so stern, in the look with which my mother ordered me away, that I had
not the heart to resist it. It was near an hour before she came to me;
and never before had I seen her so overpowered with affliction. She
called upon Lady Helen by the tenderest names; talked of her patient
gentleness--of the sweetness of that temper which she had so often
tried--and reproached herself for having thus tried it. But she spoke
not of Seymour; and deep as my regret was for the dead, it was equalled
by my anxiety for the living. I therefore ventured to say, "But how is
poor Seymour?"
"Unfeeling girl!" cried my mother; "you can think only of him when his
angel mother lies dead!"
"_She_ would have _thanked_ me for my anxiety," I replied, rendered
courageous by distress. "I shall go and inquire after him."
"Hold, Helen! he is extremely wretched; so much so, that I could not
bear to listen to his self-upbraidings, nor to witness his caresses of
that hand which replied no longer to his grasp; and then his wild
entreaties, that she would speak to him once more, and say that she
forgave him!"
"And could you have the cruelty to leave him alone in such a state?"
cried I. "Do you think his mother would so have left _your_ child?"
My mother started--"You are right!" said she: "I will return, and do my
duty by him."
"Oh! let me go with you!"
"No, Helen; I must do my duty by you too--and the poor youth at this
moment is only too dangerous."
She was right, and I submitted; but I had gained my point, and she was
gone back to the poor afflicted one. Before she went, however, she
insisted on my going to bed; where, wearied with three nights of
watching, I fell into a heavy slumber. But, oh! that wretchedness on
waking, which attends the recollection of a recent affliction! and I was
giving way to all the misery I felt, when, soon after eight in the
morning, my mother came into my room.
She told me she had not been in bed all night, for that she dared not
leave Seymour.
"How kind it was in you, my dearest mother!"
"No, it was only right," she answered, in great agitation: "he was a
bitter and penitent sufferer; and if my departed friend is conscious of
what is passing here, I trust that she was satisfied with me, for I
tried to do a mother's part by him. And now, my dear child, we must both
return home: this, you know, is no place for you, Helen."
"And must I go without taking leave of poor Seymour?"
"What leave is there to take?"
I had nothing to reply, and we came away.
As my mother knew that Seymour's sleep was likely to be long, she did
not return to the house of death for some hours; but when she did, I
earnestly conjured her to let me accompany her. I pleaded, however, and
wept in vain: in vain did I urge, that Seymour would think me unkind in
forsaking him wholly at such a time as this was.
My mother said she feared that Seymour would only be too ready to
attribute his not seeing me to her commands, rather than my own
inclinations; and, disappointed and wretched, I threw myself on the bed
in an agony of grief, and never rose from it, feeding my distress by
every means in my power. I must own, however, that temper and
contrivance had some share in this self-abandonment, or sensibility,
which I thought would at once punish my mother for her obstinacy, (as I
called it,) and induce her to give up her resolution. How often is
grief, like love, made up of materials which we dream not of--and how
often has temper much to do with it! But my seeming unmixed sorrow had
no effect on my excellent parent, whose decisions, where I was
concerned, were the result of firm principle. Her first observation
was--
"This excessive misery, Helen, accompanied, as I see it is, with a
degree of sullenness, is not likely to make me change my purpose, but
rather to confirm me in it the more; because it proves to me the great
extent of the danger to which my compliance would expose you, when you
can thus, in spirit at least, be rebellious; and this at a time, too,
when I want every comfort possible."
These words subdued every particle of resentment in me: I threw myself
on her neck, and assured her she should never have so to reproach me
again; nor did I even venture to inquire for Seymour--but she was
generous enough to speak of him unasked. She told me he woke, after a
long sleep, more composed than she expected; "though, on his first
waking, he started me excessively," she said, "by asking for his mother,
and wondering to see me instead of her. My tears seemed to force back
his recollection; and in a faint voice, and with a look of wretchedness,
he added, 'Ah! I remember now;' and hiding his face in the pillow, he
wept aloud.
