feelings, we offer to our readers a simple story; and when we say that
it is a true one, we may hope to claim an interest very different from
that which is inspired by ingenious fiction.
There may be some who yet remember Fanny Rutherford, of the Parish of
Carwhinn. She was one of the most gentle and amiable creatures that ever
breathed--warm in her attachments, confiding in her love, and mild and
kind in her dispositions. The daughter of a country gentleman, of small
estate, but of great respectability, she was, at the period of our
story, in her nineteenth year. Her father, though by no means wealthy,
had spared no expense in her education; and her quick natural parts
enabled her to derive all the benefit which that education was intended
to confer. She was also the joy of two brothers, both intelligent,
clever young men, bred to agricultural pursuits, in which they were
largely and extensively engaged.
Mr Rutherford was a widower; and his household duties therefore devolved
upon Fanny, who discharged them with exemplary propriety.
Hitherto, though of an ardent, susceptible, and even romantic
disposition, Fanny's peace had never been disturbed by love. The quiet
tenor of her days had passed away in the enjoyment of domestic
happiness, and in the interchange of endearments with her father and
brothers, to whom she was devotedly attached, and by whom she was most
sincerely and tenderly loved in return. Neither a thought nor a wish
beyond the sphere of this little round of felicity ever entered the
pure and unsophisticated mind of the happy and innocent girl. But this
was a happiness that was not to last. Love, that bane or blessing of
woman's existence, as its object is unworthy or otherwise, at length
found its way into the guileless bosom of Fanny Rutherford; and, oh,
what a consummation awaited that unfortunate attachment!
At the distance of about a mile from Mr Rutherford's, there lived a
young man of the name of Raeburn, the son of a gentleman in similar
circumstances with the former--that is, a small landed proprietor. This
young man, who had received a very liberal education, was possessed of
an agreeable person and of exceedingly pleasing manners; but there were
occasional developments of character that but very indifferently
harmonised with these qualities; and there were, besides, more than one
little incident in his life that betrayed a degree of selfishness, not
to say heartlessness, that would by no means have been expected in one
of so frank and cheerful a disposition. Still these symptoms were, after
all, of so trifling a character, that they could scarcely be said to
have affected the reputation which Raeburn aimed at, and succeeded with
a great many in acquiring--namely, that of a dashing, careless,
good-hearted, and liberal-minded young fellow.
At this period, Henry Raeburn was residing at home, waiting for an
appointment in the civil service of the East India Company, which had
been promised him by a friend of his father's; and much of the spare
time which his present circumstances placed at his disposal he spent at
Mr Rutherford's, where his agreeable manners and general intelligence
made him at all times a welcome visiter. But to none of the members of
the family were these visits more agreeable than to Fanny, over whose
affections his insinuating address and handsome exterior had made a
complete conquest. Nor was Raeburn himself apparently less the victim
of this passion than she was. He took every opportunity of pouring into
her ear the most ardent expressions of attachment. A thousand times he
swore that he was hers for ever--that the sun would change his course,
the stars forget to shine, ere he became inconstant to his Fanny. To all
these professions of love the unsuspecting and confiding girl lent a
willing ear, and listened and listened to the fascinating tale again and
again, till her whole soul became absorbed by one single idea--until she
found, in short, that she lived for Henry Raeburn alone.
Whether Raeburn was sincere in his professions of attachment to Fanny
Rutherford, at this stage of their acquaintance, we cannot say, and have
no means of ascertaining. That was a circumstance known to his Creator
and himself alone.
The young people, however, made no attempts to conceal their mutual
attachment--at least Fanny made none to conceal hers. Indeed, the
guileless simplicity, and open and candid nature, of the amiable girl
rendered her incapable of concealing it. Neither, though she could,
would she have done it: her sense of propriety and delicacy of feeling
would not have permitted her.
Fanny's father and brothers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the
attachment alluded to; and although, of course, the marriage of the
parties was a thing not to be thought of in their present circumstances,
yet, as Henry was likely soon to obtain a lucrative situation in India,
it was a very probable and very desirable contingency; and with this
prospective consideration, Fanny's father did not disapprove of her
choice, as young Raeburn was otherwise, by birth and education, a
perfectly eligible match for his daughter. All that was wanting was
fortune; and this was a desideratum which there was a reasonable
probability of Henry soon supplying.
When we said, however, that the visits of Fanny's lover were acceptable
to all the members of Mr Rutherford's family, we said fully more than
the facts warranted. There was one, at any rate, of that family to whom
these visits were not only not acceptable, but positively disagreeable.
