University of Virginia Library

19. CHAP. XIX.

Burns.

We pass over the very pathetic meeting between
Lucretia and the elder Mr. Osborne, as well as her various
interviews with Grace; and leaving sundry unimportant
matters to the reader's imagination, we hasten
on to the first of December,—the eventful day fixed
upon for this most inauspicious wedding. The bride
seemed to be the only one totally indifferent concerning
the great preparations that were making for her marriage.
Indeed, she kept herself almost entirely secluded,
even from her own family. This conduct Madam
Sandford attributed to a proper, maidenly reserve; and
the Colonel considered the rents of her vast English estates
much more worthy subjects of calculation, than
her views and feelings possibly could be.

Thus the whole management devolved upon Madam
Sandford; and truly it could not have fallen into more
able hands.

Her arrangements were altogether splendid,—such
as were well worthy of the sole descendant of the aristocratic
house of Fitzherbert.

The rooms were tastefully festooned with evergreens
and artificial roses; in front of two large lamps were
placed the armorial bearings of Somerville and Fitzherbert,

richly painted on glass; a full band of music
was stationed near the house; and at a very early hour
in the evening, the whole mansion was brilliantly illuminated.
Such regal magnificence had never before been
seen in the Coloay; and every avenue was crowded
long before the rooms began to fill with company. The
British officers, in full uniform, their plumes glancing
beneath the rich flood of light that streamed from the
chandeliers, added much to the general enchantment of
the scene.

When Doctor Byles, in his canonical robes, followed by
his wife and daughter entered, the throng respectfully
made way for him to pass into the inner room. There
was Governor Hutchinson in his richest garb, seated in a
chair covered with blue velvet; there was Miss Sandford
smiling and courtesying to her visiters,—trying with all
her might to be tranquil, but ever and anon moving about
to see that the transparencies were rightly fitted to the
lamps, or that the paper ornaments were safe from fire;
there too, in a few moments, appeared Lucretia Fitzherhert
by the side of her bridegroom,—glittering in silks
and jewels, yet pale, anxious, and agitated,—more like a
victim decorated for sacrifice, than the joyful bride of
the man she loved. A signal was given as they entered,
and the band from without struck up one of their
boldest and most exhilarating tunes.

Doctor Byles seemed in high spirits. “I never before
saw Mars in such close attendance upon Hymen,”
said he. “If the Englishman you spoke of, Miss Fitzherbert,
could be present at this time, I think he would

never repeat his question, whether Massachusetts was
on the Pacific coast.”

“The music surely is not of a warlike character,”
said Colonel Fitzherbert, smiling.

“Why, not exactly to be sure; but who ever heard
of Cupid's sounding a trumpet? For my own part, I
wish there was a law passed against playing upon any
wind instruments, except words.”

“That exception would touch you nearly, to be sure,”
replied Hutchinson. But if the English parliament
should interfere with the concords as well as the discords
of these loyal provinces, they would be louder
than ever in their complaint of grievances.”

“I am sure,” answered the clergyman, glancing
round on the gaudy uniforms, “if Doctor Willard himself
were here, he could not deny that New England
grievances are red-dressed.”

“That is a bad joke,” rejoined Miss Sandford. “You
make use of two D's.”

“And who, I pray you, madam, has a better right to
two D's than myself? By the way, I believe it is time
for me to act in my clerical character. Shall we proceed
to the ceremony?”

Governor Hutchinson looked toward the bride and
bridegroom, and bowed assent.

Oh, what a moment that was for Lucretia! Her colour
went and came, as rapidly as the lightning flickers
in an over-charged cloud. During the prayer which
Doctor Byles uttered for the happiness and prosperity
of those he was about to unite, the death-like paleness

of her cheek, and her lip, cold, damp, and quivering,
betrayed emotion deep and agonizing. When he paused,—with
a quick gasp, and a start, sudden as that
which precedes a violent death, she said, “Stop, sir!
I can never be the wife of Colonel Fitzherbert. That
he sought me for my wealth only, deserved my silent
contempt;—that his falsehood has broken a generous
heart, justifies this public expression of scorn.” Her
eyes were fixed with intense expression, her cheek
glowed, and her stature seemed to rise with the loftiness
of her feelings, as she left the apartment.

