Je me contente de ce qui peut s'ecrire, et je reve tout ce qui peut se
rever.--DE SEVIGNE.
["I content myself with writing what I am able, and I dream all I
possibly can dream."]
About a week after his wound, and the second morning of his return to
sense and consciousness, when Clarence opened his eyes, they fell upon
a female form seated watchfully and anxiously by his bedside. He
raised himself in mute surprise, and the figure, startled by the
motion, rose, drew the curtain, and vanished. With great difficulty
he rang his bell. His valet, Harrison, on whose mind, though it was
of no very exalted order, the kindness and suavity of his master had
made a great impression, instantly appeared.
"Who was that lady?" asked Linden. "How came she here?"
Harrison smiled: "Oh, sir, pray please to lie down, and make yourself
easy: the lady knows you very well and would come here; she insists
upon staying in the house, so we made up a bed in the drawing-room and
she has watched by you night and day. She speaks very little English
to be sure, but your honour knows, begging your pardon, how well I
speak French."
"French?" said Clarence, faintly,--"French? In Heaven's name, who is
she?"
"A Madame--Madame--La Melonveal, or some such name, sir," said the
valet.
Clarence fell back. At that moment his hand was pressed. He turned,
and saw Talbot by his side. The kind old man had not suffered La
Meronville to be Linden's only nurse: notwithstanding his age and
peculiarity of habits, he had fixed his abode all the day in
Clarence's house, and at night, instead of returning to his own home,
had taken up his lodgings at the nearest hotel.
With a jealous and anxious eye to the real interest and respectability
of his adopted son, Talbot had exerted all his address, and even all
his power, to induce La Meronville, who had made her settlement
previous to Talbot's, to quit the house, but in vain. With that
obstinacy which a Frenchwoman when she is sentimental mistakes for
nobility of heart, the ci-devant amante of Lord Borodaile insisted
upon watching and tending one of whose sufferings she said and
believed she was the unhappy though innocent cause: and whenever more
urgent means of removal were hinted at La Meronville flew to the
chamber of her beloved, apostrophized him in a strain worthy of one of
D'Arlincourt's heroines, and in short was so unreasonably outrageous
that the doctors, trembling for the safety of their patient, obtained
from Talbot a forced and reluctant acquiescence in the settlement she
had obtained.
Ah! what a terrible creature a Frenchwoman is, when, instead of
coquetting with a caprice, she insists upon conceiving a grande
passion. Little, however, did Clarence, despite his vexation when he
learned of the bienveillance of La Meronville, foresee the whole
extent of the consequences it would entail upon him: still less did
Talbot, who in his seclusion knew not the celebrity of the handsome
adventuress, calculate upon the notoriety of her motions or the ill
effect her ostentatious attachment would have upon Clarence's
prosperity as a lover to Lady Flora. In order to explain these
consequences the more fully, let us, for the present, leave our hero
to the care of the surgeon, his friends, and his would-be mistress;
and while he is more rapidly recovering than the doctors either hoped
or presaged, let us renew our acquaintance with a certain fair
correspondent.
LETTER FROM THE LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS ELEANOR TREVANION.
My Dearest Eleanor,--I have been very ill, or you would sooner have
received an answer to your kind,-too kind and consoling letter.
Indeed I have only just left my bed: they say that I have been
delirious, and I believe it; for you cannot conceive what terrible
dreams I have had. But these are all over now, and everyone is so
kind to me,--my poor mother above all! It is a pleasant thing to be
ill when we have those who love us to watch our recovery.
I have only been in bed a few days; yet it seems to me as if a long
portion of my existence were past,--as if I had stepped into a new
era. You remember that my last letter attempted to express my
feelings at Mamma's speech about Clarence, and at my seeing him so
suddenly. Now, dearest, I cannot but look on that day, on these
sensations, as on a distant dream. Every one is so kind to me, Mamma
caresses and soothes me so fondly, that I fancy I must have been under
some illusion. I am sure they could not seriously have meant to
forbid his addresses. No, no: I feel that all will yet be well,--so
well, that even you, who are of so contented a temper, will own that
if you were not Eleanor you would be Flora.
I wonder whether Clarence knows that I have been ill? I wish you knew
him. Well, dearest, this letter--a very unhandsome return, I own, for
yours--must content you at present, for they will not let me write
more; though, so far as I am concerned, I am never so weak, in frame I
mean, but what I could scribble to you about him.
Addio, carissima. F. A.
I have prevailed on Mamma, who wished to sit by me and amuse me, to go
to the Opera to-night, the only amusement of which she is particularly
fond. Heaven forgive me for my insincerity, but he always comes into
our box, and I long to hear some news of him.
