Though every means had been made use of to render the ball given at
the castle pleasant and agreeable to all the party, they did not
succeed so well as we could wish. There were several of the company,
as it is to this day found but too customary on all such important
and interesting occasions, distressed, mortified, and discontented,
who returned to their habitations with more cares than they had
carried out, more pangs than they well knew how to bear, or than the
pleasure, if unalloyed, could have repaid. One or two young ladies
had actually fainted at seeing others better dressed and more noticed
than themselves. Another was wretched, and out of humour at observing
the Adonis, for whom she had long cherished the most romantic
affection, pay his whole attention to the beautiful Edeliza, who was
rendered wild by the gaiety, novelty, and splendour of the scene,
while her little head was nearly turned by the fine things said to
her, and the admiration she excited.
Edwin secretly repined that, as soon as the evening closed, Madeline
would be again for an age, in the calculation of a lover's calendar,
secluded from his sight, and compelled to count her beads in the
cheerless and solitary cell of a nunnery, from which he knew not
whether it would be in the power of art or stratagem to deliver her,
and how dreadful would be the consequences both to himself and the
woman he loved far better than himself, should the project, which he
had long cherished in his enterprizing and enamoured heart, be
discovered! These distressing thoughts threw a cloud of despondency
over every surrounding scene, and in some degree deprived him of that
vivacity which had endeared him to his friends, and rendered his
society both pleasant and entertaining, while the cause of this
unaccountable revolution was suspected but by few.
De Willows had never before felt himself so forcibly struck with the
charms of the fond and artless Edeliza, which blazed upon him with
unusual lustre, from the stile and manner in which she had adorned and
heightened her modest beauties by the artillery of a dress admirably
chosen to captivate; and so well did she succeed, aided by the little
blind god, under whose banners she had ventured to en**t, that a change
took place in the heart of her favourite, against whom alone her
designs were levelled, as sudden as it was to himself surprising.
Madeline was almost forgotten, and as little regarded as his
grandmother would have been. Every thought, every wish now rested with
Edeliza,--the little girl whom he had so long considered and treated as
a mere playful child. He even felt himself angry with every gentleman
who paid her any attention, or appeared as well pleased with her as
himself, and his bosom actually throbbed with jealous indignation while
he observed her animated look and sparkling eye at the various
compliments addressed to her; but when she bestowed her smiles on
another it was agony.--Those enchanting smiles, those engaging looks,
till this ill-fated evening, had been wholly engrossed by himself, not,
till he knew the value of what he might lose, did he think he had
anything to fear;--the delusion was ended, and he felt himself engaged
in a new passion at the moment he was disengaged from an old one,
which, having never been cherished by hope, was the more easily subdued.
He observed (for love, though said to be blind, is at times amazingly
clear sighted) that De Clavering, the insensible, the fastidious De
Clavering, appeared like himself, particularly attentive to Edeliza,
condescended to say some civil things, hovered as near to her as
possible, and followed her with an approving eye, as she gracefully
exhibited her light and elegant figure in the dance, which, in his
opinion, by no means proved him so indifferent to her charms as he had
pretended to be in some of their unreserved and confidential
conversations.--He had declared to De Huntingfield, as she glided past
them, that she had a mine of harmony in her head, a troop of Cupids
lying in ambush round her eyes and mouth, and an army of virtues
encamped for life within her bosom.--De Willows heard him, and was
convinced De Clavering had designs against his peace, and was as much
in love as himself. The same charms which had so much influence on him
might have made a captive of his friend.
Thus, seriously in love, thus tortured by the sudden impulse of
jealousy, De Willows sullenly cursed the folly of giving balls,
execrated the misery of being obliged to mix with a crowd, and the
unpardonable levity of permitting young women of delicacy and fashion
to exhibit their beautiful persons and fine attitudes in the dance, to
amuse a parcel of unmeaning and designing fools, and wound those who
loved them,--while such robust amusements were only fit for Indian
girls or Hottentots. He almost determined never to go to another ball,
and to persuade Edeliza to form the same resolution.
Thus, with doubts, fears, and jealousies, was marked the beginning of a
passion in the mind of De Willows, which ended but with life, and which
every succeeding day, month, and year, served to strengthen and confirm.
