There was a dark lowering frown obscuring the noble and usually open
brow of the young heir of Oakwood, and undisguised anger visible in
every feature and every movement, as he paced the library with
disordered steps, about ten days after the events we have recorded, and
three since his return from college. He had crossed his arms on his
chest, which was swelling with the emotion he was with difficulty
repressing, and his tall, elegant figure appeared to increase in height
beneath his indignant and, in this case, just displeasure.
Caroline's depression had not decreased since her brother's arrival. She
felt she had been unjust to Percy, and a degree of coldness which had
appeared at first in his conduct towards her, occasioned, though she
knew it not, by her rejection of his friend St. Eval, which he believed
was occasioned by her love of Alphingham, whom he fancied she still
continued to regard with an eye of favour; both these causes created
reserve and distance between the brother and sister, in lieu of that
cordiality which had hitherto subsisted between them.
Percy had not been aware of all that had passed between the Viscount and
Caroline till that morning, when Emmeline, hoping to soften his manner
towards her sister, related, with all her natural eloquence, the
Viscount's conduct, and the triumph of duty which Caroline had achieved.
That he had even asked her of his father, Percy knew not till then, and
it was this intelligence bursting on him at once which called forth such
violent anger. Emmeline had been summoned away before she had time to
note the startling effects of her words; but Herbert did, and though he
was unacquainted with the secret cause of his brother's dislike towards
Lord Alphingham, he endeavoured by gentle eloquence to pacify and turn
him from his purpose, at which he trembled.
"The villain, the cold-blooded, despicable villain!" muttered Percy at
intervals, as he continued his hurried pace, without heeding, perhaps
not hearing, Herbert's persuasive accents. "To act thus foully--to play
thus on the unguarded feelings of a weak, at least, unsophisticated,
unsuspecting girl--to gain her love, to destine her to ruin and shame,
the heartless miscreant! Oh, that my promise prevented not my exposing
him to the whole world; but there is another way--the villain shall find
such conduct passes not unheeded!"
"You are right, Percy," interposed Herbert, gently determining not to
understand him. "If his conduct be indeed such as to call forth, with
justice, this irritation on your part, his punishment will come at
last."
"It shall come, ay, and by this baud!" exclaimed Percy, striking his
clenched hand violently on the table; "if his conduct be such. You speak
coolly, Herbert, but you know not all, therefore I forgive you: it is
the conduct of a villain, ay, and he shall know it too. Before three
suns have set again, he shall feel my sister has an avenger!"
"His schemes against the peace, the honour of the innocent are
registered on high; be calm, be satisfied, Percy. His last hour will be
chastisement enough."
"By heaven, it shall be!" retorted Percy, passion increasing, it
appeared, at every gentle word his brother spoke, and irritating him
beyond control. "Herbert, you will drive me mad with this mistimed
calmness; you know not half the injury she has received."
"Whatever might have been his schemes, they have all failed, Percy, and
therefore should we not rather feel thankful for Caroline's restoration
to her home, to herself, than thus encourage fury against him from whose
snares she has escaped?"
"Yes; and though his base plan, thanks to my sister's strength of mind,
or, rather, my mother's enduring counsel, has not succeeded, am I to sit
calmly by and see her health, spirits, alike sinking beneath that love
which the deceiving villain knew so well how to call forth? am I to see
this, to gaze on the suffering he has caused, unmoved, and permit him to
pass unscathed, as if his victim had neither father nor brother to
protect and avenge her injured honour?"
"Her honour is not injured. She is as innocent and as pure as before
Lord Alphingham addressed her. Percy, you are increasing this just
displeasure by imaginary causes. I do not believe it to be love for him
that occasions her present suffering; I think, from the conversations we
have had, it is much more like remorse for the past, and bitter grief
that the confidence of our parents must, spite of their excessive
kindness, be for a time entirely withdrawn, not any lingering affection
for Alphingham."
"Whatever it be, he is the primary cause. Not injured! every word of
love from his lips is pollution; his asking her of my father an
atrocious insult; his endeavours to fly with her a deadly sin--an
undying stain."
Herbert shuddered involuntarily.
"What would you say, or mean?" he exclaimed.
"What have you heard or known concerning him, that calls for words like
these?"
"Ask me not, as you love me; it is enough I know he is a villain," and
Percy continued his rapid walk. Herbert rose from his seat and
approached him.
"Percy," he said, "my dear brother, tell me what is it you would do? to
what would this unwonted passion lead? Oh, let it not gain too great a
dominion, Percy. Dear Percy, what would you do?"
