Long after Miss Daly's departure, Lady Eleanor continued to discuss the
eccentricity of her manners and the wilful abruptness of her address;
for although deeply sensible and grateful for her kindness, she dwelt on
every' peculiarity of her appearance with a pertinacity that more than
once surprised her daughter. Helen, indeed, was very far from being a
patient listener, not only because she was more tolerant in her estimate
of their visitor, but because she was eager to read the letter so
secretly intrusted to her hands. A dread of some unknown calamity, some
sad tidings of her father or Lionel, was ever uppermost in her thoughts,
nor could she banish the impression that Miss Daly's visit had another
and very different object than that which she alleged to Lady Eleanor.
It may be reckoned among the well-known contrarieties of life, that our
friends are never more disposed to be long-winded and discursive than at
the very time we would give the world to be alone and to ourselves. With
a most malicious intensity they seem to select that moment for indulging
in all those speculations by which people while away the weary hours.
In such a mood was Lady Eleanor Darcy. Not only did she canvass and
criticise Miss Daly, as she appeared before them, but went off into
long rambling reminiscences of all she had formerly heard about her;
for although they had never met before, Miss Daly had been the reigning
Belle of the West before her own arrival in Ireland.
“She must have been handsome, Helen, don't you think so?” said she, at
the end of a long enumeration of the various eccentricities imputed to
her.
“I should say very handsome,” replied Helen.
“Scarcely feminine enough, perhaps,” resumed Lady Eleanor,--“the
features too bold, the expression too decided; but this may have been
the fault of a social tone, which required everything in exaggeration,
and would tolerate nothing save in excess.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Helen, vaguely assenting to a remark she had not
attended to.
“I never fancied that style, either in beauty or in manner,” continued
Lady Eleanor. “It wants, in the first place, the great element of
pleasing; it is not natural.”
“No, mamma!” rejoined Helen, mechanically as before.
“Besides,” continued Lady Eleanor, gratified at her daughter's ready
assent, “for one person to whom these mannerisms are becoming, there are
at least a hundred slavish imitators ready to adopt without taste, and
follow without discrimination. Now, Miss Daly was the fashion once. Who
can say to what heresies she has given origin, to what absurdities in
dress, in manner, and in bearing?”
Helen smiled, and nodded an acquiescence without knowing to what.
“There is one evil attendant on all this,” said Lady Eleanor, who, with
the merciless ingenuity of a thorough poser, went on ratiocinating from
her own thoughts; “one can rarely rely upon even the kindest intentions
of people of this sort, so often are their best offices but mere
passing, fitful impulses; don't you think so?”
“Yes, mamma,” said Helen, roused by this sudden appeal to a more than
usual acquiescence, while totally ignorant as to what.
“Then, they have seldom any discretion, even when they mean well.”
“No, mamma.”
“While they expect the most implicit compliance on your part with every
scheme they have devised for your benefit.”
“Very true,” chimed in Helen, who assented at random.
“Sad alternative,” sighed Lady Eleanor, “between such rash friendship
and the lukewarm kindness of our courtly cousin.”
“I think not!” said Helen, who fancied she was still following the
current of her mother's reflections.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, iu astonishment, while she looked at
her daughter for an explanation.
“I quite agree with you, mamma,” cried Helen, blushing as she spoke, for
she was suddenly recalled to herself.
“The more fortunate is the acquiescence, my dear,” said Lady Eleanor,
dryly, “since it seems perfectly instinctive. I find, Helen, you have
not been a very attentive listener, and as I conclude I must have been a
very unamusing companion, I'll even say good-night; nay, my sweet child,
it is late enough not to seek excuse for weariness--goodnight.”
Helen blushed deeply; dissimulation was a very difficult task to her,
and for a moment seemed more than her strength could bear. She had
resolved to place the letter in her mother's hands, when the thought
flashed across her, that if its contents might occasion any sudden or
severe shock, she would never forgive herself. This mental struggle,
brief as it was, brought the tears to her eyes,--an emotion Lady Eleanor
attributed to a different cause, as she said,--
“You do not suppose, my dearest Helen, that I am angry because your
thoughts took a pleasanter path than my owu.”
“Oh, no,-no!” cried Helen, eagerly, “I know you are not. It is my own--”
She stopped; another word would have revealed everything, and with an
affectionate embrace she hurried from the room.
