"Malison, dear Malison, congratulate me; the game is in my own hands!"
exclaimed Miss Grahame one morning as she entered the private room of
her confidant, about a week after the receipt of the letters we have
mentioned, with every feature expressing triumphant yet malignant glee.
"That has been the case some weeks, has it not?" replied Miss Malison.
"Yes; but not so completely as at present. Caroline has just left me;
she was afraid of imparting in writing the important intelligence she
had to give me, important indeed, for it saves me a world of trouble:
though did I allow myself to think on her present situation of
suffering, I believe that I should repent her perfect and innocent
confidence in me. Her defence of my character, whenever it is attacked,
almost touches my heart; but her mother, her intrusive mother, that
would-be paragon of her sex, rises before me and continually urges me
on; she shall learn, to her cost, that her carefully-trained children
are not better than others."
"She has learned it partly already, by your account," remarked Miss
Malison, concealing under a calm exterior her detestation of Mrs.
Hamilton.
"She has. That rejection of St. Eval assisted me most agreeably; I did
not expect that Caroline's own spirit and self-will would have aided me
so effectually. That disappointment with St. Eval has affected Mrs.
Hamilton more deeply than she chooses to make visible. Her coldness and
severity towards her child spring from her own angry and mortified
feelings; however, she lays it to the score of Caroline's faulty
conduct, and my friendly letters have happily convinced Caroline such
is the case. In my most sanguine expectations of triumph, I never
imagined I should succeed so well in severing the link between Mrs.
Hamilton and her daughter. Confidence is utterly at an end between them,
and that would be sufficient to gratify any one but myself; but my
vengeance for the prejudice and dislike with which this perfect creature
regards me must be more fully satisfied, at present it is only soothed.
Now you know, _chère_ Malison, you are dying with curiosity to hear what
new assistance has started up; a little more patience and you shall know
all. You are aware with what bitter and resentful feelings Caroline
regards the treatment she receives from her parents, and also from
Emmeline, child as she is."
"Perfectly; nor do I wonder at it. In this case the immaculate Mrs.
Hamilton does not appear to practise what she preaches. It is rather
wonderful, that one who says so much about gentle treatment doing more
good than harshness, should now make her own child suffer beneath her
severity.'"
"As I said before, Malison, her severity is but a disguise for
mortification and annoyance. Lord St. Eval, the heir of the Malvern
peerage, was too good a chance to be thrown away without vexation.
Caroline was a silly fool to act as she did, I must say that for her,
grateful as I ought to be for the assistance that foolish act has given
me. As for rejecting him merely for love of Alphingham, it is a complete
farce. She no more loves the Viscount than I do; perhaps not so much. I
make her believe she does, and so I intend to do till my plan is fully
accomplished; but love him as she would have done, as in all
probability, at the present moment, she loves Lord St. Eval, she does
not and never will. I shall make a fashionable pair, but not a love
match, Malison, believe me."
"That Mrs. Hamilton may have the exquisite pleasure of seeing her
daughter like other people, however different she may choose to be
herself; you will rather do her a kindness than an injury, my dear Miss
Grahame."
"Fortunately for my purpose, she will not think so. I shall, through
Caroline, inflict a deeper wound than I ever thought to have done. No
other injury would have touched her; she prides herself on Christian
forbearance and patience, and such like, which, simply translated, would
be found to be nothing but haughtiness and pride, and utter
insensibility to human feelings; but if Caroline goes wrong, elopes,
perhaps, as her aunt did, disregards parental commands, and acts in the
weighty affair of matrimony for herself, why that will be something like
a triumph for my diplomatic schemes."
"You must work well on Caroline's mind to produce such a consummation,"
observed Miss Malison. "I doubt much whether she would ever act in a
manner that she would believe so contrary to her duty. I would advise
you never to give her time to reflect."
"I never mean to do so. If the silly girl had ever reflected at all, she
would at once have known that she loved St. Eval and not Lord
Alphingham; that her mother is her truest friend, and not Annie Grahame;
but as she chooses to remain so stupidly blind and trusting, why I see
no harm in playing my part, and as for her consenting, let her but hear
the honourable Viscount's sweet persuasive eloquence and look on his
handsome and pleading features, and consent will quickly be obtained."
"But why should he not demand her at once of her father? Mr. Hamilton is
always friendly with him when they meet."
"You have just hit the mark, _ma chère_. That very truth was always a
stumbling block in my machinations, for I almost feared, by Mr.
Hamilton's manner towards him, that the interesting tales concerning his
youth, which I had intended should be poured into his wife's ear, might
be disregarded; such from the first had been my intention, but I have
felt puzzled in a degree how to set about it."
"Nay, you do yourself injury, my dearest Miss Grahame," observed the
ex-governess, officiously. "From your earliest years you were never
puzzled at anything."
"My wits deserted me then for the moment," replied Annie, laughing, "and
would perhaps have returned when my plot was ripe for execution; but I
am happy to say I can dispense with their assistance, as I have received
it most effectually from a member of Mr. Hamilton's own family."
"How!" exclaimed Miss Malison, much astonished.
"Even so, _ma chère_; and now we come to the important intelligence
Caroline brought me this morning. It appears, that last week Mr.
Hamilton received a letter from Percy, which by her account must have
contained some mysterious warning against this very Lord Alphingham,
that his attentions to Caroline had been not only remarked, but reported
to him, and conjuring his father, as he valued Caroline's future peace,
to dismiss him at once and peremptorily. Thus much Mr. Hamilton imparted
to his daughter, a few days after the receipt of this letter, and after
bestowing some little approbation on her conduct towards him, which you
know before her parents is always particularly cold and guarded, he
requested, or rather desired, that she would gradually withdraw herself
entirely from his society, as he had received quite sufficient
confirmation of that letter to render him anxious to break off all
further communication and acquaintance with him. Caroline is such a
simpleton, I wonder she could prevent her countenance from betraying her
as he spoke; but I suppose she did, for Mr. Hamilton expressed himself
satisfied by her assurance that his wishes should not be forgotten.
Whether this letter contains other and more explicit matter she does not
know, but her state of mind at present is miserable enough to touch any
heart that is not quite so steeled as mine. I could almost smile at her
fond belief that she really loves him, for I see my own work, no tender
passion as she imagines; and to break off all intercourse with him
appears comparative torture. I have already convinced her of her
father's injustice and cruelty in acting thus capriciously towards one
so well known and so universally honoured, and merely from a mysterious
and unsatisfactory letter from a boy who knows nothing about the matter.
I hinted very broadly that it was only because her parents were provoked
at her rejection of St. Eval; and as they still had a lingering hope he
would return, they did not choose her to receive attentions from any one
else. I saw her eyes flash and her cheek crimson with indignation
against all who had thus injured her; and she declared with more
vehemence than I expected, that neither father nor mother, nor Percy,
should prevent her choosing a husband for herself. A violent burst of
tears succeeded this speech; but I continued to soothe and console her,
and she left me with a spirit vowed and determined to free herself from
such galling tyranny. And what do you think had been her mood when she
first came to me?"
Miss Malison, as expected, expressed ignorance.
"Why, the weak simpleton thought of confessing her whole tale of love to
her mother, and imploring comfort and assistance."
