Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with
underscores: _italics_. The Table of Contents was not present in the
original text and has been produced for the reader's convenience.
[Illustration: Granville intercepting the Stranger.--See page 176]
MODERN FLIRTATIONS,
A NOVEL:
BY CATHERINE SINCLAIR,
AUTHOR OF "BEATRICE."
[Illustration: Blind Uncle Arthur endeavoring to escape from the
flames.--See page 334]
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, NEW YORK
MODERN FLIRTATIONS,
A NOVEL:
BY CATHERINE SINCLAIR,
AUTHOR OF
"BEATRICE, OR THE UNKNOWN RELATIVES," "MODERN ACCOMPLISHMENTS," "MODERN
SOCIETY," "HILL AND VALLEY," "SHETLAND AND THE SHETLANDERS,"
"HOLIDAY HOUSE," "CHARLIE SEYMOUR," ETC.
"I clasped my hand close to my breast,
While my heart was as light as a feather,
Yet nothing I said, I protest,
But, ---- 'Madam! 'tis very fine weather!'"
RITSON'S SONGS.
NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, PUBLISHERS,
222 BROADWAY.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
XLIV.
XLV.
XLVI.
XLVII.
PREFACE.
It was the rule of a celebrated equestrian, which might be adapted to
authors as well as to horsemen, that every one should ride as if he
expected to be thrown, and drive as if he expected to be upset.
Impunity in publishing, far from rendering an author presumptuous,
should tend rather to increase his timidity, the danger being greater
always of venturing too much, than of hazarding too little; and the
more cause any writer has to feel grateful for the lenient judgment of
an enlightened public, the more circumspect should he become, not to
trespass by an obtrusive reappearance on that notice which has already
perhaps been, as in respect to the author herself, beyond all
expectation favorable.
An old proverb declares that "a goose-quill is more powerful than a
lion's claw," and authors have been called "keepers of the public
conscience;" but no influence is perhaps so extensive as that
exercised by what is termed "light reading," which has now in a great
measure superseded public places and theatrical entertainments,
affording a popular resource with which the busiest men relax their
hard-working minds, and the idlest occupy their idleness. It becomes a
deep responsibility, therefore, of which the author trusts she has
ever felt duly sensible, to claim the leisure hours of so many, while
it is her first desire that whatever be the defect of these pages, no
actual evil may be intermingled, and the cause of sound religion and
morality supported, for her feelings are best expressed in the words
of the poet,
"If I one soul improve, I have not liv'd in vain."
Novel-reading, formerly considered the lowest resource of intellectual
vacuity, has been lately promoted to a new place in the literary
world, since men of the brightest genius as well as of the highest
attainments in learning and philosophy, allow their pens occasionally
to wander in the attractive regions of fiction; therefore works of
imagination, no longer merely a clandestine amusement to frivolous
minds, are now avowedly read and enjoyed, to beguile an idle hour, or
to cheer a gloomy one, by men of science, of wisdom, and of piety.
Such is the general encouragement given now to works of fancy, that,
as the literary existence of authors depends on attracting readers,
there will scarcely be encouragement enough soon to induce historians
and biographers to dip the pen of veracity into the ink of
retrospection, while it is perhaps to be lamented that when so large a
proportion of the public attention is occupied by novelists, their
works being certain of instant circulation, for a very short period
and for no more, few authors afford themselves time to aspire at the
highest grade of imaginary composition. When such volumes are really
true to nature, they convey very important truths in a form more
popular than a dry sententious volume of moral precepts, and perhaps
history itself can scarcely afford so graphic a portrait of human life
as many of those fictitious volumes, written under the inspiration of
genius, which portray in vivid coloring, the thoughts and motives by
which men are internally influenced.