“Poor child!” exclaimed her mother; “the courage that sustained us both
so long is beginning to fail her now; and yet I feel as if our trials
were but commencing.”
While Lady Eleanor dwelt on these sad thoughts, Helen sat beside her bed
weeping bitterly.
“How shall I bear up,” thought she, “if deprived of that confiding trust
a mother's love has ever supplied,--without one to counsel or direct
me?”
Half fearing to open the letter, lest all her resolves should be altered
by its contents, she remained a long time balancing one difficulty
against another. Wearied and undecided, she turned at last to the letter
itself, as if for advice. It was a strange hand, and addressed to “Miss
Daly.” With trembling fingers she unfolded the paper, and read the
writer's name,--“Richard Forester.”
[Illustration: 186]
A flood of grateful tears burst forth as she read the words; a sense
of relief from impending calamity stole over her mind, while she said,
“Thank God! my father and Lionel--” She could say no more, for sobbing
choked her utterance. The emotions, if violent, passed rapidly off; and
as she wiped away her tears, a smile of hope lit up her features. At any
other time she would have speculated long and carefully over the causes
which made Forester correspond with Miss Daly, and by what right she
herself should be intrusted with his letter. Now her thoughts were
hurried along too rapidly for reflection. The vague dread of misfortune,
so suddenly removed, suggested a sense of gratitude that thrilled
through her heart like joy. In such a frame of mind she read the
following lines:--
At Sea. My dear Miss Daly,-I cannot thank you enough for your letter,
so full of kindness, of encouragement, and of hope. How much I stand
in need of them! I have strictly followed every portion of your
counsel,--would that I could tell you as successfully as implicitly!
The address of this letter will, however, be the shortest reply to that
question. I write these lines from the “Hermione” frigate. Yes, I am a
volunteer in the expedition to the Mediterranean; and only think who is
my commanding officer,--the Knight himself. I had enrolled myself
under the name of Conway; but when called up on deck this morning for
inspection, such was my surprise on seeing the Knight of Gwynne, or, as
he is now called, Colonel Darcy, I almost betrayed myself. Fortunately,
however, I escaped unnoticed,--a circumstance I believe I owe chiefly to
the fact that several young men of family are also volunteers, so that
my position attracted no unusual attention. It was a most anxious moment
for me as the colonel came down the line, addressing a word here and
there as he went; he stopped within one of me, and spoke for some
seconds to a young fellow whose appearance indicated delicate health.
How full of gentleness and benevolence were his words! But when he
turned and fixed his eyes on me, my heart beat so quick, my head grew
so dizzy, I thought I should have fainted. He remained at least half a
minute in front of me, and then asked the orderly for my name--“Conway!
Conway!” repeated he more than once. “A very old name. I hope you'll do
it credit, sir,” added he, and moved on,--how much to my relief I need
not say. What a strange rencontre! Often as I wonder at the singular
necessity that has made me a private soldier, all my astonishment is
lost in thinking of the Knight of Gwynne's presence amongst us; and yet
he looks the soldier even as much as he did the country gentleman when
I first saw him, and, strangely too, seems younger and more active than
before. To see him here, chatting with the officers under his command,
moving about, taking interest in everything that goes on, who would
suspect the change of fortune that has befallen him! Not a vestige
of discontent, not even a passing look of impatience on his handsome
features; and yet, with this example before me, and the consciousness
that my altered condition is nothing in comparison with his, I am
low-spirited and void of hope! But a few weeks ago I would have thought
myself the luckiest fellow breathing, if told that I were to serve
under Colonel Darcy, and now I feel ashamed and abashed, and dread a
recognition every time I see him. In good truth, I cannot forget the
presumption that led me first to his acquaintance. My mind dwells on
that unhappy mission to the West, and its consequences. My foolish
vanity in supposing that I, a mere boy, uninformed, and without
reflection, should be able to influence a man so much my superior in
every way! and this, bad as it is, is the most favorable view of my
conduct, for I dare not recall the dishonorable means by which I was to
buy his support. Then, I think of my heedless and disreputable quarrel.
What motives and what actions in the eyes of her whose affection I
sought! How worthily am I punished for my presumption!
I told you that I strictly followed the advice of your last letter.
