Recollections of a chaperon

CHAPTER I.

Of late years education has become a subject of general care and attention. But there may be excess even in so amiable a feeling as the devotion of a parent to a child; that very devotion may be productive of mischief to its object. No pains are spared in cultivating talents, in giving grace, accomplishments, useful information, deep learning; but it may be a question whether the wholesome training of the feelings is as judiciously attended to as that of the understanding. May not the very importance attached to all concerning the young, lead them to think too much of themselves? Unless they are early taught to consider the feelings of others, is not one strong motive for controlling their own (that most difficult and most necessary of all lessons) utterly neglected? May not the excessive care taken to preserve the purity of the weaker sex sometimes lead to consequences the most opposite?

When the follies, the frailties, the weaknesses, of their nature are so carefully concealed from them, how can they acquire the habit of regulating feelings, the very existence of which they have never learned, and against the errors of which, therefore, they can never have been cautioned?

“’Tis an old tale, and often told;” yet, perhaps, the frequent occurrence of such events as are related in the following story may induce one to look back to the possible causes of their frequency.

Colonel Fitz-Eustace was a person peculiarly calculated to inspire an enthusiastic passion to a warm-hearted and devoted girl. He was a soldier, and had but lately returned from the seat of war. The fame of his exploits had preceded his arrival, and in the social circle to which the young Eleanor Morton was admitted, as she emerged from girlhood to womanhood, he was received as one of the brave defenders of his native land, to whom England owed her eminent position in the scale of nations.

Although military glory is in itself almost a passport to the female heart, its effect is certainly enhanced when the outward appearance is correspondingly heroic—and Colonel Fitz-Eustace looked like a hero. The commanding step, the lofty brow, the dark flashing eye, which might almost gaze on the sun without being dazzled; the deep, clear, sonorous voice, the rapid yet distinct utterance, which seemed as if it could make its commands heard and obeyed, through the roar of cannon and the din of battle, combined to form the beau ideal of a warrior. And if that flashing eye should invariably beam with every softer expression, when it dwelt on one favoured object,—if that clear deep voice should suddenly become modulated to the low thrilling tone of tenderness when it addressed one person, what marvel if the bewildered girl yielded up her whole soul to the new and engrossing feeling which stole upon her, under the mask of admiration and gratitude!

If ever love, fervent, pure, intense, found its shrine in the heart of woman, it did in that of Eleanor Moreton. But Colonel Fitz-Eustace was poor, and it was not till after many years of constancy on both sides that her parents consented to their union. She had passed long months of absence, long days of sickening hope, long nights of watching when, by the death of a distant relation, Colonel Fitz-Eustace became heir presumptive to the earldom of Sotheron, and in the mean time the possession of a competency which enabled their marriage to take place.

Alas! it was not for Eleanor to know unmixed happiness. Climate and severe service had undermined her husband’s constitution; and although they both fancied that the life of untroubled serenity they had before them would restore him to health, she had the mortification to see him daily become weaker, paler, thinner. She could not blind herself to his illness; but she fancied in the autumn that the clear fresh air of winter would brace his feeble frame; in the winter, that the mildness of spring would give him renewed vigour; in the spring, that more settled weather would confirm his health; in summer, that autumn would bring the desired change.

When, however, that autumn came, she had really to sit by his sick bed, to smooth his pillow, to watch his waning strength, and at length to hear him, in distinct audible words, speak of their approaching separation. She had never, even in her imagination, admitted such an idea, far less ever embodied it in actual language. When first he spoke she tried to smile,—a faint incredulous smile. But no! She looked on his haggard cheek, and the appalling truth was there too visibly written. She sat motionless, speechless. Nor did tears come to her relief till he alluded to the prospect of her becoming a mother—then the floodgates were opened—she sobbed convulsively, she covered his emaciated hand with kisses—she hid her head.

From that moment she never left his room; she scarcely ever took her eyes off him. She would not allow any of her family to be summoned; for she seemed to dread the participation of another in her attendance; she would have been jealous of his receiving attention or service from any hand but her own. She wished to catch every sound of his voice, to hoard up each word, each look, in her memory, as a treasure for after years. The moment came,—he died, and she survived.

Three months afterwards she became the widowed mother of a boy. That moment of rapture, when a mother’s eyes are blessed with a sight of her first-born, was to her a moment of agony. Then her loss seemed to burst upon her with redoubled force. She thought of the happiness she had anticipated, of the tenderness with which her husband would have hailed the intelligence of her safety, of the pride with which he would have looked upon his boy; and she almost turned away in anguish.

This was but a passing feeling. The next instant she clasped the infant to her bosom; she felt as if the beloved of her soul was not wholly torn from her: she had something still to live for, something to which her existence was necessary; and the whole affections of that loving and blighted heart were poured forth upon the unconscious infant. She recovered slowly, but she did recover.

Time wore away. She was still young, and might have hoped for happiness in a second marriage—but her’s was no common love. It had taken root in early life,—it had been nurtured in sorrow, almost in hopelessness,—it had for many long years been her thought by day, her dream by night,—it was so interwoven with her existence, that it could not be destroyed but with herself. Devotion to her child, to his child, alone afforded relief to her sorrow and her love. She remembered all the treasured words of him who was gone; she thought over all the plans they had together formed for her little Walter’s education, and she considered no sacrifice too great that might by possibility be conducive to his health or to his advantage. Alas! by so doing, perhaps, she only fostered feelings which, in after life, led to most unfortunate results.

In the common acceptation of the word, she did not spoil her boy. She never gave him the plaything he cried for; she never yielded to his entreaties in allowing him what she imagined could be hurtful either to his body or his mind; but every action of her own, and of every one belonging to her, had reference to him alone.

