‘Sir!’ said Emmeline, astonished at the peremptory tone and strange purport of these words.
‘It is my custom,’ resumed Sir Richard, ‘when I am upon business, to speak plainly, and straitly, and to the point. This then is what I have to propose — You are acquainted with Mr. Rochely, the great banker?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘He offers to my Lord Montreville to marry you; and to make settlements on you equal to what you might have claimed, had you a right to be considered as a daughter of the house of Mowbray. His real fortune is very great; his annual income superior to that of many of the nobility; and there can be no reason, indeed none will be allowed, or listened to, or heard of, why you should not eagerly, and instantly, and joyfully accept a proposal so infinitely superior to what you have any claim, or right, or pretence to.’
This was almost too much for poor Emmeline. Anger and disdain, which she found fast rising in her bosom, restrained her tears: but her eyes flashed indignantly on the unfeeling politician who thus so indelicately addressed her.
He would not give her time to speak; but seemed determined to overwhelm her imagination at once with the contrast he placed before her.
‘If,’ continued he, ‘you will agree to become the wife of Mr. Rochely, as soon as settlements can be prepared, my Lord Montreville, of whose generosity, and greatness of mind, and liberality, too much cannot be said, offers to consider you as being really his niece; as being really a daughter of the Mowbray family; and, that being so considered, you may not be taken by any man portionless, he will, on the day of marriage, present, and settle on, and give you, three thousand pounds.
‘Now, Miss Mowbray, consider, and weigh, and reflect on this well: and give me leave, in order that you may form a just judgment, to tell you the consequence of your refusal.
‘My Lord Montreville, who is not obliged to give you the least assistance, or support, or countenance, does by me declare, that if you are so weak (to call it by no harsher name) as to refuse this astonishing, and amazing, and singular good fortune, he shall consider you as throwing off all duty, and regard, and attention to him; and as one, with whose fate it will be no longer worth his while to embarrass, perplex, and concern himself. From that moment, therefore, you must drop the name of Mowbray, to which in fact you have no right, and take that of your mother, whatever it be; and you must never expect from my Lord Montreville, or the Mowbray-Delamere family, either countenance, or support, or protection.
‘Now, Miss Mowbray, your answer. The proposition cannot admit of deliberation, or doubt, or hesitation, and my Lord expects it by me.’
The presence of mind which a very excellent understanding and a very innocent heart gave to Emmeline, was never more requisite than on this occasion. The rude and peremptory manner of the speaker; the dreadful alternative of Rochely on one side, and indigence on the other, thus suddenly and unexpectedly brought before her; was altogether so overcoming, that she could not for a moment collect her spirits enough to speak at all. She sighed; but her agitation was too great for tears; and at length summoning all her courage, she replied —
‘My Lord Montreville, Sir, would have been kinder, had he delivered himself his wishes and commands. Such, however, as I now receive them, they require no deliberation. I will not marry Mr. Rochely, tho’ instead of the fortune you describe, he could offer me the world. — Lord Montreville may abandon me, but he shall not make me wretched. Tell him therefore, Sir,’ (her spirit rose as she spoke) ‘that the daughter of his brother, unhappy as she is, yet boasts that nobleness of mind which her father possessed, and disclaims the mercenary views of becoming, from pecuniary motives, the wife of a man whom she cannot either love or esteem. Tell him too, that if she had not inherited a strong sense of honour, of which at least her birth does not deprive her, she might now have been the wife of Mr. Delamere, and independant of his Lordship’s authority; and it is improbable, that one who has sacrificed so much to integrity, should now be compelled by threats of indigence to the basest of all actions, that of selling her person and her happiness for a subsistence. I beg that you, Sir, who seem to have delivered Lord Montreville’s message, with such scrupulous exactness, will take the trouble to be as precise in my answer; and that his Lordship will consider it as final.’
