handful of men attacked the palace, and drove back the guards—how we
strove in vain to make good our entrance—fresh troops were on their
way—there was no alternative; we fired the palace. Deep in the seclusion
of the harem the women had retreated, a herd of frightened deer. One
alone stood erect. Her eyes bent on the intruders—a dagger in her
hand—majestic and fearless, her face was marked with traces of passed
suffering, but at the moment the stern resolution her soft features
expressed was more than human. The moment she saw me, all was changed;
the angel alone beamed in her countenance. Her dagger fell from her
hand—she was in my arms—I bore her from the burning roof—the rest you
know; have I not said it? Some miscreant, who survived the slaughter,
and yet lay as dead on the earth, aimed a deadly shot. She did not
shriek. At first she clung closer to my neck, and then I felt her frame
shiver in my arms and her hold relax. I trusted that fear alone moved
her; but she knew not fear—it was death. Horses had been prepared, and
were waiting; a few hours more and I hoped to be on our way to the west,
to that portion of Greece that was free. But I felt her head fall on my
shoulder. I heard her whisper, ‘I die, my brother! carry me to our
father’s tomb.’
“My soul yearned to comply with her request; but it was impossible. The
city was alarmed; troops gathering from all quarters. Our safety lay in
flight, for still I thought that her wound was not mortal. I bore her to
the spot where we had left our horses. Here two or three of my comrades
speedily joined me; they had rescued the women of the harem from the
flames, but the various sounds denoting the advance of the Turkish
soldiery caused them to hurry from the scene. I leapt on my horse, and
placed my sweet sister before me, and we fled amain through desert
streets, I well knew how to choose, and along the lanes of the suburbs
into the open country, where, deviating from the high-road, along which
I directed my companions to proceed in all haste—alone with my beloved
burden, I sought a solitary, unsuspected spot among the neighbouring
hills. The storm which had ceased for a time, now broke afresh; the
deafening thunder drowned every other sound, while the frequent glare of
the lightning showed us our path; my horse did not quail before it.
Euphrasia still lay clinging to me; no complaint escaped her; a few
words of fondness, of encouragement, of pious resignation, she now and
then breathed forth. I knew not she was dying, till at last entering a
retired valley, where an olive wood afforded shelter, and still better
the portico of a fallen ancient temple, I dismounted and bore her to the
marble steps, on which I placed her. Then indeed I felt how near the
beloved one was to death, from which I could not save her. The lightning
showed me her face—pale as the marble which pillowed it. Her dress was
dabbled in warm blood, which soon stained the stones on which she lay. I
took her hand; it was deathly cold. I raised her from the marble; I
pillowed her cheek upon my heart. I repressed my despair, or rather my
despair in that hour was mild and soft as herself. There was no help—no
hope. The life-blood oozed fast from her side; scarce could she raise
her heavy eyelids to look on me; her voice could no longer articulate my
name. The burden of her fair limbs grew heavier and more chill; soon it
was a corpse only that I held. When I knew that her sufferings were
over, I raised her once more in my arms, and once more I placed her
before me on my horse, and betook me to my journey. The storm was over
now, and the moon bright above. Earth glittered under the rays, and a
soft breeze swept by, as if heaven itself became clear and peaceful to
receive her stainless soul, and present it to its Maker. By morning’s
dawn, I stopped at a convent gate, and rang. To the holy maidens within
I consigned my own fair Euphrasia. I kissed but once again her dear
brow, which spoke of peace in death; and then saw her placed upon a
bier, and was away, back to my camp, to live and die for Greece.”
* * * * *
He grew more silent as he became weaker. Now and then he spoke a few
words to record some other of Euphrasia’s perfections, or to repeat some
of her dying words; to speak of her magnanimity, her genius, her love,
and his own wish to die.
“I might have lived,” he said, “till her image had faded in my mind, or
been mingled with less holy memories. I die young, all her own.”
