ZEAL IS POWER.
The porter at Lady Dundas's had been strictly correct in his account
respecting the destination of the dispersed members of her ladyship's
household.
Whilst Pembroke Somerset was sullenly executing his forced act of
benevolence at Newgate, Miss Dundas suddenly took into her scheming
head to compare the merits of Somerset's rich expectancy with the
penniless certainty of Lascelles. She considered the substantial
advantages which the wife of a wealthy baronet would hold over the
thriftless _cara sposa_ of a man owning no other estate than a
reflected lustre from the coronet of an elder brother. Besides,
Pembroke was very handsome--Lascelles only tolerably so; indeed, some
women had presumed to call him "very plain." But they were "stupid
persons," who, not believing the _metempsychosis_ doctrine of
the tailor and his decorating adjuncts, could not comprehend that
although a mere human creature can have no such property, a man of
fashion may possess an _elixir vitae_ which makes age youth,
deformity beauty, and even transforms vice into virtue.
In spite of recollection, which reminded Diana how often she had
contended that all Mr. Lascelles' teeth were his own; that his nose
was not a bit too long, being a facsimile of the feature which reared
its sublime curve over the capricious mouth of his noble brother, the
Earl of Castle Conway--notwithstanding all this, the Pythagorean
pretensions of fashion began to lose their ascendency; and in the
recesses of her mind, when Miss Dundas compared the light elegance of
Pembroke's figure with the heavy limbs of her present lover,
Pembroke's dark and ever-animated eyes with the gooseberry orbs of
Lascelles, she dropped the parallel, and resolving to captivate the
heir of Somerset Castle, admitted no remorse at jilting the brother
of Castle Conway.
To this end, before Pembroke's return from Newgate, Diana had told
her mother of her intention to accompany Miss Dorothy to the
baronet's, where she would remain until her ladyship should think
Euphemia might be trusted to rejoin her in town. Neither Miss Dorothy
nor Miss Beaufort liked this arrangement; and next morning, with an
aching heart, the latter prepared to take her seat in the travelling
equipage which was to convey them all into Leicestershire.
After supper, Pembroke coldly informed his cousin of the success of
her commands--that Mr. Constantine was at liberty. This assurance,
though imparted with so ungracious an air, laid her head with less
distraction on her pillow, and as she stepped into Sir Robert's
carriage next day, enabled her with more ease to deck her lips with
smiles. She felt that the penetrating eyes of Mr. Somerset were never
withdrawn from her face. Offended with his perverseness, and their
scrutiny, she tried to baffle their inspection. She attempted gayety,
when she gladly would have wept. But when the coach mounted the top
of Highgate Hill, and she had a last view of that city which
contained the being whose happiness was the sole object of her
thoughts and prayers, she leaned out of the window to hide a tear she
could not repress; feeling that another and another would start, she
complained of the dust, and pulling her veil over her eyes, drew back
into the corner of the carriage. The trembling of her voice and hands
during the performance of this little artifice too well explained to
Pembroke what was passing in her mind. At once dispelling the gloom
which shrouded his own countenance, he turned towards her with
compassionate tenderness in his words and looks; he called her
attention by degrees to the happy domestic scene she was to meet at
the Castle; and thus gradually softening her displeasure into the
easy conversation of reciprocal affection, he rendered the remainder
of their long journey less irksome.
When, at the end of the second day, Miss Beaufort found herself in
the old avenue leading to the base of the hill which sustains the
revered walls of Somerset's castellated towers, a mingled emotion
took possession of her breast; and when the carriage arrived at the
foot of the highest terrace, she sprang impatiently out of it, and
hastening up the stone stairs into the front hall, met her uncle at
the door of the breakfast-parlor, where he held out his arms to
receive her.
"My Mary! My darling!" cried he, embracing her now wet cheek, and
straining her throbbing bosom to his own, "Why, my dear love," added
he, almost carrying her into the room, "I am afraid this visit to
town has injured your nerves! Whence arises this agitation?"