"Take care she does not do so still," remarked Miss Malison.
"Not she. I have proved too clearly how ridiculous and miserable she
would make herself by such a _dénouement_. Her mother, I said, instead
of pitying, would assuredly condemn her for all the past, and most
probably convey her at once to Oakwood, and immure her there till Lord
St. Eval came to release her. She was both terrified and indignant at
the idea."
"No wonder she should be; but do you know if she or her father have seen
Lord Alphingham since the arrival of this letter?"
"But once, last night; and it was the fancied anguish felt for his
distress, which she was unable, as usual, to soothe, in consequence of
the keen _surveillance_ of her mother, that brought her here this
morning to tell me all. Mr. Hamilton was still courteous, but more
distant. I have convinced her, that as her parents no longer treat her
with confidence, she has no right to treat them with any; and as every
one knows the worthy character of the Viscount, she can be doing nothing
wrong in proving to him that her feelings in his favour are unchanged.
She has hinted to me to explain the situation in which she is placed,
but _entre nous_, I mean to do no such thing, for I have a plan of my
own to follow up. She is not aware how very intimate I am with the
Viscount, and how much he confides in me; all my persuasions will tend
to urge him to ask her of her father, and I am sure nothing can be more
honourable than that course of action."
"Nothing, I am sure," echoed the conscientious confidant; "but how will
that assist your former scheme?"
"Most admirably. Mr. Hamilton will, of course, decidedly refuse his
consent, without even consulting his daughter; the anger of Lord
Alphingham will be overpowering; rage against the father, and love for
the daughter will urge him to any and every means to obtain her hand.
Caroline's indignation against her father for acting in this way and
treating her so much like a child, feelings which I shall take care to
create and foster, will second his eloquence, and I feel quite certain
that next season Caroline Hamilton mingles in the most fashionable
circles as the Viscountess Alphingham; and to obtain such a triumphant
end, in my opinion, no means are faulty."
"Most assuredly not. Not only the young lady herself, but her whole
family ought to be eternally grateful, for without such manoeuvring I
doubt much whether the perfect daughter or the self-satisfied mother
would obtain an establishment in all things so desirable. Enraged as she
will be at first at such unexpected conduct in the child she has so
ill-treated, she will thank you in the end, Miss Grahame, depend upon
it."
"If I thought so, Malison, on my honour, I should feel disinclined to
proceed one step further in the business. Give her cause to thank me,
feel that I have unwittingly been of service to her whom of her whole
sex I hate the most, to one who from my earliest years I know regarded
me with aversion and contempt; Malison, I would draw back on the instant
did I think so. But no, it will not, it shall not be; the life of her
child as Countess of Alphingham will not be such as to bring peace to
Mrs. Hamilton's heart: to some mothers it might, but not to hers. She
shall behold in this marriage the complete failure of her plans, the
utter wreck of all her exclusive notions; she shall see that her
pretended goodness and Christian example are not exemplified in Caroline
at least. She shall feel my power--aye, bitterly. Thus will I
triumph--in Caroline's disobedience will I be avenged for the contempt
and dislike her mother has ever shown to me."
She suddenly raised her slight figure to its full height, and looked on
her companion with a countenance expressive of such malignant triumph,
that all, save her companion in iniquity, must have shuddered as they
beheld such youthful features so deformed. Some other conversation
passed between her and her able confidant, but as little more was said
on the subject most interesting to us, we will not follow them further.
Annie's evil schemes are already too clearly displayed; her mind unable,
as Miss Malison's, to comprehend the exalted nature of Mrs. Hamilton's
character, looked upon it with detestation; the more so, as feeling she
was ever _acting_--she believed it hypocrisy; that the worth for which
even those who visited her not gave her credit, was not her real
character, but an artful veil to conceal evil qualities. The quick
penetration of Miss Grahame had even in childhood discovered that she
was no favourite, and accustomed to be spoiled and flattered by all with
whom she associated, her indignation and dislike towards the only one
who would dare treat her differently, look on her as a mere child,
rendered ridiculous by affectation, increased with her years. She soon
discovered the influence she possessed over Caroline, and on that,
knowing also her faults, she determined to work, and thus effectually
destroy the peace of a mother devoted to her children, and prove to the
world that the eccentric seclusion of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton for their
children's benefit was productive of no more good, if as much as the
plain and in her eyes only useful plan of fashionable education.
In her first scheme she had already succeeded more than she was perhaps
conscious. The affair of St. Eval had clearly and painfully proved to
Mr. Hamilton that the fears of his wife the night of Caroline's
introduction--those anxious fears, were indeed well founded. She had
sunk beneath temptation; integrity and honour, and every better feeling
had been overcome by that inordinate love of power which her mother from
the first had seen and dreaded. The father's heart was pained and
disappointed, not only in this, but that his Caroline now was not the
same as she had been at Oakwood. A change had come over her, and
darkening her spirit, rendered her conduct at home gloomy, distrustful,
and uneasy; the irritability of her childhood had returned, her very
conversation appeared restrained, and since the departure of Lord St.
Eval, her cheek had become pale, and her eye no longer sparkling; and
only in the excitement of society her parents beheld her as formerly.
Mr. Hamilton was deeply grieved, but he knew not, guessed not the extent
of his wife's anguish. She saw every foreboding fear fulfilled; the
confidence of her child was entirely withheld from her; the coldness
with which she felt compelled to treat her disregard of her wishes had,
she felt assured, completely alienated her affection. Caroline could no
longer love her; every week, every day proved, by a hundred minute
circumstances, her affection was fleeting, and her mother despairingly
felt, never to return; and yet she had but done her duty, exercised her
natural authority to lead her erring child in the better way. Her firm
unshrinking discipline in childhood had only bound the cords of
affection between herself and her offspring more firmly together; but
now in the case of Caroline it appeared about to snap them asunder. Her
fond heart yearned constantly towards her daughter, but she would not
give way, for the sake of Emmeline and Ellen, whose efforts vied with
each other to increase the comfort and happiness of her they so dearly
loved. Their affection, their confidence would not change--no, however
her authority might interfere with their wishes; and should she become
repining and gloomy, because there was one source of sorrow amidst so
many blessings? her pious heart struggled for submission, and obtained
it. But Caroline guessed not the deep pang she had inflicted; she knew
not the many tears shed in secret, the many inward prayers offered up
for her, that however severe was her chastening, it might be blessed,
and bring her back to the deserted fold, to the bosom of her mother. She
knew not this, nor was Annie conscious how fearfully her plans had
succeeded in inflicting pain.
The very cheerfulness of Mrs. Hamilton, striven for as it was, the
unwavering kindness of her manner towards Emmeline and Ellen, increased
the irritability of Caroline, and with it her indignation at her
mother's coldness and severity towards herself. She felt she was indeed
a slave, and longed to throw aside that galling bondage. What right had
her mother to treat her thus? Why must her every action be controlled,
her very friendship disapproved of? She felt she was the injured one,
and therefore allowed herself no thought for her whom she in truth had
injured. For the same reason she clung yet closer to Annie; in her
alone, in her present state of mind, she found full sympathy, and yet
even with her she was not happy; there was a strange indefinable
sensation in her heart that even to her friend she could not express.