His voice grew more feeble after this; he complained of cold. Valency
continued: “I contrived to rise, and crawl about, and to collect a
capote or two, and a pelisse from among the slain, with some of which I
covered him; and then I drew one over myself, for the air grew chill, as
midnight had passed away and the morning hour drew near. The warmth
which the coverings imparted calmed the aching of my wound, and, strange
to say, I felt slumber creep over me. I tried to watch and wake. At
first the stars above and the dark forms of the mountains mingled with
my dreamy feelings; but soon I lost all sense of where I was, and what I
had suffered, and slept peacefully and long.
“The morning sunbeams, as creeping down the hill-side they at last fell
upon my face, awoke me. At first I had forgotten all thought of the
events of the past night, and my first impulse was to spring up, crying
aloud, where am I? but the stiffness of my limbs and their weakness,
soon revealed the truth. Gladly I now welcomed the sound of voices, and
marked the approach of a number of peasants along the ravine. Hitherto,
strange to say, I had thought only of myself; but with the ideas of
succour came the recollection of my companion, and the tale of the
previous night. I glanced eagerly to where he lay; his posture disclosed
his state; he was still, and stiff, and dead. Yet his countenance was
calm and beautiful. He had died in the dear hope of meeting his sister,
and her image had shed peace over the last moment of life.
“I am ashamed to revert to myself. The death of Constantine is the true
end of my tale. My wound was a severe one. I was forced to leave Greece,
and for some months remained between life and death in Cefalonia, till a
good constitution saved me, when at once I returned to England.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVI.
_THE ELDER SON._
MY father was the second son of a wealthy baronet. As he and his elder
brother formed all the family of my grandfather, he inherited the whole
of his mother’s fortune, which was considerable, and settled on the
younger children. He married a lady whom he tenderly loved; and having
taken orders, and procured preferment, retired to his deanery in the
north of Ireland, and there took up his abode. When I was about ten
years old he lost my mother. I was their only child.
My father was something of an ascetic, if such name can be given to a
rigid adherence to the precepts of morality, which arose from the
excess, and not the absence of feeling. He adored my mother; he mourned
for her to the verge of insanity; but his grief was silent, devouring,
and gloomy. He never formed another matrimonial engagement: secluding
himself entirely from society, and given up to the duties of his sacred
calling, he passed his days in solitude, or in works of charity among
the poor.
Even now I cannot remember him without awe. He was a tall and, I
thought, a venerable-looking man; for he was thin and pale, and he was
partly bald. His manners were cold and reserved; he seldom spoke, and
when he did it was in such measured phrase, in so calm and solemn a
voice, and on such serious topics, as resembled rather oracular
enunciation than familiar conversation. He never caressed me; if ever he
stroked my head or drew me on his knee, I felt a mingled alarm and
delight difficult to describe. Yet, strange to say, my father loved me
almost to idolatry; and I knew this and repaid his affection with
enthusiastic fondness, notwithstanding his reserve and my awe. He was
something greater, and wiser, and better, in my eyes, than any other
human being. I was the sole creature he loved; the object of all his
thoughts by day and his dreams by night. Abstracted and even severe as
he seemed, he has visited my bedside at night, subdued by womanly fears,
and hung over me for hours, to assure himself of my life and well-being.
He has watched by me in sickness night after night with unwearied
assiduity. He never spoke harshly to me, and treated me at once with a
distance and gentleness hard to be understood.
When I was eighteen he died. During his last illness the seal was taken
from his lips, and his heart threw off that husk within which he had
hitherto concealed its true nature. He died of a rapid consumption,
which terminated his existence within six months of his being first
taken ill. His body wasted under the effects of mortal disease; but his
soul assumed new life and energy, and his temper became as soft and
demonstrative as it had hitherto been repulsive and concentrated. He
became my father, friend, and brother all in one; a thousand dear
relationships combined in one stronger than any. This sudden melting,
this divine sensibility, which expanded at once, having been so long
shut up and hid, was like a miracle. It fascinated and entranced me. I
could not believe that I was about to lose him at the moment when we
discovered each other’s worth: I mean by that expression, as regards
myself, all the happiness that he derived from the truth and vivacity of
my filial affection.
