Clara Howard in a series of letters |
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| 21. | LETTER XXI. |
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 | Clara Howard |  |
LETTER XXI.
New-York, May 10.
As soon as I had read your letter, I hurried
to my mother. All her conjectures are
ascertained. A native of Holstein.... Family
abode near Taunton.... Victim of some early
distress. These circumstances place the truth
beyond controversy. But I will tell you the
story with somewhat more order.
I told you that my mother's curiosity was
awakened by the effect of your gloomy prognostics.
I told her every thing respecting Mary
Wilmot, but her love for you.
Wilmot.... Wilmot....said she. An English
family....Came over twenty-four years ago. I
think I know something of them. Their story
like to know more of their history. I think
it not improbable that these are the same Wilmots
with those with whose history I am perfectly
acquainted: Nay, more, who were no
very distant relations of our own. Pray write
to Ned, and get from him all he knows of their
early adventures. Inquire if the father was
from Holstein, and the mother from Devonshire,
and if Mary was born at Paris.
You see, my friend, your letter has satisfactorily
confirmed these guesses; and now,
will I relate to you, the early history of this
family, in the words of my mother. Mary will
be greatly astonished when she comes to find
how much you know of her family....much
more, 'tis probable, than she herself knows....
and to discover that the nearest relations he has
in the world is myself. Being alone with my
mother, on Thursday evening, she fulfilled the
promise she had made, to tell me all she knew
of the Wilmots, in these words:
Mary Anne was the only daughter of my
father's only brother; consequently she was
my cousin. She was nearly of my own age,
and being the only child of a man, respectable
and particularly of my own sex, we were intimately
connected at an early age. She lost
her mother in her infancy, and our family having
several daughters, our house was thought
more suited to her education than her father's.
She lived with me and my sisters till she was
eighteen years of age, receiving from us, our
brothers, and our parents, exactly the same
treatment which a real sister and daughter received.
There was no particular affection between
Mary and myself. Our tempers did not chance
to coincide. Her taste led her to one species
of amusement, and mine to another. This difference
stood in the way of that union of interests,
which, however, took place between her
and my elder sister. Still, there were few persons
in the world for whom I had a more
ardent esteem, or more tender affection, than
for my cousin Mary Anne. She parted from
us at the age of eighteen, in obedience to the
summons of her father, who wished to place
her at the head of his household. We lived
in the north, and Mr. Lisle lived in Devonshire,
so that we had little hope of any intercourse
very punctually maintained between her and
my sister, and it was by means of this correspondence,
that we obtained the knowledge of
subsequent events.
On leaving our family, my cousin entered
into a world of strangers; a sphere very incongenial
with her temper and habits. So long a
separation had deprived the parental character
of all those claims to reverence and confidence,
which are apt to arise when the lives of father
and daughter are spent under the same roof.
She saw in my uncle a man, who, in many
essential particulars, both of speculation and
of practice, was at variance with herself, and
to whom nature had given prerogatives which
her fearful temper foreboded would be oftener
exerted to her injury than benefit. His inmates,
his companions, his employments, his
sports, were dissonant with all the feelings she
was most accustomed to cherish. In short,
her new situation was in the highest degree
irksome.
She naturally looked abroad for that comfort
which she could not find at home. She
formed intimacies with several persons of her
the daughter of a Bristol merchant, with whom
she spent as much time as her father would
allow her to spend. Her winter months were
generally passed in the society of that young
lady at Bristol; while her friend, in summer,
was her guest in the country.
It was at the house of Mr. Saunders that
she became acquainted with Veelmetz, or Wilmot,
a young man of uncommon elegance and
insinuation. He was a native of Germany,
but had received his early education in England.
He had, at this time, been for two or
three years chief, or confidential clerk, in an
English mercantile house, at Bologne, but
made occasional excursions on behalf of his
employer to the neighbouring countries. Some
concerns detained him a few months at Bristol,
and being on a familiar footing with the family
of Saunders, he there became acquainted with
my cousin.