The Life of Cleopatra, or the Memoirs of Agrippina, can afford
scarcely so much direction to young ladies respecting their views of
life and manners in the present day, as might be conveyed by a
judiciously-drawn portrait of that world as it is, on the stage of
which they are about to be personally introduced; and a large
proportion of those elaborate volumes dignified with the name of
history, can only be considered in the main fictitious, because, while
biographers would confidently state the private opinions, secret
intentions, and real characters of illustrious men who lived and acted
several hundred years ago, they cannot justly estimate the actual
dispositions and motives of their own most intimate friends, nor
confidently point out what circumstances have influenced the greatest
events in their own day. If two authors, entertaining opposite
political sentiments, were to write the history of last year, every
fact recorded, and every individual mentioned must inevitably be
represented, or misrepresented, according to the writer's own private
feelings, while each would believe he was writing unadulterated truth.
Thus poetry and fiction, when true to the principles of human life,
exhibit the mind and soul of man visibly to the senses; and history,
which has been called "the Newgate Calendar of Kings and Emperors,"
supplies the facts of human existence, and may be considered a
portrait of men's persons and external actions.
In writing a story of domestic life, it is singular to reflect how
commonly men are remembered by their eccentricities, and loved for
their very faults, while the most difficult task in fiction is, to
describe amiable persons so as to render them at all interesting and
not utterly insipid. Probably it may be for this reason that modern
writers too frequently, instead of describing the principles which
ennoble human nature, and the sentiments which embellish life, have
painted in vivid coloring, all that is low, mean, and vicious in
society, introducing their readers into scenes, the reality of which
would be shunned with abhorrence, and flinging over vice such a mantle
of genius as converts the deformities of society into subjects of
interest--unfortunately even of sympathy.
Were authors obliged hereafter, to live with the characters they
create, how few would desire to share with them in such a world! Even
where the intention is to represent an attractive character, it seldom
appears as one which could be an agreeable acquisition to any family
circle; and in works of sentiment or feeling, nothing is less
successfully pictured than a generous and refined attachment, fitted
to survive every trial or vicissitude of existence, between those who
are to love each other for ever. Few stories could be written, if
lovers in a romance acted with the slightest degree of confidence or
esteem; but such narratives are generally founded on a teazing
succession of narrow-minded suspicions, and unwarrantable concealments
on the part of heroes and heroines, who condemn each other unheard,
and go through volumes of heart-breaking alienation, enough to
terminate life itself, rather than ask the most simple explanation,
while the reader cannot but feel a certain conviction in closing the
last page, that an engagement begun with cavilling jealousies and
painful recriminations, can never become productive of lasting peace.
The mothers and daughters in fashionable society have of late been so
harshly stigmatized by the press, that it seems as if some authors had
taken up a porcupine's quill dipped in gall, to ridicule their conduct
and motives, while not a pen has yet been drawn from the scabbard, nor
a drop of ink spilled in their justification; but the weight of
censure might become greatly lightened by being more equitably divided
among all who are entitled to carry a share, and in these volumes an
endeavor is made to rectify the balance more justly, though with what
success remains to be discovered by the author herself, as not a
single friend ever sees her pages, or puts on the spectacles of
criticism till after they are printed. The only peculiarity to which
she makes any pretension, in once more presuming to publish, is, that
avoiding all caricature, all improbability, and all personality, she
has introduced a few individuals acting and thinking in the ordinary
routine of every-day life, while her highest ambition is to represent
in natural colors, the conduct and feelings of men elevated and
ennobled by the influence of Christianity.
When Dr. Johnson remarked once that it required a clever person to
talk nonsense well, Boswell replied, "Yes, sir! If you were to
represent little fishes speaking, you would make them talk like great
whales;" and on a similar plan, authors describing society, instead
of sketching the good-humoured chit-chat and lively _persiflage_
with which the business and amusements of fashionable life are carried
on, too frequently fill up their dialogues with set speeches, moral
essays, and long quotations, such as never are extemporized in any
drawing-room, where too energetic a stroke given to the shuttlecock of
conversation makes it instantly fall to the ground. The flagrant
impossibilities by which a carelessly-written narrative is carried on,
destroys often at once the illusion. Persons are described, who may be
overheard speaking aloud their most secret thoughts when supposing
themselves alone, soliloquizing audibly in the streets, journalizing a
history of their own crimes, becoming permanent guests in houses to
which they have no introduction, preserving the noblest sentiments
amidst the most degraded habits, and dying enlightened Christians when
they have lived as dissolute infidels.