"I would seek him, Herbert," replied Percy, "where ever he is; by whom
surrounded. I would taunt him as a deceiving, heartless villain, and if
he demand satisfaction, by heaven, it would be joy for me to give it!"
"Has passion, then, indeed obtained so much ascendancy, it would be joy
for you to meet him thus for blood?" demanded Herbert, fixing his large,
melancholy eyes intently on Percy's face, on which the cloud was
becoming darker, and his step even more rapid. "Would you seek him for
the purpose of exciting anger like your own? is it thus you would avenge
my sister?"
"Thus, and only thus," answered Percy, with ungoverned fury. "As others
have done; man to man I would meet him, and villain as he is, I would
have honourable vengeance for the insult, not only to my sister, but to
us all. Why should I stay my hand?"
"Why? because on you more than on many others has the light of our
blessed religion dawned," answered Herbert, calmly; "because you know
what others think not of, that the law of our Master forbiddeth blood;
that whosoever sheds it, on whatever plea, his shall be demanded in
return; because you know, in seeking vengeance by blood, His law is
disobeyed, and His vengeance you would call upon yourself. Percy, you
will not, you dare not act as this overwhelming passion dictates."
"Dare not," repeated the young man, light flashing from his eye as if
his spirit chafed at that word, even from his brother, "dare not; you
mistake me, Herbert. I will not sit tamely down beneath an injury such
as this. I will not see that villain triumph without one effort to prove
to him that he is known, and make the whole world know him as he is."
"And would a hostile meeting accomplish this? Would that proclaim his
villainy, of whatever nature it may be, to the world? Would they not
rather side with him, their present minion, and even bring forward your
unjustifiable conduct as a fresh proof in his favour? How would they
give credit to the terms they may hear you apply to him, when even in
your family you speak not of the true cause of this strange agitation
and indignant anger."
Percy continued to pace the room for some minutes without answering.
"My honour has been insulted in the person of my sister," he muttered,
at length, as if speaking more to himself than to his brother; "and am I
to bear that calmly? Were the truth made known, would not the whole
world look on me with scorn as a spiritless coward, to whom the law of
honour was as nothing; who would see his sister suffering from the arts
of a miscreant, without one effort to revenge her?"
"The law of honour," replied Herbert, bitterly; "it is the law of blood,
of murder, of wilful, uncalled-for murder. Percy, my brother, banish
these guilty thoughts. Do not be one of those misguided beings who,
from that false deceiving plea, the law of honour, condemn whole
families to misery, and themselves, without preparation, without prayer,
nay, in the very act of disobeying a sacred commandment of their God,
rush heedless into His presence, into awful eternity."
He paused, but not vainly had he spoken. Percy gazed on his brother's
features with greater calmness, and more kindly, but still impetuously,
said--
"Would you then have me stand calmly by and behold my sister a suffering
victim to his arts, though actual sin, thank God, has been spared, and
thus permit that villain Alphingham to continue his course triumphant?"
"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it," answered
Herbert, instantly, twining his arm within that of his brother, and
looking up in his face with that beseeching glance of affection which
was so peculiar to his features. "Dear brother, rest on those words and
be contented. It is not for us to think of vengeance or to seek for
retribution; justice is, indeed, ours to claim, but in this case, there
is no point on which we can demand it. Let Alphingham, even granting you
know him as he is, pursue his course in peace. Did you endeavour to
inflict chastisement, is it not doubting the wisdom and justice of the
Almighty? And suppose you fell instead of your adversary, in the meeting
you would seek--what, think you, would be the emotions of all those who
so dearly love you, when they gazed on your bleeding corse, and
remembered you had sought death in defiance of every principle they had
so carefully instilled? Think of my mother's silent agony; has not
Caroline's conduct occasioned sufficient pain, and would you increase
it? you, whose most trifling action is dictated by love for her; you, in
whom she has every reason to look for so much virtue, honour, and
self-control; whom she so dearly, so devotedly loves? Remember what she
would feel; and, if no other consideration have effect, surely that will
bid you pause."
Percy still paced the room, but his head was averted from his brother as
he spoke, and his step bespoke contending and painful emotions. He did
not answer when Herbert ceased to speak, but his brother knew him well,
and remained silent.
"You have conquered, Herbert," he exclaimed at length, firmly clasping
his brother's hand in his and raising his head; anger still lingered on
his cheek, but his eye was softer. "I could not bear my mother's
wretchedness; I could not thus repay her love, her cherished care. I
will not seek this base and heartless man. I tremble for my present
resolution, if he chance to cross my path; but, for her sake, I will
avoid him; for her sake, his villainy shall be still concealed."
