University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

During the time occupied by the foregoing
events, Francis had continued a gloomy inmate
of his uncle's house. The Duke and
his brother George, were too indolent and inactive
in their minds to pierce the cloud, that
mortification and deadened affections, had
drawn around the real character of their nephew;
and although he was tolerated as the
heir, he was but little loved as a man.

In losing his brother, Francis lost the only human
being, with whom he possessed any sympathies
in common; and he daily drew more
and more into himself, in gloomy meditation,
on his forlorn situation, in the midst of wealth
and expected honours. The attentions he received,
were paid to his rank; and Francis
had penetration enough to perceive it. His
visits to his parents were visits of ceremony,
and in time, all parties came to look to their
termination with pleasure, as the discontinuance
of heartless and forced civilities.

Affection even in the young man, could not
endure, repulsed as his feelings were, forever;
and in the course of three years, if his attachments
were not alienated from his parents,
his ardour had become much abated.

It is a dreadful truth, that the bonds of natural
affection, can be broken by injustice and contumely;
and it is yet more to be deplored;

that where, from such causes, we loosen the
ties habit and education have drawn around
us, that a re-action in our feelings commences—we
seldom cease to love, but we begin
to hate. Against such awful consequences,
it is one of the most solemn duties of the
parent to provide in season; and what surer
safeguard is there, than to inculcate those
feelings, which teach the mind to love God,
and in so doing, induces love to the whole
human family.

Sir Frederic and Lady Margaret attended
the church regularly—repeated the responses
with much decency—toasted the church next
to the king—even appeared at the altars of
their God—and continued sinners. From such
sowings, no good fruit could be expected to
flourish: yet Francis was not without his
hours of devotion; but his religion was, like
himself, reserved—superstitious—ascetic and
gloomy. He never entered into social worship:
if he prayed, it was with an ill-concealed
wish, to end this life of care. If he returned
thanks, it was with a bitterness that
mock'd the throne he was prostrate before.
Such pictures are revolting; but their originals
have, and do exist; for what enormity is
there, that human frailty, unchecked by divine
assistance, may not be guilty of?

Francis received an invitation to visit a
brother of his mother's, at his seat in the
country, about the time of the expected return
of George from America; in compliance

with the wishes of his uncles, he accepted it.
The house was thronged with visiters, and
many of them were ladies; to these, the arrival
of the unmarried heir of the house of
Derwent, was a subject of no little interest:
his character had, however, preceded him,
and a few days of his awkward and, as they
conceived, sullen deportment, drove them
back to their former beaux, with the exception
of one fair; and she was not only amongst
the fairest of the throng, but decidedly of the
highest pretensions, on the score of birth and
fortune.

Marian Lumley, was the only surviving
child of the last Duke of Annerdale, with
whom had expired the higher honours of his
house. But the Earldom of Pendennyss,
with numerous ancient baronies, were titles
in fe; and together with his princely estates,
had descended to his daughter, as heir general
to the family. A peeress in her own right,
with an income far exceeding her utmost
means of expenditure, the lovely Countess
of Pendennyss, was a prize aimed at by all
the young nobles of the empire.

Educated in the mids of flatterers and dependants,
she had become haughty, vain, and
supercilious; still she was lovely—and no one
knew better how to practise the most winning
arts of her sex, when whim or interest
prompted her to the trial.

Her host was her guardian and relative;
and through his agency, she had rejected, at

the age of twenty, numerous suitors for her
hand. Her eyes were fixed on the ducal coronet;
and unfortunately for Francis Denbigh,
he was at the time, the only man of the
proper age, who could elevate her to that enviable
distinction, in the kingdom; and an
indirect measure of her own, had been the
means of his invitation to the country.

