University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
FOLLY—RECTITUDE—A VISIT TO SERJEANT BLANDFORD.

“Where in the world can Mary Lumley be,”
said Mrs. Cavendish, as the evening drew in, and
the chill air of October reminded the inmates of
Mr. Matthews' mansion, that no one could be walking
for pleasure at that hour. Lady Mary had gone
out in the morning expressing her intention of spending
the day with Miss Brenton. Now as it was
customary for Mrs. Brenton's servant to attend the
young lady home if she staid to a late hour, the family
did not feel much alarmed until ten o'clock
approached. Mr. Matthews broke off a game of
chess he was playing with Lucy, and looked at his
watch, Aura paced the room, and the two elder
ladies expressed much uneasiness.

At length a ring at the gate made them start.
Mr. Matthews in his anxiety preceded the servant
to the door, and was well convinced by the precipitate
retreat of the person who accompanied Lady
Mary that it was no menial; nay, he fancied that
he saw him kiss her hand, as he opened the door
for her admittance.

“You are imprudent, Mary,” said the anxious
guardian, “to be out so late on this chilly evening,
and with such slight covering. Who was the person
who parted from you at the door?”

“A gentleman who dined at Mrs. Brenton's.”

“And does Lady Mary Lumley allow herself to
be escorted the distance of nearly a mile in an unfrequented
road, at this hour, by a stranger?”

“He was no stranger to Mrs. Brenton, sir.”

“Nor to you, Mary, or I am mistaken.”—

“I have seen him before,” said she, hesitating,
“I have met him several times,” and taking a light
from the sideboard where several were placed, she
left the room.

“Mary will throw herself away,” said Mrs.
Matthews.

“Then she must abide the consequences,” replied
Mrs. Cavendish.”

“Ah, much I fear,” rejoined her sister, “the
punishment will exceed the offence. That, may be
committed in a moment of romantic folly; but the
bitter repentance that will succeed, may last through
a long and miserable life.”

Soon after Christmas, which no circumstances
whatever would have prevented Mr. Matthews from
celebrating in his own mansion and at his own
church, the family removed to London, where a
handsome ready furnished house in Southampton
street, Bloomsbury Square, had been taken for them
by Sir Robert Ainslie. Here Sir Stephen Haynes
renewed his visits, but generally took care to call
when he was sure of meeting other company, and
assiduously avoided giving Mr. Matthews an opportunity
of speaking to him alone. His manners to
Lady Mary were polite, but distant, and her guardian
began to surmise that he had altered his plans,

and had some wealthier prize in view; he was therefore
thrown off his guard, and determined to take no
further notice of the subject to his fair ward.

The seventeenth of February was Lady Mary's
birth day, that ardently desired day which freed her
from the trammels of restraint, and made her, as she
joyously expressed it, when Lucy and Aura affectionately
kissed her and gave their congratulations,
a free and independent agent.

“Then,” said Aura, seriously, “I hope you will
remain so at least for some years: enjoy this liberty
you seem to prize so much; for, be assured there
are shackles much less endurable than the salutary
restraints of the excellent Mr. Matthews and his revered
wife and sister, and not so easily thrown off.”

At one o'clock, the writings necessary being prepared,
Lady Mary was put in possession of her little
fortune. When all was finished, Mrs. Matthews
expressed her hope that she would remain in their
family at least during the ensuing summer. She answered,
formally, that “she had not yet determined
how she should dispose of herself; she should remain
with them during the time she staid in London, and
then in all probability make a visit to her friend
Miss Brenton.”

About three weeks after this event, Lieutenant
Franklin made a short visit to London, paid his
respects to Lucy and her guardian's family, lamented
that his father's ill health obliging him to pass the
winter in Bath, he could not have the pleasure of
making her acquainted with persons she was prepared
so highly to esteem. “And for myself, Miss

Blakeney,” continued he, “I shall not be so happy
as to see you above once more, as I have only a fortnight's
leave of absence, and must devote the larger
part of that time to attentions to my suffering father,
and in striving to soothe and cheer the depressed
spirits of my mother. But in June, I hope, my
dear sir,” turning to Mr. Matthews, “to be permitted
to pay my respects to you in Hampshire.”

Mr. Matthews expressed the pleasure it would
give him to see him there, reflecting at the same
time that at the period of the intended visit, he
should decide upon the conduct to be observed in
developing his intentions towards Lucy.

