Book: Lucretia, Volume 1.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Lucretia, Volume 1.




"That is saying much for her talent, sir; but if so, Heaven help her
intended! I am duly grateful for the blessings you propose me!"

Despite his anger, the old gentleman could not help smiling.

"Why, to confess the truth, she is hard to manage; but we men of the
world know how to govern women, I hope,--much more how to break in a girl
scarce out of her teens. As for this fancy of yours, it is sheer folly:
Lucretia knows my mind. She has seen her mother's fate; she has seen her
sister an exile from my house. Why? For no fault of hers, poor thing,
but because she is the child of disgrace, and the mother's sin is visited
on her daughter's head. I am a good-natured man, I fancy, as men go; but
I am old-fashioned enough to care for my race. If Lucretia demeaned
herself to love, to encourage, that lad, why, I would strike her from my
will, and put your name where I have placed hers."

"Sir," said Vernon, gravely, and throwing aside all affectation of
manner, "this becomes serious; and I have no right even to whisper a
doubt by which it now seems I might benefit. I think it imprudent, if
you wish Miss Clavering to regard me impartially as a suitor to her hand,
to throw her, at her age, in the way of a man far superior to myself, and
to most men, in personal advantages,--a man more of her own years, well
educated, well mannered, with no evidence of his inferior birth in his
appearance or his breeding. I have not the least ground for supposing
that he has made the slightest impression on Miss Clavering, and if he
has, it would be, perhaps, but a girl's innocent and thoughtless fancy,
easily shaken off by time and worldly reflection; but pardon me if I say
bluntly that should that be so, you would be wholly unjustified in
punishing, even in blaming, her,--it is yourself you must blame for your
own carelessness and that forgetful blindness to human nature and
youthful emotions which, I must say, is the less pardonable in one who
has known the world so intimately."

"Charles Vernon," said the old baronet, "give me your hand again! I was
right, at least, when I said you had the heart of a true gentleman. Drop
this subject for the present. Who has just left Lucretia yonder?"

"Your protege, the Frenchman."

"Ah, he, at least, is not blind; go and join Lucretia!"

Vernon bowed, emptied the remains of the Madeira into a tumbler, drank
the contents at a draught, and sauntered towards Lucretia; but she,
perceiving his approach, crossed abruptly into one of the alleys that led
to the other side of the house, and he was either too indifferent or too
well-bred to force upon her the companionship which she so evidently
shunned. He threw himself at length upon one of the benches on the lawn,
and leaning his head upon his hand, fell into reflections which, had he
spoken, would have shaped themselves somewhat thus into words:--

"If I must take that girl as the price of this fair heritage, shall I
gain or lose? I grant that she has the finest neck and shoulders I ever
saw out of marble; but far from being in love with her, she gives me a
feeling like fear and aversion. Add to this that she has evidently no
kinder sentiment for me than I for her; and if she once had a heart, that
young gentleman has long since coaxed it away. Pleasant auspices, these,
for matrimony to a poor invalid who wishes at least to decline and to die
in peace! Moreover, if I were rich enough to marry as I pleased; if I
were what, perhaps, I ought to be, heir to Laughton,--why, there is a
certain sweet Mary in the world, whose eyes are softer than Lucretia
Clavering's. But that is a dream! On the other hand, if I do not win
this girl, and my poor kinsman give her all, or nearly all, his
possessions, Vernon Grange goes to the usurers, and the king will find a
lodging for myself. What does it matter? I cannot live above two or
three years at the most, and can only hope, therefore, that dear stout
old Sir Miles may outlive me. At thirty-three I have worn out fortune
and life; little pleasure could Laughton give me,--brief pain the Bench.
'Fore Gad, the philosophy of the thing is on the whole against sour looks
and the noose!" Thus deciding in the progress of his revery, he smiled,
and changed his position. The sun had set, the twilight was over, the
moon rose in splendour from amidst a thick copse of mingled beech and
oak; the beams fell full on the face of the muser, and the face seemed
yet paler and the exhaustion of premature decay yet more evident, by that
still and melancholy light: all ruins gain dignity by the moon. This was
a ruin nobler than that which painters place on their canvas,--the ruin,
not of stone and brick, but of humanity and spirit; the wreck of man
prematurely old, not stricken by great sorrow, not bowed by great toil,
but fretted and mined away by small pleasures and poor excitements,--
small and poor, but daily, hourly, momently at their gnome-like work.
Something of the gravity and the true lesson of the hour and scene,
perhaps, forced itself upon a mind little given to sentiment, for Vernon
rose languidly and muttered,--

