CHAPTER I
I
shall not say why and how I became, at the age of fifteen, the
mistress of the Earl of Craven. Whether it was love, or the
severity
of my father, the depravity of my own heart, or the winning arts of
the noble lord, which induced me to leave my paternal roof and
place
myself under his protection, does not now much signify; or, if it
does, I am not in the humour to gratify curiosity in this
matter.I
resided on the Marine Parade at Brighton, and I remember that Lord
Craven used to draw cocoa trees, and his fellows as he called them,
on the best vellum paper for my amusement. "Here stood the
enemy," he would say, "and here, my love, are my fellows.
There the cocoa trees, &c." It was, in fact, a dead bore.
All these cocoa trees and fellows, at past eleven o'clock at night,
could have no peculiar interest for a child like myself, so lately
in
the habit of retiring early to rest. One night, I recollect, I fell
asleep; and, as I often dream, I said yawning, and half awake, "O
Lord! O Lord! Craven has got me into the West Indies again." In
short I soon found that I had made but a bad speculation, by going
from my father to Lord Craven. I was even more afraid of the latter
than I had been of the former. Not that there was any particular
harm
in the man beyond his cocoa trees; but we never suited nor
understood
each other.I
was not depraved enough to determine immediately on a new choice,
and
yet I often thought about it. How indeed could I do otherwise, when
the Honourable Frederick Lamb was my constant visitor, and talked
to
me of nothing else? However, in justice to myself, I must declare
that the idea of the possibility of deceiving Lord Craven while I
was
under his roof, never once entered into my head. Frederick was then
very handsome, and certainly tried with all his soul and with all
his
strength, to convince me that constancy to Lord Craven was the
greatest nonsense in the world. I firmly believe that Frederick
Lamb
sincerely loved me, and deeply regretted that he had no fortune to
invite me to share with him.Lord
Melbourne, his father, was a good man. Not one of your stiff-laced,
moralising fathers, who preach chastity and forbearance to their
children. Quite the contrary, he congratulated his son on the lucky
circumstance of his friend Craven having such a fine girl with
him."No
such thing," answered Frederick Lamb, "I am unsuccessful
there. Harriette will have nothing at all to do with me.""Nonsense!"
rejoined Melbourne, in great surprise, "I never heard anything
half so ridiculous in all my life. The girl must be mad! She looks
mad. I thought so the other day, when I met her galloping about,
with
her feathers blowing, and her thick dark hair about her
ears."I'll
speak to Harriette for you," added his lordship, after a long
pause, and then continued repeating to himself, in an undertone,
"not
have my son indeed! Six feet high! A fine, straight, handsome,
noble
young fellow! I wonder what she would have!"In
truth, I scarcely knew myself; but something I determined on: so
miserably tired was I of Craven, and his cocoa trees, and his
sailing-boats, and his ugly, cotton nightcap."Surely,"
I would say, "all men do not wear those shocking nightcaps; else
all women's illusions had been destroyed on the first night of
their
marriage!" I wonder, thought I, what sort of a nightcap the
Prince of Wales wears? Then I went on to wonder whether the Prince
of
Wales would think me as beautiful as Frederick Lamb did? Next I
reflected that Frederick Lamb was younger than the Prince; but then
again, a Prince of Wales!I
was undecided: my heart began to soften. I thought of my dear
mother
and I wished I had never left her. It was too late, however, now.
My
father would not suffer me to return, and, as to passing my life,
or
any more of it, with Craven, cotton night-cap and all, it was
death!
He never once made me laugh, nor said anything to please me.Thus
musing, I listlessly turned over my writing book, half in the
humour
to address the Prince of Wales! A sheet of paper, covered with Lord
Craven's cocoa trees, decided me, and I wrote the following letter,
which I addressed to the Prince."BRIGHTON"I
am told that I am very beautiful, so perhaps you would like to see
me; and I wish that, since so many are disposed to love me, one,
for
in the humility of my heart I should be quite satisfied with one,
would be at the pains to make me love him. In the meantime, this is
all very dull work, Sir, and worse even than being at home with my
father: so, if you pity me, and believe you could make me in love
with you, write to me, and direct to the post office here."By
return of post, I received an answer nearly to this effect: I
believe
from Colonel Thomas."Miss
Wilson's letter has been received by the noble individual to whom
it
was addressed. If Miss Wilson will come to town, she may have an
interview, by directing her letter as before."I
answered this note directly, addressing my letter to the Prince of
Wales."SIR,—To
travel fifty-two miles this bad weather, merely to see a man, with
only the given number of legs, arms, fingers, &c., would, you
must admit, be madness in a girl like myself, surrounded by humble
admirers who are ever ready to travel any distance for the honour
of
kissing the tip of her little finger; but, if you can prove to me
that you are one bit better than any man who may be ready to attend
my bidding, I'll e'en start for London directly. So, if you can do
anything better in the way of pleasing a lady than ordinary men,
write directly: if not, adieu, Monsieur le Prince."It
was necessary to put this letter into the post office myself, as
Lord
Craven's black footman would have been somewhat surprised at its
address. Crossing the Steyne I met Lord Melbourne, who joined me
immediately."Where
is Craven?" said his lordship, shaking hands with me."Attending
to his military duties at Lewes, my lord.""And
where's my son Fred?" asked his lordship."I
am not your son's keeper, my lord," said I."No!
