Charlotte's daughter or, The three orphans : a sequel to Charlotte Temple |
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| 10. | CHAPTER X.
THE LETTER—THE BIRTH DAY. |
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 | CHAPTER X.
THE LETTER—THE BIRTH DAY. Charlotte's daughter |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
THE LETTER—THE BIRTH DAY.
October had almost expired, Lucy Blakeney
began to count the hours when she should be relieved
from the state of suspense which, notwithstanding
her well regulated mind and subdued feelings was
the Ainslie family of Franklin's health and that his
father still remained in a weak and sometimes deranged
state. Her mind was harassed, she even no
longer took pleasure in visiting Blandford's cottage.
“I cannot account for it, Aura,” said she one day
to Miss Melville, “but though my curiosity was
awakened by the manner in which the old sergeant
commenced his story, yet I cannot summon resolution
to ask him to tell it me, a certain terror spreads
through my frame, and I wish to hear no more of it
till I can hear it in company with Mr. Franklin.”
“Alas, and a-well-a-day,” replied Aura, laughing,
“what a sad thing this tender something is, which
we hardly dare own, and know not how to describe.”
“Well, I will not deserve to be laughed at, Aura:
for I will act upon principle, and am resolved to
partake and enjoy all the comforts and innocent
pleasures of life that may fall in my path, though
one little thorn should pierce my foot in my pilgrimage.”
“Your foot or your heart, Lucy?”
“Why my good Aura, I shall strive to keep it as
far from my heart as I can.”
“Do you remember, Lucy, what day next
Thursday is?” asked Mr. Matthews, one morning
as he sat at breakfast with his family.
“It is my birth day, sir, is it not?”
“Even so, my good little girl,” for with Mr.
Matthews every thing that was held very dear by
him, was denominated little.
“Well,” continued he, “and what shall we do
to celebrate the day? I have no doubt but all the
beaus and misses in the envirous of Southampton,
have long been anticipating splendid doings on the
day when Miss Blakeney obtains her majority.”
“I mean to have very splendid doings, sir.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes”—
“I wonder then, Miss Blakeney, you did not give
my brother and sister intimation of your intent,”
said Mrs. Cavendish, “that proper preparations
might have been made without the hurry which
must now ensue.”
“Oh, my dear madam,” said Aura, “Lucy and I
have been busy these two months past in preparing
for this interesting occasion, and indeed our invitations
are already sent out, and every one, I do assure
you, accepted.”
“Very extraordinary conduct, I think,” said the
consequential old lady.
“I wish you had given a little more time,” said
Mrs. Matthews, mildly, “but however we will see
what can be done. But what is it to be? a ball and
supper? or a breakfast in fashionable style?”
“Oh neither, madam, though I hope to make some
dance, and some sing who are not much in the habit
of doing such things.”—
Mrs. Cavendish had taken a large pinch of snuff,
and having wiped the poudre tabac, from her upper
lip with one of the finest coloured silk handkerchiefs,
which together with her elegant snuff box she deposited
in a fillagree work basket which always stood
one, and laid it on her lap, was beginning to speak,
when Mr. Matthews said, “These girls are only
playing tricks with us, sister. Lucy no more intends
to have a party, than I intend to take a voyage to the
moon.”
“Don't you be too sure, my dear sir,” said Lucy,
laying her hand playfully on his arm. “I have really
invited a party of forty to dine here on Thursday
next, and all I have to ask is that you will lend
me the hall, and that Mrs. Matthews will have the
goodness to order John to lay the cloth in a simple
manner for my guests, and permit the cook and
housekeeper for all day on Wednesday to obey my
injunctions.”
“Well, children,” said Mrs. Matthews, “I believe
you must have your way this once. It shall
be, Lucy, as you wish.”
“But come, Lucy,” said Mr. Matthews, “let us
somewhat into the secret; I suspect you will want a
little cash to carry your fine plans into effect.”
“Not a doit, dear sir, till Thursday morning, when
I shall want one hundred pounds, in guineas, half
guineas, crowns and half crowns.”
“Extravagant baggage,” he replied, his fine venerable
countenance glowing with pleasure. “Now
tell us the arrangements of the day.”