"My poor mother hoped better things from me. It is well, after all, that
it is broken off with Mary. Why should there be any one to weep for me?
I can the better die smiling, as I have lived."

Meanwhile, as it is necessary we should follow each of the principal
characters we have introduced through the course of an evening more or
less eventful in the destiny of all, we return to Mainwaring and
accompany him to the lake at the bottom of the park, which he reached as
its smooth surface glistened in the last beams of the sun. He saw, as he
neared the water, the fish sporting in the pellucid tide; the dragonfly
darted and hovered in the air; the tedded grass beneath his feet gave
forth the fragrance of crushed thyme and clover; the swan paused, as if
slumbering on the wave; the linnet and finch sang still from the
neighbouring copses; and the heavy bees were winging their way home with
a drowsy murmur. All around were images of that unspeakable peace which
Nature whispers to those attuned to her music; all fitted to lull, but
not to deject, the spirit,--images dear to the holiday of the world-worn
man, to the contemplation of serene and retired age, to the boyhood of
poets, to the youth of lovers. But Mainwaring's step was heavy, and his
brow clouded, and Nature that evening was dumb to him. At the margin of
the lake stood a solitary angler who now, his evening's task done, was
employed in leisurely disjointing his rod and whistling with much
sweetness an air from one of Izaak Walton's songs. Mainwaring reached
the angler and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"What sport, Ardworth?"

"A few large roach with the fly, and one pike with a gudgeon,--a noble
fellow! Look at him! He was lying under the reeds yonder; I saw his
green back, and teased him into biting. A heavenly evening! I wonder
you did not follow my example, and escape from a set where neither you
nor I can feel very much at home, to this green banquet of Nature, in
which at least no man sits below the salt-cellar. The birds are an older
family than the St. Johns, but they don't throw their pedigree in our
teeth, Mainwaring."

"Nay, nay, my good friend, you wrong old Sir Miles; proud he is, no
doubt, but neither you nor I have had to complain of his insolence."

"Of his insolence, certainly not; of his condescension, yes! Hang it,
William, it is his very politeness that galls me. Don't you observe that
with Vernon, or Lord A----, or Lord B----, or Mr. C----, he is easy and
off-hand; calls them by their names, pats them on the shoulder, rates
them, and swears at them if they vex him. But with you and me and his
French parasite, it is all stately decorum and punctilious courtesy: 'Mr.
Mainwaring, I am delighted to see you;' 'Mr. Ardworth, as you are so
near, dare I ask you to ring the bell?' 'Monsieur Dalibard, with the
utmost deference, I venture to disagree with you.' However, don't let my
foolish susceptibility ruffle your pride. And you, too, have a worthy
object in view, which might well detain you from roach and jack-fish.
Have you stolen your interview with the superb Lucretia?"

"Yes, stolen, as you say; and, like all thieves not thoroughly hardened,
I am ashamed of my gains."

"Sit down, my boy,--this is a bank in ten thousand; there, that old root
to lean your elbow on, this soft moss for your cushion: sit down and
confess. You have something on your mind that preys on you; we are old
college friends,--out with it!"

