Lord Malvern's family and Mr. Hamilton's were still in town, though the
younger members of each were longing for the fresh air of the country.
One afternoon, hot and dusty from rapid riding, the young Earl St. Eval
hastily, and somewhat discomposedly, entered his sister Lady Gertrude's
private room.
"Thank heaven, you are alone!" was his exclamation, as he entered; but
throwing himself moodily on a couch, he did not seem inclined to say
more.
"What is the matter, dear Eugene? Something has disturbed you," said
Lady Gertrude, soothingly, and in a tone tending rather to allay his
irritation than express her own desire to know what had happened.
"Something--yes, Gertrude, enough to bid me forswear England again, and
bury myself in a desert, where a sigh from your sex could never reach me
more."
"Not even mine, Eugene?" exclaimed his sister, laying down her work, and
seating herself on a stool at his feet, while she looked up in his
excited features with an expression of fondness on her placid
countenance. "Would you indeed forbid my company, if I implored to share
your solitude?"
"My sister, my own kind sister, would I, could I deprive myself of the
blessing, the comfort your presence ever brings?" replied St. Eval,
earnestly. "No, dearest Gertrude, I could not refuse you, whatever you
might ask."
"Then tell me now what it is that has disturbed you thus. With what new
fancy are you tormenting yourself?"
"Nay, this is no fancy, Gertrude. You are, you have been wrong from the
first, and I am too painfully right Caroline does not and never will
love me."
Lady Gertrude started.
"Have you been again rejected?" she demanded, a dark flush of indignant
pride suffusing her cheek.
Lord St. Eval mournfully smiled.
"You are as summary in your conclusions as you say I am sometimes. No,
Gertrude, I have not; I feel as if I could not undergo the torture I
once experienced in saying those words which I hoped would seal my
happiness."
"Nay, then, I must say them for you," said Lady Gertrude, smiling. "I
have watched Caroline narrowly, and I feel so confident she loves you,
that I would, without the slightest doubt or fear, consign your
happiness, precious as it is to me, to her disposal."
"Forbear, Gertrude, for pity!" exclaimed Lord St. Eval, starting up and
pacing the room. "You saw not what I saw last night, nor heard the cold,
malicious words warning me against her; that even when she had accepted,
she was false; or, if she were not false, that she still loved another.
I saw it in her varying cheek, her confused manner; I heard it in her
hurried accents, and this morning has confirmed all--all. Gertrude, I
ever told you, my lot was not happiness; that as the fate of some men is
all bright, so that of others is all gloom, and such is mine."
"Eugene, how often must I entreat you not to speak thus. Man's happiness
or misery, in a great measure, depends upon himself. You have often said
that when with me, you reason more calmly than when you think alone;
only tell me coherently what has chanced, and all may not be so gloomy
as you believe."
St. Eval suffered himself to be persuaded, and seating himself beside
his sister, he complied with her request.
The fact was simply this. He had returned to England, at the entreaty of
his sister, determined to discover if indeed there existed any hope of
his at length obtaining Caroline's affections. Lady Gertrude's letter to
him purposely portrayed the many amiable qualities existing in
Caroline's character, and the general tenour of her words had led him to
resolve that if he could indeed make so favourable an impression on her
heart as to teach her to forget the past, he too would banish pride, and
secure his happiness, and he hoped hers, by a second offer of his hand.
Her conduct, guarded as it was, had unconsciously strengthened his
hopes, and the last few weeks he had relaxed so much in his reserve, as
to excite in the mind of Caroline the hope, almost the certainty, that
he no longer despised her, and created for himself many truly delightful
hours. It so happened that, on the evening to which he referred,
Caroline had gone to a large party, under the protection of the Countess
of Elmore, who at the entreaty of the lady of the house, had obtained
the permission of Mrs. Hamilton to introduce her. The young Earl had
devoted himself to her the greater part of the evening, to the
satisfaction of both, when his pleasure was suddenly and painfully
alloyed by her visible confusion at the unexpected entrance, and still
more unexpected salutation, of Lord Alphingham. Caroline had so seldom
met the Viscount during the season, that she was not yet enabled to
conquer her agitation whenever she beheld him. She ever dreaded his
addressing her; ever felt that somewhat lurked in his insinuating voice,
that would in the end lead to evil; besides which, her abhorrence
towards him whenever Percy's tale flashed across her mind, which it
never failed to do when he appeared, always prevented her retaining her
calmness undisturbed. Lord St. Eval had left England with the impression
that Alphingham was his favoured rival, and his imagination instantly
attributed Caroline's emotion at his entrance into a preference for the
Viscount. His earnest manner suddenly became chilled, his eloquence
checked. Intuitively Caroline penetrated his suspicions; the wish to
prove they were mistaken and unjust increased her confusion, and instead
of lessening, confirmed them. St. Eval said little more to her during
the evening; but he watched her. He saw Lord Alphingham whisperingly
address her. She appeared to become more painfully confused, and St.
Eval could scarcely restrain himself from hurrying from her sight for
ever; but he did restrain himself, only to be more tortured.
The Viscount now believed the hour of his vengeance was at hand, when,
without the slightest exertion, he might disturb not only St. Eval's
peace, but that of Caroline.
If St. Eval had but heard the few words he said to her, jealousy would
have been instantly banished, but for that he was not sufficiently near;
he could only mark the earnest and insinuating manner which the Viscount
knew so well how to assume, and notice her confusion, and the shade of
melancholy expressed on her features, which was in fact occasioned by
Lord St. Eval's sudden desertion, and her annoyance at the cause. His
quick imagination attributed all to the effect of Lord Alphingham's
tender words. The Viscount was well known, to him, and near the end of
the evening approached and remained in conversation by his side, spite
of the haughty reserve maintained by the young Earl, which said so
plainly, "your presence is unwelcome," that it would speedily have
dismissed any one less determined; but Lord Alphingham spoke admiringly
and enthusiastically of Caroline. Lord St. Eval listened, as if
fascinated by the very torture he endured. They were quite alone, and
after a few such observations, the Viscount lowered his voice to a
confidential tone, and said, triumphantly--
"Will you envy me, St. Eval, if I confess that I, more than any other
man, am privileged to speak in Miss Hamilton's praise, having once had
the honour of being her accepted lover, and had not cruel parents
interfered, might now have claimed that lovely creature as my own? but
still I do not despair, for the affections of a being so superior once
given to me, as they have been, I am convinced they will never be
another's. I am treating you as a friend, St. Eval, you will not betray
me?"
"You may trust me, sir," replied the young Earl, coldly. "Your
confidence has been given unasked, but you need not fear its betrayal."
"Thank you, my kind friend;" and the wily villain continued his
deceiving tale, with an eloquence we will not trouble ourselves to
repeat. It is enough to know its effect on St. Eval was to turn him from
the room, his sensitive feelings wrought almost to madness by malignant
bitterness. Lord Alphingham looked after him, and then turned his glance
on Caroline, and an acute physiognomist might easily have read his
inward thoughts--"My vengeance is complete."
