Lord Trimmerstone had not been a very frequent visitor at his relative’s house, and therefore Mr. Martindale apprehended that the present was more likely a call of business than compliment; especially did he think so when he observed how very grave and serious his lordship looked. Conducting the Earl into the library, Mr. Martindale began:

“What, in the name of wonder, can be the matter with you now? Has your lordship had the misfortune to lose more than is quite convenient to pay, and are you coming to ask me to pay it for you?”

“You may very well upbraid me, sir, with my sad propensity to gaming,” replied his lordship; “but I trust this is the last time I shall hear such reproof from you. I have seen my folly.”

“Have you, indeed?” interrupted the old gentleman; “what a wonderful discovery you have made! Every body else has seen it for a long while past. Now I suppose that you are going to let the world see your wisdom. But pray, what is the amount which you wish me to discharge for you in the present awkward juncture of affairs?”

“I have not any request of that kind to make, sir;” replied his lordship.

“Oh, oh!” said the old gentleman, “indeed! I am very happy to hear it. But I should be glad to know what it is that makes you look so serious.”

“I have been thinking,” said his lordship, with great formality of manner and expression…

“It is high time you should think,” responded the old gentleman; “and what has your lordship been thinking about?”

“I have been thinking,” continued the Earl, “that it will be prudent for me, at least for the present, to give up my establishment in town, and retire, with your permission, to Trimmerstone, where I may be out of the way of temptation. If you still continue in the same mind with respect to Trimmerstone Hall, I think it might be put into tenantable repair at a small expense.”

“Very good, very good, young man;—I beg pardon—I mean my lord.”

“Nay, sir, I beg that you will not use such taunting expressions. My title, you know, was not of my seeking.”

His lordship uttered this last sentence in a tone of such humility and submissiveness that the old gentleman was touched, and he saw that his relative felt a strong impression of humiliation, and therefore he felt more compassionately, and replied in tones rather more conciliating.

“Yes, yes, very true; it was my fault. I am sorry for it. I don’t know which was the greatest fool of the two; you for accepting the title, or I for obtaining it for you. Now if your poor father had not been smitten with the ambition of rank, and had you continued in your profession, you might at this time have been in the enjoyment of a handsome and honorable competency. But now you are a nobleman, you can do nothing to help yourself. I am sorry for you. But if you wish to reside at Trimmerstone, I will put the house in repair for you, and make any alterations or additions you please. Your wife, too, is to be consulted in this matter. Are you not apprehensive of some opposition to your schemes from that quarter?”

“Some objection was expressed when I made the proposal, but of course I must overrule every thing of that kind.”

“Ay, ay, there again you have been unfortunate. With your views you should never have married such a woman as that. You see it has not answered your purpose after all, even in a pecuniary point of view. You have made a bad business of it altogether. I am sorry for you; but I cannot see what is to be done for you.”

It might be very true that Mr. Martindale was sorry for his unfortunate relative, but it was not very decorous to speak thus of a lady before her husband’s face. This circumstance also contributed to increase his lordship’s mortifications, and to add to the weight of his grief.

After much more conversation to the same purpose, by which the old gentleman endeavoured to prove his lordship’s folly, and by which his lordship admitted it in all its extent, the interview terminated; and the result of the negotiation was, that orders were forthwith issued for the repair of Trimmerstone Hall for the reception of his lordship.

While the Earl of Trimmerstone was engaged with Mr. Martindale, the Countess was occupied by the condoling and sympathising attentions of Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson. For as soon as Mr. Tippetson was aware of the Earl’s absence from home, he took the opportunity of paying his respects to the Countess; and he found her ladyship in great affliction, and from her appearance he judged that she had been very recently dissolved in tears. This phrase, dissolved in tears, is one of those expressions which, for the sake of pathos, we must now and then use, but it is far too hyperbolical and exaggerated for our taste; and it is our firm and unalterable opinion, that the cause of sympathy is not effectually served by words that mean nothing, or that mean too much. The Countess, however, had very clearly been weeping, and was very obviously in ill-humor with her lord and master.

When Mr. Tippetson, therefore, made his appearance, and her ladyship, just recovered from her tears, expressed with more than usual cordiality how glad she was to see him, it was impossible for so tender-hearted a creature as Mr. Tippetson not to make some kind and condoling remark on the appearance which she exhibited of illness or great affliction.

“I am infinitely concerned to see your ladyship in low spirits this morning.” Thus spoke the tender Henry Augustus.

“Oh, Mr. Tippetson,” responded her ladyship, “I may well be in low spirits. This very morning, my brute of a husband, God forgive me for using such language,” here her ladyship’s tears flowed afresh, “has absolutely insisted on my leaving town; and he says that we must both go and end our days at that vile dull place, Trimmerstone.”

