University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

“We are in a desperate extremity,” said she,
“and I am going to confess to you the story of a
life which has been wrecked with passion and
blackened with guilt. Two motives sustain me in
thus laying naked to the eyes of any human being,
and especially of a son, the abasement to which I
have been sunk. One of these motives is a hope
that such a task will be received as a kind of penance,
and the other, that the full knowledge of this
subject may influence you to acquiesce in what I

shall propose, and thus disburden my heart of a portion
of its load of guilt.”

“Oh bah! madam,” said Elkington, with a brutal
sneer; “pray spare your episodes, and set to the
point at once.”

“When your father was Mr. Lawton,” commenced
Lady Beverly, “I met him by chance at a ball
at Lady C—'s. He was the most brilliant and
dangerous man of the day. His personal attraction,
manners, and character were so peculiar, that few
female hearts could withstand his fascinations. He
was on friendly terms with my father, General Carlton,
and came often to our home; we were not rich,
but we were not poor; we lived happily, and even
elegantly; and I flattered myself that, if the qualities
of the father had first attracted so distinguished
a visiter, he was retained, ere long, by those of the
daughter. I was sixteen, and very beautiful. Do
not think me vain; for my beauty now has passed
away; and it was that beauty which depraved my
character and darkened my destiny. A fatal gift it
often is to woman. I conceived for your father a
passion so devoted, that it partook of the fervour of
adoration. No Persian ever worshipped the sun
with more fidelity, admiration, and faith, than I hung
on the changes of his noble face, drank the tones of
his voice, and felt the beams of his eyes penetrating
into all the virgin depths of my soul. This passion
was not alone the affection which a guileless woman
bears to the object of her attachment. It was mingled
with a deep-seated ambition—a love of admiration—a
vanity—a mania, which all combined to
render him the sole object of my wishes. He was
my life. He was my god. The attention which
my beauty excited had already ruined my disposition.
I thought alone of my charms—of how I should
appear—of my renown as the loveliest girl of the
day—of the power which this gave me over all
around—of the envy of the women, and the sighs of

the men. I thought alone of these. My character
was never weeded—my moral nature never developed—my
heart disciplined—my mind guided—my
passions governed. I was given up to the accidental
effects of universal admiration upon a heart not
easily touched by feeling, and never instructed in
the way of duty. The passion which Mr. Lawton
inspired me with became known to him. I do not
think he at first loved me; but the idea that a lovely
girl had given him her heart—that he had won it
without knowing it—softened his feelings towards
me into something very like love, and gave me hopes
which kept alive, in all its intensity, the love I bore
him.

“At this period his affairs called him to the Continent,
where he made a tour of several years. I
heard of him from time to time; at first he wrote
often to my father. Then his letters grew less frequent.
At length I learned that he was married.
The effect was to throw me into a fever, from which
I did not recover in many months.

“In a year he returned with his wife. I sought
information respecting her—this blaster of my hopes.
She was lovely beyond my worst fears; lovelier, by
far, than I. Without brilliancy, she had softness;
and, with few superficial accomplishments, she possessed
a mind trained to the loftiest virtue, and stored
with solid information. She was far less likely
to dazzle in a gay circle than I; but, once known,
she was more sure to charm. The peculiar enchantment
of her character was a modest and yet
perfect intelligence, and an innocence guileless and
pure. Both of these qualities shone in her countenance,
inspired her words and actions, and shed
around her whole manner an enchantment which
entirely mastered the high and susceptible heart of
Mr. Lawton. Besides this, she was an orphan, left
entirely destitute, under circumstances the most
likely to touch the ever-generous feelings of your

father, which started always at the thought of another's
wo. She had always lived in the family of
a rich Italian nobleman, whose carriage fell from
one of the precipices which beetle over the Mediterranean
between Nice and Genoa. Her patron
and his lady were dashed to pieces. By a curious
chance, she had become alarmed a few moments
previous to the accident, and requested permission
to walk up the mountain. She was thus saved; but
she found herself alone, without friends, without resources.
Beautiful beyond description, and trembling
at a position so full of danger, your father,
who had known the family in Venice, upon whom
the merits of this remarkable young girl had before
made an impression, and who, through the enthusiastic
representations of her unfortunate patron, had
conceived a high idea of her character and mind,
met her again by accident, and heard with horror
of the event which had left her so isolated, and of
her entire destitution. He visited her. The modest
reserve of her manners did not permit her to see
him often; but, in banishing him from her presence,
she only heightened its effect and increased his ardour.
A profligate English nobleman at the same
time persecuted her with attentions the most unprincipled,
and offers the most gross. He was a
villain, such as affluence and debauchery often produce
upon a bad heart and a shallow understanding.
Terrified and in despair, she was about to throw
herself into a convent, when your father, gifted with
an exquisite impression of beauty and moral worth,
and ever above interested considerations, offered her
his hand, which she accepted, for he had long made
upon her the impression which he could always
make when he pleased.

