"How impossible," thought I, as the stranger in Hyde Park, as I last saw him, or fancied I saw him blush, crossed my mind. I was not disposed to admire anything else, indeed; but I rather think Graham was pedantic.
He spoke to me a good deal of Fred Lamb, with whom he had been travelling on the Continent.
"Fred Lamb has often been jealous of me," said Graham; "but he would be jealous of any man; yet I have always liked Fred much better than ever he liked me."
"His passion for women is so very violent," I observed, "that somehow or other, it disgusted me."
"All ladies are not so refined," replied Graham, laughing.
"Perhaps not," answered I; "perhaps I may not be so refined when I like my man better."
Street was all this time making hard love to Fanny. Poor Street though a very pleasant man, is, as he knows, a very ugly one. Fanny's extreme good nature was always a Refuge for the Destitute. If ever there was a lame, a deaf, a blind, or an ugly man, in our society, Fanny invariably made up to that man immediately, to put him in countenance. Nay, she would, I believe, have made up to the Duke of Devonshire, blind, deaf, absent and all, had he fallen in her way.
At this moment, my ear caught the word cruel, as applied to Fanny by Street.
"Quite the reverse, Fanny is all goodness," I exclaimed.
"Yes," rejoined Street, "as far as words go."
"It is you, Mr. Street, who cruelly neglect me, on the contrary," said Fanny, laughing.
"Never!" answered Street, laying his hand on his heart.
"Then why did you not call at the oilshop?" Fanny asked; alluding to the place where she had formerly been lodging for a short time in Park Street, and to which she had invited Street.
"Wounded pride!" observed Street.
"She would have poured oil into your wounds," said Lord Hertford.
"I'll thank you to pass me another bottle of this bad claret," squeaked out Croker; "for I must be candid enough to say that I like it much."
"I wont abuse it again," Lord Hertford observed, "for fear you should get drunk."
I now grew tired of waiting for Amy to make a first move, and began to think she was ill disposed in the humility of her heart to take upon her the privilege of eldest sister: so I made it for her and we retired to Lowther's drawing-room, from which we took a peep into his dressing-room, where we found a set of vile, dirty combs, brushes, towels, and dressing-gowns. Lowther, who always has a pain in his liver, and knows not how to take kindly to his bottle, entered his apartment, just as we were loudest in our exclamations of horror and dismay, as these said dirty objects offered themselves to our view.
"For heaven's sake," said Amy, with whom Lowther was certainly in love, "do turn away your valet, and burn these nasty, dirty brushes and things."
"It will be no use, I believe," replied Lowther; "for every valet will copy his master."
"What! then," exclaimed Amy, "you admit the master is dirty?"
Lowther feared he must plead guilty.
"I am very glad I ran away from you," retorted Amy, who had gone with him into the country, and afterwards cut him because he did not ask for a separate dressing-room at the inns on the road.
The other gentlemen soon joined us in the drawing-room, drank their coffee, and then we were all on to the Opera.
I had the honour of taking Mr. Graham there in my carriage with Fanny. Amy went with Lord Lowther.
We found Julia in our private box, alone and half asleep, dressed very elegantly; and, in my opinion, looking very interesting and well.
"What, alone?" said I. "Why do you not make the men more civil?" and I introduced her to young Graham.
Julia had lately got nearly to the bottom of her heroics with Cotton. She was ashamed to admit the idea even to herself; she never would own it to me: but the fact was, she was tired of Cotton, and dying, and sighing, and longing secretly for something new. Young and beautiful, her passions, like those of a man, were violent and changeable; in addition to which she had lately suffered every possible indignity and inconvenience which debts and duns could inflict; besides, Fanny and I, who knew that Mr. Cotton had a wife and large family at home, had laboured with all our hearts to disgust Julia with Cotton, believing that it would be for the good of both that they separated for ever. Cotton had not a shilling to spare for the support of Julia's children; and Julia's accouchements took place regularly once in eleven months. She had often vainly applied to her parents, as well as to her uncle, Lord Carysfort, who only wrote to load her with reproaches.
As soon as Graham had left us, Julia expressed her admiration of him, in very warm terms.
"He has no money," said Fanny; "besides, I can see that he is making up to Harriette. Do, my dear Julia, consider all your beautiful children; and, if you can leave Cotton to his poor wife, and must form another connection, let it be with some one who can contribute to the support of your young family."
Julia assured us she was at that moment actually in expectation of being arrested; and she entreated that Fanny or I would make an application to some of her noble relations, which she promised to do.
This point being decided, she again talked of Graham's beauty, wondered where he was, and anxiously inquired whether I was sure that he had taken a fancy for me.
"Not a bit sure," I replied. "I know nothing at all of the matter, neither do I care."
Fanny then related all about my last meeting with my stranger and his dog to Julia, who seemed to understand my sensations much better than Fanny did.
"Oh, mon Dieu?" interrupted I, "there is in that box next to Lady Foley's, a man—no, it is still handsomer than my stranger! and yet" (the stranger turned his head towards our side of the house)—"Oh!" continued I, taking hold of Fanny's hand, in a fit of rapture, "it is he! only his hat, till now, concealed that beautiful head of hair."
"Where? where?" cried out they both at once.
"Oh! that some one would come into our box now and tell us who he is!" I exclaimed.
"How provoking you are," said Julia. "Why do not you point out the man to us?"
"It is that man, who is laughing.—Oh! I had no idea that his teeth were so very beautiful!"
"Dear me, how tiresome," observed Fanny, quietly. "If you will not tell us which is your man let us talk of something else."
"He is there," replied I, "next to Lady Foley's box, leaning on his arm."
Julia put her glass to her eye as usual; being remarkably short-sighted she could distinguish nothing without it.
"I know him," said Julia, after fixing him for some time.
"Not much?" I observed, almost breathless. "Did you ever speak to him?"
"I have met him in society, when I was a girl," continued Julia; "but I was intimate with a girl, to whom, when young, he proposed. Her wedding clothes were made; she used to sleep in my room, with his picture round her neck. She adored him beyond all that could be imagined of love and devotion, and within a few days of their proposed marriage he declared off. His excuse was that his father refused his consent."
"For many years," continued Julia, "my friend's sufferings were severe; her parents trembled for her reason. No one was permitted to name her former lover in her presence. She is now Lady Conyngham."
"And his name?" said I.
"Lord Ponsonby, who is supposed to be the handsomest man in England: but he must now be forty, if not more," replied Julia.
"I wish he were sixty," I answered. "As it is, I have no chance: but indeed I never thought I had. He is a sort of man I think I could be wicked enough to say my prayers to. I could live in his happiness only without his knowing me. I could wait for hours near his house for the chance of seeing him pass or hearing his voice."
