Lost and "Adam's first
green breeches;" and I could not help but agree
with Butler, that
"The whole world, without art and dress,
Would be but one great wilderness,
And mankind but a savage herd,
For all that Nature has conferr'd ;
She does but rough-how and design,
Leaves art to polish and refine."
Cincinnati in 1829 was a very different place
from what it is now, but even then it wore a
most imposing appearance: thanks to the clear-
headed, adventurous Yankees, who, axe in hand,
cut through the pathless forests, undismayed by
toil and defying danger, until they found a spot,
rough-hewn and designed by Nature as the site for
future ages to enthrone the pride of the Ohio
Valley, the "Queen City of the West." We put
86
THIRTY YEARS
up at the hotel near the landing, kept by Captain that he has chosen a wife "bred altogether in the
Cromwell, and in his little way quite as despotic | country," he didn't mean, I suppose, the West-
as his namesake, the poor apology for a king; ern country; but, at any rate, she got great ap-
for after dinner-an operation which was per- plause; everybody seemed very much pleased
formed by his boarders in three minutes at far- with her, and she seemed very much pleased
thest--myself and two acquaintances I had form- with herself. Mrs. Drake has been very suc-
ed on the road drew towards the fire, and com- cessful as a star since the time I speak of; she
menced smoking our cigars.
is one out of six or seven ladies who have by
"You can't smoke here," said Captain Crom- turns been called "the Mrs. Siddons of America;"
well. And we instantly pleaded ignorance of | but what for, for the life of me I never could find
his rules, though they might be thought a little out; but as the baptizers, in all probability, nev-
fastidious after our scramble for dinner, ander saw THE Mrs. Siddons, they should stand ex-
threw our cigars in the fire.
"And you can't sit here," said Captain Crom-
well. "If you want to sit, you must sit in the
bar; and if you want to smoke, you can smoke
in the bar."
cused for taking her name in vain. Baron Hack-
ett's sister-in-law, Mrs. Sharpe, was so christen-
ed; but that must have been an oversight; for
she is an English lady, the daughter of Old Le
Sugg, well known thirty years ago as an eccen-
tric itinerant, and said to have been the precept-
or of Matthews in the art and mystery of imita-
Raymond was the Joseph, a man nearly as
big as "Big Scott," and would not now be men-
tioned here, if he had not drowned himself be-
cause some one said Parsons (another big one)
was a better actor! Foolish fellow,
Slapping his hand on the table, after the man-
ner of his ancestor dismissing the Long Parlia-
ment; and into the bar we went, where a play-ting Punch and Judy.
bill on the wall announced that the "School for
Scandal" was to be performed that evening for
"the benefit of Mr. Anderson." I was making
some inquiries of the barkeeper about the thea-
tre, when a man about my own age and size,
very shabby, very dirty, and very deaf, introdu-
ced himself as Alexander Drake, the manager,
"How poor are they who have not patience!"
curled his right hand round his ear, and, in a
if he had waited a little longer he would have
courteous whisper, invited me to "take some- had the Western country heavy business all to
thing." He was a kind, familiar, light-hearted himself; for, when theatricals began to decline
creature, told me, with apparent glee, that he in that hemisphere, Parsons turned Methodist,
was over head and ears in debt to the company and joined the church. But whether he was
and everybody else; that that night he had giv- disappointed in the profits attending his new
en the use of the theatre, and the performers had profession, or that the groans his performance
tendered their services, to an old actor who ex-
elicited were not understood at first to mean
pected a "meeting of his creditors;" but that he approval, and he fancied he had made a failure,
had been obliged to close the theatre for the sim- I
ple reason that it wasn't fashionable! What an
abominable affliction have these ephemeral four
syllables proved to the young and otherwise un-
fettered country of which I am now writing!
Could the wrinkled outlaws of crippled monar-
chies find no other chain to goad the neck and
bow the head of independence,
"Wandering mid woods and forests wild,"
than the introduction of fashionable atrocities to
make the thoughtless laugh, the thinking grieve?
The manager gave me an invitation to wit-
ness the performance; and after a pleasant chat-
for he was a delightful companion-and "taking
something" till the time for commencing, excu-
sed himself for being obliged to leave, in conse-
quence of having to "study Charles Surface,
who went on in the third act." If he had never
played the part before, he had an extraordinary
"swallow;" for he was perfect, and performed it
much better than I have often seen it done by
those who consider such characters their line of
business; and he was a low comedian and an ex-
cellent one, which may probably account for the
unfitness of his dress: he wore white trousers of
that peculiar cut you sometimes see frisk round
the stage in what is called a sailor's hornpipe,
and, being very short, exposed a pair of boots on
which Day and Martin had never deigned to
shine; no gloves, a round hat, and the same blue
coat and brass buttons I had already been intro-
duced to, buttoned up to the top. His wife was
His wife was
the Lady Teazle; a very fine looking woman,
and plenty of her. I was not then accustomed
to the peculiar twang in the pronunciation of the
west end of the United States, which, in conse-
quence, sounded uncouth and unlady-Teazle-like
to me; for though Sir Peter particularly boasts
know not, but the offer of a star engagement
induced him to return to the stage. And had he
played the hypocrite, and got it understood that
he was still a follower of the church, though,
from necessity, an actor, he might have proved
an attraction; but he was honest for once, and
took the other extreme, selected Doctor Cant-
well for one of his characters, and insulted com-
mon sense by his attempting to throw odium on
the professors of religion; and to the credit of
the supporters of the drama be it said, he play-
ed to empty benches. He is now, I understand,
regularly engaged as a saint, and playing little
business to Maffit.
It must not be understood that I wish to con-
vey an idea that an actor cannot be a religious
man, and even a capable and devout teacher of
Christianity; but then his previous life should be
strongly marked (like poor Conway's) with the
attributes of piety, kindness of heart, and charity
to all men; and Parsons, I'm afraid, if weighed
in such a scale, like many other parsons, would
be "found wanting."
At the end of the play, a tall, scrambling-look-
ing man with a sepulchral falsetto voice, sung
"Giles Scroggin's Ghost," and I recognised him
at once as an old acquaintance. While I was
manager of the circus I called in one evening at
the Park during the performance of " Bombas-
tes Furioso," and was greatly amused at the
eccentricities of one of the supernumeraries, and
the more so, as I could plainly see it annoyed
Hilson and Barnes.
Hilson and Barnes. Simpson was with me,
and we had a hearty laugh at the expense of the
comedians, for they were all in the bill, and this
man, without a name, was the only person the
audience appeared to notice; and the next day
Simpson told me that Hilson, Barnes, and Pla-
cide had made a formal complaint against this
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
87
$
+
extemporaneous jester, and insisted on his not
being again employed. His name, I found, was
Rice, and not long after he
tion.
"Turn'd about, and wheel'd about,
And jump'd Jim Crow,"
There is no class of persons in the world who
so ostentatiously exhibit their estate as the play-
ers. I speak of the majority. See them in pros-
perity with
"Rings, and things, and fine array :"
to his own profit and the wonder and delight of their coat is always made in the extreme of the
all admirers of intellectual agility. The theatremost ridiculous fashion then in vogue, and, that
was a small brick building, well designed, but it may be useful on the stage, generally of a
wretchedly dark and disgustingly dirty, and, lighter blue, or green, or brown, than is usually
with the exception of the beneficiary and the per- worn; pantaloons of some peculiar colour-blot-
sons I have named, the performance was quite ting-paper is a favourite tint-and a hat, either
in keeping. I don't know if it was considered a very little, very big, or very something, very un-
fashionable house. There were about a hun-like what would be seen on any head but an ac-
dred persons present, and I observed a majority tor's; but when either garment is unseamed and
of the ladies wore a little strip of silver cord or seated, and the brim of the hat bowed off, every
lace round their heads, an innocent remnant of rent speaks with a "dumb mouth" of abject beg-
national finery, I presume, and very generally gary, when a homely garment, though thread-
worn by the Swiss and German peasants, who bare, if it did not conceal the poverty, would still
then constituted a large portion of the popula-shield the wearer from ridicule and contempt.
The ladies, bless them, always dress beautifully
Old Drake had been a strolling manager in when they can; but 'tis melancholy to meet them
the West of England, and some years before when they cannot, with lace veils and flannel
had brought to this country a large family of petticoats, artificial flowers and feathers, with
children, all educated to sing, dance, fight com- worsted stockings and muddy shoes. I shall
bats, paint scenes, play the fiddle, and everything neither mention names nor particularly describe
else; and by wandering through the then wilder- the party I saw the first morning I went to re-
ness, and giving entertainments at the numer-hearsal huddled round the fire, in what was call-
ous small towns which were daily ejecting the
forest, he had made money by their combined
exertions in that primitive dramatic way. But
this portion of the Union had in a very few
years outgrown even his boys and girls, and the
march of improvement had marched rather be-
yond the point of his experience.
A few farms within a mile or two of each
other had become, as if by magic, flourishing
villages, then large towns and now magnifi-
cent cities, the stumps of the firmly-rooted
fine old oaks still disputing inch by inch the
paving of the well-built streets. A full-grown,
enlightened population, kept pouring in from
the older States, accompanied by the million
skilful artisans who had been starving midst
the crowd of equal talent in their native coun-
tries, and whom Great Britain and the Conti-
nent of Europe could so gladly spare.
New towns must have new theatres, some-
times even before they have new churches, and
Frankfort, Lexington, Louisville, and Cincin-
nati had been so adorned for several years,
and which now constituted the present circuit.
Alexander Drake had been intrusted by his
father with this branch of the concern, and had
got in debt and got on the limits, and could not
move out of the state till relieved by the insolv-
ent law; and Old Drake was at Frankfort,
Kentucky, waiting for this company, to open the
theatre there, and they could not move for want
of funds.
ed the green-room. In one corner, on the floor,
was a pallet-bed and some stage properties, evi-
dently used to make shift to cook with, such as
tin cups and dishes, a brass breastplate, and an
iron helmet half full of boiled potatoes, which, I
was informed, was the domestic paraphernalia
of the housekeeper and ladies'-dresser. She was
a sort of half Indian, half Meg-Merrilies-looking
creature, very busily employed in roasting cof-
fee on a sheet of thunder, and stirring it round
with one of Macbeth's daggers, for
blade and dudgeon, gouts" of rose-pink still re-
mained.
on the
I soon got acquainted with the ladies and
gentlemen; Rice I found a very unassuming,
modest young man, little dreaming then that he
was destined to astonish the Duchess of St. Al-
ban's, or anybody else; he had a queer hat, very
much pointed down before and behind, and very
much cocked on one side. I perched myself on
a throne-chair, by the side of Mrs. Drake, who
was seated next the fire, on a bass drum.
found her a most joyous, affable creature, full
of conundrums and good nature; she made some
capital jokes about her peculiar position; mar-
tial music-sounds by distance made more
sweet; and an excellent rhyme to drum, which
I am very sorry I have forgotten.
I
When a manager ceases to pay, he soon ceas-
es to have any authority; the rehearsals, there-
fore, did not deserve the name; the distribution
of the characters the performers settled among
Poor Aleck so feelingly described his painful themselves, and said as much of them as suited
situation, that though there was very little prob- their convenience; but they were all very civil,
ability that I should make money under the ex- and apparently anxious to attend to my interests,
isting circumstances, with the remote hope of and the audience was esily pleased. Sam made
giving him some assistance, I agreed to play a a prodigious hit; from ten to twenty dollars, and
few nights, to share with him after one hundred sometimes much more, would be thrown on the
and thirty dollars, a sum very unlikely to be stage during his comic singing: a tribute of ad-
ever received, but to have half the amount of miration not at all uncommon in those days in
two houses for the services of myself and son, the South and West. At Louisville, one night,
which, in all probability, would cover my ex-seven half-eagles were sprinkled amid the show-
penses, and give me time to form a better judg- er of silver which always accompanied his Af-
ment of this new country. But, strange to say, rican Melodies. Loose change is not so plenti-
our business averaged over two hundred dollars, ful in these days.
and both the benefits were crowded to overflow-
ing.
98
THIRTY YEARS
CHAPTER XIII.
"The aspiring youth that fired the Ephesian dome
Outlives in fame the pious fool that raised it."
Richard the Third.
THE profits arising from our engagement had
been distributed among the performers, and they
had set off for Kentucky; and Drake had had
an excellent benefit, for which we had played
gratuitously.
ed in getting a roof with a tin-basin-shaped
dome, and a large gilt crescent on the top, of the
oddest-looking building that ever was invented.
The interior, no doubt, was an after considera-
tion. Two half-circular stairways met at the
top of six or seven steps, which led to an en-
trance wide enough for two persons to pass in
conveniently at the same time, into a large din-
gy-looking room: this was the Bazar. I am
It was now suggested by some of the first peo- speaking of it as I saw it for the first time.
ple, that if Mrs. Drake could obtain our services, There was a sort of long counter on either side,
and give an entertainment in any place but the and some empty shelves here and there against
theatre, she might be certain that all the fashion- the walls. On the left hand, near the door, an
ables, who wished particularly to see my son, elderly lady in spectacles was sitting behind a
would attend, and so give their aid towards re- little lot of dry goods, knitting either suspenders
lieving the manager of part of the encumbrances or garters; and at the farther end of the room
their want of patronage had occasioned. I con- a very melancholy-looking man was employed
sented to sing a song, and Sam had no objection in reading, behind his share of the counter, I sup-
to singing a dozen, and a Grand Olio was con- pose. He put his book down as we advanced
cocted. Mr. and Mrs. Drake were to act Sir and stood up, as much as to say, "What do you
Peter and Lady Teazle's, and Sir Adam and want to buy ?" I glanced at his stock in trade.
Lady Constant's detached scenes; Aleck to sing There were a few pieces, or, rather, remnants of
Kitty Clover, Gregory Redtail, Love and Sau- calico and Kentucky jean, the ends unrolled and
sages, and half a hundred more fashionable com- fastened to the ceiling, some ribands in the usu-
ic songs; and Mrs. Drake to deliver "O'Con- al pasteboard box, and the cover upside down
ner's Child," the "Scolding Wife," and half a by the side of it, filled with papers of pins, and
hundred more fashionable recitations. I was to needles, and cotton balls; whether he had just
sing "Chit Chat for the Ladies," in the first part started in business, or was about closing the con
of the entertainment, and Sam to give his "Ne-cern, it was impossible to guess, so I bought a
gro Melodies" with a white face, in the second;
and a violin and violoncello were to constitute
the orchestra. Tosso was the leader, a gifted
musician, who played familiar airs divinely;
but, being blind, his accompaniments to strange
melodies had to run after the voice in a pretty
frolicking manner, more for his own amusement
than any assistance he gave to the singer.
Now this hotch-potch was supposed to be
more attractive for a fashionable audience than
the same actors would be in a wholesome play
and farce, with the assistance of the company, and
the advantages of scenery and dress. Pshaw!
After due preparation, a night was chosen by
Mr. Drake's principal patroness, when it was
positively ascertained there would not be a tea-
party of any consequence in the whole city, and
the place of exhibition Mrs. Trollope's Bazar.
This is a very singular affair: built of brick
in a by-street turning out of Broadway, so that,
fortunately, its nonsensical appearance don't ac-
tually interfere with the good taste displayed in
the simply elegant buildings just round the cor-
ner.
For what the original inventor intended this
structure, Heaven only knows; in my time it
has undergone a dozen alterations, at least, to
endeavour to make it fit for something; but its
first plan was so curiously contrived, that every
effort Yankee ingenuity could suggest to make
it useful has successively failed. It no doubt
cost a vast sum of money to erect. These fan-
cy buildings, which highly-imaginative ladies
sometimes conceive, however clearly described,
are very incomprehensible to the artists in bricks
and mortar taught only to work by rule, even
though the instructions may be assisted with
prints in perspective to copy "something like that
little bit" of the exterior of the Harem, or "this
little bit" of the Pavilion at Brighton. But Mrs.
Trollope's zeal to improve the taste of this young
common-sense population, whom she intended,
and fully expected, would ultimately look up to
her with awe and admiration, nerved her with
patience to surmount all the tortures of pulling
down and building up, till she at length succeed-
|
paper of pins and asked the question.
"I have only been here a week, sir," said he,
dolefully, "and, with the exception of the socks
I sold that young gentleman this morning, you
are the only one as 'as bought anything since I
opened." Sam had been to market, in conse-
quence of the absence of the washerwoman,
and had found out "this queer-looking place,"
as he justly called it.
"Then you don't find it answer?" said I.
"Oh dear, no, sir-very far from it," he re-
plied: "nothing answers that's rational in this
outlandish country, as Mrs. Trollope says; I
wish, with all my art, I'd never seen it."
You are an Englishman, are you not?"
said I.
|
"Yes, sir, eaven be praised; and you is too,"
he continued, with a very knowing look. "I re-
member you at the Adelphi; I took the gallery
tickets there."
Pray, had I the pleasure of your acquaint-
ance in London ?" I inquired, respectfully.
"Oh no, sir, but I knowed you was the same
as I knowed there as soon as I seen the play-
bill. But I was very intimate with John Reeve,"
he continued, with much importance. "It was
him as recommended me to Rodwell; he was
clerk in the same ouse as I was in afore he turn-
ed a hactor-Mr. the ozheer in Cheap-
side: I used to weave stockins in the front cel
lar at the hairy winder."
"I understand," said I: "a sort of living
sign."
((
Why," he replied, with a look as if he didn't
approve of my interpretation, "it's rather con-
finin', to be sure; but one gets good wages, and
with what I earned by keeping door at night, it's
a plaguy sight better than setting all day in
this rum concern, and getting nothing but your
wickles."
"And is that all you get for your services ?"
I asked.
"Why, you see," said he, in a confidential
under-tone of voice, "the old woman thinks this
ere will be a great go one of these days; but she
can't get the Yankees to believe in it, and they
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
89
|
won't rent the stands; so any of her own coun- | friends, and the first people in the city, were not
try as apply, she furnishes 'em with a few things, there; but in an after acquaintance with the
and gives 'em half the profits and a cold cut, and character of the inhabitants, I found that her
a cup o' tea, to try and get the place into notice. having anything do with it made it a wonder
But I think it's all in my eye," he continued, with there were any there at all, her philosophical
a cunning wink; "she'll never be able to melerate mode of going to heaven being objectionable to
the manners of the Mericans, as she calls it: a large portion of the American population.
d'ye sec them 'ere spitboxes ?" pointing to a row She appeared delighted at this new appliance
filled with clean sawdust, on the outside of the of her property.
counter. "Well, she can't begin to persuade
'em to make use on 'em; they will squirt there
backer on one side, which teazes the old woman
half to death."
It was in a room of similar dimensions to this
that the aristocratic exhibition took place. At
the extreme end there was a raised platform;
this was permanent, and the apartment intended
by the founder of the building as the forum, in
which the mischievous outpourings of any wan-
dering fanatic, whose solemn yet impotent ef-
forts to overthrow the institutions and annihilate
the creeds of the older country might here, on
the fresh bosom of this newly-planted world, in-
graft the poison of their mildewed minds, dis-
guised in all the demoniacal decorations of our
language,
"And sweet religion make
A rhapsody of words."
"I always told Mr. Trollope," said she, with
great glee, "that I should make a fortune by
this building, after all. A series of entertain-
ments of this kind must become fashionable in
time. My friend, Mrs. Drake, is exactly of my
way of thinking: we must prevail on you and
your dear little boy to remain with us for a week
or two longer."
"That will be impossible, madam," I replied.
"And I have been too long accustomed to a reg-
ular theatre to be of any use in a performance of
this description."
"Oh! I beg your pardon," said she, quickly;
"the ladies are all delighted with your song-
you must sing us another or two. And as to a
regular theatre, just step this way, and I'll show
you what I intend to do."
And away the bustling little lady went, and I
at her heels.
the artistes to ascend perpendicularly," twirling
round and round her finger, "instead of having
to walk through the audience part of the area.
Or," said she, after a pause,
Or," said she, after a pause, "I'll tell you what
will be as well, and not so costly. I'll have
some canvass nailed along the ceiling, on this
Hervien can paint it like damask, with a large
gold border, and it would have a fine effect!"
A green baize curtain was fastened from the
"Now you see, Mr. Cowell, I'll have the dais
ceiling across the middle of the platform, to form enlarged, and made on a declivity; and then I'll
the stage and behind the scenes, where we were have beautiful scenes painted in oil colours, so
huddled together, with two chairs between us, be- that they can be washed every morning and kept
fore the audience arrived; there being only one clean. I have a wonderfully talented French
door to get in or out at, this was our only re- painter, whom I brought with me, but the people
source, or to parade through the fashionables here don't appreciate him, and this will help to
when time to commence. When they did come bring him into notice. And then I'll have a hole
they came all together, Mr. and Mrs. Trollope, cut here," describing a square on the floor with.
with their family, leading the way, and amount-her toe; "and then a geometrical staircase for
ing to about thirty in all, laughing and talking
very happily, accompanied by Tosso and the
bass, with some plaintive Irish melodies. Drake
interrupted this only expression of hilarity du-
ring the time I was sitting perdue behind the baize
by ringing a little bell, and a minute passed in
shuffling of feet and legs of chairs—all was breath-side, to form a passage to lead to the stage; Mr.
less silence. Another tingle-dingle, and Mrs.
Drake appeared, her majestic form and white
satin train, which Drake had spread out and pla-
ced on the floor at its full extent, as she gracefully
glided through a slit in the baize, taking posses-
sion entirely of the stage. Three queen-like
courtesies to the right, the left, and centre, which
was entirely vacant, with the exception of the
doorkeeper, who stood a little in advance of his
station cutting and shuffling the few tickets he
had received in his hands, and with which he
gave a wh-r-r-rup! which formed the only re-
sponse to the courtesies. The fact is, it was not
fashionable to take notice of anything; but a
very loud sneeze, which a young lady favoured
me with during the third verse of my song, caus-
ed a whispering titter; and the one that usually
follows, being interfered with by a friend or
pocket-handkerchief, went the wrong way, and
the very odd kind of noise it assumed caused a
general laugh, during which I finished my song,
and made my escape through the slit.
Fortunately, a farther description of contem-
plated alterations was interrupted by one of her
little ladies, as she appropriately called her
daughters, who came in a hurry to inform her
that the fashionables had eaten up all the cakes,
and she trotted off to supply the deficiency; and
I, recollecting the "one or two more" songs I
might be expected to sing, whispered to Sam to
follow me as soon as possible, and was sneaking
quietly down stairs, when I was met by my
friend Rogers. He then kept a dry-goods store,
but formerly was of the firm of Rogers and
Page, of Philadelphia, who had been my tailors
for years.
(C
Why, hallo! Cowell," said he, "you are not
going. The ladies have commissioned me to get
you to sing them another song."
"Oh! certainly," said I; "with great pleas-
ure. I shall be back in an instant."
I knew it was useless to refuse; everybody
The first part over, Mrs. Trollope invited me knows that tailors will never take no for an an-
to the refreshment-room. Most of the gentlemen swer, even when they dun you for their bill; so,
I had been acquainted with before, and many of following the example of their customers, I lied.
the ladies I had had the pleasure of an introduc- But fearing that his perseverance might induce
tion to, and among them the beautiful, blushing him even to follow me to my hotel, I took shel-
young creature, who made some innocent apolo-ter in a tavern at the corner of Market-street and
gies for the cold in her head. Mrs. Trollope Broadway; had a chat with Jemmy Gibson, then
gave fifty reasons why at least fifty more of her the proprietor, and sipped gin-and-water till the
90
THIRTY YEARS
The next morning we started for Kentucky.
lights were extinguished in Mrs. Trollope's tur- ¡ Smith-a very worthy fellow, somewhat over-
ret, and the show and all danger over.
charged with caricature fun, which is tolerated
Cincinnati bore the character of a very bad on the stage more for old acquaintance' sake in
theatrical town at that time; but even in the that part of the Union where he has been long
sketch I have given, I have shown, I think, good known and respected, than for any other reason
cause why nothing else could be expected. But common sense could give. He had also been a
the first season I was acting-manager for Cald- strolling manager through some small towns in
well, though we had a temporary theatre, a more Alabama and Georgia, by which he had realized
elegant and discerning audience could not be a reputed handsome property. At that short-
met with in the United States; and we had real-lived time when what went for money was in-
ly fashionable, and, what was better, crowded trinsically of little or no value, and, of course,
houses every night.
most plentiful, a splendid theatre was built and
leased to them at St. Louis; and the profits of
their first season was immense, for, receiving
only money at par, or specie, and disbursing the
depreciated paper then generally in circulation,
their opportunities for a profitable exchange were
alone worth a little fortune. But in a theatrical
point of view only, the requisites that can make
a few tattered actors in a room or stable profita-
ble or respectable, are qualifications but ill cal-
culated to exalt or maintain what should be the
state of the legitimate drama. And now that
Caldwell will no longer serve as a check or an
example, the perfect prostration of the profession
at the South and West may be considered as
certain. I have just heard that they have leased
the Mobile Theatre, as well as that they call the
St. Charles at New-Orleans.
CHAPTER XIV.
"This is some fellow
Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect
A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb
Quite from his nature. Ile cannot flatter, he!"
King Lear.
THE regular theatre at Louisville, an excel-
lent brick building, belonging to old Drake, was
closed;
but a cattle shed or stable had been ap-
propriated to that purpose, and fitted up as a tem-
porary stage. The yard adjoining, with the
board fence heightened and covered with some
old canvass, supported by scaffold poles to form Anderson, who made his exit from Cincinnati
the roof, and rough seats on an ascent to the back, as soon as his benefit was over, I again met
and capable of holding about two hundred per- here. He is an Englishman of good family, and
sons, constituted the audience part of the estab-married Jefferson's eldest daughter. Endowed
lishment, the lower benches nearest the stage with much natural and acquired talent, he can be
being dignified by the name of boxes, and the a most agreeable companion, but so eccentric is
upper, nearest the ceiling, the pit. Here I found his disposition, that his own and other's miseries
a strolling company on a sharing scheme, at the are his only jokes: he will tell of a child having
head of which was N. M. Ludlow. Nothing I been run over, or something equally shocking,
had ever seen in the way of theatricals could be with a smile of satisfaction; and a piece of good
likened to this deplorable party. At Cincinnati luck to himself or any of his friends, with a most
I thought it was as wretched a specimen as it melancholy countenance. Determined to be
well could be anywhere; but there it was real-wretched and prostrate himself, he glories in
ly a theatre, and the company composed of much meeting mankind in the same situation; and the
unexperienced talent: Rice and Mrs. George theatrical society he found at Louisville appear-
Rowe, for instance, and Drake and his accom-ed to actually intoxicate him with delight. His
plished wife, were capable of holding the first
rank in the drama in any theatre; but here there
was not one redeeming point. Who they all
were, or what has become of them, Heaven only
knows; I don't remember to have met with any
of them since, with the exception of the manager
and his lady. Hamblin had just concluded an
engagement here; and after as formal a negoti-
ation as if it had been the Park Theatre, we en-
tered into an agreement for a few nights, I think
to receive forty per cent. after one hundred dol-
lars for six or seven performances, and half of the
whole receipts at each benefit. We played to
crowded houses.
The strict financial correctness, with the dili-
gence and skill displayed by Ludlow in con-
ducting this "poverty-struck" concern, is above
all praise, and gained for him the confidence of
Caldwell, who shortly after engaged him as his
agent to manage a branch of his company at
St. Louis and other places. This responsible
though subordinate position he was well quali-
fied to maintain, and with the powerful advanta-
ges of Caldwell's name and purse to support the
respectability of the establishment, no matter if
successful or not, his "official capacity" gained
for him both friends and reputation. Three or
four years afterward he went into management
again on his own account with some success,
and ultimately formed a partnership with Sol.
extreme disagreeableness was most amusing to
me, and he was a constant visiter at my room at
Langhorne's, then considered the principal hotel.
Some five years ago, when everybody who did
not care where they went, went to Texas, he
went too; and among the numbers I have known
who have tried the experiment of making a liv-
ing in that experimental country, he is the only
one I ever knew return without either person or
apparel being the worse for the trip; everybody
else appeared as if they had slept in their hats
all the while they were there; but he was water
proof in hat and heart, and was the same as ever;
and, according to his own account, he had literal-
ly lived all through the cholera on mushrooms of
his own gathering. To his experience I left the
selection of a boat for New-Orleans, as, in conse-
quence of procuring two passengers, he explained
that the captain would take him for less than the
usual charge, or, in all probability, "chalk his
hat," and he chose the Helen M'Gregor, Tyson,
master, on these favourable terms.
A few days after we became intimate, by way
of giving a business-like responsibility to our
connexion, he became the borrower of a "V," as
he called it, alias five dollars, which trifling ob-
ligation he soon increased to an "X;" but, un-
fortunately, my not being in the humour a day or
two after to add another V to his Roman numer-
als, "my offence was rank," and he left me, high-
PASSED AMONG
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
91
ly incensed at my ungentlemanlike conduct; and
though we travelled on the same boat, he did not
even condescend to look at me, much less to
speak, and I lost the gratification of his sarcastic
pleasantries, for which there was such a glorious
Scope in the variegated party who constituted our
companions. The morning after my arrival in
New-Orleans, before I left my bed, a yellow
woman with a cup of coffee announced a gentle-
man: I opened my eyes to see Mr. Anderson toss
with an air of dignity on the coverlet ten silver
dollars, and then coming to my side, thrust forth
his hand, and said, "Now, sir, I'm out of your
debt-shall we be friends again ?"
are generally left open in warm weather, in the
daytime. The whole is lighted from above by
a continuous skylight, round the side of a long
oval, which looks as if it had been cut out from
the ceiling, and lifted some two feet above it
perpendicularly, and there supported by framed
glass. On either side of this carpeted and splen-
didly-furnished apartment are ranged the state-
rooms, the doors ornamented with Venitian or
cut-glass windows, and assisting, by their long
line of perspective, the general effect. These
small chambers usually contain two berths,
never more, which always look as if you were
the first person who had ever slept in them-
with curtains, moscheto-bars, toilet stands, draw-
I, of course, said yes, but urged that he would
not inconvenience himself by an immediate pay-ers, chairs, carpets, and all the elegant necessa-
ment.
"Sir!" said he, pompously, "take the vile
trash, and never name the subject. I was part-
ly wrong, and you mistook your man."
I laced my coffee; he mixed himself some
brandy-and-water; he has never asked to bor-
row, and I have never offered to lend, and I
have had the pleasure of his acquaintance ever
since, and he is still the same; his well-merited,
continual poverty serving to make his high
sense of honour the more conspicuous.
ries of a cosey bedroom. Another door leads to
the guard, or piazza, protected with a railing on
the side, and covered overhead; and this forms
a promenade all round the boat, and joins the
boiler-deck, where you can lounge with your
cigar, and view with wonder, perhaps with re-
gret, if your nature is picturesque, the hourly
interference of untiring man with the solitude
of the long-remembered wilderness.
The ladies are even more carefully provided
for; there is usually one, and often two grand
pianofortes in their apartment; which I should
consider a positive nuisance if obliged to hear
them tickled to death by young beginners and
As an actor, he is highly respectable in all he
undertakes; and a little bit of him now and then
is so delicious in a green-room, that wherever I
am employed, and have influence with the man-nurse-maids amusing themselves by making be-
agement, Anderson is sure of an engagement.
Jemmy Bland's reply, in Shakspeare's play,
describes him to a nicety:
"Who is this Coriolanus?"
"Who is he?" said Jemmy, not knowing
what he ought to say: "why, he's a fellow who
is always going about grumbling, and making
everybody uncomfortable."
CHAPTER XV.
Oh, won't you-oh, won't you
Go along with me
Away down the river,
Through Kentucky?"—Western Ballad.
THE floating palaces which now navigate the
Western waters, bear as little likeness to the style
of vessels then in use, as the manners and char-
acters of the majority of passengers you met
with then, resemble the travellers who now as-
semble in the magnificent saloons of the pres-
ent day, where all the etiquette and decorum is
observed of a table d'hôte at a well-appointed
hotel.
lieve to keep the children quiet; but, Heaven
be praised, there is plenty of room to get out of
the way, this area being usually from eighty to
two hundred feet in length. In many of the lar-
ger boats double state-rooms are provided for
families, and young married people who are
afraid to sleep by themselves, with four-post bed-
steads, and other on-shore arrangements-such as
are to be found at the St. Charles's Exchange, or
Barnum's Hotel, or, what is better still, at home.
Now the Helen M'Gregor was a very differ-
ent affair, but in her day her reputation was as
high as anybody's or boat's. It was at night,
and in December, raining and making believe to
snow, when I arrived on board at Shipping Port,
some two miles below Louisville; the boat be-
ing very heavily laden, and drawing too much
water to get over the falls, and the canal was
not then finished- a most beautiful piece of
work, by-the-by; the excavation being made in
the solid limestone rock, gave it the appearance
of an enormous empty marble bath. She was
crowded with passengers: perhaps a hundred in
the cabin, and at least that number upon deck;
for at that time the steerage occupied the space
now allotted to the saloon, and was filled to over-
flowing with men, women, and children, chiefly
Irish and German labourers, with their families,
in dirty dishabille. This man-pen was furnished
with a stove, for warmth and domestic cooking,
and two large, empty shelves, one above the
other, all round, boarded up outside about four
feet high. These served for sleeping-places for
those who had bedding, or those who were obli-
A sketch of what is will serve, by contrast, the
better to convey an idea of what was considered
a first-rate class of boat in 1829. In speaking
of the Western steamers of the present day, I
shall only allude to that portion of the vessel
appropriated to the passengers, and that must
not be considered as identical, but an average
description; the Missouri, the Harry of the West,
and twenty others, I could name as far exceed
ing, in many instances, the portrait I shall draw.ged to plank it; the remaining space above these
The saloon, or principal chamber, extends near-
ly the whole length of the boat, on the upper
deck, over the machinery and steerage, as it is
called-where comfortable accommodations are
provided for the deck-hands and deck-passen-
gers terminating forward with large glazed
doors opening on a covered space called the
boiler-deck, and aft by the ladies' cabin, with
which it communicates by folding doors, which
roosts was only protected from the weather by
tattered canvass curtains between the pillars
which supported the hurricane-deck, alias the
roof, which was spread over with a multitude of
cabbages, making sourkrout of themselves as
fast as possible, and at least fifty coops of fight-
ing-cocks, each in a separate apartment, with a
hole in the front for his head to come through;
and their continual notes of defiance, mixed up
92
THIRTY YEARS
with the squalling and squeaking of women and I fend themselves from the bloodthirsty attacks of
children, and the boisterous mirth or vehement a million of moschetoes.
quarrelling of the men, in all kinds of languages, Fortunately, the weather was most delightful.
altogether kicked up a rumpus that drowned for the season of the year, and Sam and I passed
even the noise of the engine, which then was most of our time on the hurricane-deck, among
only separated from the cabin by a thin parti- the cabbages, leaving their fragrance behind; and
tion. By-the-by, all our old poets speak of "the the chicken-cocks, with Sam and the echoes, all
cock, that is the herald of the morn," as if he did imitating one another. Your arrival at the
not crow in the night! but only at the approach mouth of the Ohio is visibly announced by the
of day, and in the daytime. I know little about sudden and extraordinary discoloration of the
rural felicity in my own country; but here, in water, which gives you notice the moment you
America, the cocks crow whenever they think pass the threshold of the great Mississippi..
proper, and always all night long, particularly on From childhood familiar with all the wonders
board a steamboat, because there you are more of the ocean, a mental comparison with it and
likely to take notice of the annoyance.
this gigantic river was natural to me, on first
The cabin was on the lower deck, immediate-making its acquaintance; and I confess it claim-
ly abaft the boilers, with a small partition at the ed a formidable share of the awe and admiration
stern set apart for the females. At the time II had hitherto considered only due, as far as wa-
speak of, there were very few resident American
merchants at New-Orleans at all, and those few
generally left their families at home in the North
and therefore the presence of woman-
"Creature in whom excell'd
Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd,
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!"
was no restraint on naturally barbarous man,
and, consequently, "a trip down the river" was
then an uncontrolled yearly opportunity for the
young merchants and their clerks to go it with a
perfect looseness, mixed up indiscriminately with
"a sort of vagabonds" of all nations, who then
made New-Orleans their "jumping-off place," till
Texas fortunately offered superior inducements,
and there war and disease have bravely thinned
the hordes of
Rascals, runaways, and base lackey peasants,
Whom their o'er-cloy'd countries vomit forth
To desperate venture and assured destruction."
ter was concerned, to my old associate. Call it
the Missouri-which I wish it had been called-
and it measures 4490 miles in length! and if the
Mississippi, 2910, and passes through more than
twenty degrees of latitude!
What a pity that that microscopic observer of
nature on two legs, the immense Dickens, should
either to taste or talk of!
so soon have made up his mind that it wasn't fit
"Oh! think what tales he'd have to tell"
if he, instead of taking the wrong pig by the ear,
had taken a trip or two up the Missouri with my
worthy friend Captain Dennis, of the Thames,
or had had the useless experience
"Of wandering youths like me."
The Upper Mississippi, as it is called-God
send that every friend I have on earth could be-
hold for even once the stupendous wonders througií
which a portion of the navigable part of the Up-
All moral and social restraint was placed in the per Mississippi rolls along-though the stream
shade-there Jack was as good as his master-and likened to a hundred others, or pass unnoticed;
itself might wander through the world, and be
never was Republicanism more practically re-but when it joins the Missouri, or, more fitly
publicanized than it was during the twelve days
of confinement I passed on board this high-pres-
sure prison.
Some such a party I presume it was that Mrs.
Trollope met with, which she, no doubt innocent-
ly, but ignorantly, gives as a specimen of the
"domestic manners of the Americans." Poor old
lady, what a mess she made of it!
((
speaking, when the Missouri takes possession of
its course, its pure and placid character is gone
stirred up in a pailful of spring water may give
forever. A Bath-brick finely pulverized and
a conceived resemblance of its colour and con-
sistency; and this appearance it maintains, with
an interminable and never-ceasing rush, for the
remainder of its journey, of more than thirteen
hundred miles.
for even when the "crystal pavement," for a win-
Well was it named "The Father of Waters,"
ter month or two, suspends a portion of its navi-
gation,
There were no state-rooms, no wash-room, nor
even a social-hall; and, therefore, on the guard—
within two inches of the level of the river, and
about two feet wide, with nothing to prevent
your falling overboard if your foot slipped, or
was a little swipey"-you made your toilet, with
"The whole imprison'd river growls below,"
a good chunk of yellow soap on a stool, to which
two tin basins were chained, and alongside a embracing in its mad career the thousands of
barrel of water. The cabin contained thirty-two miles of waters emptied into it by the Illinois,
berths; and the two next the door Anderson had the Ohio, the Arkansas, the Red River, and the
secured for myself and my dear boy. In the innumerable smaller streams, all aiding to in-
daytime these were piled up with the surplus crease its power. And in return, the mighty ty-
mattresses and blankets, which, at night, were rant overwhelms on the instant their transparent
spread close together on the floor, and under and interference, and carries with it, in its turgid
on the dining-tables, for so many of the remain-course, its mountain-stained identity, even for
der of the passengers as were fortunate enough
to have precedence even in this luxury, after the
berths were disposed of. The remainder of the
party sat up, drinking, smoking, playing cards,
or grumbling at not being able to find a single
horizontal space, under cover, large enough to
stretch their weary limbs on; perhaps changing
the scene of their discontent by going on shore
at a wood-pile, and putting their eyes out by
standing in the smoke of the signal-fire, to de-
miles, into the Gulf of Mexico! till, in contin-
uous struggles for the mastery, it fades away, in
oil-like circles, round and round the deep, dark
blue of the old Atlantic.
Who the ladies were on board, I know not:
none were ever seen with the exception of Fanny
Wright; and her notorious anti-matrimonial
propensities, at that time, hardly gave her a claim
to come under that denomination. As soon as
our breakfast was over, which occupied an hour
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
93
1
and a half or more, the double row of tables, the tleman then trimmed and sawed the spur, and
extreme length of the cabin, consisting of a com- spit upon the buckskin, telling me, all the time,
mon mahogany one at each end, and the inter- to look on and mind what he was doing; but he
mediate space filled up by a pile of shutters laid was so feeble the little exertion was too much,
side by side, and supported by trestles, had to be and he got quite exhausted, and I made the boy
three or four times provided with venison, wild take the cock, while I supported father. When
ducks, geese, and turkies, and all the luxuries he got through, There,' said he, triumphantly,
of this o'erteeming country, and there called with a kind of squeaking chuckle, that's the
common food. This operation ended, the origi- way to gaff a chicken! that will beat the world !
nal Funny would take her station at a small ta- and fell back upon his pillow. He made the
ble, near the door of the ladies' cabin, and sit and boy jump when he said, that's the way to gaff a
write or read till late at night, with the exception chicken! and the steel jerked through the nig-
of the time for meals, and an hour or two of ex-ger's hand-the blood spirted out upon the sheet;
ercise upon the guard; and the moment she made and as I turned to sop it up, father's eyes were
her appearance there, without form or show of full upon me, but yet he didn't look. Father,' I
ceremony, it was respectfully deserted by the said, softly, and waited, but he didn't speak:
men till her promenade was over. The Amer-Father!' I put my ear close to his open mouth:
icans are naturally the most unostentatiously
gallant people in the world. An Englishman
will make a long apology for not doing what he
should have done, and said nothing about it; and
a Frenchman will upset a glass of parfait l'amour
in a lady's lap, by dancing over a tea-stand to
hand her a bon-bon, in an attitude!
Among the men were some most intelligent
and entertaining companions. A day or two
formed us all into little knots or parties; and I
was a member of a most delightful one, among
whom was gladly admitted, for his good-humour
and originality, the proprietor of the fighting
cocks. He was a young man, but had evident-
ly taken so many liberties with Time, that he, in
return, had honoured him with many conspicu-
ous marks of early favour, and milk-white hairs
began to dispute with his untrimned auburn locks
the shading of his open, manly brow.
He took a great fancy to my dear boy, and, in
consequence, I was high in his favour and con-
fidence, and he insisted on telling me a portion
of his history. His grandfather was a man of
great wealth in the Old Dominion, and a distin-
guished member of her councils. His father,
born to inherit his certain share of the property,
began to spend it before he actually came in pos-
session of his fortune, married early in life, and
lost his wife in giving birth to this only son; and
living night and day full gallop, died of literal
old age at forty-five.
|
|
(
Father,' I said again, but he didn't answer-
the old gentleman was dead. But he had showed
me how to gaff a chicken-cock."
Playing at cards was the chief amusement at
night, and my skill only extending to a homely
game at whist, I was more frequently a looker
on than a participator. My friend Washington
was an adept at all short gambling games; and
one that I don't remember to have seen played
since, and which he boasted of having been the
inventor of, of course he was particularly expert
at. It appeared a game of chance, as simple as
tossing up a dollar. Two only played at it, and
three cards were singly dealt to each, of the same
value as at whist, and a trump turned up; and
the opponent to the dealer might order it to be
turned down, and then make it another suit more
agreeable to his hand, or play it as it was. Of
course, the great point in favour of the opponent
to the dealer was to know if he held any trumps,
and how many he had. For some time luck
seemed to be greatly in favour of my chicken
friend, and the bets were doubled-trebled, and
he gave me a knowing, triumphant look, while
glancing at his pile. But suddenly there came
a sad reverse of fortune.
Sitting by was an apparently uninterested
looker-on like myself, peering over my friend's
hand, and marking, by his fingers stretched upon
the table, the number of trumps he held. The
eagle eye of the Virginian soon detected the vil-
lany, and taking out his hunting-knife-it was
before Bowie christened them-began paring
his nails with well-acted indifference, as if en-
tirely absorbed in the game, and laid it quietly
on the table without its sheath. The next hand
dealt him one trump, and the spy placed his
fore-finger on the table, which my friend instant-
ly chopped off!
"Hallo! stranger, what are you about ?"
shouted the dismembered gentleman. "You
have cut off one of my fingers."
"I know it," said old Virginia, coolly; "and
if I had had more trumps, you would have had
less fingers."
"The night he died," said my young friend,
putting a deck of marble-backed cards into his
pocket, with which he had just satisfactorily
concluded a game at old sledge, "the night
he died, my father called me to the side of his
bed. Washington,' said he, taking my hand in
his, which felt as cold and clammy as a dead
fish, 'Washington, you'll never be able to pay
off the mortgage on the property, and you'll be
left without a dollar.' I said nothing; it was of
no use. Here, take my keys,' said he, and go
to the escritoir, and in the right-hand little
drawer you'll find-but no matter, bring the
drawer and all.' I did as I was told. 'Now,'
said he, picking out the apparatus, 'send the
boy to get a chicken, and I'll show you some-
thing I paid too dearly for the learning-and that's
just it,' said the old man, with a deep sigh; 'if
my father had left me nothing else, I should not
now leave my boy in poverty.' I couldn't speak, A lieutenant in the navy, on his way to Pen-
for I saw the old man rub his hand across his sacola to join his ship, was one of our boat-
eyes, so I kept on waxing the silk as he had di-mates, and belonged to the flooring committee—
rected. The boy had brought the bird-a perfect so all were called who had to sleep on it.
picture-he didn't touch the feathers; he had ardent devotees at seven-up, finding no better
learned me all that, and how to hold a chicken, place late at night, while he was fast asleep
when I wasn't bigger than your boy Sam, but coiled away in his cloak, squatted on either
the heeling was the grand secret. The old gen- side of him, and made his shoulder their table.
This was considered an excellent practical
joke, and we all took a drink together, and I lent
the wounded a handkerchief to bind up his hand,
which I reminded him last fall, at Gallatin races,
that he had forgotten to return.
Two
94
THIRTY YEARS
The continual tip, tap, as the cards were played
by each upon his back, rather aided his seaman-
like repose; but an energetic slap by one of the
combatants at being “High, by thunder" awa-
kened him, and looking up, one of the players,
slightly urging down his head, said, in a confi-
dential whisper,
"Hold on a minute, stranger; the game's just
out-I've only two to go-have twelve for game
in my own hand, and have got the Jack.”
He, of course, accommodated them, and when
the game was out, he found they had been keep-
ing the run of it with chalk tallied on his stand-up
collar.
One night, while I was getting instructed in
the mysteries of uker, and Sam was amusing
himself by building houses with the surplus
cards at the corner of the table, close by us was
a party playing poker. This was then exclu-
sively a high-gambling Western game, founded
on brag, invented, as it is said, by Henry Clay
when a youth; and if so, very humanely, for ei-
ther to win or lose, you are much sooner relieved
of all anxiety than by the older operation.
sentences of what they thought had happened, in
which snags, sawyers, bolts blown out, and boilers
burst, were most conspicuous. But all the harm
the fracas caused was fright; the boat, in round-
ing to a wood-pile, had run on the point of an
island, and was high and dry among the first
year's growth of cotton-wood, which seems to
guaranty a never-ending supply of fuel to feed
this peculiar navigation, which alone can com-
bat with the unceasing, serpentine, tempestuous
current of the I-will-have-my-own-way, glorious
Mississippi.
It was
The hubbub formed a good excuse to end our
game, which my stupidity had made desirable
long before, and I took a chair beside the poker-
players, who, urged by the gentleman with the
diamond pin, again resumed their seats.
his turn to deal, and when he ended, he did not
lift his cards, but sat watching quietly the coun-
tenances of the others. The man on his left
hand bet ten dollars; a young lawyer, son to the
then Mayor of Pittsburgh, who little dreamed of
what his boy was about, who had hardly recov-
ered his shock, bet ten more; at that time, fortu-
bet-nately for him, he was unconscious of the real
value of his hand, and, consequently, did not be-
tray by his manner, as greenhorns mostly do, his
certainty of winning. My chicken friend bet that
ten dollars and five hundred dollars beller!
For the sake of the uninformed, who had
ter know no more about it than I shall tell them, I
must endeavour to describe the game when play-
ed with twenty-five cards only, and by four per-
sons.
The aces are the highest denomination; then
the kings, queens, Jacks, and tens; the smaller
cards are not used; those I have named are all
dealt out, and carefully concealed from one an-
other; old players pack them in their hands, and
peep at them as if they were afraid to trust even
themselves to look. The four aces, with any
other card, cannot be beat. Four kings, with an
ace, cannot be beat, because then no one can
have four aces; and four queens, or Jacks, or
tens, with an ace, are all inferior hands to the
kings, when so attended. But holding the cards
I have instanced seldom occurs when they are
fairly dealt; and three aces, for example, or three
kings, with any two of the other cards, or four
queens, or Jacks or tens, is called a full, and
with an ace, though not invincible, are consider-
ed very good bragging hands. The dealer makes "Did you ever see the like on't?" said he,
the game, or value of the beginning bet, and good-humouredly, as he pushed the money to-
called the anti-in this instance it was a dollar-wards the lawyer, who, very agreeably astonish-
and then everybody stakes the same amount, ed, pocketed his two thousand and twenty-three
and says, "I'm up.'
"I must see that," said Green Spectacles, who
now took up his hand, with "I am sure to win"
trembling at his fingers' ends; for you couldn't
see his eyes through his glasses: he paused a mo-
ment in disappointed astonishment, and sighed
"I pass," and threw his cards upon the table.
The left-hand man bet "that five hundred dollars
and one thousand dollars better!"
|
The young lawyer, who had had time to cal-
culate the power of his hand-four kings and an
ace-it could not be beat! but still he hesitated at
the impossibility, as if he thought it could-look-
ed at the money staked, and then his hand again,
and, lingeringly, put his wallet on the table, and
called. The left-hand man had four queens, with
an ace; and Washington, the four Jacks, with an
ace.
dollars clear!
The truth was, the cards had been put up, or
stocked, as it is called, by the guard-chain-man
while the party were off their guard, or, rather, on
the guard of the boat in the fog, inquiring if the
boiler had burst; but the excitement of the time
had caused him to make a slight mistake in the
distribution of the hand; and young "Six-and-
eight-pence" got the one he had intended for him-
self. He was one of many who followed card
playing for a living, a very common occupation
at that time in that section of the country, but
not properly coming under the denomination of
the gentleman-sportsman, who alone depends on
his superior skill. But in that pursuit, as in all
others, even among the players, some black-sheep
and black-legs will creep in, as in the present in-
stance.
It was a foggy, wretched night. Our bell was
kept tolling to warn other boats of our where-
about or to entreat direction to a landing by a
fire on the shore. Suddenly a most tremendous
concussion, as if all-powerful Nature had shut
his hand upon us, and crushed us all to atoms,
upset our cards and calculations, and a general
rush was made, over chairs and tables, towards
the doors. I found myself, on the flash of re-
turning thought, with my dear boy in my ein-
brace, and Fanny Wright sitting very affection-
ately close at my side, with her eyes wide open,
in silent astonishment, as much as to say, "Have
you any idea what they are going to do next?"
and her book still in her hand. The cabin was
entirely cleared, or, rather, all the passengers
were huddled together at the entrances, with the
exception of one of the poker players; a gentle- After the actors, there is no class of persons so
man in green spectacles, a gold guard-chain, long misrepresented and abused behind their backs
and thick enough to moor a dog, and a brilliant as the professional gamblers, as they are called;
diamond breastpin: he was, apparently, quietly especially by those who sit down to bet against
shuffling and cutting the poker-deck for his own them every night without their wives and fam-
amusement. In less time than I am telling it,ilies knowing anything about it, and who would
the swarm came laughing back, with broken think it most praiseworthy to cheat them out of
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
95
every dollar they had, if they knew how. As in
my trade, the depraved and dishonourable are
selected as the sample of all. But the majority
are men too frequently born under similar cir-
cumstances with my good-hearted friend Wash-
ington, and left without any other resource but the
speed of a horse, or the courage of a cock, to ob-
tain wealth, in a world where to be rich is con-
sidered of too much importance. My way of
life has for years thrown me much in their soci-
ety, in steamboats and hotels, and as a general
body, for kindness of heart, liberality, and sin-
cerity of friendship-out of their line of business
they cannot be excelled by any other set of men
who make making money their only mental oc-
cupation.
And now, wicked reader, go on shore with
me at Natchez "under the hill," on a Sunday
morning, where our jovial captain, Tyson, tied
up his boat for the day, for the sake of his pas-
sengers' enjoying a spree. He was of the race,
which miscalled refinement has almost made
extinct, who would take the grand mogul or a
giant by the nape of his neck and pitch him
overboard, to wriggle a minute and then be suck-
ed under the Mississippi, if he did not.behave
himself; and take a poor woman and her babes
as passengers, and nurse, feed, blanket, and
physic them all for nothing, and provide them
with employment, or put money in their pock-
ets till they found some way of living, all in the
same breath. He and Captain Shrieve were
selected by the government to combat with the
Red River Raft, and there they have met with
their match. But, now I think of it, you must
be tired of this steamboat trip, so we'll
Natchez by, and land at New-Orleans.
CHAPTER XVI.
mental current of the river never again to reach
the quiet spot where it was launched,
"Amid the obsolete prolixity of trees."
I have seen two mules with a dray sink in a
mudhole, in the now well-paved Camp-street,
and struggle for an hour, till hauled out by ropes,
with only their ears and noses above the mire to
assure you they were there!
The enterprising, great Caldwell—“great will
I call him"-for who but he, chained down by a
profession which all the world is ever willing
to degrade, would, or could, have first attempted
to raise the standard of the American drama in
the outskirts of a city then governed by the
refugees of France and Spain, and the imme-
diate inheritors of all their national prejudices;
and speaking-that apparently insurmountable
obstacle to his pursuit-a different language?
But he was undismayed, and built the brave old
Camp: one of the prettiest of theatres, and bet-
ter adapted to that peculiar climate, and charac-
ter of the theatrical patrons, than any I have ever
seen. Caldwell's energies were not alone con-
fined behind the scenes; his prophesying was
listened to by the wealthy and intelligent Amer-
icans, and his example followed in buying and
improving property in the immediate neighbour-
hood; and it is now admitted by all that he is the
actual founder of the Second Municipality, as it
is called, but really first in everything; its
churches, hotels, squares, and well-paved, expan-
sive streets leaving the old city "away down
the river," literally out of town. With his own
hard-earned, handsome fortune, in 1836 he rais-
passed a temple to the drama on a spot where, a few
years before, a swamp had been, far excelling
in extent and magnificence any building of the
kind on this continent, and comparing with ad-
vantage with any in the older world. At the
time I speak of the Camp was the only building
in the city lighted with gas, manufactured on
the premises, and superintended by an intelli-
gent Scotchman named Allen; and thus prac-
tically educated, by experimenting with an ap-
paratus not much larger than a cooking-stove,
Caldwell ultimately introduced that best of all
police to the whole city, and became the presi-
"Sister of joy! thou art the child who wearest
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet;
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet,
Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet."
Revolt of Islam.
SHELLEY'S beautiful thought applies, in its
fullest force, to New-Orleans, even in Decem-dent of the New-Orleans Gas-light and Banking
ber; for there" Winter's savage train" is literal-
ly left out of the calendar, and a long summer
meets in luxurious greenness an early spring.
There had been a formidable rise, and the
river was in all its glory; overtaking the up-
rooted, "unmanufactured produce of the forest,"
and running on its own-made hill, actually above
the land on either side, which gave us an oppor-
tunity, not to be enjoyed at a low stage of water,
of viewing the magnificent homesteads of the
planters on the coast.
Company. The destruction of the "Temple"
by fire on Sunday evening, the 13th of March,
1842, with property to the enormous amount of
half a million of dollars, prostrated, in all prob-
ability, his dramatic fortunes forever. But his
energetic nature is still unconsumed, and, as an
able member in the councils of his adopted city,
he still promises long to continue to witness and
aid her increasing prosperity.
Hamblin I found just concluding an engage-
ment, at the termination of which I entered
It was a dark and drizzly evening when we into a most successful one for "a few nights,”
arrived at New-Orleans, and landed at the foot which, to the advantage of all parties, was re-
of Poydrass-street, then close to the Levée, and newed from week to week, till the "springtime
before a wharf was built in the upper faubourg, of the year" found me parting with regret from
now the Second Municipality, and parcel of the a host of new-found friends.
The company,
city. Captain Still, a harmless teacher of mu- taken collectively, was the best by far on the
sic, but who had been an actor, and honestly continent, the gentlemanly though austere na-
earned his warlike title by being so often adver-ture of Caldwell ensuring to all kindred spirits a
tised for all the Captains, "with a song," was my lasting and profitable employ under his liberal
conductor to the Camp-street Theatre. At the government. Richard Russell was his acting
time I speak of, an experienced pilot, with a lan-manager, with whom I formed a friendship
tern, could scarcely save you, in rainy weather, which ended with my paying the mournful cere-
from being knee-deep in mud in wading to the mony of holding the corner of his pall. Miss
Banquette, then only curbed by the old timbers of Placide, Mrs. Rowe and her husband, Hernizen,
a broken-up flat-boat, doomed by the impedi-Field, Old Gray, all, too, are gone; and others,
$6
THIRTY YEARS
which any eulogium of mine to their memory | so-that is, if this book has any character at all-and
would but painfully disturb the slumbering rec- I must therefore pass it by, as other travellers
ollections of their numerous lamenting friends. have done, for I know of none who have ever
Mrs. Russell and her charming daughter are noticed it!
still ornaments to the stage, the widow paying
the highest tribute of respect in her power to her
husband's memory, by still retaining his name.
The daughter married my worthy friend, George
Percy Farren, and she is now, and has been for
some years, the principal attraction of Ludlow
and Smith's company; the expression of sincere
regret at her yearly departure from St. Louis
obliterated, in turn, by the smiles which always
welcome her at New-Orleans. The amiable wom-
an and the talented actress were never more
happily blended than when nature selected her
as the model for both. Every one who knows
her loves her, the endearing freshness of child-
hood still remaining to adorn the well-borne du-
ties of the wife and mother.
That year I bought a pretty little farm of one
hundred acres in Whitewater township, Ham-
ilton county, Ohio, eighteen miles northwest
from Cincinnati, and seven due south from the
estate of General Harrison, then clerk of the
County Court; a most amiable and kind-heart-
ed neighbour, he then as little dreaming as I
did that in ten years from that time he would
be the most enthusiastically popular President
of the United States ever known, "for a little
month." What a queer world it is! He might,
|
in all probability, have lived there for many
years, but for this over-excitement that was
heaped upon him, honoured as the defender of
his country in her determination to maintain the
position she had achieved, and pointed out in
his calm old age as a model for the American
farmer in the peaceful valley of the Miami.
It was my intention to have returned to the
North again by the river, and, of course, I gave
the Helen M'Gregor the preference as a convey- To compare small things with large, I meant,
ance; but, unfortunately, or, rather, fortunately, and had a right to believe then, that there I should
I missed my passage. I arrived at the Levée pass the remainder of my days, making my pro-
with my dear boy and baggage just five minutes fession, during the winter months, a profitable
after the boat had started, and at Memphis her pastime. But it was not to be. When Caldwell
boiler burst, and an extraordinary number of built his Dramatic Temple in 1836, I once more
passengers were blown into eternity as she joined his standard for the season, and was hail-
shoved off from the landing. "It had been so ed as New-Orleans knows how to welcome back
with us, had we been there;" but "those who a favourite; but, in the midst of our splendid
are born to be"--"the proverb is something musty." career, I was unexpectedly laid on a bed of sick-
And in the good little ship Talma, Captain Den-ness for four long months; and to Doctor Ca-
nis-who now sails a vessel large enough to rey, who tended my flickering chance of life
take her as a cabin passenger-after a boisterous with all the devotedly intense anxiety a timid
passage of twenty-eight days, we arrived at New-child bestows upon an almost exhausted taper,
York.
CHAPTER XVII.
?",
"What need'st thou run so many miles about,
When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way
SHAKSPEARE'S Richard III.
left between it and darkness, I am indebted for
being able now to say, I here, for the sake of
others, throw a veil of oblivion over my theat-
rical life, which individually I should wish to
lift. For what gate leading through life is so
strongly barred, even by virtue and religion--
putting out of the question our compelled busi-
ness in the world, which sometimes leaves it
open-where poverty, disease, and death does not
My then "sweet home" was at Philadelphia, unhinge the doors, and, in one or all these
where we were joyfully welcomed the following shapes, take possession of our chimney-corner,
day. That summer poor Charles Gilfert died, and drown in unearned wretchedness the bright-
and Hackett and Hamblin became the lessees ness of our domestic hearth? I have endured
of the Bowery, at which I was engaged. But the tortures of all these, in their most terrific forms;
as my early acquaintance, Hamblin, whom I but I am "one, in suffering all, that suffers no-
had ever considered as a brother, properly ex-thing" in appearance; an iron constitution has
pressed it, “friendship has nothing to do with
business;" and as I was unreasonable enough
to believe that it should, our theatrical connex-
ions terminated forever at the end of three nights.
Russell had taken the Tremont Theatre, and
I engaged with Caldwell as his acting manager
at New-Orleans for the coming season, broke
up my establishment at the North, as we South-
ern gentlemem call all places where the ice
grows, determining to make the Far West my
home for the future.
|
;;
upheld what, in a fragile one, would have been
sympathized with as a sensitive mind; and my
uncountable number of friends in the United
States-I shake hands with twenty-five thou-
sand at least every year-will bear me out in
the assertion, that during the varieties of fortune
they have known me to struggle with, "Old Joe
Cowell" has always seemed the same. But, my
dear wicked reader!-"so must I call you now,'
for we should by this time be on very familiar
terms-I have not achieved this boasted reputa-
Willard employed me to conduct the Rich-tion from apathy for the miseries I have endu-
mond Theatre for him for a month, where Cald-red: no; but from the self-satisfactory triumph.
well and young Kean were to play a few nights, between myself and my nature, of proving my
on their way to New-Orleans; and that job end-power to conceal thein. And I have often gone
ed, I made my route through Virginia over the
mountains, by the way of Charlottesville and
the Sulphur Springs, to meet the Ohio River
once more at Guyandotte.
to a theatre, and made an audience, you inclu-
ded, "die with laughing," when I have felt my
heart broken into such little pieces, that I have
expected to see the fragments leaking out through
Memory, the bequest of the past to the pres- the darns in the funny stockings I was wearing
ent and the future," urges me to linger in recol-for Crack.
lection of this most wondrous country; but it is The nature of my task, as I have already ob-
not german to the character of this book to do 'served, prevents me from giving even a sketch
((
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
97
1
of the beautiful "Crescent City," as she now is; |
but to me she must ever be most dear, as the
depository of one unlettered tomb, on which I
"Shall have length of days enough
To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes."
never
CHAPTER XVIII.
'It is time to close what I have to say of myself; one
never gets anything by egotisms, which is a species of in-
discretion that the public hardly ever excuses, even when
we are forced upon them."-J. J. ROUSSEAU.
FROM the little experience I have gained while
making this book, I firmly believe that the main
difficulties an author has to encounter, in any
work of the same ephemeral character, is to
skilfully arrange a beginning and an end. A
well-chosen text often entreats listening for a
prosing sermon, and "many a dull play has
been saved by a good epilogue." In choosing a
book, too, of this class, the first and last chapters
are all that are ever consulted; and, in many
instances, all that are ever read. But I am
deprived of the many advantages which fiction
could so easily furnish, to dazzle and disarm
criticism, and secure applause at the close of
this performance, in consequence of being tied
down by a plain, matter-of-fact narrative, and
must, therefore, against my will, put an end to
my theatrical life, in the same uninteresting, in-
sipid manner in which it actually occurred.
The remaining chapters will therefore contain
as brief a detail as possible of the circumstances
attending my last engagement, which may be
considered as a very favourable picture of the
dramatic world as it now exists in the United
States.
CHAPTER XIX.
"In another room we found comedians shut up for having
made the world laugh. Said they, 'If by chance some
equivocal words have impressed the spectators with evil
thoughts, was it not rather their fault than ours?'
"Oh said the devil to me, if they had done no more
than that, they should scarcely have come here; but think
of their lost time, knaveries, and secret crimes! No, it is
not the comedy which damns the players; it is what passes
behind the scenes.'"-QUIVEDO'S Vision of Hell.
build the American, which was offered to Cald-
well and accepted; and the day he signed the
contract, his man of business, worthy George
Holland, sent me an offer in his name. When
I arrived in New-Orleans, in October, a very
few minutes' conversation with my friend Cald-
well gave me reason to believe it would be more
to my interest to take an engagement for the win-
ter at Mobile, if at that late period I could obtain
one. The next morning I crossed the lake, and
succeeded. The theatre there, Caldwell, who is
the proprietor,
the proprietor, had leased for the season to
Messrs. De Vandel and Dumas. The former is
"president pro tem." of the Gas Company, and the
latter a celebrated restaurateur, who, having
made a supposed fortune by keeping an eating-
house and opening oysters, thought to easily in-
crease it by opening a theatre. Charles Fisher,
who is "secretary to the Gas Company," was em-
ployed by the "president pro tem." to select the
performers, his knowledge and experience in
theatrical matters being as notorious as that he
is "brother to the celebrated Clara Fisher." Now
he being very desirous of proving his friendship
for the Jefferson family, engaged all the imme-
diate descendants of the "old man" now alive,
and as many of the collateral branches as were
in want of situations. Mrs. Richardson had
been in Mobile the season before, and therefore
she was the nucleus around whom was clustered
her two sisters and their husbands, Messrs. Mac-
kenzie and Wright; her brother, Mr. Joseph
Jefferson, and his two very clever children, and
her niece, Mrs. Germon, and the good man who
gave her that name. The whole company, in
consequence, were literally in the family way,
with the exception of Jemmy Thorne and my-
self, Mrs. Stewart, Morton, and Hodges and his
lady; so that when poor Joe Jefferson died of
the yellow fever, which he did on the 24th of
November, the theatre had to be closed for two
nights, for without the assistance of the chief
mourners we could not make a performance.
By-the-by, it should have been said before, that
the "president pro tem." had backed out, and
Jules Dumas became the "sole lessee;" but, un-
fortunately for him, the "secretary" had made
the selection before he or his stage-manager had
any control.
Dumas was a Frenchman born, and, while a
mere child, had been thrown headlong into the
AFTER the destruction of the St. Charles, John world's vortex, and had struggled round and
Greene and myself took a lease from Caldwell of round in every possible capacity where shrewd-
the Nashville Theatre, which we opened in April ness and industry were all the capital required,
and closed in July, 1842. Our company was to make money, till at last he got a little out of
highly creditable on and off the stage, and we re- his depth, as the manager of the Mobile Thea-
alized all we expected in that beautiful little city, tre. His dramatic education had been obtained
with the exception of money. Mr. Buckstone and by being employed for a short time by the Rav-
Mrs. Fitzwilliam were our chief attractions, with els, as a sort of prompter and interpreter, and
the single exception of Martin Van Buren; he having kept the saloons with great success. But
very kindly visited the theatre one evening, and even in the intricate conduct of a theatre, his su-
it was filled to overflowing. I should like to perior talent for finance saved him from the pe-
have engaged him, on his "own terms," for the cuniary embarrassments which, in all probabil-
season. But Buckstone and the joyous Fannyity, would have prostrated an American or an
were not so successful; their best house amount-
ed to two hundred and eleven dollars, and their
worst to thirty-eight; and we paid them half the
gross proceeds!!
Englishman, surrounded by the same encum-
brances. Well schooled, by saloon experience, in
the modern propensities of dramatic life off the
stage, immediately opposite the theatre he had a
The American, and the "Old Camp," then snug, quiet, well-appointed drinking-room, where
used as an auction mart, were both burned down backgammon, dominoes, and other inducements
-by design, no doubt during the summer; and to conviviality might be comfortably indulged
every effort Caldwell could exert to restore the in, with the advantage of unlimited credit at the
Temple had totally failed, leaving New-Orleans bar. And behind the scenes, contrary to the usu-
without any theatre saving the French Opera-al fastidious rules in most well-regulated estab-
house. The proprietors at length agreed to re- Ilishments, a servant was ready to procure, at a
H
98
THIRTY YEARS
moment's notice, anything required, from a bot-
tle of Champagne down to a gin-cocktail. Con-
sequently, a large portion of each salary-some-
times all-was paid in liquor to most of the
gentlemen (including myself) beforehand; and
the balance, if any, it was in his power to retain
as a forfeit, should any one be imprudent enough
to take a drop too much. And by this very in-
genious, tariff-like system, each actor was liable
to a heavy tax upon his income, without feeling
or considering that he was putting his earnings
again into the pocket of the manager.
The taste and moral wants of the audience
were quite as carefully provided for. Next to
the tavern he erected a spacious assembly-room,
where, two or three times a week, as policy dic-
tated, a ball was given, where "ladies that have
their toes unplagued with corns" could dance,
and drink iced-punch, and sip hot coffee free of
all expense; and gentlemen in character or with-
out character, or disguised in any way, even in
liquor, or in "happy masks that kiss fair ladies'
brows," by paying only one dollar for a ticket,
could jig away a harmless night to the ear-pier-
cing noise of a negro band, and fancy themselves
in heaven or Wapping, Paris or a lunatic asy-
lum, without any extra charge. It was a glori-
ous relaxation from the perils of the sea and toils
of cotton sampling for the jolly Yankee captains
and honest deacons' sons, whose early days had
passed unknowing such enjoyments. The mas-
ter of the ceremonies was a sleek-haired down-
easter, from some place "where the sun rises"-he
was a delicious character-a study for Dan
Marble he looked so particularly out of his
natural element, dancing in his hat-I mean,
with his hat on-his coat out at elbows, and a
large diamond breastpin. It was a delightful
place for fun or philosophy. I had a free ad-
mission, and was there every night.
S
Hodges, one of the very best educated tenor
singers on the continent, but too lazy to assert
the fact, had, from some cause or other, been ap-
pointed by Dumas stage-manager, an office
which nature, habit, and inexperience rendered
him more unfit to sustain than any other man of
the same high respectability in the Union. He
said to me, seriously, and in a business-like man-
ner, one night, in the office,
Cowell, have you ever played the comic part
in the Apostate?"
Of course I said, "Yes, often. But there are
two comic parts," said I," Pescara and Malec.
Now if Thorne will do one, I'll do the other."
of the folly of paying three ladies for doing what
two were made sufficient to perform, and deter
mined to get rid of one of them; but, unfortu
nately, made an imprudent selection.
A long part was sent to Mrs. Stewart, which,
as was expected, she refused, or said she
couldn't learn in the short time required, and a
forfeit of a week's salary was the consequence;
which, being resisted, ended in a discharge. She
sued for the amount, and gained her suit: the
next week the same course was repeated, with
the same result. It was then agreed, mutually,
to have the matter settled by arbitration. Some
gentlemen of high standing were chosen on both
sides; and they decided in favour of the lady,
awarding her her salary and a benefit, according
to the contract, which, they agreed, had not been
violated on her part; but with this verdict Du-
mas very impolitically refused to comply.
Mrs. Stewart, though not actually born in Mo-
bile-very few people are born in Moble who
can possibly avoid it was, from a residence
there since childhood, held in the respect of a
most estimable citizen. The regard demanded
by her exemplary conduct as a daughter, wife,
and mother, perhaps, might cause her actual tal-
ent to be a little overrated; but on the honest,
unmolested exercise of that talent depended, not
only her own support-now a widow-but that
of an aged parent and her two orphan children;
the course Dumas had pursued was, therefore,
justly considered an insult to public opinion, in
selecting, as a victim to his untheatrical arrange-
ments, a lady so conspicuously entitled to moral
consideration and support. A most delicious
row was the consequence; and it so fell out, that
it occurred on the very night that Hackett had
advertised that he would prove to the whole crit-
ical world-or, at any rate, as large a portion of
it as might be found in Mobile-that Kean knew
nothing at all about the character of Richard the
Third, and Cook but very little; but that he,
after long study and research, had arrived at the
genuine, historical, and Shaksperian meaning of
the part, and, on that occasion, would so deline-
ate it.
The house was filled as soon as the doors
were opened, for most of the audience rushed in
without paying, made a prodigious noise, broke
some benches and gas-fixings, and demanded a
free benefit for Mrs. Stewart, and the whole of her
salary to be paid for the ten weeks-the period of
her engagement-all which Dumas was obliged
to agree to. The mayor made a speech, and the
row was over; and Hackett was left to deliver
himself of his great conception. Under the cir-
cumstances, a fair judgment couldn't be formed.
The little I saw of it I thought was very odd,
and very original, and reminded me very much
of his unique manner of performing Rip Van
Winkle.
Unfortunately, the stars-Kirby and Jones-
had named these characters for themselves, or I
believe he would have cast the play as I dictated.
Whatever talent his good lady possessed, was
entirely obscured by her transcendent personal
charms the beautiful Miss Nelson will no
doubt be recollected, as the "divine perfection
of a woman" who played with some success du-
ring Fawcett's stage-management at Covent Gar-
den. Now this lady, and Mrs. Stewart, and Mrs.
Richardson, were all engaged for the same line
of business. Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Richardson
were both powerful favourites with the audience,
and the stage-manager very naturally believed
his wife was a much better actress than either
of them, and, by placing her continually and fa-
vourably before the public, hoped, in time, to get
them to think as he did; but she couldn't play
everything; Mrs. Richardson was, therefore,
kept full in sight, but Mrs. Stewart was scarcely HACKETT may be more properly called a suc-
seen or heard of. Dumas was easily convinced' cessful dramatic merchant than an actor. He
CHAPTER XX.
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
"The best thing in him
Did give offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not tall, yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well;
A little riper and more lusty red
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
Than that mix'd in his check; 'twas but the difference
Between the constant red and mingled damask."
As You Like It.
i
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
99
started in business with a very small lot of goods,
to be sure, but their variety was suitable to many
markets; and, with great tact and shrewdness, he
made everybody believe they could not be ob-
tained at any other shop.
the barons of that ilk, Bulwer's novel to the con-
trary notwithstanding. By-the-by, Hackett, if
you have not read the book I allude to, do; you
will find an excellent hint for a new conception
of Richard there.
Rochefoucault says, "The only good copies Connor was another star: a very gentleman-
are those which expose the ridiculousness of bad like specimen of well-dressed mediocrity; not
originals." But, be that as it may, with an im- good enough in anything to be bad by compari-
itation of poor old Barnes that amounted to iden-son with himself in anything. He possesses an
tity, he made
excellent wardrobe, and knows so well how to
use it, that, in consequence, he often looks the
character he intends to represent so excellently,
that I have frequently felt sorry he was obliged
to say anything about it. Richelieu is one of
the parts I allude to. I am told he plays it in
imitation of Forrest; but I can't believe it; he
reminds me very strongly of Blanchard, of the
Coburgh's manner of tottering about after he
was changed, by a slap of Harlequin's bat, to the
"lean and slippered Pantaloon."
"The two Dromios one in 'semblance,"
and gained, without farther study or struggle, a
reputation, which many, with industry and tal-
ent, have wasted a lifetime in endeavouring to
attain. His profits were enormous. Barnes
went with him everywhere, caricaturing him-
self, to increase the effect. When this attraction
began to flag, who but Hackett would have
thought of using Colman's excellent but seldom-
acted play of "Who wants a Guinea?" as a ve-
hicle for introducing such a sketch of humanity
as Solomon Swap? And though whittling a
stick and cheating a man out of a watch are not
very complimentary characteristics to select for
a Yankee portrait, they were highly relished by
the audience, from being better understood than
Solomon Gundy's unpractical jokes and broken
French. Hill and Marble put in their very su-
perior claims to delineations of that description,
which interfered greatly with the original invent-
or; but Hackett had an unapproachable re-
source in his ancestral dialect, and in Rip Vanken the benefit of the Bankrupt Act since-and
Winkle he could securely say, "You can't come
it, judge!"
Connor has his ancestors too. Some few years
since, at St. Louis, the papers made it to be un-
derstood that he had great expectancies from a
rich uncle. They didn't say if the old gentleman
was a baron or not, but went on to explain that
the nephew considered emolument a secondary
matter, and was merely acting for his own
amusement: an excellent way, by-the-by, of ac-
counting for his style. It took. He got great
applause, and was driven about and drenched
with Champagne by all the first young dry-goods
and grocery men in the city-they have all ta-
they made him a great house. But on his re-
turn, a few months afterward, the same paper,
by way of variety, I imagine, hinted at "pecuni-
ary embarrassments," "domestic claims on his in-
come," "disappointments:" his uncle wouldn't die,
I suppose; or else he had, "and made no sign"
in his favour; in short, the truth leaked out that
he was "an honest, exceeding poor man," and
could lay claim to the negative virtue of sup-
porting an aged mother; and the corks ceased to
pop, and the benefit was a comparative failure.
To secure a bumper this time (in Mobile), it
was advertised that a splendid silver cup would be
presented to him by a committee of gentlemen, who had
long admired his public virtue and private talent.
When Kean was driven from the stage, reek-
ing with criminality in public opinion, Hackett
undertook to play Richard the Third in imitation
of him, the high reputation he had gained as a
mimic giving warranty of a skilful likeness.
Now here was an excellent opportunity given to
the curiously virtuous to admire the secondhand
mental beauties of Kean, portrayed by a gentle-
man of unquestionable private worth and moral
deportment, without having their nicer feelings
shocked by the actual presence of the depraved
original. This must be admitted to have been
a clear-headed mercantile conception, but, strange
to say, it didn't answer. I so advertised him at It answered so well, that on my night I got a
Baltimore sixteen years ago; but it failed to committee of gentlemen to take a fancy to my
attract a house, in the first place, and the larger public and private virtue, and present me with a
portion of those who did come went away before splendid tin cup. Connor had the best house;
the exhibition was half over. In fact, Hackett, but when it is taken into consideration that his
from the first, looked upon the drama as an easy silver cup must have cost from eight to ten dol-
means of acquiring wealth with very scanty lars, and I only gave six bits for my tin pot, I
materials, if properly managed, and he has real-guess, in the end, we were about eveň.
ized the justness of his calculation. He still Mrs. Sefton, the very best general' actress on
holds a high place in dramatic estimation; though the continent, adorned the theatre through a long
he thought it necessary, the winter before the engagement; and Miss Mary Anne Lee, "the
last, at New-Orleans, to rouse up public atten- celebrated American danseuse," and Joe Field, with
tion by a long ancestral and heraldic exposé, some pleasant new farces, proved a refreshing
which occupied half the columns of a short-lived relief. The audience were in ecstasies at her
newspaper there, to prove that, though he con- attainments, and the press declared she was
descended to conduct himself like a plain, hon- quite equal to Ellsler. I am no judge of dan-
est, well-disposed Republican player, he was, forcing, and I never saw Ellsler; but I hope it's the
all that, a real baron! And I'll bear witness that fact; for her father was a worthy creature, and
"that is a fact;" for some six years ago, in order a great favourite of mine, and I have known her
to remove the possibility of any doubt or quib-to be a very good little girl ever since she was
ble on the subject that might arise hereafter, he dancing in her mother's arms, and I am oldfash-
actually imported his ancestor, with the title, and ioned enough to have a strong prejudice in fa-
Dutch dialect—a most gentlemanly man, and a vour of old acquaintances.
very ingenious gunsmith, with red and white
mustache. He died of the yellow fever, and was
buried at New-Orleans in the summer of 1839
or 1840, and therefore Hackett is now the last of
Dan. Marble, that most irresistibly comic soul,
came with his bundle of fun. He possesses that
extraordinary arbitrary power of making you
laugh whether you like it or not: no matter if
100
THIRTY YEARS
Well, as arranged by the sapient manage-
you have the toothache, the headache, or the
heartache; the cool, quiet, deliberate nonsense, if ment, Ludlow followed, with the Lying Valet,
you please, with which he surrounds you, as if he Doctor Pangloss, She Stoops to Conquer, cut
didn't mean to do it, would make you laugh at down to the Humours of Young Marlow; Nipper-
a funeral. In my opinion, he is a much supe- kin, the Duke in the Honeymoon; and on my
rior actor than he himself, or the public in gen- benefit night he requested me to let him play
eral, believe him to be. It is an abstract portion | Baron Willinghurst, and, as I wanted something
of nature, to be sure; but so perfect, so pure, that to give time for me to change my dress, I con-
if you are not even acquainted with the source sented, but suggested that any of his other farce
from whence the picture is drawn, you can swear parts would be better, as Smith had already
that it is a likeness. The pieces which he car- played the Baron.
ries on his shoulders are generally sad trash;
but if he could get Buckstone, or some of these
dramatic tacticians, to prepare two or three for
him, and go to London, if he did not make a pow-moment.
erful impression, I will resign all claim to any
judgment in such matters.
"Smith played the Baron!" said he. "Psh-a-
a-a-w!"
I wish I could write down his face at that
"Smith played the Baron! Pshaw!" and he
looked as if he had swallowed a bad oyster.
"Smith played it? Then that's the very reason
why I wish to do it myself."
And I hadn't the heart to refuse him, though
I knew it would keep money out of the house.
Young Vandenhoff, an infinitely better actor
than his father was at the same age, played to
empty benches for a few nights; and Sinclair
was mixed up with Sol. Smith, so that it was
hard to tell who kept the money out of the house,
but he proved to the few who did hear him thế
feeble power Time, in his case, has had over
"Linked swectness long drawn out."
The management, no doubt, must have looked
at some future point of policy when they enga-
ged Ludlow and Smith as stars at Mobile! Not
both together; that would have been too much
to expect; neither do they shine to advantage in
the same sphere. They each have a favourite
round of characters; but, strange to say, very
nearly the same round of characters are the fa-
vourites with each. In their own theatres, this
is very amicably arranged between them. In
the first place, Sol. Smith has given up the en-
tire range of high tragedy to Ludlow, with the
exceptions of Hecate and the High-priest in
But the great incident of the season was the
Pizzaro; he also retains The Three Singles, an- first appearance, on any stage, of Mr. Charles
other bit of tragedy; but, as a set-off, Ludlow is Fisher, in the character of Dazzle, in London
permitted to play Baron Willinghurst, which he Assurance. Gifted with a refined taste and
makes equally melancholy, six or eight times in great literary acquirements, and his whole life
every season; and as he has to keep looking like having been passed in intimate association with
Ludlow, and change his dress seven times, it may theatricals, it was unthinkingly supposed, in
be justly considered a fair equivalent. Puff, in consequence, that he would present a inore than
the "Critic," they do turn and turn about. Sol. usually brilliant display of histrionic talent. A
plays Darby, and Ludlow, Nipperkin; and they large audience was assembled on the occasion,
both amuse themselves with the Lying Valet oc- but not so large as might have been expected
casionally. Now Smith came first; and, not sat- under the circumstances, when, in addition to
isfied with playing all his own pets, took a touch the high claims on public favour of the fair ben-
at one of his partner's, Frederic Baron Willing-eficiary, for whom he had gallantly volunteered
hurst. I don't want to kick up a row between his services, it is remembered that Mr. Fisher
them, but I decidedly think myself it was taking has been a resident of Mobile for some years,.
rather an unfair advantage of Ludlow. They both summer and winter, and universally known
are both remarkably good-looking men; but Lud- and respected. In proof of his great popularity,
low, as the saying is, is no chicken, and though among other honorary distinctions may be named,
he is most abstemious in his habits, particularly that he is a Mason, Odd Fellow, corresponding
in eating, he is getting a little clumsy for light secretary for the Jockey Club, full private in the
comedy, especially about the legs. What a volunteer artillery, a fireman, a cowbellian, the
change a few years will make in a man! I re- founder, and a member for life of the Can't-get-
member him a perfect he-sylph in appearance. away Club, and, as I have before stated, making
Now Smith still retains his figure, and the same
a living as secretary to the Gas Company. Now
fine, frank, joyous, elegant, yet playful deport-all this should, at any rate, have produced a full
ment that he ever had. But, then, he is extreme-
ly particular about his personal appearance on
or off the stage. I don't believe he either pads
or laces, but he might be suspected of doing both;
proud of his hair, his nails-I mean his finger-
nails-and when he laughs, you can count ev-
ery tooth he has in his head. Now, knowing his
superior advantage over Ludlow, and that his
engagement would commence immediately after
his was concluded, and that Ludlow must play
Baron Willinghurst or die, his forestalling him in
that part, I say it again, was very unkind. Of
course, I did not see Smith play the Baron; but
I saw him dressed for the first scene. His coat
was a little too short in the sleeves, to be sure;
but that could not be said of the tail; and it was
very Revolutionary in its general character;
white trousers, which had been badly packed; a
very suspicious-looking hat; and a pair of high-
lows without strings.
house, but it did not. I staked half an eagle to
a sovereign with Joe Field, that there would be
six hundred dollars, and I lost my American
gold.
Suffering from great nervous embarrassment,
and his natural timidity increased by the knowl-
edge of how much was expected of him by the
overwrought anticipations of his friends, who
had long looked up to him as the sole dramatic
oracle for the State of Alabama, he became per-
fectly bewildered, and certainly did make a sad
mess of poor Dazzle. No allowance was made for
stage fright. A highly-finished, experienced per-
formance was fully expected from a critic
"Whose lash was torture, and whose praise was fame;"
and his devotees were actually angry with him
because he was not himself all that he had ex-
plained to them, in print and private, a good
player ought to be. But I see no reason why he
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
101
An elegant Tin Cup;
to which he will make an extemporaneous reply,
prepared for the occasion, after the manner of oth-
er distinguished artists.
might not, with a little practice, make a star at, from a corner of the second tier, and be address-
any rate, if he wouldn't answer for a regular ac-ed from the stage-box by one of a committee of
tor. He has excellent requisites for the kind of gentlemen who have long admired his private
parts which assimilate with that he made choice worth and public services, and be presented with
of for his début. An immense point in his favour
is his extremely youthful appearance, for which
he is chiefly indebted to his fine pink complexion,
resembling the Jack of Hearts; with the same
large, soft, washed-out-blue-looking eye, and not
unlike him in figure when dressed in regiment-med for both mind and body, such as old wine,
Among the many luxuries that could be na-
als, if Jack wore a bustle. When diamonds are
trumps at a game at uker, I always think of Char-old books, and old boots, might be mentioned old
ley, if I happen to have the left bower guarded. plays; but old Joe Cowell being desirous to
A Mr. Kirby, and Mr. G. W. Jones, "the cel-please everybody, though he may lose his ass into
ebrated delineator of American sailors," two more the bargain, has made a selection of one about
stars, twinkled through a week or two; but if his own age; two, born within his recollection,
was to devote a page in giving a description of and another that never saw "the light of other
their talent, it is probable by the time that page
days" till now, called
is in print they will have ceased to shine, and
the reader would then wonder who I was talking
about.
I
A strong Frenchman-I won't remember his
name-proved the strongest attraction of the sea-
son. His benefit was an overflow! while poor
John Barton, the Shaksperian scholar, the in-
nocently eccentric companion for a gentleman,
whose talent, wrestling with infirmity, claimed
the respect his private worth demanded from
all who knew him, took, no doubt, his farewell
forever of an American audience, and lost money
by his !
CHAPTER XXI.
Any scrap of Locke's poetical description of modern dis-
coveries in the moon, which may live in the memory of the
reader, will be very applicable to the subject most promi-
nent in this chapter.-THE AUTHOR.
•
ALL the engagements terminated at the end of
twenty weeks, which closed the season; but a
few members of the company with small sala-
ries, who could afford to accept one third, or
even half of their former income, or, to speak
plainly, who could not afford to go without any
income at all, commenced a new campaign un-
der the management of Mrs. Richardson, instead
of Mr. Hodges. Madame Vestris, I believe,
was the first to set this fashion of petticoat gov-
ernment, which has been followed, with various
claims to popularity in this country, by Miss
Cushman, Miss Maywood, Miss Virginia Mo-
nier, Miss Clarendon, Mrs. Sefton, and now
Mrs. Richardson, I am grieved to say, lent her
name to eke out the very small demands on
public favour of only half a company, only half
paid.
I had a right to a benefit during the twenty
weeks, but the season had been so monopolized
by sometimes two and three stars at a time, that
I had to continue a week longer for a vacant
night, and as in all probability I made my last
appearance on that occasion, I'll reprint the bill.
"MOBILE THEATRE,
Under the management of Mrs. Richardson.
FAREWELL BENEFIT
OF
MR. JOE COWELL,
Prior to his departure for some place, but where,
He don't know, nor will anybody care.
At the close of the performance, of course
Mr. Cowell will be calleil out, but if not, he will
go out, and have a splendid wreath thrown to him
JOE SHORT.
Now Joe Cowell having the Assurance-not
London - but of many friends, that they in-
tend to Meddle in his favour on this occasion,
begs in a Courtley manner not to Dazzle, but in-
form the public that his benefit will take place
on Friday evening, April 7th, 1843, when he
hopes it will not be considered Pert his recom-
mending the patrons of the drama to keep Cool
and Harkaway to the theatre, and have the Grace
to give him a Spanker.
The performance will commence with the first
and second acts of
LONDON ASSURANCE.
Sir Harcourt Courtley
Dazzle
Meddle
-
Max Harkaway
Charles Courtley
Grace Harkaway
Pert
J
Mr. Bridges.
Mr. Ludlow.
Mr. Cowell.
Mr. Germon.
Mr. Morton.
Mrs. Mackenzie.
Mrs. Germon.
After which,
Not a Star, but a real Comet,
from somewheres so far away down east that
his childhood was passed in breaking day with
brickbats, will appear and sing
The Pizen Sarpient.
By particular desire,
OF AGE TO-MORROW.
In which Mr. Ludlow will personate
Seven Characters!!
Maria, with a favourite song, Mrs. Richardson.
To be followed by a new farce called
JOE SHORT.
Principal characters by Mr. Cowell, Mr. An-
derton, Mr. Wright, Mrs. Mackenzie, Mrs.
Wright, and Mrs. Germon.
To conclude with the
WIDOW'S VICTIM.
Jeremiah Clip, with his
inimitable imitations
Jenny
The Widow
·
Mr. Cowell.
Mrs. Richardson.
Mrs. Mackenzie.
The Splendid Tin Cup!
will be exhibited on the day of performance,
and a deposite at George Cullum's made at the
bar by the committee, for Cowell's friends to
drink to his success in a bumper !”
102
THIRTY YEARS
The resident population of Mobile is too re-,
fined in taste, and too well acquainted with how
the drama ought to be conducted, to visit the
theatre at all, unless very superior attraction be
offered; and at this season of the year all stran-
gers are moving homeward as fast as they can,
with the exception of the new members of the
Can't-get-away Club, and, poor fellows, their play-
going days were passed long ago. Now setting
at defiance all these disadvantages, the steward
of the steamboat Southerner, who had so far the
advantage of Dumas that he had a taste for
acting as well as managing, opened a new es-
tablishment in a large room over the Corinthian
-a splendid grogshop-and called it the Ameri-
can Theatre.
Mr. and Mrs. Hodges, Sinclair, and Jemmy
Thorne were engaged as stars; there were none
but stars employed, I believe, including the stew-
ard, who, unfortunately, indulged himself by giv-
ing his conception of Richard the Third, and got
hissed so heartily that he advertised his retirement
from dramatic life at the end of the week; and
in the same paper I saw that "the American
Theatre was, for the future," to be under the
management of the pretty young woman who
played Grace Harkaway originally, and so very
badly, at the Park.
too, that one would have thought her grammat-
ical sex would have protected her from the rude
and familiar manner in which he spoke of her
behind her back, as if she were
"Base and unlustrous as the smoky light
That's fed with stinking tallow."
And, after setting the only beauty he allowed
her to possess (and that a borrowed one) at de-
fiance, with his proposed Drummond Pharos, he
must have the Irish impudence of Daniel O'Con-
nell himself if ever he looked her in the, face
again. And her inhabitants, too, if she has any,
according to his account, are the most unpleas-
ant people on earth-neither able to walk, talk,
smell, see, hear, touch, taste, nor do anything
like other respectable persons. In short, as But-
ler says of some other lecturer, more than a
century and a half ago,
"Her secrets understood so clear,
That some believed he had been there;
Told what her d'meter t'an inch is,
And proved that she's not made of green cheese."
In fact, destroying, in very commonplace prose,
half the charm of Moore's poetry; and, indeed,
everybody's poetry; and what is worse, and
cruel, annihilating, with these scientific imagin-
ings, the childish hope (if you please) of the poor
shipwrecked mariner, who cheats despair with
To effectively compete with such an opposi- the innocent reliance on the moon's change to
tion, Doctor Lardner was engaged at the theatre bring relief, while clinging to life, “with one
to deliver a course of astronomical lectures, and, plank between him and destruction." But, se-
in excellent taste, Mr. George Holland to ex-riously, if all Doctor Lardner said that night is
hibit his magnificent Optical Illusions on the same
evenings!
For some time past a horde of locomotive
penny-magazine men had been scattering their
real and pretended knowledge about the country,
dignified by the name of lectures, till, like every
bubble fashion indiscriminately inflates, the
practice had become most ridiculously distend-
ed. Of course, the more inexplicable the suh-
ject of dissertation, the more attractive; and,
therefore, every description of mysterious hum-
buggery had been administered, and greedily
swallowed, and followed, though decency might
be set at defiance under the influence of exhilara-
ting gas, or common sense prostrated by experi-
mental Mesmerism. This imbecile mania pro-
duced some little good, at any rate. It had open-
ed an unexpected path for a few scientific men,
with a small share of worldly tact, and expensive
families, to find a ready money-market for their
hitherto unsaleable philosophical attainments.
The doctor was one of these; and very judi-
ciously took the moon by the horns, by way of
a bold beginning, and without much danger of
the numerous intellectual itinerant quacks pre-
suming to intrude with him.
"Into the heaven of heavens !"
really true, and any one believed that it was,
"A sadder and a wiser man
Ile rose the morrow morn."
George Holland's exhibition followed. He is
a man after my own heart, and thinks, with old
John Ford,
"Far better 'tis
To bless the sun, than reason why he shines."
His magic lantern was wisely introduced be-
tween the first and second parts of the lunatic
harangue, and the audience seemed to express
their sense of the pleasing relief by their fre-
quent approbation.
quent approbation. This was as it should be;
this was delightful; it disturbed no innocently
happy belief, but brought back, in all its fresh-
ness, the days of our childhood—the Christmas
holydays, the evening at home, the hoarse mu-
sic of the grinding organ, and the cry of the
shivering Italian "Gallantee show!" indistinctly
heard through the pattering rain. The joyous
preparation for its reception-the screen put
round the blazing fire, the large table-cloth fork-
ed against the wall, and the homely, moral fun,
never to be forgotten, of pull devil! pull baker!
But, when you come to think of it, what a
strange combination to form a fashionable en-
tertainment in this lecturing age, in a play-
house, instead of the sterling comedy, supported
by the educated, good old actor, "all of the old-
en time!" The doctor labouring with scientific
enthusiasm to make you look with philosophic
apathy, instead of awe and admiration, on one
of the most conspicuous wonders in nature; and
Holland, with his show, demanding you to be
once more a child, to enable you to express de-
light at his little trifles in art.
A very fashionable audience attended his first
lecture. The upper portion of the theatre was
kept closed on the occasion, and very prudently,
too, for I certainly think the gods would never
have sat quietly and patiently for an hour and a
half to hear their old acquaintance, the moon,
abused like a pickpocket. All that portion of
her early history which we usually learn in the
nursery-so simple, and yet so wonderful-was
most agreeable to hear repeated with a bit of the
brogue; but devil a bit of the blarny was used to
describe her, now that she is found out to be a
hard, ill-formed, chaotic lump of disagreeableness,
"without one good quality under heaven." and could not help but regret that Locke's de-
The doctor is such a notoriously gallant man, scription of her had so soon been found out to
As I wandered through Orange Grove, on my
way to my solitary lodgings, I looked up at
"Mine owu loved light,"
PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS.
103
be a hoax. What glorious playhouse lectures | round his middle, toddling after him as
he could have made! "with new scenery, ma- zeph."
"C
Jo-o
chinery, dresses, and decorations;" much more Ludlow and Smith had managed to scrape to-
agreeable to listen to, and quite as easy to be-gether some bricks and mortar, and built a small,
lieve, as Dr. Lardner's learned suppositions.
unpretending affair, in one corner of the ruins of
The next day I went to New-Orleans. As I the Temple, and called it the St. Charles. The
had predicted before the building was completed, interior is very neat and pretty. The night I
Caldwell had been unable to maintain the Amer- was there, Colonel Richard M. Johnson, the ex-
ican; his system is too legitimate for these de- Vice-president of the United States, had also hon-
generate days. At the end of a month he pub- oured the theatre with his presence, but there
lished a manly valedictory, and bade farewell was a very slim house, notwithstanding-very
to management forever. Dinneford, who had few ladies; and a Quadroon ball happening on
achieved some unenviable notoriety as a theatri- the same evening, at which, it was ridiculously
cal speculator at New-York, some how or anoth-hinted, it was the intention of the colonel to at-
er became the lessee. His career, as might have tend, accounted for the absence of that portion
been expected, was of very short duration. Mrs. of the audience.
Sefton now had the control: the company was
small, but her superior talent and experienced
energy made it respectably effective. I looked
in only for an instant. Connor was toddling
about as Richelieu, and Rowly Marks, a distin-
guished member of the Synagogue, with an ex-
traordinary large emblem of Christianity tied
On the day that the fanatic, Miller, said the
world would end, I took my departure from the
Balize-which is more like the last end of it
than any place that can be imagined-in the
brig Orchilla, bound to Baltimore, with her hold
full of pork, and a deck-load of molasses and
blue-bottle flies.
THE END.