"And I--I was but a sad consoler, for I wept in silence by him. When he
was calm again, I wished him to rise; and before I left him, in the
fulness and tenderness of my heart, poor child! I stooped down, and
kissed his burning forehead. But I soon repented; for he exclaimed, 'Oh!
that was so like _her_! But she never--no, never more----' and again he
lay almost convulsed with his feelings.
"When this fresh paroxysm was over, I left him."
"But I am sure," said I, "that he will be soothed by that kind kiss in
remembrance, though it affected him painfully at the time."
"Perhaps so: but his grief, violent though it be, will soon go off, and
be after a time forgotten. Lady Helen was his mother, and he loved her;
but she had not been the chosen playfellow of his childhood--the friend
of his youth--the companion of his riper years--the sharer of every
joy--the soother of every sorrow--and the being endeared to him by
daily and confidential intercourse: and yet all these was she to _me_,
Helen."
"But, dearest mother, the love and regrets of a child are _very_
strong."
"I own it, Helen, especially when, as in the case of this miserable boy,
self-reproach mingles with them, and deepens every pang. Helen, my
child--my only treasure now," she added, speaking with difficulty,
"never, never, when I shall be as she is now, may you have cause to shed
such tears as his, Helen! Remember, there are no upbraidings so terrible
as those of one's own heart; and for your own sake, if not for mine, be
dutiful."
I was too much affected to reply; and my mother continued--"Yes, _he_
will recover his loss--you will recover _yours_, Helen. But what can
ever replace to me the loss of the friend of my whole life--the sole
relic of the joys that are past? George--Charles--Helen! you are all
gone now! and I," (here she raised her arms with a sort of appealing
look to heaven,) "I stand alone, unsupported, and unsupporting, too,
like the sole remaining pillar of a once-noble temple, to speak of
former pride and present desolation."
As my mother's imagination had now entered into play, my fears for her
health in a great degree vanished; for I knew that the grief which can
vent itself in imagery, however gloomy, is not of that sort which preys
rapidly on life; for it is
----"The grief that doth not speak,
Falls on the burthen'd heart, and bids it break."
Taking advantage of a pause, during the first part of which my mother
seemed engaged in fervent devotion, I now ventured to ask her if Seymour
had inquired why he did not see me. She told me that he had, and that he
had been told in reply there were sufficient reasons for our not
meeting: amongst the foremost of which, was the certainty that we should
make each other _worse_, and with this reason he had seemed satisfied.
She did not tell me, however, that he inquired for me every day; nor did
she relate to me any of their conversation, except the one which took
place the evening before the funeral; and _that_ she felt it to be her
duty to disclose.
"I have to inform you, my dear child," said she, "that when Seymour and
I stood together to take our last look and last kiss before the coffin
was closed, he suddenly seized my hand, and, wildly addressing the
unconscious dead, conjured that pale cheek, and that closed eye, to
appeal to my heart in his favour, and to remind me of the promised
pledge to his mother to promote his union with you. This was the
language of passion, and there was a strange effect in it, I
thought--neither of which, you know, can affect me. I therefore replied,
though not without emotion, that it was a subject which I could not
discuss in that room. Accordingly, after he had taken many more last
looks and leaves of the beloved dead, I led him from the chamber.
"When he was calmed a little, I had resolution to resume the
conversation; and to own the truth, Helen, I was _glad_ to discuss it,
without the presence of that mournful object which, spite of myself,
armed my feelings against my judgment."
Here my mother walked about the room in considerable agitation; but she
soon recovered herself.
"I then related to him our conversation with Lady Helen."
"And did you tell him how I defended him?" cried I.
"No, certainly I did not," she coldly replied; "but I convinced him that
his mother gave me back my promise, and that her last parting words to
yourself should be, 'Helen, never marry an immoral man.' On hearing
this, he exclaimed--
"'Did my mother say this? Did she think me an immoral man? Oh!
insupportable agony! Well, madam,' added he, turning fiercely round,
'and so I suppose you have said the same to your daughter, and have
engaged her to combat the regard she once felt for me; for I know she
loved me once, or would have done so, for so the lips that never
deceived assured me: but mark me, madam, I will not take a refusal from
any lips but hers.'