Like the rest of her young companions, Marian
was greatly disappointed on the view of
her intended captive, and for a day or two, with
them, she abandoned him to his melancholy
and himself. But ambition was her idol; and
to its powerful rival, love, she was yet a stranger.
After a few struggles with her inclinations,
the consideration, that their united fortunes
and family alliances, would make one of
the wealthiest and most powerful houses in the
kingdom, prevailed; such early sacrifices of the
inclinations in a woman of her beauty, youth,
and accomplishments, may excite surprise—
but where the mind is left uncultivated by the
hand of care—the soul untouched by the love
of goodness, the human heart seldom fails to
set up an idol of its own to worship. And,
in the Countess of Pendennyss, it was pride.

The remainder of the ladies, from ceasing to
wonder at the manners of Francis, had made
them the subject of their mirth; and, nettled
at his apparent indifference to their society,
which they erroneously attributed to his sense
of his importance, they overstepped the

bounds of good-breeding, in manifesting their
displeasure.

“Mr. Denbigh,” cried one of the most
thoughtless and pretty of the gay tribe,
to him one day, as Francis sat in a corner
abstracted from the scene around him,
“when do you mean to favour the world with
your brilliant ideas in the shape of a book?”

“Oh! no doubt soon,” said a second,”
and I expect they will be homilies, or another
volume to the Whole Duty of Man.”

“Rather,” cried a third, with bitter irony,
“another canto to the Rape of the Lock
—his ideas are so vivid and full of imagery.”

“Or, what do you think,” said a fourth,
speaking in a voice of harmony, and tones of
the most soothing tenderness “of pity and
compassion, for the follies of those inferior
minds, who cannot enjoy the reflections of a
good sense and modesty, peculiarly his own.”

This might also be irony—and Francis
thought it so; but the tones were so soft and
conciliating, that with a face pale with his
emotions, he ventured to look up, and met
the eye of Marian, fixed on him in an expression
that changed his death-like hue into the
colour of vermilion.

He thought of this speech—he reasoned
on it—he dreamt of it; but for the looks
which accompanied it, like the rest of the
party, he would have thought it the cruellest
cut of them all. But that look—those eyes
—that voice—what a commentary on her
language did they not afford.

Francis was not left long in suspense; the
next morning a ride was proposed, which included
all but himself in its arrangements.
He was either too reserved, or too proud, to
offer services which were not required, by
even a hint, that they would be agreeable.

Several gentlemen had contended for the honour
of driving the Countess, in a beautiful
phaeton of her own. They grew earnest in
their claims: one had been promised by its
mistress, with an opportunity of trying the
ease of the carriage—another, with the excellent
training of her hourses; in short, all
had some particular claim to the distinction,
which were urged with a warmth and pertinacity,
proportionate to the value of the prize
to be obtained. Marian heard the several
claimants with an ease and indifference natural
to her situation, and ended the dispute by
saying—

“Gentlemen, as I have made so many promises,
from the dread of giving offence, I
must throw myself on the mercy of Mr. Denbigh,
who alone, with the best claims, from
his modesty, does not urge them; to you,
then,” continued she, approaching him with
the whip which was to be given the victor,
“I adjudge the prize, if you will condescend
to accept it.” This was uttered by one of
her most attractive smiles, and Francis received
the whip with an emotion that he with
difficulty could controul.

The gentlemen were glad to have the contest

decided, by adjudging the prize to one
so little dangerous, and the ladies sneered at
her choice, as they proceeded in their ride.

There was something so soothing in the
manners of Lady Pendennyss—she listened
to the little he said, with such a respectful attention—was
so anxious to have him give
his opinions, that the unction of flattery, so
sweetly applied, and for the first time, could
not fail of its wonted effects.

The communications thus commenced
were continued---it was so easy to be attentive,
by being simply polite, to one unused
to notice of any kind, that Marian found the
fate of the young man in her hands, almost
as soon as she attempted to controul it.

A new existence opened upon Francis, as
day after day she insensibly led him to a display
of powers he was unconscious, until now,
of possessing himself. His self-respect began
to increase—his limited pleasures to multiply,
and he could now look around him
with a sense of participation in the delights
of life, as he perceived himself of consequence
to this much admired woman.