She knew it had injured her peace; and now that the floodgates of her
long-repelled tears were opened, it was beyond her power, or the
soothings of her affectionate uncle, to stay them. A moment
afterwards her cousin entered the room, followed by Miss Dorothy and
Miss Dundas. Miss Beaufort hastily rose, to conceal what she could
not check. Kissing Sir Robert's hand, she asked permission to retire,
under the pretence of regaining those spirits which had been
dissipated by the fatigues of her journey.
In her own chamber she did indeed struggle to recover herself. She
shuddered at the impetuosity of her emotions when once abandoned of
their reins, and resolved from this hour to hold a stricter control
over such betrayals of her ill-fated, devoted heart.
She sat in the window of her apartment, and looking down the
extensive vale of Somerset, watched the romantic meanderings of its
shadowed river, winding its course through the domains of the castle,
and nourishing the roots of those immense oaks which for many a
century had waved their branches over its stream. She reflected on
the revolution which had take place in herself since she walked on
its banks the evening that preceded her visit to London. Then she was
free as the air, gay as the lark; each object was bright and lovely
in her eyes hope seemed to woo her from every green slope, every
remote dingle. All nature breathed of joy, because her own breast was
the abode of gladness. Now, all continued the same, but she was
changed. Surrounded by beauty, she acknowledged its presence; the
sweetness of the flowers bathed her senses in fragrance; the setting
sun, gilding the height, shed a yellow glory over the distant hills;
the birds were hailing the falling dew which spangled every leaf. She
gazed around, and sighed heavily, when she said to herself, "Even in
this paradise I shall be wretched. Alas! my heart is far away! My
soul lingers about one I may never more behold!--about one who may
soon cease to remember that such a being as Mary Beaufort is in
existence. He will leave England!" cried she, raising her hands and
eyes to the glowing heavens. "He will live, he will die, far, far
from me! In a distant land he will wed another, whilst I shall know
no wish that strays from him."
Whilst she indulged in these soliloquies, she forgot both Sir Robert
and her resolution, until he sent her maid to beg, if she were
better, that she would come down and make tea for him. At this
summons she dried her eyes, and with assumed serenity descended to
the saloon, where the family were assembled. The baronet having
greeted Miss Dundas with an hospitable welcome, seated himself
between his sister and his son; and whilst he received his favorite
beverage from the hands of his beloved niece, he found that comfort
once more re-entered his bosom.
Sir Robert Somerset was a man whose appearance alone attracted
respect. His person bore the stamp of dignity, and his manners, which
possessed the exquisite polish of travel, and of society in its most
refined courts, secured him universal esteem. Though little beyond
fifty, various perplexing situations having distressed his youth, had
not only rendered his hair prematurely gray, but by clouding his once
brilliant eyes with thoughtfulness, marked his aspect with premature
old age and melancholy. The baronet's entrance into town life had
been celebrated for his graceful vivacity; he was the animating
spirit of every party, till an inexplicable metamorphosis suddenly
took place. Soon after his return from abroad, he had married Miss
Beaufort (a woman whom he loved to adoration), When, strange to say,
excess of happiness seemed to change his nature and give his
character a deep tinge of sadness. After his wife's death, the
alteration in his mind produced still more extraordinary effects, and
showed itself more than once in all the terrors of threatened mental
derangement.
His latest attack of the kind assailed him during the last winter,
under the appearance of a swoon, while he sat at breakfast reading
the newspaper. He was carried to bed, and awoke in a delirium which
menaced either immediate death or the total extinction of his
intellects. However, neither of these dreads being confirmed, in the
course of several weeks, to the wonder of everybody, he recovered
much of his health and his sound mind. Notwithstanding this happy
event, the circumstances of his danger so deeply affected his family,
that he ceased not to be an object of the most anxious attention.
Indeed, solicitude did not terminate with them: the munificence of
his disposition having spread itself through every county in which he
owned a rood of land, as many prayers ascended for the repose of his
spirit as ever petitioned Heaven from the mouths of "monkish
beadsmen" in favor of power and virtue.
Since the demise of Lady Somerset, this still-admired man drew all
his earthly comfort from the amiable qualities of his son Pembroke.