On the first interview, my cousin was in
love with the stranger. It is impossible to tell
how far the laws of strict honour were observed
by Wilmot in his behaviour to my cousin,
either before or after the discovery of her attachment
was devoted to another at the period of his
interview with Mary Anne; that she, at all
times, earnestly acquitted him of any duplicity
or treachery towards her, and ascribed the unfortunate
cause of their mutual shame and
embarrassment to some infatuation; in consequence
of which a man, who concealed not his
love and his engagement to another, and without
the sanction or the promise of marriage,
prevailed on her to forget her dignity and her
duty.
Both parties deserved blame. Which deserved
it most, and how far their guilt might
be extenuated or atoned for by the circumstances
attending it, it is impossible to tell.
Mary Anne was a great, a mixed, and doubtless,
a faulty character. The world, in general,
was liberal of its eulogies on the probity, as
well as on the graces and talents of Wilmot.
His subsequent behaviour lay claim to some
praise; but his fatal meeting with my cousin,
proved that the virtue of both was capable of
yielding, when the integrity of worse people
would easily have stood firm.
About the same time, Wilmot returned to
Bologne, and my cousin accompanied her father
to Paris. The lady to whom the former
was betrothed, was the daughter of the principal
in that house, where Wilmot had long
been a servant, and in which, in consequence
of his merits, he was now shortly to become
a son and partner. The nuptial day was fixed.
Before the arrival of that day, he wrote a
letter to Mary Anne, acquainting her with his
present situation, reminding her that he never
practised any fraud or concealment in his intercourse
with her; yet, nevertheless, offering
to come, and either by an open application to
her father, or by a clandestine marriage, prevent
any evil that might threaten her safety or
her reputation.
This letter placed my cousin in the most
distressful dilemma that can be conceived.
Her heart was still fondly devoted to him that
made this offer. A fair fame was precious
in her eyes. Her father's wrath was terrible.
She knew that the accident, which Wilmot was
willing to provide against, would soon and inevitably
befal her. Yet, in her answer to his letter,
the possibility of this accident was denied;
conjured to complete his own happiness
and that of a worthier woman.
There were many generous pleas by which
my cousin might have accounted for her conduct.
She knew that the marriage he offered
would never be crowned with her father's consent;
that, on the contrary, his hatred and
vengeance would pursue them forever. That
Wilmot would thereby forfeit the honour already
plighted to another; would inflict exquisite
misery on that other and on himself, and
would forever cut himself off from that road
to fortune, which had now been opened to
him.
She was candid enough to confess that
these considerations, though powerful, did not
singly dictate her conduct. Her heart was, in
reality, full of grief. Despondency and horror
took possession of her whole soul. She hoped
to protract the discovery of her personal condition
to a very late period, and then, when
further concealment was hopeless, designed
to put a violent end to life and all its cares.
Meanwhile, Wilmot's conscience being
somewhat relieved by my cousin's answer, he
prospects before him. The day of
happiness was near at hand. He had little
leisure for any thing, but the offices of love
and tenderness, and was engaged, on the evening
of a fine day, to accompany his mistress,
with a numerous party, on a rural excursion.
The carriage, ready to receive them, was at
the door, and he only waited, in a court before
the house, till the lady had adjusted her dress
for the occasion.
His mistress, Adela, having made the requisite
adjustments, came out. She looked
around for her lover in vain. Some accident,
it was easily imagined, had called him for a
few moments away. She collected patience
to wait; but she waited and expected in vain.
Night came, and one day succeeded another,
but Wilmot did not appear. Inquiries were
set on foot, and messengers were dispatched,
but Wilmot had entirely vanished.
Some intelligence was, at last, gained of
him. It appeared, that while walking to and
fro in the court, two persons had came up to
him, and after a short dialogue, had retired
with him to an inn. There they had been closeted
came forth, and mounting horses that stood
at the gate, hastily left the city together.
