with as little delay as winds, waves, and mail coaches permitted, and
found my poor mother so frightfully altered, that I should scarcely
recognize her at the distance of a few paces. I was not aware, till I
arrived at home that she had had a paralytic stroke, which she cannot
endure to have known, and Louisa would not risk the communication by
letter, lest I might, inadvertently, betray a knowledge of the fact on
meeting her. Of this there is no danger in telling it to _you_, and in
doing so, I explain at once how impossible it is for me to quit England
while matters remain in their present precarious condition. You will
rejoice to hear that domestic misfortunes have had the happiest effect
on my sister’s mind. She is wonderfully changed, and her whole attention
is devoted to the melancholy duty of watching our invalid, whose illness
appeared immediately after a sudden and unlooked for demand of £2,000
on the miserable Crayton’s account, accompanied by an earnest request
from Adelaide that her mother would honour the bill, or, at least,
give security for its payment at a future day. This was impossible,
for my poor mother was overwhelmed by debts of her own. The grief and
mortification which are now her portion are not rendered more tolerable
by the accompanying reflection that she brought them on herself; and
it is the cruel nature of her complaint to aggravate every vexation by
the dreadful irritability which is one of its constant symptoms, as I
am informed by Doctor Leach, who is in daily attendance at Selby. Need
I say that almost every hour is occupied in endeavouring to soothe our
poor patient, and relieve Louisa’s care? _You_ know nothing of the
hopeless task which we have daily to encounter. The life that is led
by fashion’s votaries, ill prepares the mind I see for finding refuge
in the only consolations which a sick room supplies. How often am I
irresistibly led to a comparison of my uncle’s couch with that on which
my poor mother’s faded form reclines! We can impart no comfort. We fail
of amusing, as of consoling her. Neither book nor conversation delights,
the affrighted spirit turns in anguish from viewing the grave as it gapes
beneath, and dares not seek for refuge in Him who is neglected while the
blood circulates freely in the veins, and the wheel rolls on, as if it
were never to meet obstruction. I never pondered on these things till I
lived at Glenalta, and I am now endeavouring to impress them on Louisa.
Cards are my poor mother’s only resource, and my sister, Turner, and I,
are in constant requisition. We play whist to amuse her, and suffer her
to win every game. Perhaps by keeping her mind as calm and unruffled
as possible, I may prevail with her to see Mr. Arundel, an excellent
clergyman in our neighbourhood, who has often proffered his service,
but whose visits she has hitherto declined. The Doctor gives me no hope
of her recovery, though he thinks that she may endure repeated attacks
before her strength sinks entirely under them. Some of the good people
of our country are loud, I am told in their abuse of my sister, and me,
for permitting a card inside my mother’s apartment. We ought, they say,
to _insist_ on her seeing Mr. Arundel, and oblige her to listen to pious
reading. Alas! what mischief may be wrought even by the best intentions,
when zeal is so wholly unaccompanied by discretion! Should we hope to
render a temper fitter for Heaven by exciting its utmost animosity, or
secure a reception in the heart for doctrines _forced_ upon the ear? So
certain am I of the contrary, that I will take the whole responsibility
on myself, and trust that the motive which impels me to brave the
opinion of several who are older than I am, may insure forgiveness, if
I am wrong. Ask Stanley for his advice, and tell Falkland to write to
me. You must remember the life that Louisa and I are leading, and have
pity on us. Let me hear often from you, and tell my dear Emily, and
Charlotte, that I think a few words of cousinly kindness would produce a
happy effect upon my poor sister’s mind; she would find too, perhaps, an
interesting recreation in corresponding with them. It is a distressing
circumstance to me, that I know not where to address Adelaide, nor does
she know where to find me. Of her situation I must remain ignorant, till
Annesley can trace the route by which she and her unfortunate husband
have evaded pursuit. My dear uncle’s noble gift shall be forwarded to
Milan for the payment of debts, and we must, if practicable, purchase off
the prosecution for Castelli’s death. You will assist me, I am sure, in
every possible way. God bless you, dearest Frederick. Loves to all.
