… “Remorse return’d,
Torn of its inward workings she shriek’d aloud.”
Meanwhile Lady D.’s party, whom we left in high contest as to the
identity of Lady Julia L.’s partner, seem to have settled that point
in an amicable manner, and to be now busily occupied, listening to an
oration from the old gentleman in black.
It is evident that he has been entertaining his audience with some of the
particulars of our hero’s adventures when a child.
From the account which this seemingly well-informed speaker proceeds to
give, it would appear that the information contained in the ill-spelt,
undated letter of Edmund’s nurse, was, as far as it was intelligible,
true: so much so, indeed, that we recommend a second perusal of the
precious document to all who may have forgotten any part of its contents.
Fitz-Ullin was, it seems, the title of the great family alluded to
anonymously by the nurse. Edmund had, as the letter stated, been stolen
when an infant in arms off the lawn by a strolling beggar, at a time when
the family were from home. His nurse had substituted her own child, at
first, to avoid blame. Afterwards, she had grown too fond of seeing her
son bringing up to be a young lord, to seize, or inform against, the bold
vagrant when she discovered her, as mentioned in the letter, carrying the
stolen child about.
The smiling boy, described in the letter as flinging his cake out of the
carriage window to poor Edmund, when on crutches, and apparently with but
one leg, he begged before it, was no other than our hero’s after friend,
Ormond, now proved to be the nurse’s child. And the lady, who had sat
with the smiling boy on her knee, thinking him her own son, and looked
out, with but a passing feeling of compassion on the one little bare
foot of the mendicant child, half sunk in the wet mud of the street, its
little shoulders almost forced out of their sockets by its crutches, and
its poor little features wearing the wan expression of premature misery,
was no other than that mendicant child’s own mother, the first Lady
Fitz-Ullin. This was some years after he had been stolen. Soon after this
it was that poor little Edmund had been carried over to Cumberland by the
said vagrant, in company with a ship-load of reapers. After the harvest
he had been led about at Keswick Regatta, to excite the compassion of the
company; and after the Regatta, abandoned, as we have described, by his
then supposed mother, the beggar woman; who, when caught in the fact of
stealing linen from a hedge, was obliged to have recourse to hasty flight.
The narrator next proceeded to recount, what we already know, the
particulars of how poor Edmund, on the evening of the day he had been
thus abandoned, and nearly perishing with cold and hunger, was found on
the borders of the lake, by Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter, Lady L.; brought
home by her; and, ever since, cherished and protected by the whole family.
“And was the gentleman who is now dancing with Lady Julia L.,” inquired
a young lady, “that poor little boy that was begging under the carriage
window; and who is now Lord Fitz-Ullin? How curious!”
“Precisely so, madam,” replied our sable orator.
When it was mentioned that the present Lord Fitz-Ullin, during all
the years from childhood upwards, had, as Edmund Montgomery, been the
constant, intimate companion of Lord L.’s daughters, the Colonel,
addressing Lady D. aside, laid claim to some discernment.
“Well, I declare,” continued the young lady, “if I were Lord Fitz-Ullin,
I should be always quite afraid I might turn out to be somebody else,
some other time.”
“The proofs of his Lordship’s identity, madam,” said the important man in
black, “had been carefully preserved by wretches, who hoped to have made
a market of the secret; and who indeed would, as it has lately appeared,
have done so, had it not been for the upright and honourable feelings of
the poor young man himself.”
“But, sir,” enquired Lady D., “does Lord Fitz-Ullin intend to marry the
lady, who figured in the papers lately as the cause of all the fracas?”
“Certainly not, madam!” replied the proud explainer of mysteries, who
now saw himself surrounded by a numerous audience. “In the first place,
madam, you must recollect, that it was not Lord Fitz-Ullin, but the
unfortunate young man who was then supposed to be Lord Fitz-Ullin, who
was about to marry the young lady. And in the second place, madam, the
young lady is a sort of half sister of his Lordship’s.”
“Sister!” exclaimed Lady D., “surely the late Lord Fitz-Ullin left no
daughter by either marriage.”
“I do not mean to say,” continued the speaker, “that the young lady, or
young woman, is daughter to either of the Ladies Fitz-Ullin; she is,
notwithstanding, daughter to the late Lord Fitz-Ullin, and twin sister to
the unhappy young man who, for so many years, was called Lord Ormond; and
who, for the last few months, has borne the title of Fitz-Ullin; and who
is now simply Mr., or rather Captain Ormond; and that only by courtesy:
such children having in law, I believe, no right to any name but their
mother’s.”
“A terrible thing for him, poor young man!” said Lady D. “He can never
bear to meet any of his former acquaintance.”
“The present Lord Fitz-Ullin, however,” continued our enlightened
informer, “has behaved towards him with the noblest liberality, as well
as towards Miss Ormond, as the sister is now called.”