The suspense and anxiety which this circumstance
produced in the lady and her
family, may be easily imagined. Their conjectures
wandered from one object to another,
without obtaining satisfaction. They could
gain from all their inquiries, no knowledge of
the persons who had summoned the young man
away. They inferred that the messengers were
the bearers of no good tidings; since the attendants
at the inn reported that Wilmot's countenance
and motions betrayed the utmost
consternation, on descending from the chamber
where the conference was held.
Their suspense was at length terminated by
the return of the fugitive himself. Wan, sorrowful,
and drooping, an horseman languidly
alighted, about ten days after Wilmot's disappearance,
at the gate. It was Wilmot himself.
The family flocked about, eager to express
their joy, terror, and surprise. He received
their greetings with affected cheerfulness, but
presently requesting an interview with Adela,
retired with her to her closet.
I suppose, my dear, you conjecture the
true cause of all these appearances. My cousin's
secret was betrayed, by an unfaithful
confidant, to her father, whose rage, at the discovery,
was without bounds. He rushed into
his daughter's presence, in a transport of fury,
and easily extorted from her the author of her
disgrace. Without a moment's delay, he ordered
horses, and in company with a friend,
made all possible haste to Bologne. The
daughter's uncertainty as to the cause and object
of his journey, was ended by the return
of Mr. Lisle, in company with Wilmot. The
alternative offered to the youth, was to meet
the father with pistols, or to repair his child's
dishonour by marriage. Mr. Lisle's impetuosity
overbore all my cousin's opposition, and
Wilmot, the moment he discovered her true
situation, was willing to repair the wrong to
the utmost of his power.
The ceremony being performed, Mr.
Lisle's pride was so far satisfied, but his rage
demanded nothing less than eternal separation
from his daughter. Wilmot was obliged
to procure lodgings in a different quarter, and
my poor cousin left her father's presence, for
ears.
The horror occasioned by these events,
brought on a premature labour, the fruit of
which did not perish, as might have been expected,
but has survived to this day, and is no
other than your Mary Wilmot.
Poor Wilmot had an arduous office still to
perform. These events, and his new condition,
were to be disclosed to Adela. This it
was easy to do by letter, but he rather chose to
do full justice to his feelings in a formal interview.
And this was the purpose for which he
returned to Bologne.
It is not possible to imagine a more deplorable
situation than that in which Wilmot was
now placed. He was torn forever from the
object of his dearest affections. At the moment
when all obstacles were about to disappear,
and a few days were to unite those
hearts which had cherished a mutual passion
from infancy, he was compelled to pay the
forfeit of past transgressions, by binding himself
to one who had his esteem, but not his
love. Adela was the pride and delight of
her family, and Wilmot had made himself
That privilege he was now compelled
to resign, and by the same act, to break the
heart of the daughter, and excite unextinguishable
animosity in the bosom of her
friends. Every tie dear to the human heart,
was now violently broken: every flattering
scheme of honour and fortune, baffled and
defeated. Nor had he the consolation to
reflect, that by these sacrifices he had secured
the happiness of, at least, one human being.
My cousin was an involuntary actor in this
scene. She had been overborne by her
father's menaces, and even by the expostulations
and entreaties of Wilmot himself. The
irrevocable ceremony was hurried over without
a moment's deliberation or delay, and before
she had time to collect her thoughts and form
her resolutions, to recover from the first confusions
of surprise and affright, she found
herself a wife and a mother.
It was, perhaps, merely the very conduct
which my cousin's feelings taught her to pursue,
that secured her ultimately some portion
of happiness. All the fault of the first transgression
she imputed to herself. Wilmot was
the injurer and criminal. Those upbraidings
which the anguish of his heart might have
prompted him to use, were anticipated; dwelt
upon and exaggerated; all the miseries of this
alliance passed, in as vivid hues before her
imagination, as before his. These images
plunged her into the most profound and pitiable
sorrow.