The tragical tale of two lovers, who had been present at the ball, and
who seemed the happiest of the party, appeared to make a deep
impressions on all who heard it, and had so much influence on De
Willows, that he determined no part of his conduct should ever give a
moment's pain to the susceptible heart of Edeliza, if he should prove
so fortunate as to be entrusted with the precious deposit, and obtain
the consent of Sir Philip and Lady de Morney to bless him with the hand
of their lovely daughter. The tale we have alluded to, though
melancholy, being a real fact, we hope it will not be unacceptable to
our readers.
* * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Blandeville were the respectacle parents of a numerous
family, whom they educated from the produce of a well established and
profitable business. They had several daughters; the eldest, who was
both lively and handsome, was unfortunately admired by a young
gentleman of the name of Narford. The attachment had been cherished by
both parties from the time they went to school, and so marked were the
attentions which, even at that early age, they had shewn to each other,
that it had often excited the jokes and ridicule of their young
companions, who were in the habit of frequently addressing the timid
and blushing Lucy by the name of Mrs. Narford.
Her lover had the irreparable misfortune to lose both his parents
before any plan had been formed for his future establishment.--He was
likewise, unhappily for his interest, left to the care of inexperienced
and careless guardians, who permitted him, as his fortune was genteel,
to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His disposition being
lively in the extreme, led him into innumerable eccentricities, and his
juvenile indiscretions wasted a part of that fortune which should have
been kept for his maturer age.
When his clerkship was just expired, (for he was articled to an
attorney,) he made application to the parents of Lucy for leave to
address their daughter. Mr. Blandeville was no stranger to some part of
the vices and follies of which he had been guilty, but, as he likewise
knew that enough of his fortune still remained to secure his daughter
as comfortable an establishment as she had any right to expect, he
promised, if his future conduct was irreproachable, that, when he was
fixed in life, and able to provide for a family, he would give him the
hand of his daughter, and from that period he had permission to visit
Lucy as a lover, and was received at Mr. Blandeville's house as one of
the family.
Lovers, it is too well known, will say and promise any thing. This
observation was unhappily verified in the giddy and erring Narford,
who, though he sincerely loved the daughter of Mr. Blandeville, and
could not be ignorant that on his part he was equally beloved, very
soon broke his word, and ran into some glaring excesses, which could
not be long concealed from those whom it most materially concerned. The
gentle Lucy often ventured to reproach her lover, but his repentance
and promises of amendment very soon procured his forgiveness.--Not so
easily was the father to be softened. After repeatedly hearing of his
intemperance and consequent riots, he forbade him his house, and
prohibited his daughter from holding any further intercourse with one
so unworthy of her regard, who had given such frequent proofs of his
libertine disposition, had already wasted part of his property, and was
in a way to squander the whole.
Unfortunately the prudent prohibition of the father was disregarded by
the daughter, whose attachment to the unthinking Narford neither his
vices nor follies had been able to conquer. She lamented his failings,
but she could not subdue that attachment which had from so early a
period of her life been implanted in her heart. From him only she had
heard the tale of love, and he alone had obtained any interest in her
affections. Love had bound her in his silken fetters, and she had not
power to shake them off.
Many stolen interviews did the proscribed Narford obtain with his
believing and inexperienced mistress by means of that all-prevailing
traitor, gold, whose influence few of the needy children of dependence
can long withstand; nor could all the reproaches of a duteous and
uncorrupted heart prevent Lucy from listening to the beguiling flatterer.
At the time they met at the Castle they had not been able to see each
other for some weeks, and the pleasure was as great as it was
unexpected. Their present situation was past sorrows were forgotten in
their mutual joy, and the young lady easily prevailed upon to accept
the hand of her lover for the evening, as she still hoped it was the
hand destined to guide her through life.--Too happy in enjoying the
society for which she languished to recollect the causes which had
prevented their more frequent intercourse,--her spirits exhilirated by
the gay and cheerful party, and the enlivening sounds of music, she
listened to his vows with believing tenderness, and in a fond conceding
moment unreluctantly agreed to his proposal of a private marriage:--the
day was fixed, and the hour for escape appointed.
