Are we contemned?--The Double Marriage.
It was dusk when Clarence arrived at the very same inn at which, more
than five years ago, he had assumed his present name. As he recalled
the note addressed to him, and the sum (his whole fortune) which it
contained, he could not help smiling at the change his lot had since
then undergone; but the smile soon withered when he thought of the kind
and paternal hand from which that change had proceeded, and knew that
his gratitude was no longer availing, and that that hand, in pouring its
last favours upon him, had become cold. He was ushered into No. 4, and
left to his meditations till bed-time.
The next day he recommenced his journey. Westborough Park, was, though
in another county, within a short ride of W----; but, as he approached
it, the character of the scenery became essentially changed. Bare, bold,
and meagre, the features of the country bore somewhat of a Scottish
character. On the right side of the road was a precipitous and
perilous descent, and some workmen were placing posts along a path for
foot-passengers on that side nearest the carriage-road, probably with
a view to preserve unwary coachmen or equestrians from the dangerous
vicinity of the descent, which a dark night might cause them to incur.
As Clarence looked idly on the workmen, and painfully on the crumbling
and fearful descent I have described, he little thought that that spot
would, a few years after, become the scene of a catastrophe affecting
in the most powerful degree the interests of his future life. Our young
traveller put up his horse at a small inn, bearing the Westborough arms,
and situated at a short distance from the park gates. Now that he was so
near his mistress--now that less than an hour, nay, than the fourth part
of an hour, might place him before her, and decide his fate--his heart,
which had hitherto sustained him, grew faint, and presented, first
fear, then anxiety, and, at last, despondency to his imagination and
forebodings.
“At all events,” said he, “I will see her alone before I will confer
with her artful and proud mother or her cipher of a father. I will then
tell her all my history, and open to her all my secrets: I will only
conceal from her my present fortunes; for even if rumour should have
informed her of them, it will be easy to give the report no sanction;
I have a right to that trial. When she is convinced that, at least,
neither my birth nor character can disgrace her, I shall see if her love
can enable her to overlook my supposed poverty and to share my uncertain
lot. If so, there will be some triumph in undeceiving her error and
rewarding her generosity; if not, I shall be saved from involving my
happiness with that of one who looks only to my worldly possessions. I
owe it to her, it is true, to show her that I am no low-born pretender:
but I owe it also to myself to ascertain if my own individual qualities
are sufficient to gain her hand.”
Fraught with these ideas, which were natural enough to a man whose
peculiar circumstances were well calculated to make him feel rather
soured and suspicious, and whose pride had been severely wounded by the
contempt with which his letter had been treated, Clarence walked into
the park, and, hovering around the house, watched and waited that
opportunity of addressing Lady Flora, which he trusted her habits of
walking would afford him; but hours rolled away, the evening set in, and
Lady Flora had not once quitted the house.
More disappointed and sick at heart than he liked to confess, Clarence
returned to his inn, took his solitary meal, and strolling once more
into the park, watched beneath the windows till midnight, endeavouring
to guess which were the casements of her apartments, and feeling his
heart beat high at every light which flashed forth and disappeared,
and every form which flitted across the windows of the great staircase.
Little did Lady Flora, as she sat in her room alone, and, in tears,
mused over Clarence’s fancied worthlessness and infidelity, and told her
heart again and again that she loved no more,--little did she know
whose eye kept vigils without, or whose feet brushed away the rank dews
beneath her windows, or whose thoughts, though not altogether unmingled
with reproach, were riveted with all the ardour of a young and first
love upon her.
It was unfortunate for Linden that he had no opportunity of personally
pleading his suit; his altered form and faded countenance would at least
have insured a hearing and an interest for his honest though somewhat
haughty sincerity: but though that day, and the next, and the next, were
passed in the most anxious and unremitting vigilance, Clarence only
once caught a glimpse of Lady Flora, and then she was one amidst a large
party; and Clarence, fearful of a premature and untimely discovery, was
forced to retire into the thicknesses of the park, and lose the solitary
reward of his watches almost as soon as he had won it.
Wearied and racked by his suspense, and despairing of obtaining any
favourable opportunity for an interview without such a request, Clarence
at last resolved to write to Lady Flora, entreating her assent to a
meeting, in which he pledged himself to clear up all that had hitherto
seemed doubtful in his conduct or mysterious in his character. Though
respectful, urgent, and bearing the impress of truth and feeling, the
tone of the letter was certainly that of a man who conceived he had a
right to a little resentment for the past and a little confidence for
the future. It was what might well be written by one who imagined his
affection had once been returned, but would as certainly have been
deemed very presumptuous by a lady who thought that the affection itself
was a liberty.
Having penned this epistle, the next care was how to convey it. After
much deliberation it was at last committed to the care of a little
girl, the daughter of the lodge-keeper, whom Lady Flora thrice a
week personally instructed in the mysteries of spelling, reading, and
calligraphy. With many injunctions to deliver the letter only to the
hands of the beautiful teacher, Clarence trusted his despatches to the
little scholar, and, with a trembling frame and wistful eye, watched
Susan take her road, with her green satchel and her shining cheeks, to
the great house.
One hour, two hours, three hours, passed, and the messenger had not
returned. Restless and impatient, Clarence walked back to his inn, and
had not been there many minutes before a servant, in the Westborough
livery, appeared at the door of the humble hostelry, and left the
following letter for his perusal and gratification:--
WESTBOROUGH PASS.
Sir,--The letter intended for my daughter has just been given to me by
Lady Westborough. I know not what gave rise to the language, or the very
extraordinary request for a clandestine meeting, which you have thought
proper to address to Lady Flora Ardenne; but you will allow me to
observe that, if you intend to confer upon my daughter the honour of a
matrimonial proposal, she fully concurs with me and her mother in the
negative which I feel necessitated to put upon your obliging offer.
I need not add that all correspondence with my daughter must close here.
I have the honour to be, sir,
Your very obedient servant, WESTBOROUGH.
TO CLARENCE LINDEN, Esq.
Had Clarence’s blood been turned to fire, his veins could not have
swelled and burned with a fiercer heat than they did, as he read the
above letter,--a masterpiece, perhaps, in the line of what may be termed
the “d--d civil” of epistolary favours. “Insufferable arrogance!”
he muttered within his teeth. “I will live to repay it. Perfidious,
unfeeling woman: what an escape I have had of her! Now, now, I am on the
world, and alone, thank Heaven. I will accept Aspeden’s offer, and leave
this country; when I return, it shall not be as a humble suitor to Lady
Flora Ardenne. Pish! how the name sickens me: but come, I have a father;
at least a nominal one. He is old and weak, and may die before I
return. I will see him once more, and then, hey for Italy! Oh! I am so
happy,--so happy at my freedom and escape. What, ho! waiter! my horse
instantly!”