Fanny laughed outright.
Julia only exclaimed, "Well done, Harriette! You are more romantic than ever I was at your age, and I thought that was impossible."
"You did not love Lord Ponsonby," retorted I.
"True," said Julia: "badinage apart, Ponsonby is, as I have always been told, very near perfection. But what chance can you have? He is married to the loveliest creature on earth—the youngest daughter of Lord Jersey."
"I knew very well," sighed I despondingly, "before I heard of his marriage, that I should never be anything to him."
"I will tell you where he lives," said Julia. "It is in Curzon Street, May Fair."
"Well then," thought I, "at least when he passes me, I shall not, as yesterday, fancy I am looking at him for the last time."
Upon the whole my spirits were violently elated this evening. Lord Ponsonby I believe did not perceive me. I was most anxious, yet afraid, to see his wife.
"I cannot find her box," observed Julia, "else I should know her immediately."
We now lost sight of his lordship for some time, he having left the box I first saw him in. I perceived him for an instant afterwards, but missed him altogether before the opera was over.
"I am glad I have not seen his wife," said I, after we were seated in the carriage. "I hope I shall never see her as long as I live."
I resolved now to make no kind of advances to become acquainted with Lord Ponsonby; but on the very next evening I indulged myself in passing his house at least fifty times. I saw and examined the countenances of his footmen and the colour of his window-curtains: even the knocker of his door escaped not my veneration, since Lord Ponsonby must have touched it so often. My very nature seemed now to have undergone a change. I began to dislike society, and considered the unfortunate situation I had fallen into with horror; because I fancied Lord Ponsonby would despise me. I often reflected whether there might yet be some mighty virtue in my power, some sacrifice of self, some exertion of energy, by which I might, one day, deserve to be respected, or to have my memory respected by Lord Ponsonby after I was dead.
The fact is, I really now lived but in his sight, and I only met him once or twice in a week, to see him pass me without notice, At last I began to believe he really did see me in the park with pleasure, when by any accident late in the evening, I happened to be alone and the park empty. Once he rode behind me to my very door, and passed it, without seeming to look at me: the dread of being by him accused of boldness ever prevented my observation.
This day, on entering my house, I mounted hastily up into my garret, and got upon the leads, there to watch if Lord Ponsonby turned back, or whether he had merely followed me by accident on his way somewhere else. He rode on almost as far as I could see, and then turned back again, and galloped hastily by my door as though afraid of being observed by me.
"Suppose he were to love me!" thought I, and the idea caused my heart to beat wildly. I would not dwell upon it. It was ridiculous. It would only expose me to after-disappointment. What was I, that Lord Ponsonby should think about me? What could I ever be to him? Still there was no reason which I could discover, why I might not love Lord Ponsonby. I was made for love, and I looked for no return. I should have liked him to have been assured that for the rest of his life mine was devoted to him. In short, though I scarcely ventured to admit it, hope did begin to predominate. I was young, and my wishes had hitherto rarely been suppressed by disappointment.
My reflections were interrupted by my servant, who brought me a letter from George Brummell, full of nonsensical vows and professions. "When," he wrote, "beautiful Harriette, will you admit me into your house? Why so obstinately refuse my visits? Tell me, I do entreat you, when I may but throw myself at your feet without fear of derision from a public homage on the pavement, or dislocation from the passing hackney coaches?" The rest I have forgotten.
Wellington called on me the next morning before I had finished my breakfast. I tried him on every subject I could muster. On all, he was most impenetrably taciturn. At last he started an original idea of his own; actual copyright, as Stockdale would call it.
"I wonder you do not get married, Harriette!"
(By-the-bye, ignorant people are always wondering.)
"Why so?"
Wellington, however, gives no reason for anything unconnected with fighting, at least since the Convention of Cintra, and he therefore again became silent. Another burst of attic sentiment blazed forth.
"I was thinking of you last night, after I got into bed," resumed Wellington.
"How very polite to the duchess," I observed. "Apropos to marriage, duke, how do you like it?"
Wellington, who seems to make a point of never answering one, continued, "I was thinking—I was thinking that you will get into some scrape, when I go to Spain."
"Nothing so serious as marriage neither, I hope!"
"I must come again to-morrow, to give you a little advice," continued Wellington.
"Oh, let us have it all out now, and have done with it."
"I cannot," said Wellington, putting on his gloves, and taking a hasty leave of me.
"I am glad he is off," thought I, "for this is indeed very uphill work. This is worse than Lord Craven."
As soon as he was gone, I hastened to Curzon Street. The window-shutters of Lord Ponsonby's house were all closed. How disappointed and low-spirited I felt at the idea that his lordship had left town! Suspense was insufferable; so I ventured to send my servant to inquire when the family were expected in London.
"In about a month," was the answer. "I must forget this man," thought I, "it is far too great a bore": and yet I felt that to forget him was impossible.
Things went on in the same way for a week or two. Amy had closed with Mr. Sydenham's proposal, and changed her name to that of Mrs. Sydenham. She called on Fanny one morning, when her drawing-room was half full of beaux.
"Beautiful Amy, how do you do?" said Nugent, with that eternal smile of his!—it is so vulgar to be always looking joyful, and full of glee, I cannot think what he can mean by it.
"Oh," said Amy, withdrawing her hand, "I must never flirt, nor have any beaux again, I must now lead a pure, virtuous, chaste, and proper life."
"Who has laid such an appalling embargo on you?" I asked.
"Why, do you not know that Sydenham and I are become man and wife? and that I have changed my name and my home for his?"
After wishing Mrs. Sydenham joy I took my leave. On reaching home I found young Freeling in my drawing-room, waiting to pay his respects to me.
I began to think I had scarcely done this young man justice, he appeared so very humble, quiet and amiable. He blushed exceedingly when I addressed him, but—never mind the vanity—it proceeded more from a sort of respectful growing passion towards me, than, as I had at first imagined, from mauvaise honte.
Freeling was not fashionable, as I have said before; but I must add that I believe even his enemy could say nothing worse of him.
"I will not deceive you," said I to him one day, seeing he was inclined to follow the thing up steadily, under the impression perhaps that faint heart never won fair lady. "Some women would make use of your attentions, your money, and your private boxes, as long as possible; but I will say this of myself, I know there is not much to be said in my favour, I never do what I feel to be ungenerous or wrong. I shall receive you with pleasure as a friend at any time; but if you were to sit down and sigh for a twelvemonth, you would never get any further. No speeches, now! You are an interesting young man whom thousands of amiable women would like, and life is short. L'amour ne se commande pas, perhaps you are going to tell me; and my answer is, that I am sure it cannot long survive hope, and for you indeed there is none."