Immediately on receiving it I wrote a few lines to my mother, entreating
her permission to see and speak with her, and expressing an earnest
hope that our interview would end in restoring me to the place I so long
enjoyed in her affection. A very formal note, appointing the following
day, was all the reply.
On arriving at Berkeley Square, and entering the drawing-room, I found,
to my great astonishment, I will not say more, that a gentleman, a
stranger to me, was already there, seated at the fire, opposite my
mother, and with that easy air that bespoke his visit was not merely
accidental, but a matter of pre-arrangement.
Whatever my looks might have conveyed, I know not, but I was not given
the opportunity for a more explicit inquiry, when my mother, in her
stateliest of manners, arose and said,--
“Richard, I wish to present you to my esteemed friend, Lord Netherby;
a gentleman to whose kindness you are indebted for any favorable
construction I can put upon your folly, and who has induced me to
receive you here to-day.”
“If I knew, madam, that such influence had been necessary, I should
have hesitated before I laid myself under so deep an obligation to his
Lordship, to whose name and merits I confess myself a stranger.”
“I am but too happy, Captain Forester,” interposed the Earl, “if any
little interest I possess in Lady Wallincourt's esteem enables me to
contribute to your reconciliation. I know the great delicacy of
an interference, in a case like the present, and how officious and
impertinent the most respectful suggestions must appear, when offered by
one who can lay no claim, at least to _your_ good opinion.”
A very significant emphasis on the word “your,” a look towards my
mother, and a very meaning smile from her in reply, at once revealed to
me what, till then, I had not suspected,--that his Lordship meditated a
deeper influence over her Ladyship's heart than the mere reconciliation
of a truant son to her esteem.
“I believe, my Lord,” said I, hastily, and I fear not without some
anger,--“I believe I should not have dared to decline your kind
influence in my behalf, had I suspected the terms on which you would
exert it. I really was not aware before that you possessed, so fully,
her Ladyship's confidence.”
“If you read the morning papers, Captain Forester,” said he, with the
blandest smile, “you could scarcely avoid learning that my presence here
is neither an intrusion nor an impertinence.”
“My dear mother,” cried I, forgetting all, save the long-continued grief
by which my father's memory was hallowed, “is this really the case?”
“I can forgive your astonishment,” replied she, with a look of anger,
“that the qualities you hold so highly in your esteem should have met
favor from one so placed and gifted as the Earl of Netherby.”
“Nay, madam; on the contrary. My difficulty is to think how any new
proffer of attachment could find reception in a heart I fondly thought
closed against such appeals; too full of its own memories of the past to
profane the recollection by--”
I hesitated and stopped. Another moment, and I would have uttered a word
which for worlds I would not have spoken.
My mother became suddenly pale as marble, and lay back in her chair
as if faint and sick. His Lordship adjusted his neckcloth and his
watch-chain, and walked towards the window, with an air of as much
awkwardness as so very courtly a personage could exhibit.
“You see, my Lord,” said my mother,--and her voice trembled at every
word,--“you see, I was right: I told you how much this interview would
agitate and distress me.”
“But it need not, madam,” interposed I; “or, at all events, it may be
rendered very brief. I sought an opportunity of speaking to you, in the
hope that whatever impressions you may have received of my conduct in
Ireland were either exaggerated or unjust; that I might convince you,
however I may have erred in prudence or judgment, I have transgressed
neither in honor nor good faith.”
“Vindications,” said my mother, “are very weak things in the face of
direct facts. Did you, or did you not, resign your appointment on the
viceroy's staff--I stop not to ask with what scant courtesy--that you
might be free to rove over the country, on some knight-errant absurdity?
Did you, after having one disreputable quarrel in the same neighborhood,
again involve yourself and your name in an affair with a notorious
mob-orator and disturber, and thus become the 'celebrity' of the
newspapers for at least a fortnight? And lastly, when I hoped, by
absence from England, and foreign service, to erase the memory of
these follies--to give them no harsher name,--did you not refuse the
appointment, and without advice or permission sell out of the army
altogether?”
“Without adverting to the motives, madam, you have so kindly attributed
to me, I beg to say 'yes' to all your questions. I am no longer an
officer in his Majesty's service.”
