“Ah! Mr. Morris,” exclaimed his excellency, as a middle-aged gentleman, with a fluttered air, a round face, and vacant smile, approached, “I am delighted to see you — by —— Almighty I am — give me your hand. I have written across about the matter we wot of: but for these cursed contrary winds, I make no doubt I should have had a letter before now. Is the young gentleman himself here?”
“A — a — not quite, your excellency. That is, not at — all,” stammered the gentleman, in mingled delight and alarm. “He is, my lord, a — a — laid up. He — a — it is a sore throat. Your excellency is most gracious.”
“Tell him from me,” rejoined Wharton, “that he must get well as quickly as may be. We don’t know the moment he may be wanted. You understand me?”
“I — a — do indeed,” replied Mr. Morris, retiring in graceful confusion.
“A d —— d impudent booby,” whispered Wharton to Addison, who stood beside him, uttering the remark without the change of a single muscle. “He has made some cursed unconscionable request about his son. I’gad, I forget what; but we want his vote on Tuesday; and civility, you know, costs no coin.”
Addison smiled faintly, and shook his head.
“May the Lord pardon us all,” exclaimed a country clergyman in a rusty gown and ill-dressed wig, with a pale, attenuated, eager face, which told mournful tales of short commons and hard work; he had been for some time an intense and a grieved listener to the lord-lieutenant’s conversation, and was now slowly retiring with a companion as humble as himself from the circle which surrounded his excellency, with simple horror impressed upon his pale features— “may the Lord preserve us all, how awful it is to hear one so highly trusted by Him, take His name thus momentarily in vain. Lord Wharton is, I fear me much, an habitual profane swearer.”
“Believe me, sir, you are very simple,” rejoined a young clergyman who stood close to the position which the speaker now occupied. “His excellency’s object in swearing by the different persons of the Trinity is to show that he believes in revealed religion — a fact which else were doubtful; and this being his main object, it is manifestly a secondary consideration to what particular asseveration or promises his excellency happens to tack his oaths.”
The lank, pale-faced prebendary looked suddenly and earnestly round upon the person who had accosted him, with an expression of curiosity and wonder, evidently in some doubt as to the spirit in which the observation had been made. He beheld a tall, stalwart man, arrayed in a clerical costume as rich as that of a churchman who has not attained to the rank of a dignitary in his profession could well be, and in all points equipped with the most perfect neatness. In the face he looked in vain for any indication of jocularity. It was a striking countenance — striking for the extreme severity of its expression, and for its stern and handsome outline. The eye which encountered the inquiring glance of the elder man was of the clearest blue, singularly penetrating and commanding — the eyebrow dark and shaggy — the lips full and finely formed, but in their habitual expression bearing a character of haughty and indomitable determination — the complexion of the face was dark; and as the country prebendary gazed upon the countenance, full, as it seemed, of a scornful, stern, merciless energy and decision, something told him, that he looked upon one born to lead and to command the people. All this he took in at a glance: and while he looked, Addison, who had detached himself from the viceregal coterie, laid his hand upon the shoulder of the stern-featured young clergyman.
“Swift,” said he, drawing him aside, “we see you too seldom here. His excellency begins to think and to hope you have reconsidered what I spoke about when last we met. Believe me, you wrong yourself in not rendering what service you can to men who are not ungrateful, and who have the power to reward. You were always a Whig, and a pamphlet were with you but the work of a few days.”
“Were I to write a pamphlet,” rejoined Swift, “it is odds his excellency would not like it.”
“Have you not always been a Whig?” urged Addison.
