A few days had only elapsed since the final arrangement of Anne’s
marriage, when the anxiety and worry by which she was annoyed in not
having explicitly told her future husband her brother’s history were
terminated in a manner certainly neither expected nor anticipated by
her.
It was evening when the doctor made his appearance at the Tusculum,
evidently excited--that is to say, rather more animated than
usual--full of something which he was anxious to impart, and still
more desirous of imparting without flurrying his companions:--to use a
homely phrase, he had a good deal to say, but did not know exactly how
to begin.
The difficulty he felt, arose from two sources:--the first cause of his
embarrassment was, the consciousness that what he had to communicate
could not fail, with all his caution, to awaken a combination of
feelings in the minds of his hearers, the physical effect of which
upon the constitution of the elder one he anticipated with some
apprehension; and the other originated in the feeling that he was about
to avow himself fully acquainted with every particular concerning a
member of the family to which he was about to ally himself, whose name
had scarcely ever been mentioned, and whose history had never been
touched on.
“I have news for you, ladies,” said Mead, after having talked upon
some indifferent subjects, “which will surprise you; but I shall not
tell you one word until you have promised me to behave calmly and
temperately when I have told my story.”
“News for _us_!” said Mrs. Brown.
“News from afar,” said the doctor.
The blood rushed into Anne’s cheeks. She was assured whence, and whence
only, news from afar could come to _them_--Mead had heard of her
brother--of the brother of whose position in society she had avoided
the mention--he knew it all--and not from her! She felt humiliated and
abashed, and almost shuddered at the reflection that from mistaken
pride,--unaccountable in a character like hers,--she had left the
developement of the whole family history to chance, by which, Mead had
become possessed of every particular, and was of course convinced that
Anne, with all her good qualities, was not entirely ingenuous. As it
happened, the circumstances of the case were such as not to give that
colouring to her conduct; but, on the contrary, to lead the doctor to
admire the diffidence and modesty of both mother and daughter in not
having spoken much more of such a son and brother.
“Your son”--said Mead.
“I knew it must be poor George!” exclaimed Anne.
“Your son is expected home almost immediately,” said the doctor.
“Thank God!” said Mrs. Brown: “he is alive then and safe. Three years
have passed since the date of his last letter.”
“Dear, dear George!” said Anne--her joy still clouded by her
self-condemnation.
“When, my dear doctor,” said Mrs. Brown, “may we expect him?--and how
have you heard this news?”
“Promise me, both of you,” said Mead, “to hear what I have to say
calmly, and I will tell you all. You have no reason for agitation; the
news I bring is good--excellent! Now, recollect--no agitation----he is
in England!”
A flood of tears from the two listeners followed this announcement. I
am not sure that the eyes of the narrator were quite dry.
“Heaven be praised!” sobbed Mrs. Brown; “I shall see my dear, dear boy
once more!”
Anne remained mute, and motionless, and weeping.
“Nay, ladies,” continued Mead, “I have seen him--have conversed with
him,--and only succeeded by pointing out the absolute necessity of
forbearance, in hindering his coming with me:--to-morrow you will clasp
him to your hearts.”
Had not the one reproach rankled in Anne’s mind, her happiness
would have been as perfect as her mother’s: as it was, she felt she
would give the world to enquire more about him--about his wife--his
family--his circumstances; but she was tongue-tied.
“Is he well?” said his mother--“and is his wife with him?”
“She is,” said Mead--“I have seen _her_ too.”
Another pang thrilled through Anne’s heart:--that wife was the
sister of the man to whom she had herself been betrothed! The
mother and daughter exchanged a look;--it was full of meaning, but
incomprehensible to Mead.
“I suppose she must be much altered,” said Mrs. Brown; “of that,
however, _you_ can be no judge, not having known her before she went
abroad.”
“She is a very lovely creature,” said Mead; and observing a sudden
change in the expression of Anne’s countenance, he added--“not that I
mean to make anybody jealous.”