"There is no resisting you, Ardworth," said Mainwaring, smiling, and
drawn from his reserve and his gloom by the frank good-humour of his
companion. "I should like, I own, to make a clean breast of it; and
perhaps I may profit by your advice. You know, in the first place, that
after I left college, my father, seeing me indisposed for the Church, to
which he had always destined me in his own heart, and for which, indeed,
he had gone out of his way to maintain me at the University, gave me the
choice of his own business as a surveyor and land-agent, or of entering
into the mercantile profession. I chose the latter, and went to
Southampton, where we have a relation in business, to be initiated into
the elementary mysteries. There I became acquainted with a good
clergyman and his wife, and in that house I passed a great part of my
time."

"With the hope, I trust, on better consideration, of gratifying your
father's ambition and learning how to starve with gentility on a cure."

"Not much of that, I fear."

"Then the clergyman had a daughter?"

"You are nearer the mark now," said Mainwaring, colouring,--"though it
was not his daughter. A young lady lived in his family, not even related
to him; she was placed there with a certain allowance by a rich relation.
In a word, I admired, perhaps I loved, this young person; but she was
without an independence, and I not yet provided even with the substitute
of money,--a profession. I fancied (do not laugh at my vanity) that my
feelings might be returned. I was in alarm for her as well as myself; I
sounded the clergyman as to the chance of obtaining the consent of her
rich relation, and was informed that he thought it hopeless. I felt I
had no right to invite her to poverty and ruin, and still less to
entangle further (if I had chanced to touch at all) her affection. I
made an excuse to my father to leave the town, and returned home."

"Prudent and honourable enough, so far; unlike me,--I should have run off
with the girl, if she loved me, and old Plutus, the rascal, might have
done his worst against Cupid. But I interrupt you."

"I came back when the county was greatly agitated,--public meetings,
speeches, mobs; a sharp election going on. My father had always taken
keen interest in politics; he was of the same party as Sir Miles, who,
you know, is red-hot upon politics. I was easily led--partly by
ambition, partly by the effect of example, partly by the hope to give a
new turn to my thoughts--to make an appearance in public."

"And a devilish creditable one too! Why, man, your speeches have been
quoted with rapture by the London papers. Horribly aristocratic and
Pittish, it is true,--I think differently; but every man to his taste.
Well--"

"My attempts, such as they were, procured me the favour of Sir Miles. He
had long been acquainted with my father, who had helped him in his own
elections years ago. He seemed cordially delighted to patronize the son;
he invited me to visit him at Laughton, and hinted to my father that I
was formed for something better than a counting-house: my poor father was
intoxicated. In a word, here I am; here, often for days, almost weeks,
together, have I been a guest, always welcomed."

"You pause. This is the primordium,--now comes the confession, eh?"

"Why, one half the confession is over. It was my most unmerited fortune
to attract the notice of Miss Clavering. Do not fancy me so self-
conceited as to imagine that I should ever have presumed so high, but
for--"

"But for encouragement,--I understand! Well, she is a magnificent
creature, in her way, and I do not wonder that she drove the poor little
girl at Southampton out of your thoughts."

"Ah! but there is the sore,--I am not sure that she has done so.
Ardworth, I may trust you?"

"With everything but half-a-guinea. I would not promise to be rock
against so great a temptation!" and Ardworth turned his empty pockets
inside out.

"Tush! be serious, or I go."

"Serious! With pockets like these, the devil's in it if I am not
serious. Perge, precor."

"Ardworth, then," said Mainwaring, with great emotion, "I confide to you
the secret trouble of my heart. This girl at Southampton is Lucretia's
sister,--her half-sister; the rich relation on whose allowance she lives
is Sir Miles St. John."

"Whew! my own poor dear little cousin, by the father's side! Mainwaring,
I trust you have not deceived me; you have not amused yourself with
breaking Susan's heart? For a heart, and an honest, simple, English
girl's heart she has."

