_Tells of trouble in love, and trouble after marriage. Miss Jenny is
persuaded by Mrs. Lupton to abandon her affection for Colin._
Let us now resume the thread of our story, and begin with that
communication from Miss Calvert to Colin, previously adverted to as the
cause of much pain to him. It ran as follows:--
“Since Mr. Clink quitted our now forsaken-looking house at --------, my
mother has had much to say to me,--oh, too much that it is impossible to
tell again, and that I am most unhappy in ever having heard. I know not
why it is I should have been destined to so much trouble, for I never
wilfully harmed one human creature even by a word, nor ever injured the
meanest thing that had a life to enjoy, and which the Creator had made
for its own enjoyment. Perhaps it is the will of Heaven that this grief
should come upon me to try what virtue of resignation to its will I may
possess. And if so, then indeed have I been sorely tried, most acutely
probed and searched. During your absence, it seems to have become more
fixedly my mother's intention that I shall never be happy. She has
expressed her urgent desire that I would beg of you to forget me, and
now you are away, make no endeavour ever to see me even once again. I
never slept a wink, but cried, and prayed for you, my dearest Colin, all
night upon my pillow. I am very ill now, and can scarcely do anything
but weep. However, I will make my heart as strong as I can, for I
foresee it has a terrible task to undergo. Were I of that religion which
permits such things, I would now go into a convent, where no one should
ever know my thoughts but Heaven; where I could ask on my knees, day
and night, for forgiveness for those thoughts that I have not power to
prevent; and where no eye that now knows me, should ever again see how
pitiable and heart-broken a creature is even so soon made of the once
happy, though now too wretched, but still devotedly affectionate--
“J. C.”
I cannot better describe the effect produced upon Colin's mind by
the perusal of this epistle, than by stating that within ten
minutes afterwards, he formed a dozen different and very desperate
determinations to rescue his mistress from her trouble, each one of
which respectively was abandoned again almost as soon as formed. He
would hurry back to London,--remonstrate with Mr. and Mrs. Calvert.
No, on second thoughts, he would not do that. He would write to Jane
herself, and beseech her to calm her mind and wait with patience in the
hope that happiness was still in store for them. And yet, what would be
the utility of that? Would it not be preferable to act with spirit,
and at once give up all thoughts of maintaining his courtship any
longer?--or more advisable, or desirable, or prudent, or proper, to
do--what? In fact he felt absolutely puzzled, and could not tell. In
this dilemma he laid Miss Calvert's letter before her brother Roger,
who at once flatly declared that if it were his case, if he happened
unluckily to be similarly circumstanced with respect to Fanny Woodruff,
as was Colin with regard to his sister Jane, he would make up his mind
to run away with her at once, get married, and leave the old folks to
reconcile themselves to the event in the best manner they might.
This suggestion wonderfully coincided with Colin's present state, both
of feeling and thinking; he felt quite astonished that he had not hit
upon the same expedient himself; but determined to adopt it without
farther loss of time. And in all probability he would have done so
within the shortest given space from that day, more especially as his
friend Roger volunteered to write to Jane advising her to consent to
that mode of settling matters,--had not an event occurred which for the
present caused him to set his design entirely aside. This was no other
than the arrival at the Hall of that long absent lady, of whom lately we
have heard so little mention, the amiable Mrs. Lupton.
Colin happened to be wandering solitarily in the gardens, musing sadly
over the subject of his love, when the carriage drove up that brought
the Squire's lady once more back to that home which she loved best,
but which it had not been her fate in life to enjoy. As the young
man watched, he observed a female anxiously gazing through one of the
windows, and endeavouring to obtain a first glimpse of those old walls
which to her spoke so eloquently, so mournfully of past times, of years
of happiness once, and only once, anticipated when she first entered
them a bride; but of years of unhappiness realized, of bright visions
faded; and sad remindings that the silver chain of a woman's dearest
hopes had been snapped asunder, ay, even at the very moment when most
the busy mind and hopeful heart had with bootless industry been employed
in linking it together!