By the bye," inquired his lordship, "how is this? I wanted
to call upon you about it. I never heard of such a thing in the
whole
course of my life! What the devil can you possibly have to say
against my son Fred?""Good
heavens! my lord, you frighten me! I never recollect to have said a
single word against your son, as long as I have lived. Why should
I?""Why,
indeed!" said Lord Melbourne. "And, since there is nothing
to be said against him, what excuse can you make for using him so
ill?""I
don't understand you one bit, my lord." The very idea of a
father put me in a tremble."Why,"
said Lord Melbourne, "did you not turn the poor boy out of your
house as soon as it was dark, although Craven was in town, and
there
was not the shadow of an excuse for such treatment?"At
this moment, and before I could recover from my surprise at the
tenderness of some parents, Frederick Lamb, who was almost my
shadow,
joined us."Fred,
my boy," said Lord Melbourne, "I'll leave you two together,
and I fancy you'll find Miss Wilson more reasonable." He touched
his hat to me, as he entered the little gate of the Pavilion, where
we had remained stationary from the moment his lordship had
accosted
me.Frederick
Lamb laughed long, loud, and heartily, at his father's
interference.
So did I, the moment he was safely out of sight, and then I told
him
of my answer to the Prince's letter, at which he laughed still
more.
He was charmed with me, for refusing His Royal Highness."Not,"
said Frederick, "that he is not as handsome and graceful a man
as any in England; but I hate the weakness of a woman who knows not
how to refuse a prince, merely because he is a prince.""It
is something, too, to be of royal blood," answered I frankly;
"and something more to be accomplished: but this posting after a
man! I wonder what he could mean by it!"Frederick
Lamb now began to plead his own cause."I
must soon join my regiment in Yorkshire," said he: he was, at
that time aide-de-camp to General Mackenzie: "God knows when we
may meet again! I am sure you will not long continue with Lord
Craven. I foresee what will happen, and yet, when it does, I think
I
shall go mad!"For
my part I felt flattered and obliged by the affection Frederick
Lamb
evinced towards me; but I was still not in love with him.At
length, the time arrived when poor Frederick Lamb could delay his
departure from Brighton no longer. On the eve of it he begged to be
allowed to introduce his brother William to me."What
for?" said I."That
he may let me know how you behave," answered Frederick Lamb."And
if I fall in love with him?" I inquired."I
am sure you won't," replied Fred. "Not because my brother
William is not likeable; on the contrary, William is much handsomer
than I am; but he will not love you as I have done and do still,
and
you are too good to forget me entirely."Our
parting scene was rather tender. For the last ten days, Lord Craven
being absent, we had scarcely been separated an hour during the
whole
day. I had begun to feel the force of habit, and Frederick Lamb
really respected me, for the perseverance with which I had resisted
his urgent wishes, when he would have had me deceive Lord Craven.
He
had ceased to torment me with such wild fits of passion as had at
first frightened me, and by these means he had obtained much more
of
my confidence.Two
days after his departure for Hull, in Yorkshire, Lord Craven
returned
to Brighton, where he was immediately informed by some spiteful
enemy
of mine, that I had been during the whole of his absence openly
intriguing with Frederick Lamb. In consequence of this information,
one evening, when I expected his return, his servant brought me the
following letter, dated Lewes:"A
friend of mine has informed me of what has been going on at
Brighton.
This information, added to what I have seen with my own eyes, of
your
intimacy with Frederick Lamb, obliges me to declare that we must
separate. Let me add, Harriette, that you might have done anything
with me, with only a little mere conduct. As it is, allow me to
wish
you happy, and further, pray inform me, if in any way,
à la distance, I
can promote your welfare."CRAVEN."This
letter completed my dislike of Lord Craven. I answered it
immediately, as follows:"MY
LORD,—Had I ever wished to deceive you, I have the wit to have done
it successfully; but you are old enough to be a better judge of
human
nature than to have suspected me of guile or deception. In the
plenitude of your condescension, you are pleased to add that I
'might
have done anything with you, with only a little mere conduct,' now
I
say, and from my heart, the Lord defend me from ever doing anything
with you again! Adieu,"HARRIETTE."My
present situation was rather melancholy and embarrassing, and yet I
felt my heart the lighter for my release from the cocoa-trees,
without its being my own act and deed. "It is my fate!"
thought I; "for I never wronged this man. I hate his fine
carriage, and his money, and everything belonging to or connected
with him. I shall hate cocoa as long as I live; and I am sure I
will
never enter a boat again if I can help it. This is what one gets by
acting with principle."The
next morning, while I was considering what was to become of me, I
received a very affectionate letter from Frederick Lamb, dated
Hull.
He dared not, he said, be selfish enough to ask me to share his
poverty, and yet he had a kind of presentiment that he should not
lose me.My
case was desperate; for I had taken a vow not to remain another
night
under Lord Craven's roof. John, therefore, the black whom Craven
had,
I suppose, imported with his cocoa-trees from the West Indies, was
desired to secure me a place in the mail for Hull.It
is impossible to do justice to the joy and rapture which brightened
Frederick's countenance, when he flew to receive me and conducted
me
to his house, where I was shortly visited by his worthy general,
Mackenzie, who assured me of his earnest desire to make my stay in
Hull as comfortable as possible.We
continued here for about three months, and then came to London.
