SOMERSET CASTLE.
But Sobieski did not follow the attentive domestic of his maternal
friend to the prepared apartment in the Abbey. He asked to be
conducted back through the night shadowed grounds to the little hotel
he had seen early in the evening on his approach to the mansion. It
stood at the entrance of the adjoining village, and under its rustic
porch he had immediately entered, to engage a lodging beneath its
humble sign, "The Plough," for the few clays of his intended visit to
Lady Tinemouth. A boy had been his guide, and bearer of his small
travelling bag, from the famous old Commandery inn, the "Angel," at
Grantham, where the Wold diligence had set him down in the afternoon
at the top of the market-place of that memorable town of ancient
chivalry, to find his way up to the occasional rural palace cells on
Harrowby Hill, of the same doughty and luxurious knights who were now
lying, individually forgotten, in their not only silent but unknown
graves, there not being a trace of them amongst the chapel ruins of
the Abbey, nor below the hill, on the sight of the old Commandery
church at Grantham.
"Ah, transit mundi!" exclaimed Thaddeus to himself, with a calmed
sigh, as he thought on those things, while resting under the modest
little portal of the hotel, whose former magnificence, when a hermit
cell, might still be discernible in a few remaining remnants of the
rich Gothic lintel yet mingling with the matted straw and the
clinging ivy of the thatch.
"What art thou, world, and thine ambitions?" again echoed in silence
from the heart of Thaddeus. "Though yet so young, I have seen thee in
all thy phases which might wean me from this earth. But there are
still some beings dear to me in the dimmed aspect, that seem to hold
my hopes to this transitory and yet too lovely world." He was then
thinking of his restored friend Pembroke Somerset, and of her whose
name had been so fondly uttered by him, as a possible bond of their
still more intimate relationship. He tried to quell the wild hope
this recollection waked in his bosom, and hurried from the little
parlor of the inn, where Lady Tinemouth's old servant had left him,
to seek repose in his humbly-prepared chamber.
At sight of its white-robed bed and simple furniture, and instantly
conscious to the balmy effects of the sweet freshness that breathed
around him, where no perfume but that of flowers ever entered, his
agitated feelings soon became soothed into serenity, and within a
quarter of an hour after he had laid his grateful head on that quiet
pillow, he had sunk to a sleep of gentle peace with man and Heaven.
Next morning, when the countess met her gladly re-welcomed guest at
the breakfast-table, she expressed surprise and pleasure at the scene
of the preceding night, but intimated some mortification that he had
withheld any part of his confidence from her. Sobieski soon obtained
her pardon, by relating the manner of his first meeting with Mr.
Somerset in Poland, and the consequent events of that momentous
period.
Lady Tinemouth wept over the distressful fate that marked the residue
of his narrative with a tenderness which yet more endeared her to his
soul. But when, in compliance with his inquiries, she informed him
how it happened that he had to seek her at Harrowby Abbey, when he
supposed her to be on the Wolds, it was his turn to pity, and to
shudder at his own consanguinity with Lord Harwold.
"Indeed," added the countess, wishing to turn from the painful
subject, "you must have had a most tedious journey from Harwold Park
to Harrowby, and nothing but my pleasure could exceed my astonishment
when I met you last night on the hill."
Thaddeus sincerely declared that travelling a few miles further than
he intended was no fatigue to him; yet, were it otherwise, the
happiness which he then enjoyed would have acted as a panacea for
worse ills, could he have seen her looking as well as when she left
London.
Lady Tinemouth smiled. "You are right, Sobieski. I am worse than when
I was in town. My solitary journey to Harwold oppressed me; and when
my son sent me orders to leave it, because his father wanted the
place for the autumnal months, his capricious cruelty seemed to
augment the hectic of my distress. Nevertheless, I immediately
obeyed, and in augmented disorder, arrived here last week. But how
kind you were to follow me! Who informed you of the place of my
destination?--hardly any of Lady Olivia's household?"
"No," returned Thaddeus; "I luckily had the precaution to inquire at
the inn on the Wolds where the coach stopped, what part of Lord
Tinemouth's family were at the Park; and when I heard that the earl
himself was there, my next question was, "Where, then, was the
countess?" The landlord very civilly told me of your having engaged a
carriage from his house a day or two before, to carry you to one of
his lordship's seats within a few miles of Somerset Castle. Hence,
from what I heard you say of the situation of Harrowby, I concluded
it must be the Abbey, and so I sought you at a venture."