It were vain to attempt to refer even to our conversations: the sublime
morality he inculcated; the tenderness and charity of his expressions;
the overflowing and melting eloquence with which he talked of the
affections of this world, and his aspirations after a better. He died
suddenly at last, as I was playing to him a simple air my mother loved.
It was a moment of horror, yet of solemn and pious resignation: his soul
had sought its native heaven and congenial companion—might it be blest!
Yet I had lost him, and grief immeasurable was the result. The
impression of the misery I suffered can never be entirely worn from my
mind: I often wonder my heart did not break with the violence of my
sorrow.
I had been brought up at the deanery, apart from all acquaintances. I
had had a governess, a most worthy woman, who married just before my
father was taken ill, and who kindly came to me when all was over, to
endeavour to console the inconsolable. One of my father’s objects in
life had been to accumulate a fortune for me; not for the sake of
placing me in the dangerous situation of an heiress, but to render me
independent. It thus happened that by his ever-lamented death I
inherited considerable wealth. His own fortune, my mother’s, and his
savings, formed the sum of fifty thousand pounds. He left me under the
guardianship of his elder brother, Sir Richard Gray, with only one
restriction, that I was not to marry, even with my uncle’s consent, till
I was twenty-one. He wished thus to secure me freedom of choice, and
time for deliberation. To this sagacious clause I owe the happiness of
my life.
As soon as my health and the first agony of my grief would permit, I
left the deanery. My kind governess accompanied me to Dublin, and Sir
Richard Gray came hither himself to fetch me, and to carry me to his
seat in England. I was beyond measure surprised when I saw my uncle. He
was a year older than my father—my venerable father—and he looked in
comparison a boy. He was indeed under fifty, and had at first sight a
juvenility of aspect quite astonishing. On examination, the traces of
years and care became perceptible; and there was a haggardness in his
face which contrasted strangely with its expression of thoughtlessness.
No one could be kinder than he was to me, and yet his very kindness was
revolting, from the contrast he formed with my lost parent. The world,
society, and pleasure occupied his time and thoughts. Solitude and
misery were synonymous terms with him; and he called everything solitude
that did not include the idea of a crowd. He rattled away during our
journey, thinking his anecdotes and good stories would enliven me. He
was so sorry that it was not the season that I could go to London—he
would have invited his daughter, Lady Hythe, to his seat, that he might
arrange a party to enliven it for me; but she was on the Continent, and
his other married daughter was resident in Scotland. What was to be
done? He had engagements himself during the shooting season at various
gentlemen’s houses; and I should be moped to death at Beech Grove. This
account of the seclusion of my retreat was all my comfort. I declared
that nothing should induce me to go into society for several years. He
stared, and then smiled, and in his usual caressing gallant manner said,
I should do as I liked; he would never contradict me in anything: he
only hoped that he should be always able to please and gratify me.
My uncle’s story is soon told. He married, very early in life, a girl of
inferior rank. His relations were exceedingly enraged, and discarded
him. His father died; and his grandfather, fearing that he would sell
his expectations and squander the whole property, offered him a large
immediate income, upon condition that he would entail the estate upon
his eldest son. He consented. A few years after, his grandfather died,
and he came into the titles and estate. The new Lady Gray made herself
many friends from the extreme propriety of her conduct. They had a large
family, but lost many children; and she died in childbed of her
youngest. Five only survived. The eldest son was abroad: two daughters
were well married, and the youngest, a girl of only twelve years of age,
lived with her governess at the family seat at Hampshire. Sir Richard
talked kindly of his children, but chiefly of his eldest son, against
whom therefore I conceived a prejudice; because, from his father’s
description, I considered him dissipated and worthless. Such, indeed,
was my uncle; but I did not dislike him, for by the charm of manner he
vanquished aversion, and I transferred to his favourite son the
disapprobation he had at first excited. I was glad to hear that my
cousin was at Vienna, and that I was not likely to see him.
