THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING OF THE BARON STOLMUYER OF SALTZBURGH.
There is a common adage which inculcates the necessity of striking
while the iron is hot, and this was an adage which, to judge from her
conduct, seemed to have made a great impression upon the mind of Mrs.
Williams, and she thought that, as regarded her daughter’s feelings,
the iron was hot, and that, if she struck now, she might be able to
wring from her a consent, no matter how reluctant, to call the Baron
Stolmuyer her husband.
The objects which Mrs. Williams felt certain she should succeed in
achieving by such an union in her family, were far too weighty to be
easily dispensed with. They not only comprehended the five hundred
pounds which the baron had so judiciously promised her upon the wedding
day being fixed, but she had an eye to after circumstances, and
considered that the son-in-law who could spare five hundred pounds, as
a mere bribe to her, would be an endless source, from whence she could
draw her pecuniary supplies.
“And then,” thought Mrs. Williams, “there are the other girls to get
off, too, and what a famous opportunity it will be to do that, when
they can be at all the grand parties the baron will give at Anderbury
House.”
To an intriguing woman, such as Mrs. Williams was in reality, all these
advantages appeared in full force; and, if ever she made up her mind
thoroughly and entirely about anything in the world, she certainly did
that her daughter Helen should be the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh.
She certainly wished, in her own heart, that the baron had chosen one
of her other daughters, because then she knew that she would not have
had to encounter the opposition she had done, and, perhaps, had still
to encounter, in the case of Helen; but, as it was, that part of the
business could not be helped, and she, Helen, was to be sacrificed.
If the baron had thought for twelve-months over the matter, he could
not have come to a better conclusion, as to the best means of making
Mrs. Williams a zealous partisan of his, than by distinctly naming a
sum of money that she should have, and when she should have it, for
now she considered that each moment’s delay was a piece of actual
criminality on the part of Helen, inasmuch as it was keeping her, Mrs.
Williams, out of a large sum of money.
There was one thing, however, which she did at once; and that was to go
to the different tradespeople who had had the awful insolence to stop
the supplies, and tell them that her daughter Helen was about to become
the Baroness Stolmuyer, and that, if they continued to execute orders,
and to wait with patience, they would all get paid within one month.
This positive announcement staggered some of them, for they would
hardly have thought it possible that she would have made it, if there
had not been some great foundation for truth in it, of some sort, and
it was one of these announcements which, as the reader is aware, had
been overheard by Tom, the son of the old sailor, and which, when
reported, had created so much consternation in the mind of the young
man who had been saved by Jack Pringle from the wreck.
On the following morning, the lady received a laconic note from the
baron, in which were the words:—
Madam,—Have you settled with your daughter the day and hour of my
nuptials with her? I have drawn a cheque in your favour, and only wait
your further proceeding in the affair to sign it, and send it to you.
“I have the honour to be, madam, yours truly,
+“Stolmuyer+.
“Mrs. Williams.”
This note put Mrs. Williams into a perfect fury of impatience. The
idea, that actually a cheque for five hundred pounds should be drawn
in her favour, and only awaiting the signature of the baron, and that,
by one word, her daughter Helen could procure that signature, was
absolutely maddening.
She rushed, at once, to Helen’s room.
• • • • •
Poor Helen knew enough of her mother to feel convinced, from the first,
that no possible exertion would be spared for the purpose of forcing
her into that marriage, which had no charms, alas, for her, but which,
on the contrary, presented itself to her in the most hideous of all
possible aspects.
From the first moment that her mother had broached it, it had seemed
in its remembrance to lie at her heart like a lump of lead. She seemed
already to feel that, after an unavailing resistance, she would have to
yield, and then that her future existence would involve in it all the
pangs of despair and regret.
“Alas—alas!” she said; “under what fatal planet was I born, that I
should be so unhappy as I now am? What will become of me, and how shall
I gather resolution enough either to bear with seeming patience the
fate that afflicts me, or to resist the machinations of my mother, who
would force me to wed this man whom I cannot love.”
The long absence of her lover was so perplexing a source of woe and
reflection to her, that already it had sapped much of the joy of her
young existence.
