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In
FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL.
III.
Bear
with me now, I have a timid Mind: but if you will
encourage
my first Shoots, my future Aim shall be to
give
you Pleasure.
TUDOR.
S
T A F F O R D:
PRINTED
BY ARTHUR MORGAN.
T.N.
LONGMAN,
PATER-NOSTER-ROW,
LONDON.
M.
DCC. XCIV.
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VOL.
III.
LETTER,
I.
LADY STANLEY, TO
MISS STANLEY.
Alverston, March 24th.
YOUR letter, my dearest Emma, dated the
twenty-second, I have now received, and the contents strengthen an apprehension
which has, for some days past, greatly disturbed me. Your father is no less
uneasy than I am; but I
will lead you progressively to the cause of our disquiet.
It
is unnecessary to descant upon the impetuosity of your brother’s disposition.
We all know it well; and I must needs say that, in so young a man, I have
thought it no unfavourable prognostic: however, experience has taught me that
it is to be deplored.
About
eight days back, Mrs. Butler; Mrs. Willett; Mrs. Raymond, and Miss Parker, made
me a morning-visit. George was present; and the conversation almost immediately
turned upon the partiality with which he was honored by Lady Lucinda
Harrington; whom, he says, he never saw but once; and that was at Huntingdon,
three years back, when Sir Charles Conway and he were coming from Newmarket
races. However, from her conduct at Mortimer Lodge, at Mrs. Manwairing's
wedding, and from some other circumstances, which I have no spirits now to give
minutely, it appeared no less true than strange, that he was distinguished by
her favourable opinion.
After the
ladies were gone, your brother was unusually silent, and seemed very
thoughtful. I enquired the cause, when, with his natural candour, he informed
me that he could not help being more impressed by what he termed the prating of
the gossips who had just left us, than, perhaps, he ought to be; and then
showed me a little vellum case which he found at the Lodge, and which, he was
then assured, was dropped by the young lady of whom they had been talking. I
must own I was exceedingly surprised when he opened, and drew from the recess, the most
elegant performance I ever saw done in crayons. It was a portrait of himself;
and so extremely like, that I gazed at it with increasing surprise. At the back
of the picture were a few lines of poetry which demonstrated the equal
excellency of the head and heart of the performer, who, beyond doubt, appeared
to be Lady Lucinda Harrington; but the circumstances which gave the
confirmation are, as I said, too numerous and particular for my present
relation. George immediately declared his resolution to follow her to Bristol.
I opposed his sudden determination; yet when he asked for my reasons, I could
not give any one he thought material; therefore told him I would lay the whole
before his father; which I did; and though we both wished him to postpone the
matter for a short time, we were at length prevailed upon by his importunity to
consent to his going to Bristol, and thinking (as no objection could be offered
to circumstances) that he would, upon seeing the lady, be able to judge how to
proceed. Sir Edward impowered him to make generous
proposals with respect to her fortune. This happened on the Tuesday, just after
I had sent off to you my letter of that day, and I should immediately have
written again, but your brother promised you should hear from him within two
days.
The morning
after he left Alverston, I went, as soon as breakfast
was over, into my dressing-room, and requested my amiable companion, who
encroached hourly upon my affection, to alter a cap I had just received from
Derby, and finding, upon falling into chat, that she knew many young ladies of
fashion about town, I asked if she had ever seen Lady Lucinda Harrington. Her
affirmative produced other enquiries, to which her replies considerably perplexed me;
as the substance of them, though delivered in rather softer language, was
nearly equal to the opinion you gave, of the lady above-mentioned, in your
letter dated Sunday.
I immediately
told Sir Edward of what Maria, with much unwillingness, had informed me; he was
concerned; but as we thought it would only be a simple disappointment to your
brother, we did not disturb ourselves much about it; and, indeed, rather hoped
it might be of some advantage to him, by giving a little check to his impetuous
manner of proceeding. However, when his letter, dated Stratford, reached us, we
were considerably uneasy, as he informed us of his having actually entered into
engagements with Sir Philip Glynn, whom he accidently
met with at Coventry; and requested Sir Edward would write a letter to that
gentleman, giving a formal ratification of the proposals. What now to do we
knew not. It was possible George had intimated to Sir Philip that he would soon
have a letter from his father; therefore hopeing Maria (who it
was not to be supposed was personally acquainted with Lady Lucinda) had imbibed
her character from the
representation of prejudice, he wrote to that gentleman as your brother
desired, and told him he left every thing to be settled by the discretion of
himself and his son; after which, we remained tolerably satisfied till the
arrival of your letter this morning. I will not, my love, say how much we are
distressed by your account, which so exactly tallies with that of Maria’s.
