The Heroine

The baron, while he could not suppress a smile, protested himself highly delighted with my determination of speaking to the spectre, and encouraged me not to fear it, as it was the most harmless creature of its kind ever known.

He then took his leave. I spent the remainder of the day reflecting on the desperate enterprise that I had planned for the night, and fortifying my mind by recalling all the hazardous escapes of other heroines.

At last the momentous hour was at hand. The lamp and snuff-box lay on the table. I sat anxious, and kept a watchful eye upon the picture.

The bell tolled one, again the picture vanished, and again the spectre stood there. Its left thumb rested upon its hip, and its right hand was held to the heavens. I sent forth a well-executed shriek, and hid my face in my hands, while it spoke these words:

'I come to thee for the last time. Wilt thou wed Montmorenci, or wilt thou not? – Speak.'

'Oh!' cried I, 'if you would only promise not to do me a mischief, I have something particular to ask of you.'

'A spirit cannot harm a mortal,' drawled out the spectre.

'Well then,' said I, faltering and trembling. – 'Perhaps – pardon me – perhaps you would first have the goodness to walk in.'

The spectre advanced a few paces, and paused.

'This is so kind, so condescending,' said I, 'that really – do take a chair.'

The spectre shook its head mournfully.

'Pray do,' said I, 'you will oblige me.'

The spectre seated itself in a chair; but atoned for the mortal act by an immortal majesty of manner.

'As you are of another world,' said I, ''tis but fair to do the honours of this; and in truth, I am not at all astonished that you apparitions should speak so harshly as you usually do, we mortals always shew such evident aversion and horror at your appearance.'

'There is a prejudice gone forth against us,' said the spectre, with a hollow voice, 'in consequence of our coming at night, like thieves.'

'Yes,' said I, 'at one precisely. And it has often struck me how well the clocks of old castles were kept, for they regularly struck just as the ghost appeared. Indeed, ghosts keep such late hours, that 'tis no wonder they look pale and thin. I do not recollect ever to have heard or read of a fat or a fresh-coloured phantom.'

'Nor of a ghost wanting a limb or an eye,' said the spectre.

'Nor of an ugly ghost,' said I bowing.

The spectre took the compliment, and bowed in return.

'And therefore,' said the spectre, 'as spirits are always accurate resemblances of the bodies that they once inhabited, none but thin and pale persons can ever become ghosts.'

'And by the same rule,' said I, 'none but blue-eyed and golden-haired persons can go to heaven; for our painters always represent angels so. I have never heard of a hazel-eyed angel, or a black-haired cherub.'

'I know,' said the spectre, 'if angels are, as painters depict them, always sitting naked on cold clouds, I would rather live the life of a ghost, to the end of the chapter.'

'And pray,' cried I, 'where, and how do ghosts live?'

'Within this very globe,' said the spectre. 'For this globe is not, as most mortals imagine, a solid body, but a round crust about ten miles thick; and the concave inside is furnished just like the convex outside, with wood, water, vale and mountain. In the centre stands a nice little golden sun, about the size of a pippin, and lights our internal world; where, whatever enjoyments we loved as men, we retain as ghosts. We banquet on visionary turtle, or play at aërial marbles, or drive a phantasmagoric four in hand. The young renew their amours, and the more aged sit yawning for the day of judgment. – But I scent the rosy air of dawn. Speak, lady; what question art thou anxious that I should expound?'

'Whether,' said I, 'if I marry Lord Montmorenci, I shall be happy with him or not?'

'Blissful as Eden,' replied the spectre. 'Your lives will be congenial, and your deaths simultaneous.'

'And now,' said I, walking closer to it, 'will you do me the favour to take a pinch of snuff?'

'Avant!' it cried, motioning me from it with its hand.

But quick as thought, I flung the whole contents of the box full into its eyes.

'Blood and thunder!' exclaimed the astonished apparition.

I snatched the lamp, sprang through the frame of the picture, shut the concealed door, bolted it; while all the time I heard the phantom within, dancing in agony at its eyes, and sending mine to as many devils as could well be called together on so short a notice.