DEDICATED BY ESPECIAL PERMISSION TO
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.
THE
WIVES OF ENGLAND,
THEIR
RELATIVE DUTIES,
DOMESTIC INFLUENCE, AND SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS.
BY MRS. ELLIS,
AUTHOR OF "THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND,” “THE DAUGHTERS OF ENGLAND,"
"THE POETRY OF LIFE," ETC.
"The greatest difficulty of my task has been the laying bare, us it were, before the public eye, the privacy of married life-
of that life whose sorrows the heart alone can know, and with whose joys it is the universal privilege of all who share them,
that no stranger shall intermeddle.
'But if the principles it has been my simple aim to advocate, should meet the approbation of my country women, I would
fondly hope to be associated with their fireside enjoyments, as one whose highest ambition would have been to render their
pleasures more enduring, their hopes more elevated, and their happiness more secure."-From the Author's Preface.
AUTHOR'S EDITION,
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
NEW YORK:
J. & H. G. LANGLEY, 57 CHATHAM-STREET.
1843.

TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN,
IN WHOSE EXALTED STATION
THE SOCIAL VIRTUES OF DOMESTIC LIFE PRESENT THE BRIGHTEST EXAMPLE
TO HER COUNTRYWOMEN,
AND THE SUREST PRESAGE OF HER EMPIRE'S GLORY;
This Volume is gratefully Enscribed,
BY HER MAJESTY'S
MOST OBEDIENT AND MOST DEVOTED SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
In writing on any subject, and particu-
larly for the purpose of doing good, there
are always two extremes to be avoided-
that of being too general, and that of be-
ing too minute.
By generalizing too much, the writer
incurs the risk of being considered by the
reader as having little actual knowledge
of the state of human affairs, and conse-
quently little sympathy either with those
who enjoy, or with those who suffer.
Without saying any thing to disparage in
other respects the value of those excellent
books on female duty, in many of which
are included the duties of married women,
I confess they have all appeared to me
too general-too much as if the writer
had not been personally identified with
the subject, had never entered into the
minutiæ of private and domestic life, or
did not feel, what the heart of woman
must feel, under its peculiar trials.
But, while endeavoring to avoid this
extreme, I am quite alive to the suspicion
that I may have fallen into the other;
and if the mere ambition of writing a book
had been my object, I should have felt
painfully that those who read only for
amusement might lay aside the volume
altogether, as trifling, common-place, and
tame. Yet such is my confidence in the
power of human sympathy, that I fear-
lessly trust the practical hints which
occupy these pages to the kindness of my
countrywomen, assuring them that I ask
for no higher reward, than, that while
some of them are reading my homely
|
details of familiar things, they should feel
that in the writer they have found a sister
and a friend,-one who is bound to the
same heritage with themselves, sharing
the same lot, and while struggling under
much weakness of resolution, and many
disadvantages of heart and character, is
subject to the same hopes, and the same
fears, both as regards this life and the
next.
The greatest difficulty of my task, how-
ever, has been to me the laying bare, as it
were, before the public eye, the privacy of
married life—of that life whose sorrows the
heart alone can know, and with whose joys
it is the universal privilege of all who share
them, that no stranger shall intermeddle.
This difficulty, of the extent of which I
was not fully aware before commencing the
work, has sometimes thrown a hesitancy
-I had almost said a delicacy-in the
way of writing with the strength which
the occasion demanded; and I could not.
but feel that the subject itself was one
better calculated for confidential fireside
intercourse, than for a printed volume.
But if then the principles it has been
my simple aim to advocate, should meet
the approbation of my countrywomen, I
would fondly hope to be associated with
their fireside enjoyments as one whose
highest earthly ambition would have been
to render their pleasures more enduring,
their hopes more elevated, and their hap-
piness more secure.
ROSE HILL, February 16th, 1843.
THE
WIVES OF ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.
THOUGIITS BEFORE MARRIAGE.
In commencing a work addressed particu-
larly to married women, it might appear a
little out of place to devote a whole chapter
to the subject of "thoughts before marriage,"
did not the writer suppose it probable, that if
married women should deem the following
pages worthy of their notice, those who are
about to assume the responsibility of wives,
might feel equally curious to ascertain the
nature of their contents. In this chapter,
then, I would venture to recommend a few
inquiries to those who have not yet passed
the Rubicon, and with whom, therefore, it
may not be too late to retract, if they should
find they have not correctly calculated the
consequences of the step they are about to
take; or, what is still more probable, if they
have not coolly and impartially estimated
their own capability for rendering it one of
prudence and safety both to themselves and
others. On the other hand, the inquiries I
would propose, are such as, where the mind
and character are fitly prepared for this im-
portant change, will tend to confirm the best
resolutions; while they will assist in detect-
ing every latent evil which might otherwise
lie in wait, to rise up after the season of de-
liberation is past, like clouds in the horizon,
which gradually spread their gloom across
the sky, and finally obscure the sunshine of
every future day.
The great object to be aimed at by all wo-
men about to enter upon the married state,
is to examine calmly and dispassionately the
requirements of this state; to put away all
personal feeling; and to be not only willing,
but determined, to look the subject fairly in
the face, and to see its practical bearing upon
the interest and the happiness of those with
whom they may be associated.
Perhaps there never yet was a woman of
warm feelings, or man either, who had not,
in early life, some vision of conjugal felicity,
which after experience and knowledge of the
world have failed to stamp with the impress
of reality. Some, believing themselves capa-
ble of contributing their share to this measure
of earthly happiness, and disappointed in not
finding an equal companion, have wisely
declined entering upon the married state
altogether; while others, more confident of
success, have made the experiment for them-
selves, believing, that though all the world
may have failed in realizing their dreams of
bliss, they and theirs will be fortunate enough
to exhibit to the wonder of mankind, an in-
stance of perfect connubial happiness.
It is needless to decide which of these two
parties deserve the highest meed of commen-
dation for their prudence and common sense.
But it is equally needless to belong to either
class of individuals. "What!" exclaims the
young enthusiast, "shall we not even hope to
be happy?" Yes. Let us hope as long as
we can; but let it be in subservience to rea-
son and to truth. Let us hope only to be
happy ourselves, so long as we make others
happy too; and let us expect no measure of
felicity beyond what this world has afforded
to those who were wiser and better than we
are.
"But why then,” exclaims the same en-
thusiast, "all the fine talk we hear about

