"Never talk to me; I will weep."
_As You Like It._
TWICE had the dinner bell been loudly sounded by old Donald, and the
family of Glenfern were all assembled, yet their fashionable guests had
not appeared. Impatient of delay, Miss Jacky hastened to ascertain the
cause. Presently she returned in the utmost perturbation, and announced
that Lady Juliana was in bed in a high fever, and Henry nowhere to be
found. The whole eight rushed upstairs to ascertain the fact, leaving
the old gentleman much discomposed at this unseasonable delay.
Some time elapsed ere they again returned, which they did with
lengthened faces, and in extreme perturbation. They had found their
noble niece, according to Miss Jacky's report, in bed-according to Miss
Grizzy's opinion, in a brain fever; as she no sooner perceived them
enter, than she covered her head with the bedclothes, and continued
screaming for them to be gone, till they had actually quitted the
apartment."
"And what proves beyond a doubt that our sweet niece is not herself,"
continued poor Miss Grizzy, in a lamentable tone, "is that we appeared
to her in every form but our own! She sometimes took us for cats; then
thought we were ghosts haunting her; and, in short, it is impossible to
tell all the things she called us; and she screams so for Harry to come
and take her away that I am sure--I declare--I don't know what's come
over her!"
Mrs. Douglas could scarce suppress a smile at the simplicity of the good
spinsters. Her husband and she had gone out immediately after breakfast
to pay a visit a few miles off, and did not return till near the dinner
hour. They were therefore ignorant of all that had been acted during
their absence; but as she suspected something was amiss, she requested
the rest of the company would proceed to dinner, and leave her to
ascertain the nature of Lady Juliana's disorder.
"Don't come near me!" shrieked her Ladyship, on hearing the door open.
"Send Harry to take me away; I don't want anybody but Harry!"--and a
torrent of tears, sobs, and exclamations followed.
"My dear Lady Juliana," said Mrs. Douglas, softly approaching the bed,
"compose yourself; and if my presence is disagreeable to you I shall
immediately withdraw."
"Oh, is it you?" cried her sister-in-law, uncovering her face at the
sound of her voice. "I thought it had been these frightful old women
come to torment me; and I shall die--I know I shall--if ever I look at
them again. But I don't dislike _you;_ so you may stay if you choose,
though I don't want anybody but Harry to come and take me away."
A fresh fit of sobbing here impeded her utterance; and Mrs. Douglas,
compassionating her distress, while she despised her folly, seated
herself by the bedside, and taking her hand, in the sweetest tone of
complacency attempted to soothe her into composure.
"The only way in which you can be less miserable," said Mrs. Douglas in
a soothing tone, "is to support your present situation with patience,
which you may do by looking forward to brighter prospects. It is
_possible_ that your stay here may be short; and it is _certain_ that it
is in your own power to render your life more agreeable by endeavouring
to accommodate yourself to the peculiarities of your husband's family.
No doubt they are often tiresome and ridiculous; but they are always
kind and well-meaning."
"You may say what you please, but I think them all odious creatures;
and I won't live here with patience; and I shan't be agreeable to them;
and all the talking in the world won't make me less miserable. If you
were me, you would be just the same; but you have never been in
London--that's the reason."
"Pardon me," replied her sister-in-law, "I spent many years of my life
there."
"You lived in London!" repeated Lady Juliana in astonishment. "And how,
then, can you contrive to exist here?"
"I not only contrive to exist, but to be extremely contented with
existence," said Mrs. Douglas, with a smile. Then assuming a more
serious air, "I possess health, peace of mind, and the affections of a
worthy husband; and I should be very undeserving of these blessings were
I to give way to useless regrets or indulge in impious repinings because
my happiness might once have been more perfect, and still admits of
improvement."
"I don't understand you," said Lady Juliana, with a peevish yawn. "Who
did you live with in London?"
"With my aunt, Lady Audley."
"With Lady Audley!" repeated her sister-in-law in accents of
astonishment. "Why, I have heard of her; she lived quite in the world;
and gave balls and assemblies; so that's the reason you are not so
disagreeable as the rest of them. Why did you not remain with her, or
marry an Englishman? But I suppose, like me, you didn't know what
Scotland was!"
