PRIVATE INFORMATION.
----Ope this letter;
I can produce a champion that will prove
What is avouched there.----
_King Lear._
The billet which Mowbray received, and read in his sister's presence,
contained these words:--
"Sir,--Clara Mowbray has few friends--none, perhaps, excepting
yourself, in right of blood, and the writer of this letter, by right
of the fondest, truest, and most disinterested attachment, that ever
man bore to woman. I am thus explicit with you, because, though it
is unlikely that I should ever again see or speak to your sister, I
am desirous that you should be clearly acquainted with the cause of
that interest, which I must always, even to my dying breath, take in
her affairs.
"The person, calling himself Lord Etherington, is, I am aware, in
the neighbourhood of Shaws-Castle, with the intention of paying his
addresses to Miss Mowbray; and it is easy for me to foresee, arguing
according to the ordinary views of mankind, that he may place his
proposals in such a light as may make them seem highly desirable.
But ere you give this person the encouragement which his offers may
seem to deserve, please to enquire whether his fortune is certain,
or his rank indisputable; and be not satisfied with light evidence
on either point. A man may be in possession of an estate and title,
to which he has no better right than his own rapacity and
forwardness of assumption; and supposing Mr. Mowbray jealous, as he
must be, of the honour of his family, the alliance of such a one
cannot but bring disgrace. This comes from one who will make good
what he has written."
On the first perusal of a billet so extraordinary, Mowbray was inclined
to set it down to the malice of some of the people at the Well,
anonymous letters being no uncommon resource of the small wits who
frequent such places of general resort, as a species of deception safely
and easily executed, and well calculated to produce much mischief and
confusion. But upon closer consideration, he was shaken in this opinion,
and, starting suddenly from the reverie into which he had fallen, asked
for the messenger who had brought the letter. "He was in the hall," the
servant thought, and Mowbray ran to the hall. No--the messenger was not
there, but Mowbray might see his back as he walked up the avenue.--He
hollo'd--no answer was returned--he ran after the fellow, whose
appearance was that of a countryman. The man quickened his pace as he
saw himself pursued, and when he got out of the avenue, threw himself
into one of the numerous bypaths which wanderers, who strayed in quest
of nuts, or for the sake of exercise, had made in various directions
through the extensive copse which surrounded the Castle, and were
doubtless the reason of its acquiring the name of Shaws, which
signifies, in the Scottish dialect, a wood of this description.
Irritated by the man's obvious desire to avoid him, and naturally
obstinate in all his resolutions, Mowbray pursued for a considerable
way, until he fairly lost breath; and the flier having been long out of
sight, he recollected at length that his engagement with the Earl of
Etherington required his attendance at the Castle.
The young lord, indeed, had arrived at Shaws-Castle, so few minutes
after Mowbray's departure, that it was wonderful they had not met in the
avenue. The servant to whom he applied, conceiving that his master must
return instantly, as he had gone out without his hat, ushered the Earl,
without farther ceremony, into the breakfast-room, where Clara was
seated upon one of the window-seats, so busily employed with a book, or
perhaps with her own thoughts while she held a book in her hands, that
she scarce raised her head, until Lord Etherington, advancing,
pronounced the words, "Miss Mowbray." A start, and a loud scream,
announced her deadly alarm, and these were repeated as he made one pace
nearer, and in a firmer accent said, "Clara."
"No nearer--no nearer," she exclaimed, "if you would have me look upon
you and live!" Lord Etherington remained standing, as if uncertain
whether to advance or retreat, while with incredible rapidity she poured
out her hurried entreaties that he would begone, sometimes addressing
him as a real personage, sometimes, and more frequently, as a delusive
phantom, the offspring of her own excited imagination. "I knew it," she
muttered, "I knew what would happen, if my thoughts were forced into
that fearful channel.--Speak to me, brother! speak to me while I have
reason left, and tell me that what stands before me is but an empty
shadow! But it is no shadow--it remains before me in all the lineaments
of mortal substance!"
"Clara," said the Earl, with a firm, yet softened voice, "collect and
compose yourself. I am, indeed, no shadow--I am a much-injured man, come
to demand rights which have been unjustly withheld from me. I am now
armed with power as well as justice, and my claims shall be heard."
"Never--never!" replied Clara Mowbray; "since extremity is my portion,
let extremity give me courage.--You have no rights--none--I know you
not, and I defy you."
"Defy me not, Clara Mowbray," answered the Earl, in a tone, and with a
manner how different from those which delighted society! for now he was
solemn, tragic, and almost stern, like the judge when he passes sentence
upon a criminal. "Defy me not," he repeated. "I am your Fate, and it
rests with you to make me a kind or severe one."