This person was Fanny's eldest brother, Edward. Possessed of more
penetration than his father or younger brother, he had perceived
something in the character of Raeburn which he did not like, and which
struck him as being strangely at variance with his general pretensions
and professions. He had, in short, discovered several instances of
selfishness and want of principle in the young man, which, though they
were but of a trifling nature, had early imbued him with a secret
prejudice against him; and this he did not hesitate to avow to his own
family, and particularly to Fanny; but, in the latter case, his avowal
was always accompanied by the most tender expressions of affection for
herself, as if to convince her that it was on her account alone that he
feared.
One day, on her returning from Mr Raeburn's, where she had been to an
entertainment, and when Henry, who had accompanied her home, had just
left the house--
"My dear Fanny," said her brother, addressing her in the blunt way
peculiar to him, and taking her affectionately by the hand, "I don't
like that fellow Raeburn. I would not willingly or needlessly say any
thing harsh of anyone whom you esteem; but you are guileless, Fanny, and
ignorant of the ways of the world, still more so of the faithlessness of
man, and therefore liable to have your judgment misled by your heart. Be
cautious--be guarded, then, Fanny. Do, for your own sake, my dear
sister, be cautious how you admit this man to tamper with your
affections."
"Edward!" replied Fanny, bursting into tears, "what is the meaning of
this solemn objurgation? I have never done, and never will do, anything
without my father's consent and yours, Edward. But surely, surely you
judge unfairly of Henry, Edward. He is far too honourable and upright
to deceive any one, much less----"
"You, you would say," interrupted her brother.
Fanny blushed slightly, and went on: "If you had heard him, as I have
often done, express his sentiments on the duties we owe to each other,
and speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct, you would
entertain a very different opinion of him--I am sure you would, Edward."
"Simple girl, simple girl!" said her brother. "He speak of the duties we
owe to each other! He speak of the rules which ought to regulate our
conduct!" he added, with a bitter sneer. "Well, perhaps it is all right,
Fanny," he went on; "I may have judged harshly of Raeburn, and may be
doing him an injustice; but, if I am, I never was more mistaken in a man
in my life. But, Fanny," he added, with a sudden energy of manner, "here
I swear--and I wish Raeburn heard the oath--that, if he deceive or
injure you, I will pursue him to the ends of the earth--ay, through the
snows of Greenland, or the burning deserts of the tropics--and seek a
reparation that will cost the lives of one or both of us."
"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed the weeping girl, terrified at the fierce
looks and manner of her brother, yet at the same time throwing herself
into his arms. "What dreadful language is this, Edward? What grounds on
earth have you for anticipating so dreadful a catastrophe? I am sure you
have seen nothing to warrant your expressing yourself in this frightful
manner."
"I have not said that I anticipated anything, Fanny, regarding this
attachment of yours," replied her brother. "I spoke only hypothetically.
But, from this hour, I say no more on the subject. I trust, however,
that what I have said will not be without its effect upon you, Fanny.
You will perceive, my dear sister," he added, embracing her tenderly,
"that it is my affection, and, I will add, my fears, for you, that have
prompted all I have said."
"I know it, Edward--I know it," replied Fanny; "and I am grateful to
you. But you will soon learn to like Henry better than you now do."
"Woman, woman--still woman to the last," said her brother, smiling. "But
do, Fanny, permit what I have said to make some impression on you." And
Edward left the apartment.
Woman, woman still, as her brother had said, the warmhearted girl's
affections for Raeburn suffered no diminution whatever from what had
just passed between her and her brother. In truth, as such interferences
almost always do, it had the effect rather of increasing her love, by
placing the object of her affections--in her sight, at any rate--in the
light of one who is injured by being harshly judged of.
"My Henry deceive me!" she thought within herself on this
occasion--"impossible! impossible! That kind and gentle look!--can that
deceive? That benignant smile!--can there be treachery there? That frank
and open manner!--is that assumed? No, no, Edward--you wrong Henry; you
do indeed, Edward. You wrong him grievously."
Such were the reflections in which Fanny Rutherford indulged when her
brother had left her, and such was the effect which his fears and
suspicions had upon her unsuspecting and confiding heart.
We have already informed the reader that Raeburn was at this time
waiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India
Company. This appointment he at length obtained, and he was, at the same
time, ordered to proceed immediately to London, to embark for his new
destination; and with this order he complied, after taking an
affectionate leave of Fanny, to whom he once more, and for the last
time, vowed eternal constancy and love. It is almost unnecessary to add,
that a mutual promise to maintain a frequent and regular correspondence
during the period of their separation was also given by the lovers. But,
besides all this, a distinct arrangement, to which Fanny's father and
brothers were privy, was likewise made, that, so soon as Henry should be
fairly settled in India, and should have ascertained that his income was
sufficient to warrant such a step, Fanny, being previously informed of
this, was to join him, when their destinies should be united.
These matters arranged, Henry proceeded to London, where he soon after
embarked for Calcutta, which he eventually reached in safety, at the end
of the usual period occupied in that voyage.