“Has your ladyship ever been at Trimmerstone?” inquired the attentive and sympathising youth.

“Never,” replied her ladyship; “but I am sure it must be a dull place; there is not a soul to speak to but a dull country squire or two, and the parson of the parish, and he is but the curate; for it is such a stupid place that even the rector cannot reside there. His lordship did not seem to want much of my company in town—I think he might do very well without it in the country.”

“Your ladyship is very ill-used,” said Mr. Tippetson; “I have been often astonished that you could patiently put up with such behaviour.”

“But I must put up with it, Mr. Tippetson, I have no remedy.”

So spake the Countess of Trimmerstone; but her ladyship knew that she had a remedy—only the remedy was worse than the disease. Mr. Tippetson also knew that there was a remedy; but Mr. Tippetson was not quite so great a novice as to name that remedy in so many words. He therefore made no reply, and her ladyship was also silent; yet her heart swelled, and the tears were in her eyes, and she seemed altogether given up to the hopelessness of sorrow. Now as Henry Augustus Tippetson was an adept in common-place, he knew that there was more prudence and policy in absolute silence under present circumstances, than in any language which he could utter. And as the Countess, in the hurry and agitation of her grief, was now in one part of the room, now in another, now sitting, now walking, now before the glass, and now before the window, Mr. Tippetson was always at her side; and after many changes of place, they at length sat down together on a sofa; and Mr. Tippetson, scarcely thinking what he did, actually took hold of her ladyship’s hand, and pressed it between his two hands more tenderly than any single man ought to press the hand of any married woman. What was the young gentleman’s design in this, or whether he had any design in it at all or not, we cannot say. But be it as it may, he approached her ladyship in such a questionable shape, that whether his intents were wicked or charitable, she spoke to him, saying, “Oh, Tippetson!”

Now this was too bad. Whatever were the young gentleman’s intentions, her ladyship ought certainly to have left him to himself, and to have suffered him to evolve his own schemes: it was grievously indecorous, we think, to give the gentleman any assistance or prompting in such matter; but we will not be very positive, seeing that we do not understand the etiquette of elopement. And perhaps the Countess herself thought that Mr. Tippetson was also inexpert, and therefore assisted him in the development of his scheme for relieving her from the burden of a disagreeable husband.

When, therefore, the Countess had with so much tenderness said, “Oh, Tippetson!” it was impossible for Henry Augustus to avoid saying, “Oh, Celestina!”—for thus familiarly had he been accustomed to address the lady while she was a spinster. As by the use of this familiar mode of address her ladyship’s active fancy imagined that more was meant than met the ear, and as there was evidently little time for deliberation, and as she thought it absolutely indispensable to make some show of opposition to such a wicked proposal, as she construed “Oh, Celestina!” to mean, her ladyship immediately withdrew her hand from Mr. Tippetson, and exclaimed, “Oh, never! never! never! do not be so barbarous; I cannot—no, I cannot—I would undergo any thing rather than take so imprudent a step.”

Mr. Tippetson, whose ideas of morality were not very nice, and whose sense of propriety was not very acute, thought that it was a gentle designation of elopement to call it only “an imprudent step.” He was not best pleased, therefore, with this mode of resistance; but he was now under the absolute necessity of kneeling to her ladyship, and of seizing her hand again most passionately, and pressing it to his heart, and vowing eternal fidelity, and exclaiming—

“Oh, fly with me, my dearest Celestina; I will go with you to the end of the world.”

By the way, he had not the slightest intention of going farther than Paris, or to the south of France at the utmost. But, of course, when a single gentleman tells a married lady that he will go with her to the end of the world, it is absolutely impossible for her to avoid or to refuse leaving her husband, her friends, and her reputation. So felt, and so acted, the Countess of Trimmerstone; and considering the short notice which she had, it is somewhat astonishing that she was so soon ready to depart. She was gone before her husband returned from Mr. Martindale’s. Some of the servants said that she had prepared for the excursion before Mr. Tippetson proposed it.

It is a question which requires a nicer casuistry than we are master of, to decide which of these two precious ones was most to blame. When a husband neglects his wife, it is the opinion of some considerate and candid creatures, that the lady’s conduct in leaving him, if not justified, is palliated. But perhaps some husbands would not neglect their wives so much as they do, if these aforesaid wives could not find some one else to pay attention to them. The lady, however, in the present case, did not leave her husband during his neglect of her, but just at the very moment that he was beginning to be more attentive than ever, and to claim her sweet company all to himself. But then she did not like to live in the country all alone, as it were, and out of society and gaiety. Oh, no! certainly not. Therefore she thought it much more lively to go to Paris to reside with a perfumed puppy in an obscure lodging, surrounded with people of whom she knew, and could know, and wished to know nothing.