The best room in the house was his sleeping-apartment, as being the most airy and wholesome; the largest sitting-room was appointed for his playing nursery; if he looked pale, an air of consternation pervaded the whole household; if he was naughty, the wretchedness of his mother was reflected in the serious faces of his attendants; if he was good, every one appeared revived; and rewards and pleasures were provided, however inconvenient it might be to gratify his fancy of the moment.

Those who were interested for his mother, and wished to gratify her feelings, knew that she was only accessible to pleasurable emotions through her boy, and they vied with each other in attentions and kindness to him.

Nothing could be more natural, more amiable, than the widowed mother’s devotion to her only child; and she fancied that she was training his mind to all that was right and virtuous; for these indulgences were rewards for good behaviour. Alas! in her anxious tenderness one great lesson was neglected. She forgot to impress upon his mind that he was only one of many creatures, all equal in the sight of their Creator. Walter necessarily felt that the universe was formed for him alone, and that every thing ought to be subservient to his welfare.

He was a beautiful and an intelligent boy, with all his mother’s depth and tenderness of feeling; with all his father’s energy in accomplishing his purpose; but being accustomed to find those vehement feelings, those energies, the ruling principle of the little world around him, he early learned to rule over that little world with the most despotic sway. He loved his mother; but he loved her as tyrants love that which ministers to their pleasure. She did not dive so deeply into his little heart, satisfied with feeling herself necessary to his happiness. Her gentle and habitually melancholy countenance could be lighted up with joy at any proof of affection on his part; and she looked round with proud exultation when he cried, and wept aloud, at the prospect of her leaving him to pass a few days with a friend. She did not leave him. She yielded to this passionate expression of his ungoverned feelings, and by so doing confirmed him in the habitual indulgence of them.

The period came when it was deemed proper that he should go to school. This was a severe trial; but here her duty was plain before her. She knew that it would be sacrificing her boy’s welfare to her own gratification if she persisted in keeping him at home.

At ten years old he went to Eton; and here his natural talents, and his animated disposition, soon made him a favourite with his master and with his companions. Now, for almost the first time, Eleanor tasted unalloyed happiness. She was proud of her son; she heard him praised by his superiors; she knew he was loved by his comrades; and when he returned for the holidays, she looked on him with a thrill of rapture, such as she had never expected to feel again. Of course no indulgence could be too great for her good, her clever boy. Every wish was gratified, every request forestalled. For some years she was comparatively a happy woman.

Walter increased in health and strength, and beauty and talents. He was impetuous, but that was natural in youth; he could not bear to be thwarted, but then his wishes were generally the offspring of some amiable feeling. If he saw distress, his was the open hand to relieve it. Though he might perhaps give a guinea to a ragged impostor, and have not a sixpence left to bestow on a starving and industrious family, this was only the excess of a generous impulse. How could he be blamed for yielding to it?

He left Eton with the character of an excellent scholar, and of a fine fellow. He passed through his career at Oxford with more than common credit, and his friends augured that he might one day make a figure in public life. His future prospects were brilliant, and he was in possession of a fortune which rendered him independent of any profession, but which was not sufficient to stand in lieu of a profession. A large landed property, well attended to, and well administered, is occupation in itself, and affords scope for great utility; but there is a certain medium which prevents exertion, and enables a person to pass a life of most complete idleness.

Such was Walter Fitz-Eustace’s situation, when at twenty-one he plunged into the vortex of London dissipation, with an ardent imagination, impetuous temper, amiable, but ill-regulated feelings, and a strong determined will, which had never been controlled, and would never brook control. These were faults which might lead to much mischief, but which could not make him less beloved by a doting mother. This was a disposition to make him fearfully the slave of love, should it once gain dominion over him. However, he returned to his adoring mother in the summer with heart as light, and eyes as gay and careless, as when he left her. She was overjoyed to have him once more by her side; once more to lean on his arm when she took her evening stroll, and to look up in his beaming face, and trace in those noble features, the forms, the expression of his father’s; to listen to his animated accounts of debates in Parliament; to see his cheek glow, and his eye flash fire as he talked of liberty, of justice; and to anticipate the moment when the talents, of which there seemed to be so rich a promise, might excite admiration in the senate.

CHAPTER II.

The following spring Fitz-Eustace again passed the season in London. He had been disappointed in his hopes of being returned for a borough; the scenes of dissipation which had completely occupied him the first year had lost their power to interest; and his animated nature was beginning to feel the want of some fresh excitement, when he became acquainted with Lady Ellersville.

She had been married about three years to a dull, proud, cold, handsome man, whom she neither liked nor disliked. Let it not be imagined that her character was therefore necessarily cold and heartless. She had been brought up in the seclusion of her school-room. She had not been allowed to associate with other girls, for fear of contamination; she had read no books, that had not been previously perused with care by her mother or her governess. Her time had been divided between her masters and the proper exercise for her health; but in these walks she had never visited the cottages of the poor, lest she might be exposed to infection, or hear tales of woe that might be injurious to the innocence of her pure unsullied mind.

The school-room was apart from the rest of the house, and she had never been permitted to leave it except at stated and appointed times. Nor were any visitors admitted within the sacred precincts to interrupt the course of her studies. When with her parents, she was treated with all kindness and affection, but she had nothing in common with them. She knew not their objects of interest; their friends were almost unknown to her except by sight; she could not enter into the subjects of their conversation; and when she came forth into the world, she had learned as many languages, read as much history, acquired as many accomplishments as any young lady of her age, and had reflected as little upon any subject that has to do with real life. She imagined, as many girls do, that marriage was as much the object of being brought out, as dancing is the object of going to a ball, and looking well, the object of dressing for that ball.