Alphingham had more than once mentioned the name of the Duchess of
Rothbury; but in such a manner, that though it sounded well enough in
his tale, yet when afterwards recalled by the young Earl, he could not
understand in what position she stood towards them. Lord Alphingham knew
well her Grace's character; he wished St. Eval to seek her, for he felt
assured what she would say would confirm his tale, and render the
barrier between him and Caroline more impassable. His plan succeeded
admirably: St. Eval gallopped off to Airslie early the next morning. The
Duchess welcomed him with the greatest cordiality, for he was a
favourite; but the moment he spoke of Caroline her manner changed. She
became as reserved as she had previously been warm; and when the young
Earl frankly asked her if the refusal of her parents had been the only
bar to her union with the Viscount, she referred him to Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton. That she was aware of something to Caroline's disadvantage
appeared very evident, and that she was not the favourite she had been
last year equally so. St. Eval left her more disturbed than ever, and it
was on returning from his long yet hurried ride he had sought his sister
in the mood we have described.
Lady Gertrude listened with earnest attention. The tale startled her,
but she disliked the very sight of Lord Alphingham; she believed him to
be a bad, designing man. She felt convinced Caroline did love her
brother, much as appearances were against her; and both these feelings
urged her to sift the whole matter carefully, and not permit the
happiness of two individuals to be sacrificed to what might be but the
idle invention or exaggerations of a bad man. Her ready mind instantly
formed its plan, which calmly but earnestly she imparted to her brother,
and implored his consent to act upon it. Startled and disturbed, St.
Eval at first peremptorily refused; but his sisters's eloquence at
length succeeded.
Early in the morning of the succeeding day Caroline Hamilton received
the following brief note:
"Will you, my dear Caroline, receive me half an hour this afternoon? I
have something important to say; I have vanity enough to believe as it
concerns me it will interest you. We shall be more alone at your house
than mine, or I might ask you to come to me.
"Yours affectionately,
"GERTRUDE LYLE."
Completely at a loss to understand the meaning of this little note,
Caroline merely wrote a line to say she should be quite at Lady
Gertrude's service at the appointed time; and so deeply was she
engrossed in the sad tenour of her own thoughts, that all curiosity as
to this important communication was dismissed.
Three o'clock came and so did Lady Gertrude, whose first exclamation was
to notice Caroline's unusual paleness.
"Do not heed my looks, dear Gertrude, I am perfectly well; and now that
you are before me, overwhelmed with curiosity as to your intelligence,"
said Caroline, whose heavy eyes belied her assurance that she was quite
well.
"Dearest Caroline," said Lady Gertrude, in a tone of feeling, "I am so
interested in your welfare, that I cannot bear to see the change so
evident in you; something has disturbed you. Show me you consider me
your friend, and tell me what it is."
"Not to you, oh, not to you; I cannot, I dare not!" burst involuntarily
from the lips of the poor girl, in a tone of such deep distress, that
Lady Gertrude felt pained. "Gertrude, do not ask me; I own I am unhappy,
very, very unhappy, but I deserve to be so. Oh, I would give worlds that
I might speak it, and to you; but I cannot--will not! But do not refuse
me the confidence you offered," she added, again endeavouring to smile,
"I can sympathise in your happiness, though I refuse yours in my
sadness."
"I am not quite sure whether I have sorrow or joy to impart," said Lady
Gertrude, still feelingly; for she guessed why Caroline believed she
dare not confide in her, and she hailed it as proof that she was right
in her surmise, that her brother's honourable love would not be again
rejected.
"Eugene seems bent on again quitting England, and I fear if he do, he
will not return home again. On one little circumstance depends his final
determination; my persuasions to the contrary have entirely failed."
The cheek of her companion blanched even paler than before, two or three
large tears gathered in her eyes, then slowly fell, one by one, upon her
tightly-clasped hands.
"And if you have failed, who will succeed?" she asked, with a strong
effort.
"The chosen one, whose power over the heart of St. Eval is even greater
than mine," said Lady Gertrude, steadily. "Ah, Caroline, when a man has
learned to love, the affection of a sister is of little weight."
"He does love, then," thought Caroline, and her heart swelled even to
bursting, and he goes to seek her. "And will not the being Lord St. Eval
has honoured with his love second your efforts? if she be in England,
can she wish him to quit it?" she said aloud, in answer to her friend.
"If she love him, she will not," said Lady Gertrude; "but St. Eval fears
to ask the question that decides his fate. Strange and wayward as he is,
he would rather create certain misery for himself, than undergo the
torture of being _again refused_."
For a few minutes Caroline answered not; then, with a sudden effort,
rallying her energies, she exclaimed, as if in jest--
"Why, then, does he not make you his messenger; the affection you bear
for him would endow you with an eloquence, I doubt much whether his own
would surpass."
She would have spoken more in the same strain, but the effort failed;
and turning away from Lady Gertrude's penetrating glance, which she felt
was fixed upon her, though she could not meet it, she burst into tears.
More than ever convinced of the truth of her suspicions, Lady Gertrude's
noble mind found it impossible to continue this mode of discovery any
longer. She saw that Caroline imagined not she was the being alluded to;
that not even the phrase "again refused" had startled her into
consciousness, and she felt it was unkind to distress her more.
"I knew it was false," she exclaimed, as the Viscount's tale flashed
across her mind; then, checking herself, she took Caroline's cold and
half-reluctant hand, and added, in a voice of extreme feeling,
"Caroline, dearest Caroline, forgive my having penetrated your secret;
fear me not, dear girl, I honour too much the feeling which dictates
your conduct. You have learned to love St. Eval; you have repented the
wilful and capricious treatment he once received from you. Deny it not,
nay, do not shrink from me, and think, because I appear so calm, I
cannot feel for those who are dear to me, and even sympathise in their
love. I do not, I will not condemn the past; I did once, I own, but
since I have known you, I have forgiven the mistaken wilfulness of a
misguided girl. You love him--confess that I am right, dearest."
Caroline's face was concealed within her hand, and almost agonized was
its expression as she looked up.
"Gertrude," she said, in a low, suffocated voice, "is it well, is it
kind in you thus to speak, to lead me to avow a love for one who, your
own words inform me, will soon be the husband of another?"
"I said not of another, my dear girl; forgive me this stratagem to
penetrate your well-preserved secret. My brother's happiness is so dear
to me, I could not trust it to one of whose affection I was not certain.