It was now determined that before Easter, Mr.
Matthews and his family should return to their
pleasant residence near Southampton. Lucy and
Aura were delighted to leave London and return to
inhale the sweets of the opening Spring and invigorating
breezes from the sea. Lady Mary appeared
indifferent; but three days before their intended departure,
she shewed Miss Blakeney a letter which
she had received from Miss Brenton, which stated
that she was going to pass Easter with an aunt who
lived near Windsor, and entreated Lady Mary to
accompany her.

“I never was at Windsor, Miss Blakeney, and
I should like to see that celebrated castle. I have
heard my poor mother talk of it.”

As Lady Mary pronounced the words, poor
mother, a deep blush suffused her face and neck,
and her voice faltered almost to a sob, as she finished
the sentence. Lucy Blakeney did not want discernment;

she looked earnestly at Lady Mary, and
catching her hand, said tenderly, yet emphatically,

“But do not go to see it now, dear Mary, go
with us into Hampshire, and I promise you when I
am of age, which you know will be soon, we will
make a most delectable excursion, take dear Guardy
and Ma-Matthews, majestic Mrs. Cavendish and
our lively Aura, and setting out in search of adventures,
storm Windsor Castle in the course of our
route; and you shall repeat all your lamented mother
told you, for you know she was better acquainted
with history than we are, especially when it was
any thing concerning Kings and Princes, Dukes
and Lords.”

Now all this was said in a playful good humoured
manner: But at her heart Lucy feared this excursion
with Miss Brenton would lead to no good.

“I cannot retract my promise, dear Lucy,” said
Mary, in a soft tremulous voice, “Miss Brenton will
be in town to-night, and will call for me to-morrow
as she proceeds to Windsor.”

“Would it not have been as well to have consulted”—Lucy
would have proceeded, but Lady Mary
stopped her with, “I cannot consent to ask leave of
the stiff Mr. Matthews, his precise Lady, and the
dictatorial Mrs. Cavendish.”

“Oh fie! Lady Mary,” replied Lucy, with
something of sternness in her voice: “can you forget
the parental kindness they have shewn you for
five years past? You will say, perhaps, the interest
of your fortune, paid for your board, &c. True,
those pecuniary debts were amply discharged. But

who can repay the debt of gratitude due to those
who cultivate the best feelings of the heart, and direct
the understanding to the highest sources of improvement,
whose precept and example go hand in
hand to lead inexperienced youth into the path of
happiness?”

“I never shall forget what I owe them, Miss
Blakeney,” she replied, “but I cannot consent to
solicit permission to do what I like, and go where I
please, from persons who, however good in their
way, have no right now to control me. I shall myself
mention my intention to the family, at the breakfast
table to-morrow morning. Miss Brenton will
commence her journey about noon, and will call for
me; in the mean time I must beg it as a favour,
you will not disclose this conversation to any one.”

When she had left the room, Lucy stood for a
moment irresolute what course to pursue. “It will
do no good,” said she mentally, “to distress the
family by mentioning this intended excursion, which
however they may disapprove, they cannot prevent;
and perhaps I judge too hardly of Lady Mary,
when I think there is some other point in view than
merely visiting Windsor Castle.” Thus resolving
upon silence, she joined the family at dinner, and
found, to her surprise, that Lady Mary had complained
of a head ache and requested to have some
trifling refreshment in her own apartment.

The next morning at breakfast, no Lady Mary
appeared, and when the footman was desired to send
one of the female servants to call her, he replied,

“Lady Mary is not in the house.”

“Not in the house?” cried Mr. Matthews,
starting from his chair, “poor stray lamb, I fear
the shepherd too easily gave up his trust, and thou
wilt return no more to the fold.”

Mrs. Matthews turned deathly pale, and leaned
back in her chair.

“It is no more than I expected,” said Mrs.
Cavendish, drawing herself up and taking a cup of
tea from the trembling hand of Aura.

“Be not too much alarmed,” said Lucy Blakeney,
“I believe Lady Mary was engaged in a
pleasurable excursion to Windsor, with Miss Brenton,
who arrived in town last evening, and was
proceeding thither to visit her aunt. She mentioned
it to me yesterday, but said they should not leave
town till noon, and that at breakfast she would take
leave of the family. Perhaps her friend went earlier
than she expected, and Mary Lumley did not like
to have the family disturbed, but I have no doubt
she has left some letter or message.”