We arrived at Beech Grove on the 29th August. It was a fine summer day,
and the country in all its glory. The house was spacious and elegant,
and situated in an extensive park, laid out with infinite taste, and
kept up with extreme care. All looked so gay and smiling, so unlike the
sombre scenes I had left on the shores of the dark northern ocean, that
I contemplated my new abode with distaste: such is the force of habit.
My uncle had expected that I should be enchanted with the novel beauty
of an English park and mansion, and was disappointed at my languid
praise. There were no rocks, no sea, no extensive moors. Groves of
beech, a river threading verdant wooded banks, a variety of upland and
valley, glade and copse, did not command my admiration; so true it is
that we seldom admire that which is absolutely new. A few months totally
altered this first impression. The cheerfulness of the scene
imperceptibly acted on my spirits. I became reconciled to its (to a
certain degree) tameness, and learnt at last to love its refined and
elegant beauty.
Sir Richard talked of visiting and company. He would have called his
neighbours round us, and forced me to accept invitations at the various
houses where, in the shooting season, were assembled large parties of
the rich and gay. I earnestly assured him that my depressed spirits and
deep-rooted sorrow needed tranquillity—that the seclusion which his
house promised was its principal attraction—that I was most happy to be
alone. He could not believe my assertions; it hurt his feelings to leave
me in this desert; he actually delayed his departure for two days, not
liking to quit me. At last he went; and speedily, in the pursuit of
pleasure, forgot my existence.
I was not absolutely alone in his house; my cousin Marianne inhabited it
with me. She was a pretty, agreeable girl, of twelve years of age; and
we got on very well together. I had recourse to her society when
over-weary of thought; and she was so young that I could leave her, and
betake myself to my mournful, lonely reveries, whenever I liked, without
ceremony.
I had not been at Beech Grove more than a week, when late one afternoon,
on returning from a drive, we distinguished lights in the dining-room.
“Can it be my brother?” cried Marianne; “can Clinton have arrived?”
“I hope not,” I said.
“Oh, do not say so,” replied the little girl; “you would love Clinton;
he is so lively and dear—everybody loves him.”
She scarce waited for the steps to be let down, but jumped from the
carriage. She returned to me in a minute with an air of disappointment,
“It is only my brother Vernon,” she said.
“And you do not care about him?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, “Vernon is very good, and all that; but he is
quite different from Clinton; he may stay a month in the house and I not
see him twice.”
The habit of solitude had rendered me a little bashful I had dined early
with my cousin, and the new-comer was at dinner. I went into the
drawing-room therefore, and made her stay with me, and awaited his
entrance with some alarm. He soon joined us. As he entered, I was struck
with his being the handsomest man I had ever seen. His complexion was a
clear olive; his eyes a dark blue; his head small and well shaped; his
figure scarcely above the middle size, but slender and elegant. I
expected the courteous manners of my uncle to correspond with the grace
of his appearance; but Vernon had no vivacity, no softness. His words
were pregnant with meaning, and his eyes flashed fire as he spoke; but
his address was abrupt, his conversation pointed and sarcastic, and a
disagreeable ironical smile in which he indulged deteriorated greatly
from his good looks. Still, he was very handsome, very clever, and very
entertaining.
One part of Marianne’s description at least was erroneous. He spent
every day and all day with us. He rode or walked with us in the morning;
read to us in the evening; conversed as we worked or painted; and did
all that a person most sedulous to please could do, except turning over
the leaves of our music-books. He did not like music—of which my father
was so passionately fond; in all else his tastes seemed mine. He gave me
Italian lessons; and, except when I drove him away, was never absent
from our side. Marianne declared that her brother Vernon was an altered
man. I thought that I knew whence the alteration sprung.