Sometimes in his livelier hours, which came "like angel visits, few
and far between," he amused himself with the playfulness of the
little Earl of Avon, the pompous erudition of Mr. Loftus, (who was
become his young ward's tutor), and with giving occasional
entertainments to the gentry in his neighborhood.
Of all the personages contained within this circle (which the
hospitality of Sir Robert extended to a circumference of fifty
miles,) the noble family of Castle Granby, brave, patriotic, and
accomplished, with female beauty at its head,
"Fitted to move in courts or walk the shade,
With innocence and contemplation joined,"
were held in the highest and most intimate appreciation; while many
of the numerous titled visitants who attended the celebrated and
magnificent Granby hunt were of too convivial notoriety to be often
admitted within the social home-society of either Castle Granby or
Somerset Castle, the two cynosure mansions which, now palace-like,
crest with their peaceful groves the summits of those two promontory
heights whereon in former times they stood in fortress strength, the
guardians of each opening pass into that spacious and once important
belligerent vale!
Amongst the less-esteemed frequenters of the chase was devoted
Nimrod, Sir Richard Shafto, who every season fixed himself and family
at a convenient hunting-lodge near the little town of Grantham, with
his right worthy son and heir who by calling at Somerset Castle soon
after the arrival of his guests, caused a trifling change in its
arrangements. When Dick Shafto (as all the grooms in the stables
familiarly designated him) was ushered into the room, he nodded to
Sir Robert, and, turning his back on the ladies, told Pembroke he had
ridden to Somerset "on purpose to _bag_ him for Woodhill Lodge."
"Upon my life," cried he, "if you don't come, I will cut and run.
There is not a creature but yourself within twenty miles to whom I
can speak--not a man worth a sixpence. I wish my father had broken
his neck before he accepted that confounded embassy, which encumbers
me with the charge of my old mother!"
After this dutiful wish, which brought down a weighty admonition from
Miss Dorothy, the young gentleman promised to behave better, provided
she would persuade Pembroke to accompany him to the Lodge. Mr.
Somerset did not show much alacrity in his consent; but to rid his
family of so noisy a guest, he rose from his chair, and acquiescing
in the sacrifice of a few clays to good nature, bade his father
farewell, and gave orders for a ride to Grantham.
As soon as the gentlemen left the saloon, Miss Dundas ran up stairs,
and from her dressing-room window in the west tower pursued the steps
of their horses as they cantered down the winding steep into the high
road. An abrupt angle of the hill hiding them from her view, she
turned round with a toss of the head, and flinging herself into a
chair, exclaimed, "Now I shall be bored to death by this prosing
family! I wish his boasted hunter had run away with Shafto before he
thought of coming here!"
In consequence of the temper which engendered the above no very
flattering compliment to the society at the Castle, Miss Dundas
descended to the dining-room with sulky looks and a chilling air. She
ate what the baronet laid on her plate with an indolent appetite, cut
her meat carelessly, and dragged the vegetables over the table-cloth.
Miss Dorothy colored at this indifference to the usual neatness of
her damask covers; but Miss Dundas was so completely in the sullens,
that, heedless of any other feelings than her own, she continued to
pull and knock about the things just as her ill-humor dictated.
The petulance of this lady's behavior did not in the least assimilate
with the customary decorum of Sir Robert's table; and when the cloth
was drawn, he could not refrain from expressing his concern that
Somerset Castle appeared so little calculated to afford satisfaction
to a daughter of Lady Dundas. Miss Dundas attempted some awkward
declaration that she never was more amused--never happier.
But the small credit Sir Robert gave to her assertion was fully
warranted the next morning by the ready manner in which she accepting
a casual invitation to spend the ensuing day and night at Lady
Shafto's. Her ladyship called on Miss Dorothy, and intended to have a
party in the evening, invited the two young ladies to return with her
to Woodhill Lodge, and be her guests for a week. Miss Beaufort, whose
spirits were far from tranquillized, declined her civility; but with
a gleam of pleasure she heard it accepted by Miss Dundas, who
departed with her ladyship for the Lodge.