Anne coloured: she felt that they were travelling over mined
ground:--that the most natural thing in the world for George to
have done when he found out the doctor, was to make some allusion to
the brother of his wife with reference to his sister; and she began
to worry herself into the belief that the whole history of the Brag
affair had been detailed to her affianced lover, and that he was merely
serpentining his way to the part of the details at which he might
terminate his connexion with them altogether.
“I never saw a sweeter expression of countenance!” continued Mead.
“Her manners are perfect: in fact, nothing but a constant intercourse
with the best society can give that sort of unconscious ease and
gracefulness which seem inherent, and whose greatest charm is the total
absence of effort or affectation.”
Anne heard, and silently repeated to herself the words, “constant
intercourse with the best society,” and her thoughts flew like
lightning to the back parlour behind the shop, the dangling candles
in front, the respectable Brag defunct, and his widow still extant;
and the result of these hasty reminiscences was a confirmation of
her belief that Mead was proceeding in an ironical strain, utterly at
variance as it was with the general simplicity and amiability of his
character, in order eventually to explode the whole affair, indignant
at the treatment he had experienced, and disgusted with the connexion
he had so nearly made.
“Why,” said Mrs. Brown--and Anne would have given worlds that she had
said nothing,--“she was always a smart, clever girl, and, I suppose,
time has improved her into what she is.”
“Her natural genius,” said Mead, “which, from some drawings I saw of
hers, views of different parts of India, is evidently first-rate, has
been--at least so your son told me--wonderfully improved by a residence
in Italy, where art is so generally cultivated and understood; and her
father, who, he says, was devoted to her, indulged her in a wish to
reside upon the Continent for three years before his appointment.”
The mother and daughter again exchanged looks. It became a doubt in
both their minds whether Dr. Mead was suddenly seized with madness,
or whether their dear George had caught the infection from the Brag
family, and had been imposing on him in the most outrageous manner.
“I never heard of my daughter-in-law’s having been abroad,” said Mrs.
Brown.
“She never could have been,” said Anne.
“All I know is this,” said Mead:--“a gentleman called upon me about
one o’clock to-day. He sent in his card, and, upon seeing his name,
it struck me that it must be your George, whom I had heard you
occasionally mention. I had remarked that you did not speak much of
him, and, as there are secrets in all families, I apprehended, although
you never hinted it, that there might exist some disagreement amongst
you with which I could have no concern whatever; still the similarity
of name excited the opinion that it might be _him_. I immediately
received him in preference to my waiting patients. He told me that as
soon as he and his wife arrived in town, he proceeded to Walworth,
where the people of the house directed him to me, as knowing all about
you. Our conversation grew more and more interesting; and having,
evidently to his surprise, and, I flatter myself, not a disagreeable
one, told him the nature of my engagement to dear Anne, he insisted on
accompanying me hither to clasp you in his arms. I positively refused
that, and, by way of an intermediate bargain, he begged me the moment
I had despatched my professional business to call upon him and his
wife at Mivart’s Hotel, where they have taken rooms. I did so, was
introduced, and, as I have told you, am quite delighted with both of
them.”
“Mivart’s Hotel!--taken rooms!”--another look was exchanged.
“Did he tell you,” said Mrs. Brown, “whether he had any family?”
“I think he said one boy,” replied Mead: “however, he will be here in
the morning. I am not sure whether your daughter-in-law will come with
him. She is in rather delicate health; and the journey from Falmouth,
where they landed, coming immediately on a fortnight’s bad weather in
the chops of the Channel, after a long voyage, is something formidable
to a person who, like her, has been used to all the luxuries of life.”
Another look,--and an extra one from Anne, who looked at Mead to see
whether there were any visible alteration in his countenance; for all
he said was perfectly incomprehensible to her--if _he_ were sane and
rational.
“Did she,” said Anne, particularly anxious to discover the extent
of her communication as to her brother’s engagement, as it might be
called, with herself--“did she say anything about her brother?”