A celebrated mathematician threw aside a novel once in disgust, saying
that "it proved nothing;" but in these pages the author has
endeavoured to prove much. Amidst the bustle and business, the joys
and sorrows of life, she has attempted to illustrate how truly
"wisdom's ways are of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace,"--how
superior is the Christian standard of principle to the mere worldly
code of honour or expediency, and how much of the happiness intended
for man by his Creator is ruined and forfeited by the perversity of
his own will, in neglecting the good of others, and in vainly
grasping, like a spoiled child, at more than is intended for his
share. While thus writing a fiction, which may perhaps be denominated
a large religious tract in high life, the author humbly submits her
pages to the judgment of others, and cannot conclude in the words of a
more universally venerated, or of a more generally popular fictitious
author than the excellent Bunyan:
"Thus I set pen to paper with delight,
And quickly had my thought--in black and white;
For having now my method by the end,
Still as I pulled it came, and so I penned
It down, until at last it came to be,
For length and breadth, the bigness which you see."
MODERN FLIRTATIONS.
CHAPTER I.
The newspapers have recently adopted a strange habit of sometimes
unexpectedly seizing an individual's name, long since retired from
public notice, and gibbetting it up before the world's eye, when least
anticipated, by volunteering a paragraph to announce, that some aged
lord, or ex-minister, whom no one has remembered to think of for half
a century or more, is residing on his estates, and enjoying, the
editor is happy to understand, astonishing health, considering his
advanced years. In observance of this custom, an exclamation of
irritability and astonishment, too violent to be worthy of record, was
elicited one day, from a dignified and very distinguished-looking old
gentleman, with a venerable head, such as Titian might have painted,
and a high lofty forehead bearing the traces of deep thought and
feeling, when, after having seated himself on his favorite arm chair
at the United Service Club in Edinburgh, his eye rested with a look of
kindling amazement on these few lines, in large consequential-looking
type, on a leading column of the Courant.
_June 1829._ "We are happy to inform our readers that the brave and
noble veteran, once a distinguished hero in many a well-fought fight,
Sir Arthur Dunbar, G.C.B., is yet alive, reposing on his well-earned
laurels, at a retired mansion in the marine village of Portobello.
Though frequently and most severely wounded in battle, besides being
deprived of an arm in Lord Rodney's engagement during the year '82, the
Admiral's health continues unimpaired and his cheerfulness invariable,
at the advanced age of 70."
"Pshaw! stuff and nonsense! Some enemy is resolved to make a
laughing-stock of me in my old age!" exclaimed he, angrily pointing out
the paragraph to his gay young relative, Louis De Crespigny, who was
familiarly leaning over the high back of his chair; and then crumpling
up the offending Courant with an obvious wish that it might be consumed
in the flames--"I hope this is only the work of some wretched
penny-a-liner; but if I even suspected that my conceited, good-looking
scoundrel of a nephew had a hand in the jest, I would cut him off with a
shilling,--or rather without one, for I could scarcely raise so much as
a shilling to leave him, and he knows that. This is most thoroughly
ridiculous! I, who have been dead, buried, and forgotten for years, to
be made as conspicuous here, as a hair-dresser's wig-block! The editor
shall be prosecuted,--horse-whipped,--or--or made as absurd as he has
made me!"
"Why really, Admiral, I wish he had as much good to say of us all, and
then the sooner he paragraphs about me the better!--'We are happy to
inform our readers that the agreeable and fascinating Cornet De
Crespigny, of the 15th Light Hussars, now in his eighteenth year, is
still alive!'--the public likes to know the exact age of distinguished
men, such as you and I, Admiral!"