6
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
marriage? and why, in all the stories we
read, is marriage made the end of woman's
existence?" Ah! there lies the evil. Mar-
riage, like death, is too often looked upon as
the end; whereas both are but the beginning
of states of existence infinitely more import-
ant than that by which they were preceded;
yet each taking from that their tone and
character, and each proportioned in their en-
joyment to the previous preparation which
has been made for their happiness or misery.
The education of young ladies is too fre-
quently such as to lead them naturally to
suppose, that all the training, and all the dis-
cipline they undergo, has reference only to
this end. The first evidence that marriage is
thus regarded by many young women, is
seen in a petulant rebellion against the re-
straints of home, and the requirements of
parental authority, accompanied by a threat,
not always distinctly uttered, that the first
opportunity of escaping from domestic thral-
dom shall not be neglected. This species of
rebellion against rightful authority, is much
cherished by school-companions and sisters;
while the gossip of servants, to whom the
indignant sufferers sometimes appeal, and
the general tenor of what is called light read-
ing, tend to keep up the same kind of spir-
ited determination to rush upon the uncer-
tainties of marriage, in the hope of escaping
from the certainties of home. A polite and
flattering lover next presents himself. The
persecuted or neglected damsel finds at last
that her merits are appreciated, and while
the gates of an imaginary Eden are still
open, she enters eagerly among its fruits and
flowers, never stopping to inquire if
"The trail of the serpent is over them still.'
|
the weaker, and consequently the more easily
deluded party, to pause and think again.
Although I am one of the last persons who
could wish to introduce in any plausible form,
to an upright and honorable mind, the bare
idea of the possibility of breaking an engage-
ment; yet as there are cases in which an en-
gagement of marriage, if literally kept, must
necessarily be violated in spirit, I cannot help
thinking, that of two evils, it is, in this case,
especially desirable to choose the least; and
to prefer inflicting a temporary pain, and en-
during an inevitable disgrace, to being the
means of destroying the happiness of a life-
time, with the self-imposed accompaniment
of endless remorse.
In the first place, then, I would ask, are
you about to bring to the altar, and to offer,
in the sight of God, a faithful and devoted
heart? To answer with a mere expression
of belief, is not sufficient here. There must
be certainty on this point, if not on any
other. There are many tests by which
this important fact may be ascertained, and
of these I shall particularize a few. The
first is, whom are you loving?-the man who
stands before you with all his "imperfections
on his head"-his faults of temper, follies, in-
consistencies, and past misdeeds? Is this
the man you love? or is it some ideal and
perfect being whom you will fail to recognise
in the husband of your after life? If the lat-
ter case be yours, go back, and wait, for your
acquaintance has yet to be formed on the
only sure basis--that of honesty and truth;
and you might as safely unite yourself with
a being you had never seen before, as with
one whom you had seen without having
known or understood.
The discovery that you have mistaken the
real character of your lover, need not, how-
ever, be any barrier to the ultimate fulfilment
of your engagement with him. All that you
have to do, is to wait until you have studied
his real character, and ascertained that you
can still love him, though you no longer be-
lieve him to be without a fault.
Such is the natural history of one half at
least of those early marriages, which fix the
doom of women for this world, and some-
times for the next. What wonder, then,
that a sincere and earnest friend, and an af-
fectionate well-wisher of her sex, should
deem it necessary, even on the near approach
of that day which is generally spoken of as During the progress of this study, the de-
making two human beings happy, to request | lay it will necessarily occasion, may be made
THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE.
7
to answer two valuable ends; for at the same
time that you have been deceived, it is more
than probable that you have been deceiving.
Not intentionally, perhaps, yet the effect may
be as calamitous as if you had designedly
practised upon the partial credulity of your
lover. It is of the utmost importance, then,
that you inquire into the nature of your own
conduct, not only towards him, but towards
others in his presence. Have you, during
the season of courtship, been acting a part
which you never before sustained, or which
you do not intend to sustain as a wife?
Have you been more amiable to your ad-
mirer, than you expect to be to your hus-
band? If you have, there are two ways of
remedying this evil, for an evil it certainly is;
and one of these you are bound in common
honesty to adopt: you must either defer
your marriage until your real character has
been brought to light, and clearly understood;
or, you must determine, from this time for-
ward, by the Divine blessing on your endeav-
ors, that you will be in reality the amiable
being you have appeared.
And now, having learned to see your lover
as he is, I would ask again, whether you are
quite sure that your affections are entirely
and irrevocably his. If on this point there is
doubt, there must be danger; but still there
are tests to be applied, which may in some
measure reduce those doubts to certainty.
The most important question, in a case of
doubt, is, whether your heart lingers after
any other object; and this may be best as-
certained by asking yourself still further,
whether there is any other man in the world,
of whom it would give you pain to hear that
he was likely to be married. If there is not,
you are in all probability safe in this respect,
and yet you may not love the man you are
about to marry, as he hopes, deserves, and
believes himself to be loved. I would ask,
then, are you weary of his presence, and re-
lieved when he goes away? or are you dis-
posed to exercise less charity and forbear-
ance towards his faults, than towards the
faults of others? for if his failings annoy and
irritate you more than those of men in gen-
eral, depend upon it, you do not love him as
you ought. If, too, you feel ashamed of him
before marriage, there is little probability that
you will afterwards evince towards him that
respect and reverence which is right and
seemly in a wife.
In order to ascertain these points clearly, it
is good for every woman before she marries,
to see the man of her choice in the company
of her friends, and especially to see him as-
sociated and compared with those whose
opinion she esteems most highly. We are
all more or less influenced by the secret sym-
pathies of our common nature. In nothing
can we think or feel alone; and few cases
show more plainly the weakness and liability
to delusion under which we labor, than the
strong confidence we sometimes entertain in
the correctness of our own judgment, until
some new trial is made; and then immedi-
ately, as if by a kind of instinct, placing our-
selves in the situation of others, we see as
it were with their eyes, think with their
thoughts, and arrive at their conclusions.
This tendency of our nature is often discover-
ed in the reading of books, which we have both
enjoyed and admired alone; but no sooner
do we read them in company with a critical
friend, than we see at once their defects, and
can even use against them the same powers
of criticism ourselves. Happy is it for those
whose judgment, thus influenced, is confined
in its exercise to books!-happy for them if
they never know what it is to find the talents
and the recommendations of a lover disap-
pear in a moment, on the approach of an in-
teresting and influential friend, and disappear
in such a way as never to be recalled again!
Yet, having stood this test, it is still possi-
ble to doubt, and, without sufficient love,
your engagement may still be only just drag-
ged on, because you have no sufficient plea
for breaking it off. You may perhaps esteem
your lover highly; you may feel grateful for
his kindness, and flattered by his admiration;
you may also feel a strong desire to make
him the happy man he believes he can be
with you, and you alone-you may feel all
this, and yet, I repeat, you may not love him
8
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
as a woman ought to love her husband.
This will be more clearly proved by an in-
crease of sadness on your part, as the time
of your marriage draws near, an indefinite
apprehension that with you the pleasures of
life are at an end, and a determination, re-
quiring often to be renewed, that at least you
will do your duty to one who deserves every
thing from you.
Let me, however, ask what this duty is?
It is not merely to serve him; a hired menial
could do that. The duty of a wife is what
no woman ever yet was able to render with-
out affection; and it is therefore the height
of presumption to think that you can coldly
fulfil a duty, the very spirit of which is that
of love itself.
It is possible, however, that you may still
be mistaken. It is possible that the gradual
opening of your eyes from the visions of girl-
ish romance, which are apt to flit before the
imaginative and inexperienced, may have.
given you a distaste both for your compan-
ion, and your future lot. If this be the case,
the difficulty will be easily overcome by the
exercise of a little good feeling and common.
sense. But in order to prove that this is real-
ly all, put this question to yourself—if you
were quite sure there was some other woman
as amiable, or more so, than you, with whom
your friend could be equally happy, would
you feel pleasure in his cultivating her ac-
quaintance instead of yours?
If you can answer this question in the
negative, you may yet be safe; if not, the
case is too decided to admit of a moment's
hesitation. Your own integrity, and a sense
of justice towards your friend, equally dictate
the propriety of making him acquainted with
the painful, the humiliating fact, that you do
not love him; and no man, after being con-
vinced of this, could desire the fulfilment of
a mere nominal engagement.
I am aware that the opinion of the world
and the general voice of society are against
such conduct, even where love is wanting;
and I am equally aware, that no woman
ought to venture upon breaking an engage-
ment on such grounds, without feeling her-
|
self humbled to the very dust; but I am not
the less convinced, that it is the only safe,
the only just line of conduct which remains
to her who finds herself thus circumstanced,
and that it is in reality more generous to her
lover, than if she kept "the word of promise
to his ear, and broke it to his hope."
But there may be other causes besides this,
why an engagement should not be fulfilled.
There may be a want of love on the part of
your friend, or there may be instances of
unfaithfulness too glaring to be overlooked;
and here let it be observed, that woman's
love may grow after marriage-man's, never.
If, therefore, he is indifferent or unfaithful as
a lover, what must be expected of him as a
husband?
It is one of the greatest misfortunes to
which women are liable, that they cannot,
consistently with female delicacy, cultivate,
before an engagement is made, an acquaint-
ance sufficiently intimate to lead to the dis-
covery of certain facts which would at once
decide the point, whether it was prudent to
proceed further towards taking that step,
which is universally acknowledged to be the
most important in a woman's life.
One of these facts, which can only be as-
certained on a close acquaintance, is the
tendency there is in some individuals to
overawe, and keep others at a distance.
Now, if on the near approach of marriage,
a woman finds this tendency in the compan-
ion she has chosen, if she cannot open to
him her whole heart, or if he does not open
his heart to her, but maintains a distant kind
of authoritative manner, which shuts her out
from sympathy and equality with himself, it
is time for her to pause, and think seriously
before she binds herself for life to that worst
of all slavery, the fear of a husband. I have
no scruple in using this expression, because
where the connection is so intimate, and the
sphere of action necessarily so confined, if
fear usurps the place of confidence and love,
it must naturally engender a servile disposi-
-tion to deceive, either by falsehood or eva-
sion, wherever blame would attach to a full
disclosure of the truth.
THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE.
9
I have already said that it is a prudent plan
for the woman who intends to marry, to try
the merits of her lover, or rather her own es-
timate of them, by allowing him an opportu-
nity of associating with her friends. Such
precautionary measures, however, are not
easily carried out, except at some sacrifice of
delicate and generous feeling; and, generally
speaking, the less a woman allows her name
to be associated with that of her husband be-
fore marriage, the better. It is sometimes
argued that an engagement entered into with
right feelings, is of so binding and sacred a
nature, that persons thus related to each
other, may be seen together, both in public
and private, almost as if they were really
married; and to such it may appear a cold
kind of caution still to say "beware!" Yet
such is the uncertain nature of all human af-
fairs, that we need not look far for instances
of the most improbable changes taking place,
after all possibility of change had been ban-
ished from our thoughts. Within a month,
a week, nay, even a day, of marriage, there
have been discoveries made which have ful-
ly justified an entire disunion of the parties
thus associated; and then how much better
has it been, where their names had not been
previously united, and where their appearance
together had not impressed the idea of indis-
soluble connection upon the minds of others!
ty as to be kept from doing any very exten-
sive harm; but when a man, with the reins
of government in his hand, loses the power
to guide them, when his mind becomes the
victim of morbid feeling, and his energies
sink nder imaginary burdens, there is no
calculating the extent of calamity which may
result to the woman who would be rash
enough to link her destiny with his.
Another justifiable reason for setting aside
an engagement of marriage, or protracting
the fulfilment of it, is a failure of health, es-
pecially when either this, or the kind of mala-
dy already noticed, induces an incapacity for
business, and for the duties which generally
devolve upon the master of a household. It
is true, that in cases where the individual
thus afflicted does not himself see the pro-
priety of withdrawing from the engagement,
the hard, and apparently selfish part a wo-'
man has to act on these occasions is such as,
in addition to her own sufferings, will proba-
bly bring upon her the blame of many who
do not, and who cannot, understand the case;
and the more delicate her feelings are towards
the friend she is thus compelled to treat with
apparent harshness, the less likely she will
be to exculpate herself by an exposure to the
world of his inconsistency, or his weakness.
Thus, as in many of the acts of woman's life,
she has to be the sufferer every way; but
still that suffering is less to every one con-
cerned, than if she plunged herself into all
the lamentable consequences of a union with
a man who wanted either the mental or the
physical capacity to keep her and hers from
poverty and distress. In the former case,
she will have the dictates of prudence and of
conscience in her favor. In both, the world
will be lavish of its blame; but in the latter
only, could her portion be that of self-con-
demnation, added to irremediable misery.
One of the most justifiable, and at the same
time one of the most melancholy causes for
such disunion, is the discovery of symptoms
-of insanity. Even a highly excited and dis-
ordered state of the nervous system, will
operate with a prudent woman against an
alliance of this nature. Yet here again, it is
Yet here again, it is
particularly unfortunate, that in cases of ner-
vous derangement, the discovery is seldom
fully made except in the progress of that
close intimacy which immediately precedes
marriage, and which consequently assumes
the character of an indissoluble engagement.
Symptoms of this nature, however, when ex-
hibited in the conduct of a man, are of the
most serious and alarming character. A wo-
man laboring under such maladies, in their
milder form, may be so influenced by authori- | married state.
After all these considerations have been
duly weighed, and every test of truth and
constancy applied to your affection for the
object of your choice, there may yet remain
considerations of infinite moment as they re-
late to your own fitness for entering upon the
2
10
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
hibitions of contradiction and fondness which
are dictated by affection alone, though inter-
esting enough before the nuptial knot is tied,
are certainly not those features in the aspect
of his domestic affairs, whose combination a
prudent man would most desire.
It is to sound judgment then, and right
principle, that we must look, with the bless-
ing of the Bestower of these good gifts, for
ability to make a husband happy—sound
judgment to discern what is the place de-
In the first place, what is it you are ex-
pecting? to be always flattered? Depend
upon it, if your faults were never brought to
light before, they will be so now.
Are you
expecting to be always indulged? Depend
upon it, if your temper was never tried be-
fore, it will be so now. Are you expecting
to be always admired? Depend upon it, if
you were never humble and insignificant be-
fore, you will have to be so now. Yes, you
had better make up your mind at once to be
uninteresting as long as you live, to all ex-signed for him and for us, in the arrange-
cept the companion of your home; and well
will it be for you, if you can always be inter-
esting to him. You had better settle it in
your calculations, that you will have to be
crossed oftener than the day; and the part
of wisdom will dictate, that if you persist in
your determination to be married, you shall
not only be satisfied, but cheerful to have
these things so.
One important truth sufficiently impressed
upon your mind will materially assist in this
desirable consummation-it is the superiority
of your husband, simply as a man. It is
quite possible you may have more talent,
with higher attainments, and you may also
have been generally more admired; but this
has nothing whatever to do with your posi-
tion as a woman, which is, and must bc,
inferior to his as a man. For want of a
satisfactory settlement of this point before
marriage, how many disputes and misunder-
standings have ensued, filling, as with the
elements of discord and strife, that world of
-existence which ought to be a smiling Eden
of perpetual flowers-not of flowers which
never fade; but of flowers which, if they
must die, neither droop nor wither from the
canker in their own bosoms, or the worin
which lies at their own roots.
It is a favorite argument with untried
youth, that all things will come right in the
end, where there is a sufficiency of love; but
is it enough for the subjection of a woman's
will, that she should love her husband?
Alas! observation and experience alike con-
vince us, that love has been well represented
as a wayward boy; and the alternate ex-
ments of an all-wise Providence—and right
principle to bring down every selfish desire,
and every rebellious thought, to a due sub-
serviency in the general estimate we form
of individual duty.
But supposing this point satisfactorily set-
tled, and an earnest and prayerful determina-
tion entered into to be but a secondary being
in the great business of conducting the gen-
eral affairs of social life, there are a few
things yet to be thought of, a few duties yet
to be discharged, before the final step can
properly be taken. In the warmth and en-
thusiasm of youthful feeling, few women
look much beyond themselves in the calcu-
lations they make upon their married future.
To be loved, and cherished, is all they ap-
pear solicitous to stipulate for, forgetting the
many wants and wishes that will necessarily
arise out of the connection they are about to
form. It may not be out of place then to
remind them, how essential it is to comfort
in the married state, that there should have
been beforehand a clear understanding, and
a strict agreement, with regard both to the
general style of living, and the friendships
and associations to be afterwards maintained.
All secret wishes and intentions on these
subjects, concealed by one party from the
fear of their being displeasing to the other,
are ominous of future disaster; and, indeed,
I would almost venture so far as to advise,
that unless such preliminaries can be satis-
factorily adjusted, the parties had better make
up their minds to separate; for these causes of
difference will be of such frequent occurrence,
as to leave little prospect of domestic peace.
THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE.
11
If, however, the companion of your future
home should not be disposed to candor on
these points, you will probably have oppor-
tunities of judging for yourself; and such |
means of forming your conclusions ought on
no account to be neglected. You will pro-
bably, for instance, have opportunies of as-
certaining whether he is one of those who
place their chief happiness in what is called
good living, or, in other words, in the pleas-
ures of the table; and if in his estimation
wine forms a prominent part of these enjoy-
ments, let not the fear of the world's censure
operate for one moment against your sepa-
rating yourself from such a man. If this
should seem a harsh and hasty conclusion,
remember that the evils of a gross and self-
indulgent habit are such as generally increase
with the advance of years, and, as the natu-
ral spirits fail, and health becomes impaired,
are liable to give rise to the most fatal mala-
dies both of mind and body. If, then, there
is danger and disgust to apprehend on the
side of indulgence, it is on the other hand a
hard and unthankful duty for the wife to be
perpetually restraining the appetite of her
husband, and preaching up the advantages
of abstinence to the man she loves. Nor is
it improbable, or of rare occurrence, that un-
der such circumstances she should actually
lose his affection, for men like not the con-
stant imposition of restraint upon their wish-
es; and so much happier-so much more
privileged is the situation of her who can
safely minister to the desires of her husband,
that I would recommend to every woman to
choose the man who can with propriety be in-
dulged, rather than him whose habits of self-
gratification already require restraint.
As the time of your marriage draws near,
you will naturally be led with ease and pleas-
ure into that kind of unlimited confidence
with the companion of your future lot, which
forms in reality the great charm of married
life. But even here a caution is required,
for though all the future, as connected with
your own experience, must belong to him,
all the past must belong to others. Never,
therefore, make it the subject of your confi-
dential intercourse to relate the history of
your former love affairs, if you have had
any. It is bad taste to allude to them at all,
but especially so under such circumstances;
and although such details might serve to
amuse for the moment, they would in all
probability be remembered against you at
some future time, when each day will be
sufficiently darkened by its own passing
clouds.
With regard to all your other love affairs
then, let "by-gones be by-gones." It could
do no good whatever for you to remember
them; and the more you are dissociated-
from every other being of his own sex, the
more will the mind of your husband dwell
upon you with unalloyed satisfaction. On
the other hand, let no ill-advised curiosity
induce you to pry too narrowly into his past
life as regards affairs of this nature. How-
ever close your inquiries, they may still be
baffled by evasion; and if it be an important
point with you, as many women profess to
make it, to occupy an unsullied page in the
affections of your husband, it is wiser and
safer to take for granted this flattering fact,
than to ask whether any other name has
been written on that page before. In this
case, as well as your own, both honor and
delicacy would suggest the propriety of draw-
ing a veil over the past. It is sufficient for
the happiness of married life that you share
together the present and the future.
With such a field for the interchange of
mutual thought, there can surely be no want
of interest in your conversation, for the ar-
rangements to be made are so new to both,
and consequently so fraught with importance,
that parties thus circumstanced, are pro-
verbially good company only to each other.
Amongst these arrangements, if the choice
of a residence be permitted you, and espe-
cially if your own temper is not good, or your
manners not conciliating, avoid, as far as
you can do so with prudence, and without
thwarting your husband's wishes, any very
close contact with his nearest relatives.-
There are not wanting numerous instances
in which the greatest intimacy and most fa-
12
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
miliar associations of this kind have been
kept up with mutual benefit and satisfaction;
but generally speaking it is a risk, and you
may not yourself be sufficiently amiable to
bear, with a meek and quiet spirit, the general
oversight, and well-meant interference, which
mothers and sisters naturally expect to main-
tain in the household of a son and a brother.
These considerations, however, must of
course give way to the wishes of the hus-
band and his family, as it is of the utmost
importance not to offend his relatives in the
outset by any appearance of contradiction or
self-will; and besides which, he and his
friends will be better judges than you can be,
of the general reasons for fixing your future
residence.
And now, as the time draws near, are you
quite sure that your means are sufficient to
enable you to begin the world with indepen-
dence and respectability? Perhaps you are
not a judge, and if not, you have no right to
think of becoming a wife; for young men in
general have little opportunity of making
themselves acquainted with household econ-
omy; and who then is to make those innu-
merable calculations upon which will depend,
not only the right government of your estab-
lishment, but also your peace of mind, your
integrity of character, and your influence for
time and for eternity?
Oh! what a happy day would that be for
Britain, whose morning should smile upon
the making of a law for allowing no woman
to marry until she had become an economist,
thoroughly acquainted with the necessary ex-
penses of a respectable mode of living, and
able to calculate the requirements of comfort,
in connection with all the probable contin-
gencies of actual life. If such a law should
be so cruel as to suspend for a year or more
every approach to the hymeneal altar, it
would, at least, be equally effectual in avert-
ing that bitter repentance with which so
many look back to the hurried and thought-
less manner in which they rushed blindfold
upon an untried fate, and only opened their
eyes to behold their madness and folly, when
it was too late to avert the fatal consequences.
|
As a proof how little young men in gene-
ral are acquainted with these matters, I have
heard many who fully calculated upon living
in a genteel and comfortable style, declare
that a hundred pounds was sufficient for the
furnishing of a house. Thus a hundred
pounds on one side, either saved, borrowed,
or begged, and fifty on the other, are not un-
frequently deemed an ample provision, with
a salary of two hundred, to begin the world
with. It is true the young man finds that
salary barely sufficient for himself; but then,
he hears and reads how much is saved un-
der good female management, and he doubts
not but his deficiencies will be more than
made up by his wife. It is true the young
lady, with her ill health, and music lessons,
and change of air, costs her father at least
fifty pounds per annum, but she does not
see how she shall cost her husband any thing
at all! Sweet soul! She needs so little, and
really would be content with any thing in the
world, so that she might but live with him.
Nay, she who has never learned to wait upon
herself, would almost do without a servant,
so self-denying, so devoted is her love.
Thus the two hopeful parties reason, and
should a parent or a friend advise delay, the
simple fact of their having been engaged,
having expected to be married, and having
made up their minds, appear to furnish suffi-
cient arguments why they should proceed in
their career of rashness and of folly. Parents
who are kindly disposed, will hardly see
their children rush upon absolute want at
the commencement of their married life.
The mother therefore pleads, the father cal-
culates, and by deferring some of his own
payments, or by borrowing from a friend, he
is enabled to spare a little more than was at
first promised, though only as a loan.
And how is this small additional sum too
frequently appropriated? To the purchase
of luxuries which the parents of the newly
married pair waited ten or twenty years be-
fore they thought of indulging themselves
with; and those who have tried every expe-
dient, and drained every creditable source,
to gratify the wishes of their imprudent chil-
THOUGHTS BEFORE MARRIAGE.
13
dren, have to contemplate the heart-sicken- | discipline, in which she is yet but a novice;
ing spectacle of beholding them begin the and instead of taking upon herself the honor-
world in a style superior to that which their able title of wife, to set in humility and self-
own industry and exertion, persevered in abasement in the lowest seat, seeking those
through half a lifetime, has alone enabled essential endowments of mind and of heart,
them to attain.
without which, the blessing of her heavenly
Father must be expected in vain.
Above all other considerations then, as the
bridal day draws near, this thought will sug-
gest itself to the serious and enlightened
mind-What am I seeking in the great
change I am about to make? Am I seek-
ing an escape from duty to enjoyment, from
restraint to indulgence, from wholesome dis-
cipline to perfect ease?
Now, though the delicate young lady may
think she has little to do with these things,
the honest-hearted Englishwoman, especially
the practical Christian, will find that it be-
longs peculiarly to her province to see that
just and right principles are made the foun-
dation of her character as the mistress of a
house; and in order to carry out these prin-
ciples so as to make them effectual in their
operation upon her fellow-beings, and accept-
able in the sight of God, she must begin in
time, and while the choice remains to her, to
practise self-denial, even in that act which is
most intimately connected with her presented the responsibility these duties will bring
and future happiness.
Let us hope that these questions may be
answered satisfactorily, and that the young
woman now about to take upon herself the
charge of new duties, has thoroughly weigh-
along with them; and that in an humble
and prayerful spirit she is inquiring, in what
way she may conduct herself, so that all the
members of her household shall be united
as a Christian family, strengthening and en-
couraging each other in the service of the
Lord.
If the attention to economy, and the right
feeling with regard to integrity, which I have
so earnestly recommended in the "Women,"
and the "Daughters of England," have been
studied in early youth, she will need no cau-
tion on the subject of delaying her marriage
until prudence shall point out the proper time In so important an undertaking, it cannot
for her settlement in life. She will know a be deemed presumptuous to determine, with
holier, deeper kind of love than that which the Divine blessing, to begin with a high
would plunge the object of it in irremediable standard of moral excellence. Whatever
difficulties for her sake; and though he may
our standard is, we never rise above it;
be inexperienced and imprudent, she will feel and so great are the miscalculations usually
it a sacred trust, to have committed to her made in a prospective view of married life,
the care of his character and circumstances that one half at least of its trials, tempta~~
in these important and momentous concerns. tions, and hindrances to spiritual advance-
Serious and right views on subjects of
ment are entirely overlooked. Besides which,
this nature, are so intimately connected with so much of the moral and religious charac-
the reality of the Christian character, that it ter of a household depends upon the female
is difficult to imagine how a high profession who controls its domestic regulations, that
of religion can exist in connection with the the woman who should rush heedlessly into
kind of wilful and selfish imprudence above this situation, expecting to find it easier to
described. One thing, however, is certain, act conscientiously than she had ever done
that let a woman's religious profession be before, would most likely be punished for
what it may, if she be rash and inconsiderate her presumption by discovering, when it was
on the subject of marriage, consulting only too late, that instead of religious helps on
her own gratification, and mistaking mere every hand, she was in reality plunged into
fondness for deep and enduring affection, she new difficulties, and placed in the midst of
has need to go back to the school of mental | hindrances to her spiritual improvement,
14
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

greater and more appalling than it had ever
entered into her imagination to conceive.
But still there is no need to be cast down
even while suffering under the natural con-
sequences of this fearful mistake, for He who
has said commit thy way unto the Lord, will
assuredly be near in the time of trouble, when
the child of sorrow, sincerely repenting of
her blindness and her folly, shall meekly
and fervently implore his promised aid. She
will then have learned to feel, that let her
confidence in the companion of her choice
be what it may; let him be to her as the fa-
ther she has forsaken, the brothers she has
left, and the friends whose sweet fellowship
she will never more enjoy; there will still be
trials in her lot, in which he cannot partici-
pate, and depths in her soul which he can-
not fathom. He may take her to his bosom
as the shepherd takes the lamb; but the
green pastures and the refreshing dew will
not be his to give. He may guard her safe-
ty as the soldier guards the camp; but her
enemies may be too subtle for his eye, and
too powerful for his arm. He may be to her
as the morning to the opening flower; but
the sun which gives that morning all its light,
will be high in the heavens, and if he shines
not, there will be no real brightness in her
day. And all this insufficiency may still be
felt without a shadow being cast upon her
earthly love. Indeed, we never err more
fatally, or do greater injustice to the nature
and attributes both of religion and of love,
than when we blend them together, and ex-
pect from one what the other only can be-
stow. If love sometimes assists us by ren-
dering certain portions of the path of duty
more alluring, in how many instances does
it throw all its allurements on the opposite
side; and in such cases, how hard it is that
religion should be charged with the sad con-
sequences which are liable to follow!
I speak not here of love as what it might
be, but as what it is. I speak not of that holy
and seraphic ardor, which a guardian angel
might be supposed to feel for the welfare of
the being whose earthly course it watched
with unceasing care; nor yet of that pure
sentiment, scarcely less earthly in its ten-
dency, the chastened and subordinate attach-
ment of a redeemed and regenerated soul;
I speak of love as a fitful and capricious
passion, asserting unreasonable mastery over
the human mind, rejecting all control, mixing
itself with all motives, assuming all forms so
as to work out its own purposes, and never
failing to promise an earthly paradise to its
blind followers.
It is of such love, I repeat, that it must be
kept apart from that great work which reli-
gion has to do alone, because the strivings
of the spirit in its religious exercises can only
be fully known and appreciated by Him who
was in all points tempted as we are; and
because these groanings, which cannot be
uttered to any human ear, are mercifully
listened to by Him who is touched with a
feeling of our infirmities.
It is highly important, therefore, that the
woman who ventures to become a wife,
should not be leaning upon the frail reed
of human love for her support. Indeed, it
is more than probable that her husband will
himself require assistance; and, excellent as
he may have hitherto appeared to herself
and others, it is equally probable that on a
nearer inspection there will be found in his
religious character defects and inconsisten-
cies, which will present insuperable obstacles
in the way of her whose dependence has been
solely upon him. If, however, her depend-
ence has been rightly placed upon a higher
foundation than that of human excellence
or human love, these defects of character
will neither hinder nor discourage her. To
work out her own salvation with fear and
trembling, will be the great object of her life;
and while engaged with all her energies in
this first duty, she will be more occupied with
anxiety to draw others along with her, than
with disappointment at their being less per-
fect than she had imagined them.
As we must all die alone, so must we live
in our spiritual experience.
"Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.

THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
15
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or wo
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart;
Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow,
Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.”
Human sympathy may do much to com-
fort, human advice to guide, and human ex-
ample to encourage; but whether married or
single, whether associated with others, or
separate and alone; we must all bear our
own burdens, perform our own duties, an-
swer to our own consciences, reap our own
rewards, and receive our own sentence at the
bar of eternal judgment.
If this be an awful, and in some respects
a gloomy thought, in others it is most con-
soling; for we need in reality but one Friend
in our religious experience. All others are
liable to fail us in the hour of need, and at
best they can do little for us. But with this
Friend on our side, no one can hurt or hinder
us. Under his protection, whatever wounds
we receive from any mortal foe, our immor-
tal nature will remain uninjured. This
This
Friend then is all-sufficient, and, blessed be
his holy name, he ever liveth to make interces-
sion for us.
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
want of prospective discipline at once so ob-
vious, and so lamentable, as in the whole
progress of that system of self-recommenda-
tion which men call courtship, and which
unquestionably deserves that name, if to win
the partial favor of an inexperienced, and
perhaps a vain woman, be the only object
they have in view. It is true, that the man
who wishes to gain the affections of a woman,
must first endeavor to render himself agreea-
ble to her; but all I would ask is, that while
endeavoring to gain her love, he should at
the same time take some pains to make her
worthy of his own, by treating her at least
with the faithfulness and sincerity of a friend.
Nor need he fear that he shall be a loser in
the end by this mode of treatment, for how
much greater is the flattery of being loved in
spite of our faults, than of being supposed to
have none !
If men would, then, in common honesty,
state what points they object to in the woman
they admire, and what they really do require
in a wife, they would not only find their in-
fluence, during the season of courtship, pro-
ductive of the most beneficial consequences,
but they would themselves escape a world of
disappointment afterwards, while they would
save the object of their affections all that as-
tonishment, and wounded feeling, which nat-
urally arise out of finding herself convicted
of innumerable faults which were never so
much as hinted at before.
Instead of the candid and generous treat-
ONE great fault which the writer of these
pages has already presumed to find with fe-
male education, as conducted in the presentment here recommended, how often is the
day, is, that it fails to prepare the character,
and to form the habits, for those after duties,
which are as rigorously exacted, as if the
whole training of youth had been strictly in
accordance with the requirements of middle
life. The tone of common conversation, and
the moral atmosphere of general society, are
strongly tinctured with the same fault-a
tendency to encourage thoughts and feelings
wholly at variance with the line of conduct
pointed out by religion, and even by common
sense, as that which is most likely to be con-
ducive to ultimate happiness.
progress of courtship no better than a system
of fulsome adulation, and consequently of
falsehood, carried on exactly as if marriage
was indeed the end, instead of the beginning,
of their mutual existence. And thus the
affair goes on-nay, it becomes even worse,
until the near approach of that day which is
to make them one; for friends and relatives
now take the same tone, and the bride elect
is set apart from all domestic discipline, the
recipient of flattering attentions, the object of
universal interest, and the centre towards
which all calculations and all expressions of
But in no other circumstance of life is this kindness equally tend.
16
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
Persons sometimes appear least selfish
when their self-love is fully and freely grati-
fied; because they have then nothing left to
require or to complain of. Thus the bride
elect always appears amiable, because every-
body waits upon her, everybody flatters her,
and everybody promotes the gratification of
her wishes to the utmost of their power.
There is now no self-denial, no giving place
to others, no privation of the expected means
of enjoyment--or, to sum up all in one word,
there is no neglect to try her selfishness, or
put her meekness to the test. How should
she be otherwise than amiable?
In this manner time passes on, self being
made daily more and more the object of uni-
versal attention, until at last, the bride be-
comes personally almost an idol, so lavish is
the expenditure bestowed upon her now,
compared with what it has ever been before;
so attractive, so becoming, is every ornament
she wears; and so lively is the interest, so
profound the respect, with which she is
treated on that eventful day, which dawns
upon her departure from her parents' home.
Far be it from me to attempt to divest that
day of its solemn and important character,
or to lower the tone of feeling with which it
ought to be regarded; but as a lover of truth,
and a somewhat studious observer of the
days which follow, I own I should like to see
the preparation of a bride consist more of
mental discipline than of personal adorn-
ment-more of the resources of a well-stored
understanding, already thoroughly informed
on the subjects of relative position and prac-
tical duty; and with these, the still higher or-
nament of a chastened spirit, already imbued
with a lively consciousness of the deep re-
sponsibilities devolving upon a married wo-
man. After such a preparation, there would
be no unwelcome truth to reveal, no unex-
pected reproof to endure. To fall short of
the high standard of excellence in almost
every act, and not always to be graciously
forgiven, would be a matter of calculation,
which, with true Christian meekness, she
would be prepared to meet; while to set
aside all selfish considerations, and to look
almost exclusively to the happiness of others
for her own, would already have become so
habitual as to require no new effort to carry
out through the intercourse of daily life.
Happy, and wise as well as happy, would
that man be, who should make himself con-
tent to wait for the dawning of his bridal day,
until the woman of his choice should have
been thus prepared. But instead of this,
man eagerly secures his prize; and, like the
training of a snared bird, that discipline must
all come afterwards, which is to end in do-
mestic harmony, or domestic strife.
But let us turn the page, and after wel-
coming home the happy couple from the
wedding tour, let us venture to whisper into
the ear of the bride a few sage words, from
which, whether properly prepared or not, she
may possibly, from the simple fact of her in-
experience, be able to gather something for
her future good.
If ever, in the course of human life, inde-
cision may be accounted a merit rather than
a defect, it is so in the conduct of a young
and newly married woman. While every
circumstance around her is new and untried,
the voice of prudence dictatcs caution before
any important step is taken, either with re-
gard to the formation of intimacies, or the
general style and order of living. A warın-
hearted, dependent, and affectionate young
woman, ardently attached to her husband,
will be predisposed to lean upon the kindness
of his relatives, and even to enter rashly into
the most intimate and familiar intercourse
with them. But even this amiable impulse
should be checked by the remembrance, that
in all such intimacies, it is much more diffi-
cult to recede than to advance, and that when
familiar intimacy is once established, there is
no such thing as drawing back without per-
sonal affront. It will happen, too, unless the
husband's relatives are something more than
human, that among themselves there will not
be perfect unanimity of feeling. They will
probably be divided into little parties, in which
individuals on one side will look with partial
or censorious eyes upon the sayings and do-
ings of those on the other. Such partial
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
17
views, when they give a tone to general con- take part in his domestic concerns, it is high-
versation, are very infectious, and a sensitively important that they should do so no long-
mind much interested, and keenly alive to
impressions from such a quarter, will be but
too likely to become suddenly and powerfully
biased by the same prejudices which pervade
the circle into which the youthful bride is
introduced.
Nothing, however, can be more injudicious
than for her to take part in these family
matters. If possible, she ought to wait and
see for herself, before her opinion is formed
upon any of the subjects in question. And
this, by great care, may be done without any
violation of that respectful behavior which
she ought to lay down for herself as a rule,
in associating with her husband's relatives,
and from which she ought never to deviate,
let her opinion of their merits and attractions
be what it may.
er.
Correct-minded persons will need no
hint of this kind from the wife herself. Such
persons will be sufficiently aware, that the
interior of her establishment must be kept
sacred to her alone; and that, while the
greatest freedom is maintained both in ask-
ing and in granting favors, there must be no
intrusion on their part into the mysteries of
the kitchen, the store-room, or the pantry,
without an invitation from the mistress, ei-
ther expressed or implied.
Should there be wanting in the husband's
relatives this peculiar kind of delicacy of feel-
ing, it will be necessary to devise some plan
calculated not to offend, by which they may
be made to understand that you do not wish
them, in your own house, entirely to share all
things in common; for let the degree of kind-
ness on both sides be what it may, your edu-
cation and theirs will in all probability have
been so different, that circumstances must
necessarily arise, calculated to draw forth re-
marks which cannot always be acceptable;
and it is therefore your wisest plan, to draw
the line of demarcation on the side of safety.
It is sometimes supposed that the main-
tenance of personal dignity is incompatible
with this exercise of respect towards others.
But on no subject do young people make
greater mistakes, than on that of dignity.
True dignity must always be founded upon
a right understanding of our own position in
society; for the presumption which would
assume what properly belongs to another,
and what in no way appertains to the indi-
vidual who makes this lamentable mistake,
is as far removed from dignity, as from right
feeling and common sense. As a wife, then,
a woman may be always dignified, though,
simply as a woman, she may at the same
time be humble, and as a Christian self-
abased. As a wife-as the chosen companion
of an honorable and upright man, it is her
duty so to regulate her whole conduct, that
she shall neither offend others, nor bring of-plaint, and you will enjoy the satisfaction of
fence upon herself; and this is never more
effectually done, than by standing aloof from
family disputes, and taking no part either in
the partialities or the prejudices of those
with whom she is associated.
It is perfectly consistent with personal dig-
nity, that a wife should in all respects be the
mistress of her own house. If, therefore, the
husband's relations have been accustomed to
Nor is it necessary that in thus asserting
your rights, suspicion should be awakened
of any want of kindly feeling. To obviate all
chance of this, it would be wise to take ad-
vantage of the advice of your husband's rela-
tives in all cases where they are willing to
give, and where you are prepared to adopt
it; and, at the same time, to be careful that
an excess of kindness should accompany
that uncompromising defence of your own
dignity, which every woman has a right to
make. No room will then be left for com-
showing your husband how highly you es-
teem his relatives, and how much you are
prepared to serve and to oblige them for his
sake.
It is a painful fact, and one of vulgar noto-
riety, that all eyes are fixed upon a bride,
some to see how she is dressed, others to ob-
serve how she behaves, and not a few to as-
certain, as far as they are able, whether she
3
18
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
has come from a respectable home, or, in
other words, whether she has raised herself
in worldly circumstances by the connection
she has made. This exercise of idle and
impertinent curiosity might appear a little too
contemptible to be met with any kind of con-
sideration, were it not the interest of a mar-
ried woman to impress her new relations
with an idea of her previous importance, and
her unquestionable claims to respect. Even
servants are much influenced by this impres-
sion, and it was, therefore, a prudent plan
adopted by our grandmothers, and still kept
up in some parts of England, for the bride to
go well appointed to her husband's home,
well supplied with a store of good household
linen, and with abundance of such clothes as
are not likely to become useless by being un-
fashionable. These things are accustomed
to be discussed among servants and depend-
ants. From one little circle of kitchen or
laundry gossip, they extend to another; and
well if they do not find their way through
the same channel to the parlor fireside; well,
if the humiliating remark is never made
there, that the bride left every thing of im-
portance to be purchased with her husband's
money.
Although it may seem rather an ungra-
cious sort of warning, thus to prepare the
young bride for a kind of critical inspection |
scarcely consistent with kind and generous
feeling, it is nevertheless necessary in such a
world as ours, to calculate upon much which
the external aspect of society would scarcely
lead us to expect. Yet we must not for this
reason forget the many instances in which the
most sincere and cordial kindness is called
forth on the part of the husband's relatives,
when they welcome to her new home one
who is literally received into the bosom of
their family, and cherished as a lamb of their
own fold.
both sides. In both these cases, the bride
has much to console and to support her in
the duties she has undertaken; and a young
heart can scarcely fail to feel impressed with
gratitude for this voluntary offering of a new
and lasting home, with all its kindred as-
sociations of parents, brothers, sisters, and
friends.
If, on the one hand, it is not only lawful
but expedient to endeavor to maintain that
dignity which properly belongs to a married
woman; on the other, it is necessary to act
with the most scrupulous regard to that mi-
nute and delicate line, beyond which dignity
degenerates into a mere assumption of im-
portance. It is unquestionably an honorable
distinction to be the chosen companion of an
enlightened and good man; but we must not
forget, that nature never yet formed any wo-
man too destitute of attractions, or sent her
forth into the world too meanly endowed, for
her to be chosen as a wife. The dignity de-
rived from marriage can, therefore, only be
a reflected one; and has nothing whatever
to do with the merits or the capabilities of
the married woman.
I once heard a newly married lady com-
plaining in company with great vehemence
of something which had been said to her by
a single sister, and concluding many of her
sentences with this remark-" All that Miss
B- said was, I dare say, sensible enough;
but I, you know, am married"—as if that
alone had been sufficient to give weight to
the scale in which good sense, and almost
every other good quality, appeared to be
wanting.
In no part of the conduct of the bride will
keen eyes be more scrutinizing than here.
The husband's relatives especially will be
ready to detect the least assumption of supe-
riority to themselves. If, therefore, there has
been any difference of rank or station in fa-
vor of the bride, she will act most wisely as
regards herself, and most generously as re-
In the majority of cases, too, it happens
that the bride is no stranger, that her family
and her husband's have been in habits of in-gards her husband, by keeping every sign or
timacy, and that the admission of this new
link is but the strengthening of that intimacy
into more enduring and affectionate union on
evidence of her having filled a more exalted
station entirely out of sight.
All her eccentricities, too, must share the

THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
19
her part so many feelings of kindness and
good-will, that she becomes more than usu-
ally anxious to manifest her benevolence,
even towards persons, who, under less favor-
able circumstances, would have excited no
same fate, at least, until her new relations
shall have learned to love her well enough to
tolerate them for her sake. At first there
will be no such charitable feeling extended
towards those peculiarities of character with
which they cannot sympathize, perhaps bc-interest whatever.
cause they cannot understand them. She
must now be judged of by a new rule. Sin-
gularities of manner, scarcely perceived at
home, or kindly borne with as a necessary
part of individuality, will now appear not
only glaring, but inconsistent and absurd.
Faults of temper, too long, and perhaps too
leniently indulged, will now be met with op-
position, and have the necessity of their ex-
istence called in question; while all those
little playful sallies of local wit or humor,
which were wont to fill up the blanks of
social life, may possibly be heard without a
smile, or wondered at as unmeaning, and in
bad taste.
It is unquestionably the best policy then for
a bride to be in all things the opposite of ec
centric. Her character, if she have any,
will develop itself in time; and nothing can
be gained, though much may be lost, by ex-
hibiting its peculiarities before they are likely
to be candidly judged or rightly understood.
In being unobtrusive, quiet, impartially polite
to all, and willing to bend to circumstances,
consists the great virtue of a bride; and
though to sink, even for a short time, into an
apparent nonentity, may be a little humbling
to one who has occupied a distinguished place
amongst her former friends, the prudent wo-
man will be abundantly repaid, by being thus
enabled to make her own observations upon
the society and the circumstances around
her, to see what pleasant paths she may with
safety pursue, or what opportunities are likely
to open for a fuller development of her pow-
ers, either natural or acquired.
With regard to the duties of charity, and
indeed of kindness in general, the cordial re-
ception a bride usually meets with, the inter-
est she has so recently excited, and the fa-
vorable aspect worn by every thing around
her, naturally inspire in her mind so much
that is agreeable in return, and awaken on
Those who make it their business to check
such feelings, have a hard and ungrateful
duty to perform; and yet, where the founda-
tion of such acts of benevolence as are thus
performed, is feeling only, the danger is, that
a system of behavior will be rashly adopted,
which the emotions of after life will not be
sufficiently powerful consistently to maintain;
and the consequences of such falling off will
necessarily be, that the sorrowful or the indi-
gent will have to endure a degree of disap-
pointment or neglect, for which they were
but little prepared.
There can be neither injustice nor unkind-
ness in not listening, in the first instance, to
claims which you are not able to satisfy ; but
there is cruelty-absolute cruelty, in with-
drawing your attention and interest from per-
sons who have learned to look to you for
sympathy and cordial feeling, and in refusing
your assistance to those who have learned to
look to you for support. As each person
can only satisfy a certain number of claims,
it follows as a necessary consequence, that
by engaging at once in too many, some, or
perhaps all, must in the end be suffered to
fall into neglect.
The first year of married life may justly be
regarded as not likely to present one half of
the claims upon individual or household char-
ity which will follow in the second and the
third; would it not, therefore, be wise to lay
by against a future day, a little fund or store
for this purpose? and by always keeping
something in hand to be appropriated to-
charitable uses alone, there can be no sur-
prise when the payment of a bill is due, to
find that part of the amount has already been
given to relieve a family in distress, and that
the payment of the whole must therefore be
deferred. All such miscalculations, and falling
short of funds as these, cannot be too scru-
pulously guarded against; for not only is
20
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
A
their influence bad, as they operate against
the prompt discharge of pecuniary debts, but
their tendency is equally to be feared, as they
often warp the mind from its benevolent and
kindly purposes, by a frequent repetition of
regret that sums have been thoughtlessly ex-
pended in charity, which ought to have been
otherwise employed.
And here I would observe, that the less
we are induced by circumstances to grudge
our past charities, or regret our past kind-
ness, the better it is for our own hearts, and
for the general tone and temper of our minds.
Indeed, where acts of charity are performed
with right motives, not for the applause of
men, or even for the satisfaction of having
done a good deed, or brought about a good
end; but simply from a love to God, and in
obedience to his commands, there can be no
such thing as looking back with regret to the
act itself, whatever its consequences may be.
He who has commanded us to visit the fa-
therless and the widow in their affliction, has
not given us more than human penetration to
judge of the exact amount of their necessi-
ties, or their deserts. If, therefore, we have
erred, it has only been in the proportion, or
the application, of our bestowments. The
act of giving remains as much a duty as
ever, and to her who has learned to look
upon the good things of this life as only lent
to her for a brief season of trial, this sacred
duty will be found connected with the highest
enjoyments of which, in our present state of
existence, we are capable.
But in order to enjoy the luxury of giving
with the greatest zest, it is highly important
that we attend to the strict rules of economy.
I have already written much, and would that
others would write more, and better, on this
subject; for until we can separate in the
minds of young women their favorite idea
of lavish expenditure, from that of generos-
ity, there is little good to be expected from
the Wives of England, and little happiness
to be looked for in their far-famed homes.
Would that philanthropists of every descrip-
tion then, would give their attention to this
subject in detail, and lay it before the public
in a manner that would render it intelligible
to the female part of the community; while,
communicated through them, it would find
its way to every house and every cottage
in our land—not that economy which would
lead to a useless hoarding up of money, but to
the glorious object of effecting the greatest pos-
sible amount of good with the smallest means.
Until this most refined and delicate art is
made systematically a part of female educa-
tion, we must look to that stern teacher expe-
rience, to show us, late in life, what might have
been accomplished by a combination of econo-
my with kindness, had we but begun the study
of this delightful art in time. We must look
to the items that have been absolutely wasted,
in almost every thing we have had to do, for
want of being acquainted with a better mode
of doing it; and, adding these together, we
must look to the helpless and the destitute,
and see what an amount of suffering might
have been relieved by our economy, if through
a long lifetime we had turned every thing com-
mitted to our care, or granted for our use, to
the best possible account. But we must look
beyond this. Yes, we must look with blush-
ing and confusion of face to that want of
moral rectitude which rendered us worse
than ignorant of the mischief we were doing
to that culpable and degrading apathy—that
recklessness of all responsibility with which we
conducted our domestic and personal affairs,
regardless of each item wasted, until the whole
became a mighty and fearful mass of evidence
against us, perpetually reminding us, through
the medium of our penurious charities, our
scanty means, and our apprehensions of the
fearful reckoning of each coming day-re-
minding us by these humiliating remembran-
cers of what we have lost beyond all possi-
bility of recovery.
I am not, however, one of those who would
recommend the sacrifice either of comfort or
respectability for the sake of economy. A
certain air of comfort, a certain degree of re-
spectability, regulated by the sphere in which
the parties move, should never be lost sight
of by the mistress of a house. More espe-
cially, there should be no meanness behind
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
21
the scenes, to support an unwarrantable dis-
play in public. There is a moral degradation
in such meanness wherever it exists; and
those persons who have habitually to hide
themselves, or to conceal their dinner-table,
when a guest approaches, must be living
either above or below the line which strict
integrity would point out to be observed-
they must either be making a figure at other
times, and in other places, which they are
not able consistently to support; or they must
be dressing and living beneath that standard
of respectability which properly belongs to
their character and station.
whole world is striving about at this very
hour. It is what so many heads are calcu-
lating upon, what so many hands are work-
ing out, and what so many hearts are beat-
ing for. Whether we look at the wear-and-
tear of mental and animal life in our great
cites, our ships upon the ocean, our laborers
on the land, our congregated thousands pent
up in heated rooms, and our miners digging
in the bowels of the earth; or whether we
turn the page of man's history, and looking
at the inner movements of this great prin-
ciple, behold him in his moments of unrest,
note down the fluttering of his ambitious
hopes, the agony of his suspense, his disap-
of one great cause, and that the strongest
and most universal which prevails in highly
civilized communities-a desire to keep ad-
vancing in the scale of society, and a dread
of falling back from the position already held.
In order to proportion all these matters
fairly, the bride must be content to wait un-pointment or his triumph, it is all the effect
til time and experience shall have brought to
light her true position, and her actual means.
The first year of married life will probably
be less expensive than the second, and the
second less so than the third. Her house-
hold furniture, and her own clothing, being
good and new, there can be little wanted for
repairs; and, therefore, in her domestic ex-
penditure, as well as in her charities, this
year will afford no true criterion of the claims
she must afterwards expect.
Let us then at least talk common sense;
and in doing this, I would advise the newly
married woman to look at things in general
as they really are, not as they might be. She
will then see, that nothing is more difficult to
human nature, than to come down even one
It is, perhaps, owing to this fallacious ap-step from any height it has attained, whether
pearance in their domestic affairs, that so
many inexperienced persons are led on to
purchase first one article of luxury or indul-
gence, and then another, even after their bet-
ter judgment had dictated that such things
should be done without; and thus, because
they did not find housekeeping at first so ex-
pensive as they had anticipated, they have
launched out into extravagance which they
have had bitterly to regret. Such persons are
apt to say, "there can be no loss in furniture,
each article will always sell for its full value-
there can be no waste in silver, because it
is easily got rid of for the price of its own
weight." But what absurdity is this! As
if, after having made a certain figure before
the world, and in society, it was as easy to
retreat and sink into a lower grade, as it is
to sell a sofa, or a silver fork. Why, this
very act of assuming a certain position, and
this very dread of falling back, is what the
imaginary or real. If, therefore, the ap-
pearance a young couple make on their first
outset in life be ever so little beyond their
means, so far from their being willing to re-
duce their appearance or style of living to a
lower scale, they will ever afterwards be per-
plexed by devices, and harassed by endeav-
ors, to maintain in all respects the appear-
ance they have so imprudently assumed.
This perpetual straitness and inadequacy of
means to effect the end desired, is of itself
sufficient to poison the fountain of domestic
concord at its source. It is bad enough to have
innumerable wants created in our own minds
which our utmost efforts are unequal to satis-
fy; but it is worse, as many thousands can
attest, in addition to this, for the husband
and the wife to be perpetually disputing at
their own fireside, about what expenses can
be done without, and what cannot. Yet all
these consequences follow, and worse, and

22
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
1
more calamitous than tongue or pen can de-
scribe, from the simple fact of having begun
a new establishment on too expensive a scale.
It may seem like a fanciful indulgence of
morbid feeling, but I own my attention has
often been arrested in the streets of London,
by a spectacle which few ladies would stop to
contemplate-a pawnbroker's shop. And I
have imagined I could there trace the grad-
ual fall from these high beginnings, in the
new hearth-rug scarcely worn, the gaudy
carpet with its roses scarcely soiled, the
flowery tea-tray, and, worst of all, the bride's
white veil. What a breaking-up, I have
thought, must there have been of some lit-
tle establishment, before the dust of a single
twelvemonth had fallen on its hearth!-
these articles perhaps disposed of to defray
the expenses of illness, or to satisfy the very
creditors of whom they were obtained on
trust.
Now, though I imagine myself to be ad-
dressing a class of persons far removed from
all liabilities of this kind, yet, proportioned to
their higher respectability, is their greater
influence; and just so far as that influence is
on the side of prudence and economy, will
their example operate beneficially upon the
classes beneath them.
behind the scenes a disgraceful system of ex-
tracting from comfort what extravagance de-
mands, nor of exhibiting at first a transient
display of luxury or pomp, to be repented of
for the remainder of life.
All this, however, requires some self-denial,
much principle, and much love. It requires
self-denial, because while almost all the
world is progressing at this rate, to assume a
plainer and more simple mode of living
necessarily brings with it a suspicion of
being unable to live differently. It requires
principle, because temptations present them-
selves on every hand to purchase what we
wish for at less than its apparent value; and
it requires love, because with true and deep
affection, the wife is so bound up in the inte-
rests of her husband, that all things become
light in comparison with his temporal and
eternal good. Love, therefore, is admirably
calculated to lessen all privations arising
from a conscientious adherence to strict integ-
rity on these points.
Nothing shows more plainly the mistake
under which people in general labor, with
regard to the degree of mental and moral
capability requisite in a really good wife, than
the common expression used to describe a
merely well-disposed and ignorant female,
when it is said of her, that she is “ "a good
sort of body, and will make an excellent
wife." The generality of men, and even
some of the most intelligent amongst them,
appear peculiarly disposed to make the expe-
riment of marrying such women, as if the
very fact of their deficiency in moral disci-
It seems to be the nature of evil universal-
ly to diffuse itself, by rendering one wrong
action almost necessary to another. Thus no
human being can say, "I will commit this
particular sin, and go no further." Most
especially is this the case with every kind
of deception, just as one wilful deviation
from truth draws after it a long train of false-pline, and intellectual power, was of itself a
hood. Every deviation from the line of in-
tegrity, is followed by the same inevitable
consequences, and thus where persons have
made up their minds to exhibit before the
world a style of dress, or a mode of living,
beyond what their circumstances are able
consistently to support, an endless train of
meanness, artifice, and practical falsehood, is
almost sure to follow. How much better is
it then, to begin the world with an honest
heart and a clear conscience, as regards
these points of duty, and neither to carry on
recommendation rather than otherwise, in
the mistress of a family; and until women
shall really find themselves neglected by the
loftier sex, and actually consigned to oblivion,
because they are indolent, selfish, or silly, it
is to be feared that books may be multiplied
on this subject, and even sermons preached,
with little or no effect.
Still there is surely something in the deep
heart of woman capable of a nobler ambition
than that of merely securing as a husband
the man she most admires. To make that
THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.
23
the benefit of all with whom she is asso-
ciated.
husband happy, to raise his character, to
give dignity to his house, and to train up
his children in the path of wisdom-these
are the objects which a true wife will not
rest satisfied without endeavoring to attain.
And how is all this to be done without re-
flection, system, and self-government? Sim-
ply to mean well, may be the mere impulse
of a child or an idiot; but to know how to
act well, so as that each successive kind im-
pulse shall be made to tell upon the welfare
and the happiness of others, is the highest
lesson which the school of moral disciplinerect, in their relative exercise, to raise the
can teach.
Nor is it only by the exercise of a high or-
der of talent that this branch of wisdom can
be attained. It is by using such talent as we
have, by beginning early to observe and to
think, to lay down rules for self-discipline,
and to act upon them, so that in after years
they shall have become too familiar and habi-
tual to require an effort to maintain. Thus
it is unquestionably better that the great
work of mental discipline should be com-
menced after marriage, than not at all; but
the woman who delays this work until that
time, is not much wiser than the man who
should have to learn to walk after he had en-
gaged to run a race.
"But of what use," some may be inclined
to ask, "is her learning and her knowledge,
now that the actual work of the hand has
become a duty of such important considera-
tion?" I answer, that the early attainment
of learning and knowledge will be found of
more than tenfold importance now; because,
in the first place, there will be no longer time
for their acquisition; and in the next, they
will be wanted every day, if not in their di-
tone of social intercourse around the domes-
tic hearth.
Music, painting, and poetry, taste, tact, and
observation, may all be made conducive to
the same desirable end; for if by the mar-
riage vow, you hoped to unite yourself to an
immortal mind—and I cannot believe of my
country women that more grovelling thoughts
would be theirs at that solemn hour-you
must desire to sustain and cherish such a
mind, in all its highest aspirations, and in all
its noblest aims. In fact, I know not what
love is, if it seeks not the moral and intellec-
tual perfection of its object-if it is not willing,
in order to promote this glorious purpose―
"To watch all time, and pry into all space;"
so that no opportunity may be lost, and no
means neglected, of raising the tone of a hus-
man is capable of attaining. It is true, that
to comfort and sustain the body is a duty
which ought never to be neglected; but the
woman who can rest satisfied with this, knows
little of the holy and elevating principal of
real love-of that love which alone can jus-
tify any one in taking upon herself the sacred
responsibilities of a wife.
Already, even in the first year of married
life, all the previously formed habits a woman
has indulged, begin to tell upon a larger
scale than they could have done in her sin-band's character to the highest scale which
gle state. The art of economizing time may
now be made to yield a mine of wealth, be-
yond what riches alone could ever have be-
stowed; and of this most precious treasure,
neither change of fortune, nor place, nor cir-
cumstance, will be able to deprive her. If
that cleverness which I have attempted to
describe in a previous work* has been ac-
quired and practised in her early years, it
will now have become like a part of her na-
ture-an additional faculty, which is really
nothing less than the power of turning every
thing to the best account; and this power
she will now be able to exercise at will, for
* The Daughters of England.
Influenced by this love, the woman of right
feeling will perceive, though but recently mar-
ried, that her position is one of relative import-~
ance; that however insignificant each sepa-
rate act of her life might have been when she
dwelt alone, or as an inferior member of a
family, she has now become the centre of a
circle of influence, which will widen and ex-
24
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
tend itself to other circles, until it mixes with
the great ocean of eternity. Thus, it is not
only what she says and does, but also what
she leaves unsaid and undone, which will
give a coloring to futurity, so far as the in-
fluence of a wife extends; for to have neg-
lected acts of duty, or opportunities of advice
and encouragement, is in reality to incur the
risk of consequences as calamitous as those
which follow having spoken unwisely, or
acted from improper motives.
might otherwise be surprised to find in a hus-
band.
band. If, in pursuance of this task, what I
am compelled to say, should appear in any
way disparaging to the dignity of men in
general, my apology must be this-that it is
the very peculiarities I am about to point out,
which constitute the chief difficulties a mar-
ried woman has to contend with, and which,
therefore, claim the sympathy of such as are
anxious to assist her in the right performance
of her duties as a wife.
It is a serious and alarming thought, but Were all men excellent, without inconsis-
one which ought to be ever present with the tencies, and without defects, there would be
young wife, that no servant can leave her no need for words of caution or advice ad-
establishment without being either better or
dressed to the weaker sex, but especially to
worse for her experience there; that no party wives, for each would have perpetually be-
can meet beneath her roof without receiving fore her, a perfect model of true excellence,
some good or evil bias from the general tone from which she would be ashamed to differ,
of her conversation and manners; and above and by which she would be taught at once
all, that the rules she lays down for the regu-
to admire and imitate whatever is most wor-
lation of her household, the principles of jus- thy of esteem. With gratitude we ought to
tice and integrity, of benevolence, temperance, acknowledge our belief, that morally and spir-
order, and Christian charity, which are there itually there is perfect equality between men
acted upon, will diffuse themselves through and women; yet, in the character of a noble,
the different members of her household, and, enlightened, and truly good man, there is a
flowing thus through various channels, will power and a sublimity, so nearly approach-
become the foundation of peace and comforting what we believe to be the nature and ca-
in other families, they in their turn dissemi-pacity of angels, that as no feeling can ex-
nating the same principles to the end of time.
What a sublime - what an elevating
thought! May it fill the happy bosom of
every English bride, and may the closing re-
solution of the first year of her married life
be this "Let others do as they will, but as
for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."
CHAPTER III.
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN.
ceed, so no language can describe, the degree
of admiration and respect which the contem-
plation of such a character must excite. To
be permitted to dwell within the influence of
such a man, must be a privilege of the high-
est order; to listen to his conversation, must
be a perpetual feast; but to be permitted into
his heart to share his counsels, and to be
the chosen companion of his joys and sor-
rows!-it is difficult to say whether humility
or gratitude should preponderate in the feel-
ings of the woman thus distinguished and
thus blest.
If all men were of this description, these
IN approaching this part of my subject, I pages might be given to the winds. We
cannot but feel that it is one which I have must suppose, however, for the sake of
neither the understanding nor the skill to meeting every case, and especially the most
treat with ample justice. All I will venture difficult, that there are men occasionally
upon, therefore, is to point out a few of those found who are not, strictly speaking, noble,
peculiarities, which women who have been nor highly enlightened, nor altogether good.
but little accustomed to the society of men, | That such men are as much disposed as
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN.
25
their superiors to enter into the married
state, is also a fact of public notoriety, and
it is to the women who venture upon uniting
themselves to such men for life, that I would
be understood chiefly to address myself.
men.
In order to render the subject more clear,
I will in the first place draw an imaginary
line between reasonable, and unreasonable,
A reasonable man is one who will
give a candid hearing to arguments against
his own preconceived opinions, and who, |
when he believes himself to have good cause
for acting or thinking as he does, is yet will-
ing to be shown a better cause for acting or
thinking differently. The mind of a reason-
able man is, therefore, open to conviction,
impartial, and comprehensive; and all these
qualities, from the very nature of his consti-
tution, he possesses in a higher degree than
they can be possessed by woman. An un-
reasonable man is one who will think and act
in a particular manner, simply because he
will. If he knows any better reason why he
so thinks and acts, he deems it unnecessary
to disclose it, because to him this is all-suffi-
cient; and as it is one which no argument
can refute, and no opposition overcome, the
woman who has to accommodate her habits
to his, had need commence the preparation
for her married life, by a study of patience
from the book of Job.
for discovering faults in men, as they are for
beholding spots in the sun, or clouds in the
summer sky. Nor is it consistent with the
disinterested nature of women's purest, deep-
est affection, that they should love them less,
because they cannot admire them more.
Much allowance should be made in all such
calculations, for the peculiar mode of educa-
tion by which men are trained for the world.
From their early childhood, girls are accus-
tomed to fill an inferior place, to give up, to
fall back, and to be as nothing in comparison
with their brothers; while boys, on the other
hand, have to suffer all the disadvantages in
after life, of having had their precocious self-
ishness encouraged, from the time when they
first began to feel the dignity of superior
power, and the triumph of occupying a su-
perior place.
Men who have been thus educated by fool-
ish and indulgent mothers; who have been
placed at public schools, where the influence,
the character, and the very name of woman
was a by-word for contempt; who have been
afterwards associated with sisters who were
capricious, ignorant, and vain-such men
are very unjustly blamed for being selfish,
domineering, and tyrannical to the other sex.
In fact, how should they be otherwise? It
is a common thing to complain of the selfish-
ness of men, but I have often thought, on
flecting how little cultivation of the heart is
blended with what is popularly called the
best education, the wonder should be that
men are not more selfish still.
With all these allowances, then, we may
grant them to be selfish, and pity, rather than
blame them that they are so; for no happy
being ever yet was found, whose hopes and
wishes centred in its own bosom.
If, as I have stated, the example and influ-looking candidly at their early lives, and re-
ence of a truly excellent man, are such as to
render the very atmosphere in which he lives
one of perpetual improvement and delight;
on the other hand, there is nothing more dis-
couraging to a woman, than to find defects
in the character she has associated herself
with for life, having believed it to be thus ex-
cellent. Indeed, the peculiarities of the wise,
and the inconsistencies of the good, among
the nobler sex, have a peculiarly startling ef
fect upon women in general, and often prove
the means of retarding their improvement,
by awakening the childish and petulant
thought, that if such are the best, there can
be little use in striving after excellence at
all.
The young and inexperienced woman, who
has but recently been made the subject of
man's attentions, and the object of his choice,
will probably be disposed to dispute this
point with me, and to argue that one man at
least is free from selfishness; because she
sees, or rather hears her lover willing to give
All women should, therefore, be prepared up every thing for her. But let no woman