"Endeavour to think of him more charitably, my dear Percy, or forget him
entirely, which you will."
"Think of him charitably; him--a fashionable, fawning, seducing
hypocrite!" burst from Percy, in a tone of renewed passion. "No! the
gall he has created within me cannot yet be turned to sweetness; forget
him--that at least is impossible, when Caroline's coldness and reserve
remind me disagreeably of him every day. It is plain she looks on me as
the destroyer of her happiness; thinks, perhaps, had it not been for my
letter my father would have given his consent, and she might have
peacefully become the wife of Alphingham. It is hard to bear unkindness
from one whom I have endeavoured to preserve from ruin."
"Nay, do not be unjust, Percy; are you not cool and reserved yourself?
How do we know why Caroline is somewhat more so than usual? Poor girl,
we may find excuses for her, but I know no reason why you should treat
her as you do."
"Her whole conduct demands it. How did she use that noble fellow St.
Eval; encourage him, so that their union was confidently asserted, and
then reject him for no cause whatever; or, if she had a cause, for love
of a villain, who, it appears, in secret, possessed all the favour she
pretended to lavish on St. Eval,--both false and deceiving."
"Percy, you are determined to be angry with everybody to-day. I
flattered myself my influence had allayed your passion, and behold, it
is only withdrawn from one object to be hurled upon another. Can you not
find some good cause now to turn it from Caroline on me? Is it nothing
that I should dare face the tempest of your wrath, and tell my impetuous
and headstrong brother exactly what I thought--nothing, that I should
have ventured to say there was a thing on earth you dared not do?"
Percy turned sharply towards him, as if in that moment he could be angry
even with him; but Herbert met his fierce glance with a smile so full of
affectionate interest, that all Percy's displeasure and irritation
seemed at once removed.
"Displeased with you!" exclaimed Percy, when involuntary admiration had
taken the place of anger, and unconsciously the noble serenity of
Herbert's temper appeared to soothe the more irritable nature of his
own. "Ay, Herbert, when we two have exchanged characters, such may be,
till then I am contented to love and reverence the virtue, the
gentleness I cannot make my own."
"We are better thus, my brother," replied Herbert, feelingly; "were we
the same, could I have been the happy being you have made me at college?
Much, very much happiness do I owe to your high spirit, Percy. Without
your support, my life, spite of the charms of study, would have been a
painful void at college; and though I feel, you know not perhaps how
often and how bitterly, that in many things I cannot hope to be your
companion, yet to think my affection may sometimes check the violence
that would lead you wrong, oh, that is all I can hope for or desire."
"Have you not my love, my confidence, my fondest, warmest esteem?"
exclaimed Percy, impetuously, and twining his arm, as in fondness he
often did, around his brother's neck. "Is there one among my gay
companions I love as you, though I appear to seek their society more?"
Herbert was silent.
"You do not doubt me, Herbert?"
"Percy--no!" exclaimed the youth, with unwonted ardour. To speak more at
that moment he could not, and ere words came at his command, the library
door slowly opened, and Caroline languidly entered.
Herbert somewhat hurriedly left the room, to conceal the agitation the
interview with Percy had occasioned him.
For some little time Caroline remained in the library, seeking, it
appeared, a book, without a word passing between her and Percy. Both
evidently wished to speak, but neither liked to begin; at length
Caroline approached him.
"Percy," she began, and her voice trembled sufficiently to prevent more.
Percy was softened.
"Well, dear Caroline, am I so very terrible you cannot speak to me? I
have been angry and unjust, and you, perhaps, a little too reserved; so
now let us forgive and forget, as we did when we were children, and be
friends for the future."
He spoke with all his natural frankness, and extended his hand towards
her. Caroline's spirits were so depressed, that the least word or token
of kindness overcame her, and pressing her brother's hand in both hers,
she turned away her head to conceal the quickly-starting tears, and
Percy continued, trying to smile--
"Well, Caroline, will you not tell me what you were going to say? I
cannot quite penetrate your thoughts."
Again Caroline hesitated, but then with an effort she said, fixing her
heavy eyes on her brother's face--
"Percy, had you a real cause for writing to my father as you did some
few weeks ago, or was it rumour alone which actuated your doing so? I
implore you to answer me truly."
"I had all-sufficient cause," he answered, instantly. "It was from no
rumour. Do you think that, without good reason, I would have endeavoured
to traduce the character of any man?"
"And what was that cause? Why did you implore my father, as he valued my
future peace, not to expose me to his fascinations?"
Caroline spoke slowly and deliberately, as if every word were weighed
ere it was uttered, but with an expression on her features, as if life
and peace depended on his answer.