Thus far my venturous enterprise had prospered. I now found myself in a narrow passage, with another door at the farther end of it; and I prepared to traverse winding stairs, subterranean passages, and suites of tapestried apartments. I therefore advanced, and opened the door; but in an instant started back; for I had beheld a lighted hall, of modern architecture, with gilded balustrades, ceiling painted in fresco, Etruscan lamps, and stucco-work! Yes, it was a villa, or a casino, or a pallazo, or any thing you please but a castello. Amazement! Horror! What should I do? whither turn? delay would be fatal. Again I peeped. The hall was empty; so, putting down my lamp, I stole across it to an open door, and looked through the chink. I had just time to see a Persian saloon, and in the centre a table laid for supper, when I heard several steps entering the hall. It was too late to retreat, so I sprang into the room; and recollecting that a curtain had befriended me once before, I ran behind one which I saw there.

Instantly afterwards the persons entered. They were spruce footmen, bringing in supper. Not a scowl, not a mustachio amongst them.

As soon as the covers were laid, a crowd of company came laughing into the room; but, friend of my bosom, fancy, just fancy my revulsion of soul, my dismay, my disgust, my bitter indignation – oh! how shall I describe to you half what I felt, when I recognised these wretches, as they entered one by one, to be the identical gang who had visited me the day before, as heroes and heroines! I knew them instantly, though they looked twice as young; and in the midst of them all, as blithe as larks, came Betterton himself and Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci! My heart died at the sight.

After they had seated themselves, Betterton (who sat at the head, and therefore was master) desired one of the servants to bring in 'the crazed poet.' And now two footmen appeared, carrying between them a large meal-bag, filled with Higginson; which they placed to the table, on a vacant seat. The bag was fastened at the top, and a slit was on the side of it.

The wretches then began to banter him, and bade him put forth his head; but he would neither move nor speak. At last they turned the conversation to me.

'I wonder can he be ghosting her all this time?' said Betterton.

'Well,' cried the fellow who had personated Sir Charles Grandison, 'I ought to have played the ghost, I am so much taller than he.'

'Not unless you could act it better than you did Grandison,' said the late Lady Sympathina. 'No, no, I was the person who performed my part well; – pouring a vial of hot water down her neck, by way of tears; and frightening her out of her senses by talking of a face like a pumpkin!'

'Nay,' cried my Lord Montmorenci, 'the best piece of acting you ever saw was when I first met her at the theatre, and persuaded her that Abraham Grundy was Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci.'

'Except,' said Betterton, 'when I played old Whylome Eftsoones, at the masquerade, and made her believe that Cherry Wilkinson was Lady Cherubina De Willoughby.'

I turned quite sick; but I had no time for thought, the thunderclaps came so thick upon me.

'She had some mad notion of the kind before,' said Grundy (I have done with calling him Montmorenci), 'for she fancied that an old piece of parchment, part of a lease of lives, was an irrefragable proof of her being Lady De Willoughby.'

'Ay,' cried Betterton, 'and of poor Wilkinson's being her persecutor, instead of her father; on the strength of which vagary he lies at this moment in a madhouse.'

'But,' said Grundy, 'her setting up for a heroine, and her affectation while imitating the manners and language that authors chuse to give their heroines, would make a tiger laugh. I vow and protest, our amorous interview, where she first told her love, was the most burlesque exhibition in nature. I am thine, and thou art mine! whimpered the silly girl, sinking on my bosom. She now says she does not love me. Don't believe a syllable of it. Why, the poor creature could not even bridle her passion in my presence. Such hugging and kissing as she went on with, that, as I hope to be saved, I sometimes thought she would suffocate me outright.'

''Tis false as hell!' cried I, bursting into tears, and running from behind the curtain. 'Upon my sacred honour, ladies and gentlemen, 'tis every word of it a vile, malicious, execrable falsehood! Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?' and I wrung my hands with agony.

The guests had risen from their seats in amaze; and I now made a spring towards the door, but was intercepted by Betterton, who held me fast.

'In the name of wonder,' cried he, 'how came you here?'

'No matter,' cried I, struggling. 'I know all. What have I ever done to you, you base, you cruel people?'

'Keep yourself cool, my little lady,' said he.

'I won't, I can't!' cried I. 'To use me so. You vile set; you horrid, horrid set!'

'Go for another meal-bag,' said he, to the servant. 'Now, madam, you shall keep company with the bagged poet.'

'Mercy, mercy!' cried I, 'What, will no one help me?'

