THE PROPOSAL.
Oh! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant,
The bride of Heaven--Come--we may shake your purpose;
For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor
Hath ta'en degrees in the seven sciences
That ladies love best--He is young and noble,
Handsome and valiant, gay, and rich, and liberal.
_The Nun._
The morning after a debauch is usually one of reflection, even to the
most determined boon companion; and, in the retrospect of the preceding
day, the young Laird of St. Ronan's saw nothing very consolatory, unless
that the excess was not, in the present case, of his own seeking, but
had arisen out of the necessary duties of a landlord, or what were
considered as such by his companions.
But it was not so much his dizzy recollections of the late carouse which
haunted him on awakening, as the inexplicability which seemed to shroud
the purposes and conduct of his new ally, the Earl of Etherington.
That young nobleman had seen Miss Mowbray, had declared his high
satisfaction, had warmly and voluntarily renewed the proposal which he
had made ere she was yet known to him--and yet, far from seeking an
opportunity to be introduced to her, he had even left the party
abruptly, in order to avoid the necessary intercourse which must there
have taken place between them. His lordship's flirtation with Lady
Binks had not escaped the attention of the sagacious Mowbray--her
ladyship also had been in a hurry to leave Shaws-Castle; and Mowbray
promised to himself to discover the nature of this connexion through
Mrs. Gingham, her ladyship's attendant, or otherwise; vowing deeply at
the same time, that no peer in the realm should make an affectation of
addressing Miss Mowbray a cloak for another and more secret intrigue.
But his doubts on this subject were in great measure removed by the
arrival of one of Lord Etherington's grooms with the following letter:--
"My Dear Mowbray,--You would naturally be surprised at my escape
from the table yesterday before you returned to it, or your lovely
sister had graced it with her presence. I must confess my folly; and
I may do so the more boldly, for, as the footing on which I first
opened this treaty was not a very romantic one, you will scarce
suspect me of wishing to render it such. But I did in reality feel,
during the whole of yesterday, a reluctance which I cannot express,
to be presented to the lady on whose favour the happiness of my
future life is to depend, upon such a public occasion, and in the
presence of so promiscuous a company. I had my mask, indeed, to wear
while in the promenade, but, of course, that was to be laid aside at
table, and, consequently, I must have gone through the ceremony of
introduction; a most interesting moment, which I was desirous to
defer till a fitter season. I trust you will permit me to call upon
you at Shaws-Castle this morning, in the hope--the anxious hope--of
being allowed to pay my duty to Miss Mowbray, and apologize for not
waiting upon her yesterday. I expect your answer with the utmost
impatience, being always yours, &c. &c. &c.
"ETHERINGTON."
"This," said St. Ronan's to himself, as he folded the letter
deliberately, after having twice read it over, "seems all fair and above
board; I could not wish any thing more explicit; and, moreover, it puts
into black and white, as old Mick would say, what only rested before on
our private conversation. An especial cure for the headache, such a
billet as this in a morning."
So saying, he sat him down and wrote an answer, expressing the pleasure
he should have in seeing his lordship as soon as he thought proper. He
watched even the departure of the groom, and beheld him gallop off, with
the speed of one who knows that his quick return was expected by an
impatient master.
Mowbray remained for a few minutes by himself, and reflected with
delight upon the probable consequences of this match;--the advancement
of his sister--and, above all, the various advantages which must
necessarily accrue to himself, by so close an alliance with one whom he
had good reason to think deep _in the secret_, and capable of rendering
him the most material assistance in his speculations on the turf and in
the sporting world. He then sent a servant to let Miss Mowbray know that
he intended to breakfast with her.
"I suppose, John," said Clara, as her brother entered the apartment,
"you are glad of a weaker cup this morning than those you were drinking
last night--you were carousing till after the first cock."
"Yes," said Mowbray, "that sandbed, old MacTurk, upon whom whole
hogsheads make no impression, did make a bad boy of me--but the day is
over, and they will scarce catch me in such another scrape.--What did
you think of the masks?"
"Supported as well," said Clara, "as such folk support the disguise of
gentlemen and ladies during life; and that is, with a great deal of
bustle, and very little propriety."
"I saw only one good mask there, and that was a Spaniard," said her
brother.
"O, I saw him too," answered Clara; "but he wore his visor on. An old
Indian merchant, or some such thing, seemed to me a better
character--the Spaniard did nothing but stalk about and twangle his
guitar, for the amusement of my Lady Binks, as I think."
"He is a very clever fellow, though, that same Spaniard," rejoined
Mowbray--"Can you guess who he is?"
"No, indeed; nor shall I take the trouble of trying. To set to guessing
about it, were as bad as seeing the whole mummery over again."
"Well," replied her brother, "you will allow one thing at least--Bottom
was well acted--you cannot deny that."