Our readers would think us very methodistical if we were to express ourself in very strong terms against the abomination of elopements; and those very same readers would think us very irreligious, should we question any of those dogmas which are supposed to form part and parcel of the religion of the state. We are not however about to do either the one or the other; but we cannot help recommending all married ladies to be very cautious how they talk to their friends concerning the cruelty of their husbands. We would also recommend married ladies, and single ones too, not to place unlimited confidence in romantic protestations; and above all, would we tell married ladies that the worst husbands are better than the best seducers.

As it is not our intention to suffer Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson to intrude again on our pages after his present disappearance, and as the Countess of Trimmerstone disappears with him, we will now so far violate chronological order as to narrate all that remains to be said concerning that hopeful couple.

Mr. Tippetson, who had desired to immortalise himself by an elopement with a lady of rank, now that the Countess of Trimmerstone was in his power, did not feel quite so proud of his conquest as he had anticipated and fancied. There is nothing in rank where there is no distance and reserve. The Countess, even before they had reached Dover, began to appear to him as a weak, silly woman. Now, if in stealing a countess, he had stolen the title of earl for himself, he might have been more proud of his exploit; but as it was, he still kept the name of Mr. Tippetson, and his poor simpleton of a companion had no name at all. Then again he could not enjoy the pleasure of hearing himself talked about in the fashionable circles. He saw very soon in the newspapers that he gained celebrity by the elopement, but he could not hear any remarks upon the subject. He very soon found that his companion was no companion; and therefore, with mighty energy and resignation, he determined to make the best of a bad bargain. It is a great pity that the Countess had not come to that resolution before she left her husband. Here again we have a lesson for married ladies; and beg most respectfully and kindly to inform them, that it is much more inconvenient to be neglected by a seducer, than to be neglected by a husband.

Mr. Tippetson was a man of the world; but he did not know much of the world, especially of the world of Paris. It is very good that English people in the one shilling gallery should believe that one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen, and that they generally do believe till they try; but one simple Englishman, like Mr. Tippetson, may generally be beaten by one Frenchman at games of skill or chance in the Palais-Royal. The perfumed seducer found out this to his cost; and thereupon the Countess of Trimmerstone became more inconveniently expensive to him. There arose also another inconvenience to the young gentleman, viz. her ladyship’s prodigious vulgarity. He could never be seen with her in public. The Parisian ladies used to stare at her, though she thought herself prodigiously fine. Mr. Tippetson accommodated himself to the people among whom he dwelt. The Countess began soon to grow sulky, because she had no society. Tippetson thought his own society quite enough for her ladyship. By degrees that society was more and more curtailed: sometimes he left her for a whole day; and sometimes he was absent day and night; and sometimes he would stay from her ladyship two or three days successively. This was very sad, but she had no remedy. To utter angry reproaches she dared not; she could only plead pathetically, and call him unkind, and use the gentlest tones of expostulation. Her ladyship was far more afraid of Mr. Tippetson than ever she had been of her husband, and was much more careful of offending him by look, word, or deed. On the other hand, the gentleman was sooner weary of the Countess than he would have been of a wife; and whensoever the gentleman, in the expression of his weariness, took it into his head to use the language of reproach, her ladyship, from the peculiarity of her situation, felt unable to return or repel it.

Whether it be possible or not for a married woman who has lost the affection of her husband, ever to regain and recover that affection, we presume not to say; but notwithstanding the diffidence we feel in our own judgment, and notwithstanding our own inexperience of such matters, we will venture to give it as our firm opinion, that when the affections of a seducer are gone away from the silly one whom he has beguiled, or who has beguiled him, it is the most hopeless of all efforts to endeavour to recall them. But however hopeless the effort may be, it still must be made. So felt the unfortunate and unhappy woman, who, under the notion of liberty, had sold herself into an irretrievable slavery. If however she possessed not sufficient discernment and strength of mind to keep herself from this miserable condition, it was not very likely that she should be possessed of wit and wisdom enough to perform one of the most difficult of all difficult tasks, to recall a wandering affection. And the efforts which are used for this purpose are in their nature, or from the nature of the human mind, so exceedingly perverse, that in the same ratio as they fail of doing good, they are productive of evil.

Thus it came to pass that the affections of Mr. Tippetson for the poor witless Countess of Trimmerstone grew weaker and fainter; and in proportion to her endeavours to retain him, she found that she was nearer to losing him. Not many years passed away before he absolutely left her; and from this state of humiliation she wrote to her broken-hearted father, praying that he would not let her perish for want in a strange land. That supplication was not unheeded; she was saved from absolute want; but she lived the remainder of her days in solitude, obscurity, and self-reproach. We now return to the period from whence we have digressed.