“To go, alas! we know not where.”
COOPER.
Lord Trimmerstone had not been a very frequent visitor at his relative’s
house, and therefore Mr. Martindale apprehended that the present was
more likely a call of business than compliment; especially did he think
so when he observed how very grave and serious his lordship looked.
Conducting the Earl into the library, Mr. Martindale began:
“What, in the name of wonder, can be the matter with you now? Has your
lordship had the misfortune to lose more than is quite convenient to pay,
and are you coming to ask me to pay it for you?”
“You may very well upbraid me, sir, with my sad propensity to gaming,”
replied his lordship; “but I trust this is the last time I shall hear
such reproof from you. I have seen my folly.”
“Have you, indeed?” interrupted the old gentleman; “what a wonderful
discovery you have made! Every body else has seen it for a long while
past. Now I suppose that you are going to let the world see your wisdom.
But pray, what is the amount which you wish me to discharge for you in
the present awkward juncture of affairs?”
“I have not any request of that kind to make, sir;” replied his lordship.
“Oh, oh!” said the old gentleman, “indeed! I am very happy to hear it.
But I should be glad to know what it is that makes you look so serious.”
“I have been thinking,” said his lordship, with great formality of manner
and expression…
“It is high time you should think,” responded the old gentleman; “and
what has your lordship been thinking about?”
“I have been thinking,” continued the Earl, “that it will be prudent for
me, at least for the present, to give up my establishment in town, and
retire, with your permission, to Trimmerstone, where I may be out of the
way of temptation. If you still continue in the same mind with respect to
Trimmerstone Hall, I think it might be put into tenantable repair at a
small expense.”
“Very good, very good, young man;--I beg pardon--I mean my lord.”
“Nay, sir, I beg that you will not use such taunting expressions. My
title, you know, was not of my seeking.”
His lordship uttered this last sentence in a tone of such humility and
submissiveness that the old gentleman was touched, and he saw that his
relative felt a strong impression of humiliation, and therefore he felt
more compassionately, and replied in tones rather more conciliating.
“Yes, yes, very true; it was my fault. I am sorry for it. I don’t know
which was the greatest fool of the two; you for accepting the title, or
I for obtaining it for you. Now if your poor father had not been smitten
with the ambition of rank, and had you continued in your profession, you
might at this time have been in the enjoyment of a handsome and honorable
competency. But now you are a nobleman, you can do nothing to help
yourself. I am sorry for you. But if you wish to reside at Trimmerstone,
I will put the house in repair for you, and make any alterations or
additions you please. Your wife, too, is to be consulted in this matter.
Are you not apprehensive of some opposition to your schemes from that
quarter?”
“Some objection was expressed when I made the proposal, but of course I
must overrule every thing of that kind.”
“Ay, ay, there again you have been unfortunate. With your views you
should never have married such a woman as that. You see it has not
answered your purpose after all, even in a pecuniary point of view. You
have made a bad business of it altogether. I am sorry for you; but I
cannot see what is to be done for you.”
It might be very true that Mr. Martindale was sorry for his unfortunate
relative, but it was not very decorous to speak thus of a lady before
her husband’s face. This circumstance also contributed to increase his
lordship’s mortifications, and to add to the weight of his grief.
After much more conversation to the same purpose, by which the old
gentleman endeavoured to prove his lordship’s folly, and by which his
lordship admitted it in all its extent, the interview terminated; and the
result of the negotiation was, that orders were forthwith issued for the
repair of Trimmerstone Hall for the reception of his lordship.
While the Earl of Trimmerstone was engaged with Mr. Martindale, the
Countess was occupied by the condoling and sympathising attentions of
Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson. For as soon as Mr. Tippetson was aware
of the Earl’s absence from home, he took the opportunity of paying his
respects to the Countess; and he found her ladyship in great affliction,
and from her appearance he judged that she had been very recently
dissolved in tears. This phrase, dissolved in tears, is one of those
expressions which, for the sake of pathos, we must now and then use,
but it is far too hyperbolical and exaggerated for our taste; and it
is our firm and unalterable opinion, that the cause of sympathy is not
effectually served by words that mean nothing, or that mean too much. The
Countess, however, had very clearly been weeping, and was very obviously
in ill-humor with her lord and master.
When Mr. Tippetson, therefore, made his appearance, and her ladyship,
just recovered from her tears, expressed with more than usual cordiality
how glad she was to see him, it was impossible for so tender-hearted a
creature as Mr. Tippetson not to make some kind and condoling remark on
the appearance which she exhibited of illness or great affliction.
“I am infinitely concerned to see your ladyship in low spirits this
morning.” Thus spoke the tender Henry Augustus.
“Oh, Mr. Tippetson,” responded her ladyship, “I may well be in low
spirits. This very morning, my brute of a husband, God forgive me for
using such language,” here her ladyship’s tears flowed afresh, “has
absolutely insisted on my leaving town; and he says that we must both go
and end our days at that vile dull place, Trimmerstone.”