“And pray, Doctor ⸺, what had she been called? There was no name
mentioned in the papers, I think.”
“O’Neil, the name of her mother’s husband, who was the land steward.”
“And pray who was her mother?”
“The woman was the present Lord Fitz-Ullin’s nurse, madam: and one of her
apologies for having substituted her own child in place of the rightful
heir, when the Lady’s child (as she still calls his present Lordship) had
been stolen from her was, that her own boy was a son of Lord Fitz-Ullin.”
“And what led to the discovery of all this just now? and can you tell,
as you seem so well-informed, what all that was which appeared in the
papers about a rivalship, and a marriage broken off at the altar, and a
shooting-match, &c.”
“I can, madam:” and here the gentleman in black bowed, smiled, and took
a pinch of snuff. “Indeed, I may say,” he added, while closing his box,
“that I am (being a friend of the family) in some measure authorized to
correct misapprehensions on this subject. We have, I believe, succeeded
at last in silencing the papers; that is, since the first day or two; as
soon, in fact, as Lord Fitz-Ullin had leisure to attend to any thing. It
was his wish to do so, from delicacy to the feelings of Captain Ormond.”
For the same reasons, as well as for many others, we suspect that his
Lordship would have also gladly silenced the present speaker, had that
been equally possible; for, if we are not much mistaken, he is far
exceeding his commission for the correction of misapprehensions.
This self-elected friend of the family is, however, very good authority;
being no other than the physician who had been, and still was, in
attendance on Ormond. He is one of His Majesty’s physicians, and a man of
so much eminence, notwithstanding his communicative propensities, that he
is in the best society.
“In the first place, madam,” continued the Doctor, in answer to Lady D.’s
list of questions, “though there certainly was a marriage broken off at
the altar, there was no rivalship whatever, nor the slightest foundation
for such a rumour. The catastrophe, indeed, was much hastened, and
almost all the wild reports which have gone abroad, produced by Captain
Ormond’s unfortunate passion for the young lady who afterwards proved to
be his sister; and with whom he had at first become acquainted during her
residence at some finishing boarding-school. So violent, indeed, was the
attachment which subsisted between these young persons; strengthened, as
it was, by long indulgence; for they had been secretly engaged for years,
it seems; that nothing could prevent the marriage, but confession on
the part of the mother. This she delayed till the last moment; in fact,
till her son and daughter stood together at the altar! Then it was that
rushing past them with screams like those of a maniac, and with such
velocity that indeed, though every one looked round to discover whence
the sounds came, (for I happened to be present, madam,) no one saw her
till she stood beside the officiating clergyman; when, laying one hand
on his lips and spreading the other over his open book, after remaining
speechless from want of breath for a few moments, during which the wonder
of the beholders was very great, she shrieked aloud, in accents that
rang through the whole church, that they were brother and sister! nay,
that they were twins! that she herself was their mother; their wretched,
sinful mother; and that the late Lord Fitz-Ullin was their father.
“The poor young man was so much affected by the scene which followed;
the frantic appearance of the old woman who called herself his mother;
the fainting away of the interesting, and certainly very beautiful young
creature, whose hand he still held, and whom he scarcely knew whether
to call sister or bride; the great change in his own circumstances too,
and the sudden revulsion of his feelings; that, in short, he went home,
(or rather to the house which he had so long thought his home,) and shot
himself!—that is, attempted to do so; indeed, did wound himself: it was
his friend, the rightful and present Lord Fitz-Ullin, who was fortunate
enough to prevent his completing his terrible purpose.”
Various expressions of pity and horror were here uttered by the
listeners. “Indeed, the young man,” continued the speaker, “deserves well
of the Earl, for his conduct on the occasion was truly noble.”
“On entering his hall, on his return from church, he was beset by the
wretches, in whose hands were every proof by which his present Lordship
could substantiate his claims. These they offered, for a certain sum,
so effectually to suppress, that notwithstanding the wild declaration
of the woman in church, the rightful Earl should never be able legally
to dispossess him, either of title or property. He however, spurned
all such offers with the utmost indignation; and would not suffer the
persons to leave his presence, till he had sent for his Lordship—I mean
his present Lordship—then commonly called Captain Montgomery, and laid
all the facts before him. After which it was, that the poor young man
retired to his sleeping apartment, and made that rash attempt upon his
own life, which I before mentioned. I had always attended the late Earl,
whose friendship I had the honour of possessing. I was therefore sent for
by Lady Fitz-Ullin immediately, and have, of course, visited the house,
either in my medical or friendly capacity, every day since; and I have
the satisfaction to say, that I can now pronounce Captain Ormond out of
danger.
“I never heard any thing so shocking!” said the Admiral, in a tone of
much feeling, for since the first ebullition of his wrath on being
contradicted, he had become an interested listener; “that poor young
man, brought up to fortune, rank, title, every thing, now thrown on the
world, without a home, or even a name!”