Fred
Lamb's passion increased daily; but I discovered, on our arrival in
London, that he was a voluptuary, somewhat worldly and selfish. My
comforts were not considered. I lived in extreme poverty, while he
contrived to enjoy all the luxuries of life, and suffered me to
pass
my dreary evenings alone, while he frequented balls, masquerades,
&c.
Secure of my constancy, he was satisfied—so was not I! I felt that
I deserved better from him.I
asked Frederick one day, if the Marquis of Lorne was as handsome as
he had been represented to me. "The finest fellow on earth,"
said Frederick Lamb, "all the women adore him;" and then he
went on to relate various anecdotes of his lordship, which strongly
excited my curiosity.Soon
after this he quitted town for a few weeks, and I was left alone in
London, without money, or at any rate with very little, and
Frederick
Lamb, who had intruded himself on me at Brighton, and thus been the
cause of my separation from Lord Craven, made himself happy;
because
he believed me faithful and cared not for my distresses.This
idea disgusted me; and in a fit of anger I wrote to the Marquis of
Lorne, merely to say that, if he would walk up to Duke's Row,
Somers-town, he would meet a most lovely girl.This
was his answer,—"If
you are but half as lovely as you think yourself, you must be well
worth knowing; but how is that to be managed? Not in the street!
but
come to No. 39 Portland-street and ask for me."L."My
reply was this,—"No!
our first meeting must be on the high road, in order that I may
have
room to run away, in case I don't like you."HARRIETTE."The
marquis rejoined,—"Well
then, fair lady, to-morrow at four, near the turnpike, look for me
on
horseback, and then you know I can gallop away."L."We
met. The duke—he has since succeeded to the title—did not gallop
away; and for my part I had never seen a countenance I had thought
half so beautifully expressive. I was afraid to look at it, lest a
closer examination might destroy all the new and delightful
sensations his first glance had inspired in my breast. His manner
was
most gracefully soft and polished. We walked together for about two
hours."I
never saw such a sunny, happy countenance as yours in my whole
life,"
said Argyle to me."Oh,
but I am happier than usual to-day," answered I, very
naturally.Before
we parted, the duke knew as much of me and my adventures as I knew
myself. He was very anxious to be allowed to call on me."And
how will your particular friend Frederick Lamb like that?"
inquired I.The
duke laughed."Well
then," said his grace, "do me the honour, some day, to come
and dine or sup with me at Argyle House.""I
shall not be able to run away, if I go there," I answered,
laughingly, in allusion to my last note."Shall
you want to run away from me?" said Argyle; and there was
something unusually beautiful and eloquent in his countenance,
which
brought a deep blush into my cheek."When
we know each other better?" added Argyle, beseechingly. "En
attendant, will you
walk again with me to-morrow?" I assented, and we parted.I
returned to my home in unusual spirits: they were a little damped,
however, by the reflection that I had been doing wrong. "I
cannot," I reasoned with myself, "I cannot, I fear, become
what the world calls a steady, prudent, virtuous woman. That time
is
past, even if I was ever fit for it. Still I must distinguish
myself
from those in the like unfortunate situations, by strict probity
and
love of truth. I will never become vile. I will always adhere to
good
faith, as long as anything like kindness or honourable principle is
shown towards me: and, when I am ill used, I will leave my lover
rather than deceive him."Frederick
Lamb relies, in perfect confidence, on my honour. True that
confidence is the effect of vanity. He believes that a woman who
could resist him, as I did at Brighton, is the safest woman on
earth!
He leaves me alone and without sufficient money for common
necessaries."No
matter; I must tell him to-night, as soon as he arrives from the
country, that I have written to and walked with Lorne. My dear
mother
would never forgive me if I became artful." So mused, and thus
reasoned I, till I was interrupted by Frederick Lamb's loud knock
at
my door."He
will be in a fine passion," said I to myself, in excessive
trepidation; and I was in such a hurry to have it over that I
related
all immediately. To my equal joy and astonishment Frederick Lamb
was
not a bit angry. From his manner I could not help guessing that his
friend Lorne had often been found a very powerful rival.I
could see through the delight he experienced at the idea of
possessing a woman whom, his vanity persuaded him, Argyle would
sigh
for in vain: and, attacking me on my weak point, he kissed me, and
said, "I have the most perfect esteem for my dearest little
wife, whom, I can, I know, as safely trust with Argyle as Craven
trusted her with me.""Are
you quite sure?" asked I, merely to ease my conscience. "Were
it not wiser to advise me not to walk about with him?""No,
no," said Frederick Lamb; "it is such good fun! bring him
up every day to Somers-town and the Jew's Harp house, there to
swallow cider and sentiment. Make him walk up here as many times as
you can, dear little Harry, for the honour of your sex, and to
punish
him for declaring, as he always does, that no woman who will not
love
him at once is worth his pursuit.""I
am sorry he is such a coxcomb," said I."What
is that to you, you little fool?""True,"
I replied. And, at the moment, I made a sort of determination not
to
let the beautiful and voluptuous expression of Argyle's dark blue
eyes take possession of my fancy."You
are a neater figure than the Marquis of Lorne;" said I to
Frederick, wishing to think so."Lorne
is growing fat," answered Frederick Lamb; "but he is the
most active creature possible, and appears lighter than any man of
his weight I ever saw; and then he is, without any exception, the
highest bred man in England.""And
you desire and permit me to walk about the country with
him?""Yes;
do trot him often up here. I want to have a laugh against
Lorne.""And
you are not jealous?""Not
at all," said Frederick Lamb, "for I am secure of your
affections.""I
must not deceive this man," thought I, and the idea began to
make me a little melancholy. "My only chance, or rather my only
excuse, will be his leaving me without the means of existence."