When, therefore, Lord Ellersville proposed to her, and was considered by her parents as an unexceptionable parti, young, handsome, rich, she accepted him calmly, dutifully, and without hesitation. She meant to love him, knowing it was right so to do, and she persuaded herself that she really did like him very much. In high life, romance is not the besetting sin of very young ladies. Their characters do not unfold, like Ondine; they do not find out they have a soul until it is sometimes too late. Matches, apparently the most worldly and heartless, are occasionally formed by those, in the recesses of whose hearts the warmest affections, the most disinterested feelings, are lying dormant. Often, very often, their minds are well regulated, their principles strong, and these affections, if they cannot find vent in love for their husbands, concentrate themselves on their children. But alas! too often also they lead to the most lamentable results.

Lord Ellersville unfortunately was not formed to attach such a woman as Maria. He was devoted to field sports. In August he repaired to the moors to shoot grouse, from whence he only returned when partridge shooting commenced, and later in the season he went to Melton with a perfect stud of horses. This was not flattering to a young and lovely woman. Her vanity was mortified. In the spring he attended the House of Lords regularly, although he never spoke, and his vote merely served to strengthen the government majorities. Women are alive to fame of all kinds, and if her husband had distinguished himself, Lady Ellersville was one of those who would have lived upon his glories; for there was a fund of loftiness in her nature which would have enabled her to make pride in her husband supply the place of love for him. When with her, he was careless and indifferent; for having married at the instigation of his mother, in order that the honours of Ellersville might not become extinct, her principal claim upon his affection, or rather his consideration, ceased, when the young heir was snatched by death from its doting mother.

There is something in maternity that opens the heart to all kindly emotions of every sort, and it was not till she lost her child, that Lady Ellersville first felt what a blank and cheerless existence was that of the unloved wife of an unloved husband. She then first owned to herself that she did not, could not, love the man to whom her fate was united, but that there did exist within her warm and ardent feelings which now must never be called forth.

A fearful barrier is broken down when such a confession is made in the secret soul. Pride, however, was one ruling principle in her nature, and she resolved that no one should perceive that she imagined herself neglected, or that she felt mortified. She mixed in the world. She wished to show her husband that she had charms for others, and she gloried in the train of admirers that the fascination of her person and manners attracted around her. She thought pride must ever secure her against any weakness. Alas! pride is a poor substitute for principle. Walter had heard of her as the admired Lady Ellersville, who piqued herself upon her indifference, and upon her powers of attracting, without courting, the homage of the other sex.

He soon became one of her train, and almost as soon, tired of being only one among many, on whom she lavished the varied charms of her conversation. He could not endure to be thus confounded among the crowd. He wished to ascertain that she considered him as superior to the common herd of empty young men, and to do so he naturally put forth all his powers of pleasing. His eye was more animated, his jest more pointed, his political opinions expressed with more eloquence, when she was present.

Had any one said to him, you are leading a virtuous woman from the path of duty, he would have denied the imputation with horror. Yet such was indeed the fact. Scarcely a day elapsed in which they did not see each other, though without any preconcerted plan on either side; and the ball, the assembly, seemed dull and insipid at which he did not meet the lively, the agreeable, the lovely Lady Ellersville. He began to feel indignant that the man who was united to such a woman should appear so little aware of the treasure he possessed. He then wondered whether she had ever loved him, whether she had ever preferred anybody; whether, if circumstances had not prevented her indulging such a feeling, she could ever have liked him.

His thoughts became wholly engrossed by her; when she was present he had no eyes, no ears for any one else; and although he never breathed a word which could alarm the most rigid virtue, the tact with which all human beings are endowed upon that subject, gave her heart the delightful consciousness of being loved, though nothing was said which forced such a conviction upon her understanding.

The refinements of polished life threw a halo round the first approaches of vice—of vice, which if it appeared in its own form would be recognised as such, and avoided with loathing; but it assumes the mask of all that is harmless and engaging—innocent conversation, gay sociability—and does not throw off the disguise, till it has already made deep inroads on the peace and on the morals.

To the fallen and degraded, whom distress, misfortune, friendlessness may have driven to a life from which their conscience and their feelings often revolt, how wilfully, how wantonly criminal must the pampered minion of luxury appear, who errs in the midst of plenty, pleasure, honour! Alas! it is that very profusion which gives leisure for the heart and the imagination to go astray. The lowly know not the dangers to which the great are exposed. Still less can the great estimate the temptations to which the poor and friendless are liable. Let each be lenient to their erring sisters! Nor let those who, united to the object of their choice, are happy in the interchange of mutual affection, exult too proudly in their irreproachable character and untarnished reputation. Rather let them thankfully and humbly acknowledge the mercy that has cast their lot where their inclination and their duty coincide; which has spared them the misery of warm feelings sent back upon the ardent heart which gave them birth, and the temptation of meeting with kindness, where it would be sinful to indulge the emotions such kindness is calculated to excite.

Why should I trace the progress of events unfortunately of too common occurrence? Walter was the first whose eyes were opened to the nature of his own feelings; but Lady Ellersville, whose heart, under her guarded exterior, was teeming with all the affections which are doomed to form the joy and respectability, or the misery and degradation of woman, at length made the fatal confession to herself. She would have avoided him, and sought safety in flight; but Walter was too little in the habit of self-denial quietly to relinquish the society he found necessary to his happiness. Had Mrs. Fitz-Eustace been aware what were the dangers to which her son’s morals and his welfare were exposed, how little would she have rejoiced in his accession to the earldom of Sotheron, an event which occurred about this period, and which promised to afford scope for those talents which were his mother’s pride. She had scarcely allowed her heart to dilate with the pleasurable emotions from which even her chastened spirit could not defend itself, when she was doomed to a new and unlooked-for sorrow.