"Dare you speak thus?" said Clara, her eyes flashing with anger, while
her lips grew white, and quivered for fear--"Dare you speak thus, and
remember that the same heaven is above our heads, to which you so
solemnly vowed you would never see me more without my own consent?"
"That vow was conditional--Francis Tyrrel, as he calls himself, swore
the same--hath _he_ not seen you?" He fixed a piercing look on her; "He
has--you dare not disown it!--And shall an oath, which to him is but a
cobweb, be to me a shackle of iron?"
"Alas! it was but for a moment," said Miss Mowbray, sinking in courage,
and drooping her head as she spoke.
"Were it but the twentieth part of an instant--the least conceivable
space of subdivided time--still, you _did_ meet--he saw you--you spoke
to him. And me also you must see--me also you must hear! Or I will first
claim you for my own in the face of the world; and, having vindicated my
rights, I will seek out and extinguish the wretched rival who has dared
to interfere with them."
"Can you speak thus?" said Clara--"can you so burst through the ties of
nature?--Have you a heart!"
"I have; and it shall be moulded like wax to your slightest wishes, if
you agree to do me justice; but not granite, nor aught else that nature
has of hardest, will be more inflexible if you continue an useless
opposition!--Clara Mowbray, I am your Fate."
"Not so, proud man," said Clara, rising, "God gave not one potsherd the
power to break another, save by his divine permission--my fate is in the
will of Him, without whose will even a sparrow falls not to the
ground.--Begone--I am strong in faith of heavenly protection."
"Do you speak thus in sincerity?" said the Earl of Etherington;
"consider first what is the prospect before you. I stand here in no
doubtful or ambiguous character--I offer not the mere name of a
husband--propose to you not a humble lot of obscurity and hardship, with
fears for the past and doubts for the future; yet there _was_ a time
when to a suit like this you could listen favourably.--I stand high
among the nobles of the country, and offer you, as my bride, your share
in my honours, and in the wealth which becomes them.--Your brother is my
friend, and favours my suit. I will raise from the ground, and once more
render illustrious, your ancient house--your motions shall be regulated
by your wishes, even by your caprices--I will even carry my self-denial
so far, that you shall, should you insist on so severe a measure, have
your own residence, your own establishment, and without intrusion on my
part, until the most devoted love, the most unceasing attentions, shall
make way on your inflexible disposition.--All this I will consent to for
the future--all that is past shall be concealed from the public.--But
mine, Clara Mowbray, you must be."
"Never--never!" she said with increasing vehemence. "I can but repeat a
negative, but it shall have all the force of an oath.--Your rank is
nothing to me--your fortune I scorn--my brother has no right, by the law
of Scotland, or of nature, to compel my inclinations.--I detest your
treachery, and I scorn the advantage you propose to attain by
it.--Should the law give you my hand, it would but award you that of a
corpse."
"Alas! Clara," said the Earl, "you do but flutter in the net; but I will
urge you no farther, now--there is another encounter before me."
He was turning away, when Clara, springing forward, caught him by the
arm, and repeated, in a low and impressive voice, the commandment,--"Thou
shalt do no murder!"
"Fear not any violence," he said, softening his voice, and attempting to
take her hand, "but what may flow from your own severity.--Francis is
safe from me, unless you are altogether unreasonable.--Allow me but what
you cannot deny to any friend of your brother, the power of seeing you
at times--suspend at least the impetuosity of your dislike to me, and I
will, on my part, modify the current of my just and otherwise
uncontrollable resentment."
Clara, extricating herself, and retreating from him, only replied,
"There is a Heaven above us, and THERE shall be judged our actions
towards each other! You abuse a power most treacherously obtained--you
break a heart that never did you wrong--you seek an alliance with a
wretch who only wishes to be wedded to her grave.--If my brother brings
you hither, I cannot help it--and if your coming prevents bloody and
unnatural violence, it is so far well.--But by my consent you come
_not_; and, were the choice mine, I would rather be struck with
life-long blindness, than that my eyes should again open on your
person--rather that my ears were stuffed with the earth of the grave,
than that they should again hear your voice!"
The Earl of Etherington smiled proudly, and replied, "Even this, madam,
I can hear without resentment. Anxious and careful as you are to deprive
your compliance of every grace and of every kindness, I receive the
permission to wait on you, as I interpret your words."
"Do not so interpret them," she replied; "I do but submit to your
presence as an unavoidable evil. Heaven be my witness, that, were it not
to prevent greater and more desperate evil, I would not even so far
acquiesce."
"Let acquiescence, then, be the word," he said; "and so thankful will I
be, even for your acquiescence, Miss Mowbray, that all shall remain
private, which I conceive you do not wish to be disclosed; and, unless
absolutely compelled to it in self-defence, you may rely, no violence
will be resorted to by me in any quarter.--I relieve you from my
presence."
So saying, he withdrew from the apartment.