"Yes," replied Clara, "that worthy really deserved to wear his ass's
head to the end of the chapter--but what of him?"
"Only conceive that he should be the very same person with that handsome
Spaniard," replied Mowbray.
"Then there is one fool fewer than I thought there was," replied Clara,
with the greatest indifference.
Her brother bit his lip.
"Clara," he said, "I believe you are an excellent good girl, and clever
to boot, but pray do not set up for wit and oddity; there is nothing in
life so intolerable as pretending to think differently from other
people.--That gentleman was the Earl of Etherington."
This annunciation, though made in what was meant to be an imposing tone,
had no impression on Clara.
"I hope he plays the peer better than the Fidalgo," she replied,
carelessly.
"Yes," answered Mowbray, "he is one of the handsomest men of the time,
and decidedly fashionable--you will like him much when you see him in
private."
"It is of little consequence whether I do or no," answered Clara.
"You mistake the matter," said Mowbray, gravely; "it may be of
considerable consequence."
"Indeed!" said Clara, with a smile; "I must suppose myself, then, too
important a person not to make my approbation necessary to one of your
first-rates? He cannot pretend to pass muster at St. Ronan's without
it?--Well, I will depute my authority to Lady Binks, and she shall pass
your new recruits instead of me."
"This is all nonsense, Clara," said Mowbray. "Lord Etherington calls
here this very morning, and wishes to be made known to you. I expect you
will receive him as a particular friend of mine."
"With all my heart--so you will engage, after this visit, to keep him
down with your other particular friends at the Well--you know it is a
bargain that you bring neither buck nor pointer into my parlour--the one
worries my cat, and the other my temper."
"You mistake me entirely, Clara--this is a very different visitor from
any I have ever introduced to you--I expect to see him often here, and
I hope you and he will be better friends than you think of. I have more
reasons for wishing this, than I have now time to tell you."
Clara remained silent for an instant, then looked at her brother with an
anxious and scrutinizing glance, as if she wished to penetrate into his
inmost purpose.
"If I thought,"--she said, after a minute's consideration, and with an
altered and disturbed tone; "but no--I will not think that Heaven
intends me such a blow--least of all, that it should come from your
hands." She walked hastily to the window, and threw it open--then shut
it again, and returned to her seat, saying, with a constrained smile,
"May Heaven forgive you, brother, but you frightened me heartily."
"I did not mean to do so, Clara," said Mowbray, who saw the necessity of
soothing her; "I only alluded in joke to those chances that are never
out of other girls' heads, though you never seem to calculate on them."
"I wish you, my dear John," said Clara, struggling to regain entire
composure, "I wish _you_ would profit by my example, and give up the
science of chance also--it will not avail you."
"How d'ye know that?--I'll show you the contrary, you silly wench,"
answered Mowbray--"Here is a banker's bill, payable to your own order,
for the cash you lent me, and something over--don't let old Mick have
the fingering, but let Bindloose manage it for you--he is the honester
man between two d----d knaves."
"Will not you, brother, send it to the man Bindloose yourself?"
"No,--no," replied Mowbray--"he might confuse it with some of my
transactions, and so you forfeit your stake."
"Well, I am glad you are able to pay me, for I want to buy Campbell's
new work."
"I wish you joy of your purchase--but don't scratch me for not caring
about it--I know as little of books as you of the long odds. And come
now, be serious, and tell me if you will be a good girl--lay aside your
whims, and receive this English young nobleman like a lady as you are?"
"That were easy," said Clara--"but--but--Pray, ask no more of me than
just to see him.--Say to him at once, I am a poor creature in body, in
mind, in spirits, in temper, in understanding--above all, say that I can
receive him only once."
"I shall say no such thing," said Mowbray, bluntly; "it is good to be
plain with you at once--I thought of putting off this discussion--but
since it must come, the sooner it is over the better.--You are to
understand, Clara Mowbray, that Lord Etherington has a particular view
in this visit, and that his view has my full sanction and approbation."
"I thought so," said Clara, in the same altered tone of voice in which
she had before spoken; "my mind foreboded this last of misfortunes!--But,
Mowbray, you have no child before you--I neither will nor can see this
nobleman."
"How!" exclaimed Mowbray, fiercely; "do you dare return me so peremptory
an answer?--Think better of it, for, if we differ, you will find you
will have the worst of the game."
"Rely upon it," she continued, with more vehemence, "I will see him nor
no man upon the footing you mention--my resolution is taken, and
threats and entreaties will prove equally unavailing."