The assumed coldness of Lady Ellersville only excited and increased the ardour of Walter’s passion; for he loved her with the uncontrolled vehemence which characterised all his feelings.

The sequel may easily be guessed. The moment came when the confession locked in the secret bosom of each, was made to the other. Lord Ellersville at length became jealous and umbrageous. Her proud spirit could not endure to quail under the glance of a man she despised. To avoid suspicion she plunged into actual guilt.

Oh! if those who headlong follow their own impulses could pause to contemplate the misery they inflict! What were the past sorrows of Eleanor Fitz-Eustace to the agony she now endured, when her son, the consolation of her widowhood, the pride of heart, to whose future career she looked forward with high aspirations after fame and honour, whose name, when it was mentioned, made her faded countenance light up with a gleam of exultation, became a degraded and sinful man; that name avoided by her acquaintance, and only mentioned by her friends in a low, subdued, mysterious voice!

Those only who have felt the delightful, trembling hopes of a parent, who have witnessed the gradual unfolding of the infant mind, watched the ripening intellect, revelled in the anticipation of future excellence, can estimate the full measure of wretchedness which now overwhelmed the unfortunate Eleanor.

Meanwhile were the erring pair happy? No; after the first wild tumult of mingled emotions had subsided, Lord Sotheron attempted to write to his mother. But many days elapsed before he could bring himself to finish a letter which he felt it possible to send to his virtuous, his devoted, his broken-hearted parent. From that moment began the punishment of their misconduct. He was not accustomed to conceal his feelings in order to spare those of another. Restless and agitated himself, he tore the unfinished scrawls to pieces; he paced the apartment with hasty strides, not remembering that every sign of uneasiness in him was a severe pang through Maria’s heart.

Fearful of being recognised, shrinking from the eye of her very menials, Lady Ellersville experienced all the tortures that persons naturally proud and susceptible, yes, and naturally virtuous, must endure, when conscious that every one has a right to look down upon them.

Under a feigned name they resided at an obscure watering-place, anxiously expecting the moment when the divorce should pass, and hoping that she might at least become the wife of Lord Sotheron before the birth of a child, whose illegitimacy would be a lasting reproach to them. Unfortunately, by some unlooked-for circumstances, the divorce did not pass till the following session, and a boy was born, in whose unconscious face its mother could not look without a feeling of guilt towards the innocent child.

Lord Sotheron meanwhile was listless and unoccupied. He was never unkind; but his mode of life was little suited to an animated young man in the very flower of manhood, and he could not, indeed he did not often attempt, to veil his ennui. She was bowed down with humiliation; she could not exert herself. Where were all her brilliancy, her wit, the variety, the grace of her conversation, which had so enchanted all around? She felt she was dull, and that he on whom her every hope depended would be driven to other society for amusement. She strove to be entertaining; but how different was that forced pleasantry from the gaiety of a mind at ease, inspired by the consciousness of success and admiration. He guessed her motive, and for a moment exerted himself to appear amused. But how different also was that forced laugh from the admiring glance which once beamed applause at her every word, which unconsciously followed her every movement!

In wedded life there are a thousand common subjects of interest, little domestic concerns to be discussed; preparation for the reception of friends to be arranged; there are a thousand pleasing recollections of past scenes of enjoyment, and anticipations of the prospects of their children, which prevent the tête-à-tête from wearying those whose characters and tempers are really in unison. But Walter and Lady Ellersville had no friends to prepare for, none to talk of, in all the unrestrained confidence of intimacy; they could not revert to past scenes without recalling those from whom she was for ever divided; they could not retrace the first dawnings of their mutual affection without reviving the recollection of errors over which they would gladly draw a veil; and then—they dared not allude to the future lot of their child, for that was a subject of unmingled pain to both.

CHAPTER III.

At length the divorce passed, and Maria became the wife of him whom she loved with increasing tenderness; for all she had given up for his sake only endeared him the more to her. Man, on the contrary, though he may feel kindness, pity, gratitude, to woman, for the sacrifices she has made to him, considers her as in some measure responsible for those he has made to her.

Maria was now for the first time to see Lord Sotheron’s mother. Mrs. Fitz-Eustace, though bowed down by this last heavy affliction, was too gentle to be soured by it. She promised to receive her, when once she was really her daughter-in-law. She only wished to contribute, as far as in her lay, to the welfare or the comfort of the beloved son, who, though no longer the pride and joy of her heart, was still to her the most precious thing on earth.

What were Maria’s feelings as she drew near the abode of that devoted mother, whose fate, already sad, she had so utterly blasted? When she thought of presenting to her a grandchild who might not bear the name to which the eldest son of Lord Sotheron ought to have been entitled? No village bells were ringing to greet their arrival, no old and faithful servants crowding the door to welcome their master’s bride. She thought of her reception at Ellersville Castle. The approach was thronged with villagers, the air resounded with the chimes of the neighbouring parishes, the castle terrace was surrounded with the tenantry, the great steps were lined with servants, all eager to show attention to their new lady. She was then happy, thoughtless, innocent; she could then look back into herself without remorse or shame, and she felt, as the carriage drew up at Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s door, and as they waited till the servant answered the bell, that not all the fervour and depth of her devotion to Walter could compensate, even in this world, for the loss of self-esteem, and of respectability in the eyes of others.