"'If you wish to alienate my affection entirely from you, Seymour,' I
replied, 'you will make this appeal to Helen; for neither by letter nor
personal application will I sanction it, till I am convinced your
improved conduct makes you more worthy of my daughter.'
"'But you deny me the motive to improvement, by forbidding my addresses
to her.'
"'O Seymour!' answered I, 'if you have no _better_ motive, such a change
is not to be depended upon; nor would I entrust to you, under such a
precarious alteration, the happiness of my child.'
"He looked distressed, but rather proudly replied--
"'Well, madam, we will talk further on this subject some other time. I
cannot pursue it now.' And soon after I took my leave."
"And will you not allow him to have one interview with me, before he
returns to Oxford?"
"No, I will not expose you to his dangerous eloquence: as he is not
really in love with you, he would have more self-possession, and plead
his cause so much the better."
"_Not_ in love with me!"
"No; his attachment is now irritated by obstacles, and also stimulated
by fancied duty; but could he, if he really felt a virtuous passion,
maintain a disgraceful connexion in London, as I know him to do? Helen,
my child! what ails you?" Here her voice sounded like thunder in my
ears, and I fainted.
I had certainly been led to believe that Seymour led a life of general
dissipation, and I had not allowed myself to attempt to define the exact
nature of the charges against him; but when I heard him positively
accused of an improper attachment to one individual object, a mixed
feeling of jealousy, disgust, misery, and indignation came over me, with
the sickness of death, and for the first time in my life I lost all
consciousness. How long I remained insensible, I know not; but when I
recovered, I found my mother weeping over me--not because she _had_
feared for my life, but because she _did_ fear for my peace of mind. She
was consoled, however, when I assured her, that from that moment I
should think it my duty to drive Seymour Pendarves from my mind, and
that I had no longer any difficulty in submitting to her wishes. She
kissed me, called me her dear, good girl, and we parted for the night.
The next morning was the morning of the funeral. Lady Helen had desired
it might be a private one, and had she not, it could not have been
otherwise; for Lord Seymour, though not an old man, was fallen into a
state of imbecility; Lord Mountgeorge was at Lisbon, attending his dying
wife; and Mr. Pendarves, our great-uncle, was confined in Cornwall by
the gout.
"Poor Seymour!" cried my mother, as she heard this account of the
family; "there is much to be said in your excuse; for how completely has
he been left to himself, amidst the dangers of a metropolis!"
My mother, when she said this, was certainly _thinking aloud_; but my
hearing her had, at that moment, no bad effect on me, as my jealousy
remained unappeased, and my mortification unsoothed, and nothing could
reinstate him as yet in my estimation: nay, I believed I should see him
the next day without any emotion that could be attributed to him as the
cause of it.
When we reached the house of mourning, we found Seymour anxiously
expecting us. On seeing me, he seized my hand, and, unable to speak,
kissed it repeatedly, then turned away in tears; and, I must own, at
that moment I forgot his unworthiness and my own resolution, and
remembered only his sorrow and his apparent affection. My mother _might_
be right, but I began to suspect she _might be wrong_. All these
feelings, however, were soon swallowed up in those of deep and tender
sorrow. The procession began; and, clinging to each other's arm for
support, my mother and I followed the unsteady steps of the chief
mourner. But why need I dwell on the details of a scene so common?
Suffice, that Seymour did not return with us: he remained in the church,
in order to give way to the lately suppressed agonies of his heart. My
mother wished to do the same; but she respected the sacredness of his
sorrow, and she could visit the vault at another time.
The rest of the day was spent by Seymour in visits to those who had been
maintained or assisted by Lady Helen, in order that he might personally
assure them that his intention was to do all she would have done, had
life been spared to her. Having thus performed his duty to the utmost,
he appeared to my mother's eye to have recovered some of his usual
brilliancy of countenance. The next night he was to return to Oxford. In
the afternoon of that day, he called at our house, and requested to see
my mother and _me_.
I rose involuntarily, in great perturbation.
