Book: Lucretia, Volume 2.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Lucretia, Volume 2.




The pen lay on the ground, where it had dropped from the hand; the letter
on the table was scarcely commenced: the words ran thus,--

"LUCRETIA,--You will return no more to my house. You are free as if I
were dead; but I shall be just. Would that I had been so to your mother,
to your sister! But I am old now, as you say, and--"

To one who could have seen into that poor proud heart at the moment the
hand paused forever, what remained unwritten would have been clear.
There was, first, the sharp struggle to conquer loathing repugnance, and
address at all the false and degraded one; then came the sharp sting of
ingratitude; then the idea of the life grudged and the grave desired;
then the stout victory over scorn, the resolution to be just; then the
reproach of the conscience that for so far less an offence the sister had
been thrown aside, the comfort, perhaps, found in her gentle and
neglected child obstinately repelled; then the conviction of all earthly
vanity and nothingness,--the look on into life, with the chilling
sentiment that affection was gone, that he could never trust again, that
he was too old to open his arms to new ties; and then, before felt
singly, all these thoughts united, and snapped the cord.

In announcing his mournful intelligence, with more feeling than might
have been expected from a lawyer (but even his lawyer loved Sir Miles),
Mr. Parchmount observed that "as the deceased lay at a hotel, and as Miss
Clavering's presence would not be needed in the performance of the last
rites, she would probably forbear the journey to town. Nevertheless, as
it was Sir Miles's wish that the will should be opened as soon as
possible after his death, and it would doubtless contain instructions as
to his funeral, it would be well that Miss Clavering and her sister
should immediately depute some one to attend the reading of the testament
on their behalf. Perhaps Mr. Fielden would kindly undertake that
melancholy office."

To do justice to Lucretia, it must be said that her first emotions, on
the receipt of this letter, were those of a poignant and remorseful
grief, for which she was unprepared. But how different it is to count on
what shall follow death, and to know that death has come! Susan's
sobbing sympathy availed not, nor Mr. Fielden's pious and tearful
exhortations; her own sinful thoughts and hopes came back to her,
haunting and stern as furies. She insisted at first upon going to
London, gazing once more on the clay,--nay, the carriage was at the door,
for all yielded to her vehemence; but then her heart misgave her: she did
not dare to face the dead. Conscience waved her back from the solemn
offices of nature; she hid her face with her hands, shrank again into her
room; and Mr. Fielden, assuming unbidden the responsibility, went alone.

Only Vernon (summoned from Brighton), the good clergyman, and the lawyer,
to whom, as sole executor, the will was addressed, and in whose custody
it had been left, were present when the seal of the testament was broken.
The will was long, as is common when the dust that it disposes of covers
some fourteen or fifteen thousand acres. But out of the mass of
technicalities and repetitions these points of interest rose salient: To
Charles Vernon, of Vernon Grange, Esq., and his heirs by him lawfully
begotten, were left all the lands and woods and manors that covered that
space in the Hampshire map known by the name of the "Laughton property,"
on condition that he and his heirs assumed the name and arms of St. John;
and on the failure of Mr. Vernon's issue, the estate passed, first (with
the same conditions) to the issue of Susan Mivers; next to that of
Lucretia Clavering. There the entail ceased; and the contingency fell to
the rival ingenuity of lawyers in hunting out, amongst the remote and
forgotten descendants of some ancient St. John, the heir-at-law. To
Lucretia Clavering, without a word of endearment, was bequeathed 10,000
pounds,--the usual portion which the house of St. John had allotted to
its daughters; to Susan Mivers the same sum, but with the addition of
these words, withheld from her sister: "and my blessing!" To Olivier
Dalibard an annuity of 200 pounds a year; to Honore Gabriel Varney, 3,000
pounds; to the Rev. Matthew Fielden, 4,000 pounds; and the same sum to
John Walter Ardworth. To his favourite servant, Henry Jones, an ample
provision, and the charge of his dogs Dash and Ponto, with an allowance
therefor, to be paid weekly, and cease at their deaths. Poor old man! he
made it the interest of their guardian not to grudge their lease of life.
To his other attendants, suitable and munificent bequests, proportioned
to the length of their services. For his body, he desired it to be
buried in the vault of his ancestors without pomp, but without a pretence
to a humility which he had not manifested in life; and he requested that
a small miniature in his writing-desk should be placed in his coffin.
That last injunction was more than a sentiment,--it bespoke the moral
conviction of the happiness the original might have conferred on his
life. Of that happiness his pride had deprived him; nor did he repent,
for he had deemed pride a duty. But the mute likeness, buried in his
grave,--that told the might of the sacrifice he had made! Death removes
all distinctions, and in the coffin the Lord of Laughton might choose his
partner.