“Brother!” said Mead; “no, my dear Anne; George, your brother, and my
future brother-in-law, I hope,” (Anne blushed again,) “told me she was
an only child.”
“Did he?” said Mrs. Brown.
“An only child!” said Anne--and they were both more mystified than
ever. Anne, however, who was more feelingly alive to the actual
position of her brother, ventured a little farther: “Has George,” said
she, “obtained any promotion since we heard from him?”
“That,” said Mead, “is a question I cannot very satisfactorily answer.
His card was a written one, and the name ‘Mr. Brown.’ As I before told
you, my dear Anne, the name itself was enough for me.”
This little speech tended very considerably to calm poor Anne’s doubts
and fears. Whatever had occurred, it was clear that neither George nor
Kate had touched upon the subject of her former engagement, and she
began to take courage and feel more at ease than she had been during
the earlier part of the conversation.
Mrs. Brown’s delight at the prospect of again seeing her son was not
a little qualified by the mystification which Mead’s account of him
and his wife involved, and she longed for bed-time, in order to talk
over the circumstances with her daughter. Her confidence in George’s
veracity rendered her suspicious of the doctor’s accuracy; and out
of both she established an idea that the Mr. Brown of whom they had
been talking must be neither more nor less than some dashing swindler,
who proposed to cheat the doctor, or somebody else, by pretending a
relationship to the family with which he was about to connect himself.
Of course, so long as the conversation lasted, George and his wife
were the leading subjects of it; not that the doubts and surmises of
the ladies were at all calmed or diminished by hearing Mead detail the
particulars of a visit paid to Mr. Brown, during the time he was at the
hotel, by one of the most fashionable coachmakers in town, to receive
Mrs. Brown’s orders with regard to a carriage which was to be put in
hand immediately, and finished as soon as possible.
At last the trio separated for the night, the doctor well pleased to
have found in his brother-in-law a gentleman so agreeable and highly
respectable, but wondering more than ever that he should have suffered
his mother and sister to exist in the manner they were living at
Walworth, and where, had it not been for the accidental circumstance
of Anne’s application to him, they would in all probability have been
living still; and coupling these matters with the looks which he could
not at length fail to see Mrs. Brown and her daughter interchange, he
unsettled his mind into a belief that there must be some mystery in the
affair, of which he should like to be master.
“My dear Anne,” said Mrs. Brown, as she threw herself into the armed
chair in her bedchamber, “what on earth can all this mean? Delighted
as I am at the prospect of so soon seeing my boy, I am astounded and
astonished at what Mead tells us. What can have happened to George,
to induce him to talk and act as he represents him to have done this
morning?”
“I,” said Miss Brown, “cannot comprehend it. But I am even more
surprised at what he has _not_ said to Robert, than at what he _has_.
He may have made money; he may be able to live at an expensive
hotel; and he may be able to let Kate have a carriage: but one would
have thought one of his first enquiries would have been after his
brother-in-law. Now, of Jack, it is clear he never spoke; for if he
had, and before Robert had told him all, the chances are”--(here her
voice faltered a little)--“_my_ name would have been mentioned too.”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Brown, “how should George afford any of
the luxuries of which Mead speaks?--besides, knowing, as I do, the
tenderness of his affection, and the generosity of his heart, do you
think, if he had acquired anything like the property which this person
seems to possess, that we should have been forgotten? No, no!--rely
upon it, there is some great mistake in the business somewhere. George
would never have left his mother and sister to work for their bread, if
he had had the means of putting them at their ease.”
“Besides,” said Anne, “when the whole of the conversation of _this_ Mr.
Brown with Robert is put together, it does not appear to contain one
word in allusion to our family concerns. It is true, Mr. Brown went
to Walworth, and was referred to Robert by Mrs. Hutchins; but, except
a simple enquiry after our health, he seems to have made no allusion
whatever to anything that happened either before his departure or
during his absence. My belief is, like yours, that it is somebody who
for some purpose has thought fit to personate George, although, to be
sure, it would be difficult to conjecture for what.”