26
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
trust to such obsequiousness, for generally
speaking, those who are the most extrava-
gant in their professions, and the most servile
in their adulation before marriage, are the
most unreasonable and requiring afterwards.
Let her settle it then in her own mind, what-
ever aspect her affairs may assume at pres-
ent, that men in general are more apt than
women, to act and think as if they were
created to exist of, and by, themselves; and
this self-sustained existence a wife can only
share, in proportion as she is identified in
every thing with her husband. Men have
no idea, generally speaking, of having them-
selves and their affairs made subservient to
an end, even though it may be a good one.
They are, in fact, their own alpha and omega
-beginning and end. But all this, I repeat,
is the consequence of a want of that moral
training which ought ever to be made the
prominent part of education.
Beyond this, however, it may be said to be
a necessary part of man's nature, and condu-
cive to his support in the position he has to
maintain, that he should, in a greater degree
than woman, be sufficient unto himself. The
nature of his occupations, and the character
of his peculiar duties, require this. The con-
tending interests of the community at large,
the strife of public affairs, and the compe-
tition of business, with the paramount im-
portance of establishing himself as the master
of a family, and the head of a household, all
require a degree of concentrated effort in fa-
vor of self, and a powerful repulsion against
others, which woman, happily for her, is sel-
dom or never called upon to maintain.
The same degree of difference in the edu-
cation of men and women, leads, on the one
hand, to a more expansive range of intellect
and thought; and on the other, to the exer-
cise of the same faculties upon what is par-
ticular and minute. Men consequently are
accustomed to generalize. They look with
far-stretching views to the general bearing
of every question submitted to their considera-
tion. Even when planning for the good of
their fellow-creatures, it is on a large scale,
and most frequently upon the principle of the
|
greatest good to the greatest number. By
following out this system, injustice is often
unconsciously done to individuals, and even
a species of cruelty exercised, which it should
be woman's peculiar object to study to avert;
but at the same time, to effect her purpose
in such a way, as neither to thwart nor in-
terfere with the greater and more important
good.
We see here, as in a thousand other in-
stances, the beautiful adaptation of the natu-
ral constitution of the two sexes, so as to
effect a greater amount of good by their joint
efforts, than either could effect alone. Were
an island peopled only by men, the strictness
of its judicial regulations, and the cold form-
ality of its public institutions, would render it
an ungenial soil for the growth of those finer
feelings, and those subtler impulses of nature,
which not only beautify the whole aspect of
human life, but are often proved to have
been blossoms of the richest fruit, and seeds
of the most abundant harvest. And were a
neighboring island peopled by women only,
the discord of Babel, or the heated elements
of a volcano, could scarcely equal the con-
fusion, the ebullition, and the universal tu-
mult, that would follow the partial attention
given to every separate complaint, the ready
credence accorded to every separate story,
and the prompt and unhesitating application
of means, to effect at all times the most in-
compatible ends.
Those who argue for the perfect equality—
the oneness of women in their intellectual
nature with men, appear to know little of
that higher philosophy, by which both, from
the very distinctness of their characters, have
been made subservient to the purposes of
wisdom and of goodness; and after having
observed with deep thought, and profound
reverence, the operation of mind on mind,
the powerful and instinctive sympathies
which rule our very being, and the asso-
ciated influence of different natures, all
working together, yet too separate and dis-
tinct to create confusion; to those who have
thus regarded the perfect adjustment of the
plans of an all-wise Providence, I own it
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN.
27
does appear an ignorant and vulgar contest,
to strive to establish the equality of that,
which would lose not only its utility, but its
perfection, by being assimilated with a dif-
ferent nature.
From the same constitution of mind which
leads men to generalize, and to look at every
thing they contemplate on an extensive scale,
they are seldom good economists. Even the
most penurious, the very misers of whom we
read such extraordinary accounts, appear to
have had a very mistaken idea of the best
means of ensuring the great object of their
lives. Thus, while most anxious to avoid
the least unnecessary expense, some men
greatly increase the waste and the outlay of
money in their household arrangements, by
not allowing a sufficient number of imple-
ments, utensils, or other conveniences, and
means, for the purpose of facilitating domes-
tic operations, by making each individual
thing supply the place for which it is most
suitable, and best calculated to secure against
absolute waste.
The master of a family is quite capable of
perceiving that money for domestic purposes
is often in demand; and that through some
channel or other, it escapes very rapidly; but
he is altogether incompetent-and would
that all men would believe it!—to judge of
the necessity there is for each particular sum,
or how the whole in the end must unavoida-
bly be increased, by making every article of
household use answer as many purposes as it
is capable of, without regard to fitness, dura-
bility, or strength.
But if, on the one hand, our first wish for
the increased happiness of the homes of
England would be, that men should let these
things alone; our next, and perhaps it ought
to stand first, and be still more earnest than
the other, is this, that all women should be
so educated, and so prepared by the right
disposition of their own minds, as to afford
their husbands just grounds for perfect con-
fidence in their understanding and right prin-
ciple, with regard to these important affairs.
For in the first place, without understanding,
no woman can economize; and in the next,
without being supremely anxious for the ful-
filment of domestic duty, no woman will.
Thus, in addition to other causes of anxiety,
sufficiently abounding in the present day,
throughout every department of business,
hundreds and thousands of men in the re-
spectable walks of life, have to suffer from
daily and almost hourly apprehension, that a
system of neglect and extravagance in their
own houses, is wasting away the slender
profits of their labor and their care. On the
score of simple kindness, then, one would
suppose that a right-minded woman would
wish to spare her husband these distressing
thoughts; while, on the score of domestic
comfort, ease, and independence, it is impos-
sible to calculate the vast amount to which
she would herself be the gainer, by convin-
cing her husband that she was not only able,
but determined, to manage his household ex-
penditure with the least possible waste.
With all this, however, and often in con-
nection with the most rigid notions of econ-
omy, men are fond of personal indulgences;
nor ought they ever to be absolutely denied
so reasonable a means of restoring their ex-
hausted energy and cheerfulness, more espe-
cially, because those who are connected in
any way with business, or who have to provide
by their own efforts for the maintenance of
their families, are generally so circumstanced
through the greater portion of each day, as
to be as far removed as possible from all op-
portunity of personal enjoyment.
It would, indeed, be a hard thing to refuse
to the husband who returns home from his
desk, his counter, or his fields, the best seat,
or the choicest food, with any other indul-
gence his circumstances may afford. Here,
however, in certain families, exists a great
difficulty; for some men, and I need not say
they are of the unreasonable class, are deter-
mined to have the indulgences, and yet are
unwilling to incur the expense. From their
habit of disregarding things in detail, and
looking upon them only as a whole; they
are utterly unconscious of the importance of
every little addition in the shape of luxury to
the general sum; and thus the wife is placed
28
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
in the painful dilemma, either of denying her
husband the gratification of his tastes and
wishes, or of bearing all the blame of con-
ducting her household expenses on too ex-
travagant a scale.
There are few situations in the long cata-
logue of female perplexities more harassing
than this; for it must ever be borne in mind,
that men have a tendency to dislike the im-
mediate instrument of their suffering or priva-
tion. And this again brings us to observe
another of their peculiarities, so important
in its influence upon the whole of mar-
ried life, that if a woman should venture to
judge of man's love by her own, she would
probably commit one of the most fatal mis-
takes by which human happiness was ever
wrecked.
The love of woman appears to have been
created solely to minister; that of man, to be
ministered unto. It is true, his avocations
lead him daily to some labor, or some effort
for the maintenance of his family; and he
often conscientiously believes that this labor is
for his wife. But the probability is, that he
would be just as attentive to his business, and
as eager about making money, had he no wife
at all-witness the number of single men
who provide with as great care, and as plen-
tifully, according to their wants, for the main-
tenance of a house without either wife or
child.
As it is the natural characteristic of wo-
man's love in its most refined, as well as its
most practical development, to be perpetual-
ly doing something for the good or the happi-
ness of the object of her affection, it is but
reasonable that man's personal comfort should
be studiously attended to; and in this, the
complacence and satisfaction which most men
evince on finding themselves placed at table
before a favorite dish, situated beside a clean
hearth, or accommodated with an empty sofa,
is of itself a sufficient reward for any sacrifice
such indulgence may have cost. In proofs
of affection like these, there is something tan-
gible which speaks home to the senses-some-
thing which man can understand without an
effort; and he will sit down to eat, or com-
pose himself to rest, with more hearty good-
will towards the wife who has been thought-
ful about these things, than if she had been
all day busily employed in writing a treatise
on morals for his especial benefit.
Again, man's dignity, as well as his com-
fort, must be ministered unto. I propose to
treat this subject more fully in another chap-
ter, but in speaking of man's peculiarities it
must never be forgotten that he ought not to
be required to bear the least infringement up-
on his dignity as a man, and a husband. The
woman who has the bad taste, and worse
feeling, to venture upon this experiment, ef-
fectually lowers herself; for in proportion as
her husband sinks, she must sink with him,
and ever, as wife, be lower still. Many, how-
ever, from ignorance, and with the very best
intentions, err in this way, and I am inclined
to think such persons suffer more from the
consequences of their folly, than others do
from their wilful deviation from what is right;
just as self-love is more wounded by an in-
nocent, than by an intentional humiliation;
because the latter shows us how little we are
really esteemed, while the former invests us
with a certain degree of importance, as being
worthy of a premeditated insult.
It is unquestionably the inalienable right of
all men, whether ill or well, rich or poor, wise
or foolish, to be treated with deference, and
made much of in their own houses. It is
true that in the last mentioned case, this duty
may be attended with some difficulty in the
performance; but as no man becomes a fool,
or loses his senses by marriage, the woman
who has selected such a companion must
abide by the consequences; and even he,
whatever may be his degree of folly, is enti-
tled to respect from her, because she has vol-
untarily placed herself in such a position that
she must necessarily be his inferior.
I have said, that whether well or ill, a hus-
band is entitled to respect; and it is perhaps
when ill, more than at any other time, that
men are impressed with a sense of their own
importance. It is, therefore, an act of kind-
ness, as well as of justice, and a concession
easily made, to endeavor to keep up this idea,
CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN.
29
by all those little acts of delicate attention
which at once do good to the body, and sus-
tain the mind. Illness is to men a sufficient
trial and humiliation of itself, as it deprives
them of their free agency, cuts them off from
their accustomed manly avocations, and
shuts them up to a kind of imprisonment,
which from their previous habits they are lit-
tle calculated to bear. A sensible and kind-
hearted woman, therefore, will never inflict
upon the man she loves, when thus circum-
stanced, the additional punishment of feeling
that it is possible for him to be forgotten or
neglected.
But chiefly in poverty, or when laboring
under depressed circumstances, it is the part
of a true wife to exhibit by the most delicate,
but most profound respect, how highly she
is capable of valuing her husband, indepen-
dently of all those adventitious circumstances,
according to which he has been valued by
the world. It is here that the dignity of man
is most apt to give way-here that his stout
heart fails him-and here then it must be
woman's part to build him up. Not, as many
are too apt to suppose, merely to comfort him
by her endearments, but actually to raise him
in his own esteem, to restore to him his esti-
mate of his moral worth, and to convince him
that it is beyond the power of circumstances
to degrade an upright and an honest man.
And, alas! how much of this is needed in
the present day! Could the gay and thought-
less Daughters of England know for what
situations they are training-could they
know how often it will become their duty to
assume the character of the strong, in order
to support the weak, they would surely begin
betimes to think of these things; and to study
the different workings of the human heart,
so as to be able to manage even its master-
chords, without striking them too rudely, or
with a hand too little skilled.
And after all, this great dignity of man, is
not much of it artificial, or at least put on
like a robe of state to answer an especial
end? Yes; and a pitiful and heart-rending
spectacle it is, to see the weakness of man's
heart disrobed of all its mantling pride-the
utter nakedness, I might almost say, for wo-
man has ever something left to conceal her
destitution. In the multitude of her resour-
ces she has also a multitude of alleviations
to her distress; but man has nothing. In
his humiliation he is like a blighted tree.
The birds of the air no longer nestle in its
| boughs, the weary traveller no longer sits
down to rest beneath its shade. Nothing is
left to it but the clinging ivy, to cover with
freshness and beauty its ruin and decay.
It is said of woman that her imagination
is easily captivated, that she is won by the
hero's fame, and led on by her love of glory
and distinction to follow in the sunny path
of the illustrious or the great. But far more
fatal to the peace of woman, more influential
upon her conduct, more triumphant in their
mastery over her whole being, are the tears
and helplessness of man, when his proud
spirit sinks within him, or when he flies from
his compeers in the race of glory, to bury his
shame, and perhaps his guilt, in her bosom.
I will not ask how often, after this exhibi-
tion of his weakness, after regaining his post
of honor, and being received again a com-
petitor for distinction, he has forgotten the
witness of his humiliation; but I believe it
is only as a wife, a mother, or a sister, that
woman can be this friend to man, with safety
to herself, and with certainty that he will not
afterwards rather avoid than seek her, from
the feeling that she has beheld him shorn of
his dignity, and is consequently able to re-
mind him of the humiliating past. For the
wife it might also be a dangerous experiment,
even in her fondest and most unguarded mo-
ments, to make any allusion to scenes and
circumstances of this description; especially
to presume upon having necessarily assumed
at such times the stronger and more impor-
tant part. When her husband chooses to be
dignified again, and is capable of maintain-
ing that dignity, she must adapt herself to
the happy change, and fall back into.com-
parative insignificance, just as if circum-
stances had never given her a momentary
superiority over him.
The peculiarity already alluded to as a
30
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
characteristic of men, and as leading them to
attach more importance to what is immediate
and tangible, than what is remote or ideal,
is one which renders them particularly liable
to deception, or rather to be, what is more
properly called, practised upon, than directly
deceived; so much so, that I believe any
woman who could manage her own temper,
might manage her husband, provided she
possessed his affections. I say might, be-
cause the mode of management by such
means would be utterly revolting to a gen-
erous and upright mind. Thus, by fair
speech and smooth manners, accompanied
with servile and flattering subserviency in
little things, some artful women have con-
trived to win their way to the accomplish-
ment of almost every wish; when a single
rash or hasty word, especially if it implied.
an assumption of the right to choose, would
have effectually defeated their ends.
I have listened much when men have
been discussing the merits of women, and
have never heard any quality so universally
commended by the nobler sex, as quietness;
while the opposite demerit of a tongue too
loud, too ready, or too importunate in its ex-
ertions, has been as universally condemned.
Thus I am inclined to think that silence in
general, and smooth speech when language
must be used, are ranked by most men
amongst the highest excellences of the fe-
male character; while on the other hand,
those wordy weapons sometimes so injudi-
ciously made use of, are of all things what
they most abhor.
If, however, an artful woman finds it easy
to practise upon her husband by the immedi-
ate instrumentality of a manner suited to his
taste, this mean and degrading system of
working out an end, becomes more difficult
in proportion to the frequency of its detection,
until at last, some men are brought to sus-
pect that all women act indirectly in every
thing they do. Hence comes that frequent
answer when we ask a simple question mere-
ly for the sake of information-" Why do you
wish to know?" as if it were impossible for
women to be deeply interested where they
had no end to serve, and as if there must of
necessity be some hidden motive concealed
behind that which is made apparent. This
habitual retort falls hardly upon those who
never have deserved it, and not unfre-
quently forms a serious obstacle in the way
of obtaining useful knowledge; but it is
greatly to be feared that such an expression,
with the suspicion it implies, would never
have become habitual to men, had not the
general conduct of women brought this just
punishment upon them.
Indeed, there is something revolting to
man's very nature in having to calculate
upon that kind of petty artifice which takes
advantage of unwariness and credulity, for
working out a purpose, even where that pur-
pose may not in itself be wrong. And here
we are brought at once to that great leading
peculiarity-in man's character-his nobility,
or, in other words, his exemption from those
innumerable littlenesses which obscure the
beauty, and sully the integrity of woman's
life. From all their underhand contrivances,
their secret envyings, and petty spite, man
is exempt; so much so, that the mere con-
templation of the broad clear basis of his
moral character, his open truth, his single-
ness of aim, and, above all, his dignified for-
bearance under provocation, might often put
the weaker sex to shame.
-
I am aware that there is much in the situ-
ation of both parties to create this difference;
that undisputed power to will, and to act, is
often accompanied by a kind of moral ma-
jesty, which a weaker spirit never can at-
tain, while kept in bondage, either by fear or
by absolute restraint. I am aware too, that
boys, from their very infancy, are accustomed
to a mode of treatment as much calculated
to make them determined, frank, and bold, as
that of girls is to induce the opposite ex-
tremes of weakness, artifice, and timid help-
lessness; but even with these allowances, I
am persuaded there are broad clear features
in the moral dignity of man, which it is im-
possible to contemplate in their strength and
reality, without respect and admiration.
And a sacred and ennobling trust it is for

BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
31
woman to have the happiness of such a be-
ing committed to her charge-a holy privi-
lege to be the chosen companion of his lot
to come with her helplessness and weakness
to find safety under his protection, and to re-
pose her own perturbed and troubled mind
beneath the shelter of his love.
What then, if by perpetual provocation
she should awake the tempest of his wrath!
We will not contemplate the thought, for
there is something as fearful in his indigna-
tion, as there is attractive in his kindness,
and flattering in his esteem.
Nor, in return for this kindness, are we ac-
customed to feel gratitude enough; for take
away from social life not only the civility, but
the actual service done by men, in removing
difficulty, protecting weakness, and assisting
in distress, in what a joyless, helpless world
would women find themselves, left only to the
slender aid, and the tender mercies of each
other!
It is too much regarded merely as a thing
of course, for men to be obliging and atten-
tive; and it is too little remembered at what
cost to them we purchase their help and their
indulgence. Nor is it only in solitary instan-
ces, or for especial favorites, that these efforts
have to be made. It is the sacrifice of a
whole lifetime for a man to be polite. There
is no fireside so warm, but he must leave it
on a winter's night to walk home with some
female visitor, who has probably no charm
for him. There is no situation so eligible,
but he must resign it if required. There is
no difficulty he must not encounter, no fatigue
he inust not endure, and no gratification he
must not give up; and for whom? All would
do this perhaps for one being in the world-
perhaps for more; but to be willing to do it
every day and every hour, even for the most
repulsive, or the most selfish and requiring
of their sex-there is a martyrdom of self in
all this, which puts to shame the partial kind-
ness and disinterestedness of woman.
It may be said that the popularity of po-
liteness affords at once its incentive, and its
reward. But whence then do we receive
those many private acts of unrequited ser-
|
|
vice, when no other eye is there but ours to
witness-no other tongue to praise? and
when we ourselves would probably have
been the last recipients of such favor, had
our companion chosen to assume the right
of selecting an object better suited to his
taste?
It is from considerations such as these, and
I would wish to impress them upon every fe-
male mind, that I have not included the self-
ishness of man among his peculiarities, though
some might think the case would warrant a
notice of this nature. Yet such is my con-
viction, that man has much to bear with
from the capriciousness of woman; such is
my grateful estimate of his uncalculating
kindness, not less to be admired because it is
expected and required; such too has been
my own experience of his general willingness
to oblige, where there was little to attract,
and still less to reward; that whatever may
be said by others, it would ill become me to
lift up a voice, and that a public one, against
the selfishness of men.
Let us rather look again at that nobility of
which I have already spoken, and while we
blush to feel the stirrings of an inferior spirit
prompting us to many an unworthy thought
and act, let us study to assimilate our nature,
in all that is truly excellent, with his, who
was at first expressly formed in the image of
his Maker.
CHAPTER IV.
BEIIAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
LEST the reader should suppose, from the
heading of this chapter, that the management
of husbands is what is really meant, I must
at once disclaim all pretension to this particu-
lar kind of skill; not because I do not think
it capable of being carried out into a system,
whereby every woman might become the ac-
tual ruler in her own domestic sphere, but
because I consider the system itself a bad
one, and utterly unworthy of being applied
32
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
to any but the most extreme cases of unrea-
sonableness on the husband's part.
others. I knew an excellent woman who al-
ways had her fire built up in such a manner
before her husband came home, as to present
a tempting crust for him to break through
on his arrival; and I much question whether
the good lady was not more loved for this
simple act, than she would have been, had
her husband found his fire neglected, and
herself engaged in tears and prayers for his
individual welfare.
But here again we recognise no general
rule, for some men unquestionably there are,
who would much prefer that their coals
should be forthcoming on a future day, than
thus unnecessarily expended in a bonfire to
welcome their return.
With regard to the treatment of husbands,
then, so great is the variety of character to
be taken into account that it would be impos-
sible to lay down any rule of universal appli-
cation, except upon the broad principles of
kind feeling, integrity, and common sense.
Still there are hints which may be thrown
out, it is to be hoped, with benefit to the in-
experienced; and many of these will refer
again to the peculiarity already dwelt upon
in the foregoing chapter. The tendency in
men which has been described as rendering
them peculiarly liable to be impressed by
what is evident to their senses, must ever be
consulted by the wife who would adapt her-
self to her husband's mood and character;
and although these may vary in every indi-
vidual, and in the same may change with
every difference of time and place, it be-
comes the duty of a wife, and one would
suppose it must also be her pleasure, studi-
ously to observe what those things are, which
habitually strike the attention of her husband,
so as to convey to him immediate impres-indulgences more properly her due; but even
sions of pleasure or of pain; remembering
ever, that all indirect evidence of our tastes
and wishes having been consulted, even in
our absence, is one of the most grateful of-
ferings that can be made to every human
heart.
|
-
Again, it is of little use that you esteem
and reverence your husband in the secret of
your heart, if you do not by your manners,
both at home and abroad, evince this pro-.
per deference and regard. At home it is but
fitting that the, master of the house should be
considered as entitled to the choice of every
personal indulgence, unless indisposition or
suffering on the part of the wife render such
then they ought to be received as a favor,
rather than claimed as a right.
Women, in the present day, and in houses
furnished as English homes generally are,
may enjoy so many advantages in the way
of pampering the body, from which men, and
especially those engaged in business, are de-
barred, that they can well afford to give up
some of these indulgences to those they love;
and few indeed would.not rather see them
thus enjoyed, than appropriated exclusively
to themselves.
Thus the general appearance of his home
has much to do with the complacency man
naturally feels on returning to it. If his
taste is for neatness and order, for the ab-
sence of servants, and for perfect quiet, it
would be absolute cruelty to allow such a
man to find his house in confusion, and to
have to call in servants to clear this thing
and the other away after his return, as if he
had never once been thought of, or at least
thought of with kindness and consideration,of self-sacrifice, how far this virtue ought to
until he was actually seen.
Some men particularly enjoy the cheerful
welcome of a clean hearth and blazing fire,
on a winter's day; and all are more or less
solicitous to stir the glowing embers them-
selves, rather than to see them stirred by
There is, however, one great difficulty in
connection with this duty, which it is to be
hoped all persons are not, like the writer, un-
able to solve. It is in the important question
extend in the treatment of husbands. There
is certainly nothing more beautiful to read of
in books; and could every act of self-sacri-
fice be seen and appreciated, there would be
nothing more delightful to practise towards
those we love. But the question is, does it
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
33
tell in any high degree upon the happiness
of man? Observation of the world would
lead to the conclusion that it does not, for
where one husband's heart has been soften-
ed with gratitude on discovering how much
his wife has suffered and denied herself for
his sake, ten times that number of women
have been wounded to the very soul at not
having their acts of self-sacrifice valued ac-
cording to their cost.
The fact is, men in general do not see these
things, unless told of their existence; and
then at once their charm is destroyed. Is it
not better, then, to be a little more sparing of
such acts, than to do them, and then grudge |
the expenditure of feeling they require; or to
do them, and then complain of the punish-
ment they inflict? Besides which, some luck-
less women go on in this way, until more and
more is expected of them; the husband, in
his ignorance of the state of things behind
the scenes, never dreaming of what is ac-
tually suffered, but rather proposing, in his
innocence, that as one thing has been so
comfortably given up, another should follow,
until at last there bursts upon his unhappy
head a perfect storm of feeling, from her who
would willingly have been a martyr for his
sake, would he only have observed and pi-
tied what she was enduring for him.
|
in these cases to be observed, for when once
woman loses the disinterested generosity of
her character, she loses her greatest charm;
and when she becomes a stickler for rights,
or a monopolizer of good things, presuming
upon her greater requirements as being a
more delicate and fragile being than man,
she may indeed be said to have forfeited all
that claims for her sex our interest and our
admiration. But, on the other hand, though
she may not be aware of it, there is a secret
and deep-seated selfishness in the wounded
feeling which accompanies a generous act,
on finding it not valued according to its cost.
Would it not then be wise to let this maxim
be our rule-that none should give up more
than they are prepared to resign without
grudging, whether noticed and appreciated
or not.
In my remarks upon the subject of self-
sacrifice, I would, of course, be understood
to refer only to those trifling and familiar af-
fairs in which the personal comfort of daily
life is concerned. The higher and more
sacred claims of trial and calamity with
which the experience of every human being
is occasionally checkered, admit neither of
doubt, calculation, nor delay. Here I cannot
suppose it possible that a true-hearted woman
would feel the least reserve, for here it is her
sacred privilege to forget herself, to count ro
item of her loss, to weigh no difficulty, and
to shrink from no pain, provided she can suf-
fer for, or e
fer for, or even with, the companion whose
existence is bound up with hers.
On the other hand, those women who
calmly and equitably maintain their rights,
for rights all women have; who, acting upon
the broad principle of yielding what is due
from a wife to a husband, make a clear dis-
tinction betwixt that, and what would be ex-
pected by a tyrant from his slave; who make
themselves cheerful and comfortable with
what it is proper for them to enjoy, neither
withholding what they ought to give up, nor
giving up what they cannot afford to lose;
such women are upon the whole to be pre-
ferred as companions, and certainly they are
themselves exempt from a world of wounded
feeling, under which the more romantically
generous are perpetually suffering, and at the
same time weeping and lamenting that they
do so.
There is, however, a most delicate medium opinion, a willingly imposed silence when he
Whatever doubt may be entertained on the
subject of making self, and selfish gratifica-
tion, subservient to a husband's tastes and
enjoyments, in all the little items of domestic
arrangement, there can be none with regard
to what is right in mixing in society either
with friends or strangers. It is here, the
privilege of a married woman to be able to
show, by the most delicate attentions, how
much she feels her husband's superiority to
herself, not by mere personal services offi-
ciously rendered, as if for the purpose of dis-
play, but by a respectful reference to his
1
3

34
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
speaks, and, if he be an enlightened man, by
a judicious turn sometimes given to the con-
versation, so that his information and intelli-
gence may be drawn forth for the benefit of
others.
It is true that a considerable portion of tact
is required to manage such matters as these,
without appearing to manage them at all; for
if the husband is once made to suspect that
his wife is practising upon him for the pur-
pose of showing how good a wife she is, his
situation will scarcely be more agreeable than
that of the man who is made a mere lackey
of in company, and called hither and thither
to do little personal services for his wife, as
if she had mistaken him for one of her ser-
vants, or, what is more likely, had chosen |
this means of exhibiting her unbounded in
fluence over him.
Both these extremes are at variance with
good taste, to say nothing of right feeling;
and here, as in innumerable instances besides,
we see, that if the tact I have so highly re-
commended in a previous work, be valuable
before marriage, it is infinitely more so after-
wards. Indeed there is scarcely one among
the various embellishments of female charac-
ter, not even the highest accomplishments
exhibited by the most distinguished belle,
which may not, in some way or other, be
rendered a still more exquisite embellishment
to married life, provided only it is kept in its
proper place, and made always subservient
to that which is more estimable.
before marriage; and, did not kindness or
delicacy forbid a further disclosure of the se-
crets of their lot, there is doubtless a still
greater number who could speak feelingly of
their regret, that the air of careful neatness,
the becoming dress, and the general attract-
iveness of look and manner, which first won
their attention, had been gradually laid aside,
as advancing years and increasing cares had
rendered them more necessary as an addi-
tional charm to the familiar scenes of domes-
tic life.
Yet in spite of appearances, it is scarcely
possible to imagine how there should be, in
any other situation, so natural and so delight-
ful a display of personal attractions as at
home, and before the one being whom of all
the world we love best; especially when we
reflect that his destiny being bound up with
ours, if we allow him to feel weary of our
company, annoyed by our absurdities, or dis-
satisfied with our personal appearance, he
must at the same time suffer doubly from
the mortifying conviction, that these things
are to remain the same to him throughout
the whole of his future life or ours.
What then so natural and so congenial to
the best feelings of woman, as to render this
long future as pleasing in its aspect as she
can? and what so degrading, and so utterly
at variance with the beauty of the female
character, as, having once secured a legal
claim to the protection of a husband, ever
afterwards to neglect those personal attrac-
tions, which comparatively few women have
to be charged with neglecting in their single
state? Yet of what importance is it to the
careless observer we meet with in general
society, how we dress, or whether we look
well or ill, compared with what it is to the
man who has to see us, and perhaps us alone,
seated opposite to him at every meal! Of
what importance is it to the stranger that we
play badly, or do not play at all-that we
On the other hand, it is painful to hear the
painful to hear the draw without taste, and have never learned
complaint so frequently made by married men, to converse with sprightliness and ease? His
that their wives have ceased to touch the in-happiness is in no way dependent upon us.
strument whose keys were rendered so sweet-He can turn away, and forget us the next
ly available in the great object of charming moment. But the case assumes a widely
Thus the most fastidious taste, when em-
ployed in selecting what is agreeable to a
husband's fancy, becomes ennobled to its pos-
sessor; while those accomplishments, which
in the crowded drawing-room were worse
than useless in their display, may sometimes
be accounted as actual wealth, to her who
has the good feeling to render them condu-
cive to the amusement or the happiness of
her own fireside.
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
35

different character, when we look at it as
extending through each separate hour of a
long lifetime; and surely if there be a natu-
ral exultation in having charmed an indiffer-
ent person, or even a whole party, for an
hour, there must be a higher, and far more
reasonable satisfaction, in being able to be-
guile a husband of his cares, to win him from
society which might divert his thoughts from
home, and to render that home, not only the
scene of his duties, but of his favorite amuse-
ments, and his dearest joys.
To this high purpose every intellectual at-
tainment should also be made conducive, for
there is much in the life of men, and particu-
larly where business engages their attention,
to lower and degrade the mind. There is
much to render it purely material in its aims
and calculations; and there is much also, in
man's public intercourse with his fellow-man,
to render him eager and monopolizing in that
which centres in himself; while at the same
time he is regardless or distrustful of others.
As a rational, accountable, and immortal be-
ing, he consequently needs a companion who
will be supremely solicitous for the advance-
ment of his intellectual, moral, and spiritual
nature; a companion who will raise the tone
of his mind from the low anxieties, and vulgar
cares which necessarily occupy so large a
portion of his existence, and lead his thoughts
to expatiate or repose on those subjects which
convey a feeling of identity with a higher state
of existence beyond this present life.-.
Instead of this, how often does the wife re-
ceive home her weary husband, to render
him still more weary, by an outpouring of all
the gossip she has heard through the day, of
the observations she has made upon her
neighbor's furniture and way of living, of the
personal attentions or slights she has received,
with a long catalogue of complaints against
her servants, and, worse than all, ten thou-
sand reasons, strengthened by that day's ex-
perience, why she should be indulged with
some favorite article of dress or luxury, upon
which her heart has long been set!
It may be said in vindication of this mode
of conduct, that the occupations of men of
business in the present day are such, and so
pressing, as to leave them little time, and per-
haps less inclination, for interesting them-
selves in subjects of apparently less urgent
and immediate importance; and that, con-
sequently, all endeavor to give their minds a
bias in favor of nobler things, would be un-
availing. But in reply to this observation, I
would ask one question-Have you made the
experiment? Have you ever tried whether
the introduction of a new idea, appropriately
and agreeably clothed, might not be made
quite as agreeable as the introduction of a
new article of diet, even dressed with the
nicest care? Have you then made the ex-
periment judiciously? for here lies the secret
of all the good we can reasonably expect.
If, for instance, you should begin to talk about
the stars, when your husband asks for his
slippers, or quote poetry when he wants his
dinner, the boldest enthusiast would scarcely
be wild enough to anticipate any very favor-
able result.
The first thing to be done in the attainment
of this high object, is to use what influence
you have so as not to lower or degrade the
habitual train of your husband's thoughts;
and the next is, to watch every eligible op-
portunity, and to use every suitable means,
of leading him to view his favorite subjects
in their broadest and most expansive light;
while, at the same time, it is within the region
of woman's capabilities, to connect them, by
some delicate mode of association, with the
general bearing of a man's interests in this
world upon his interests in eternity.
It is extremely difficult in writing on this
subject to convey my exact meaning, or indeed
to avoid the charge of wishing to recommend,
instead of pleasant, easy, fireside chat, the
introduction of a dull, and dry, or perhaps
dogmatical discourse, than which, nothing
can be more opposed, both to the tastes and
the habits of the writer, as well as to her
ideas of the nice art of pleasing and doing
good at the same time. Indeed that mode
of conversation which I have been accus-
tomed to describe as talking on a large scale,
is, except on very important occasions, most

36
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
inimical to the natural softness and attrac-
tiveness of woman. It is not, in fact, her
It is not, in fact, her
forte; but belongs to a region of display in
which she cannot, or at least ought not, to
shine. The excellence of woman as regards
her conversation, consists rather of quick, and
delicate, and sometimes playful turns of
thought, with a lively and subtle apprehension
of the bearings, tendencies, and associations of
ideas; so that the whole machinery of con-
versation, if I may be allowed to use such
an expression, may be made, by her good
management, to turn off from one subject,
and play upon another, as if by the direction
of some magic influence, which will ever be
preserved from detection by the tact of an
unobtrusive and sensitive nature.
versation which may be used with equal scope
of application, on almost alf subjects, whether
high or low and it is a truth which the
peculiar nature of woman's mind renders her
| admirably qualified to carry out through ordi-
nary life, that so intimately connected are our
thoughts and feelings, habits and pursuits, not
only with those of other beings of a similar
nature, but with a state of existence in which
that common nature will be more fully de-
veloped, that there is scarcely a fact presented
to our knowledge, which has not a connec-
tion, either immediate or remote, with some
great_moral truth; and scarcely a subject
brought under our consideration, which may
not be ennobled by conducing, in some way
or other, to the improvement of our moral
being.
It will readily be perceived, however, that
this exercise of the powers of conversation
would be utterly unattainable to a woman of
ignorant or vulgar mind-that she would
alike be incapable of comprehending the de-
sirableness of the object, and the best mode
of its accomplishment. And here I would
again advert to an expression not unfre-
quently heard among young ladies, that they
do not wish to be clever; by which we are
left to suppose, by their neglect of their own
minds, that they mean either well-informed,
or capable of judging rightly. Yet without
having paid considerable attention to the im-
provement and cultivation of their intellectual
powers, how will it be possible for them to
raise the general tone of thought and con-
versation at their own fireside?
It is in this manner, and this alone, that
women should evince their interest in those
great political questions which arise out of
the state of the times in which they live.
Not that they may be able to attach them-
selves to a party, still less that they may
make speeches either in public or in private;
but that they may think and converse like
rational beings on subjects which occupy the
attention of the majority of mankind; and it
is, perhaps, on these subjects that we see most
strikingly the wide difference betwixt the low
views so generally taken, and those which I
would so earnestly recommend. If, for exam-
ple, a wife would converse with her husband
about a candidate for the representation of the
place in which they live, she may, if she
choose, discuss the merits of the color which
his party wears, and wish it were some other,
as being more becoming; she may tell with
delight how he bowed especially to her; and
she may wish from her heart that the num-possession of great intellectual endowments
ber of votes may be in his favor, because he
kissed her child, and called it the prettiest
he had ever seen. It is this kind of prattle
It is this kind of prattle
which may properly be described as small
talk, and which it is to be feared denotes a
littleness of soul. Yet this style of talk may
be, and sometimes is, applied by women to
all sorts of subjects, not excepting politics,
philosophy, and even religion. But, on the
other hand, there is an opposite style of con-
Although I am not one of those who at-
tach any high degree of importance to the
in woman, because I believe such natural
gifts to have proved much more frequently
her bane than her blessing, and because they
are not the qualifications of female character
which conduce most to her own happiness.
or the happiness of those around her; yet
if there be any case in which a woman might
be forgiven, for entertaining an honest pride
in the superiority of her own talent, it would
be where she regarded it only as a means
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
37
of doing higher homage to her husband, and
bringing greater ability to bear upon the
advancement of his intellectual and moral
good.
Indeed, what is the possession of talent to
a woman, when considered in her own cha-
racter, separately, and alone? The posses-
sion of a dangerous heritage-a jewel which
cannot with propriety be worn-a mine of
wealth which has no legitimate channel for
the expenditure of its vast resources But
let her find this natural and lawful medium |
for its exercise, and we see at once in what
an enviable position she is placed. We see
at once the height from which she can stoop,
the costliness of the sacrifices she is conse-
quently enabled to make, and the evidences,
no less valuable, which she can thus bring
forward as proofs of her affection.
Nothing, however, can be more delicate
and trying than the situation of such a wo-
man, and especially when her husband is
inferior to herself; but if he should be abso-
lutely silly, it would require more skill than
the writer of these pages can boast, to know
what mode of treating him to recommend;
for build him up as you will before company,
and much may be done in this way by the
exercise of delicacy and tact, a truly grovel-
ling man will sink again, and there is no
help for it. The charitable conclusion is,
that a woman so situated must be content
to reap the consequences of her own folly, in
having made so unsuitable a choice. The
best friend on earth would be unable to as-
sist her, nor could the sagest counsel rectify
her mistake.
she can convince him afresh, by a long con-
tinuance of the most scrupulous conduct,
that the injury committed against him was
purely accidental, and foreign alike to her
feelings and her inclinations.
Until this desirable end is accomplished,
vain will be all her efforts to render homage
to her husband as a superior. He will re-
gard all such attempts as acts of condescen-
sion, assumed for no other purpose than that
of showing how gracefully she can stoop.
In vain may she then endeavor to assist or
direct his judgment; he will in such a case
most naturally prefer to thwart her, for the
purpose of proving his own independence
and his power.
The same observations will apply, though
in a milder degree, to cases in which there
have been any great advantages of wealth
or station on the side of the wife. The most
unselfish and generous consideration, ac-
companied with the strictest care, are neces-
sary here to avoid giving occasion of offence
to that manly pride which startles at nothing
so much as owing dignity to a woman, and
being reminded of the obligation.
But if, on the one hand, this situation
presents a narrow and critical walk with re-
gard to action, on the other, it affords a
boundless and delightful field in which feel-
ing may expatiate; for it is scarcely possible
to imagine any consciousness more happy
than that of having been the means of con-
ferring affluence or honor upon the being
we most love: and if the consequences are
such as lead to a trembling apprehension of
being perpetually liable to give pain, they
also admit of a noble exultation in being en-
abled by the same means to give an adequate
degree of pleasure.
In the case of a highly-gifted woman, even
where there is an equal or superior degree
of talent possessed by her husband, nothing
can be more injudicious, or more fatal to her
happiness, than an exhibition even of the
least disposition to presume upon such gifts.
Let her husband be once subjected to a feel-
ing of jealousy of her importance, which,
without the strictest watchfulness, will be
liable to arise, and her peace of mind and
her free agency are alike destroyed for the
remainder of her life; or at any rate, until | mind-is-capable.
With this feeling, subdued by Christian
meekness, and cherished only in her "heart
of hearts," it might almost be forgiven to any
woman secretly to exult in being favorably
distinguished; for to render illustrious a be-
loved name, and to shed a glory around an
honored brow, is at once the most natural,
and the noblest ambition, of which the female
-
38
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
In order to render more clear and definite
the observations which have been called forth
by the subject of this chapter, it has been al-
most necessary to act the ungracious part of
pointing out instances of failure, rather than
success. This has been done, however, with
the most sincere belief, that such instances,
notwithstanding the frequency of their occur-
rence, arise, for the most part, entirely out of
ignorance, or want of thought and observa-
tion, and are as frequently accompanied by
an amiable and praiseworthy desire to be in
all things, such a friend and companion as a
reasonable husband would wish.
And after all, what is it that man seeks in
the companionship of woman?--An influ-
ence like the gentle dew, and the cheering
light, more felt throughout the whole of his
existence, in its softening, healing, harmon-
izing power; than acknowledged by any sin-
gle act, or recognised by any certain rule.
It is in fact a being to come home to, in the
happiest sense of that expression.
Poetic lays of ancient times were wont to
tell, how the bold warrior returning from the
fight would doff his plumed helmet, and, re-
posing from his toils, lay bare his weary
limbs, that woman's hand might pour into
their wounds the healing balm. But never
wearied knight, nor warrior covered with
the dust of battle-field, was more in need of
woman's soothing power, than are those
care-worn sons of toil, who struggle for the
bread of life, in our more peaceful and en-
lightened days. And still, though the ro-
mance of the castle, the helmet, the waving
plume, and the
"Clarion wild and high,"
may all have vanished from the scene; the
charm of woman's influence lives as brightly
in the picture of domestic joy, as when she
placed the wreath of victory on the hero's
brow. Nay, more so, for there are deeper
sensibilities at work, thoughts more profound,
and passions more intense, in our great
theatre of intellectual and moral strife; than
where the contest was for martial fame, and
force of arms procured for each competitor
his share of glory, or of wealth.
|
Amongst all the changes which have taken
place in the condition of mankind, it is then
not the least of woman's privileges, that her
influence remains the same, except only as
it is deepened and perfected as her own
character approaches towards perfection. It
is not the least of her privileges, that she can
still be all to man which his necessities re-
quire; that he can retire from the tumult of
the world, and seek her society with a zest
which nothing can impair, so long as she re-
ceives him with a true and faithful heart-
true to the best and kindest impulses of
which her nature is capable; and faithful to
the sacred trust committed to her care.
And that it is so, how many an English
home can witness-how many a fireside
welcome-how many a happy meeting after
absence painfully prolonged! Yes, there are
scenes within the sacred precincts of the
household hearth, which, not the less be-
cause no stranger's eye beholds them, repay,
and, richly too, dark days of weary conflict,
and long nights of anxious care. But who
shall paint them? Are they not graven on
the hearts of English wives? and those who
hold the picture there, in all its beauty, vivid-
ness, and truth, would scarcely wish to draw
aside the veil, which screens it from the world.
CHAPTER V.
CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH.
WITH regard to the behavior of wives to-
wards their husbands, there is one great end
to be attained, so unmeasurably beyond all
others in its influence upon their happiness
and their usefulness, that all which is requi-
site for the promotion of their true interest,
might be summed up in this one recommend-
ation-that the wife should endeavor, before
every other earthly thing, and next to the
salvation of her soul, to obtain and keep her
husband's confidence. Without this, the
marriage tie is indeed a galling chain; and
the woman who subjects herself to it, less en-
viable than a real slave. With this-with
BEHAVIOR TO HUSBANDS.
39
the perfect trust of a nobler nature reposing
on her own, woman is raised to a degree of
moral elevation, which, in her single state,
she never could have known; and if her
own disposition be generous and grateful, she
will feel it a sacred obligation not to abuse
this trust.
pected, and in some degree treated as a
child.
If, therefore, in a previous work I have
earnestly recommended to the Daughters of
England an early, and diligent cultivation of
their mental powers, it has not been that such
embellishments of character as are classed
under the head of "Cleverness, Learning,
and Knowledge," or "Taste, Tact, and Ob-
servation," should merely give zest to con-
But the great and important question arises,
how is this trust to be secured? With the
most ardent desire to enjoy this, the chief
good of married life, and the foundation up-versation, or throw an intellectual charm
on which all its happiness must rest, there
are two ways in which woman may effectu-
ally fail-intellectually, and morally. In the
first, she may fail from want of knowledge;
in the second, from want of principle.
In the first instance, whatever there may
be in her conduct or conversation exhibiting
a want of judgment, of that perception of
fitness and adaptation, which is invaluable in
the female character, and of a proper ac-
quaintance with common things, is calculated
to weaken the confidence of her husband in
her ability, whatever her inclination may be,
to make a good wife, a prudent mistress, or
a judicious mother. It is in vain complain-
ing that this sentence is a hard one, when
her heart is right, and when she really does
her best. It is in vain complaining that her
husband does not trust her, either with the
knowledge of his affairs, or the management
of her own. Confidence in one being is not
a matter of choice in another. It is what we
ourselves must purchase by an absence of
failure on those points, in which the interests
of another party are dependent upon us.
If, then, a husband finds in his wife a de-
gree of ignorance which renders her incapa-
ble of judging rightly in common things, if
he finds that she has never made any proper
use of her powers of observation, that she
has not been in the habit of thinking to any
rational purpose, of discriminating, compar-
ing, or drawing right conclusions from what
she has seen and heard, it would be hard in-
deed to require him to believe that she will
act with prudence and propriety as the mis-
tress of a house; and the natural conse-
quence is, that she must be watched, sus-
over the society of the drawing-room; it is
that the happy individual who possesses
these advantages, may, on becoming a wife,
become also a companion in whom her hus-
band can perfectly, and at all times, confide.
There are, however, cases in which the
want of this confidence falls hardly, because
it is the inevitable result of circumstances,
over which the wife in her single state had
no control. One of these is where the mind
is naturally weak; and here the wife would
certainly-act-most-wisely, by placing her ac-
tions and opinions under the direction of her
husband, and allowing herself to be treated
accordingly.
But there are also those, who, from no
fault of their own, have, before marriage, en-
joyed few advantages as regards mental cul-
tivation. In this case, much may be done in
the way of making up for loss time; and
where a studious desire to do so is evinced,
where a respectful and judicious reference to
the husband's opinion is sometimes made,
and at other times a still more judicious si-
lence observed, these proofs of good sense
and right feeling, will go a long way towards
obtaining the confidence desired.
But a far more serious, and it is to be
feared more frequent reason for the loss of
this invaluable treasure, is a moral one. And
here, so many causes meet and combine in
their operation, that it would require no com-
mon degree of knowledge of the human
heart to be able to point them out with per-
spicuity and effect. The first thing I shall
specify in relation to this part of the subject
is, the essential importance there is, that
every husband should feel himself perfectly
40
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

safe with his wife. "Safe!" exclaims the
worthy helpmeet, "with whom could he be
safe, if not with me? Do I not watch him,
care for him, and wait upon him with a so-
licitude that would screen him from every
approach of harm?" All this may be true
enough, and yet you may occasionally have
taken advantage of your intimacy, for dis-
closing weaknesses on his part, which need not
otherwise have been known; you may have
marked your occasion when company was
present, for throwing out hints against him,
which you dared not have uttered when
alone; or you may have betrayed an evident
triumph before your friends, or your servants,
on obtaining over him some advantage in
opinion, or argument.
Although such offences as these may ap-
pear but very trifling items, when separately
enumerated, yet their number and variety
sometimes make up a sum of considerable
magnitude and importance, as they operate
upon individual feeling, and evince too clear-
ly a want of delicacy, generosity, or real af-
fection. They lead, in short, to the very
natural feeling, on the part of the husband,
that his wife is not the bosom friend he had
fondly imagined her, that she knows no per-
fect identity of self with him, but has sepa-
rate interests to which he and his affairs are
liable at any time to be made subservient.
I have already said, that the dignity of
man should always be studiously maintained;
but there is also a delicate and respectful
manner of giving way to a husband in little
things, which is the surest means of obtaining
concessions on his part, in those which are
of greater moment, simply because, having
found his wife generally yielding, considerate,
and respectful to his wishes, he cannot sup-
pose she will differ from him without some
good and sufficient reason for doing so.
Upon the same principle, a wise woman
will never be too requiring. She will neither
demand from her husband those personal
services which are degrading to a man and a
gentleman, nor weary his patience by en-
deavoring to tease him out of every fault;
for though the great end of marriage should
be mutual improvement, it is no more than
fair, that the wife should allow her husband
at least as many faults as he allows her. At
all events, when little defects of character,
and especially such as may be called consti-
tutional, are quietly and charitably borne
with, much strength is gained for making a
stand against those which are more serious;
and the husband who is kindly permitted to
rest himself, if he chooses, in an awkward
position, and to wear an unbecoming coat be-
cause it is a favorite, will be all the more
likely, at the solicitation of his wife, to give
up habits which are really more objection-
able.
All individual peculiarities, which may not
exactly be called faults, should be conceded
to in the same manner; always remembering,
that what we allow to men on the ground of
their love of importance and authority, they
equal, and often surpass, in what they yield.
to our weakness, incapacity, and occasional
perverseness. There are many of these pecu-
liarities, that, like our own, might excite a de-
gree of ridicule, which, however, ought never
to extend beyond mere playfulness, and not
even so far as that, except where it is re-
ceived in the same spirit.
If it were possible to whisper upon paper,
I should here avail myself of a convenient
Kaside, to hint that there is often a great deal
of unnecessary bustle and importance when
men have any thing to do. But why should
we mind that-why should we not allow
them the satisfaction of feeling, that as re-
gards the little world in which they rule su-
premely, all space is theirs, and all time?
and if we have not patience to look on, and
see the order of our house overturned, our
dinner waiting, our servants called away
from their work, one to fetch paper, another
string, and a third to wait until the mighty
affair is complete; we have at least the ad-
vantage, when the same thing has to be done
again, of taking the opportunity to do it our-
selves.
A respectful deportment, and a complying
disposition, evinced in these and similar
cases, with a general willingness to accom-
1
CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH.
41
modate all household arrangements to a hus-
band's wishes, making every other consider-
ation subservient to his convenience, will en-
sure for the wife, who consistently does this,
a large portion of that confidence upon which
her influence and her happiness so much de-
pend.
But the greatest of all claims upon this
confidence has yet to be considered; and
would there were no occasion, in relation to
this subject, so much as to whisper these
words into the ear of an English wife-Never
deceive! Were all men reasonable, tempta-
tions to do so would be infinitely less than
they are; for difficult indeed is the lot of that
woman, who would act uprightly, whose
judgment and principles are good, and who
is yet thwarted by a narrow-minded, weak,
selfish, or low-principled man.
both happier and better, by being thus man-
aged. Besides, the general order of a house-
hold, the direction of servants, and the influ-
ence of masters and mistresses over their de-
pendents and inferiors, require that if good
sense, right feeling, and sound principles,
exist on one side, they should not be made
subservient to ignorance, prejudice, and ca-
price, on the other.
I have said that all women have their
rights, and it would be wise to begin early in
married life to act upon the principle, which
allows to every wife a little sphere of domes
tie-arrangements, with which the husband
shall not feel that he has any business to in-
terfere, except at her request, and into which
a reasonable man would not wish to obtrude
his authority, simply because the operations
necessary to be carried on in that department
of his household, are alike foreign-to-his-un-
Let us imagine the case of such a wife, so
situated that her lord is absent for the greater-derstanding and his tastes. To submit every
1
little act of domestic management to the opin-
ion of a husband, would be unquestionably
to have one half of them at least either de-
feated in their object, or immediately inter-
dicted, from no other reason than pure ignor-
ance of their nature, cause, and effect. Thus,
unless a husband can feel sufficient confidence
in his wife, to allow her to rule with undis-
part of every day. Let us imagine her, too,
surrounded by a family, having the interests
of children, servants, and dependents to care
for, and anxious to regulate the affairs of her
household according to the principles of jus-
tice and integrity. She has her own con-
science for her guide in all this, and if it be
an enlightened one, how is she to make all
her actions accord with the views of a hus-puted authority in this little sphere, her case
band, who is unenlightened, perverse, or par-
tial, and perhaps jealous of her influence, and
consequently determined to thwart her plans? |
Yet how is she decidedly to oppose his
wishes, consistently with the respect which is
due from a wife?
Surely the situation of such a woman,
could it be contemplated in all its difficulties,
and under all its gloomy shades, might be
sufficient to deter any one whose married
lot was not yet fixed, from risking her happi-
ness with such a man.
·
must be a pitiable one indeed.
I have repeated the word little, because I
believe it is from an ambitious desire to ex-
tend the limits of this sphere, that many have
brought trouble upon themselves, by having
their authority called in question, more than
it ever would have been, had they remained
satisfied with a narrower field for its exercise.
But delicacy, and strict fairness, are both
required on the part of the wife, to ensure to
herself this desirable allowance of free agency,
for she must remember, that her husband has
If a woman thus situated, could by any also his appropriate sphere of action, and a
honest means contrive to manage her hus- much more extensive one than hers, in which
band, so that he should not know it, I think she has no right to interfere, because, as in
the wisest advocate for the supremacy of the the case already stated, she is incapable of
loftier sex, would scarcely deny her such a understanding what is necessary there; and
privilege; and unquestionably there are cases if on both sides there should be the exercise
in which unreasonable husbands are made | of this delicacy and fairness, in avoiding all
42
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

assumption of a right which does not exist,
it is impossible but that real affection should
dictate the mutual development of much, if
not all, which could interest the feelings of
either party.
Thus, there need be no positive conceal-
ment, for that is the last thing I would re-
commend ; but an open, honest, straightfor-
ward way of acting, as if each mind depended
upon the other, less for assistance in its own
sphere, than for perfect propriety of feeling,
and constant adherence to principle, in the
sphere to which it more properly belonged.
|
Among other points of consideration, com-
prehended under the general head of confi-
dence towards wives, there is one of such
paramount importance to the rectitude of
woman's conduct in her domestic affairs, that
were this one consideration all which had to
be taken into account, it would of itself be
well worth every endeavor to ensure so de-
sirable an end. I mean the open communi-
cation of the state of the husband's pecuniary
circumstances to his wife; for I can scarcely
imagine any thing more congenial to the best
feelings of a faithful wife, than to be made
the partaker of all the interest and enjoyment
her husband derives from prosperity and suc-
cess; while, on the other hand, there is no
greater cruelty, than that of allowing a wo-
man of good principles and right feelings, to
go on ignorantly conducting her household
expenses, in a manner inconsistent with the
real state of his affairs, when they are in any
degree depressed or involved in difficulty.
Yet how often has this been the case!
How often has an honest-hearted woman had
to bear the charge of having been in reality
dishonest to her husband's creditors, when
ignorance, not want of principle, was the
cause! Besides which, how much may be
done by domestic economy, and by a consist-
ently meek and unpretending deportment,
if not exactly to avert the calamity of a ruin-
ed house, at least to alleviate the wounded
and bitter feelings which naturally arise
among those who are the greatest sufferers.
It is upon a right observance of distinctions
such as these, that the dignity and usefulness
of the marriage state in a great degree de-
pend-from remembering that principle must
ever be the foundation of action; but that
the open disclosure of every act and purpose,
must ever be a matter of choice; and if re-
garded as such, there will be no doubt but
mutual love will supply information enough
to satisfy the most unbounded curiosity.
Thus it has never appeared to me, that the
free agency which a judicious wife should be
permitted to enjoy in her own department,
had any thing to do with concealment; any
more than that the transactions in one public
office should be said to be concealed from
another, because each had its separate rooms
and officers. So far from this, I should rather
say that a generous nature, and especially
that of woman, when implicitly trusted to,
and made to feel that trust, will, from a sense
of grateful satisfaction, involuntarily disclose.
its every plan, purpose, and act, not even
throwing a veil over its many failures and
short-comings in the way of discretion or duty.
Indeed, so powerful in its influence upon
the female character, is this feeling of being
trusted, that I have often thought if man
could know the heart of woman better, he
might almost guide it to his pleasure, by sim-ters peculiarly his own-if from any of these
ply using this master-key to her gratitude
and generosity. But I must not forget, that
my business is with the behavior of wives to
their husbands, not with that far easier sub-
ject in a female hand, the behavior of hus-
bands to their wives.
The present day is one which claims pecu-
liar attention to this subject; and if from any
fault in the wife, from any betrayal of her
husband's secrets, any artifice or trickery
practised against himself, any assumption
of unbecoming importance on her part, any
want of consideration for his feelings, or fool-
ish and presumptuous interference with mat-
causes, she has shut herself out from his con-
fidence, now, before it shall be too late, is the
time to begin a new system of behavior, for
which she may eventually be rewarded by
being admitted into his bosom-counsels, and
thus allowed to share, not only in all the
2017 a
CONFIDENCE AND TRUTH.
43
hopes and fears arising out of the fluctua-
ting nature of pecuniary affairs; but also in
those nobler acts of self-denial, which accom-
pany sound and enlightened views of the re-
quirements of justice, in all transactions of
a pecuniary character.
What, then, of such importance as to ob-
tain the perfect and confiding trust of the
companion with whom, or for whom, you
have to act in every thing you do? and in
order to this happy attainment, nothing is so
essential as that you should yourself be true.
There is a spirit of truth and a spirit of
falsehood, pervading many of those actions,
which could not be said to be either true or
false in themselves. Yet, according to the
choice we make betwixt these, our behavior
will be upright, candid, generous, and free;
or it will be servile, artful, selfish, and cow-
ardly. It does not follow, in order to practise
falsehood, that we must deviate from the ex-
act letter of truth. There are methods of
deceiving, as many, and as various, as the
circumstances which checker our experience
every day; and if a conscientious adherence
to truth is not made the rule of daily life, one
act of duplicity will grow out of another, un-
til the whole conduct becomes a tissue of ar-
tifice and deceit.
#
him that your motive was good, that what
you did was only to spare him pain, or afford
him pleasure; he will feel that the very act
is one which has set him apart in his own
house as a stranger, rather than a guardian
there-an enemy, rather than a friend.
Why then should you begin with conceal-
ment? The answer, it is to be feared, is but
too familiar "My husband is so unreason-
abie." And here then we see again the great
advantage of choosing as a companion for
life, a reasonable man, who may with safety
and satisfaction be made acquainted with
every thing you think or do.
After concealment has been habitually prac-
tised, there follows, in order to escape detec-
tion, a system of false pretences, assumed
appearances, and secret schemes, as much
at variance with the spirit of truth, as the
most direct falsehood, and unquestionably as
debasing to the mind.
But, as an almost inevitable consequence,
next follows falsehood itself; for what wo-
man would like her husband to know that
she had, for days, months, or years, been
practising upon his credulity. If he discov-
ers what she has been concealing, he will
also discover, that often when the subject
was alluded to, she artfully evaded his ques-
tions by introducing another; that sometimes
she so managed her voice as to convey one
The first and most innocent step towards
falsehood is concealment. Before our com-
mon acquaintances, there is wisdom in prac-idea, while she expressed another; and that
tising concealment to a certain extent; but
where the intimacy is so great, the identity
so close, as between a husband and a wife,
concealment becomes a sort of breach of
faith; and with parties thus situated, the
very act of concealment can only be kept up
by a series of artful endeavors to ward off
suspicion or observation of the thing con-
cealed.
Now, when a husband discovers, as in all
probability he will, unless these endeavors
are carried out to a very great extent-when
he discovers that his wife has been conceal-
ing one thing from him, he very naturally
supposes that she has concealed many more;
and his suspicions will be awakened in pro-
portion. It will then be in vain to assure
|
at other times she absolutely looked a lie.
No, she cannot bear that he should look back
and see all this, lest he should despise her;
and, therefore, in some critical moment, when
brought into that trying situation in which
she must either confess all, or deny all, she
pronounces at last that fatal word, which
effectually breaks asunder the spiritual bond
of married love.
And now, it is scarcely possible to imagine
a more melancholy situation than that of a
weak and helpless woman, separated by false-
hood from all true fellowship, either human or
divine; for there is no fellowship in false-
hood. The very soul of disunion might
justly be said to be embodied in a lie. It is
in fact the sudden breaking asunder of that
44
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
great chain which connects together all
spiritual influences; and she who is guilty
of falsehood, must necessarily be alone;
alone, for she has no sympathy of feeling
with the beautiful creation around her, of
which it has truly been said, that "Nature
never deceives ;”—alone, for in that higher
world, where all her secret thoughts and acts
are registered, its very light is truth;-alone,
for she has voluntarily become a stranger, a
suspected thing, an enemy, to that one friend
in whose bosom she might have found shelter
and repose.
It is a fact which scarcely needs to be re-
peated, that the closer the intimacy, and the
more important the trust, the greater is the
individual injury, and consequently the viola-
tion of personal feeling, when that trust is
abused. Thus when the child is first made
to understand that it has been deceived by
its mother, the very life of its little soul seems
for a moment to be quenched. When the
father finds that his prodigal son has but
returned to take advantage of his affection
and credulity, his wounded spirit sinks, and
his weary heart is broken. But when the
husband looks with earnest eyes into the
countenance whose beauty was once his
sunshine; when memory flies back, and
brings again her plighted vow, with all its
treasury of truth; when he thinks of that
fond heart which seemed to cling to his in
all the guileless innocence of unsophisticated
youth-oh, it is horrible "to be discarded
thence," by the dark demon of distrust, per-
petually reminding him, that the bright and
sunny tide of early love, upon which he
trusted all the riches of his soul, is but a
smiling and deceitful ocean, whose glassy
surface at once reflects the hues of heaven,
and conceals the depths of hell.
It is impossible to speak in language ade-
quate to the importance of this cause, for by
failure in this one point, the whole fabric of
connubial affection, which might otherwise
be made so influential in the promotion of
every kind of good, becomes a heap of ruins,
as disgraceful to the deceiver as unsightly to
the deceived.
Yet, after all, is not the former the greater
sufferer of the two? Is it not more miserable
to be thus separated from all community of
thought and feeling, either earthly or divine,
than to be the mere dupe of treachery or
guile? Yes, and she feels it so, and out of
her very desolation, sometimes awakes the
voice of penitence, making confession of some
individual act of transgression, and craving,
with all the humility of utter wretchedness,
to be reinstated in confidence and esteem.
But this cannot be. The thing is impossible.
The silver cord which has been loosed, no
single act of human will can tie again. The
golden bowl which has been broken, no siu-
gle effort of human kindness can restore.
But may not years bring back the confi-
dence so wantonly abused? Oh, blessed
thought! Begin, then, a new life. Let truth
be the principle of every thought, the echo
of every word, the foundation of every act.
Truth is invincible-it must-it will prevail.
Beautiful as the morning it will arise; glori-
ous as the noonday it will shine forth; calm
as the evening it will be followed by repose;
and thus each day may feel its gladdening
and invigorating influence; while every flow-
er that grows beneath its ray will shed a
charm upon the path of life.
But if the regaining of confidence after it has
been lost, be an object of such immeasurable
importance to attain, what must be the happi-
ness of her who has never lost this treasure?
who has borne through all change, and all
| trial, a true and upright heart towards her
husband, who, though he may have some-
times mistaken, and sometimes blamed her,
has still been able to say, even when appear-
ances were least favorable, and when per-
haps he was most in need of the consolation
derived from reposing implicit confidence in
| her sincerity-
"Thou art my true and honorable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit this sad heart.”
What, then, if she has sometimes suffered
when it has seemed asif a little artifice would
have made all things easy, that suffering has
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
45
been in a noble cause. And then the reward!
-the conscience void of offence towards that
one being to whom she can be nothing, if not
true—the fearless look-the unfaltering tone
-the steady hand-the soul that might be
mirrored forth before him-the hopes, the
fears, that might be his--the workings of a
busy mind, whose minutest plans might all
at any moment be laid bare before his scru-
tinizing eye--and onward, into the far future,
not a dream but he might know it all-and
onward yet the blessed consciousness that,
should the secrets of all hearts be read on
the great day of everlasting doom, there
would be one whose glance, and that the
most familiar, would not detect a single act
or thought of her whole life inimical to his
interests, or such as might not have been
revealed to him before.
Nor is the mere escape from the uncer-
tainty, anxiety, and pain, entailed upon the
habitual practice of falsehood, all that has to
be considered. A brighter picture in the
page of truth, is that in which we see por-
trayed in living hues, the enjoyment of un-
burdening a full heart, and laying open its
secret treasury of thought and feeling to him
whose earthly portion, whether it be one of
weal or wo, must inevitably be blended with
our own. And it is from this very identity
that the practice and the love of truth be-
comes more important, as a moral obligation
in the married state, than in all others. In-
deed the perfect truth towards each other of
individuals thus united, is as necessary to
their welfare and their happiness, as the
union and concurrence of the different mem-
bers of the human frame, is to the usefulness
and integrity of the whole.
|
and the power of this great attribute in the
Divine government, we have the still higher
satisfaction of doing our humble part to glorify
the God of truth.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
IF, in the foregoing pages, I have spoken
of the married state as one of the trial of
principle, rather than of the fruition of hope;
and if, upon the whole, my observations
should appear to have assumed a discour-
aging, rather than a cheering character, it has
arisen, in the first place, from my not having
reached, until now, that part of the subject in
which the advantages of this connection are
fully developed; and if, in the second place,
I must plead gulity to the charge of desiring
to throw some hindrances in the way of
youthful aspiration, it has simply been from
observing amongst young people generally,
how much greater is the tendency to make
the experiment for themselves, than to pre-
pare themselves for the experiment.
If, therefore, I have selected words of
warning, in preference to those of an opposite
nature, it has been because the tide of popular
feeling, especially amongst young women, is
already sufficiently strong in favor of matri-
monial alliances; while the disposition to en-
sure all the advantages of such an alliance,
appears far beyond what bears any propor-
tion to the desire evinced for submitting to
that discipline, by which alone they can be
rendered permanent.
That this disproportion betwixt expectation
and reality, arises from ignorance, rather than
any other cause, I am fully prepared to believe
It is, as has already been stated, the pecu-
liar privilege of a strict adherence to truth,
that it brings its own reward; for if we vol-
untarily confess the truth, by this means we-ignorance of the human heart, of the actual
obtain confidence; if we suffer for truth, we
have the consolation of suffering in a noble
cause, and of gaining strength by every effort
we make in its support; while, if we en-
deavor conscientiously to uphold the truth,
and thus consistently exemplify the beauty
circumstances of human life, of the operation
of cause and effect in human affairs, and of
the relative duty of human beings one to-
wards another.
The numbers who have failed in this way
to realize in their experience of married life,
46
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
the fair picture which imagination painted
before it was tried, it would be useless to at-
tempt to enumerate; as well as to tell how
many have thrown the blame of their disap-
pointment upon situation or circumstances
upon husband, servants, friends, or relatives
—when the whole has rested with themselves,
and has arisen solely out of a want of adapta-
tion in their views and habits to the actual
requirements of the new state of existence
upon which they have entered.
That this state itself is not capable of the
greatest amount of happiness which is ex-
pected from it, I should be sorry to deny; and
and all I would attempt to prove in the way
of discouragement is, that its happiness will
often prove to be of a different kind from
what has been anticipated. All that has been
expected to be enjoyed from the indulgence
of selfishness, must then of necessity be left
out of our calculations, with all that ministers
to the pride of superiority, all that gratifies the
love of power, all that converts the woman
into the heroine, as well as all that renders
her an object of general interest and at-
traction.
|
which it may call its own, and in the certainty
of possessing which, it may implicitly re-
pose.
Nor is that sage philosophy, which would
deny the existence of this craving, or make
light of its requirements. There is no moody
misanthrope, however solitary the lot he
chooses for himself, but cherishes within the
secret of his soul, some yearning thought of
how he might have been, and could have,
loved. There is no agitator of public move-
ments, hardened and sharpened by the fierce
contact of contending interests, but seeks
some chosen spot of rest, where the cold ar-
mor of his selfishness may be thrown off,
before that being whose hand has been ac-
customed to pour into his breast the balm of
sympathy and love. There is no outcast
from the holier walks of life, no victim of its
cruel vices, no maligner of religion and its
sacred institutions, but acknowledges, at
times, a secret impulse to cling to something
more kind, more gentle, and less degraded.
than himself.
Nor is it only in our human sympathies
that this craving is developed. The tame
bird, or the pet lamb, is folded to the solitary
bosom of the neglected child, with as intense
a feeling, as if it knew the thoughts of tender-
ness pent up and aching there. The miser,
whose grovelling soul is alike at enmity with
God and man, enters his narrow cell, and,
calling to his side his faithful dog, smiles on
the unconscious animal with a look which at
once reveals the history of his wasted heart.
And strange to say, it is sometimes even thus
with ambition, and with many of those aims
and occupations which absorb man's life.
They are followed, not for the results they
bring, so much as for the promises they offer
for the vague hopes they hold out, that
their entire accomplishment will satisfy the
cravings of an insatiable soul.
It may very naturally be asked, what then
remains? I answer, the love of married life;
and in this answer is embodied the richest
treasure which this earth affords. All other
kinds of love hold by a very slender tenure
the object of supreme regard; but here the
actual tie is severed only by the stroke of
death, while mutual interest, instead of weak-
ening, renders it more secure. The love of
a parent for a child, natural, and pure, and
holy as it is, can never bind that child beyond
a certain period within its influence; while
the love of a child for a parent must necessa-
rily be interrupted in the course of nature, by
the dissolution of its earthly hold. The love
of a brother or a sister must ever be ready to
give place to dearer claims; and that of a
friend, though "very precious" while it lasts, But, perhaps, more than in any other case,
has no real security for its continuance. And is it thus with literary fame, in the pursuit of
yet all these, according to the laws which which how many are urged on by a strong,
regulate our being, in their own place and though it may seem to some a fanciful im-
measure, supply the natural craving of the pression, that the voice of feeling which has
human heart for something beyond itself, | failed to find an echo in its own immediate
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
47
F
sphere, may, in the wide world through which
it is sent forth, touch in some unknown
breast a sympathetic chord, and thus awaken
a responsive emotion.
But if with man, the most powerful and
independent of created beings, there ever ex-
ists this want of spiritual reliance and com-
munion, what must it be to the weaker heart
of woman, to find one earthly hold after an-
other giving way, and to look around upon
the great wilderness of life, in which she
stands unconnected, and consequently alone?
If there be one principle in woman's nature
stronger than all others, it is that which
prompts her to seek sympathy and protection
from some being whom she may love, and
by whom she may be loved in return. The
influence of fashion is, perhaps, of all others
to which the female sex is exposed, the most
hardening to the heart-the most chilling to
its warm and genuine emotions. Yet I much
question whether the successful candidate
for public admiration, would not sometimes
willingly retire from the splendid circle in
which she is the centre of attraction, to re-
ceive in private the real homage of one un-
sophisticated, noble, and undivided heart.
Having failed in this, woman's first and most
excusable ambition, how often does she go
forth into the world, to waste upon the cold
and-polished surface of society, those capa-
bilities of thought and feeling which might,
if more wisely directed, have made a happy
home; and how often is she compelled to
look, appalled and horror-struck, upon the
utter emptiness of the reward which follows
this expenditure, when the same outlay in a
different soil, and under happier culture,
might have enabled her to gather into her bo-
som a hundred fold the richer fruits of con-
fidence and affection!
It is only in the married state that the
boundless capabilities of woman's love can
be fully known or appreciated. There may,
in other situations, be occasional instances of
heroic self-sacrifice, and devotion to an earth-
ly object; but it is only here that the lapse
of time, and the familiar occasions of every
day, can afford opportunities of exhibiting
the same spirit, operating through all those
minor channels, which flow like fertilizing
rills through the bosom of every family,
where the influence of woman is alike happy
in its exercise, and enlightened in its charac-
ter.
Out of all which our first parents sacri-
ficed when they lost their high estate, it was
| mercifully permitted them to retain their
mutual love; and it is possible to imagine
that the mother of mankind, even when look-
ing her last upon that Eden whose flowers
her care had tended, would turn to the com-
panion of her banishment with a deeper and
more fervent appeal to his sympathy and af-
fection, than she ever could have felt the
need of, in those bowers of beauty where a
leaf was never seen to fade. Thus out of
her very weakness, and from (among the
many snares which have beset the path of
woman since that day of awful' doom, has
arisen a more intense desire, and a more ur-
gent need, for the support of a stronger na-
ture, with which her own can mingle, until
it almost loses the bitter consciousness of
having forfeited all claim to be still an inhab-`
itant of Paradise.
Lest, however, the temptations to this for-
getfulness should stand between her and the
necessity there is to seek a higher and a ho-
lier rest, there has fallen on her earthly lot
some shadows, which the light of earthly love
is not sufficient to dispel. Even love itself
has sometimes failed; and, worse than all, in
her own bosom has become extinguished.
In order to know how to avert this calam-
ity, it is necessary to endeavor to look calm-
ly and dispassionately at the subject in every
point of view, to dispel the visions of imagi
nation, and to ask what is the real cause of
failure, where woman has so much at stake.
Love may arise spontaneously, but it does
not continue to exist without some care and
culture. In a mind whose ideas are all float-
ing at large, and whose emotions of feeling
or affection are left to the prompting of im-
pulse, unrestrained by the discipline or rea-
son, there will naturally arise strange wander-
ing thoughts, which will be likely at any
48
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