They were ushered into the drawing-room by a grey-headed man, who greeted Walter with respectful but serious affection. He said he would let his mistress know. They heard doors open and shut rapidly, hurried steps in the passage, the whispering of subdued female voices, still Mrs. Fitz-Eustace did not appear; and they felt that his mother had need to summon all her courage for the dreaded interview. At length she entered, and her subdued, mild, broken-hearted countenance, went more to Maria’s heart than all she had hitherto experienced.

Mrs. Fitz-Eustace embraced her son with the tenderest affection; she kissed Maria, she took her grandchild in her arms, she did every thing that kindness could prompt; but they saw the quivering lip, they heard the unsteady voice, and Maria’s shame and remorse nearly overpowered her. Mrs. Fitz-Eustace asked some indifferent questions about the weather and the journey, and Maria answered it was hot or cold, the journey long or short, without knowing what she uttered. Lord Sotheron, anxious to escape from a position that was so unpleasant to him, left the room, and they remained alone. A few more attempts were made to keep up a languishing conversation; Maria longed to throw herself at the feet of Walter’s mother, and there to breathe forth all her agony of self-accusation, and to implore her pardon for the sorrow she had brought upon her grey hairs, but there was a gentle reserve about the grief of Eleanor that awed, while it touched, that repressed all outpourings of the heart, while it deeply interested; and Maria took refuge in busying herself over the baby till Mrs. Fitz-Eustace proposed to show her her room.

When Maria at length found herself alone, she gave way to tears that were perhaps more bitter than any she had hitherto shed. She had wept for herself, she had wept her fault, she had wept her degradation, but never did she feel that degradation so acutely as at this moment. Her sorrows appeared to her such guilty ones, that they revolted her; while Eleanor’s, on the contrary, wore a character of holiness, of sanctity. And that she should have filled the measure of her bitter cup,—that she should have crushed the broken spirit! oh! it was almost too much for endurance.

The dressing-bell rang. It is wonderful how much those who have lived in the world, and whose feelings may be least under the salutary control of principle, mechanically submit to that of les convenances of society. She repressed her tears, she calmed her sobs, dressed herself, and went down to dinner with a composed voice and tranquil manner. The dinner was as uncomfortable as one might expect it to be, under the existing circumstances. The succeeding days were passed in the same restraint. The moment never came in which they alluded to past events, and although they all felt kindly towards each other, there was not the free interchange of thought which alone renders a domestic circle truly happy.

It was not till they had resided for some months under the same roof that the barrier of reserve between them was broken down.

Soon after the birth of a second boy, Maria was lying on her sofa, while the young Edward was playing on the floor. Eleanor caught the expression of anguish with which Maria gazed on the eldest; their eyes met, and that glance revealed to each all that was passing in the mind of the other. At that moment all coldness, all reserve, was broken through. Throwing herself at the feet of her mother-in-law, and hiding her face in her hands, Maria sobbed out, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! pardon the ruin I have brought on your son, the disgrace I have brought on your grandchild! No—no! it is impossible! kind and gentle as you are, you must—you must hate me, as well as despise me.”

Touched and alarmed at this agony, Mrs. Fitz-Eustace raised her, soothed her, bade her be composed. But having once opened upon the subject, she poured forth all the pent-up feelings of remorse and shame that had so long been consuming her. They mingled their tears, and Eleanor’s gentle words of compassion and forgiveness restored her to something like composure.

From this time there was no thought of her soul hidden from her mother-in-law, and Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s maternal partiality saw, in the irresistible attractions of her son, an excuse for Maria’s fault, which made pity almost usurp the place of blame. It became the mother’s task to console her who had blighted all the prospects of that beloved son; for Maria saw and felt too well that the life of aimless, listless idleness that Lord Sotheron led, was affecting his spirits, his temper, and his character; she knew and felt to her heart’s core that her eldest boy would always have to struggle against the flaw in his birth.

By Eleanor’s advice they resolved to pass some time on the continent, till the painful notoriety at present attached to their name had in some measure subsided, and it was not till after the lapse of two or three years that they took possession of their magnificent mansion of Stonebury.

Many were the family discussions to which the arrival of Lord and Lady Sotheron gave rise. The gay wished to participate in the society which they thought would probably be assembled at Stonebury; the easy and good-natured understood that Lady Sotheron had conducted herself with the greatest propriety since her present marriage, and were inclined to forget any past misconduct; the vulgar enjoyed the opportunity of protecting a person of rank and fortune. On the other hand, the rigid urged the unanswerable argument, that unless a decided line be drawn between virtue and vice, there must be an utter end of all morality in the land. They naturally were shocked that the woman who had abandoned all her duties should be at the head of society, enjoying rank, fortune, and even respectability.

Alas! if they could have read the heart of her whose worldly prosperity thus excited their virtuous indignation, they would have found her as much an object of pity as those who have erred should ever be, to those who need not shrink from the reproaches of conscience or the judgment of their fellow creatures. Not one of these visits passed without some occurrence, which to a sensitive mind gave exquisite pain.

Children are usually a great resource during the formal quarter of an hour which precedes a dinner in the country, and on one of these occasions a young lady, in talking to the eldest boy, called him Lord Stonebury. This touched Maria where she was most vulnerable, when the young lady’s mother immediately addressing the younger boy by the title of Lord Stonebury, covered her with tenfold confusion. It proved that her story was all known, and all remembered; and she, who was once the high-bred, the self-possessed Lady Ellersville, whose manner of receiving her company had been the admiration of the most polished society, was awkward, hurried; she addressed people by wrong names, did not hear when she was spoken to; there was a restlessness in her eye, and a rapidity in her utterance, very unlike the careless grace with which, without appearing to do anything, she once contrived to put every one at their ease. She feared she was not civil enough, and a sensation of humility prompted her to change her seat for the purpose of addressing some one to whom she had not already spoken,—then a movement of pride made her spirit rebel at so courting vulgar people, who would once have thought themselves honoured by a passing acknowledgment from her. This gave her manner an air of constraint. There was something out of keeping, and many wondered where was the charm of address which had been reckoned so bewitching.