“But the very perfection of his happiness rendered
it fleeting. The honeymoon had scarcely passed,
when plans were set on foot by the young nobleman
in question, Lord M—, to poison his envied

bliss; to ruin the peace and reputation of his wife,
and at once to revenge, and perhaps gratify, the unrequited
passion which she had inspired. Whispers
of the darkest import were put in circulation. The
character of her late patron was indirectly attacked;
Lord M— openly boasted of the progress of his
suit before the sudden arrival of Lawton had caused
her to change her plans, and to play for an honourable
marriage with a man whose expectations were
so brilliant. Of these expectations, however, the
poor child knew nothing. She married your father
because she loved him, and saw that he loved her;
and she would have been far happier to pass her
life with him in some peaceful middle rank, than
to accompany him to the dazzling yet dangerous
heights of London fashionable society.

On their arrival in London, Lord M— followed
them. He was a profligate in want of excitement.
His soul was aroused by a game worthy of him, and
he resolved not to abandon the object of his pursuit,
but to complete his revenge by alienating from her
the affections of a husband whom he feared and envied.
I heard these whispers with trembling rapture.
They were the first relief my soul had known
since the moment I learned that your father had
forgotten me in the arms of another, whose simple
sweetness so far eclipsed my renowned beauty. By
every means in my power I watched and aided this
gradual enstrangment. I scarcely knew at first
whether or not it was true. A burning hope had
risen within me, that even yet Lawton and I might
be united. I will not—I dare not—go into the dark
details. It is sufficient to say the end was accomplished.
My father had recently died and left me
my own mistress, with an old aunt who was superannuated,
but yet sufficed as my matron, and who soon
afterward died. I had become acquainted with this
young roué, Lord M—, and, by half convincing
him of the truth of his charges, he made me the

sharer of them. I managed once to secrete him in
my house while Mrs. Lawton was there, and to produce
the sudden interruption of her husband. By
other means most artfully managed, this was made
to wear a conclusive aspect, and Mr. Lawton was
convinced, and rushed from his wife with a look of
horror and despair. If you will believe me, this
was the first intimation the innocent and artless creature
had of what was going on. On returning
home—alone—terrified—bewildered by some wild
and anguish-stricken expressions from the lips of her
husband, she received a brief note, ordering her to
repair immediately to my house. She did so.
There she received another letter, commanding her
to leave England immediately, and never to call
herself by his name. An annuity was offered her—
anything she might choose—but on condition of her
quitting London, and never making inquiries after
him again. She was advised to remain till her departure
at my house (if I would receive her), and
thence to make her arrangements for an immediate
embarcation for the Continent. I remember the
letter ended with, `Go, guilty, lost being; you are
free—you are no longer my wife. I raised you from
poverty—from despair. Serpent! you have stung
me; come no more across my path, or I shall, with
the honest indignation of virtue, put my foot upon
you, and trample you into the ground.'

“I handed her this letter. Never shall I forget
the look of dignity, the heavenly radiance which
shone around her as she dropped the paper upon
the floor, and stood a moment in mute horror and
agony. Then the tears gushed from her eyes and
streamed through her fingers as she endeavoured to
stop their flow. She sank upon her knees, hid her
face for several moments in silent prayer, and then
rose calmly. Her face was pale all day, as yours
and mine, alas! are now. Her eyes were filled with
tears half shed; but there was a native dignity—

a heavenly pride, which prevented all other outward
show of grief or agitation. What most astonished
me was, there was no indignation—no noise—no
demands to see her lord—no violent protestations
of innocence; she took the blow mutely and unresistingly,
as an affliction from Heaven. The extreme
loveliness of her appearance only made me
hate her more, with all the fury of a jealous soul, inspired
with the hope of supplanting her in her husband's
love. This, and more other dark deeds I
was ready to do, goaded as I was by my rapturous
hopes and unbridled passions.

“One act more I must confess, if the thunder of
Heaven will permit me to proceed. There was a
vile woman, known as such by all the town, whom
Lord M— brought into the plot without giving
her any knowledge of the persons. To her house,
the constant resort of wild young men, we sent this
unsuspecting girl, to remain till she could embark
for Calais. By this house Lord M— managed
to have Lawton conducted, as if accidentally, so that
he saw his once adored wife talking with a person,
with whom to speak was to acknowledge all. In
this house she was delivered of a son. Lawton was
made acquainted with the fact. He was one of
those men whose high sense of honour admit of no
compromise, and who, in their abhorrence of vice,
go to the last extreme. This hapless girl had so utterly
possessed his confidence—had so completely
mastered his soul—that nothing short of what he
had seen could have determined him to believe her
unworthy. He had, however, seen. He had heard
of the heir to his house, brought into the world in
shame and dishonour; and kneeling down, he swore
solemnly to his Maker to banish them both from his
heart—to hear nothing from them—to ask nothing
of them—to tear them off—and let them `down the
wind, a prey to fortune.'