Having said this, with a firmness of voice and manner which resentment, as well as a noble pride, supplied; she arose, curtseyed composedly to Sir Richard, and went out of the room; leaving the unsuccessful ambassador astonished at that strength of mind, and dignity of manner, which he did not expect in so young a woman, and somewhat mortified, that his masculine eloquence, on which he was accustomed to pride himself, and which he thought generally unanswerable, had so entirely fallen short of the effect he expected.
Unwilling however to return to Lord Montreville without hopes of success, he thought he might obtain at least some information from Mrs. Ashwood of the likeliest means to move her untractable and high spirited friend. He therefore rang the bell, and desired to speak with that lady. But as she was not yet returned from the house of her father, where a family meeting was held to inspect his will, Sir Richard failed of attempting to secure her agency; and was obliged, however reluctantly, to depart.
Emmeline, whose command of herself was exerted with too much violence not to shake her whole frame with it’s effects, no sooner reached her own chamber than she found all her courage gone, and a violent passion of tears succeeded.
Her deep convulsive sighs reached the ears of Miss Galton; who entered the room, and began, in the common mode of consolation, first to enquire why she wept?
Emmeline answered only by weeping the more.
Miss Galton enquired if that gentleman was Lord Montreville.
Emmeline was unable to reply; and Miss Galton finding no gratification to her curiosity, which, mingled with envious malignity, had long been her ruling passion, was obliged to quit the unhappy Emmeline; which was indeed the only favour she could do her.
The whole morning had passed before Miss Mowbray was able to come down stairs, and when she did, her languor and dejection were excessive. Miss Galton only dined with her; if it might be called dining, for she eat nothing; but just as the cloth was removed, a coach stopped, and Mrs. Ashwood appeared, led by her brother, Mr. Stafford.
Emmeline, who had not very lately heard from her beloved friend, now eagerly enquired after her, and learned that the illness of one of her children had, together with her being far advanced in her pregnancy, prevented her coming to London with Mr. Stafford; who, tho’ summoned thither immediately on his father’s death, had only arrived the evening before; the messenger that went having missed him at his own house, and having been obliged to follow him into another county.
He delivered to Miss Mowbray a letter from Mrs. Stafford, with which Emmeline, eager to read it, retired —
‘Trust me, Emmeline, no abatement in my tender regard, has occasioned my omitting to write to you: but anxiety of mind so great, as to deprive me of all power to attend to any thing but it’s immediate object. — Your poor little friend Harry, who looked so much recovered, and so full of health and spirits, when you left him at Swansea, was three weeks ago seized again with one of those fevers to which he has so repeatedly been liable, and for many days his life appeared to be in the most immediate danger. You know how far we are from a physician; and you know my anxiety for this first darling of my heart; judge then, my Emmeline, of the miserable hours I have known, between hope and fear, and the sleepless nights I have passed at the bed side of my suffering cherub; and in my present state I doubly feel all this anxiety and fatigue, and am very much otherwise than well. Of myself, however, I think not, since Harry is out of danger, and Dr. Farnaby thinks will soon be entirely restored; but he is still so very weak, that I never quit him even a moment. The rest of my children are well; and all who are capable of recollection, remember and love you.
‘And now, my dear Miss Mowbray, as the visitors who have been with me ever since
my return from Swansea, are happily departed and no others expected, and as Mr. Stafford will be engaged in town almost all the winter, in consequence of his father’s death, will you not come to me? You only can alleviate and share a thousand anxieties that prey on my spirits; you only can sweeten the hour of my confinement, which will happen in January; and before you only I can sigh at liberty and be forgiven.
‘Ah! Emmeline — the death of Mr. Stafford’s father, far from producing satisfaction as increasing our fortune, brings to me only regret and sorrow. He loved me with great affection; and I owe him a thousand obligations. The family will have reason to regret his loss; tho’ the infirmities of the latter part of his life were not much alleviated by their attendance or attention.
‘Come to me, Emmeline, if possible; come, if you can, with Mr.
