The Heroine

'You see I pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that I now bear.

'Adieu, dear William: adieu for ever.'

We then returned to the sitting-room, and found William there. While we were conversing, I took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived, into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. He retired with it, and we continued talking. But in about half an hour he hurried into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to Mary, and looked at her earnestly.

'William!' cried she, 'William! For shame then, don't frighten one so.'

'No, Mary,' said he, 'I scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. I believe I am above that. But no wonder my last look at you should be frightful. There is your true-lover's knot – there is your hair – there are your letters. So now, Mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever happy, is what I pray Providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!'

With these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the room.

Mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose again; and grew pale and red by turns.

''Tis so – so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip refused the attempted smile. 'All my presents returned too. Sure – my heavens! – Sure he cannot want to break off with me? Well, I have as good a spirit as he, I believe. The base man; the cruel, cruel man!' and she burst into a passion of tears.

I tried to sooth her, but the more I said, the more she wept. She was sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and then she sobbed so piteously, that I was on the point of undeceiving her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into her own room. He asked about her; I told him that she was not well; – the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. They have remained together ever since.

How delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode, this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs!

Adieu.

LETTER XXIV

The night was so dark when I repaired to the casement, that I have been trying to compose a description of it for you, in the style of the best romances. But after having summoned to my mind all the black articles of value that I can recollect – ebony, sables, palls, pitch, and even coal, I find I have nothing better to say, than, simply, that it was a dark night.

Having opened the casement, I sat down at it, and repeated these lines aloud.

SONNETNow while within their wings each feather'd pair,Hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew,Shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air,Earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew.The lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee,And I will moralize her minstrelsy.Ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing,One only warbles to the milder moon.Thus for the great, how many wake the string,Thus for the good, how few the lyre attune.

As soon as I had finished the sonnet, a low and tremulous voice, close to the casement, sung these words:

SONGHaste, my love, and come away;What is folly, what is sorrow?'Tis to turn from, joys to-day,Tis to wait for cares to-morrow.O'er the river,Aspens shiverThus I tremble at delay.Light discovers,Vowing lovers:See the stars with sharpened ray,Gathering thicker,Glancing quicker;Haste, my love, and come away.

I sat enraptured, and heaved a sigh.

'Enchanting sigh!' cried the singer, as he sprang through the window; but it was not the voice of Stuart.

I screamed loudly.

'Hush!' cried the mysterious unknown, and advanced towards me; when, to my great relief, the door was thrown open, and the old peasant entered, with Mary behind him, holding a candle.

In the middle of the room, stood a man, clad in a black cloak, with black feathers in his hat, and a black mask on his face.

The peasant, pale as death, ran forward, knocked him to the ground, and seized a pistol and carving-knife, that were stuck in a belt about his waist.

'Unmask him!' cried I.

The peasant, kneeling on his body, tore off the mask, and I beheld – Betterton!

'Alarm the neighbours, Mary!' cried the peasant.

Mary put down the candle, and went out.

'I must appear in an unfavourable light to you, my good man,' said this terrifying character; 'but the young lady will inform you that I came hither at her own request.'

'For shame!' cried I. 'What a falsehood!'

'Falsehood!' said he. 'I have your own letter, desiring me to come.'

'The man is mad,' cried I. 'I never wrote him a letter.'

'I can produce it to your face,' said he, pulling a paper from his pocket, and to my great amazement reading these lines.

'Cherubina begs that Betterton will repair to her window, at ten o'clock to-night, disguised like an Italian assassin, with dagger, cloak, and pistol. The signal is to be his singing an air under the casement, which she will then open, and he may enter her chamber.'

'I will take the most solemn oath,' cried I, 'that I never wrote a line of it. But this unhappy wretch, who is a ruffian of the first pretensions, has a base design upon me, and has followed me from London, for the purpose of effecting it; so I suppose, he wrote the letter himself, as an excuse, in case of discovery.'

'Then he shall march to the magistrate's,' said the peasant, 'and I will indict him for house-breaking!'

A man half so frantic as Betterton I never beheld. He foamed, he grinned, he grinded the remnants of his teeth; and swore that Stuart was at the bottom of the whole plot.

By this time, Mary having returned with two men, we set forward in a body to the magistrate's, and delivered our depositions before him. I swore that I did not write the letter, and that, to the best of my belief, Betterton harboured bad designs against me.

The peasant swore that he had found the culprit, armed with a knife and pistol, in his house.

The magistrate, therefore, notwithstanding all that Betterton could say, committed him to prison without hesitation.