There was a void within, a deep yearning void, which tortured her in her
solitary moments, which even the society of Lord Alphingham could not
wholly remove. In solitude she blindly taught herself to believe that
void must be for him. How far she erred a future page must tell.
Her conduct in society meanwhile, since the departure of St. Eval, had
been guarded and reserved, and her parents, fondly trusting their
displeasure had been of service, relaxed after the first fortnight in
their coldness and mistrustful manner towards her. Mrs. Hamilton had
hoped the pale cheek and dim eye proceeded from remorse; and had not
Caroline been so pointedly distant and reserved when in her society, she
would have lavished on her all the tenderness of former years.
When that mysterious letter from Percy came, although it caused his
parents considerable anxiety, yet it never once occurred that any
coldness on their part towards Lord Alphingham could occasion Caroline
any pain. Percy wrote with a degree of eloquent earnestness that could
not be resisted, and guarded as his information and caution was, Mr.
Hamilton determined implicitly to abide by it. The young man wrote what
Annie had informed Miss Malison; that he had heard from more than one
quarter of Lord Alphingham's marked attentions to his sister, that he
had even been congratulated on the brilliant alliance Caroline was about
to make. He did not, he could not believe that such was the case, he
said, for he should then have heard it from his parents, but he conjured
his father, however casual the Viscount's attentions might be, to
withdraw Caroline entirely from them.
"I know well," he wrote. "Father, as you value my sister's future peace,
expose her not to his many fascinations. If he has endeavoured to win
her heart, if he has paid her marked attentions, he is a villain! I dare
not be more explicit, I am pledged to silence, and only to you, my dear
father, and on such an emergency, am I privileged to write thus much.
Desire Caroline to give him no more encouragement, however slight; but
do not tell even this, it may not only alarm her, but be imparted
perhaps to her friend, as young ladies are fond of doing. You have once
said I never deceived you; father, trust me now, this is no jest; my
sister's happiness is too dear to me. Break off all connection with Lord
Alphingham. I give no credit to the rumours I have heard, for your
letters this season bade me hope Lord St. Eval would have been my
sister's choice. His departure from England has dispelled these visions;
but yet Caroline's affections cannot have been given to Lord Alphingham
without your or my mother's knowledge. Again I implore you, associate no
more with him, he is not worthy of my father's friendship."
Mysterious as this was, yet both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton knew Percy too
well to imagine he would write thus without strong cause. The suspicions
and almost unconscious prejudice entertained towards him by Mrs.
Hamilton received confirmation by this letter, and she was pleased that
her husband determined no longer to encourage his intimacy. Percy wrote,
if he had paid Caroline marked attentions, or endeavoured to win her
heart, he was a villain, and he had done so, and Mrs. Hamilton could not
but feel sufficiently rejoiced at Caroline's apparent manner towards
him. Deceived as she had been, yet that her once honourable child should
so entirely forget the principles of her childhood, as to give him
secret encouragement, while her conduct in society rather bespoke
indifference and pride than pleasure, that Caroline could have been led
to act thus was a thing so morally impossible to Mrs. Hamilton, that she
had no hesitation whatever in complying with Percy's request, little
imagining that in doing so she placed an inseparable bar to her
regaining the confidence of her child, and widened more painfully the
breach between them.
Caroline's heart, on receiving her father's command to withdraw herself
by degrees entirely from Lord Alphingham, was wrung with many bitter and
contending feelings. At first she reproached herself for having thus
completely concealed her feelings, and, had she followed the impulse of
nature, she would at once have thrown herself on her mother's neck, and
there confessed all, that she loved him; that she had long done so, and
implore her not to check their intercourse without some more explicit
reason: but Annie's evil influence had been too powerful. She dreaded
her reproaches on this want of confidence in herself, or what was still
worse, her satirical smile at her ridiculous weakness, and then she
remembered her mother's displeasure at her former conduct, and dreaded a
renewal of the same coldness, perhaps even increased control. She
determined, therefore, to wait till she had seen Annie; and that
interview rendered her more miserable, excited still more her
indignation against her parents and brother, and strengthened the
feelings of devoted affection with which she fancied she regarded Lord
Alphingham. Annie's continued notes confirmed these feelings; under the
specious intention of soothing Caroline's wounded pride, it was very
easy for her to disguise her repeated insinuations of Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton's injustice and caprice towards the Viscount, and tyranny
towards herself. The veil she had thrown over Caroline's sober judgment
became thicker and more blinding, and Caroline could sometimes scarcely
restrain even before her parents the indignation which so continually
filled her heart.
Mrs. Hamilton was ignorant of the communications that were so constantly
passing between Annie and her daughter, or she might perhaps have put a
stop to them. Caroline's own maid, Fanny, had been persuaded to become
the means of receiving and sending their intelligence in secret. The
conscience of the girl reproached her more than once, but the idea was
so improbable that Miss Caroline could act improperly, that she
continued faithful to her wishes, even against her better judgment.
Lord Alphingham's ready penetration was puzzled at the change of manner
in both Mr. Hamilton and his daughter. The latter, he could easily
perceive, was constrained to act thus, and his determination to release
her from such thraldom became more strongly fixed within him. He became
as cold and reserved to her father as Mr. Hamilton had been to him; but
his silent yet despairing glances ever turned towards Caroline, were, he
felt assured, quite enough to rivet his influence more closely around
her. The following morning, as Annie had expected, the Viscount sought
her to give vent to his fears about Caroline; his indignation against
the unaccountable alteration in Mr. Hamilton's manner. What could have
caused it? He had ever acted honourably and nobly, openly marked his
preference, and he had talked himself into a passion, before his
companion offered to give him any advice or speak any comfort.
"They are either determined their daughter shall not marry whom she
likes, in revenge for her not accepting whom they selected, or they are
resolved, by this studied display of coldness, to bring you to a point,
so I advise you to speak to this stern capricious father at once."
"And what good will that do?"
"A great deal, if you manoeuvre properly, on which quality you
fortunately require no lessons from me. You will, at least, discover Mr.
Hamilton's intentions. If he receive you, well and good, you should be
flattered at his condescension; if the contrary, you will, at least,
know on what ground you stand, and the situation in which my poor friend
must be placed. She is worried to death with the continual caprices of
mamma and papa. It would be a charity in any one to break the chains in
which she is held. She came to me yesterday in the deepest distress, and
all from caprice; for what else can it be that has changed Mr.
Hamilton's manner?"
Lord Alphingham's fancy became more and more warmed as she spoke; vanity
and self-love were alike gratified, and he answered eagerly--
"I may depend, then, on her affections; she will not, for fear of mamma,
play me false."
"Not she; that is to say, if you do not betray her in your eagerness to
ask her of her father. You have never yet asked the question, though you
have discovered she loves you; but if, in demanding her of her father,
you say you have gained her affections, the consequence will be, if Mr.
Hamilton refuse her, she will be borne instantly to Oakwood, and there
imprisoned, till the poor girl pines and droops like a chained bird
without hope of freedom. Whereas, if you will only govern your impetuous
temper, and trust to her affections and my friendship, your every wish
may be gratified, with or without Mr. Hamilton's advice."
