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1Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  Marmaduke Wyvil, or, The maid's revenge  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: In a sequestered vale of merry England, not many miles from the county town of Worcester, there stands, in excellent preservation, even to the present day, one of those many mansions scattered through the land, which—formerly the manor houses of a race, now, like their dwellings, becoming rapidly extinct, the good old English squires— have, for the most part, been converted into farm-houses; since their old-time proprietors have, simultaneously with the growth of vaster fortunes, and the rise of loftier dignities, declined into a humbler sphere. In the days of which we write, however, Woolverton Hall was in the hands of the same family, which had dwelt there, father and son, for ages. It was a tall, irregular edifice, of bright red brick, composed of two long buildings, with steep flagged roofs and pointed gables, meeting exactly at right angles so as to form a letter L; the longer limb running due east and west, the shorter abutting on the eastern end, and pointing with its gable, southerly. In this south gable, near the top, was a tall, gothic, lanceolated window, its mullions and casings wrought of a yellowish sand-stone, to match the corner stones of all the angles, which were faced with the same material; beneath this window, which, as seen from without, appeared to reach nearly from the floor to the ceiling of the second story, was the date, 1559—the numerals, several feet in length, composed of rusty iron; and above it, on the summit of the gable, a tall weather-cock, surmounted by a vane shaped like a dolphin, which had once been fairly gilded, but now was all dim and tarnished by long exposure to the seasons. To this part of the house there were no chimneys, which was the more remarkable, that the rest of the building was somewhat superfluously adorned with these appendages, rising like columns, quaintly wrought of brickwork in the old Elizabethan style. Corresponding to the gothic window in position, though by no means so lofty, a range of five large square-topped latticed windows, divided each into four compartments by a cross-shaped stone transom, ran all along that front of the other wing, which, with the abutting chapel—for such it seemed to be—formed the interior angle of the L. From the point of the western roof, to match, as it were, the weathercock which crowned the other gable, projected a long beam or horn of stone, at an angle of about ninety degrees, curiously wreathed with a deep spiral groove, not much unlike the tusk of that singular animal, the sword-fish. “I know not, cousin Alice, that I should have written at all by this present opportunity, the barque `Good Providence,' about to sail this morning from Tower Stairs, I being at this time in London; but that some matters came to my ear last night, which I judge all-important to be made known to you forthwith; and should it seem to you, that I am overbold in touching on them, you will, I think, excuse me, seeing that I write only for your personal advantage; and further, that I once unwittingly misled you in relation to one, of whom you have thought favorably. To be brief, cousin Alice, I learned yesternight that the report which Cromwell sent to me at first, was not the truth at all; he not as yet having perused the papers! There was, indeed, a letter to Sir Edward Vavasour from Captain Wyvil; but it related solely to a projected rising in the north, which Wyvil, it would seem, discouraged; and contained not one word touching yourself, or his escape from Woolverton. All that affected you or Master Selby, was written in a long epistle, addressed to yourself, and marked on the outside, `to be delivered privately by Master Bartram.' What more it contained I know not, for it was burnt by the lord general at once, who rated, as I hear, the council very roundly for breaking private seals, and troubling their heads with women's matters. This I conceived it my duty to let you know forthwith, as you, I know, drew false conclusions from the rumor; and I, to my shame be it said, strengthened, so far as in me lay, instead of seeking to allay your indignation. I deem it therefore my bounden duty to let you know these facts; and that although it may have been indiscreet in Captain Wyvil to commit such things at all to writing, he certainly is quite exonerated from all charge of anything base or dishonorable. I am rejoiced to have it in my power to add, that something in the style and tenor of his letter, had affected the lord general so favorably, that I have been able to obtain his promise of a full pardon for yourself, and your father, within the space of six months, and a reversal of the decree of sequestration: so that, by the next spring at farthest, you may return to Woolverton. I have no doubt, moreover, so much was Cromwell gratified by the tone of Captain Wyvil's letter to Sir Edmund, deprecating any partial risings, which could but tend to bloodshed and fresh miseries, without effecting anything to aid the royal cause, and speaking with indignant condemnation of those infamous schemes which we hear of—that, if at any future period he should feel disposed to return to England, a ready abrogation of his outlawry could be obtained; he only binding himself on parole of honor, to take no hostile steps against the existing government. Should you meet with him, as you doubtless will in Paris, whither I fancy, by all we hear of Monsieur Turenne's successes, you will proceed ere long; pray