CHAPTER LXI.
Mr father urged me sair,
But my mither didna speak,
Though she looked into my face,
Till my heart was like to break.--Auld Robin Gray.
"It is rather singular," said Lady Westborough to her daughter as they
sat alone one afternoon in the music-room at Westborough Park,--"it is
rather singular that Lord Ulswater should not have come yet. He said
he should certainly be here before three o'clock."
"You know, Mamma, that he has some military duties to detain him at
W----," answered Lady Flora, bending over a drawing in which she
appeared to be earnestly engaged.
"True, my dear, and it was very kind in Lord ---- to quarter the troop
he commands in his native county; and very fortunate that W----, being
his head-quarters, should also be so near us. But I cannot conceive
that any duty can be sufficiently strong to detain him from you,"
added Lady Westborough, who had been accustomed all her life to a
devotion unparalleled in this age. "You seem very indulgent, Flora."
"Alas! she should rather say very indifferent," thought Lady Flora:
but she did not give her thought utterance; she only looked up at her
mother for a moment, and smiled faintly.
Whether there was something in that smile or in the pale cheek of her
daughter that touched her we know not, but Lady Westborough was
touched: she threw her arms round Lady Flora's neck, kissed her
fondly, and said, "You do not seem well to-day, my love, are you?"
"Oh!--very--very well," answered Lady Flora, returning her mother's
caress, and hiding her eyes, to which the tears had started.
"My child," said Lady Westborough, "you know that both myself and your
father are very desirous to see you married to Lord Ulswater,--of high
and ancient birth, of great wealth, young, unexceptionable in person
and character, and warmly attached to you, it would be impossible even
for the sanguine heart of a parent to ask for you a more eligible
match. But if the thought really does make you wretched,--and yet,--
how can it?"
"I have consented," said Flora, gently; "all I ask is, do not speak to
me more of the--the event than you can avoid."
Lady Westborough pressed her hand, sighed, and replied not.
The door opened, and the marquis, who had within the last year become
a cripple, with the great man's malady, dire podagra, was wheeled in
on his easy-chair; close behind him followed Lord Ulswater.
"I have brought you," said the marquis, who piqued himself on a vein
of dry humour,--"I have brought you, young lady, a consolation for my
ill humours. Few gouty old fathers make themselves as welcome as I
do; eh, Ulswater?"
"Dare I apply to myself Lord Westborough's compliment?" said the young
nobleman, advancing towards Lady Flora; and drawing his seat near her,
he entered into that whispered conversation so significant of
courtship. But there was little in Lady Flora's manner by which an
experienced eye would have detected the bride elect: no sudden blush,
no downcast, yet sidelong look, no trembling of the hand, no
indistinct confusion of the voice, struggling with unanalyzed
emotions. No: all was calm, cold, listless; her cheek changed not
tint nor hue, and her words, clear and collected, seemed to contradict
whatever the low murmurs of her betrothed might well be supposed to
insinuate. But, even in his behaviour, there was something which, had
Lady Westborough been less contented than she was with the externals
and surface of manner, would have alarmed her for her daughter. A
cloud, sullen and gloomy, sat upon his brow; and his lip alternately
quivered with something like scorn, or was compressed with a kind of
stifled passion. Even in the exultation that sparkled in his eye,
when he alluded to their approaching marriage, there was an expression
that almost might have been termed fierce, and certainly was as little
like the true orthodox ardour of "gentle swain," as Lady Flora's sad
and half unconscious coldness resembled the diffident passion of the
"blushing maiden."
"You have considerably passed the time in which we expected you, my
lord," said Lady Westborough, who, as a beauty herself, was a little
jealous of the deference due to the beauty of her daughter.
"It is true.," said Lord Ulswater, glancing towards the opposite
glass, and smoothing his right eyebrow with his forefinger, "it is
true, but I could not help it. I had a great deal of business to do
with my troop: I have put them into a new manoeuvre. Do you know, my
lord [turning to the marquis], I think it very likely the soldiers may
have some work on the ---- of this month?"
"Where, and wherefore?" asked Lord Westborough, whom a sudden twinge
forced into the laconic.
"At W----. Some idle fellows hold a meeting there on that day; and if
I may judge by bills and advertisements, chalkings on the walls, and,
more than all popular rumour, I have no doubt but what riot and
sedition are intended: the magistrates are terribly frightened. I
hope we shall have some cutting and hewing: I have no patience with
the rebellious dogs."
"For shame! for shame!" cried Lady Westborough, who, though a worldly,
was by no means an unfeeling, woman "the poor people are misguided;
they mean no harm."
Lord Ulswater smiled scornfully. "I never dispute upon politics, but
at the head of my men," said he, and turned the conversation.
Shortly afterwards Lady Flora, complaining of indisposition, rose,
left the apartment, and retired to her own room. There she sat
motionless and white as death for more than an hour. A day or two
afterwards Miss Trevanion received the following letter from her:--
Most heartily, most truly do I congratulate you, my dearest Eleanor,
upon your approaching marriage. You may reasonably hope for all that
happiness can afford; and though you do affect (for I do not think
that you feel) a fear lest you should not be able to fix a character,
volatile and light, like your lover's; yet when I recollect his warmth
of heart and high sense, and your beauty, gentleness, charms of
conversation, and purely disinterested love for one whose great
worldly advantages might so easily bias or adulterate affection, I own
that I have no dread for your future fate, no feeling that can at all
darken the brightness of anticipation. Thank you, dearest, for the
delicate kindness with which you allude to my destiny: me indeed you
cannot congratulate as I can you. But do not grieve for me, my
generous Eleanor: if not happy, I shall, I trust, be at least
contented. My poor father implored me with tears in his eyes; my
mother pressed my hand, but spoke not; and I, whose affections were
withered and hopes strewn, should I not have been hard-hearted indeed
if they had not wrung from me a consent? And oh should I not be
utterly lost, if in that consent which blessed them I did not find
something of peace and consolation?