“Oh! they are very simple. You know, my ever
venerated Mr. Matthews, on that day I expect to
read a letter, the contents of which will most probably
determine the hue of my future fate.” She
spoke with solemnity, and a slight convulsive tremor
passed over her intelligent features.
“If you please, let that letter remain uninvestigated
till I retire for the night. I would enjoy the innocent
festivities I have projected for the day,—and
now,” she continued with more hilarity of manner,
“I will tell you my plan. About twelve o'clock I
expect my guests to begin to assemble, they will
consist of a few of the oldest and most respected
poor of your parish, with children and grandchildren.
Aura and myself will receive them in the large sitting
parlour, when yourself, with whom I shall
deposit my hundred pounds, shall portion it out
amongst them according to your judgment. For you
must be the most proper person to decide upon their
necessities and merits. You have ever been so
liberal in your allowance to me, that having laid by
a little hoard, Aura and myself have provided garments
for the oldest and most infirm, the youngest
and most desolate, and suitable presents for the rest.”
“Oh! ho,” said Mr. Matthews, “so now the
secret is out of the cause of the many jaunts to
Southampton lately, and the long conferences held
in the dressing room, of a morning early, to which
none but a few industrious young women were admitted.”
“Even so, sir, for while we were gratifying our
own whims, it was but just that they should not be
selfish ones; so when Aura and I had cut the garments,
we employed those young persons to make
them, so that they might be benefited by forwarding
our scheme, without feeling the weight of obligation,
which I should think was a feeling most repugnant
to the young and active. They have none of them
garments are designed: but some of them if not all
will partake of our festivities.”—
Mrs. Cavendish had during this explanation, sat
with her eyes fixed on Miss Blakeney's face, she had
folded and unfolded her cambrick handkerchief several
times, her eyes twinkled, she hemmed, applied
the before mentioned silk handkerchief to her nose:
and at length reaching her hand across the table she
said in no very firm voice, “You are certainly a
most extraordinary young lady, and I begin to think
I have never rightly understood you. Pardon me,
child, I fear I have this morning been both illiberal
and rude.”
“So well acquainted as I am with Mrs. Cavendish's
good understanding, and highly cultivated
mind,” said Lucy, gracefully taking the extended
hand, “it would be next to impossible that I could
suspect her of ever being intentionally either illiberal
or rude.” “Well, well,” replied the old lady, with
one of her most knowing nods, “I trust I shall know
you better in future.”
On the Wednesday following several good sirloins
of beef were roasted, hams boiled, pies baked, and
on the Thursday morning plumb puddings boiled for
the expected regale. It was scarcely twelve o'clock
when the company began to assemble; the young
brimful of joy, and the old anticipating they hardly
knew what, but all were cheerful and blithe with
the most delightful sensations. Amongst the first
arrived old Alice Lonsdade and her good man,
brought by one of their neighbour's, whom Lucy
Thomas, who had now recovered the use of his limbs,
with his good Dame and children, forgotten. While
the family who had excited so warmly Lady Mary
Lumley's romantic enthusiam, were the blithest
among the blithe, in the happy group, that not only
filled the Rector's eating parlour, but partially filled
the benches in the great hall; for Lucy's forty, when
children, grandchildren, and in some cases great-grandchildren
were collected, amounted to about
sixty. Dishes of common cake were handed round,
with cheese and ale for the men, and wine-sangaree
for the women. Mr. Matthews then with a discriminating
hand, portioned out the bounty of the
heiress, according to the necessities of all: and many
were that day provided with the means of passing
through the ensuing winter with comfort, who else
must have been pinched, both for fuel and sustenance.
At half past two, the tables were plentifully spread,
at which amongst the elder guests, Mr. and Mrs.
Matthews presided, and at that with the younger, sat
Lucy and Aura, while Mrs. Cavendish walked round,
looked at their happy faces, and took her pinch of
snuff with more exhilarated feelings than she had
experienced for years before.
After dinner Lucy and Aura invited the Matrons
to their own apartments which adjoined each other,
where each received a present of clothing adapted to
her age, circumstances and family. The young ones
sported cheerfully in the grounds, the old men talked
in groups round the hall chimney, where blazed
regale of coffee, tea, and simple cakes, with bread
and butter were set forth; and before eight, all had
retired to seek their homes, under the light of a
brilliant full moon.