Freeling blushed and looked melancholy and undecided.
"Shake hands and forgive me," said I, "Allons. Un peu de philosophie, mon ami. Que vaut la belle, qui détourne la bouche? How ridiculous a fine, tall, well-looking young man like you will appear, sitting under one of the willow-trees, in the Green Park!"
Freeling smiled.
"There now, I see it is over already," I continued, and changed the subject, which Freeling had the good sense and good taste never to renew; and what is more, the good heart to take an opportunity of doing me a very essential service, some months afterwards, when I believed he had forgotten me altogether.
"And pray, madam," the reader may ask, "how came you to be such a monster, as to call this kind, generous-hearted man a bore, and a general postman, some time ago?"
I do not know I am sure; I really am very sorry for it now; but then the book never will be finished, if I am to stop to make corrections and alterations; moreover, Stockdale has run away with that part of my manuscript: so to proceed——
Some short time after this mighty elopement, the Duke of Wellington, who, I presume, had discovered the tough qualities of his heart, which contributed to obtain him such renown in the field of battle, possessed no more merit for home service or ladies' uses than did his good digestion, betook himself again to the wars. He called to take a hasty leave of me a few hours before his departure.
"I am off for Spain directly," said Wellington.
I know not how it was but I grew melancholy. Wellington had relieved me from many duns, which else had given me vast uneasiness. I saw him there, perhaps for the last time in my life. Ponsonby was nothing to me, and out of town; in fact, I had been in bad spirits all the morning, and strange, but very true, and he remembers it still, when I was about to say, "God bless you, Wellington!" I burst into tears. They appeared to afford rather an unusual unction to his soul, and his astonishment seemed to me not quite unmixed with gratitude.
"If you change your home," said Wellington, kissing my cheek, "let me find your address at Thomas's Hotel, as soon as I come to England; and, if you want anything in the meantime, write to Spain; and do not cry; and take care of yourself: and do not cut me when I come back."
"Do you hear?" said Wellington; first wiping away some of my tears with my handkerchief; and then, kissing my eyes, he said, "God bless you!" and hurried away.
Argyle continued to correspond with me; but, if one might judge from the altered style of his letters, Wellington had made a breach in his grace's late romantic sentiments in my favour. Breach-making was Wellington's trade, you know; and little as men of Argyle's nation might be expected to care about breeches, yet the idea of Wellington often made him sigh; and sometimes he whistled, which, with Argyle, was just the same thing.
I forgot to mention, that, on the day after I met a certain great man at Julia's house, my servant informed me a gentleman in the parlour desired to speak to me.
"Why do not you bring his name?" said I.
"The gentleman says it does not signify," was my footman's answer.
"Go, and tell him that I think it does signify; and that I will not receive people who are ashamed either of me or themselves."
The man hesitated.
"Stay," said I, "I will put it down for you," and I wrote what I had said on a bit of paper.
My servant brought me back the paper, on the blank side of which was written, with a pencil, one word.
I sent it down again, with these words written underneath the word, on purpose to put him in a passion, "Don't know anybody in that shire."
The servant returned once more, with one of his lordship's printed cards, assuring me the gentleman in the parlour was walking about in a great passion.
I desired him to be shown upstairs; and, when he entered, I stood up, as though waiting to hear why he intruded on me.
"I believe, madam," said his lordship, "some apology is due to you from me."
"Are you going to tell me that you were tipsy, when you last did me the favour to mistake my house for an inn, or something worse?"
"No! certainly not," answered the peer.
"Were you quite sober?"
"Perfectly."
"Then your late conduct admits of no apology, and you could offer none which would not humble and greatly wound my pride, to avoid which I must take the liberty of wishing you a good morning."
I then rang my bell and left him.
More than a month had now elapsed since Lord Ponsonby left London, and I perceived no signs of his return. Yet I never forgot him, although half the fine young men in town were trying to please me. Amy continued to give her parties, but soberly; that is to say, Sydenham insisted on having his house quiet before three in the morning. One evening, when Fanny and Julia dined with me, I got up from my table to open my window, and I saw Lord Ponsonby, who was slowly riding by my house, with his face turned towards my window. This time there could be no doubt as to his blushing. My happiness was now of a nature too pure to be trifled with, and I know I could not endure to have it intruded on by any commonplace remarks. I kept his appearance therefore a profound secret; although I found it the most difficult thing possible to talk on any other subject, I thought these women never would have left me. They took their leave however at last; but not till near twelve o'clock.
I could not sleep a wink all night! At nine the next morning I rang my bell, being quite worn out with attempting it. My maid entered my room with a letter, which had just arrived by the twopenny post. It was as follows;
"I have long been very desirous to make your acquaintance: will you let me? A friend of mine has told me something about you; but I am afraid you were then only laughing at me; et il se peut, qu'un homme passé, ne soit bon que pour cela! I hope, at all events, that you will write me one line, to say you forgive me, and direct it to my house in town.
"P."
I will not attempt to describe all I felt on the receipt of this first epistle from Lord Ponsonby. I am now astonished at that infatuation, which could render a girl like me possessed certainly of a very feeling, affectionate heart, thus thoughtless and careless of the fate of another: and that other a young, innocent and lovely wife! Had anybody reminded me that I was now about to inflict perhaps the deepest wound in the breast of an innocent wife, I hope and believe I should have stopped there; and then what pain and bitter anguish I had been spared; but I declare to my reader that Lady Fanny Ponsonby never once entered my head.
I had seen little or nothing of the world. I never possessed a really wise friend, to set me right, advise or admonish me. My mother had ever seemed happiest in my father's absence, nor did she vex or trouble herself to watch his steps; and I did not know, or at all events I did not think, my seeking Lord Ponsonby's acquaintance would be likely to injure any one of my fellow creatures; or I am sure such a reflection must have embittered that pure state of happiness I now enjoyed.
This was my answer to Lord Ponsonby's letter:
"For the last five months I have scarcely lived but in your sight, and everything I have done or wished, or hoped or thought about, has had a reference to you and your happiness. Now tell me what you wish.
"HARRIETTE."