Your affectionate, but harassed,
A. HOWARD.
LETTER XLIV.
FREDERICK DOUGLAS TO ARTHUR HOWARD.
_Turin._
My dear Arthur,
An entire month has passed since the date of my last letter to you; and
I have now to recount an adventure which has deeply interested me, and
will, I have no doubt, produce as much excitement in your mind as it has
done in my own. When we had been at Turin about ten days, Mr. Otway,
Emily, and I, returned late one evening from a _scramble_ amongst the
rocky scenery by which we are surrounded, and found George Bentley seated
with the rest of the party. You may imagine that the meeting affected us
all. Poor fellow, he is a sincere mourner for his uncle’s loss, and is
grown more serious than I ever saw him; but he is one whom I shall always
love, and we all felt at sight of him as if Glenalta had come over to
pay us a visit. After George had rested for a day or two we made our
final arrangements, which had been pending for some time previous to his
arrival, for the projected excursion into the vallies. It was ruled in
congress that we juniors should not all desert the home party together;
and as it was considered likely that at a future day when you rejoin us,
another _sortie_ may be determined upon; Stanley volunteered in remaining
with my uncle, while Fanny begged to be left as guardian of my mother.
To begin then, methodically, you may fancy the travelling party
consisting of Mr. Otway, Falkland, George Bentley, Emily, Charlotte, and
myself, in full march, on the fifteenth ultimo, issuing from the Posta
Nuova, and taking the high road to Pinerolo. The Po rolled impetuously on
its course, and brought to my mind those lines of Virgil, which describe
its rushing flood, when swelled by the tributary waters of spring:--
“Proluit insano contorquens vortice Sylvas,
Fluviorum rex Eridanus camposque per omnes,
Cum stabulis armenta tulit;”
appeared as just a character as could be given of this classic river,
as we passed along for some miles in view of its winding course. The
beautiful plains of the Cottian Alps were left behind us, when we quitted
Pinerolo, and we soon opened on the rugged scenery which surrounds
Pomaretto, which we entered on foot, so difficult was its approach. The
valley of Perosa had much to interest us. We passed through that of
Pragella, and wondered at the dreariness of the prospect.
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long,”
burst simultaneously from the lips of Emily and Falkland, as we gazed on
the barren district before us.
For the particulars of four delightful days spent in traversing the
vallies of St. Martino, Clusone, and Luzerna, I shall refer you to our
journals, which faithfully describe, and circumstantially narrate all
that we saw and heard during our progress. I must hasten on to “metal
more attractive” still, in the exquisite loveliness of San Giovanni. At
La Torre we were arrested, as if by a spell of magical enchantment. There
we halted during two days: visited the monument of Christina, sister of
Elizabeth Smith, talked over Victor Amadeus with detestation, of the
noble Henri Arnaud with enthusiasm, and were so lost in admiration of
the Alpine beauties, and simple manners by which we were so hemmed in on
every side, that after a week’s sojournment in this fascinating vale, we
should all have been likely to forget the whole of what is called the
civilized world, if certain thoughts of Turin, Selby, and Glenalta, had
not been interwoven with the raptures to which we resigned ourselves.
From La Torre, however, we _tore_ ourselves (I am not so unworthy as to
_commit_ a _pun_ amidst the mountains of Switzerland), and proceeded to
Angrogna. Here we _called a halt_, and the result of our deliberations
was, that the two girls being intent on achieving, if practicable, the
difficult ascent of La Vachera, and visiting the famous Pre du Tour,
it was judged expedient that they should remain quietly housed in the
village of Angrogna, while some of the party, in quality of scouts, were
to reconnoitre, and returning to the rendezvous, declare how far it might
be possible for the ladies to realize their daring resolution.