However, as nothing can be done, we have only to endeavour to wait, with
patience, the issue of the event: for in the present situation of
circumstances, it would be highly improper to interfere, as we know not how far
the native impetuosity of your brother’s temper, aided by the extraordinary ready concurrence of Sir
Philip, may have carried matters. Before any caution could reach him, he may
have so fettered himself as to make it unavailing; and if so, probably it would
be productive of serious mischief. Besides, what caution can be necessary for a
young man so capable of judging, as George is; whose eyes
are perfectly open; he not being under that fascinating illusion of passion,
miscalled affection, which often fatally blinds the understanding!
After much
consultation, therefore, we concluded that if Lady Lucinda Harrington deserved
the character which has been given of her, George would soon see she was not
the woman to make him happy; if she did not deserve
it—[you likewise had it from report] it would be cruel, as well as unjust, to
insinuate a derogatory idea. Not, my Emma, as I before said, that either your
father or myself approved your brother’s hasty measures upon a matter so
important. Yet, when he left Alverston, his plan did
not seem very reprehensible, as
he meant only to see a lady, of
whom fame, in this part of the country, spoke approvingly; of whose favourable
sentiments for himself he had received very strong presumptive proofs, and who,
as to family and fortune, was surely unobjectionable.
Wishing,
therefore, as we earnestly do, to see him married—we were willing to hope his
pursuit (from which, indeed, it would have been hard to have diverted him,
without being more peremptory than we think we ought to be with such children
as ours) might produce,
with happiness, that desired event: And had he not met with Sir Philip Glynn,
the disappointment of finding the young lady other than he expected, would not
have been of any consequence, or if of
any, perhaps, as I observed, of a good one, in correcting his precipitance in
future.
Just
after your father had written to the baronet, an account was brought of poor
Mr. Fowller’s death, which made a letter to your
brother immediately necessary. Sir Edward having, as you know, given to him the
power of supplying the vacancy; and before he went from home, he informed us of
his having promised the benefice to Mr. Evelyn, the gentleman who, I told you,
accompanies Sir Charles Conway in his tour.
From the
foregoing considerations, no subject was touched upon in this letter to George,
except that which occasioned its being written; but he was desired to let us
hear from him immediately. That we impatiently expect his reply I need not
affirm.
And now, my
love, for another subject of an
unpleasing kind.—My amiable—my truly admirable, and really beloved Maria, has
left Alverston! She went this morning; and I cannot
express my concern at her absence. Your father feels it almost as much as I do;
for he says she is one of the most interesting—one of the most bewitching
characters he ever met with. She was, indeed, to us, almost as another
daughter. I cannot express how she has stolen upon us since your departure. Her
merits seemed to increase every hour.
One day last
week Sir Edward said he would walk as far as the Lilly-copse; and it being
exceedingly pleasant, I set out, about half an hour after he went, with an
intent to meet him upon his return in the long meadow; but your father seeing
old Walden as he passed the lodge, and hearing from him that the carpenters
wanted him at the dairy-house, he crossed over to them, and after directing
them how to proceed (finding himself a little tired) came straight home, with a
design of asking me to take a ride with him in the chaise, and, it seems,
entered the lesser hall just as I left the garden. When he opened the door of
the saloon he heard the organ, and concluding I was
playing upon it, hastened
to the library, when thinking the music was unusually fine, he stopped a moment
at the door, being unwilling to interrupt me; and was more and more struck with
the harmony of the sounds, which were, to use his own words, so wildly
sweet, that he was convinced what he heard was a true voluntary. As this was
the kind of music I, when young, most delighted in, your father fancied I was
endeavouring to recover past ideas in the science; yet confessed, though he
used to be partial to my finger, that he listened with surprise, as he never
remembered to have heard me play so well before. After he had stood at the door
a few minutes, the music ceased, and he was going into the room, but it
immediately began again, and, at the same time, his ears were arrested by tones
from a voice which seemed harmony itself. For a moment, he said, he fancied his
Emma was returned; but recollecting the improbability of that, he stepped into
the little study, and putting aside the curtain of the glass door which opens
into the library, he thought he saw, in the person of Maria Birtles,
an angel’s form sitting before the
organ. Never in his life, as he affirms, was he so stricken with amazement. Her
attitude—her manner of playing, was beyond all description. He was rivetted to the spot; but she sat not long; for starting up
suddenly, she hastened away, as if she apprehended somebody’s over-hearing her;
for which reason, as we afterwards conjectured, she played in the softest
diapason stop. As you may suppose, this incident was more than once the subject
of our conversation; which, as often as it occurred, was always concluded with
a declaration from us both, that Maria Birtles, take
her person and mind, stood in the foremost rank of British females: I have much
more to say about her, but must defer it till I see you, and hasten to tell you
of her leaving us. Yesterday morning Jonathan brought letters from Derby;
amongst which, was one directed to Maria. I took it and carried it to her. She
retired to read it, and did not return sooner than in a quarter of an hour. At
length she came to me with tears starting from her eyes, and with the beautiful
rose in her cheeks much
heightened.