“Sir, I am not to be taken by nicknames,” rejoined Swift. “I know Godolphin, and I know Lord Wharton. I have long distrusted the government of each. I am no courtier, Mr. Secretary. What I suspect I will not seem to trust — what I hate I hate entirely, and renounce openly. I have heard of my Lord Wharton’s doing, too. When I refused before to understand your overtures to me to write a pamphlet for his friends, he was pleased to say I refused because he would not make me his chaplain — in saying which he knowingly and malignantly lied; and to this lie he, after his accustomed fashion, tacked a blasphemous oath. He is therefore a perjured liar. I renounce him as heartily as I renounce the devil. I am come here, Mr. Secretary, not to do reverence to Lord Wharton — God forbid! — but to offer my homage to the majesty of England, whose brightness is reflected even in that cracked and battered piece of pinchbeck yonder. Believe me, should his excellency be rash enough to engage me in talk tonight, I shall take care to let him know what opinion I have of him.”
“Come, come, you must not be so dogged,” rejoined Addison. “You know Lord Wharton’s ways. He says a good deal more than he cares to be believed — everybody knows that — and all take his lordship’s asseverations with a grain of allowance; besides, you ought to consider that when a man unused to contradiction is crossed by disappointment, he is apt to be choleric, and to forget his discretion. We all know his faults; but even you will not deny his merits.”
Thus speaking, he led Swift toward the viceregal circle, which they had no sooner reached than Wharton, with his most goodhumoured smile, advanced to meet the young clergyman, exclaiming, —
“Swift! so it is, by —— ! I am glad to see you — by —— I am.”
“I am glad, my lord,” replied Swift, gravely, “that you take such frequent occasion to remind this godless company of the presence of the Almighty.”
“Well, you know,” rejoined Wharton, goodhumouredly, “the Scripture saith that the righteous man sweareth to his neighbour.”
“And disappointeth him not,” rejoined Swift.
“And disappointeth him not,” repeated Wharton; “and by —— ,” continued he, with marked earnestness, and drawing the young politician aside as he spoke, “in whatsoever I swear to thee there shall be no disappointment.”
He paused, but Swift remained silent. The lord-lieutenant well knew that an English preferment was the nearest object of the young churchman’s ambition. He therefore continued, —
“On my soul, we want you in England — this is no stage for you. By —— you cannot hope to serve either yourself or your friends in this place.”
“Very few thrive here but scoundrels, my lord,” rejoined Swift.
“Even so,” replied Wharton, with perfect equanimity— “it is a nation of scoundrels — dissent on the one side and popery on the other. The upper order harpies, and the lower a mere prey — and all equally liars, rogues, rebels, slaves, and robbers. By —— some fine day the devil will carry off the island bodily. For very safety you must get out of it. By —— he’ll have it.”
“I am not enough in the devil’s confidence to speak of his designs with so much authority as your lordship,” rejoined Swift; “but I incline to think that under your excellency’s administration it will answer his end as well to leave the island where it is.”
“Ah! Swift, you are a wag,” rejoined the viceroy; “but by —— I honour and respect your spirit. I know we shall agree yet — by —— I know it. I respect your independence and honesty all the more that they are seldom met with in a presence-chamber. By —— I respect and love you more and more every day.”
“If your lordship will forego your professions of love, and graciously confine yourself to the backbiting which must follow, you will do for me to the full as much as I either expect or desire,” rejoined Swift, with a grave reverence.
“Well, well,” rejoined the viceroy, with the most unruffled goodhumour, “I see, Swift, you are in no mood to play the courtier just n
ow. Nevertheless, bear in mind what Addison advised you to attempt; and though we part thus for the present, believe me, I love you all the better for your honest humour.”
“Farewell, my lord,” repeated Swift, abruptly, and with a formal bow he retired among the common throng.
“A hungry, ill-conditioned dog,” said Wharton, turning to the person next him, “who, having never a bone to gnaw, whets his teeth on the shins of the company.”
Having vented this little criticism, the viceroy resumed once more the formal routine of state hospitality.
“It is time we were going,” suggested Mary Ashwoode to Emily Copland. “My lord,” she continued, turning to Lord Aspenly, whose attentions had been just as conspicuous and incessant as Sir Richard Ashwoode could have wished them, “Do you know where Lady Stukely is?”
Lord Aspenly professed his ignorance.
“Have you seen her ladyship?” inquired Emily Copland of the gallant Major O’Leary, who stood near her.