When the will had been read, Mr. Parchmount produced two letters, one
addressed, in the hand of the deceased, to Mr. Vernon, the other in the
lawyer's own hand to Miss Clavering. The last enclosed the fragment
found on Sir Miles's table, and her own letter to Mainwaring, redirected
to her in Sir Miles's boldest and stateliest autograph. He had, no
doubt, meant to return it in the letter left uncompleted.

The letter to Vernon contained a copy of Lucretia's fatal epistle, and
the following lines to Vernon himself:--

MY DEAR CHARLES,--With much deliberation, and with natural reluctance to
reveal to you my niece's shame, I feel it my duty to transmit to you the
accompanying enclosure, copied from the original with my own hand, which
the task sullied.

I do so first, because otherwise you might, as I should have done in your
place, feel bound in honour to persist in the offer of your hand,--feel
bound the more, because Miss Clavering is not my heiress; secondly,
because had her attachment been stronger than her interest, and she had
refused your offer, you might still have deemed her hardly and
capriciously dealt with by me, and not only sought to augment her
portion, but have profaned the house of my ancestors by receiving her
there as an honoured and welcome relative and guest. Now, Charles Vernon,
I believe, to the utmost of my poor judgment, I have done what is right
and just. I have taken into consideration that this young person has been
brought up as a daughter of my house, and what the daughters of my house
have received, I bequeath her. I put aside, as far as I can, all
resentment of mere family pride; I show that I do so, when I repair my
harshness to my poor sister, and leave both her children the same
provision. And if you exceed what I have done for Lucretia, unless, on
more dispassionate consideration than I can give, you conscientiously
think me wrong, you insult my memory--and impugn my justice. Be it in
this as your conscience dictates; but I entreat, I adjure, I command, at
least that you never knowingly admit by a hearth, hitherto sacred to
unblemished truth and honour, a person who has desecrated it with
treason. As gentleman to gentleman, I impose on you this solemn
injunction. I could have wished to leave that young woman's children
barred from the entail; but our old tree has so few branches! You are
unwedded; Susan too. I must take my chance that Miss Clavering's
children, if ever they inherit, do not imitate the mother. I conclude
she will wed that Mainwaring; her children will have a low-born father.
Well, her race at least is pure,--Clavering and St. John are names to
guarantee faith and honour; yet you see what she is! Charles Vernon, if
her issue inherit the soul of gentlemen, it must come, after all, not
from the well-born mother! I have lived to say this,--I who-- But
perhaps if we had looked more closely into the pedigree of those
Claverings--.

Marry yourself,--marry soon, Charles Vernon, my dear kinsman; keep the
old house in the old line, and true to its old fame. Be kind and good to
my poor; don't strain on the tenants. By the way, Farmer Strongbow owes
three years' rent,--I forgive him. Pension him off; he can do no good to
the land, but he was born on it, and must not fall on the parish. But to
be kind and good to the poor, not to strain the tenants, you must learn
not to waste, my dear Charles. A needy man can never be generous without
being unjust. How give, if you are in debt? You will think of this now,-
-now,--while your good heart is soft, while your feelings are moved.
Charley Vernon, I think you will shed a tear when you see my armchair
still and empty. And I would have left you the care of my dogs, but you
are thoughtless, and will go much to London, and they are used to the
country now. Old Jones will have a cottage in the village,--he has
promised to live there; drop in now and then, and see poor Ponto and
Dash. It is late, and old friends come to dine here. So, if anything
happens to me, and we don't meet again, good-by, and God bless you.

Your affectionate kinsman, MILES ST. JOHN.




CHAPTER VII.

THE ENGAGEMENT.

It is somewhat less than three months after the death of Sir Miles St.
John; November reigns in London. And "reigns" seems scarcely a
metaphorical expression as applied to the sullen, absolute sway which
that dreary month (first in the dynasty of Winter) spreads over the
passive, dejected city.