'I will if I can!' exclaimed Higginson, with his head thrust out of the bag, like a snail; and down he slided from his seat, and began rolling, and tumbling, and struggling on the floor, till he got upon his feet; and then he came jumping towards me, now falling now rising, while his face and bald forehead were all over meal, his eyes blaring, and his mouth wide open. The company, wherever he moved, kept in a circle round him, and clapped their hands and shouted.

As I stood, with Betterton still holding me fast, he was suddenly flung from me by some one, and my hand seized. I turned, and beheld – Stuart. 'Oh! bless you, bless you!' cried I, catching his arm, 'for you have come to save me from destruction!'

He pressed my hand, and pointing to Betterton and Grundy, who stood thunderstruck, cried, 'There are your men!'

A large posse of constables immediately rushed forward, and arrested them.

'Heydey! what is all this?' cried Betterton.

''Tis for the beating you gave us when we were doing our duty,' said a man, and I recognised in the speaker one of the police-men who had arrested me about the barouche.

'This is government all over,' cried Betterton. 'This is the minister. This is the law!'

'And let me tell you, Sir,' said Stuart, 'that nothing but my respect for the law deters me at this moment from chastising you as you deserve.'

'What do you mean, sirrah?' cried Betterton.

'That you are a ruffian,' said Stuart, 'and the same cowardice which made you offer insult to a woman will make you bear it from a man. Now, Sir, I leave you to your fate.' And we were quitting the room.

'What thing is that?' said Stuart, stopping short before the poet; who, with one arm and his face out of the bag, lay on his back, gasping and unable to stir.

'Cut it, cut it!' cried the poor man, in choaking accents.

'Higginson I protest!' exclaimed Stuart, as he snatched a knife from the table, and laid open the bag. Up rose the poet, resurrectionary from his hempen coffin, and was beginning to clench his fist; but Stuart caught his arm, and hurried him and me out of the room.

Stuart, with great eagerness, now began asking me the particulars of all that had occurred at Betterton's; and his rage, as I related it, was extreme.

He then proceeded to tell me how he had discovered my being there. After his departure from Lady Gwyn's, he set off for London, to prosecute his inquiries about my father; and spent some days in this way, to no purpose. At length he returned to Lady Gwyn's, but was much shocked at learning from her that I had robbed her, and absconded; and had afterwards made an assault on her house, at the head of a set of Irishmen. By the description she gave, he judged that Jerry Sullivan was one of them; and not finding us at Monkton Castle, whither she directed him, he posted back to London, in order to make inquiries at Jerry's house. Jerry, who had just returned, related the whole history of the castle; adding that I was to call upon him the moment I should arrive in Town. Stuart, therefore, waited some time; but as I did not appear, he began to suspect that Betterton had entrapped me; so he hastened to the coachmaker, and having explained to him that I was no swindler, and having paid him for the barouche, he told him (as he learned from Jerry) that Betterton was one of those who had assaulted the postilion and constables. The coachmaker, therefore, applied at the police-office; and a party was dispatched to apprehend Betterton. Stuart accompanied them, and thus gained admission (which he could not otherwise have done) into the house.

Higginson now told a lamentable tale of the pranks that Betterton had played on him; and amongst the rest, mentioned, that a servant had seduced him into the bag, by pretending to be his friend, and to smuggle him out of the house, in the character of meal.

He could gather, from several things said while the company were tormenting him, that Grundy had agreed to marry me; and then, for a stipulated sum, to give Betterton opportunities of prosecuting his infamous designs. Thus both of them would escape the penalties of the law.

He likewise informed me, that the female guests were (to use his own words) ladies whom the male guests loved better than they ought to do; and he then explained that the several rooms were furnished according to the fashions of different countries; Grecian, Persian, Chinese, Italian; and that mine was the Gothic chamber.

By this time, having reached the village, and stopped at an inn, where we meant to sleep, I desired a room, and bade Stuart a hasty good night.