“Upon my conscience, I have,” rejoined the major. “I’m not considered a poltroon; but I plead guilty to one weakness. I am bothered if I can stand fire when it appears in the nose of a gentlewoman; so as soon as I saw her I beat a retreat, and left my valorous young nephew to stand or fall under the blaze of her artillery. She is at the far end of the room.”
The major was easily persuaded to undertake the mission, and a word to young Ashwoode settled the matter. The party accordingly left the rooms, having, however, previously to their doing so, arranged that Major O’Leary should pass the next day at Morley Court, and afterwards accompany them in the evening to the theatre, whither Sir Richard, in pursuance of his plans, had arranged that they should all repair.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TWO COUSINS — THE NEGLECTED JEWELS AND THE BROKEN SEAL.
It was drawing toward evening when Emily Copland, in high spirits, and richly and becomingly dressed, ran lightly to the door of her cousin’s chamber. She knocked, but no answer was returned. She knocked again, but still without any reply. Then opening the door, she entered the room, and beheld her cousin Mary seated at a small work-table, at which it was her wont to read. There she lay motionless — her small head leaned upon her graceful arms, over which flowed all negligently the dark luxuriant hair. An open letter was on the table before her, and two or three rich ornaments lay unheeded on the floor beside her, as if they had fallen from her hand. There was in her attitude such a passionate abandonment of grief, that she seemed the breathing image of despair. Spite of all her levity, the young lady was touched at the sight. She approached her gently, and laying her hand upon her shoulder, she stooped down and kissed her.
“Mary, dear Mary, what grieves you?” she said. “Tell me. It’s I, dear — your cousin Emily. There’s a good girl — what has happened to vex you?”
Mary raised her head, and looked in her cousin’s face. Her eye was wild — she was pale as marble, and in her beautiful face was an expression so utterly woeful and piteous, that Emily was almost moved.
“Oh! I have lost him — for ever and ever I have lost him,” said she, despairingly. “Oh! cousin, dear cousin, he is gone from me. God pity me — I am forsaken.”
“Nay, cousin, do not say so — be cheerful — it cannot be — there, there,” and Emily Copland kissed the poor girl’s pale lips.
“Forsaken — forsaken,” continued Mary, for she heard not and heeded not the voice of vain consolation. “He has thrown me off for ever — for ever — quite — quite. God pity me, where shall I look for hope?”
“Mary, dear Mary,” said her cousin, “you are ill — do not give way thus. Be assured it is not as you think. You must be in error.”
“In error! Oh! that I could think so. God knows how gladly I would give my poor life to think so. No, no — it is real — all real. Oh! cousin, he has forsaken me.”
“I cannot believe it — I can not,” said Emily Copland. “Such folly can hardly exist. I will not believe it. What reason have you for thinking him changed?”
“Read — oh, read it, cousin,” replied the girl, motioning toward the letter, which lay open on the table— “read it once, and you will not bid me hope any more. Oh! cousin, dear cousin, there is no more joy for me in this world, turn where I will, do what I may — I am heartbroken.”
Emily Copland glanced through the letter, shook her head, and dropped the note again where it had been lying.
“You know, cousin Emily, how I loved him,” continued Mary, while for the first time the tears flowed fast— “you know that day after day, among all that happened to grieve me, my heart found rest in his love — in the hope and trust that he would never grow cold; and — and — oh! God pity me — now where is it all? You see — you know his love is gone from me — for evermore — gone from me. Oh! how I used to count the days and hours till the time would come round when I could see him and speak to him — but this has all gone. Hereafter all days are to be the same — morning or evening, summer time or winter — no change of seasons or of hours can bring to me any more hope or gladness, but ever the same — sorrow and desolate loneliness — for oh! cousin, I am very desolate, and hopeless, and heartbroken.”