Elsewhere in England, November is no such gloomy, grim fellow as he is
described. Over the brown glebes and changed woods in the country, his
still face looks contemplative and mild; and he has soft smiles, too, at
times,--lighting up his taxed vassals the groves; gleaming where the
leaves still cling to the boughs, and reflected in dimples from the waves
which still glide free from his chains. But as a conqueror who makes his
home in the capital, weighs down with hard policy the mutinous citizens
long ere his iron influence is felt in the province, so the first tyrant
of Winter has only rigour and frowns for London. The very aspect of the
wayfarers has the look of men newly enslaved: cloaked and muffled, they
steal to and fro through the dismal fogs. Even the children creep
timidly through the streets; the carriages go cautious and hearse-like
along; daylight is dim and obscure; the town is not filled, nor the brisk
mirth of Christmas commenced; the unsocial shadows flit amidst the mist,
like men on the eve of a fatal conspiracy. Each other month in London
has its charms for the experienced. Even from August to October, when
The Season lies dormant, and Fashion forbids her sons to be seen within
hearing of Bow, the true lover of London finds pleasure still at hand, if
he search for her duly. There are the early walks through the parks and
green Kensington Gardens, which now change their character of resort, and
seem rural and countrylike, but yet with more life than the country; for
on the benches beneath the trees, and along the sward, and up the malls,
are living beings enough to interest the eye and divert the thoughts, if
you are a guesser into character, and amateur of the human face,--fresh
nursery-maid and playful children; and the old shabby-genteel, buttoned-
up officer, musing on half-pay, as he sits alone in some alcove of Kenna,
or leans pensive over the rail of the vacant Ring; and early tradesman,
or clerk from the suburban lodging, trudging brisk to his business,--for
business never ceases in London. Then at noon, what delight to escape to
the banks at Putney or Richmond,--the row up the river; the fishing punt;
the ease at your inn till dark! or if this tempt not, still Autumn shines
clear and calm over the roofs, where the smoke has a holiday; and how
clean gleam the vistas through the tranquillized thoroughfares; and as
you saunter along, you have all London to yourself, Andrew Selkirk, but
with the mart of the world for your desert. And when October comes on,
it has one characteristic of spring,--life busily returns to the city;
you see the shops bustling up, trade flowing back. As birds scent the
April, so the children of commerce plume their wings and prepare for the
first slack returns of the season. But November! Strange the taste,
stout the lungs, grief-defying the heart, of the visitor who finds charms
and joy in a London November.

In a small lodging-house in Bulstrode Street, Manchester Square, grouped
a family in mourning who had had the temerity to come to town in
November, for the purpose, no doubt, of raising their spirits. In the
dull, small drawing-room of the dull, small house we introduce to you,
first, a middle-aged gentleman whose dress showed what dress now fails to
show,--his profession. Nobody could mistake the cut of the cloth and the
shape of the hat, for he had just come in from a walk, and not from
discourtesy, but abstraction, the broad brim still shadowed his pleasant,
placid face. Parson spoke out in him, from beaver to buckle. By the
coal fire, where, through volumes of smoke, fussed and flickered a
pretension to flame, sat a middle-aged lady, whom, without being a
conjurer, you would pronounce at once to be wife to the parson; and
sundry children sat on stools all about her, with one book between them,
and a low whispered murmur from their two or three pursed-up lips,
announcing that that book was superfluous. By the last of three dim-
looking windows, made dimmer by brown moreen draperies, edged genteelly
with black cotton velvet, stood a girl of very soft and pensive
expression of features,--pretty unquestionably, excessively pretty; but
there was something so delicate and elegant about her,--the bend of her
head, the shape of her slight figure, the little fair hands crossed one
on each other, as the face mournfully and listlessly turned to the
window, that "pretty" would have seemed a word of praise too often
proffered to milliner and serving-maid. Nevertheless, it was perhaps the
right one: "handsome" would have implied something statelier and more
commanding; "beautiful," greater regularity of feature, or richness of
colouring. The parson, who since his entrance had been walking up and
down the small room with his hands behind him, glanced now and then at
the young lady, but not speaking, at length paused from that monotonous
exercise by the chair of his wife, and touched her shoulder. She stopped
from her work, which, more engrossing than elegant, was nothing less than
what is technically called "the taking in" of a certain blue jacket,
which was about to pass from Matthew, the eldest born, to David, the
second, and looked up at her husband affectionately. Her husband,
however, spoke not; he only made a sign, partly with his eyebrow, partly
with a jerk of his thumb over his right shoulder, in the direction of the
young lady we have described, and then completed the pantomime with a
melancholy shake of the head. The wife turned round and looked hard, the
scissors horizontally raised in one hand, while the other reposed on the
cuff of the jacket. At this moment a low knock was heard at the street-
door. The worthy pair saw the girl shrink back, with a kind of tremulous
movement; presently there came the sound of a footstep below, the creak
of a hinge on the ground-floor, and again all was silent.