unguarded moment to undermine so frail a
fabric, as love under such circumstances
must ever be.
One tendency in the mind of the married
woman who has thus neglected the govern-
ment of her own feelings, will be, on every
occasion of momentary vexation or dissatis-
faction, to compare her husband with other
men to his disadvantage; than which noth-
ing can be more dangerous, or more incon-
sistent with that faithfulness which ought
ever to be a leading characteristic in the love
of married life. Nor can any thing well be
more impolitic or absurd; since there is no
human being, however excellent, who may
not, in some way or other, be made to suffer
by comparison with others. Besides which,
what right have we, as frail and erring crea-
tures, to aspire, in this connection, to an alli-
ance with a being entirely faultless, or even
more perfect than ourselves?
If then there should occasionally arise feel-
ings of disappointment and dissatisfaction, as
the kapse of time and a nearer acquaintance
develop a husband's faults, it is good to bear
in mind that the same exposure of your own,
from the same cause, must necessarily have
taken place; and by often dwelling upon this
view of the subject, a degree of charitable
feeling will be excited, more calculated to
humble and chasten the heart, than to embit-
ter it against the failings of another.
Still there are frequent provocations of tem-
per, which some men through ignorance, and
others from perverseness, or the love of pow-
er, are not over scrupulous to avoid; and
these, to an irritable temperament, are often
more trying than greater deviations from
what is strictly right.
his protection. We are all perhaps too little
accustomed to such thoughts as these, ex-
cept where illness or accident places them
immediately before us. We are too much in
the habit of looking upon the thread of life
with us, as far more likely to be broken first,
and of thinking that the stronger frame must
necessarily endure the longest.
But one
realizing thought that the sentence of wid-
owed loneliness may possibly be ours-how
does it sweep away, as by a single breath,
the mist of little imperfections which had-
gathered around a beloved form, and reveal
to us at one glance the manly beauties of a
noble, or a generous character!
Even beauties less than these-the kind
look, the cordial welcome, the patient answer,
the mild forbearance, the gentle and familiar
acts of every day which never-tiring affection
prompted, and the smile which beamed upon
us perhaps when we deserved it least—all
these come back, and live before us, as often
as we think of the possibility of losing them
forever. And it is good to have the heart
thus softened and subdued-thus made to
feel how completely the petty provocations of
each day would vanish from our minds, if we
stood by the dying couch of him who never
offended but in little things, and heard the
parting benediction of the friend who would
fain leave behind him a blessing, which his
living presence had failed to bestow.
It is an unspeakable privilege enjoyed by
the women of England, that in the middle
ranks of life, a married woman, however
youthful or attractive, if her own manners
are unexceptionable, is seldom, or never, ex-
posed to the attentions of men, so as to lead
her affections out of their proper channel.
Against the petulance and occasional re- How much is gained in domestic and so-
sentment which an accumulation of these cial happiness by this exemption from cus-
trials call forth, there is one great and solemn toms which prevail on the continent, it is here
consideration, by which a woman of right unnecessary to attempt to describe; for I
feeling may, at any time, add sufficient cannot imagine there is any right-minded
weight to the balance in her husband's favor woman, still less any Christian wife, who
she may think of his death, of the emotions does not number it among the peculiar bless-
with which she would receive his last fare-ings of her country, and her sex. Yet even
well, and of what would be her situation if in our privileged land, where the established
deprived at once of his love, his advice, and rules of society are so much more favorable
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
49
than in others, to the purity of social morals,
and the sanctity of home-enjoyments, there
may occasionally occur an attempted devia-
tion from these rules, on the part of ignorant
or unprincipled men. In all such cases, how-
ever, the slightest approach to undue fami-
liarity is easily repelled, by such a look and
manner, as all women know how to make
use of in discountenancing what is not ac-
ceptable; and even in more trifling cases, or
where the temptation to be agreeable over-
comes the inclination to be otherwise, I be-
lieve that a frank and easy manner of speak-
ing of a husband with respect and evident
affection, would answer every purpose of
putting a stop to such advances; while, on
the other hand, nothing can be more likely to
invite them, than speaking in complaining
terms either of a husband, or of his behavior
towards yourself.
But the surest safeguard both at home and
abroad, and the truest test by which to prove
the propriety of every look, and act, and
word, when mixing in the society of other
men, is a sincere and faithful love for the
companion of your choice. Without this, it
would be vain to lay down rules by which a
wandering fancy might be kept in check.
An enlightened conscience alone, in such a
case, can point out exactly how to act; while
with this love, there needs no other guide.
It is itself so pure, so constant, and so true,
that conscience only echoes what its happier
voice approves.
And now, having thus loved your husband,
and cast in your lot with his-having.chosen
his portion, his people, and his God for yours,
it is meet that you should love him to the
last. It is true, there are cases where a
gradual deterioration of character, or a sud-
den fall from moral rectitude, renders affec-
tion the last offering a stranger would think
it possible to make at such a shrine; but if
others turn away repelled, there is the more
need for such a man, that his wife should
love him still-there is the more need that
one friend should remain to be near him in
his moments of penitence, if such should
ever come; or to watch the lingering light of
better days, so as if possible to kindle it once
more into a cheerful and invigorating flame.
Of all the states of suffering which have
ever swelled the ocean of human tears, there
is none in the smallest degree comparable to
the situation of such a wife; yet, as if by
some law of nature, which raises the sweet-
est flowers from out the least apparently con-
genial soil, it is here that we so often see the
character of woman developed in all its love-
liest and noblest attributes. It is here that
we see to what an almost superhuman height
that character can rise, when stripped of its
vanity, and divested of its selfishness. Alas!
that she should wait for the chastening of a
cruel scourge, before she will even aspire to
that perfection of moral beauty of which her
nature is capable!
If to love the vicious, or the degraded,
were necessarily to love their vices too, it
would be a melancholy picture to see an
amiable woman falling into such a snare.
But though unquestionably too many do this,
and sometimes almost unconsciously assimi-
late themselves with vice, either from con-
stant association with what is evil, or from
the habit of referring their own judgment of
right and wrong to that of a polluted and de-
graded mind; there are others who, with the
nicest discrimination, and with the clearest
convictions on these points, go on from day
to day beholding what they hate, in the most
intimate connection with what they love
While contemplating the fate of such, our
only consolation is to compare their situation.
as it is, with what it would be, were there no
channel open to mercy and to hope, for the
outpourings of a heavily laden heart through
the medium of prayer. Friends bring no
comfort, earth holds no consolation for those
who weep such tears; yet often in the depth
of their affliction have they been enabled to
own and bless the chastening of a Father's
hand, and to feel that in that very chas-
tening there was love!
But it is time to turn our attention to that
portion of the love of married life, which be-
longs more especially to the other sex; and
here the first thing to be observed is, that no
4
50
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
neither the loftiest nor the best. His highest
hopes and brightest energies, must ever be
expected to expend themselves upon the
man's heart can be said to be really gained
before his marriage. He may be the most
obsequious of beaux, the most flattering of
admirers, and even the most devoted of lov-promotion of some favorite scheme, or the
ers; but his affection has not been tried in
the way which brings it to the severest test.
It is true it may have been tried by absence,
by caprice, by coldness, or neglect; but it
has yet to be tried by the security of entire
possession; by the monotony of sameness;
and, I grieve to add, too often by the neglect
of those personal attractions by which it was
at first so studiously invited.
advancement of some public measure, and
if with untiring satisfaction he turns to her
after the efforts of the day have been com-
pleted; and weary, and perhaps dispirited,
comes back to pour into her faithful bosom
the history of those trials which the world
can never know, and would not pity if it
could; if she can thus supply to the extent
of his utmost wishes, the sympathy and the
advice, the confidence and the repose, of
which he is in need, she will have little cause
to think herself neglected.
How little do women think of this, when,
by the security of the marriage tie, they are
rendered careless of the preservation of the
richest jewel in their bridal wreath, and one-It-is-a-wise beginning, then, for every mar
which never yet was secured to its possessorried woman to make up her mind to be for-
by any outward bond! How little do they gotten through the greater part of every day;
reflect, that while it is the natural tendency to make up her mind to many rivals too in
of woman's heart to become more tenderly her husband's attentions, though not in his
attached to the being with whom she is thus love; and among these, I would mention
associated, it is not so with that of man ! one, whose claims it is folly to dispute; since
And thus it becomes the study of a life, to no remonstrances or representations on her
retain in all its freshness and its beauty, the her part will ever be able to render less at-
precious gem committed to their trust. tractive the charms of this competitor. I
mean the newspaper, of whose absorbing in-
terest some wives are weak enough to evince
a sort of childish jealousy, when they ought
rather to congratulate themselves that their
most formidable rival is one of paper.
Nor should we murmur that it is so. For
once possessed of this inestimable treasure,
and secure of its continuance, what should
we aspire to beyond our present state?
Even as things are, we see a marked neglect
in the behavior of some wives; as if their
husbands were equally bound to love, as to
protect them. What then would be the de-
gree of carelessness prevailing among wo-
men, if this were really the case, and if the
heart of man invariably, and of necessity,
went along with his duty as a husband!
The same observations apply perhaps in a
more serious manner to those occupations
which lead-men-into public life. If the ob-
ject be to do good, either by correcting
abuses, or forwarding benevolent designs,
and not merely to make himself the head of
a party, a judicious and right-principled wo-
man will be too happy for her husband to be
instrumental in a noble cause, to put in com-
petition with his public efforts, any loss she
may sustain in personal attention or domestic
comfort.
Happily for our sex, however, there are
means of securing this treasure, more effica-
cious than the marriage vow; and among
these, I shall mention first, the desirable-
ness of not being too requiring. It must
ever be borne in mind, that man's love, even A system of persecution perseveringly car-
in its happiest exercise, is not like woman's; ried on against such manly propensities as
for while she employs herself through every reading the newspaper, or even against the
hour, in fondly weaving one beloved image household derangements necessarily accom-
into all her thoughts; he gives to her com- panying attention to public business, has the
paratively few of his, and of these perhaps | worst possible effect upon a husband's tem-
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
51
per, and general state of feeling. So much
so, that I am inclined to think a greater
amount of real love has been actually teased
away, than ever was destroyed by more di-
rect, or more powerfully operating means.
The same system of teasing is sometimes
most unwisely kept up, for the purpose of
calling forth a succession of those little per-
sonal attentions, which, if not gratuitously
rendered, are utterly destitute of value, and
ought never to be required.
To all married women, it must be gratify-
ing to receive from a husband just so much
attention as indicates a consciousness of her
presence; but with this acknowledgment, ex-
pressed in any manner which may be most
congenial to her husband's tastes and habits,
a woman of true delicacy would surely be
satisfied without wishing to stipulate for more.
Still less would she annoy him with an ex-
hibition of her own fondness, under the idea
of its being necessarily returned in kind. It
is a holy, and a blessed mystery, from the
secrets of which, in its mastery over the hu-
man mind, almost all women who have ever
been beloved, have learned the power of their
own tenderness; but in proportion to the
purity of its nature, and the sacredness of its
exercise, is its capability of being abused and
degraded. Thus, all exhibition of fondness
before a third party, may justly be looked
upon as indicating a total ignorance of the
intensity, and the purity, of that which alone
deserves the name of love; while, could one
imagine the possibility of such a thing, all ex-
ercise of this fondness made use of for the
purpose of obtaining advantage over a hus-
band's judgment or inclination, could only be
supposed to arise out of the meanest impulse
of a low, an artful, and a degraded mind.
But we cannot for a moment imagine such
things really are. We cannot believe that a
woman conscious of her personal attractions,
could hang about her husband's neck, or
weep, or act the impassioned heroine, for the
base purpose of inducing him to make some
concession, which in his calmer moments he
could not be prevailed upon to grant. No,
the true heart of woman knows too well, that
that sweet gift of heaven, granted in consid-
eration to her weakness, was never meant to
be made use of as an instrument of power to
gain a selfish end; but was permitted her for
the high and holy purpose of softening the
harder and more obdurate nature of man, so
as to render it capable of impressions upon
which the seal of eternity might be set.
It requires much tact, as well as delicacy,
to know how to render expressions of endear-
ment at all times appropriate, and conse-
quently acceptable; and as love is far too
excellent a thing to be wasted, and tender-
ness too precious to be thrown away, a sen-
sible woman will most scrupulously consult
her husband's mood and temper in this re-
spect, as well as remember always the con-
sideration due to her own personal attrac-
tions; for, without some considerable portion
of these advantages, it will be always safest
not to advance very far, unless there should
be clear and direct encouragement to do so.
Pitiful pictures have been drawn in works of
fiction of the hopelessness of efforts of this
nature; but one would willingly believe them
to be confined to fiction only, for there is hap-
pily, in most enlightened female minds, an
intuitive perception on these points, by which
they may discover almost instantaneously
from a look, a tone, a touch responsive to
their own, how far it may be desirable to go,
and by what shadow they ought to be warn-
ed, as well as by what ray of light they ought
to be encouraged.
It may be easily imagined how an ignorant,
or selfish woman, never can be able to un-
derstand all this, and how she may conse-
quently make shipwreck of her husband's
happiness, and her own peace, simply from
never having known, observed, or felt, what
belongs to the nature of the human heart in
these its most exquisite touches of light and
shade; while, on the other hand, not the
highest intellectual attainments, with the no-
blest gifts of nature, nor all the importance
and distinction which these attributes obtain
for their possessor in the world, will be able
to efface for a moment the delicate percep-
tions of a truly sensitive woman, or to render
52
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
her in the deep and fervent love of which
she is capable, otherwise than humble, and
easily subdued; especially when she comes
with childlike simplicity to consult the dial
of her husband's love, and to read there the
progress of the advancing or receding shad-
ows, which indicate her only true position,
through the lapse of every hour.
It is an act of injustice towards women,
and one which often brings its own punish-
ment upon talented men, when they select as
their companions for life, the ignorant or the
imbecile of the other sex, believing that be-
cause they are so, they must be more capable
of loving. If to be incapable of any thing else,
implies this necessity, it must be granted that
they are so. But of what value is that love
which exists as a mere impulse of nature,
compared with that, which, with an equal
force of impulse, combines the highest attri-
butes of an enlightened mind, and brings
them all with their rich produce, like flowers
from a delicious garden, a welcome and ap-
propriate offering at the shrine whereon the
heart is laid.
Still I must repeat, that it is not the superi-
ority of talent, but the early and the best use
of such as we possess, which gives this power
and beauty to affection, by directing it to its
appropriate end. For as in other duties of
woman's life, without knowledge she cannot,
if she would, act properly; so in the expres-
sion and bestowment of her love, without an
intimate acquaintance with the human heart,
without having exercised her faculties of ob-
servation and reflection, and without having
obtained by early discipline some mastery
over her own feelings, she will ever be liable
to rush blindly upon those fatal errors, by
which the love of married life so often has
been wrecked.
In connection with this subject, there is one
consideration to which sufficient weight is sel-
dom given; and that is, the importance of
never trifling with affection after the nuptual
knot is tied. To do this at any time, or in
any way, is scarcely consistent with the feel-
ings of a deeply sensitive and delicate mind:
but leaving the display of caprice to those
who think it gives zest to the familiarity of
courtship, it cannot be too deeply impressed
upon the female mind, that with the days of
courtship it must end.
There are innumerable tests which might
be applied to the love of married life, so as to
ascertain the degree of its intensity, or the
progress of its declension; but who would
wish to apply them?—or who, even if they
did, would dare to make so critical an ex-
periment? If there be any cause for its exist-
ence, the consciousness comes soon enough,
that the wife is not all to her husband which
the flattering promises of early love prepared
her to expect; and if there be no cause for
the slightest shadow of suspicion that her
star is beginning to go down, why trouble her
own repose, and that of her husband, by
questioning the reality of what it would be
worse than death to doubt?
All teasing, all caprice, all acting, for the
purpose of renewing an agreeable effect, are
therefore inimical to the mutual trust, and
the steady confidence in reciprocal affection,
which are, or ought to be, enjoyed by indi-
viduals thus bound together by an indissolu-
ble tie. Not that the writer would for a mo-
ment wish to discountenance that harmless
vivacity with which some women know so
well how to charm; or to speak of the priva-
cy of married life as consisting of dull and
sombre scenes. So far from this, it is her
firm belief, that nothing tends more to ani-
mate and renew the feeling of affection in
the mind of man, than the cheerfulness of
his fireside companion.
It is here, then, that the display of native
wit and humor may be enjoyed with the
greatest zest, for here it is safe; and the hus-
band who comes home to have his spirit re-
freshed by an easy, natural, and well-timed
description of the amusing incidents which
have taken place during his absence, will not
be the most likely to prefer another fireside to
his own.
Even in illness, but especially when laboring
only under a slight degree of indisposition, by
those who have made cheerfulness a familiar
habit, much may be done to prevent the dou-
THE LOVE OF MARRIED LIFE.
53
|
ble burden of sickness and sorrow falling up- the most devoted and delicate attentions in
on a husband at once.
the season of illness; and all who have ex-
perienced, and felt the real value of such at-
tentions, will estimate them too highly, to be
willing that a habit of fretful or unnecessary
complaining should thus deprive the hour of
suffering of its greatest earthly consolation.
It would not be just, even if it were possi-
There is a vast difference between being
as ill as you can be, and as well as you can
be. To aim at the latter rather than the
former, is the duty of every one, but espe-
cially of the married woman, the great busi-
ness of whose life is to soothe and cheer, not
to depress, to weary, or to annoy. If there-ble, to speak on this subject, and to leave un-
fore, before marriage, she has been deluded marked by expressions of gratitude and ad-
into the notion that a multiplicity of little ail- miration, the gentle kindness and untiring
ments invested her character with an inter-patience, with which some men can devote
esting kind of delicacy; the sooner she be-themselves to the duties of a sick-room; or
comes perfectly well after marriage, the better how, by their superior strength, added some-
it will be for herself, and for all around her. times to a higher degree of tenderness and
Lest, however, the liberty of these remarks delicacy, they can render those services to a
should appear to touch unkindly those who weak or suffering wife, which nothing but the
are really afflicted, I must refer the reader for love of married life can either purchase or
a proof of what may be done in the way of repay. But though one would willingly for-
bearing pain with cheerfulness and resigna- give the wife, who for the gratification afford-
tion, to those many beautiful instances which ed by such kindness, would almost wish to
adorn the history of woman, where her own suffer, it must ever be remembered, that not
sufferings appear to be forgotten in the inten- by complaining of every little ache and pain,
sity of her desire to make others happy. is such kindness to be purchased; but by
And here again we see the necessity of hav- bearing, with sweetness and serenity, those
ing made such acts of self-sacrifice habitual. trials which the all-wise Disposer of human
No human being, however great the moment- events sees meet to inflict.
ary effort, can practise this kind of self-gov-
ernment, or consistently exercise this degree
of generosity, merely from the force of tran-
sient impulse; and when the greater claims
upon the attention of a wife render illness to
her a more painful and trying ordeal than it
has ever been before, she will feel the greater
need of having practised, in her early years,
the habit of so far restraining the expression" marriage of true minds"-something which
of personal feeling, as by making the best of
her afflictions, and gratefully embracing such
opportunities of enjoyment as still remain, to
be able to render it not an irksome duty, but
a privilege, to be near her in sickness and suf-
fering.
It is a great pity when those trials which
render affection so essential to our support,
should be made the means of driving it away.
Nor is it at all necessary that this should be
the case with men; for there is a kindness,
and a forbearance, mingled with their higher
virtues, which sometimes elicits from them
It is in seasons such as these, that the per-
fect identity originating in the marriage bond,
is most deeply felt-that identity which gives
a spiritual nature to an earthly union. It is
true we are told there is no such thing as
giving in marriage in heaven; but we are
left to enjoy the happiness of believing, that
there is something almost heavenly in the
brings us nearer, than any other circumstance
in this sublunary state, to an apprehension
of what must be the enjoyment of those re-
gions of felicity, where all existences are
blended into one, and where the essential
principle of that one is love.
Nor is it the least wonderful property be-
longing to this drop of sweetness in life's
great ocean, that it can exist almost inde-
pendently of outward circumstances. How
many of the hapless inheritors of poverty
and suffering have nothing else; and yet
their lot is scarcely to be called bitter, so long
54
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
as they have this. On the other hand, how
many a desolate but jewelled brow, would
doff its envied wreath, for the privilege of
sharing this enjoyment with one who was
equally loving and beloved!
Let us not, however, fall into the romantic
notion, that outward circumstances have no-
thing to do with the maintenance of this
strong feeling of identity. Poverty of itself,
or privation in the abstract, would probably
never be able to shake the foundation of
man's love, or woman's either; but such is
the complicated texture of the human mind,
that no single portion of suffering or enjoy-
ment exists to us alone, but each draws
along with it a train of associating links, by
which it is connected sometimes with what is
most heterogeneous and dissimilar to its own
nature. Thus it is the manner in which pov-
erty is borne, which so frequently constitutes
the greatest trial of love-the mutual com-
plainings, recriminations, and suspicions,
which it calls forth; not its suffering, its des
titution, and its abasement, for under these it
is within the province of love to support and
to console; and, on the other hand, it is the
vanity, the dissipation, and the diversity of
interests excited by circumstances of extra-
ordinary prosperity, which often prove fatal
to the love of married life; when the wider
range of duties and privileges, belonging to
an exalted station, might have constituted a
stronger bond of sympathy between individ-
uals thus elevated together.
Thus the fault is not in the love of mar-
ried life, that it gives way so often under the
trial of outward circumstances; but in the
power so frequently brought to bear against
it, from the wrong feelings which circum-
stances are allowed to call into action..
is extinguished, his love may too truly be
said to have lost its bloom, its freshness, and
its intensity. A sense of duty may still sup-
ply what propriety requires, and a feeling
that his doom is fixed may prevent any great
expenditure of thought in sad and unavailing
regrets; but who that has looked "on this
picture and on that"-who that has observed
the dull and leaden aspect presented by mar-
ried life under these circumstances, could
contemplate with equanimity of mind, the
possibility of its succeeding in the place of
that bright and glowing picture first brought
to light by the early promise of mutual love?
It should then be the first and last study of
every married woman, to preserve this pic-
ture in all its purity, and all its freshness;
remembering ever that it is not from the
great and stirring accidents of time, that the
most danger is to be apprehended; but that
sometimes
"A word unkind or wrongly taken;
Or Love, which tempest never shook,
A breath-a touch like this hath shaken.”
It is not, therefore, by exemption from out-
ward calamity, that woman can preserve this
treasure of her life; but by maintaining
through all the little incidents of daily inter-
course a true and faithful heart towards her
husband-true in its own affections-true also
to the various requirements of human nature
-and true in its attachment to his interests,
both as they relate to time and to eternity.
CHAPTER VII.
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
Of man's love it must ever be remembered If in describing the domestic happiness of
too, that if once destroyed, it is destroyed for- English homes, the love of married life were
ever. Woman has the strong power of her all which had to be dwelt upon, the task of
sympathy and her imagination, by which in- the writer would be like that of one who en-
terest can be re-awakened, and the past can ters a garden for no other purpose than to
be made to live again; but the nature of cull the flowers; but as among the fairest
man's affection admits of no very potent productions of nature, the intrusion of noxious
stimulus from such causes. When once his weeds must ever be anticipated; so among
tenderness toward the object of his affection | the brighter scenes of human life, dark pas-
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
55
sages must occasionally be expected; and fairs, at all to be compared with those which
happy will it be if they only appear like pass-belong to the close intercourse of persons of
dissimilar habits bound together for life.
ing clouds over the landscape, leaving the
aspect of the whole more vivid and beautiful,
for the trifling interruption to its sameness
and repose.
That married life has its peculiar trials, it
would imply great ignorance of the actual
state of human affairs to attempt to disprove;
and while we gladly admit the fact, that it is
possible to be happier in this state, than any
human being can be alone; we must also
bear in mind, that it is possible to be more
miserable too-perhaps for this very reason,
that the greatest trials connected with this
state of existence, are such as cannot be told,
and therefore such as necessarily set the suf-
ferer apart from all human sympathy and
consolation. Many of these, however, may
be greatly ameliorated by a willingness to
meet them in a proper way; but more es-
pecially, by an habitual subjection of self to
the interests and the happiness of others.
Among the trials peculiar to married life,
we will first speak of those of temper; and
here it is necessary to refer again to the
common delusion prevailing among young
women, which leads them to look forward to
the time of marriage, as the opening of a
scene of unlimited indulgence, where every
wish will be consulted, and every inclination.
gratified to its full extent, and where con-
sequently it will be impossible that offences
should ever come.
It requires but little reflection to perceive,
that even if the husband had been sincere in
all the promises, which as a lover he held
forth, it would not be in his power to render
the lot of any woman one of uninterrupted
enjoyment; for however faithfully his own
part might be fulfilled, it would still be the
inevitable consequence of thus setting out
together in the serious business of conducting
a household, that circumstances should press
upon both, so as either to thwart their incli-
nations, or bend them to submission. Be-
yond these, however, it must be allowed, that
there are no trials of temper arising out of
the cross occurrences incident to family af-
It is a curious fact, that however irritable
the temper may be, a stranger has compara-
tively no power to ruffle it; while, on the
other hand, the closer the intimacy, the
greater is the liability both to pain and pro-
vocation, where that intimacy is made use of
as a key to the secret passages of the heart.
Hence the bland and patient smiles with
which a stranger is sometimes listened to,
when a sister or a brother conversing in the
same style, would scarcely be endured; and
hence the peevish answer sometimes be-
stowed upon a husband, when a guest is im-
mediately spoken to in the gentlest and most
conciliating tone.
There is something, too, in the bare fact of
being indissolubly bound together, which, in-
stead of rendering it for that reason an ob-
ject of supreme desire that the bondage
should be one of silken cords, rather than one
of weary chains, seems to produce in the
human mind, a sort of perverse determina-
tion to bear, whatever must be borne, as
badly as we can.
That the prospect of having to combat with
any trial of temper but for a very limited space
of time, has a peculiar effect in rendering it
more tolerable, we have sufficient proof in
the conduct of hired nurses, who, perhaps,
of all human beings, have the most to put up
with in the way of provocations of this kind.
It cannot be supposed that persons of this
description possess any peculiar advantages
in the way of mental discipline, to give them
this power of self-command; nor is it a ques-
tion of self-interest, for of all persons, that
would be most likely to operate upon the
wife; neither have they time or opportu-
nity, in the majority of cases, for attaching
themselves by any feelings of affection to the
objects of their care. It is the simple fact that
all will soon be over, and that to them it is
ultimately of no sort of consequence, which
enables them to bear with such amazing equa-
nimity the trials of patience to which they
are so frequently subjected; while, on the
56
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
other hand, the consideration that it must be
thus, and thus always, appears at once to
excite a spirit of resistance where resistance |
is most vain.
One thing, however, is certain in such a
case it is not by ebullitions of momentary
indignation that an idle man can be stimula-
ted into action. So far from it, he will rather
But granting that there is, inherent in the be made worse, and rendered more obsti-
human mind, this spirit of contradiction, and nately idle by any direct opposition to the in-
granting also that men, with all their dignified | dulgence of his personal inclinations. What-
and noble attributes, are sometimes, though ever good is to be done in such a case, can
often unconsciously, indescribably provoking only be effected from the convictions of his
to an irritable temperament; there is one own mind, brought about by the quiet opera-
consideration which a generous mind will tion of affectionate and judicious reasoning;
be ever willing to dwell upon with so much for if the wife should be unguarded enough
candor, as at least to make concessions when to throw out reproaches against him, repre-
it has been betrayed into any excess of irrita-senting the disgusting nature of idleness in
bility, if not wholly to submit with cheerful- its true colors; or if she should seek to es-
ness and resignation to this peculiar dispen- | tablish her own claims to his exertions, so as
sation, regarding it as among the appoint-
ments of Providence, designed for purposes
inscrutable perhaps to human reason, yet not
the less in accordance with mercy, and with
wisdom.
But in order to judge more candidly on
this subject, let us single out a few instances
of the most familiar kind on both sides; and |
if the merit of unconsciousness, and absence
of design, does not preponderate on the side
of man, I shall be much mistaken in my cal-
culations.
to convey an idea of her arguments tending
to a selfish end, she might as well
go kindle fire with snow,"
as attempt to rouse her husband into healthy
and consistent habits of activity by such
means.
Here, too, we might mention as pre-emi-
nent among the trials of married life, though
I question whether it operates so immediately
upon the temper as some others, the ruinous
propensity inherent in the nature of some
men, to spend their own money, and some-
times the money of their friends, in vague
speculations and visionary schemes.
The man who is possessed with this mania,
for in certain cases it deserves no other name,
is neither to be convinced by argument nor
experience, that after ninety-nine failures, he
is not very likely to succeed the hundredth
time; and the wife who knows that the main-
tenance of herself and her family is entirely
dependent upon him, has abundant need for
supplies of strength and patience beyond
what any earthly source can afford.
I have always been accustomed to con-
sider it as the severest trial to the temper of
a married woman, to have an idle husband;
and if in addition to neglecting his business,
or such manly occupations as an exemption
from the necessities of business would leave
him at liberty to pursue, he is personally
idle, sitting slipshod at noontime, with his
feet upon the fender, occasionally jarring to-
gether the whole army of fire-irons with one
stroke of his foot, agitated at intervals by the
mere muscular irritation of having nothing to
do, or not choosing to do any thing; and if
he should happen to have chosen for his wifeing reasonable ground of complaint, is the
a woman of active bustling character, as such
men not unfrequently do, I believe I must, as
in some other instances, leave it to the reader
to suggest some possible means by which
such a woman may at all times control her
temper, and keep the peace at her own fire-
side.
Among other causes of irritation, and form-
disposition evinced by some men to be incon-
siderate and cruel to anímals; and this I
must think, is one of the cases in which we
are recommended to be angry, and sin not.
Yet even in this instance, when we look at
the education of boys-and consider the ab-
sence there is of all regard to the feelings of
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
57

good humor, such a man might easily be
brought to consider them as necessary to the
good of his household, as the refreshing
shower is to the summer soil.
A causeless and habitual neglect of punctu-
ality on the part of the master of a house, is
certainly a grievance very difficult to bear;
because as he is the principal person in the
household, and the first to be considered, the
whole machinery of domestic_management
animals, even in the minds of the most deli-
cate females, except where early instruction
has given to this regard the force of princi-
ple-great and charitable allowance ought to
be made for the conduct of men in this re-
spect: and perhaps the best and only means
of remedying the evil, which any woman can
adopt, is to bring up her children, if she be a
mother, with higher and more enlightened
views of the requirements of Christian duty.
It is a well-known fact, that men in gene-must necessarily be dependent upon his
ral appear to consider themselves justly en-
titled to the privilege of being out of humor |
about their food. Thus the whole pleasure
of a social meal is sometimes destroyed by
some trifling error in the culinary department,
or the non-appearance of some expected in-
dulgence. But here again, our forbearance
is called into exercise, by remembering the
probability there is, that such men have had
silly mothers, who made the pleasures of their
childhood to consist chiefly of such as belong
to the palate; and here too, if the wife can-
not remedy this evil, and in all probability iting this day after day, will be excessively an-
will be beyond her power to do so, she may,
by her judicious efforts to promote the wel-
fare of the rising generation, impart to the
youthful minds committed to her care, or
subject to her influence, a juster estimate of
what belongs to the true enjoyment of intel-
lectual and immortal beings.
|
movements; and more especially, since it so
happens, that persons who are the most ac-
customed to keep others waiting, have the
least patience to wait for others. Thus it
not unfrequently occurs, that a wife is all day
urging on her servants to a punctual atten-
tion to the dinner-hour appointed by her
husband, and when that hour arrives, he has
either forgotten it himself, or he allows some
trifling hindrance to prevent his returning
home until one, or perhaps two, hours later.
Yet the same man, though in the habit of do-
noyed, if for once in his life he should be
punctual to the appointed time, and not find
all things ready on his return.
Perhaps too the master of a family, on
days of household bustle, when extra busi-
ness has to be done, will not choose to rise
so early as usual; or he will sit reading the
newspaper while his breakfast waits, and
thus keep every member of his family stand-
ing about unoccupied, with all the business
of the day before them. Or, he may be one
of those who like that women should be al-
ways ready long before the necessary time,
and thus habitually name an hour for meet-
has not the remotest intention of being ready
himself.
With all occasions of domestic derange-
ment, such as washing days, and other reno-
vations of comfort and order, some men of
irritable temperament wage open and deter-
mined war. But, may we not ask, in con-
nection with this subject, whether their pre-
judices against these household movements
have not been remotely or immediately ex-ing, or setting out from home, at which he
cited, by the extreme and unnecessary con-
fusion and disturbance with which they are
too frequently accompanied? For I cannot
think that a reasonable man, on comparing
an English home with a French one, for in-
stance, would desire to be altogether exempting to overrule the movements of such a
from such domestic purifications; and if
properly managed, so as to interfere as little
as possible with his personal comfort, and
conducted with general cheerfulness and
Now, as the time of women, if properly
employed, is too precious to be wasted, some-
thing surely may be done, not by endeavor-
man so as to make him true to his own ap-
pointment, but by convincing him, that com-
mon honesty requires him simply to state
the actual time at which he does intend to
58
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

be ready. And here we see at once, one of
those numerous instances in which a reason-
able man will listen, and endeavor to amend;
while an unreasonable man will either not
listen, or not take the slightest pains to im-
prove.
with another nature, might, if they would
use it for such a purpose, enable them not so
much to know, as to feel, when they were
giving pain, or awakening displeasure. Men,
as I have just stated, are comparatively des-
titute of this power, as well as of that of sym-
therefore, they appear to women so perverse,
and are consequently so difficult to bear
with, it is often from their being wholly un-
conscious of the actual state of the case; of
the long entanglement of inconveniences
which their thoughtless ways are weaving;
and consequently of the wounded feeling,
disappointment, and vexation, which such
thoughtlessness not unfrequently inflicts upon
the weaker mind of woman, when the whole
framework of her daily existence must be
regulated by the movements of a husband
who thinks of "none of these things."
Again, there are men who like the import-pathy, to which it is so nearly allied. When,
ance, and the feeling of power and decision
which it gives them, to set out on a journey
as if upon the spur of the moment, without
having communicated their intentions even
to the wife, who is most interested in making
preparations for such a movement. And
there are others, who when consulted about
any thing, cannot be brought to give either
their attention or their advice, so as to assist
the judgment of a wife, who would gladly
give satisfaction if she could; yet when the
time to act upon their advice is past, will be-
stow their attention a little too severely upon
the unfortunate being, who, consulting her
own judgment as the only guide she had,
will most probably have done exactly what
they did not wish.
But it would be an endless task, to go on
enumerating instances of this description. I
have merely mentioned these as specimens
of the kind of daily and hourly trials which
most women have to expect in the married
state; and which, as I have before stated,
may be greatly softened down, if not entirely
reconciled, by the consideration already al-
luded to. Besides which, it is but candid to
allow, that the greater proportion of these
offences against temper and patience, origin-
ate in one of those peculiarities in the charac-
ter of man which I have omitted to mention
in its proper place. I mean the incapability
under which he labors, of placing himself in
idea in the situation of another person, so as
to identify his feelings with theirs, and thus
to enter into what they suffer and enjoy, as
if the feeling were his own.
This capability appears to be peculiarly a
feminine one, and it exists among women in
so high a degree, as to leave them little ex-
cuse if they irritate or give offence to others;
because this innate power which they possess
of identifying themselves for the moment
But we have not yet sufficiently examined
that one consideration, which ever remains
to be weighed in the balance against the
trials of patience arising out of the conduct
of men.
And here we must first ask-have
you yourself no personal peculiarities exactly
opposed to your husband's notions of what is
agreeable?-such as habits of disorder, dress-
ing in bad taste, or any other of those minor
deviations from delicacy or good breeding,
which he might not have had an opportunity
of observing before marriage?
·
We all know that in men these peculiari-
ties are of little importance, compared with
what they are in the other sex. If, therefore,
you offend in these things, you run imminent
risk of impairing, by a succession of little an-
noyances, the warmth and the intensity of
your husband's affection; for man's love, it
must ever be remembered, is far more de-
pendent than that of woman, upon having
the taste and the fancy always pleased, and
consequently upon reposing with perfect
complacency on the object of its regard.
Have we not all, then, abundant cause to be
grateful for being borne with in our infirmi-
ties, and loved in spite of our personal
defects?
But if such peculiarities as these are of
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
59
sufficient importance to cast a shadow over
the sunny spots of life, what must we say of
some others occasionally observable in the
character and conduct of women, to which
it is scarcely possible that much charity should
be extended? And here I would ask, if you
have never treasured up against your hus-
band, some standing cause of complaint, to
be thrown at him when an opportunity is
offered by the presence of a friend, or a
stranger, for discharging this weapon from
the household quiver with perfect safety to
yourself? Have you not upon the whole pre-
ferred having such grievances to complain
of, rather than taking such peaceable and
judicious measures as would be likely effect-
ually to accomplish their removal?
Have you never, in addition to this, re-
fused an offer of personal gratification when
it was convenient or agreeable for your hus-
band to indulge you with it; and professed
a somewhat exaggerated desire to accept of
it, when the thing was impossible, or at
least extremely difficult for your husband to
grant?
Have you never made the most of house-
hold troubles, spread forth the appurtenances
of a wash, allowed the affairs of the kitchen
to extend themselves to the parlor, com-
plained unnecessarily of servants and work-
people, and appeared altogether in your own.
person more harassed, exhausted, and for-
lorn, after your husband's return home, than
you did before, on purpose that he might be
compelled, not only to pity you, but to bear
a portion of your domestic discomfort him-
self?
When a concatenation of cross occur-
rences, hindrances, or mistakes, have ren-
dered every moment one of perplexity and
haste; have you never, when involved with
your husband in such circumstances, added
fuel to the fire by your own petulance, or by
your still more provoking exclamations of
triumph, that you "thought it would come
to that?" Or, when your husband has re-
turned at an hour considerably later than he
had appointed, have you never begun with
breathless haste to remonstrate with him,
and even allowed your remonstrances to ex-
tend to reproaches, before you gave him time
to vindicate himself, or to say whether he
had not in reality been unavoidably detained?
Now, it is impossible for any woman of
right feelings to hide from her conscience,
that if she chooses to marry, she places her-
self under a moral obligation to make her
husband's home as pleasant to him as she
can. Instead, therefore, of behaving as if it
was the great business of married life to com-
plain, it is her peculiar duty as a wife, and
one for which, by her natural constitution,
she is especially fitted, to make all her do-
mestic concerns appear before her husband
to the very best advantage. She has time
for her troubles and turmoils, if such things
must necessarily be, a fact which I am a little
disposed to question, when her husband is
absent, or when she is engaged exclusively
in her own department; and if she would
make his home what it ought to be to him-
"an ever-sunny place," she will studiously
shield him, as with the wings of love, from
the possibility of feeling that his domestic an-
noyances give weight and poignancy to those
more trying perplexities, which most men,
engaged either in business, or in public af-
fairs, find more than sufficient for their peace
of mind.
G
By those who write on the subject of tem-
per in connection with the happiness of mar-
ried life, much is generally said by way of
giving weight to the importance of guarding
against the first angry word. But though it
is unquestionably most desirable to keep the
tablet of experience as long unsullied as we
can, I do not see exactly how this rule ap-
plies more to offences of temper, than to any
other transgressions of the law of perfect love;
for if it be felt, as it must be, a breach of this
law to utter an unkind expression ; it is equal-
ly so to allow any evidence to appear of a
disposition to act counter to a husband's
wishes, or even to forget or neglect what he
considers essential to his comfort.
Indeed, so various are the circumstances
to which any remarks upon the subject of
temper must apply, that the best possible plan

60
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
which could be proposed for maintaining
harmony and good feeling in one instance,
might be the worst in another. As a case in
point, there are unquestionably some individ-
uals so constituted, that if in a moment of
irritation, they do not speak out, the smoth-
ered feeling forcibly pent up, assumes with
them the character of sullenness, and even
approaches to that of dislike towards the of
fender. Besides which, we should never
know when we did offend, and might conse-
quently go on to the end of life inflicting per-
petual annoyance upon our fellow-creatures,
if there were no outward evidence of the de-
gree of displeasure which our inadvertences
were causing.
Not that I would by any means be guilty
of recommending an approach to those vio-
lent outpourings of heated and impassioned
feeling, which mark out some of the darkest
passages of human life, by the remembrance,
never to be obliterated, of angry and cruel
expressions not possible to be often repeated
without destroying the tenderness, and even
the very life, of love. What I would say on
the other side of the question, is simply this
—that in reference to temper, no general rule
can be laid down, scarcely can any human
aid be called in, because of the diversity of
dispositions upon which the influence of tem-
per operates, and the difficulty to mere hu-
man reason of discovering exactly what is
best for every case. In this, as in every other
instance of human frailty, it is the power of
religion upon the heart and conduct, which
alone can afford any lasting or effectual help.
And after all, as the subject bears upon the
affection of human beings one towards an-
other, with creatures frail as we are, and in
a state of existence so imperfect as the pre-
sent, it is not by an exemption from all
offences that the purity or the strength of
human love can be maintained; but far more
so by mutual forgiveness, by sympathy with
each other's infirmities, and by the constant
exercise of that charity which thinketh no evil,
and which suffereth long, and is kind.
But leaving all further consideration of the
trials of temper, as a subject which from its
endless variety might rather be made to fill
volumes than pages; we must turn to sub-
jects of a more serious and alarming nature,
and among these, it cannot be out of place to
speak first of the deterioration of a husband's
character, as taking precedence of other trials
incident to married life.
I have already said there can be no calam-
ity in the vast catalogue of human miseries,
at all comparable to watching the gradual
extinction of that guiding light from the moral
influence of a husband, to which a wife might
reasonably be allowed to look for her greatest
earthly encouragement in every effort to ad-
here to the dictates of duty, or the require-
ments of Christian principle. Here, then, it
becomes most important to inquire, what can
be done to stem the tide of evil, before it shall
have borne away the whole fabric of domes-
| tic happiness.
A true-hearted woman, herself impressed
with the importance of moral and religious
principle, will ever be most studious of her
husband's safety in this respect; and if her
own character, and her own example, are
such as to give weight to her remonstrances,
there is no calculating the degree to which
her influence may not extend. Women, too,
are often remarkably quick-sighted to the
minor shades of good and evil; and they are
thus sometimes enabled to detecta lurking
tendency-to-what-is-wrong, before the mind
of man is awakened to suspicion. Even in
business, then, and in all affairs in which men
are most liable to be deluded by self-interest,
and by the prevailing customs of the world,
and thus are too frequently betrayed into
transactions at variance with the spirit, if not
with the letter, of the law of just and honorà-
ble dealing; a right-minded woman may
sometimes so place before her husband the
affair in which, he is engaged, as to make
him see at once the error into which he
might have fallen; and having seen this
clearly, she may possibly enjoy the satisfac-
tion of beholding him adopt, throughout his
intercourse with others, a more strict and
equitable rule of action.
As this subject, however, in its highest and
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
61
most serious import, belongs more properly
to a subsequent chapter, we will consider
more especially two particular defects in the
moral character of men, which may be truly
said, wherever they exist, to constitute the
severest and most painful trials of married
life.
The first of these is intemperance; and
here I am aware that my own views on this
subject are scarcely such as ought to occupy
a place in this work; not because I could not
earnestly recommend them to the adoption
of every English wife, but because, to do them
ample justice, I should be compelled to fill a
volume.
Intemperance, then, to treat it as a com-
mon vice, should, like every other evil ten-
dency, be watched in its commencement;
and here the eye of a conscientious and de-
voted wife will be far better able to detect the
mischief, than his, who, perhaps, in the se-
cret of his heart, would rather not behold it
even if he could. I believe there is no diffi-
culty to a delicate-minded person, equal to
that of warning a beloved friend or relative
of his danger in this respect, else why do we
see so many hundreds-nay, thousands look- |
ing on, and not stretching out a helping hand |
until it is too late?
|
might have animated the wives of Sparta, if
the absence of all sympathy and tenderness
for the weak in their weak points, may rank
among the characteristics of those heroines
of the past-leaving it to such women to sit
down every day to an indulgence, which in
a mere trifle of extent beyond their own meas-
ure of gratification, they would deny to a
husband-I must candidly confess, that I am
wholly at a loss to know what to advise,
should that husband, advancing a little and
a little further by imperceptible degrees, at
last exceed the bounds of strict propriety,
and finally hasten on towards the "drunk-
ard's grave."
It is said again and again of such men, that
they ought to stop in time; but which is the
time? It may vary according to the state of
their own health, as well as with the nature
of the refreshment of which they partake;
while with no two individuals will it ever be
found exactly the same. Besides which, it
must always be remembered, that the right
time to stop, is the time when the intemper-
ate man least wishes to do so; because in
exact proportion to his danger, has been his
inability to perceive it, and his increase of in-
clination to go onward towards excess.
Tell me then, ye wise and potent reasoners
on this subject, who hold yourselves above
the vulgar error of believing that total absti-
nence is the only safe and efficient means of
rescuing the tempted man from ruin,-tell
me, or rather tell the afflicted wife, what I am
utterly unequal to, by what means she is to
conquer, or even to restrain, the habit of in-
temperance in her husband, except by in-
ducing him altogether to abstain, and by ab-
staining altogether herself.
The fact is, that if impressed in any com-
mon measure with a sense of justice or of
generosity, we cannot do it, so long as we
ourselves pursue the same course, only not
exactly to the same extent. We cannot look
into the face of a familiar friend, and say―
"If you take one glass more, you will be
guilty of a vulgar and degrading sin; while |
I, by taking one glass less, commit no sin at
all." And it must come to this, where it is
the degree, and not the act itself, which con-
stitutes the evil. It must come to the small-propriate here, as it applies equally to the
est possible measurement, to mark that min-
ute, and ever shifting line, which separates
an act allowed and sanctioned by the wise
and good, from one which stamps a human
being with infamy in this world, and deprives
him of all title to admission into the blessed-
ness of the world to come.
Leaving it then to women whose hearts sufficiently wounded by a sense of his own
One remark, however, may not be inap-
point of view in which the subject has so long
been held by the world in general, and to that
in which it is the happier privilege of some
in the present day to behold it. I mean that
a husband should never be made the subject
of reproach for transgressions of this nature.
If he be a man of feeling, his spirit will be
62
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
degradation; and if not, he will only be hard-
ened by such treatment, and driven, as a
means of revenging himself, into still greater
excess.
what an awful wreck is that presented by a
lost and polluted mind; and they would feel,
in all its reality, what it is to be desolate and
alone. For the woman thus circumstanced
Indeed, nothing but the utmost delicacy, must not complain. She must not ask for
forbearance, and gentleness, will ever be sympathy, for that would be to expose the
found to answer in such a case; and what- folly and disgrace of him, about whom her
ever means are employed, they must be con- hopes still linger; over whose degraded
fined in their operation to seasons of perfect brow she would still fondly spread the soft
sanity, and especially reserved for those oc- shadow of her tenderness, that no ray of
casions of fitful penitence, which often suc- piercing light might reach it, to render more
ceed to the most extravagant indulgence; conspicuous its deformity and its shame.
when, partly from the weakness of an ex- No; she can only lock her griefs within her
hausted frame, and partly from the satiety | own bosom, and be still.
of inclination, the victim of intemperance
will sometimes throw open his heart to a
confidential friend, whose kind and judicious
treatment of him at such times, may not im-
probably be rendered conducive to his ulti-
mate recovery.
Here, too, much may be done by making
his home all that it ought to be to a husband,
by receiving him on his return with cordial
smiles, by amusing him with pleasant conver-
sation, but, more than all, by exercising over
him, in a mild and prudent manner, that in-
fluence which it is the high privilege of a
loved and trusted wife to attain.
It must be from ignorance, for the phe-
nomenon is not to be accounted for in any
other way than on the ground of ignorance
of what is to be found in human life, as well
as what is the capability of the human heart
for suffering and enjoying, which leads so
many kindly-disposed and well-intentioned
women into such culpable neglect of points
connected with this important subject.
One would willingly believe it was because
they had never, even in idea, realized what
it must be to live through one long night of
anxious expectation, when the crisis of a
husband's fate had come, and when that sin-
gle night would decide whether he had suf-
ficient mastery over himself to resist, or
whether he would allow his inclination to
lead him for the last time over the barrier,
and finally to plunge himself and his helpless
family into irremediable wretchedness and
ruin.
Could all women who encourage their hus-
bands in the commencement of intemperance,
not only by smiling with evident satisfaction
at any extraordinary proofs of good humor
or excitement as they begin to appear, but
beyond this, and far more effectually, by their
own example-could all such women "look
to the end," and see the bitter fruits of this
trifling with the serious indications of a grow-
ing evil, they would stand appalled at the
magnitude of their own sufferings, in having
to watch from day to day, through their fu-
ture lives, the gradual extinction of all they
had ever loved in the being to whom they
must still be united. They would see then
how the very countenance may lose its beau-another wave of the fast-ebbing tide, and
ty, and like some hideous form that grows
upon us in a feverish dream, assume first one
aspect of distortion, and then another, until
all trace becomes extinct of the "divinity"
that stirred "within." They would see then
|
It is in such seasons as these, that every
moment is indeed an age, and every pulse
like an advancing or receding wave, which
falls with heavy swell upon the shore of life.
And then what sharpening of the outward
senses!-what quickening of the ear to dis-
tant sounds, giving to that which lives not, a
vitality, until the very step is heard, and then
all is gone, and all is silent as before. The
eye, too, though dim with tears, and wearied
out with watching, what does it not behold?
—creating out of "strange combinations” of
familiar things, some sudden and unexpected
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
63
come!
evidence that he has returned! Yes, already
Then follows an instantaneous flash
of self-reproach for having judged him with
too little kindness. But, no; the vision
fades away, and with it sinks the heart of the
too credulous believer.
And if such be the quickening of the out-
ward senses, what must be that of the differ-
ent faculties of the mind?-of memory,
whose cruel task it is through those long
weary hours, to paint the smiling past, to
make it live again with such intensity of
loveliness, that while no actual form intrudes,
nor actual sound breaks through the chain of
thought, the phantasy grows real; and old
impressions wake again, and voices speak
so kindly, and cordial looks, and gentle loving
acts, are interchanged, and pure soft feelings
towards each other, as in those early days
when the sweet "trysting time" was kept,
and hope made light of expectation. Oh,
agony!
It is a dream-a very dream.
Nay, worse the vision of the sleeper may
return; but this can never-never live
again.
There is no credulity like that of love.
However dark may be the fear which alter-
nates with hope in the mind of her who is
thus situated, she has, under all, and support-
ing her through all the deep foundation of
her own unchanging love-that love which
is strong as death. And by the same com-
prehensive rule, which to her includes in one
close union every faculty and feeling of her
soul-by this rule she judges of her husband,
and calculates the probability of his return.
By this rule it is impossible that he should
forget her prayers, and her entreaties, her
sorrow, her suffering, and her tears. By
this rule, then, he must of necessity remem-
ber her in that gay circle, even when its mirth
and its revelry are at their height. She has
wronged him-deeply wronged him, to think
he could forget. Another hour will find him
by her side, repaying, Oh, how richly all
her anxious fears.
With these sweet thoughts, she rises and
trims her fire again, and draws her husband's
chair beside the hearth, bethinking her, with
joyous recollection, of some other little acts
of kindness by which she may possibly be
able to make his home look more attractive.
But still he comes not; and that strange sick-
ness of the heart begins again, and creeps
along her frame, until her very fingers ache
with anguish; and tremblingly her hands are
clasped together, and were it not for prayer,
her heart would surely break with its strong
agony; for still he comes not. Yet,-slowly
as the heavy hours drag on, the midnight
chime at last is heard, that solemn peal, which
tells to some its tale of peace, of safety, and
of home; while it speaks to others but of
darkness, desolation, and despair.
But who shall fill from one sad moment to
another the page of busy thought, or paint
the ever-shifting scenes which flit before the
lonely watcher's mind? Another hour, and
still he comes not.-Yet hark! It is his step
She flies to meet him-Let us close a scene
for which earth holds no parallel; for here
are mingled, horror, shame, repulsion and
contempt, with a soft tenderness like that of
some sad mother for her idiot child-joy that
the shrouding wings of love once more can
shelter him-bliss that no other eye but hers
is there to see-kind yearning thoughts of
care to keep him in his helplessness from
every touch of harm—feelings so gentle, yet
so powerful, of a strange gladness to be
near him in his degradation-to press the
hand which no one else in the wide world
would hold-to kiss the brow which has no
trace of beauty left! And to do this, night
after night-to live through all the changes
of this scene, through months and years, only
with less of hope, and more of anguish and
despair!
Such is the picture not exaggerated, for
that would be impossible, of one short portion
in the experience of how many women! We
cannot number them. They are to be met
with in society of every grade, and yet soci-
ety for the most part can rest satisfied to do
nothing more than pity them. Nor scarcely
that; for the same voice which speaks with
feeble lamentations of the suffering of the
wife, will often press the husband to the fes-
64
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
tive board, and praise the sparkling wine, able, remain to cloud the atmosphere of home-
and urge him to partake.
But it is time to turn our attention to the
contemplation of another of the trials of mar-
ried life, of which it is to be hoped that few
who read these pages, will have any cause to
think with reference to themselves. It may
be said, "Why then remind them of the pos-
sibility that such causes of trial may, or do,
exist?" I answer, that although the extreme
of the case to which I am about to allude, is,
happily for us, comparatively seldom known
among respectable families in the middle
ranks of life in England; yet, there are de-
grees of proximity to these extremes, existing
sometimes where we should least expect to
find the cheerful aspect of domestic life cast
under such a cloud.
In reflecting seriously and impartially upon
the love of married life, we must all be forci-
bly impressed with the fact, that the love
which is most frequently presented to the
notice of the observer, is far from being such
as we ourselves should be satisfied to pos-
sess; or, at all events, not such as women of
deep and sensitive feelings would expect to
meet with in the married state. It is true,
there are instances, and they can scarcely be
dwelt upon with too much admiration, where
the love of married life, in all its imperishable
beauty, outlives the bloom of youth, and sheds
a radiance like the sunset glow of evening,
around the peaceful passage of old age to-
wards the tomb. And were it not that in
such instances, we see the possibility of
earthly love being kept in all its vigor and its
freshness, uninjured by the lapse of time, it
would be useless to follow up the inquiry
every married woman ought to make-by
what means is this love to be preserved?
enjoyment, until the whole experience of
married life becomes as dull, and soulless,
and devoid of interest, as if the union was
simply one of habit or convenience, endured
with mutual-indifference, yet dragged on with
decency and something like respect, because
it was "so nominated in the bond."
But is it right that creatures endowed with
capabilities for the highest and holiest enjoy-
ment, should be satisfied with this? Nay, is
it possible that happiness of so low a grade,
if one may call it such, can fill the heart
whose quick susceptibilities, whose trembling
emotions, and whose living depths, have been
formed to answer, and to echo every touch
and tone of feeling, from the highest thrill of
ecstasy, down to the lowest notes of wo? No:
if we are reckless how we turn from its high
destiny, a nature thus endowed; if we will
thus sink the immortal in the material, so as
merely to work out with mechanical precision
the business of each day, in which the animal
nature holds pre-eminence over the spiritual,
we must not venture to complain that life is
vapid and monotonous, or that there is little
in this world to remind us of that blessedness
which is promised as the portion of the hap-
py in the next.
Whatever we aim to possess as a privilege
even in this life, let it then be of the highest
order; and having attained our wish, let us
seek to preserve that privilege unimpaired.
That which elevates the soul in its capability
of enjoyment, is always worthy of our care;
while that which lowers it, is always to be
shunned and feared. In nothing is this more
important to be observed, than in the preser-
vation of earthly love. That which degrades
the standard of affection, degrades the whole
being; and that which raises this standard,
nected either immediately or remotely with
the exercise of the affections.
If in speaking of the peculiar trial about to
occupy our attention, I use the word unfaith-raises also every faculty which can be con-
fulness, to signify my meaning, it is less in
reference to those extremes of moral delin-
quency which sometimes stain the history of
private, as well as public life, than to those
slighter shades of the same character, which
more frequently flit across the surface of do-
mėstic peace; or, what is still more lament-
I have already described, in some particu-
lars, how that best gift of Providence, the
love of a faithful and devoted husband, is to
be preserved. We have now the painful
task of supposing that it has been allowed,
TRIALS OF MARRIED LIFE.
65
by some means or other, to fall away. There
are faint and frequent symptoms of this de-
cline, of which the judgment takes no cogni- |
zance, until after the heart has been made to
feel them; and although I have already al-
luded to the folly and the danger of volunta-
rily looking out for such symptoms where
there is no reason to suppose they exist, there
may be equal, if not greater danger, in disre-
garding them where they do.
I will only mention as the first of these
symptoms, an increased tendency on the part
of the husband to be repelled or annoyed by
little personal peculiarities. And here it may
be observed, that almost every impression
injurious to the love of man in married life,
is personal or immediate, rather than remote.
Thus a husband will more easily forgive his
wife for an act of moral culpability, provided
it has no reference to himself, than for the
least personal affront, or the slightest occasion
for even a momentary sensation of disgust.
It consequently happens, that when affection
begins to wane, the husband often becomes
annoyed with the voice, the manner, the dress
of his wife, more than he is with those of
other women. She has, then, some peculiar |
way of doing every thing which seems to jar
upon his senses; and in time he ceases so
entirely to look, to listen, or to linger near
her, that unless more than commonly obtuse,
she must be made to feel that she has lost
her power to charm him, and when that is
lost—alas, for the poor wife!
Still we must not forget, that there are two
kinds of unfaithfulness, the one arising entire-
ly from estranged affection; and the other
from attraction towards a different object. In
the latter case it does not always follow that
affection for the wife shall have become ex-
tinct, and therefore there is hope; but, in the
former, the fact that man's love when once
destroyed is destroyed forever, excludes all
possibility of consolation, except from a high-
er and a surer source. As well might the
mourner weeping for the dead, expect by
tears and lamentations to reanimate the life-
less form; as the unloved wife to recall the
affection of her husband, after the bloom and
tenderness of his love is gone. Who then
would incur the risk of so vast and irrepa-
rable a loss, by a neglect of those personal at-
tractions by which it was her study in early
life to charm? Who would allow a careless
or negligent demeanor to impress her hus-
band's mind with the conviction, that he was
not in her estimation of sufficient importance
to make it worth her while to please? or who
would be willing that the powers of her mind
should fall into disuse, when they might in
their happiest and yet most natural exercise,
be made conducive to the one great end of
increasing her husband's interest in his home?
To feel herself an unequal companion to
the being whom of all others she would most
wish to please, to have never cultivated her
powers of conversation, and to be conscious
that her society is vapid and uninteresting,
must be one of the most painful and humilia-
ting feelings to which an amiable woman can
be subject: but to see, what is very natural
in such a case, that others have a power
which she has not, to call forth the higher
faculties of her husband's mind, to elevate
his thoughts, to charm his fancy, and to en-
liven his spirits!—Surely if the daughters of
England could realize by any exercise of their
imagination, the full intensity of feelings such
as these, they would cease to be careless
about the cultivation of those means of pro-
moting social and domestic happiness, with
which every woman who enters upon the
duties of a wife, ought to make herself ac-
quainted.
But beyond this vague and general feeling
of being neglected, and this incapacity for
doing any thing to avert so desolate a doom,
it sometimes happens that there is real cause
to suspect a transfer of the husband's interest
and affection to another. And although no-
thing can be more destructive to the happi-
ness of married life, or more at variance with
the nature of true and deep affection, than a
predisposition to suspicion on these points;
yet where the case is too evident to admit of
doubt, it would evince a culpable indifference
in the wife who could suffer it to remain un-
noticed.
5
66
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