"Heaven forbid! I tell you I have never even declared my love; and if
love it were, I trust it is over. But when Sir Miles was first kind to
me, first invited me, I own I had the hope to win his esteem; and since
he had always made so strong and cruel a distinction between Lucretia and
Susan, I thought it not impossible that he might consent at last to my
union with the niece he had refused to receive and acknowledge. But even
while the hope was in me, I was drawn on, I was entangled, I was spell-
bound, I know not how or why; but, to close my confidence, while still
doubtful whether my own heart is free from the remembrance of the one
sister, I am pledged to the other."

Ardworth looked down gravely and remained silent. He was a joyous,
careless, reckless youth, with unsteady character and pursuits, and with
something of vague poetry, much of unaccommodating pride about his
nature,--one of those youths little likely to do what is called well in
the world; not persevering enough for an independent career, too blunt
and honest for a servile one. But it was in the very disposition of such
a person to judge somewhat harshly of Mainwaring's disclosure, and not
easily to comprehend what, after all, was very natural,--how a young man,
new to life, timid by character, and of an extreme susceptibility to the
fear of giving pain, had, in the surprise, the gratitude, the emotion, of
an avowed attachment from a girl far above him in worldly position, been
forced, by receiving, to seem, at least, to return her affection. And,
indeed, though not wholly insensible to the brilliant prospects opened to
him in such a connection, yet, to do him justice, Mainwaring would have
been equally entangled by a similar avowal from a girl more his equal in
the world. It was rather from an amiability bordering upon weakness,
than from any more degrading moral imperfections, that he had been
betrayed into a position which neither contented his heart nor satisfied
his conscience.

With far less ability than his friend, Ardworth had more force and
steadiness in his nature, and was wholly free from that morbid delicacy
of temperament to which susceptible and shy persons owe much of their
errors and misfortunes. He said, therefore, after a long pause: "My good
fellow, to be plain with you, I cannot say that your confession has
improved you in my estimation; but that is perhaps because of the
bluntness of my understanding. I could quite comprehend your forgetting
Susan (and, after all, I am left in doubt as to the extent of her
conquest over you) for the very different charms of her sister. On the
other hand, I could still better understand that, having once fancied
Susan, you could not be commanded into love for Lucretia. But I do not
comprehend your feeling love for one, and making love to the other,--
which is the long and short of the business."

"That is not exactly the true statement," answered Mainwaring, with a
powerful effort at composure. "There are moments when, listening to
Lucretia, when, charmed by that softness which, contrasting the rest of
her character, she exhibits to none but me, struck by her great mental
powers, proud of an unsought triumph over such a being, I feel as if I
could love none but her; then suddenly her mood changes,--she utters
sentiments that chill and revolt me; the very beauty seems vanished from
her face. I recall with a sigh the simple sweetness of Susan, and I feel
as if I deceived both my mistress and myself. Perhaps, however, all the
circumstances of this connection tend to increase my doubts. It is
humiliating to me to know that I woo clandestinely and upon sufferance;
that I am stealing, as it were, into a fortune; that I am eating Sir
Miles's bread, and yet counting upon his death; and this shame in myself
may make me unconsciously unjust to Lucretia. But it is useless to
reprove me for what is past; and though I at first imagined you could
advise me for the future, I now see, too clearly, that no advice could
avail."

"I grant that too; for all you require is to make up your mind to be
fairly off with the old love, or fairly on with the new. However, now
you have stated your case thus frankly, if you permit me, I will take
advantage of the strange chance of finding myself here, and watch,
ponder, and counsel, if I can. This Lucretia, I own it, puzzles and
perplexes me; but though no Oedipus, I will not take fright at the
sphinx. I suppose now it is time to return. They expect some of the
neighbours to drink tea, and I must doff my fishing-jacket. Come!"

As they strolled towards the house, Ardworth broke a silence which had
lasted for some moments.

"And how is that dear good Fielden? I ought to have guessed him at once,
when you spoke of your clergyman and his young charge; but I did not know
he was at Southampton."