On another occasion the conversation happened to turn on the comparative beauty of the Lady D——s. One person remarked, that she “had always thought poor Lady Anne’s countenance the most attractive of all.” “I never saw her,” observed another, who had lately taken a place in the neighbourhood. “Oh, no! She married unfortunately, poor thing! and ran away with Captain B——. It was a sad business.”

Maria’s burning face betrayed her confusion. The lady had scarcely uttered the unfortunate words, when she recollected before whom she was speaking. She stopped short, and a dead silence prevailed. She tried hastily to speak on some other subject, but every one felt awkward, and her unassisted efforts again subsided into silence. Lady Sotheron, distressed at the allusion, was confounded at its being seized by others, and the whole evening was to her one of painful endurance. At other times she suffered almost equally from the studious avoidance of topics that might in any way be applicable to herself. In solitude her reflections were all bitter, and in society something constantly occurred which brought her situation more painfully to her recollection.

Walter meantime found his home disagreeable. He was beset by people not of his own selection, and who were not in any way suited to him. He determined to repair to London, to attend the House of Lords, and to seek interest and excitement in the line which he had often been told he was formed to pursue with success. Maria was delighted at this resolution. She felt that if he could fulfil an honourable political career, she should not be so guilty of having blasted his fate; his mother might once more be proud of her only child, instead of mourning in secret over his blighted prospects.

They went to London, and Lord Sotheron again mixed in the society he at once liked and adorned. His spirits revived, his eager temper was on fire, and he gave himself up to politics with an ardour the more vehement from the state of indolent vacuity in which he had latterly passed his time. She was rejoiced to see those eyes again beam with animation, to perceive energy in every movement, instead of the listless languor she had so often deplored. She scarcely remarked that she passed hours, days, alone, so engrossed was she in his interests; and when he made a brilliant and successful maiden speech, she felt proud, nay, almost happy, and wrote to his mother with more confidence than she had ever done before.

Lord Sotheron soon became a person of some importance, and he was invited to all the political dinners of the party to which he had attached himself. He thought it necessary to give dinners in return—and now arose discussions which made Maria’s situation more galling to her than ever. The wives of these great personages did not visit her, and how awkward to preside at one of these grand entertainments with no ladies to support her, except the two or three, who from family connections associated with her, but who were in no wise connected with the persons whom Walter wished to cultivate! Her sensitive mind recoiled from the whole discussion.

She entreated him to give only men dinners, not to struggle after that which they could not accomplish; and she assured him she had rather remain in her own room, than go through the mortifications and difficulties that must attend her making one of the party. He but faintly opposed her resolution, for in fact, ambition had taken possession of his soul, and he blindly followed its impulses. His time was completely occupied with debates, committees, dinners, which became more and more frequent, and Maria sat in her boudoir, eating her solitary morsel, and hearing the bustle of the servants waiting upon the party feasting below. Still she would not let herself repine at his having at length found scope for his talents. She would not wish it otherwise, but she could not help feeling miserable.

She attended still more to her children. They were always with her, and in their infantine prattle she often found pleasure; but even from that source she occasionally drank the bitter draught of shame. One day they had just returned from a walk in the square, where they had been playing with some young companions, when Edward said to her, “Mamma, why don’t they call me lord? That little boy in blue says, he is called lord, because he is the eldest. Now, I am the eldest, and yet Charles and Emily are called lord and lady, and I am not.”

This was more than she could endure. She tried to murmur something, but her lips refused to move, her tongue to utter. She blushed, she quailed under the innocent enquiring eye of her child. She hid her face in his curly locks, she drew him closer to her, she smothered him with kisses, she wept over him, she sobbed, till the child, frightened at the violent emotions he had so unconsciously excited, felt there was a mystery, and ever after avoided the subject with that precocious tact which children so often evince.

Another time he was reading a childish History of England, and when he came to a passage that treated of hereditary succession, he said, “Yes—the kingdom descends to the king’s eldest son, as papa’s land will descend to me;” anxious, as children always are, to illustrate by some familiar example. She thrilled through every nerve; but she thought it would be too cruel to bring him up in this error, from which he must one day be painfully undeceived. She summoned up all her courage, and without daring to reflect on what might be his next question, she forced herself to utter. “My dear! you will not inherit your father’s lands.” There was a constrained solemnity in the tone which awed the boy. He felt he was on forbidden ground, and he said no more.

CHAPTER IV.

Years rolled on. Lord Sotheron was more and more engrossed in public affairs, and the time at length arrived when Maria regretted those days when he was unknown, and unnoticed, but when she at least enjoyed the society of him for whom she had sacrificed every thing.

Her boys went to a public school. It was not till they had been there for some time, that Maria remarked there was a great change in Edward. His spirits, which had been constantly and exuberantly gay, were now only occasionally elevated. His temper, formerly mild and even, was now sometimes stern and morose; if his brother thwarted him, he yielded immediately, but it was with a sort of proud humility. Instead of asking the servants to mend any of the implements of his boyish amusements, and applying to them for all the various little services so often asked, and so willingly performed, he would pass whole days mending his own tools; he would walk off to the village to get his knife sharpened, and scrupulously pay for it; in short, there seemed to pervade every action, a desire not to be beholden to any one. He was tender to his mother, fond of his sister, kind to his brother; still there was something unsatisfactory in his manner.