"The public is an ass!" replied Sir Arthur, breaking into a smile;
"and perhaps I am another, to mind what is said at all, but that
rascal of an editor has made me ten years older than I am; besides
which, though a grey-haired Admiral of sixty-four is not probably much
addicted to blushing, he really has put my modest merit out of
countenance. I would rather pay the newspapers any day for overlooking
than for praising me. We ought to live or die for our country; but
now, when I am no longer needed, let me stay in peace on the shelf,
like," added he, giving a comic smile at his empty sleeve, "like a
cracked tea-cup with the handle off!"
"But, Sir Arthur!" replied the young Cornet warmly, "you who never
turned your back on friend or foe, are not very likely to remain
quietly on the shelf, as long as every man who lives must respect you,
and every man who dies continues to appoint you, as my father did, his
executor, the trustee of his estates, and the guardian of his
children, asking you to lend them a hand, as you have done to me in
all the difficulties of life."
"I have but one hand to lend, and that is much at your service, in
whatever way it can be useful! the other, though absent without leave,
has been my own best friend, as the loss of that arm was the luckiest
hit in the world. It obtained me a step at the time, and the pension
has supported me ever since. What with my nephew's frantic
extravagance, and my two young nieces being but indifferently provided
for, I often wish, like every body else, for a larger income. Poor
girls!" added Sir Arthur, knitting his bushy eye-brows into a
portentous frown, which gave to his venerable countenance a look of
noble and manly sorrow. "No one can blame them! but it was little
short of insanity in my brother to leave such young children under the
sole guardianship of a heartless spendthrift like your friend and my
nephew Sir Patrick, who would sell his soul for sixpence."
"Yes! and squander it the next minute," added young De Crespigny,
laughing. "I saw Pat produce a £20 note yesterday at Tait's
auction-room, and a buzz of wonder ran all through the circle of his
friends. Such a sight had not been seen in his pocket for many a day,
and he threatened to put it up to auction, saying, he was sure we
would all give double the value for it, as a rarity, considering the
quarter from which it came. He really seems to pique himself on his
poverty, and has the art of doing what another man would be cut for,
with so much grace and apparent unconsciousness, that his friends
really forget to disapprove."
"I never forget!" replied the Admiral, slowly rising and adjusting his
spectacles. "I am even told the incorrigible rascal has mortgaged the
legacy he pretends to expect from me! He would do anything short of a
highway robbery for money, and has done some things that seem to a man
of honor quite as bad. But," added Sir Arthur, growing more and more
angry, "as long as he can give his friends a good bottle of claret,
they ask no questions! Patrick Dunbar has caused me the only feeling
of shame I ever had occasion for, and yet to see that proud
snuff-the-moon look of his, you would suppose the world scarcely big
enough to hold him! With his chin in the air, as I saw him yesterday,
he will certainly knock his forehead some day against the sky!"
"You cannot wonder, Sir Arthur, that Dunbar is in immense favor with
himself, when he is so admired, and almost idolized in society. He
certainly has the handsomest countenance in Scotland;--as my uncle
Doncaster says, Pat is a portrait of Vandyke in his best style. With
that grand, chivalrous, Chevalier-Bayard look, he is the best rider
who ever sat on horseback! I could not but laugh when he mounted
yesterday for a ride along Princes Street, and turned to me, with his
lively, victorious laugh, saying, 'Now I am going to give the ladies a
treat!'"
"The insufferable coxcomb!" said Sir Arthur, relaxing into an
irresistible smile of indulgent affection. "From the day he first
came staggering into this world to astonish us all, he has thought
himself the finest sight between this and Whitehall!"
"Of course he does! Pat is asked for so many locks of his hair, by
various young ladies, that his valet keeps a wig to supply them; and
he might almost pay his debts with the countless collection he has
received of sentimental rings, displaying forgotten forget-me-nots, in
turquoises and gold! Who, on the wide earth, except yourself, Sir
Arthur, would ever dream of finding fault with our gay, dashing,
high-spirited friend, Dunbar, the life of society, the model of dress,
equipage, and good living. Why! the very instant he opens his lips,
all dulness vanishes like a spectre! I wish the whole world were
peopled with such men; but he promises to shoot himself as soon as he
sees his own equal. He staked his reputation one day that he would!"