"And I hope a happy issue," replied she, "will arise from your
wanderings! This rencontre with so old a friend as Mr. Somerset is a
pleasing omen. For my part, I was ignorant of the arrival of the
family at the Castle until yesterday morning, and then I sent off a
messenger to apprize my dear Miss Beaufort of my being in her
neighborhood. To my great disappointment, Lady Shafto found me out
immediately; and when, in compliance with her importunate invitation,
I walked down to an early dinner with her yesterday, little did I
expect to meet the amiable cousin of our sweet friend. So delightful
an accident has amply repaid me for the pain I endured in seeing Miss
Dundas at the Lodge; an insolent and reproachful letter which she
wrote to me concerning you has rendered her an object of my
aversion."
Thaddeus smiled and gently bent his head. "Since, my dear Lady
Tinemouth, her groundless malice and Miss Euphemia's folly have
failed in estranging either your confidence or the esteem of Miss
Beaufort from me, I pardon them both. Perhaps I ought to pity them;
for is it not difficult to pass through the brilliant snares of
wealth and adulation and emerge pure as when we entered them?
Unclouded fortune is, indeed, a trial of spirits; and how brightly
does Miss Beaufort rise from the blaze! Surrounded by splendor,
homage and indulgence, she is yet all nature, gentleness and virtue!"
The latter part of this burst of heart he uttered rapidly, the nerves
of that heart beating full at every word.
The countess, who wished to appear cheerful, rallied him on the
warmth of his expressions; and observing that "the day was fine,"
invited him to walk out with her through the romantic, though long-
neglected, domains of the Abbey.
Meanwhile, the family at Somerset were just drawn round the
breakfast-board, when they were agreeably surprised by the sudden
entrance of Pembroke. During the repast Miss Beaufort repeated the
contents of the note she had received the preceding day from Lady
Tinemouth, and requested that her cousin would be kind enough to
drive her in his curricle that morning to Harrowby.
"I will, with pleasure," answered he. "I have seen her ladyship, and
even supped with her last night."
"How came that?" asked Miss Dorothy.
"I shall explain it to my father, whenever he will honor me with an
audience," returned her happy nephew, addressing the baronet with all
the joy of his heart looking out at his eyes. "Will you indulge me,
dear sir, by half an hour's attention?"
"Certainly," replied Sir Robert; "at present I am going into my study
to settle my steward's books, but the moment I have finished, I will
send for you."
Miss Dorothy walked out after her brother, to attend her aviary, and
Miss Beaufort, remaining alone with her cousin, made some inquiries
about the countess's reasons for coming to the Abbey. "I know nothing
about them," replied he, gayly, "for she went to bed almost the
instant I entered the house. Too good to remain where her company was
not wanted, she left me to enjoy a most delightful _tete-à-tete_
with a dear friend, from whom I parted nearly four years ago. In
short, we sat up the whole night together, talking over past scenes--
and present ones too, for, I assure you, you were not forgotten."
"I! what had I to do with it?" replied Mary, smiling. "I cannot
recollect any dear friend of yours whom you have not seen these four
years."
"Well, that is strange!" answered Pembroke; "he remembers you
perfectly; but, true to your sex, you affirm what you please, though
I know there is not a man in the world I prefer before him."
Miss Beaufort shook her head, laughed, and sighed; and withdrawing
her hand from his, threatened to leave him if he would not be
serious.
"I am serious," cried he. "Would you have me _swear_ that I have
seen him whom you most wish to see?"
She regarded the expression of his countenance with a momentary
emotion; taking her seat again, she said, "You can have seen no one
that is of consequence to me; whoever your friend may be, I have only
to congratulate you on a meeting which affords you so much delight."
Pembroke burst into a joyous laugh at her composure.
"So cold!" cried he--"so cautious! Yet I verily believe you would
participate in my delights were I to tell you who he is. However, you
are such a skeptic, that I wont hint even one of the many fine things
he said of you."
She smiled incredulously.
"I could beat you, Mary," exclaimed he, "for this oblique way of
saying I am telling lies! But I will have my revenge on your
curiosity; for on my honor I declare," added he, emphatically, "that
last night I met with a friend at Lady Tinemouth's who four years ago
saved my life, who entertained me several weeks in his house, and who
has seen and adores you! Tis true; true, on my existence! And what is
more, I have promised that you will repay these weighty obligations
by the free gift of this dear hand. What do you say to this, my sweet
Mary?"
Miss Beaufort looked anxious at the serious and energetic manner in
which he made those assertions; even the sportive kiss that ended the
question did not dispel the gravity with which she prepared to reply.