Reply:
"I fancy, though we never met, that you and I are in fact acquainted, and understand each other perfectly. If I do not affect to disbelieve you, you will not say I am vain; and when I tell you that we cannot meet immediately, owing to a very severe domestic calamity, you will not say I am cold. In the meantime will you write to me? The little watch I have got for you, I am not quite satisfied with. I have seen one in better taste, and flatter. But my poor father is dying and counts the minutes of my absence, or I could have found one to please you. However, you will keep this for my sake. I will leave it myself at your house this evening. I can scarcely describe to you how exhausted I am; for I have passed the whole of the three last nights by the bedside of my sick father, without rest. I know he will have your prayers. At midnight, let us pray for him, together. He has been suffering more than five months. Adieu, dear Harriette."
Lord Ponsonby's solitary rides with his dog, his paleness, and that melancholy expression of countenance, which at once interested me so deeply, were now accounted for. During three weeks more we corresponded daily. His father continued to exist, and that was all. I learned from his lordship's letters that, on the night we saw him for a few moments at the opera, his father was pronounced out of danger, and country-air was recommended to him, which, having produced no favourable change, nothing now could save him. My happiness, while that correspondence went on, was the purest, the most exalted, and the least allied to sensuality, of any I ever experienced in my life. Ponsonby, I conceived, was now mine, by right mine, by that firm courage which made me feel ready to endure any imaginable evil for his sake. I was morally certain that nothing in existence could love Lord Ponsonby, or could feel the might and majesty of his peculiarly intellectual beauty as I did.
"My beloved," so he wrote to me at last, "my spirits and health fail me; they are worn out and exhausted, with this close confinement. My poor father no longer suffers, or is scarcely sensible. My brother George will take my place by his bedside. Let us meet this evening, and you will console me. I shall go to you at nine."
Lord Ponsonby was then coming to me at last! I began to fear the expression of his eyes, so penetrating, so very bright. I began to think myself under the influence of a dream, and that he was not coming; then I feared sudden death would deprive me of him. I heard the knock, and his footsteps on the stairs; and then that most godlike head uncovered, that countenance, so pale, so still, and so expressive, the mouth of such perfect loveliness; the fine clear, transparent, dark skin. I looked earnestly in his face, I watched for that characteristic blush which made me fancy his body thought, to be certain of my own happiness! and then my overflowing heart was relieved by a flood of tears.
"My dear, dear, little Harriette," said Ponsonby, drawing me towards him, and passing his arm softly round my waist, "let us be happy now we are met." My smile must have been expressive of the most heartfelt felicity; yet our happiness was of that tranquil nature which is nearer allied to melancholy than to mirth. We conversed together all night, with my head resting on his shoulder. An age could not have made us better acquainted! Ponsonby's health and spirits were evidently quite exhausted by anxiety and want of rest. Neither of us desired anything, while thus engaged in conversation. Yes, perhaps, I did, as my eyes were fixed, for hours, on his beautiful and magnificent countenance, feel my own lips almost tremble, as I thought they would be pressed to his, and Ponsonby seemed to understand and feel my wishes, for he said, in answer to nothing but the expression of my eyes—
"No, not to night! I could not bear your kiss to night. We will dream about it till to-morrow."
Ponsonby assured me, in the course of our tête-à-tête, that the first time he had seen me, was one day when I lived at Somers-town two years before. For three or four days after that, he could think of nothing else. He met me with Argyle again, and wished to forget me; but, added he, "I, being the shyest poor wretch in the world, have ever held anything like notoriety in the greatest dread. I abhor it! therefore, when you came out at the opera, and I heard all the fine young men talking about you, it was not so difficult to forget you; and yet, though you did not see me, I was always looking at you, and trying to hear some one talk about you. When we met latterly in the Park, there was something so natural and unaffected, and wild, about your manner, that I began to forget your notoriety."
Ponsonby then told me all about the poor old woman to whom I had given half a crown in the Park; but what he said on that head was far too flattering for me to repeat. It was past five in the morning when we separated.
"You are so ill and fatigued," said I, "dear Ponsonby, that I will not let you come to me to-morrow night."
"Oh, but I must!" answered Ponsonby.
"Indeed you must rest."
"Impossible!" he replied.
We made no professions of love to each other—not one; for we were as certain, as of our existence, that we were mutually adored; and yet we passed the night together, and parted, without a kiss, to meet early the following evening.
At nine o'clock on the following evening, Ponsonby entered the room, an altered man. He was one of the very few persons I have met with in my life, who, from the natural extreme reserve and shyness of their disposition, absolutely required to be a very little tipsy before they can give their brilliant imaginations fair play. Ponsonby had slept, drunk a little more claret, and, what lately had been unusual to him owing to his father's lingering illness, had put on an evening dress. He appeared now so much more beautiful than I had ever imagined any mortal mixture of earth's clay, that I began to lose my confidence in myself and tremble. There was too a look of success about him, for indeed the humblest man on earth must have borrowed courage from the reflection of Ponsonby's looking-glass on that evening: and there he sat for half an hour, laughing and showing his brilliant teeth, while he related to me many witty things which had been said by his uncle, whom he had just left—the George Ponsonby, now no more, who spoke so well on the Opposition side.
"Can one endure this any longer," thought I. I was getting into a fever. "Perhaps he does not love me!"
"You are so proud of being dressed to-night!" I remarked with some drollery, and I thought he never would have ceased laughing at me.
It was very tiresome.
"The fact is," said Ponsonby, in his sweet voice, the beauteous tones of which nobody ever did or will dispute, "the fact is, I really am proud of it; for I have not worn shoes before for these last three months; but," added he, "do you know what I am most proud of in the world, and which, poor as I am, upon my honour, I would not exchange, at this moment, for a hundred thousand pounds?"
"No!—--"
"I will tell you,—my place in your heart and your arms this evening." He put his arms round my waist, and my lips were nearly touching his. Ponsonby's cheek was now tinged with the glowing blush of passion; yet he turned from my kiss like a spoiled child.
"No!" said Ponsonby, shaking his head, "I have a thousand things to tell you."
"I cannot listen to one of them," said I, faintly, and our lips met in one long, long delicious kiss! so sweet, so ardent! that it seemed to draw the life's warm current from my youthful heart to reanimate his with all its wildest passion.
And then!—yes, and then, as Sterne, says,—and then we parted.
The next day, at past three o'clock, Fanny found me in bed.
"How abominably idle!" said Fanny.
I answered that I was not well.
"You do not look very bad," Fanny replied; "on the contrary, I have not seen you look so well, nor your eyes so bright, for some time."
"Well," said I, "if you really think me out of danger, I will get up."
"Come!" answered Fanny, "shall I ring for your maid? I want you to take me to Julia's."
While I was dressing, Fanny informed me that she had given up her own house to go and live with Julia.
"I rather prefer living alone," she continued, "but Julia is so very dull, and my paying half her rent will also be of service to her."