Happy to have excited an interest, even through the medium of childish
curiosity, in the bosom of her fashionable relative, Mrs. Douglas
briefly related such circumstances of her past life as she judged proper
to communicate; but as she sought rather to amuse than instruct by her
simple narrative, we shall allow her to pursue her charitable
intentions, while we do more justice to her character by introducing her
regularly to the acquaintance of our readers.
History of Mrs. Douglas.
"The selfish heart deserves the pang it feels;
More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts, And
conscious virtue mitigates the pang."
--YOUNG.
MRS. DOUGLAS was, on the maternal side, related to an English family.
Her mother had died in giving birth to her; and her father, shortly
after, falling in the service of his country, she had been consigned in
infancy to the care of her aunt. Lady Audley had taken charge of her, on
condition that she should never be claimed by her Scottish relations,
for whom that lady entertained as much aversion as contempt. A latent
feeling of affection for her departed sister, and a large portion of
family pride, had prompted her wish of becoming the protectress of her
orphan niece; and, possessed of a high sense of rectitude and honour,
she fulfilled the duty thus voluntarily imposed in a manner that secured
the unshaken gratitude of the virtuous Alicia.
Lady Audley was a character more esteemed and feared than loved, even by
those with whom she was most intimate. Firm, upright, and rigid, she
exacted from others those inflexible virtues which in herself she found
no obstacle to performing. Neglecting these softer attractions which
shed their benign influence over the commerce of social life, she was
content to enjoy the extorted esteem of her associates; for friends she
had none. She sought in the world for objects to fill up the void which
her heart could not supply. She loved _éclat,_ and had succeeded
in creating herself an existence of importance in the circles of high
life, which she considered more as due to her consequence than essential
to her enjoyment. She had early in life been left a widow, with the sole
tutelage and management of an only son, whose large estate she regulated
with the most admirable prudence and judgment.
Alicia Malcolm was put under the care of her aunt at two years of age. A
governess had been procured for her, whose character was such as not to
impair the promising dispositions of her pupil. Alicia was gifted by
nature with a warm affectionate heart, and a calm imagination attempered
its influence. Her governess, a woman of a strong understanding and
enlarged mind, early instilled into her a deep and strong sense of
religion; and to it she owed the support which had safely guided her
through the most trying vicissitudes.
When at the age of seventeen Alicia Malcolm was produced in the world.
She was a rational, cheerful, and sweet-tempered girl, with a finely
formed person, and a countenance in which was so clearly painted the
sunshine of her breast, that it attracted the _bienveillance_ even of
those who had not taste or judgment to define the charm. Her open
natural manner, blending the frankness of the Scotch with the polished
reserve of the English woman, her total exemption from vanity,
calculated alike to please others and maintain her own cheerfulness
undimmed by a single cloud.
Lady Audley felt for her niece a sentiment which she mistook for
affection; her self-approbation was gratified at the contemplation of a
being who owed every advantage to her, and whom she had rescued from the
coarseness and vulgarity which she deemed inseparable from the manners
of every Scotchwoman. If Lady Audley really loved any human being it was
her son. In him were centred her dearest interests; on his
aggrandisement and future importance hung her most sanguine hopes. She
had acted contrary to the advice of her male relations, and followed her
own judgment, by giving her son a private education. He was brought up
under her own eye by a tutor of deep erudition, but who was totally
unfitted for forming the mind, and compensating for those advantages
which may be derived from a public education. The circumstances of his
education, however, combined rather to stifle the exposure than to
destroy the existence of some very dangerous qualities that seemed
inherent in Sir Edmund's nature. He was ardent, impetuous, and
passionate, though these propensities were cloaked by a reserve, partly
natural, and partly arising from of his mother and tutor.
His was not the effervescence of character which bursts forth on every
trivial occasion; but when any powerful cause awakened the slumbering
inmates, of his breast, they blazed with an uncontrolled fury that
defied all opposition, and overleaped all bounds of reason and decorum.
Experience often shows us that minds formed of the most opposite
attributes more forcibly attract each other than those which appear cast
in the same mould. The source of this fascination is difficult to trace;
it possesses not reason for its basis, yet it is perhaps the more
tyrannical in its influence from that very cause. The weakness of our
natures occasionally makes us feel a potent charm in "errors of a noble
mind."