Here, however, if ever in the whole range
of human experience, it is necessary to act
with delicacy and caution, It is necessary,
in the first place, to be sure.
In the next, no
selfish motive, no indignant feeling, no dis-
position to revenge, must mingle with what
is said or done on so melancholy and mo-
mentous an occasion; for though the dignity
of virtue, and the purity of the female char-
acter, as well as the temporal and eternal
good of the offender, alike require that some
decided measures should be adopted to avert
the evil; the wife herself must not forget,
that under such circumstances she possesses
no other than a legal claim-that, as a being
to be cherished and beloved, she is utterly
discarded from her husband's heart-that
scarcely is his home her own--that her re-
spectability, her position in society, all that in
which an honored and a trusted wife delights,
are only nominally hers; and that she is in
reality, or rather, in all which belongs to the
true feelings of a woman, a low, lost thing,
more lonely, pitiable, and degraded, than the
veriest outcast from society who still retains
a hold upon her husband's love. What, then,
are admiration, wealth, or fame, to such a
woman? Society, even though she were its
idol, would have no power to flatter her;
nor could the wide world, with all its congre-
gated millions, awake within her desolate
bosom a single thrill of pride. No, there is
nothing but uncomplaining loneliness, and
utter self-abasement, for the portion of that
wife who cannot keep her husband's heart!
It is in this spirit alone, that with any pro- |
priety or any hope, she can appeal to a hus-
band's feelings, carefully guarding against all
expression of tenderness, no longer welcome
or desired; and keeping, as it were, aloof in
her humility; yet withal, casting herself upon
his pity, as one who is struck down by a be-
loved hand, will kiss the instrument of her
abasement; putting aside all selfish claims,
as indeed she must; and making it evident,
that though her own happiness is wrecked
for ever, she cannot live without a hope, nor
breathe without a prayer, for him.
And surely, if all this is carried out to the
full extent of woman's delicacy, disinterest-
edness, and truth; and if accompanied by
earnest and unceasing prayer for that help
which no human power can then afford-
surely, towards a wife thus suffering and sin-
cerc, the husband whose heart is not yet
wholly depraved, could scarcely withhold his
pity, his protection, and his love!
And if the husband should relent, if he
should renounce the object of attraction to
his wandering fancy, though nothing can ob-
literate the past, or break the chain of asso-
ciation between that and the thousand appre-
hensions which must of necessity link them-
selves into the sad future; all these dark
thoughts must be concealed within her bo-
som, into whose secret counsels, and more
secret griefs, no earthly friend must be ad-
mitted. Neither must sadness cloud her
brow, nor any lurking suspicion betray itself
upon the smooth surface of her after-life, but
vivacity and cheerfulness again must charm;
while a manner disengaged, and a mind at
liberty to please, and receive pleasure in re-
turn, must prove the mastery of principle
over impulse-of affection over self.
If with a wife thus circumstanced, the
power to forget should appear the greatest
mercy a kind Providence could bestow; and
if this mercy being denied, the aspect of her
life should look too dark to be endured, she
must not forget that one earthly consolation
yet remains-it-is that of having kept her
own affection unchanged and true: and oh!
how infinitely preferable is the feeling of lav-
ing borne unfaithfulness, than of having been
unfaithful ourselves!
But beyond, and far above such consola-
tion, is that of being remembered in her lost
and low estate, by Him who chasteneth whom
he loveth; of being permitted in her degrada-
tion to come and offer up her broken heart
to Him; when deprived of every other stay,
to call Him father, and to ask in humble faith
the fulfilment of His gracious promise of
protection to those who put their trust in
Him.
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
67

CHAPTER VIII.
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
In a previous work, addressed to the
"Daughters of England," I have proposed
as the first serious inquiry of a thinking mind,
that all young persons entering upon the ac-
tive duties of life, should ask this question-
what is my actual position? And if in the
season of early youth this question is import-
ant, it is equally, if not more so, immediately
after marriage, especially as the position of a
woman must always depend upon that of her
husband, where society is so constituted that
a man may raise or lower his wife, though
no woman, except in very peculiar cases,
can effect any material alteration in the rank
or station of her husband.
Thus it is highly important, in taking upon
herself the duties of a new home, that the
wife should ascertain precisely what is her
position with regard to those with whom she
associates; for there is as great a deviation.
from good sense, integrity, and right feeling,
in being servile to the great, as in being
haughty to the poor.
But it is impossible to enter upon this sub-
ject, without being afresh reminded of one
of those inconsistencies which mark the gen-
eral tone of feeling and habit in society of
the middle ranks in England. I mean a
striking inequality between the degree of re-
finement, self-indulgence, and luxury, existing
among men, and that which is generally
found among women of the same rank. In
families whose dependence is entirely upon
business, this is especially the case, at least
in our large towns and cities; for, while the
sons are sent out at an early age, to engage
in all the drudgery of the shop or the ware-
house, the daughters remain at home, not
unfrequently the occupants of elegant draw-
ing-rooms, with little else to do than practise
their music lessons, manufacture their wax-
flowers, or pursue, according to the popular
notions of the day, those various and infallible
methods of renovating a feeble constitution,
which, in nine cases out of ten, in reality
wants nothing more than a little wholesome
|
activity to render it as strong as either hap-
piness or usefulness require.
Now, though it is far from the wish of the
writer to wage war against any of those in-
genious occupations which fill up the spare
time of young ladies in general, provided such
occupations are kept in their proper place,
and made to fill up spare time only; yet,
against the morbid feelings both of mind and
body, which are engendered by a life of mere
trifling, all who wish well to the sex, both in
this and other countries, must feel it a sacred
duty to use such influence as they possess.
It is, however, the foolish pride, and the
false notions of what is, or is not, becoming,
naturally arising out of the state of existence
to which our young ladies of the middle class
of society in England are consigned, which,
more than any thing else, interfere with their
happiness, and prevent their being in reality
either a help, or a comfort, to the companions
whose lot they are bound to share for life.
(England as a nation has little to boast of
beyond her intellectual and her moral power.
It is in this that her superiority is felt and
acknowledged by the world; and in this it
might almost be allowed her to indulge a
sort of honest pride. That this power is
chiefly lodged with the middle classes, I
think all have agreed; and that, originating
in them, it is made to operate more exten-
sively through the efficient instrumentality
of a comparatively well-ordered and wisely
governed population of working people.
What then would England gain indivi-
dually or collectively, by the middle classes
aspiring upwards to imitate the manners,
and adopt the customs of the aristocracy?
No; let her shopkeepers be shopkeepers
still-her farmers, farmers-and the wives
and daughters of such honest, manly, and
honorable citizens of the world, let them no
longer blush to owe the comfort of their
homes to the profits of a well-conducted
trade.
To say nothing of the want of right sub-
mission to the will of Providence, evinced by
being foolishly above the situation we are
born to; it is in my opinion a sort of rebel-
68
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
lion, or rather treachery, against the welfare ence any one would think of making there,
of our country, to be thus unwilling to main-between the member of that little community
tain, what future ages will agree to have been who should prepare the skins of wild animals
the glory of the times in which we live. for general use, and him who should manu-
facture such skins into articles of wearing
apparel? or who would pronounce upon the
inferiority of occupation in him who should
employ himself each day in catering for a
single meal, to that of him who should, in a
longer space of time, provide for many meals
together?
Besides which, it requires but little know-
ledge, but little observation of society in other
countries, and but little acquaintance with
the world in general, to see that those dis-
tinctions which give to one occupation so
much more dignity than another, must be
purely conventional. Let us look, as an in-
stance of this, at the vast difference we make
in our notions of gentility between wholesale
and retail business. And though a man of
noble birth, as he drives by necessity through
the bustling streets of London, would smile
at the idea that trade was not a degradation
of itself sufficient to exclude all notion of de-
gree; yet the tradesman living at his shop
knows perfectly well, that his wife and daugh-
ters have no right to visit with the wife and
daughters of him who keeps his country
house, and sells en masse, from some dark
warehouse in the city, the self-same articles
in which the other deals.
Still these distinctions, strongly and clearly
as they are occasionally impressed upon the
inferior classes, become sometimes a little in-
tricate, as wealth enables its possessor to ad-
vance in the scale of luxury and indulgence.
When the city shopkeeper, for instance, ob-
tains sufficient to enable him to settle in his
rural villa, from whence he issues every
morning to his counting-house in town, the
wife and daughters who remain to set the
fashions of the village where they live-how
immeasurably far are they from holding in-
tercourse with any of the shopkeepers there!
Even when affairs connected with the wel-
fare of the neighborhood render it necessary
to call upon the shopkeeper's wife, they meet
her in a manner the most distant, and the
most unlike what could by any possibility be
construed into friendship.
But in order to see more clearly the perfect
absurdity of such distinctions, we have only
to make a sudden transition of thought to
the state of a new colony, on some uncivil-
ized and distant shore; and ask what differ-
That the man who held the reins of gov-
ernment over such a community, would
merit some distinction, I am free to allow,
because his situation would be one to which
he must have risen either by his own superi-
ority of mind, or by the unanimous consent
of the rest, who agreed, at the time they ap-
pointed him to the office, to evince towards
him the respect which is always due to influ-
ence rightly exercised. In the same manner,
and according to their different degrees of
capability, many of the others would, no
doubt, work their way to offices of responsi-
bility and trust, instituted for the good of the
whole body, and each entitled to its share of
respect and confidence. But that working
in one material more than another, handling
one article of food or apparel, or even deal-
ing in a large or a small way, with those
who buy and sell, should be able to create
distinctions of such importance as to sepa-
rate society into mere fractions, or to invest
one party with honor, and cast odium upon
the other, is a phenomenon which has been
left for the enlightened stage of civilization in
which we live, fully to develop, though the
march of intellect has hitherto failed to re-
duce the whole to a system, so as to be un-
derstood and acted upon with any degree of
certainty and precision.
It may be said, and perhaps with too much
truth, that the business of shopkeeping, as it
is generally conducted, has little tendency to
ennoble the character; and that perpetually
striving to please for purposes of self-interest,
those who in reality are sometimes cordially
despised, is lowering to the dignity of a man,
to say nothing of a gentleman.
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
69
Yet what can be expected of such wives,
for they have their sickly sensibilities arising
out of the false position they have held, and
for which they have been training; they have
the romance engendered by indolence and
light reading; they have the love of self,
which personal indulgence has strengthened
into a habit; they have their delicate consti-
It may be asked, on the other hand, who, in a troubled, fretful, and discontented spirit,
in the present state of society, is exempt as much at variance with what a husband
from this particular kind of degradation? would naturally desire in the companion of
The lawyer, who may be said almost to hold his home, as with what ought to be exhibited
the destinies of his fellow-creatures in his as the graces of the Christian character.
hand-he cringes to his wealthy client, and
often works his way to distinction by conceal-
ing his real sentiments, and pretending to be
other than he is. The doctor, too, with his
untiring patience, and his imperturbable se-
renity, approaching with apparent kindness
and respect, where every feeling of his soul
is repelled-who would speak of him as an
independent man, more especially in the out-tutions, and their thousand ailments-they
set of his career? Nor is this less the case
with other professions, all which, however,
are esteemed more honorable, and conse-
quently more eligible, than any kind of trade.
But still-
"A man's a man for a' that
have all these to contend with, and all opera-
ting powerfully against the cheerful perform-
ance of the new duties in which they are in-
volved.
Who can have witnessed the situation of
such women in their married state, without
longing to awaken the whole sisterhood to a
different estimate of duty, and of happiness ?
Who can have observed their feeble striving
after nobler effort, when too late to attain the
and let his occupation be what it may, it is
the honest heart, the upright principle, the
steady mind, and the unbiased judgment,
which give him dignity wherever he may be
placed. The man who possesses these qual-power of making it to any useful purpose—
ifications, in addition to a far-stretching and
enlightened intellect, must ever be a pillar to
the state in which he lives, for he will up-
hold its integrity, and without such men no
nation can be truly great.
As the chosen companion of such a man,
is it possible, then, that an English woman
born to the same rank in society, should
blush to acknowledge herself a tradesman's
wife?
Nor is this all. It is not the bare ac-
knowledgment that she is so, which can in
any way be made to answer the demands of
duty, but a perfect willingness to adapt her-
self in every respect to her situation, so as to
answer its various requirements to the satis-
faction of all around her. And here the sis-
ters who have been separated so widely from
their brothers in the formation of their social |
and domestic habits, are found so often and
so lamentably at fault; not always because
they are unwilling to do what duty may re-
quire, but because from having early imbibed
false notions of what is really honorable, and
really degrading, they do their duty, if at all,
the spirit broken, the health impaired, the
beauty and vivacity of youth all gone; the
few accomplishments upon which their time
was wasted, forgotten, or remembered only
as a dream; the wish without the hope to do
better for the future, than has been done for
the past, the failing of pecuniary means, re-
sources gradually diminishing in proportion
to the increase of demand-sickness, ser-
vants, children, and their education, all re-
quiring more and more-who that has ever
looked upon all this, and there are not a few
among the boasted homes of England where
the reality of this picture might be found,
would not yearn with aching heart over so
lamentable a waste of good feeling and in-
tention, arising solely out of the early, but
wrong basis of the female mind with regard
to common things?
But let us not despair. Where ignorance
and not perverseness constitutes the founda-
tion of any prevailing evil, the whole may
easily be remedied. Let us look then again
at the constitution of English society, at the
70
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
vast proportion of good which is effected by
the middle classes, at the mass of intellect it
comprehends, at the genius by which it is
adorned, at the influence it commands, at the
dignity with which it is invested by the state,
and last, but not least, at its independence;
for if, on the one hand, it claims exemption
from the necessary hardships and restrictions
of the poor, on the other, it is equally privi-
leged in its exemption from the arbitrary re-
quirements of exalted rank.
sons of superior rank in the duties of private
or public charity, she is frequently treated
with a degree of kindness and freedom,
which, if not on her guard against the fasci-
nating manners of that class of society, might
easily beguile her into the belief that no real
difference of rank was felt to exist. But just
in proportion as she would herself desire to be
affable and kind to those beneath her, without
|
such kindness being presumed upon as an
evidence of equality; so it often happens that
ladies of rank do really enjoy a certain degree
of friendly and social intercourse with women
of good sense occupying a lower station,
when at the same time they would shrink
away repelled by the least symptom of the
difference of rank being forgotten by the in-
ferior party.
It is unquestionably one of the great ad-
vantages of being born to this station, that
we are comparatively free to think and act
for ourselves; that our heritage is one of
one of
liberty, with the rational enjoyment of which
no one has a right to interfere. We have
our intellectual privileges, too, and leisure
for the cultivation of the mind; our social
meetings, where we dare to speak the hon-
est feelings of the heart, no man being able
to make us afraid; our hospitality unshack-
led by the cold formalities of rank; our homes
supplied with every comfort, and it may be,
adorned with elegance; our fireside pleas-
ures uninterrupted; our ingatherings of
domestic joy sacred to those who dwell be-sphere, the true dignity of her character will
neath the same protecting roof; and no in-
terference with our sentiments, or our reli-
gion, but each one left to follow out the pur-
pose of a merciful Creator, by choosing his
Bible and his conscience as his only guide.
And what could any reasonable woman
wish for more? Or having found herself a
member of a community thus constituted,
why should she reject its noble privileges, for
the sake of any feeble hold she may obtain
of such as belong more probably to another,
and a higher sphere?
I have already stated, in an earlier por-
tion of this work, that true dignity can only
be maintained by adaptation to our cir-
cumstances, whatever they may be thus
there can be no dignity in assuming what
does not belong to our actual position in so-
ciety; though many temptations to fall into
this error are placed in the way of women in
general. When, for instance, the wife of a
respectable tradesman is associated with per-
|
It is the instinct of natural delicacy then
which leads us rather to withdraw our famil-
iarity, than to have it withdrawn from; and
if thus sensible of what is her proper sphere,
and scrupulous to observe its limits, a right-
minded woman need never be made to feel
that she is not respected; although the mo-
ment she steps beyond the boundary of that
be gone.
Nor is this the case with her position in
society alone. All misapprehensions about
herself, such as supposing she is beautiful
when she is not, or highly gifted when no
evidence of talent appears, or important
when she has no influence-all these mis-
takes are calculated to deprive a woman of
that dignity which is the inalienable posses-
sion of all who fill with perfect propriety their
appointed place.
It is scarcely necessary in the present state
of society to point out, on the other hand, the
loss of character and influence occasioned by
living below our station; for if in some indi-
vidual minds there is an inherent tendency
to sink and grovel in their own sphere, or to
be servile and cringing to those above them;
such a propensity forms so rare an exception
to the general character of the times in which
we live, as scarcely to need any further com-
ment, more especially as such a disposition
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
71
is exposed by its own folly to that contempt
which constitutes its proper punishment.
It is, however, deeply to be regretted, that
often where this tendency is not inherent,
nor consequently a part of individual charac-
ter, it has in too many instances been induced
by the severe and constant pressure of pecu-
niary difficulties, rendering it an act of ne-
cessity, rather than of choice, that the favor
of the distinguished or the wealthy should be
sought, and their patronage obtained, as the
only means of ensuring success, and some-
times as the only hope of preserving a help-
less family from want or ruin.
to healthy activity the various powers of the
mind and body, and thus exciting a degree
of energy and cheerfulness, alike calculated
to enhance the pleasure of success, or to
support under the trial of disappointment.
While on the other hand, a shrinking, re-
luctant, halfish way of falling in with the re-
quirements of duty, by perpetuating the sen-
sation of self-sacrifice, and dragging out each
individual effort into a lingering and painful
struggle, is not more likely to produce the
most unfavorable impression upon the minds
of those with whom we are associated, than
to weary out our own inclination to do right,
at the same time that it effectually destroys
our happiness and our peace of mind.
I have thus far, in relation to position in
society, spoken only of cases in which the
wife may be liable to feel that her situation
is a humiliating one, and I have been com-
Pitiable as this situation may be, and fre-
quent as there is every reason to fear it is,
much may be done in cases of this kind to
keep up the moral dignity of a husband and
a family, by the influence of a high-principled
wife, who will make it the study of her life
to prove that it is not in the power of cir-pelled to do this at some length-from the
cumstances to degrade an upright and inde-
pendent mind.
If, then, it is a duty of paramount import-
ance for a wife to ascertain what is her ex-
act position in society, and to endeavor to
adapt herself to it wherever it may be; her
next duty is to consider well the manner of
doing this. We can all feel, in the case of
our servants and dependents, the vast differ-
ence there is between a willing and an un-
willing service. How striking then must be
this difference, where all the social affections,
and the best feelings of the heart, are impli-
cated, as they must be, in the conduct of a
wife!
fact already noticed, of the sisters in families
connected with business, being generally so
far in advance of their brothers, not only as
regards their notions of what is suitable or
becoming to themselves, but also the habits
they have cultivated of refinement and per-
sonal indulgence, as to render it scarcely
possible for them to marry in the same sphere
of life, without having much to endure before
they can enter with full purpose of heart into
all the requirements of their new situation.
But if cases of this kind constitute the ma-
jority of those which fall under our notice,
we must not forget that in English society,
it is the privilege of many persons in the
middle ranks to be placed in circumstances
of affluence and ease, where the luxuries of
life, and even its elegances, may properly be
enjoyed. And if the first aspect of such a
lot should present the idea of greater per-
I can think of no more appropriate word
by which to describe the manner in which
her duties ought to be performed, than the
homely phraseology we use, when we speak
of things being done heartily; for it is pre-
cisely in this way that she may most effect-sonal indulgence being its lawful accompani-
ually prove to her husband how entirely she
considers her destiny, with all its hopes, and
all its anxieties, to be identified with his.
As a mere matter of policy, too, nothing can
be more likely to ensure the happiest results,
since whatever we do heartily, produces in
one sense its own reward, by stimulating in-
ment; on the other hand, the serious and
reflecting mind must be struck with the im-
portant fact, that in proportion to more ex-
tensive means of enjoyment, must be a wider
influence, and a greater amount of re-
sponsibility.
To use this influence aright, and to render
72
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
to her conscience a strict account of these
responsibilities, will be no light undertaking
to the English wife; and as we live, happily
for us, in a country where channels are per-
petually opened for our benevolence, and
opportunities perpetually offered for our ef
forts to do good, we cannot, if we would,
rest satisfied with the plea, that our disposi-
tion towards usefulness meets with no field
for its development.
send out our work to be done by those who
need the utmost amount of what we give
them for doing it, let us not take advantage
of this disposition of our affairs, to spend the
time which remains upon our hands in idle-
ness; but let us rather employ, in a higher
sphere of usefulness, those faculties of mind,
and those advantages of education, the free
exercise of which constitutes one of the
greatest privileges of an exalted station.
The same temptations which spread the
snare of indolence around the feet of the un-
wary, are equally potent in their power to
beguile into habits of self-indulgence. And
It so happens, however, that the same po-
sition in society which presents such facilities
for the exercise of better feeling, presents
also innumerable temptations to the gratifi-
cation of female vanity, indolence, and self-here the fancied or real delicacy of constitu-
indulgence, with all the evils which common-
ly follow in their train. The very title of this
chapter-"Position in Society," where it
conveys an idea of wealth and influence,
never fails to conjure up a host of enemies to
simple Christian duty, some of which are so
deceptive and insidious, as effectually to es-
cape detection, until their magnitude, as
plants of evil growth, becomes a cause of
just alarm.
tion which seems in the present day to be
the birthright of Englishwomen, with all that
spectral host of nervous maladies, which so
often paralyze their energies, and render nu-
gatory their efforts to do good-here, in this
most privileged of all positions of human life,
most frequently assail the female frame, so as
often to reduce their pitiable victim to a mere
nonentity as regards one great end of her ex-
istence-usefulness to her fellow-creatures.
Far be it from me to speak with unkind-
ness or want of sympathy of those maladies
of mind and body, which, under the general
head of nervous disorders, I believe to con-
stitute some of the greatest miseries which
"flesh is heir to." But having never found
them to exist to any serious extent where
constant occupation of head and hand, and
The great facility with which the elegan-
ces and luxuries of life are now obtained,
and the general competition which prevails
throughout society with regard to dress, furni- |
ture, and style of living, present to a vain and
unenlightened woman, an almost irresistible
temptation to plunge into that vortex of extrav- |
agance, display, and worldly-mindedness, in
which, I believe, a greater amount of good in-heathful bodily exercise, were kept up with
tention has been lost, than by the direct as-
sault of enemies apparently more powerful.
Again, the indolence almost necessarily in-
duced by the enjoyment to a great extent of
the luxuries of life-how often is this foe to
health and cheerfulness dressed up in the
cloak of charity, and made to assume the
character of kindness to the poor, in offering
them employment. Not that I would be
guilty of endeavoring to divert from so ne-
cessitous a channel the proper exercise of
real charity; but at the same time that we
advocate the cause of the poor, let us call
things by their right names; and if we em-
ploy more servants than are necessary, or
|
vigorous and unremitting effort; I feel the
more anxious that English wives should not
create for themselves, out of their habits of
personal indulgence, so formidable an enemy
to their own enjoyment, and to the beneficial
influence which, as Christian women, they
are capable of exercising to an almost incal-
culable extent.
I feel anxious also, that some pictures, too
frequently witnessed by us all, should never
be realized in their experience-pictures in
which a sickly, helpless, desponding wife,
forms the centre of a group of neglected
children, whose boisterous mirth she is little
able to endure, and whose numerous wants,
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
73
all unrestrained, remind her every moment,
with fresh pain, of her inability to gratify
them.
That a woman thus situated, is, under ex-
isting circumstances, more to be pitied than
blamed, we should be wanting in common
feeling to deny; but in comparing her situa-
tion with that of a healthy, active, cheerful-
spirited wife, prompt to answer every claiin,
and happy in the discharge of every duty;
and when we see how such a woman, merely
by the exercise of moral power, and often
without the advantages of any extraordinary
intellectual gifts, can become the living prin-
ciple of activity, order, and cheerfulness in
her own family, the adviser whom all consult,
the comforter to whom all repair, and the
support upon whom all depend, happy in
herself, and diffusing happiness around her
-oh how we long that those dispositions,
and those habits, both of mind and body,
should be cultivated in early youth, which
would be most likely to ensure such blessed
results as the experience of riper years!
Much of this habitual cheerfulness, and
this willing submission to the requirements
of duty, is to be attained by the proper regu-
lation of our aims with regard to common
things; but especially by having chosen a
right standard of excellence for every thing we
do. For want of aiming at the right thing,
the whole course of human life, which
might be so richly diversified with enjoyment
of various kinds, is often converted into a
long, fruitless, and wearisome struggle, first
to attain a happiness which is never found,
and then to escape a misery which too surely
pursues its mistaken victim.
The married woman cannot, then, too fre-
quently ask herself, "What is it which con-
stitutes the object of my greatest earthly de-
sire 1 and at what standard do I really aim ?"
Nor let us deceive ourselves either in asking
or in answering these questions; for if it be
essential to integrity that we should be sin-
cere with others, it is no less so that we
should be sincere with ourselves.
If, then, we are weak enough to aim at be-
ing the centre of a brilliant circle, let us not
pretend that we court notoriety for the pur-
pose of extending our influence, and through
that, our means of doing good. If we aim at
surpassing our neighbors in the richness of
of our furniture, the splendor of our enter-
tainments; and the costliness of our dress,
let us not deceive ourselves into the belief,
that it is for the sake of encouraging the
manufactures and the people of our own
country. If we aim at taking the lead in af-
fairs of moment, and occupying the first
place among those with whom we associate,
let us not do this under the plea of being
forced into a conspicuous situation against
our will, in compliance with the wish of
others, and under the fear of giving them of
fence. Let us, I repeat, be honest with our-
selves, for this is our only chance of ever
arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, or at-
taining any desirable end.
And if we would ascertain with certainty
what is the actual standard of excellence
which in idea we set up for ourselves, for all
persons, whether they know it or not, have
such a standard, we have only to ascertain
to what particular purpose our thoughts and
actions most uniformly tend. If the most
brilliant and striking characters are those
which we consider most enviable, we may
easily detect in ourselves a prevailing en-
deavor, in what we say or do, to produce an
impression, and consequently to render our-
selves conspicuous, than which, nothing can
be more out of keeping with the right position
of a married woman, nor more likely to ren-
der her, at the summit of her wishes, a mark
for envy, and all uncharitableness.
But a far more frequent, and more exten-
sively prevailing standard of excellence, is
that which consists in giving the best dinners,
exhibiting the most costly furniture, being
dressed in the newest fashion, and making
every entertainment go off in the most suc-
cessful manner. How many heads and
hearts are made to ache by this ambition, it
must be left for the private history of every
family to record. What sleepless nights,
what days of toil, what torturing anxieties,
what envyings, what disputes, what back-
74
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
bitings, and what bitter disappointments arise
out of this very cause, must be left for the
same record to disclose. And if in the oppo-
site scale we would weigh the happiness en-
joyed, the good imparted, or the evil over-
come by the operation of the same agency,
we behold a blank; for let the measure of
success be what it may, there is no extreme
of excellence to which this ambition leads,
but it may be exceeded by a neighbor, or
perhaps a friend; and where wealth can
purchase all that we aspire to, we must
ever be liable to the mortifying chance of be-
ing compelled to yield precedence to the ig-
norant and the vulgar-minded.
Nothing, in fact, can be more vulgar, or
more in accordance with the lowest grade
of feeling, than an ambition of this kind.
Not only is it low in its own nature, but low
in all the calculations it requires, in all the
faculties it calls into exercise, and in all the
associations it draws along with it. Yet,
who shall dethrone this monster from its
place in the hearts of English wives, where
it gives the law to private conduct, levies a
tax upon industry, monopolizes pecuniary
profit, makes itself the arbiter in cases of
difficulty or doubt, rules the destiny of fami-
lies, and finally gives the tone to public feel-
ing, and consequently the bias to national
character?
I ask again, who shall dethrone this mon-
ster? Perhaps there would be little weight
attached to my assertion, if I were to say
that it is within the sphere of woman's influ-
ence to do this; that it rests with the wives
of England to choose whether they will go
on to estimate their position in society by the
cost of their furniture, and the brilliance of
their entertainments; or, by the moral and
intellectual character of their social inter-
course, by the high principle which regulates
their actions, and by the domestic happiness
to be found within their homes.
So long as we esteem those we meet with
in society according to the fashion of their
dress, the richness of their ornaments, or the
style in which they live, it is a mockery of
words to say that our standard of excellence
does not consist in that which money can
purchase, or a vain and vulgar ambition at-
tain. And so long as we feel cast down, dis-
appointed, and distressed at being outshone
in these outward embellishments, it is a cer-
tain proof that we are not attaching supreme
importance to such as adorn the mind.
I am fully aware, in writing on this subject,
that I am but lifting a feeble voice against the
giant-force of popular feeling; that the state
of our country, presenting an almost univer-
sal tendency towards an excess of civiliza-
tion, added to the improvement in our manu-
factures, and the facility with which every
kind of luxury is now obtained, are causes
perpetually operating upon the great mass
of the people, so as to urge them on to a state
of eager competition in the display of all
which money can procure; and that this
competition is highly applauded by many, as
beneficial to the nation at large, and espe-
cially so when that nation is considered mere-
ly as a mass of instrumentality, operating
upon what is purely material.
But I am aware also, that this very cause,
operating so widely and so powerfully as it
does, ought to furnish the impetus of a new
movement in society, by which the intellec-
tual and the spiritual shall, by a fresh effort,
be roused to its proper elevation above the
material; and this necessary and truly noble
effort, I must again repeat, it is in the power
of the wives of England to make.
Nor would this great movement in reality
be so difficult to effect, as we might be led to
suppose from looking only at the surface of
society, and observing the multiplicity of in-
stances in which a false standard of excel-
lence is established. We are sometimes too
much influenced in our opinions, as well as
too much discouraged in our endeavors to
do good, by a superficial observation of the
general state of things in social life; for there
is often an under-current of feeling towards
what is just and good, at work in the minds
of those who, from being deficient in the
moral power to act upon their own convic-
tions, fall in with the superficial tide, and go
along with the stream, against their better
POSITION IN SOCIETY.
75
tions.
!
judgment, if not against their real inclina- fied with the position in which Providence
has placed us, and by endeavoring to adorn
that position with the lasting embellishments
which belong to an enlightened understand-
ing, a well-regulated mind, and a benevolent,
sincere, and faithful heart.
Thus, in a more close and intimate, ac-
quaintance with the world, we find, to our
frequent satisfaction, that a combination of
intellectual superiority and moral worth, is
not in reality so lightly esteemed as at first
we had supposed; that the weak and the
vain, who spend their lives in striving after
that which truly profiteth not, are dissatisfied
and weary with their own fruitless efforts,
and that others a little more gifted with un-
derstanding, and enlightened by juster views,
though engaged in the same unprofitable
struggle, would be more than glad of any
thing that would assist them to escape from
their grovelling anxieties, and low entangle-
ments, so as in an open and decided manner
to declare themselves on the side of what is
intrinsically good, and consequently worthy
of their utmost endeavors to attain.
Thus we find too, in spite of popular pre-
judice against a simple dress, or a homely
way of living, that respectability, and genuine
worth of character, are able not only to give
dignity to any position in society, but also to
command universal respect from others; and
that, while few are bold enough to imitate,
there is no small proportion of the commu-
nity who secretly wish they were like those
noble-minded individuals, who dare to aim at
a true standard of excellence in the forma-
tion of their own habits, and the general con-
duct of their families.
Shall we then go on in the same way,
forcing ourselves to be contemptible, and de-
spising the bondage to which we submit? It
is true, the effort necessary to be made, which
the state of the times, and the satisfaction of
our consciences, alike require of us, is hard
for any single individual. But let us stand
by each other in this great and noble cause.
Let the strong endeavor to encourage and
sustain the weak; and let us prove, for the
benefit of succeeding generations, how much
may be done for the happiness of our homes,
and the good of our country, by being satis-
Our standard of excellence will then be no
longer found in the most splendid jewelry, or
the costliest plate; for in all these the vulgar
and the ignorant may easily attain pre-emi-
nence; but in the warmest welcome, the
kindest service, the best-regulated household,
the strictest judgment of ourselves, the most
beneficial influence, the highest hopes for fu-
turity, and the largest amount of domestic
and social happiness which it is ever permit-
ted to the families of earth to enjoy.
It is needless to say that all these embel-
lishments to life may be ensured without re-
gard to position in society; and if such were
made the universal standard of excellence
among the wives of England, much, if not
all, the suffering which prevails wherever
happiness is made to consist in what money
can procure, would cease to be found within
our homes; while, rising thus above our cir-
cumstances, we should no longer be subject
in our hopes and fears to the fluctuations of
commerce, or the uncertainty of a position
depending solely upon its pecuniary advan-
tages. We should then feel to be resting on
a sure foundation, just in proportion as our
standard was faithfully upheld. I do not say
that we should be free from troubles, for such
are the lot of all; but that single wide-spread-
ing source of anxiety, which from its vastness
appears in the present day to swallow up all
others—the anxiety to attain a position higher
than our own proper sphere, would then van-
ish from our land; and with it such a host
of grievances, that in contemplating so bless-
ed a change in our domestic and social con-
dition, I cannot but again entreat the wives
of England to think of these things, and finally
to unite together in one firm determination
to establish a new and a better standard by
which to estimate their position in society.
76
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
CHAPTER IX.
DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT.
CLOSELY connected with the subject already
dwelt upon, is that of domestic management;
since whatever standard we choose, and what-
ever principles we adopt as our rule of action,
will develop themselves in the system we
pursue with regard to the conduct of our do-
mestic affairs.
If, therefore, to appear well with the world
according to the popular standard, be our su-
preme desire, the tendency of our domestic
regulations will be to make, before our friends
and associates, the greatest possible display
of what is costly and elegant in our furniture
and style of living; while, on the other hand,
if our aim be to ensure the greatest amount
of happiness to ourselves, and to those around
us, we shall have a widely different task to
pursue; and it is to the latter purpose only
that I propose devoting this chapter, as the
former could be better effected by consult-
ing the upholsterer, the silversmith, or the
jeweller.
Leaving to individuals thus qualified the
important office of deciding what is accord-
ing to the latest fashion, and which article
is most approved in circles of distinction,
we must turn our attention to a study of a
totally different description; and if at first it
should appear more difficult and complica-
ted, it will have the merit of becoming every
day more simple, and more clear; or if it
should seem to involve by necessity a cer-
tain degres of suffering and self-denial, it
will have the still higher merit of resulting
in ultimate happiness; while the system of
domestic management above alluded to,
though in the outset full of promises of
indulgence and pleasure, is certain to in-
volve in greater and deeper perplexity the
longer it is pursued, and finally to issue in
vexation and disappointment.
It is, then, the way to make others hap-
py, and consequently to be happy ourselves,
which I am about to recommend; and if
in doing this I am compelled to enter into the
minute and homely details of woman's daily
|
|
life, I must claim the forbearance of the read-
er on the plea that no act can be so trifling
as not to be ennobled by a greât or a gen-
erous inotive.
Before proceeding further with this subject,
I must address one word to the ladies of the
present day-to the refined and fastidious,
who dwell in an atmosphere of taste, and
make that their standard of excellence-lest
from the freedom of my remarks upon dress
and furniture, I should fall under their con-
demnation for undervaluing what is elegant,
and wishing to discard what is ornamental;
or, in other words, of being indifferent to the
influence of beauty in general, as it may just-
ly be said to refine our feelings, and enhance
our enjoyments.
Without presuming to refer such readers
to a work of my own,* in which they would
find that my admiration of the beautiful,
wherever it may be found, is scarcely inferior
to theirs; I will simply express my convic-
tion, that the exercise of good taste, which
must ever be in accordance with the princi-
ples of beauty, fitness, and harmony, is by no
means confined to the display of what is
costly, elaborate, or superb; but may at all
times be sufficiently developed in the ar-
rangement of what is simple and appropri-
ate. Indeed, there are nicer distinctions, and
more exquisite sensibilities, required in the
happy distribution of limited means, than in
the choice and arrangement of the most cost-
ly ornaments which money can procure. In
accordance with this fact, we almost invaria-
bly find writers of fiction bestowing what is
gorgeous and elaborate upon scenes and
characters with which the best feelings of
the heart have little connection; while the
favorite heroine is universally made con-
spicuous in her simplicity, and at the same
time pre-eminent in her good taste.
But in addition to other considerations, it
is in the present day so easy as to be com-
mon, and consequently to some extent vul-
gar, for all persons, both high and low, to
adorn themselves and their houses to the
* The Poetry of Life.

DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT.
777
utmost extent of their pecuniary means;
and they are also enabled to do this with
a certain appearance of taste, because to
that class of persons who supply the requi-
site articles of dress and furniture, it has
become their study to ascertain what is most
approved in the highest circles, as well as
what is most ornamental and becoming in
itself. And thus individuals who have but
little taste themselves, may easily supply
their deficiency by consulting what are called
the first tradespeople, or those who sell to
the highest purchasers.
How much more exquisite, then, must be
the good taste, and delicate feeling, of her
who has no such assistance to call in; who
expends but little money upon the entertain-
ment of her friends, in order that she may
see them the oftener, and with a less painful
tax upon her household; but who is still able
so to conduct her household arrangements,
that while there is no distressing appearance
of excessive preparation to alarm her guests,
an aspect of elegance and comfort is thrown
over the most familiar things, so as to convey
the idea of her family affairs being always
conducted in strict accordance with the prin-
ciples of taste—of that taste which consults
the beauty of fitness and order, and which
permits no extravagance or excess to inter-
fere with the perfect harmony of its arrange-
ments.
Here, then, we see the value of having
made good taste one of the studies of early
life; for when the cares and anxieties of a
household, added to the actual occupations
of the mistress of a family, press upon the
sometimes over-burdened wife, she will find
little time, and perhaps less inclination, to en-
ter into any abstruse calculations upon these
points; and hence we too frequently see
among married women, a deterioration of
character in this respect; for where one
single woman is careless and slovenly in her
appearance or habits, there is reason to fear
we might find many in the married state,
who might justly be suspected of having lost
their regard for those embellishments which
depend upon the exercise of good taste.
In pursuing the subject of domestic man-
agement, we are again struck with the im-
portance of speaking of things by their proper
names; for by some strange misnomer, those
women have come to be generally called good
managers, who put their whole souls into the
business of providing for the mere bodily ex-
igences of every day; and thus the more re-
fined, and sometimes the more intellectual,
who have no idea how many good principles
may be exemplified in the proper regulation
of a household, have imbibed a sort of dis-
taste for good management, as if it necessa-
rily belonged exclusively to the province of
the ignorant, or the vulgar-minded.
Managers, indeed, those household tor-
ments may be, who live perpetually in an
element of strife and discord, where no one
who valued their own peace would wish to
live with them; but good managers they cer-
tainly are not. It is not, therefore, in abso-
lute bustle and activity, nor yet in mere clean-
liness, order, and punctuality, that the per-
fection of domestic management consists; for
where the members of a household are made
to feel that they pay too dearly, by the loss
of their peace and comfort, for the cleanli-
ness, order, and punctuality of the mistress,
all claim on her part to the merit of good
management must be relinquished.
It is most difficult, however, to be suffi-
ciently solicitous about such points of obser-
vance, and not irritated by the neglect of them
in others. Hence it is often said that ill-
tempered servants are the cleanest and most
orderly; because the exactness and precision
which regulate their conduct, produce in un-
enlightened minds, a tendency to exact the
same from others; and where this is impos-
sible to be effected, produce a petulance and
dissatisfaction which obtain for them the char-
acter of being ill-tempered; while an opposite
disposition, careless of order, cleanliness, or
punctuality, obtains sometimes with great in-
justice the merit of being good-tempered,
simply because any deviation from these
points occasions to such a mind no disturb-
ance whatever.
It has appeared to me ever since I was ca-
78
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
pable of extreme annoyance or extreme en-
joyment from such causes, that the perfec-
tion of good domestic management required
so many excellences both of head and heart,
as to render it a study well worth the atten-
tion of the most benevolent and enlightened
of human beings. For when we consider the
simple fact, that it comprehends-nay, is
mainly dependent upon the art of giving to
every thing which comes within the sphere
of practical duty its proper weight, and con-
sequently its due share of relative importance,
we see at once that it cannot be within the
province of a common or a vulgar mind con-
sistently to do this, more especially as there
must not only be the perception to find out,
and the judgment to decide upon things gen-
erally, but the good feeling-and here is the
great point-to make that subservient which
is properly inferior. Thus all selfish consid-
erations must be set aside, all low calcula-
tions, all caprice, all vanity, all spite. And
in how many instances do all these, with a
multitude of other enemies to peace and hap-
piness, mix themselves up with what people
persist in calling good management, but which
from this lamentable admixture, makes no-
body like such management, or wish to be
where it prevails!
Perhaps it has occurred to not a few of us
to see one of these reputed good managers,
bustling about a house from one apartment
to another, peeping into corners, throwing
open closets, emptying drawers, with a coun-
tenance which bid defiance for the time to
every gentle or kindly feeling; and calling to
one person, despatching another, or enumer-
ating the misdeeds of a third, with a voice
which even in its distant and unintelligible
utterance, had the bitter tone of raking up
old grievances, and throwing them about like
firebrands on every side. And then the burst-
ing forth of the actual eruption, where such
a volcano was perpetually at work! The
fusion of heated and heterogeneous particles
into one general mass-the outpouring indis-
criminate and vast-the flame, the smoke, the
tumult! what is there, I would ask, in the
absence of harmless dust, or in the presence
of the richest and best concocted food, to re-
pay the wretched family where such a mana-
ger presides, for what must be endured
through the course of any single day?
No-let me live in peace, is the natural
demand of every human heart; and so far
as relates to our cookery, and our carpets,
we are happily all able to do this. We must,
therefore, settle it in our minds, that whatever
excellences may be attained in the prepara-
tion of food, the care of clothing, the arrange-
ment of furniture, or the general order of
rooms, that can never be called good man-
agement, which fails to secure peace, and to
promote happiness.
Not that I would undervalue the care of
the body, so far as tends to preserve health,
and ensure cheerfulness; or, what is still
more important, so far as serves to evince a
high degree of tenderness and affection, strong
evidence of which may sometimes be con-
veyed through this channel, when no other
is open. It is the supreme importance at-
tached to these cares and anxieties, which
prevents such a system of management being
properly called good.
In order to maintain general cheerfulness,
and promote happiness throughout your
household, it is essential that you cultivate
within your own mind, a feeling of content-
ment with your home, your servants, and
your domestic affairs in general, remembering
that nothing which occurs to you in this de-
partment is the result of mere chance, but
that all your trials, as well as your enjoy-
ments, are appointed by a kind Providence,
who knows better than you can know,
exactly what is ultimately best for you. It is
consequently no more a deviation from what
you ought to be prepared to expect, that
your servants should sometimes do wrong,
that your plans should be thwarted by folly
and perverseness, or that your house should
be old and inconvenient; than that the blos-
soms in your garden should occasionally be
blighted, or that a shower should fall at the
moment you had fixed for going out.
Yet, to maintain this desirable cheerfulness
through all circumstances, is certainly no
DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT.
79
easy task, unless both health and temper
have been carefully attended to before mar-
riage; for when the former fails, it is but nat-
ural that the animal spirits should fail too;
and defects of temper if long indulged, so as
to have grown into habit, will, in the general
conduct of domestic affairs, be able to infuse
a taint of bitterness into the kindest endeav-
ors, so as effectually to defeat the best inten-
tions.
How necessary is it, therefore, for all
women to have learned to manage them-
selves, before undertaking the management
of a household, for the charge is both a seri-
ous, and a comprehensive one; and how-
ever inexperienced a wife may be, however
helpless, uncalculating, and unequal to the
task, she no sooner takes upon herself the
duties of a mistress, than she becomes, in a
great measure, responsible for the welfare of
every member of the family over which she
presides. And not only is this her situation
in the ordinary course of things, but on all
extraordinary occasions, she must be at the
same post, ever on the alert, prompt to direct,
and ready with expedients suited to every
emergency that may occur.
stowed upon those who habitually bear the
burden of domestic labor, constitutes one of
the strongest bonds which can exist between
a mistress and her servants; besides re-
warding her, in many instances, by a double
measure of their gratitude and their faithful-
ness.
If the mistress of the house, as is not un-
frequently the case with kind-hearted women,
should take charge of the patient herself, it
then becomes her duty not to act so entirely
| from the impulse of feeling, as to neglect her
own health. I mention this, because there is
a kind of romantic devotion to the duties of
the sick-room, more especially where the suf-
ferer is an object of interest or affection, which
carries on the young nurse from one day of
solicitude to another, without refreshment,
without rest, and without exercise in the open
air, until nature being completely exhausted,
she herself becomes a source of trouble, and
an object of anxiety and care. By this apparent
generosity, the kindest intentions are often
frustrated; while the household of such a
mistress will necessarily be thrown into
alarm and disorder, at the very time when it
is most important that order and quiet should
be maintained throughout.
To those who please themselves with the
idea that such romantic self-devotion is the
extreme of generosity, it may appear a cold
kind of reasoning to advocate the importance
of self-preservation, by frequently taking
exercise at short intervals in the open air.
In cases of illness more especially, though
the more laborious duties of the sick-room
may with propriety be deputed to others,
there can be no excuse for the mistress who
does not make it her business to see that
proper attention is paid to the directions of
the doctor, as well as to the ventilation of
rooms, and all those other means of allevia-Yet, I own I am one of those who prefer the
ting pain, or facilitating recovery, instead of
which, inexperienced nurses are so apt to
substitute notions and nostrums of their
own.
But beyond the care of the patient, that of
the nurse also devolves upon the mistress of
the house, to see that her wants are properly
supplied, that a judicious distribution of her
time is made, so as to allow of a reasonable
portion of rest; or, if wearied out, to take
care that her place is supplied, so that none
may have to complain of hardship or oppres-
sion. And here we may observe by the way,
that this kind of care and consideration be-
kindness which lasts, to that which expends
itself in sudden and violent effort; and I
would, therefore, strongly urge upon the
wife not only to attend to such means of pro-
longing her own usefulness, but to see that
the nurse employed under her direction does
the same.
Nor is it only in such cases as that already
described, that married women are apt to
neglect the best means of maintaining cheer-
fulness, and preserving health, two blessings
which they above all other persons have the
most reason to estimate highly. Not that I
would insinuate an idea of any culpable ne-