The plan once determined, they indulged themselves in all that innocent
fondness the prospect of being speedily united seemed to claim and
authorise, but their happiness was as unstable and visionary as their
plan. Some one that was present, either actuated by friendship to the
parents, or envious at seeing the exulting transports which sparkled in
the eyes of the lovers, and excited a suspicion of their design,
obtained sufficient intelligence from some broken sentences (conveyed
in rather loud whispers from the lips of Narford, who was too much
intoxicated with his unexpected success to be guarded by prudence) as
to betray their intention.
The next day a letter was sent to Mr. Blandeville, to inform him of the
plan, that he might take such steps as would prevent the threatening
mischief. In consequence of this unpleasing intelligence, the young
lady was so strictly confined and closely watched, that it was
impossible she could either receive or send any letters without being
discovered, and Mr. Blandeville was too much enraged at finding the
disobedient trick his daughter would have played him, to relax on
moment in his rigour or care to prevent her eloping.
Narford, in the mean time, not able either to see Lucy, or convey any
letter or message to her, became madly desperate, and ran into
innumerable excesses, which, in the opinion of the prudent and thinking
part of the world, justified the conduct of the lady's father, who
commanded her not to see him, nor attempt to leave her own apartment
till she could prevail upon herself to give him a solemn promise never
again to hold intercourse, by word or letter, with that base,
designing, and vile scoundrel, Narford.
The mother and sisters were equally offended with the unfortunate
lover, whose conduct, previous to the time he had been forbidden the
house of Mr. Blandeville, had in too may respects been highly
blameable; but, as is frequently the case, what in his behaviour was
worthy of praise had been concealed, while every deviation from
prudence and rectitude was basely and maliciously exaggerated, Narford
not having the happy art of concealing his frailties, or making himself
friends, by that bewitching softness of manners which, in our more
polished days, will recommend the most libertine characters, and
procure them a favourable and cordial reception in polite and even
virtuous circles.
After trying, by every art and stratagem to bribe, or elude, the
vigilance of Lucy's attendants, and making many attempts to soften the
displeasure of her parents, Narford, in a fit of despair and
intoxication, obtained by force an entrance into the house, and,
falling on his knees, in the most humiliating manner, and most
intelligible language he could command, begged they would permit him to
see and converse one hour with his beloved Lucy, who he had heard was
ill, and confined to her bed.
Though Mr. Blandeville fortunately was not at home, his request was
peremptorily denied; but Mrs. Blandeville, somewhat softened by his
agony, which, in spite of her anger, she could not help commiserating,
promised, that, as soon as her daughter was in a state of
convalescence, he should be indulged with seeing her in the presence of
herself and one of her daughter; at the same time she could not help
gently reproaching him for the inconsistency and unpardonable levity of
his conduct, which not only compelled Mr. Blandeville to adopt these
severe measures, but had involved her whole family in distress, as well
as the unfortunate girl he pretended to love, and had attempted to draw
aside from the paths of duty.
With great difficulty he was prevailed upon to leave the house, but not
before the sound of his voice had caught the ear of the unhappy Lucy.
She raised herself in the bed, and insisted on being informed what had
occurred to bring poor Narford, and why she had not seen him.--It was
now too late, (she added,) to run away; the danger of that was over;
therefore surely she might be allowed to speak peace to his mind, and
once more see him whom she had so long and so fondly loved, before the
hand of death should close her eyes for ever, and in that sad moment
shut out every bright ray of hope from his earthly prospects.
On being made acquainted with what had passed, and told the manner in
which her lover forced his way into the house, she burst into tears,
and exclaimed, she should never see him more in this world; "but he
will not survive me long, (she continued.) I know he cannot live in
peace when I am gone, and I hope a happier, world."
These conflicts brought on a return of fever, which a frame so
emaciated and weak as her's could not long sustain: it was succeeded by
a delirium. The grief she had long cherished had preyed upon a
constitution, always delicate, with so much violence as to render her
strength unequal to the contest. In a few days her life was pronounced
in the utmost danger, and hope was almost precluded.