This appeared likely; for I was too shy, and too proud to ask for
money: and Frederick Lamb encouraged me in this amiable
forbearance!The
next morning, with my heart beating unusually high, I attended my
appointment with Argyle. I hoped, nay almost expected, to find him
there before me. I paraded near the turnpike five minutes, then
grew
angry; in five more, I became wretched; in five more, downright
indignant; and, in five more, wretched again—and so I returned
home."This,"
thought I, "shall be a lesson to me hereafter, never to meet a
man: it is unnatural:" and yet I had felt it perfectly natural
to return to the person whose society had made me so happy! "No
matter," reasoned I, "we females must not suffer love or
pleasure to glow in our eyes, until we are quite sure of a return.
We
must be dignified!"Alas!
I can only be and seem what I am. No doubt my sunny face of joy and
happiness, which he talked to me about, was understood, and it has
disgusted him. He thought me bold, and yet I am sure I never
blushed
so much in any man's society before.I
now began to consider myself with feelings of the most painful
humility. Suddenly I flew to my writing-desk; "He shall not have
the cut all on his side, neither," thought I, with the pride of
a child, "I will soon convince him I am not accustomed to be
slighted;" and then I wrote to his grace as follows:"It
was very wrong and very bold of me to have sought your
acquaintance,
in the way I did, my lord; and I entreat you to forgive and to
forget
my childish folly, as completely as I have forgotten the occasion
of
it.""So
far so good," thought I, pausing, "but then suppose he
should, from this dry note, really believe me so cold and stupid as
not to have felt his pleasing qualities. Suppose now it were
possible
he liked me after all!" Then hastily, and half ashamed of
myself, I added these few lines:"I
have not quite deserved this contempt from you, and, in that
consolatory reflection, I take my leave; not in anger my lord, but
only with the steady determination so to profit by the humiliating
lesson you have given me as never to expose myself to the like
contempt again."Your
most obedient servant,"HARRIETTE
WILSON."Having
put my letter into the post, I passed a restless night: and the
next
morning, heard the knock of the twopenny postman in extreme
agitation. He brought me, as I suspected, an answer from Argyle,
which is subjoined."You
are not half vain enough, dear Harriette. You ought to have been
quite certain that any man who had once met you could not fail in a
second appointment but from unavoidable accident—and, if you were
only half as pleased with Thursday morning, as I was, you will meet
me to-morrow in the same place at four. Pray, pray,55 come."LORNE."I
kissed the letter and put it into my bosom, grateful for the weight
it had taken off my heart. Not that I was so far gone in love as my
readers may imagine; but I had suffered from wounded pride, and, in
fact, I was very much
tête monté.The
sensations which Argyle had inspired me with were the warmest, nay,
the first, of the same nature, I had ever experienced.
Nevertheless,
I could not forgive him quite so easily as this neither. I
recollect
what Frederick Lamb had said about his vanity. "No doubt,"
thought I, "he thinks it was nothing to have paraded me up and
down that stupid turnpike road, in the vain hope of seeing him. It
shall now be his turn: and I gloried in the idea of
revenge."The
hour of Argyle's appointment drew nigh, arrived, and passed away,
without my leaving my house. To Frederick Lamb I related
everything,
presented him with Argyle's letter, and acquainted him with my
determination not to meet his grace."How
good!" said Frederick Lamb, quite delighted. "We dine
together to-day at Lady Holland's, and I mean to ask him, before
everybody at table, what he thinks of the air about the turnpike in
Somerstown."The
next day I was surprised by a letter, not, as I anticipated, from
Argyle, but from the late Tom Sheridan, only son of Richard
Brinsley
Sheridan. I had, by mere accident, become acquainted with that very
interesting young man when quite a child, from the circumstance of
his having paid great attention to one of my elder sisters.He
requested me to allow him to speak a few words to me, wherever I
pleased. Frederick Lamb having gone to Brockett Hall in
Hertfordshire, I desired him to call on me."I
am come from my friend Lorne," said Tom Sheridan. "I would
not have intruded on you; but that, poor fellow, he is really
annoyed, and he has commissioned me to acquaint you with the
accident
which obliged him to break his appointment; because I can best
vouch
for the truth of it, having upon my honour, with my own ears, heard
the Prince of Wales invite Lord Lorne to Carlton House at the very
moment when he was about to meet you in Somerstown. Lorne,"
continued Tom Sheridan, "desires me to say, that he is not
coxcomb enough to imagine you cared for him; but in justice, he
wants
to stand exactly where he did in your opinion, before he broke his
appointment: he was so perfectly innocent on that subject. 'I would
write to her,' said he, again and again, 'but that, in all
probability, my letters would be shown to Frederick Lamb, and be
laughed at by them both. I would call on her, in spite of the
devil;
but that I know not where she lives.'"I
asked Argyle," Tom Sheridan proceeded, "how he had
addressed his last letters to you? 'To the post office in
Somers-town,' was his answer, 'and thence they were forwarded to
Harriette.'" (He had tried to bribe the old woman there, to
obtain my address, but she abused him, and turned him out of her
shop.) "'It is very hard,'" continued Tom, repeating the
words of his noble friend, "'to lose the good-will of one of the
nicest, cleverest girls I ever met with in my life, who was, I am
certain, civilly if not kindly disposed towards me, by such a mere
accident.' Therefore," continued Tom Sheridan, smiling, "you'll
make it up with Lorne, won't you?""There
is nothing to forgive," said I, "if no slight was meant. In
short you are making too much of me, and spoiling me, by all this
explanation; for, indeed, I had at first been less indignant, but
that I fancied his grace neglected me because——" and I
hesitated, while I could feel myself blush deeply."Because
what?" asked Tom Sheridan."Nothing;"
I replied, looking at my shoes."What
a pretty girl you are," observed Sheridan, "particularly
when you blush.""Fiddlestick!"