Percy looked earnestly at her.
"Why should you ask this question, my dear sister?" he said. "If I
answer it, what good will it do? Why should I solve a mystery, that, if
you love this Alphingham, as this extreme depression bids me believe,
must bring but increase of pain?"
"Percy," replied Caroline, raising her head, and standing with returning
dignity before him, "Percy, do not let the idea of my love bid you
hesitate. Increase of pain I do not think is possible; but yet, do not
mistake me, that pain does not spring from disappointed affection.
Percy, I do not love Lord Alphingham; I have been fascinated, and the
remembrance of the past still clings to me with remorse and suffering;
but I never loved him as, had I not been infatuated and blind, had I not
rejected the counsels and confidence of my mother, I might have loved
another. You know not how I have been led on, how I have permitted
myself to be but a tool in the hands of those whose independence I
admired, and aided them by my own reckless folly--the wish to prove,
however differently I was educated, still I could act with equal spirit.
Had it not been for that self-will, that perverse spirit, I might now
have been a happy and a virtuous wife, loving and esteeming that
superior being, whose affections I wilfully cast away; but that matters
not now," she added, hurriedly. "My mother was right, I was unworthy to
share his lot; but of this rest assured, I do not love, I never have
loved, for I cannot esteem Lord Alphingham."
"But why then wish to know more concerning him?" Percy said, much
relieved by his sister's words, and more pleased than he chose to
appear by her allusion to St. Eval. "Is it not enough your connection
with him is entirely broken off?"
"No, Percy; I have rejected him, dissolved our engagement, I scarcely
know wherefore, except that I felt I could not be his without my
father's consent; but there are times I feel as if I had treated him
unjustly, that I have had no cause to think ill of him; my conduct had
encouraged him. To me he has been devoted and respectful, and though I
could not, would not be his wife, yet these thoughts linger on my mind,
and add most painfully to the chaos already there."
Twice Percy slowly traversed the room, with a countenance on which
anxious thought was deeply imprinted. He paused opposite to Caroline,
took both her hands in his, and spoke in a voice which, though low, was
so solemn that it thrilled to her inmost soul.
"Caroline, I had hoped the fatal secret made known to me would never
have passed my lips, but for the restoration of your peace it shall be
divulged, nor will the injured one who first intrusted it to me, to
preserve you from ruin, believe I have betrayed her trust. You have not
suspected the whole extent of evil that would have been yours, had you
indeed fled with that hypocritical villain. Caroline, Lord Alphingham is
a married man--his wife still lives!"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at her feet, or the earth yawned beneath her,
not more pale or transfixed would Caroline have stood than she did as
those unexpected words fell clear and shrill as a trumpet-blast upon her
tortured ear. Amid all her conjectures as to the meaning of Percy's
words, this idea had never crossed her mind; that Alphingham could thus
have deliberately been seeking her ruin, under the guise of love and
honour, was a stretch of villainy that entered not into her conception.
Now that the truth was known, she stood as if suddenly turned to marble,
her cheek, her very lips bearing the colour of death. Then came the
thoughts of the past; had it not been for those recollections of her
childhood, her mother's love, devotion, what would she now have been? In
vain she struggled to bear up against that rushing torrent of thought;
every limb was seized with violent trembling, her brain reeled, and she
would have sunk to the ground, had not Percy, alarmed at the effect of
his words, led her tenderly to a seat, and kneeling by her side, threw
his arms around her. Her head sunk on his shoulder, and she clung to him
as if evil and guilt and wretchedness still hovered like fiends around
her, and he would protect her from them all. Fire again flashed from the
eyes of the young man as he thought on Alphingham, but for her sake he
restrained himself, and endeavoured by a few soothing words to calm her.
"Tell me all--all you know, I can bear it," she said at length, almost
inaudibly, and looking up with features as deathlike as before. Percy
complied with her request, and briefly related as follows:
He had become acquainted during his college life, he told her, with a
widow and her daughter, who lived about four or five miles from Oxford.