"He has exchanged his living for a year, on account of his wife's health,
and rather, I think also, with the wish to bring poor Susan nearer to
Laughton, in the chance of her uncle seeing her. But you are, then,
acquainted with Fielden?"

"Acquainted!--my best friend. He was my tutor, and prepared me for Caius
College. I owe him, not only the little learning I have, but the little
good that is left in me. I owe to him apparently, also, whatever chance
of bettering my prospects may arise from my visit to Laughton."

"Notwithstanding our intimacy, we have, like most young men not related,
spoken so little of our family matters that I do not now understand how
you are cousin to Susan, nor what, to my surprise and delight, brought
you hither three days ago."

"Faith, my story is easier to explain than your own, William. Here
goes!"

But as Ardworth's recital partially involves references to family matters
not yet sufficiently known to the reader, we must be pardoned if we
assume to ourselves his task of narrator, and necessarily enlarge on his
details.

The branch of the illustrious family of St. John represented by Sir
Miles, diverged from the parent stem of the Lords of Bletshoe. With them
it placed at the summit of its pedigree the name of William de St. John,
the Conqueror's favourite and trusted warrior, and Oliva de Filgiers.
With them it blazoned the latter alliance, which gave to Sir Oliver St.
John the lands of Bletshoe by the hand of Margaret Beauchamp (by her
second marriage with the Duke of Somerset), grandmother to Henry VII. In
the following generation, the younger son of a younger son had founded,
partly by offices of state, partly by marriage with a wealthy heiress, a
house of his own; and in the reign of James the First, the St. Johns of
Laughton ranked amongst the chief gentlemen of Hampshire. From that time
till the accession of George III the family, though it remained untitled,
had added to its consequence by intermarriages of considerable dignity,--
chosen, indeed, with a disregard for money uncommon amongst the English
aristocracy; so that the estate was but little enlarged since the reign
of James, though profiting, of course, by improved cultivation and the
different value of money. On the other hand, perhaps there were scarcely
ten families in the country who could boast of a similar directness of
descent on all sides from the proudest and noblest aristocracy of the
soil; and Sir Miles St. John, by blood, was, almost at the distance of
eight centuries, as pure a Norman as his ancestral William. His
grandfather, nevertheless, had deviated from the usual disinterested
practice of the family, and had married an heiress who brought the
quarterings of Vernon to the crowded escutcheon, and with these
quarterings an estate of some 4,000 pounds a year popularly known by the
name of Vernon Grange. This rare occurrence did not add to the domestic
happiness of the contracting parties, nor did it lead to the ultimate
increase of the Laughton possessions. Two sons were born. To the elder
was destined the father's inheritance,--to the younger the maternal
property. One house is not large enough for two heirs. Nothing could
exceed the pride of the father as a St. John, except the pride of the
mother as a Vernon. Jealousies between the two sons began early and
rankled deep; nor was there peace at Laughton till the younger had
carried away from its rental the lands of Vernon Grange; and the elder
remained just where his predecessors stood in point of possessions,--sole
lord of Laughton sole. The elder son, Sir Miles's father, had been,
indeed, so chafed by the rivalry with his brother that in disgust he had
run away and thrown himself, at the age of fourteen, into the navy. By
accident or by merit he rose high in that profession, acquired name and
fame, and lost an eye and an arm,--for which he was gazetted, at the same
time, an admiral and a baronet.