"My
dear madam," said she, sighing very deeply, “I must leave you; at
least, for a time. But how can I express my regret?”
I was as if
thunder-struck. Indeed I was greatly affected; but I cannot enter upon the
ensuing scene which insensibly grew to be exceedingly tender. The occasion of
her going was to see her father, from whom she has been some time absent. What
his determination would be, respecting her situation in future, she did not
know. The letter which summoned her to London was written by a female friend of
hers, whose name is Thompson. She shewed it to me. The anxiety of her father to
see her was feelingly described; yet there were some expressions of resentment
against him for his past unkindness to such a daughter—was the expression—as
never man before was blest with. Mrs. Thompson then urged her hastening up, and
condoled with her on the pain she would feel at leaving a family so
congenial with herself; and, in a very obliging manner, mentioned every one of
us with particularity. She then informed her of the almost sudden death of poor
Mrs. Douglas, who, as you, probably, saw in the newspapers, had been to
Weymouth, in hope of receiving benefit from the sea.
When I had
finished reading the letter, I lamented, in very warm and sincere terms, the
necessity there was for her leaving me, by which the dear amiable girl was so
penetrated that she burst into tears, being unable, as she said, to express her
sensations. She then spoke of you in the most grateful and affectionate terms.
But as I cannot do justice to her sentiments, and as the recapitulation of the
scene really distresses me, I will postpone any farther account of it till I
can give you a verbal one. Suffice it, that Sir Edward, as well as myself,
sincerely regret Maria’s departure from Alverston.
She went about nine o’clock, leaving an earnest request that she might be
remembered to you in the warmest expressions which gratitude and friendship—if
she might be allowed the familiar term—could dictate; promising to write to me
as soon as she reached London. At parting I pressed her to receive a small bank
note, but she so earnestly entreated permission to decline the acceptance,
that, struck with the dignity of her manner, I involuntarily withdrew my hand,
and was near asking pardon, with a courtesy, for the tender.
What an
extraordinary young creature this is! I think, my Emma, warmly as you admired
her, you saw not half her merits; for they continually expanded till the last
moment. I am impatient for her promised letter, that I may write a repetition
of the pressing invitation I gave her to return to us as a visitor, as soon as her father would
consent to spare her.
And
now, my dear girl, will you forgive your mother for having a thought to
interrupt your happy scenes at Woodstock? Indeed, my child, I wish for your
return. I feel a vacancy for which I know not how to account. Sir Edward is
rather unwell, and my poor Moore will probably soon quit this lower world.
If Mrs. Lawson
and Mrs. Eleanor could spare my two girls—and if Mrs. Stanhope would trust
the amiable Maria to my maternal care for a limited time—I think I should soon
be better. But I will not enforce this request, lest the compliance should be
destructive to some agreeable plan: only, my dear, come as soon as your leaving
Woodstock can be made quite easy to your friends in that place, and to yourself;
but I charge you not to hasten improperly. If you do, I shall, indeed, be
displeased. You know me so well that I need not say any more upon this subject.
Your father
sends his tenderest love to his girl; and his cordial respects to all her friends
in Oxfordshire, to which she will unite and dispense those of her other ever
affectionate parent,
HENRIETTA STANLEY.
LETTER,
II.
MR.
STANLEY, TO SIR CHARLES CONWAY.
Bristol,
March 25th.
I Have this instant, my dear Conway, received
a letter from my father on the subject of poor Fowller’s
death. He went off, at last, rather suddenly; if that can be said of a man who
has been lingering several weeks.
Mr. Evelyn is
now Rector of Alverston. Give my compliments to him, and request him to
oblige me, by omitting the acknowledgments customary upon these occasions. In
short—tell him I will not receive any letter from him upon the subject.
But can you
spare him? Can you allow of his going, for a few days, immediately to Alverston? My father wishes to see him there. You know
he is rather particular about these matters. It is his desire that Mr. Evelyn may be inducted, and every relative to the business
settled, as soon as possible.
I forbear
writing to him because I will not have his answer.
And
now—Why do not I hear from you? Yet, upon consideration, I believe
no letter of yours, sent since you knew my address, could have
reached me. I forgot, when I wrote from Stratford, to ask you to direct to the
Bristol post-office; but it might be thought you would have supposed that to have been sufficient.