“Lady Mary left the house at four o'clock in the
morning,” said the footman, “she went out through
the area, because she was afraid of making a noise
to alarm any one, the chaise did not draw up to the
house, but stood at the bottom of the street. Betty,
the house maid, took her bandbox, and I carried her
trunk, when on her jumping in I saw she was received
by a gentleman, and a lady seemed to be in
the farther corner. There were four horses to the
chaise, and a groom in livery followed it on horseback.
`To Windsor,' said the gentleman, as the
door was shut, and they went off like lightning.”

“Call Betty, this instant,” said Mr. Matthews.
Betty appeared. “Where is Lady Mary Lumley
gone?” said he.

“To Windsor, with her friend Miss Brenton,”
she replied, pertly.

“Did she leave no letter or message, girl?”

“Lawes me, yes, there is a letter up stairs for
you, I believes.”

“Go fetch it, instantly.”

“Stop,” said he, when the girl gave him a sealed
billet, “why did you assist her out of the house in
so clandestine a manner? Why not boldly open the
front door, have the carriage drawn up, and call one
of my servants to have adjusted her baggage, and if
necessary to have proceeded with her?”

“'Cause the poor dear lady cried, and said you and
my ladies there wanted to make a slave of her,
when she was as free to act for herself as you was,
and if you knew of her going you would try to stop
her.”

“'Tis well, go!” said Mr. Matthews, waving
his hand. Betty withdrew with an impertinent toss
of her head, and Mr. Matthews opened the letter.
It ran thus:

Mr. Matthews folded the letter. “The die is
east,” said he, “poor Mary Lumley, thou art fallen
into bad hands. Settle half his fortune! according
to the course he has pursued, by this time he may
not have an acre of land, or a single guinea he can
call his own.—That Miss Brenton has been of great
injury to the unfortunate girl, for nothing can be
more prejudicial to a young woman of strong imagination
and ill regulated feelings, than those kind of
artificial friendships and tender confidences, where
flattery is substituted for real affection, and mutual
self-complacency for disinterested attachment; where
self willed folly is dignified with the name of enthusiastic
liberality of sentiment, and the excitement of
gratified vanity is mistaken for unchangeable, exalted
love; such, I am persuaded, was the only
friendship that subsisted between Julia Brenton, and
our thoughtless Mary Lumley, and by her she has
been led on to adopt the idea of “All for Love or
the World well lost,” and to act upon that mischievous,
I could almost say dissolute principle.”

“I always knew Lady Mary to be vain and
thoughtless, and from the romantic bias given to her
early ideas easily led and highly enthusiastic,” said
Aura Melville, “but I do believe her mind is
pure.”

“There is the misery of it!” said Mr. Matthews,
sighing, “for when that pure mind shall discover
that it has allied itself to sensuality and profligacy,
that it has chosen for its associate a being who will
divide his time between jockeys and gamesters;
and that he is never so happy as when in company
with men and women of low breeding and gross
conversation, what must it feel?”

No answer was made. The breakfast was removed
almost untasted; no steps however could be
taken to prevent this ill starred union. Mr. Matthews
walked to Sir Robert Ainslie's, and discovered
that the whole of Lady Mary's fortune had been
the day before withdrawn from his hands, where it
had been placed by her guardian on delivering up
his trust, by an order under her own signature.”

“What, all? principal and the few hundreds of
interest I had saved for her, that she might have a
little store to supply her purse upon coming of age?”

“All,” replied Sir Robert, “I was not aware of
the circumstance till this morning, and was preparing
to call on you when you were announced.
The order was in favour of Julia Brenton. There
was no authority by which we could refuse to pay
it.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Matthews, “but she
has ruined herself.”

The second morning after this very painful occurrence,
Mr. Matthews' family set off towards home,
where they arrived in safety, and with real pleasure
took possession of their old apartments, and began
to pursue their usual avocations in that beloved

mansion, reading, working, walking, arranging their
plants and flowers, in the garden, and greenhouse,
and occasionally riding round the country, accompanied
by their paternal friend the Rector.

Mr. Matthews took an early opportunity to call
on Mrs. Brenton, but the old lady knew nothing of
her daughter's plans, had received but one letter
from her since her departure. That indeed was
dated from Windsor, but she appeared totally ignorant
of the marriage of Lady Mary, or the active
part her daughter had taken in the affair.

