+THE BARONET+
AMONG the crowd of English sojourning in Paris this winter, there was
an old acquaintance of ours—a certain Sir Percy Montgomery, Bart.,
late M. P. for ——shire. Some six years ago, when in London, Sir Percy
had visited Evelyn, and we had dined occasionally at his house in
Grosvenor Street. Indeed, the Baronet had been at that time a warm
though unsuccessful admirer of our heroine. Sir Percy was, in
appearance, a perfect “John Bull”—that is to say, he possessed a
countenance rubicund and somewhat flat, with no very marked
features—figure stout—burly—broad-shouldered—thick set, you perceived
at a glance that the animal nature preponderated in the man;
nevertheless, the square and rather massive forehead displayed
intellect, and the fine teeth, seen to advantage in a pleasant jovial
smile of not unfrequent occurrence, rendered the personal appearance
of our friend, if somewhat coarse, not altogether unpleasing. Let not
my readers, however, imagine that the “John-Bull” type is the true
type of our countrymen. They will, on referring to a former chapter of
this work, find the portrait of an accomplished English gentleman, in
our delineation of the young and aristocratic Melville. We have there
depicted elegance, manliness and chivalry, in combination with the
splendid physical development, only to be seen in perfection in the
Anglo-Saxon race. But, to return. Sir Percy was by no means wanting in
brains. He had made some sensation in Parliament; and, having had the
tact to speak on the popular side of each question, his fluency was
greatly appreciated, and he had thus acquired a higher reputation than
his (not first rate) talents perhaps merited. So the Times wondered
when he resigned his seat; and the Herald and other Tory papers were
open in their rather uncharitable surmises, as to the motives for so
sudden and untimely a retreat in the late M. P.
Sir Percy, having discovered our address at Galignani’s, lost no time in
paying his respects to Evelyn, and continued his visits from time to
time. Evelyn soon named him my adorer, and said it would not be such a
bad match; the baronet was of a good family, and reputed rich, though,
as some asserted, rich in debts alone. He had, at least, talent, and if
I did not object to his lack of personal beauty, and his fifty years,
she added, I might do worse than become Lady Montgomery. Ever occupied
with receiving and replying to D’Arcy’s frequent letters, or in reading,
talking and practising with Ella, my friend paid but slight attention to
a former admirer—for whom she had never felt even a passing gleam of
sympathy—until one day she received from him a rather melancholy letter;
making her in some sort a confidante, the writer threw out dark hints of
debts and difficulties which had exiled him from his native land, and
adverted mysteriously to envious political rivals, who were endeavoring
to work his ruin, and who had, alas! succeeded in putting a present stop
to a career which would have otherwise shortly ended in the Cabinet.
Much changed for the better, since her acquaintance with Philip D’Arcy,
and somewhat hurt and humiliated by the unexpected marriage of di
Balzano, our heroine opened her heart in pity for the baronet’s
misfortunes; had not she, too, suffered from envious tongues? had not
slander been to her as “the worm which never dieth?” Cruel, cruel world!
thou art indeed a hard master—offend against thy laws—break thy one
commandment “Thou shalt not be found out” and thou art utterly without
pity, even to the exclusion of all repentance;—cruel, cruel world! And
so Evelyn took compassion on the injured man, and invited him oftener,
and sympathized with his griefs, and was in every way kind to him. Thus
did circumstances favor his suit.
So it came to pass that society at last coupled their names together,
and Sir Percy himself, mistaking the sentiments of one who no longer had
a heart to give, made our heroine an offer of his hand in a letter which
appeared to me to allude to the lady’s fortune rather than to herself.
Evelyn answered that she would take time to consider the proposal,
provided Sir Percy could assure her on his honor as a gentleman that
there was no blemish attached to his name. This assurance, as may be
imagined, the baronet readily gave. My dearest friend then spoke to me
fully and confidentially; frankly confessing that she no longer hoped
for happiness on earth, she at the same time added, that she was anxious
to marry, hoping that enshrined within the sacred precincts of a
husband’s home, and safely sheltered by his protection, she should have
strength to crush forever from out her heart that now guilty passion
which still tortured her.