The post of danger is the post of honour, and it might therefore be
supposed that the gentlemen of our detachment were all ambitious of
being heroes, and immortalizing their names amongst the brave of other
days, who had vanquished or fallen near this impregnable fortress of
nature’s workmanship; but no such thing, Mr. Otway honestly avowed that
his love of adventure was cooled in the stream of time, and that, with
the perils of the expedition he would surrender all title to a share in
its glories. This was fair and reasonable, suitable to his years, and
according with his generosity. But what will you say of Master Falkland,
when I tell you that his youthful blood boiled not with either martial or
romantic ardour? Protesting against the ungallant proceeding of leaving
two damsels in the care of _one_ knight, he sent forward Bentley and
your humble servant to meet all the hazard of the undertaking. In short,
George and I were decreed to be “_les enfans perdus_,” while Falkland,
not contented with the privileges of exemption from our toils, laid claim
to the rewards of chivalry, and sought in Emily’s approving smile a full
ratification of his cowardly choice. _Yes_, Charles, if I mistake not, is
no longer _compos mentis_; and if so, we must not be too hard upon him. I
set out with George upon the most interesting perambulation I ever made
in my life. We took a guide, and, followed by a peasant boy, struck out
of the beaten track, and wandered for several hours through the Valleys
of the Waldenses, amid pathless defiles of rock and glen, which presented
such matchless variety, such astonishing contrast of the beautiful and
sublime, as I should in vain attempt to pourtray with any hope of doing
justice to the scenery.
On our return we gave a glowing picture of the romantic beauties which
crowned our exertions, and engaged to pilot my sisters and their beaux
into the defiles of the adjacent mountains on the following day, which
we performed admirably, Emily and Charlotte bringing such freshness
of Kerry practice to the task, that they struck our guides with the
deepest astonishment. We made acquaintance in our way with several
peasants, who charmed us by the ease and simplicity of their manners.
All the adventitious distinctions which by introducing inequality, bring
also in its train condescension on the one hand, meanness, servility,
awkwardness, and presumption on the other, are unknown in the Valleys
of Piémont. Here man is reduced to his _elemental_ character: stars and
garters, which glitter in the murky atmosphere of courts, and there
assume the “_Lux lucet in tenebris_,” hide their diminished heads,
and dare not radiate their sickly lustre in presence of that glorious
luminary which seems to disport with peculiar rapture in this region of
eternal snows, and to play off all the magic versatility of his powers,
amid these giant prisms that reflect, and refract his beams in every
possible variety of form and colour. Were I _in love_, I should grow
like one of the _lichens_ to these rocks, but as I am enabled to sing
“My heart’s my own,--my will is free.”
I prefer returning to the full tide of life, and coming from time to time
to enjoy these fastnesses of nature with all the stimulus of contrast,
added to their intrinsic sublimity. Emily wept as we left the banks of
the Pelice on our return to Turin. Though longing to be with those who
were left behind, and carrying with her the society which had lent its
charms to the desert, her tears flowed as an irresistible tribute to
scenes so congenial to her heart. Charlotte used to be always considered
by us to live more in a world of _sentiment_ than her elder sister, yet
her eyes were not suffused; and though her pencil and her voice have
borne away unnumbered memoranda from the mountains, she repassed the
Porta Nuova with such transport, that I could scarcely keep her in the
carriage and prevent her from running a race with the animals that were
doing their best to reunite us with the group which we felt impatient to
embrace.
Alas, my dear uncle has been very ill during our absence, and is much
changed within these few days of our separation from him. We found my
beloved mother looking pale from want of sleep, but rejoicing in the
blessing of beholding the triumph of Faith and Hope, in the approaching
scene which we cannot flatter ourselves is not in immediate prospect.
Stanley, she says, is a celestial messenger.
Your next accounts of my poor aunt, will, I hope, be more favourable.
Stanley entirely approves of your conciliating her affections by all
the means in your power; and has no doubt that they are the very best
handmaids to religion. He bids me say that you must not be discouraged
if you cannot prevail at _first_. Be patient, and even five minutes
seriously employed, when the heart is sincere, will not be _lost_.
A few bits of coloured paper have nothing in their manufacture more
inimical to the great cause, than any other trifles which serve to
alienate the mind from its most important concerns. This is Stanley’s
opinion. Adieu, _mon ami_,
Ever your faithful friend
F. DOUGLAS.
LETTER XLV.
EMILY DOUGLAS TO JULIA SANDFORD.