Excuse me,
Charles. I am confoundedly ill-humoured, and know not when I shall be any
better.
Lady Lucinda
has received a pressing request from a Mrs. Bellmin
at Bath, that she would oblige Miss Horton, her niece, who is very much
indisposed, with a visit. These ladies, I find, do not bear the brightest of
characters, and Lady Glynn does not much wish my dulcinea
to comply. But she claims Sir Philip’s promise, given her two or three days
back, that she shall now be permitted to see this friend, which, it seems, she
has long desired, as she professes to be extremely fond of her. Another blessed
proof of her wisdom and prudence! She goes, I fancy, this afternoon. I am,
doubtless, to escort her; though I think I could welcome a broken limb for
affording me an excuse for non-attendance.
Once
more—A curse upon my stupid folly! And a curse, indeed, is likely to be its
effect. O Charles! Charles! I envy you on the subject of your late
distresses. You had the great consolation of not deserving what you endured.
While I—
But adieu. I
shall run distracted.
GEORGE
STANLEY.
LETTER,
III.
COLONEL
GREVILLE, TO THE HONORABLE
MRS.
DIGBY.
Pall-Mall,
March 25th.
YOUR letter is before me. I have read every
line with admiration, and feel myself a man of encreased
consequence every time I reflect on the nearness of our relationship. But, Arabella, be piteous. Spare the divine his heart. By all
accounts he is an honest fellow. Let the conquest of your baronet—which, I
think, you cannot fail of compleating—entirely
satisfy you; at least at present. When
you are Lady Conway—no advance, by the bye, to the Honorable
Mrs. Digby—I believe I shall be tempted to veil my
remembrance of our consanguinity, and inlist myself
in the number of your dying swains; and if you should find yourself inclined to
be a little grateful—it will only, you know, be in a family way.
"Think of this, my
sweet cuz. Think of this.”
And
now for myself—I have a very pretty plan just going to be brought
into practice. When I last wrote, I had it in agitation, but since that time, I
have considerably improved upon it; which improvement makes it necessary for me
to go to Alverston immediately. But I know you have
curiosity in no small degree; therefore, in
expectation of some future reward, I will e’en
indulge you, contrary to my intention, with a few hints of my design.
Lord Fitzmurray—that tool of intrigue—has, you know, a castle
upon the borders of South Wales. To that my fair Emma is to be conveyed,
without waiting for her consent, which I doubt it would be somewhat hard to
obtain. I was to have assisted in person, though in masquerade, at
the seizure of this capital prize; but Fitzmurray has
undertaken the whole of that part of the business, and as he wishes to be somewhat
more than an agent, Miss Lawson, for his amusement, is to accompany my charmer
in her expedition. Previous to this, I go to Alverston;
not merely to ingratiate myself
with the old people—the young one, which gave birth to this point in my plan,
Captain Jones (in a letter to Jack Brampton) says is at Bristol—but to evince I could not have any hand in the rape. As
soon as the girls are taken, the Lawsons will, doubtless, dispatch
messengers all over the kingdom; certainly one to Alverston:
but not to trust entirely to their sending, I have given Lord Fitzmurray a letter, without a signature, to put into the
post-office, upon his going off, (directed to George Stanley, Esq. or in his absence to any other of the family)
to give the alarm. I, you will remember, am there at the time, and instantly,
with my trusty valet, fly in
search of the ravished fair ones; and, “by
the luckiest chance in the world,” discover the route they were
carried; — pursue, find, and rescue them from the hands of the villains who had
unlawfully seized them.
How I shall proceed,
depends upon the grateful or un-grateful
behaviour of my Venus. If she be softened to compliance, I will carry her back
in safety: if not, she must take, and thank herself for, the ensuing consequence. I will, to pay myself for my trouble,
prevent her ever being any other than Emma Stanley or Mrs. Greville,
though I then abscond the kingdom.
A few
particulars remain to be settled, which I doubt not of making easy, and then—for Alverston.
But I have
quarrelled with, and dispatched, my girl of convenience. Polly Fenton—alias Matilda Barlowe—no longer belongs to me. She grew very expensive,
and was unfaithful. In words of truth—her face was amazingly familiar to me: and she had so long obliged me, that
to oblige longer, was not in her power. I, therefore, this morning sent her a
gallant; then went and discovered them together; abused her, and packed her
off; allowing her but three hours to collect and box up her trumpery.
Her rooms,
furnished in style, are now tenantless, and will probably remain so till the
remembrance of Emma Stanley (for she must, in the end, comply) shall be lost in
Mrs. Greville.