said I, laughing, "you know you always preferred my sister
Fanny.""Well,"
replied Tom, "there I plead guilty. Fanny is the sweetest
creature on earth; but you are all a race of finished coquettes,
who
delight in making fools of people."Now
can anything come up to your vanity in writing to Lorne, that you
are
the most beautiful creature on earth?""Never
mind," said I, "you set all that to rights. I was never
vain in your society, in my life.""I
would give the world for a kiss, at this moment," said Tom;
"because you look so humble, and so amiable; but"—recollecting
himself—"this is not exactly the embassy I came upon. Have you
a mind to give Lorne an agreeable surprise?""I
don't know.""Upon
my honour I believe he is downright in love with you.""Well?""Come
into a hackney-coach with me, and we will drive down to the Tennis
Court, in the Haymarket.""Is
the duke there?""Yes.""But
at all events, I will not trust myself in a hackney-coach with
you.""There
was a time," said poor Tom Sheridan, with much drollery of
expression, "there was a time—but now!" and he shook his
handsome head with comic gravity, "but now! you may drive with
me from here to St. Paul's in the most perfect safety. I will tell
you a secret," added he, and he fixed his fine dark eye on my
face while he spoke, in a tone, half merry, half desponding, "I
am dying; but nobody knows it yet!"I
was very much affected by his manner of saying this."My
dear Mr. Sheridan," said I, with earnest warmth, "you have
accused me of being vain of the little beauty God has given me. Now
I
would give it all, or upon my word I think I would, to obtain the
certainty, that you would from this hour refrain from such excesses
as are destroying you.""Did
you see me play the methodist parson, in a tub, at Mrs. Beaumont's
masquerade last Thursday?" said Tom, with affected levity."You
may laugh as you please," said I, "at a little fool like me
pretending to preach to you, yet I am sensible enough to admire
you,
and quite feeling enough to regret your time so misspent, your
brilliant talents so misapplied.""Bravo!
Bravo!" Tom reiterated, "what a funny little girl you are!
Pray Miss, how is your time spent?""Not
in drinking brandy," I replied."And
how might your talent be applied, Ma'am?""Have
not I just given you a specimen, in the shape of a handsome
quotation?""My
good little girl, it is in the blood, and I can't help it,—and, if
I could, it is too late now. I'm dying, I tell you. I know not if
my
poor father's physician was as eloquent as you are; but he did his
best to turn him from drinking. Among other things, he declared to
him one day, that the brandy, Arquebusade, and Eau de Cologne, he
swallowed, would burn off the coat of his stomach. 'Then,' said my
father, 'my stomach must digest in its waistcoat; for I cannot help
it.'""Indeed,
I am very sorry for you," I replied: and I hope he believed me:
for he pressed my hand hastily, and I think I saw a tear glisten in
his bright, dark eye."Shall
I tell Lorne," said poor Tom, with an effort to recover his
usual gaiety, "that you will write to him, or will you come to
the Tennis-court?""Neither,"
answered I, "but you may tell his lordship, that, of course, I
am not angry, since I am led to believe he had no intention to
humble
nor make a fool of me.""Nothing
more?" inquired Tom."Nothing,"
I replied, "for his lordship.""And
what for me?" said Tom."You!
what do you want?""A
kiss!" he said."Not
I, indeed!""Be
it so then; and yet you and I may never meet again on this earth,
and
just now I thought you felt some interest about me"; and he was
going away."So
I do, dear Tom Sheridan!" said I, detaining him; for I saw death
had fixed his stamp on poor Sheridan's handsome face. "You know
I have a very warm and feeling heart, and taste enough to admire
and
like you; but why is this to be our last meeting?""I
must go to the Mediterranean"; poor Sheridan continued, putting
his hand to his chest, and coughing."To
die!" thought I, as I looked on his sunk, but still very
expressive, dark eyes."Then
God bless you!" said I, first kissing his hand, and then, though
somewhat timidly, leaning my face towards him. He parted my hair,
and
kissed my forehead, my eyes, and my lips."If
I do come back," said he, forcing a languid smile, "mind
let me find you married, and rich enough to lend me an occasional
hundred pounds or two." He then kissed his hand gracefully, and
was out of sight in an instant.I
never saw him again!