"And some of your beaux may perhaps be brought to flirt with her, poor thing!" added I, "for really their neglect is very hard upon her."
Much more beauty, it should seem, is required to please without virtue than with it, since, it is said, that Julia at her mamma's made conquests every where and every hour. Even the Regent himself once said he would travel a hundred miles to have the pleasure of seeing her dance.
Her dancing, we both agreed, was perfection: speaking of what was most truly graceful, effeminate and ladylike.
"Brummell has been with her, making strong love lately," said Fanny.
"Oh, the shocking deceiver! Tell Julia not to believe one word he says."
I inquired how Amy and Sydenham went on.
"Pretty well," answered Fanny. "Sydenham is not only a very good-natured, but a remarkably clever, and well-bred man. Amy tries his patience too, a little, with his passion for books; she is always taking them out of his hand, and making him look at her attitudes before the glass, or her attempts at the shawl-dance."
"What does Sydenham do for the Marquis of Wellesley?" I asked.
"Everything, I believe," Fanny replied. "He appears to write all his letters and papers, in the shape of business; and so I believe he did in India; but I know that Wellesley does nothing except by his advice."
"Pray does Lord Wellesley make his love too, as well as his reputation, by proxy?"
"I do not know," answered Fanny, laughing, "although, I believe he passed a good deal of his time formerly with the lady they call Mrs. Moll Raffles," as Fanny designated her in her zeal to be civil.
"I never saw anybody in such spirits as you to-day," Fanny remarked to me, when we got into the carriage. "I am afraid there is some mischief in the wind. What has become of Lord Ponsonby?"
I was too happy to talk about it, so I contrived to change the subject. "Where shall I take you to?" I inquired.
"To Julia's, where I am now settled. I went there yesterday," was Fanny's answer.
"This world is really made to be laughed at," said Fanny, suddenly leaning her head out of the carriage window.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"That man," said Fanny, "with his grave face and his large board, hoisted up, standing there, challenging the world, as if he were Don Quixote come to life again."
"What for?" said I.
"Bayley's Blacking. Can one conceive anything so absurd?"
I set her down as desired, and begged her to make my excuse to Julia, who was at her window with Horace Beckford, the handsome nephew of Lord Rivers. He appeared inclined to pay her attention, if one might judge by the soft smile which was playing about his features: but then he was eternally smiling.
I found my very constant and steady admirer, Lord Frederick Bentinck, waiting for me, prepared, as usual, to give me a world of advice. He told me that I was going on in a very bad way, and asked me whither I expected to go?
"Where are you going to?" said I, as he walked into my dressing-room, and seemed to admire himself in my large glass.
"I am going to see the Duchess of York," said Fred Bentinck.
"What of that!" I returned. "Where are your gloves?"
"I never wear them, unless at court; but I have got on a new pair of leather breeches to-day, and I want to see now they fit by your glass."
Brummell at this moment was announced.
"How very apropos you are arrived," I remarked. "Lord Frederick wants your opinion on his new leather breeches."
"Come here, Fred Bentinck!" said Brummell. "But there is only one man on earth who can make leather breeches!"
"Mine were made by a man in the Haymarket," Bentinck observed, looking down at them with much pride; for he very seldom sported anything new.
"My dear fellow, take them off directly!" said Brummell.
"I beg I may hear of no such thing," said I, hastily—"else, where would he go to, I wonder, without his small-clothes?"
"You will drive me out of the house, Harriette," said Fred Bentinck; and then put himself into attitudes, looking anxiously and very innocently, from George Brummell to his leather breeches, and from his leather breeches to the looking-glass.
"They only came home this morning," proceeded Fred, "and I thought they were rather neat."
"Bad knees, my good fellow! bad knees!" said Brummell, shrugging up his shoulders.
"They will do very well," I remarked. "Fred Bentinck do start a new subject, for first with my latter end and then with your own, this is quite worn out."
"I am sorry," said Fred Bentinck, "very sorry to say that I am afraid you will turn out bad."
"What do you call bad?"
"Why profligate! and wicked."
"Oh! you don't say so? what do you mean by wicked?"
"Why—why, in short," continued Frederick—"in short, shall I drive you down to Greenwich to dinner?"
"And suppose I should grow wicked on the road?" said I.
"Do you know what the Duke of York says of you Fred?" said Brummell.
"The Duke of York talks in a very nasty way," said Fred Bentinck, "I—I, for my part, hate all immodest conversation."
"And that is the reason why I save up all the odd stories I can learn, for you and for you only," I observed. "And yet you come here every day?"
"As to you," said Fred, "you are a beautiful creature, and I come to try to reform you, or else what will become of you when you grow old?"
"Age cannot wither me, nor custom stale my infinite variety:" was my reply.
"You are mad!" said Fred Bentinck.
"And you are monstrous top-heavy! and madness being often light-headedness, I wish you would go mad too."
"Apropos, Mr. Brummell," said I turning to him. "I have never yet had time to acknowledge your effusion; and I have the less regret on that score, because I learned from Fanny to-day that you are false-hearted."
"Julia and I," said Brummell, "are very old friends, you know."
"True," said I, "which, I suppose, accounts for her preference of Horace Beckford."
Brummell's pride appeared to take alarm as he inquired if Julia really admired Horace.
"I know nothing whatever about it," answered I, "except that I saw them both at the window together to-day."
Brummell seized his hat.
"Take Fred Bentinck with you," said I.
"Come Fred," said Brummell; "but you have not heard what the Duke of York says of you."
"I can guess," replied Fred, trying to make his goodnatured face severe and cross.
"Oh! he has accused you to your face, I see," reiterated Brummell.
"So much the better," said Fred Bentinck, "a man cannot be too virtuous."
"Talking of virtue," I remarked to Fred, "really that brother Charles of yours made himself rather too ridiculous by writing those letters to Lady Abdy about his intention to die, in case she continued cruel."
"I have no more patience with Charles Bentinck than you have," said Frederick, "particularly with his bringing Lady Abdy to my brother's house. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself."
"I do not know anything about that, I only allude to the folly of a strong young man like Charles Bentinck, sitting down to his muffins and eggs in a state of perfect health, and, with his mouth crammed full of both, calling for half a sheet of paper to write to Lady Abdy, that he was, at that present writing, about to die! and therefore took up his pen, to request her to be kind to his daughter Georgiana when he should be no more!"
"I do not set up for a remarkably clever fellow," Fred Bentinck observed; "but if I had made such a fool of myself as Charles did in that business, I would blow my brains out!"
"You are helping him out of it nicely," Brummell observed to Fred Bentinck.