"Upon my word, madam," said Mowbray, "you have, for a modest and retired
young lady, plucked up a goodly spirit of your own!--But you shall find
mine equals it. If you do not agree to see my friend Lord Etherington,
ay, and to receive him with the politeness due to the consideration I
entertain for him, by Heaven! Clara, I will no longer regard you as my
father's daughter. Think what you are giving up--the affection and
protection of a brother--and for what?--merely for an idle point of
etiquette.--You cannot, I suppose, even in the workings of your romantic
brain, imagine that the days of Clarissa Harlowe and Harriet Byron are
come back again, when women were married by main force? and it is
monstrous vanity in you to suppose that Lord Etherington, since he has
honoured you with any thoughts at all, will not be satisfied with a
proper and civil refusal--You are no such prize, methinks, that the days
of romance are to come back for you."
"I care not what days they are," said Clara--"I tell you I will not see
Lord Etherington, or any one else, upon such preliminaries as you have
stated--I cannot--I will not--and I ought not.--Had you meant me to
receive him, which can be a matter of no consequence whatever, you
should have left him on the footing of an ordinary visitor--as it is, I
will not see him."
"You _shall_ see and hear him both," said Mowbray; "you shall find me as
obstinate as you are--as willing to forget I am a brother, as you to
forget that you have one."
"It is time, then," replied Clara, "that this house, once our father's,
should no longer hold us both. I can provide for myself, and may God
bless you!"
"You take it coolly, madam," said her brother, walking through the
apartment with much anxiety both of look and gesture.
"I do," she answered, "for it is what I have often foreseen--Yes,
brother, I have often foreseen that you would make your sister the
subject of your plots and schemes, so soon as other stakes failed you.
That hour is come, and I am, as you see, prepared to meet it."
"And where may you propose to retire to?" said Mowbray. "I think that I,
your only relation and natural guardian, have a right to know that--my
honour and that of my family is concerned."
"Your honour!" she retorted, with a keen glance at him; "your interest,
I suppose you mean, is somehow connected with the place of my
abode.--But keep yourself patient--the den of the rock, the linn of the
brook, should be my choice, rather than a palace without my freedom."
"You are mistaken, however," said Mowbray, sternly, "if you hope to
enjoy more freedom than I think you capable of making a good use of. The
law authorizes, and reason, and even affection, require, that you should
be put under restraint for your own safety, and that of your character.
You roamed the woods a little too much in my father's time, if all
stories be true."
"I did--I did indeed, Mowbray," said Clara, weeping; "God pity me, and
forgive you for upbraiding me with my state of mind--I know I cannot
sometimes trust my own judgment; but is it for you to remind me of
this?"
Mowbray was at once softened and embarrassed.
"What folly is this?" he said; "you say the most cutting things to
me--are ready to fly from my house--and when I am provoked to make an
angry answer, you burst into tears!"
"Say you did not mean what you said, my dearest brother!" exclaimed
Clara; "O say you did not mean it!--Do not take my liberty from me--it
is all I have left, and, God knows, it is a poor comfort in the sorrows
I undergo. I will put a fair face on every thing--will go down to the
Well--will wear what you please, and say what you please--but O! leave
me the liberty of my solitude here--let me weep alone in the house of my
father--and do not force a broken-hearted sister to lay her death at
your door.--My span must be a brief one, but let not your hand shake the
sand-glass!--Disturb me not--let me pass quietly--I do not ask this so
much for my sake as for your own. I would have you think of me,
sometimes, Mowbray, after I am gone, and without the bitter reflections
which the recollection of harsh usage will assuredly bring with it. Pity
me, were it but for your own sake.--I have deserved nothing but
compassion at your hand--There are but two of us on earth, why should we
make each other miserable?"
She accompanied these entreaties with a flood of tears, and the most
heart-bursting sobs. Mowbray knew not what to determine. On the one
hand, he was bound by his promise to the Earl; on the other, his sister
was in no condition to receive such a visitor; nay, it was most
probable, that if he adopted the strong measure of compelling her to
receive him, her behaviour would probably be such as totally to break
off the projected match, on the success of which he had founded so many
castles in the air. In this dilemma, he had again recourse to argument.
"Clara," he said, "I am, as I have repeatedly said, your only relation
and guardian--if there be any real reason why you ought not to receive,
and, at least, make a civil reply to such a negotiation as the Earl of
Etherington has thought fit to open, surely I ought to be intrusted with
it. You enjoyed far too much of that liberty which you seem to prize so
highly during my father's lifetime--in the last years of it at
least--have you formed any foolish attachment during that time, which
now prevents you from receiving such a visit as Lord Etherington has
threatened?"
"Threatened!--the expression is well chosen," said Miss Mowbray; "and
nothing can be more dreadful than such a threat, excepting its
accomplishment."
"I am glad your spirits are reviving," replied her brother; "but that is
no answer to my question."
"Is it necessary," said Clara, "that one must have actually some
engagement or entanglement, to make them unwilling to be given in
marriage, or even to be pestered upon such a subject?--Many young men
declare they intend to die bachelors, why may not I be permitted to
commence old maid at three-and-twenty?--Let me do so, like a kind
brother, and there were never nephews and nieces so petted and so
scolded, so nursed and so cuffed by a maiden aunt, as your children,
when you have them, shall be by aunt Clara."