“Has your ladyship ever been at Trimmerstone?” inquired the attentive and
sympathising youth.
“Never,” replied her ladyship; “but I am sure it must be a dull place;
there is not a soul to speak to but a dull country squire or two, and the
parson of the parish, and he is but the curate; for it is such a stupid
place that even the rector cannot reside there. His lordship did not
seem to want much of my company in town--I think he might do very well
without it in the country.”
“Your ladyship is very ill-used,” said Mr. Tippetson; “I have been often
astonished that you could patiently put up with such behaviour.”
“But I must put up with it, Mr. Tippetson, I have no remedy.”
So spake the Countess of Trimmerstone; but her ladyship knew that she
had a remedy--only the remedy was worse than the disease. Mr. Tippetson
also knew that there was a remedy; but Mr. Tippetson was not quite so
great a novice as to name that remedy in so many words. He therefore
made no reply, and her ladyship was also silent; yet her heart swelled,
and the tears were in her eyes, and she seemed altogether given up to
the hopelessness of sorrow. Now as Henry Augustus Tippetson was an adept
in common-place, he knew that there was more prudence and policy in
absolute silence under present circumstances, than in any language which
he could utter. And as the Countess, in the hurry and agitation of her
grief, was now in one part of the room, now in another, now sitting, now
walking, now before the glass, and now before the window, Mr. Tippetson
was always at her side; and after many changes of place, they at length
sat down together on a sofa; and Mr. Tippetson, scarcely thinking what he
did, actually took hold of her ladyship’s hand, and pressed it between
his two hands more tenderly than any single man ought to press the hand
of any married woman. What was the young gentleman’s design in this, or
whether he had any design in it at all or not, we cannot say. But be it
as it may, he approached her ladyship in such a questionable shape, that
whether his intents were wicked or charitable, she spoke to him, saying,
“Oh, Tippetson!”
Now this was too bad. Whatever were the young gentleman’s intentions,
her ladyship ought certainly to have left him to himself, and to have
suffered him to evolve his own schemes: it was grievously indecorous, we
think, to give the gentleman any assistance or prompting in such matter;
but we will not be very positive, seeing that we do not understand
the etiquette of elopement. And perhaps the Countess herself thought
that Mr. Tippetson was also inexpert, and therefore assisted him in
the development of his scheme for relieving her from the burden of a
disagreeable husband.
When, therefore, the Countess had with so much tenderness said, “Oh,
Tippetson!” it was impossible for Henry Augustus to avoid saying, “Oh,
Celestina!”--for thus familiarly had he been accustomed to address the
lady while she was a spinster. As by the use of this familiar mode of
address her ladyship’s active fancy imagined that more was meant than met
the ear, and as there was evidently little time for deliberation, and as
she thought it absolutely indispensable to make some show of opposition
to such a wicked proposal, as she construed “Oh, Celestina!” to mean, her
ladyship immediately withdrew her hand from Mr. Tippetson, and exclaimed,
“Oh, never! never! never! do not be so barbarous; I cannot--no, I
cannot--I would undergo any thing rather than take so imprudent a step.”
Mr. Tippetson, whose ideas of morality were not very nice, and whose
sense of propriety was not very acute, thought that it was a gentle
designation of elopement to call it only “an imprudent step.” He was not
best pleased, therefore, with this mode of resistance; but he was now
under the absolute necessity of kneeling to her ladyship, and of seizing
her hand again most passionately, and pressing it to his heart, and
vowing eternal fidelity, and exclaiming--
“Oh, fly with me, my dearest Celestina; I will go with you to the end of
the world.”
By the way, he had not the slightest intention of going farther than
Paris, or to the south of France at the utmost. But, of course, when a
single gentleman tells a married lady that he will go with her to the end
of the world, it is absolutely impossible for her to avoid or to refuse
leaving her husband, her friends, and her reputation. So felt, and so
acted, the Countess of Trimmerstone; and considering the short notice
which she had, it is somewhat astonishing that she was so soon ready to
depart. She was gone before her husband returned from Mr. Martindale’s.
Some of the servants said that she had prepared for the excursion before
Mr. Tippetson proposed it.
It is a question which requires a nicer casuistry than we are master
of, to decide which of these two precious ones was most to blame. When
a husband neglects his wife, it is the opinion of some considerate
and candid creatures, that the lady’s conduct in leaving him, if not
justified, is palliated. But perhaps some husbands would not neglect
their wives so much as they do, if these aforesaid wives could not find
some one else to pay attention to them. The lady, however, in the present
case, did not leave her husband during his neglect of her, but just at
the very moment that he was beginning to be more attentive than ever, and
to claim her sweet company all to himself. But then she did not like to
live in the country all alone, as it were, and out of society and gaiety.
Oh, no! certainly not. Therefore she thought it much more lively to go to
Paris to reside with a perfumed puppy in an obscure lodging, surrounded
with people of whom she knew, and could know, and wished to know nothing.