As they were leading him away, he cast a furious look at the magistrate, and said:

'Ay, Sir, I suppose you are one of those pensioned justices, who minister our vague and sanguinary laws, and do dark deeds for our usurping oligarchy, that has assumed a power of making our most innocent actions misdemeanours, of determining points of law without appeal, of imprisoning our persons without trial, and of breaking open our houses with the standing army. But nothing will go right till we have a reform in Parliament – neither peace nor war, commerce nor agriculture – '

'Clocks nor watches, I suppose,' said the magistrate.

'Ay, clocks nor watches,' cried Betterton, in a rage. 'For how can our mechanics make any thing good, while a packed parliament deprives them of money and a mart?'

'So then,' said the magistrate, 'if St. Dunstan's clock is out of order, 'tis owing to the want of a reform in Parliament.'

'I have not the most distant doubt of it,' cried Betterton.

''Tis fair then,' said the magistrate, 'that the reformists should take such a latitude as they do; for, probably, by their encouragement of time-pieces, they will at last discover the longitude.'

'No sneering, Sir,' cried Betterton. 'Now do your duty, as you call it, and abide the consequence.'

This gallant grey Lothario was then led off; and our party returned home.

Adieu.

LETTER XXV

I rose early this morning, and repaired to my favourite willow, to contemplate the placid landscape. Flinging myself on the grass, close to the brook, I began to warble a rustic madrigal. I then let down my length of tresses, and, stooping over the streamlet, laved them in the little urn of the dimpling Naiad.

This, you know, was agreeable enough, but the accident that befel me was not. For, leaning too much over, I lost my balance, and rolled headlong into the middle of the rivulet. As it was shallow, I did not fear being drowned, but as I was a heroine, I hoped to be rescued. Therefore, instead of rising, as I might easily have done, there I lay, shrieking and listening, and now and then lifting up my head, in hopes to see Stuart come flying towards me on the wings of the wind, Oh no! my gentleman thought proper to make himself scarce; so dripping, shivering, and indignant, I scrambled out, and bent my steps towards the cottage.

On turning the corner of the hedge, who should I perceive at the door, but the hopeful youth himself, quite at his ease, and blowing a penny trumpet for a chubby boy.

'What has happened to you?' said he, seeing me so wet.

'Only that I fell into the brook,' answered I, 'and was under the disagreeable necessity of saving my own life, when I expected that you would have condescended to take the trouble off my hands.'

'Expected!' cried he. 'Surely you had no reason for supposing that I was so near to you, as even to have witnessed the disaster.'

'And it is, therefore,' retorted I, 'that you ought to have been so near me as to have witnessed it.'

'You deal in riddles,' said he.

'Not at all,' answered I. 'For the farther off a distrest heroine believes a hero, the nearer he is sure to be. Only let her have good grounds for supposing him at her Antipodes, and nine times out of ten she finds him at her elbow.'

'Well,' said he, laughing, 'though I did not save your life, I will not endanger it, by detaining you in your wet dress. Pray hasten to change it.'

I took his advice, and borrowed some clothes from Mary, while mine were put to the fire. After breakfast, I once more equipped myself in my Tuscan costume, and a carriage being ready for us, I took an affectionate leave of that interesting rustic. Poor girl! Her attempts at cheerfulness all the morning were truly tragical; and, absorbed in another sorrow, she felt but little for my departure.

On our way, Stuart confessed that he was the person who wrote the letter to Betterton in my name; and that he did so for the purpose of entrapping him in such a manner as to prevent him from accompanying me farther. He was at the window during the whole scene; as he meant to have seized Betterton himself, had not the peasant done so.

'You will excuse my thus interfering in your concerns,' added he; 'but gratitude demands of me to protect the daughter of my guardian; and friendship for her improves the duty to a pleasure.'

'Ah!' said I, 'however it has happened, I fear you dislike me strangely.'

'Believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'With a few foibles (which are themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues; and, let me add, a thousand attractions. I who tell you blunt truths, may well afford you flattery.'

'Flattery,' said I, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the motive for using it is mean or vicious.'

'Your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'Flattery is often but the hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. Flattery, so far from injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.'

'Besides,' said I, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an effort of the wit? And since such an effort shews that we consider the person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.'

In this manner Stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. Sometimes he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious remarks; but never could I throw him off his guard, by the dangerous softness of my manner. He now calls me the lovely visionary.

Would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. But whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, I cannot, by any art, extract from him.

