  I must not pause to describe emotions, nor can I indeed narrate regularly, or distinctly, all that occurred during the next half hour. I had found a parent—a mother. O, how dear, how charming that name. Those who have gone on from childhood to manhood under a loved mother’s eye, and have only parted with her at the threshold of that gate which we must all pass, can form no idea of the sensations experienced by one who has never known a mother’s care, when he hears the very word mentioned—the longing, the yearning, the never-to-be satisfied desire to see the face, to hear the voice, to press the lips of her who gave us birth. I had found a mother, and I sat beside her, with her hand clasped in mine, her head leaning on my shoulder, her eyes turned toward my face, speaking short words of love, often silent, but with a silence full of affection. For that half-hour there were no explanations, no connected conversation. All was wild and strong emotion, the first overflowings of love between parent and child, after a separation of twenty years. We might have gone on much longer in the same way, but then there came a light knock at the door. It opened, and Westover’s voice said— “May I come in?” “O, yes, come in, come in, Charles,” said my mother. “Come in, my second son; my noble, my generous boy. I should not be half-happy if you did not share in the joy you have aided to bring about.” Westover entered, and sat down by us, saying—with a smile, while he shook me warmly by the hand— “Now, Louis, you know all.” “No, no, he does not,” said my mother, “he knows nothing, Charles, but that his father’s name is clear, and that he has found his mother. I must tell him, as best I can, but I am afraid I shall be very confused.” “I will help you, dear aunt,” said Westover. “It is right that he should know how it is he has been so long deprived of a mother’s care, and I am sure that in explaining, you will explain all, gently.” “Fear not, Charles, fear not,” said Lady Catharine. “Some seven or eight and twenty years ago, I was a gay, wild girl, Louis, in the fashionable world of London. I had a fond and affectionate mother, who spoiled me, perhaps. A sister, next in age to myself, and a dear brother—Charles Westover’s father. There was a younger sister, too. All these were gay, light hearted, and easy in disposition, like myself; but my father was made of somewhat sterner materials. You have seen him—you know him—and I need say little more; except, that then he was moving a good deal in political life, and he had found it perhaps necessary to adopt a rigidity of principle, and a stern inflexibility of resolution, which has always kept his name high and pure in the world, but has not made one unfortunate child very happy. “About that time, my mother died, and I was left much to my own guidance, as the eldest of the family, and I met in society a young French nobleman, the Count de Lacy, who was then Secretary of Legation here. He was wealthy, had served in the army with distinction, and my father was fond of him, often invited him to this house, and I have sat with him here, where now we sit, a hundred times, receiving feelings which I little knew were creeping into my breast. At length, he told me he loved me, and he very soon found out that I loved him. He expressed fears, however, that our affection would meet with opposition on my father’s part, and assured me that he would not have ventured to breathe his love, till he had made more progress in the earl’s regard, if he had not been suddenly recalled to France, as well as the ambassador. It was necessary, however, that my father should be immediately informed of our wishes, and De Lacy went to him for that purpose. He received a peremptory, and immediate refusal. My father said that he esteemed and liked the Count de Lacy, but that his daughter should never marry a foreigner, and a Roman Catholic. “We both knew that my father’s resolutions were unchangeable, and those resolutions were expressed very harshly to me, who had never been accustomed to hear an unkind word from any one. They engendered feelings which they ought not to have produced—feelings almost of anger—something more than disappointment—a spirit of resistance. I felt that I could never love any one but De Lacy—that I should be miserable when he was gone—that I could only be happy as his wife. We found means to see each other. Our first object was only to say farewell, but in a moment of rash passion, he asked me to fly with him, and I fled. In every thing, he behaved with the utmost tenderness, delicacy, and honor. We reached Paris—unpursued, as I afterward found—and were immediately married by good Father Bonneville, who had been the chaplain to the embassy, and then by a Protestant clergyman. “I wrote to my father immediately, begging forgiveness; but my letter was returned unopened, and I found that my father had given strict orders in his family, that my name should be never mentioned to him—that if ever I was inquired for by others, the reply should be simply, that I was abroad, and that no notice whatsoever should be taken in public, or in private, of my being the wife of the Count de Lacy. One is soon forgotten in a great world like this, Louis. There was some little rumor and gossiping when I first went away, but my father’s perfect calmness and reserve, his appearance of utter indifference and easy bearing, soon quelled all idle talk, and, except by my brother and my sisters, I was soon lost to remembrance. I had three children, of whom you were the second, She put her hand over her eyes, and paused for several moments; but then resuming her discourse, she said— “I cannot dwell upon that terrible time. My senses left me for several weeks, and when I awoke to a consciousness of my situation, I found myself a widow, nearly penniless, stripped of all the fine estates