Whilst the enraptured Diana, all life and glee, bowled along with
Lady Shafto, anticipating the delight of once more seating herself at
the elbow of Pembroke Somerset, Mary Beaufort, relieved from a load
of ill-requited attentions, walked out into the park, to enjoy in
solitude the "sweet sorrow" of thinking on the unhappy and far-
distant Constantine. Regardless of the way, her footsteps, though
robbed of elasticity by nightly watching and daily regret, led her
beyond the park, to the ruined church of Woolthorpe, its southern
boundary. Her eyes were fixed on the opposite horizon. It was the
extremity of Leicestershire; and far, far behind those hills was that
London which contained the object dearest to her soul. The wind
seemed scarcely to breathe as it floated towards her; but it came
from that quarter, and believing it laden with every sweet which love
can fancy, she threw back her veil to inhale its balm, then, blaming
herself for such weakness, she turned, blushing, homewards and wept
at what she thought her unreasonably tenacious passion.
The arrival of Miss Dundas at the Lodge was communicated to the two
young men on their return from traversing half the country in quest
of game. The news drew an oath from Shafto, but rather pleased
Somerset, who augured some amusement from her attempts at wit and
judgment. Tired to death, and dinner being over when they entered,
with ravenous appetites they devoured their uncomfortable meal in a
remote room; then throwing themselves along the sofas, yawned and
slept for nearly two hours.
Pembroke waking first, suddenly jumped on the floor, and shaking his
disordered clothes, exclaimed, "Shafto! get up This is abominable! I
cannot help thinking that if we spend one half of our days in
pleasure and the other in lolling off its fatigues, we shall have
passed through life more to our shame than our profit!"
"Then you take the shame and leave me the profit," cried his
companion, turning himself round: "so good-night to you!"
Pembroke rang the bell. A servant entered.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Nine, sir."
"Who are above?"
"My lady, sir, and a large party of ladies."
"There, now!" cried Shafto, yawning and kicking out his legs. "You
surely won't go to be bored with such maudlin company?"
"I choose to join your mother," replied Pembroke. "Are there any
gentlemen, Stephen?"
"One sir: Doctor Denton."
"Off with you!" roared Shafto; "what do you stand jabbering there
for? You won't let me sleep. Can't you send away the fellow, and go
look yourself?"
"I will, if you can persuade yourself to rise off that sofa and come
with me."
"May Lady Hecate catch me if I do! Get about your business, and leave
me to mine."
"You are incorrigible, Shafto," returned Pembroke, as he closed the
door.
He went up stairs to change his dress, and before he gained the
second flight, he resolved not to spend another whole day in the
company of such an ignorant, unmannerly cub.
On Mr. Somerset's entrance into Lady Shafto's drawing-room, he saw
many ladies, but only one gentleman, who was, the before-mentioned
Dr. Denton--a poor, shallow-headed, parasitical animal. Pembroke
having seen enough of him to despise his pretensions both to science
and sincerity, returned his wide smirk and eager inquiries with a
ceremonious bow, and took his seat by the side of the now delighted
Miss Dundas. The vivid spirits of Diana, which she now strove to
render peculiarly sparkling, entertained him. When compared with the
insipid sameness of her ladyship, or the coarse ribaldry of her son,
the mirth of Miss Dundas was wit and her remarks wisdom.
"Dear Mr. Somerset!" cried she, "how good you are to break this sad
solemnity. I vow, until you showed your face, I thought the days of
paganism were revived, and that lacking men, we were assembled here
to celebrate the mysteries of the _Bona Dea_."
"Lacking men!" replied he, smiling; "you have over-looked the
assiduous Doctor Denton?"
"O, no; that is a chameleon in man's clothing. He breathes air, he
eats air, he speaks air; and a most pestilential breath it is. Only
observe how he is pouring its fumes into the ear of yonder sable
statue."
Pembroke directed his eyes as Miss Dundas desired him, and saw Dr.
Denton whispering and bowing before a lady in black. The lady put up
her lip: the doctor proceeded; she frowned: he would not be daunted;
the lady rose from her seat, and slightly bending her head, crossed
the room. Whilst Mr. Somerset was contemplating her graceful figure,
and fine though pale features, Miss Dundas touched his arm, and
smiling satirically, repeated in an affected voice--
"Hail, pensive nun! devout and holy!