“He surely ought,” she said, “and might have found some means of
communicating to me long ere this. He might well know, and must know,
that suspense is, of all feelings, the worst to bear. Oh! why am I thus
deserted by all, and left to the mercy of the worst of circumstances?”
With her sisters, poor Helen could have no sympathies in common;
either of them would have been delighted to change places with her, as
regarded the fact of becoming the Baroness of Saltzburgh, and they had
towards her a tolerably cordial ill-will, on account of her superior
charms, which made her so much admired, while they were left to “pine
in maiden meditation fancy free.”
But to Helen Williams, this gift of beauty was what it truly has often
been described—a most dangerous one, and she would have given the world
to have been able to wear an appearance that would have repelled,
instead of attracted, the Baron Stolmuyer.
She was in this desponding state of mind, revolving in her mind her
dismal prospects, if she should consent to wed the baron, and her
equally dismal ones if she should refuse—for well she knew how painful
a position with her family such a refusal would place her in—when her
mother entered the room.
Mrs. Williams had so thoroughly determined that this marriage should
take place, that she could not be said to have now sought her daughter
to persuade her to it; but, on the contrary, to insist upon it. The
sisters, too, with whom this unnatural mother—or rather, perhaps,
we ought to say, too natural, but too common mother—had held a
conversation upon the subject, were anxious, despite their jealousy
upon the occasion, that the affair should proceed, because certainly
the next best thing to themselves making such an alliance was to
succeed in getting it made by some other of the family, and they fully
intended making Anderbury-on-the-Mount their home.
“What, Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Williams—“in tears as usual!”
“Have I not cause for weeping, mother?”
“Well, well; I cannot say much to you beyond the few words I have come
to say. I have, I fear, as regarded this affair of the offer that was
made to you by the Baron Stolmuyer, behaved precipitately.”
“Oh, mother,” cried Helen, with renewed hope, “I am rejoiced to hear
you say so. Then you will not now ask me to sacrifice myself to a man
whom I can never love? Say no more of the past. It is sufficient that
you have awakened to better resolves now, dear mother, and I shall be
happy.”
[Illustration: Helen implores her mother.]
Such words as these ought to have softened the mother’s heart; but such
a woman had no heart to soften; and, after a pause, she proceeded in
her plan of operations.
“Well my dear, perhaps it is all for the best.”
“It must be for the best, mother, because it never can be for good that
I should have consented to plight my vows to one whom, of all others, I
cannot look upon with the least affectionate regard. Indeed, mother, so
much as I can absolutely dislike any one, I dislike that man.”
“There’s no occasion to say anything more about it, my dear. I have
come to bid you farewell, and Heaven only knows when we may meet again.”
“What do you mean, mother?”
“I mean, my dear, just what I say; I am going now at once to a prison.”
“A prison?”
“Yes. It certainly is not an agreeable idea; but, as I told you, I was
too sanguine, and built too much upon your consenting to marry the
baron, so I borrowed a sum of money to pay some pressing debts; but
as I have not been able to repay it, I am arrested, and have now only
persuaded the man to go away upon giving him my solemn promise that I
will, in half-an-hour’s time, be at the gates of the town gaol.”
Helen heard this declaration with a feeling of perfect horror. She
was too little acquainted with the usages of society to see what a
transparent lie it really was, and, to her mind, it did not appear
improbable that a man who came to arrest anybody should take their word
to come to the gaol in half-an-hour.
“Oh! mother, mother,” she sobbed, “can this be?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Williams, “if it can be or not. All I
know is, that it is so, and that I am perfectly willing to pass the
remainder of my days in a dungeon.”
Helen’s ideas of prisons were all procured from romances, and she
was not at all surprised, consequently, to hear her mother talk of a
dungeon; and if she had added something about chains, and bread and
water, and a heap of straw merely for a bed, it would have found a
ready credence with poor Helen.
No wonder, therefore, that the idea of such a catastrophe presented
itself to her in the most terrific colours; and she saw at once all her
recent congratulations upon an escape from a marriage with the Baron
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh scattered to the winds of Heaven.
She was so petrified with astonishment and grief, that for some moments
she could not speak, and Mrs. Williams took care to improve upon that
silence by adding,—
“I am sure I should be the last person in the world to ask any daughter
of mine to make a sacrifice; but as I have been so foolish, because I
took a pride in my family, as to go into expenses I cannot stand, why,
of course, I must take the consequences.”