Every degree of surprise and curiosity which the
human countenance is capable of expressing, was at
that moment visible. The bridegroom listened to her
unexpected declaration, and watched her retiring figure,
with a look strangely complicated and embarrassed. All
eyes were fixed upon him during this momentary confusion.
But brief space, however, was given to the eager
gaze of wonder and curiosity. His proud heart, stung
to the very core with shame, and his naturally violent
temper maddened into fury, Colonel Fitzherbert rushed
out of the house, and was not again seen there that
night.

The clergyman remained motionless with astonishment;
the hum of voices grew loud and general; some
of the ladies smiled, some sneered, and all were busy
in conjecturing the causes of this singular catastrophe.
Many of the officers reddened with anger; but not a
few said, “Hang it, I like the girl's spirit.—But if a
man had offered this insult to our Colonel, he would
have needed forty lives to answer for it.”

The company soon began to consider that under such
circumstances, it was highly proper for them to depart;
and one after another went away, until the mansion was
entirely left in its solitary glare and unheeded splendour.
There are few scenes so very desolate as a brilliantly
lighted room in which the sound of mirth and music has
ceased, and the echo of footsteps died away. It is like
gems and garlands on the still, cold corpse; like vases
and statues in the desert. A mysterious hand writes
upon the wall “soul has been here,”—and we shudder
at its meaning.

Governor Hutchinson and his sister were not present
to hear the eager inquiries, the shrewd conjectures, and
the malicious whispers of their departing guests; for
they had both followed Lucretia, the instant she left the
room. In her chamber they found the agitated girl
with her face concealed in the pillow, sobbing, as if the
rushing tide of feeling would burst the proud heart that
had so long shut in its waters. Excitement may nerve
us with artificial strength, but springs wound too tightly
must either snap, or rebound with sudden, painful swiftness.

Miss Sandford began to sob out, “Oh, Lucretia!”
but Governor Hutchinson interrupted her by saying, in
a stern voice, “Lucretia Fitzherbert, what do you mean
by this disgraceful conduct?”

His peremptory manner roused all the latent fire of
one, who had, of late, been more accustomed to command
than to obey.

She hastily brushed away the tears, and answered,
with much dignity, “I meant, sir, to convince your
nephew that my friends are not to be wronged, nor myself
insulted, with impunity”

“What insults,—what wrongs?” inquired Hutchinson.

“He broke his plighted faith to Grace Osborne, sir;
and then offered to my wealth the heart he would never
have given to me.”

The Lieutenant Governor looked toward his sister for
an explanation.

“There was some silly business. I believe,” said Miss
Sandford. “He gave her a ring, or something like
that.”

“And for this, you are willing to have your name a
by-word and a reproach among all the British officers?”
said the angry uncle. “For this you have given up an
alliance of which you had so much reason to be proud?”

“I know not, sir, what reason the house of Fitzherbert
have to be proud of an union with the house of
Somerville,” replied Lucretia, somewhat haughtily.
“Methinks their rent-roll is not as large, nor their ancestry
as noble.” The high colour subsided from her
face, as she added, “But it was not things like these I
thought of. I loved Somerville, because I knew he possessed
exalted talents, and because I supposed that he
possessed stern integrity, and a high sense of honour.
I was deceived,—my friend was injured,—and I am now
amply revenged.”

Miss Sandford was seated during this speech, and
kept her feet and head moving rapidly, to express her
impatience and indignation. “I see it is nothing to you
if my heart does break,” said she;—“and then to think
of all this lost trouble and expense.”

“I am sorry that you should have taken so much
trouble, dear aunt,” rejoined Lucretia; “but as for the
expense, there is gold enough in my desk to pay you
for ten such weddings, and it is all your own.”