Wilmot's generosity would by no means
admit, that her's only was the guilt. On the
contrary, his candour, awakened by her example,
was busy in aggravating his own crime.
His heart was touched by the proofs of her
extreme dejection; her disinterested regard.
He reflected, that her portion of evil was at
least equal to his own. Her sensibility to
reputation, her sense of right, her dependance
on her father for the means of subsistence, her
attachment to her country and kindred, all
contributed to heighten her peculiar calamity,
since she believed her fame to be blasted forever;
since her conscience reproached her
with all the guilt of their intercourse; since
her father had sworn never to treat her
as his child; since she had lost, in her own
friends, and solemnly vowed never to set foot
in her native country.
Wilmot's efforts to console his wife, produced
insensibly a salutary effect on his own
feelings. Being obliged to search out topics
of comfort for her use, they were equally conducive
to his own, and a habit of regarding
objects on their brightest side; of considering
my cousin as merely a subject of tenderness
and compassion; somewhat abated the edge
of his own misfortunes.
My father took infinite, though unsolicited
pains to reconcile the parent and child, but
my uncle could not be prevailed on to do more
than allow Wilmot a small annuity, with which
he retired to the town of Nice, and by a recluse
and frugal life, subsisted, if not with elegance,
at least with comfort. Mary Anne was
extremely backward to cultivate the society
of her old friends. Their good offices she
took pains to repel and elude, and her only
source of consolation, with regard to them, appeared
to be the hope that they had entirely
forgotten her. We, her cousins, were not,
however, deterred by her repulses, but did
cause with her inexorable father, and to improve
her domestic situation. We had the
pleasure to find that Wilmot, though his vivacity,
his ambitious and enterprizing spirit was
flown, was an affectionate husband and provident
father.
At my uncle's death we had hopes that
Mary Anne's situation would be bettered. His
will, however, bequeathed all his estate to his
nephew, my elder brother, and the Wilmots
were deprived even of that slender stipend
which they had hitherto enjoyed. This injustice
was, in some degree, repaired by my
brother, who, as soon as the affairs of the deceased
were arranged, sent a very large present
to Wilmot. They did not make us
acquainted with the motives of their new resolutions.
We were merely informed, indirectly,
that on the receipt of this sum, Wilmot
repaired with his family to some port in
France, and embarked for the colonies. Time
insensibly wore away the memory of these
transactions, and 'tis a long time since my
sisters and I have been accustomed, in reviewing
past events, to inquire “What has
Such, Edward, was my mother's relation.
Is it not an affecting one. And is, indeed,
thy Mary the remnant of this family? They
had several children, but most of them found
an early grave in Europe, and the eldest, it
seems, is the sole survivor. We must make
haste, my friend, to raise her from obscurity
and make her happy.
Is it not likely that Mary knows nothing of
her mother's history? Being only ten years
old at her death, the child would scarcely be
made the confidant of such transactions. The
father, it is likely, would be equally prone to
silence, on such a topic.
Our fortune is strongly influenced by
our ignorance. What can be more lonely and
forlorn than the life thy poor friend has led.
Yet had she returned to her mother's native
country, and disclosed her relation to the present
mistress of Littlelisle, she would have been
instantly admitted to the house and bosom of
a fond mother.
My uncle, to whom I told you the estate
of Mary's grandfather was bequeathed, died
who was the intimate of Mary Anne, and who
never lost the tenderest respect for her youthful
friend. This happened some years after Wilmot's
voyage to the colonies. My aunt being
childless and a widow, was extremely solicitous
to discover Mary Anne's retreat, and restore
her, or her children to at least, a part of that
property, to the whole of which their title was,
strictly speaking, better than her own. For
this end, she made a great many inquiries in
America, but none of them met with success.
I have written a long letter. Yet I could
add much more, were I not afraid of losing
this post. So let me hear thy comments on
all these particulars, and tell me, especially,
when I may certainly expect thy return.
Adieu
| Clara Howard | |