Stafford; or if he is detained long in town, come without him. I will send my post-chaise to meet you at Basingstoke. Lord Montreville cannot object to it; and Delamere, whom you have never mentioned, has, I conclude, given way to the peremptory commands of his father, and has determined to forget my Emmeline.
‘Is it then probable any one can forget her? I know not of what the volatile and thoughtless Delamere may be capable; but I know that of all things it would be the most impossible to her truly attached and affectionate,
C. Stafford.’
Woodfield, Nov. 30.
This letter gave great relief to the mind of the dejected Emmeline. That her first and dearest friend, opened at this painful crisis her consolatory bosom to receive and pity her; and that she should have the power to share her fatigue, and lessen the weight of her anxiety during the slow recovery of her child; seemed to be considerations which softened all the anguish she had endured during the day.
She was however too much disordered to go down to tea; and told Mrs. Ashwood, who civilly came up to enquire after her, that she had a violent pain in her head and would go to bed.
Mrs. Ashwood, full of her increased fortune, and busied in studying to make her deep mourning as becoming as possible, let her do as she would, and thought no more about her.
She had therefore time to meditate at leisure on her wayward fate: and some surprise that Delamere had not appeared the whole day, mingled itself with her reflections.
Poor Delamere was not to blame. Lord Montreville had sent him very early in the morning to desire to see him for five minutes on business of consequence.
Delamere, who from what had passed the evening before had indulged, during the night, the fondest dreams of happiness, obeyed the summons not without some hopes that he should hear all his favourable presages confirmed. When he came, however, his father, waving all discourse that related to Emmeline or himself, affected to consult him on a proposal he had received for his eldest sister, which the family were disposed to promote; and after detaining him as long as he could on this and on other subjects, he desired him to send to his lodgings for Millefleur, and to dress as expeditiously as possible, in order to accompany him to dine at Lord Dornock’s, a Scottish nobleman, with whom his Lordship was deeply engaged in the depending negociation with Ministry; and who was at his seat, about nine miles from London.
Delamere reluctantly engaged in such a party. But however short his father’s discourse fell of what he hoped, he yet determined to get the better of his repugnance and obey him; still flattering himself that Lord Montreville would lead to the subject nearest his heart, or that in the course of the day he should at least have an opportunity of introducing it.
They therefore set out together, on the most amicable terms, in Lord Montreville’s coach. But as they had taken up on their way a gentleman who held a place under Lord Dornock, his presence prevented any conversation but on general subjects, during their short journey.
The dinner passed as such dinners generally do — too much in the secret to touch on politics, all such discourse was carefully avoided at the table of Lord Dornock.
In literature they had no resource; and therefore the conversation chiefly turned on the pleasure they were then enjoying — that of the luxuries of the table. They determined on the merits of the venison of the past season; settled what was the best way of preparing certain dishes; and whose domain produced the most exquisite materials for others. And on these topics a society of cooks could not have more learnedly descanted.
Delamere, not yet of an age to be initiated into the noble science of eating, and among whose ideas of happiness the delights of gratifying his palate had not yet been numbered, heard them with impatience and disgust.
He was obliged, however, to stay while the wines were criticised as eloquently as the meats had been; and to endure a long harangue from the master of the house, on cote roti and lacryma Christi; and after the elder part of the company had adjusted their various merits and swallowed a sufficient quantity, the two noblemen retired to a private conference; and Delamere, obliged to move into a circle of insipid women, took refuge in cards, which he detested almost as much as the entertainment he had just quitted.
The hours, however slowly, wore away, and his patience was almost exhausted: soon after ten o’clock he ventured to send to his father, to know whether he was ready to return to town? but he received a message in reply, ‘that he had determined to stay all night where he was.’
Vexed and angry, Delamere began to suspect that his father had some design in thus detaining him at a distance from Emmeline; and fired by indignation at this idea, equally scorning to submit to restraint or to be detained by finesse, he disengaged himself from the card table, fetched his hat, and without speaking to any body, walked to the next village, where he got into a post-chaise and was presently in London; but as it was almost twelve o’clock, he forbore to visit Emmeline that night.
