| | 1 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | 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! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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