HYDE PARK.
Next morning, when Thaddeus approached the general's bed to give him
his coffee, he found him feverish, and his mind more than usually
unsettled.
The count awaited with anxiety the arrival of the benevolent
Cavendish, whom he expected. When he appeared, he declared his
increased alarm. Dr. Cavendish having felt the patient's pulse,
expressed a wish that he could be induced to take a little exercise.
Thaddeus had often urged this necessity to his friend, but met with
constant refusals. He hopelessly repeated the entreaty now, when, to
his surprise and satisfaction, the old man instantly consented.
Having seen him comfortably dressed, (for the count attended to these
minutiae with the care of a son,) the doctor said they must ride with
him to Hyde Park, where he would put them out to walk until he had
made a visit to Piccadilly, whence he would return and take them
home.
The general not only expressed pleasure at the drive, but as the air
was warm and balmy, (it being about the beginning of June,) he made
no objection to the proposed subsequent walk.
He admired the Park, the Serpentine River, the cottages on its bank,
and seemed highly diverted by the horsemen and carriages in the ring.
The pertinence of his remarks afforded Thaddeus a ray of hope that
his senses had not entirely lost their union with reason; and with
awakened confidence he was contemplating what might be the happy
effects of constant exercise, when the general's complaints of
weariness obliged him to stop near Piccadilly Gate, and wait the
arrival of the doctor's coach.
He was standing against the railing, supporting Butzou. and with his
hat in his hand shading his aged friend's face from the sun, when two
or three carriages driving in, he met the eye of Miss Euphemia
Dundas, who pulling the check-string, exclaimed, "Bless me, Mr.
Constantine! Who expected to see you here? Why, your note told us you
were confined with a sick friend."
Thaddeus bowed to her, and still sustaining the debilitated frame of
the general on his arm, advanced to the side of the coach. Miss
Beaufort, who now looked out, expressed her hope that his invalid was
better.
"This is the friend I mentioned," said the count, turning his eyes on
the mild features of Butzou; "his physician having ordered him to
walk, I accompanied him hither."
"Dear me! how ill you look, sir," cried Euphemia, addressing the poor
invalid; "but you are attended by a kind friend."
"My dear lord!" exclaimed the old man, not regarding what she said,
"I must go home. I am tired; pray call up the carriage."
Euphemia was again opening her mouth to speak, but Miss Beaufort,
perceiving a look of distress in the expressive features of Thaddeus,
interrupted her by saying, "Good-morning! Mr. Constantine. I know we
detain you and oppress that gentleman, whose pardon we ought to beg."
She bowed her head to the general, whose white hairs were blowing
about his face, as he attempted to pull the count towards the
pathway.
"My friend cannot thank you, kind Miss Beaufort," cried Thaddeus,
with a look of gratitude that called the brightest roses to her
cheeks; "but I do from my heart!"
"Here it is! Pray, my dear lord, come along!" cried Butzou. Thaddeus,
seeing that his information was right, bowed to the ladies, and their
carriage drove off.
Though the wheels of Lady Dundas's coach rolled away from the
retreating figures of Thaddeus and his friend, the images of both
occupied the meditations of Euphemia and Miss Beaufort whilst,
_tete-à-tete_ and in silence, they made the circuit of the Park.
When the carriage again passed the spot on which the subject of their
thoughts had stood, Mary almost mechanically looked out towards the
gate.
"Is he gone yet?" asked Euphemia, sighing deeply.
Mary drew in her head with the quickness of conscious guilt; and
whilst a color stained her face, which of itself might have betrayed
her prevarication, she asked, "Who?"
"Mr. Constantine," replied Euphemia, with a second sigh. "Did you
remark, Mary, how gracefully he supported that sick old gentleman?
Was it not the very personification of Youth upholding the fainting
steps of Age? He put me in mind of the charming young prince, whose
name I forget, leading the old Belisarius."
"Yes," returned Mary ashamed of the momentary insincerity couched in
her former uncertain replying word, "Who?" yet still adding, while
trying to smile, "but some people might call our ideas enthusiasm."
"So all tell me," replied Euphemia; "so all say who neither possess
the sensibility nor the candor to allow that great merit may exist
without being associated with great rank. Yet," cried she, in a more
animated tone, "I have my doubts, Mary, of his being what he seems.
Did you observe the sick gentleman call him _My lord?_"
"I did," returned Mary, "and I was not surprised. Such manners as Mr.
Constantine's are not to be acquired in a cottage."
"Dear, dear Mary!" cried Euphemia, flinging her ivory arms round her
neck; "how I love you for these words! You are generous, you think
nobly, and I will no longer hesitate to--to--" and breaking off, she
hid her head in Miss Beaufort's bosom.
Mary's heart throbbed, her cheeks grew pale, and almost unconsciously
she wished to stop the tide of Miss Dundas's confidence.
"Dear Euphemia!" answered she, "your regard for this interesting
exile is very praiseworthy. But beware of----." She hesitated; a
remorseful twitch in her own breast stayed the warning that was
rising to her tongue; and blushing at a motive she could not at the
instant assign to friendship, selfishness, or to any interest she
would not avow to herself, she touched the cheek of Euphemia with her
quivering lips.
Euphemia had finished the sentence for her, and raising her head,
exclaimed, "What should I fear in esteeming Mr. Constantine? Is he
not the most captivating creature in the world! And for his person!
Oh, Mary, he is so beautiful, that when the library is filled with
the handsomest men in town, the moment Constantine enters, their
reign is over. I compare them with his godlike figure, and I feel as
one looking at the sun; all other objects appear dim and shapeless."