THE FAREWELLGo, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day,Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree!Tell her I feel that at the parting hour,More than the waves will heave in tumult wild:More than the skies will threat a gushing shower,More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild.Say that her influence flies not with her form,That distant she will still engage my mind:That suns are most remote when most they warm,That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest,There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome;There sported, there her envied pet caressed.There, while she plied accomplished works of art,I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace;Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart,And all the living treasures of her face.The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;The witching archness, and the grace so rare,So magical, it charmed I knew not how.Light was her footstep as the silent flakesOf falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,To see her slender hand, (that future prize)Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke,The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.Yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking aweWithheld me from her sight, I broke my chain?Or when I made a single glance my law,What wonder if that law were made in vain?And say, can nought but converse love inspire?What tho' for me her lips have never moved?The vale that speaks but with its feathered choir,When long beheld, eternally is loved.Go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy dayOf parting; go, and say farewell for me;A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,Whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be.If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.Tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove;That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,She smiles reward and talks of all the past.Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,Following her form, no longer would he say,Go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me.

I write from an inn within a mile of Lady Gwyn's. Another hour and my fate is decided.

Adieu.

LETTER XXVI

At length, with a throbbing heart, I now, for the first time, beheld the mansion of my revered ancestors – the present abode of Lady Gwyn. That unfortunate usurper of my rights was not denied to me; so I alighted; and though Stuart wished much to be present at the interview, I would not permit him; but was ushered by the footman into the sitting-room.

I entered with erect, yet gentle majesty; while my Tuscan habit, which was soiled and shrivelled by the brook, gave me an air of complicated distress.

I found her ladyship at a table, classifying fossils. She was tall and thin, and bore the remains of beauty; but I could not discover the family face.

She looked at me with some surprise; smiled, and begged to know my business.

'It is a business,' said I, 'of the most vital importance to your ladyship's honour and repose; and I lament that an imperious necessity compels me to the invidious task of acquainting you with it. Could anything add to the painful nature of my feelings, it would be to find that I had wounded yours.'

'Your preamble alarms me,' said she. 'Do, pray be explicit.'

'I must begin,' said I, 'with declaring my perfect conviction of your ignorance, that any person is existing, who has a right to the property which your ladyship at present possesses.'

'Assuredly such a notion never entered my head,' said she, 'and indeed, were such a claim made, I should consider it as utterly untenable – in fact, impossible.'

'I regret,' said I, 'that it is undeniable. There are documents extant, and witnesses living, to prove it beyond all refutation.'

Her ladyship, I thought, changed colour, as she said:

'This is strange; but I cannot believe it. Who would have the face to set up such a silly claim?'

'I am so unfortunate as to have that face,' answered I, in a tone of the most touching humility.

'You!' she cried with amazement. 'You!'

'Pardon me the pain I give you,' said I, 'but such is the fact; and grating as this interview must be to the feelings of both parties, I do assure you, that I have sought it, solely to prevent the more disagreeable process of a law-suit.'

'You are welcome to twenty law-suits, if you wish them,' cried she, 'but I fancy they will not deprive me of my property.'

'At least,' said I, 'they may be the means of sullying the character of your deceased lord.'

'I defy the whole world,' cried she, 'to affix the slightest imputation on his character.'

'Surely,' said I, 'you cannot pretend ignorance of the fact, that his lordship had the character of being – I trust, more from misfortune, than from inherent depravity; for your ladyship well knows that man, frail man, in a moment of temptation, perpetrates atrocities, which his better heart afterwards disowns.'

'But his character!' cried she. 'What of his character?'

'Ah!' said I, 'your ladyship will not compel me to mention.'

'You have advanced too far to retreat,' cried she. 'I demand an unequivocal explanation. What of his character?'

'Well, since I must speak plain,' replied I, 'it was that of an – assassin!'

'Merciful powers!' said she, in a faint voice, and reddening violently. 'What does the horrid woman mean?'

'I have at this moment,' cried I, 'a person ready to make oath, that your unhappy husband bribed a servant of my father's to murder me, while yet an infant, in cold blood.'

''Tis a falsehood!' cried she. 'I would stake my life on its being a vile, malicious, diabolical falsehood.'

'Would it were!' said I, 'but oh! Lady Gwyn, the circumstances, the dreadful circumstances – these cannot be contradicted. It was midnight; – the bones of my noble father had just been deposited in the grave; – when a tall figure, wrapt in a dark cloak, and armed with a dagger, stood before the seneschal. It was the late Lord Gwyn!'

'Who are you?' cried she, starting up quite pale and horror-struck. 'In the name of all that is dreadful, who can you be?'

'Your own niece!' said I, meekly kneeling to receive her blessing – 'Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, the daughter of your ladyship's deceased brother, Lord De Willoughby, and of his much injured wife, the Lady Hysterica Belamour!'