I am not aware I said he would soon be the husband of another; since, if
he be again refused, that he never will be. Simply, then, for I have
been quite tormenting enough, Eugene has striven long with himself to
conquer his love, to be happy as your friend; associating with you as he
does with Emmeline, but he cannot. He still loves you, Caroline, as
devotedly, as faithfully--perhaps more so than when he first offered you
his hand; he dares not renew that offer himself, for he feels a second
refusal from your lips would wound him too deeply. Your voice may chain
him to England, an altered and a happier man, or send him from its
shores a misanthrope and wretched: it is for you to decide, Caroline,
dearest. Must I plead with that eloquence, which you said would surpass
even his own, or will the pleadings of your own kind heart suffice?"
She paused, in evident emotion, for with a faint cry Caroline had thrown
herself on her neck, and buried her cheek upon her shoulder. Every limb
trembled with agitation; the ecstatic delight of that one moment--doubt
was, indeed, at an end. He loved her, and in spite of her faults he
would cherish her with tenderness; he had chosen her as his wife--chosen
her, though she had rejected, injured him, in preference to the very
many she felt so much more worthy than herself; but unalloyed happiness
was hers only for a few fleeting minutes, he knew not the extent of her
imprudence--how strangely and deeply she had been fascinated by the arts
of Lord Alphingham. Could he love, respect her as the partner of his
life, did he know that? and for a moment painfully did she long to
conceal it from him, to prevent his ever knowing it; but no, her innate
nobility and ingenuousness of character would not be thus trampled on.
She wept, and Lady Gertrude was startled, for those bitter tears were
not the signs of joy.
"Do not condemn my weakness, dearest Gertrude," she said at length,
struggling for composure. "You do not know why I weep; you cannot guess
the cause of tears at such a moment. Yes, you are right; I do love your
brother with an affection equal to his own, but I thought it would never
pass my lips; for wilfully, blindly I had rejected the affection of his
good and noble heart; I had intentionally caused him pain, banished him
from his country and his friends, and my punishment was just. I thought
he would forget one so utterly unworthy, and the thought was agony. But,
oh, Gertrude, I shall never regain his love: when he knows all, he will
cease to trust me; his esteem I have lost for ever! Gertrude, bear with
me; you cannot know the wretchedness it is to feel he knows not all my
folly. The girl who could wilfully cast aside duty and obedience to a
parent, listen to forbidden vows, weakly place her honour in the power
of one against whom she had been warned--oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, when
St. Eval learns this tale, he will spurn me from his heart! and yet I
will not deceive him, he shall know all, and be free to act as he
will--his proposals shall be no tie."
The flush of firm yet painful resolution dyed her cheek as she spoke,
and checked her tears. Alarmed as she was by the incoherence yet
connection of her words when attached to Lord Alphingham's hints, which
still lingered on her mind, yet the high-minded Lady Gertrude felt as if
Caroline's honourable determination had struck a new chord of sympathy
within her heart. Integrity itself was hers, and truth in others was
ever to her their most attractive quality.
"St. Eval's doubts and fears have been already painfully aroused," she
said, gently; "an open explanation from you is more likely to make him
happy than produce the effect you so much, though so naturally, dread:
fear not to impart it. In the relation you now stand to each other, the
avowal of past errors will increase rather than lessen affection, by the
integrity it will display; but leave it till years have passed, and if,
instead of being known now, it is then discovered, then, indeed, might
you fear, with some show of justice, the loss of his esteem. Such will
not be now; but tell him yourself, dear Caroline, the truth or falsehood
of the scandalous tale he heard a night or two ago."
"What did he hear? if you know, for pity's sake, do not conceal it from
me, dearest Gertrude!" entreated Caroline, almost gasping for breath;
and Lady Gertrude, without hesitation or abbreviation, related the whole
tale her brother had imparted to her, dwelling on the suffering he
endured, as he fancied Caroline's conduct confirmed the words he heard.
"Then is it, indeed, time for me to speak, though my tale be one of
shame," she exclaimed, as Lady Gertrude paused, and indignation restored
her usual energy. "Never were attentions so revolting to me as were
those of Lord Alphingham that night. He knew he had no right to address
me, and therefore did he ever refrain when mamma was present. Gertrude,
solemnly, sacredly, I protest he has no hold on my affections--he dare
not say he has--nor ever again venture to demand my hand; it has been
irrevocably refused. Not only would my own will prevent my ever becoming
his, but I have--" she paused a moment, for Percy's fatal secret was on
the point of escaping from her lips, but checking herself, she added, "I
am not at liberty to say why, but an inseparable barrier is placed
between us. Listen to me, Gertrude, you will condemn me, be it so; but I
implore, I beseech you to believe me true." Then, without further
hesitation, Caroline briefly yet circumstantially related all those
events in her life with which our readers are so well acquainted. She
did not suppress one point, or endeavour in the least to excuse herself,
and Lady Gertrude, as she listened to that unvarnished tale of youthful
error, felt her heart glow more warmly towards her companion, and her
eye glisten in sympathy for the pain she felt Caroline was inflicting on
herself. Lady Gertrude could feel for others; twice had her carriage
been announced, but she heeded not the summons; a third came just as
Caroline had ceased to speak, and silently she rose to depart. She met
the imploring look of her young friend, and folding her to her heart,
she said, in a low and gentle voice--
"Ask not me, my dearest girl; St. Eval shall come and speak for
himself." She kissed her affectionately, and was gone.
Caroline seated herself on a low couch, and closing her eyes on every
outward object, she gave herself up to thought. Might she indeed be
happy--were the errors of her former years so forgiven, that she would
indeed be blessed with the husband of her choice? Had St. Eval so
conquered pride as again to seek her love--would the blessing of her
parents now sanctify her marriage? it could not be, it was too much
bliss--happiness of which she was utterly unworthy. Time rolled by
unheeded in these meditations; she was quite unconscious that nearly
half an hour had elapsed since Lady Gertrude had left her; scarcely did
it appear five minutes, and yet it must have been more, for it was the
voice of St. Eval himself that roused her, that addressed her as his own
bride. St. Eval himself, who clasped her impetuously to his beating
heart, imprinted one long, lingering kiss upon her cheek and murmured
blessings on her head. He had waited for the return of his sister to the
carriage, in a state of impatience little to be envied, flung himself in
after her, and in a very brief space had heard and heard again every
particular of her interview with Caroline. His doubts wore satisfied,
not a lingering fear remained.
"Gertrude told me, you said not to her the magic word that will seal my
happiness, though she wrung from you that precious secret of your love,"
said the young Lord, after many very fond words had been exchanged
between them, and nearly an hour had passed away in that unrestrained
confidence; "nor have I heard it pass your lips. You have told me that
you love me, Caroline; will you not promise that but a very short time
shall pass, ere you will indeed be mine; that you will not sentence me
to a long probation ere that happy day is fixed?"
"It is not in my power to answer you, St. Eval," and though her tone was
sportive, her words startled him. "I cannot even promise to be yours; my
fate is not in my own hands."
"Caroline!" exclaimed the alarmed young man, "what can you mean?"
"Simply, that I have vowed solemnly and sacredly never to many without
the consent and blessing of my parents. I have given you all I can, to
them I refer you for the rest."