"And you will assist us;--adorable girl! how can we ever repay you?" he
exclaimed, raising her hand passionately to his lips. The cheek of Annie
suddenly blanched, but a cold, proud smile curled her lip. She answered
him in his own spirit, and after a prolonged interview, the Viscount
departed to act on her advice.
Ere that day closed, Lord Alphingham had sought, Mr. Hamilton, and with
every demonstration of respectful yet passionate affection, solicited
his consent to address his daughter. The warning of his son, the strong
term he had used, were engraved on Mr. Hamilton's mind, and scarcely
could he answer the Viscount with his accustomed calmness. Politely but
decidedly he refused, adding, that he had hoped the constant reserve of
Caroline's manner would at once have convinced him of her feelings, and
spared him the pain of refusing for her the honourable alliance Lord
Alphingham proposed. A haughty and somewhat triumphant smile played for
a second on the Viscount's lips, but Mr. Hamilton understood not its
import; and his companion, with many expressions of wounded feeling and
injured honour, departed, leaving Mr. Hamilton rather pleased than
otherwise at this affair, as it gave him a plausible excuse for
withdrawing entirely from his society. He imparted what had passed to
his wife, and both agreed it was better for Caroline to say nothing of
his proposals; and this determination, for once, was not thwarted by
Annie, who thought it better for Lord Alphingham to plead his own cause
at some future time when the idea of his having been refused without
consulting her, the person principally concerned, would excite yet
greater indignation toward her parents, and assist effectually the cause
of her lover, who, leaving town for a week or two to prove to Mr.
Hamilton his wounded feelings were no pretence, or for some other
reason, left to Annie the charge of preparing Caroline's mind for the
alternative he might propose.
A circumstance happened about this time, which appeared greatly to
favour the schemes of Annie and Lord Alphingham, and expose Caroline
more powerfully to temptation. The Duchess of Rothbury had invited a
select number of friends to while away the remaining weeks of the London
season at her elegant seat, which was situated in a lovely spot, about
twenty miles from the metropolis. Amongst the number she, of course,
included Mrs. Hamilton, and expressed herself very much disappointed
when that lady tendered excuses. Mr. Hamilton could not leave town; he
had put Mr. Myrvin's case into the hands of an able solicitor, and
wished to remain on the spot himself to urge on the business, that it
might be completed before he returned to Oakwood. It was not likely, he
said, that the affair would occupy much time, the whole circumstance
being directly illegal. It had only been the age and poverty, combined
with the shrinking sensitiveness from public gaze, which had prevented
Mr. Myrvin from coming forward at the very first against his persecutor.
A specious tale had been brought forward to excuse the illegality, and
impose on the bishop in whose diocese Llangwillan was situated, and
Myrvin, though he could meet trials with resignation, was too
broken-hearted to resist them. Thus much Mr. Hamilton had learned from
Arthur, to whom he wrote himself, requesting him to give a minute
account of the whole circumstance. His earnestness, seconded by the
entreaties of both his sons, succeeded in banishing Arthur's proud
reserve, and Mr. Hamilton was now engaged heart and soul in his
benevolent scheme of exposing iniquity, and restoring the injured
clergyman to his grieving flock. He could not, therefore, leave London,
and Mrs. Hamilton who, for mere amusement, could not bear to part from
her children, for only Caroline was to accompany her, steadily resisted
the entreaties of her friend. For herself she was firm, but she
hesitated when the Duchess, seconded by her daughters, requested most
persuadingly, that if she would not come herself, she would, at least,
permit Caroline to join them.
"You have known me so long, that I have the vanity to believe, that if I
promise to guard your child as if she were my own, you will trust her
with me," her grace urged, with a pertinacity that could not fail to be
flattering. "She will be as safe under my care as were she under the
observance of her mother."
"That I do not doubt one moment," replied Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly; "if
I hesitated, it was from no doubt of either your grace's care or
kindness. If Caroline be willing to accept your invitation, and her
father consent, she has my permission."
"Thank you, my good friend; I trusted in my eloquence to prevail," the
Duchess said, smiling with an air of sincerity that gratified Mrs.
Hamilton; and she quickly imparted to Caroline the accepted invitation,
but in vain endeavoured to read on the face of her child whether she
were pleased or otherwise. Circumstances which caused Mrs. Hamilton
rather to rejoice at Caroline's absence from London for a time, were to
the latter great preventives to the enjoyment to which, in such elegant
society, she might otherwise have looked forward. Annie Grahame was,
much to her own vexation, excluded from this select circle. The Duchess
had penetrated her designing character, and regarded her with a
prejudice, as violent as was her nature. She was only invited to those
large assemblies which included all her acquaintances, not merely her
friends. Amazed at this slight, Miss Grahame at once determined that
there the catastrophe for which she had so long planned should take
place, and her detestation of Mrs. Hamilton be gratified to the
uttermost.
Would Lord Alphingham be there, was a question that crossed Caroline's
mind repeatedly, and was as often demanded of her friend. Annie either
would not or could not tell; and she would add, perhaps she ought to
congratulate Caroline on her separation from him, as such a dread
mandate had gone from her parent, and she surely would not wish to
encourage his society; and then she would implore her forgiveness, and
sympathise so well in her fancied distress, and describe that of Lord
Alphingham in such heightened colours, that Caroline, unsophisticated as
in some things she still was, felt truly miserable. The Viscount's
sudden departure from town would have been unaccountable, had not Annie
succeeded in persuading her that she was sure it was entirely owing to
her (Caroline's) coldness and Mr. Hamilton's unaccountable conduct.
Mr. Hamilton did not at first approve of his daughter leaving home
without her mother, even to visit the Duchess of Rothbury, but he
yielded to the solicitations of his wife. They knew that Lord Alphingham
was somewhat of a favourite with the Duke, but felt so assured that the
heart of their child was entirely disengaged, at least to him, that on
his account they did not hesitate. Caroline's conduct with regard to St.
Eval had, they were convinced, proceeded from the pure love of coquetry;
they could not believe she had rejected him because she fancied she
loved another, they had had no cause to do so: and since Mrs. Hamilton
had spoken so seriously on the subject, Caroline's behaviour in public
had been such as to excite their approbation, and renew, in some
measure, their confidence in her integrity. She was more reserved, and
her manner to the Viscount, when they chanced to meet, had led them
trustingly to believe their commands on this head would be implicitly
obeyed. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton's penetration had played her false; it was
strange that a mother so long accustomed to divine the thoughts and
feelings of her children, should have been thus blind to the emotions
with which Caroline believed she regarded Lord Alphingham. But, surely,
no farther proof than this was wanting to clearly demonstrate it was not
true love she felt; had it been that real, pure, fervid passion, could
one so unused to art have concealed the flushing cheek, the sparkling
eye, the trembling voice, which would invariably have betrayed her? No;
it was infatuation,--blind, maddening infatuation,--strengthened by
indignation towards her parents; by the wish to prove she could throw
off their control, and choose for herself, and love whom and where and
how she liked, without their choice and sympathy; and it was thus she
completely veiled her feelings. Can we condemn her mother for refusing
to believe the child she had trained and watched, and prayed for so
long, such an adept in deceit? Can we blame her want of penetration in
this instance, and think it unnatural in her character, when we remember
how completely the character of her child was changed? Surely not. It
would have been stranger had she, without proof, believed Caroline the
girl she had really become.