_Turin._
Oh, my dearest Julia, in what words shall I describe the horror and
consternation in which we have been thrown by the awful event mentioned
to your aunt in Alfred Stanley’s last letter? A week has passed since the
dreadful catastrophe, and I have not slept since, so great is the shock
that it produced. The particulars are as I will now endeavour to detail
them.
On the evening of this day se’nnight we were returning, a numerous
party, from a walk in the direction of Rivoli, when passing by a large
house removed at a little distance from the outskirts of this town, and
separated from the road by a thick plantation, we were violently startled
by the noise of a pistol-shot, followed by a shriek so piercing, that I
shall never cease to remember its shrillness. Mr. Otway, Fanny, Charles
Falkland, and I, were foremost, and reached the spot whence these
affrighting sounds proceeded before the rest came up; and scarcely had
we arrived opposite the door, ere a frantic figure rushed from it, and
fell down at our feet! Charles and Mr. Otway raised her from the earth,
but she was pale as death, and quite insensible. I ran eagerly to a
stream which was just by, and filling the crown of my straw hat with
water, was hastening back, when I perceived that she was supported by a
young and beautiful woman in deep mourning, who was recognized at the
first glance by Fanny to be the Madame de Lisle, of whom I told you in a
former letter. The object of our anxiety remained motionless, while the
gentlemen, who were now joined by Alfred, George, and Frederick, flew
into the house, where all was confusion: servants running to and fro;
some of whom were employed in placing the body of a young man, who had
just blown his brains out, on a bed. It was growing dark, and the shade
of the trees rendered it impossible to see any thing clearly; but on
Frederick’s return from the house, where some of the people had told him
that the lady who had fainted was wife to Monsieur le Marchand, who was
a _negociant_ from Bourdeaux, and had destroyed himself in consequence,
they supposed of bad news contained in a letter which he had received
on that day, he pressed forward to take her in his arms for the purpose
of laying her on a mattrass which he had had brought out; and no sooner
did the light fall directly on her corpse-like features, than Frederick
exclaimed, “Good God! Adelaide Crayton! She is the very image of her
portrait in Grosvenor Square!” The agitation produced by this discovery
is more easily imagined than described. Adelaide, for she was indeed our
unfortunate cousin, was removed; and as she was raised up a locket fell
upon the ground, which contained hair, with a coronet and the letter
C. in diamonds. This ornament confirmed my brother’s belief; but she
was silent, her pulse appeared to cease, and the livid paleness of her
countenance, gave reason to imagine that her spirit would not revive.
Oh! who amongst us had heart to wish that her eyes should open again
on such a scene? Yet open they did, at last, but it was only to utter
another shriek, and look wildly round for an instant, after which, half
uttering the name of La Tour, she relapsed into the same inanimate state
from which she had but just awakened. We had sent for a surgeon, who was
now conducted to the mattrass on which Adelaide lay by a young woman,
who, on being questioned, I found was La Tour, and _femme de chambre_ to
my poor cousin. In reply to my inquiries, she told me, with very little
feeling, that Le Marchand was a feigned name, that Lord Crayton, after
killing Signior Castelli, was obliged to fly; that his extravagance knew
no bounds, and that he played enormously high; that an hour before the
fatal act of suicide he saw a person pass the windows of the room in
which he sat, whom he recognized as a Milan man to whom he owed a large
sum of money; and irritated by finding that he was no longer concealed,
he resolved on the desperate deed which was hardly resolved on ere it
was perpetrated. His pistols were charged, and in the presence of his
wife he put one of them to his mouth, and was dead in an instant! I said
something expressive of pity for the survivor, and was not a little
shocked by La Tour’s reply, “Ma’amselle, ne vous mettez pas en peine,
madame se consolera bientôt.”
I turned from this woman with abhorrence, just as Mr. Otway, who had
been employed in examining the servants, came back to the place where
we were surrounding Adelaide, and trying every method for her recovery.
