Two days after I had despatched the foregoing long letter to Fanny, the
little post-woman--for we had no post-man; but a good old soul, who used
to trot à l'Esterhazy--came down the hill with a lanthorn, the mail-bag
coming into Charmouth at ten o'clock at night. Eliza Edmond and I had
watched this poor creature every night during almost a fortnight, from
my little window, as the light of her lamp appeared for an instant and
was lost again, while she stopped to deliver her letters. At last, she
stopped at our door, and presented two heavy packages for Mrs. Wilson.
The kind, warm-hearted Miss Edmond came flying upstairs, and was
breathless when she delivered them.
"One of these is a foreign letter, and no doubt from your husband," said
Eliza, kissing my cheek, while her eyes sparkled with such unaffected,
benevolent joy, as made her beauty appear more than human.
I hastily examined the address of the first which was presented to me:
it was from Lord Worcester, and the real anxiety I felt to learn his
safety, overcoming all curiosity about Meyler, I broke the seal of this,
while the other unexamined had fallen to the ground.
"It is from your husband then?" asked Eliza, and, having answered her in
the affirmative, she had the delicacy to glide out of the room like a
spirit before I was aware of it.
Worcester had already been in one action. He had prayed to me, as to
his tutelar saint, kissed my chain, which he wore about his neck, and
his party had been successful. He wrote in high spirits, and gave me
what, by excellent judges of those matters, was afterwards considered
one of the most accurate descriptions of a battle ever written by any
officer. The letter ended, like all the rest of his letters, with vows
of eternal love and fidelity; and he assured me that he had already
learned to speak Spanish.
What a clever man this might have been, had he but the habit of
reflection, methought; for Lord Worcester's memory often astonished me;
and yet the man must after all be little better than an idiot, if he
cannot reflect, or study, or understand the secret workings of the human
mind. Such men esteem no act but that of hand:
The still and mental parts,
That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness calls them on; and know, by measure
Of their observant toil, the enemies' weight--
Why this hath not a finger's dignity;
They call this bed-work, moppery, closet-work;
So that the ram, that batters down the wall,
For the great swing, and rudeness of his poise,
They place before the hand that made the engine,
Or those, that, with the fineness of their souls,
By reason, guide his execution.
I have been led into making this quotation, _malgré moi;_ it is so very
striking, clear, and beautifully expressive.
Somebody or other has, I think, asserted that the comedy of _Troilus and
Cressida_ is not a genuine work of Shakespeare; but I cannot but agree
with a very great man, Doctor Johnson, that it is easier to imagine
Shakespeare might sometimes fall below his highest flights; than that
anybody else should be found equal to his lowest.
Having finished reading Lord Worcester's letter I hastened to examine
the second epistle, which had fallen to the ground. It was as I
suspected, or rather as I hoped, from Meyler. He had at first, he said,
determined to forget me, since there was so very little chance of our
ever meeting again. However that, as he was pleased to add, was out of
the question. He was in fact unwell, and required Devonshire air. I
must not be surprised therefore to see him in my neighbourhood. He had
only once called on Julia since I left town; because seeing my friends
only added to his melancholy now I was gone. There was nothing like
Worcester's sort of rapture in his letter, yet something melancholy
and interesting about his style of writing which appeared perfectly
unaffected.
Meyler was anything rather than romantic: his manner and voice were
particularly pleasing at all times; but the former had generally
something of melancholy, till he had drunk a few bottles of claret,
and then, though not at all noisy or ungentlemanlike, he appeared all
animation and happiness.
I was a good deal affected by his letter, and the idea that I had no
chance of seeing him again; nevertheless I immediately answered his
letter as follows:
"CHARMOUTH
"MY DEAR MR. MEYLER,--I must candidly confess that I am glad
that you have not forgotten me: and I wish you happy with all
my heart and soul; but, believe me, I cannot prove myself more
desirous of being liked and esteemed by you, than I have done and
shall continue to do. I have often been surprised at the imbecility
of the silly, weak, mistaken females, who fancy they can make
themselves beloved by breaking the solemn vows they have made to
God and their husbands, and forsaking for ever a whole family of
helpless children; as if a man could esteem trust, love, or honour
one, who proves herself a heartless hypocrite and an unnatural
mother! One who, for the indulgence of mere animal passion (for of
real affection she must be incapable), can forsake her children
and forget the laws of God and man. I have never been married
it is true. My mother's marriage was unhappy, and besides being
somewhat disgusted with what I saw of it, I cannot for the life of
me divest myself of the idea that, if all were alike honourable
and true, as I wish to be, it would be unnecessary to bind men
and women together by law, since two persons who may have chosen
each other from affection, possessing heart and honour, could
not part, and, where there is neither the one nor the other even
marriage does not bind. My idea may be wicked or erroneous: indeed
I think it is so, with regard to mothers: but, at least, I hope I
am incapable of acting towards any one with a want of honour, or
of such tenderness of heart, towards those who deserve it from me,
without which feeling a woman is in my opinion unsexed. As I keep
my faith to Worcester, so hereafter will you be inclined to trust
me, if any unexpected circumstance should oblige me to separate
from him. In the meantime, I must throw myself on your honour
and kindness, as to your idea of intruding your society on me in
Devonshire. I assure you that, on the very day of your arrival, I
shall hold myself in readiness to leave these very hospitable, new
friends, who have been so very kind to me; but you are of course
only joking! How, in fact, can I be so ridiculous as to fancy for
an instant the rich, handsome, gay Meyler, would so far astonish
the natives of this little village as to come and establish himself
among us? How you would laugh to see me in my quiet straw bonnet,
trotting down the hill to church, and lending my arm to the
curate's father, aged ninety-five! After church, I appear in the
character of My Lady Bountiful, paying visits to the sick, followed
by my maid, bearing my good host's medicine, with my own wine and
broth. Charity is stimulated here, where the number of poor is so
limited that, by each of us contributing our mite, we may hope to
meet only smiling, happy faces in our walks.