Hail, divinest Melancholy!"
"If she be Melancholy," returned Pembroke, "I would forever say
"Hence, unholy Mirth, of Folly born!"
Miss Dundas reddened. She never liked this interesting woman, who was
not only too handsome for competition, but possessed an understanding
that would not tolerate ignorance or presumption. Diana's ill-natured
impertinence having several times received deserved chastisement from
that quarter, she was vexed to the soul when Pembroke closed his
animated response with the question, "Who is she?"
Rather too bitterly for the design on his heart, Miss Dundas iterated
his words, and then answered, "Why, she is crazed. She lives in a
place called Harrowby Abbey, at the top of that hill," continued she,
pointing through the opposite window to a distant rising ground, on
which the moon was shining brightly; "and I am told she frightens the
cottagers out of their wits by her midnight strolls."
Hardly knowing how to credit this wild account, Pembroke asked his
informer if she were serious.
"Never more so. Her eyes are uncommonly wild."
"You must be jesting," returned he; "they seem perfectly reasonable."
Miss Dundas laughed, "like Hamlet's, they 'know not seems, but have
that within which passeth show!' Believe me, she is mad enough for
Bedlam; and of that I could soon convince you. I wonder how Lady
Shafto thought of inviting her, she quite stupefied our dinner."
"Well," cried Pembroke, "if those features announce madness, I shall
never admire a look of sense again."
"Bless us," exclaimed Miss Dundas, "you are wonderfully struck! Don't
you see she is old enough to be your mother?"
"That maybe," answered he, smiling; "nevertheless she is one of the
most lovely women I ever beheld." Come, tell me her name."
"I will satisfy you in a moment," rejoined Diana; "and then away with
your rhapsodies! She is the very Countess of Tinemouth, who brought
that vagabond foreigner to our house who would have run off with
Phemy!"
"Lady Tinemouth!" exclaimed Pembroke; "I never saw her before. My
ever-lamented mother knew her whilst I was abroad, and she esteemed
her highly. Pray introduce me to her!"
"Impossible," replied Diana, vexed at the turn his curiosity had
taken; "I wrote to her about the insidious wretch, and now we don't
speak."
"Then I will introduce myself," answered he. He was moving away, when
Miss Dundas caught his arm, and by various attempts at badinage and
raillery, held him in his place until the countess had made her
farewell curtsey to Lady Shafto, and the door was closed.
Disappointed by this manoeuvre, Pembroke re-seated himself; and
wondering why his aunt and cousin had not heard of Lady Tinemouth's
arrival at Harrowby, he determined to wait on her next day.
Regardless of every word which the provoked Diana addressed to him,
he remained silent and meditating, until the loud voice of Shafto,
bellowing in his ear, made him turn suddenly round. Miss Dundas tried
to laugh at his reverie, though she knew that such a flagrant
instance of inattention was death to her hopes; but Pembroke, not
inclined to partake in the jest, coolly asked his bearish companion
what he wanted?
"Nothing," cried he, "but to hear you speak! Miss Dundas tells me you
have lost your heart to yonder grim countess? My mother wanted me to
gallant her up the hill; but I would see her in the river first!"
"Shafto!" answered Pembroke, rising from his chair, "you cannot be
speaking of Lady Tinemouth?"
"Efaith I am," roared he; "and if she be such a scamp as to live
without a carriage, I won't be her lackey for nothing. The matter of
a mile is not to be tramped over by me with no pleasanter companion
than an old painted woman of quality."
"Surely you cannot mean," returned Pembroke, "that her ladyship was
to walk from this place?"
"Without a doubt," cried Shafto, bursting into a hoarse laugh; "you
would be clever to see my Lady Stingy in any other carriage than her
clogs."
Irritated at the malice of Miss Dundas, and despising the vulgar
illiberality of Shafto, without deigning a reply, Pembroke abruptly
left the room, and hastening out of the house, ran, rather than
walked, in hopes of overtaking the countess before she reached
Harrowby.
* * * * * * *