say to him, should he entertain such views, he will at all times find in me, one anxious to assist him by all means in my power. I may add here, that every post that has reached us from the armies, speaks of his gallantry and conduct, as a partisan commander, in the highest terms of commendation. I have inclosed herewith bills on Parisian goldsmiths for one thousand pounds, made payable to your name; which you will indorse upon them, on receiving their value, but not sooner, as in case of loss they are useless until your name is signed upon them. I have preferred this mode, to sending them to my kind friend and cousin, Master Selby, fearing that his secluded habits and tastes for literary occupation, may render him averse, or at least indisposed, to the details of business. Praying you, my dear Mistress Alice, to hold me ever in your remembrance, and to commend me to your good father's friendship, I subscribe myself, “I charge thee come to me, on the very instant. “Thine, “Marmaduke”—thus ran the letter which cost her so much pains—“or, for the first and last time, dear Marmaduke, I have thought much and deeply on our last meeting; and if I cannot quite acquit you of having sinned against me, I must confess that in some sort I have wronged vou; this—for we two shall never meet again in this world—I wish to repair. I do not believe that you have wilfully, or with a preconceived determination, wronged me as you have done. Your constancy was not of that enduring quality—your mind not of that vigorous and resolute stamp to resist absence and brave temptation. This perhaps was not, and should not be esteemed your fault; but the misfortune rather, and frailty of your nature. I have, moreover, seen and learned to know, since we two parted, her who has been happier than I in gaining your affections—may she be happier, likewise, in retaining them! and having seen and known her, I recognize in her free soul and fearless spirit, a spell more potent than any I possess to hold dominion over the love of a mind like yours; to bring out your excellencies—for you have many such—to their brightest lustre, and to inhibit and restrain your foibles. That you should love her, therefore, and that your love for her should surpass that— perhaps but a fancy, born of circumstances and gratitude—which you once entertained for me, I do not marvel. Had you dealt uprightly by me, and candidly, all had been well. Now mark me—if I have anything for which to forgive, I do so—how freely and how happily! and if my words, wrung from me by passion, have wronged you anything, forgive me likewise! But do not, Marmaduke, from this that I write, deceive yourself, or vainly fancy that I repent of my late decision. No! I am fixed—and fixed for ever! Nay! but a thousand times more firmer since I have learned to love that beautiful and noble creature whom I give to you for your wife. Yes—start not as you read—I give to you! Cherish her, love her, honor her! for she is worthy of all cherishing, all love, all honor! Treasure her as the apple of your eye—cleave to her as your sweetest stay in time of trouble. Thus, and thus only can you now show the love that once you felt— the kindness that I hope you will feel for ever—to poor, poor Alice Selby. Yes, Marmaduke, I give her to you! may you be happy! and to be so you must be virtuous and true! I send you, herewith, what will enable you to perform the conditions of Henry Oswald. It is my own to bestow, and with my whole soul do I bestow it. Do not shrink back, do not refuse my gift, Marmaduke—do not, I beseech you. If your proud heart disdain it, think and remember, I am proud likewise; yet I humble myself to entreat you, if ever I have done you aught of unkindness—if you now owe me anything of love, or gratitude, or reparation—refuse not my poor boon! It is now the only thing that can make her, who was once your Alice, happy! By the life which I gave you! by the love which I bore you! by the affections squandered on you! the hopes blighted by you! by your own happiness, and hers to whom the gift shall unite you! I adjure you—hard though the task be to your haughty soul—refuse me not! No, Marmaduke, you will not! The old man, the good old man who loved you—he is dead. I tell you not this to grieve you, for he knew nothing which had passed from me, nor, I believe, suspected anything. His last words were a blessing upon me, and, I doubt not, upon you likewise; and in this knowledge I rejoice daily. I would not for the world, that he had thought me wronged, for that would bitterly have grieved him; and, perhaps, good and forgiving as he was, he would not have then blessed you. He is gone, Marmaduke, and I shall, ere long, follow him! and you will give us both a tear and a green spot in your memory! And you too, Marmaduke—you must one day go hence, and your bright Isabella; and we shall one day meet and know each other, not as now, through a glass darkly, but face to face. And then—then, Marmaduke, let Isabella thank me for having made her yours, and tell me you have made her happy; and that will well 9 repay me for all my transient sorrows. Fear not then—scruple not to accept this my parting gift; two persons only in the wide world besides myself know of it, and trust me, their mouths will be for ever silent. Farewell, then, my beloved! for so in this last parting—so I must call you. Peace, and prosperity, and love, and blessings be about you! Farewell! and when you think of Alice Selby, think of her as one who loved you to the very last, and prayed for you, and blessed you, and will bless you dying!
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