The poor girl threw her arms round her cousin’s neck, and sobbed and wept, and wept and sobbed again, as though her heart would break. Long and bitterly she wept upon her cousin’s neck in silence, unbroken, except by her sobs. After a time, however, Emily Copland exclaimed, —
“Well, Mary, to say the truth, I never much liked the matter; and as he is a fool, and an ungrateful fool to boot, I am not sorry that he has shown his character as he has done. Believe me, painful as such discoveries are when made thus early, they are incomparably more agonizing when made too late. A little — a very little — time will enable you quite to forget him.”
“No, cousin,” replied Mary— “no, I never will forget him. He is changed indeed — greatly changed from what he was — bitterly has he disappointed and betrayed me; but I cannot forget him. There shall indeed never more pass word or look between us; he shall be to me as one that is dead, whom I shall hear and see no more; but the memory of what he was — the memory of what I vainly thought him — shall remain with me while my poor heart beats.”
“Well, Mary, time will show,” said Emily.
“Yes, time will show — time will show,” replied she, mournfully; “be the time long or short, it will show.”
“You must forget him — you will forget him; a few weeks, and you will thank your stars you found him out so soon.”
“Ah, cousin,” replied Mary, “you do not know how all my thoughts, and hopes, and recollections — everything I liked to remember, and to look forward to; you cannot know how all that was happy in my life — but what boots it, I will keep my troth with him; I will love no other, and wed with no other; and while this sorrowful life remains I will never — never — forget him.”
“I can only say, that were the case my own,” rejoined Emily, “I would show the fellow how lightly I held him and his worthless heart, and marry within a month; but every one has her own way of doing things. Remember it is nearly time to start for the theatre; the coach will be at the door in half-an-hour. Surely you will come; it would seem so very strange were you to change your mind thus suddenly; and you may be very sure that, by some means or other, the impudent fellow — about whom, I cannot see why, you care so much — would hear of all your grieving, and pining, and love-sickness. Pah! I’d rather die than please the hollow, worthless creature by letting him think he had caused me a moment’s uneasiness; and then, above all, Sir Richard would be so outrageously angry — why, you would never hear the end of it. Come, come, be a good girl. After all, it is only holding up your head, and looking pretty, which you can’t help, for an hour or two. You must come to silence gossip abroad, as well as for the sake of peace at home — you must come.”
“I would fain stay here at home,” said the poor girl; “heart and head are sick: but if you think my father would be ang
ry with me for staying at home, I will go. It is indeed, as you say, a small matter to me where I pass an hour or two; all times, all places — crowds or solitudes — are henceforward indifferent to me. What care I where they bring me! Cousin Emily, I will do whatever you think best.”
The poor girl spoke with a voice and look of such utter wretchedness, that even her lighthearted, worldly, selfish cousin was touched with pity.
“Come, then; I will assist you,” said she, kissing the pale cheek of the heart-stricken girl. “Come, Mary, cheer up, you must call up your good looks it would never do to be seen thus.” And so talking on, she assisted her to dress.
Gaily and richly arrayed in the gorgeous and by no means unbecoming style of the times, and sparkling with brilliant jewels, poor Mary Ashwoode — a changed and stricken creature, scarcely conscious of what was going on around her — took her place in her father’s carriage, and was borne rapidly toward the theatre.
The party consisted of the two young ladies, who were respectively under the protection of Lord Aspenly, who sate beside Mary Ashwoode, happily too much pleased with his own voluble frivolity to require anything more from her than her appearing to hear it, and young Ashwoode, who chatted gaily with his pretty cousin.
“What has become of my venerable true-love, Major O’Leary?” inquired Miss Copland.
“He will follow on horseback,” replied Ashwoode. “I beheld him, as I passed downstairs, admiring himself before the looking-glass in his new regimentals. He designs tremendous havoc tonight. His coat is a perfect phenomenon — the investment of a year’s pay at least — with more gold about it than I thought the country could afford, and scarlet enough to make a whole wardrobe for the lady of Babylon — a coat which, if left to itself, would storm the hearts of nine girls out of ten, and which, even with an officer in it, will enthral half the sex.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 15