"Then I am satisfied," replied St. Eval, the flush of joyous excitement
staining his cheek, and rendering his expressive countenance more than
usually handsome, by the animation it produced.
Mrs. Hamilton, with Emmeline and Ellen, had returned from their ride
rather later than usual, for they had gone to see a friend some few
miles out of town, and finding it near the hour of dinner, they had
dispersed to their dressing-rooms instead of entering the drawing-room
as usual. On inquiring for Caroline, if she had been out with Lady
Gertrude, or was still at home, she heard, to her extreme astonishment,
that Miss Hamilton had not gone out, but that Lord St. Eval had been
with her above an hour, nor had she left him to obey the summons of the
dressing-bell, as usual. A throb of pleasure shot through the heart of
Mrs. Hamilton, she scarcely knew wherefore, for it was no uncommon thing
for Lord St. Eval to spend an hour at her house, but it was that he
should thus have sought the society of Caroline alone.
"Had either of her sons been with him?" she asked, and the answer was in
the negative.
Martyn silently concluded her task, for she saw deep thought was on her
lady's brow, which she was too respectful to disturb; an earnest thought
it was, it might have been that silent prayer had mingled with it. Still
was that wish uppermost in Mrs. Hamilton's mind, that she might one day
see her Caroline the happy wife of Lord St. Eval; but when she entered
the drawing-room, words were not needed to explain the scene before her.
Mr. Hamilton had drawn his daughter to him, and was pressing the young
Earl's hand in his with a grasp that spoke volumes.
"St. Eval, you have been too long the son of my affections, for one
instant to doubt my consent," Mrs. Hamilton heard her husband say, as
she entered; "it is yours, freely, gladly. Speak not of fortune, I would
give my child to you, had you but yourself to offer. But I am but a
secondary personage in this business," he added, playfully; "there is
the enchantress who holds the fate of my Caroline more firmly than I do.
Away with you, St. Eval, plead your cause to her."
"Caroline, my own, does your happiness depend on my consent, or have you
done this merely for my sake?" murmured Mrs. Hamilton, as her child
clung in silence to her neck, and Lord St. Eval seized her hand and
pressed it to his lips, as if eloquent silence should tell his tale,
too, better than words. Mrs. Hamilton spoke in a voice so low, as to be
heard only by Caroline.
"Speak to me, love; tell me that St. Eval will be the husband of your
free, unbiased choice, and my fondest blessing shall be yours."
Caroline's answer was inaudible to all, save to the ear of maternal
affection, to her mother it was enough.
"Take her, St. Eval; my consent, my earnest wish to behold you united
has long been yours; may God in heaven bless you, my children, and make
you happy in each other!"
Solemnly she spoke; her earnestness was affecting, it struck to their
hearts; for a moment there was silence, which Mrs. Hamilton was the
first to break.
"Does my Caroline intend appearing at dinner in this costume?" she
asked, playfully, alluding to her daughter's morning dress. Startled and
blushing, Caroline, for the first time, perceived her mother was dressed
for dinner, and her father, determining to banish all appearance of
gravity, held up his watch, which pointed to some few minutes after the
usual dinner-hour. Glad to escape for a few minutes to the solitude of
her own room, Caroline hastily withdrew her hand from St. Eval's
detaining grasp, and smiling a brief farewell, brushed by Emmeline and
Ellen, who were that instant entering, without speaking indeed, but with
very evident marks of confusion, which Mr. Hamilton very quickly
explained to the extreme satisfaction of all parties.
Caroline was not long before she returned. Happiness had caused her eyes
to sparkle with a radiance her parents had not seen for many a long day;
and they felt as they gazed on her, now indeed was she worthy to be the
honoured wife of St. Eval, and their thoughts were raised in silent
unison to heaven for the blessing thus vouchsafed to them. And scarcely
could Mr. Hamilton restrain the emotion which swelled his bosom, as he
thought, had it not been for the untiring care, the bright example of
that mother, his child, instead of being a happy bride, might now have
been--he shuddered as he thought, and the inward words were checked, he
could not give them vent, they were hidden in the silent recesses of his
own breast; and did not that same thought dwell in the mind of his wife,
when she contrasted the present with the past? It did, but she looked
not on herself as the cause of her child's escape from wretchedness and
sin. Her efforts she knew would have been as naught, without the
blessing of Him whose aid she had ever sought; and if indeed the thought
of her had arrested Caroline on the brink of ruin, it was His work, and
Him alone she praised. She looked on the glowing countenance of her
daughter; she marked the modest gentleness of her demeanour, the
retiring dignity with which she checked the effusions of her own fond
affection, and received the attentions of her devoted lover, and she
felt sure those few moments of solitude had been passed in thanksgiving
and prayer to Him who had pardoned the errors of the past, and granted
such unlooked-for joy. And she guessed aright, for the mind of Caroline
had not been entirely engrossed by the bright and glowing visions which
anticipation in such a moment of our lives is apt to place before us.
Her thoughts during the last year had been secretly under the guidance
of the most rigid self-control, and thus permitted her to raise them
from the happiness of earth to blessedness yet more exalted. Oh! who can
say that religion is the heavy chain that fetters us to gloom and
everlasting sadness; that in chastening the pleasures of earth, it
offers no substantial good in return? True piety, open the heart by its
sweet, refreshing influence, causes us to enjoy every earthly blessing
with a zest the heart in which the love of God is not an inmate will
seek in vain to know. It is piety that strengthens, purifies affection.
Piety, that looks on happiness vouch us here, as harbingers of a state
where felicity will be eternal. Piety that, in lifting up the grateful
soul to God, heightens our joys, and renders that pure and lasting
which would otherwise be evanescent and fleeting. Piety, whose soft and
mildly-burning torch continues to enlighten life, long, long after the
lustre of worldly pleasures has passed away. It was this blessed
feeling, kindled in earliest infancy by the fostering hand of parental
love, which now characterised and composed every emotion of Caroline's
swelling bosom, which bade her feel that this indeed was happiness. With
blushing modesty she received the eagerly-offered congratulations of her
affectionate family; the delighted embrace which Percy in the enthusiasm
of his joy found himself compelled to give her.
"Now, indeed, may I hope the past will never again cross my mind to
torment me," he whispered to his sister, and wrung St. Eval's hand with
a violence that forced that young man laughingly to cry for mercy. There
had been a shade of unusual gloom shrouding the open countenance and
usually frank demeanour of Percy since his return from Oxford, for which
his parents and sisters could not account, but as he seemed to shrink
from all observation on the subject, they did not ask the cause; but
this unexpected happiness seemed to make him for a few following days as
usual the gayest, merriest member of his amiable family.
Often in these days of happiness did Caroline think on the qualities
which Lady Gertrude had once said should adorn the wife of her brother.
