CHAPTER LII.
Are we contemned?--The Double Marriage.
It was dusk when Clarence arrived at the very same inn at which, more
than five years ago, he had assumed his present name. As he recalled
the note addressed to him, and the sum (his whole fortune) which it
contained, he could not help smiling at the change his lot had since
then undergone; but the smile soon withered when he thought of the
kind and paternal hand from which that change had proceeded, and knew
that his gratitude was no longer availing, and that that hand, in
pouring its last favours upon him, had become cold. He was ushered
into No. 4, and left to his meditations till bed-time.
The next day he recommenced his journey. Westborough Park, was,
though in another county, within a short ride of W----; but, as he
approached it, the character of the scenery became essentially
changed. Bare, bold, and meagre, the features of the country bore
somewhat of a Scottish character. On the right side of the road was a
precipitous and perilous descent, and some workmen were placing posts
along a path for foot-passengers on that side nearest the carriage-
road, probably with a view to preserve unwary coachmen or equestrians
from the dangerous vicinity of the descent, which a dark night might
cause them to incur. As Clarence looked idly on the workmen, and
painfully on the crumbling and fearful descent I have described, he
little thought that that spot would, a few years after, become the
scene of a catastrophe affecting in the most powerful degree the
interests of his future life. Our young traveller put up his horse at
a small inn, bearing the Westborough arms, and situated at a short
distance from the park gates. Now that he was so near his mistress--
now that less than an hour, nay, than the fourth part of an hour,
might place him before her, and decide his fate--his heart, which had
hitherto sustained him, grew faint, and presented, first fear, then
anxiety, and, at last, despondency to his imagination and forebodings.
"At all events," said he, "I will see her alone before I will confer
with her artful and proud mother or her cipher of a father. I will
then tell her all my history, and open to her all my secrets: I will
only conceal from her my present fortunes; for even if rumour should
have informed her of them, it will be easy to give the report no
sanction; I have a right to that trial. When she is convinced that,
at least, neither my birth nor character can disgrace her, I shall see
if her love can enable her to overlook my supposed poverty and to
share my uncertain lot. If so, there will be some triumph in
undeceiving her error and rewarding her generosity; if not, I shall be
saved from involving my happiness with that of one who looks only to
my worldly possessions. I owe it to her, it is true, to show her that
I am no low-born pretender: but I owe it also to myself to ascertain
if my own individual qualities are sufficient to gain her hand."
Fraught with these ideas, which were natural enough to a man whose
peculiar circumstances were well calculated to make him feel rather
soured and suspicious, and whose pride had been severely wounded by
the contempt with which his letter had been treated, Clarence walked
into the park, and, hovering around the house, watched and waited that
opportunity of addressing Lady Flora, which he trusted her habits of
walking would afford him; but hours rolled away, the evening set in,
and Lady Flora had not once quitted the house.
More disappointed and sick at heart than he liked to confess, Clarence
returned to his inn, took his solitary meal, and strolling once more
into the park, watched beneath the windows till midnight, endeavouring
to guess which were the casements of her apartments, and feeling his
heart beat high at every light which flashed forth and disappeared,
and every form which flitted across the windows of the great
staircase. Little did Lady Flora, as she sat in her room alone, and,
in tears, mused over Clarence's fancied worthlessness and infidelity,
and told her heart again and again that she loved no more,--little did
she know whose eye kept vigils without, or whose feet brushed away the
rank dews beneath her windows, or whose thoughts, though not
altogether unmingled with reproach, were riveted with all the ardour
of a young and first love upon her.
It was unfortunate for Linden that he had no opportunity of personally
pleading his suit; his altered form and faded countenance would at
least have insured a hearing and an interest for his honest though
somewhat haughty sincerity: but though that day, and the next, and the
next, were passed in the most anxious and unremitting vigilance,
Clarence only once caught a glimpse of Lady Flora, and then she was
one amidst a large party; and Clarence, fearful of a premature and
untimely discovery, was forced to retire into the thicknesses of the
park, and lose the solitary reward of his watches almost as soon as he
had won it.
Wearied and racked by his suspense, and despairing of obtaining any
favourable opportunity for an interview without such a request,
Clarence at last resolved to write to Lady Flora, entreating her
assent to a meeting, in which he pledged himself to clear up all that
had hitherto seemed doubtful in his conduct or mysterious in his
character. Though respectful, urgent, and bearing the impress of
truth and feeling, the tone of the letter was certainly that of a man
who conceived he had a right to a little resentment for the past and a
little confidence for the future. It was what might well be written
by one who imagined his affection had once been returned, but would as
certainly have been deemed very presumptuous by a lady who thought
that the affection itself was a liberty.
Having penned this epistle, the next care was how to convey it. After
much deliberation it was at last committed to the care of a little
girl, the daughter of the lodge-keeper, whom Lady Flora thrice a week
personally instructed in the mysteries of spelling, reading, and
calligraphy. With many injunctions to deliver the letter only to the
hands of the beautiful teacher, Clarence trusted his despatches to the
little scholar, and, with a trembling frame and wistful eye, watched
Susan take her road, with her green satchel and her shining cheeks, to
the great house.
One hour, two hours, three hours, passed, and the messenger had not
returned. Restless and impatient, Clarence walked back to his inn,
and had not been there many minutes before a servant, in the
Westborough livery, appeared at the door of the humble hostelry, and
left the following letter for his perusal and gratification:--
WESTBOROUGH PASS.
Sir,--The letter intended for my daughter has just been given to me by
Lady Westborough. I know not what gave rise to the language, or the
very extraordinary request for a clandestine meeting, which you have
thought proper to address to Lady Flora Ardenne; but you will allow me
to observe that, if you intend to confer upon my daughter the honour
of a matrimonial proposal, she fully concurs with me and her mother in
the negative which I feel necessitated to put upon your obliging
offer.
I need not add that all correspondence with my daughter must close
here. I have the honour to be, sir,
Your very obedient servant, WESTBOROUGH.
TO CLARENCE LINDEN, Esq.
Had Clarence's blood been turned to fire, his veins could not have
swelled and burned with a fiercer heat than they did, as he read the
above letter,--a masterpiece, perhaps, in the line of what may be
termed the "d--d civil" of epistolary favours. "Insufferable
arrogance!" he muttered within his teeth. "I will live to repay it.
Perfidious, unfeeling woman: what an escape I have had of her! Now,
now, I am on the world, and alone, thank Heaven. I will accept
Aspeden's offer, and leave this country; when I return, it shall not
be as a humble suitor to Lady Flora Ardenne. Pish! how the name
sickens me: but come, I have a father; at least a nominal one. He is
old and weak, and may die before I return. I will see him once more,
and then, hey for Italy! Oh! I am so happy,--so happy at my freedom
and escape. What, ho! waiter! my horse instantly!"