Lucy and Aura recommenced their rambles to the
cottages of their poor neighbours, nor was the old
sergeant forgotten, and be it known, that though
Miss Blakeney sometimes thought that June would
increase their party, yet was she never heard to
complain of the leaden wings of time, or to sigh
profoundly, and look interestingly sentimental.

The latter end of June brought Sir Robert Ainslie's
family to their seat in Hampshire, and a few
days after, Lieutenant Franklin, to visit his friend
Edward.

“Lucy, my love,” said Mr. Matthews, a few
days after the arrival of these young men in their
neighbourhood, “Will you candidly answer me one
question, and seriously make me one promise?”

“I will answer any question you may please to
make, very honestly, my dear sir,” said she smiling,
“and as to promises, I am convinced you would
require none but what was meant to secure my
happiness.”

“Now, my good girl, to put you to the test, has
Mr. Franklin ever made any professions to you, or
sought more than by general attentions to engage
your affections?”

“Never, sir, Mr. Franklin never uttered a syllable
to me that could be construed into any thing
more than that politeness and gallantry which gentlemen
of his profession think incumbent upon them
to pay to our sex.” A slight blush tinged her face
as she spoke.

“But, my dear Lucy, have you never thought
those polite gallantries, as you term them, were
sometimes a little particular?”

“The thought”—she replied with a little hesitation.
“But pray do not think me a vain girl, I
have thought his looks and manner said more than
his words.”

“Good, ingenuous girl,” said the Rector, “and
you would not be displeased if you found yourself
the object of his affection.—Well, well,” he continued,
“I will not insist on an answer to this last
question. But now to your promise.”

“Name it, sir.”

“It is that you will enter into no engagements
of a matrimonial kind till you have seen your
twenty-first birth day. I have a letter in my possession
written by your grandfather in the last hour
of his life. It was designed to be delivered to you
when your minority ended; you surely remember
how very suddenly that good man was called out of
time into eternity.”

“Can I ever forget it?” replied Lucy, with
emotion. “He had retired to his study as all imagined
for a few hours repose, which it was his custom
to take of an afternoon, and was found dead
in his easy chair, I think I was told with a written
paper before him, and the pen still between his
fingers.”

“It was so, my child, I was in the house at the
time, where I arrived after he had retired, and that
paper was an unfinished letter to you. Promise me,
therefore, Lucy, that you will enter into no serious
engagements till you have read that letter.”

“I do promise most solemnly, and also voluntarily
add, that every behest in the letter of that dear
lamented parent, shall be adhered to by me.”

“I know I can depend on you,” replied Mr.
Matthews, “and am satisfied.”

A few days after this conversation, Franklin having
taken his tea at the Rectory, proposed a walk,
and Aura being engaged in some domestic concerns
which Mrs. Matthews had requested her to see
performed, Lucy accepted the invitation. “I will
take this young soldier to the cottage of my old
friend Serjeant Blandford,” said she to Mr. Matthews,
“and he shall tell him some of his famous
stories, and fight over his battles.”

It was a very fine evening, but as the sun descended,
a dark cloud received the glorious orb,
which as it shrouded his beams, transfused their
radiance to itself, making the edges of its deep
purple tint flame with gold and crimson.

“That cloud foretels a shower, I think,” said
Lucy, as approaching the old man's dwelling she
turned her eyes for the first time towards the declining
sun.

“It will not come on very rapidly,” said Franklin.”

“We will make a short visit to the old soldier,”
said she. Then looking stedfastly at the advancing
cloud, she continued, “That cloud is an emblem of
misfortune overwhelming for a while the virtuous
person; which though for a time it may prevent
their general usefulness, and obscure the splendor
of their actions, cannot entirely hide their brilliancy,
but catches as it were a glory from the radiance it
partially obscures.”

“Or rather,” said Franklin, “it is like a veil
thrown over the face of a beautiful woman, which
shades but cannot diminish her loveliness.”

Before they reached old Blandford's hut, the
cloud had spread rapidly and large drops of rain
had fallen, so that Lucy's muslin dress was but a
poor defence, and was easily wet through. She had
thrown a black lace mantle over her shoulders
when she began her walk, but pulling it off as she
rushed into the house, and at the same time divesting
her head of a straw cottage bonnet, her redundant
hair fell over her face and shoulders.

“Bless me, is it you, Miss Blakeney?” said the
old man, rising and supporting himself with his
crutch.