Faults he could pardon, if they were redeemed by affection, and
ingenuousness unsullied by the slightest artifice. Affection she well
knew she possessed; but she also knew that, to be as unreserved as would
form the happiness of her husband, she must effectually banish that
pride, which she knew still lurked within. Often would she converse on
these things when alone with her mother, and implore her advice as to
the best method of securing not only the love but the esteem of St.
Eval. "Gertrude was quite right in the estimate of her brother's
character," Mrs. Hamilton would at such times observe, her fond heart
fully repaid for past anxiety and disappointment by this confidence in
her child; "and so too are you, dearest, in your idea that not the
faintest sign of pride must mark your intercourse with him. Perhaps he
is more reserved than proud; indeed, in his case, I cannot call it
pride, but it is that kind of reserve which would jar most painfully did
it come in contact with anything resembling pride. Had you grown up such
as you were in childhood, your union with St. Eval, much as you might
think you loved each other, would not have been productive of lasting
happiness to either. Let him see dependence is not merely a profession
which your every action would contradict; from independence spring so
many evils, that I feel sure you will avoid it. It is, I regret to say,
a prevailing error in those circles wherein your rank will entitle you
to mingle; an error that must ever endanger conjugal happiness. When a
woman marries, the world, except as the arbiter of propriety, ought to
be forgotten; all her endeavours to please, to soothe, to cheer, must
still be exerted even more than before marriage, but exerted only for
her husband; not one little pleasing art, not one accomplishment should
be given up, but used as affection dictates, to enhance her value in the
eyes of him whose felicity it should be her principal aim to increase.
You will be placed in an exalted station in the opinion of the world, my
beloved child, a station of temptation, flattery, danger, more so than
has over yet been yours; but I do not tremble now as I did, too
forebodingly, when the world was first opened to your view. You have
learned to mistrust your own strength, to seek it where alone it can be
found, to examine your every action by the Word of God, and with these
feelings you are safe. My Caroline will not fail in duty to her husband
or herself."
"Nor to you, my mother, my devoted mother!" exclaimed Caroline, as she
fondly kissed her. "It is to you, next to my God, I owe this blessing;
and oh, if it be my lot to be a mother, may I be to my children, as far,
at least, as one so much inferior in piety and virtue can be, what you
have been to me. Oh, might I but resemble you, as my full heart has so
lately longed, St. Eval might be happy!"
At the earnest entreaty of St. Eval and Caroline, both families
consented that the ceremonial of their marriage should take place in the
same venerable church where the first childish prayers of Caroline had
ascended from a house of God, and the service be performed by the
revered and pious rector of Oakwood, the clergyman who, from her
earliest childhood, she had been taught to respect and love, as the
humble representative of Him whose truths he so ably taught. Caroline
had consented to name the second week of September as the period of her
espousals. The few chosen friends of both families who were to be
invited to the ceremony were to assemble in the hospitable halls of
Oakwood, and earnestly did every member of Mr. Hamilton's family hope
that the long-absent sailor, Edward Fortescue, who was soon expected
home, might arrive in time to be present at the marriage of his cousin.
How the young heart of his orphan sister fluttered with delight at the
thought of beholding him again we will not attempt to describe, but it
was shared with almost equal warmth by Mrs. Hamilton, whose desire was
so great that her gallant nephew, the brave preserver of her husband,
might be present at the approaching joyful event, that she laughingly
told Ellen she certainly would postpone the ceremony till Edward
arrived, whatever opposition she might have to encounter.
The engagement of the Eight Honourable Earl St. Eval, the heir to the
marquisate of Malvern, embracing such rich possessions, with a plain
gentleman's daughter was a matter of mingled wonder, scorn, admiration,
and applause to the fashionable world; but these opinions and emotions
were little regarded, save as a matter of continual jest to Percy, who
amused himself by collecting all the reports he could, and repeating
them at home, warning them against a marriage which caused such an
universal sensation. It might be supposed this sensation would have been
felt in various ways in the family of Montrose Grahame; but it happened
that Annie was so engrossed with her own plans, her mind so occupied by
one interesting subject, that she and Lord Alphingham had but little
time to think of anything but each other. Annoyed they were indeed, for
all their designs were foiled; St. Eval and Caroline were happy, spite
of their efforts to the contrary. Lady Helen was really so delighted at
the prospects of Caroline, who had ever been a favourite with her, that
she actually exerted herself so much as to call in person to offer her
best wishes, and promise that she would spend the whole winter at
Moorlands, to be present at the ceremony. Lilla was overjoyed, for Mrs.
Hamilton promised she should be among the guests at Oakwood. Mr.
Grahame, whose friendship with Mr. Hamilton would have and did render
him most interested in the event, was at Paris when their engagement was
first published, but his warmly-written letters to his friend proclaimed
his intention of very soon returning to England, but till then
entreating the young couple to accept his sincerest prayers and best
wishes for their happiness, and warmly congratulated Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton on the prospects of their child; but there was a sadness
pervading his letters which gave them pain to note, for they knew too
well the cause.
The letters of Mary Greville, too, added pleasure to the betrothed.
Informed by Herbert of both past and present events, St. Eval's long
affection for Caroline, which he playfully hoped would solve the mystery
of his not gratifying her wishes, and falling in love with Miss Manvers,
Mary wrote with equal sportiveness, that she was quite satisfied with
his choice, and pleased that his residence at Lago Guardia had enabled
her to become so well acquainted with one about to be so nearly
connected with her Herbert.
About a week or fortnight before Mr. Hamilton's intended return to
Oakwood, Percy one morning received a letter which appeared to produce
excessive agitation. But as he evidently did not wish it remarked, no
notice was taken, except by Herbert, to whom alone he had shown the
letter, and who seemed equally interested, though not so much agitated
by its contents. To the anxious inquiries of his parents, if individual
embarrassment or distress occasioned Percy's uneasiness, Herbert
answered readily in the negative; that the letter informed them of the
death of an unfortunate individual in whose fate both he and Percy had
been most deeply interested. Trusting in the well-known integrity of
their sons, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton inquired no farther, and dismissed the
subject; but Percy did not rouse himself from his gloomy abstraction
till startled by intelligence, which regard for his father's friend
Grahame could not permit him to hear with calmness.
Two mornings after the receipt of that letter, as the family, which the
addition of St. Eval, were sitting together after breakfast, ere they
separated to the various avocations of the day, Lord Henry D'Este
bustled in with a countenance expressive of something extraordinary.
"Have you heard the news?" was his first eager exclamation.
"If we had, it would be no news," replied Emmeline, archly; "but we have
heard nothing. Papa has something else to do than to seek out news for
me, ditto the Right Honourable Lord St. Eval. Percy has been suddenly
converted into the spirit of gloom, and to Herbert it is in vain to look
for gossip, so, for pity's sake, satisfy my curiosity."
"Perhaps you will say I have been exciting it unnecessarily," he
answered. "An elopement is too common a thing now to cause much
astonishment."