There, cuz: there is multum in parvo
for you, in return.
Fitzmurray gives me an account of the arrangements he
has made towards perfecting our project, and bids me expect his being in town
on Sunday; therefore, to give proofs of my
innocence, I intend going to Alverston on
Monday, as on Thursday or Friday, or Saturday—as opportunity serves—he will attempt
the glorious seizure. If Miss Lawson, he says, be one of his beauties, she shall for life be
mistress of the castle. But I doubt she would hold her sovereignty by a very
frail tenure.
Suppose
you give a hint to Sir Charles, through the medium of the parson, that I have made
proposals to the Stanleys, and have been accepted! I shall gently intimate that, by
means of your meeting at Yarmouth with the baronet, I shall probably have the honor of, very soon, ranking him amongst my kinsmen.
It is a lucky
thought. Improve upon it to our mutual benefit.
As I go down
into Derbyshire, I think I shall call upon Miss Howard, and congratulate her upon the death of her dear friend Mrs. Egerton.
And now sweet cuz! farewell.
With
profound respect—
perfect admiration, &c. &c. &c.
yours,
ARCHIBALD
GREVILLE.
LETTER,
IV.
MAJOR
CARRINGTON, TO MRS. LAWSON.
London,
March 25th.
DEAR MADAM,
YOUR counsellor authorises me to tell you,
that you are perfectly right in all you have asserted, and have offered such
very fair proposals as cannot but be accepted if Hawkins retains his perfect
understanding; and he doubts not but that he shall be able to conclude every
thing to your satisfaction, before the end of next term.
I heartily
congratulate you on this probability.
Your affair too
with Lord Danvers may now be finally adjusted, and that personally, as his
lordship means very soon to visit his cottage. Since my last letter to you on
that subject, a great revolution has happened in the earl’s family. Sir William
Jennyns is out of town, therefore I have not heard
minute particulars; but the substance is, that Lady Caroline Pemberton, and Mr.
and Mrs. Maynard, are all returned to England; that through Mr. Maynard’s
interposition, the earl is reconciled to his next to divine daughter, and that
he received her with transport, without one reproach. It is however whispered
about, that she has dearly earned this affectionate treatment, by giving up her
right in the jointured estate, and thereby rendering
herself entirely pennyless, except his lordship has
gratitude sufficient to induce him to determine upon laying by a yearly sum for
her future support. His engagement with Lord Crumpford
is entirely broken, to the furious displeasure of that ig-nobleman,
who talks of sueing the earl for non-performance of
articles. If this matter should be
brought forward, I fancy the agreement will not redound much to the honor of either of the titled gentlemen: but Mr.
Maynard’s superiority of management will, most likely, put a stop to such kind
of proceedings. That gentleman and his lady are, I believe, to accompany the
earl and his daughter to the Woodstock cottage—as his lordship chuses to have it called.
You expressed
yourself so well pleased with my former account of these personages, and seemed
to take so much interest in the fate of Lady Caroline, that I imagined I could
not more entertain you than by giving the above particulars.
I beg you will
remember me with respect to Mrs. Eleanor and Miss Lawson. Miss Rachel I saw
last week. I fancied she looked rather pale and thin. Perhaps the London air
does not agree with her constitution. She said, however, she was as well as
usual.
Miss Ellison
lately requested me to convey (when I should write again) her compliments to
all my cousins at Woodstock; with the execution of which commission I subscribe
myself, my dear madam,
your
obliged, and affectionate friend,
JOHN
CARRINGTON.
LETTER,
V.
MR.
BROOMLEY, TO AUGUSTUS
MAYNARD, ESQ.
March
25th, 1789.
SIR,
HAVING had the honor
of being once or twice in your company in Edinburgh, and knowing still more of
you from character, my judgment points you out as the person proper to be made
acquainted with an affair of considerable consequence to the noble house from
whence you sprang, and to which you are otherwise allied.
Without more
preface, I will submit my story to your consideration.
I am the vicar
of a little village called Kildwick, near Skipton in Yorkshire, where I have lived from my infancy.
It would be vanity to suppose myself remembered by name; but when I mention the
circumstance of Captain Hubbard’s offending Mr. Macdonald at the last Edinburgh
election, possibly you may recollect the person who took the liberty to give
him a severe reprimand.
A few years
back, a lady, apparently of middle age, came and hired a genteel house in my
parish, bringing with her a boy
about eight or ten years old. Her name, Pemberton; the youth was her son, and,
as I soon found, the incontestible heir to the title and
estate of Danvers. It has always been my wish to gain such information
respecting any new comers into my parish, as would enable me to converse with
them for both their profit and pleasure, where they were not incompatible with
each other; as experience has taught me is too often the case.
