University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The next was a day of leisure. I had no disposition
to revisit the encampment; and my mind,
for the first time in several days, was left free to
turn to home and distant friends. In giving Balcombe
the history of my love for my cousin, I had
presented a picture which seemed quite flattering
in my own eyes, and the more so, because I saw
that to Balcombe it suggested a favourable prognosis
of my case. I found myself taking encouragement

to hope that Ann's feelings were just a
counterpart to my own. But how could she bring
her mind to dwell upon the thought of marrying
another man, without being undeceived, as I had
been, by like means? Was it possible that she
had so far merely acquiesced in the attentions of
Howard, without having brought herself to look
distinctly at the question of the acceptance or final
rejection of his hand? Might not this be so? For
some reason, his courtship had been of a very
peculiar character, more marked by delicacy than
ardour. There was never anything urgent in his
manner. His attentions were always ready, but
rather deferential than assiduous, and such as
might leave a delicate and simple-minded girl—
one entirely satisfied with her actual condition, and
not at all on the lookout for a husband—to feel as
if she had her lifetime to make up her mind in.
There certainly was reason to dread the result of
such a course of attention, for it seemed precisely
adapted to the character and temper of its object.
Whether Howard had been led into it by the
native delicacy of his own mind, or by an instinctive
perception of that of the lady, or by the advice
of one who knew her better than he did, I had no
means of judging. In offering his hand, too, I understood
that he did not press for a decisive
answer, but seemed merely to wish permission to
lay his pretensions before her, to be considered of
at her perfect leisure. Might it not then be that
the question had never been so brought home to
her mind, as to startle her with the thought of
giving to him that place in her intimacy, confidence,
and affection, which I had always occupied.

It appeared to me that Balcombe saw the matter
in this light; but it was plain, too, that he was
puzzled to understand some things that I had told
him.

While I sat meditating on these matters, James
Scott, who seemed a very bookworm, was reading,
and Colonel Robinson, occupied with the business
of his farm, left me in the care of Balcombe,
who set me completely at ease by taking no notice
of me at all. At length, after bustling about for
some hours, he came in, took a seat, and entered
into conversation with me.

“The urgency of our affairs, William,” said he,
“has so engaged me, that I have neglected heretofore
to inquire about your family. You are the
only son?”

“I am.”

“You spoke of sisters.”

“I have two; one younger, and one older than
myself.”

“Married?”

“No; neither of them married.”

“Jane is the eldest, is she not? I think it was
the name of the little girl I saw at your grandfather's,
the last time I was there. She must be
three years older than you. Four-and-twenty, and
yet unmarried!”

“She probably never will marry.”

“Why so? She was a beautiful little girl.”

“And is a beautiful woman yet, though somewhat
faded. No doubt, fallen as our fortunes are,
she might marry respectably enough; but, with
her, marriage is, as it should be, an affair of the
heart, and she will never marry where she does
not love.”

“But what should prevent her loving?”

“An entanglement of the affections with one
whom she will probably never marry.”

“And who is he?”

“Young Douglas; the son of Mr. Douglas of
Tamworth.”

“What! the brother of Howard's mother?”

“The same. They have been long mutually
attached, even from the boyhood of Douglas, who
is the younger of the two. At first his father
favoured the connection; but soon the ruin of
mine was fully developed, and the secret came out,
that Jane, instead of being an heiress, and the
sister of a man of large fortune, was but one of a
family of beggars, no one of whom could help
another. Old Douglas, who loves money, presently
began to create difficulties. As one obstacle
was removed, another appeared, and, finally, he
declared peremptorily against the match.”

“And what of that?” said Balcombe. “The
authority of a father may forbid an engagement,
but it can never break off one made with his consent.
It is no longer a question between father

and son only. There are covenanted rights of a
third person to be considered.”

“That is true. But not only is the old gentleman
a man of high and stern authority, whom it
is not easy to disobey, but his son, educated, like
myself, to no profession, is wholly dependant on
his father, who will give him nothing if he does
not marry to please him. Now, as young Douglas
and Jane have both acquired expensive habits,
nothing could be more hopeless than their union.
The young fellow showed some spirit, and a good
deal of constancy; but his visits to our house were
forbidden. He was thrown much in company with
his cousin, Miss Howard, whom his father wished
him to marry, and for a while rumour gave them
to each other. But he accompanied her to Oakwood;
there he and Jane met; and though I am
not sure that their engagement was formally renewed,
yet they seemed to be drawn together very
much, and I thought I saw symptoms of a good
understanding between them. Certain it is, that
Douglas, who, until then, was considered as having
precedence of all who might approach Miss Howard,
distinctly made way for me; and it was into
his vacant place that I was so often thrown, as to
seem to others, and almost to myself, like a favoured
suitor of that lady. Indeed, there was so much of
cordial intimacy between Miss Howard and Jane,
as to make it probable that the former, indifferent
to her cousin, as she plainly was, desired to promote
his union with her friend.

“To this object I, of course, was not indifferent.
I would not have Jane force herself on the family
of a purse-proud old man. I would not have her
beguile her lover into a marriage which would
beggar him. But when I saw that his affection
had not given way under the rude trials to which
it had been exposed, I began to entertain a vague
hope that time might effect a change in the old
man's disposition, and reward my sister's constancy
with the hand of the only man she had ever
loved. Hence, I found myself more readily giving
in to the occasional arrangements which threw me
in attendance on Miss Howard; and I am not
sure that her wish to transfer her cousin to my
sister was not the feeling, which was interpreted
by others as partiality for me. I would not interrupt
my story the other night by telling you these
things; but you now have all the parties before
you, in all their various relations to each other.”