Sir Edmund Audley and Alicia Malcolm proved examples of this
observation. The affection of childhood had so gradually ripened into a
warmer sentiment, that neither was conscious of the nature of that
sentiment till after it had attained strength to cast a material
influence on their after lives. The familiarity of near relatives
associating constantly together produced a warm sentiment of affection,
cemented by similarity of pursuits, and enlivened by diversity of
character; while the perfect tranquillity of their lives afforded no
event that could withdraw the veil of ignorance from their eyes.
Could a woman of Lady Audley's discernment, it may be asked, place
two young persons in such a situation, and doubt the consequences? Those
who are no longer young are liable to forget that love is a plant of
early growth, and that the individuals that they have but a short time
before beheld placing their supreme felicity on a rattle and a go-cart
can so soon be actuated by the strongest passions of the human
breast.
Sir Edmund completed his nineteenth year, and Alicia entered her
eighteenth, when this happy state of unconscious security was destroyed
by a circumstance which rent the veil from her eyes, and disclosed his
sentiments in all their energy and warmth. This circumstance was no
other than a proposal of marriage to Alicia from a gentleman of large
fortune and brilliant connexions who resided in their neighbourhood. His
character was as little calculated as his appearance to engage the
affections of a young woman of delicacy and good sense. But he was a man
of consequence; heir to an earldom; member for the county; and Lady
Audley, rejoicing at what she termed Alicia's good fortune, determined
that she should become his wife.
With mild firmness she rejected the honour intended her; but it was
with difficulty that Lady Audley's mind could adopt or understand the
idea of an opposition to her wishes. She could not seriously embrace the
conviction that Alicia was determined to disobey her; and in order to
bring her to a right understanding she underwent a system of persecution
that tended naturally to increase the antipathy her suitor had inspired.
Lady Audley, with the indiscriminating zeal of prejudiced and
overbearing persons, strove to recommend him to her niece br all those
attributes which were of value in her own eyes; making allowance for a
certain degree of in decision in her niece, but never admitting a doubt
that in due time her will should be obeyed, as it had always hitherto been.
At this juncture Sir Edmund came down to the country, and was struck by
the altered looks and pensive manners of his once cheerful cousin. About
a week after his arrival he found Alicia one morning in tears, after a
long conversation with Lady Audley. Sir Edmund tenderly soothed her, and
entreated to be made acquainted with the cause of her distress. She was
so habituated to impart every thought to her cousin, the intimacy and
sympathy of their souls were so entire, that she would not have
concealed the late occurrence from him had she not been withheld by the
natural timidity and delicacy a young woman feels in making her own
conquests the subject of conversation. But now so pathetically and
irresistibly persuaded by Sir Edmund, and sensible that every distress
of hers wounded his heart, Alicia candidly related to him the pursuit of
her disagreeable suitor, and the importunities of Lady Audley in his
favour. Every word she had spoken had more and, more dispelled the mist
that had so long hung over Sir Edmund's inclinations. At the first
mention of a suitor, he had felt that to be hers was a happiness that
comprised all others; and that the idea of losing her made the whole of
existence appear a frightful blank. These feelings were no sooner known
to himself than spontaneously poured into her delighted ears; while she
felt that every sentiment met a kindred one in her breast. Alicia sought
not a moment to disguise those feelings, which she now, for the first
time, became aware of; they were known to the object of her innocent
affection as soon as to herself, and both were convinced that, though
not conscious before of the nature of their sentiments, love had long
been mistaken for friendship in their hearts.
But this state of blissful serenity did not last long. On the evening of
the following day Lady Audley sent for her to her dressing-room. On
entering, Alicia was panic-struck at her aunt's pale countenance, fiery
eyes, and frame convulsed with passion. With difficulty Lady Audley,
struggling for calmness, demanded an instant and decided reply to the
proposals of Mr. Compton, the gentleman who had solicited her hand.
Alicia entreated her aunt to waive the subject, as she found it
impossible ever to consent to such a union.
Scarcely was her answer uttered when Lady Audley's anger burst forth
uncontrollably. She accused her niece of the vilest ingratitude in
having seduced her son from the obedience he owed his mother; of having
plotted to ally her base Scotch blood to the noble blood of the Audleys;
and, having exhausted every opprobrious epithet, she was forced to stop
from want of breath to proceed. As Alicia listened to the cruel,
unfounded reproaches of her aunt, her spirit rose under the unmerited
ill-usage, but her conscience absolved her from all intention of
injuring or deceiving a human being; and she calmly waited till Lady
Audley's anger should have exhausted itself, and then entreated to know
what part of her conduct had excited her aunt's displeasure.
