… “The author of that crime,
Inconceivable—is he my father?”
Edmund, on his return to the ball room, made the best of his way,
scarcely conscious what he did, to the very spot he had left; where,
fixing his eyes again on the same object on which he had been gazing
when called away by the juggler, he fell into a profound reverie. “What
could have been the motive of the violence offered him? To whom could
his existence—to whom could his destruction be of so much importance?
He was not then too contemptible to have enemies!” A strange sensation,
approaching to satisfaction, accompanied the thought.
The bustle attendant on changing partners, reminded him that Julia was
engaged to him for the next set; he put in his claim, and was soon
recalled to a sense of pleasure, for Julia was leaning on his arm. A
shudder followed, however, as he thought of the mysterious words of the
ruffian stranger. Again and again he told himself that they had been
uttered but to throw him off his guard. While the villain spoke, had not
his eye been ever watchful? had not his hand grasped the drawn sword
beneath his cloak? evidently awaiting a moment of excited feeling, to
strike the blow the more securely. But this solution of the affair,
rational and just as it was, did not suffice to set his mind at rest.
Might he not be connected with Julia’s family in some way as disgraceful
to himself as fatal to his mad attachment? Might not some secret agent
have been in consequence employed to put an end to his miserable
existence, lest he should entail disgrace and crime on all connected
with him? There were then beings connected with him! Who were those
beings? and where were they? A thought of horror next crossed his mind:
could it have been a parent who had employed the murderer’s hand, to blot
out shame with blood? and his heart shrunk from a surmise too dreadful to
be dwelt upon.
It had been previously arranged that the dance now about to commence
was to take place in another apartment. The couples accordingly set
out; Julia and Edmund led their own party, while before, behind, and on
either side, moved a consolidated crowd in the same direction; so that
retreat from the relative position once taken up was quite out of the
question. Our hero and heroine were, consequently, obliged to keep, for
a considerable time, a very painful situation in the immediate rear of a
talkative party, who, without once looking behind them, proceeded with
the following dialogue.
“We seem to abound in naval characters to-night,” observed a gentleman.
“You know it is quite a naval affair,” said a naval officer.
“True; commemoration of the battle of ⸺.”
“The day is worth remembering, sir!”
“Is Lord Fitz-Ullin here to-night?”
“No, but Captain Montgomery is, I understand.”
“Which is Captain Montgomery?” cried a lady.
“Which is Captain Montgomery?” said a second lady.
“Who is Captain Montgomery?” with emphasis on the word _who_, said a
third lady, who was, by her own size and weight, making way for two slim
little girls, her daughters, who, by the pressure of the crowd, were
squeezed into the fat sides of their mother, like the off-shoots of a
bulbous root.
“That is a question not so easily answered,” replied an equally fat
gentleman.
“Is he any relation of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s?” enquired some one.
“None whatever,” replied an elderly naval officer, dryly.
“Lord Fitz-Ullin, then, was merely his patron?” said a young naval
officer. “Merely,” resumed the elder, “and one half the talent and
spirit, shown by Captain Montgomery, would have ensured to any young man
Fitz-Ullin’s favour: he is quite enthusiastic about the service.”
“Fitz-Ullin was a very gay fellow in his youth,” observed a corpulent
gentleman, “and Captain Montgomery being of unknown origin, may, after
all, be no very distant relation of his lordship’s.”
“Very improbable!” rejoined the elder officer, “Fitz-Ullin would give one
half his paternal estates for such a son, even in the way to which you
allude.”
“His lordship has a son?”
“Yes, but Ormond, though a good-natured fellow, is quite unfit for his
profession.”
“Strange that, too!” puffed out the corpulent gentleman, “for he is
strikingly like his father.”
“There are some officers on before us,” said one of the young ladies,
“I wonder is Captain Montgomery among them!” “I quite long to see him,
I understand he is so handsome,” said a third lady. “He seems to be a
general favourite with the ladies,” said the younger officer: “he is to
be married shortly, I hear, to Lady Susan Morven: luck that! she has
fifty thousand, I’m told.” “To Lady Julia L⸺, I have heard,” interposed
the elder officer. “I beg your pardon,” said the fat lady, “Lady Julia
L⸺ is to be married immediately to the Marquis of H⸺.” “A more suitable
match, no doubt,” replied the elder officer; “but heiresses will
sometimes please themselves, you know; and I have heard, that Lady Julia
L⸺ has been attached to Captain Montgomery from her infancy; and that
she is determined to marry him in spite of all her friends, as soon as
she shall be of age.” Just at this particular moment, Edmund found the
impelling torrent press so weightily against his fair companion, that it
was absolutely imperative upon him to draw her closer to himself than she
had been.
“And Lord L⸺’s great estates,” added the younger officer, “must go
between his daughters, at his death, whoever they marry; so the gallant
Captain knows what he is about, it seems.”
“He is accustomed to capturing rich prizes!” said the corpulent
gentleman. A laugh followed this most original piece of wit.
“The friends,” interposed the plump lady, “can never consent to a young
woman of her high connexions, throwing herself away upon a mere soldier
of fortune.”
“I have always understood,” observed another gentleman, “that Lady Julia
L⸺ was engaged to her cousin, Mr. St. Aubin. Indeed I had it from one
who, I think, said that he had it from St. Aubin himself; or, at least,
that St. Aubin admitted it.”
All this passed among a group, who, though masked, evidently knew each
other. Their arrival at the apartment they had been all this time
imperceptibly approaching, and the consequent spreading of the crowd,
at length enabled Julia and Edmund to hasten from the vicinity of the
party, which had so long annoyed them. Edmund, notwithstanding his causes
for abstraction, was aroused by topics so interesting; he thought of
the strange aside speeches of Henry, during the mummery of the juggler,
and longed to know how Julia would treat the subject of her supposed
engagement to her cousin. As to what had been said of himself, he dare
not allude to it, he dare not even think of it. At length he ventured
to whisper a sort of introductory sentence, in the shape of an unmeaning
compliment, saying—“How enviable a lot would Henry’s be, if there were
any truth in the surmises of those people!” Julia blushed, but made no
reply. So absurd a report did not seem to require contradiction; and, as
she was too innocent to think any compliment of Edmund’s unmeaning, his
implied question was lost in the pleasure of hearing him say, that to be
preferred by her would be an enviable lot; nor did she perceive that her
silence and her blush had at least surprised, if not alarmed him.
The dance now commenced, and put an end to conversation. It concluded,
and Edmund, as he led Julia out of the set, began to say something about
the necessity he should be under, of leaving Arandale the next morning at
a very early hour; in pursuance of the journey, which was this morning so
agreeably interrupted. At this moment Julia’s hand was claimed by Lord
K⸺.
Previous to sitting down to supper, the whole assembly assumed an
appearance of uninterrupted splendour. Every coarse or unbecoming
disguise, was exchanged for its very opposite of elegance, or
magnificence; every one being determined to look as well as possible
unmasked. The young lady who cried primroses, proved to be the first
public singer of the day; the remainder of the group of flower girls, the
rest of the best set, engaged by Lord Arandale for the occasion. They
performed, during supper, some of the best scenes of a favourite opera.
A ballet followed, led by the pert miss of the wheelbarrow, who was an
excellent dancer.
Those, however, who best knew the Earl, could perceive, notwithstanding
the efforts he made to entertain his company, that during this evening
of unparalleled gaiety and splendour, there was a slight shade of
melancholy on his brow; and a tendency, while he sat at supper, to that,
scarcely observable, movement of the head, before mentioned.