“I would rather it were anything,” said Mrs. Brown, “than that my once
honourable, high-minded boy should have endeavoured to impose upon Mead
with such extraordinary falsehoods as those which it appears he must
have told, if it be him.”
“Besides,” said Anne, who grew energetic and eloquent as she proceeded,
“Kate never _could_ draw; the things she took home from school were all
done by the drawing-master: and as for the Continent, she never was
even as far as Calais.”
“It seems to me, Anne,” said the matron, “to be one tissue of falsehood
and pretension from beginning to end.”
In this sort of condemnatory strain did Mrs. Brown and her daughter
converse, till, twelve o’clock striking, they considered it proper to
part for the night, in order to indulge themselves with a separate
reconsideration of the whole affair.
The morning came--breakfast was eaten:--the doctor departed as usual
for town, and the ladies began to count the minutes until George, or
the person who had assumed his name, should make his appearance. At
length the happy moment came; the old lady clasped her son to her
heart, and the young one clung round the neck of her brother. George
IT WAS--that was clear; and although his features had become somewhat
sharpened by time, and his complexion was mellowed into a durable brown
by the effects of the climate, he was not so much altered as might have
been expected.
“Well, my dear mother,” said George, as soon as he could collect
himself sufficiently to speak, “what gratitude do we not owe to
Providence! As far as Anne is concerned, I am delighted with her
choice: I wanted nothing but her comfortable establishment in life to
make me perfectly happy.”
“And how is your wife, George?” said his mother; “our doctor says she
is in delicate health.”
“She is, I am sorry to say, a sad invalid,” said George. “I hope,
however, her native climate, unfavourable as it is to foreigners, may
restore her. She was very anxious to come with me to-day, but she
really is not strong enough to bear even so short an excursion.”
“We have seen scarcely anything of Brag since you went,” said Mrs.
Brown, anxious as much as possible to soften down his infamous conduct,
out of respect to the feelings of his blameless sister.
“I rejoice to hear it,” said George. “I trust I never may have the
misfortune of seeing him again.”
“But I suppose,” said Anne, who was always for peace-making, “you
_will_ see him for the sake of my sister-in-law?”
“I don’t imagine,” said Mr. Brown, “that your sister-in-law is very
likely to see much of _him_. In fact,” continued he, “I think, when she
gets strong enough, we shall in all probability go to the Continent,
unless perhaps I should stop a month or two in England for a little
shooting.”
Here the ladies exchanged looks of a similar character to those of the
night before.
“To be sure,” continued he, “whatever miseries and unhappinesses I may
have undergone since we parted, my career has been one of the most
extraordinary, and most prosperous, that man ever ran. How I have
deserved such blessings, I know not.”
“What rank have you now in the army, George?” said his mother.
“Army!” said her son; “you know I have left the army.”
“Left it!” exclaimed the old lady, more confirmed than ever in the
suspicion that something was wrong somewhere and somehow:--“why then,
how do you live?”
“How!--as a man of fortune should live,” said George,--“upon my
property.”
“My dear George,” said Anne, “what _are_ you talking of?”
“Nothing but what you know of,” replied he.
“We know of nothing, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Brown, “but of your having
been made clerk to Sir Cadwallader Adamthwaite’s secretary.”
“Why, my dear mother,” said George, “I never made a remittance to you
without writing fully upon all my affairs.”
“Remittance!” said Mrs. Brown.
“Letters!” said Anne--“my dear brother, we have not received a line
from you for upwards of three years; and, during all our distresses,
your silence caused perhaps the keenest pang of all.”