No sooner was this sentence made known, that it was recommended to Mr.
Blandeville to send for the lover of his daughter. At length he yielded
somewhat reluctantly to the proposal. Narford came, and was admitted
into the darkened apartment of the dying Lucy, who laid totally
insensible of what passed around her. He heard her call upon his name,
yet could not prevail upon her either to look at of speak to him.--Her
eyes, glazed and obscured by the shades of death, and robbed of their
former lustre, were no longer able to distinguish the beloved object
for whom they shed so many tears, but, fixed on vacancy, seemed still
bent in search of something they wished to behold. Her lips moved, and
she appeared as if holding a conversation with some one her disordered
imagination fancied near her. The unhappy young man was so much
shocked, that it was with the utmost difficulty he could confine his
agonizing feelings from breaking forth into loud lamentations.--Somewhat
recovering from the first stroke of seeing the ruins which grief had made
on her with whom he had rested all his hopes, in whom were centered all
his wishes, he knelt by her bedside, and, tenderly clasping between is
own the burning hand of his almost dying mistress, he softly begged she
would once more speak to her distracted Narford.
The voice seemed to be understood; she suddenly turned her face towards
him, and feebly pressing his hand, in broken and hurried sentences said
something to him.--Only the words, "Dear Narford, we must part, and part
for ever!" were understood; and, after making a feeble effort to draw him
closer to her side, as if afraid he should leave her, she was seized with
convulsions, which obliged the terrified lover to quit the room. He
rushed out of the house in a state little less alarming than that in
which he had left the fair cause of his distress.
The whole night he wandered before the habitation of the dying
Lucy,--for that she was dying the horrid scene he had witnessed, the
countenances of those around her, and his own feelings, too well
informed him. During the long and gloomy night, in which he remained
exposed to and unsheltered from the wind and storm, he frequently
stopped to listened at the door. All within was silent and cheerless as
the grave, and in every sound that reached his ear from without, he
imagined he could distinguish groans and sighs. Every object he could
see brought to his tortured imagination the distressing, the convulsed
figure of the once-animated and lovely Lucy, whose distorted features
and painful struggles were ever before his mental sight, there to remain
fixed as long as his existence should endure; for was it possible he
could ever forget or wish to lose the remembrance of that persecuted and
innocent sufferer, who died for the unworthy, the unfortunate Narford?
At length the day broke. The sun arose with its usual splendor, but
appeared to him dark as Erebus. All nature wore one universal gloom, and
had all nature been at that moment annihilated, (as were his hopes,) the
change had been scarcely perceived; for Lucy, who gave to life its
brightest tints, and to all things animate or inanimate, grace, beauty,
and value, was seen no more!--No longer the soft tones of her voice
vibrated on his ear to lull his soul to peace, or, if seen, she had lost
all recollection of the poor forlorn wanderer, who now felt ten-fold
every pang she suffered.
Late in the morning Narford saw a female servant slowly open the door.
He ran, or rather flew, to make his trembling inquiries. She was in
tears, and totally unable to tell him that it was over,--that the
loveliest of women, the favourite child of nature, was no longer the
victim of pain and sorrow, and that her freed spirit now soared beyond
the reach of persecution, "the mortal having put on immortality;" but
her emphatical silence unfolded the sad tale.--A freezing chilness ran
thrilling to his heart, and with a groan of despair he sunk upon his
parent earth. In that happy state of insensibility he was conveyed to
his lodgings by some people who were passing by, where we will for the
present leave him to the care of his sympathizing friends.
This unfortunate young man, notwithstanding his unguarded conduct and
numerous eccentricities, was beloved by many for his generous
disposition, cheerfulness, and unceasing good humour.
In the house of Mr. and Mrs. Blandeville all was distraction, despair,
and self-reproach. The illness and subsequent death of a beloved and
amiable child laid heavy at their hearts, and overwhelmed them like the
sudden bursting of a torrent; for, though prudence forbade them to unite
their daughter to a man whose conduct threatened her with many sorrows,
at the moment they wished to put an end to so unpromising an union, they
had no idea that any fatal consequences would have attended the
separation, and they too late regretted not having granted Narford's
request of being permitted to see their daughter at a more early stage
of her illness.--Mr. Blandeville drooped under his own painful
reflections, his wife felt more than she either could or wished to
express, and the younger part of the family were for a time inconsolable.