CHAPTER XVI
As soon as there was any probability of Emmeline’s being visible the next morning, Delamere was at Clapham.
The servant of whom he enquired for her, told him, that Miss Mowbray had not yet rung her bell, and that as it was later than her usual hour, she was afraid it was owing to her being ill.
Alarmed at this intelligence, Delamere eagerly questioned her further; and learned that the preceding morning, a gentleman who had never been there before, had been to see Miss Mowbray, and had staid with her about three quarters of an hour, during which he had talked very loud; and that after he was gone, she had hastened to her own room, crying sadly, and had seemed very much vexed the whole day afterwards. That when she went to bed, which was early in the evening, she had sighed bitterly, and said she was not well. The servants, won by the sweetness and humanity with which Emmeline treated them, all seemed to consider her health and happiness as their own concern; and the girl who delivered this intelligence to Delamere, had been very much about her, and knowing her better, loved her more than the others.
Delamere could not doubt the truth of this account; yet he could not conjecture who the stranger could be, in whose power it was thus to distress Emmeline. But dreading lest some scheme was in agitation to take her from him, he sat in insupportable anxiety ‘till she should summons the maid.
Her music book lay open on a piano forte in the breakfast parlour. A song which he had a few days before desired her to learn, as being one which particularly charmed him, seemed to have been just copied into it, and he fancied the notes and the writing were executed with more than her usual elegance. Under it was a little porte feuille of red morocco. Delamere took it up. It was untied; and two or three small tinted drawings fell out. He saw the likeness of Mrs. Stafford, done from memory; one yet more striking of his sister Augusta; and two or three unfinished resemblances of persons he did not know, touched with less spirit than the other two. A piece of silver paper doubled together enclosed another; he opened it — it was a drawing of himself, done with a pencil, and slightly tinged with a crayon; strikingly like; but it seemed unfinished, and somewhat effaced.
Though among so many other portraits, this could not be considered as a very flattering d
istinction, Delamere, on seeing it, was not master of his transports. He now believed Emmeline (whom he could never induce to own that her partiality for him exceeded the bounds of friendship) yet cherished in her heart a passion she would not avow.
While he was indulging these sanguine and delicious hopes, he heard a bell ring, and flew to enquire if it was that of Emmeline?
The maid, who crossed the hall to attend it’s summons, told him it was. He stepped softly up stairs behind the servant, and waited at the door of the chamber while she went in.
To the question, from the maid, ‘how she did?’ Emmeline answered, ‘much better.’
‘Mr. Delamere is here, Madam, and begs to know whether he may see you?’
Emmeline had expected him all the day before, and was not at all surprised at his coming now. But she knew not what she should say to him. To dissimulate was to her almost impossible; yet to tell him what had passed between her and Sir Richard Crofts was to create dissentions of the most alarming nature between him and his father; for she knew Delamere would immediately and warmly resent the harshness of Lord Montreville.
She could not however determine to avoid seeing Delamere; and she thought his Lordship was not entitled to much consideration, after the indelicate and needless shock he had given her, by employing the peremptory, insolent, and unfeeling Sir Richard Crofts.
After a moment’s hesitation, she told Nanny to let Mr. Delamere know that as soon as she was dressed she would be with him in the parlour.
Delamere, who heard the message, stepped softly down stairs, replaced the drawings, and waited the entrance of Emmeline; who neither requiring or accustoming herself to borrow any advantage from art or ornament, was soon dressed in her usual simple undress.
But to give some appearance of truth to what she intended to alledge, a cold, in excuse for her swollen eyes and languid looks, she wrapt a gauze hood over her head, and tied a black ribband round her throat; for tho’ she could not wholly conceal the truth from Delamere, she wished to prevent his seeing how much it had affected her.
Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Page 42