Pembroke perceiving her intent, prevented her by exclaiming, "Cease,
Mary, cease! I see you are going to make a false statement. Let truth
prevail, and you will not deny that I am suing for a plighted faith?
You will not deny who it was that softened and subdued your heart?
You cannot conceal from me that the wanderer Constantine possesses
your affections?"
Amazed at so extraordinary a charge from her hitherto always
respectful as well as fraternally affectionate cousin, she reddened
with pain and displeasure. Rising from her seat, and averting her
tearful eyes, she said, "I did not expect this cruel, this ungenerous
speech from you, Pembroke! What have I done to deserve so rude, so
unfeeling a reproach?"
Pembroke threw his arm round her. "Come," said he, in a sportive
voice; "don't be tragical. I never meant to reproach you, Mary. I
dare say if you gave your heart, it was only in return for his. I
know you are a grateful girl; and I verily believe you won't find
much difference between my friend the young Count Sobieski and the
forlorn Constantine."
A suspicion of the truth flashed across Miss Beaufort's mind. Unable
to speak, she caught hold of her cousin's hands, and looking eagerly
in his face, her eyes declared the question she would have asked.
Pembroke laughed triumphantly. A servant entering to tell him that
Sir Robert was ready, he strained her to his breast and exclaimed,
"Now I am revenged! Farewell! I leave you to all the pangs of doubt
and curiosity!" He then flew out of the room with an arch glance at
her agitated countenance, and hurried up stairs.
She clasped her trembling hands together as the door closed on him.
"O, gracious Providence!" cried she, "what am I to understand by this
mystery, this joy of my cousin's? Can it be possible that the
illustrious Sobieski and my contemned Constantine are the same
person?" A burning blush overspread her face at the expression
_my_ which had escaped her lips.
Whilst the graces, the sweetness, the dignity of Thaddeus had
captivated her notice, his sufferings, his virtues, and the
mysterious interests which involved his history, in like manner had
fixed her attention had awakened her esteem. From these grounds the
step is short to love. "When the mind is conquered, the heart
surrenders at discretion." But she knew not that she had advanced too
far to retreat, until the last scene at Dundas House, by forcing her
to defend Constantine against the charge of loving her, made her
confess to herself how much she wished the charge were true.
Poor and lowly as he seemed, she found that her whole heart and life
were wrapped in his remembrance; that his worshipped idea was her
solace; her most precious property the dear treasure of her secret
and sweetest felicity, It was the companion of her walks, the monitor
of her actions. Whenever she planned, whenever she executed, she
asked herself, how would Constantine consider this? and accordingly
did she approve or condemn her conduct, for she had heard enough from
Mrs. Robson to convince her that piety was the sure fountain of his
virtues.
When she had left London, and so far separated from this idol of her
memory, such was the impression he had stamped on her heart; he
seemed ever present. The shade of Laura visited the solitude of
Vaucluse; the image of Constantine haunted the walks of Somerset. The
loveliness of nature, its leafy groves and verdant meadows, its
blooming mornings and luxuriant sunsets, the romantic shadows of
twilight or the soft glories of the moon and stars, as they pressed
beauty and sentiment upon her heart, awoke it to the remembrance of
Constantine; she saw his image, she felt his soul, in every object.
Subtile and undefinable is that ethereal chord which unites our
tenderest thought, with their chain of association!
Before this conversation, in which Pembroke mentioned the name of
Constantine with so much badinage and apparent familiarity, he never
heard him spoken of by Mary or his aunt without declaring a
displeasure nearly amounting to anger. Hence when she considered his
now so strangely altered tone, Miss Beaufort necessarily concluded
that he had seen, in the person of him she most valued, the man whose
public character she had often heard him admire, and who, she now
doubted not, had at some former period given him some private reason
for calling him his friend. Before this time, she more than once had
suspected, from the opinions which Somerset occasionally repeated
respecting the affairs of Poland, that he could only have acquired so
accurate a knowledge of its events by having visited the country
itself. She mentioned her suspicion to Mr. Loftus: he denied the
fact; and she had thought no more on the subject until the present
ambiguous hints of her cousin conjured up these doubts anew, and led
her to suppose that if Pembroke had not disobeyed his father so far
as to go to Warsaw, he must have met with the Count Sobieski in some
other realm. The possibility that this young hero, of whom fame spoke
so loudly, might be the mysterious Constantine, bewildered and
delighted her. The more she compared what she had heard of the one
with what she had witnessed in the other, the more was she reconciled
to the probability of her ardent hope. Besides, she could not for a
moment retain a belief that her cousin would so cruelly sport with
her delicacy and peace as to excite expectations that he could not
fulfil.