which my husband had possessed, with one dear boy, between four and five years old, fatherless, and marked out by the terrible curse of a black stain upon his father’s name. “Rank, station, fortune, love, hope, were all gone. The world seemed a blank void to me, and the waking from that frenzied sleep, like the recovery of a half-drowned man, was far more terrible than the death-like state which had preceded. I found, however, that besides good Father Bonneville, who had flown to me immediately, there was an English gentleman in the house, and as soon as I could bear it, I was told that he had been sent to me with a message from my father. When I could see him, I found that he was a stiff, dry, old man, but not altogether unkind, and he did not venture to give me the message he was charged to deliver for two or three days. He then, however, told me that he had a proposal to make to me, which had been reduced to writing, in my father’s own hand. It was this—” She paused again, unable to proceed, and Westover interposed, saying— “Let me tell him, my dear aunt?” “The case was this, Louis, my grandfather had watched anxiously the proceedings against your father, and when he found him condemned and executed, his whole estates confiscated, and his very name attainted, he sent over to offer my Aunt Catharine a refuge in her former home—but it was only for herself,” he added, in a slow and sorrowful tone. “He exacted that you should be left behind in France—that she should resume her maiden name—that you should be brought up in utter ignorance of your connection with his family, and, as far as possible, in ignorance also of your father’s history.” “It was a hard measure,” I said, somewhat bitterly, but Westover went on. “On these conditions, he promised to provide for you amply—to pay for your support and education, during youth, and to settle a sufficient property upon “At first,” said my mother, taking up the tale again, “I rejected the proposal with horror, and declared that nothing would induce me to part with my child; but the good gentleman who had been sent to me, urged strongly, that by my presence and persuasions, I might induce my father to mitigate somewhat of his severity. He did not know his inflexible nature; and before I yielded, I attempted by letter to move my father. I represented humbly that, although condemned by a corrupt court, my poor husband was certainly innocent—that I knew every thing that had passed between him and the British officers—that the letters produced were forgeries—and that the time would come, when De Lacy’s name would stand out pure and clear. All I could obtain was contained in the following words of his reply: ‘If the time should ever come which you anticipate, and when your late husband’s character shall be fully justified, I will acknowledge you as his wife with pride, and receive your son as one of my own race. But till that time, I will never see him. You must never meet him voluntarily; and I beg it to be remembered, that if by a want of good faith, or even an indiscretion upon your part, he is made acquainted with his connection with myself, or is brought to England, under any false expectations from me, I will immediately stop the allowance that I propose to make him, and strike his name out of my will.’ “At first this seemed to me but little gained, but both the English gentleman, who had remained with me, and Father Bonneville, thought that it was much. They represented to me that opinion was already changing in France with regard to my husband’s case, that multitudes asserted his innocence and deplored his fate; and that the time must soon come, when he would be fully justified. My own hopes and convictions seconded their arguments, and I resolved, at length, to submit. Beggary and starvation were before me, Louis, not only for myself, but for you. I was bribed, in short, by the hope of your happiness, to sacrifice all a mother’s affections and enjoyments. Father Bonneville undertook the task of educating you; my maid Jeanette agreed to go with him to his little cure, and watch over you as a mother; and with a bitterness worse than that of death, I parted from you, and returned to England. Father Bonneville and Jeanette both solemnly bound themselves to the secrecy required—and well did they keep their word. God’s will brought you to England, no act of mine; and by a blessed chance you became acquainted with your dear Cousin Charles, who has been to me in my long widowhood and privation, the greatest comfort and consolation.” “But how did you know Charles,” I inquired, “so much of my fate and history, if the subject was forbidden in your grandfather’s house.” “The prohibition was not well kept toward me at all events,” replied Westover; “my father told me the whole story long ago. My Aunt Maude, whom you have seen, talked of it frequently. My grandfather himself, even, of late years—when he found out that I knew it—mentioned the matter once or twice himself. I am a great favorite of his, and when I discovered that you were in England, and perceived what sort of a person you were, I used to dash at the subject with him often; for with these stern old gentlemen, Louis, there is nothing like a little careless, rattling independence. Never do any thing that is wrong toward them—never be insolent or impertinent, but go gayly on your own way, and they learn very soon to take it as a matter of course. Every one helped me, too, I must say; for we would have done any thing in the world to comfort dear Aunt Kate. It was with this purpose that I persuaded her to go down to Blackheath on the day of the review, not intending that she should know who you were till afterward, but just that she might see you, and learn that she had seen her son; but I even persuaded the earl himself to come meet you at dinner; and he was very much pleased with