"I hope," returned Mary,--pressing her own forehead with her hand,
her head beginning to ache strangely,--"that Mr. Constantine does not
owe your friendship to his fine person. I think his mental qualities
are more deserving of such a gift."
"Don't look so severe, dear Mary!" cried Miss Dundas, observing her
contracting brow; "are you displeased with me?"
Mary's displeasure was at the austerity of her own words, and not at
her auditor. Raising her eyes with a smile, she gently replied, "I do
not mean, my dear girl, to be severe; but I would wish, for the honor
of our sex, that the objects which attract either our love or our
compassion should have something more precious than mere exterior
beauty to engage our interest."
"Well, I will soon be satisfied," cried Euphemia, in a gayer tone, as
they drove through Grosvenor Gate; "we all know that Constantine is
sensible and accomplished: he writes poetry like an angel, both in
French and Italian. I have hundreds of mottoes composed by him; one
of them, Mary, is on the work-box I gave you yesterday; and, what is
more, I will ask him to-morrow why that old gentleman called him
_My lord?_ It he be a lord!" exclaimed she.
"What then?" inquired the eloquent eyes of Mary.
"Don't look so impertinent, my dear," cried the now animated beauty:
"I positively won't say another word to you today."
Miss Beaufort's headache became so painful, she rejoiced when
Euphemia ceased and the carriage drew up to Lady Dundas's door.
A night of almost unremitted sleep performed such good effects on the
general condition of General Butzou, that Dr. Cavendish thought his
patient so much better as to sanction his hoping the best
consequences from a frequent repetition of air and exercise. When the
drive and walk had accordingly been repeated the following day,
Thaddeus left his friend to his maps, and little Nanny's attendance,
and once more took the way to Harley Street.
He found only Miss Dundas with her sister in the study. Mary (against
her will, which she opposed because it was her will) had gone out
shopping with Miss Dorothy and Lady Dundas.
Miss Dundas left the room the moment she had finished her lessons.
Delighted at being _tete-à-tete_ with the object of her romantic
fancies, Euphemia forgot that she was to act the retreating character
of Madame d'Arblay's heroine; and shutting her book the instant Diana
disappeared, all at once opened her attack on his confidence.
To her eager questions, which the few words of the general had
excited, the count afforded no other reply than that his poor friend
knew not what he said, having been a long time in a state of mental
derangement.
This explanation caused a momentary mortification in the imaginative
Euphemia; but her busy mind was nimble in its erection of airy
castles, and she rallied in a moment with the idea that "he might be
more than a lord." At any rate, let him be what he may, he charmed
her; and he had much ado to parry the increasing boldness of her
speeches, without letting her see they were understood.
"You are very diffident, Mr. Constantine," cried she, looking down.
"If I consider you worthy of my friendship, why should _you_
make disqualifying assertions?"
"Every man, madam," returned Thaddeus, bowing as he rose from his
chair, "must be diffident of deserving the honor of your notice."
"There is no man living," replied she, "to whom I would offer my
friendship but yourself."
Thaddeus bit his lip; he knew not what to answer. Bowing a second
time, he stretched out his hand and drew his hat towards him.
Euphemia's eyes followed the movement.
"You are in a prodigious haste, Mr. Constantine!"
"I know I intrude, madam; and I have promised to be with my sick
friend at an early hour."
"Well, you may go, since you are obliged," returned the pretty
Euphemia, rising, and smiling sweetly as she laid one hand on his arm
and put the other into her tucker. She drew out a little white
leather _souvenir_, marked on the back in gold letters with the
words, "_Toujours cher_;" and slipping it into his hand, "There,
receive that, _monsignor_, or whatever else you may be called,
and retain it as the first pledge of Euphemia Dundas's friendship."
Thaddeus colored as he took it; and again having recourse to the
convenient reply of a bow, left the room in embarrassed vexation.
There was an indelicacy in this absolutely wooing conduct of Miss
Euphemia which, notwithstanding her beauty and the softness that was
its vehicle, filled him with the deepest disgust. He could not trace
real affection in her words or manner; and that any woman, instigated
by a mere whim, should lay aside the maidenly reserves of her sex,
and actually court his regard, surprised whilst it impelled him to
loathe her.
They who adopt Euphemia's sentiments,--and, alas! there are some,--
can be little aware of the conclusion which society infer from such
intemperate behavior. The mistaken creature who, either at the
impulsion of her own disposition or by the influence of example, is
induced to despise the guard of modesty, literally "forsakes the
guide of her youth" and leaves herself open to every attack which man
can devise against her. By levelling the barrier raised by nature,
she herself exposes the stronghold of virtue, and may find, too late
for recovery, that what modesty has abandoned is not long spared by
honor.
Euphemia's affected attachment suggested to Thaddeus a few unpleasant
recollections respecting the fervent and unequivocal passion of Lady
Sara. Though guilty, it sprung from a headlong ardor of disposition
which formed at once the error and its palliation. He saw that love
was not welcomed by her (at least he thought so) as a plaything, but
struggled against as with a foe. He had witnessed her tortures; he
pitied them, and to render her happy, would gladly have made any
sacrifice short of his conscience. Too well assured of being all the
world to Lady Sara, the belief that Miss Euphemia liked him only from
idleness, caprice, and contradiction, caused him to repay her
overtures with decided contempt.
When he arrived at home, he threw on his table the pocket-book whose
unambiguous motto made him scorn her, and almost himself for being
the object of such folly. Looking round his humble room, whose
wicker-chairs, oil-cloth floor, and uncurtained windows announced
anything but elegance: "Poor Euphemia!" said he; "how would you be
dismayed were the indigent Constantine to really take you at your
word, and bring you home to a habitation like this!"
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