"Last week I found a poor woman, and six fine beautiful
children without a roof to her house: for a trifle I made it
a comparative paradise, and now Miss Edmond and her mother are
employed in making up the stuff-frocks I purchased for the
children. But enough of Harriette Wilson as Lady Bountiful.
"I suppose you will soon get into parliament, _à present, que
vous avez vingt et un ans bien sommés._ Do you see much of your
favourite, the Duchess of Beaufort now? Pray tell me all the news
you can scrape together. Of course the Beauforts have received news
from Lord Worcester long ago? My last letter from his lordship,
which I received with yours, had been delayed by being directed
to London. My old beau, Wellington, is going on famously, thanks
to the fineness of his nerves and his want of feeling, and his
excellent luck. I do not mean to say he has not a good notion of
commanding an army; for, though I do not understand things, I am
willing to take it for granted that this is the case; and yet, I am
told, but I will not venture to say by whom, that he is miserably
ignorant of the country, and ought really to hire a master for
geography, instead of sitting still and looking so stupid after
dinner. It is really quite disgusting, when one has been hearing
him so cried up, to see him such a savage! Nevertheless, _tel qu'il
est_, he has made, I understand, a desperate conquest of Lady
Caroline Lamb; but then her ladyship was never very particular you
know.
"I will now take my leave, with sincerest wishes for your
welfare and happiness; therefore, whether we meet again or not,
"God bless you.
"H.W."
Though I remained a year at Charmouth, I really can remember no one
incident that occurred to me during the whole of my _séjour_ there,
worthy the attention of my readers. Mrs. Edmond was invariably obliging,
gentle and melancholy, her sister, "my aunt Martha," as Eliza Edmond
used to call her, was a very merry, comical old maid. Eliza was,
without any one exception but that of my beloved mother, the most truly
virtuous being, according to my acceptation of the word virtuous, which
does not mean chastity only, I ever met with in my whole life. Nay, my
dear mother herself cannot have been purer in her thoughts, hopes and
wishes, than was the beautiful Eliza Edmond; but then Eliza possessed a
less enlarged mind, and was more a bigot, and had less quickness, and
natural strong sense, than that dear parent. Eliza lived and breathed
but to serve, oblige and benefit others, and yet she was afraid of God
our Father who is in heaven. This I could never understand.
My mother would have lived for others, whether it pleased God or not;
because her heart would have it so; but, when she felt her death
approaching, instead of praying or sending for a priest, she merely
said, "I wanted rest, and God is about to reward me with it: yet I fain
would have remained with my children had it so pleased him; for I asked
not to be happy before they were."
Eliza was beautiful; but my mother's beauty was that of spirit and mind
alone. It was not earthly; for I have seen nothing on earth like it:
so pale, so still, and so expressive. In the whole course of my life,
I never saw my mother anxious, even one instant, unless for others;
and yet I have nursed her in the bitter pangs of child-bearing, and
have often seen her tortured with bodily pain; yet, God's will be done,
was all she said or thought as to herself, while, in regard to serving
others she was the most sanguine, eager and romantic that could be
possibly imagined.
Eliza was too religious, too devoted to the observance of every form
of the Christian faith, to have cast an eye of love on anything but
a parson; and her heart would therefore have been safe, but that,
unluckily, a certain black-eyed, most libidinous divine, having been
thrown into her society just before I became acquainted with her, his
hypocrisy had proved more than a match for poor Eliza's simplicity; and
she had loved him, from the belief that he was most pure and holy. My
readers may conceive what her feelings must have been, when this first
object of her warmest, devoted love, finally declared to her that their
marriage must be kept secret, since his friends would never receive her
as their daughter.
From that hour Eliza had never seen her lover, and no power on earth
could have induced her to consent to a single interview.
"You are then, very proud, Eliza," said I, to her, after her mother had
related this story to me in her presence.
"Do you call my love of God pride?" asked Eliza. "If ever I had married,
my husband, after my God, would have been nearest my heart. Could I
respect the husband who would deceive his parents? or would you have had
me force myself into a family which despised me?"
I never saw Eliza so agitated, and, observing the crimson blush on her
cheek, I said, "You are very proud, Eliza, after all, that is the truth."