you there, especially when he found that you were perfectly ignorant of your own history. The fact of your having become a Protestant, increased his good feeling toward you, and he began to take a good deal of interest in you, so that I doubt not in the least, we should have got round his lordship in the end, even if we had not obtained this important proof of your father’s innocence. As soon as he heard the facts, however, and I assured him that there could be no possible doubt, he consented at once to my bringing you here, said that his objections were at an end, that the conditions were fulfilled, and he was quite ready to acknowledge you as his grandson. In fact, Louis, he only wished for a good excuse to abandon his stern determination—and he caught at it eagerly enough.” “Shall I not see him?” I asked. “Not to-night, I think,” replied Westover. “He was obliged to go to the House, he said, and was gone before you arrived. The fact is, he hates what he calls scenes, and fearing there might be one here, he went away. Take my advice, therefore, and when you see him to-morrow, just shake him by the hand, as quietly as if you had been his grandson all your life, and had just come back from Buxton. He will then take the initiative himself, and make all the arrangements that are necessary.” “But your father, Westover,” I said. “Alas! we have lost him,” replied my mother, “but we have no second title in our family, Louis, and therefore Charles is merely Captain Westover; but you have some explanations to give, I think he told me.” “They will be better given to-morrow, dear aunt,” said Westover. “Let us finish one volume of the book first. Jeanette has just been telling me, Louis, that you have got the precious document signed by the Marquis de Carcassonne’s own hand—show it to her, show it to her—it will do her good to see it.” My mother read it with eyes blinded by tears, and I disclaimed much of the credit she attributed to me, and acknowledged that the principal honor was due to good Jeanette. Jeanette was then called in and embraced us all round, kissed Charles Westover on each side of the face, and me twice on each side, called him an excellent garÇon, and me her chÈr Louis, and then danced for a minute for very joy, and then ran out of the room to weep, from the same cause. We protracted our sitting till nearly midnight, and I retired with a heart lightened of its heaviest load. The next morning, I went, as had been arranged by Westover, to call upon my grandfather at his breakfast hour. I found him alone—for my mother had not come down to breakfast for years—but he received me very kindly, gave me his whole hand, and made me sit down to breakfast with him. For the first five minutes he called me Monsieur de Lacy, but it very soon got to Louis, and he talked of the news of the day, and of Charles Westover, and of the state of his health, and of his own anxiety to prevent him from joining his regiment again, while that ball was in his chest. I followed his lead, and replied, “I dare say, sir, you might find a means, if you wished it.” He shook his head, saying, “I don’t think it. Boys and girls are all obstinate—what means?” “If you were to persuade some fair lady to ask him, sir,” I said, “he would never refuse her.” “Ha—what do you mean, Miss ——?” “I really do not know who the lady is,” I answered; “but I dare say your lordship is well aware.” “Oh yes, I know quite well. He has been engaged to Miss —— two years; I wonder why they have not married before now.” “I really cannot tell,” I answered; “but perhaps they do not know that you would approve—or Westover may think that he has not sufficient to keep his position as your grandson.” “Ay, that old uncle of his, Westover,” he said, “left his fortune charged with such a jointure that nothing will come in from that till the old lady dies—” He thought for a moment, and then added, “But all that will be speedily arranged. Why did he not speak to me about it himself?” “I only speak myself by guess, my lord,” I answered, “and am conscious I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in mentioning the subject to you at all.” “Not at all, not at all,” said the earl, “I’m obliged to you; but I cannot be expected to think of all these things for everybody. He only told me that he intended to marry Miss ——; and I said, very well, I had no objection; for she is a very good girl, and of a very old family, though poor, desperate poor. Go and tell him, Louis, that if he likes to stay here and marry, I will make every arrangement to render him I had a great inclination to say a good word for myself; but I forbore, and as I rose to go, the earl asked, in an ordinary tone, “Have you seen your mother this morning?” I replied as nearly as I could in the same manner, that I had not yet; and he rejoined, “Well, go and see her before you go to Charles. You will find her in her dressing-room—you know where it is.” I had not the most distant idea; but I did not tell him so, and merely bade him good morning. Thus ended my first interview with the Earl of N—— as his acknowledged grandson. Very few words more will suffice to close my little history. Charles Westover was delighted with the news I brought him, and readily agreed to retire upon half pay, and to remain in England. He insisted upon knowing how it had been brought about that I was sent with this message to him, and I gave him, half jestingly, half seriously, an account of my interview with the earl. “I understand you, Louis, I understand you,” he said, wringing my hand hard, “and I thank you from my very heart. Nothing on earth would have induced me to ask the earl for a penny. My mother’s jointure, of course, diminishes greatly the income that descended to me from my father, and perhaps some youthful imprudences may have diminished it still more; but the earl, I dare say, did not