Think
not, sir, that I am boasting of conduct which is but a bare performance of
duty. I only mean to elucidate a motive (which might else be termed curiosity)
for enquiring into the characters and connexions of those who become my
parishioners. A man, verging upon fourscore, can hardly fail of being too well
convinced that all beneath the sky is vanity, to indulge any principle of it in
himself.
Mrs.
Pemberton (to which you cannot be a stranger) had formerly wanted either the
benefit of good advice, or the resolution to follow it. By her retiring to this
part of the country, I had hope that she sincerely wished to obliterate the
remembrance of her former conduct, and I made it my endeavour to facilitate
that design. Her behaviour was
not reprehensible, though her conversation was, sometimes, rather more airy
than became the character she seemed desirous to establish; for which reason I
was rather cautious in permitting my darling grand-daughter Alethea
(left to my care by an only and beloved son; her mother dying at her birth) to
be often in her company, except when I was present; and I wished to have the
boy, who was lively; promising, and might, I thought, after I had left the
world, be of some consequence to the nation, as little with his mother as he
could be with propriety; for which reason, though I could not well afford it, I
boarded him at my house upon low terms; telling her that his future probable
situation required all possible care should be taken in his education, and that
I wished her to send him to Edinburgh as soon as his age permitted. She
listened pretty attentively to what I said, and always seemed desirous he
should be well instructed; but from time to time requested his continuing with
me till his age far exceeded that of the youths I wished (for the sake of
accumulating some trifle for my girl) to have under my tuition. However, I last
summer insisted upon his being removed, as I did not think myself capable of
being of service to him any longer. She therefore carried him to Edinburgh, and
placed him with Mr. Blythe, of whose abilities I had some knowledge.
About last Michaelmas she received a letter directed with speed,
informing her that Master Pemberton had been thrown
from a horse; that his skull was fractured, and his death apprehended. This
intelligence almost distracted her; not, as I have often thought, from any
great degree of affection for her child, but from apprehension of the abolition
of her future prospects, of which she used to be continually talking, and
seemed greatly to enjoy, in idea; not doubting but her son, when Earl of
Danvers, would settle her in splendor; and indeed,
from the youth’s noble disposition, she formed but probable conclusions.
I am thus
particular, sir, because I wish to give you an idea of the woman you are to
manage.
Mrs. Pemberton
immediately set off for Edinburgh. When arrived there, she found that her son
was at the house of a cottager, in a small village about four miles from the
city; he having met with the accident, in company with two other boys (who, as
a reward, were allowed an evening’s ride) near that place; and she was bid to
prepare herself for his decease.
This was the
substance of a letter which she wrote to me, in compliance with my request, as
soon as she had seen the youth, for whom I had always a kind of pitying regard.
About a
fortnight after this, I received a second letter from her, in which she excused
herself for not having written again before that time, on account of an illness
occasioned by her close attendance upon her son, who, however, she said, she
was happy to tell me, had entirely recovered the accident, contrary to the
predictions of three eminent surgeons. She then informed me that, by mere
accident, she had met with a friend of her deceased husband’s, who greatly
interested himself in the child’s welfare, and earnestly requested that she
would send him to Eton, and that when she objected the narrowness of her
finances, he offered to be at the additional expence,
provided she would enter into a written engagement to use her influence with
her son to repay him whenever he should inherit the Danvers estate. The
gentleman’s name, she said, was Ditton.
Notwithstanding
all this appeared probable, there was an air of confusion which ran through the
letter; and the style was strikingly different from the first; nevertheless, I
passed it over without thinking much of it, till late circumstances brought it to
my recollection.
Mrs. Pemberton
returned, and appeared more gay than formerly. She often used to tell me of her
having heard from her son at Eton, who sent his duty to me; but never, as before, showed me any
of his letters, which rather surprised me; but I attributed it to the
youth’s not having really made any mention of me; which she was unwilling I
should know.
About two
months after her return she was visited by a gentleman who called himself
Leigh. He staid with her two days, and when I looked in upon her one of the
mornings, I found the table spread with writings, and she, upon seeing me,
looked round her in evident confusion; but recovering herself, presented to me the Mr. Leigh, as
her late husband’s intimate friend. This gentleman, upon understanding Master
Pemberton had been my pupil, told me he could give me pleasure, by informing me
that the young rogue, as he termed him, was extremely improved in his person;
but that in learning he made no great progress; and gave it for a reason that
his old master had taught him more than his new one understood. I was sensible
of, and displeased at the extravagance of the compliment, therefore made no
reply, but asked if this was the gentleman who had taken Master Pemberton to
Eton. Mrs. Pemberton blushed, and said no: that was a Mr. Ditton,
but Mr. Leigh was his intimate friend, and joined with the other in a proper
support for Thomas William—as she always would have him to be called. Conjectures, not
very favorable to Mrs. Pemberton, spontaneously arose
in my mind upon the seeming strangeness of the visit of this Mr. Leigh; though
of a very different nature from the circumstances by which, as it now appears,
it was occasioned. However I was so much displeased by it, that I requested my
child not to be too hasty in again visiting Mrs. Pemberton.