“Distresses!” exclaimed George--“why this--what--three years!--there
have been roguery and robbery here! From the moment my fortunes
changed, I regularly remitted you as much as my means would afford; and
although wondering never to have heard from you through the agent whom
I directed to forward my letters to you, and to receive any you chose
to trust to his care, I felt assured by his answers that your silence
was a matter of choice; and, ascertaining through him that you were
both well, contented myself with fulfilling my duty and gratifying my
inclinations, without waiting for reply or acknowledgment. The truth
will be easily discovered. This very agent, I find on my arrival here,
has failed, and is recently dead; I have, of course, had no time to
investigate his affairs, but I very much fear I shall be an eventual
loser of four or five thousand pounds by him.”
Here the ladies looked at each other again. Anne had read in some book
something about shaking the pagoda tree in India, but it seemed as if
her brother must have picked it clean.
“Three years!” said George--“why then you know nothing of the leading
events of my life--of the entire change in my circumstances.”
“I see you are in mourning, George,” said Anne, who did not know how to
ask for whom?
“Yes,” said George, “I am sorry to say I am--for my father-in-law; a
more generous-hearted, noble-minded man, never lived.”
“In mourning for poor Mr. Brag, now!” said his mother.
“Brag!” said George--“I sicken at the very name.”
“Oh, George,” said Anne, “consider Kate!”
“Kate!” exclaimed Brown, turning deadly pale--“Kate!--Oh! Anne, it
must be more than three years since you got any of my letters.--Lost,
wretched woman!”
“Lost!” said Anne--“why, is not she at the hotel?”
“In her grave!” said George, “a grave which closed upon a life of
wantonness and disgrace.”
“Then you are married again?” said Anne.
In answer to this question, it seems better to adopt the narrative
style, inasmuch as many circumstances had occurred during the period of
George’s involuntary cessation of correspondence with his mother, which
it would be difficult for him personally to describe or explain.
The reader has traced the career of Mr. George Brown up to the point
of his becoming clerk to the military secretary of Sir Cadwallader
Adamthwaite. His readiness, activity, and assiduity, were so
remarkable, that the general, who was one of the kindest-hearted
men upon the face of the earth, took the trouble to ascertain the
particulars of his history; and finding him to be in every essential
point a gentleman, resolved on procuring him a commission in the
army, which he did; and when it was obtained, and George appointed,
the clerk was dignified into assistant military secretary, and the
assistant military secretary became one of the general’s family.
It was during a year or fourteen months of probation before the arrival
of his commission, that Mrs. George Brown (_née_ Brag) began to evince
very strong symptoms of a propensity, which even the thirst produced by
a hot climate cannot justify in one of the “fair sex,” as her brother
would call them; and upon more occasions than one, George, on his
return from head-quarters, found her in a state which, as authors say
who are not able to depict what they wish, “may be better imagined than
described.” It rarely happens that when this vice exists in woman, it
is the only one to which she sooner or later addicts herself. Grown
reckless by habitual intemperance, her temper became violent; and
impatient of rebuke, she taxed her husband with cruelty and inhumanity
for merely remonstrating upon conduct so disgraceful to herself, and
which must be so injurious to him. The most depraved women, however,
find admirers, and Mrs. Brown, degraded as she was, found hers. The
justification she attempted to plead for the irregularity of her life
was, the delusion which had been practised upon her by George as to
the place she was to occupy in the world; that her husband’s rank,
of course, excluded her from good society, such as, she said, “she
had always been used to:” and, in short, having awakened from a dream
of girlish love, she bitterly repented of the step she had taken,
and became careless of everything but the gratification of her worst
propensities.
This career did not last long. It would be neither pleasant nor
profitable to enter into the particulars of her unfortunate case; a few
months’ intemperance brought her life to its close, and left George a
widower, commiserated by his comrades rather for the sufferings he had
undergone, than for the loss he had sustained. All these circumstances
he had detailed in his missing letters to his mother, in one of which
he had also communicated the intelligence of his wife’s death to her
surviving parent; but, with great goodness of heart and tenderness of
feeling, avoiding all mention of the unhappy circumstances in which she
died.