His pursuits were solitary; he did not want the companionship of his brother; and Charles, in his turn, would say, “Oh! Edward goes his own way, so I shall go mine.” It sometimes occurred that both could not ride, or that both could not shoot, or that there was only one place in the carriage on some excursion of pleasure. On such occasions, Edward invariably said he preferred staying at home. At length the feeling that was rankling in the bosom of the elder boy was inadvertently betrayed.

Edward had seated himself next to his mother at dinner, when Charles said, laughingly, “This is too bad, Edward; you sat by mamma yesterday; it is not fair play. Come, turn out!”

With a flushed cheek, and an angry eye, the colour mounting to his very temples, he exclaimed in a tone but little justified by the occasion:—

“I won’t! I have as good a right as you to sit by my mother at least. From this place you shall not turn me out.”

Charles answered, “Why, Edward, you are grown so crabbed, I don’t know what is come to you; however, I shall have merrier playfellows than you, when I get back to school.”

Maria more than suspected that Edward had learned the history of his own birth; and she also perceived that the indignant sense of honour, and the independent spirit, which if properly directed, might lead to all that is most brilliant and admirable, were likely, in Edward’s unfortunate circumstances, to spoil a disposition naturally amiable and noble.

Oh! how painfully did it then strike her, that her fault was thus visited upon her children! She saw the probability of disunion between the brothers, and it was only by true and cordial affection that their relative situations could be sweetened to either of them. She reflected deeply and bitterly upon the subject. Profiting perhaps by the errors in her own education, she had long come to the conclusion that the best mode of fitting human creatures for the world in which they are to live, and the station they are to fill in that world, is to tell them the truth upon all subjects, and to make them acquainted with the feelings and interests of their parents.

On all other topics she had done so, as much as possible; but in this instance, could she herself be the person to lay bare her own and their father’s errors? And yet, if Edward already knew the fact of his illegitimacy, it were better he should learn to view his mother with pity, than with contempt; better he should know how truly she repented her fault, than imagine she was hardened in guilt; better that Charles should learn his own superior prospects in a manner that should open and soften his heart towards his brother. And then her daughter Emily! Would it not be cruel to leave her in ignorance of her mother’s situation till she came out into the world, when the painful truth must be forced upon her in the most humiliating manner, by a thousand inevitable circumstances?

She confided her mental struggles to Mrs. Fitz-Eustace, who almost constantly resided at Stonebury, and from whom she had now no hidden thought.

Eleanor kindly offered to spare her the painful task; but she recalled to her the restraint that had chilled their intercourse, while the one subject of strong and mutual interest had been avoided; and she also reminded her, how, from the moment they had poured out their hearts to each other, all coldness, all reserve, had vanished for ever.

“How necessary is it, then, that I, and my children, should understand each other’s hearts! Yes, whatever it may cost me, I will tell them all; and if by suffering, guilt may be atoned, I shall thus, in some degree, expiate my offence, for Heaven alone can judge how keenly I shall suffer?”

Lord Sotheron had been for some time absent, nor was he likely to return. His party had lately come into power, and he was eagerly desirous of a public situation of trust, for which his talents particularly fitted him. His absences were become so frequent, and of such long duration, that Maria had lost the habit of referring her every action to him.

Emily was thirteen, and Edward fifteen; when Maria one morning summoned them all three to her dressing-room. Her cheek was pale, her eye, though sad, was resolved. She called each to her side, and she imprinted upon each smooth open brow, a fervent kiss. Then clasping her hands, she uttered:—

“May God bless you, my children, and strengthen you and preserve you in that innocence which is the only thing to be truly and earnestly prayed for! May He in his mercy bless you! My children, the blessing of a mother is good for the souls of her children, let that mother’s errors be what they may. Come nearer, dears. Let me hold your hands; and you must promise you will still love me. I am going to confess to you, my children, the error;—yes, I will utter the word—the crime of my youth. I was a married woman when I first knew your father. But he to whom I was married did not care for me; perhaps it was my fault he did not—I will not throw any blame on him. My heart was desolate! Your father saw me unhappy, and he pitied me—he loved me. I forgot my duties, forgot the vow I had breathed at the altar, in the sight of God; I left the husband I had sworn to love, and gave the love which was his due to another. This is a dreadful, a heinous sin, my children, and this sin did your mother commit! But you have been early taught to read your Bible, and you have there learned that there is more joy in Heaven over one repentant sinner, than over ninety and nine just men who need no repentance. Oh, blessed words! How many thousand thousand times have I read, and re-read ye! Ye alone have preserved me from sinking under the load of my guilt. Yes, my children, I have repented; deeply, earnestly, bitterly, unceasingly. I may truly say, my sin is ever before me. Oh! if repentance can find mercy at the throne of Heaven, let it find mercy at your hands, my children! Pardon, pardon your erring mother!” and worked up beyond her powers of endurance, she threw herself on her knees at their feet.

They rushed to her, they kissed her, they raised her to the sofa, they soothed her, they wept over her, they lavished on her every most touching expression of affection, they assured her of their love, their respect, their veneration.

“Stop! stop! beloved ones. Do not let your tenderness to me blind you to the reality of my sin. Love me! Yes, love me still, but I must not let that love confound in your young minds the distinctions between virtue and vice. I am not yet come to the end. I have to tell you how the errors of the fathers are visited upon the children.

“Even you, my Emily, know that unless parents are solemnly married according to the law of the land, the children do not inherit their name or their property, and alas! alas! you, Edward, came into this weary world, before my former marriage was cancelled. Upon your head are my sins visited. Yes: and upon yours Charles, and yours Emily, for you have a mother, whom you must not honour, for whom you must blush before the world.”