About Christmas
this Mr. Leigh again made his appearance, when a servant whom I had reared from
infancy, and who had obtained leave from his master, who lives in York, to make me a
visit, saw and knew him to be Lord Crumpford. This
servant was just returned with his master from London; had often been at Lord Danvers' house, and had
heard from the domestics of that nobleman a most despicable account of this
feigned Mr. Leigh, and of the persecution which Lady Caroline Pemberton
underwent from her father, on his account; for, it seems, the matter was
grown very public, though the two lords aimed at all imaginable secrecy.
These
suggestions filled my head with a set of incoherent ideas, which I could not
reduce to order. Something, I seemed convinced, was wrong, but what, I could
not guess with probability. Why Lord Crumpford, who
wished to marry Lady Caroline Pemberton, should come twice into Yorkshire with
a feigned name, on a visit to the mother of Lord Danvers’ heir—was a mystery I
could not fathom. My first reasonable alarm was for the youth’s safety; on
which account I was inclined to write to the master at Eton; but being minded
to begin my enquiries at the school in Edinburgh, from whence he was said to be
taken, I staid till Lord Crumpford had left Kildwick, and then sent a letter to Mr. Blythe, desiring to
know if he had heard from his young pupil, Thomas William Pemberton, since he
left his school. The answer to this, you will easily believe, surprised me,
when I tell you that it was a circumstantial account of HIS DEATH, with many
expressions of wonder that I had not heard of it from Mrs. Pemberton.
To tell you all
my sentiments—conjectures and conclusions—at this intelligence, would swell my
letter to a volume. The result of my ponderings were—that I hastened back a
particular enquiry of every minute circumstance attending his decease, with a
request for a proper certificate of that event from the register of the parish
where he was buried.
My
letter was immediately answered: the particulars were given, but no
certificate—the place of his interment being unknown to the lad’s Edinburgh
friends, Mrs. Pemberton having put into a hearse, which she followed in a
coach, the coffin which contained the remains of her son; being desirous, as
she said, to deposit him by the side of his father.
I was now
somewhat puzzled to know how to proceed; but after examining very attentively
the dictates of my mind, I determined to go to Mrs. Pemberton before she could
have any information of the intelligence I had gained, and by an abrupt
taxation to put her off her guard, and then, by confronting her with my
evidence, endeavour to lead her to make a confession of the intended end of
this dark business.
After
some very hard conflicts, this method answered to my wishes: but for a
considerable time she resolutely affirmed that her son had recovered; was still
alive, and, at that period, at Eton: At length, upon my telling her that I knew
her Mr. Leigh to
be Lord Crumpford, and showing her the letters I had
received from Edinburgh, she began to hesitate; thinking, without doubt, that
it was probable her scheme would prove abortive. After much arguing, she
intimated that as all her hopes of fortune must be entirely extinguished by the
confession I pressed her to, she could not be worse off by keeping silent;
hinting that her evidence would overturn any other. Finding, therefore, that
nothing was to be done without, and being willing to prevent the probability of
a public trial, by securing her before any measures were concerted between her
and Lord Crumpford (who I then gathered by her
confused intimations was deeply concerned in the affair) I rather too hastily,
and perhaps reprehensibly, gave her my word that I would exert my utmost
influence with every individual of the house of Danvers to procure her an
annuity of fifty pounds during her life, if she would fully elucidate the
business in question; and farther (for she would not even then comply) that I
would not give up any papers which she should sign or put into my hands till I
had gained security for this donation. She then (considering, I suppose, that
Lord Crumpford would not have it in his power to
perform the conditions, greatly in her favor, into
which he had entered; and depending, it seems, upon the assurance I had given
her) explicitly laid open the whole affair, and gave me his lordship’s letters
upon the subject.
The aggregate
of the matter is, that Lord Crumpford, accompanied by
his daughter, Miss Bomton, was at Edinburgh when Mrs.
Pemberton lost her son, which she did in two days after she reached him, and
that, hearing of the incident, he waited upon her, with much appearance of
respect, to condole with her; being, as he said, a friend to all the family.