Lady Audley's reply was diffuse and intemperate. Alicia gathered from
it that her rage had its source in a declaration her son had made to her
of his affection for his cousin, and his resolution of marrying her as
soon as he was of age; which open avowal of his sentiments had followed
Lady Audley's injunctions to him to forward the suit of Mr. Compton.
That her son, for whom she had in view one of the first matches in the
kingdom, should dare to choose for himself; and, above all, to choose
one whom she considered as much his inferior in birth as she was in
fortune, was a circumstance quite insupportable to her feelings.
Of the existence of love Lady Audley had little conception; and she
attributed her son's conduct to wilful disobedience and obstinacy. In
proportion as she had hitherto found him complying and gentle, her wrath
had kindled at his present firmness and inflexibility. So bitter were
her reflections on his conduct, so severe her animadversions on the
being he loved, that Sir Edmund, fired with resentment, expressed his
resolution of acting according to the dictates of his own will; and
expressed his contempt for her authority in terms the most unequivocal.
Lady Audley, ignorant of the arts of persuasion, by every word she
uttered more and more widened the breach her imperiousness had
occasioned, until Sir Edmund, feeling himself no longer master of his
temper, announced his intention of leaving the house, to allow his
mother time to reconcile herself to the inevitable misfortune of
beholding him the husband of Alicia Malcolm.
He instantly ordered his horses and departed, leaving the following
letter for his cousin:--
"I have been compelled by motives of prudence, of which you are the sole
object, to depart without seeing you. My absence became necessary from
the unexpected conduct of Lady Audley, which has led me so near to
forgetting that she was my mother, that I dare not remain, and subject
myself to excesses of temper which I might afterwards repent. Two years
must elapse before I can become legally my own master, and should Lady
Audley so far depart from the dictates of cool judgment as still to
oppose what she knows to be inevitable, I fear that we cannot meet till
then. My heart is well known to you; therefore I need not enlarge on the
pain I feel at this unlooked-for separation. At the same time, I am
cheered with the prospect of the unspeakable happiness that awaits
me-the possession of your hand; and the confidence I feel in your
constancy is in proportion to the certainty I experience in my own; I
cannot, therefore, fear that any of the means which may be put in
practice to disunite us will have more effect on you than on me.
"Looking forward to the moment that shall make you mine for ever, I
remain with steady confidence: and unspeakable affection, your
"EDMUND AUDLEY."
With a trembling frame Alicia handed the note to Lady Audley, and begged
leave to retire for a short time; expressing her willingness to reply at
another moment to any question her aunt might choose to put to her with
regard to her engagement with Sir Edmund.
In the solitude of her own chamber Alicia gave way to those feelings of
wretchedness which she had with difficulty stifled in the presence of
Lady Audley, and bitterly wept over the extinction of her bright and
newly-formed visions of felicity. To yield to unmerited ill-usage, or to
crouch beneath imperious and self-arrogated power, was not in the nature
of Alicia; and had Lady Audley been a stranger to her, the path of duty
would have been less intricate. However much her own pride might have
been wounded by entering into a family which considered her as an
intruding beggar, never would she have consented to sacrifice the
virtuous inclinations of the man she loved to the will of an arrogant
and imperious mother. But alas! the case was far different. The recent
ill-treatment she had experienced from Lady Audley could not efface from
her noble mind the recollection of benefits conferred from the earliest
period of her life, and of unvarying attention to her welfare. To her
aunt she owed all but existence; she had wholly supported her; bestowed
on her the most liberal education; and from Lady Audley sprang every
pleasure she had hitherto enjoyed.
Had she been brought up by her paternal relations, she would in all
probability never have beheld her cousin; and the mother and son might
have lived in uninterrupted concord. Could she be the person to inflict
on Lady Audley the severest disappointment she could experience? The
thought was too dreadful to bear; and, knowing that procrastination
could but increase her misery, no sooner had she felt convinced of the
true nature of her duty than she made a steady resolution to perform and
to adhere to it. Lady Audley had _vowed that while she had life she
could never give her consent and approbation to her son's marriage;_ and
Alicia was too well acquainted with her disposition to have the faintest
expectation that she would relent. But to remain any longer under her
protection was impossible; and she resolved to anticipate any proposal
of that sort from her protectress.