"It depends on the parties," observed Mr. Hamilton. "Who are they?"
"Those, or rather one of them, I fear, for her father's sake, in whom
you will be too deeply interested,--Lord Alphingham and Miss Grahame."
"Annie!" burst from Caroline's lips, in an accent of distress that
struck all, and fell somewhat, painfully on Lord St. Eval's ear, when
starting from the seat she had occupied near him, she sprung forward,
and wildly continued, "when--when? Lord Henry, for pity's sake, tell me!
is there no time? Can they not be overtaken? When did they go?"
Bewildered at the wild earnestness of her manner, at the muttered
execration of Percy, Lord Henry was for a moment silent; but, on the
repeated entreaty of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, he said that the particulars
were not yet all known, except that she had been staying with her
friend, that same lady of rank in whose family Miss Malison had been
installed; that from her house the elopement had taken place, when, he
did not exactly know, the report had only that morning gained credit.
Lady Helen was not in the least aware of what had passed, nor would she,
in all probability, till Annie's own letter announced it, as she turned
a careless ear to all that her friends had hinted. He greatly feared,
however, that it was useless to think of overtaking them; they had been
seen and recognised, on the road between York and Berwick, by a friend
of his, three days previous. He had at first regarded his friend's
letter as a mere jest, but finding he had written the same to many
others, and that the report was gaining ground, he felt sufficient
interest in Mr. Grahame to discover the truth, that he might be informed
of it, and take measures accordingly, and as Grahame was from home, he
thought the best thing he could do was to tell the whole story to Mr.
Hamilton.
"And is there indeed no hope? Can they not be overtaken?" again demanded
Caroline, almost choked with an agitation for which even her parents
could not account.
Lord Henry did not think there was the slightest possibility, and
unable to control her emotion, for she could not forget the long years
she had regarded Annie as her friend, the favourite companion of her
childhood, Caroline sunk, pale as death, on the nearest seat. Her mother
and St. Eval approached her in some alarm, the former to demand the
cause of this agitation, and implore her to be calm; the latter to
connect, with a swelling heart and trembling frame, this deep emotion
with the words of Lord Alphingham, which he vainly endeavoured to
forget; but Percy alone had power to restore her to any degree of
composure, taking her trembling hand in his, he whispered a few words,
and their effect was instantaneous.
"Thank God, she will be at least his wife!" escaped Caroline's quivering
lips, and then burst into tears.
"Mother, do not ask more now. St. Eval, do not doubt my sister, her
agitation arose for Miss Grahame alone, not for the villain, the
cold-hearted villain, Alphingham!" exclaimed Percy, in a low but
impressive voice, as he alternately addressed his mother and the Earl,
and then, as if fearing their further questions, he hastily turned away
to join his father in demanding every possible information from Lord
Henry; and perceiving that Caroline was becoming calm, and also that St.
Eval looked somewhat disturbed, Mrs. Hamilton followed her son to the
other end of the room. Still St. Eval spoke not, and Caroline, as she
read the reproach, the doubt expressed upon his features, for a moment
felt her natural pride swelling high within her, that he could for one
minute permit a doubt of her truth to enter his mind; but her
resolution, her mother's advice, the observation of Lady Gertrude, all
rose to combat with returning pride, and they conquered.
"Eugene, dearest Eugene," she said, as she extended her hand towards
him, "you have, indeed, every reason to look disturbed. In my deep
anxiety for her whom I so long loved as my friend, I forgot that my
agitation might indeed confirm the unworthy tale you heard. Forgive me,
Eugene; I know that I have pained you, but, indeed, I meant it not. If
Lord Alphingham did cross my mind, it was in detestation, in abhorrence,
that he should thus have acted. I trembled for Annie, for her alone, for
the fearful fate that, when Lord Henry first spoke, I believed must be
her lot. Were I at liberty to disclose all, you would not wonder such
should have been my feelings, Eugene," she added, in an accent of gentle
reproach. "Must I indeed solemnly and sacredly assure you, that my
agitation was occasioned by no lingering affection for Lord Alphingham?
will nothing else satisfy you? Is it kind, is it generous thus to doubt
me?"
Softened at once, ashamed of his own jealous tendency, the young Earl
could only implore her forgiveness, assure her he had not the faintest
doubt remaining; and suggesting, air would revive her sooner than
anything, he drew her to the open window of the adjoining room, which
looked out on the little garden, and there they remained in apparently
earnest conversation, till Caroline, to her extreme astonishment, was
summoned by her cousin to luncheon, and Lord St. Eval suddenly
discovered he had permitted the whole morning to slip away in idleness,
when he imagined he had so very much to do.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were more grieved than surprised at the
intelligence they had heard; but in what manner to act, what measures to
take they knew not. Grahame was expected to arrive in England on the
morrow or the next day at the farthest, and his agony they dreaded to
witness; they feared lest reports should reach him ere he was in any way
prepared, and Mr. Hamilton determined on travelling instantly to Dover,
that he might be there ready to receive him, and console to the best of
his ability this mistaken but truly affectionate father. Percy, rousing
himself, entered with activity into all his father's plans; but Mrs.
Hamilton fancied that he too had some plan to follow up, which his
absence two or three days from home confirmed. Nor was it idle sympathy
she felt; that same day she sought the residence of Lady Helen.
Scarcely ever did she enter that house without being struck by the
melancholy pervading it. Wrapped in her own pleasures, her own desires
and amusements, Annie never cast one thought on her mother, whose
declining health it would have been her duty to tend and soothe; indeed
she scarcely ever entered her room, and believing her parent's ailments
were all fancy, made it a rule to take no notice of them. Cecil liked
not gloom and quiet, and his fashionable cousins occupied almost all his
time. He could not comprehend, much less return the deep affection his
mother felt for him; and Lilla, whose naturally warm heart and right
principles would have made her an affectionate attendant on her mother's
couch, was seldom at home to perform her part. But already had Lady
Helen felt the difference a year's residence with Mrs. Douglas had made
in her younger girl; already her indolent nature felt the comfort of her
presence, and bitterly regretted when her short vacations were at an
end, for then she was indeed alone.
On being admitted, Mrs. Hamilton fancied somewhat eagerly, the first
person she encountered at Lady Helen's was her young friend, clad, it
seemed, for walking, with traces of anxiety and sorrow written on her
countenance.
"The very person I was about to seek," she exclaimed, in a voice of
intense relief, springing down the stairs to reach her friend. "Dearest
Mrs. Hamilton, mamma--Annie--" The words choked her, and she burst into
tears.