“When I last saw him,” said Lady D., “it was at his father’s table. A
mild looking young man with a sweet smile. I remember he sat opposite to
me, talking to a daughter of the Duke of B. I said, you know,” she added
turning to the Colonel, “that this man’s countenance was not quite what I
thought I could recollect of Lord Ormond.”
“The young man has been a most unhappy, and, it would appear innocent
victim of the moral turpitude of others;” observed a gentleman who had
not before spoken, and whose black silk apron proclaimed him a dignitary
of the church. “The story affords a striking, practical revelation of the
will of Him, who has ordained that misery shall be the fruit of vice;” he
added, addressing a younger person on whose arm he leaned.
The general move occasioned by the breaking up of the now concluded set
of quadrilles, dispersed our listening party, and sent them to seek
various amusements in other parts of the gay assembly.
Immediately after Julia had gone into the dancing-room with Edmund, a
handsome lively young man, not much above the middle size, but remarkably
well made, came up to Lord L., with whom he appeared well acquainted. He
particularly requested an introduction to Frances, which Lord L., without
absolute reluctance, granted; for young Beaumont, though but second son
to Lord Beaumont, might be classed among those whom Lord L. considered
as proper young men, being grandson to the Duke of ⸺, and inheriting a
large property in right of his mother, Lady Charlotte ⸺, his Grace’s only
child. On being introduced, Beaumont requested the honour of Lady Frances
L.’s hand in due form, and led her towards the quadrilles.
Whenever he addressed her, and that in consequence she raised her eyes
to his face, she thought she must have seen him before, but could not
remember where. A vague suspicion, however, sometimes crossed her mind;
yet, if that were the case, the dress was now so different. Beaumont’s
manners were very animated; and he was so assiduous to please, that
Frances’s natural gaiety of heart, soon appeared with as little
restraint, as if they had been long acquainted.
“This is not the first effort I have made to have the honour of being
presented to Lady Frances L.,” said Mr. Beaumont, at last, with a rather
conscious smile, and a little hesitation; “but I was not quite so
fortunate in my former essay.”
“I thought I had seen you before!” said Frances. “Then you are the
gentleman that played the flute on the Lake, and that had the two
beautiful dogs, and that——”
Frances stopped short, for there was something in the sort of pleasure
that Beaumont’s countenance expressed, which betrayed that he considered
the accuracy of her memory as a compliment to himself. He immediately
perceived that he had committed an error, which nothing but the greatest
humility could rectify. With downcast eyes, therefore, he said, “he
must esteem himself fortunate in possessing even dogs, worthy of being
remembered by Lady Frances L.”
Frances was very near being taken in to believe that she had been guilty
of a want of politeness, in having made leading personages of the dogs.
She was just about to attempt some qualifying sentence, when, looking up
for the purpose, she perceived, that notwithstanding the downcast eye,
and assumed gravity of tone, the gratified smile was again stealing over
the lips of Beaumont. She checked herself immediately, and determined
never to have a good memory again.
“This excessive reserve,” (thought Beaumont, who had perceived both the
first movement, and the change of plan,) “is not a bad symptom.”
“Now, I have,” he said, looking up again, and throwing as much
gentleness, persuasion, and humility, into his countenance as possible,
“on some occasions, at least, the most unfashionable of memories.” He
then commenced a full and accurate account of every time he had but
passed the Lodore house party, whether riding, driving, walking, or
boating; whereabouts Frances had sat in the boat, what sort of dress
she had worn, &c. At length, by his animated descriptions, he so far
succeeded in throwing her off her guard, that he sometimes obtained, by a
look or a smile, an inadvertent acknowledgment that he was right. Slight
as was this encouragement, Beaumont already fixed his hopes upon it,
so prone are young men, (even the best of them,) to egregious vanity.
His spirits rose, and gave to his manners an additional vivacity, which
seemed to Frances quite fascinating. She almost felt sorry when the set
was drawing to a conclusion, notwithstanding her impatience to talk
to Edmund about all that had happened, and express her own wonder and
delight, at things turning out just as grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always
said they would.
The quadrille ended, she requested Beaumont to lead her towards Julia
and Fitz-Ullin. This proved no very easy task, and when at length she
did catch a glimpse, at a distance, of the doleful countenance of his
newly elevated Lordship, she could not help saying to herself, “Well,
certainly, sentimental people are, after all, sometimes, very tiresome!”
The qualifying expression, sometimes, was put in after the sentence
was commenced, a feeling of affection for the so long, so dear Edmund,
having arisen and reproached her, for her first movement of distaste
at the sight of a melancholy object, just at a time, when she was so
much inclined to be pleased. Her agreeable flirtation with her new
acquaintance, however, was not destined to come to so hasty a conclusion,
for the attempt to join Julia and her partner utterly failed.