Faithful to his promise, Henry, soon after his arrival, wrote to Fanny,
and gave a very flattering account of his situation and prospects,
expressing, at the same time, a hope that he would soon be in a
condition to invite her to come out and partake his good fortune.
This letter was followed in due time by another, in which the same
sentiments of love and affection were expressed; but it contained a less
flattering account of his circumstances. These, the writer said, had
scarcely answered the expectations he had formed from them on his first
arrival; and he feared, if they did not improve, that, however painful
their separation was to him, he would be compelled to submit to its
continuance for some time, as he could not think of bringing her there,
so far from her home and her friends, until he should be able to receive
her in a manner that would more unequivocally bespeak the sincerity of
his love than his present means would admit of.
These two letters, as we have said, came in due time; and,
notwithstanding the discouraging tenor of the last, were received by
poor Fanny with the most unfeigned delight. But, when the time came
round that another letter should have reached her from her lover, it was
in vain that the affectionate girl looked for that solace to her
wearied spirit. Week after week passed away, month succeeded month, and,
finally, year followed year, and still no letter came, to raise the
prostrate and withering hopes of poor Fanny Rutherford. For some time
she was impressed with a conviction that her lover was dead; for she
could not, and would not, believe that her Henry was faithless. But in
this belief--perhaps the least afflicting of the two--she was not
permitted long to remain; for it was ascertained, through Henry's
father, not only that he was still living, but that he was getting on
prosperously, and in a fair way of soon realising a fortune.
Unwilling, unwilling, indeed, was poor Fanny to believe this account of
Henry--but it was certain; and this certainty of the neglectfulness, or,
yet worse, faithlessness, of her lover threatened to hurry her to a
premature grave.
Nearly three years had now passed away since the receipt of her last
letter from Henry; and she had long given up all hopes of ever hearing
from him again, or of ever being more to him than she then was. While
sitting alone, however, one morning about this period, her head leaning
upon her hand, and listlessly gazing through a window that overlooked
the approach to her father's house, her curiosity was slightly excited
by observing the person who usually brought the letters from the
neighbouring village hurrying with unwonted speed towards the house,
and, as she approached nearer, waving a letter which she held in her
hand towards Fanny. In an instant the blood, which had long forsaken the
poor girl's cheeks, rushed back to its forgotten repositories. Her heart
beat fast and thick, and a violent tremor seized on her whole emaciated
frame. The letter was, and she now knew it, from Henry Raeburn.
Having got possession of the intensely-interesting document, she rushed
with it up-stairs to her own apartment, bolted the door, and flung
herself down on a bed; laying, at the same time, the letter, which,
from excessive agitation, she was unable at the moment to open, on a
small table beside her. Having, however, in a few minutes regained as
much composure as she conceived would enable her to venture on the
exciting task of perusing the letter, she arose, seized it convulsively,
and staggered with it unfolded in her grasp towards the window, where
she began to read. The letter commenced thus--
"MY DEAREST, DEAREST FANNY,--What is the meaning of this?
Cruel, cruel girl, it is now precisely two years and a-half
since I received your last letter, although I have written to
you at least six or seven times during that period. What a
relief, Fanny, it would be to my mind, to know that these
letters of mine had miscarried--that they had never reached
you!--for, in that case, I might still hope, still believe,
that my Fanny was faithful. Indeed, it is in this hope that I
live; for, as I have been for the last two years going from
place to place, at a great distance in the interior, I think it
not improbable that my letters--all of which were despatched
from these remote residences--have never found their way to
you."
The writer then went on, praying Fanny not to lose a moment in relieving
his mind on this, to him, he said, most painful subject. After a good
deal more to similar purpose, he continued--
"Will my Fanny not take it amiss--she will not, I know, if she
still be to me as she once was, and what I still am to her--if
I request her to send me her portrait?--that, since fortune
still denies me the happiness of contemplating the original, I
may, as I assuredly will, find some consolation in possessing
the copy. I will then," continued the writer, "have you present
to my corporeal eye, as you are, and have constantly been, to
my mental vision. Enclosed, my dearest Fanny, you have a draft
for twenty guineas, which please apply to the purpose just
expressed, and let there not be a moment lost in forwarding me
your beloved picture."
The writer then went on to say, that he expected to be in a condition to
invite her out in the course of a twelvemonth or so; and ultimately
finished by a repetition of the most tender expressions of affection and
love.
When Fanny had completed the perusal of this, to her, most gratifying
letter--that is, after she had read it at least six times over--she
rushed wildly down-stairs in quest of her brother Edward; and having
found him, "See, see, Edward!" exclaimed the delighted girl, forcing the
letter into his hands; "read that, Edward, and acknowledge, my brother,
the injustice which you and all of us have done to Henry. I knew, I
knew," she went on, "my Henry would not deceive me. I felt assured that
his silence and seeming neglect would one day be satisfactorily
accounted for, and without impugning his honour."