When Lady Audley's passion had somewhat cooled, she again sent for
Alicia. She began by repeating her _eternal enmity_ to the marriage in a
manner impressive to the greatest degree, and still more decisive in its
form by the cool collectedness of her manner. She then desired to hear
what Alicia had to say in exculpation of her conduct.
The profound sorrow which filled the heart of Alicia left no room for
timidity or indecision. She answered her without hesitation and
embarrassment, and asserted her innocence of all deceit in such a manner
as to leave no doubt at least of honourable proceeding. In a few
impressive words she proved herself sensible of the benefits her aunt
had through life conferred upon her; and, while she openly professed to
think herself, in the present instance, deeply wronged, she declared her
determination of never uniting herself to her cousin without Lady
Audley's permission, which she felt convinced was unattainable.
She then proceeded to ask where she should deem it most advisable for
her to reside in future.
Happy to find her wishes thus prevented, the unfeeling aunt expressed
her satisfaction at Alicia's good sense and discretion; represented, in
what she thought glowing colours, the unheard-of presumption it would
have been in her to take advantage of Sir Edmund's momentary
infatuation; and then launched out into details of her ambitious views
for him in a matrimonial alliance--views which she affected now to
consider without obstacle.
Alicia interrupted the painful and unfeeling harangue. It was neither,
she said, for Sir Edmund's advantage nor to gratify his mother's pride,
but to perform the dictates of her own conscience, that she had resigned
him; she even ventured to declare that the sharpest pang which that
resignation had cost her was the firm conviction that it would inflict
upon him a deep and lasting sorrow.
Lady Audley, convinced that moderate measures would be most likely to
ensure a continuation of Alicia's obedience, expressed herself grieved
at the necessity of parting with her, and pleased that she should have
the good sense to perceive the propriety of such a separation.
Sir Duncan Malcolm, the grandfather of Alicia, had, in the few
communications that had passed between Lady Audley and him, always
expressed a wish to see his granddaughter before he died. Her ladyship's
antipathy to Scotland was such that she would have deemed it absolute
contamination for her niece to have entered the country; and she had
therefore always eluded the request.
It was now, of all plans, the most eligible; and she graciously offered
to convey her niece as far as Edinburgh. The journey was immediately
settled; and before Alicia left her aunt's presence a promise was
exacted with unfeeling tenacity, and given with melancholy firmness,
never to unite herself to Sir Edmund unsanctioned by his mother.
Alas! how imperfect is human wisdom! Even in seeking to do right how
many are the errors we commit! Alicia judged wrong in thus sacrificing
the happiness of Sir Edmund to the pride and injustice of his mother;
but her error was that of a noble, self-denying spirit, entitled to
respect, even though it cannot claim approbation. The honourable open
conduct of her niece had so far gained upon Lady Audley that she did not
object to her writing to Sir Edmund,
"DEAR SIR EDMUND--A painful line of conduct is pointed out to me by
duty; yet of all the regrets I feel not one is so poignant as the
consciousness of that which you will feel at learning that I have
forever resigned the claims you so lately gave me to your heart and
hand. It was not weakness--it could not be inconstancy--that produced
the painful sacrifice of a distinction still more gratifying to my heart
than flattering to my pride.
"Need I remind you that to your mother I owe every benefit in life?
Nothing can release me from the tribute of gratitude which would be ill
repaid by braving her authority and despising her will. Should I give
her reason to regret the hour she received me under her roof, to repent
of every benefit she has hitherto bestowed on me; should I draw down a
mother's displeasure, what reasonable hopes could we entertain of solid
peace through life? I am not in a situation which entitles me to
question the justice of Lady Audley's will; and that will has pronounced
that I shall never be Sir Edmund's wife.
"Your first impulse may perhaps be to accuse me of coldness and
ingratitude in quitting the place and country you inhabit, and resigning
you back to yourself, without personally taking leave of you; but I
trust that you will, on reflection, absolve me from the charge.
"Could I
have had any grounds to suppose that a personal interview would be
productive of comfort to you, I would have joyfully supported the
sufferings it would have inflicted on myself. But question your own
heart as to the use you would have made of such a meeting; bear in mind
that Lady Audley has my solemn promise never to be yours--a promise not
lightly given; then imagine what must have been an interview between us
under such circumstances.