Our readers would think us very methodistical if we were to express
ourself in very strong terms against the abomination of elopements;
and those very same readers would think us very irreligious, should we
question any of those dogmas which are supposed to form part and parcel
of the religion of the state. We are not however about to do either the
one or the other; but we cannot help recommending all married ladies to
be very cautious how they talk to their _friends_ concerning the cruelty
of their husbands. We would also recommend married ladies, and single
ones too, not to place unlimited confidence in romantic protestations;
and above all, would we tell married ladies that the worst husbands are
better than the best seducers.
As it is not our intention to suffer Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson to
intrude again on our pages after his present disappearance, and as the
Countess of Trimmerstone disappears with him, we will now so far violate
chronological order as to narrate all that remains to be said concerning
that hopeful couple.
Mr. Tippetson, who had desired to immortalise himself by an elopement
with a lady of rank, now that the Countess of Trimmerstone was in his
power, did not feel quite so proud of his conquest as he had anticipated
and fancied. There is nothing in rank where there is no distance and
reserve. The Countess, even before they had reached Dover, began to
appear to him as a weak, silly woman. Now, if in stealing a countess, he
had stolen the title of earl for himself, he might have been more proud
of his exploit; but as it was, he still kept the name of Mr. Tippetson,
and his poor simpleton of a companion had no name at all. Then again
he could not enjoy the pleasure of hearing himself talked about in the
fashionable circles. He saw very soon in the newspapers that he gained
celebrity by the elopement, but he could not hear any remarks upon the
subject. He very soon found that his companion was no companion; and
therefore, with mighty energy and resignation, he determined to make
the best of a bad bargain. It is a great pity that the Countess had not
come to that resolution before she left her husband. Here again we have a
lesson for married ladies; and beg most respectfully and kindly to inform
them, that it is much more inconvenient to be neglected by a seducer,
than to be neglected by a husband.
Mr. Tippetson was a man of the world; but he did not know much of the
world, especially of the world of Paris. It is very good that English
people in the one shilling gallery should believe that one Englishman can
beat three Frenchmen, and that they generally do believe till they try;
but one simple Englishman, like Mr. Tippetson, may generally be beaten
by one Frenchman at games of skill or chance in the Palais-Royal. The
perfumed seducer found out this to his cost; and thereupon the Countess
of Trimmerstone became more inconveniently expensive to him. There arose
also another inconvenience to the young gentleman, viz. her ladyship’s
prodigious vulgarity. He could never be seen with her in public.
The Parisian ladies used to stare at her, though she thought herself
prodigiously fine. Mr. Tippetson accommodated himself to the people among
whom he dwelt. The Countess began soon to grow sulky, because she had no
society. Tippetson thought his own society quite enough for her ladyship.
By degrees that society was more and more curtailed: sometimes he left
her for a whole day; and sometimes he was absent day and night; and
sometimes he would stay from her ladyship two or three days successively.
This was very sad, but she had no remedy. To utter angry reproaches she
dared not; she could only plead pathetically, and call him unkind, and
use the gentlest tones of expostulation. Her ladyship was far more afraid
of Mr. Tippetson than ever she had been of her husband, and was much more
careful of offending him by look, word, or deed. On the other hand, the
gentleman was sooner weary of the Countess than he would have been of a
wife; and whensoever the gentleman, in the expression of his weariness,
took it into his head to use the language of reproach, her ladyship, from
the peculiarity of her situation, felt unable to return or repel it.
Whether it be possible or not for a married woman who has lost the
affection of her husband, ever to regain and recover that affection, we
presume not to say; but notwithstanding the diffidence we feel in our own
judgment, and notwithstanding our own inexperience of such matters, we
will venture to give it as our firm opinion, that when the affections of
a seducer are gone away from the silly one whom he has beguiled, or who
has beguiled him, it is the most hopeless of all efforts to endeavour to
recall them. But however hopeless the effort may be, it still must be
made. So felt the unfortunate and unhappy woman, who, under the notion of
liberty, had sold herself into an irretrievable slavery. If however she
possessed not sufficient discernment and strength of mind to keep herself
from this miserable condition, it was not very likely that she should be
possessed of wit and wisdom enough to perform one of the most difficult
of all difficult tasks, to recall a wandering affection. And the efforts
which are used for this purpose are in their nature, or from the nature
of the human mind, so exceedingly perverse, that in the same ratio as
they fail of doing good, they are productive of evil.
Thus it came to pass that the affections of Mr. Tippetson for the
poor witless Countess of Trimmerstone grew weaker and fainter; and in
proportion to her endeavours to retain him, she found that she was nearer
to losing him. Not many years passed away before he absolutely left
her; and from this state of humiliation she wrote to her broken-hearted
father, praying that he would not let her perish for want in a strange
land. That supplication was not unheeded; she was saved from absolute
want; but she lived the remainder of her days in solitude, obscurity, and
self-reproach. We now return to the period from whence we have digressed.