What girl of eighteen, just emerged from solitude, could perceive the
birth of love in the heart of a young, accomplished, and handsome man,
and not feel her vanity gratified? My peculiar education had prevented
my having any of the coquettishness of beauty or the insolence of
wealth. I own I felt elated. I became of consequence in my own eyes; and
my silly heart swelled with conscious triumph. Vernon grew each day more
openly devoted to me, more solicitous to please, more flattering and
attentive. He advanced with imperceptible steps to the desired bourne,
and no impatience of temper disturbed for a moment his progress.
Stealthy as a serpent, and as wily, he became necessary to my comfort;
and I had compromised myself by displaying my vain triumph in my
conquest before he betrayed himself by a word.
When I found that he sought a return for his love, I was frightened. I
discovered that with all his talents and agreeable qualities I scarcely
liked him, and certainly could never feel a sentiment more tender than
friendship. I reproached myself for my ingratitude—I felt ashamed of my
vacillation. He saw my struggles—he was all humility—he did not deserve
better—he was satisfied if I would only be a sister to him—pity
him—endure his presence. I agreed, and reassumed my familiarity and
good-humour.
It is impossible to describe his refined artifice, or the wonderful
assiduity with which he watched by his concealed net till I was
completely immeshed. He contrived first that I should consent to listen
to him talking of his passion; then he excited my pity for his
sufferings—he was eloquent in describing them and in exalting my merits.
He asked for so little, he seemed so humble; but he was importunate, and
never gave up the smallest advantage he had once gained. Forgotten by my
uncle, unknown and unregarded by the rest of the world, I was delivered
over to his machinations. Day after day he renewed them. He discerned
and worked upon every weakness of my character. My fear to do wrong; my
alarm at the idea of being the occasion of pain; my desire to preserve
my integrity without a flaw,—these might be termed virtues; but,
distorted and exaggerated by natural conceit and youthful inexperience,
they rendered me a too easy prey. At last he extracted from me a promise
to marry him when I should be of age. This pledge seemed the only method
left me to prove my delicacy and truth. I gave it the more readily
because I admired his talents, and believed that he deserved a better
wife than I, and that my want of love was a fault in me for which I
ought to compensate to him. With all the rashness and inexperience of my
age, I confess that I even tried to conceal my latent aversion; so that
when, after having obtained my promise, he went away for a week, I
willingly assented to his request that I should correspond with him, and
my letters were full of affection. I found it easier to write than speak
what I did not really feel, and was glad to show my gratitude and my
sense of his attachment at an easy rate. At the same time, I consented
to keep our engagement secret, that thus I might have an excuse for
preserving the reserve of my conduct. I took advantage of this wish on
his part to insist on his leaving me for a time. I was glad when he
went, yet mortified at the readiness of his obedience.
I must not be unjust. Vernon had many faults, but coldness of feeling
was not among them. Vehemence and passion were his characteristics,
though he could unite them to a deliberation in design, and a wiliness
in execution, without example. He had determined before he saw me to win
me and my fortune; but such was the violence of his disposition, that he
was unavoidably caught in his own toils; and the project that was
founded on self-interest ended in making him the slave of love—of a girl
whom he despised. He went when I bade him eagerly; but he fulfilled his
aim better by so doing. My letters were to be confirmations strong
against me—in case that hereafter, as he too justly feared, I should
wish to retract my vows. I heedlessly accomplished his ends, beyond his
most sanguine expectations. My letters were those of a betrothed bride;
and what they might want in tenderness was made up by their
uncompromising acknowledgment of our relative position. Having obtained
these testimonies, he returned. I was not sorry. I was too little
pleased with myself to be in love with solitude. His presence kept alive
the feeling of irresistible fate to which I had yielded; and his society
enlivened the monotonous quiet of Beech Grove.