"His reputation!! the sooner he parts with it the better! Let Patrick
Dunbar exchange his own with the first man he meets in the street, and
he will gain by the bargain."
"Pardon me there, Sir Arthur, your nephew is universally allowed to be
the best fellow upon earth!"
"Very probably! 'the best fellow upon earth' generally means a
selfish, extravagant, scatter-brained roue; but I must be off! There
is a cold, sharp, cutting wind, blowing in at the back of my neck,
which makes me feel like Charles the First when the axe fell. If you
have any influence, De Crespigny, with my scape-grace of a nephew--all
nephews are scape-graces, as far as my experience goes--try to make
him more like yourself, and I shall be grateful, with all my heart."
"Like me!!!" said the young Cornet, turning away with a smile; but it
was a smile of bitterness, almost amounting to remorse, while he
hastily grasped a newspaper, and flung himself into a seat. "No! no!
Sir Arthur, he is not quite so bad as that. Dunbar has his faults; he
wears them upon his sleeve, and attempts no disguise; but there are
many worse men in the world, who are held up as examples by those who
know no better. Whenever I reform myself, you may depend upon my
lecturing our friend, but not till then. We must both sow all our wild
oats first."
"Yes! and endure the fruit of them afterwards," replied Sir Arthur,
with a look of anxious kindness at his young relative. "That is the
only crop where to sow is more agreeable than to reap! But I waste
words! Young men will be young men, and I might as well ask this east
wind not to blow, or try to turn the sea from its course, as attempt
to stop the mad career of that scatter-brained madcap! It would matter
less if he only fell himself hereafter, like a pebble in the stream;
but the fatal eddy extends in a wide circle, which must reach the
interests of those helpless young girls, my nieces; and I cannot but
grieve over the consequences which may, and must befall them, after I
go to that rest which is in the grave, and to that hope which is
beyond it."
"Never trouble your head about that which shall occur then, Sir Arthur!
'Too much care once made an old man grey.' My motto is, '_apres moi le
deluge_!' This little world of ours got on wonderfully well before we
came into it, and will do astonishingly well again, after we make our
exit," said young De Crespigny, with a strange medley in his tone, of
melancholy thought, and contemptuous derision. "Pat tells me that both
my young cousins promise to turn out a perfect blaze of beauty, with
long shining ringlets that they almost tread upon in walking, teeth
that would make the fortune of a dentist, and complexions that
Rowland's kalydor could not improve. Ten years hence, I shall propose
to one or both of them myself, if that will give you satisfaction."
"Perfect! but as marrying two sisters at once is not quite customary,
let your intentions be limited to Agnes. She is several years the
eldest; and I like the good old patriarchal rule of marrying by
seniority; besides which, she is quite a little flirt already, though
scarcely yet in her teens. She will be a young lady, entirely suited
for the ordinary marrying and giving in marriage of every-day life;
but little Marion is the very light of my eyes, and I must match her
by a very high standard indeed. It will be a dark day for me, if ever
I am obliged to part with her at all; and being now only in her sixth
year, I may, without selfishness, hope to keep her beside me for my
few remaining days. I must begin match-making for Agnes, however,
directly, and your offer shall be duly considered. A future peer, with
countless thousands in expectancy, and not particularly ill-looking,
does not fall in our way every morning."
"So all the young ladies seem to think!" replied the young Cornet, in
his most conceited tone. "Girls dislike nothing so much as to marry on
a competence; there is a great deal of romance in marrying on nothing,
and a great deal of comfort in marrying on wealth; but a mere vulgar
competence has neither romance nor reality. Now I can offer both!
First, actual starvation on a Cornet's pay; and then, with my uncle's
leave, the pumpkin will turn to a carriage, and the mice into horses;
but in the meantime, Sir Arthur, Pat tells me you keep a capital
chop-house at Portobello, so pray invite me to drop in some day at
six, to begin my siege of your pretty niece. I must come and see,
before I can conquer," added Mr. De Crespigny, in a tone of peculiar
conceit, with which he always spoke either to ladies or of them.
"Probably next week I may find my way to this _terra incognita_
of yours. Is it across the Queensferry, or where?"