The reflection that she could still write to Annie and hear from her,
consoled her for the temporary separation; and she joined the Duchess
with some degree of pleasure, which had, however, been slightly alloyed
by a conversation with her mother before she left home. Her spirit was
in too excitable a state to hear advice calmly. Every word Mrs. Hamilton
so gently said on her conduct being more guarded now than when under her
eye, her mild entreaties that for her sake Caroline would behave with
reserve, all fell on a poisoned ear. Sullenly she listened, and when her
mother bade her farewell, it was with a heart grieving bitterly. While
smarting under supposed injuries, how little did Caroline imagine the
real agony she inflicted on her mother. If the gentle heart of Mrs.
Hamilton had been wrung by the wayward conduct of her sister, how much
more so must it have been wounded, when she saw so many of those evil
qualities reflected in her child.
At Airslie, so the residence of the Duchess of Rothbury was called,
Caroline found herself universally courted. She knew she was admired,
and she was flattered; but there was a ceaseless gnawing at her heart,
which not even gratified vanity could still. She knew not, would not
know, it was remorse. She believed it was the conduct of her parents;
the chain that was thrown round her actions, her disappointment with
regard to Lord Alphingham; for he was not, as in secret she hoped, he
would be, one of the invited guests. It was a task, a painful task, to
write home, but she forced herself to speak of the scenes around, and
sketch, with a masterly hand, some of the characters with whom she
mingled; and her parents strove to be satisfied, though there was
somewhat wanting in those letters which, when Caroline had been from
home, they had never missed before.
"So that man of learning, that marvellous prodigy, that walking
cyclopaedia, Lord St. Eval, has absolutely deserted us, to bury himself
in Italy or Switzerland. Miss Hamilton, can you explain so wonderful and
puzzling an enigma?" mischievously demanded Lord Henry D'Este, one day,
as he found himself alone near Caroline. His friend's departure had
indeed been to him a riddle, and believing at length that it must have
originated in her caprice, he determined, whenever he had an
opportunity, to revenge St. Eval by doing all in his power to torment
her. A deep blush overspread Caroline's cheeks as he spoke, for except
that Mary Greville's letters had mentioned him, he was never spoken of
at home.
"It ought not to appear a very puzzling riddle to you," she answered
quickly. "He has gone, I should imagine, to collect fresh matters for
reflection, that he may better deserve the title you have bestowed upon
him."
"Nay, nay, surely he has enough of such matters to form four and twenty
good folio volumes," answered Lord Henry, laughing. "The art of
politeness he certainly has failed to retain, for you can have no idea
what a _brusque_ philosopher he is. I assure you, he terrified me the
last time I saw him. What your honourable father had done to him I know
not, but I met him just coming from Berkeley Square, and all the charms
he had lately invited around him had suddenly departed, he was a
different man, and that day, in a fit, I suppose, of spleen, he quits
London, and the next time I hear of him he is in Geneva: that noble Lord
is one of the strangest creatures I ever had the honour to know.
However, perhaps he has visited the Continent to learn politeness, and I
think he may chance to learn a lesson of love also. Not at all unlikely,
by the praises he bestows in his letters on a certain Louisa Manvers."
In vain Caroline struggled to prevent a start, or her cheek from
suddenly paling. "Louisa Manvers," she repeated, almost unconsciously.
"Yes, do you know her? by the bye, she must be some distant connection
of yours, I fancy; her brother is Lord Delmont, he inherited the title
from your maternal grandfather. St. Eval and Delmont were college chums,
and, though they are parted, retain all the romantic enthusiasm of
friendship. After spending some little time with your friends I believe,
at Geneva, the lone pilgrim bent his steps to Lago Guardia, and there he
has remained, wooing nature with his friend, and in all probability
playing the _dévoué_ to Miss Manvers. We shall find Lord St. Eval
bringing home a fair Italian bride, before we are aware of it; that is
to say, if she will have the courage to pore through the deep and hidden
treasures of this volume, till she comes to the magic word heart."
He might have continued, for Caroline, buried in her own miserable
thoughts, interrupted him not. Had she encountered the eyes of Lord
Henry, as they were fixed full of mischief upon her, she might have made
some effort to rouse herself, but as it was, she felt relieved and glad
when their _tête-à-tête_ was interrupted by the entrance of a merry
group, just returned in the highest spirits from exploring a thick and
mazy wood in the vicinity of the extensive grounds.
"Good news for you all," exclaimed the Duke of Rothbury, entering
directly after; "we are to have another guest to-day, to keep us all
alive."
"Who--who?" was reiterated by many voices, with somewhat of the noisy
mirth of children.
"No less a person than Viscount Alphingham." An exclamation of pleasure
passed through the giddy crowd, but there was an expression in the
countenance of the Duchess, who had also entered from a drive, which, to
Caroline's quickly awakened fancy, appeared contrary to the general
emotion. "He is engaged as Sir Walter Courtenay's guest, so I cannot
claim him as mine," the Duke continued; "but that does not much signify.
Sir Walter is here every day, and Alphingham will of course accompany
him. He is the best fellow I know."
"And this is the man papa, for no reason whatever, save from Percy's
ill-natured opinion, has desired me to slight, to behave in a manner
that, contrasted with former notice, must be madness itself; cruelty to
him, after what has passed between us, and misery to me. Surely, in such
a case as this I am not compelled to obey. When the general voice
proclaims him other than they believe, am I to regard what is in itself
a mystery? If Percy had good reasons for writing against him to papa,
for I am sure he must have done so, why did he not explain them, instead
of treating me thus like a child, and standing forward as his accuser,
when the whole world extols him? Why are the dearest wishes of my heart
to be destroyed merely by caprice? Percy ever tried, even in childhood,
to bid me to look up to him, and acknowledge his power, and thus he
would prove it; but he will find himself mistaken. When papa permits his
judgment to be blinded by the insinuations of a mere boy, I no longer
consider myself bound to obey him."
Such was the tenor of Caroline's thoughts when alone, in the short
interval, ere she descended to dinner--there was no ray of happiness;
her heart had that day received a wound, nor could she derive comfort
even from the knowledge that Lord Alphingham was expected. She would not
permit herself to think on Lord Henry's conversation. What was it to her
if St. Eval married Louisa Manvers? then studiously she thought only on
the Viscount, and the situation with regard to him in which she was
placed, till her head ached with the intensity of its reflections.
On entering the drawing-room she found, as she had anticipated, Lord
Alphingham the centre of a brilliant coterie, and for the space of a
minute her heart throbbed and her cheek flushed. He bowed respectfully
as she appeared, but with distant courtesy; yet she fancied the flow of
his eloquence was for a moment arrested, and his glance, subdued yet so
mournfully beseeching, spoke volumes. Neither at dinner nor during the
whole of that evening did he pay her more than ordinary attention;
scarcely that. But those silent signals of intelligence had even greater
power than words; for they nattered her self-love, by clearly proving,
that courted, admired, as he could not but feel he was by all around
him, his noble hostess perhaps excepted, yet all was as nothing, now
that her favour had been so strangely and suddenly withdrawn. His tone,
his manner, as he presented to her a note from Annie, of which he had
been the bearer, strengthened this illusion; and Caroline, as she
retired to rest, felt more and more convinced they were indeed mutually
and devotedly attached, and that her obedience to her parents could not
weigh against the duty she owed herself, the love he had evinced for
her. Annie's note strengthened this determination.