"I have no patience with people who expose themselves," continued Fred Bentinck; "because it is in everybody's power to be silent: and, as to love-letters, a man has no excuse for writing them."
"There's no wisdom below the girdle, some philosopher said in old times," I remarked.
"I wish I could break you of that dreadful habit of making such indecent allusions, Harriette!" said Fred Bentinck.
"I never make them to any one but you."
"I'll give you ten pounds if you will let me burn this book," said Bentinck, taking up Fanblas.
"In the meantime," I continued, "you seem to be glancing your eye over it with something like satisfaction, for a man, such as the Duke of York describes, of unblemished reputation for chastity! But, to revert to your brother's dying, with the hot muffins in his mouth, for Lady Abdy. Would not a man, who really and seriously had made up his mind to die for love, have written a little note and, after sealing it with a death's head or something of that kind, have hidden it somewhere, to be delivered when he should be defunct—instead of talking of death, like Shakespeare's
'——certain Lord, neat and trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom and his chin new reap'd.'"
"Thank God," said Fred Bentinck, laughing, "I shall never be in love!"
"Why you adore me, and have done so for the last twelvemonth," said I; "but I want you to transfer your love to a friend of mine."
"Do Fred," said Brummell, taking up his hat, "moderate your passion if possible, and be sure to burn those leather breeches of yours."
"I want you," continued I, after Brummell had left us, "I want you to fall in love with Julia Johnstone."
"She is a fine woman," answered Fred Bentinck; "only I am so afraid she should love me in return; and if you, Julia, or any woman were to love me, I should be sick directly."
"How do you know?" I asked; "who on earth ever tried you that way?"
"Why, there was a woman six years ago," said Frederick, "who certainly did love me."
"How very extraordinary!" I remarked.
"At least," continued Bentinck, "she gave me such proofs as no man could doubt, and I assure you I was never so sick, or so disgusted, in my whole life; and so I am now whenever I happen to meet her."
"Fiez vous à moi, donc," said I, "for here you shall ever find safety."
"I know it," answered Bentinck, "and that is why I like you."
He now recollected his intention of visiting the Duchess of York, and took his leave.
Lord Ponsonby and myself met every evening, for more than a week. We were never tired of conversing with each other. His humour exactly suited mine. In short, though I have been called agreeable all my life, I am convinced that I was never half so pleasant or so witty as in Ponsonby's society. We seldom contrived to separate before five or six o'clock in the morning, and Ponsonby generally came to me as soon as it was dark. Nor did we always wait for the evening to see each other, though respect for Lady Ponsonby made us ever, by mutual consent, avoid all risk of wounding her feelings; therefore, almost every day after dinner we met in the park by appointment, not to speak but only to look at each other.
One morning, being greatly struck with the beauty of a young lady who drove by me in a very elegant little carriage, while I was expecting to see Lord Ponsonby, I inquired of the gentleman who was walking with me if he knew who she was! It was the man well known in the fashionable world by the appellation of Poodle Byng, the title of Poodle having been bestowed on him owing to his very curly white locks, in defence of which he always declared that his head was the original from which all the young men and their barbers took base copies.
"It is," answered Poodle, "that most lovely creature, Lady Fanny Ponsonby, whom we are all sighing and dying for."
She was indeed very lovely, and did not appear to be more than eighteen. I considered her with respect and admiration, unmixed with jealousy. This was not the rose; but she had dwelled with it. I thought that she resembled Lord Ponsonby, and I felt that I could have loved her dearly. "Thank heaven," thought I, "this beautiful girl appears quite calm and happy; therefore I have done her no harm."
In the evening I was eager to praise her to her husband. "She possesses all the beauty of the Jerseys," said I to him; "and what a pretty little foot!" This I had observed as she got out of her carriage in Curzon-street.
"How very odd!" Ponsonby remarked,
"What is odd?"
"Why, I do believe you like Fanny!"
"Be sure of it then," I answered. "I like her as much as I should dislike any woman who did not love you dearly. Listen to me, Ponsonby," I continued, taking his hand, and speaking with steady firmness. "All my religion is from my heart, and not from books. If ever our intimacy is discovered so as to disturb her peace of mind, on that day we must separate for ever. I can but die, and God, I hope, will have mercy on me, very soon after our separation, if ever it should be found necessary; but we are not monsters! therefore we will never indulge in selfish enjoyment at the expense of misery to any one of our fellow creatures, much less one who depends on you for all her happiness."
"And she is very happy, thank God," said Ponsonby, "and I would rather forfeit my life than destroy her peace."
"Be firm in that I entreat you," I replied, "for there can be no rest here nor hereafter without the acquittal of our hearts. Mine was devoted to you with that sincere ardour and deep character of feeling which is so natural to me, before I knew that you were married. I know it now, too late to endure life when you shall have left me; but I can die when her happiness shall require it." Alas! I knew not half the anguish and suffering the human frame can endure, and yet survive!
One night, about a week from the day Ponsonby first visited me, when I did not expect him till midnight, I retired to bed and fell fast asleep, which said long nap neither Ponsonby nor any one else had disturbed. When I awoke, the sun was shining through my curtains. My first thoughts were always on Ponsonby, and I recollected, with a deep feeling of disappointment, that he had promised the night before to come to me by midnight, and I had desired my maid to send him up into my room as soon as he arrived. I felt for his little watch, which I always placed under my pillow; judge my astonishment to find, attached to it, a magnificent gold chain of exquisite workmanship. I began to think myself in the land of fairies! and still more so, when I observed a very beautiful pearl ring on one of my fingers. I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide, to ascertain beyond a doubt that I was broad awake. A very small strip of writing paper, which I had drawn from under my pillow with my watch, now caught my attention and I read, written with a pencil in Ponsonby's small beautiful character: "Dors, cher enfant, je t'aime trop tendrement, pour t'éveiller."
It was very sentimental and affectionate; for Ponsonby knew how much I required rest. I was very grateful, and yet I thought it altogether exceedingly provoking! How could I be so stupid as not to awake, even when he had his hand under my pillow, in search of my watch! I rang my bell, and inquired of my maid how long she thought Lord Ponsonby had stayed with me the night before.
"More than an hour," was the reply.
"Dear Ponsonby," said I, as soon as she had quitted the room, while I bestowed a thousand kisses on the beautiful watch and chain, "you are the first man on earth who ever sacrificed his own pleasure and passions to secure my repose!"
Lord Ponsonby's father still continued another fortnight in the same hopeless state. His favourite son deeply lamented his illness, and had been indefatigable in his attentions; refusing to visit me or anybody as long as there was hope, or while his father could derive comfort from his son's affections; but, when nothing more could be done, he had sought comfort in the society of the person who loved him best. I should do Lord Ponsonby great injustice were I to say that he ever forgot or neglected his father.
