THE MARRIAGE.—ROSAMOND.
A fortnight had passed since the interview between Mrs. Slingsby and Sir
Henry Courtenay; and the machinations of the latter had so successfully
prevailed in accelerating the matters in which he was interested, that
on the morning, when we must request our readers to accompany us to
Torrens Cottage, the marriage of Adelais and Clarence Villiers was to
take place.
The young man was still pale from the effects of recent and severe
indisposition; but the happiness which he had experienced during the
last fourteen days had worked a greater physical improvement in him than
six months' sojourn in the south of France could possibly have done.
Firmly believing that the declining health and drooping spirits of
Adelais had alone induced Mr. Torrens to revoke a decree which was to
have separated them for ever,—and not over anxious to revive past topics
in connexion with the subject,—Clarence gave himself completely up to
the happiness which now awaited him; and his Adelais was equally ready
to bury in oblivion any disagreeable reflections relative to the late
conduct of her father.
Mr. Torrens was cold, moody, and distant: but this was his manner—and,
as the young people knew not what fierce fires raged beneath that aspect
of ice, they did not bestow any unusual attention on the subject.
The only source of grief which the sisters knew was their approaching
separation; for Mr. Torrens had arranged for the young couple to proceed
into Devonshire and pass the honeymoon with some distant relations of
his own, who were anxious to see their beautiful cousin Adelais.
Rosamond was to remain with her father, Mrs. Slingsby not having as yet
sent her an invitation to Old Burlington Street, for fear that Clarence
might throw some obstacle in the way of its being accepted.
Thus stood matters on the bridal morning,—when Adelais appeared
pre-eminently beautiful in her garb of virgin white—emblematical of the
innocence of her own heart,—and when Clarence Villiers could scarcely
persuade himself that he was actually touching on the threshold of
complete felicity. Rosamond—poor Rosamond smiled amidst the tears that
flowed fast down her pale cheeks; for she felt as if she were losing her
best—her only friend in the approaching departure of Adelais.
There was a young lady—a friend—who acted as joint bridesmaid with
Rosamond; and there were two or three other acquaintances of the
family;—and of the persons thus enumerated consisted the bridal party.
The sisters had naturally invited Mrs. Slingsby; but that lady, aware
that her presence would not be agreeable to her nephew, had sent to
plead indisposition as the excuse for her absence.
And Mr. Torrens—what was the nature of his feelings now? Forced by his
necessities—or rather by that indomitable pride which urged him to make
every sacrifice rather than boldly meet his embarrassments in the
Bankruptcy Court—he had assented to bestow his elder daughter on a young
man whom he disliked, and to sell his younger child to an atrocious
villain, who had not even manifested the delicacy of hinting at
marriage!
Reader! think not that when we record the dreadful fact of _a father
consenting to sell his own daughter for gold_, we are fabricating for a
romance an incident which never occurred in real life! Such things have
been done often—are done often—and will be done often, so long as the
human species shall exist. The immense wealth of that corrupt and
detestable monster, the late Marquis of Hertford,[29] enabled him to
purchase the favours not only of Lady S——, but also induced that
profligate woman to sell to him every one of her daughters! And those
daughters have since married titled men, and live splendidly upon the
riches bequeathed to them by the horrible voluptuary. Again, but a few
years have elapsed since a certain Lady H——sold her beautiful daughter
Priscilla to a most ignoble lord; and the atrocious deed became the
topic of numerous articles in the English and continental newspapers,
the tribunals of France having taken cognizance of the scandal!
We could make mention of innumerable instances of this kind, the greater
portion of which are, however, confined to the aristocratic circles. For
it must necessarily occur that the "upper classes," as they insolently
denominate themselves, are the most profligate, unprincipled, and
licentious of all the sections into which society is divided. Wealth and
idleness, associated, must, as a general rule, give a fearful impulse to
immorality: rich viands and generous wines must heat the blood; and
nights of dissipation—balls, routs, _soirées_, and card-parties—inflame
the imagination. The voluptuous dances which prevail in those
fashionable assemblies—the indecent manner in which the ladies of the
"upper class" display so much of the bosom that but little scope is left
for the exercise of fancy—the positive encouragement that is given in
high life to men whose reputation as vile seducers is notorious,—all
these circumstances foster licentiousness, and provide a constant
aliment to sustain immorality.