“I could not,” she continued, “again meet D’Arcy except as a wife—no. I
too much fear my own weakness. I should sink to the earth with shame,
did he for one moment suspect the state of my heart. Besides, I gave him
my word I would marry, and at any cost I will keep my promise. Ella,
too, dear child, is firmly resolved never to wed till she sees her
mother, as she imagines, happy. Ah! Mary, does not this man’s offer
appear to you as it does to me, almost as a providential occurrence?”
“Had you not better at least wait Mr. D’Arcy’s next letter before you
give a definite reply to Sir Percy?”
“Yes, my friend, I will wait. You are right. Dear Mary, my soul is bound
up in the future happiness of Philip and that of my Ella, but like St.
Paul I may say, ‘I feel two laws warring within me, and these are
contrary, the one to the other, so that when I would do good, evil is
present with me.’”
And the expected letter came, and it stated that war having been
declared between the North and South, it was quite impossible for D’Arcy
to leave his post. Nor could he foresee when he dared hope to return to
Europe. Could not his beloved friends, he suggested, all come over to
New York next summer? He would place at their disposition _The Retreat_,
a villa beautifully situated on the banks of the Hudson, which it would
afford him the greatest pleasure if they would occupy as long as the
weather should render such a sojourn agreeable. In conclusion, he
reminded Evelyn, that being already familiar with the continent of
Europe, the difference of scenery and the manner of living in the New
World, would greatly interest her, and that she would find in this
splendid country much to compensate her for the fatigues of the voyage.
D’Arcy had never in any letter alluded either directly or indirectly to
our heroine’s projected marriage, nor had he ever known the name of her
probable husband, the fact alone of her engagement having been
communicated to him by the imprudence of Ella.
That same day Evelyn wrote an acceptance to Sir Percy Montgomery.
And Ella—was she charmed with her mother’s present prospects? Truth
compels us to declare she was not; nor did she ever cease expressing to
me her lively regret that her mama was so unwise as to prefer the
baronet to dear, good, handsome Balzano, who was likewise of higher
rank, and also of one of the oldest families of mediæval Italy. But Ella
had not, as we know, been made aware of the chain of circumstances which
led to such a step on her mother’s part; so she contented herself by
adding, as a last consolation, in the only Latin words she knew, “_di
gustibus non est disputandem_.” Since, then, we cannot “account for
tastes,” still less may we understand the multiform caprices of beauty.
This, however, I will say, and I appeal to the lovely of my own sex who
have passed the age of thirty, to corroborate my assertion: Is there not
some period in the life of each woman, when she would scarcely have
thought any one worthy of herself? And is there not, likewise, another
period, when, in her isolation, she might have been tempted to marry the
first eligible person who asked her? I fear me such is too often the
case.
I will here mention an incident which occurred _à propos_ to this
marriage: One evening, after dinner, Ella complaining of a headache, her
mother, as was her wont, made over her a few mesmeric passes, in order
to quiet the nerves. The young girl slept the magnetic sleep, as we
perceived by the rigidity of the muscles, and other signs understood by
the initiated. As Ella slept, I placed in her hand a letter, which had
just chanced to arrive from Sir Percy. Instantly she became convulsed;
and, crushing the paper in her slender fingers, she flung it suddenly
from her, exclaiming—
“I will not look at that man; take him out of my sight—he has no
heart—no honor.”
The _clairvoyante_ trembled violently, drawing her breath with
difficulty. We did not dare force her to continue looking upon a
disagreeable object; for, by such means, epileptic convulsions have been
occasionally induced in an impressible subject, and sometimes even death
has been known to supervene.
So Evelyn took her hand, as she now tranquilly slept, saying, “Then tell
me, sweet one, shall I be happy?”
An angelic smile broke over the features of the lovely entranced, as she
exclaimed, “You, dearest mother! Oh, yes—by your talents, your superior
mind, your beautiful soul—not else,” and she sighed.
Evelyn then awoke the young girl, who of course was aware of nothing
that had passed during her mesmeric sleep; but her mother mused and
wondered, and again I trembled for the future.
[Illustration]
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