I asked a friend of Lord Ponsonby one day why he did not adore his beautiful wife? He had no idea that I was acquainted with his lordship.
"Lord Ponsonby is always very kind and affectionate to her," was the reply.
"True," I continued; "but I have heard that he does not fly to her for consolation when he is melancholy, nor consult her, nor make a friend of her."
"Lady Fanny is a sweet-tempered child," said he; "but not at all clever: and then, poor thing! she is very deaf, which affliction came on after a violent attack of scarlet fever."
"What a beautiful, sweet and calm expression of countenance she possesses," I remarked, "so pale, that her features at first sight appear only pretty; but on examination they are found perfect; and her dark, clear, brown eyes——"
"So like your own," said the gentleman, interrupting me.
"I have heard that remark made before," I replied, blushing deeply; "but I am not vain enough to credit it."
"With all their beauty," remarked Ponsonby's friend, "men soon grow tired of those Jerseys, with the exception only of Lady ——, with whom the wicked world say the Duke of Argyle has been in love more than twenty years."
"Is not the boy they call Frank supposed to be a son of the duke?" I asked.
"I have heard so; but let us hope it is all vile scandal."
"With all my heart; but how does Lady Fanny Ponsonby pass her time?"
"She draws prettily," he observed: "and she has now got a little companion she is very fond of."
"Who is that?" said I.
"A mouse, which, having one night showed its little face to her ladyship in her drawing-room, she so coaxed him with her dainties for three weeks together, that she contrived to tame him: and now he will eat them out of her lovely hands."
"But then after the mouse is gone to bed," said I, "how does her ladyship amuse herself?"
"With her younger sister, or in writing or drawing. Lady Fanny does not much care for society."
"She is not a flirt, I believe?"
"What man can she think it worth while to flirt with," answered he, "being married to such a one as Ponsonby."
I was charmed to hear my own sentiments from the lips of another, and one of his own sex too.
"You admire Lord Ponsonby then?" said I.
"Admire! depend upon it there is nothing like him in all Europe. I speak of him altogether, as to his beauty, his manners, and his talents; but Lord Ponsonby," he continued, "owing to his extreme reserve and his excessive shyness is very little known. He never desires to be known or appreciated but by his own particular friends: yet I know few so capable of distinguishing themselves anywhere, particularly in the senate, as his lordship: his remarkably fine voice, and his language, always so persuasive and eloquent, besides he is such an excellent politician. He will now, shortly, by the expected death of his father," continued the gentleman, whose name if I recollect well, was Matthew Lee, "become one of the peers of the United Kingdom. I was telling him, the other day, how much we should be disappointed if he did not take a very active part in the debates. 'God forbid!' said Ponsonby. 'It is all I can do to find nerve for yes or no, when there is a question in the House, and that in a whisper.'"
"How came he to be so shy?" I asked.
"And how came it to become him so well?" returned his friend, "for it would make any other man awkward, and Ponsonby is most graceful when he is most embarrassed. I have known him from a boy. We were at school together. The ladies were all running mad for him before he was fifteen, and I really believe, that at eighteen Ponsonby, with the true genuine Irish character and warmest passions, had not looked any woman full in the face; and to this day his friends are obliged to make him half tipsy in order to enjoy his society. Yet, with all this timidity," he went on, observing that I was never tired of the subject, and could pay attention to no other, "Ponsonby has a remarkably fine high spirit. One night, very late, near Dublin, he met two of his brothers just as they had got into a violent row with three raw-boned, half naked Irish pats. Seeing that his brothers were drunk, Ponsonby began to remonstrate with them, and strove to persuade them to come home quietly, when one of those ruffians struck his youngest brother a very unfair blow with a stick.
"'Now, d—n your hearts and bl—ds!' said Lord Ponsonby, stripping and setting to with the strength and spirit of a prize-fighter.
"His own mother at this moment could not have known her son: the metamorphosis was nearly as laughable as it was astonishing."
I asked how long he had been married?
"Not five years."
"And Lady Fanny's age?"
"Twenty."
I then asked if he married her for love or money?
"Money!" said Lee, indignantly. "It is now clear to me that you do not know Lord Ponsonby. I was just beginning to suspect from the multiplicity of your questions that you did."
"He was very much in love with her then?" I inquired, without attending to this observation.
"She was not fourteen," answered Lee, "when Ponsonby first met her at her mother's, Lady Jersey's. He was of course, like everybody else, speedily struck with her beauty. She was not deaf then, but shortly afterwards she had a violent attack of scarlet fever, during which her life was despaired of for several weeks: indeed, there was scarcely a hope of her recovery. I remember Ponsonby said to me one night, as we passed by Lady Jersey's house together—'The loveliest young creature I have ever beheld on earth lies in that room dying.' The first time Lady Fanny appeared in her mother's drawing-room she resembled a spirit so fair, so calm, so transparent. All her magnificent hair, which had before reached and now again descends much below her waist, had been shorn from her beautiful little head. She often took her lace cap off and exhibited herself thus to anybody, to raise a laugh; or perhaps she knew that she was, even without hair, as lovely as ever.
"Lord Ponsonby, as he has told me since, was present when her ladyship first left her room, and soon discovered that she was now afflicted with deafness. He felt the deepest interest, admiration and pity for her. He considered with horror the bare possibility of this sweet, fragile little being, becoming the wife of some man, who might hereafter treat her harshly. Added to this, I fancy," continued Lee, "Ponsonby had discovered that he was not indifferent to her little ladyship; so, to secure her from any of these evils, he resolved to propose for her himself. I need not add that he was joyfully accepted by both mother and daughter. He might have done better," added Lee, "and I fancy Ponsonby sometimes wishes that his wife could be his friend and companion: but that is quite out of the question. Her ladyship is good and will do as she is bid; but, besides her deafness, her understanding is neither bright nor lively. Lord Ponsonby shows her the sort of indulgence and tenderness which a child requires; but he must seek for a companion elsewhere."
Mr. Lee then took leave of me: and a very few days after this conversation had taken place, Lord Ponsonby's father breathed his last in the arms of his son, who immediately left town without seeing me; but he wrote to me most affectionately.
A few days after his departure I was surprised by a visit from Sir William Abdy, with whom I was but very slightly acquainted. I thought it strange his paying any visits so immediately after the elopement of his wife, who was a natural daughter of the Marquis Wellesley by a Frenchwoman, who, as I am told, once used to walk in the Palais Royal at Paris, but afterwards became Marchioness of Wellesley.