CHAPTER II
The
next morning my maid brought me a little note from Argyle to say
that
he had been waiting about my door an hour, having learned my
address
from poor Sheridan, and that, seeing the servant in the street, he
could not help making an attempt to induce me to go out and walk
with
him. I looked out of window, saw Argyle, ran for my hat and cloak,
and joined him in an instant.
"Am
I forgiven?" said Argyle with gentle eagerness.
"Oh
yes," returned I, "long ago, but that will do you no good,
for I really am treating Frederick Lamb very ill, and therefore
must
not walk with you again."
"Why
not?" Argyle inquired. "Apropos," he added, "you
told Frederick that I walked about the turnpike looking for you,
and
that, no doubt, to make him laugh at me?"
"No,
not for that; but I never could deceive any man. I have told him
the
whole story of our becoming acquainted, and he allows me to walk
with
you. It is I who think it wrong, not Frederick."
"That
is to say, you think me a bore," said Argyle, reddening with
pique and disappointment.
"And
suppose I loved you?" I asked; "still I am engaged to
Frederick Lamb, who trusts me, and——"
"If,"
interrupted Argyle, "it were possible you did love me, Frederick
Lamb would be forgotten: but, though you did not love me, you must
promise to try and do so some day or other. You don't know how much
I
have fixed my heart on it."
These
sentimental walks continued more than a month. One evening we
walked
rather later than usual. It grew dark. In a moment of ungovernable
passion, Argyle's ardour frightened me. Not that I was insensible
to
it: so much the contrary, that I felt certain another meeting must
decide my fate. Still I was offended at what I conceived showed
such
a want of respect. The duke became humble. There is a charm in the
humility of a lover who has offended. The charm is so great that we
like to prolong it. In spite of all he could say I left him in
anger.
The next morning I received the following note:
"If
you see me waiting about your door to-morrow morning, do not fancy
I
am looking for you: but for your pretty housemaid."
I
did see him from a sly corner of my window; but I resisted all my
desires and remained concealed. "I dare not see him again,"
thought I, "for I cannot be so very profligate, knowing and
feeling as I do, how impossible it will be to refuse him anything,
if
we meet again. I cannot treat Fred Lamb in this manner! besides I
should be afraid to tell him of it, he would perhaps kill
me!
"But
then, poor, dear Lorne! to return his kisses, as I did last night,
and afterwards be so very severe on him, for a passion which it
seemed so out of his power to control!
"Nevertheless
we must part now, or never; so I'll write and take my leave of him
kindly." This was my letter:
"At
the first I was afraid I should love you, and, but for Fred Lamb
having requested me to get you up to Somers-town after I had
declined
meeting you, I had been happy: now the idea makes me miserable.
Still
it must be so. I am naturally affectionate. Habit attaches me to
Fred
Lamb. I cannot deceive him or acquaint him with what will cause him
to cut me, in anger and for ever. We may not then meet again Lorne,
as hitherto: for now we could not be merely friends: lovers we must
be hereafter, or nothing. I have never loved any man in my life
before, and yet, dear Lorne, you see we must part. I venture to
send
you the enclosed thick lock of my hair; because you have been good
enough to admire it. I do not care how I have disfigured my head
since you are not to see it again.
"God
bless you, Lorne. Do not quite forget last night, directly, and
believe me, as in truth I am,
"Most
devotedly yours,"HARRIETTE."
This
was his answer, written, I suppose, in some pique:
"True
you have given me many sweet kisses, and a lock of your beautiful
hair. All this does not convince me you are one bit in love with
me.
I am the last man on earth to desire you to do violence to your
feelings by leaving a man as dear to you as Frederick Lamb is, so
farewell Harriette. I shall not intrude to offend you again.
"LORNE."
"Poor
Lorne is unhappy and, what is worse," thought I, "he will
soon hate me!" The idea made me wretched. However, I will do
myself the justice to say, that I have seldom, in the whole course
of
my life, been tempted by my passions or my fancies to what my heart
and conscience told me was wrong. I am afraid my conscience has
been
a very easy one; but certainly I have followed its dictates. There
was a want of heart and delicacy, I always thought, in leaving any
man, without full and very sufficient reasons for it. At the same
time, my dear mother's marriage had proved to me so forcibly the
miseries of two people of contrary opinions and character torturing
each other to the end of their natural lives, that, before I was
ten
years old, I decided in my own mind to live free as air from any
restraint but that of my conscience.
Frederick
Lamb's love was now increasing, as all men's do, from gratified
vanity. He sometimes passed an hour in reading to me. Till then, I
had no idea of the gratification to be derived from books. In my
convent in France I had read only sacred dramas; at home, my
father's
mathematical books,
Buchan's Medicine, Gil Blas,
and The Vicar of
Wakefield, formed
our whole library. The two latter I had long known by heart, and
could repeat at this moment.