"Compose yourself, love, I know all; only tell me how your mother bears
the shock," whispered Mrs. Hamilton, instantly penetrating at once the
truth, that either the report had reached Lady Helen, or she had
received the intelligence direct from her daughter; and anxious to
escape the curious eyes of the domestics, who were in the hall, she
hastily yet kindly drew the weeping Lilla to the nearest parlour, and,
closing the door, succeeded in hearing all she desired. Lilla said, her
mother, only an hour before, had received a letter from Annie, briefly
announcing her marriage, and informing her they intended very shortly to
embark for the Netherlands from Leith, thence to make a tour in Germany
and Italy, which would prevent their returning to England for some time,
when she hoped all present irritation at her conduct would have
subsided; that her father's severity had tended to this step. Had he
been kind, and like other fathers, she would have sacrificed her own
desires, conscious that his reason for prohibiting her union with
Alphingham was good, however it might be secret; but when from her
childhood her every wish had been unreasonably thwarted, she was
compelled to choose in such a case for herself. She should be sorry to
live in enmity with her father, but even if she did, she never could
regret the step she had taken. To her mother she wrote as if assured of
her forgiveness, or rather her continued favour; forgiveness she did not
seem to think it at all necessary to ask, saying, she was sure her kind
and indulgent mother would not regret her union with Lord Alphingham,
when she solemnly declared it had made her happier than she had ever
been before. Such Lilla said were the contents of her letter; but the
warm-hearted girl could not refer without indignation to the utter want
of affection which breathed throughout. Her mother, Lilla continued to
say, had been in a most alarming state from the time she received the
letter, but she fancied occasioned more by the dread of what her father
would say on his return, than from Annie's conduct.
When Mrs. Hamilton saw Lady Helen, she felt that Lilla was right. The
unhappy mother reproached her own carelessness, indolence, and Annie's
ingratitude, but it was evident the dread of her husband was uppermost
in her mind--a dread which made her so extremely ill, from a succession
of violent and uncontrolled hysterics, that Mrs. Hamilton did not leave
her the whole of that day; nor would she permit the unhappy father to
enter his wife's apartment on his return, till she had exacted from him
a promise to forbear all reproaches towards his suffering wife, all
allusions to the past.
With the stern brevity of the injured, Grahame addressed his disobedient
child. His forgiveness and his blessing he sent, though he said she had
asked for neither; that he bore no enmity to her, he wrote; his home and
his heart were ever open to receive her, should she again require the
protection of the one, the affection of the other. She had chosen for
herself; linked her fate with one against whom many tongues had spoken,
and he could only pray that her present happiness might never change.
Lord Alphingham he did not name. Lady Helen's letter was a curious
mixture of reproach and affection, complaint and congratulation; and
Annie might have found it difficult to discover in what manner she was
affected towards the Viscount, or with regard to the elopement itself.
Perhaps of all the letters she received from home, Lilla's was the most
irritating to her, for it was written in all the bitter indignation, the
unchecked reproaches of a young and ardent spirit, in whose eyes the
heartlessness of her letter was inexcusable, and she wrote as she
thought. Annie, as might have been expected, deigned her no reply. A few
languidly written letters her mother received from her during her tour;
but the chief of her correspondence was reserved for Miss Malison and
the lady who had so ably assisted their secret plans. The friendly
influence of Mr. Hamilton succeeded, after a few days, in restoring his
friend to comparative outward composure, although the wound within, he
too sadly felt, was beyond his power to heal.
A few days passed in peace. Mrs. Hamilton and her family were
anticipating with pleasure the quiet happiness of Oakwood, and the event
then to take place. Scarcely a week intervened before their departure,
when they were one afternoon startled by the appearance of Grahame,
whose countenance bore the pallid hue of death, and every action denoted
the most fearful agitation. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, Caroline and St.
Eval, were alone present, and they gazed on him in unfeigned alarm.
"Hamilton, I start for Brussels to-night," was his salutation, as he
entered.
"Brussels!" repeated Mr. Hamilton. "Grahame, you are beside yourself.
What affairs can call you to Brussels so suddenly?"
"Affairs--business; aye, of such weight, I cannot rest till they are
attended to. Hamilton, you are astonished; you think me mad; oh, would
to God I were!" and striking his forehead with his clenched hand, he
paced the room in agony.
Ere his friend could approach or address him, he suddenly paused before
Caroline, who was watching him in alarm and commiseration, and grasping
her arm, with a pressure that pained her, he said, in a voice which
blanched her cheek with horror--
"Hamilton, look on this girl, and, as you love me, answer me. Could you
be a Roman father, did you see her dishonoured,--the victim, the wilful
victim of a base, a treacherous, miserable villain?--say, could you wash
away the blackening stain with blood--with her blood--or his, or both?
Speak to me--counsel me. My child, my child!" he groaned aloud.
"Grahame, you are ill; my dear friend, you know not what you say,"
exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, terrified both at his wildness and his words.
"Come with me till this strange mood has passed; I entreat it as a
favour--come."
"Passed--till this mood has passed! Hamilton, it will never pass till
the grave has closed over Annie and myself. Oh, Hamilton, my friend, I
had reconciled myself to this marriage; taught myself to believe that,
as his wife, she might be happy; and--oh, God! can I say the words?--she
is not his wife--he is already married." His trembling limbs refused
support, and he sunk, overcome by his emotion, on a chair. Without a
minute's pause, a moment's hesitation, and ere her father could find
words to reply, Caroline sprung forward, and kneeling beside the
wretched father, she seized his hand--
"Be calm, be comforted, dearest Mr. Grahame," she exclaimed, in a voice
that caused him to gaze at her with astonishment. "It is a mistaken tale
you have heard; a cruel falsehood, to disturb your peace. Lord
Alphingham was married, but Annie is now his lawful wedded wife; the
partner of his youth, the devoted woman whom for eight years he
deserted, is no more. She died the day preceding that which united Lord
Alphingham to your child. I speak truth, Mr. Grahame; solemnly,
sacredly, I affirm it. Percy will tell you more; I was pledged to
secrecy. On her deathbed she demanded a solemn promise from all who knew
her tale, never to divulge it, lest it should prove to the discredit of
her cruel husband, whom her last accents blessed. I promised Percy it
should be sacred, unless an emergency demanded it. Be comforted, Mr.