“And this is your gratitude, is it, madam?” said
Governor Hutchinson, eyeing her with excessive displeasure.
“Lucretia Fitzherbert,—one of two things
you must do,—either implore the Colonel's pardon, and
marry him this night, or quit my house forever.”

“You think more meanly of him than I do,” answered
Lucretia, her lip slightly curling with contempt. “I
do not believe he would marry the daughter of Crœsus,
after she had held his name up to public odium, as I
have done. My pardon he may ask if he chooses; but
to him, I have no atonement to make. I will not, however,
annoy his uncle with my presence. The heiress
of Edmund Fitzherbert can be at no loss for a home.”

She took her cloak, and made a motion to throw it
over her shoulders.—She hesitated one moment,—and
melting into tears, threw herself on her knees before
them, as she said, “Yet I would not part in anger.
You were both kind to me when I had no other friends;
and there are debts, money can never pay. Bless me,
before I go.”

“From henceforth we are strangers to each other,”
rejoined Governor Hutchinson; and without deigning to
bestow another word, he retired to his own room.

“But you will, aunt Sandford,” said Lucretia, in a
tone of entreaty. “You were ever kind to me;” and
as she spoke, she hid her head in the matron's lap, like
an indulged and repentant child.

Miss Sandford, much affected, parted the ringlets,
which had been most carefully prepared for this eventful
evening. “Only say, dear Lucretia, that you will marry
him,” whispered she.

“Marry him!” exclaimed Lucretia, rising indignantly.
“I would as soon marry my footman,—aye, sooner;
for he has some nobility of soul about him.”

“Then I cannot, and I will not say, God bless you,”
replied the offended maiden.

Lucretia watched her as she stalked out of the apartment
in high displeasure,—and her soul, ever rapid and
vehement in its changes, sprung back elastic from the
momentary touch of remorse.

“A Fitzherbert is not to be twice insulted,” said she,
and calling for her servants, she ordered one to pack a
trunk of clothes, and another to ask Governor Hutchinson
if the carriage might be ordered to Queen-street.
Answer was returned that any thing which might facilitate
Miss Fitzherbert's departure, was entirely at her
service. Lucretia bit her lip at this instance of civil
rudeness; but she concealed her resentment, and merely
said to the servant, “Bring the horses to the back
door, Richard; and avoid the main street.”

The fear of meeting Colonel Fitzherbert in his present
exasperated state, or of encountering the curious
gaze of some lingering remnant of the wedding party,
occasioned these orders.

Could the crowd have that night discovered the wonderful
particulars with which all Boston rung for weeks
after, Lucretia would unquestionably have found the
popular excitement very troublesome during her short
ride.

Many, who from the neighbouring streets had witnessed
the commencement of this gala scene, had deeply
and bitterly reproached the American girl who could
find it in her heart to bestow an immense fortune on
one of the hateful oppressors of her native country;
and could they have known how ingeniously the haughty
Briton had been humbled, they would have drawn
her carriage in triumph.

As it was, however, every body had gone to their
homes, lost in conjecture and amazement. The streets
were almost entirely deserted; and as Lucretia and her
servants passed along on their way to Mr. Osborne's,
they scarcely noticed a human figure, save the sentinels,
who, with shouldered arms, slowly paced their accustomed
rounds.

Mr. Osborne and his son were the only ones waking
in Queen-street, when Miss Fitzherbert arrived; and it
may well be believed that their astonishment almost
amounted to terror, when the exiled bride came into
their presence so unexpectedly.

Lucretia in a tone of sportive authority told them,
they must perforce, without asking any questions, grant
a lodging to her and her train, for several days;—and
then, whispering to the old gentleman, she promised, as
soon as the servants were disposed of, to tell him all.

Upon this hint, Phœbe was called,—a cheerful fire
kindled in the kitchen, and all necessary arrangements
speedily made for her attendants. As soon as something
like quiet was restored, Lucretia gave a brief outline of
the events which had recently passed,—together with
the causes that led to them.