If George and Kate had given themselves time to consider the step which
they unfortunately took, and had not been blinded by youthful love,
they could have anticipated nothing but evil from such a marriage. Kate
was evidently labouring under the belief that George was an officer;
and the question whether his rank would enable her to live with people
such as she had been accustomed to visit and receive, never entered
her mind. She first began to feel her difficulties when she embarked
on board the ship which was to take them to India; but even _there_
the superiority of her manners induced a special attention to her, and
infinitely better accommodation was contrived for her than she had
any _right_ to: in short, from the moment they were fairly launched
in the world, and she saw the path she had chosen, she became fretful
and irritable, her pride wounded by finding herself unable to speak
to, or associate with the wives of the officers with whom she was
domesticated, and her vanity hurt by being permitted to stand in the
verandah of the mess-room, _to look in and see_ the company dancing
when the officers gave a ball.
That it _was_ humiliating and provoking nobody can deny, but she
ought to have calculated upon such evils before she married; that is,
if she knew enough of “the service” to enable her to appreciate the
relative value of its different ranks: however, it is not my province
to reason upon the wisdom or propriety of her early proceedings. Her
ruin and fall may be fairly traced to her first great act of filial
disobedience; and her fate adds another to the numerous instances
already upon record, of the ill-success of runaway matches.
The day on which Ensign Brown made his first appearance in Sir
Cadwallader Adamthwaite’s drawing-room, was a most important era of
his life; and when he found himself warmly received by the general,
and presented _pro formâ_ to his daughter, who, of course, knew him
perfectly well by sight, he could not restrain a feeling of regret that
his unfortunate wife had not so conducted herself through what he
admitted to have been a trial, that she might have overcome all the
hardships she had previously endured, and have enjoyed the satisfaction
of finding herself placed by her husband’s promotion, in society from
which her girlish thoughtlessness had excluded her.
Sir Cadwallader’s kind act of justice to the merits of Ensign Brown
gave general satisfaction, and met with universal approbation; and he
was welcomed to the mess of his regiment with the most unequivocal
marks of friendship and esteem. His official avocations prevented
his doing regimental duty, and his evenings were occupied in a
participation in the pleasures of Sir Cadwallader’s hospitable mansion.
It might displease the reader if I were to doubt that he anticipates
the result of this introduction of the ensign into the house of
the general. He most probably guesses rightly; but as there _are_
circumstances which render the case somewhat dissimilar from most
others, he must be told the particulars.
Ellen Adamthwaite, Sir Cadwallader’s daughter, was the beloved of his
heart. Her mother had died young--a mother from whom Sir Cadwallader
had received, besides the most endearing proofs of constancy and
affection, the vast fortune which he possessed, and which enabled
him to support _en prince_ the highest offices, to which his noble
profession and his gallant conduct had led him. Upon Ellen--the dear,
the gentle Ellen--the love, the devotion, which once was her mother’s
due, devolved at her mother’s death: and although Ellen, who was
everything father could desire, could not but feel conscious of her
power over him, she was the least presuming of daughters, the most
gentle, and most amiable of girls.
When Sir Cadwallader was offered the commandership-in-chief and
second seat in council at the presidency to which he was attached, he
accepted it, upon the chivalrous feeling of the greatest soldier, not
only of the day, but of the land we live in--that he was the King’s
servant, and equally bound to obey his commands in the highest and
lowest of offices; and although possessed of wealth which rendered
the appointment pecuniarily unimportant, he readily relinquished his
domestic ease and comfort for the more _negatively_ active domination
over an Oriental army.
While holding this appointment, his constant endeavour appeared to be,
to make everybody happy around him. There was nothing in the state of
the country which seemed to require any of the austerity of military
discipline; and the routine duty, although comprehending an extensive
range, was not that which required the vigilance and activity of war.
He “took the thing easy” himself, and his greatest pleasure was to see
everybody subordinate to himself do exactly the same. He never grumbled
if he saw men in “mufti” or “white jackets;” desired every man to “make
himself comfortable” when he came to dinner; and, in short, was about
the best-natured being that ever melted under an Indian sun.