Trifling incidents, managed on he part
with consummate art, had led him to the daring
inference, he was not entirely indifferent to
her; and Francis returned the incipient affection
of his mistress, with a feeling but little
removed from adoration. Week flew by
after week, and still he lingered at the residence
of his kinsman, unable to tear himself

from a society of one, become so valuable,
and yet afraid to take a step, which might involve
him in disgrace or ridicule.

The condescension of the Countess increased,
and she had indirectly given him the
most flattering assurance of his success, when
George just arrived from America, having
first paid his greetings to his reconciled parents,
and the happy couple of his generosity;
flew to the arms of his brother in Suffolk.

Francis was overjoyed to see George, and
George delighted in the visible improvement
of his brother. Still Francis was far, very
far behind his juniors in graces of mind and
body. Few men in England were more
adapted by nature and education for female
society, than Colonel Denbigh was at the period
we write of.

Marian witnessed all his attractions and
deeply felt their influence—for the first time
she felt the emotions of passion, and after
having sported in the gay world, and trifled
with the feelings of others for a course of
years, the Countess in her turn became an
unwilling victim to its power. George met
her flame with a corresponding ardor, and the
struggle between ambition and love became severe—the
brothers unconsciously were rivals.

Had George for a moment suspected the
situation of the feelings of Francis, his very
superiority in the contest, would have taxed
his generosity to a retreat from the unnatural
rivalry. Had the elder dreamt of the views

of his junior, he would have abandoned his
dearest hopes, in despair for their success; he
had so long been accustomed to consider
George as his superior in every thing, a competition
with him would have appeared desperate.
Marian contrived to keep both in
hopes, undecided herself which to choose,
and perhaps ready to yield to the first applicant.
A sudden event, however, removed all
doubts, and decided the fate of the three.

The Duke of Derwent and his batchelor
brother, became so dissatisfied with the character
of their future heir, that they as coolly
set about providing themselves with wives as
they performed any other ordinary transaction
of life; they married cousins, and on the same
day, the choice of the ladies was assigned
between them by lots, and if his Grace got the
prettier, his brother certainly got the richest;
under the circumstances, a very tolerable distribution
of fortune's favours.

These double marriages dissolved the
charms of Francis, and Lady Pendennyss
determined to consult her wishes—a little
pointed encouragement brought out the declaration
of George, and he was accepted.

Francis, who had never communicated his
feelings to any one but the lady, and that
only indirectly, was crushed by the blow—he
continued in public until the day of their
union, was present, composed, and silent—
but it was the silence of a mountain whose
volcanic contents had not reached the surface.

The same day he disappeared, and
every inquiry proved fruitless, search was
baffled, and for seven years it was not known
what had become of the General's eldest son.

George, on marrying, resigned his commission,
at the earnest entreaties of his wife, and
retired to one of her seats, to the enjoyment
of ease and domestic love: the countess was
enthusiastically attached to him, and as
motives for the indulgence of her coquetry
were wanting. her character became gradually
improved, by the contemplation of the
excellent qualities of her generous husband.

A lurking suspicion of the cause of Francis's
sudden disappearance, rendered her uneasy
at times; but Marian was too much beloved,
too happy, in the enjoyment of too many
honours and too great wealth, to be open to
the convictions of conscience: it is in our
hours of pain and privation that we begin to
feel its sting; if we are prosperous, we fancy
we reap the fruits of our merit, but if we are
unfortunate, the voice of truth seldom fails to
remind us that we are deserving of our fate.
A blessed provision of Providence that often
makes the saddest hours of our earthly career,
the morn of a day, that is to endure forever.

General Denbigh and Lady Margaret both
died within five years of the marriage of
their favourite child, although both lived to
see their descendant, in the person of the
infant Lord Lumley.