"I have called upon you, Miss Harriette," said Sir William, almost in tears, "in the first place, because you are considered exactly like my wife,"—my likeness to Lady Abdy had often been thought very striking—"and, in the second, because I know you are a woman of feeling!"
I opened my eyes in astonishment.
"Women," he continued, "have feeling, and that's more than men have."
I could not conceive what he would be at.
"You know, Miss Harriette, all about what has happened, and my crim. con. business, don't you, miss?"
"Yes."
"Could you have thought it?"
"Oh yes!"
"And yet, I am sure, Charles Bentinck is worse than I am."
"In what way, pray?"
"Why, a worse head," said Sir William, touching his forehead, "and I don't pretend to be clever myself."
"Is that all? But I would not be so very demonstrative as to touch my forehead, if I were you."
"That Charles Bentinck," said he, half angry, "is the greatest fool in the world; and in Paris we always used to laugh at him."
"But," said I, "why did you suffer his lordship to be eternally at your house?"
"Why, dear me!" answered Abdy, peevishly, "I told him in a letter I did not like it and I thought it wrong, and he told me it was no such thing."
"And therefore," I remarked, "you suffered him to continue his visits as usual?"
"Why, good gracious, what could I do! Charles Bentinck told me, upon his honour, he meant nothing wrong."
"This man is really too good!" thought I, and then I affected the deepest commiseration of his mishap.
"Why did she run away from you?" said I. "Why not, at least, have carried on the thing quietly?"
"That's what I say," said Abdy.
"Because," I continued, "had she remained with you sir, you would have always looked forward with hope to that period when age and ugliness should destroy all her power of making conquests."
"Oh," said Abdy, clasping his hands, "if any real friend like you had heartened me up in this way at the time, I could have induced her to have returned to me! But then, Miss Wilson, they all said I should be laughed at and frightened me to death. It was very silly to be sure of me to mind them; for it is much better to be laughed at, than to be so dull and miserable as I am now."
"Shall I make you a cup of tea, Sir William?"
"Oh! Miss, you are so good! tea is very refreshing when one is in trouble."
I hastened to my bell, to conceal the strong inclination I felt to laugh in his face, and ordered tea.
"Green tea is the best, is it not, Miss?" said Sir William.
"Oh, yes," answered I, "as green as a willow leaf: and in extreme cases like yours I am apt to recommend a little gunpowder."
"Just as you please, Miss."
I asked him, after he had swallowed three cups of tea, whether he did not feel himself a little revived.
"Yes, Miss, I should soon get better here; but you know my house is such a very dull house and in such a very dull street too! Hill-street is, I think, the dullest street in all London, do you know, Miss Wilson."
"True, Sir William! would not you like to go to Margate?"
"Why I was thinking of travelling, for you know in Hill Street, there is her sofa just as she left."
"Very nervous indeed," said I, interrupting him. "I would burn the sofa at all events."
"And then there is her pianoforte."
"Lady Abdy was musical then?"
"Oh, very. She was always at it! I used to be tired to death of her music and often wished she would leave off: but now she is gone Miss Wilson, I would give the world to hear her play Foote's minuet!"
"Or, 'Off she goes,'" added I.
"What is that, pray, Miss?"
"A very lively dance," I answered.
"True, Miss, I recollect my wife used to play it."
"Dear me, Sir William, how could she be so foolish as to run away? I dare say you never interfered with her, or entered her room without knocking."
"Never, upon my honour."
"Well, I always heard you were a very kind, obliging, good-natured husband."
"Yes, and sometimes, when I used to knock latterly, Lady Abdy would not open the door!"
"That was wrong," said I, shaking my head, "very wrong."
"And how could that nasty, stupid fellow seduce her I cannot think!"
"There was good blood in her veins, you know, by the mother's side. Besides, to tell you the truth, I don't think Charles Bentinck did seduce Lady Abdy from you."
"Oh! dear, Miss Wilson, what do you mean?"
"Shall I speak frankly?"
"Oh, Lord a mercy! pray do! I am quite in a fright!"
"I think Fred Lamb was one of her seducers; but how many more may have had a finger in the pie, I really cannot take upon myself to say."
"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! Miss Wilson!" said Sir William, grasping my arm with both his hands, "you do not say so? What makes you think so?"
"I have seen Fred Lamb daily and constantly riding past her door. I know him to be a young man of strong passions, much fonder of enjoyment than pursuit; and further, my sister Fanny, one of the most charitable of all human beings, told me she had seen Fred Lamb in a private box at Drury Lane with your wife, and her hand was clasped in his, which he held on his knee!"
"Oh, la, Miss!"
"Come, do not take on so," said I, in imitation of Brummell's nonsense, and striving to conceal a laugh, "leave your dull house in Hill Street, and set off to-morrow morning, on some pleasant excursion. Be assured that you will find fifty pretty girls, who will be so delighted with you as soon to make you forget Lady Abdy."
"But then," said Sir William, "I cannot think how she came to be in the family-way: for I am sure, Miss Wilson, that during all the years we have lived together, I always——"
"Never mind," interrupted I, "go home now, and prepare for your journey, and be sure to write to me, and tell me if your mind is easier."
"Thank you, Miss Wilson! you are all goodness. I'll be sure to write, and I mean to set off to-morrow morning, and I'll never come back to that nasty, dull, large house of mine again."
"Get the sofa removed," said I, "at all events."
"Yes, Miss, I will, thank you; and the pianoforte. So good-bye, Miss;" and then returning, quite in a whisper, "perhaps, Miss Wilson, when you and I become better acquainted, you'll give me a kiss!"
I only laughed, and bade him take care of himself, and so we parted.
All this nonsense was however very poor amusement to me, now that I had lost Lord Ponsonby. I considered that, although I was by my hard fate denied the pleasure of consoling his affliction, I might yet go into the country and lead the same retired sort of life which he did; and there endeavour by study to make myself rather more worthy of him. "I am a very ignorant little fool," thought I, "but it does not, therefore, follow, that I should remain a fool all my life, like Sir William Abdy." My plan was settled and arranged in less than an hour, and my small trunk packed, my carriage filled with books, and I and my femme de chambre on our road to Salt Hill.
I told the landlady of the Castle Inn, that I was come to take up my residence with her for a fortnight, and that I should require a quiet comfortable room to study in. The word study sounded very well, I thought, as I pronounced it, and, after arranging my books in due order, in the pretty rural room allotted to me by my civil landlady, I sat down to consider which of them I should begin with, in order to become clever and learned at the shortest notice, as that good lady provided people with hot dinners.