“It was scarcely possible to believe that a creature

so soft and inexperienced possessed a character
so firm and high. These qualities were indeed
as conspicuous in her as they were in her husband.
Neither, when once insulted and injured, as they
each believed themselves to be, was capable of the
slightest attempt at compromise or explanation.
He, although it crushed his heart, never pronounced
her name again—never asked after her—never wavered
in his resolution to turn his face and his soul
from her loveliness and her guilt for ever. Whatever
might have been her fate, whether she broke
her heart, or starved to death in the street, it was
the same to him; and I believe—so deeply had the
blow wounded him—that if he had seen her, in all the
power of her charms, upon a scaffold, and known
that a word from his lips would have rescued her,
that word would not have been spoken. He had
sworn to make her a stranger; and he is one, as you
know, who, when fully roused to a resolution, never
breaks it. There are wavering natures, who may be
melted by the sight of extreme wretchedness to pardon
any injury. Injuries of an ordinary kind no
one would have been more ready to forget than he;
but she had not only destroyed his happiness and
his confidence in human nature, but she had abased
his name—blasted his honour— broken his heart.
He had cast her off to plague, famine, and suicide—
to guilt and wo, here and hereafter.

“Like him, she was also firm. I am convinced
that innocence more pure never appeared upon the
earth; but in her tender and trusting soul she possessed
till then, as undreamed of by herself as by
others, a nature as inflexible, as unbending and
haughty, as that of her husband. The parting letter
of him whom she so tenderly loved came upon her
like the trumpet of death. All the other evils of
the world, bursting together upon her head, could
not equal this sudden blow. She had been raised
by him from poverty. She had loved him with a

trustingness which such women often put into their
love. She had committed her happiness and honour
to his care. She had supposed that, all mankind
uniting against her, and believing evil of her,
he would never be shaken by any proof; and yet,
upon some hearsay—for she little knew the extent of
the intrigue against her—without notice—without a
hearing—without one word of explanation, he had
cast her off—had published her ruin—had cruelly
turned her adrift, friendless and bewildered, upon
the world from whose dangers he had rescued her.
If his confidence in human nature was shaken, so
was hers; but her resolution was instantly conceived
and put in practice. The annuity he offered she
did not apply for. Though left penniless in her
painful situation—about to become a mother—and
not knowing where to go, she would have died with
her infant rather than accept relief from the hand
that had thus spurned her. The plausible lady to
whose house I had recommended her, offered her,
as she thought, from simple benevolence, an asylum
till her illness should be over. This she accepted
with tearful gratitude, as aid from Heaven.
The letter of her husband she returned in an envelope
to the hand that sent it, with no other comment
than the stains of tears which had half effaced its
fierce and burning words. When her health and
that of her child permitted, she wrote me her desire
to set off instantly for the Continent. As eager
as herself to hasten her departure, I furnished her
the means. She sailed, without seeing me again,
for Havre, and there, I understood, she met a family
by chance who had formerly known her. Whether
she related to them her whole story, or what
means she took to excite their sympathy, I do not
know; but they kept her, I understand, as a governess
for two or three years, when, from what
cause I never learned, she embarked for the West
Indies. As a sad end to so sad a life, the ship was
wrecked, and most of the crew and passengers perished.
She particularly was mentioned among the
rest as having been washed overboard and drowned
in the early part of the storm. This news found
Mr. Lawton an altered man. Having striven long
and unsuccessfully against the impression the affair
had left on his mind, it was more a relief than a
pang; and he learned, without allowing himself even
the weakness of a sigh, that these two unfortunate
beings, who had so painfully clouded his bright
youth and stamped his name with dishonour, were
swallowed in the sea, which, if it could not wash
out their stains, buried them for ever beneath its
waves. I thought, then, that he had succeeded, or
would succeed, in forgetting her; but I now know
his attempts were vain, and that his apparent indifference
was a mere effort of mind, concealing, not
destroying, the feeling of his heart. He did, however,
try to efface her image; and, as a means, he
resolved to marry again. It needed no great art in
me to become the object of his choice. Love again,
I believe, he never could. But he hoped, by creating
himself a new home and new duties, to succeed
in turning from the past. A short time after
the flight of his wife he succeeded to the title and
estates of his father, and was subsequently created
Earl of Beverly by his late majesty. Immediately
after this event we were married, and I thus attained
the summit of my wishes. But, alas! what I
had done so much to obtain gave me no happiness.
Instead of the tender husband I had pictured, I have
found in your father a cold and gloomy companion.
He seemed shocked at marrying as soon as the indissoluble
knot was tied; and in less than a year,
immediately on your birth, conceived an aversion
both for you and myself, which has but strengthened
with every succeeding hour. A thousand times
I have wished the past undone; for my doom, in
being obliged to live with the man I loved only as
an object of dislike, has been a penalty for all my
crimes. I have only to relate that, before our marriage,
he called out Lord M—, who shot him
through the thigh, which has rendered him lame
ever since, and from which wound, on taking the
slightest cold, he suffers, as you have seen, the most
dreadful pain. These circumstances combined, ruined
his temper and character. He at length resorted
to the pleasures of the table and cards to divert
his attention from himself. From one of the most
intellectual and firm-minded men, he has become a
voluptuary and a slave of violent passions. His
heart wants all the softening and purifying influences
of the affections. He loves nothing, and probably
the greatest objects of his dislike are his wife
and son.