LETTER II.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Eleanor, dearest Eleanor, I am again very ill, but not as I was
before, ill from a foolish vexation of mind: no, I am now calm and
even happy. It was from an increase of cold only that I have suffered
a relapse. You may believe this, I assure you, in spite of your well
meant but bitter jests upon my infatuation, as you very rightly call
it, for Mr. Linden. You ask me what news from the Opera? Silly girl
that I was, to lie awake hour after hour, and refuse even to take my
draught, lest I should be surprised into sleep, till Mamma returned.
I sent Jermyn down directly I heard her knock at the door (oh, how
anxiously I had listened for it!) to say that I was still awake and
longed to see her. So, of course, Mamma came up, and felt my pulse,
and said it was very feverish, and wondered the draught had not
composed me; with a great deal more to the same purpose, which I bore
as patiently as I could, till it was my turn to talk; and then I
admired her dress and her coiffure, and asked if it was a full house,
and whether the prima donna was in voice, etc.: till, at last, I won
my way to the inquiry of who were her visitors. "Lord Borodaile,"
said she, "and the Duke of ----, and Mr. St. George, and Captain
Leslie, and Mr. De Retz, and many others." I felt so disappointed,
Eleanor, but did not dare ask whether he was not of the list; till, at
last, my mother observing me narrowly, said, "And by the by, Mr.
Linden looked in for a few minutes. I am glad, my dearest Flora, that
I spoke to you so decidedly about him the other day." "Why, Mamma?"
said I, hiding my face under the clothes. "Because," said she, in
rather a raised voice, "he is quite unworthy of you! but it is late
now, and you should go to sleep; to-morrow I will tell you more." I
would have given worlds to press the question then, but could not
venture. Mamma kissed and left me. I tried to twist her words into a
hundred meanings, but in each I only thought that they were dictated
by some worldly information,--some new doubts as to his birth or
fortune; and, though that supposition distressed me greatly, yet it
could not alter my love or deprive me of hope; and so I cried and
guessed, and guessed and cried, till at last I cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke, Mamma was already up, and sitting beside me: she talked
to me for more than an hour upon ordinary subjects, till at last,
perceiving how absent or rather impatient I appeared, she dismissed
Jermyn, and spoke to me thus:--
"You know, Flora, that I have always loved you, more perhaps than I
ought to have done, more certainly than I have loved your brothers and
sisters; but you were my eldest child, my first-born, and all the
earliest associations of a mother are blent and entwined with you.
You may be sure therefore that I have ever had only your happiness in
view, and that it is only with a regard to that end that I now speak
to you."
I was a little frightened, Eleanor, by this opening, but I was much
more touched, so I took Mamma's hand and kissed and wept silently over
it; she continued: "I observed Mr. Linden's attention to you, at ----;
I knew nothing more of his rank and birth then than I do at present:
but his situation in the embassy and his personal appearance naturally
induced me to suppose him a gentleman of family, and, therefore, if
not a great at least not an inferior match for you, so far as worldly
distinctions are concerned. Added to this, he was uncommonly
handsome, and had that general reputation for talent which is often
better than actual wealth or hereditary titles. I therefore did not
check, though I would not encourage any attachment you might form for
him; and nothing being declared or decisive on either side when we
left--, I imagined that if your flirtation with him did even amount to
a momentary and girlish phantasy, absence and change of scene would
easily and rapidly efface the impression. I believe that in a great
measure it was effaced when Lord Aspeden returned to England, and with
him Mr. Linden. You again met the latter in society almost as
constantly as before; a caprice nearly conquered was once more
renewed; and in my anxiety that you should marry, not for
aggrandizement, but happiness, I own to my sorrow that I rather
favoured than forbade his addresses. The young man--remember, Flora--
appeared in society as the nephew and heir of a gentleman of ancient
family and considerable property; he was rising in diplomacy, popular
in the world, and, so far as we could see, of irreproachable
character; this must plead my excuse for tolerating his visits,
without instituting further inquiries respecting him, and allowing
your attachment to proceed without ascertaining how far it had yet
extended. I was awakened to a sense of my indiscretion by an inquiry
which Mr. Linden's popularity rendered general; namely, if Mr. Talbot
was his uncle, who was his father? who his more immediate relations?
and at that time Lord Borodaile informed us of the falsehood he had
either asserted or allowed to be spread in claiming Mr. Talbot as his
relation. This you will observe entirely altered the situation of Mr.