Shocked, astonished, and ashamed at all that had passed, I threw myself on the bed, and unburdened my full heart in a bitter fit of crying. What! thought I, not the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby after all; – the tale fabricated by Betterton himself; – the parchment that I had built the hope of my noble birth upon a mere lease of lives; – could these things be? Alas, there was no doubt of the fatal fact! I had overheard the wretches boasting of it, and I had discovered their other impositions with my own eyes. To be thus upset in my favourite speculation, in the business of my whole life; to have to begin all over again, – to have to search the wide world anew for my real name, my real family – or was Wilkinson indeed my father? Oh! if so, what a fall! and how horridly had I treated him! But I would not suffer myself to think of it. Then to be laughed at, despised, insulted by dissolute creatures calling themselves lords and barons, and bravos, and heroes and heroines; and I declared to be no heroine! am I a heroine? I caught myself constantly repeating; and then I walked about wildly, then sat on the bed, then cast my body across it. Once I fell into a doze, and dreamed frightful dreams of monsters pursuing me swifter than the wind, while my bending limbs could only creep; and my voice, calling for help, could not rise above a whisper. Then I woke, repeating, am I a heroine? I believe I was quite delirious; for notwithstanding all that I could do to prevent myself, I ran on rapidly, am I a heroine? am I? am I? am I? am I? till my brain reeled from its poise, and my hands were clenched with perturbation.

Thus passed the night, and towards morning I fell into a slumber.

Adieu.

LETTER XLV

This morning my head felt rather better, and I appeared before Stuart with the sprightliest air imaginable; not that my mind was at ease; – far from it; – but that I could not endure to betray my mortification at having proved such a dupe to buffoons and villains.

After breakfast, we began arranging our plans, and decided on proceeding to London; but did not determine on my place of residence there. I had my own projects, however.

As Higginson had assisted in rescuing me from the police, Stuart advised him to remain concealed somewhere, till after the trials of Betterton and Grundy; for though the poor man did not know that they were officers of justice whom he was assaulting (he having been in the turret when the fray commenced), yet this fact might be difficult to prove. Stuart, therefore, gave him some money, and I a letter; and he set off, in extreme tribulation, for the cottage of the poor woman; there to stay till the business should be decided.

Stuart and I then took our departure in a chaise. Unable to counterfeit gaiety long, I relapsed into languor; nor could my companion, by any effort, withdraw me from the contemplation of my late disgrace.

As we drew near Lady Gwyn's, he represented the propriety of my restoring her portrait, lest she should have recourse to an arrest. Disheartened by the past, and terrified for the future, I soon consented; and on our arriving at the avenue of the gentleman who had the portrait in his possession, Stuart, by my desire, went to the house without me. He was absent some time, but at last came back with it in his hand.

We then drove to Lady Gwyn's; and while I remained at the gate, he proceeded to execute the commission for me. Presently, however, I saw him return accompanied by Lady Gwyn herself, who welcomed me with much kindness, begged I would forget the past, and prevailed on me to go into the house.

But it was only to suffer new mortifications. For now, at the instance of Stuart, she began to relate all the pranks which she had practised upon me while I was with her. She confessed that the crowning ceremony was merely to amuse her guests at my expence; and that my great mother was her own nephew! Think of that, Biddy! She said that Stuart, who had known her for some years, begged of her when I paid her my first visit to let me remain under her care, till his return from Town; and to humour my pretty caprices, as she called them. But he did not desire her to go so far with the jest; and she had now just begun an apology for her conduct, when I rose, overwhelmed with shame and indignation, dropped a hasty courtesy, and fairly ran out of the house.

We proceeded some miles silent and uncomfortable. My heart was bursting, and my head felt as if billows were tossing through it.

At last I found myself in sight of the village where William, whom I had separated from his mistress a few weeks before, used to live. As this was a favourable opportunity for reconciling the lovers, I now made Stuart acquainted with the real origin of their quarrel, which I had concealed from him at the time it happened, lest he should mar it. He shook his head at the recital, and desired the driver to find out William's house, and stop there. This was done, and in a few moments William made his appearance. He betrayed some agitation at seeing me, but saluted me with respect.

'Well, William,' said I, sportively, 'how goes on your little quarrel with Mary? Is it made up?'

'No, Ma'am,' answered he, with a doleful look, 'and I fear never will.'

'Yes, William,' cried I, with an assuring nod, 'I have the happiness to tell you that it will.'

'Ah, Ma'am,' said he, 'I suppose you do not know what a sad calamity has fallen upon her since you were here. The poor creature has quite lost her senses.'