My
sisters used to subscribe to little circulating libraries in the
neighbourhood, for the common novels of the day; but I always hated
these. Fred Lamb's choice was happy, Milton, Shakespeare,
Byron,
The Rambler,
Virgil, &c. "I must know all about these Greeks and Romans,"
said I to myself. "Some day I will go into the country quite
alone, and study like mad. I am too young now."
In
the meantime, I was absolutely charmed with Shakespeare. Music I
always had a natural talent for. I played well on the pianoforte;
that is, with taste and execution; though almost without
study.
There
was a very elegant looking woman residing in my neighbourhood, in a
beautiful little cottage, who had long excited my curiosity. She
appeared to be the mother of five extremely beautiful children.
These
were always to be seen, with their nurse, walking out, most
fancifully dressed. Every one used to stop to admire them. Their
mother seemed to live in the most complete retirement. I never saw
her with anybody besides her children.
One
day our eyes met: she smiled, and I half bowed. The next day we met
again, and the lady wished me a good morning. We soon got into
conversation. I asked her if she did not lead a very solitary
life.
"You
are the first female I have spoken to for four years," said the
lady, "with the exception of my own servants; but," added
she, "some day we may know each other better. In the meantime
will you trust yourself to come and dine with me to-day?"
"With
great pleasure," I replied, "if you think me worthy that
honour."
We
then separated to dress for dinner.
When
I entered her drawing-room at the hour she had appointed, I was
struck with the elegant taste, more than with the richness of the
furniture. A beautiful harp, drawings of a somewhat voluptuous
cast,
elegant needle-work, Moore's poems, and a fine pianoforte, formed a
part of it. "She is not a bad woman—and she is not a good
woman," said I to myself. "What can she be?"
The
lady now entered the room, and welcomed me with an appearance of
real
pleasure. "I am not quite sure," said she, "whether I
can have the pleasure of introducing you to Mr. Johnstone to-day,
or
not. We will not wait dinner for him, if he does not arrive in
time."
This was the first word I had heard about a Mr. Johnstone, although
I
knew the lady was called by that name.
Just
as we were sitting down to dinner Mr. Johnstone arrived and was
introduced to me. He was a particularly elegant, handsome man,
about
forty years of age. His manner of addressing Mrs. Johnstone was
more
that of an humble romantic lover than of a husband; yet Julia, for
so
he called her, could be no common woman. I could not endure all
this
mystery, and, when he left us in the evening, I frankly asked
Julia,
for so we will call her in future, why she invited a strange madcap
girl like me, to dinner with her.
"Consider
the melancholy life I lead," said Julia.
"Thank
you for the compliment," answered I.
"But
do you believe," interrupted Julia, "that I should have
asked you to dine with me, if I had not been particularly struck
and
pleased with you? I had, as I passed your window, heard you touch
the
pianoforte with a very masterly hand, and, therefore, I conceived
that you were not uneducated, and I knew that you led almost as
retired a life as myself.
Au reste,"
continued Julia, "some day, perhaps soon, you shall know all
about me."
I
did not press the matter further at that moment, believing it would
be indelicate.
"Shall
we go to the nursery?" asked Julia.
I
was delighted; and, romping with her lovely children, dressing
their
dolls, and teaching them to skip, I forgot my love for Argyle, as
much as if that excellent man had never been born.
Indeed
I am not quite sure that it would have occurred to me, even when I
went home, but that Fred Lamb, who was just at this period showing
Argyle up all over the town as my amorous shepherd, had a new story
to relate of his grace.
Horace
Beckford and two other fashionable men, who had heard from
Frederick
of my cruelty as he termed it, and the duke's daily romantic walks
to
the Jew's Harp House, had come upon him by accident in a body, as
they were galloping through Somers-town. Lorne was sitting in a
very
pastoral fashion on a gate near my door, whistling. They saluted
him
with a loud laugh. No man could, generally speaking, parry a joke
better than Argyle: for few knew the world better: but this was no
joke. He had been severely wounded and annoyed by my cutting his
acquaintance altogether, at the very moment when he had reason to
believe that the passion he really felt for me was returned. It was
almost the first instance of the kind he had ever met with. He was
bored and vexed with himself for the time he had lost, and yet he
found himself continually in my neighbourhood, almost before he was
aware of it. He wanted, as he has told me since, to meet me once
more
by accident, and then he declared he would give me up.
"What
a set of consummate asses you are," said Argyle to Beckford and
his party; and then quietly continued on the gate, whistling as
before.
"But
r-e-a-l-l-y, r-e-a-l-l-y, ca-ca-cannot Tom She-She-She-Sheridan
assist you, marquis?" said the handsome Horace Beckford, in his
usual stammering way.
"A
very good joke for Fred Lamb, as the case stands now," replied
the duke, laughing: for a man of the world must laugh in these
cases,
though he should burst with the effort.
"Why
don't she come?" said Sir John Shelley, who was one of the
party.
An
odd mad-looking Frenchman, in a white coat and a white hat, well
known about Somers-town, passed at this moment and observed his
grace, whom he knew well by sight, from the other side of the way.