The detail unfolded much that the father and brother
had never known. “I was aware that Captain Somerville
was much pleased with my sister's beauty,” said
Henry; “and I saw too plainly how fast his insinuating
manners gained on her inexperienced heart, but I never
supposed he made a serious declaration of attachment.”

“And from some indications we have noticed, we
have both suspected the cause of her unusual depression,”
continued Mr. Osborne; “and though we never
knew that he directly sought her love, we could not but
blame the vanity that had so thoughtlessly gratified itself
at the expense of another's peace. I have ever taught
Grace to speak freely to me, and I cannot but wonder
at her reserve on this subject.”

“I had cautioned her against Somerville's influence,”
replied Henry; “and she well knew that neither of us
trusted in his religious principles. Of late, I could not
seek her confidence,—the painful subject too evidently
wounded the dear girl.”

When Lucretia gave a minute account of the letter,
the ring, and the rose,—when she mentioned the falsehood
that had been told to her at the commencement of
her ill-fated engagement, and the uniform course of duplicity
which Colonel Fitzherbert had afterward pursued,
the good old man never uttered one word of reproach
against the wretched being who had destroyed
the health and happiness of his only daughter.—But
when in animated terms, she told how keenly she felt
the wrongs her friend had suffered, and how thoroughly
she despised their author, Mr. Osborne gave her a look
of speaking tenderness, and Henry, of most delighted
admiration.

Miss Fitzherbert had resolved not to see Grace, until
the ensuing morning; but before she retired to rest,
Phœbe came with a message from her young lady, begging
her to look in upon her, if she only gave time to
say good night.

Lucretia could never deny any thing to the little
beauty; but she kissed her affectionately, and said,
“You must not talk to-night; indeed you must not,
dear Grace.”

“I will not,” she replied. “Phœbe has told me the
meaning of all this.” She paused a moment, and looked
on the full, round moon, which, through an opening
in the curtain, shed its holy light on her seraphic countenance;—then,
pressing Lucretia's hand most earnestly,
she added, “It was alone for my sake, I know; but
I do wish you could still have loved and respected him.
It was but one fault, Lucretia; and the best of us need
forgiveness.”

Her friend put her finger to her lip, in signal of prohibition,—and
smiling on her with unutterable tenderness,
bade her good night.

The next day, Doctor Willard called as usual,—and
finding that Grace had passed a restless night, and was
then sleeping, he was about to depart; but seeing Miss
Fitzherbert on the stairs, he sprang forward with all the
ready frankness that characterized his manner, and
clasping her hand in both of his, exclaimed, “You are
a fine, noble-spirited girl, Miss Fitzherbert. I like you
for this transaction,—by my soul, I do.”

“The best of it all,” observed Mr. Osborne, stepping
from his library, “is, that she has promised to remain
constantly with Grace.”

The Doctor warmly congratulated his friend on so
valuable an accession to his family, and entered into a
very pleasant and animated conversation,—in the course
of which he observed that Colonel Fitzherbert had
thrown up his commission, that the resignation had been
given in to General Gage that very morning; and lastly
that Governor Hutchinson had had one short interview
with his nephew, in which the latter had desired
to have his property collected and sent on to the South,
whither he had departed as secretly and expeditiously
as possible. As this information came from Doctor
Byles, there was every reason to suppose it true. That
reverend gentleman, however, gave them no opportunity
to make personal inquiries. He was highly indignant
at what he styled Lucretia's absurd conduct, and
ever after treated her with extreme coldness.

For reasons sufficiently obvious, this subject was seldom
alluded to in the domestic circle at Queen-street;
and Lucretia had now no intercourse whatever with
Governor Hutchinson's family; nevertheless, she heard
once or twice in the course of the season, that Colonel
Somerville (as he now chose to be called) remained at
the South, plunged in every excess of dissipation.