"I give you joy, my dear Caroline," she wrote, "on the opportunity you
will now enjoy of receiving Lord Alphingham's attentions, undisturbed by
any of those wayward fancies which have lately so destroyed your peace.
Do not, for heaven's sake, by squeamish notions of filial obedience and
dutiful conduct--which I do assure you have been very long out of
date--destroy your own happiness. When parents cease to care for the
true welfare and felicity of their children, it becomes our positive
duty to care for them ourselves. Mr. Hamilton has given you no reason
for his command to withdraw yourself from the attentions of Lord
Alphingham; and surely that is the clearest imaginable proof that he
really has none to give, and that it is merely to gratify his own unjust
displeasure at your rejection of St. Eval, as if in such matters you had
not an undoubted right to decide for yourself. He cannot suppose that
you will now be contented with that which completely crosses your own
wishes, merely because he desires it. That was all very well in your
childhood, but at present, when your own reason must be satisfied, he
has no right to expect obedience. The whole conduct of your parents, you
have owned to me yourself, has been lately such as to alienate your
affection and confidence. They hold your will enchained, my poor friend;
and if you have not the spirit to break it, now a fair opportunity
occurs, forgive me, if I say I can no longer offer you consolation. Lord
Alphingham loves you, and long ere this, had it not been for your
mother's extraordinary conduct, would have proposed, and you might have
been now a plighted bride, or still happier wife. I much doubt, by a
few hints he dropped, if his late departure from town was not occasioned
by Mr. Hamilton's positive refusal to sanction his addresses to you. If
he has demanded your hand, and been rejected without your knowledge,
your father and mother have treated you with much confidence and
affection, have they not? Can they, dare they expect to receive yours,
when such is the case? Is it not a clear proof your happiness is not to
be consulted in any marriage you may form? It is ridiculous to imagine
that your mother has penetrated, in some degree, your feelings for
Alphingham, though perhaps not to their extent; and not approving of it,
for no reason whatever, she desires you to shun his society. Your father
refuses a most honourable offer, without even consulting the person
principally concerned. Caroline, my dearest friend, do not permit your
noble spirit to be thus bowed down. Whatever alternative Lord Alphingham
may propose becomes lawful, when you are thus cruelly persecuted. Many
secret marriages are happier, very much happier, than those for which
the consent of parents have been obtained. They think only of ambition,
interest; how can we expect them to enter into the warmth of youthful
feelings? Do not be frightened at my words, but give them a calm, just
deliberation. You have permitted your love for him to be discovered; it
becomes your duty to prove it still more clearly."
Such were the principal contents of Annie's letter, more than sufficient
to confirm Caroline's already half-adopted resolution, and convince her
wavering judgment that obedience to her parents was now no longer a
duty; their unjust harshness had alienated her from them, and she must
stand forth and act alone. Conscience loudly called on her to desist;
that she was deserting the plain path, and entering the labyrinth of
deceit, but the words of Annie were before her. Again and again they
were read, till every word became engraved within her, and the spirit
they breathed thickened the film before her eyes, and deafened her ear
to every loudly-whispered reproach. Yet in silence and solitude that
still small voice, conscience, arose and left its pang, although on the
instant banished.
A few days passed, and the conduct of the Viscount to Caroline continued
the same as it had been the first night. Publicly distant, secretly and
silently beseeching, with an eloquence few could have resisted. There
was a grand _fête_ and _déjeûner_ at Airslie, which was pronounced by
the connoisseurs in such things to be the most _recherché_ of the
season. But few, comparatively speaking, were the guests, though some
had ventured to travel twenty miles for the purpose; yet all was
elegant. The day was lovely, and with the bright sunshine and cloudless
sky, added new charms to this fairy land; for so, by the tasteful
arrangement of gorgeous tents, sparkling fountains, exotic shrubs, and
flowers of every form and shade, the _coup d'oeil_ might have been
termed. Musicians were stationed in various parts of the grounds. The
dance was enjoyed with spirit on the greensward, when the heat of the
sun had subsided into the advancing twilight, and the picturesque
groups, the chaste and elegant costumes scattered about, intermixed with
the beauties of inanimate nature, added life and spirit to the picture.
It was an exciting and yet a soothing scene. Some minds, untouched by
care, would here have revelled in unchecked gladness. In others, it
might have been productive of that soothing melancholy, which, from its
very sweetness, we encourage till it becomes pain: such was the case
with Caroline. Her spirits, buoyed up at first with the hope and
expectation that here at least Lord Alphingham might resume his
attentions unremarked, she had been excited to unwonted gaiety; but as
the hours wore on, and he approached her not, that excitement faded into
melancholy and doubt. Not even had the usual signals of intelligence
passed between them, for he had been sedulously devoting himself to
almost every beautiful girl in the gardens. Jealousy for a moment took
possession of her mind, but that very quickly gave way to indignation
against her father.
"If he has been treated as Annie tells me, if his proposals for me have
been rejected," she thought, "how can I expect or hope that he will
continue his addresses? He knows not but that I have been consulted, and
is my happiness to be overthrown, rudely cast aside, by the insinuations
of a boy?" and covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears:
the scene, the time, the faint sound of the distant music, encouraged
these feelings, and heightened despondency. Day was darkening around
her, aided by the sombre shade of the gigantic trees, which formed a
grove where she sat, and the music borne along at intervals sounded
unusually mournful. A heavy sigh near her aroused her from her painful
trance, and starting, she beheld the object of her thoughts standing by
her side. His speaking eyes were fixed on her with a glance not the most
obtuse imagination could have misinterpreted, and the whole expression
of his peculiarly handsome features betrayed the most eloquent and
pleading sympathy.
"Oh, that it might be mine, the blessed privilege of endeavouring to
soothe or to relieve this grief!" he passionately exclaimed, as with an
air of the utmost respect he ventured to take her hand. "I had indulged
in presumptuous hopes. I had ventured to read the flattering notice
which I ever received from you as a confirmation of my wishes, and I
indulged in fondly-cherished visions that ere this I should indeed have
had a right, a holy right, to soothe your every grief and share in every
joy. I thought wrong; your flattering notice must have been but the
impulse of your kind heart, pitying what you could not fail to behold;
and yet, oh, Miss Hamilton, that very demonstration of your gentle
nature has increased my misery; it has bade me love, nay, adore you. I
blame you not. I have been presumptuous--mad. I had no right to expect
so much happiness. My proposals were refused. I was told your conduct
must have made it evident that I was not pleasing to you. I fled from
your presence, but I could not rest alone. Again, like a mad fool, I
have plunged myself in the centre of fascination. I could not exist
without the sound of your voice, though me it might never more address.
I could not live without glancing on your expressive eyes, your eloquent
smile, though on me neither more might beam. I am here, I feel my folly,
but I cannot tear myself away. Caroline, adorable Caroline!" he
continued, with well-practised passion, "only speak, command me; in what
way can I relieve the grief in which I see you plunged? Give me at least
the gratification of feeling I have been of service to you; that I have
done somewhat for your happiness, though by you mine has fled for ever."