Linden with respect to you. Not only his rank in life became
uncertain, but suspicious. Nor was this all: his very personal
respectability was no longer unimpeachable. Was this dubious and
intrusive person, without a name and with a sullied honour, to be your
suitor? No, Flora; and it was from this indignant conviction that I
spoke to you some days since. Forgive me, my child, if I was less
cautious, less confidential than I am now. I did not imagine the
wound was so deep, and thought that I should best cure you by seeming
unconscious of your danger. The case is now changed; your illness has
convinced me of my fault, and the extent of your unhappy attachment:
but will my own dear child pardon me if I still continue, if I even
confirm, my disapproval of her choice? Last night at the Opera Mr.
Linden entered my box. I own that I was cooler to him than usual. He
soon left us, and after the Opera I saw him with the Duke of
Haverfield, one of the most incorrigible roues of the day, leading out
a woman of notoriously bad character and of the most ostentatious
profligacy. He might have had some propriety, some decency, some
concealment at least, but he passed just before me,--before the mother
of the woman to whom his vows of honourable attachment were due and
who at that very instant was suffering from her infatuation for him.
Now, Flora, for this man, an obscure and possibly a plebeian
adventurer, whose only claim to notice has been founded on falsehood,
whose only merit, a love of you, has been, if not utterly destroyed,
at least polluted and debased,--for this man, poor alike in fortune,
character, and honour, can you any longer profess affection or
esteem?"
"Never, never, never!" cried I, springing from the bed, and throwing
myself upon my mother's neck. "Never: I am your own Flora once more.
I will never suffer any one again to make me forget you," and then I
sobbed so violently that Mamma was frightened, and bade me lie down
and left me to sleep. Several hours have passed since then, and I
could not sleep nor think, and I would not cry, for he is no longer
worthy of my tears; so I have written to you.
Oh, how I despise and hate myself for having so utterly, in my vanity
and folly, forgotten my mother, that dear, kind, constant friend, who
never cost me a single tear, but for my own ingratitude! Think,
Eleanor, what an affront to me,--to me, who, he so often said, had
made all other women worthless in his eyes. Do I hate him? No, I
cannot hate. Do I despise? No, I will not despise, but I will forget
him, and keep my contempt and hatred for myself.
God bless you! I am worn out. Write soon, or rather come, if
possible, to your affectionate but unworthy friend, F. A.
Good Heavens! Eleanor, he is wounded. He has fought with Lord
Borodaile. I have just heard it; Jermyn told me. Can it, can it be
true? What,--what have I said against him? Hate? forget? No, no: I
never loved him till now.
LETTER III.
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.
(After an interval of several weeks.)
Time has flown, my Eleanor, since you left me, after your short but
kind visit, with a heavy but healing wing. I do not think I shall
ever again be the giddy girl I have been; but my head will change, not
my heart; that was never giddy, and that shall still be as much yours
as ever. You are wrong in thinking I have not forgotten, at least
renounced all affection for Mr. Linden. I have, though with a long
and bitter effort. The woman for whom he fought went, you know, to
his house, immediately on hearing of his wound. She has continued
with him ever since. He had the audacity to write to me once; my
mother brought me the note, and said nothing. She read my heart
aright. I returned it unopened. He has even called since his
convalescence. Mamma was not at home to him. I hear that he looks
pale and altered. I hope not,--at least I cannot resist praying for
his recovery. I stay within entirely; the season is over now, and
there are no parties: but I tremble at the thought of meeting him even
in the Park or the Gardens. Papa talks of going into the country next
week. I cannot tell you how eagerly I look forward to it: and you
will then come and see me; will you not, dearest Eleanor?
Ah! what happy days we will have yet: we will read Italian together,
as we used to do; you shall teach me your songs, and I will instruct
you in mine; we will keep birds as we did, let me see, eight years
ago. You will never talk to me of my folly: let that be as if it had
never been; but I will wonder with you about your future choice, and
grow happy in anticipating your happiness. Oh, how selfish I was some
weeks ago! then I could only overwhelm you with my egotisms: now,
Eleanor, it is your turn; and you shall see how patiently I will
listen to yours. Never fear that you can be too prolix: the diffuser
you are, the easier I shall forgive myself.
Are you fond of poetry, Eleanor? I used to say so, but I never felt
that I was till lately. I will show you my favourite passages in my
favourite poets when you come to see me. You shall see if yours
correspond with mine. I am so impatient to leave this horrid town,
where everything seems dull, yet feverish,--insipid, yet false. Shall
we not be happy when we meet? If your dear aunt will come with you,
she shall see how I (that is my mind) am improved.
Farewell.
Ever your most affectionate,
F. A.