“Yes, it is, good Blandford, and finely wet I am,
but I use myself so much to all changes of atmosphere

that I do not fear taking cold. I walked
very fast when it began to rain, and am incommoded
by the heat. So let me sit down, and give me a
draught of water.”

“Drink sparingly,” said Franklin.

At the sound of his voice old Blandford started,
and looking first at one and then at the other, asked,

“Who is this, Miss Lucy?

“My name is Franklin,” said the lieutenant,
“and I come to visit an old brother soldier.” He
then presented the veteran his hand, who gazing
earnestly on him exclaimed, “I could almost have
sworn that you were—but I'm an old fool, it is impossible—and
this dear lady has often made me
think I had seen her face before, though not till this
moment could I bring to mind whom she was so like.
But just as she is now, only paler and in great distress,
I once saw”—he paused—

“Saw whom?” said Lucy.

“It is a melancholy story, Miss, and you will not
like to hear it, mayhap.”

“I have no objection to hear it, if it is not very
long, for the rain is almost over, and the moment it
ceases, we must set off toward home.”

Blandford stretched out his disabled leg, rested
his chin on the handle of his crutch, and thus began.—

“You know, Miss Blakeney, I served abroad
several years, and got my wound fighting with the
—.”

“Well, never mind, you have told me all that
before, now to your story.”

“Why, Miss, it was one cold night about the
end of October, 1774, I was but a private then,
when as I had been to the Colonel's quarters for
orders, as I went from the door, a poor shivering
young creature, her face pale as death, and nothing
over her but a thin white gown, and a black something,
like that you threw off just now, though the
snow was falling fast, and the wind was very
bleak.”

Just then Mr. Matthews' carriage drove up to the
cottage, and a request was delivered to Miss Blakeney
that she would return in it, as her friends feared
she might take cold. The sergeant was therefore
obliged te break off his story, when it was scarcely
begun, Lucy saying,

“You shall tell it me some other time, my good
Blandford, but now good night.”

Lieutenant Franklin handed her into the coach,
bowing as he laughingly said, “A soldier is not
afraid of the damp arising from a trifling shower,
so I shall walk back to Sir Robert Ainslie's.”

This delicate conduct was not lost upon Miss
Blakeney, and raised the young man in the estimation
of Mr. Matthews.

A short time after this, Mr. Franklin openly
made a declaration of his sentiments to Lucy, who
referred him to her guardian for the reason why
she could not give a decided answer till her twenty-first
birth day was passed. When Franklin heard
that Miss Blakeney was in reality a wealthy heiress,
instead of the dependant orphan he had depicted in
his own mind, and found that he must adopt her

name or relinquish her fortune, he felt something
like hesitation; he had already laid aside his own
family name and assumed that of his grandfather.

“I will be candid, my dear sir,” said he, “happiness
to me appears unattainable unless in a union
with Miss Blakeney, but I must consult my father,
and I fear he will never consent to my changing the
venerated name I now bear for any other. You
know fortune has not been an object with me, for
I loved and would have married your ward, though
she had nothing but her invaluable self to bestow:
but I cannot reconcile it to my own sense of integrity
to despoil her of so fair an independence, which
entitles her to those appendages and elegancies,
which my moderate fortune could not afford.”

“You are a worthy young man,” said Mr. Matthews,
“persevere in this course of integrity, and
perhaps things may turn out so, as to obviate these
difficulties. At any rate you will avoid self reproach,
and happiness is so hardly attainable in this
world, that it would be a pity while too eagerly
pursuing it, to run the risk of mingling gall with
the honey.”

When Franklin took leave of Lucy, she held out
her hand, and he pressed it to his lips. Her eyes
were evidently full, while with a tremulous voice
she said,

“Remember I have entered into no engagements,
and whatever the import of my grandfather's letter
may be, I am firmly resolved to abide by his directions.
You have requested leave to commence
a correspondence; you must allow me to decline it.
It could be of no service. When the time comes

that I shall see this formidable letter, you shall hear
either from Mr. Matthews or myself the result:
and let that be what it may, I shall ever retain a
most grateful sense of your disinterested attachment,
and if no nearer tie can ever connect us, I shall
ever regard you as a friend and brother.”

She then hastily left the room and shut herself in
her own apartment, to give vent to feelings she was
unwilling to have witnessed, though she was unable
to suppress. Franklin returned to Sir Robert Ainslie's,
from whence, at an early hour next morning,
he departed with his young friend for London.