think of either. Now all will go well; for there is not a more generous man living, when he acts spontaneously. And so you really did not speak one word about your own engagement? Well, that must be managed for you.” “No, no,” I replied, “I will do it myself. I begin to understand his character, I think, and trust I can manage it.” However, when I came to talk with my mother on the subject, she was terrified at the very idea—a Frenchwoman—a Roman Catholic—the daughter of a poor emigrant—she thought it would drive the earl mad. I went down to see Mariette, nevertheless, that same day, rejoiced the heart of the Count de Salins with the news of my father’s complete exculpation, and returned the next morning to London, taking Father Bonneville with me; but I took especial care not to say one word to any one, of there being even a chance that the earl would disapprove of my choice. Some five or six days after, the earl wrote me a note to come with Westover and breakfast with him. We found him in the best humor; for some changes had taken place in the ministry which satisfied him, and toward the close of breakfast, a servant announced that Mr. Holland was in the library. “I will be with him directly,” said the earl; and when he had finished his cup of coffee, and read a paragraph in the newspaper, to show that he was in no hurry, he rose, saying, “Now, young men, come with me.” We followed him to the library, where we found a tall, thin lawyer, with a shaggy head of hair, and “This, Charles,” he said, turning to my cousin, “is a deed settling the sum of five thousand per annum upon you, till my death puts you in possession of the family estates.” “This, Louis,” he continued, turning to me with the pen still in his hand, “is a deed, settling two thousand per annum upon you for life, and you will find yourself further remembered in my will.” He stooped to sign the parchment, but I laid my hand upon it saying, boldly, but in a commonplace tone, “Stop, my lord, if you please.” “Why?” he exclaimed, looking up. “First,” I answered, “because it is I could see by Westover’s face that he thought I was going wrong, but I was not. The old man laughed, and said, “Well, boy, I have no objection to your marrying.” “And any one I like?” I asked. “And any one you like,” he answered. “I do not carry my superintendence beyond one generation. That is more than enough for any one.” “Then, my dear and noble lord,” I replied, “let me add, that the one I like, is I am sure, one you will like, too, for she is as generous and as noble-minded as yourself—noble, by birth and by character—a lady in every respect—and well fitted to be admitted into your family.” “A French-woman!” he said—“a French-woman?” I think it was a sort of instinct dictated my reply, “One of my own countrywomen, my lord,” I answered, “the companion of my childhood, the friend of my youth. I know that you judge it best for every one to marry one of his own country—she is the daughter of the Comte de Salins, and a nobler or a purer name is not to be found for five hundred years—is not to be found in the pages of French history.” “Well, well,” said the old earl, “I shall be very happy to see her;” and he signed the parchment, adding, “Bring her here, my good boy, bring her here. You will soon know if I like her. If I do I shall kiss her, and don’t you be jealous; if I do not I shall give her three fingers, and call her Mademoiselle;” and he laughed gayly. Two days afterward, my mother and I brought up Mariette to visit the old earl. She was looking exquisitely lovely, her eyes full of the light of hope and happiness, her face glowing with sweet emotions, and her frame tremulous with feelings which added grace to all her graces. She leaned upon my mother’s arm, as we entered the room where the old earl received us, and I could perceive as he gazed at her, that he was surprised and struck with her extraordinary beauty. It was impossible to look upon that face and form and not be captivated. He rose from his chair at once, advanced and took her in his arms, and kissing her with more tenderness than I ever saw him display, he said, “Welcome, welcome, my dear child. If Louis does not make you a good husband, I will strike him out of my will, so see that you keep him in order.” Westover and I were married on the same day. I have no reason to doubt that he was happy, and of my own fate I am very sure. By a decree of the Cour de Cassation in the first year of the reign of Louis XVIII., by the grace of God King of France, the sentence passed upon Louis, Comte de Lacy, was, after a great many vus, and interrogÉs broken, and annulled, the memory of the said count rehabilitee, and his family, restored to all their estates and honors. Nevertheless, we find a Count and Countess De Lacy still living in England in 1830, and there are strong and cogent reasons to believe that the very numerous family bearing that name, had by some means or another, sprung up around them. MY FOREFATHERS.——— BY J. HUNT, JR. ——— When soft falls the moonlight, and tranquil the hour, Which holds by a spell the dear scenes of the Past, How touchingly tender that mystical power Which throws o’er existence its love to the last. On the wings of Remembrance, forgetting, forgot Are the dreams of the Present, as onward we fly, To place our affections on that hallowed spot Where the bones of our forefathers mouldering lie. Deep, pure, in the bosom’s bright innermost shrine, Are treasured the loves we inherit in Youth; E’en Age, with its weakness, serves but to refine Our early impressions of Virtue and Truth. Those silent Instructors—God grant them a Rest In mansions prepared for the holy in heart— For oft do they come from the Land of the Blest, And to us their kindly monitions impart.
|
| By the poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read. |
———
BY. H. DIDIMUS.
———