"My good friend! you are not so pre-eminently ignorant of geography as
you would appear; for did I not see you honoring that dullest of all
dull places, the little obscure village of Portobello, with your
august presence, only yesterday. I nearly spitted you on the point of
my umbrella, you hurried so rapidly past, evidently wishing to escape
from that girl in a cloak, who seemed to beset your footsteps!"
"Impossible!!!" exclaimed young De Crespigny, coloring violently, and
starting from his seat. "Could it be in the nature of things that I
should cut you!"
"True enough! I might have said, like Lady Towercliffe to Prince
Meimkoff, '_vous m'avez coupe_.'"
"Indeed!" continued the cornet, trying to conceal his countenance. "I
wish you had cut my throat in return!"
"If it is to be done, I would rather somebody else did! Why, De
Crespigny! you will set the house on fire with that violent poker
exercise! Your own face is on fire already! Have more regard for your
complexion! Ah! now it is pale enough! Are you ill? My dear fellow!
what is the matter?"
"Nothing! I am merely looking at the beautiful sunset!"
"What! does the sun set in the east to-night?" asked Sir Arthur,
jestingly; "that is worth looking at!"
"I am annoyed with a spasm of toothache!" said De Crespigny, putting a
handkerchief to his face, which nearly covered it; and then suddenly
throwing open the window, he looked far out, as if in search of his
groom. He leaned forward so long, however, that Sir Arthur kindly but
vehemently remonstrated on the danger of exposing himself, while in so
much pain, to the cold air; enumerated a whole host of remedies for
decayed teeth; suggested the great comfort and convenience of having
the offender extracted by Hutchins, and ended by hoping his young
friend would still have a tooth left for his proposed dinner at
Portobello.
"Depend upon me for that," replied Mr. De Crespigny, with forced
vivacity. "I shall ferret you out next week. I have little doubt your
pasture is excellent in that quarter, and there is no one from whom I
would be half so happy to receive a soup ticket."
"Keep your flattery for the ladies, where it will always be
acceptable, and where I hear you are already an experienced
practitioner in the arts of captivation. As for my dinner, I consider
it an imposition to ask any friend, and not give him the best my cook
and cellar can furnish; and you may expect whenever you do come, to
find a notice over my door, 'hot joints every day!'"
"But it was the society of your house, and not the dinner, to which my
agreeable anticipations were directed; and there, you know, I cannot
be disappointed! as somebody wisely said, when shown a tempting bill
of fare, 'show me a bill of the company!'"
"That reminds me to say, you must not expect my pretty niece to be at
my little bathing machine of a house! It would not be fair to inveigle
you under such false pretences; but I promise you an old man's
welcome, and the best that my cottage can produce; aged as this
newspaper makes me I enjoy every inch of life, and hope you, at the
same age, will do the same. I may almost apply to my little villa that
favourite saying in Spain,
'My home, my home! though thou'rt but small,
Thou art to me th' Escurial.'"
With a cordial shake of the hand, and a smile of cheerful benignity,
Sir Arthur withdrew, and as his firm and stately step receded, Mr. De
Crespigny watched him with a look of respectful interest, which ended
in his turning away after the admiral had disappeared, and heaving a
deep sigh, while a cloud of care darkened on his forehead, and a look
of angry vexation shaded his previously animated eyes.
Day after day passed on, subsequent to the preceding conversation,
during which Sir Arthur frequently postponed his chop, to what he
considered an atrociously late hour, in hopes of his promised guest
appearing. Once the admiral felt positively convinced that he had seen
him enter a Portobello omnibus at four o'clock, but still he appeared
not. Week after week elapsed, and still Sir Arthur ate his dinner
alone, in long-surviving expectation that either his own not very
dutiful nephew, or young De Crespigny, would "cast up;" but at last
these hopes and wishes were ended by his hearing that Sir Patrick's
embarrassments had caused him to leave Edinburgh by moonlight, and
that, soon after, Mr. De Crespigny as suddenly departed, no one knew
why, when, or wherefore.