And how did Lucy feel when all were departed?
She felt as a christian ought to feel, she had cheered
and lightened the hearts of many; she had herself
enjoyed the purest felicity during the whole day,
and she mentally ejaculated as taking the letter from
her guardian she sought her own apartment,
“If I have now a bitter cup to drain, let me not
repine. I have much, very much, to be grateful for,
and what right have I to expect to walk over beds
of roses without feeling the briers which surround
the stalks on which those beautiful and fragrant flowers
blossom.”—
She entered her chamber, bidding Aura good night
at the door, which closing, she sat down, the letter
in her hand, which though unsealed, she had not
courage to open: at length rallying her spirits she
unfolded the paper and read,
To be delivered on the day she attains the age of 21.
“From the hour when I closed the eyes of your
beloved, ill fated mother, you, my dear Lucy, have
been the delight and solace of your grandmother and
myself. And your amiable disposition has led us to
hope, that you may in future be the happy inheritress
of the estate and property on which we have lived
above thirty-five years: happy, my child, in bestowing
enjoyment of reflected joy from grateful hearts.
“You are in possession of independence from the
bequest of Captain Blakeney, but you will find by my
will, that it is my wish that not a farthing of that bequest,
either principal or interest, should be expended
on you during your minority. The income arising
from your hereditary estate, &c. being amply sufficient
to clothe, board, and educate you, in the style
of a gentlewoman. You are by law entitled to the
name and arms of Blakeney, but there was a clause
annexed to your godfather's will which gave your
dear grandmother and myself some uneasiness.
It is that which insists that your future husband
should change his own name to that of Blakeney, or
the whole of the original bequest will be forfeited,
and the accumulated interest only be yours.
“My lamented wife, in her last hours, Lucy, said
to me, `I wish, love, you may live to see our lovely
child of an age when you may advise her never
to shackle her sensibility by feeling as if she were
obliged to reject the man whom she may love, and
who might make her very happy, because himself
or his friends should object to a change of name. I
myself have such a predilection for family names,
that had it not been for particular circumstances, and
that the name of a female must at some time or other
in all probability be changed, I should never have
consented to our Lucy assuming the name of Blakeney.
Should you be called hence before she is of a
proper age to understand and be entrusted with every
necessary communication on the subject of her birth,
you will be very explicit with her guardians, and
also leave a letter addressed to herself.'
“Soon after this conversation, the companion and
friend of my life, the heightener of all my joys, the
consoler of all my sorrows, the only woman I ever
loved, left this transitory sphere for a more blissful
region. From that moment the world, my Lucy, has
appeared a blank. Not even your endearing cheerfulness,
your affectionate sympathy, could call me
back to any enjoyment in life, I have endeavoured
several times to nerve my feelings to the performance
of this task, and have blamed myself for thus
procrastinating it. But from several symptoms of
failure in my mental and bodily vigour, I feel it will
not be long before I follow my regreted partner into
the world of spirits.
“I expect to see Mr. Matthews in the course of a
few weeks, I shall then make him the confidant of
many sorrows, which have sunk deep into my heart,
and drank its vital energies, earlier than, perhaps,
time might have impaired them. I intreat, my Lucy,
my last earthly treasure, that in no momentous concern
of your life you will act without consulting
him, and when you have consulted, abide entirely
by his decision.
“As it regards a matrimonial connection, let not
the clause of your godfather's will have any influence.
Your own patrimony will yield four hundred
pounds a year; this must half be settled on yourself.
The accumulation of the interest on my friend
Blakeney's bequest will be very considerable in
disposed of as yourself may direct. I have, by
insisting on half your patrimony being settled on
yourself previous to the day of marriage, secured to
you the comforts and conveniences of life, as long
as life may be continued; for the rest, I leave you in
the charge of a good and heavenly Protector, who
will never leave those to perish, who rely on his
providence.
“There is one thing, my ever dear child, I am very
anxious about, and on which my charge to you will
be very solemn. It is, that you will never marry
any one of the name of M—.”