“And a snug six-handed party it is. Two, and
two, and two. Partners all around. But, as far
as I can see, Douglas and Jane are the only two
that may not wish their partners to lose. They
have one common object. But it is clearly not so
with Miss Howard and you, and, I hope, not so with
her brother and Ann. I should like to have a chance
to walk around the table, and peep into all the
hands. The game is not equal, where some of
the party understand each other, and some do
not.”

“But surely there can be no foul play between
such parties?”

“Not exactly what they would admit, to themselves
even, to be foul play; but there must be a
strong bias.”

“How so?”

“Suppose Howard to marry Ann. Nay! don't
go into fits at the supposition; to comfort you, let
us suppose, too, that you marry the sister. The
condition of your family would certainly be much
improved. Your mother and sisters would not,
indeed, be richer, but they would retain that position
in society, on which, in affairs of the heart, so
much depends, and which is so important in the
eyes of a man of aristocratic pride, like old Douglas.
The old man would have lost that match for
his son, on which he had set his heart; he would
be shamed, by the example of the proud, highborn,
and wealthy Howards, out of his opposition to a
connection which they had eagerly sought; and
the union of his son and your sister would follow
as a matter of course. Had you thought of all
this?”

“Indeed I had not.”

“Then reverse the supposition. Let Ann
marry you. Let your condition in life be irrevocably
fixed at the low point to which the villany
of Montague has reduced you. What then would
prevent the marriage of Douglas and Miss Howard?
And where would the females of your family
find means to retain their place in that circle in

which they have hitherto moved? They must
lose caste; a fate as terrible to the worshippers
of fashion, as to those of Brahma. The lot of a
Paria is hardly more deplorable, than that of a
young woman excluded by poverty from the circles
in which she has been accustomed to be
received with attention. Had you thought of
these things?”

“No, indeed; and gladly now would I banish
thoughts so horrible and disgusting from my mind.”

“They are, doubtless, unwelcome. But you
must learn to endure their presence and examine
into their truth. In the mean time, endeavour to
look into the subject philosophically, and you may
find the suggestion I have offered less revolting.
You will see that they who would marry you to
Miss Howard and Ann to her brother are actuated
by all the most powerful considerations that can
present themselves to the human mind. Of these
many are praiseworthy, none base. They may
not be aware of any attachment between you and
Ann, or they may think it a mere childish fancy,
which will easily be dispelled; and may believe
that, in directing your affections to other objects,
they are, in effect, serving both you and her. Can
you think it strange, then, if all about you worked
to the same end? and that being the case, can you
wonder that Howard should always find a vacant
place at the side of Ann, and that the hand of his
sister should be always left for you? Don't let my
suggestions, William, produce any bitterness of

feeling towards those who love you, and whom
you love. I don't mean to intimate any foul play.
But I can see plainly how all about you must have
wished to establish just such a delusion as, I am
sure, has taken possession of Ann's mind and
yours.”

“I understand all this; and while it awakens
something like hope, it fills me with alarm to think
of what may happen while I am here. On your
hypothesis, the first point in the game would be
Ann's marriage.”

“Or yours.”

“Oh, mine is out of the question; and after what
has passed between Ann and me, they must be
aware of that. Besides, I am here; and my absence,
which renders the one more impracticable,
may favour the other.”

“I am not so sure of that. Ann has never before
been absent from you more than a day or two at a
time. She has been happy, and, as you said of yourself,
has probably never analyzed the elements of her
happiness. If I am right, she will miss something
in your absence which may set her to thinking.
If she once finds out the secret of her own heart,
you have nothing to fear but from injurious misrepresentations.”

“Of them there can be no danger.”

“Of calumny and malicious slander, none, certainly;
but I would not swear that she does not
believe you engaged to Miss Howard.”

“It is well, then, I did not visit Castle Howard
in my way to the West.”

“That's as it may be. We have no time to lose
here, William. I am impatient to bring matters to
a close with this caitiff; and as soon as that is
done we must be off. My preparations are begun,
and will be easily completed; and if all works
well to-morrow night, why, then, we will take
with us the prayers of the church for all who travel
by land and by water, on Sunday morning.”

It may be readily believed that this conversation
did not leave me in a very comfortable
state of mind. I remembered the disproportionate
distress of Ann at the intimation of my
passion, and the prudish austerity with which
Jane reproved what she seemed to consider a
glaring impropriety, but what was, to me, the exercise
of a natural right. I remembered how the
door of explanation had been shut in my face, and
how I had been denied all access to Ann until
I had bound myself, by a solemn promise, to
seek no explanation. Such had been the effect of
that promise, as I now saw clearly; and I trembled
to think of the irreparable mischief which might
be done in my absence in furtherance of the designs
which I now suspected for the first time.
The suggestions of Balcombe all seemed to stand
before me self-proved. I tried to see the motives
of others in the most favourable light, and I brought
myself to agree that it was my duty to forgive all
that had been attempted; while I felt that it would

be impossible to do so, unless I should be so fortunate
as to defeat the attempt. My impatience to
return to Virginia hecame excessive, and was the
more restless, because I had no part in what was
doing, although my interest in the affair was
greater than that of any other person.