Some service he had rendered them, of sufficient importance as to make
him an ever welcome and acceptable guest within the precincts of that
cottage, which proclaimed a refined and elevated taste, although its
inmates were not of the highest class. Both Percy fancied were widows,
although he scarcely knew the foundation of that fancy, except the
circumstance of their living together, and the husband of the younger
lady never appearing; nor was his name ever mentioned in the
confidential conversations he sometimes had with them, which the service
he had had in his power to do demanded. Mrs. Amesfort, the daughter,
still possessed great beauty, which a shade of pensive thought,
sometimes amounting to deep melancholy, rendered even more lovely. Her
age might have been six or seven and twenty, she could not have been
more. At an earlier age, there was still evidence that she had been a
sparkling, lively girl, and her mother would frequently relate to the
young man the change that sorrow--and sorrow, she hinted, of a
peculiarly painful nature--had made in one who, ten years previous, had
been so full of life and glee. Decline, slow but sure, it seemed even to
Percy's inexperienced eye, was marked on her pale features; and at those
times when bodily suffering was greatest, her spirit would resume a
portion of its former lightness, as if it rejoiced in the anticipated
release. There was a deep thrilling melody in her voice, whether in
speaking or, when strength allowed, in warbling forth the pathetic airs
of her native land; for Agnes Amesfort was a child of Erin, once
enthusiastic, warm, devoted, as were her countrywomen--possessing
feelings that even beneath that pale, calm exterior would sometimes
burst forth and tinge her cheek, and light up her soul-speaking eye with
momentary but brilliant radiance, and whispered too clearly what she had
once been, and what was now the wreck.
The gaiety, the frankness, and unassuming manner of Percy rendered him a
most acceptable visitant at Isis Lodge, so the cottage was called; he
was ever ready with some joyous tale, either of Oxford or of the
metropolis, to bring a smile even to the lips of Mrs. Amesfort. It was
not likely that he should so frequently visit the cottage without
exciting the curiosity and risibility of his college companions; but he
was enabled cheerfully and with temper to withstand it all, feeling
secure in his own integrity, and confident that the situation in which
he stood relative to the inmates of that cottage was mutually
understood. Several inquiries Percy made concerning these interesting
females; but no intelligence of their former lives could he obtain; they
had only settled in the cottage a few months previous to the period of
his first acquaintance with them; and whence they came, and who they
were, no one knew nor cared to know. It was enough for the poor for many
miles round, that the assistance of the strangers was extended towards
them, with kind words and consolation in their troubles; and for the
Oxonians, that though they received with extreme and even grateful
politeness the visits made them, they were never returned.
One little member of this small family Percy had not mentioned, a little
girl, who might have been about eight or nine years old, an interesting
child, whom Percy had saved from a watery grave in the rapid Isis, which
rolled at the base of the grounds; a child, in whom the affections of
her widowed mother were centred with a force and intensity, that it
appeared death itself could but divide; and she was, indeed, one to
love--affectionate, and full of glee; yet the least sign of increased
suffering on the part of her mother would check the wild exuberance of
childish spirits, without diminishing in the least her cheerfulness, and
she would throw her arms around her neck, and fondly ask, if she might
by kisses while away the pain. Many a game of play did she have with her
preserver, whose extreme kindness and excessive liveliness excited the
affections of the child, and increased and preserved the gratitude his
courageous conduct had occasioned in the bosom of that young devoted
mother, whose every earthly joy was centred in her fatherless child.
It happened that in speaking one day of London society, and of the
reigning belles and beaux of the season, that Percy casually mentioned
the name of Lord Alphingham, whom he declared was by all accounts so
overwhelmed with attentions and flatteries, since his return from a nine
years' residence on the Continent, that there was every chance of his
being thoroughly spoiled, if he were not so already, and losing every
grain of sense, if he had any to lose. He was surprised, as he spoke, at
the very visible agitation of the elder lady, whose colour went and came
so rapidly, that involuntarily he turned towards her daughter, wondering
if any such emotion were visible in her; and though she did not appear
paler than usual, nor was any outward emotion visible, save that her arm
was somewhat tightly bound round the tiny figure of the little Agnes, he
almost started, as he met those large soft eyes fixed full upon him, as
if they would penetrate his soul; and though her voice was calm,
unhesitating, and firm, as she asked him if he were acquainted with Lord
Alphingham, yet its tones sounded even more thrilling, more sadly than
usual. He answered truly in the negative, adding, he was not ambitious
of his acquaintance; as a man, he was not one to suit his fancy. Many
questions did Mrs. Amesfort ask relative to this nobleman, and still
unconsciously her arm held her child more closely to her side. The elder
lady's looks were bent on them both, expressive, it seemed to Percy, of
fondness for those two beloved objects, and struggling with indignation
towards another. Percy returned to college that evening unusually
thoughtful. What could Lord Alphingham have to do with the inhabitants
of that simple cottage? Incoherent fancies occupied his mind, but from
all which presented themselves as solutions to the mystery his pure mind
revolted; and, compelled by an impulse he could not resist, he continued
to speak of Alphingham every time he visited the cottage. Mrs. Amesfort,
it appeared to him, rather encouraging than checking his conversation on
that subject, by introducing it herself, and demanding if his name were
still mentioned in Percy's letters from town. Mrs. Morley, her mother,
ever looked anxiously at her, as if she could have wished the subject
unnamed; but still Alphingham continued to be the theme so constantly
discussed at Isis Lodge, that Percy felt no repugnance in mentioning
those reports which allied his sister's name with that of the Viscount.