80
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
glect of the employment of doctors, or the
use of medicines. I believe this can scarcely
be charged upon the wives of England, as a
general fault. But I have known some wo-
men almost entirely neglect all kinds of ex-
ercise in the open air, either because they
were too busy, or it tired them too much; or,
for that most amiable of all reasons, because
their husbands were absent, and they were
too dependent to walk alone. And thus, from
the very excess of their affection, they were
satisfied, on a husband's return, to be weary,
listless, dispirited, and altogether incapable of
adding to his enjoyment, whatever he-hap-
py man that he must be, to be so tenderly
beloved!might add to theirs.
|
ment, or inducing them by persuasion or ar-
gument to make some different distribution
of their time,
And where symptoms of indisposition do
appear, how beautiful is that display of affec-
tion in a wife, who can put aside all her own
little ailments for the more important consid-
eration of those of a husband; who can bear
without a murmur to have her domestic af-
fairs at any moment deranged, so as may
best suit his feelings or his health; and who
can make up her mind with promptness and
cheerfulness, even to accompany him from
home, at any sacrifice of her own comfort
and convenience! How precious then is the
health and the ability to do this, and to do it
with energy, and perfect good-will-how
much more precious than the childish fond-
ness to which allusion has already been
beside him in his illness, or to neglect the ex-
ercise necessary for her own health, because,
forsooth, she could not walk without him!
But fortunately for the character of woman,
and may we not add, for the patience of man,
there are happier methods of proving the ex-
istence of affection than that which is exhibit-made, which would lead her to sit and faint
ed by the display either of an excessive and
imprudent self-devotion, which effectually de-
feats its own object; or a weak and childish
dependence, which is nothing better than a
sort of disguised selfishness. In accordance
with deeper and more chastened feelings of
regard, is that system of careful but quiet
watchfulness over the general health of a hus-
band, or a family, which detects every symp-
tom of indisposition, and provides against all
unnecessary aggravation of such symptoms
by any arrangement of domestic affairs which
can be made so as to spare an invalid, or
prevent the occurrence of illness.
Nor let it be imagined from the familiar
and apparently trifling nature of the instances
adduced in relation to the subject of domestic
management, that the subject itself is one of
little moment. Necessity compels the selec-
tion of only a few-cases from the mass of evi-
dence which might be brought to prove how
many important principles may be acted up-
on in the familiar transactions of every day.
The woman of naturally restless and irritable
temper, for instance, who, without controlling
her own feelings, would effectually destroy
the peace of every member of her household,
may by habits of self-government, and by a
kind and disinterested regard for the happi-
ness of those around her, so far restrain the
natural impetuosity of her character, as to
become a blessing instead of a torment to the
household over which she presides; while
the tender and affectionate wife, who would
fondly and foolishly waste her strength by
incessant watching over a husband, or a child,
may, by the habit of making impulse subser-
vient to judgment, preserve her health for
the service of many a future day, and thus
I believe that nothing tends more to the
increase of those diseases classed in popular
phraseology under the head of bilious, which
prevail so extensively in the present day,
than long fasting, with heavy meals at the
close of the day. Where fashion is the root
of this evil, it is to be supposed that the suf-
ferers have their own reward; at all events,
a mere matter of choice, it would be imperti-
nence to interfere with; but in the case of
those husbands whose business calls them
from home during the greater part of every
day, surely something might be done by the|
wife, to break through this habit, either by
supplying them with intermediate refresh- | render herself, what every married woman
DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT.
81

ought to be—the support and the comfort of in vain to urge others to do what they see that
her whole household.
We see here, although the instances them-
selves may appear insignificant, that in these
two cases are exemplified the great princi-
ples of disinterested kindness, prudence, and
self-government. And thus it is with every
act that falls within the sphere of female duty.
The act itself may be trifling; but the motives
by which it is sustained may be such as to
do honor to the religion we profess. And
we must ever bear in mind, that not only do
we honor that religion by engaging in public
services on behalf of our fellow-creatures, or
for the good of our own souls; but by re-
straining evil tempers, and selfish disposi-
tions, in the privacy of our own domestic
sphere; and by cherishing for purposes of
practical usefulness, those amiable and benev-
olent feelings, which are not only most en-
dearing to our fellow-creatures, but most in
accordance with the perfection of the Chris-
tian character.
we have not either the strength, or not the
inclination to do ourselves. Besides which,
there is little inducement for servants or
other inferior members of a family to rise
early, when they know that the business of
the day will be delayed by the mistress
herself not being ready; while, on the other
hand, if prepared to expect that she will be
up early herself, there are few who could be
so unaccommodating as to thwart her wish-
es by not endeavoring to be ready at the ap-
pointed time.
Nor is there any thing depending upon
ourselves which tends more to the proper
regulation of the mind, as well as the house-
hold, than the habit of rising early-so early
as to have time to think, as most persons do
in the morning hours, clearly and dispassion-
ately; when, free from the disturbance of feel-
ing so often excited by contact with others,
the mind is at liberty to draw its own con-
clusions, from a general survey of the actual
state of things, uninterrupted by any partial
impressions received through the medium of
the outward senses. Thus it often happens,
that in the early morning we are brought to
serious and just conclusions, which we should
never have arrived at, where the actual cir-
cumstances which gave rise to our reflections,
were transpiring beneath our notice, or had
the persons most intimately connected with
such circumstances been present during the
formation of our opinions.
In turning our attention again to the prac-
tical part of female duty, as connected with
domestic management, that important study
which refers to the best means of economiz-
ing time and money, is forcibly presented to
our notice. Having dwelt at considerable
length upon the subject of economy of time
in a former work,* I shall not repeat the ar-
guments there made use of to show the im-
portance of this great principle of good man-
agement; but simply state, that if essential
before marriage to the attainment of intel
lectual or moral good, and to the welfare and
comfort of those with whom we are connect-
ed;
it becomes doubly so when the mistress
of a house has not only to economize her
own time, but to portion out that of others.
In this, as in all other cases where gooding is the time for gathering our thoughts
influence is made the foundation of rightly-
exercised authority, the married woman must
not forget that example goes before precept.
Whatever then may be the trial to her natu-
ral feelings, she will, if actuated by this prin-
ciple, begin the day by rising early; for it is
* The Daughters of England.
The morning, then, is the time for review-
ing the actions and events of the previous
day, and for forming, for that which has com-
menced, a new set of plans, upon the con-
victions which such a calm and impartial
review is calculated to produce. The morn-
together, for arranging our resources, and for
asking with humble reverence that Divine
assistance, without which we have no right to
expect that the coming day will be spent more
satisfactorily than the past.
Such are the higher advantages derived
from habits of early rising, but there are also
practical duties to be attended to by all mar-
6
82
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
ried women, in the commencement of the
day, which must be so managed as not to in-
terfere with, or delay the business of others;
or the end of early rising will be entirely de-
feated, as regards its good influence upon the
general habits of a family.
I mention this, because there are some
well-intentioned persons, who habitually rise
early, and are yet habitually too late for
breakfast, wondering not the less every day
how it can possibly be that they are so. To
such I would venture to hint, that despatch is |
an excellent thing in whatever we have to
do; and that the habit of trifling is one of
the most formidable enemies to good inten-
tion in this respect, because at the same time
that it hinders our practical usefulness, it be-
guiles us into the belief, that we are actually
doing something-nay, even a great deal;
yet, look to the end, and nothing is really done.
If such persons are unacquainted with the
merits of despatch, or refuse to adopt it as a
wiser and a better rule, I know of nothing they
can do, except it be to rise a little earlier, and
a little earlier still, until they find that they
have exactly proportioned their time to their
requirements; but on no account ought they to
allow the breakfast, or the business of the day,
to be retarded so as to meet their convenience.
Whatever time they take from sleep is their
own, and they have a right to dispose of it as
they please; but that time can scarcely be call- |
ed so, which is portioned out to others, espe-
cially where it is barely sufficient for the busi-
ness they are required to do through the
course of the day.
Perhaps it is with us all too frequent a
mistake to suppose that time is our own, and
that the higher our station, and consequently
the greater the number of persons subject to
our control, the more entirely this is the case.
I have already said that the time we take
from sleep, may with some justice be called
so; but except in a state of existence entirely
isolated, and exempt from relative duties, I
am not aware how conscientious persons can
trifle with time, and not feel that they are
encroaching upon the rights of others, to say
nothing of the more serious responsibility
1
neglected by the waste of so valuable a talent
committed to their trust.
There is no time perhaps so entirely wasted
as that which is spent in waiting for others,
because while expectation is kept up that
each moment will terminate our suspense, we
cannot prudently engage in any other occu-
pation. If, then, the mistress of a house, by
habitual delay of breakfast, keeps as many as
four persons waiting half an hour every
morning, she is the cause of two valuable
hours being wasted to them, which they
would most probably have preferred spend-
ing in any other way rather than in waiting
for her.
It must of course be allowed, that every
master and mistress of a family enjoys the
right of breakfasting as late as they choose,
provided they give directions accordingly;
but where there is one in the middle ranks
of society who will order breakfast at ten,
there are twenty who will order it at eight,
and not be ready before nine. It can only
be to such deviations from arrangements
made by the heads of the family, and under-
stood by all its members, that the foregoing
observations apply.
It is a great point in the economy of time,
that different kinds of work should be made
to fill up different intervals. Hence the great
value of having a variety of needlework,
knitting, &c.; for besides the astonishing
amount which may thus almost imperceptibly
be done, a spirit of contentment and cheer-
fulness is much promoted by having the
hands constantly employed. Thus, if ever
the mistress of a house spends what is called
the dark hours in idleness, it is a proof that
she has either not properly studied the arts
of knitting and netting; or that she is a very
indifferent work woman not to be able to pay
for the use of candles. Could such persons
once be brought to appreciate the really bene-
ficial effects of constant employment upon
the mind and temper, could they taste those
sweet musings, or enjoy those ingatherings
of thought, which are carried on while a piece
of work is growing beneath their hands,
they would never again require urging to
DOMESTIC MANAGEMENT.
83
those habits of industry which may tru-
ly be said to bring with them their own re-
ward.
Habitually idle persons are apt to judge
of the difficulty of being industrious, by what
it costs them to do any thing they may hap-
pen to undertake; the movements of a natu-
rally indolent person being composed of a
series of painful exertions, while the activity
of an industrious person resembles the mo-
tion of a well-regulated machine, which,
having been once set at work, requires com-
paratively little force to keep it going. It is
consequently by making industry a habit, and
by no other means, that it can be thoroughly
enjoyed; for if between one occupation and
another, time is allowed for sensations of
weariness to be indulged, or for doubts to be
entertained as to what shall be done next,
with those who have much to do all such
endeavors to be industrious must necessarily
be irksome, if not absolutely laborious.
How pitiable then is the situation of that
married woman who has never fully realized
the true enjoyment of industry, nor the ad-
vantages of passing rapidly from one occu-
pation to another, as if it was the business
of life to keep doing, rather than to wait to
see what was to be done, and to question the
necessity of doing it! Pitiable, indeed, is that |
woman, because in a well-regulated house-
hold, even where the mistress takes no part
in the executive business herself, there must
still be a constant oversight, and constant
forethought, accompanied with a variety of
calculations, plans, and arrangements, which |
to an indolent person cannot fail to be irk-
some in the extreme; while to one who has
been accustomed to rely upon her own re-
sources in the constant exercise of industry,
they give a zest and an interest to all
the duties of life, and at the same time im-
part a feeling of contentment and cheer-
fulness sufficient of itself to render every
duty light.
There is no case in which example is more
closely connected with influence than in this.
A company of idle persons can keep each
other in countenance to almost any extent;
while there are few who cannot be made
ashamed of idleness by having constantly
before them an example of industry. Thus
where the mistress of a house on extraordi-
nary occasions is ever ready to lend assistance
herself; where she evinces a decided prefer-
ence for doing things with her own hand,
rather than seeing them left undone; and
where it is known that her mind is as quick
to perceive what is wanted as her hand is
willing to execute it; such a mistress will
seldom have to complain that her servants
are idle, or that they cannot be brought
to make the necessary effort when extra
work has to be done.
There is, however, a just medium to be
observed between doing too much, and too
little, in domestic affairs; and this point of
observance must be regulated entirely by the
circumstances of the family, and the number
of servants employed. It can never be said
that the atmosphere of the kitchen is an ele-
ment in which a refined and intellectual wo-
man ought to live; though the department
itself is one which no sensible woman would
think it a degradation to overlook. But in-
stead of maintaining a general oversight and
arrangement of such affairs, some well-inten-
tioned women plunge head, heart, and hand
into the vortex of culinary operations, think-
ing, feeling, and doing what would be more
appropriately left to their servants.
This fault, however, is one which belongs
but little to the present times. It was the
fault of our grandmothers, and we are en-
deavoring to improve upon their habits by
falling into the opposite extreme, forgetting,
in our eagerness to secure to ourselves per-
sonal ease and indulgence, how many good
and kind feelings may be brought into exer-
cise by a participation in the practical part
of domestic management-how much valua-
ble health, and how much vivacity and cheer-
fulness, alternating with wholesome and real
rest, are purchased by habits of personal ac-
tivity.
But it is impossible to do justice to this
subject without entering into it fully, and at
considerable length; and having already done
84
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
this elsewhere,* under the head of "Kind-
ness and Consideration," I will spare the
reader a repetition of my own sentiments
upon a subject of such vital importance to
the wives of England.
CHAPTER X.
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
THE general tendency of domestic manage-
ment should be, to establish throughout a
household the principles of order, justice, and
benevolence.
In speaking first of order, I would not be
understood to restrict the meaning of the
word to such points of observance as the
placing of chairs in a drawing-room, or or-
naments on a mantelpiece. The principle of
order, in its happiest development, has to do
with the state of the mind, as well as the
personal habits. Thus a due regard to the
general fitness of things, correct calculations
as to time and means, with a just sense of
relative importance, so as to keep the less
subservient to the greater, all belong to the
department of order in a well-governed house-
hold, and should all be exemplified in the
general conduct of the mistress.
whether she feels so or not; and if from an
accumulation of household disasters, partic-
ularly such as mal-occurrences before her
guests, the agitation of her feelings should
be too great for her powers of self-control,
she may always find a natural and appropri-
ate outlet for them, by sympathizing with
other sufferers in the same calamity, and thus
evincing her regard for them, rather than for
herself.
Nor ought we to class this species of self-
discipline with those artificial manners which
are assumed merely for the sake of effect.
If the same individual who controlled her
feelings before her guests, should go out
among her servants and give full vent to
them there, such a case would certainly de-
serve to be so classed. But the self-control
I would gladly recommend, is of a widely
different order, extending to a mastery over
the feelings, as well as the expressions. In
the former case, a lady seated at the head of
her table, will sometimes speak in a sharp
whisper to a servant, with a countenance in
which all the furies might be represented as
one; when suddenly turning to her guests,
she will address them with the blandest
smiles, even before the cloud has had time to
vanish from her brow. In the latter case,
the mistress of the house will recollect, that
others have been made to suffer perhaps
more than herself, and that whatever the
cause of vexation or distress may be, it can
only be making that distress greater, for her
to appear angry or disturbed.
By such
habits of reflection, and by the mastery of
judgment over impulse, she will be able in
time, not only to appear calm, but really to
feel so; or if there should be just as much
excitement as may be agreeably carried off
There is no surer method of maintaining
authority over others, than by showing that
we have learned to govern ourselves. Thus
a well-ordered mind obtains an influence in
society, which it would be impossible for
mere talent, without this regard to order,
ever to acquire. All caprice, all hasty or
violent expressions, all sudden and extrava-
gant ebullitions of feeling of any kind what-in condolence with her friends, there will
ever, exhibited before servants and inferiors,
have a tendency to lower the dignity of a
mistress, and consequently to weaken her
influence.
The mistress of a house should always
appear calm, and perfectly self-possessed,
*The Women of England.
never be sufficient really to destroy either
their comfort, or her own peace of mind.
In speaking of the beauty of order, would
that it were possible to impress this fact upon
the minds of English wives-that there is
neither beauty nor order in making their ser-
vants and their domestic affairs in general,
the subject of conversation in company. To
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
85
hear some good ladies talking, one would
really think that servants were a sort of
plague sent upon the nation at large, and
upon them in particular. To say nothing of
the wrong state of feeling evinced by allow-
ing one of our greatest sources of personal
comfort to be habitually regarded as a bane
rather than a blessing; we see here one of
those instances in which the laws of order
are infringed by a disregard to the fitness of
things; for however interesting our domestic
affairs may be to ourselves, it requires but
little tact or observation to discover, that they
interest no one else, unless it be our nearest
and most intimate friends, whose personal
regard to us will induce them to listen with
kindness to whatever we describe as being
connected with our welfare or happiness.
Upon the same principle, a history of bodily
ailments should never be forced upon visit-
ors; for as it requires either to be an intimate
friend, or a member of the same family, to
feel any particular interest in the good or
bad practices of servants; so it requires that
our friends should be very tenderly attached
to us to care about our ailments, or even to
listen with any real attention when we make
them the subject of conversation. In all such
cases, it is possible that a third party may be
more quick to perceive the real state of things
than the party most concerned; but I own I
have often wondered what the habitual com-
plainer of household and personal grievances
could find to induce her to go on in the
averted look, the indifferent answer, and the
absent manner of her guests; yet, such is
the entire occupation of some minds with
subjects of this nature, that they are scarcely
alive to impressions from any other source;
and perhaps the surest way to prevent our
annoyance of others, is to recollect how often
and how much we have been annoyed in
this way ourselves.
tude of a mother; and yet before her guests,
or in the presence of her friends, to be per-
fectly disengaged, able to enter into all their
causes of anxiety, or hope, and above all, to
give an intellectual character and a moral
tendency to the general tone of the conver-
sation in which she takes a part. With no-
thing less than this strict regulation of the
feelings, as well as the habits, this regard to
fitness, and this maintenance of order in the
subserviency of one thing to another, ought
the wives of England to be satisfied; for it is
to them we look for every important bias
given to the manners and the morals of that
class of society upon which depends so much
of the good influence of England as a nation.
A love of order is as much exemplified by
doing any thing at its proper time as in its
appropriate place; and it rests with a mis-
tress of a house to see that her own time,
and that of her servants, is judiciously pro-
portioned out. Some mistresses, forgetting
this, and unacquainted with the real advan-
tages of order, are in the habit of calling their
servants from one occupation to another,
choosing extra work for them to do on busy
days, crowding a variety of occupations into
one short space of time, and then complain-
ing that nothing is thoroughly done; while
others will put off necessary preparations un-
til so late that everybody is flurried and con-
fused, and well if they are not out of temper
too. It may possibly have occurred to others
as it has to myself, to be present where, on
the occasion of an evening party being ex-
pected, all the good things for the entertain-
ment had to be made on the afternoon of the
same day. I need hardly add that when the
guests arrived, neither mistress nor servants
were in a very fit state to go through the
ceremonial of a dignified reception.
Forethought, then, is a most essential qual-
ity in the mistress of a house, if she wishes
It is, then, no mean or trifling attainment to maintain throughout her establishment the
for the mistress of a house to be thoroughly principle of order. Whatever others do, she
at home in her own domestic affairs; deeply must think. It is not possible for order to ex-
interested in the character and habits of all ist, where many minds are employed in di-
the different members of her household, so as recting a variety of movements. There
to extend over them the care and the solici- | must be one presiding intellect to guide the
86
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
whole; and whether the household to be
governed belong to a mansion or a cottage,
whether the servants to be directed be many
or few, that presiding power must be vested
in the mistress, or in some one individual
deputed to act in her stead. It is from leav-
ing this thinking and contriving part, along
with the executive, to servants, that we see
perpetuated so many objectionable and ab-
surd methods of transacting the business of
domestic life; methods handed down from
one generation to another, and acted upon
sometimes with great inconvenience and
equal waste, simply because habit has ren-
dered it a sort of established thing, that
whatever is done, should be done in a cer-
tain manner; for servants are a class of
people who think but little, and many of
them would rather take double pains, and
twice the necessary length of time in doing
their work the old way, than risk the experi-
ment of a new one, even if it should ever
occur to them to make it.
But essential as knowledge is to good do-
mestic management, we must ever bear in
mind that knowledge is not all. There must
be a love of order, a sense of fitness, a quick
perception of the appropriateness of time
and place, lively impressions of reality and
truth, and clear convictions on the subject of
relative importance; and in order to the com-
plete qualification of a good wife and mis-
tress, there must be along with all these, not
only a willingness, but a strong determina-
tion to act upon such impressions and con-
victions to the full extent of their power to
promote social, domestic, and individual hap-
piness.
And if all these requirements are to be
classed under the head of order, we must
look for those which are still more serious
under that of justice.
The word justice has a somewhat start-
ling sound to female ears, and I might per-
haps be induced to use a softer expression,
could I find one suited to my purpose;
though after all, I fancy we should none of
us be much the worse for having the word
justice, in its simple and imperative strict-
ness, more frequently applied to our relative
and social duties. It is, in fact, a good old-
fashioned notion, that of doing justice, which
has fallen a little too much into disuse; or
It must rest with the mistress, then, to in-
troduce improvements and facilities in the
transaction of household business; and she
will be but little fitted for her office who has
not studied before her marriage the best way
of doing common and familiar things. What-
ever her good intentions, or even her meas-
ure of good sense may be, she will labor un-perhaps, I ought rather to say, has been dis-
der painful disadvantages, and difficulties
scarcely to be overcome, by taking up this
study for the first time after she has become
the mistress of a house; for all points of
failure here, her own servants will be quick
to detect, and most probably not slow to
take advantage of.
A married woman thus circumstanced, will
certainly act most wisely by studiously con-
cealing her own ignorance; and in order to
do this effectually, she must avoid asking
foolish questions, at the same time that she
watches every thing that is done with care-
ful and quiet scrutiny, so as to learn the how
and the why of every trivial act before en-
gaging in it herself, or even venturing a re-
mark upon the manner in which it may be
done by others.
missed from its place among female duties,
and considered too exclusively as belonging
to points of law and cases of public trial.
I am well aware that justice in its highest
sense belongs not to creatures frail, short-
sighted, and liable to deception like our-
selves; but that strong sense of truth, and
honesty, and individual right, which we
naturally include in our idea of the love
of justice, was surely given us to be exer-
cised in our dealings with each other, and in
the general conduct of our domestic affairs.
This regard to what is just in itself, necessa-
rily including what is due to others, and what
is due from them also, is the moral basis up-
on which all good management depends; for
when once this foundation is removed, an
inlet is opened for innumerable lower mo-
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
87
tives, such as selfishness, vanity, caprice, and
a host of others of the same unworthy char-
acter, to enter and mix themselves up with
the conduct of daily life.
We cannot therefore be too studious to de-
tect, or too prompt to overcome, these ene-
mies to right feeling and to duty; and I be-
lieve we shall be best enabled to do this, with
the Divine blessing upon our endeavors, by
a habit of constantly stretching our ideas to
the broad and comprehensive nature of jus-
tice in general-justice in its simplicity and
its strictness, without deterioration from the
influence of custom, and without those quali-
fications which owe their existence to an arti-
ficial state of society.
Imbued with a strong sense of justice, the
kind and considerate mistress will see that
every member of her household has some
rights which others ought not to be allowed
to infringe; and if she be attentive to the
welfare of her family, she will find sufficient
exercise for her love of justice in the settle-
ment of all differences which may arise out
of the clashing of individual interests. Even
the most insignificant member of such a
family, that unfortunate attached to almost
all establishments under the name of "the
boy," all from him down to the very animals,
will have their rights, and such rights can
only be consistently maintained by the au-
thority of one presiding mind.
Thus the abuse or the neglect of domestic
animals can never prevail to any great extent,
where the mistress does her duty; for though
servants will sometimes lavish their caresses
upon such creatures, they are for the most
part careless about their actual wants; and
unless properly instructed, and even looked
after in this respect, they will sometimes be
absolutely cruel. The mistress of a house
may thus have an opportunity of teaching
her servants, what they possibly will have
had no means of learning at home, that these
are creatures committed to our care by their
Creator and ours, and that we have no more
right to practise cruelty upon them, than we
have to disobey the righteous law of God in
any other respect.
Regarding the important subject of econo-
my in its character of a great moral obliga-
tion, rather than simply as an individual
benefit, I shall place it under the head of jus-
tice; and I do this in the humble hope, that
when so classed, it may obtain a greater
share of serious attention than could be de-
sired, were the subject to be considered the
mere act of saving money. True economy,
and that which alone deserves our regard as
a study, I have already described as consist-
ing in doing the greatest amount of good with
the smallest pecuniary means--not only good
to the poor, and to society in general, but
good to the family of which we form a part;
and of course this study includes the preven-
tion of absolute waste in any department
whatever, Such a system of economy, I
consider to be entirely distinct from the mere
act of saving money; except so far as that
all economical persons will endeavor to save
money to a certain extent, in order that they
or their families may not be dependent upon
others. A sense of justice will also induce
them to make a suitable provision for those
under their care, without doing which they
have certainly no right to be generous.
Every thing necessary to the practice of this
kind of equitable economy, is consequently
necessary to the exercise of justice. We
shall therefore turn our attention the more
seriously to a few hints on the most common-
place of all subjects-that of saving.
Nor let the refined and fastidious young
wife, retaining all her boarding-school con-
tempt for such homely household virtues,
dismiss the subject with the hasty conclusion,
that such studies are only for the vulgar or
the low. There are those who could tell her,
that there is a vulgarity in extravagance, of
which the really well-bred are seldom guilty;
and that no persons are so much addicted to
the lavish and indiscriminate waste of money,
as those who have been raised from low birth
and education to affluent means.
But it is impossible to believe that the
sound-minded, honest-hearted, upright wo-
men, who form the majority of English wives,
should deceive themselves by notions so ab-
88
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.

surd as these; and I only wish it were pos-
sible to embody in the present work, the
united evidence of such women in favor of
the plans they have themselves found most
conducive to the promotion of comfort and
economy combined.
I place these two words together, because
that can never be called good management,
which has not reference to both, or which
extracts from the one for the purpose of add-
ing to the other; that can never be called
good management, where economy takes pre-
cedence of comfort, except only in cases of
debt, where comfort ought unquestionably to
give place to honesty; and still less can that
be called good management where comfort is
the only consideration, because the higher con-
sideration of justice must then be neglected.
In order to carry out the principle of jus-
tice in her household transactions, it is highly
important that the mistress of a family should
make herself thoroughly acquainted with the
prices and qualities of all common and famil-
iar things, that she may thus be enabled to
pay equitably for every thing brought into her
house. These are opportunities of observing
or violating the laws of justice, which few
mistresses have the energy, and still fewer
the inclination, to look after themselves; and
they are consequently left for the most part
to servants and trades-people to adjust as
they think proper, each regarding their own.
interest and convenience, as it is perfectly
natural that they should. Servants of course
prefer having every article of household con-
sumption brought to the door; and in large
towns this is easily managed by small traders.
in such articles, who can regulate their prices
as they think proper, without the cognizance
of the mistress of the house, and sometimes
without any direct reference to what is the
real marketable value of their property. That
too much is trusted to interested parties in
such cases as these, must be clear to the
meanest understanding; for we all know the
tendency there is in human nature, to use for
selfish purposes the power of doing what is
not strictly right, and especially where this
can be done without fear of detection.
In the "Daughters of England" I have
strongly recommended that young women
should cultivate habits of attention to the
public as well as the private affairs of the
country in which they live, so far as to ob-
tain a general knowledge of its laws and in-
stitutions, and of the great political move-
ments taking place around them. The abuse
of such knowledge is to make it the basis of
party feeling and political animosity; but its
proper and legitimate use is that which ena-
bles respectable, influential, and patriotic wo-
men, to carry out the views of an enlightened
legislature through those minor channels
which form the connection between public
and private life, and the right direction of
which is of the utmost importance to the
welfare of the country in general.
How little do women, poring over their
worsted work, sometimes think of these
things! How little do they reflect, that not
only is it a part of their duty to govern their
household well, but so to govern it, that those
wise and benevolent enactments designed for
the good of the nation at large, which it has
been put into the hearts of our rulers to
make, may not be frustrated for want of their
prompt and willing concurrence! When once
this idea has been fully impressed upon the
mind of woman, she will not, she cannot,
think it a degradation to use every personal
effort for the correction of public abuses,
rather than it should be said, that while the
legislature of England evinced the utmost
solicitude for the happiness of the people,
there was not patriotism enough among her
women to assist in promoting their general
good.
But to return to particular instances of do-
mestic economy. The habit of making what
are called "cheap bargains," does not appear
to me worthy of being classed under this
head; because the principle of economy
would inspire a wish to pay an equitable and
fair price for a good article, rather than a low
price for a poor one; and in ninety-nine cases
out of a hundred, articles offered for sale as
being remarkably cheap, are of very inferior
quality.
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
89
But above all other things to be guarded
against in making bargains, is that of taking
advantage of the poor. It is a cruel system
carried on by the world, and one against
which woman, with her boasted kindness of
heart, ought especially to set her face-that
of first ascertaining the position, or degree
of necessity of the party we deal with, and
then offering a price accordingly. Yet, how
often do we hear the expression-"I get it
done so well, and so cheaply; for, poor things,
they are in such distress, they are glad to do
it at any price!"
And a pitiful sight it is to see the plain
work, and fine work too, that is done upon
such terms. A pitiful thing it is to think of
the number of hours which must have been
spent, perhaps in the endurance of hunger
and cold, before the scanty pittance was earn-
ed; and to compare this with the golden
sums so willingly expended at some fashion-
able milliner's, where, because the lady of the
house is not in want, the kind-hearted pur-
chaser would be sorry to insult her feelings
by offering less.
low, rich or poor, it is highly important to
good management that frequent payments
should be made. Weekly payment of all
trades-people is the best, because then neither
party has time to forget what has been bought,
and they are consequently less likely to make
mistakes in their final settlement. As a check
upon such mistakes in the making up of ac-
counts, it is indispensable that all bills should
be kept for a year at least after their payment;
and though this practice may at first appear
useless and troublesome, ample satisfaction
will eventually be derived by exemption from
all that uncomfortable feeling which arises
from uncertainty in this respect from an idea
of having either injured another, or being in-
jured one's self.
There is a foolish habit to which many
shopkeepers are addicted, of persuading mar-
ried women, and particularly the young and
inexperienced, to purchase on credit. When
they see a lady evidently tempted, looking at
an article again and again, and repeatedly
asking the price, as if in the hope each time
of finding it less, it is perfectly natural in them,
if they know the respectability of their cus-
tomer, to fall in with her weakness, and, ac-
commodating themselves to her inadequate
means, to offer the tempting article, to be paid
for on some distant day. It is still more fool-
The same principle applies to ready pay-
ment of the poor. It is a mockery of words,
to tell them you have no change. The poor
know perfectly well that change is to be had;
and when you tell them to call again in a few
days, or when it is more convenient to attendish, therefore, in the woman who goes unpro-
to them, perhaps the disappointed applicant
goes sorrowing home, to meet the eager
glance of a parent, or a child, who has been
all day calculating upon some article of food
or clothing, which that little payment was ex-
pected to have furnished them with the means
of procuring.
I am aware that disappointments of this
kind are sometimes unavoidable; but I ap-
peal to my country women, whether as a mere
matter of convenience, the poor ought to be
sent empty away, when the rich and the in-
dependent, because of their greater influence,
and the higher respect in which they are
held, are paid in a prompt and willing man-
ner, nothing being said either about inconve-
nience or difficulty.
vided for such a purchase, to trust herself so
far as to trifle with temptation; but the ex-
treme of her folly, is to allow herself to be
prevailed upon, at last, to take what she
cannot pay for, and probably does not really
want.
16
It is often stated by imprudent women, as
an excuse for buying what they do not need,
that it was so extremely cheap;" but that
must always be a dear article to us which we
have no use for; and the money which such
things would cost must, in the end, prove
more valuable than the cheapest goods which
are not necessary, or not calculated to be
of use.
Married women who love justice to them-
selves as well as to others, should always
To all persons, however, whether high or keep strict accounts. Without some evidence
90
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
of this kind, husbands are sometimes a little
incredulous, and such a proof of the right
distribution of her means, no one need hesi-
tate to show. While, however, the husband
is thus enabled to see for himself what has
been the actual expenditure, it must not be
supposed that he is qualified to judge in all
cases of the necessity for such expenditure
being made. The wife alone can do this;
and if she enjoys that inestimable blessing to
a married woman, her husband's confidence,
he will be satisfied that all the rest is right,
whether he understands it or not. There is
no doubt, if he was consulted about every
purchase to be made, he would think in some
instances that the article could be done with-
out; while in others, he would probably
choose a far more expensive one than was
necessary. A wise and prudent woman will,
therefore, so manage these affairs, as to ob-
tain the privilege of having them left entirely
to her judgment.
She will find too, that economy does not
consist so much in buying little, as in buying
suitably; for a house or a wardrobe may be
so scantily supplied, that each article has to
do the service of many, and is thus prema-
turely worn out, or effectually destroyed, by
being put to uses for which it never was de-
signed. The poor girl who has but a thin
pair of shoes, and no money to buy stronger,
must unavoidably destroy them in one day's
journey; when, had they been used only for
proper purposes, they might have lasted a
year. And it is the same with a scantily fur-
nished kitchen. Absolute waste to a very
great extent must necessarily be the conse-
quence of having but few implements for
daily use, and making them serve every pur-
pose as occasion may require. With the best
supply of kitchen utensils, however, their se-
lection and use ought not to be left entirely
to servants. The mistress herself must some-
times direct in this department, unless she
would see the amount of her bills alarmingly
increased by the habit most servants have,
of snatching up what is nearest to them,
rather than thinking what is fittest to be used.
The same rule applies to household linen,
|
of which an ample supply, given out with
regularity and judgment, will always be found
most economical in the end. But on no ac-
count whatever let any deficiency in this de-
partment, or in that of your kitchen, be sup-
plied by borrowing. There is no occasion for
the defects of your establishment to be made
known to others, and, except in cases of ex-
traordinary emergency, if you cannot afford
to purchase what is wanted, the sooner you
learn to do without it the better.
With regard to food, too, I am inclined to
think that to have a table comfortably sup-
plied with a moderate variety of dishes, is
by no means inconsistent with the strictest
economy. I have sometimes even fancied
that a spare dinner had the effect of produc-
ing a very disproportionate appetite; at least
I remember, when a girl, having occasionally
the privilege of sitting down to a table of this
kind, when I always felt most perversely in-
clined to eat up every thing that was set be-
fore me.
But leaving this fact to be settled by politi-
cal economists, it must be allowed that per-
sons in general are not so childish as to eat
more, because they see more; and in the ap-
pearance of a well-supplied table, there is an
air of comfort and respectability, which un-
der ordinary circumstances, I cannot think
we should derive any advantage from giving
up. Besides which, a certain extent of va-
riety affords opportunity for bringing out
again, in a more attractive form, many things
which must have been otherwise dismissed
altogether. In this art the French have ar-
rived at great perfection; and as a proof of
the correctness of these observations, the
cheapness of their way of living is always a
subject of surprise to the English, on their
first acquaintance with French habits.
Still, we must feel that the system is a dan-
gerous one, when it leads to excess; far bet-
ter-far better is it to eat the last morsel of
plain food prepared every day, than to give
the time, and the thoughts, too much to the
preparation and enjoyment of food.
But the great point to be observed, both in
the study and the practice of economy, is to
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
91
proportion your expenditure to your means.
The difference, even of a hundred a year, in
the income of a family, makes a considerable
difference in the duties of the mistress with
regard to economy. Thus, it may be highly
meritorious for one married woman to do all
her needlework herself, while, in another, it
would evince a disregard for the fitness of
things, to spend her time in doing what she
would be more in the way of her duty to em-
ploy the poor and the needy to do for her.
In all these cases, it is evident that princi-
ple, rather than inclination, must form the
basis of our actions; and in following out the
principle of justice more especially, that self
must hold a very inferior place in our calcu-
lations. The same may be said of those du-
ties which follow, and which are comprised
under the head of benevolence; for though
selfishness and generosity may, in the first
view, appear to be directly opposite in their
nature, the act of giving is, in many cases,
only the gratification of a refined selfishness,
with which the principle of integrity has to
wage determined war. Thus there can be
no generosity in giving what is not, strictly
speaking, our own, nor justice in receiving
thanks for what we had no right to give.
To be solicitous either to give, or to receive,
costly presents in your own family, is a sort
of childish weakness, and particularly to ex-
pect such presents from a husband, for where
there is a perfect identity of feeling and pos-
session, both as regards money and goods,
the wife may just as well purchase the val-
uable article for herself. There is, however,
something gratifying to every heart in being
remembered during absence; but the gratifi-
cation consists rather in finding that our tri-
fling wants have been thought of and sup-
plied, than that the indulgence of our self-love
or our vanity has had to be taken into ac-
count; and a thimble in such a case may be
more valuable than a costly gem.
The married woman, as soon as she takes
upon herself the responsibility of standing at
the head of an establishment, should with-
draw herself in a great measure from those
little obligations and kindnesses, which as a
|
young woman and unmarried, she might
with propriety have received.
She must,
therefore, strictly avoid courting such favors,
especially from the great, remembering that
in being the mistress of a house, she has her-
self become a source from whence kindness
ought to flow, and consequently is not so
proper an object for receiving it.
To be "just before we are generous,” is a
good old maxim. The duties of benevolence
must, therefore, always be made subservient
to those of integrity. But still, where a fami-
ly is neither in debt, nor in want of the com-
mon necessaries of life, there must be some-
thing due from such a family to those who
are more needy than themselves.
It is a privilege we all enjoy, of being at
liberty to choose our own way of being char-
itable; yet if we think seriously on the sub-
ject of giving, as a duty, and regard our
means as only lent to us for the purpose of
doing the greatest possible amount of good
which they are capable of effecting; we shall
find that instead of its being the mere indul-
gence of a natural impulse, to give, it is often
the study of a lifetime to learn how to give
judiciously.
To judge by the frequency of its practice,
one would suppose that one of the most ap-
proved methods of serving the poor, was to
give away at the door pieces of broken or
otherwise objectionable food. Yet I am dis-
posed to think that, upon the whole, more
harm than good results from this practice;
for, to say nothing of the temptation it offers
to the poor to exaggerate their own wants and
sufferings, the temptation to servants is no
trifling one, to be perpetually adding to the
charitable hoard, what a little ingenuity or
care might have converted into a wholesome
or palatable dish. Besides which it is impos-
sible that any family should be able to furnish
a regular supply of such food, and the disap-
pointment of the really destitute must be very
great, on those days when they are obliged
to return home to set down to an empty
table, or perhaps to go supperless to bed. In
addition to which objections, we may safely
add, that the fewer supplicants and hangers-
92
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
about, to be found at our doors, the better.
Those are seldom the most needy who ask
assistance in this way, and happily for our
benevolence, there are innumerable channels
now open, through which we may at least
endeavor to do good with less probability of
doing harm.
In the exercise of kindness to the poor, care
is often necessary to avoid falling into popu-
lar mistakes with regard to the merit of cer-
tain cases, which after all frequently consists
in nothing more than a few circumstances of
interest attaching to them. The tide of fash- |
ion, when it takes a charitable course, will
sometimes pour a perfect flood of benefits
upon certain individuals, to the neglect of
others equally deserving, and perhaps more
in need. But the mistress of a family, whose
mind is well governed, will be her own judge
in such matters, and not allowing either in- |
dolence or self-indulgence to stand in her
way, nor even deputing the task to others, she
will, as far as it is possible to do so, examine
the case for herself, in order that she may
not be led away by the partial statements |
or highly colored representations of her
friends.
For all the purposes of benevolence, she
will also keep a separate provision, and sep-
arate accounts, in order to ascertain at the
end of the year, or at any particular time,
what has been the exact proportion of her
resources thus distributed. Without this
kind of record, we are apt sometimes to fancy
we have been more generous than is really
the case; or, on the other hand, we may
have been liberal beyond what was just, for
it is not the number of cases we relieve,
which has to be considered, so much as the
due proportion of our means which is be-
stowed upon charitable purposes.
When the duty of benevolence, extended
through offices of charity, is considered in
this light, as being no duty in some cases,
and in others one of serious extent and re-
sponsibility, and thus bearing, through all the
intermediate degrees between these two ex-
tremes, exact reference to our pecuniary
means, to our situation in life, and to the
number of relative claims we have to fulfil, it
will easily be seen, that to lay down any pre-
cise rules for the amount of money which
ought to be expended in charity, would
be presuming upon an extent of knowledge
which no single individual can possess.
Besides which, there are so many ways of
doing good, that benevolent feeling can often
find free exercise through channels which
could scarcely be considered as belonging to
what is generally understood by charity.
But while perfectly aware that little can be
done in the way of benefiting our fellow-crea-
tures, without regard to their spiritual wel-
fare, I own I am one of those who would
wish that the bodies, as well as the souls of
the poor might be cared for; nor can I think
they would be less likely to attend to instruc-
tion, for being comfortably clothed and suffi-
ciently fed.
The mistress of a family, when truly benev-
olent, will not rest satisfied with merely giv-
ing to the poor. She will visit them in their
dwellings, make herself acquainted with their
habits, characters, and circumstances: and
while urging upon them their religious duties,
or recommending such means of religious in-
struction as may be within their reach, her
own experience in the practice of econo-
my will enable her occasionally to throw in
a few useful hints on the best method of
employing their scanty means, so as that
every thing may be turned to the most use-
ful account. Assistance of this kind, judi-
ciously and kindly given, is often more valu-
able than money would be without it; and
those who have but little to give, may often,
by such means, extend their influence to as
wide a circle of usefulness, as if they had
thousands at their disposal.
The indigent and the suffering are often
good judges of what is real, and what is pre-
tended sympathy, or of what is meant for kind-
ness, without sympathy at all. Thus the most
sincere and fervent zeal for their spiritual
improvement often fails to produce any ef
fect, simply from the fact of little attention
being paid to their temporal affairs, or only
such as they can perceive at once to be un-
ORDER, JUSTICE, AND BENEVOLENCE.
93
accompanied by any feeling of sympathy. It
is a happy constitution of mind, therefore,
which has been given to woman, no doubt
for holy and benevolent purposes, which en-
ables her with a quick and sensitive feeling
to enter into all the minutiae of daily expe-
rience, without interruption to those higher
aims which must occupy the supreme atten-
tion of every Christian woman in her inter-
course with those who are brought under her
influence or her care.
courage the exercise of charity for the sake
of producing great and conspicuous results,
that most persons who begin upon this prin-
ciple, end by having their temper soured, their
confidence destroyed, and their minds embit-
tered by uncharitable feelings towards their
fellow-creatures in general.
"The poor are
so ungrateful," is their frequent remark-" so
dishonest, so requiring; there is no pleasure
in doing any thing for them." But how dif
ferent is the spirit which prompts these com-
The advantages of adaptation are never plaints, from that of the Bible, where the poor
more felt than in our association with the are mentioned in almost every page, and
poor. By a look or a tone, they may be at- where the duty of kindness and consider-
tracted or repelled. Yet how little do some ation towards them is enforced upon the
worthy people think of this, when they speak | simple ground of their being poor, without
to the poor in an authoritative, or disrespect- regard to any other merit or demerit what-
ful manner! It is good to bear about with us
the remembrance of this fact-that we have
no more right to be rude to the poor than to
the rich. Even as regards household ser-
vants, so strong is the feeling of that class of
persons in this respect, that I believe mis-
tresses who never deviate from a proper
manner of speaking themselves, have sel-
dom occasion to complain that their servants
speak improperly to them.
In every mistress of a family, the poor of
her immediate neighborhood should feel that
they have a friend, and where the principle
of benevolence has been strongly implanted
in the heart, such a mistress will esteem this
consideration too high a privilege to allow any
regard for mere personal interest to interfere
with the just discharge of so sacred a trust.
Yet to befriend the poor substantially, and
with reference to their ultimate good, all who
have made the experiment will allow to be a
difficult, as well as a sacred duty, requiring
much patience, forbearance, and equanimity
of mind, with much confidence in a superin-
tending Providence, and faith in Him who
chose his own disciples among the poor.
That benevolence which commences its
career with high expectations of reward in
this world, is sure to be withered by disap-
pointment. Indeed, there is so much to dis-
|
ever!
Nor is it to the poor alone, but towards her
fellow-creatures in general, that the woman
who undertakes the superintendence of a fam-
ily, should cultivate feelings of kindness and
benevolence. Men, engaged in the active
affairs of life, have neither time nor oppor-
tunity for those innumerable little acts of con-
sideration which come within the sphere of
female duty, nor are they by nature so fitted
as woman for entering into the peculiarities
of personal feeling, so as to enable them to
sympathize with the suffering or the distressed.
But woman, in the happiest exercise of her
natural endowments, enjoys all those requi-
sites which are combined in a real friend;
and as such she ought always to be regarded
at the head of her domestic establishment-
a friend with whom all within the reach of
her influence may feel that their interests are
safe—a friend in whose sympathy all may
share, and in whose charity all may find a
place. No one, however, can be such a
friend as this, without having cultivated be-
nevolent dispositions towards the human
race in general, without feeling that all are
members of one great family, only differently
placed for a short period of their existence,
and that all are objects of kindness and care
to the same heavenly Father.
94
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
CHAP. XI.
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS AND DEPENDANTS.
IF, as soon as a woman marries, she has
the services of domestic assistants at her
command, she has also devolving upon her
the responsibility of their comfort and their
general welfare; and it is a serious thought
that she cannot, by any means, escape from
this responsibility, whatever may, in other
respects, be the privileges and indulgences of
her situation. Neither the affection of her
husband nor the kindness of her friends can
do any thing to relieve her here, except only
so far as their advice may aid her judgment;
but as the mistress of a house she must be
the one responsible being for the habits, and,
in a great measure, for the circumstances of
those who are placed under her care.
By the thoughtless or inexperienced it may
be asked how this should be, since servants
are expected to care for us, not we for them?
Such, however, is not the language of a
Christian woman, with whom it will be im-
possible to forget that her influence and ex-
ample must unavoidably give a tone to the
character of her whole household; and if
there be no solicitude for a bias to be given
towards what is good, it must unavoidably be
towards what is evil. It is morally impossible
that it should be neither one way nor the
other, because the very time which a servant
spends beneath a master's roof, will, of ne-
cessity, be confirming old habits, if not spent
in acquiring new ones; and thus while fondly
persuading yourself that because you are
doing nothing you cannot be doing harm,
you may, in reality, be guilty of the sin of
omission, which, in cases of moral responsi-
bility, is often of the most serious conse-
quence.
It is too frequently considered that servants
are a class of persons merely subject to our
authority. Could we regard them more as
placed under our influence, we should take
a wider and more enlightened view of our
own responsibilities with regard to them.
And after all, it is influence rather than au-
thority which governs a household; not but
|
that every mistress has a right to expect im-
plicit obedience, all neglect of which is inju-
rious to both the parties concerned, and in
order to enforce which, her orders should al-
ways be given in as clear and decided a man-
ner as possible, leaving nothing, except where
it is absolutely necessary, to contingencies,
and nothing to the choice of the servant her-
self, unless good reasons should be adduced
for a change of purpose; and then the or-
ders of the mistress should be so worded as
to make the purpose her own, and not to al-
low the servant an opportunity of feeling that
she has overruled the plans of her mistress,
and in reality substituted her own.
Where the mistress is an ignorant one,
these points of observance are very difficult
to maintain, and the habit of giving foolish
orders, inconvenient or impossible to be exe-
cuted, and of finding that her servant is ca-
pable of proposing what is at once more rea-
sonable and much to be preferred, will, in all
probability, reduce her to a mere nonentity
as regards authority in her kitchen, and may
ultimately be the cause of her withdrawing
from all interference there.
But necessary as it is that a mistress should
be implicitly obeyed, I repeat, that it is not
by mere authority that a household can be
well governed; because there are innumera-
ble ways in which servants can deceive with-
out being detected, and carry on their own.
schemes while they appear to be adopting
those of a mistress; it is, therefore, by no
other means than by the establishment of
mutual feelings of confidence and respect,
that we can hope to be as faithfully served
when absent, as when inspecting our affairs
in person; and as I have already said that a
kitchen can never be the proper element for
an enlightened woman to live in, the greater
confidence she feels in a right system being
carried on there, the more leisure she will
possess for other avocations, and the more
happiness she will enjoy.
The question then arises, how is this right
understanding, and this perfect confidence to
be attained? I answer, first, by respecting
the rights of servants, and secondly, by atten-
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC.
95
tion to their interests. There are certain
duties which you have a right to require of
them, and among them is implicit obedience;
but there are also many things which even
though they might greatly promote your con-
venience, you have no right to require. You
have no right to require a reduction of wages
below what you first agreed to give, or in-
deed, any deviation from what was stipulated
for in that agreement. And here it may be
well to observe, that all particular require-
ments with regard to dress and personal
habits, should be mentioned at that time, so
that no disappointments or disputes may af-
terwards arise. Notes should also be made
of such arrangements, with the time of hir-
ing, and the rate of wages: and when all
these things in the beginning are clearly stated,
and fully understood, it may tend greatly to
the prevention of unpleasant consequences.
any extraordinary occasion, which seldom
meets with a refusal, or even with an unwil-
ling compliance.
A certain degree of care of your servants'
health is a species of kindness which they
always feel gratefully, and which is no more
than ought to be shown by the mistress to-
wards every member of her household. In-
deed it is impossible to imagine a kind-hearted
woman neglecting the pallid looks, and lan-
guid movements of those who are spending
their strength in her service; and if she be
at the same time a lover of justice, she will
remember that the bodily exercise necessary
for carrying on household labor during the
day, requires a greater interval of rest than
such occupations as are generally carried on
in the drawing-room. Instead of which, how
often do we find those on whom devolves
the burden of this labor, required to rise two
or three hours earlier than their mistress,
and kept up at night as late as any of the
household !-kept up perhaps to wait for
the return of visitors, when another member
of the family, allowed to rest longer in the
Whatever your own circumstances may
be, it is the right of your servants to have a
sufficiency of rest, and of wholesome food;
and even in cases of sickness, or other exi-
gency, you have no right to require that either
should be given up; to request it as a kind-morning, might as well have done so in their
ness, is the only proper manner in which a
servant should be brought to make such con-
cessions; and we have often a beautiful ex-
ample for imitation in the perfect willingness
with which, when thus treated, they will de-
ny themselves personal indulgence, more
especially sit up night after night with the
sick, without in the intermediate times neg-
lecting their daily work.
It is a delicate part of good management,
but a very important one in maintaining in- |
fluence, to keep always clear distinctions on
these points, and not even to demand the
pillow from the servant's bed, remembering
that all things essential to their daily suste-
nance and nightly rest, have been stipulated
for in your first agreement, and that your ser-
vants are consequently under no greater ob-
ligation than other members of your family,
to give up what may be classed under the
head of bed or board. But I must again ob-
serve, that there is a manner of requesting
these things to be done, when required on
stead-kept up on a cold winter's night to
warm a bed, which the indulgent occupant
might more properly have warmed herself,
unless she had chosen to retire earlier-or
kept up perhaps until a late hour for family
worship; a practice which requires no fur-
ther comment, than to say, that except on
very extraordinary occasions, or where great
allowance is made in the morning for rest,
no servants ought to be expected to attend
family worship after ten at night.
+
By allowing, and even requiring your ser-
vants to retire early, you have a right to ex-
pect their services early in the morning,
without which, no household can be properly
conducted; for when the day commences
with hurry and confusion in order to over-
take lost time, the same state of things, only
aggravated by its unavoidable tendency to
call forth evil tempers, impatient expressions,
and angry retorts, will in all probability con-
tinue until the end of the day. And here we
see, as in thousands of instances besides, the
96
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
importance of making ourselves acquainted
with what belongs to nature, and especially
that of the human heart. We may compel
an outward observance of the laws we lay
down for our own families, but we cannot
compel such feelings to go along with their
observance, as alone can render it of any
lasting benefit either to our servants or our-
selves. Thus by rendering our service an
irksome one, or in other words, not attending
to what the constitution of human nature
requires, we effectually destroy our good influ-
ence; and if by bringing religion into the
same hard service, we render it an irksome
restraint, the mischief we do by this means.
may be as fearful in its extent, as it is serious
and important in its character. But of this,
more in another chapter.
The same care which is exercised with re-
gard to your servants' health, should be ex-
tended to their habits in general, and even to
cases in which their good alone is concerned;
for it is an act of injustice to complain of the
habits of this class of persons, without doing
your part to form, upon better principles,
those which come within the sphere of your
influence. It is often objected to this duty,
that nothing can be done for the good of
young servants, so long as they are encour
aged at home in what is foolish and wrong.
The mothers then are clearly to blame; and
certainly the mothers in many poor families
are bad enough. But who made the mothers
what they are, or helped to make them so?
Unquestionably the negligent, injudicious, or
unprincipled mistresses under whose influ-
ence their early lives were spent.
And have you not then sufficient regard
for the welfare of future generations to begin
a new system, by which the errors of the last
may be corrected? For the little thoughtless
girl just entering beneath your roof-the
young nursery-maid-she of whom nobody
thinks, except to find fault when she has
done wrong-she who perhaps never thinks
herself, except to contrive how she shall man-
age to purchase a ribbon like that upon her
mistress's cap-this very girl is gradually ex-
periencing under your influence, and, nom-
inally at least, under your care, that great and
important change of thought, feeling, and
habit, which is not improperly called the
formation of character; and this girl will
consequently take away with her whatever
bias she receives either from your neglect, or
your attentions, first into other families, and
then into her own, where she herself will
probably in her turn have to train up children
both for this world and the next.
Will the wives of England then think me
very extravagant in my notions of what is
due towards servants, when I propose to
those in the middle class of society, that as
Christian women they should consider such
young servants as placed peculiarly under
their care; because it is only by beginning
early, that that great and radical change can
be effected in the habits and character of ser-
vants generally, which all unite in consider-
ing as so urgently required.
If a mistress would really do this, and I
cannot see how any responsible person so cir-
cumstanced is justified in neglecting it, she
would consider that some oversight of her
servants' wardrobe was absolutely necessary;
and as they grow older, and come to be in-
trusted with money of their own, the same
oversight should extend to their manner of
spending it. It is an excellent thing when
servants are allowed time for making their
own clothes, and it is no mean occupation
for the mistress of a house to teach them
how to do so. I speak on the supposition.
that she is acquainted with this art herself,
for I cannot imagine the education of an
English woman in the middle class of society
complete, without her having become familiar
with the art of making every article of dress
she wears. Not that she is under any obli-
gation to continue the practice of making her
own clothes; that is a totally different mat-
ter; but as this class of women are situated,
and taking into account all the probabilities
of change of circumstance, failure of health,
or failure of pecuniary means, I am convinced
that no one could have to regret, while thou-
sands might have to rejoice, at having ac-
quired in early life an art so capable of

TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC.
97
being made useful both to themselves and
others.
I believe that one half of the forlornness,
discomfort, and apparent destitution of the
poor around us, arises, not so much from ab-
solute want of means, as from the absence
of all knowledge of this kind. They are un-
fortunately but too ready to imitate us in our
love of finery, our extravagance, and self-in-
dulgence; and it is a serious question whether
they discover any thing else in us which they
can imitate; but let them see our economy,
our industry, our contrivance, and our soli-
citude to turn every thing to the best ac-
count, and I believe they would not be
slow to imitate these habits as well as the
others.
The art of mending, for instance, though
most important to the poor, is one in which
they are lamentably deficient; and so much
waste, disorder, and slovenliness, are the con-
sequence of not being able to mend skilfully,
that this department of neatness and econo-
my is one in which all young servants should
be carefully instructed; more especially as
the making-up of new clothes is a much
easier, as well as generally more agreeable
task, than that of mending old ones, so that
they look respectable to the last.
By this kind of oversight of her servants'
wardrobe, a kind-hearted and judicious mis-
tress may easily obtain some direction in the
expenditure of their money, and in nothing
is assistance to the poorer classes more ne-
cessary than in this. Servants generally are
pleased to have the approbation of a beloved
and respected mistress in those cases over
which she does not assume any direct author-
ity; and they would be equally mortified to
find they had incurred her disapprobation by
the purchase of what was worthless, or un-
befitting their situation. By this means, too,
mistresses would generally be better able than
they are, to understand what is sufficient,
and consequently what is just, with regard
to wages; for while, on the one hand, some
require their servants always to look respec-
table without allowing them the means to do
so, others are induced by fashion or custom
to give higher wages than are really any
benefit to the receiver.
But the variety of instances are too numer-
ous to specify, in which the Christian care
and oversight of a good mistress may be in-
valuable to a young servant. I will mention
but one more, and that of greater importance
than any which have yet fallen under our
consideration. I mean the preservation of
young servants from circumstances of expo-
sure or temptation.
Those who have never lived in large
towns, and especially in London, would
scarcely give credit to the facts, were they
told the number of instances in which ser-
vants are brought from the country, and be-
ing obliged, from illness or some other cause,
to leave their employers, are allowed to be
cast upon the mercy of the public, friendless
and destitue, and too often a prey to the
cruel deceptions which are practised upon
young females thus situated. Some of the
most painful among the many distressing cir-
cumstances which come under the notice of
those Christian ladies who have the over-
sight of female penitentiaries, are cases in
which country servants have been brought
to town, and having lost their health, or suf-
fered from accident, have been placed in
hospitals, and left there without regard to
their future destiny; when, on coming out,
they have found that all clue was lost to their
foriner masters or mistresses, and that they
were consequently alone in the streets of
London, without money, without friends, and
without the knowledge of any respectable
place in which they might find shelter.
It may be said that these are extreme
cases, but it is lamentably true that these,
and others of similar neglect, are not so
rare as persons would suppose who are
unacquainted with the practices of our large
towns.
Another evil against which mistresses
ought to be especially on their guard, is
the introduction of unprincipled char-wo-
men, or other assistants, into their families.
In the country it is comparatively easy to
ascertain what is the general moral character
7
98
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
of those around us; but in large towns this
knowledge is more difficult to acquire, and
incalculable mischief has often been the con-
sequence of associating young servants with
persons of this description.
The practice of sending out young female
servants late at night, to bring home any
members of the family who may be out visit-
ing, or placing them in any other manner
unnecessarily in circumstances of exposure,
are considerations to which we ought not to
be indifferent; and the mistress who allows
her servant to be thus circumstanced, would
do well to ask herself how she would like a
young sister, or a daughter, to be placed in a
similar situation. Can it be that youth has
not as strong a claim to our protection in the
lower as in the higher walks of life? Can it
be that innocence is not as precious to the
poor as to the rich? Did the case admit of
any degree of comparison, I should say that
it was more so; for what has a poor girl but
her character to depend upon? Or when
once the stigma of having deviated from the
strict line of propriety attaches to her name,
who is there to defend her from the conse-
quences? Her future lot will in all probabil-
ity be to become the wife of some poor and
hard-working man, whose whole amount of
worldly wealth will be comprised in the re-
spectability of his humble home. Who then,
through indifference or neglect, would allow
a shadow to steal in, still less a blight to fall,
where, in spite of poverty, in spite of trial, in
spite of all those hardships which are the
inevitable portion of the man who earns
his bread by the labor of his hands, his
home might still be an earthly paradise to
him?
Young women of a higher grade in socie-
ty, or those who are more properly called la-
dies, being all taught in the great school of
polished society, acquire the same habits of
decorum, and even of modesty, to a certain
extent; and the restrictions of society render-
ing it more painful to deviate from such hab-
its, than to maintain them through life, we
come, very naturally, to look upon them
rather as a matter of course than as a merit.
But in the modesty of a poor young girl there
is inexpressible beauty, because we know that
it must arise from the right feelings of her
heart; and none who are capable of truly
estimating this charm, would for the wealth
of worlds be the cause of its being lost.
י
It is a common saying with servants, that
they do not fear work if well treated; and I
believe such little acts of consideration as the
heart of a kind mistress will naturally sug-
gest, may be made to go much further in
stimulating them to a right performance of
their duty, than either high wages or great
personal indulgence. A little consideration
shown for their wishes, where the matter is
one of little moment to their employers, is felt
by them as a real kindness, and often abun-
dantly rewarded by their willingness and
alacrity in doing whatever is required of
them.
An instance was once brought painfully
under my notice, where the mistress of a
house and some of her family were consult-
ing about whether a servant should be sent
to a neighboring town before, or after, dinner.
They themselves appearing to have no choice,
it was suggested by another party, that the
servant would prefer going in the afternoon.
"He prefer it, indeed!" exclaimed the lady
of the house; "then for that reason he shall
go in the morning." When it is added, that
the lady was a most kind, and in many re-
spects, truly excellent character, this fact is
difficult to believe; and I am only induced
to state it as a striking proof to what an ex-
tent benevolent feeling may be restrained in
its exercise, by the habit of thinking that ser-
vants are merely passive instruments upon
which authority ought to be exercised; and
that, consequently, all pretension on their part
to an equality of feeling with ourselves, as re-
gards what is agreeable or otherwise, ought
to be put down by the most prompt and de-
cided measures.
After all, however, it must be allowed, that
there are some servants, and perhaps not a
few, who cannot, by the best and most judi-
cious treatment, be moulded to our wishes
and with regard to these, if the case is a de-
TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC.
99
cided one, that they can neither do good to
us, nor we to them, the sooner we get rid of
them the better. Before deciding too hastily
to part with a servant, we should, however,
call into exercise all the charity we can, by
remembering how different their education
and early treatment have been from ours,
and if we cannot on this ground forgive them
some faults, either they or we must be wrong
indeed.
Again, there may have been faults on our
side as well as theirs. We may have been
too lax in our discipline, for kindness ceases
to be such when it degenerates into negli-
gence. Thus, to permit servants to feel that
there are in your household departments of
duty which you never superintended, and
places and things secure from your inspec-
tion, is allowing them a license which few
are so conscientious as not, in some measure,
to abuse. It may happen too, that you have
been expecting regularity from them, while
you have failed to practise it yourself; or,
that you have been requiring neatness, order,
and punctuality, when your own example,
on these points of observance, has been far
from corresponding with your precepts and
injunctions.
The
ed it necessary to mention, because all must
be aware of the importance of treating them
in an equitable and summary manner.
only thing to be observed in relation to these
is, that the evidence upon which we act
should be clear and decisive.
In all cases of dissatisfaction, it is good to
bear in mind the familiar and true maxim,
that "good mistresses make good servants;"
and that with persons who are constantly
changing, some fault must rest with them-
selves-some fault attributable either to mis-
management or neglect-some fault arising
either from too great indulgence, or too great
severity, or perhaps from a mixture of both.
And I am strongly disposed to think, that in-
dependently of such faults, many of the griev-
ances we complain of in our domestic affairs,
and especially those which arise out of the
foolish, perverse, or unprincipled conduct of
our servants, might be obviated by more
careful attention being paid to the formation
of their character when young.
That a better system is also required with
regard to the practice of giving characters to
servants, is universally allowed; yet few per-
sons seem to have the moral courage to be-
gin with a plan, which shall at once be more
just to the employers and the employed.
This weakness of purpose originates, no
doubt, in an amiable feeling of anxiety, lest,
by speaking of our servants as we have
really found them, we should deprive them
of a future home. The case unquestionably
has its difficulties, yet as a moral obligation,
it must be allowed, that the sooner we begin
to act fairly and honestly, the better it will
ultimately be, both for ourselves and those
with whom we are associated; and there
can be no doubt, that the confidence all ser-
vants feel in being able to obtain what is call-
That care should be exercised not to part
too hastily with servants, is as much for the
interest of one party as another; since the
distinction of a bad name as a mistress, is
sure to be felt in its natural consequence of
preventing good servants seeking employ-
ment under such direction. It is in the power
of all mistresses to make it a privilege to
live with them; but still, even this privilege
will occasionally be abused. There are cases
too, in which the natural dispositions of the
two parties are not suited; and there is such
a thing as a mistress becoming afraid of her
servant-afraid to thwart her plans, or afraided a character, so long as they have not been
to enforce others; and where such is the
feeling, whatever may be the excellences of
the servant, that she is not in her proper
place with such a mistress, is sufficiently
evident.
Instances of dishonesty, or other cases of
serious moral delinquency, I have not deem-
really dishonest, insolent, or disobedient, ren-
ders them more careless than they otherwise
would be, of those minor points of domestic
duty, which, taken as a whole, form an ag-
gregate of considerable importance to those
who engage their services. This, then, is
one of those cases, in which the Wives of