"That is Mr. Mainwaring's knock," said one of the children.

The girl left the room abruptly, and, light as was her step, they heard
her steal up the stairs.

"My dears," said the parson, "it wants an hour yet to dark; you may go
and walk in the square."

"'T is so dull in that ugly square, and they won't let us into the green.
I am sure we'd rather stay here," said one of the children, as spokesman
for the rest; and they all nestled closer round the hearth.

"But, my dears," said the parson, simply, "I want to talk alone with your
mother. However, if you like best to go and keep quiet in your own room,
you may do so."

"Or we can go into Susan's?"

"No," said the parson; "you must not disturb Susan."

"She never used to care about being disturbed. I wonder what's come to
her?"

The parson made no rejoinder to this half-petulant question. The
children consulted together a moment, and resolved that the square,
though so dull, was less dull than their own little attic. That being
decided, it was the mother's turn to address them. And though Mr.
Fielden was as anxious and fond as most fathers, he grew a little
impatient before comforters, kerchiefs, and muffettees were arranged, and
minute exordiums as to the danger of crossing the street, and the risk of
patting strange dogs, etc., were half-way concluded; with a shrug and a
smile, he at length fairly pushed out the children, shut the door, and
drew his chair close to his wife's.

"My dear," he began at once, "I am extremely uneasy about that poor
girl."

"What, Miss Clavering? Indeed, she eats almost nothing at all, and sits
so moping alone; but she sees Mr. Mainwaring every day. What can we do?
She is so proud, I'm afraid of her."

"My dear, I was not thinking of Miss Clavering, though I did not
interrupt you, for it is very true that she is much to be pitied."

"And I am sure it was for her sake alone that you agreed to Susan's
request, and got Blackman to do duty for you at the vicarage, while we
all came up here, in hopes London town would divert her. We left all at
sixes and sevens; and I should not at all wonder if John made away with
the apples."

"But, I say," resumed the parson, without heeding that mournful
foreboding,--"I say, I was then only thinking of Susan. You see how pale
and sad she is grown."

"Why, she is so very soft-hearted, and she must feel for her sister."

"But her sister, though she thinks much, and keeps aloof from us, is not
sad herself, only reserved. On the contrary. I believe she has now got
over even poor Sir Miles's death." "And the loss of the great property!"

"Fie, Mary!" said Mr. Fielden, almost austerely.

Mary looked down, rebuked, for she was not one of the high-spirited wives
who despise their husbands for goodness.

"I beg pardon, my dear," she said meekly; "it was very wrong in me; but I
cannot--do what I will--I cannot like that Miss Clavering."

"The more need to judge her with charity. And if what I fear is the
case, I'm sure we can't feel too much compassion for the poor blinded
young lady."

"Bless my heart, Mr. Fielden, what is it you mean?"

The parson looked round, to be sure the door was quite closed, and
replied, in a whisper: "I mean, that I fear William Mainwaring loves, not
Lucretia, but Susan."

The scissors fell from the hand of Mrs. Fielden; and though one point
stuck in the ground, and the other point threatened war upon flounces and
toes, strange to say, she did not even stoop to remove the chevaux-de-
frise.

"Why, then, he's a most false-hearted young man!"

"To blame, certainly," said Fielden; "I don't say to the contrary,--
though I like the young man, and am sure that he's more timid than false.
I may now tell you--for I want your advice, Mary--what I kept secret
before. When Mainwaring visited us, many months ago, at Southampton, he
confessed to me that he felt warmly for Susan, and asked if I thought Sir
Miles would consent. I knew too well how proud the poor old gentleman
was, to give him any such hopes. So he left, very honourably. You
remember, after he went, that Susan's spirits were low,--you remarked
it."

"Yes, indeed, I remember. But when the first shock of Sir Miles's death
was over, she got back her sweet colour, and looked cheerful enough."

"Because, perhaps, then she felt that she had a fortune to bestow on Mr.
Mainwaring, and thought all obstacle was over."

"Why, how clever you are! How did you get at her thoughts?"