Again were the eyes of Mrs. Amesfort fixed intently on his face, and she
spoke but little more during that evening's visit. Percy left her,
unable to account for the deep and serious thought imprinted on her
features, nor the look with which she bade him seek her the following
day at an appointed hour, as she earnestly wished to speak with him
alone. The day passed heavily till he was again with her. She was alone;
and steady determination more than ever marked on her clear and polished
brow. She spoke, and Percy listened, absorbed; she alluded to his
preservation of her child, and, in that moment of reawakened gratitude,
all the enthusiasm of her country spoke in her eyes and voice; and then
a moment she paused, and a bright and apparently painful flush mounted
to those cheeks which Percy had ever seen so pale. She implored his
forbearance with her; his pardon, at what might appear an unwarrantable
interference on her part in the affairs of his family; but his many and
eloquent descriptions of them, particularly of his mother, had caused an
interest that compelled her to reveal a fatal secret which, she had
hoped, would never have passed her lips. Was it a mere rumour, or were
Lord Alphingham's attentions marked and decided towards his sister?
Percy believed there was very good foundation for the rumours he had
heard.
Did his parents approve of it? she again asked, and the flush of
excitement faded. Percy was not quite sure; he rather thought by his
mother's letters she did not, though Caroline was universally envied as
an object of such profound attention from one so courted and admired.
Did his sister love him?--the words appeared wrung with a violent effort
from Mrs. Amesfort's lips.
He did not fancy she did as yet; but he doubted not the power of Lord
Alphingham's many fascinations and exclusive devotion to herself, on one
naturally rather susceptible to vanity as was Caroline.
"Oh, if you love your sister, save her ere it be too late, ere her
affections are engaged," was Mrs. Amesfort's reply, with a burst of
emotion, the more terrible, from its contrast with her general calm and
unmoved demeanour. "Expose her not to those fascinations which I know no
heart can resist. Let her not associate with him--with my husband; he
is not free to love--I am his lawful wife; and the child you saved is
his--his own--the offspring of lawfully-hallowed wedlock; though he has
cast me off, though his eyes have never gazed upon my child, yet, yet we
are his. No cruel words of separation has the law of England spoken. But
do not, oh! if you have any regard for me," she continued, wildly
seizing both Percy's hands, as she marked the dark blood of passion
kindling on the young man's brow, "do not betray him; do not let him
know that his wife--his injured wife--has risen to cry shame upon him,
and banish him from those circles wherein he is formed to mingle.
Promise me faithfully, solemnly, you will not betray my secret more than
is necessary to preserve your sister from misery and ruin. I thought
even for her I could not have spoken thus, but I gazed on my child, and
remembered she too has a mother, whose happiness is centred in her as
mine is in my Agnes, and I could hesitate no more. Promise me you will
not abuse my confidence, Mr. Hamilton, promise me; let me not have the
misery of reproaches from him to whom my fond heart still clings, as it
did at first. Yes; though for nine long weary years I have never seen
his face nor heard his voice, still he knows not, guesses not how his
image dwells within, how faithfully, how fervidly he is still beloved.
Promise me my existence shall not be suspected, that neither he nor any
one shall know the secret of my existence. It is enough for me he lives,
is happy. My child! could I but see her in the station her rank
demands,--but, oh, I would not force her on her father."
She would still have spoken, still have entreated, but this unwonted
emotion had exhausted her feeble strength. Greatly moved by this
extraordinary disclosure, and struck with that deep devotedness, that
undying love, Percy solemnly pledged his word to preserve her secret.
"My course will soon be over, my sand run out," she said, after
energetically thanking him for his soothing and relieving words, and in
a tone of such sad, resigned hopelessness, that, irritated as he felt
towards Alphingham, his eye glistened and his lips quivered. "And
wherefore should I dash down his present enjoyment by standing forward
and proclaiming myself his wife? Why should I expose my secret sorrows,
my breaking heart to the inspection of a cold and heartless world, and
draw down on my dying moments his wrath, for the poor satisfaction of
beholding myself recognised as Viscountess Alphingham? Would worldly
honours supply the place of his affection? Oh, no, no! I am better as I
am. The tears of maternal and filial love will hallow my grave; and he,
too, when he knows for his sake, to save him a pang, I have suffered my
heart to break in uncomplaining silence, oh, he too may shed one tear,
bestow a thought on one who loved him to the last!"