'For shame!' cried I, 'What are you saying? Lost her senses! Well, I am sure it was not my fault, however.'

'Your's?' said he. 'Oh, no, Ma'am. But she has never been in her reason since the day you left her.'

'Let us be gone,' whispered I to Stuart, as I sank back in the carriage. 'Surely not,' said he. 'Tis at least your duty to repair the mischief you have done.'

'I should die before I could disclose it!' cried I.

'Then I will disclose it for you,' said he, leaping out of the chaise.

He went with William into the house, and I remained in such a state of mind, that I was several times on the point of quitting the chaise, and escaping I knew not whither; but any where from the horrid scene awaiting me. At last, Stuart appeared without William; and getting in, gave the driver directions to Mary's cottage.

I wanted him to go without me: but he declared that no effectual explanation could take place, unless from myself. He then said every thing to re-assure me. He told me that the poor girl was quite harmless, and had only temporary fits of wandering; and that, were the circumstances of the fatal letter once explained to her, and a reconciliation effected, she might eventually recover from her derangement; for William, it seems, had never divulged the contents of that letter, as it enjoined him not; but now Stuart brought it with him.

Having arrived near the cottage, we got out, and walked towards it. With a faltering step I crossed the threshold, and found the father in the parlour.

'Dear Miss,' said he, 'welcome here once more. I suppose you have come to see poor Mary. Oh! 'tis a piteous, piteous sight. There she does nothing but walk about, and sigh, and talk so wild; and nobody can tell the cause but that William; and he will not, for he says she forbade him.'

'Come with me,' said Stuart, 'and I will tell you the cause.'

He then led the miserable old man out of the room, and I remained at the window weeping.

But in a few minutes I heard a step; and on turning round, saw the father, running towards me with a face haggard and ghastly; and crying out, 'Cruel, cruel, cruel!' then grasping my shoulder, and lifting his tremulous hand to heaven: 'Now,' said he, 'may the lightning of a just and good Providence – '

'Oh! pray,' cried I, snatching down his hand – 'oh! pray do not curse me! Do not curse a poor, silly, mad creature. It was a horrid affair; very horrid; but, indeed, indeed, I meant no harm.'

'Be calm, my good man,' said Stuart, 'and let us go to the garden where your daughter is walking. I am sure this young lady will not refuse to accompany us, and do her utmost in this critical moment.'

'I will do any thing,' cried I, 'come along.'

We now passed into the garden; and I shuddered as I beheld the beautiful wreck at a distance. She had just stopt short in a stepping posture: her cloak had half fallen from her shoulders, and as her head hung down, her forefinger was lightly laid on her lip.

Panting to tell her all, I flew towards her, and caught her hand.

'Do you remember me, Mary?' said I softly.

She looked at me some moments with a faint smile; and at last she coloured.

'Ah! yes, I remember you,' said she. 'You were with us that very evening when I was so wretched. But I don't care about him now; – I don't indeed; and if I could only see him once more, I would tell him so. And then I would frown and turn from him; and then he would follow, so sad and so pale: don't you think he would? And I am keeping his presents to give back to him, as he did mine; and see how I have my hair parted on my forehead, just as he used to like it, ready the moment I see him to rumple it all about; and then he will cry so. Don't you think he will? And then I will run, run, run away like the wind, and never see him again; never, never again.'

'My dear Mary,' said I, 'you shall see him again, and be friends with him too. Your William is still faithful to you; – most faithful, and still loves you better than his life. I have seen him myself this moment.'

'You have?' cried she, reddening. 'Oh! and what did he say? But hush, not a word before my father and that man:' and she put one hand upon my mouth, and with the other round my waist, hurried me into a little arbour, where we sat down.

'And now,' whispered she, stealing her arms about my neck, and looking earnestly into my eyes, while her whole frame shook, 'and now what did he say?'

'Mary,' said I, with a serious tone and aspect, 'you must collect your ideas, and listen attentively, for I have much to disclose. Do you recollect a letter that I got you to write for me when I was here last?'

'Letter – ' muttered she. 'Letter. – Yes, I believe I do. Oh! yes, I recollect it well; for it was a sad letter to your sweetheart, telling him that you had married another; and your sweetheart's name was William; and I thought, at the time, I would never write such a letter to my own William.'