"In proof of an affection which I can have no reason to doubt, I conjure
you to listen to the last request I shall ever make to my dear cousin.
Give me the heartfelt satisfaction to know that my departure has put an
end to those disagreements between mother and son of which I have been
the innocent cause.
"You have no reason to blame Lady Audley for this last step of
mine. I have not been intimidated--threats, believe me, never would have
extorted from me a promise to renounce you, had not Virtue herself
dictated the sacrifice; and my reward will spring from the conviction
that, as far as my judgment could discern, I have acted right.
"Forget, I entreat you, this inauspicious passion. Resolve, like me, to
resign yourself, without murmuring, to what is now past recall; and,
instead of indulging melancholy, regain, by a timely exertion of mind
and body, that serenity which is the portion of those who have obeyed
the dictates of rectitude.
"Farewell, Sir Edmund. May every happiness attend your future life!
While I strive to forget my ill-fated affection, the still stronger
feelings of gratitude and esteem for you can never fade from the heart
of
"ALICIA MALCOLM."
To say that no tears were shed during the composition of this letter
would be to overstrain fortitude beyond natural bounds. With difficulty
Alicia checked the effusions of her pen. She wished to have said much
more, and to have soothed the agony of renunciation by painting with
warmth her tenderness and her regret; but reason urged that, in exciting
his feelings and displaying her own, she would defeat the chief purpose
of her letter. She hastily closed and directed it, with a feeling almost
akin to despair.
The necessary arrangements for the journey having been hastily made, the
ladies set out two days after Sir Edmund had so hastily quitted them.
The uncomplaining Alicia buried her woes in her own bosom; and neither
murmurs on the one hand, nor reproaches on the other, were heard.
At the end of four days the travellers entered Scotland; and when they
stopped for the night, Alicia, fatigued and dispirited, retired
immediately to her apartment.
She had been there but a few minutes when the chambermaid knocked at the
door, and informed her that she was wanted below.
Supposing that Lady Audley had sent for her, she followed the girl
without observing that she was conducted in an opposite direction; when,
upon entering an apartment, what was her astonishment at finding
herself, not in the presence of Lady Audley, but in the arms of Sir
Edmund! In the utmost agitation, she sought to disengage herself from
his almost frantic embrace; while he poured forth a torrent of rapturous
exclamations, and swore that no human power should ever divide them
again.
"I have followed your steps, dearest Alicia, from the moment I received
your letter. We are now in Scotland-in this blessed land of liberty.
Everything is arranged; the clergyman is now in waiting; and in five
minutes you shall be my own beyond the power of fate to sever us."
Too much agitated to reply, Alicia wept in silence; and in the delight
of once more beholding him she had thought never more to behold, forgot,
for a moment, the duty she had imposed upon herself. But the native
energy of her character returned. She raised her head, and attempted to
withdraw from the encircling arms of her cousin.
"Never until you have vowed to be mine! The clergyman--the
carriage--everything is in readiness. Speak but the word, dearest." And
he knelt at her feet.
At this juncture the door opened, and, pale with rage, her eyes flashing
fire, Lady Audley stood before them. A dreadful scene now ensued. Sir
Edmund disdained to enter into any justification of his conduct, or even
to reply to the invectives of his mother, but lavished the most tender
assiduities on Alicia; who, overcome more by the conflicts of her own
heart than with alarm at Lady Audley's violence, sat the pale and silent
image of consternation.
Baffled by her son's indignant disregard, Lady Audley turned all her
fury on her niece; and, in the most opprobrious terms that rage could
invent, upbraided her with deceit and treachery--accusing her of making
her pretended submission instrumental to the more speedy accomplishment
of her marriage. Too much incensed to reply, Sir Edmund seized his
cousin's hand, and was leading her from the room.
"Go, then--go, marry her; but first hear me swear, solemnly swear"--
and she raised her hand and eyes to heaven--"that my malediction shall
be your portion! Speak but the word, and no power shall make me withhold
it!"
"Dear Edmund!" exclaimed Alicia, distractedly, "never ought I to have
allowed time for the terrifying words that have fallen from Lady
Audley's lips; never for me shall your mother's malediction fall on you.
Farewell for ever!" and, with the strength of desperation, she rushed
past him, and quitted the room. Sir Edmund madly followed, but in vain.