Agitated by a suspense which bordered on agony, with a beating heart
she heard his quick step descending the stairs. The door opened, and
Pembroke, flying into the room, caught up his hat. As he was darting
away again, unable to restrain her impatience, Miss Beaufort with an
imploring voice ejaculated his name. He turned, and displayed to her
amazed sight a countenance in which no vestige of his former
animation could be traced. His cheek was flushed, and his eyes shot a
wild fire that struck to her heart. Unconscious what she did, she ran
up to him; but Pembroke, pushing her back, exclaimed, "Don't ask me
any questions, if you would not drive me to madness."
"O Heaven!" cried she, catching his arm, and clinging to him, while
the eagerness of his motion dragged her into the hall. "Tell me! Has
anything happened to my guardian--to your friend--to Constantine?"
"No," replied he, looking at her with a face full of desperation;
"but my father commands me to treat him like a villain."
She could hardly credit her senses at this confirmation that
Constantine and Sobieski were one. Turning giddy with the tumultuous
delight that rushed over her soul, she staggered back a few paces,
and leaning against the open door, tried to recover breath to regain
the room she had left.
Pembroke, having escaped from her grasp, ran furiously down the hill,
mounted his horse, and forbidding any groom to attend him, galloped
towards the high road with the impetuosity of a madman. All the
powers of his soul were in arms, Wounded, dishonored, stigmatized
with ingratitude and baseness, he believed himself to be the most
degraded of men.
It appeared that Sir Robert Somerset had long cherished a hatred to
the Poles, in consequence of some injury he affirmed he had received
in early youth from one of that nation. In this instance his dislike
was implacable; and when his son set out for the continent, he
positively forbade him to enter Poland. Notwithstanding his
remembrance of this violated injunction, when Pembroke joined the
baronet in his library, he did it with confidence. With a bounding
heart and animated countenance, he recapitulated how he had been
wrought upon by his young Russian friends to take up arms in their
cause and march into Poland. At these last words his father turned
pale, and though he did not speak, the denunciation was on his brow.
Pembroke, who expected some marks of displeasure, hastened to
obliterate his disobedience by narrating the event which had
introduced not only the young Count Sobieski to his succor, but the
consequent friendship of the whole of that princely family.
Sir Robert still made no verbal reply, but his countenance deepened
in gloom; and when Pembroke, with all the pathos of a deep regret,
attempted to describe the death of the palatine, the horrors which
attended the last hours of the countess, and the succeeding misery of
Thaddeus, who was now in England, no language can paint the frenzy
which burst at once from the baronet. He stamped on the ground, he
covered his face with his clenched hands; then turning on his son
with a countenance no longer recognizable, he exclaimed with fury,
"Pembroke! you have outraged my commands! Never will I pardon you if
that young man ever blasts me with his sight."
"Merciful Heaven!" cried Pembroke, thunderstruck at a violence which
he almost wished might proceed from real madness: "surely something
has agitated my father! What can this mean?"
Sir Robert shook his head, whilst his teeth ground against each
other. "Don't mistake me," replied he, in a firm voice "I am
perfectly in my senses. It depends on _you_ that I continue so.
You know my oath against all of that nation! and I repeat again, if
you ever bring that young man into my presence, you shall never see
me more."
A cold dew overspread the body of Pembroke. He would have caught his
father's hand, but he held it back. "O sir," said he, "you surely
cannot intend that I shall treat with ingratitude the man who saved
my life?"
Sir Robert did not vouchsafe him an answer, but continued walking up
and down the room, until, his hesitation increasing at every step, he
opened the door of an interior apartment and retired, bidding his son
remain where he left him.
The horror-struck Pembroke waited a quarter of an hour before his
father re-entered. When he did appear, the deep gloom of his eye gave
no encouragement to his son, who, hanging down his head, recoiled
from speaking first. Sir Robert approached with a composed but severe
countenance, and said, "I have been seeking every palliation that
your conduct might admit, but I can find none. Before you quitted
England, you knew well my abhorrence of Poland. One of that country
many years ago wounded my happiness in a way I shall never recover.