That he had taken a great fancy to Brown was clear. Major Mopes,
whose death-like countenance never relaxed into a smile, but of whom
Sir Cadwallader had the highest opinion, inasmuch as he saved His
Excellency all the trouble, not only of writing but of thinking,
had spoken very highly of George, and enlarged upon the meritorious
course he had pursued in entering the army, as he had done, in order
to relieve his mother, who _had been_ in such a different position in
society, from all charge for his support. This recommendation led Sir
Cadwallader to talk to him: he found him well-informed, well-read,
intelligent, and, in fact, a gentleman. The prepossession thus created,
and which went to the extent of procuring him the commission, extended
further, and the only phrase--it is a simple one, and best suits the
general’s feeling, is,--“he liked him.”
How often such prepossessions take hold of people, and how seldom are
they erroneous!--how unaccountable are the sympathies by which such
prepossessions are created! The moment Sir Cadwallader heard George’s
story, and received the testimonials of his merit and ability, he
resolved to serve him,--and, in fact, to restore him to his place in
society as a gentleman, which he pronounced him to be to his daughter,
while he was yet his secretary’s clerk, as he was sitting with her in
the windward varhandah smoking his chilum.
Ellen Adamthwaite, who, of course, saw George almost every day,
accidentally, or perhaps incidentally, could not help participating
in the interest which her father took in his fate, especially as the
history of his wife’s misconduct and death were matters of notoriety in
the family, from Major Mopes’s frequent recurrence to the circumstance
of their elopement from England,--and the commiserating “What a pity
it is that nothing can be done to reclaim a person originally so
respectable!” which was so often on his lips.
When George became by royal authority a gentleman, and Ellen found she
might look at him, and even speak to him, without any indecorum, she
certainly felt more than ever the hardship of his case while doing the
duty which his filial affection had imposed upon him, even regretting,
as he did himself, the cause which, no doubt, was truly assigned for
his wife’s distressing dereliction from every religious, moral, and
social duty.
Nothing more readily excites an interest in a woman’s heart than a
bit of the romance of real life. George, selected by her kind-hearted
father for favour and promotion, was brought into her society the son
of a ruined merchant, who had received the education of a gentleman,
and had been educated in the expectation of succeeding to his father’s
wealth. He enters the army as a private soldier, to relieve his mother
from the burthen of maintaining him, and he elopes with a girl who
is desperately in love with him. In his past life, therefore, there
appeared a combination of events, sufficiently romantic to awaken a
particular feeling towards him; and it was not many days after his
domestication at the general’s, before Ellen found her eyes resting
upon his intelligent countenance much oftener than upon any other
object in the room.
There was a manly modesty in George’s manner--a sort of consciousness
of what he might have been, of what he had been, and yet, of what he
_was_, which was peculiarly conciliating. Sir Cadwallader lost no
opportunity of bringing him forward. It seemed, indeed, to be his
study to make him appear to the best possible advantage in company, in
order, as it might be thought, to justify the partiality he had evinced
for him, and the good opinion he entertained of him.
In London the circle is so extensive, that although some hundred or
two people whisper, and look wise, and nod and wink at each other when
a flirtation becomes a little too evident, there are seven or eight
hundred others to whom it is a matter of no interest; and, moreover,
whatever people think, they keep their thoughts as far distant as
possible from the flirters themselves. Within the confined ring-fence
of an Indian presidency, the slightest movement of that nature at
head-quarters creates a universal sensation; all the worst passions of
mankind are concentered and pemmican’d in a little community of that
sort; envy and jealousy assume the garb of friendship and esteem; and
some miserable wretch, whose hatred towards one of the parties has been
engendered or fostered by the remembrance of a slight or neglect,
thinks it a duty he owes to so excellent a man as his Excellency
the commander-in-chief, to mention to him what people say about his
daughter and Mr. Somebody, whose society and conversation she happens
to prefer to that of the considerate friend of her father.