Here the stroke of death arrested the hand which
held the pen, and the good old gentleman was found
as already mentioned, dead in his easy chair.—
“What can I think, how must I act?” said Lucy,
as with stunned faculties she still gazed on the open
letter on the table before her. I will determine on
nothing till I know the opinion of my guardian on
the subject: in the mean time I will implore the
guidance and protection of HIM who knoweth best
what is good for his children, and leave the event to
time.” So concluding, she folded the letter, performed
her nightly devotions, and retired to her
bed.—
Lieutenant Franklin was now in London, his
father, whose health was still very feeble, had with
his family, taken up their residence in their house
anxiety, till the arrival of Lucy's birth day, after
that, time seemed to have added lead to his pinions,
and every hour and day were as an hundred. At
length he received the following letter from Mr.
Matthews,
“I have sat down, my dear sir, to fulfil
a most unpleasant task in communicating to you by
the desire of our lovely and esteemed friend, Miss
Blakeney, a copy of her grandfather's letter, which
I inclose, thinking it best to keep the original in my
possession.
“You perceive that the old gentleman was by no
means averse to her marrying to please herself though
it might be to the diminution of her fortune. That
there were some unhappy circumstances attending
the birth of Miss Blakeney, I have every reason to
conclude; though, what those circumstances were, I
never could ascertain. For though my respected
old friend frequently promised to impart them to
me, the communication was deferred from time to
time, till with him, poor man, time was no more.
“You will perceive that there is some particular
family into which he had strong objections to her
marrying, but the unfinished capital, which I am at
a loss to decide whether meant for an N, and M, or
an A, leads to no direct conclusion. I know he had
a peculiar dislike to a family of the name of Lewis,
the descendants of which in one branch are Mertons,
in another Northalertons. There was a person also
by a law suit. But I hardly could think my old
friend was so little of a christian as to let his prejudice
descend from generation to generation. However,
be that as it may, there is nothing in the
unfinished capital, that looks like F. Miss Blakeney
is well, has kept her birth day in a most novel and
splendid manner; I wish you could have seen her
presiding amongst her guests; but I presume it will
not be long before we see you at the Rectory, when
you will hear from every tongue—yes, even from
sister Cavendish, her eulogium.
Yours, with Esteem,
The evening after Mr. Matthews had despatched
this letter he entered the sitting parlour, where his
family were assembled, some at work, some reading,
and Aura Melville, strumming, as she called it, on
the guitar. He took a morocco case from his waistcoat
pocket, and seated himself by a work table
where Lucy was elaborately plying the needle's art,
without having any definite end for which the work
was designed when completed. He opened the case,
a miniature of a lady set in wrought gold, and suspended
by a superb chain was taken from it, and
throwing the chain over Lucy's neck, he said,
“This, my little girl, should have been a birth day
present, but you were so happy on that day, I thought
you should not have too much satisfaction at once,
it is good and prudent to portion out pleasure by
enjoyment becomes torpid.”
Lucy had taken the picture, it was that of a lovely
female not more than sixteen years old: on the
reverse was a braided lock of brown hair surmounted
by the initials C. T—, in fine seed pearl.
“Who is this lovely creature?” said Lucy.
“Come to the glass, my child, and tell me who it
is like,” said Mr. Matthews, leading her to the glass,
and raising a candle near her face. Lucy looked,
and hesitated.
“Only,” at length she said, “only, that it is much
handsomer, and the eyes are blue, I should think.”—
“That it was like yourself,” said Mr. Matthews,
leading her to the sofa, where Aura having laid aside
her instrument, was ready to receive her.
“It is the portrait of your mother, Lucy! It was
taken, your grandfather informed me, about three
years previous to your birth, and was constantly
worn by your grandmother, till some deeply afflicting
occurences, to which I am a stranger, induced
her to lay it aside.”
Lucy pressed the fair semblance of youth and
innocence to her lips, to her heart, tears rushed from
her eyes, and depositing the portrait in her bosom,
she rested her head on the shoulder of Aura, and
perfect silence for several minutes pervaded the apartment.
“So here is our friend Franklin!” said the good
Rector, a few mornings after, presenting the young
side in the breakfast parlour.