100
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
England are called upon to assist each other, the wife of a man who is engaged in busi-
not only in making a strong determination, ness, to the successful pursuit of which she
but in acting upon it, so far as to break owes all her pecuniary advantages, should
through a popular and long-established prac- hold herself above her husband's clerks or
tice, by speaking of servants, when asked for apprentices, I never could distinctly see;
their character, in such terms as they really more especially as time was when her own
deserve; without reference to their worldly husband was thus situated, and most pro-
interests, or indeed to any thing but the sim-bably time will be, when her sons will be the
ple truth. If by such means a few of them
should be longer than they now are in ob-
taining situations, a great many would be
more careful to fill their places to the satis-
faction of the families by whom they are
employed; and thus honesty would be found
in the end, as it always is, to be the best
policy.
In addition to household servants, many
married women have devolving upon them
the serious responsibility of caring for appren-
tices, or other assistants in the way of busi-
ness; and in the discharge of these duties, it
is most important for all who are thus cir-
cumstanced to ask themselves, whether they
are acting upon the golden rule of doing to
others what they would that others should
do to them, or to those in whom they are
most warmly interested. If they are, their
merit is great, and there can be no doubt but
their reward will be so too; for we must all
allow, that it requires no ordinary share of
kind feeling, or of Christian principle, to do
all which a high sense of duty requires in this
respect.
same.
Is it possible, then, that a mother thus
circumstanced can look with indifference to
the future, when the happy boy who plays
beside her, the joy of her own heart, and the
pride of his father's-the spirited handsome
fellow who carries away the prizes at his
school, and lords it over his laymates, and
only softens into tenderness when he sees his
mother's tears-is it possible that she can
think with indifference of the time when he
shall be old enough to go out into a stran-
ger's family-nay, actually be bound there
for a term of years, and thus in wrought as it
were with the entire fabric of a new order of
domestic arrangements, yet notwithstanding
all this, made to sit apart, and to feel that he
is not only an alien but an absolute intruder,
as regards the mistress of that family and her
friends? Could the fond mother follow her
boy when thus circumstanced up to his own
bedroom in the attic, and see how often, for
want of a welcome at the household hearth,
he sits there upon his box, and reads the
books he brought from home, at the risk of
There are many reasons why the task is being chidden for the light he has kept burn-
difficult-almost too difficult for mere human ing;-could she see the far-off way in which
nature to perform; and it is not the least of he sits at the family board, satisfying his hun-
these, that most young men who begin to ger according to necessity, not choice;-
learn a business, enter as strangers into a could she see the manner in which, from the
family at an age when they have little to re- very overflow of the life of his young spirit
commend them as companions, except to he is driven down and compelled to make
their own associates, or to a partial parent; | merry with associates unfitted to himself, at
yet at that precise time of their lives, when least to that self with which he was identified
the formation of their habits and character in his father's home, but which he has almost
requires the strictest care. It is easy to ima- ceased to remember now;-could she hear
gine that few women would prefer spending when he speaks how his voice is becoming
much of their time with youths of fifteen, or gradually habituated to the utterance of low
eighteen years of age, in connection with thoughts and words which never formed a
whom they have no family tie, or strong con- part of the language of his home;-but be-
necting interest; but why, on the other hand, | yond all this-could she see his Sabbaths-

TREATMENT OF SERVANTS, ETC.
101
his days of rest-those happy days, when the
members of his father's family used all to be
united in equality of feeling, and solicitous
only to give precedence to each other,—could
she behold him walking the streets of some
great town, and for want of home-attractions,
for want of cordiality and welcome at his
master's fireside, familiarizing himself with
the sinful practices of others similarly cir-
cumstanced;-could the mother, beholding
all this, trace out its fearful and degrading
consequences upon the future destiny of her
boy, she would be ready to exclaim to the
mistress of that household-"Save my child!"
life that strong phalanx of respectability, in
whose moral power are vested the interests
of the people, and the welfare of the state.
Is it right then-is it just-is it politic-that
during five or seven long years of the lives
of such men-years in which the most last-
ing impressions they ever will receive, are
made upon their minds-is it right, or in any
way to be reconciled to English women, that
for this portion of their lives they should be
subjected to a system of moral discipline,
calculated, in almost every way, to lower
them as future citizens of the world?
But it is not always thus. There are no-
ble and beautiful instances of women who
absolutely could not live upon such terms;
warm-hearted, patriotic women, who can-
not sit down to their own tables without a
cordial welcome for every one entitled to a
place at the same board-who, putting aside
all personal feeling, can even make friends.
of such associates, remembering that to their
Should any such appeal be made, the mis-
tress of that family would in all probability
reply with indignation-"The young men
employed in my husband's business enjoy
the very best of food, they are not required to
work beyond the hours agreed upon, and
their sleeping-rooms are healthy and well
furnished." And all this may be strictly
true, yet the mother's heart may be unsatis-parents and their country they are in a great
fied, for she knows, and we all know, that it
is possible to be well cared for as regards the
body, and yet be made to feel most destitute.
We all know that there is a kind of treat-
ment which elevates the moral feelings, and
another which degrades them, rendering the
spirit upon which it operates, grovelling, ser-
vile, mean. And if this powerful influence
should be made to weigh upon, and bear
down the buoyant mind of youth, what must
we expect, after such treatment, will be the
downward tendency of old age?
But is it possible, we ask again, that the
mother whose natural instinct renders her so
keenly alive to all these feelings as regards
her own child, can be insensible to the claims
of others ?——can be induced by her own pride
or her own selfishness to trample under foot
the high moral obligation laid upon her, to
be as a mother to her own household, but
especially to the young, remembering that
they will go forth into the world bearing the
seal upon their foreheads of her maternal
care, or of her most culpable neglect? Nor
is this all. She must remember, too, that
these very youths are to constitute in after
measure responsible for the high or low posi-
tion such men may take in after life. Yes,
we are happy in believing there are those
who would willingly bear all the annoyance
or restraint of such society, were it tenfold
greater than it is, rather than be the cause of
one young man being drawn out from home
to seek enjoyment, or down into a lower
grade of social fellowship, for a freedom and
a cordiality which he could not find with her.
Contemptuously as young men will often
speak of the influence and the habits of wo-
men in general, I believe there are few who
may not in the early part of their lives, be
more easily influenced by women than by
men-by judicious women, I mean, for, not-
withstanding the absurdities of which some
youths are guilty themselves, they appear to
be instinctively quick-sighted to the absurdi-
ties of others, and especially to those of wo-
man. In fact, they seem glad to lay hold of
any excuse for despising them, and, even
where they feel the greatest respect, will sel-
dom acknowledge it openly or directly. But
for all this, the cautious and well-ordered
treatment of women tells upon their charac-
102
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
ters in the end; and by a little good-natured
falling-in with their humors, a little forbear-
ance under the infliction of their annoyances,
a little good sense, and a great deal of cheer-
fulness, an amiable woman will seldom fail to
obtain, even without the assumption of any
direct authority, an extensive influence over
the young men with whom she is associated.
For this reason, and because the master of
a family with whom it rests to exercise real
authority cannot so well unbend, and make
himself familiar with the young people under
his direction, the claims of this part of the
community are strong upon the wives of
England, who as they value the comfort of
their own sons, and estimate with regard to
them the advantages of a high moral stand-
ard, can surely not forget the interests of the
stranger's son committed to their care.
The same observations apply with equal
force to dependants of every description, ex-
cepting only that those who are not bound,
may be considered as at liberty to find situa-
tions more suited to their ideas of comfort.
house who entertains such relatives as guests.
Her behavior must be delicate in the extreme,
because she has to do with those whose pe-
culiar situation renders them more than com-
monly susceptible of pain: and it must be
candid; because in all such cases the habit
of leaving things to be understood is the
surest way to produce misunderstandings.
Still, the delicacy which would make no
difference be felt, would fail in its object to
do good; because as the world considers
there is a vast difference between abundant
and slender pecuniary means, there could be
no kindness in persuading those who are but
scantily supplied in this respect, that they are
to mix in society upon the same terms as the
rich; and more especially after one or more
generations have marked this difference be-
tween them and their relatives by stronger
characters.
While it is left to all persons to decide ac-
cording to their own judgment to what ex-
tent they will cultivate the acquaintance of
their poorer relatives, the manner of doing
this admits of no doubt; for to receive them
as guests without a welcome, is at once a
breach of justice and of hospitality. The
welcome then which I would earnestly re-
But, above all others, the class of destitute
or homeless relatives are most entitled to our
consideration and kindness. Yet such is the
weakness of human nature in cases of severe
or protracted trial, that the good and the hap-commend, is one which sets them perfectly
piness of all parties seem to require as little
mixing up as possible in the same household,
of rich and poor relations. When the poor
have to be provided for by more affluent rel-
atives, it is better-far better, to do this at a
distance, or at least not associated as one
family; though such needful precaution has
nothing whatever to do with the kindness
which may often be most appropriately ex-
tended towards them as guests, or indeed as
members of the same family for a limited
period.
In all such cases, there are difficulties to
be contended with on both sides, owing to
the natural tendency in one party to suspect
or imagine slights, and in the other to appre-
hend or resist encroachments. One half of
these, however, I am fully persuaded, might
be obviated by a candid and delicate mode
of behavior on the part of the mistress of a
at ease as to any fear of intrusion, and which
does away with all idea that personally they
are considered as inferiors by the mistress of
the house; though at the same time her be-
havior should be such as to assist them in
marking out for their safety, in associating
with others, those delicate distinctions, upon
the nice observance of which so much of
their comfort and respectability depends. By
encouraging them to trust implicitly to her
candor in expressing her wishes respecting
them, she may, as the mistress of a house,
be enabled to become a real friend to a class
of persons whose claims are perhaps the
strongest of any upon our sympathy and
consideration. For let the case be our own
let the lapse of time as it passes over our
family connections leave us alone to struggle
with a tide of adverse circumstances; while
those who originally branched off from the
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
103
same root are basking in the sunshine of
prosperity-let us ask of our own hearts,
whether we should not sometimes feel it
hard to be shut out from their indulgences,
and thrust down as it were into a lower
grade of society altogether, without any fault
of our own.
to supply; and beyond this, she will find that
by the same means she has been put in pos-
session of one of the great secrets of human
happiness-that of making others happy.
CHAPTER XII.
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
VISITING, and receiving visits, being re-
garded by some married women as among
the most important avocations of life, it may
possibly to such individuals imply an igno-
rance of the claims of society, when I ven-
ture to hint at the probability of this being
one of the peculiar temptations against
which women in general would do wisely to
be on their guard, especially against acquir-
Nor is it so much the fact itself, as the ac-
companiments of this fact, which we should
feel it hard to bear-the willingness of our
relations to forget us-their cold or forced
civilities when we claimed their attention,
compared with the warmth of their emotions
towards those who were more distinguished
than ourselves—the situations they might
point out to us as eligible, but which they
would almost die rather than occupy-the
times they would choose for inviting us,
when no one else was likely to appear-the
multitude of things reserved for us to do,
when our health required that we shoulding a habit of visiting, as a means of escape
have perfect rest-all which are perfectly nat- from the dullness and monotony of their own
ural, and might easily occur without any ac- firesides.
companiment of unkind feeling. Yet, these
are only small items of a vast sum, like grains
of dust in the long wearisome and humilia-
ting path, which the poor relation must tread
in associating with the rich.
In all such circumstances, how much may
the facts themselves be ameliorated to the
sufferer by the kind and cordial treatment of
the mistress of a family, and especially by
one whose high sense of justice and generos-
ity admits of no half welcomes beneath her
roof! Such a mistress will consider the
poor
relative as peculiarly under her protection, to
guard from slights, to bring forward as oc-
casion may invite, to keep back as circum-
stances may require, and to render comforta-
ble and at ease whatever may occur. And
if in the contemplation of this duty, in addi-
tion to those already dwelt upon in this chap-
ter, the English wife should fear that her
time will be so occupied in thinking of others,
as to leave none for thinking of herself, she
must remember, that by these means she
will gather around her a strong phalanx of
friends, whose love and gratitude will leave
her little to wish for, which it is in their power
It needs but little acquaintance with do-
mestic duty, to know that there must be
something wrong in the home of that woman
who is always leaving it; although, on the
other hand, few persons would recommend
exclusive confinement to the same narrow
sphere of thought and action, in which we
exist at home.
exist at home. It is good to go out into so-
ciety sometimes, in order that we may return
with the greater relish; but a still more ex-
tensive amount of good is derived from what
we may learn in mixed society, and some-
times even from the humblest individuals we
meet with there.
It must, however, depend much upon our-
selves, whether we go out prepared to make
visiting a wholesome refreshment to the mind,
or a means of collecting and disseminating
low ideas with regard to our own affairs, and
those of our neighbors. When a married
woman goes out intent upon reckoning the
cost of the entertainment she partakes of,
upon comparing her neighbor's furniture with
her own, but especially upon depreciating
the excellence of all which falls under her
notice, it may safely be said that she would
104
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
have been better at home; but when she goes
out with a desire to extend her kindly feel-
ings towards her fellow-creatures in general,
to learn from others, and to impart knowledge
in return; or, in other words, to do and re-
ceive good in any way that may open, she
will seldom have the mortification of return-
ing home weary and dispirited, or wishing
she had never gone.
stration of delight, what one half at least of
the same individuals declare themselves to
be doing with the utmost unwillingness, and
even with dislike. In nothing is this more
striking than in the ceremony of making
morning calls. The devices which are prac-
tised to escape from callers, on the one hand,
and to call upon persons who are not at
home, on the other, might put to shame the
warmest advocate for keeping up these forms
of polished life. For let the whole nation, as
with one stout heart, determine to speak the
truth, and say exactly what degree of willing-
ness is really felt to go out and make these
calls, or to stay at home and receive them,
and let the willingness thus avowed, be made
the rule of their future conduct, what an im-
mense amount of precious time would thus
be rescued from worse than waste!
But pleasant as this kind of refreshment
may occasionally be, and necessary as it is
sometimes to mix with others in order to
have our views enlarged, and our prejudices
rubbed off, the woman who makes it the chief
business of her life to visit and receive com-
pany, will have committed a lamentable mis-
take by getting married; for this business
might unquestionably have been carried on
in her single state with as much enjoyment
to herself, and with far less injury to the hap-
piness of others. Whatever is done by a
married woman in the way of duty, must
have reference to others, and more especially
to those with whom she is most intimately
connected; how then can it be promoting
their interests, or making their welfare the
chief object of desire, for her to be bestowing
her time, her intelligence-nay, all that is
pleasing in her manners, and interesting in
her character, upon comparative strangers;
while her lassitude, weariness, and exhaus-between, perhaps, a late breakfast, and the
tion, the natural effects of too much excite-
ment, are brought home to her own family,
and unsparingly indulged before them.
There are probably few English wives who
would really wish to enter at once upon so
unnatural a way of living; but there are un-
fortunately too many, who from want of firm-
ness to resist temptation, as well as prudence
and discernment to foresee what consequen-
ces must inevitably follow certain acts, are
drawn into that vortex of dissipation appa-
rently against their will, and, if one could re-
ally believe their protestations, still more
decidedly against their inclinations.
Nor is it the absolute calls themselves,
which constitute the whole objection to the
practice as it is now carried on, for every
mistress of a family addicted to this practice,
knows that there are two or three good
hours-nay, actually the very best of every
day, which she can never call her own, and
which she consequently makes no attempt to
spend in any rational or useful manner.
any thing within the sphere of her duties has
really to be done, it must be hurried through
If
arrival of those few early callers, who come
on business, or who really wish to find the
lady of the house at home. When these are
gone, the first part of the farce commences,
and if the after scenes could be made to vary
so as to develop what was interesting or
new, there would perhaps be less objection
to the whole. But, unfortunately, having gone
through one set of observations, one series of
little surprises at the intelligence of the day,
one succession of animated smiles, and ex-
pressions of profound interest, no sooner is
another guest announced, than the lady of
the house has to be just as much astonished
There is no more curious phenomenon, at the news, and just as much startled at
presented by human life, than that of innu- | each item of intelligence, as if she had never
merable multitudes of persons doing every heard it before-just as much pleased to re-
day, towards each other, with every demon-ceive the twentieth caller as the first, and al-
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
105
though in all probability no single truth has
been told her with which she was not all the
while acquainted, no new idea developed,
and no feeling, except weariness, excited, she
has to remain until the last as fascinating,
vivacious, and apparently delighted, as she
was at first.
justice complain of the system as irksome or
annoying.
In such observations I would be under-
stood to refer to those calls of ceremony,
habit, or fancied necessity, which are univer-
sally complained of behind the scenes. Visits
of friendship are of a totally different order,
and might be arranged for accordingly. But
whatever plans may be proposed, the great
evil to be avoided is, a universal determina-
tion to appear pleased with what is as uni-
Al-versally complained of as a waste of time,
and a tax upon patience and sincerity; for
that can never be a right state of things,
where a general grievance is borne with
under the pretence of its being a pleasure.
There are many grievances which must be
borne with, and which it is consequently de-
sirable to make the best of; and there are
others which fall heavily upon individuals,
and yet conduce to the general good; but
that a burden felt by all, and sincerely de-
plored by the majority of those who bear it,
should come not only to be submitted to, but
apparently rejoiced in, is a phenomenon
which exhibits so striking an instance of the
self-mastery of woman, that one cannot suf-
ficiently regret this exercise of her magna-
nimity not being devoted to a nobler cause.
Now if this is not hard labor, I am igno-
rant what labor is. If this is not waste of
time, I am ignorant what is its use. If this
is not a weariness and degradation to the
spirit, I am ignorant on that point too.
lowing, however, that calls are necessary, a
fact I do not pretend to dispute, allowing also
that some particular portion of each day
should be appropriated to that purpose, what
harm, I would ask, would result to society in
general, from having that time compressed
into the space of one hour each day. It is
true that by this means many callers would
probably have to be introduced at the same
time, but here would be the great advantage,
that the same common-place remarks would
do for all at once, the same little starts of as-
tonishment, the same expression of interest
lighting up the face, and beyond this, the
same delighted welcome for the many, em-
bodied in one, might have a better chance of
being really cordial and sincere. In addition
to these advantages, every married woman
should have the privilege of fixing her own
hour as a generally understood thing, so that
her household arrangements might be made
accordingly; and time comparatively secure
would thus be left for pursuing any more im-
portant avocations without fear of interrup-deed, there is always this fact to be borne in
tion.
I now appeal to the wives of England,
whether the carrying out of such a plan
would not be felt as a general relief; more
especially since it need only be adopted by
those who consider time too precious a gift
to be spent in a sort of trifling which seems
neither to do good, nor to give satisfaction;
while all who prefer the present system,
would enjoy the gratification of spending
their whole mornings either in making or
receiving calls. The only difference to them
would be, that they could no longer with any
The art of receiving guests agreeably, ar-
ranging them judiciously, and treating them
so that every one shall feel perfectly at ease,
is of more importance to the mistress of a
house, than the display of her richest jewels,
or her most studied accomplishments. In-
mind with regard to society in general, that
nothing which is merely an embellishment to
ourselves, can, as regards its real value, bear
the slightest proportion to that which affords
gratification to others. The mistress of a
house would do little for the enjoyment of
her guests by being the most splendidly
dressed, or even the most striking and dis-
tinguished person in her own drawing-room.
The probability is that half of them would go
away secretly, if not openly, affronted. Her
proper duty is to allow them an opportunity
of shining, if they can; and in pursuance of
106
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
this subject, she will endeavor to make way
for the distinguished, as well as to bring for-
ward the retiring. But more especially it is
her part to be unobtrusively watchful of in-
dividual comfort, attentive to every wish,
moving about from one to another without
bustle or officiousness, and above all things
taking care that the most insignificant are
not neglected. She must do all this too with
a perfect knowledge of what is in human na-
ture, so as not to offend while endeavoring
to please; and with a perfect adaptation of
herself to the different characters of her
guests, whose enjoyment for the evening
must be in a great measure at her disposal.
Thus the mistress of a house may attain the
desirable object of having her visitors all
pleased and satisfied, without any of them
being aware how much of their gratification
they owe to her; for I am supposing her one
of those unselfish women, who, when they go
into company, are intent only upon the hap-
piness of those around them, and who conse-
quently escape the disappointment of having
failed in their own persons to be either courted
or admired.
|
But there is a far different manner of visit-
ing and receiving visits from this-and I had
almost said, would that there were no other
with which we had any thing to do! I mean
where one or more friends-real friends, are
invited by the mistress of a house to be for a
short time the companions of her fireside en-
joyments, and, as members of the same fam-
ily, to partake in whatever may constitute its
amusements or its privileges. Here then we
find an appropriate and ample field for the full
development of those qualifications, whether
natural or acquired, which are combined in
an agreeable companion; for here are happi- |
ly united, freedom for the exercise of truth,
time for narrative, opportunity for confidence,
resource for intellect, occasion for pleasantry,
recollections shared together, hopes mutually
anticipated, and indeed any thing which an
affectionate heart, and an enlightened under-
standing, can require for enjoyment.
What a luxury too it is for a married
woman to feel such perfect identity with her
I
husband in all he is, and in all he possesses,
that her home, her books, her garden, seem
to be her very own to place at the disposal
of her friend; but greater than all, is the
luxury of gathering into her bosom that ful-
ness of delight, derived from ten thousand
sources, yet all embodied in the simple feel-
ing, that she has a home to offer. There is
nothing in the joy of girlhood equal to this;
and say what people will about marriage
being the grave of friendship, I cannot think
the wife is the person most to blame where it
is so. Perhaps there is no blame at all, for I
should rather think the falling off of female
friends might, in a great measure, be attrib-
uted to a natural shrinking, on the side of the
unmarried party, from admitting, as she sup-
poses he must be, a man, and perhaps a
stranger, into her confidence.
There are,
however, so very few men who care any
thing at all about such confidence, who feel
any curiosity to know what female friendship
is composed of, or who even listen when its
details are laid before them, that such an ob-
jection need scarcely be allowed to interfere
with the freedom of intercourse, which con-
stitutes one of the great privileges of friend-
ship, and without which it must be little bet-
ter than a name.
Beyond this, too, there may be a little fault
on the part of the unmarried friend, in at-
taching ideas of what is interesting, exclu-
sively to those unfamiliar scenes, and images
of impossible perfection, which occupy the
mind of the romantic, or the highly imagina-
tive, to the exclusion of what is real, practi-
cal, and true. Thus the wife who really
does her duty, is not unfrequently condemned
by her female friends, as being a common-
place, and perhaps a vulgar, or degenerate
being. But could they really know what
deep and thrilling interests are to her in-
volved in this her duty, what high and burn-
ing zeal-what quenchless ardor-what en-
thusiasm, what feeling, are expended upon
the avocations of each day, marked as they
must be, by the ebb and flow of affection's
ceaseless tide; could they see all this, how
would they start astonished at their own mis-
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
107
take, in having supposed that the mere ma-
terial elements upon which the duties of a
wife were exercised, were in themselves
what constituted the reality of all the interest
which she had in life. No; beyond these
visible signs which tell of the observance or
neglect of duty, she has a life-a soul-a |
spiritual existence, which comprises every
thing between the wide extremes of happi-
ness and wo; and if her early associates
will not believe it, if they will withdraw them-
selves, and think, and say, that she is
changed, it is because she regards all the in-
tense and profound realities of the life she
now leads, as too sacred to be unveiled even
before the eye of friendship.
But she is not changed: a warm, true-
hearted woman cannot change to those she
has loved in early life, simply because her
name, her home, and the occupations which
fill up her time, are not the same. Affection
in such a heart can never die; where it has
once fixed, it will retain its hold; and if by
force it should be shaken off, it will be like
wrenching away a portion of the heart itself.
If new ties are formed, it does not follow
that the old ones shall be broken. They
rather grow into the soul from having been
interwoven with its earliest affections, and
if they are less observable in after life, it is
only because they lie the deepest, and are
consequently the most concealed.
But to return to the subject of duty; in
the act of entertaining her familiar friends,
and particularly those who are younger than
herself, the married woman may possibly sup-
pose that she enjoys only a pleasant recrea-
tion, by which the more serious business of
life may be diversified with social amusement.
But however much this might have been the
case in her single state, it is so no longer; for
as the mistress of a house, and the head of a
family, she holds a relation to her young
friends which is necessarily invested with a
degree of authority, and for the use of this
authority she is as a Christian woman ac-
countable. Even if no attempt is made to
use her influence, so as to give to the minds
around her a bias either one way or another,
some bias will necessarily be given by the
general character of her establishment, and
the tone of feeling by which her domestic and
social affairs are regulated. Besides which,
her young friends will naturally look to her
to see what plans she wishes to adopt, and
what principles it is her object to carry out,
and their conduct will be regulated accord-
ingly; for whatever the degree of familiarity
may be which exists between them, the rules
which she has adopted for the government
of her household, they will feel it an obliga-
tion strictly to observe.
The mistress of a house too, will have an
influence beyond this, and one which is rare-
ly enjoyed through any other medium of
communication; for if she be one who has
cultivated and embellished her own mind,
storing up for the benefit of others all those
means of being agreeable which no woman
ought to neglect, she will be the delight of
her young friends as a fireside companion,
and as such will share in all their moments
of unrestrained vivacity, and unlimited free-
dom.
The authority of teachers, and unfortu-
nately sometimes that of parents too, extends
only to those hours of discipline which are
spent immediately under their care. Could
any system of scholastic instruction be made
to regulate without spoiling the sports of chil-
dren, or could any means of influence be
made to operate upon their play, what an
amount of additional good might be effected
in the formation of individual character! For
how often is it found that the child who is
taught, questioned, and examined by his mas-
ters, who answers freely and fluently on the
points referred to, and who is ready and prompt
as if his whole mind was there, is in reality but
an actor performing his part in that august
presence, from which, the moment he is dis-
missed, his real character bursts forth in the
play-ground, to be developed in an entire be-
ing as opposite to that which stood before the
desk, as if they held no relation to each other!
How often too, do we find that persons who
appear staid and demure on serious occasions,
are most objectionable companions in their
108
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
mirth; while, on the other hand, those whose
mirth is innocent and pure, and guiltles sof
all taint from selfish or malignant feeling,
may safely be trusted when they are in earn-
est.
But the mistress of a family in the midst of
her young friends enjoys the high privilege of
giving a right tone to their enjoyments, and
chastening the spirit of their mirth. That is,
if she has so cultivated her own understand-
ing as-to-know-what-belongs to nature, and
to be able to adapt herself to it; for without
this power, she must ever be a stranger to the
inner and more potent workings of the human
heart. But if she has studied those accom-
plishments which are particularly attractive
to youth, and those more important qualifi-
cations of mind and intellect which give su-
periority as well as interest wherever they are
found, she will be able to render the moments
spent beneath her roof the most privileged
perhaps of a whole lifetime-moments in
which good impressions were rendered in-
delible as being accompanied by the most de-
lightful associations-moments retained with
in the richest treasury of memory, to be made
the pattern of the choicest intercourse, and
the highest intellectual communion through
other chains of association, extending on-
wards from family to family, and from heart
to heart, into a never-ending future.
We see here the consequences which I
have perhaps sufficiently dwelt upon, of hav-
ing cultivated the art of being agreeable, not
to shine in general society, as is too frequent-
ly the case; not to establish any personal
claim to admiration, merely to render striking
and brilliant the intellectual companionship of
a single hour, but to make the fireside circle
a centre of attraction to which the young may
love to resort; to render home the chosen
spot of earth, where all who are admitted
within its social fellowship may delight to
dwell, where hopes and joys may be shar-
ed together, and where all the thoughts most
cherished and enjoyed, are such as tend to-
wards a happier and holier state of exist-
ence.
the mind, or the embellishment of the char-
acter in general, how can the mistress of a
family throw around the scenes of home-
enjoyments this intellectual and spiritual
charm? How can she keep away the cloud
of dulness, the monotony of common-place,
the shadow of discontent, of which young
persons so often complain when visiting their
married friends? and how, when her inter-
course with them is marked by no lively or
impressive character, can she expect that
her influence over them will extend to what
is lasting or good? It is impossible; because
it is not in the nature of the human heart to
be thus influenced, without being thus im-
pressed.
To the married woman, then, it is a serious
thing to have lost, by indolence or neglect,
those golden opportunities of being useful to
society, which her position naturally places
within her reach. For it is not so much our
private precepts which have weight, and per-
haps still less our public ones, so much as the
influence of individual character upon a sur-
rounding circle, and through that circle upon
the world at large.
The English wife should, therefore, regard
her position as a central one, and remember
that from her, as the head of a family, and the
mistress of a household, branch off in every
direction trains of thought, and tones of feel-
ing, operating upon those more immediately
around her, but by no means ceasing there ;
for each of her domestics, each of her rela-
tives, and each of her familiar friends, will in
their turn become the centre of another circle,
from which will radiate good or evil influ-
ence, extending onwards, in the same man-
ner, to the end of all things-to the disrup-
tion of all earthly ties, and the union of the
great family of heaven, where sweet and
harmonious notes of her own teaching may
possibly be numbered with the songs of the
blessed forever and forever.
Is it then a subject merely to be glanced
over with a careless wish that we could be
useful to our fellow-creatures ?-that we
could leave on the minds of those who will
Without having studied the cultivation of remember us when we are dead, some last-
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
109
ing impress worthy of their high destiny and
ours? All may do this. Of that we are
convinced. But are we equally or suffi-
ciently convinced that some impress will,
and must be left, whether we have desired it
or not? And what if it should be such as to
mark them out for wrath in the great day of
wrath! And if that too should have spread,
as the other might have done, on-on-from
one circle and one generation to another
from one family, one community, one people,
one country, widening on every hand until
the world itself should suffer from the uni-
versal taint!
The carrying out of such a thought to its
full extent is too tremendous, and yet we
know of no natural limits by which influence
either good or evil can be confined or ar-
rested in its progress towards eternity. We
can only ask with penitence and prayer that
what we have hitherto exercised amiss may
be overruled for good, and that what we have
yet to exercise, may be directed by Him who
alone can give the power to use it for his
glory.
There are many cases of practical duty, in
which it seems as if the language of Scripture
had, by general consent, been explained away
as referring to times and circumstances in
which we have no part. In none is this
more striking than as regards hospitality,
few of us considering ourselves at all the
more required from any thing we meet with
there, when we prepare a feast, to call in the
poor or the friendless to partake. Without
pretending to be wiser than others, by apply-
ing these and similar injunctions more liter-
ally than they appear to be generally under-
stood, it seems to me a question of deep im-
portance to a serious mind, whether we are
not many of us required to go much further
than we do in extending our hospitality to
those who, according to the usages of the
world, may appear to have but little claim.
upon such attentions.
There is an extensive class of persons,
who, if we would do to them as we would
that others should do to us under similar cir-
cumstances, instead of being objects of gene-
ral neglect, would become objects of our
especial kindness in this respect. I mean
those who are separated from their own
home-connections by becoming assistants in
business, or otherwise attached to families in
which they are comparatively strangers.
It cannot be denied that a system of hospi-
tality thus carried out towards persons so
| circumstanced, or according to the Scripture
rule of inviting those who cannot ask us in
return, would require the exercise of consid-
erable self-denial as well as benevolence;
and more especially so with those whose
homes are the centre and the source of the
greatest happiness they enjoy; for it is per-
haps the only disadvantage accompanying
an excess of this home-feeling, that the more
perfect is the satisfaction with which we
gather into the domestic circle, the less wil-
lingness we feel that a stranger should "in-
termeddle with its joys."
Thus we sometimes find a sort of house-
hold exclusiveness, and a too great concen-
tration of domestic satisfaction, prevailing al-
most to the extent of selfishness, where such
feelings are indulged without the restraint of
judgment or of principle.
judgment or of principle. To persons in-
fected with this home-mania, their own
houses, their own grounds, their own habits,
and their own modes of thinking and living
are always the very best imaginable, and
such as bear no comparison with those of
any other family. So much is this the case,
that they seem almost to be a law unto them-
selves; while above every thing they reject
the idea of being improved by adopting the
views and the practices of others. It is needless
to say that such persons have little weight to
throw into the scale of social influence either
on the side of good or evil, for the absurdi-
ties they exhibit to the world effectually pre-
vent their doing any considerable amount of
harm beyond what is negative.
But there are degrees of this evil against
which we may not all be sufficiently on our
guard, because we may be mistaking it for
good; yet when it stands in the way of our
practising the duty of hospitality, we should
ask ourselves seriously whether that home
110
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
the ignorant, the mean, and the unlettered
find a welcome. She slights them not for
want of polished manners. She heeds nei-
ther personal inferiority, nor unfashionable
attire. All-all are welcome, from the raw
stripling, to the friendless stranger, who finds
not in the wide world another or a safer home.
In contemplating this view of the subject,
I have often thought, what an amount of
good might be effected, if a little more attrac-
tion were held out by Christians in general,
towards persons of this class. We ought
seriously to question, too, whether we are
really doing them justice—whether we are
not resting too well satisfied in merely urging
upon them the necessity of attention to pub-
lic worship, when a few more welcomes into
Christian families might possibly do more for
their real good, than many sermons without
participation in the real comforts of any re-
which ought to be the scene of our greatest
earthly happiness is not in reality the temple
of our worship. A higher cultivation of the
feelings of kindness and benevolence towards
others, a deeper sympathy for their trials and
sufferings, a more earnest solicitude for their
welfare, and a greater desire to impart the
blessings we enjoy, would, I am persuaded,
tend very much to reconcile us to any tem-
porary interruption of our domestic enjoy-
ments which might be occasioned by the
presence of a stranger, even should his habits
and modes of thinking be the most dissimilar
to our own. And if any thing could be done |
by this means to improve the minds and mor-
als of that important class of society who
will constitute the next generation of men of
business-men who will give the weight of
extensive influence either to the side of good,
or evil, that strong feeling of household ex-
clusiveness, which is but a refined and ex-spectable home.
tended selfishness, ought certainly in some
measure to give way.
We complain of the habits of young men,
and with some cause, yet when we recollect
of what materials human nature is composed,
and compare these with the situation of
young men generally; but more especially
when we think of the thousand inviting
avenues to sin which are opened to their
choice, the cordiality with which they are
met by evil associates, and invited to every
rendezvous of vice; and when we compare
this with the very little cordiality they meet
with on the opposite side; the scanty wel-
comes, the cold notice, and the treatment
equally distant and disrespectful, we surely
must expect them to be more than human
wholly to withstand the one, and to bind them-
selves over with lasting and warm attach-
ment to the other.
Young men, too, are often diffident of their
own attractions in polished society, and some-
times not without considerable reason, more
especially when they find themselves treated
in respectable company with every demon-
stration of contempt. Here, then, we must
also remember that vice is not delicate in her
distinctions. In her wide halls of revelry,
Nor is it the mere invitation of such per-
sons at stated times, which can effect the
good so much required, the mere bestowment
of a dinner, or the mere permission to come
on Sundays and be present during the hours
of family devotion. Good as this unquestion-
ably is, there is something else required;
and this something should be supplied by the
mistress of the house; for, I repeat, that to
woman all the common usages of kindness
are so easy and familiar, as to leave her little
excuse for neglecting the claims of hospital-
ity, which constitute so essential a part of
social duty. There
There is much kind feeling
conveyed even by so slight an act as a cor-
dial shake of the hand, but especially by those
apparently slight observations upon personal
affairs, which evince an interest in the situa-
tion and circumstances of a guest, and which
often lead to a freedom of communication
which, as a means of influence, may be turned
to the happiest account.
In all associations in which the feelings and
affections are concerned, it must never be
forgotten, that the manner in which an act of
benevolence is done, is often of far greater
importance than the act itself. That it is
possible to be kind in an unkind manner; to
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
111
her position may be with regard to outward
circumstances. I refer to that aspiration af-
ter higher and holier things, which lifts the
soul out of its grovelling anxieties and world-
give a great deal away, and yet be most un-
generous. This truth we have many of us,
at some time or other of our lives, had to feel
perhaps too keenly for our peace. Yet it is
possible the thought of what such kindnessly cares, and directs its hopes unchangeably
cost us, may prove a wholesome one in its
effect upon our own conduct towards others,
by teaching us how to soothe, where through |
ignorance we might have wounded; how to
attract, where we might have repelled; and
consequently how to do good, where we
might inadvertently have done evil.
But it is useless to think of the manner,
until we have seen the act itself to be a duty;
and I would here appeal to the wives of
England, as they value the good of their
country, and the good of their sons and
brothers as they value youth in gene-
ral, and regard it as the season for remem-
bering our Creator, and the Giver of all our
blessings as they would cherish its buoyant
hopes, strengthen its high capabilities, and
lay an imperishable foundation of good,
where evil must otherwise enter and occupy
the vacant room-as they value all these
considerations, I would urge them not to
confine their social kindness merely to those
who can requite them after their own man-
ner; but to extend it to those who, though
comparatively strangers, share in the affec-
tions and the feelings of a common nature,
and who are now undergoing the formation
of their characters for time and for eternity.
"Not following lower things," was a no-
was a no-
ble motto adopted by a noble queen,* when
she chose as emblematical of the course she
intended to pursue, a marigold turning to
the sun. Although nothing could be more at
variance with the duties of a wife, and
especially one of that class of society to
which this work more especially applies, than
to be aspiring after any selfish or personal
aggrandizement as regards mere sublunary
things; there is an ambition, if I may call it
such, which ought to fill the heart, and rouse
the energies of every Christian woman who
stands at the head of a household, whatever
*
Marguarite of Valois, sister of Francis I., and
Queen of Navarre.
|
towards the world which is eternal.
It is not consistent with the aim of the
writer in such a work as this, to enter fully
upon the subject of that change of heart
which alone can qualify for forming any just
or proper estimate of what belongs to a prep-
aration for the heavenly state. Had such
been my intention, I would not have left the
consideration of so momentous and sublime
a theme, to the last few pages of this work.
But leaving this subject, in its vastness and
its depth-its absorbing interests, and its
solemn truths, to writers of a higher and a
weightier character, I would still indulge a
hope that what has here been said may in
some degree assist towards a more full and
satisfactory exemplification of the Christian
character. For even where religion_is_felt
and owned to be the one thing needful, and
where it is adopted as the principle and the
rule of life, those familiar avocations which
occupy the attention of every day are not
always conducted in the spirit which ought
to regulate the Christian's life. Some good
persons err on these points from ignorance,
some from want of thought, and many from
not regarding them as essential to religion;
and thus the standard of excellence is low-
ered, and we come to be "satisfied with infe-
rior things."
It would as ill become me, as it would be
contrary to my feelings, to speak in an un-
kind or censorious spirit of those, who with
good intentions, and while making great en-
deavors, fall short in little things; but I am
convinced that along with this deficiency,
there is, to a certain extent, a tendency to
aim at what is low, sufficient of itself to pre-
vent the attainment of what is great. The
more circumscribed our influence, the less
this tendency is seen and felt; but when we
take the direction of a household, and con-
sequently have much to do with the forma-
tion of the characters around us, this tenden-
112
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
cy to grovel tells to an amazing and incalcu- all our coveted possessions, so miserably
lable extent.
poor
It is difficult to speak strongly on these
subjects, yet with that kindness and respect
which I feel that my country women deserve,
and deserve especially from me. But when
I assert again that it is not intention which is
in fault, so much as a certain set of mistaken
views which more or less affect us all, I
would fondly hope I might obtain their for-
It is far from my wish to write on this sub-
ject as one who has neither knowledge nor
feeling of what wives in general have to
struggle with, in the way of depressing or
degrading circumstances. I know that the
occupations of a household, by reminding us
perpetually-of-what-is-material, have a strong
tendency to occupy the mind with that alone.
I know that under wasted health, or weari-giveness for being more than commonly earn-
ness, or disappointment, to be urged to strug-
gle after what is high, sounds like a mockery
to the human heart. And I know too that
there are trials in the lot of woman, almost
sufficient of themselves to quench the very
life within her soul; and to extinguish there
the power to hope for any thing before the
grave. I know that the spirit may be har-
assed-wounded-broken; but I am yet to
learn, that under any circumstances we are
justified in giving all things up.
I should rather reason thus-that having
striven after excellence in every department,
we have so multiplied our resources, that
something always must be left; so that if
nothing in the shape of positive happiness
could ever reach us more, we should still
be capable of adding to the happiness of
others.
But the most powerful and widely prevail-
ing cause of that moral and intellectual
degradation—that downward tendency of
the mind, and that grovelling of the spirit
among material things, which is so much to
be lamented over in the wives of the present
day, arises clearly and unquestionably out of
the false estimate so universally formed of
what is most to be desired-nay, of what is
absolutely essential to existence. It is this
vain and fruitless ambition with regard to
worldly things, in which we are all more or
less engaged, that wears down our energies,
and wearies out our hopes. It is the disap-
pointment, the perplexity, the harass of this
long struggle, which leaves us so spiritless
and worn. It is the emptiness of our suc-
cess when the highest worldly wish has been
attained, which makes us, in the midst of
est in so important a cause. In this hope I
appeal to their own hearts, whether the daily
conflict they are many of them enduring is
not in reality after that which “ perisheth in
the using;" whether it ever brings them a
reward at all commensurate with what it
costs; and whether it is not in itself a weari-
ness to the very soul. I appeal to society at
large, whether the importance we many of
us attach to appearing well before the world,
in other words, to dressing and living in a
certain style, has not irritated more tempers,
destroyed more peace, occasioned more dis-
putes, broken more spirits, crossed more love,
hindered more improvement, and caused
more spiritual declension, than any other
single cause which could be named. And
what has it done to throw into the opposite
scale? Encouraged one kind of manufactory
to the disadvantage of another, changed our
fashions, excited our vanity, furnished our
houses, decked our persons-and what then?
Sent us forth into society envied and envying
one another, and disseminating wherever we
might go, low thoughts, disparaging allusions,
and uncharitable feelings, all arising out of the
very rivalry and competition of which this
fruitless ambition was the source.
Let us look at one channel only among the
many thousands through which it operates to
the destruction of human happiness, and the
disunion of natural ties. It is no poet's fable,
and I speak it reverently, believing what I
speak, when I say, that the love which grows
up between two young people who expect to
spend their lives together, is of every earthly
feeling that which most endears to us all
which is most excellent in itself, most beauti-
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
113
ful in the creation, and most beneficent in the
dispensations of an all-wise and eternal God.
Who then would quench this feeling, or
lower its exercise, or make it a mere slave
to wait upon the customs of the world? The
voice of humanity exclaims against so base,
so foolish a perversion of our nature. Youth
exclaims against it, as well it may. Society
-the world exclaims. The world? No,
that can never be. It is the world whose
unrelenting voice demands this sacrifice-
the world before whose artificial glare the
star of love must hide its purer ray.
It is because the world is the great altar
upon which the hearts of multitudes arc laid,
that the shrine of domestic happiness so often
is profaned by broken vows-vows broken in
the spirit, and therefore the mere symbols of
a love, without its sweetness or its life. It is
because the spirit of the world demands that
we should love and serve the mammon of
unrighteousness, that hearts are bought and
sold, and youth is wedded to old age, and
every mockery of feeling which imagination.
can conceive, is perpetrated under the grave
name of prudence. I have myself advocated
prudence, and I have urged the necessity of
waiting for what are popularly considered as
sufficient means. Yet this has been chiefly
in conformity with the universal system we
acknowledge, of "regarding lower things."
I did not, and I never shall, believe the sys-
tem is a right one in itself; but until our
views are more enlightened, and our princi-
ples are strong enough to support us in the
effort, it would be worse than folly to advise
that individuals here and there should
overstep the bounds of prudence as they
now laid down, not knowing what
they did,
are
The (new order of things which I would
advocate must be a general one, brought
about by simultaneous views, and feelings,
and determinations. There will then be no
world to fear, for we shall constitute ourselves
a world, in which lower things will no longer
be regarded, except as such-a world in
which the warmest feelings of the heart will
no longer be considered as bearing any com-
parison, in value, with the cold formalities of
artificial life—a world in which what we
wear, and what we use, shall no longer be
esteemed as more important than what we
do-a world in which people shall be judged
of by what they are, and not by what they
possess a world in which what is costly and
brilliant in ornament, shall give place to that
which is excellent in character, and sterling
in value.
And when shall this bright epoch arrive?—
this dawning of better hopes-this day of
promise for our country, and our homes? It
will arrive when the wives of England shall
hold themselves above their circumstances;
and, estimating that most highly which is
really high, shall understand how principle is
the basis of all good; and having subjected
these principles to the word of God, and tried
them by the only test which is safe and true,
they may then adorn the superstructure by
all which the purest taste and the most
chastened feeling can suggest.
In adopting the motto of one of the most
amiable and accomplished of female sover-
eigns, we must not forget that hers was the
pursuit of excellence of almost every kind;
in her studies, her attainments, and in all
those graces of mind and person which adorn
a court. Nor do I see why the raising of our
highest admiration to that which is highest
in itself, should in any respect interfere with
our desire after excellence in general.
It is a melancholy thought, when marriage
has united the destiny of two human beings
for this life at least, that one of them should
grow indifferent to those qualities of mind
and person which formed the chief attraction
to the other. It is a melancholy thought, that
when a wife has taken upon herself the du-
ties which belong to the mistress of a family,
she should be willing to lose those charms
which constitute the loveliness of woman. It
is a melancholy thought, that because she has
become a useful, she must cease to be an in-
tellectual, being. But it cannot-it must not
be. The very thought is one of treason
against the love and the happiness of mar-
ried life; for what is there anong all the em-
8
114
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
bellishments of female character, which this
love cannot legitimately appropriate, and this
happiness enhance and improve?
In no other situation in life can woman find
so appropriate a sphere for the exercise of
every grace, and the display of every charm,
as in the centre of her home-enjoyments; yet
here, how often do we find that she permits
all the poetry of her mind to be extinguished,
and after that the beautiful too often fades
away. Life may remain the same to her in
all its tangible realities; but as the sunshine
passes from the landscape, so the light which
gives freshness and vividness to every object,
is gone forever.
gence become the bane of man's existence,
and her own?
And is it well that men, whose daily avo-
cations necessarily call into service, as one
of their great principles of action, a worldly
and a selfish spirit-is it right that they should
be urged, nay, goaded on, in the perpetual
race of personal and family aggrandizement,
by those who profess to love them, and who,
consequently, ought to seek their ultimate and
real good? May we not rather leave to them
the whole adjustment of these worldly mat-
ters? It is their business, and their duty,-to-
find a place among their fellow-men, to es-
tablish a footing in society, and to maintain it
by all just and honorable means. This is no
care of woman's. Her appropriate part is to
adorn that station wherever it may be, by a
contented mind, an enlightened intellect, a
chastened spirit, and an exemplary life.
I have dwelt much upon the influence of
woman in social and domestic life, and in her
married state she will find that influence ex-
tending almost on every hand. What, then,
will be her situation, without the aid of per-
sonal religion, to give a right direction to its
operations upon other minds? But what
will be her situation altogether without this
aid?
The thought is too appalling.
"A boat sent out to sail alone
It is said she has actual and pressing cares,
which absorb her attention, to the exclusion
of other, and especially of higher, thoughts.
But here again is her mistake. It is not in
woman's nature to be degraded or brought
down by care, provided only the objects of
her solicitude are worthy in themselves, or
such as call forth feelings worthy of being
indulged. The care the love the brooding
tenderness of a fond mother or a faithful
wife-when, I would ask, was woman found
the worse for these? No. It is the element
in which she lives, to care for those she loves
It is in this element that all her virtues rise
and shine; while her whole character as-
sumes a higher and more spiritual excel
lence. We talk of altered circumstances, and
personal privations, but we libel the true heart
of woman when we think it cannot stand the
shock of such extremes as these. No, these
are not the foes she fears; and it is an insult
to her understanding, when society persuades
her that she does fear them. Within her
-heart of hearts she has a nobler conviction,
that her husband's happiness, and her own
integrity and truth, are more to her than all
the riches in the world. Why then, with
these convictions, and with that strong capabilities of married life, without religion to di-
bility which constitutes her dower, of rising rect her course. Whatever difficulties may
above the tide of circumstance, and living be thus encountered, she cannot meet them
apart from worldly things in the higher world alone. Whatever dangers, others are drawn
of her affections-why-will woman stoop to
in to share them with her. Whatever storms,
be the slave of habit, of custom, and most of she braves them only at the peril of the pre-
all, of fashion, until her vanity and self-indul- | cious lives committed to her trust. Whatever
At midnight on the moonless sea,”
might bear some comparison to the situation
of a solitary being trusting herself upon the
world's great ocean without this guide; but
a richly-freighted vessel, crowded with hu-
man beings, and bearing in its bosom the in-
terests of as many souls, yet venturing out to
sea without a pilot, without a compass, with-
out any hope or means of safety, might with
more justice be compared to the woman who
should dare to engage in the deep responsi-
SOCIAL INFLUENCE.
115
rock she strikes upon, it wrecks not her alone,
but all—all the rich treasury of hopes and in-
terests which she bore along with her in that
presumptuous course, and for all these she is
accountable. I repeat, the thought is too ap-
palling. Let us turn to scenes of more famil-
iar occurrence, where there is more satisfac-
tion, because there is more hope.
very heart of domestic life; and it works
the more deceitfully by mixing itself up with
all that is most reputable and most approved
in society in general, and not less than others,
in the society of the good.
Persons of this description, in all probabili-
ty, seek the acquaintance of the well-mean-
ing young wife, or she seeks theirs; and be-
ing a sincere and somewhat hopeful charac-
ter, not having much foundation of her ow
but easily led on by others, she is induced by
their companionship to take a higher stand-
fore. Encouraged by their kindness, she ad-
vances step by step, progressing outwardly,
and gaining confidence as she goes on. All
this perhaps might be well, for she is still
sincere so far as her self-knowledge extends;
but here again the spirit of the world creeps
in. Indeed the question is, whether she has
not all the while been actuated by the spirit
of the world, for it is now so reputable to be
religious, that temptation can assume this
form as well as any other.
There is a large class of persons, who with-
out having given up their hearts entirely to
the influence of personal religion, are wishing
that they could do so, and intending some
time or other that they will. On all solemning in religious matters than she ever did be-
occasions they feel as if they actually would;
and never more so perhaps than when they
enter upon the duties of married life. To
woman this is so great and important a
change, that it naturally produces, if any
thing can, trains of reflection highly favorable
to an altered and improved state of mind
altogether; and if she has ever seriously
thought of religion, she does so then. Those
who rest satisfied with good intentions, and
especially in religious matters, are glad of any
alteration in their circumstances which they
think will make it easier to begin; and they
hail the opening of a new life, as the entrance
upon one which will be more exemplary
than the past. Thus it is often with perfect
sincerity, that the young religious professor
believes she will set out upon a new career
when engaging in the duties of a wife. Her
feelings are much softened, too, by separation
from her former friends; she fears the diffi-
culties of her untried path; and thus is alto-
gether more disposed than ever in her life
before to do, and to be, what she sees clearly
to be right. If, under these circumstances,
she has married a good man, her first temp-
tation will be to think, for that reason, that
she must be good herself; if a man who has
little or no religion, her first trial will be to
find that instead of being helped, as she had
expected, so smoothly on her way, she has,
in addition to her own difficulties, to help
him and all his household.
But a more familiar temptation, and a more
frequent trial than either of these, is one
which steals by its insidious nature into the
With this advance in an outward, and,
perhaps, too visible profession, the cares of
the young wife increase. The circle of her
acquaintance widens. Visits und morning-
calls are not to be neglected; and well if they
are not devoted to that most objectionable of
all kinds of gossip, which chooses the minis-
ter and the observances of a religious life, for
its theme. But in addition to this, the young
wife listens to the popular and common talk
about low worldly things. She learns to think
much of her furniture, much of her dress,
and much of the manner in which she enter-
tains her friends. Nay, she is even glad to
see that all this competition does not appear
to be discarded from the fashionable world.
As time passes on, she becomes more and
more absorbed by the growing cares and
thickening perplexities of every day; until
at last it might become a matter of doubt to
those around her, which in reality occupied
her thoughts the most, the preparation for a
party, or the preparation for eternity.
Need we wonder that such a woman has
little religious influence? That she fails to

116
THE WIVES OF ENGLAND.
adorn the doctrine of our Saviour, or to com-
mend the faith which she professes? Need
we wonder that her husband, her servants,
society at large, are not made better by her
Conversation and her example? Yet strange
to say, it is sometimes wondered at that the
religious conversation of such persons does
not do good, and they themselves, when they
have leisure for it, will labor diligently for the
conversion of the poor. But they forget that
those around them, and especially the poor,
are quick-sighted to their inconsistencies, and
that they know by other evidence than words,
when the world is really in the heart.
By this slight picture, far be it from me to
convey an idea that I could represent the
really changed in heart; for I know that theirs
is a foundation which none of these things
move. I speak of those who have been only
almost persuaded, and who, on the solemn
occasion of their marriage, have set out in
life with serious views and good intentions;
yet whatever may be the clearness of these
views, or the strength of these intentions, I
believe that a great number of hopeful begin-
nings have been frustrated by this single root
of evil, this spirit of the world. I believe also,
that more spiritual declension among women
may be traced to the same cause, than to al
the vice and all the infidelity to be met with
among the openly profane.
It is then against this single enemy, above
all others, that married women have to sus-
tain each other in waging constant and de-
termined war. I repeat, it is hard, too hard,
for any single individual to struggle against
the tide of popular feeling, more especially
when religion numbers in her ranks so many
who divide her claims with those of the world.
But if the happiness of home be precious, we
have that at stake. If our intellectual and
moral good be worth preserving, we have
that to cherish. If our religious influence be
the most important treasure committed to
our trust, we have that to hold secure. All
to which the best feelings of the heart attach
themselves as lovely and enduring is ours,
if we maintain this conflict as we ought; and
sink under it we never need, for we know to
whom to go for help.
Let us then remember that a worldly.
spirit is the very opposite of that which finds
its home in Heaven; and if our interests are
sufficiently engaged in what is spiritual and
eternal, we shall not easily be turned away
to fix them upon "lower things."

1
APR 3 1970
820.13
Se48
·

UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
.
wils
820.13 Se48
Select novels.
3 1951 002 092 780 H
WILSON
ANNEX
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