"Tell Mr. Pendarves," said my mother, "that I will wait on him directly.
Helen, my child! it is but one struggle more, and all the difficulty
will be over; for I conclude, you, not only in obedience to my will, but
in compliance with your own wise _wishes_, refuse to see him!"
What could I say? Could I tell her that the meeting of yesterday, and
his subsequent conduct towards his mother's dependants, had altered my
feelings? I could not do it, and I remained above stairs.
After a long conference, my mother came back to me, and I heard the
hall-door close. Till this moment, I had hoped she would relent, and
allow me to see him! at least, I guess so, from the cold chill which I
felt at my heart, when I heard the noise of the closed door. However, I
saw him from the window--I myself unseen--and his handkerchief was held
to his eyes.
When my mother returned, I observed that she had been excessively moved,
and the traces of recent tears were on her cheeks.
"Helen!" she at length said, "I trust I have done by Seymour Pendarves
what I should wish a friend to do by a child of mine. And is he not
_her_ child--the child of that lost, matchless being, whom I loved only
second to yourself, since one dearer than either was removed from me?
Yes; I admonished him as a mother would have done; and though I refused
his request, I did it--indeed I did--with gentleness and with anguish.
Helen," she resumed, "if ever you should doubt the affections of your
mother, remember what, for your sake, she has undergone this day. She
has, though her heart bled to do it, wounded that of one whom she loves
now next to yourself, and that one, too, the child of her adored Lady
Helen. But the sense of a mother's duty, aided by a higher power, has
supported me through it."
"And he is gone!"
"Yes; and he reproached me bitterly for my cruelty, Helen; but if he
could see me now, do you think he would censure me for hardness of
heart?"
Mournful were the hours that followed, and we retired early to rest. But
my mother rested not. I heard her walking backward and forward in her
room till near day-break; and till she had ceased I was too uneasy to
close my eyes.
When I rose the next day, and was walking in the garden before
breakfast, I found my mother's windows still shut, and it was very late
before she came down stairs. I had previously felt disposed to indulge
my own dejection; but as soon as I saw her, all thought of myself
vanished. For never did I see the expression of hopeless grief stronger
than in her speaking face. As she did not talk, I vainly tried to
converse of indifferent things. She smiled; but every smile was
succeeded by a sigh; and once she exclaimed,
"No! they cannot come to _me_, but I shall go to _them_."
"Dearest mother," cried I, rising and looking up in her face, "you
forget _me_. Surely you do not wish to leave me?"
"Do not ask me," she cried, clasping me fondly to her bosom; "I fear I
am ungrateful for my remaining blessing."
From that time she struggled with her grief, and became, as you know, in
_company_, at least, the agreeable companion; for about that time it
was, I think, that your amiable husband succeeded to the living, and you
came to enliven and adorn the rectory. However, as your friend, for
whose inspection this is written, does not know any of the subsequent
events, I shall proceed with the detail of my story.
During the ensuing six weeks we had only one letter from Seymour, but
that was a pleasant one: for he told us that he had been studying very
hard, and had gotten another prize, and he sent us his composition,
adding in a very touching manner, that as the eye which he most wished
to please by his production was for ever closed, his proudest desire now
was to have it approved by those whom he and she best loved.
My mother was gratified by this compliment as well as myself; for she
augured favourably of his amendment from this close application, and she
owned to me in the fulness of her heart, that she had informed him, his
obtaining my hand depended entirely on _himself_. I have said that my
mother appeared quite recovered in company; but such was the constant
recurrence of one anxious subject to her mind in private, that every
thing unconnected with it soon became uninteresting to her; this was the
renewal of virtuous friendship in another world; and she read and tried
to procure every thing in the shape of a Sermon or Essay that had ever
been written on the subject. One sermon, and it was a most eloquent one,
bearing the title, "The renewal of Virtuous Friendship in another
World,"[1] delighted her so much, that it was never out of her reach;
and though she found it difficult to deduce from the Scriptures any
certain grounds for this consoling doctrine, still she delighted to
indulge in it; and as she could never rest till she had tried to convert
others to her own opinions, especially where those opinions were likely
to increase individual happiness, those only with whom she was not
intimate could avoid hearing her descant on this subject, with all that
plausible and ingenious fluency which usually attends reasoning from
analogy and imagination. While her mind was thus employed, it ceased to
prey on its own peace; and though her system sometimes failed to satisfy
her, she still found a soothing conviction in the thought, that should
we not be permitted "to know and love our friends in heaven," we should
be sure not to be _conscious_ of the want of those who had been the
dearest to us when on earth, but should find all the "ways of God"
vindicated "to man."