From that hour I took an oath never to enter its borders, and never
to suffer one of its people to come within my doors. Rash,
disobedient boy! You know my disposition, and you have seen the
emotion with which this dilemma has shaken my soul! I But be it on
your own head that you have incurred obligations which I cannot
repay. I will not perjure myself to defray a debt contracted against
my positive and declared principles. I never will see this Polander
you speak of; and it is my express command, on pain of my eternal
malediction, that you break with him entirely."
Pembroke fell into a seat. Sir Robert proceeded.
"I pity your distress, but my resolution cannot be shaken. Oaths are
not to be broken with impunity. You must either resign him or resign
me. We may compromise your debt of gratitude. I will give you deeds
to put your friend in possession of five hundred pounds a-year for
life forever; nay, I would even double it to give you satisfaction;
but from the hour in which you tell him so, you must see him no
more."
Sir Robert was quitting the room, when Pembroke, starting from his
chair, threw himself in agony on his knees, and catching by the skirt
of his father's coat, implored him for God's sake to recall his
words; to remember that he was affixing everlasting dishonor on his
son! "Remember, dear sir!" cried he, holding his struggling hand,
"that the man to whom you offer money as a compensation for insult is
of a nature too noble to receive it. He will reject it, and spurn me;
and I shall know that I deserve his scorn. For mercy's sake, spare me
the agony of harrowing up the heart of my preserver--of meeting
reproach from his eyes!"
"Leave me!" cried the baronet, breaking from him; "I repeat, unless
you wish to incur my curse, do as I have commanded."
Thus outraged, thus agonised, Pembroke had appeared before the eyes
of his cousin Mary more like a distracted creature than a man
possessed of his senses. Shortly after his abrupt departure, her
apprehension was petrified to a dreadful certainty of some cruel ruin
to her hopes, by an order she received in the handwriting of her
uncle, commanding her not to attempt visiting Lady Tinemouth whilst
the Count Sobieski continued to be her guest, and under peril of his
displeasure never to allow that name to pass her lips.
Hardly knowing whither he went, Pembroke did not arrive at the ruined
aisle which leads to the habitable part of the Abbey until near three
o'clock. He inquired of the groom that took his horse whether the
countess and Mr. Constantine were at home. The man replied in the
affirmative, but added, with a sad countenance, he feared neither of
them could be seen.
"For what reason?" demanded Somerset.
"Alas! sir," replied the servant, "about an hour ago my lady was
seized with a violent fit of coughing, which ended in the rupture of
a blood-vessel. It continued to flow so long, that Mr. Constantine
told the apothecary, whom he had summoned, to send for a physician.
The doctor is not yet arrived, and Mr. Constantine won't leave my
lady,"
Though Mr. Somerset was truly concerned at the illness of the
countess, the respite it afforded him from immediately declaring the
ungrateful message of Sir Robert gave him no inconsiderable degree of
ease. Somewhat relieved by the hope of being for one day spared the
anguish of displaying his father in a disgraceful light, he entered
the Abbey, and desired that a maid-servant might be sent to her
ladyship's room to inform his friend that Mr. Somerset was below.
In a few minutes the girl returned with the following lines on a slip
of paper:
"To Pembroke Somerset, Esq.
"I am grieved that I cannot see my dear Somerset to-day I fear my
revered friend is on her death-bed. I have sent for Dr. Cavendish,
who is now at Stanford; doubtless you know he is a man of the first
abilities. If human skill can preserve her, I may yet have hopes; but
her disorder is on the lung and in the heart, and I fear the stroke
is sure. I am now sitting by her bedside, and writing what she
dictates to her husband, her son, and her daughter. Painful, you may
believe, is this task! I cannot, my dear Somerset, add more than my
hope of seeing you soon, and that you will join in prayers to Heaven
for the restoration of my inestimable friend, with your faithful and
affectionate
"Sobieski."
"Alas! unhappy, persecuted Sobieski!" thought Pembroke, as he closed
the paper; "to what art thou doomed! Some friends are torn from thee
by death; others desert thee in the hour of trouble."
He took out his pencil to answer this distressing epistle, but he
stopped at the first word; he durst not write that his father would
fulfil any one of those engagements which he had so largely promised;
and throwing away the pencil and the paper, he left a verbal
declaration of his sorrow at what had happened, and an assurance of
calling next day. Turning his back on a house which he had left on
the preceding night with so many joyful hopes, he remounted his
horse, and, melancholy and slow, rode about the country until
evening,--so unwilling was he to return to that home which now
threatened him with the frowns of his father, the tears of Mary
Beaufort, and the miserable reflections of his own wretched heart.