“More than twenty years have thus passed away.
The news of the death of his wife and child were
confirmed, and the subject was only remembered
by me as one of shame, guilt, repentance, and self-reproach.
Many a sleepless night it has cost me.
Many a wretched hour, passed even in the midst of
gayety and fashion. Often and often I have wished
for an opportunity of repairing the evil I have
done—of revealing to your father the whole truth—
and of surrendering the ill-gotten wealth, which,
even while I enjoy it, cries out against me. I have
lived long enough to know that nothing can compensate
for the loss of self-approbation. It is the
secret fountain of cheerfulness and contentment.
But what opportunity had I to accomplish this end?
Your father, if he knew the truth, would only be
more wretched; I feared also his dreadful temper;
and they who, alive, could profit by my confession,
were dead. By revealing it, also, I should disinherit
you, to throw those vast estates upon a stranger.
It is one of the curses of vice, that when at
length we discover that its path is beset with horrors,
retreat itself sometimes becomes wicked as

well as dangerous, and we cannot recover the
straight road, where alone our happiness lies, without
sacrificing others besides ourselves. You may
imagine my sensations on beholding, one evening,
here in Berlin, this Claude Wyndham rise like an
apparition on my path. The moment I saw him,
I saw your father as he was in his youth. The
same dignified and noble carriage—the same beauty
and intellect of countenance—the same calm, clear
eye—now gentle as a woman's, and now full of a
sternness which quails before nothing, but gazes
steadily, like the eagle, into the very sun. In his
character I perceive, too, the same magnificent
scorn of everything paltry and mean—the same invincible
energy of resolution, which places itself
against all mankind and against its own happiness,
rather than sacrifice one of his proud prejudices—
rather than lower a hair's-breadth his lofty head. I
saw all this in Wyndham. On informing myself, I
ascertained to a certainty that he was your father's
son; and when I saw him obviously touched with
the beauty and character of Ida—who is not unlike
her who had his father's first vows—I trembled for
her and for you. It seemed a double judgment
upon me, that the phantom of the very man whom
I had so loved in youth should rise before me now
as my greatest enemy; and that a sweetness and
beauty, like that which had once withered beneath
my look, should now appear to baffle all our hopes,
and take from us the last certainty of independence.
Now you comprehend the reason of the agitation
which you have so often remarked in me since our
arrival in Berlin. I have, indeed, lived in a kind of
hell, which, if they who sin could see it, would for
ever after keep stainless every human being. I did
hope that this denouément might be avoided. I
bribed his servant Carl to learn how far he was
himself acquainted with his history. I saw he was
totally ignorant of it, but that his father knew of his
existence, and has furnished him the means of support,
although in a way which marks the stern fidelity
of his abhorrence, and proves that he would never
be willing to receive him but on being acquainted
with the innocence of his unhappy mother. I will
confess farther, Edward. Notwithstanding my remorse,
I cannot overcome the strange passions
which are now habitual to me. On the appearance
of the true heir of your father's estates, instead of
seizing the often desired occasion to undo a part of
what I have done, I felt the baleful passions of my
youth resume their sway over my heart. I wished
him dead, and I wished your hand might remove
from our path such a dangerous enemy in an honourable
meeting. Surely there would have been
no guilt in this, at least on your part; for gentlemen
fight and kill each other every day. I strove
to make you hate him as much as myself; for I did
hate as much as I feared him. I endeavoured to
produce a duel; and I hoped that he would render
our task more easy by challenging you. He has,
however, wrapped himself up in an idea that this
species of combat is wrong; and I feel now that
nothing will make him forego this opinion, or act
contrary to it. It is the very nature of his father.

“In the midst of my plans come these dreadful
letters, and ruin stares us in the face. I am now
about to make a proposition to you, which at first
you will doubtless reject, but which, upon reflection,
you will find the safest course. You must remember
I have given this subject years of meditation,
and have prepared myself for every event.”