[Footnote 1: See a volume of Sermons written by the Rev. P. Houghton.]
It was now, while my mother was too constantly thinking of the regretted
dead, and I of the still tenderly-remembered living, that a new
acquaintance was introduced to us, who had power to withdraw our
thoughts from these interesting speculations, and fix them for some time
at least upon himself.
Methinks, my dear friend, I see you smile at this distance, and remark
to your husband, "Now we shall see what she says of the impression which
Count Ferdinand De Walden first made on her, for I never could
understand how she could ever prefer another man to him."
_You_ forget how very early in life my affections were turned towards
Pendarves, and how soon I learnt to look on constancy in love as a sort
of virtue; you also forget the "fascinating graces," and the
"irresistible archness," to use your own expression, of Seymour's smile.
But this is perhaps an ill-timed digression. Where was I? Oh! at the
introduction of a new acquaintance.
My parents had made an acquaintance in America with the Count De Walden,
the elder, whom curiosity and the love of travelling had led thither. On
the breaking out of the war, he returned to his native country,
Switzerland, by way of England; where he was so much pleased with the
manners of the people and constitution of the government, that he
resolved his nephew and heir, Ferdinand De Walden, who was like himself
a protestant, should come over and enter himself at one of the
universities. When the time for his admission arrived, the count
remembered with renewed interest his acquaintance with my parents and
their cousins; and that they now resided in England. Nor was it
difficult for him to obtain particulars of their present residence and
situation.
His uncle heard with pain that my mother, Seymour, and myself, were the
only survivors of that happy family which he had so much loved in the
new world. To my mother, however, he was still anxious to introduce his
nephew; and he hoped that in Seymour he would find a durable friend at
college; but in this expectation he could not be gratified, as he had
resolved that Ferdinand should go to the mathematical university, and
Seymour was of Oxford. This impossibility my mother thought a fortunate
circumstance for Ferdinand.
When De Walden came, and showed, among other letters, one of
recommendation to Mr. Seymour Pendarves, she coldly observed, "That
letter need not be delivered yet;" and certainly, the appearance of
Ferdinand De Walden did not promise much congeniality of disposition and
pursuit with Seymour; for the latter, from the light gaiety of his
manner and countenance, seemed as if he never thought at all; and the
former, from the grave pensiveness and reserve of his, appeared at first
sight as if he did nothing but think. The open eye of Seymour invited
confidence, the penetrating one of De Walden repelled it; and as the
one, when first seen, was sure to inspire admiration if not love, the
other was as sure to excite alarm, if not a feeling resembling aversion.
For myself, I must own that when De Walden was presented to me by my
mother, I experienced towards him a little of the first, though none of
the second sensation; for I had been accustomed to look on Seymour as my
model for personal beauty and captivation; and the young Swiss,
therefore, had not a chance of charming me at first sight. I had not
seen my mother so animated for years as she was on the arrival of her
foreign guest; for she had greatly esteemed his uncle, and Ferdinand
strongly resembled him. With him of course were associated the
ever-remembered hours of youth and friendship, wedded love and
happiness; and De Walden shone with a radiance not his own. But my
mother, much to my annoyance, was not conscious of this: she insisted
that his brilliancy was all self-derived; that if she had never known
_his uncle_, she should still have admired _him_. By this admiration, I
am ashamed to confess, I was piqued and mortified, because I fancied it
interfered with the rights of Seymour; and I suspected that, if he
should repay the regard of the mother by loving the daughter, I could
not without disobedience remain constant to my first attachment.