The tale spread rapidly abroad, and in all its various shapes excited
the compassion of those who heard it. Lucy had been as generally beloved
as admired, and Narford, who had once appeared deserving of contempt,
was now the object of pity. Such are the rapid changes which take place
in the human mind.
Mrs. Blandeville, unknown to the rest of the family, sent several times
to make inquiries after the unhappy Narford. The accounts she received
were as various as the melancholy changes which succeeded each other. He
was sometimes in a state of actual distraction,--at others in a sad and
silent despondency the most determined and alarming, refusing to take
his food, or to hold conversation with any one.
At length the day for the interment of Lucy arrived. The procession, sad
and slow, was followed by almost every inhabitant of the town and
adjoining villages. A solemn dirge was sung as they went along, and a
number of young maidens joined in the chorus. Flowers were strewn into
and around the grave, as emblematical of the charming flower that like
themselves was untimely cut down, and doomed like them to wither and to
die.
The service began;--the coffin was carefully let down into the grave,
and, just as the earth was thrown upon it, and the priest pronounced
that awful and humiliating sentence,--"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust," a figure, with dishevelled hair, and a face pale as that
of the victim just deposited in her last sad resting place, rushed past
them all, and quick as lightening, before any one could suspect of think
of preventing his design, threw himself with the utmost violence into
the grave, and, clinging with agonizing frenzy to the coffin, cried out,
"I have found her now, and no one shall ever again tear her from me, for
she was mine,--mine by her own consent! Proceed, (added he, in a shrill
and distracted tone, for the surprise and confusion that this scene
occasioned had prevented the service going on,)--be quick, and hide me
in the friendly earth!--I come to sleep with Lucy:--this is our bridal
bed!--Why do you hesitate?--here I shall find rest for ever:--this is my
home, and here shall be my heaven!"
The priest endeavoured to persuade him to quit the grave, and let the
ceremony be concluded, telling him, time and patience would, he hoped,
reconcile him to the will of heaven, and convince him that all things
were ordered for the best and the wisest purposes.
"Avaunt, deceiver! (cried the enraged maniac.)--I tell you that Lucy was
unfairly robbed of life,--stolen from my arms, and forced into this
place, where I will watch by her and protect her from farther
violence;--therefore say no more, lest my daring hand should attempt to
pluck the sun from his orbit, or call upon the stars to fall upon your
head, and mine for permitting a star more brilliant than themselves to
fall.--Go on, I say,--bury me deep and sure!--I wish to become a worm,
that I may crawl to the side of Lucy.--She will own her poor distracted
Narford, even in that most loathsome and degraded form."
It is impossible to describe the scene that followed. Many attempts were
made before the poor young man could be dragged from the grave of his
lamented mistress.--At length, he was forcibly taken out,--guarded, and
carried home by some of the weeping spectators.
It was many months before any hopes of his recovery could be cherished.
His reason was still more endangered, and, from that period to the end
of his unfortunate life, he was deranged at times, and by his conduct
appeared as much a lunatic in his intervals of reason. He very soon
squandered all that remained of his fortune, and became a wanderer upon
the earth, never having a settled home, and seldom going into a bed.
He was frequently absent so long, that his friends concluded he was no
more.--He would then return to those scenes which never failed to bring
on a renewal of his unfortunate malady, and would lay whole nights by
the side of Lucy's grave, talking to her with the fame ardour and
enthusiastic affection as if she had been living.
At length Mr. Blandeville, whom he would, as frequently as he saw him in
his fits of insanity, attack with the most pointed and virulent abuse,
took compassion on his sufferings, and settled a sum of money upon him,
to be paid quarterly, sufficiently competent to procure him the
necessaries and many of the comforts of life; placing him in a family
who had been long attached to him, and who continued to take the utmost
care of him to the end of his wretched existence, and by every tender
attention softened, as much as it was in human power, those sorrows
which could only terminate in death.