The Duke and his brother George, were
each blessed with offspring, and in these
several descendants, of the different branches
of the family of Denbigh, may be seen the
different personages of our history. On the
birth of her youngest child, the Lady Marian,
the Countess of Pendennyss, sustained a
shock in her health from which she never
wholly recovered; she became nervous, and
lost most of her energy of both mind and
body; her husband was her solace—his tenderness
remained unextinguished, his attention
increased

As the fortune of Ives and his Isabel put
the necessity of a living, out of the question,
and as no cure offered for his acceptance, he
was happy to avail himself of an offer to become
domestic chaplain to his now intimate
friend Mr. Denbigh; for the first six years
they were inmates of Pendennyss Castle;
the rector of the parish was infirm and averse
to a regular assistant; but the unobtrusive
services of Mr. Ives, were not less welcome
to the pastor than to his parishioners.

Employed in the duties which of right fell to
the incumbent, and intrusted with the spiritual
guardianship of the dependants of the castle,
our young clergyman had ample occupation
for all his time, if not a sufficient theatre for
his usefulness. Isabel and himself remained
the year round in Wales, and the first dawnings
of education received by Lord Lumley,
ere those he acquired conjointly with Francis

from the care of the latter's father. They
formed, with the interval of the time spent
by Mr. Denbigh and Lady Pendennyss, in
town in winter, but one family. To the
gentleman, the attachment of the grateful
Ives was as strong as it was lasting. Mrs.
Ives never ceased to consider him as the self-devoted
victim to her happiness, and although
a far more brilliant lot had awaited him by
the change, yet they could not think it a
more happy one.

The birth of Lady Marian had already, in
its consequences, begun to throw a dark
gloom round the domestic comforts of Denbigh,
when he was to sustain another misfortune
in a separation from his friends.

Mr. now Dr. Ives, had early announced his
firm intention, whenever an opportunity was
afforded him, to enter into the fullest functions
of his ministry, as a matter of duty—
such an opportunity now offered at B—,
and the Doctor became its rector about the
period Sir Edward became possessor of his
paternal estate.

Denbigh tried every inducement within his
power to keep the Dr. in his own society; if
as many thousands, as his living would give
him hundreds, would effect it, they would
have been at his service; but Denbigh understood
the character of the divine too well, to
offer such an inducement; he however urged
the claims of friendship to the utmost, but
without success. The Doctor acknowledged

the hold both himself and family had gained
upon his affections, but he added—

“Consider, my dear Mr. Denbigh, what
we would have thought, of one of the earlier
followers of our Saviour, who from motives
of convenience or worldly mindedness, could
have deserted his sacred calling: although the
changes in the times, may have rendered the
modes of conducting them differently, necessary,
the duties remain the same. The
minister of our holy religion who has once
submitted to the calls of his divine Master,
must allow nothing but ungovernable necessity,
to turn him from the path he has entered
on; and should he so far forget himself, I
greatly fear he would plead, when too late to
remedy the evil, his worldly duties, his cares,
or even his misfortunes, in vain. Solemn and
arduous are his obligations to labour, but when
faithfully he has discharged these duties—
oh! how glorious must be his reward.”

Before such opinions of duty, every barrier
must fall, and the Doctor entered into the
cure of his parish, without further opposition,
though not without unceasing regret on the
part of his friend: their intercourse was however
maintained by letter, and they also frequently
met at Lumley Castle, a seat of the
Countess, within two days' ride of the Doctor's
parish, until her increasing indisposition
rendered her journeying impossible; then, indeed,
the Doctor extended his rides into
Wales, but with longer intervals between his

visits, though with the happiest effects to the
objects of his journey.

Mr. Denbigh, worn down with watching
and blasted hopes, under the direction of the
spiritual watchfulness of the rector of B—,
became an humble, sincere, and pious christian;
although the spring of his sorrows bowed
him down in years to the grave, he sunk into
it with the hope of a joyful resurrection.