'Never heard of such persons in all my life!' cried she, ringing the bell furiously.

'Pray,' said I, 'be calm. Act with dignity in this affair. Do not disgrace our family. On my honour, I mean to treat you with kindness. Nay, we must positively be on terms of friendship – I make it a point. After all, what is rank? what are riches? How vapid their charms, compared with the heartfelt joys of truth and virtue! O, Lady Gwyn, O, my respected aunt; I conjure you by our common ties of blood, by your brother, who was my father, spurn the perilous toy, fortune, and retire in time, and without exposing your lost lord, into the peaceful bosom of obscurity!'

'Conduct this wretch out of the house,' said her ladyship to the servant who had entered. 'She wants to extort money from me, I believe.'

'A moment more,' cried I. 'Where is old Eftsoones? Where is that worthy character?'

'I know no such person,' said she. 'Begone, impostor!'

At the word impostor, I smiled; drew aside my ringlets with one hand, and pointed to my inestimable mole with the other.

'Am I an impostor now?' cried I. 'But learn, unfortunate woman, that I have a certain parchment too.' —

'And a great deal of insolence too,' said she.

'The resemblance of it, at least,' cried I, 'for I have your ladyship's portrait.'

'My portrait!' said she with a sneer.

'As sure as your name is Nell Gwyn,' cried I; 'for Nell Gwyn is written under it; and let me add, that you would have consulted both your own taste, and the dignity of our house better, had you got it written Eleanor instead of Nell.'

'You little impertinent reprobate!' exclaimed she, feeling the peculiar poignancy of the sarcasm. 'Begone this moment, or I will have you drummed through the village!'

I waved my hand in token of high disdain, and vanished.

'Well,' said Stuart, as I got to the carriage, 'has her ladyship acknowledged your claims?'

'No, truly,' cried I, 'but she has turned me out of my own house – think of that!'

'Then,' said he, springing from the chaise, 'I will try whether I cannot succeed better with her ladyship;' and he went into the house.

I remained in a state of the greatest perturbation till he came back.

'Good news!' cried he. 'Her ladyship wishes to see you, and apologize for her rudeness; and I fancy,' added he, with a significant nod, 'all will go well in a certain affair.'

'Yes, yes,' said I, nodding in return, 'I flatter myself she now finds civility the best of her game.'

I then alighted, and her ladyship ran forward to meet me. She pressed my hand, my-deared me twice in a breath, told me that Stuart had given her my little history – that it was delicious – elegant – exotic; and concluded with declaring, that I must remain at her house a few days, to talk over the great object of my visit.

Much as I mistrusted this sudden alteration in her conduct, I consented to spend a short time with her, on the principle, that heroines always contrive to get under the same roof with their bitterest enemies.

Stuart appeared quite delighted at my determination, and after another private interview with her ladyship, set off for London, to make further inquiries about Wilkinson. I am, however, resolved not to release that mischievous farmer, till I have secured my title and estate. You see I am grown quite sharp.

Her ladyship and I had then a long conversation, and she fairly confessed the probability that my claims are just, but denied all knowledge of old Eftsoones. I now begin to think rather better of her. She has the sweetest temper in the world, loves literature and perroquets, scrapes mezzotintos, and spends half her income in buying any thing that is hardly to be had. She led me through her cabinet, which contains the most curious assortment in nature – vases of onyx and sardonyx, cameos and intaglios; subjects in sea-horse teeth, by Fiamingo and Benvenuto Cellini; and antique gems in jadestone, mochoa, coral, amber, and Turkish agate.

She has already presented me with several dresses, and she calls me her lovely protégée, and the Lady Cherubina, – a sound that makes my very heart leap within me. Nay, she did me the honour of assuring me, that her curiosity to know a real heroine was one motive for her having asked me on this visit; and that she positively considers an hour with me worth all her curiosities put together. What a delicate compliment! So could I do less, in return, than repeat my assurances, that when I succeed in dispossessing her of the property, she shall never want an asylum in my house.

Adieu.

LETTER XXVII

Think of its having never once struck me, till I had retired for the night, that I might be murdered! How so manifest a danger escaped my recollection, is inconceivable; but so it was, I never thought of it. Lady Gwyn might be (for any thing I could tell to the contrary) just as capable of plotting an assassination as the Marchesa di Vivaldi; and surely her motives were far more urgent.

I therefore searched in my chamber, for some trap-door, or sliding pannel, by which assassins might enter it; but I could find none. I then resolved on exploring the galleries, corridors, and suites of apartments, in this immense mansion; in hopes to discover some place of retreat, or at least some mystery relative to my birth.