Grahame, indeed, I speak the truth. Lord Alphingham was free, restrained
by no tie, when he was united to your child." Rapidly, hurriedly, she
had spoken, for she trembled at the wild gaze Grahame had fixed upon
her. Caroline's voice rung clear and distinct upon his ear, and every
word brought comfort, still he spoke not; but when she ceased, when
slowly, more impressively her last words were spoken, he uttered a faint
cry, and folding her slight form convulsively to his heart, sobbed like
an infant on her shoulder. Thoughts unutterable thronged the minds of
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton as they too listened with fascinated eagerness to
Caroline's words; thoughts, not only of the present but the past, rushed
quickly to their minds. A year previous Lord Alphingham's wife still
lived; though he, villain as he was, had heeded not the sacred tie. Well
could they enter into the blessed relief her words had brought to the
distracted father. Mr. Hamilton permitted some minutes to elapse in
silence, and then gently withdrawing Caroline from Grahame's still
convulsive hold, said a few words, in a voice which, though low,
expressed that kindly sympathy which seldom fails to reach the inmost
soul; and finally succeeded in passing his arm through that of his
friend, and leading him to an adjoining room, where, after a time,
Grahame conquered his agitation sufficiently to give a connected account
of the means through which he had learned the information which had so
distracted him. Caroline's words and the influence of his friend
restored him to comparative composure; but all was not at peace within
until Percy had obeyed the summons of his father, and the information of
his sister was confirmed in every point by him. He related the tale of
Mrs. Amesfort, with which our readers are already well acquainted, with
the addition of her death, of which the letter he received a few days
previous had informed him. Many affecting interviews he had had with
her, in which she spoke, of her husband, her mother, her child, so
fondly, that the tears often started to the eyes of Percy, though her
own were dry. In parting from him, she had again implored him not to
divulge her secret, unless the interest of her child demanded it, or he
saw urgent occasion.
"Let not the breath of calumny sully the name of my child," she said,
grasping his hand with a painful effort. "Let her not be looked on as a
child of shame, when her birth is as pure and noble as any in the land.
If her birth be questioned, let the whole world know she is the daughter
of Lord Alphingham. In my mother's care is the certificate of my
marriage, also of the christening of my Agnes. But if nothing be
demanded, if her lot be happy, it is better both for father and daughter
that they remain unknown to each other."
Percy had made the solemn promise she demanded, but the remembrance of
her pale features, her drooping form, had haunted him on his return
home, and caused that deep gloom his family had remarked. It was more
than a week after Mrs. Amesfort's death, before her afflicted mother
could write the tidings to the young man, who, on hearing of Annie's
conduct, had instantly and actively set about obtaining the exact date
of the unfortunate lady's death, and also that of the Viscount's hasty
marriage in Scotland. The result was most satisfactory; rather more than
a week had elapsed between the two events, and his marriage with Annie
was, consequently, sacred and binding. Percy also said, Mrs. Morley had
mentioned her intention of instantly returning to Ireland with the
little Agnes, from whom she fervently prayed she might never be
compelled to part.
Believed, and truly thankful, Grahame consulted with his friends on the
best plan to pursue to silence the rumours which, having overheard in a
public coffeehouse, would, he had no doubt, be immediately circulated
over the town. Mrs. Morley said, she had written to inform Lord
Alphingham of the death of his broken-hearted wife, enclosing one from
the ill-fated Agnes herself. He was, therefore, perfectly aware of the
validity of his second marriage, for Percy had inquired and found the
letter had been forwarded; there was no need of communication with him
on that point. Grahame's first care was to travel to Scotland, and
obtain the registry of their marriage; his next, to proceed to Brussels,
with Mr. Hamilton, and coolly and decisively inform Lord Alphingham
that, unless the ceremony was publicly solemnized a second time, in his
presence, and before proper witnesses, other proceedings would be
entered upon against him. Astonished and somewhat alarmed as Lord and
Lady Alphingham were at his unexpected appearance, the former had too
many sins on his conscience to submit to a public _exposé_, which he
might justly fear was intended in this threat, and, with great apparent
willingness, he consented. The ceremony was again performed; Grahame
possessed himself of the certificate, and left Brussels, with the
half-formed resolution that, while Lord Alphingham lived, he would never
see his child again. The death of the Right Honourable Viscountess
Alphingham, and the subsequent marriage in Scotland of the Eight
Honourable Lord Viscount Alphingham with Miss Grahame, appeared in all
the newspapers. The splendour of the second solemnization of their
nuptials in Brussels was the next theme of wonder and gossip, and by the
time that subject was exhausted, London had become deserted, and Lord
and Lady Alphingham might probably have returned to the metropolis
without question or remark; but such was not Lord Alphingham's
intention. He feared that probably were his history publicly known he
might be shunned for the deceit he had displayed; and he easily obtained
Annie's glad consent to fix their residence for a few years in Paris.
Irritated as in all probability he was, when he found himself again
fettered, yet he so ably concealed this irritation, that his wife
suspected it not, and for a time she was happy.
As Lord and Lady Alphingham are no longer concerned in our tale, having
nothing more in common with those in whom, we trust, our readers are
much more interested, we may here formally dismiss them in a few words.
They lived, but if true happiness dwells only with the virtuous and
good, with the upright and the noble, it gilded not their lot; but if
those who are well acquainted with the morality of the higher classes of
the French capital can pronounce that it dwells there, then, indeed,
might they be said to possess it, for such was their lives. They
returned not again to England, but lived in France and Italy,
alternately. Alphingham, callous to every better and softer feeling,
might have been happy, but not such was the fate of Annie. Bitterly, ere
she died, did she regret her folly and disobedience; remorse was
sometimes busy within, though no actual guilt dimmed her career: she
drowned the voice of conscience in the vortex of frivolity and fashion.
But the love she bore for Alphingham was the instrument of retribution,
her husband neglected, despised, and frequently deserted her. Let no
woman unite herself with sin, in the vain hope of transforming it to
virtue. Such thoughts had not, indeed, been Annie's, when wilfully she
sought her fate. She knew not the man she had chosen for her husband;
she disregarded the warnings she had heard. Fatal delusion! she found,
too late, the fate her will had woven was formed of knotty threads, the
path that she had sought beset with thorns, from which she could not
break. No children blessed her lot, and it was better thus--for they
would have found but little happiness. The fate of Lord Alphingham's
child, the little Agnes, was truly happy in her own innocence; she lived
on for many years in ignorance of her real rank and the title of her
father, under the careful guidance of that relative to whom her mother's
last words had tenderly consigned her.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton remained but little longer in town; Caroline's
_trousseau_ was quite completed, for but very few weeks now intervened
ere her marriage. Lady Gertrude had devoted herself to the young Earl,
and remained with him superintending the improvements and embellishments
of his beautiful estate, Castle Terryn, in the vicinity of the Tamar, on
the Cornwall side, which was being prepared with the greatest taste and
splendour. Lady Gertrude was to remain with her brother till the week
previous to the wedding, when she joined her family at Oakwood, where
they had been staying since their departure from London, at the earnest
persuasions of both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. Seldom had the banks of the
placid Dart been so gay as they were on this occasion; the beautiful
villas scattered around were all taken by the friends of the parties
about to be so nearly connected. Rejoicings were not only confined to
the higher class; the poor, for many miles round, hailed the expected
marriage of Miss Hamilton as an occasion of peculiar and individual
felicity. Blessings on her lot, prayers for her welfare, that Lord St.
Eval might prove himself worthy of her, were murmured in many a rustic
cot, and every one was employed in earnest thought as to the best, the
most respectful mode of testifying their humble sympathy in the
happiness of their benefactors. Such were the feelings with which high
and low regarded the prosperity of the good.
END OF VOL. I.