"But your child!" exclaimed Percy, almost involuntarily.
"Will be happier here, under my mother's care, unconscious of her birth,
than mingling in a dangerous world, without a mother to cherish and
protect her. Her father might neglect, despise her; she might be a bar
to a second and a happier union, and oh, I could not die in peace did I
expose her thus."
Percy was silent, and when the interview had closed, he bade that
devoted woman farewell, with a saddened and deeply thoughtful brow.
Lord Alphingham had been a student in Dublin, in the environs of which
city dwelt Mrs. Morley, a widow, and this her only child. At their
cottage he became a constant and devoted guest, and as might have been
expected, his impetuous and headstrong nature became desperately
enamoured of the beautiful and innocent Agnes, then only seventeen.
Spite of his youth, being barely twenty, neither mother nor daughter
could withstand his eloquent solicitations, and a private but sacred
marriage was performed. He quitted college, but still lingered in
Ireland, till a peremptory letter from his father summoned him to
England, to celebrate his coming of age. He left his bride, and the
anguish of parting was certainly at that time mutual. Some few months
Agnes hoped for and looked to his return. Alphingham, then Lord
Amesfort, on his part, was restrained only by the fear of the inveteracy
of his father's disposition from confessing his marriage, and sending
for his wife. Another bride, of rank and wealth, was proposed to him,
and then he confessed the truth. The fury of the old man knew no bounds,
and he swore to disinherit his son, if he did not promise never to
return to his ignoble wife, whom he vowed he never would acknowledge.
Amesfort promised submission, fully intending to remain constant till
his father's death, which failing health proclaimed was not far distant,
and then seek his gentle wife, and introduce her in her proper sphere.
He wrote to this effect, and the boding heart of Agnes sunk at once; in
vain her mother strove to rouse her energies, by alluding to the strain
of his letter, the passionate affection breathing in every line, the
sacred nature of his promise. She felt her doom, and ere her child was
six months old, her feelings, ominous of evil, were fully verified.
Lord Alphingham lingered some time, and his son found in the society in
which the Viscount took good care he should continually mingle,
attractions weighty enough to banish from his fickle heart all love, and
nearly all recollection of his wife. He found matrimony would be very
inconvenient in the gay circle of which he was a member. All the better
feelings and qualities of his youth fled; beneath the influence of
example and bad companionship his evil ones were called forth and
fostered, and speedily he became the heartless libertine we have seen
him. His letters to the unfortunate Agnes were less and less frequent,
and at length ceased altogether, and the sum transmitted for her use
every year was soon the only proof that he still lived. His residence in
foreign lands, the various names he assumed, baffled all her efforts at
receiving the most distant intelligence concerning him, and Agnes still
lingered in hopeless resignation--"The heart will break, but brokenly
live on;" and thus it was she lived, existing for her child alone. Nine
years they had been parted, and Agnes had ever shrunk in evident pain
from quitting her native land, and the cottage which had been the scene
of her brief months of happiness; but when change of air was pleaded in
behalf of her child, then suffering from lingering fever, when change of
climate was strongly recommended by the physicians, in secret for
herself equally with that of her little girl, she hesitated no longer,
and a throb of mingled pain and pleasure swelled her too fond heart as
her foot pressed the native land of her husband. Some friends of her
mother, unacquainted with her sad story, resided near Oxford, and
thither they bent their steps, and finally fixed their residence, where
Mrs. Amesfort soon had the happiness of beholding her child restored to
perfect health and radiant in beauty; perhaps the faint hope that
Alphingham might one day unconsciously behold his daughter, reconciled
her to this residence in England. She was in his own land; she might
hear of him, of his happiness; and, deeply injured as she was, that
knowledge, to her too warm, too devoted heart was all-sufficient.
Such were the particulars of the story which Percy concisely yet fully
related in confidence to his sister. Caroline neither moved nor spoke
during his recital; her features still retained their deadly paleness,
and her brother almost involuntarily felt alarmed. A few words she said,
as he ceased, in commentary on his tale, and her voice was calm. Nor did
her step falter as she quitted the library, and returned to her own
room, when, carefully closing the door, she sunk on the nearest seat,
and covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out all outward
objects, gave unchecked dominion to the incongruous thoughts occasioned
by Percy's tale. She could not define or banish them; a sudden
oppression appeared cast upon her brain, deadening its powers, and
preventing all relief from tears. The ruin, the wretchedness from which
she had been mercifully preserved stood foremost in her mind, all else
appeared a strange and frightful dream. The wife and child of Alphingham
flitted like mocking phantoms before her eyes, and the countenance of
Alphingham himself glared at her, and his gibing laugh seemed to scream
in her ears, and transform him into a malignant fiend revelling in the
misery he had created. She strove to pray but vainly; no words of such
soothing and consoling import rose to her lips. How long she remained in
this state of wretchedness she knew not, but it was the mild accents of
her mother's voice that roused her from her trance.