Two months had not flown over George’s head in his new capacity
before the whole tribe were in motion. “To be sure,” says one, “Sir
Cadwallader is an extraordinary man:--he can’t but see it.” “Perhaps he
does not object to it,” says another. “La!” cries a third: “what! let
his daughter marry a man from the ranks!” “Hush!” says a fourth--“the
less we say about _that_ the better: rose from the ranks himself.”
“Flogged at Chatham for stealing a cock turkey,” says a fifth. “Hush!”
says a sixth, “here comes his Excellency.” Out turns the guard--ruffle
goes the drum--rattledum slap go the muskets--and his Excellency is
immediately surrounded by the little group in the full exercise of
Koo-too-ism, who, the moment before, were exercising their historical
and biographical faculties in commenting upon the folly of his
Excellency’s conduct, and in descanting upon the obscurity of his
Excellency’s birth.
That Ellen and George were somehow more paired off together, than any
other two of the party, is most certain. In her conversation with him
she did not disguise her esteem and regard for his good qualities,
which made themselves evident upon every possible occasion; while _he_,
regarding her as a superior being, felt that sort of admiration which
wise men say is not compatible with tenderness. The whole economy of
love, however, is so intricate, so perplexing, so mysterious, and so
perilous, that there exists no rule throughout the whole system without
an exception.
George once or twice thought that Miss Adamthwaite looked more than she
said; and though he had not sufficiently considered the matter even to
assure himself that of all girls in the world she was the very last for
whom he ought to encourage an affection, a word dropped by one of his
friends on the staff, suddenly brought to his mind the real position
in which he was placed. Then it was he taxed himself with selfishness
in seeking her society; then it was he resolved to alienate himself
from the delight which her conversation and accomplishments afforded
him:--he would mix more generally in society; he would dine abroad
whenever he could, and would go out immediately after his official
business was over; he would not go to tiffin, nor walk for an hour or
two with Ellen in the varhandah: in short, he would not endanger her
peace or comfort by giving occasion for remarks, which although wholly
without foundation, might wound her feelings or injure her reputation.
It was not till the moment he made these resolutions that the real
state of his heart became known to himself. It was only _then_ he
discovered that he could not act upon his own determination. When
tiffin was announced the next day, Sir Cadwallader forced him to
stay and partake of it--desired his daughter to lay _her_ commands
upon him:--then, by his Excellency’s orders, they played chess
together,--and then came in some visiters--George, of course, could
not leave _them_:--and then--and then--in fact, the very first day
after _that_ in which he had decided upon a total alteration in his
proceedings, was passed precisely as the thirty or forty preceding days
had been passed.
It is a generally admitted axiom, that “abstinence is less difficult
than moderation;” and so it seems thought George: for failing in his
project of philosophically decreasing his happiness gradually, he came
to the resolution of abandoning it altogether.
The project George meditated to carry this “stern resolve” into
execution, was one which did honour to his heart; but it required a
confederate, and that very circumstance enhanced its difficulty. The
moment he had ascertained the real state of his feelings, he more
attentively--perhaps tenderly would be a better word--watched the
dear girl to whom he was devoted. It was too true:--looks and actions
which he had attributed to friendship, or even to a compliance with
her father’s wishes, now that he had ventured to think of love, bore
a totally different character. Whatever dress he had accidentally
praised, Ellen more constantly wore; the flower he preferred was always
in her bosom; the songs he loved to hear, she sang; and opinions which
he had once expressed, she adopted for her own.
Oh! those who have never felt the tender, galling anxiety of a state
like this, cannot appreciate George’s feelings during the week after he
had made the discovery of his real position. What had he done?--gained
the affections of his benefactor’s daughter! It was not vanity that
suggested the truth: the word once spoken that gave _that_ turn to his
thoughts, decided it. The fascination was over him--he was conscious
that he was beloved. How he acted under this impression remains to be
seen.