To these expressions of joy, and delight, and confidence, Fanny's
brother made no reply, but sat down coolly to read the letter that had
been put into his hands; and greatly disappointed was the poor girl, who
was watching his countenance with the most intense interest, while he
read, to find that the contents seemed to excite in him no emotion
whatever. When he finished--"Well, Fanny," he said, dryly, at the same
time carelessly returning her the letter, "it's all very well. I am glad
to find that Raeburn is not altogether the man I feared he was. He seems
to think of you with unabated regard still, Fanny."
"Oh yes, Edward!--oh yes! I knew Henry would not deceive me!" again
repeated the unsuspecting and delighted girl.
Edward, as we have already said, tenderly loved Fanny; and it was this
regard for her that prevented him saying all he thought of the letter he
had just read. He would not, for any consideration, have damped the
feelings of joy and happiness which it had inspired in the bosom of his
sister, by making any remarks that might have a tendency of that kind;
but he could not help observing sufficient grounds for such
observations. He saw, in the first place, that Raeburn's assertion that
he had written several letters to Fanny was a downright falsehood, or,
at best, of a very suspicious character; for his father--who lived, as
the reader will recollect we have already said, in the immediate
neighbourhood, and whom he frequently met with--had never made any
complaint of any interruption in his son's correspondence; and he
(Edward), moreover, knew that Henry's father had received many letters
from him during the very period of the suspension of his correspondence
with Fanny. It therefore appeared extremely odd to him that all the
letters addressed to the one should have miscarried, while all those
addressed to the other had reached their destination in safety, and in
due course of time. In the next place, Edward saw, or thought he saw,
that the general tenor of the letter was forced and unnatural; and,
lastly, that procrastination was apparently still the object of the
writer, notwithstanding his having vaguely named a period when he should
invite Fanny to share his fortunes as his wife.
All this Edward perceived in the letter in question; but the worst he
thought of it was, that Raeburn had for a time forgotten his sister,
probably in a temporary regard for another, and that his affection for
her having returned, he was now anxious to atone for his negligence or
infidelity; and, under this impression, he was willing to overlook the
subterfuge to which Raeburn had had recourse, to account for his
silence; and, in these views of the matter, Edward's father and brother
concurred.
Two or three days after the receipt of Henry's letter, Fanny, though in
a very indifferent state of health, proceeded to Edinburgh, and had her
likeness taken there in miniature. On her return, the picture was
carefully packed in a small box or case, and, accompanied by a letter
from Fanny, despatched to its remote destination. In this letter, the
poor girl, in allusion to the portrait, said--"I have, in compliance
with your wishes, Henry, sent you my portrait; but I fear it will sadly
disappoint you; for a more unpropitious time for transferring my
miserable countenance to canvas (I believe, however, in this case it is
ivory) could scarcely have been chosen; for I have been extremely ill
for a long time past, and am yet very far from being well. I have been
broken-hearted, Henry, and have been labouring under the worst and most
hopeless of all diseases--a crushed and broken spirit."
Thus did the poor girl allude to the misery which Raeburn's neglect had
entailed on her. Her delicacy forbade her saying more, and her candid
and confiding disposition would not permit her to say less.
Leaving matters in this state at Rose Vale (the name of Mr Rutherford's
residence), we will, with the reader's consent, embark in the same ship
with Fanny's portrait, and proceed to the East Indies, to see with our
own eyes what, at this period, was the general conduct, character, and
circumstances of him for whom that picture was intended. Having done
this--an easy matter with you and us, good reader, though no trifling
affair to others--we shall find Raeburn residing in a very handsome
house at Calcutta; and in one of the most conspicuous places in one of
the principal rooms in that house, we shall find the portrait of Fanny
Rutherford suspended--and well worthy of the distinction was this
likeness of the lovely girl. Beautiful! exceedingly beautiful in her
sadness!--for the painter had been faithful; and but too plainly did
that picture tell of sorrow and of suffering--"of hope deferred, that
maketh the heart sick." Nor did Henry Raeburn seem insensible to the
beauty expressed in that little picture. To every one who visited him he
showed it, with an air of exultation and triumph; pressed on their
notice the soft expression of the fine dark eye, the light, delicate,
and well-arched eyebrow, the ruby lip, and elegantly-formed nose and
chin. But, be it remarked--and it was an odd circumstance--it was to
the young unmarried men alone who visited him that he showed the
picture, and that he thus dwelt on the details of its beauties. Strange
distinction this--to the unmarried alone that he showed the picture, and
enlarged on the attractions of its subject! What does this mean? Much,
much it means; and a darker or more atrocious meaning never disgraced
the act of man. But we will leave the full explanation of this atrocity
to be developed by the progress of our story.