Thus mutilated and dignified, Sir George St. John retired from the
profession; and finding himself unmarried, and haunted by the
apprehension that if he died childless, Laughton would pass to his
brother's heirs, he resolved upon consigning his remains to the nuptial
couch, previous to the surer peace of the family vault. At the age of
fifty-nine, the grim veteran succeeded in finding a young lady of
unblemished descent and much marked with the small-pox, who consented to
accept the only hand which Sir George had to offer. From this marriage
sprang a numerous family; but all died in early childhood, frightened to
death, said the neighbours, by their tender parents (considered the
ugliest couple in the county), except one boy (the present Sir Miles) and
one daughter, many years younger, destined to become Lucretia's mother.
Sir Miles came early into his property; and although the softening
advance of civilization, with the liberal effects of travel and a long
residence in cities, took from him that provincial austerity of pride
which is only seen in stanch perfection amongst the lords of a village,
he was yet little less susceptible to the duties of maintaining his
lineage pure as its representation had descended to him than the most
superb of his predecessors. But owing, it was said, to an early
disappointment, he led, during youth and manhood, a roving and desultory
life, and so put off from year to year the grand experiment matrimonial,
until he arrived at old age, with the philosophical determination to
select from the other branches of his house the successor to the heritage
of St. John. In thus arrogating to himself a right to neglect his proper
duties as head of a family, he found his excuse in adopting his niece
Lucretia. His sister had chosen for her first husband a friend and
neighbour of his own, a younger son, of unexceptionable birth and of very
agreeable manners in society. But this gentleman contrived to render her
life so miserable that, though he died fifteen months after their
marriage, his widow could scarcely be expected to mourn long for him. A
year after Mr. Clavering's death, Mrs. Clavering married again, under the
mistaken notion that she had the right to choose for herself. She
married Dr. Mivers, the provincial physician who had attended her husband
in his last illness,--a gentleman by education, manners, and profession,
but unhappily the son of a silk-mercer. Sir Miles never forgave this
connection. By her first marriage, Sir Miles's sister had one daughter,
Lucretia; by her second marriage, another daughter, named Susan. She
survived somewhat more than a year the birth of the latter. On her
death, Sir Miles formally (through his agent) applied to Dr. Mivers for
his eldest niece, Lucretia Clavering, and the physician did not think
himself justified in withholding from her the probable advantages of a
transfer from his own roof to that of her wealthy uncle. He himself had
been no worldly gainer by his connection; his practice had suffered
materially from the sympathy which was felt by the county families for
the supposed wrongs of Sir Miles St. John, who was personally not only
popular, but esteemed, nor less so on account of his pride,--too
dignified to refer even to his domestic annoyances, except to his most
familiar associates; to them, indeed, Sir Miles had said, briefly, that
he considered a physician who abused his entrance into a noble family by
stealing into its alliance was a character in whose punishment all
society had an interest. The words were repeated; they were thought just.
Those who ventured to suggest that Mrs. Clavering, as a widow, was a free
agent, were regarded with suspicion. It was the time when French
principles were just beginning to be held in horror, especially in the
provinces, and when everything that encroached upon the rights and
prejudices of the high born was called "a French principle." Dr. Mivers
was as much scouted as if he had been a sans-culotte. Obliged to quit
the county, he settled at a distance; but he had a career to commence
again; his wife's death enfeebled his spirits and damped his exertions.
He did little more than earn a bare subsistence, and died at last, when
his only daughter was fourteen, poor and embarrassed On his death-bed he
wrote a letter to Sir Miles reminding him that, after all, Susan was his
sister's child, gently vindicating himself from the unmerited charge of
treachery, which had blasted his fortunes and left his orphan penniless,
and closing with a touching yet a manly appeal to the sole relative left
to befriend her. The clergyman who had attended him in his dying moments
took charge of this letter; he brought it in person to Laughton, and
delivered it to Sir Miles. Whatever his errors, the old baronet was no
common man. He was not vindictive, though he could not be called
forgiving. He had considered his conduct to his sister a duty owed to
his name and ancestors; she had placed herself and her youngest child out
of the pale of his family. He would not receive as his niece the grand-
daughter of a silk-mercer. The relationship was extinct, as, in certain
countries, nobility is forfeited by a union with an inferior class. But,
niece or not, here was a claim to humanity and benevolence, and never yet
had appeal been made by suffering to his heart and purse in vain.

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