Yes, dearest, in two months, only two months, I shall be Lord
Ulswater's wife; and when we meet, you shall look narrowly at me, and
see if he or you have any right to complain of me.
Have you seen Mr. Linden lately? Yet do not answer the question: I
ought not to cherish still that fatal clinging interest for one who
has so utterly forgotten me. But I do rejoice in his prosperity; and
when I hear his praises, and watch his career, I feel proud that I
should once have loved him! Oh, how could he be so false, so cruel,
in the very midst of his professions of undying, unswerving faith to
me; at the very moment when I was ill, miserable, wasting my very
heart, for anxiety on his account,--and such a woman too! And had be
loved me, even though his letter was returned, would not his
conscience have told him he deserved it, and would he not have sought
me out in person, and endeavoured to win from my folly his
forgiveness? But without attempting to see me, or speak to me, or
soothe a displeasure so natural, to leave the country in silence,
almost in disdain; and when we met again, to greet me with coldness
and hauteur, and never betray, by word, sign, or look, that he had
ever been to me more than the merest stranger! Fool! Fool! that I am,
to waste another thought upon him; but I will not, and ought not to do
so. In two months I shall not even have the privilege of remembrance.
I wish, Eleanor,--for I assure you that I have tried and tried,--that
I could find anything to like and esteem (since love is out of the
question) in this man, who seems so great, and, to me, so
unaccountable a favourite with my parents. His countenance and voice
are so harsh and stern; his manner at once so self-complacent and
gloomy; his very sentiments so narrow, even in their notions of
honour; his very courage so savage, and his pride so constant and
offensive,--that I in vain endeavour to persuade myself of his
virtues, and recur, at least, to the unwearying affection for me which
he professes. It is true that he has been three times refused; that I
have told him I cannot love him; that I have even owned former love to
another: he still continues his suit, and by dint of long hope has at
length succeeded. But at times I could almost think that he married
me from very hate, rather than love: there is such an artificial
smoothness in his stern voice, such a latent meaning in his eye; and
when he thinks I have not noticed him, I have, on suddenly turning
towards him, perceived so dark and lowering an expression upon his
countenance that my heart has died within me for very fear.
Had my mother been the least less kind, my father the least less
urgent, I think, nay, I know, I could not have gained such a victory
over myself as I have done in consenting to the day. But enough of
this. I did not think I should have run on so long and so foolishly;
but we, dearest, have been children and girls and women together: we
have loved each other with such fondness and unreserve that opening my
heart to you seems only another phrase for thinking aloud.
However, in two months I shall have no right even to thoughts; perhaps
I may not even love you: till then, dearest Eleanor, I am, as ever,
your affectionate and faithful friend, F. A.
Had Lord Westborough, indeed, been "less urgent," or her mother "less
kind," nothing could ever have wrung from Lady Flora her consent to a
marriage so ungenial and ill-omened.
Thrice had Lord Ulswater (then Lord Borodaile) been refused, before
finally accepted; and those who judge only from the ordinary effects
of pride would be astonished that he should have still persevered.
But his pride was that deep-rooted feeling which, so far from being
repelled by a single blow, fights stubbornly and doggedly onward, till
the battle is over and its object gained. From the moment he had
resolved to address Lady Flora Ardenne he had also resolved to win
her. For three years, despite of a refusal, first gently, then more
peremptorily, urged, he fixed himself in her train. He gave out that
he was her affianced. In all parties, in all places, he forced
himself near her, unheeding alike of her frowns or indifference; and
his rank, his hauteur, his fierceness of mien, and acknowledged
courage kept aloof all the less arrogant and hardy pretenders to Lady
Flora's favour. For this, indeed, she rather thanked than blamed him;
and it was the only thing which in the least reconciled her modesty to
his advances or her pride to his presumption.
He had been prudent as well as bold. The father he had served, and
the mother he had won. Lord Westborough, addicted a little to
politics, a good deal to show, and devotedly to gaming, was often
greatly and seriously embarrassed. Lord Ulswater, even during the
life of his father (who was lavishly generous to him), was provided
with the means of relieving his intended father-in-law's necessities;
and caring little for money in comparison to a desired object, he was
willing enough, we do not say to bribe, but to influence, Lord
Westborough's consent. These matters of arrangement were by no means
concealed from the marchioness, who, herself ostentatious and profuse,
was in no small degree benefited by them; and though they did not
solely procure, yet they certainly contributed to conciliate, her
favour.
Few people are designedly and systematically wicked: even the worst
find good motives for bad deeds, and are as intent upon discovering
glosses for conduct to deceive themselves as to delude others. What
wonder, then, that poor Lady Westborough, never too rigidly addicted
to self-examination, and viewing all things through a very worldly
medium, saw only, in the alternate art and urgency employed against
her daughter's real happiness, the various praiseworthy motives of
permanently disentangling Lady Flora from an unworthy attachment, of
procuring for her an establishment proportioned to her rank, and a
husband whose attachment, already shown by such singular perseverance,
was so likely to afford her everything which, in Lady Westborough's
eyes, constituted felicity?
All our friends, perhaps, desire our happiness; but then it must
invariably be in their own way. What a pity that they do not employ
the same zeal in making us happy in ours!
