| | 1 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | The Countess Ida  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was on a pleasant October evening, in the year
1790, that the public diligence which ran between
Hamburg and Berlin drew up in the evening at
the post of the former town preparatory to starting.
The clock struck nine. The four strong horses
clattered with their heavy hoofs against the pavement,
as if impatient to be off. The conducteur
blew an inspiring blast upon his horn, and a small
but observant circle of by-standers were collected to
gaze on the company of passengers, and the animated
scene in which they formed the principal actors.
The travellers for the night, who appeared to take
their places, were only five in number. The officer
of the post, to whom it was committed to superintend
the departure of the vehicle and its occupants,
appeared with a light, a pen behind his ear, and a
paper in his hand. “Mamma begs me to write you our address. We
have taken furnished rooms at No. 70 `sous les arbres.'
We are also in some difficulty with a horrid
man of whom papa bought some things this morning;
and mamma says, if you would call in the course
of the day, she should be particularly obliged. “Your affectionate letter is received, and I sit
down to answer it, half hesitating, notwithstanding
the sincere friendship I entertain for you, whether
I ought to comply with your wishes, and relate to
you all the adventures of my life, and all the apprehensions
which agitate my mind. You will not,
even from this confession, doubt the sincerity of my
sentiments; for you are, my dear Denham, the only
man on earth whom I consider my friend. It is
melancholy to reflect how few among all my acquaintance
I place complete reliance on. Some
who could, perhaps, appreciate the nature of true
friendship, have their affections occupied elsewhere;
and many, who exhibit a desire to become intimate,
are not recommended by qualities which alone can
make intimacy agreeable. Of the young men whom
I have here associated much with, there is one in
particular whom I have learned to esteem. Were
we together for some years, I fear you would have
a rival. But I am in this metropolis only for so
short a time, and he is so much engaged with other
avocations, that the interest we feel in each other
will probably never grow beyond mutual wishes;
for what would be the use of cultivating a connexion,
of which the short period could scarcely be more
pleasant than the inevitable termination would be
painful? I see in this young man, however, much
which resembles you. He is naturally noble and
superior, born amid all the advantages of prosperity,
and spending his life in a sphere of fashion and
pleasure, among men beneath him in intellect; and
yet, while he equals and surpasses them in the elegant
frivolities of fashion, he has the taste and resolution
to cultivate his understanding, and the wisdom
to reason with impartiality and truth upon subjects
generally the least understood in such circles.
To see him in the drawing-room, you would suppose
him only the gay and light homme du monde;
while in his study he is evidently fitting himself for
a career of usefulness. This much in reply to your
inquiry respecting `new friends.' To your entreaty
that I should leave off travelling and seek myself
out a good wife, I have also something to say. I
have many objections to marriage in my case.
They are not those which generally influence men
who remain bachelors. I have no prejudices
against women, or apprehensions of the married
state. On the contrary, I soberly believe no man
can fulfil his duty, and enjoy all the happiness intended
for him, without a family. The pleasures and
affections—even the responsibilities, restraints, and
cares which they produce, all tend to develop and
balance his character, to enlarge his mind, and to
keep his heart in a medium point of enjoyment most
favourable to health, content, and honour. An old
bachelor is almost sure to have some inaccurate notion
or loose principle, which the reflection consequent
on a family protects a husband and father from.
No, my friend, do not suspect me of such flippant
objections to matrimony; but there are others which
I cannot easily overcome. You are aware of my
general history, but I do not think I ever ventured
to tell it to you distinctly, for it has been a subject
not very agreeable for me to touch upon. I will
sketch it for you, however, and let you judge whether
it does not offer me solid arguments against marrying. “The circumstances under which we last parted
leave me only the alternative to beg you to name a
friend to arrange the terms of a meeting at your
earliest convenience. “This afternoon, when I found you soliciting from
my daughter promises of attachment incompatible
with your relations with the Countess Ida Carolan,
I used language which, if you did not deserve, the
provocation must sufficiently excuse, without other
apology from me. If, in anything which I said, you
found an acquiescence in your suggestion as to a
meeting, I must beg you to consider that I spoke
in a state of mind when a just passion predominated
over calm reason. Upon reflection, I find that my
sense of duty to my family and to my Creator will
not permit me to proceed farther in a course, where
I can see no possibility of gaining advantage or
honour, either in this world or in the next. I decline
giving you the meeting you desire, and, at the
same time, I forbid your future visits to my house.