After this, the treaty soon began, and was, I believe, soon finished. The
corpse was carried several miles from Edinburgh, and, by the assistance of some
hired creatures of Lord Crumpford’s, buried in an
unfrequented place; the youth’s death was to be kept secret from all but those
who, previously, had necessarily been made acquainted with it; and the story of
his being gone to Eton propagated.
Lord Crumpford could not suppose this plot could long be kept concealed; but
he doubtless expected to carry his point before it should become public; after
which, it may be supposed from his character, he would have braved the opinion
of the world.
Before Mrs.
Pemberton would fall in with his measures, she insisted upon knowing the scheme
he meant to pursue, upon which he pretended—for, beyond dispute, it was pretence—that he had long been
passionately in love with Lady Caroline; that as he had already one child to
provide for, and might have more, he could not afford to marry her with the
small fortune to which, before the event in point, she was intitled;
that now, he was determined to make himself happy with the finest young woman
in existence, for which reason he did not wish it to be known that she was
heiress to the Pemberton estate till after the marriage, as it might make his
work difficult; that before the event should transpire, he was convinced Lord
Danvers would readily comply with the proposals he should make, as he was his
debtor for large sums of money; some of which Mrs. Pemberton believes were lost
at gaming; that his taking the lady, as she herself must suppose, without a
fortune of any consequence, would so gain upon such a disposition as hers, as to
produce affection, and that, therefore, the plan in which he wished her to
join, was not only innocent but laudable.
With these and
such like plausible arguments, and with what, I doubt, prevailed still more, a
promissory note of two thousand pounds to be paid on his marriage with Lady
Caroline, (after which, poor Thomas William’s death was to be announced as a
recent event) did Lord Crumpford entice Mrs.
Pemberton to come into his scheme, in which he would probably have succeeded
had not Lady Caroline with-held her consent, and made her escape (for an escape
I think it may justly be
called) from the persecution she had, it seems, in part suffered. Of this, Lord
Crumpford wrote Mrs. Pemberton a short account;
telling her at the same time that, though this part of his plan might prove
abortive, he had another which could not fail; therefore desired a continuance
of secrecy. This was a letter of only a few lines, but he made her a promise of
writing to her again as soon as his intention was digested; since which time
she had not heard from
him, therefore was in continual expectation of the promised information.
Having thus far
succeeded, I immediately wrote down the particulars for her to sign, to which
she, at first, objected, but upon my representing to her that I should not
scruple to take my oath that I had heard from her what I had written, and that
if she refused to assist in making the affair quite clear, she must expect
obloquy instead of a reward, she complied, on condition that I would promise to
keep the matter as secret as possible in
that part of the world. To this I readily assented, as though my hope of her
thorough conviction of her errors was a little abated, I should be sorry to
have her hardened in the practice
of them; which might be the effect of public reproach. I therefore sent for my
clerk and my grand-daughter, for Alethea is of
sufficient age to be a witness, and my clerk Mrs. Pemberton was assured would
not divulge any thing contrary to my commands, and she signed the paper in
their presence; I likewise putting my name at the bottom.
After this I
was minded to wait for Lord Crumpford’s promised
letter; therefore went to the man at whose house our letters are left, and
desired him to let me know when any one came for Mrs. Pemberton before he sent
it, as I wished to be with her when she received it. I was not under any
apprehension that this man should wonder at my request; as on the present
occasion I may allow myself the pleasure of saying, that all my parishioners
have an implicit confidence in me, and never would think of my asking them to
do any thing wrong. This man supposed the letter I was anxious about, was one
from poor Thomas William. Without answering his surmise, I left him to continue
in his mistake.
Once
or twice I was disappointed by letters from other quarters, but yesterday,
which was the third time of his sending to me, I went upon his message, and was
sitting with her when a letter from Lord Crumpford
was put into her hands.
Upon her reading
it, a repetition of my question, as upon the two former occasions of—From the
Viscount, Madam?—was answered with
the deepest blush of confusion. I see I am right, I added: What plan is he now
pursuing? For some moments she continued silent; then told me that she could
not possibly show me the letter she had received, though she knew it would not
be to any purpose to deny its being from his lordship.
It would be
needless to repeat the ensuing altercation. After some time spent in
conversation on the subject, I arose in displeasure; telling her that our
treaty was at an end: that as she refused her assistance—the terms on which she
had agreed to be benefited—I likewise refused to exert my influence in her favor; and would leave her to consider whether Lord Crumpford [she must remember the information of which I was
in possession] could keep any promise which (as she intimated) he then, or
before, had made her, on the successful issue of any plan he could form on this
event.