Again, the morals of the fashionable world have not recovered from the
effects of that dangerous poison which was instilled into them by the
evil examples of the family of George the Third, and the flagrant
conduct of the beastly voluptuary, George the Fourth. The licentiousness
of the Princesses of that family became the public scandal of the day;
and from the ladies of the Court emanated the fashion of wearing hoops
to their dresses, for a purpose which need not be particularly
described. But fashion subsists by the artifice of constant change; and
when hoops had enjoyed their day, those ladies who had found them so
convenient, actually devised the scheme of giving vogue to a padding in
front _to make the wearers appear in the family way_! This is no
fiction; and young, unmarried girls, as well as married ladies, actually
submitted to this disgraceful and immoral fashion through servile
obedience to the example of the Princesses. This was positively holding
out a premium to licentiousness—because the fear of a false step
indicating itself by its consequences, was annihilated.
Everyone knows that many titled ladies gloried in the reputation of
being (as they really were) the mistresses of George the Fourth. With
all these frightful examples in view, how could the entire sphere of the
fashionable world fail to become dreadfully demoralised? and how was it
possible to prevent the contaminating influence from spreading to the
inferior grades? Therefore is it that the fashionable world
especially—being the first to experience that influence and the most
likely to perpetuate it—has not yet recovered from the effects of the
evil example of the Court. True is it, thank God! that Queen Victoria
has not followed the same course which so many of her near relatives
adopted: but still even her bright example can only gradually mitigate,
and not in a moment destroy, the effects of the moral poison instilled
into fashionable society by her royal predecessors.
Previously to the first revolution in France, the aristocracy were
steeped in licentiousness and profligacy. But a glorious nation rose in
its might—hurled down a throne encrusted with the miseries of the
people—annihilated the bloated and infamous nobility—and even gave the
proud and arrogant clergy such a lesson as they have never since
forgotten. The aristocracy of France have never recovered that blow—and,
thank heaven! never will. The hereditary peerage exists no longer in
France; and titles of nobility are valueless. Thus, by virtually
destroying the aristocracy of rank and birth, France has suppressed a
sewer of filth and corruption which distilled its abominations through
every grade and phase of society. The aristocracy of talent has been
substituted; and the mechanic may now rise to be a minister—the
ploughman has his fair chance of becoming a politician—the delver of the
soil can aspire to the post of deputy. France is regenerated: England
can become so only by the destruction of its hereditary aristocracy.
From this long digression, we return to the bridal party assembled at
Torrens Cottage, and now about to repair to the adjacent church, where
the nuptial bond was to be indissolubly tied.
And to that church did the party proceed,—the father, who looked upon
his daughters as the means of filling his purse,—the daughters, who knew
not the utter selfishness of their sire,—the young man, who was so
indescribably happy in at length accompanying to the altar her whom he
loved so well,—and the guests, who thought as much of the excellent
breakfast which followed as of the solemn ceremony itself.
The banquet passed—and the time came for the departure of the newly
married couple. A post chaise drove up to the door—the trunks were
hastily conveyed to the vehicle—and Adelais was torn away from the arms
of her young sister Rosamond, who clung frantically to her.
An hour afterwards, the guests were gone—and Rosamond remained alone
with her father.
"God grant that my dearest sister may be happy!" said the maiden, her
voice almost completely lost in sobs.
"If she is not, it will be her own fault," observed Mr. Torrens harshly,
as he paced the room. "She would have the young man—she set her heart
upon him—and I have yielded. I suppose you are now sorry that she is
gone; and yet I dare swear you thought me a brutal tyrant for separating
the love-sick pair a few weeks ago."
"My dearest, dearest father!" exclaimed Rosamond, profoundly afflicted
and even annoyed at the manner in which she was addressed,—"wherefore
speak to me thus! Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that I was
so undutiful as——"
"As to run away from the house with your sister—eh?" interrupted Mr.