If I have offered you any disrespect, it is more than
counterbalanced by the insult I have suffered at
your hands; and, in permitting the affair to drop
where it is, I do so, my lord, not without sacrificing
M 2
some of the feelings of a man to the duties of a citizen,
a father, a husband, and a Christian. “I am on the eve of leaving Berlin, where I shall
probably never return again. It is possible that you
may misinterpret the motives with which I send you
the enclosed letter. I received it from a person of
trust, and can vouch for its truth. Mr. Denham, as
you will perceive, offers his name also; but I beg
you to withhold it from Lord Elkington, as I am
willing, should there be any serious responsibility,
to take it upon myself. My sole object is to put
you in possession of facts which affect the interests
of your family. You are at liberty to state that you
received them from me; for, while I have nothing
to hope from your decision, I have nothing to fear
from Lord Elkington's resentment. If any passing
weakness has ever caused me to seem to swerve
from the path which I ought to pursue in relation
to yourself and everything connected with you, that
weakness is at an end. If I have ceased, as with
pain I perceive I have, to receive your esteem, I
hope I have not ceased to deserve it. “Although Lord Elkington is ignorant of the
name and existence of the writer of this note, the
latter has the most accurate knowledge of your
lordship and his affairs. It is not impossible that
your lordship may be at first incredulous on reading
it, but a few moments' conversation with your lordship's
mother will entirely convince you of its truth.
I ain't a rich or a great man like your lordship, but
fortune has made me the possessor of a secret which
has been for some time a source of profit, and which,
I freely tell your lordship, I shall use to my own
advantage. Your lordship is aware that your noble
father, the Earl of Beverly, was married before he
united himself to your mother, the present Lady
Beverly. That match was unfortunate, as the world
well knows; but—I beg to call your lordship's attention
to this fact—there is a circumstance connected
with it which neither your lordship nor the world
knows, viz., that the issue of that marriage yet survives,
in the person of a son, who is, in reality, the
heir of your father's estate. This secret exists
solely and exclusively in my bosom. The son of
the Earl of Beverly, for causes which doubtless can
be explained, should it be necessary to investigate
the matter in a court of justice, went with his mother
to the West Indies. The vessel in which they
sailed was wrecked, and all on board perished but
two persons. One was the child, who was picked
up senseless from a spar (to which the mother had
attached him, being herself washed overboard and
drowned before she could make herself fast); the
other individual saved was myself. We were picked
up by the same ship, and I was carried, with the
child, into Boston. It had happened that I knew
the Earl of Beverly having had a boyish passion for
a young female in his household, who, before I left
England, had revealed to me certain family secrets
of a highly important nature, and, among others,
that the mother of this child had fled from her husband
in consequence of charges against her honour
of the vilest kind. I had seen her in the earl's family
(then Mr. Lawson), and I recognised her on board
the ship which bore us to the New World, although
she was there under an assumed name, and was totally
unknown to all but myself. Here, then, I found
myself with this boy, whom no one in America knew
anything of. Being aware that his father had disowned
him, I thought that I might serve both the
boy and myself by keeping, for a time, the secret of
his birth. For years I kept my eye on him, for a
finer fellow never walked. His beauty and character
at length attracted the attention of a lady, who,
hearing of his desolate situation, took him with her
to England, at the age of eight years. Dying, she
bequeathed him as a legacy to a lady, who educated
him till he left the University. It was then that I
informed the Earl of Beverly of his existence. That
nobleman arranged with me never to reveal the secret,
and has paid me for my silence. “The melancholy duty has devolved upon me of
informing you of the sudden, and, I fear, fatal malady
which has attacked your father. He was reading
this morning in his library; a violent ringing of
the bell called the servants to his side, when he was
found struggling in his fauteuil in a fit of the most
alarming description. Doctor B—and Sir Richard
L—have pronounced his case incurable. It
is not impossible, they say, that he may recover so
far as to retain life for months, and perhaps a year;
but that he can never again leave his bed, or recover
his senses except as a prelude to immediate dissolution,
is quite certain. I need not say that we
deeply sympathize with the distress which this
event will occasion your amiable mother, and the
pain it will inflict upon you particularly, as I have
been told some coolness had unhappily arisen between
your esteemed parent and yourself. I need
only say, my dear Elkington, that, while I sympathize
profoundly with your grief, I am the most sincere,
as I am the first of your friends to congratulate
you upon the magnificent inheritance which is about
to descend to you, and which, I am quite certain,
could not have fallen into more worthy hands. Command
me in any way, should necessity detain you
some days longer on the Continent. “You are probably aware of the event which has
reduced your distinguished father to a bed of death,
from which I am advised by his medical attendant
he can never rise, and which precludes all idea of
his again assuming the care of his affairs. I beg
leave, therefore, my lord, to address myself to you,
and shall await your orders. “Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you, to
ask you to come to my house and visit a certain
Monsieur Rossi, a teacher of languages, who lies
at my lodgings in a very distressed state. He has
begged me to send for you, as he says, although
but slightly acquainted with you, you are the only
person in town of whom he dare ask a favour, or
who knows anything of him. You can see him at
any time. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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