Alicia's feelings were too highly wrought at that moment to be touched
even by the man she loved; and, without an additional pang, she saw him
throw himself into the carriage which he had destined for so different a
purpose, and quit for ever the woman he adored.
It may easily be conceived of how painful a nature must have been the
future intercourse betwixt Lady Audley and her niece. The former seemed
to regard her victim with that haughty distance which the unrelenting
oppressor never fails to entertain towards the object of his tyranny;
while even the gentle Alicia, on her part, shrank, with ill-concealed
abhorrence, from the presence of that being whose stern decree had
blasted all the fairest blossoms of her happiness.
Alicia was received with affection by her grandfather; and she laboured
to drive away the heavy despondency which pressed on her spirits by
studying his taste and humours, and striving to contribute to his
comfort and amusement.
Sir Duncan had chosen the time of Alicia's arrival to transact some
business; and instead of returning immediately to the Highlands, he
determined to remain some weeks in Edinburgh for her amusement.
But, little attractive as dissipation had been, it was now absolutely
repugnant to Alicia. She loathed the idea of mixing in scenes of
amusement with a heart incapable of joy, a spirit indifferent to every
object that surrounded her; and in solitude alone she expected gradually
to regain her peace of mind.
In the amusements of the gay season of Edinburgh, Alicia expected to
find all the vanity, emptiness, and frivolity of London dissipation,
without its varied brilliancy and elegant luxury; yet, so much was it
the habit of her mind to look to the fairest side of things, and to
extract some advantage from every situation in which she was placed,
that pensive and thoughtful as was her disposition, the discriminating
only perceived her deep dejection, while all admired her benevolence of
manner and unaffected desire to please.
By degrees Alicia found that in some points she had been inaccurate in
her idea of the style of living of those who form the best society of
Edinburgh. The circle is so confined that its members are almost
universally known to each other; and those various gradations of
gentility, from the city's snug party to the duchess's most crowded
assembly, all totally distinct and separate, which are to be met with in
London, have no prototype in Edinburgh. There the ranks and fortunes
being more on an equality, no one is able greatly to exceed his
neighbour in luxury and extravagance. Great magnificence, and the
consequent gratification produced by the envy of others being out of the
question, the object for which a reunion of individuals was originally
invented becomes less of a secondary consideration. Private parties for
the actual purpose of society and conversation are frequent, and answer
the destined end; and in the societies of professed amusement are to be
met the learned, the studious, and the rational; not presented as shows
to the company by the host and hostess, but professedly seeking their
own gratification.
Still the lack of beauty, fashion, and elegance disappoint the stranger
accustomed to their brilliant combination in a London world. But Alicia
had long since sickened in the metropolis at the frivolity of beauty,
the heartlessness of fashion, and the insipidity of elegance; and it was
a relief to her to turn to the variety of character she found beneath
the cloak of simple, eccentric, and sometimes coarse manners.
We are never long so totally abstracted by our own feelings as to be
unconscious of the attempts of others to please us. In Alicia, to be
conscious of it and to be grateful was the same movement. Yet she was
sensible that so many persons could not in that short period have become
seriously interested in her. The observation did not escape her how much
an English stranger is looked up to for fashion and taste in Edinburgh,
though possessing little merit save that of being English; yet she felt
gratified and thankful for the kindness and attention that greeted her
appearance on all sides.
Amongst the many who expressed goodwill towards Alicia there were a few
whose kindness and real affection failed not to meet with a return from
her; and others whose rich and varied powers of mind for the first time
afforded her a true specimen of the exalting enjoyment produced by a
communion of intellect. She felt the powers of her understanding enlarge
in proportion; and, with this mental activity, she sought to solace the
languor of her heart and save it from the listlessness of despair.
Alicia had been about six weeks in Edinburgh when she received a
letter from Lady Audley. No allusions were made to the past; she wrote
upon general topics, in the cold manner that might be used to a common
acquaintance; and slightly named her son as having set out upon a tour
to the Continent.
Alicia's heart was heavy as she read the heartless letter of the woman
whose cruelty ad not been able to eradicate wholly from her breast he
strong durable affection of early habit.
Sir Duncan and Alicia spent two months in Edinburgh, at the end of which
time they went to his country seat in---shire. The adjacent country was
picturesque; and Sir Duncan's residence, though bearing marks of the
absence of taste and comfort in its arrangements, possessed much natural
beauty.