When the carriage stopped, he saw that a lady descended from it attended
by two females, whose assistance appeared needful to enable her to
alight with safety, and to walk into the house. As she stood upon the
ground, our hero was struck with the elegance of her figure; although
her countenance plainly denoted in its worn and anxious beauty that she
was one of those whom trouble unrevealed has destined to “grow old in
youth, and die ere middle age.”
As she passed up the pathway, supported by the arms of her attendants,
she stopped to pluck the first rose that came to hand.
“There,” said she, gazing on it with an expression of countenance which
might most properly be termed affectionate, “I love this flower--though
it seems a fading one--better for the ground it grew on, the air it
lived in, and the eyes--it may be--that have looked upon it;--I say the
eyes that may have looked upon it, for he is my husband still, and this
is my natural home;--I love it better, I tell you, than if it were grown
in Paradise, and had been tended by an angel.”
The sun shone brilliantly; and as her face was turned upwards, Colin saw
distinctly that her bright blue eyes were not tearless, nor the heart
within that bosom at such peace as the lovely creature it gave life to
seemed to merit.
Already had the Squire apprised him of the expected arrival of his wife,
and therefore Colin felt no doubt that in the individual before him he
now saw Mrs. Lupton. Nor in this belief was he mistaken. As she
entered the hall she regarded everything--the minute equally with
the great--with that degree of interest which any individual might be
supposed to feel, who after many years should turn over anew the leaves
of some old record of their by-gone life, wherein was shown again the
past as now existing; save that it now looked upon no future of possible
joy or rest, unless in that world which, happily, is beyond man's reach
to darken or make sad.
As early after Mrs. Lupton's arrival as was consistent with a proper
consideration of her state of health, and the quietude necessary after
the fatigue of the journey she had undergone, Mr. Lupton desired and
obtained an interview with her alone, which lasted during a space of
four or five hours. In the course of that time communications of deep
interest to both parties must have been made, as it was observed that
more than once the services of Mrs. Lupton's attendants were required in
order to save her from fainting, while the eyes of her husband evidently
betrayed that even on his part their conversation had not been conducted
without tears.
That same evening Mr. Lupton conducted Colin into the apartment where
his lady was sitting, and presented him with the remark, “This, madam,
is the young man of whom I have before spoken.” A gentle inclination
seemed to mark that she perfectly understood what was said and done,
although the terms in which her reply was couched evidently betrayed
that the long years which had elapsed since last we saw her affecting
interview with Miss Mary Shirley in that same old hall, had produced
no permanent restoration of the then partly overthrown and too deeply
troubled mind. She looked in Colin's face fixedly, and apparently
without emotion; and although it is, perhaps, needless to add, she had
never seen him before, she remarked--
“Yes; I have the pleasure of knowing him well. I remember that face as
well--nay better--better than any other in the world; though it is more
than twenty years since I saw it before.”
It has already been remarked that Colin bore a more than common
resemblance to the Squire.
“And when,” she continued, “when shall I see it again?--Never more! I
shall never see it again. It went from me soon after I was wed.”
“Now pray be calm,” interposed Mr. Lupton, in a persuasive and kind
tone, when he found that the agitation and excitement resulting from
what had so recently passed between them had produced a temporary
recurrence of her disorder. “Be calm, madam, and we will talk these
matters over at some future time.”
“And this favour,” continued Mrs. Lupton, “I shall beg of you
particularly: I would have no one put me out of this house any more till
the end; for though there are so many wicked people about that want to
lead me astray, I will endure everything patiently, and soon get me out
of the way where no man's snares shall ravel me again.”
Under the unhappy and painful circumstance of this temporary alienation
of mind having thus again occurred, Mr. Lupton and Colin very properly
retired from the room, leaving the unfortunate lady in the hands of her
female attendants, one amongst whom was her old companion Miss Shirley.
“Mary!” whispered Mrs. Lupton, as the last-named individual approached
her, “I have seen Walter Lupton again, just as when he used to see me at
my father's--but I am resolved I will not marry him. Men do so flatter
us! And in a week after we find ourselves more lonely than before we
knew anybody. This beauty is all our ruin. The pretty apple soon goes,
Mary, but the crab hangs till Christmas.