"And why not say all this to Lord Etherington?" said Mowbray; "wait
until he propose such a terrible bugbear as matrimony, before you refuse
to receive him. Who knows, the whim that he hinted at may have passed
away--he was, as you say, flirting with Lady Binks, and her ladyship has
a good deal of address, as well as beauty."
"Heaven improve both, (in an honest way,) if she will but keep his
lordship to herself!" said Clara.
"Well, then," continued her brother, "things standing thus, I do not
think you will have much trouble with his lordship--no more, perhaps,
than just to give him a civil denial. After having spoken on such a
subject to a man of my condition, he cannot well break off without you
give him an apology."
"If that is all," said Clara, "he shall, as soon as he gives me an
opportunity, receive such an answer as will leave him at liberty to woo
any one whatsoever of Eve's daughters, excepting Clara Mowbray. Methinks
I am so eager to set the captive free, that I now wish as much for his
lordship's appearance as I feared it a little while since."
"Nay, nay, but let us go fair and softly," said her brother. "You are
not to refuse him before he asks the question."
"Certainly," said Clara; "but I well know how to manage that--he shall
never ask the question at all. I will restore Lady Binks's admirer,
without accepting so much as a civility in ransom."
"Worse and worse, Clara," answered Mowbray; "you are to remember he is
my friend and guest, and he must not be affronted in my house. Leave
things to themselves.--Besides, consider an instant, Clara--had you not
better take a little time for reflection in this case? The offer is a
splendid one--title--fortune--and, what is more, a fortune which you
will be well entitled to share largely in."
"This is beyond our implied treaty," said Clara. "I have yielded more
than ever I thought I should have done, when I agreed that this Earl
should be introduced to me on the footing of a common visitor; and now
you talk favourably of his pretensions. This is an encroachment,
Mowbray, and now I shall relapse into my obstinacy, and refuse to see
him at all."
"Do as you will," replied Mowbray, sensible that it was only by working
on her affections that he had any chance of carrying a point against her
inclination,--"Do as you will, my dear Clara; but, for Heaven's sake,
wipe your eyes."
"And behave myself," said she, trying to smile as she obeyed
him,--"behave myself, you would say, like folks of this world; but the
quotation is lost on you, who never read either Prior or Shakspeare."
"I thank Heaven for that," said Mowbray. "I have enough to burden my
brain, without carrying such a lumber of rhymes in it as you and Lady
Pen do.--Come, that is right; go to the mirror, and make yourself
decent."
A woman must be much borne down indeed by pain and suffering, when she
loses all respect for her external appearance. The madwoman in Bedlam
wears her garland of straw with a certain air of pretension; and we have
seen a widow whom we knew to be most sincerely affected by a recent
deprivation, whose weeds, nevertheless, were arranged with a dolorous
degree of grace, which amounted almost to coquetry. Clara Mowbray had
also, negligent as she seemed to be of appearances, her own art of the
toilet, although of the most rapid and most simple character. She took
off her little riding-hat, and, unbinding a lace of Indian gold which
retained her locks, shook them in dark and glossy profusion over her
very handsome form, which they overshadowed down to her slender waist;
and while her brother stood looking on her with a mixture of pride,
affection, and compassion, she arranged them with a large comb, and,
without the assistance of any _femme d'atours_, wove them, in the course
of a few minutes, into such a natural head-dress as we see on the
statues of the Grecian nymphs.
"Now let me but find my best muff," she said, "come prince and peer, I
shall be ready to receive them."
"Pshaw! your muff--who has heard of such a thing these twenty years?
Muffs were out of fashion before you were born."
"No matter, John," replied his sister; "when a woman wears a muff,
especially a determined old maid like myself, it is a sign she has no
intentions to scratch; and therefore the muff serves all the purposes of
a white flag, and prevents the necessity of drawing on a glove, so
prudentially recommended by the motto of our cousins, the
M'Intoshes."[II-4]
"Be it as you will, then," said Mowbray; "for other than you do will it,
you will not suffer it to be.--But how is this!--another billet?--We are
in request this morning."
"Now, Heaven send his lordship may have judiciously considered all the
risks which he is sure to encounter on this charmed ground, and resolved
to leave his adventure unattempted," said Miss Mowbray.
Her brother glanced a look of displeasure at her, as he broke the seal
of the letter, which was addressed to him with the words, "Haste and
secrecy," written on the envelope. The contents, which greatly surprised
him, we remit to the commencement of the next chapter.
FOOTNOTE:
[II-4] The well known crest of this ancient race, is a cat rampant with a
motto bearing the caution--"Touch not the cat, but [_i.e._ _be out_, or
without] the glove."