Two years of tranquil seclusion had passed over her head when her
dormant feeling were all aroused by a letter from Sir Edmund. It
informed her that he was now of age; that his affection remained
unalterable; that he was newly arrived from abroad; and that,
notwithstanding the death-blow she had given to his hopes, he could not
refrain, on returning to his native land, from assuring her that he was
resolved never to pay his addresses to any other woman. He concluded by
declaring his intent on of presenting himself at once to Sir Duncan, and
soliciting his permission to claim her hand: when all scruples relating
to Lady Audley must, from her change of abode, be at an end.
Alicia read the letter with grateful affection and poignant regret.
Again she shed he bitter tears of disappointment, at the hard task of
refusing for a second time so noble and affectionate a heart. But
conscience whispered that to hold a passive line of conduct would be, in
some measure, to deceive Lady Audley's expectations; and she felt, with
exquisite anguish, that she had no means to put a final stop to Sir
Edmund's pursuits, and to her own trials, but by bestowing her hand on
another. The first dawning of this idea was accompanied by the most
violent burst of anguish; but, far from driving away the painful
subject, she strove to render it less appalling by dwelling upon it, and
labouring to reconcile herself to what seemed her only plan of conduct.
She acknowledged to herself that, to remain still single, a prey to Sir
Edmund's importunities and the continual temptations of her own heart,
was, for the sake of present indulgence, submitting to a fiery ordeal,
from which she could not escape unblamable without the most repeated and
agonising conflicts.
Three months still remained for her of peace and liberty, after which
Sir Duncan would go to Edinburgh. There she would be sure of meeting
with the loved companion of her youthful days; and the lurking weakness
of her own breast would then be seconded by the passionate eloquence of
the being she most loved and admired upon earth.
She wrote to him, repeating her former arguments; declaring that she
could never feel herself absolved from the promise she had given Lady
Audley but by that lady herself, and imploring him to abandon a pursuit
which would be productive only of lasting pain to both.
Her arguments, her representations, all failed in their effect on Sir
Edmund's impetuous character. His answer was short and decided; the
purport of it, that he should see her in Edinburgh the moment she
arrived there.
"My fate then is fixed," thought Alicia, as she read this letter; "I
must finish the sacrifice."
The more severe had been the struggle between love and victorious duty,
the more firmly was she determined to maintain this dear-bought
victory.
Alicia's resolution of marrying was now decided, and the opportunity was
not wanting. She had become acquainted, during the preceding winter in
Edinburgh, with Major Douglas, eldest son of Mr. Douglas of Glenfern. He
had then paid her the most marked attention; and, since her return to
the country, had been a frequent visitor at Sir Duncan's. At length he
avowed his partiality, which was heard by Sir Duncan with pleasure, by
Alicia with dread and submission. Yet she felt less repugnance towards
him than to any other of her suitors. He was pleasing in his person;
quiet and simple in his manners; and his character stood high for
integrity, good temper, and plain sense. The sequel requires little
further detail. Alicia Malcolm became the wife of Archibald Douglas.
An eternal constancy is a thing so rare to be met with, that persons who
desire that sort of reputation strive to obtain it by nourishing the
ideas that recall the passion, even though guilt and sorrow should go
hand in hand with it. But Alicia, far from piquing herself in the
lovelorn pensiveness she might have assumed, had she yielded to the
impulse of her feelings, diligently strove not only to make up her mind
to the lot which had devolved to her, but to bring it to such a frame of
cheerfulness as should enable her to contribute to her husband's
happiness.
When the soul is no longer buffeted by the storms of hope or fear, when
all is fixed unchangeably for life, sorrow for the past will never long
prey on a pious and well-regulated mind. If Alicia lost the buoyant
spirit of youth, the bright and quick play of fancy, yet a placid
contentment crowned her days; and at the end of two years she would have
been astonished had anyone marked her as an object of compassion.
She scarcely ever heard from Lady Audley; and in the few letters her
aunt had favoured her with, she gave favourable, though vague accounts
of her son. Alicia did not court a more unreserved communication, and
had long since taught herself to hope that he was now happy. Soon after
their marriage Major Douglas quitted the army, upon succeeding to a small
estate on the banks of Lochmarlie by the death of an uncle; and there,
in the calm seclusion of domestic life, Mrs. Douglas found that peace
which might have been denied her amid gayer scenes.