He
had, a short time before, attempted to address me when he met me
walking alone, and inquired of me when I had last seen the Marquis
of
Lorne, with whom he had often observed me walking. I made him no
answer. In a fit of frolic, as if everybody combined at this moment
against the poor, dear, handsome Argyle, the Frenchman called, as
loud as he could scream, from the other side of the way, "Ah!
ah! oh! oh! vous voilà, monsieur le Comte Dromedaire,"
alluding thus to the duke's family name, as pronounced Camel. "Mais
ou est donc madame la Comtesse?"
"D——d
impudent rascal!" said Argyle, delighted to vent his growing
rage on somebody, and started across the road after the poor thin
old
Frenchman, who might have now said his prayers had not his
spider-legs served him better than his courage.
Fred
Lamb was very angry with me for not laughing at this story; but the
only feeling it excited in me was unmixed gratitude towards the
duke
for remembering me still, and for having borne all this ridicule
for
my sake.
The
next day Julia returned my visit; and, before we parted, she had
learned from my usual frankness every particular of my life,
without
leaving me one atom the wiser as to what related to herself. I
disliked mystery so much that, but that I saw Julia's proceeded
from
the natural, extreme shyness of her disposition, I had by this time
declined continuing her acquaintance. I decided however to try her
another month, in order to give her time to become acquainted with
me. She was certainly one of the best mannered women in England,
not
excepting even those of the very highest rank. Her handwriting and
her style were both beautiful. She had the most delicately fair
skin,
and the prettiest arms, hands and feet, and the most graceful form,
which could well be imagined; but her features were not regular,
nor
their expression particularly good. She struck me as a woman of
very
violent passions, combined with an extremely shy and reserved
disposition.
Mr.
Johnstone seldom made his appearance oftener than twice a week. He
came across a retired field to her house, though he might have got
there more conveniently by the roadway. I sometimes accompanied
her,
and we sat on a gate to watch his approach to this field. Their
meetings were full of rapturous and romantic delight. In his
absence
she never received a single visitor, male or female, except myself;
yet she always, when quite alone, dressed in the most studied and
fashionable style.
There
was something dramatic about Julia. I often surprised her, hanging
over her harp so very gracefully, the room so perfumed, the rays of
her lamp so soft, that I could scarcely believe this
tout ensemble to be
the effect of chance or habit. It appeared arranged for the purpose
like a scene in a play. Yet who was it to affect? Julia never
either
received or expected company!
Everything
went on as usual for another month or two; during which time Julia
and I met every day, and she promised shortly to make me acquainted
with her whole history. My finances were now sinking very low.
Everything Lord Craven had given me, whether in money or valuables,
I
had freely parted with for my support. "Fred Lamb," I
thought, "must know that these resources cannot last for ever;
therefore I am determined not to speak to him on the
subject."
I
was lodging with a comical old widow, who had formerly been my
sister
Fanny's nurse when she was quite a child. This good lady, I
believe,
really did like me, and had already given me all the credit for
board
and lodging she could possibly afford. She now entered my room, and
acquainted me that she actually had not another shilling, either to
provide my dinner or her own.
"Necessity
hath no law," thought I, my eyes brightening, and my
determination being fixed in an instant. In ten minutes more the
following letter was in the post-office, directed to the Marquis of
Lorne.
"If
you still desire my society, I will sup with you to-morrow evening,
in your own house.
"Yours,
ever affectionately,"HARRIETTE."
I
knew perfectly well that, on the evening I mentioned to his grace,
Fred Lamb would be at his father's country house, Brockett
Hall.
The
Duke's answer was brought to me by his groom, as soon as he had
received my letter; it ran thus:
"Are
you really serious? I dare not believe it. Say, by my servant, that
you will see me at the turnpike directly, for five minutes, only to
put me out of suspense. I will not believe anything you write on
this
subject. I want to look at your eyes while I hear you say
yes.
"Yours,
most devotedly and impatiently,
"LORNE."
I
went to our old place of rendezvous to meet the duke. How
different,
and how much more amiable, was his reception than that of Fred Lamb
in Hull! The latter, all wild passion; the former, gentle,
voluptuous, fearful of shocking or offending me, or frightening
away
my growing passion. In short, while the duke's manner was almost as
timid as my own, the expression of his eyes and the very soft tone
of
his voice troubled my imagination, and made me fancy something of
bliss beyond all reality.
We
agreed that he should bring a carriage to the old turnpike, and
thence conduct me to his house.
"If
you should change your mind!" said the duke, returning a few
steps after we had taken leave:—"Mais
tu viendras, mon ange? Tu ne sera pas si cruelle?"
Argyle
is the best Frenchman I have met with in England, and poor Tom
Sheridan was the second best.
"And
you," said I to Argyle, "suppose you were to break your
appointment to-night?"
"Would
you regret it?" Argyle inquired. "I won't have your answer
while you are looking at those pretty little feet;" he
continued. "Tell me, dear Harriette, should you be sorry?"
"Yes,"
said I, softly, and our eyes met, only for an instant. Lorne's
gratitude was expressed merely by pressing my hand.
"A
ce soir donc,"
said he, mounting his horse; and, waving his hand to me, he was
soon
out of sight.