Torrens in a biting, satirical tone. "A young lady who could take such a
step, would not be very particular in her observations on her father's
conduct."
"Heavens! how have I deserved these reproaches—at least to-day?" asked
Rosamond, bursting into an agony of tears. "Shall not the past be
forgotten? will you ever continue, my dear father, to recall those
events which are naturally so painful——"
"Well, well—let us say no more about it, Rosamond," cried Mr. Torrens,
ashamed of having vented his ill-humour upon his daughter.
And he paced the room in a manner denoting a strange and indomitable
agitation.
The fact was that the miserable father recoiled in horror from the
atrocity he had agreed to perpetrate; and, with an idiosyncracy so
common amongst men who tremble upon the verge of committing a fearful
crime, he turned on the intended victim as if she were the wilful and
conscious cause of those black feelings that raged within his breast. He
had not moral courage sufficient to retreat while it was yet time:—he
dared not make the comparatively small sacrifice of himself to avoid the
immeasurably greater one which involved the immolation of his daughter.
Rosamond was already deeply afflicted at parting with her sister—that
sister from whom she had never been separated until now:—but she was
doomed to experience additional sources of grief in the harsh manner and
alarming agitation of her father.
At length, unable any longer to endure the state of suspense and
uncertainty in which she was suddenly plunged concerning him, she rose
from her seat—advanced timidly towards him—and, throwing one of her
snowy arms over his shoulder, murmured in a plaintive tone,
"Father—dearest father, what dreadful cause of sorrow oppresses you now?
Are you fearful that Adelais will not be happy—that Clarence will not
always be good and kind to her? Oh! yes, dearest father—I am sure he
will——"
"I am not thinking of the daughter who is gone," exclaimed Mr. Torrens,
suddenly interrupting the maiden, and speaking in a tone no longer
harsh, but positively wild with despair: "my thoughts are intent on the
daughter who is left behind!"
"Am I a source of affliction to you, father?" asked Rosamond,
contemplating her sire in so plaintive, melancholy, and yet tender a
manner that his vile heart was for a moment touched, and he felt ready
to throw himself at her feet and implore her pardon for the ill he
meditated towards her. "Tell me, my beloved parent," she said, "have I
given you offence in any way—by word or deed? Oh! if I have, bitter will
be the tears that I shall shed; and sincerely—most sincerely shall I
beseech your forgiveness."
"No, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, crushing the better feelings of his
soul as he thought of the ruin that would envelop him were he to retract
his engagements with the baronet: "you have not offended me—and I
believe I spoke harshly to you just now without a cause. But let us talk
no more on that subject. Compose yourself—wipe away those tears. I shall
now retire to my study—for I have letters of importance to write."
But at that moment the well-known knock of the postman resounded through
the house; and almost immediately afterwards a servant entered the room,
handed a letter to Rosamond, and then withdrew.
"A note for _me_!" exclaimed the young lady, in surprise, while Mr.
Torrens' blood ran cold and his brain whirled. "Oh! it is from dear Mrs.
Slingsby—I recognise the handwriting."
And hastily opening it, she glanced over the contents.
Mr. Torrens was about to leave the room, as if the arrival of the letter
were a matter of perfect indifference to him.
"One moment, dear father," said Rosamond, detaining him by the arm: "you
must read this beautiful letter which Mrs. Slingsby has written to me;
and though I cannot think of accepting the kind invitation which it
conveys——"
"What does Mrs. Slingsby say in her letter, then?" demanded Mr. Torrens,
all his ill-humour returning as this further step in the hideous plot
re-awakened his most poignant reflections; "what does she say, that you
speak in such enthusiastic terms of a mere letter?"
Rosamond placed the note in his hand; and Mr. Torrens, turning aside
towards the window, read the contents, as follow:—
"It has greatly distressed me, my beloved young friend, to have been
unable to attend at the solemnization of the holy and yet deeply
affecting ceremony, which, by the time this reaches you, will have
united my excellent nephew and your sweet sister. But it has pleased
the Almighty, in his inscrutable wisdom, to afflict me with a severe
rheumatism at this time, as I assured you in a previous note; and
although I sincerely hope that, by the blessing of that all-wise
Being and the aid of the lotion which Dr. Wagtail has sent me, I
shall be well in a few days, yet I am compelled for the present to
remain within the house. It is my most sincere and heart-felt hope
that your dear sister and my beloved nephew may experience all that
happiness which the Omnipotent may deign to bestow upon his elect.