"My own folly,--my own rash folly," almost groaned Mr. Fielden. "For not
guessing that Mr. Mainwaring could have got engaged meanwhile to
Lucretia, and suspecting how it was with Susan's poor little heart, I let
out, in a jest--Heaven forgive me!--what William had said; and the dear
child blushed, and kissed me, and--why, a day or two after, when it was
fixed that we should come up to London, Lucretia informed me, with her
freezing politeness, that she was to marry Mainwaring herself as soon as
her first mourning was over."

"Poor, dear, dear Susan!"

"Susan behaved like an angel; and when I broached it to her, I thought
she was calm; and I am sure she prayed with her whole heart that both
might be happy."

"I'm sure she did. What is to be done? I understand it all now. Dear
me, dear me! a sad piece of work indeed." And Mrs. Fielden abstractedly
picked up the scissors.

"It was not till our coming to town, and Mr. Mainwaring's visits to
Lucretia, that her strength gave way."

"A hard sight to bear,--I never could have borne it, my love. If I had
seen you paying court to another, I should have--I don't know what I
should have done! But what an artful wretch this young Mainwaring must
be."

"Not very artful; for you see that he looks even sadder than Susan. He
got entangled somehow, to be sure. Perhaps he had given up Susan in
despair; and Miss Clavering, if haughty, is no doubt a very superior
young lady; and, I dare say, it is only now in seeing them both together,
and comparing the two, that he feels what a treasure he has lost. Well,
what do you advise, Mary? Mainwaring, no doubt, is bound in honour to
Miss Clavering; but she will be sure to discover, sooner or later, the
state of his feelings, and then I tremble for both. I'm sure she will
never be happy, while he will be wretched; and Susan--I dare not think
upon Susan; she has a cough that goes to my heart."

"So she has; that cough--you don't know the money I spend on black-
currant jelly! What's my advice? Why, I'd speak to Miss Clavering at
once, if I dared. I'm sure love will never break her heart; and she's so
proud, she'd throw him off without a sigh, if she knew how things stood."

"I believe you are right," said Mr. Fielden; "for truth is the best
policy, after all. Still, it's scarce my business to meddle; and if it
were not for Susan-- Well, well, I must think of it, and pray Heaven to
direct me."

This conference suffices to explain to the reader the stage to which the
history of Lucretia had arrived. Willingly we pass over what it were
scarcely possible to describe,--her first shock at the fall from the
expectations of her life; fortune, rank, and what she valued more than
either, power, crushed at a blow. From the dark and sullen despair into
which she was first plunged, she was roused into hope, into something
like joy, by Mainwaring's letters. Never had they been so warm and so
tender; for the young man felt not only poignant remorse that he had been
the cause of her downfall (though she broke it to him with more delicacy
than might have been expected from the state of her feelings and the
hardness of her character), but he felt also imperiously the obligations
which her loss rendered more binding than ever. He persuaded, he urged,
he forced himself into affection; and probably without a murmur of his
heart, he would have gone with her to the altar, and, once wedded, custom
and duty would have strengthened the chain imposed on himself, had it not
been for Lucretia's fatal eagerness to see him, to come up to London,
where she induced him to meet her,--for with her came Susan; and in
Susan's averted face and trembling hand and mute avoidance of his eye, he
read all which the poor dissembler fancied she concealed. But the die
was cast, the union announced, the time fixed, and day by day he came to
the house, to leave it in anguish and despair. A feeling they shared in
common caused these two unhappy persons to shun each other. Mainwaring
rarely came into the usual sitting-room of the family; and when be did
so, chiefly in the evening, Susan usually took refuge in her own room.
If they met, it was by accident, on the stairs, or at the sudden opening
of a door; then not only no word, but scarcely even a look was exchanged:
neither had the courage to face the other. Perhaps, of the two, this
reserve weighed most on Susan; perhaps she most yearned to break the
silence,--for she thought she divined the cause of Mainwaring's gloomy
and mute constraint in the upbraidings of his conscience, which might
doubtless recall, if no positive pledge to Susan, at least those words
and tones which betray the one heart, and seek to allure the other; and
the profound melancholy stamped on his whole person, apparent even to her
hurried glance, touched her with a compassion free from all the
bitterness of selfish reproach. She fancied she could die happy if she
could remove that cloud from his brow, that shadow from his conscience.
Die; for she thought not of life. She loved gently, quietly,--not with
the vehement passion that belongs to stronger natures; but it was the
love of which the young and the pure have died. The face of the Genius
was calm and soft; and only by the lowering of the hand do you see that
the torch burns out, and that the image too serene for earthly love is
the genius of loving Death.

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