“Nor any longer a member of _my_ family, sir,” said my mother,
passionately; “at least so far as the will rests with me. A gentleman
so very independent in his principles is doubtless not less so in his
circumstances. You are entitled to five thousand pounds only, by your
father's will: this, if I mistake not, you have received and spent many
a day ago. I will not advert to what my original intentions in your
behalf were; they are recorded, however, in this paper, which you,
my Lord, have read.” Here her Ladyship drew forth a document, like
a law-paper, while the Earl bowed a deep acquiescence, and muttered
something like--“Very generous and noble-minded, indeed!”
“Yes, sir,” resumed my mother, “I had no other thought or object, save
in establishing you in a position suitable to your name and family; you
have thought fit to oppose my wishes on every point, and here I end the
vain struggle.” So saying, she tore the paper in pieces, and threw the
fragments into the fire.
A deep silence ensued, which I, for many reasons, had no inducement
to break. The Earl coughed and hemmed three or four times, as though
endeavoring to hit upon something that might relieve the general
embarrassment, but my mother was again the first to speak.
“I have no doubt, sir, you have determined on some future career. I am
not indiscreet enough to inquire what; but that you may not enter upon
it quite unprovided, I have settled upon you the sum of four hundred
pounds yearly. Do not mistake me, nor suppose that this act proceeds
from any lingering hope on my part that you will attempt to retrace your
false steps, and recover the lost place in my affection. I am too well
acquainted with the family gift of determination, as it is flatteringly
styled, to think so. You owe this consideration entirely to the kind
interference of the Earl of Netherby. Nay, my Lord, it is but fair that
you should have any merit the act confers, where you have incurred all
the responsibility.”
“I will relieve his Lordship of both,” said I. “I beg to decline your
Ladyship's generosity and his Lordship's kindness, with the self-same
feeling of respect.”
“My dear Captain Forester, wait one moment,” said Lord Netherby, taking
my arm. “Let me speak to you, even for a few moments.”
“You mistake him, my Lord,” said my mother, with a scornful smile, while
she arose to leave the room,--“you mistake him much.”
“Pray hear me out,” said Lord Netherby, taking my hand in both his own.
“It is no time, nor a case for any rash resolves,” whispered he; “Lady
Wallincourt has been misinformed,--her mind has been warped by stories
of one kind or other. Go to her, explain fully and openly everything.”
“Her Ladyship is gone, my Lord,” exclaimed I, stopping him.
Yes, she had left the room while we were yet speaking. This was my
last adieu from my mother! I remember little more, though Lord Netherby
detained me still some time, and spoke with much kindness; indeed,
throughout, his conduct was graceful and good-natured.
Why should I weary you longer? Why speak of the long dreary night,
and the longer day that followed this scene,--swayed by different
impulses,-now hoping and fearing alternately,--not daring to seek
counsel from my friends, because I well knew what worldly advice would
be given,--I was wretched. In the very depth of my despondency, like a
ray of sunlight darting through some crevice of a prisoner's cell, came
your own words to me, “Be a soldier in more than garb or name, be one
in the generous ardor of a bold career. Let it be your boast that you
started fairly in the race, and so distanced your competitors.” I caught
at the suggestion with avidity. I was no more depressed or down-hearted.
I felt as if, throwing off my load of care, a better and a brighter day
was about to break for me; the same evening I left London for Plymouth,
and became a volunteer.
Before concluding these lines, I would ask why you tell me no more
of Miss Darcy than that “she is well, and, the reverse of her fortune
considered, in spirits.” Am I to learn no more than that? Will you not
say if my name is ever spoken by or before her? How am I remembered? Has
time-have my changed fortunes softened her stern determination towards
me? Would that I could know this,--would that I could divine what may
lurk in her heart of compassionate pity for one who resigned all for
her love, and lost! With all my gratitude for your kindness, when I
well-nigh believed none remained in the world for me,
I am, yours in sincere affection,
Richard Forester.
I forgot to ask if you can read one strange mystery of this business, at
least so the words seem to imply. Lord Netherby said, when endeavoring
to dissuade me from leaving my mother's house, “Remember, Captain
Forester, that Lady Wallincourt's prejudices regarding your Irish
friends have something stronger than mere caprice to strengthen them.
You must not ask her to forget as well as forgive, all at once.” Can you
interpret this riddle for me? for although at the time it made little
impression, it recurs to my mind now twenty times a day.
Here concluded Forester's letter. A single line in pencil was written
at the foot, and signed “M. D. “: “I am a bad prophet, or the volunteer
will turn out better than the aide-de-camp.”