Eliza's quivering lip was now pale as death, as she raised her eyes to
heaven, and in the next instant she rushed out of the room.
Eliza's mother placed her hand gently on my shoulder, seeing that I was
about to follow her daughter.
"Eliza is gone to pray," said Mrs. Edmond mildly. "You have frightened
her; but it was not, I am sure, intentionally. You know not how very
delicate is her conscience; how pure, yet how ardent are her feelings!
Pray go to her, in about a quarter of an hour. I would not have her
dwell longer on what you have said; for Eliza is consumptive. She will
be taken from me soon enough, by God's will; we must not cause her
unnecessary agitation."
Mrs. Edmond, as she wiped away the tear which gave brilliancy to her
eye, seemed as if she would have spoken severely to me, had severity
been in her nature! I held out my hand timidly towards her, and she
immediately pressed it most cordially, as she repeated, smiling through
her tears, "Eliza loves you so dearly, that I am sure, if you have
wounded or frightened her you can and you will console her."
I pressed this tender mother's hand to my lips and hastened to join her
no less tender daughter. I found her upon her knees and her eyes were
bathed in tears.
"Eliza," said I, "why do you weep? Surely since God is our father, and
you love Him, and pass every hour of your life in trying to please Him,
you, of all people on earth, need not fear your father."
"But I am proud, very proud," said the poor, dear girl, sobbing, and
throwing her arms round my neck, "and the indignation I expressed, and
which I then believed to have been virtuous, you have taught me to
believe was all pride; and that God, whom I adore, that God, in whose
presence I shall soon stand, loves only the humble and the meek.
"Leave me," continued Eliza, in much agitation, "Pray let me benefit by
your good, your excellent understanding. I want to be reconciled to my
God. Indeed you shall, if it so pleases Him, see me as calm and happy as
ever when we meet at supper. Till then God bless you," and she imprinted
a most fervent and most affectionate kiss on my cheek.
"God will not, I am sure, judge you so severely as you judge yourself,
poor Eliza," I replied, and then left her.
Eliza, generally speaking, was more cheerful than persons usually are
when they are dying; and nobody expected that poor Eliza would live
beyond five and twenty.
We were often invited to little family tea-parties, where we passed
our time comfortably enough, though most gay London ladies would have
been bored to death; but I thank my God for bestowing on me a contented
disposition.
Meyler wrote to me constantly: sometimes he was melancholy; then he
determined to join me whether I would or not; he next declared that I
was cold and selfish, and that he would forget me: at last, he almost
teased me out of a promise, or rather a half-promise that, if at the end
of the year there were new obstacles thrown in the way of my joining
Worcester, or his lordship's returning to me, I would put myself at once
under Meyler's protection.
In the meantime Lord Worcester corresponded with me as regularly and
lovingly as I could possibly desire, and so did Fanny. In answer to one
of my letters to her, written nearly three months after my arrival in
Devonshire, I received the following:
"MY DEAR HARRIETTE,--Many thanks for your last kind letter,
in which you enclose my Lord Worcester's, containing so much news
of Colonel Parker. I was indeed in want of consolation; for I am
very melancholy, and my cough is still rather troublesome, although
not bad enough to have prevented my attendance at the Opera, which
closed but last night for the season.
"All the gay world are constantly asking me about you. As to
Mr. Meyler, we have seen but little of him. Last night however we
observed him in the pit; and so did Amy, who was of our party:
she immediately sent somebody down to request him to join us, and
her messenger returned, bringing Meyler with him. He looks very
well, and, as usual, particularly interesting. He asked Julia and
me at least a thousand questions about you. Amy, to change the
disagreeable subject, invited him to sup with her; but he begged
to be excused, provokingly adding, that her house would make him
melancholy, by reminding him of you. Amy could scarcely conceal
her ill-humour at this answer. Julia asked him if he really meant
to say he had not forgotten you all this time? and he seriously
declared that he had never loved you better nor any being else
half so well: and then the poor little man sighed quite naturally,
as though he could not help it; but, though I do not mean to hurt
your vanity, I fancy there was something of ill-health in that
sigh of his. However, perhaps this is a mere fancy of mine, for
Mr. Meyler himself, who ought to be the best judge, professes to
be in remarkably good health, and he is known to ride very hard in
Leicestershire. But there is something so remarkably transparent
about Meyler's skin. It is, in fact, a churchyard-skin, like my own
I think. I hope I am mistaken too: for it would be hard to die,
in the bloom of youth and beauty, beloved by everybody, and with
thirty thousand a year.
"My children, thank God, are all well, although I really
feared my dear Louisa would have died last week, owing to my
extreme folly in having suffered myself to be persuaded into
administering one of Inglish's Scot's pills to the poor baby, out
of sister Paragon's box. All Pandora's box of evils could scarcely
have done more mischief. The child was absolutely convulsed with
pain, while provoking sister Paragon looked on, calmly declaring
that it was the first duty of an aperient, to gripe the patient as
much as possible.
"Pray write a very long letter soon, and believe me, at all
times, your most affectionate sister,
"FANNY PARKER."