Oh, each a ribbon of white shall have,
And a dead flower be carried before her!
Then there's that Jenny Calvert too. I have loved that girl ever since
she was born: she is a dear good creature, Mary,--a pretty sweet thing;
but she cries just like one of the wicked, so there seems the same dish
for all of us. Now, I tell her, never to marry one of Walter Lupton's
friends, else we may be all alike; and I would not have her like me, not
for a silver penny six times counted!”
“But I understand,” replied Miss Shirley, “that he is a very worthy
young man, and that Jane is deeply in love with him. She cries for what
she has not--not over what she has.”
“Then let her have him by all means,” answered Mrs. Lupton; “for if the
girl love so much, she must be unhappy to her life's end without him;
and as there is a chance that all men may not be alike, and all women
not so unfortunate as I--most unfortunate--I would advise her to try
that chance. I would have her happy, as she most deserves.”
Not to prolong the description of this and similar painful scenes, be it
sufficient to state that, after the lapse of a few days, when Colin
was again introduced to her, Mrs. Lupton had fully recovered her
self-possession, and perfectly comprehended certain arrangements which
Mr. Lupton had mentioned to her touching that young man whom he intended
to make his heir, and whose parentage was no longer to her a mystery.
In these arrangements she quietly acquiesced, not because she felt any
interest in them, or would allow herself in any manner to acknowledge
that she could in the least be identified with the young man whom Mr.
Lupton had now introduced to the house; but simply because her husband
had proposed and desired them. At the same time, while his every wish
was hers, personally she felt that degree of indifference, respecting
any arrangements he might make, not unusual with individuals who have
been long hopeless of all happiness, so far as the present life is
concerned, and who, consequently, contemplate the world to come as
their only place of refuge and of rest, while the present, with all
its pleasures, its anxieties, and its affairs, proportionably sinks
in their estimation, as scarcely worthy even of a moment's serious
consideration.
Whether this feeling was unconsciously accelerated by the closeness of
an event which shortly after happened, and which--happily, perhaps, it
may be deemed--put an end to all Mrs. Lupton's earthly sorrows, I will
not pretend to divine; yet it has occasionally been asserted that the
nearness of death (although at the time unknown) will often produce
those exhibitions of sentiment and feeling, as regards the things of
this world, which are never so fully made under any other circumstances.
It is not for the writer of this history to speculate on such a subject;
with facts alone has he to do: and, therefore, the reader must here
be informed that, now Mrs. Lupton's proper faculties had returned, she
strenuously opposed--notwithstanding what we have previously recorded
as having escaped from her lips--the marriage of her young friend, Miss
Calvert, with Colin. On that one question only did she evince the least
interest in anything connected with him; but no sooner was she made
aware that he was the object of that affection which had caused Miss
Calvert so much trouble, than she retired to her room, and, without
delay, addressed to her the following communication, dated from the
Hall:--
“Believe me, my dearest Jenny, when I express to you the pain I feel in
writing to you on such an occasion as the present, and in obtruding my
sentiments upon you respecting a subject of such deep interest to your
own heart, that upon the next step you take in it may probably depend
your happiness or misery during the whole of your after-life. But as I
am not happy, and have felt too grievously the impossibility of being
made so any more in this world, it will not be difficult for you to
credit my motives in wishing you to think, only _think_, how, by an
ill-considered proceeding, you may do that in one moment which a whole
after-life of pain can never remedy, and from which nothing but
the grave can afford you a refuge. The young gentleman who has been
introduced to you is not exactly what he has been represented--Mr.
Lupton's friend. He is something more. Would that he were _my_ son,
for your dear sake! Then, my dearest girl, should I wish him no higher
happiness than the possession of so good and true a creature, nor you
any better love and care than I should delight in exercising towards
you. It is unfit that I should tell you more than this; though possibly
your own good sense may enable you to supply the deficiency. If you can
give up this disastrous affection, let me implore you to do so. I fear
it cannot end in any happiness. Why I say so, I scarcely know; but I
feel that fear most deeply. Perhaps my own wretchedness makes me doubt
whether there be such a state as happiness really to be met with, in any
shape, in the world. But whatever the cause, let me again and again, as
you regard the last words of a true friend, beseech you never to consent
to such a match as would make you mistress of this unhappy and mournful
house. I know everything, and warn you advisedly.