Rapidly yet eloquently had he spoken, and Caroline vainly struggled
with herself to interrupt him. He believed she had rejected him, and in
that moment she contrasted his present conduct with that of Lord St.
Eval, under the same circumstances, and surely she could doubt no longer
which loved her best. She had not seen the secret agony of the one--his
proud and noble heart concealed it; but Alphingham--when such devoted
love was offered her, would she condemn it to misery, and herself to
everlasting reproach, if not to equal woe?
"You are mistaken, my lord," she said, proudly, after a severe struggle
with herself. "Lay not to my charge the loss of your happiness. I was
not aware till this instant that it depended--" She stopped abruptly,
for the natural modesty of her disposition prevented more, indignant as
she was at the confirmation of Annie's suspicions.
Lord Alphingham saw his advantage, and pursued it.
"How!" he exclaimed, in an accent of astonishment and ecstasy well
combined. "Have you too been deceived, and my proposals rejected without
having been laid before you? Can it be possible? Oh, speak again, my
beloved Caroline! tell me I have not been too presuming--that I may hope
that my long-cherished visions are not false. You will not, oh, you will
not condemn me to misery--you will not reject my heart, and send me
despairing from your feet. Caroline, my beloved, my beautiful! say that
you will be merciful--say that you love me--that I love not alone; oh,
say, promise me you will be mine, and come what will we shall be happy."
She heard, and her heart throbbed and her brain reeled; in the
infatuation of that moment, all, all was forgotten, save the persuasions
of Annie, his pleading eloquence, the wild impulse of her own blinded
fancy; the fatal promise passed her lips--she was pledged to be his own.
A few minutes she listened to his impassioned thanks, his words of
devoted love, then suddenly starting back--
"My father!" she exclaimed, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"Nay, weep not, my beloved, my own! let not a mere shadow, for such in
this instance is duty, alloy the felicity that will be ours. His consent
will in time be given; fear not, when he sees you happy, when he sees my
only care, my every thought is for your welfare, that his forgiveness
for involuntary disobedience will be granted, and his unjust and cruel
prejudices against me will pass away, for he will find they were indeed
but fancy; and if he continues obdurate, oh, how rejoiced I shall be to
have withdrawn my Caroline from his stern guardianship. Already has he
deceived you; and can he then expect implicit obedience to unjust and
unfounded commands on your part? Cheer up, my best love, fear not; trust
to my affection, and all will be well."
But still she wept, even though Lord Alphingham continued this strain of
consolation for some little time longer. Fearing at length to attract
notice by her prolonged absence, she roused herself, and breaking from
her triumphant lover, remained for a few minutes alone, endeavouring,
but vainly, to recover that happiness which, when she had looked to an
union with the Viscount, had promised to dawn around her. She saw it
not; there was a dark, heavy, threatening cloud overhanging her mind,
which no efforts could dispel. She felt, as she rejoined the glittering
circle, the eye of the Duchess was fixed with startling earnestness upon
her, and she shrunk from that severe look, as if indeed it could
penetrate her soul and condemn the past. Why did not enjoyment return?
Why was she not happy when in the centre of a scene like this? She knew
not, and struggled to be gay and animated as usual; but she felt as if
each effort failed, and drew upon her the attention of those near her,
and rejoiced was she indeed when the festive hours had fled, and she was
alone. She strove to compose her troubled thoughts to prayer, but no
words came to her aid, and throwing herself on her bed, she wept for
many weary hours. She could not have told why she thus wept; she only
knew that she was wretched, that the light-heartedness once so
peculiarly her own had fled, it seemed, for ever, and she shrunk almost
in loathing from the hour when she should meet Lord Alphingham again;
and when it came, even his presence cheered her not. He soothed, even
gently reproached, but as he did so there was somewhat in his eye she
had never seen before, and which struck terror. Subdued as it was it
told of passions from which she had believed him exempt, and added
additional pain to her distress. Noticing what she termed the
indisposition of her young friend, the Duchess kindly advised her to
remain quiet, nor join the gay party, till it had passed away; but as
she spoke, Caroline observed the severe and scrutinizing glance of the
Duchess again fixed upon her, and, contrary to her advice, appeared as
usual at dinner.
Days passed, and Lord Alphingham's plan was matured, and submitted to
Caroline's sanction. A _fête_, similar to that given by the Duchess,
only commencing at a later hour, to permit a superb display of fireworks
on the grounds, was to be given by a neighbouring nobleman, to which all
the members of the Duchess's party were invited. The villa was some few
miles off, and they were to leave Airslie at half-past eight. That day
Caroline was to feign indisposition, and remain undisturbed at home; at
ten Lord Alphingham would dispatch a trusty servant, well disguised,
with a note, apparently from Mrs. Hamilton, requesting her daughter's
immediate return, as she had been taken suddenly and dangerously ill.
This note was, of course, designed to impose upon any member of the
party who might, by some mischance, remain at home, and be circulated
among the servants to account for her sudden departure. The carriage,
said to be Mr. Hamilton's, waited for her; Lord Alphingham was to meet
it at some five miles off; but once within it, once safe from Airslie,
the rest was easy.
Caroline heard, and an inward shuddering crept chilly through her frame.
Faintly and briefly she agreed to all he so eloquently and persuasively
pleaded, and instantly left him.
"Will she be weak enough now to waver?" thought Alphingham. "Perhaps,
after all, she is not worthy of all this trouble, there is no spirit in
her; yet she is so beautiful, it will suit me well to introduce such a
lovely creature as my bride next season, and gratify my vengeance on Mr.
Hamilton for his unceremonious refusal, and if I get tired of her, if
then tears and pale cheeks continue, why, thank heaven, no chains with
me are binding. That early folly of mine was not so useless as it
seemed; I may act as I please, and if your daughter sickens or offends
me, Mr. Hamilton, as you have done, you may well dread my vengeance, it
will fall upon you both, and I unscathed will seek other lands and
fairer beauties, as I have already done." His countenance had darkened
during this speech, but at its close it became clear again, and, with a
careless whistle of unconcern, he sauntered away.
And was it to this man that the cherished child of so much anxiety was
about to sacrifice herself--with him and for him, she, who had once been
the soul of truth and honour, had consented to leave the guardianship of
her father, and break the sacred links of nature? Alas! though her very
spirit now revolted, she had gone too far. How could she, how dared she
draw back? and yet one effort she would make. She would implore him to
permit her to confess all to her parents; she was convinced, did they
know how much her happiness depended on her union with him, they would
consent, and with their blessing hallow their marriage.
Happiness--Caroline shuddered; the wild excitement of secret love had
departed. She knew she was beloved, she had given her promise, yet she
was not happy; and could she then expect to be when irrevocably his own?
Her brain reeled beneath the bewildering chaos of her thoughts; but she
followed up her resolution, and implored him as she had intended. Lord
Alphingham heard with a dark and frowning brow.
"And what becomes of your kind brother's just accusations?" demanded the
Viscount, with a very evident and contemptuous sneer.