Franklin bowed, and with a face half doubting,
half delighted took a chair beside Lucy. She smiled,
blushed, broke off her thread, unthreaded her needle,
threaded it again, and worked most assiduously without
one single idea of why or wherefore. Asked
when he left London? What was the state of his
father's health? When he last saw Edward Ainslie?
till without being perceived by them, separately and
silently every persen but themselves had left the
room.
Of all scenes to be repeated in narrative, love
scenes are the most sickening, silly, and uninstructive.
Suffice it then to say that in an hour after they
found themselves alone, Lucy had resolved to relinquish
the principal of Blakeney's legacy. Franklin
with intire satisfaction according to the terms of
settling half her paternal inheritance on herself, and
receiving the accumulated interest of eleven years
on twenty thousand pounds, as a fortune to be disposed
of according as his judgment should direct.
Friendship, love, and harmony, now took up their
residence in the Rectory; the unostentatious though
silently progressing preparations making for the
wedding of Miss Blakeney, furnished occupation for
every female of the family. Even Mrs. Cavendish
relaxed her stern, yet really handsome features into
smiles as she gave her opinion upon some new
purchase, or told to the young persons whom Lucy
chose to employ on this occasion, how such and such
a dress was made and trimmed, when she was some
few years younger.
It was one of Miss Blakeney's eccentricities, that
nothing that could be performed by the industrious
young women, in the immediate vicinity of the Rectory,
should be sent for from London; and one
morning when Mrs. Matthews and Mrs. Cavendish
argued that her outward garments might be more
tasteful and fashionable if made in the metropolis,
she replied,
“But I am so vain as to think I should not look
any handsomer in them, and I am sure I should not
feel so happy. I know these good young women;
some of them have aged parents to support, some
young brothers and sisters to educate and put in
a way to get their own bread. I am very sensible
that with the assistance of Miss Melville, and our
female domestics, more than two thirds of the work
that is to be done, might be performed without any
additional expense. But it has been a principle
with me, ever since I was capable of reflecting on
the subject, that those who can afford to pay for their
clothes, &c. being made, defraud the industrious of
what is their due, by making those articles themselves.
I have also another odd fancy, I will not
always employ those in the highest class of their profession,
because having some taste of my own, and not
being very fond of finery, or going to the extreme of
fashion, I can generally give such directions as shall
cause my clothes to be made in a neat becoming
manner, and when I go to town it will be time
enough to purchase, whatever splendid dresses I may
require for making my entrance into the gay world,
so as not to disgrace the family, or impeach the
judgment of Mr. Franklin.”
A month had flitted by on rapid wings, when just
at the close of a cold, dismal November day, as
Franklin, having dined with the family at the Rectory,
was proposing a game of chess, with Mr.
Matthews; a letter was delivered him by a servant,
who said it was brought by one of Sir Robert
Ainslie's grooms, who had ridden post from London,
not stopping for any thing but slight refreshment,
and to change horses.
Lucy watched his countenance as having apologized
to the company, he eagerly broke the seal and
read it. The colour fled from his cheeks, his lips
quivered, and putting his hand to his forehead, he
faintly articulated,
“My poor father! my mother!”
“Are they ill? Has any thing happened to either
of them?” asked Lucy, as pale and agitated as himself.
“Something very dreadful has befallen them,” he
replied, “but of what nature, I cannot tell. These
are a few, almost incoherent lines from Edward
Ainslie, requesting I will not lose a moment in setting
off for London, he will meet me a few miles
from town, and explain what he did not choose to
commit to paper. I shall set off for Southampton
immediately on horseback, and from thence to my
father's house as fast as a chaise and four horses can
carry me.”
“You will let us hear from you?” said Mr. Matthews.
“As early as the state of affairs will permit,” was
the reply.
“You know you have friends here who will not
desert you in the day of adversity,” said Mrs. Matthews,
with one of her most benevolent looks.
The pale lips of Miss Blakeney moved, but no
sound passed them; she held out her cold hand to
Franklin, which having tenderly pressed, and respectfully
kissed, he hastily said, “God bless you
all!” and hurried out of the room.
In a moment his horse was heard going at a quick
pace down the avenue, and anxiety and suspense
became the inmates of the bosoms of Lucy and her
sympathizing friends.
| CHAPTER X.
THE LETTER—THE BIRTH DAY. Charlotte's daughter | |