“Oh! no, no.”
“Oh! it’s all very well to say, ‘Oh! no, no,’ but it’s oh! yes, yes;
and all I have to ask of you now is, to say that business has compelled
me to leave this part of the country, and after that, the best way will
be to say that I am dead.”
“Heaven help me!”
“And then, of course,” continued Mrs. Williams, in the most martyr-like
and self-denying tone in all the world; “and then, of course, people
will leave off making any inquiries about me, and you may all of you in
time manage to forget me likewise.”
“Mother, mother, is not this cruel?”
“My dear, I really cannot say that I think it is. I am, and have been,
mistaken, and perhaps I did push the affair of your marriage with the
Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh a little too far, and too much counted
upon it. I know I am apt to be too sanguine—I am well aware of that.
It’s a little peculiarity of mine, but I cannot help it; and when we
have those little peculiarities, all we can do, is to put up with it as
best we may.”
“But, mother——.”
“Oh! it’s no use talking.”
“Is the creditor so very inexorable?”
“Yes, and only on one account; he thinks I have deceived him, that’s
the fact; and having asked me to give a decided answer if the
wedding-day was fixed between you and the baron, for nothing else
would satisfy him, and as of course I could not say that, he got
quite furious, and at once threatened me with law proceedings, which
I did not think he really meant; but it appears he did, for here I am
arrested.”
“But can nothing be done?”
“Not that I see. The baron, when he made the proposal, was anxious for
an immediate reply, and then he would have made some very handsome
settlement, which would have been soon known, and anybody would have
trusted me. But as it is, the only thing that can save you all, will be
for me to go to prison at once, and so disappear.”
Helen wept bitterly.
“And therefore, my dear, I beg you won’t think anything of it. I am
quite willing to go at once, without any more fuss about it. But I have
not yet said anything to your sisters, because I thought that the first
explanation was due to you in the affair, since you were the most mixed
up with it.”
“Oh! this is too dreadful—much too dreadful!”
“Farewell—farewell. We may meet again, or we may not. I wish you all
manner of happiness.”
Mrs. Williams moved towards the door, but before she reached it, Helen
sprung after her, and detaining her, cried,—
“No, no. It must not be. If there is an imperative necessity for some
victim, let me be it. Oh! let me be it.”
“What do you mean, Helen?” asked Mrs. Williams, in pretended surprise.
“I—I mean, mother, that—that I will, to save you, give up all hopes of
happiness in this world, and that although I would far rather go at
once to my grave, I will, since my destiny seems to point out that it
must be so, consent.”
“Consent to become the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, &c., &c. Do I
hear aright?”
“Yes, yes. Heaven help me! I feel that I have no other hope. The
dreadful alternative that is presented to me, leaves me no other course
to pursue. I must, and I do consent, if it will at once save you from
the prison.”
“It will, my dear, if I can succeed in convincing my importunate
creditor that you have really consented, and that it is not a scheme of
mine merely to escape a prison. But if you write a few words signifying
your consent, that will be quite sufficient.”
This was an artful proceeding on the part of Mrs. Williams, for
although she by no means intended to put the baron in possession of
such a document, yet she considered that by having it, she completely
protected herself from any reproaches which he might otherwise cast
upon her, should any hitch arise in the proceedings, or anything go
wrong with the affair, even at the last moment.
The few words in writing, which sufficed, as Mrs. Williams thought,
fully to commit poor Helen to the marriage, were freely written, for
there was no duplicity in the character of Helen, and what she said she
would consent to, she was quite willing to write.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Williams, “although you don’t feel happy
just now about the marriage, you may depend upon it you will enjoy your
existence very much; for when you get a little older, you will find
that it is, after all, the possession of ample means that is the most
important thing to look to.”
Helen shook her head, but she made no reply. She did not at all agree
with what her mother said, but she felt by far too much depressed to
argue the point with her just then.
“You will all your life,” added Mrs. Williams, as she left the room,
“have the great consolation of knowing that you saved me from a prison,
and in so doing, absolutely saved my life, for although I did not say
before, I am quite sure I should have died.”