“Ever and for ever
“Your affectionate
“Elizabeth Lupton.”
By a singular coincidence, the same post which placed the above in Miss
Calvert's hands, also conveyed to her two others:--one from Colin, and
the other from her brother Roger. Colin's was opened the first.--It
contained all those passionate appeals and protestations which, from
a person so circumstanced, might naturally have been expected. Judging
from this epistle, Colin was in a state of desperation, scarcely to
be sufficiently described; although he concluded by expressing his
determination never to relinquish his suit, though all the powers of
earth conspired to oppose him, or even Jane herself should be induced by
her supposed friends to resist his addresses. But while he possessed the
consciousness of her eternal affection, it was utterly impossible for
him by any means to do otherwise than persist through all trials until
fortune should be compelled at length to crown his hopes.
This spirited production at first inspired poor half-heart-broken
Jane with momentary hope; the more especially so as she found, too, on
opening her brother Roger's letter, that he also advised her by no means
to sacrifice her own happiness--if her happiness really did depend
upon the event of this attachment--merely out of compliance, however
otherwise desirable, with the wishes of those who could take no share
from off her bosom of the load which their own agency had once placed
there. Roger reminded her, that while others rejoiced, she might have
to suffer; and that for his own part he never wished to see the day when
his sister might possibly pine away her solitary hours in grief, which
it was likely would hurry her to the grave, instead of being the happy
wife of a young man whom she loved, and who, as far as he could observe,
very well merited her attachment. At the same time, he declared in the
most positive terms, that the real objection urged by her parents and
friends against Colin, was not, in his opinion, a valid one. That it did
not in the remotest degree touch the character or qualifications of
the youth himself, and ought never to have been by any means so
pertinaciously insisted on.
These remarks in some degree counteracted the bitterness of those which
had made her weep over her friend Mrs. Lupton's letter, although they
served in some degree to assist her in drawing that correct conclusion
as to the true cause of objection, which now was rendered sufficiently
evident to her mind. Yes, now she conjectured it:--her lover was
not Mrs. Lup-ton's son, but he was more to Mr. Lupton than a friend.
Besides, these matters had not been altogether unknown to her family
during some years past; and, therefore, a certainty almost seemed to
exist that her father and mother saw in the parentage of Colin the bar
to their future union.
How long Jane grieved over this discovery and these letters, I need not
say, but grieve she did, until some that had known her slightly knew her
not again; and those who had known her best became most deeply certain,
that if this was suffered to continue, a light heart was for ever
exchanged for a sad one, and the creature whose very presence had
diffused happiness, was converted into one of those melancholy beings
over whose mind an everlasting cloud seems to have settled; whose looks
instantaneously demand our pity, we scarce know why, and whose very
bodily existence appears to become spectral and unearthly, while yet
they sit at our table, or muse statue-like with melancholy by our
hearth. Then it was that the obstinate began to soften, the strict to
relax, the determined to think that continued opposition to the ways
of the heart is too cruel to be always maintained. Everybody loved
poor Jane, and everybody grieved to see her grief. So at length they
proceeded from the direct exertion of counter influences upon her, to
the tacitly understood holding out of hope, and the sometimes expressed
possibility that matters might yet be ultimately arranged to her
satisfaction.
Meanwhile, as the Squire's object in introducing his son to Mrs. Lupton
had been fulfilled, Colin took the earliest opportunity, in company with
Roger Calvert, to return to London, and throw himself with passionate
sorrow before his mistress. But before we follow him thither, and record
his fortunes, the reader will, perhaps, be pleased to hear something
respecting certain other of the characters who have figured in this
book, to whose interest, be it hoped, he does not feel altogether
indifferent.