"Are you not well, Caroline? What is the matter, love?" Mrs. Hamilton
asked, alarmed at the icy coldness of her daughter's hand, and kissing,
as she spoke, her pallid cheek.
Caroline threw her arms round her, and a violent flood of tears relieved
the misery from which she was suffering so painfully.
"Do not ask me to reveal the cause of this weakness, my dearest mother,"
she said, when voice returned. "I shall be better now, and never, never
again shall recollections of the past, by afflicting me, cause you
solicitude. Do not fancy this apparent grief has anything to do with
regret at my late decision, or for still lingering affection; oh, no,
no. Do not look at me so anxiously, mother; I have had a long, long
conversation with Percy, and that has caused the weakness you perceive;
but it will soon pass away, and I shall be your own happy Caroline
again."
Tears were still stealing from those bloodshot eyes; but she looked up
in Mrs. Hamilton's face with an expression of such confiding affection,
that her mother's anxious fears were calmed. She would not inquire more,
nor question Percy, when he sought her in her boudoir before dinner, to
request that no notice might be taken, if his sister's manner were that
evening less calm than usual. Mrs. Hamilton felt thankful that an
understanding had taken place between her children, whose estrangement
had been a source of severe pain, and she waited trustingly and calmly
for time to do its work on the torn heart and agitated nerves of
Caroline. To Emmeline's extreme delight, preparations for their
departure from London and return to Oakwood were now proceeding in good
earnest. Never did that fair and innocent face look more joyous and
animated, and never had her laugh been more glad and ringing than when
the carriage rolled away from Berkeley Square. Every circumstance of
their journey increased her childlike glee, every town they passed
through an object of interest, and even the pensive features of her
cousin Ellen reflected her unchecked joyousness. They seldom travelled
more than forty miles a day, and consequently it was not till the
evening of the fourth they neared the village, whose inhabitants, clad
in holiday attire, stood at the doors of their houses to receive them,
with silent and respectful yet very evident tokens of joy. The evening
was most lovely; the sun had lost the splendour of its beams, though
clouds of every brilliant hue proclaimed the increased glory which
attended its hour of rest, at times lost behind a richly glowing cloud,
and then bursting forth again and dyeing all nature with a flood of
gold. The river lay calmly sleeping before them, while on its glassy
bosom the heavens cast their radiance, relieved by the shade of the
mighty trees that stood to guard its banks; the rich foliage of the
trees, the superb green of the fields, in some of which the ripening
corn was beginning to stud with gold, the varied flowers gemming the
fertile hedge, the holy calmness of this summer eve, all called forth
the best feelings of the human heart. For a few minutes even Emmeline
was silent, and then her clear silvery voice was heard chanting, as if
by an irresistible impulse, the beautiful hymn of the Tyrolese, so
peculiarly appropriate to the scene. On, on they went, the white walls
of the church peeping through clustering ivy, the old and venerable
rectory next came in sight; a few minutes more, and the heavy gates of
Oakwood were thrown wide to receive them, and the carriages swept along
the well-known entrance. Every tree and shrub, and even flower, were now
looked on by Emmeline and Percy with increased and somewhat boisterous
expressions of delight.
"Try if you cannot be still a very short time longer, dear Emmeline,"
whispered the more restrained Ellen, whose eye had caught a glimpse of
Caroline's countenance, and who perceived in an instant her feelings
were not in unison with Emmeline's. She was right; Caroline could not
feel as did her sister. She was not the same light-hearted, innocent
being she had been when she quitted Oakwood; the appearance of the home
of her childhood vividly recalled all that had occurred since she had
mingled in the world, that world of which she had indulged so many
brilliant visions; and while Entmeline's laugh conveyed gladness in that
hour to all who heard it, Caroline leaned forward to conceal from her
companions the tears that stole silently down her cheek.
A shout from Percy proclaimed the old hall in sight. A group of
domestics stood on the steps, and the setting sun threw its brilliant
hues on the mansion, as if with increased and unusual lustre that
venerable spot should welcome the return of the Hamilton family within
its sheltering walls.