Madame de Lisle was kneeling at my side, and engaged in rubbing one of
poor Adelaide’s hands, when Mr. Otway changed colour as his eyes met
her’s. He seemed on the point of speaking, but repressed whatever he
was going to say; and I concluded that he had mistaken her for one of
us in the confusion of the moment. At length the surgeon succeeded in
recalling poor Lady Crayton’s senses, and she was carried to her bed,
where Frederick and I resolved to watch by her during the night. George
Bentley and Charles Falkland insisted on remaining below stairs, and Mr.
Otway took charge of Charlotte and Fanny, whom he hurried home to apprize
mamma of the events of the evening. They found her so far prepared for
the dreadful intelligence, that she knew through Mr. Stanley, whom we
begged to hasten to our hotel, that a gentleman had shot himself, in
consequence of which we were delayed, but she had yet to learn the
melancholy particulars of the catastrophe, and that we were endeavouring
to be of use to our near relations.
Madame de Lisle was like a sister, she and her maid remained with us
all night; and there was nothing that sympathy and tenderness could
dictate which this lovely young woman did not offer to us in the way
of assistance. Mamma thought my uncle too ill to listen to an account
of what had happened, and till the morning she did not come to me, as
she judged it better that Adelaide should continue in perfect quiet. A
sleeping-dose had been administered, and she lay in a sort of stupor,
interrupted from time to time by words uttered in delirium: “Where are
my jewels?” “Did you see Castelle?” “When will Arthur come?” were the
only sentences that Frederick and I could hear distinctly, though she’
talked a great deal, and apparently with anger at intervals. It was
determined upon to remove her as quickly as possible from the theatre
of such horror, and accordingly apartments were immediately prepared
in a house adjoining that in which we live. The body was disposed of,
and every arrangement that we could devise carried into effect with the
utmost celerity to change the scene for Adelaide.
When I look back upon the last week, the whole appears like a terrific
dream! For an hour together I never lose sight of that corse, weltering
in its blood; nor cease to think of that spirit, hurried into the
presence of its God! The subject is too awful, and the mind will not
dwell upon it. I sometimes feel as if I should lose my senses. Adelaide
seems quite unconscious of all that has happened, and never mentions her
husband. The physician assures us, that she is not in danger unless the
fever increase.
After the lapse of many days I find my letter only half written; but
anxiety thickens upon us, and my Julia will excuse me. My poor aunt
Howard’s situation is so precarious, that we know not what a day may
bring forth. My dear uncle declines, alas, too visibly to leave a
doubt that the dreaded moment is at hand! and though Lady Crayton is
recovering rapidly, she is, to my eye, a more melancholy object than
even death itself. La Tour’s words vibrate on my senses: they are a true
picture; “_elle se consolera bientôt!_” Yes; _elle se console_, and with
so little reference to _decency_, that though at the arrival of every
English mail we expect the _last_ accounts of her mother’s existence,
and her husband’s bleeding image seems to dwell amongst us, _she_ is
able to talk of indifferent matters, and her only solicitude literally
appears at present to display itself only in contrivances for rendering
her weeds becoming. She wishes for Arthur, _not_ that she may enjoy a
brother’s sympathy, but to know the utmost that can be done to make
her independent. On hearing from mamma that a considerable sum had been
remitted for the payment of Lord Crayton’s debts in Milan, conceive her
proposing that Arthur should be written to directly, to desire that he
might reserve this money for her use, and leave her husband’s debts
unpaid! Oh, Julia, poor Adelaide was not worse than others by nature; and
is this the end of a fashionable education?
I am sick at heart, and turn from the contemplation of my cousin’s future
career to rest on the pleasing thought of Madame de Lisle, with whom
we are delighted. Though evidently bent on seclusion, and desirous of
avoiding even a limited society, she would not refuse _us_ the pleasure
of calling upon her; and, from her first interview with mamma, she has
not required that we should again solicit her acquaintance. I never saw
such sympathy between two beings so far separated by different age and
country.