"Defend yourself, and papa will be convinced they are unfounded," was
her reply. But she gazed on his countenance, and terrified at its
expression, for the first time the thought flashed across her mind,
could there indeed be any real cause for Percy's warning; and more and
more earnestly did she beseech him to say she might implore her father's
sanction. "Only let me confide in papa and mamma, let me try and
convince them they are mistaken, and Percy too must be in error."
The Viscount for some little time endeavoured mildly to confute her
arguments, and convince her that in doing so, she was only forming her
own misery; but still she pleaded, and ungoverned fury at length burst
forth. He had been too long the victim of passions always to keep them
in bounds, even when most required; and for a few minutes they spurned
restraint, and Caroline beheld him as he was, and saw in dim perspective
the blackened future. She would have broken from him, but he detained
her, and with a rapid transition of mood humbled himself before her, and
with impassioned fervour and deep contrition besought her forgiveness,
her pity. It was his fervid love, his fear of losing her, that bade him
thus forget himself, and he conjured her not to condemn him to
everlasting misery; that he was wretched enough already at having caused
her one moment's pain. He spoke, and his softened voice, his imploring
eyes, his protestations of unalterable love and gratitude, if she would
but trust to his affections, and be his own as he proposed, had in a
degree their effect. She was convinced it would only bring forth misery
now to implore the sanction and blessing of her parents, and promised to
resign all idea of so doing. But vainly she strove to forget that burst
of ungoverned passion she had witnessed; it haunted her sleeping and
waking thoughts, and his protestations of devoted love were dimmed
beside it, they shared its blackened hue.
The appointed day came, and the Duchess, without question or remark,
accepted Caroline's excuse for not accompanying her and her friends to
the expected _fête_. The heavy eyes and pale cheeks of the misguided
girl were more than sufficient excuse; she even seconded Caroline in
refusing the kind offer of Lady Annie and Lady Lucy Melville to remain
with her. She said she preferred being quite alone, as she was no
companion for any one, and it appeared as if not even that obstacle
would arise to prevent her flight.
The hours wore on; the noble guests could speak of nothing but the
anticipated _fête_ and its attendant pleasures, while they whiled away
the intervening hours in the library, the music-room, the garden,
wherever their taste dictated, for freedom was ever the password of
Airslie; but Caroline joined them not. It was the second day that she
had not seen the Viscount; for, fearing to attract notice, he had never
made his visits unusually frequent, and well versed in intrigue, he had
carried on his intercourse with Caroline in impenetrable secrecy. More
than once in those lonely hours did she feel as if her brain reeled, and
become confused, for she could not banish thought. She had that morning
received letters from home, and in her present mood each line breathed
affection, which her now awakened conscience told her was undeserved.
Nature and reason had resumed their sway, as if to add their tortures to
the anguish of those hours. The misery which had been her portion, since
her acceptance of Lord Alphingham, had slowly but surely drawn the
blinding film from her eyes. The light of reason had broke upon them
with a lustre that would no more be darkened. At the same moment that
she knew she did not love Lord Alphingham, her conduct to her parents,
to St. Eval, appeared in their true colours. Yes! this was no fancy, she
had been the victim of infatuation, of excitement; but clearer and
clearer dawned the truth. She was sacrificing herself to one whom she
did not love, whom she had never loved, with whom her life would be a
dreary waste; and for this was she about to break the ties of nature,
fly from her parents, perhaps draw down upon her head their curse, or,
what she now felt would be worse, much worse, wring that mother's heart
with anguish, whose conduct, now that reason had resumed her throne, she
was convinced had been ever guided by the dictates of affection. She
recalled with vivid clearness her every interview with Annie, and she
saw with bitter self-reproach her own blindness and folly, in thus
sacrificing her own judgment to false reasoning, in withdrawing her
confidence and affection from the mother who had never once deceived
her, to bestow them on one who had played upon her foolish weakness,
heightened her scarcely-dawning fancy till it became infatuation, and
finally recommended that plan of conduct from which Caroline's whole
soul revolted. Why had she done this? Caroline felt, to bring down shame
upon her head and suffering on her mother. Her parents' conduct changed
towards her--oh! had not hers changed to them? had she not acted from
the first of Annie's arrival in London as if under the influence of some
spell? and now that it was rudely broken, recollections of the past
mingled with and heightened her present sufferings. Her childhood, her
early youth rushed like a torrent on her mind; faulty as they had been,
they were innocent and pure compared with her present self. Then she
had been ever actuated by truth, candour, respectful love, affectionate
confidence towards her parents; now all had been cast aside. If her
mother's words were true, and bitterly she felt they were, that her
conduct to St. Eval had been one continued falsehood, what would her
parents feel when her intercourse with Lord Alphingham was discovered.
Lord Alphingham--she shuddered as his name rose to her lips. Her heart
yearned with passionate intensity towards her mother, to hear her voice
in blessing, to see her beaming smile, and feel her kiss of approbation,
such as at Oakwood she had so often received: she longed in utter
wretchedness for them. That night she was wilfully to cast them off for
ever, flee as a criminal from all she loved; and if she could return
home, confess all, would that confiding love ever be hers again? She
shrunk in trembling terror from her father's sternness, her mother's
look of woe, struggling with severity, the coldness, the displeasure she
would excite--on all sides she beheld but misery; but to fly with Lord
Alphingham, to bind herself for ever with one, whom every passing hour
told her she did not, could not love--oh, all, all, even death itself,
were preferable to that! The words of her brother sounded incessantly in
her ears: "If you value my sister's future peace, let her be withdrawn
from his society." How did she know that those words were wholly without
foundation? the countenance of the Viscount as he had alluded to them
confirmed them to her now awakened eye. Was she about to wed herself to
crime? She remembered the perfect justness, the unwavering charity of
her father, and in those softened moments she felt assured he would not
have condemned him without good cause. Why, oh, why had she thus
committed herself? where was she to turn for succour? where look for aid
to guard her from the fate she had woven for herself? Where, in her
childish faults, had her mother taught her to seek for assistance and
forgiveness? Dare she address her Maker, the God whom, in those months
of infatuated blindness, she had deserted; Him, whom her deception
towards her parents had offended, for she had trampled on His holy laws,
she had honoured them not?
The hour of seven chimed; three hours more, and her fate was irrevocably
sealed--the God of her youth profaned; for could she ever address Him
again when the wife of Alphingham? from whose lips no word of religion
ever came, whose most simple action had lately evinced contempt for its
forms and restrictions. The beloved guardians of her infant years, the
tender friends of her youth insulted, lowered by her conduct in the
estimation of the world, liable to reproach; their very devotion for so
many years to their children condemned, ridiculed. An inseparable bar
placed between her and the hand-in-hand companions of her youth; never
again should she kneel with them around their parents, and with them
share the fond impressive blessing. Oakwood and its attendant innocence
and joys, had they passed away for ever? She thought on the anguish that
had been her mother's, when in her childhood she had sinned, and what
was she now about to inflict? She saw her bowed down in the depth of
misery; she heard her agonized prayer for mercy on her child.
"Saviour of my mother, for her sake, have mercy on her unworthy child!
oh, save me from myself, restore me to my mother!" and sinking on her
knees, the wretched girl buried her face in her hands, and minutes,
which to her appeared like hours, rolled on in that wild burst of
repentant and remorseful agony.