“Oh, mamma, mamma,” they cried at once, “we love you, we honour you! Oh! that we could prove how much we love you,—better than ever!”

“Thanks, thanks! my own dear, innocent, good children! And would you really do all you can to sooth my anguish, to lessen the keenness of my remorse?”

Edward exclaimed, “Oh, mother, don’t talk so—any thing—every thing!”

“Then listen, Edward! I have remarked your altered manner. I felt certain that at school you had heard some of the circumstances of your birth, and I resolved that from my lips you should all learn the truth, the whole truth. It was, if possible, more painful to imagine you hearing your mother scornfully spoken of, than to be my own accuser. Oh! my boy! if you knew the agony of self-accusation that racked me, when I saw you thus reserved and melancholy, you would have thrown off your gloom. I know you would! Oh! Edward, in pity to your penitent parent, be once more your gay, ingenuous self. You know how dear you are to every one in this house. You need not wrap yourself up in solitary pride. If my children should not love each other, then am I punished indeed!” And she pressed her hands tight over her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid picture.

Edward burst into tears, threw his arms round Charles, and gave him a warm, and heart-felt fraternal kiss.

“And you, Charles, who have bright prospects before you, as far as worldly prosperity tends to happiness, think whose fault deprives your brother of these advantages, and for my sake love him, Charles, more dearly than brother ever loved brother.”

“That I will indeed, mamma,” cried Charles.

“My Emily! If you would honour your mother, prove to the world that she could guide your mind to the strictest virtue. Let your conduct be such as in some measure to redeem my fame!”

The effect of this scene upon her children was such as to repay Maria for all it had cost her. The brothers were inseparable. Edward became cheerful, and he willingly accepted all the little kindnesses that Charles omitted no opportunity of offering him. In Charles, there was a tone of deference to his elder brother, which was very winning, and which went straight to the generous heart of Edward.

One fine winter’s morning Mrs. Fitz-Eustace and Maria were watching the two noble boys, as with keepers, dogs, and guns, they were before the windows preparing for a shooting expedition. They were talking and laughing joyously with each other, and Maria turning to Mrs. Fitz-Eustace with tearful, but beaming eyes, exclaimed, “I was right, dearest mother, was I not, to tell them every thing? Painful as it was, it has had the desired effect. Oh! how can parents who have nothing to blush for, maintain a causeless and mysterious reserve towards their children! Perhaps many a prodigal might have been prudent and thoughtful, if he had known how, for his sake, his parents were struggling to keep up a decent appearance in the world. Confidence produces confidence, and children would have the habit of communicating each feeling as it arose, and while it was yet capable of being checked, or guided aright.” And as she spoke, she thought if she had felt that tender, fearless, confidence in her parents, perhaps her mother might have read the guilty secret of her heart, and have guarded her against its fatal consequences.

The office which Lord Sotheron had so eagerly sought was given to another, and there appeared in the papers a paragraph alluding to the disappointed hopes of a certain noble earl, and the necessity that morality should be upheld by the private, as well as the public, character of those in high official situations.

This paragraph met the eye of the two persons to whom it could give the most acute pain. It crushed, it humbled Maria to the very dust. She felt she was, in truth, a blight upon her husband’s prospects, and she sunk under the painful conviction.

Lord Sotheron returned to his home, humbled also, but soured and embittered. He was angry with himself for having condescended to solicit, indignant with ministers for having refused, and estranged from Maria, whom he looked upon as the clog which must ever prevent his rising in the career for which he felt himself formed. Hitherto, although neglectful, he had never been unkind; indeed, on any occasion of illness or distress, he had been attentive and devoted; she had flattered herself that, although often dormant, his affection for her was still all there. But ambition, like the love of gambling, when once it possesses the mind, gradually swallows up all other feelings, and he was now captious, sullen, he spoke sharply to her, seemed bored with what she said, and occasionally implied that she could know nothing of what was going on in the world. She suffered in silence. This was not a case in which open communication would be of any avail. When did a discussion ever call back to life extinct affection? Affection once extinct, what material had she to work upon? There were moments when she thought it hard he should be the person, in manner, if not in words, to reproach her for her error. At least that error was mutual, and she remembered the arguments, the entreaties, the vows, the oaths he had employed to lead her to the very step for which he now despised her. But oftener, far oftener, she found excuses for him in that heart where he was so dearly cherished; she reflected how galling it must be to a proud and eager temper to have sued in vain; she looked back with tenderness and gratitude to the many proofs of affection he had given her in former times, and she pitied rather than resented his present irritation.

Mrs. Fitz-Eustace remarked with sorrow the altered temper of her son, but her health, which had been of late declining, had in some measure communicated its languor to her mind. She was gradually fading away, but so gradually, that it was not till she was very near her end, that her son began to take alarm.

Extreme in every thing, he was angry with her for not having warned him of the state of her health. He reproached her for having allowed her sickness to creep on without calling their attention to the alarming symptoms of which she was herself aware. She gently smiled, and told him death had no terrors for one, for whom life had no charms.

“If I had seen you happy—” she added, “but as it is, I look forward almost with impatience to the moment of re-union with him from whom my heart has never for one moment been severed.”

As Walter and Maria knelt by their mother’s death-bed, as she blessed them both with her faint sweet voice, their hearts once more opened to each other, and they mingled tears of sorrow which to Maria were not wholly devoid of sweetness.

As she gazed on the marble brow and the closed lids of that placid countenance, she envied the spirit that was at rest, the heart that was not torn by a thousand conflicting feelings, and she longed to be laid in the quiet grave beside her. Alas! she had not yet exhausted the varied sufferings awaiting one