I told you that I had remarked a change in Mr. Otway’s colour when he
first saw this deeply interesting young woman. Since that time he has
been minutely inquiring about the handkerchief which Fanny picked up,
and is fully confirmed by the letters marked upon it in the belief that
he has known her family in former days, and seen her when a child; but
some circumstances, which I am unable to fathom, deter him from putting
any question to her that might determine the point. Perhaps she married
without the consent of her friends; yet she seems so good that it would
take much evidence to convince me that she had ever made her parents
unhappy. Again, were she not so perfectly elegant, so modest and refined
in her ways of thinking, it might be supposed that she had conformed to
the vulgar views of high life, by marrying some mere man of fashion, in
whom she had been disappointed, and by whom, perhaps, she may have been
left to mourn over conduct, at the remembrance of which she blushes; but
Madame de Lisle _cannot_ be a hypocrite, and if not her husband must have
been worthy of her. No ignoble motive could have induced this sweet and
lovely creature to bestow her hand without her heart. Whatever be the
reason, she desires concealment, and we alone, I believe, constitute her
attraction to Turin. If Mr. Otway be right in his conjecture, she is the
daughter of an English nobleman; but he will not tell us more till he
brings the matter to a certainty.
I am this moment informed, that a letter is just received by Frederick
from Arthur, announcing his mother’s death. Excellent young man! he
rejoices in the idea of having been with her, and enabled, to the last
moment, to minister to her comfort. He speaks of her tranquil exit with
feelings of the deepest gratitude to heaven; and mentions, that she had
from time to time derived the greatest relief from unburthening her heart
to an admirable clergyman, who visited her frequently in the latter days
of her life.
The letters which informed the family at Selby of all that had taken
place here, had not reached England when Arthur wrote. It is his
intention to come here as soon as possible, accompanied by my cousin
Louisa.
You shall hear regularly from me of all that passes.
Loves _from_, _to_ all.
Ever my dearest Julia’s affectionate,
EMILY DOUGLAS.
LETTER XLVI.
FROM ARTHUR HOWARD TO THE READER.
My dear Reader,
If you have travelled thus far with me, you and I are kind friends; and
I am, in duty bound, to do my best for your gratification. I told you,
long ago, my motives for raking and rummaging through sundry trunks
where papers were deposited, for the letters which I have picked out
of an immense heap, and strung together--_shall I venture_ to say for
your amusement? That I was fired with the hope of affording you some
entertainment is certain; but people often fail when they are most
anxious to succeed; and the size of my manuscript begins to frighten me.
On returning to Glenalta, in the peaceful shades of which the idea first
occurred to me of addressing you, I found, as you may imagine, much
difficulty in collecting my materials, and making choice from amongst
them, to say nothing of arranging and transcribing; but this trouble,
and much more, I would willingly take for any one who has liked me
sufficiently to accompany my steps during a period of nearly four years.
If I resolve, then, on tying up the numerous packets which still lie
piled on the table before me; and returning them to their several caskets
to be forwarded to their rightful owners, it is not that I am tired
of working for you, but I am afraid of fatiguing you, and losing your
society, which has hitherto afforded me so much pleasure, that I would
not for any consideration lose my hold on your regard, which our good
fellowship during so long a journey may lead me to hope that I possess.
Actuated by these friendly feelings, it occurs to me that I will tell you
the rest of the story myself, not, believe me, from the vain-glorious
motive of desiring to push myself into an undue degree of notice, nor
of securing that which attaches to the _last_ speaker, but for the
following reasons: First, my dear good friend, we are all alive and
merry, I mean we who have written all the mounds of paper through
which you have waded so patiently; and _therefore_ you cannot expect
a regular _end_ of what is still _going on_; nor can I keep my book
open any longer, lest you might suppose it _endless_, and throw it
aside. Secondly, some of our party came to be involved in writing of
another kind, and in the necessity of encountering law business, with
which I could not think of wearying you, and thus had less time for the
employment of their pens upon more interesting subjects. Again, other
individuals of our society became gradually so devoted to each other’s
conversation, that with grief of heart I saw myself in danger of losing
the best contributors to my scheme. And you know if people will not
separate for the accommodation of a compiler, adieu to letter-writing. In
short, I grew very uneasy and after suffering those pangs which authors
only understand, I determined on throwing up my correspondence, taking
the matter at once into my own hands, and relieving your curiosity
respecting people and things which I have been the means of introducing
to your acquaintance.