One circumstance must essentially tend to smooth down those mundane
asperities which, alas! they will have to encounter in the rough
path of life; and that is the religious faith with which they are
both imbued. For myself, I can safely declare that if it were not
for the consolations which the Holy Bible imparts to all who study
its divine doctrines, and for the solace afforded me by a few kind
friends (amongst whom I must include that most choice vessel of the
Lord, Sir Henry Courtenay), I know not how I should bear up against
the grievous pains wherewith it has pleased the Most High to afflict
me, and which have just passed from the right foot into the left.
Doubtless it is for my eternal welfare, in a better world, that I am
thus chastened in this; although Dr. Wagtail, with a levity
unbecoming a professional man of his age and standing, declares that
if I keep my feet well swathed in flannel and take mustard baths on
going to bed, I shall triumph over the ailment. But, oh! my dearest
young friend, what is flannel without the blessing of heaven? what
is mustard without the aid of the Most High? I am very lonely, sweet
Rosamond; and I am fearful that you must miss your dear sister much.
I know that Mr. Torrens' occupations take him much from home; and
thus you cannot always enjoy the presence and the consolations of
your excellent father, whom, I regret to say, I only as yet know by
good report, but whose hand I hope to press some day in friendship.
Will you, my love, come and pass a week or two with me? It will be a
perfect charity on your part; and I am convinced also that change of
scene will cheer your spirits. Come to me, my dearest Rosamond,
early to-morrow morning (God willing)—if your good kind father can
spare you.
"Ever your sincere and attached friend,
"MARTHA SLINGSBY."
The vile hypocrisy which characterised this letter enhanced, if
possible, the blackness of that crime towards the consummation of which
it was so material a step; and Mr. Torrens stood gazing upon the
document until all its characters seemed to move and agitate on the
surface of the paper like a legion of hideous reptiles swarming
together.
But at length mastering his horribly painful emotions, he turned towards
his daughter, saying, "And wherefore, Rosamond, should you not accept an
invitation as kind as it is considerate?"
"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed the maiden, "I could not think of
leaving you at a time when you have just lost the society of one of your
children. Moreover, I perceive that you are not entirely happy—I fear
that those recent embarrassments——"
"Speak not of them, Rosamond," interrupted Mr. Torrens sternly; for so
great was his pride, that he could not endure the idea of his own
daughters being acquainted with his late pecuniary difficulties. "To
return to the subject of that letter," he added, after a few moments'
pause, "I think you cannot do better than accept the invitation:—indeed,
it would appear unkind were you to refuse it. Mrs. Slingsby is suffering
from indisposition—and she is evidently anxious to have a companion.
Therefore, Rosamond, I must beg you to commence your preparations for
the visit."
The young lady urged various remonstrances against this resolution; but
her father over-ruled them all—and it was accordingly determined at
length that she should repair to Old Burlington Street on the following
morning.
But when the morning came, and the vehicle which was to convey her to
London drove up to the door, how appalling were the feelings which
agitated,—nay, absolutely raged in the breast of Mr. Torrens!
Acute—intensely acute was the pain which he endured in endeavouring to
subdue those emotions,—or rather in composing his features in such a way
that his countenance might not indicate the awful warring that disturbed
his soul.
With streaming eyes did Rosamond take leave of her father; and as she
stepped into the chaise, a presentiment of evil flashed across her
imagination.
But she was young—naturally inclined to look upon the bright side of
things—and too inexperienced to know much of the dreadful pit-falls
which the artifice of man has hollowed in the pathways of the moral
world. Her misgiving was therefore forgotten almost as soon as it was
entertained; and she was in comparatively good spirits—though still
affected by her recent separation from her sister—when she alighted at
the door of Mrs. Slingsby's residence in Old Burlington Street.
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Footnote 29:
Represented as the Marquis of Holmesford in the First Series of "THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON."