Lady Susan
and ill-timed expressions of tenderness, to which I listened with
perfect indifference, that my daughter had acquainted him with some
circumstances concerning herself, Sir James, and me which had given him
great uneasiness. In short, I found that she had in the first place
actually written to him to request his interference, and that, on
receiving her letter, he had conversed with her on the subject of it,
in order to understand the particulars, and to assure himself of her
real wishes. I have not a doubt but that the girl took this opportunity
of making downright love to him. I am convinced of it by the manner in
which he spoke of her. Much good may such love do him! I shall ever
despise the man who can be gratified by the passion which he never
wished to inspire, nor solicited the avowal of. I shall always detest
them both. He can have no true regard for me, or he would not have
listened to her; and _she_, with her little rebellious heart and
indelicate feelings, to throw herself into the protection of a young
man with whom she has scarcely ever exchanged two words before! I am
equally confounded at _her_ impudence and _his_ credulity. How dared he
believe what she told him in my disfavour! Ought he not to have felt
assured that I must have unanswerable motives for all that I had done?
Where was his reliance on my sense and goodness then? Where the
resentment which true love would have dictated against the person
defaming me—that person, too, a chit, a child, without talent or
education, whom he had been always taught to despise? I was calm for
some time; but the greatest degree of forbearance may be overcome, and
I hope I was afterwards sufficiently keen. He endeavoured, long
endeavoured, to soften my resentment; but that woman is a fool indeed
who, while insulted by accusation, can be worked on by compliments. At
length he left me, as deeply provoked as myself; and he showed his
anger more. I was quite cool, but he gave way to the most violent
indignation; I may therefore expect it will the sooner subside, and
perhaps his may be vanished for ever, while mine will be found still
fresh and implacable. He is now shut up in his apartment, whither I
heard him go on leaving mine. How unpleasant, one would think, must be
his reflections! but some people’s feelings are incomprehensible. I
have not yet tranquillised myself enough to see Frederica. _She_ shall
not soon forget the occurrences of this day; she shall find that she
has poured forth her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed herself
for ever to the contempt of the whole world, and the severest
resentment of her injured mother.
Your affectionate
S. VERNON.
XXIII
_Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy._
Churchhill.
Let me congratulate you, my dearest Mother! The affair which has given
us so much anxiety is drawing to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is
most delightful, and since matters have now taken so favourable a turn,
I am quite sorry that I ever imparted my apprehensions to you; for the
pleasure of learning that the danger is over is perhaps dearly
purchased by all that you have previously suffered. I am so much
agitated by delight that I can scarcely hold a pen; but am determined
to send you a few short lines by James, that you may have some
explanation of what must so greatly astonish you, as that Reginald
should be returning to Parklands. I was sitting about half an hour ago
with Sir James in the breakfast parlour, when my brother called me out
of the room. I instantly saw that something was the matter; his
complexion was raised, and he spoke with great emotion; you know his
eager manner, my dear mother, when his mind is interested. “Catherine,”
said he, “I am going home to-day; I am sorry to leave you, but I must
go: it is a great while since I have seen my father and mother. I am
going to send James forward with my hunters immediately; if you have
any letter, therefore, he can take it. I shall not be at home myself
till Wednesday or Thursday, as I shall go through London, where I have
business; but before I leave you,” he continued, speaking in a lower
tone, and with still greater energy, “I must warn you of one thing—do
not let Frederica Vernon be made unhappy by that Martin. He wants to
marry her; her mother promotes the match, but she cannot endure the
idea of it. Be assured that I speak from the fullest conviction of the
truth of what I say; I know that Frederica is made wretched by Sir
James’s continuing here. She is a sweet girl, and deserves a better
fate. Send him away immediately; he is only a fool: but what her mother
can mean, Heaven only knows! Good bye,” he added, shaking my hand with
earnestness; “I do not know when you will see me again; but remember
what I tell you of Frederica; you _must_ make it your business to see
justice done her. She is an amiable girl, and has a very superior mind
to what we have given her credit for.” He then left me, and ran
upstairs. I would not try to stop him, for I knew what his feelings
must be. The nature of mine, as I listened to him, I need not attempt
to describe; for a minute or two I remained in the same spot,
overpowered by wonder of a most agreeable sort indeed; yet it required
some consideration to be tranquilly happy. In about ten minutes after
my return to the parlour Lady Susan entered the room. I concluded, of
course, that she and Reginald had been quarrelling; and looked with
anxious curiosity for a confirmation of my belief in her face. Mistress
of deceit, however, she appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after
chatting on indifferent subjects for a short time, said to me, “I find
from Wilson that we are going to lose Mr. De Courcy—is it true that he
leaves Churchhill this morning?” I replied that it was. “He told us
nothing of all this last night,” said she, laughing, “or even this
morning at breakfast; but perhaps he did not know it himself. Young men
are often hasty in their resolutions, and not more sudden in forming
than unsteady in keeping them. I should not be surprised if he were to
change his mind at last, and not go.” She soon afterwards left the
room. I trust, however, my dear mother, that we have no reason to fear
an alteration of his present plan; things have gone too far. They must
have quarrelled, and about Frederica, too. Her calmness astonishes me.
What delight will be yours in seeing him again; in seeing him still
worthy your esteem, still capable of forming your happiness! When I
next write I shall be able to tell you that Sir James is gone, Lady
Susan vanquished, and Frederica at peace. We have much to do, but it
shall be done. I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing change
was effected. I finish as I began, with the warmest congratulations.
Yours ever, &c.,
CATH. VERNON.
XXIV
_From the same to the same._
Churchhill.
Little did I imagine, my dear Mother, when I sent off my last letter,
that the delightful perturbation of spirits I was then in would undergo
so speedy, so melancholy a reverse. I never can sufficiently regret
that I wrote to you at all. Yet who could have foreseen what has
happened? My dear mother, every hope which made me so happy only two
hours ago has vanished. The quarrel between Lady Susan and Reginald is
made up, and we are all as we were before. One point only is gained.
Sir James Martin is dismissed. What are we now to look forward to? I am
indeed disappointed; Reginald was all but gone, his horse was ordered
and all but brought to the door; who would not have felt safe? For half
an hour I was in momentary expectation of his departure. After I had
sent off my letter to you, I went to Mr. Vernon, and sat with him in
his room talking over the whole matter, and then determined to look for
Frederica, whom I had not seen since breakfast. I met her on the
stairs, and saw that she was crying. “My dear aunt,” said she, “he is
going—Mr. De Courcy is going, and it is all my fault. I am afraid you
will be very angry with me, but indeed I had no idea it would end so.”
“My love,” I replied, “do not think it necessary to apologize to me on
that account. I shall feel myself under an obligation to anyone who is
the means of sending my brother home, because,” recollecting myself, “I
know my father wants very much to see him. But what is it you have done
to occasion all this?” She blushed deeply as she answered: “I was so
unhappy about Sir James that I could not help—I have done something
very wrong, I know; but you have not an idea of the misery I have been
in: and mamma had ordered me never to speak to you or my uncle about
it, and—” “You therefore spoke to my brother to engage his
interference,” said I, to save her the explanation. “No, but I wrote to
him—I did indeed, I got up this morning before it was light, and was
two hours about it; and when my letter was done I thought I never
should have courage to give it. After breakfast however, as I was going
to my room, I met him in the passage, and then, as I knew that
everything must depend on that moment, I forced myself to give it. He
was so good as to take it immediately. I dared not look at him, and ran
away directly. I was in such a fright I could hardly breathe. My dear
aunt, you do not know how miserable I have been.” “Frederica” said I,
“you ought to have told me all your distresses. You would have found in
me a friend always ready to assist you. Do you think that your uncle or
I should not have espoused your cause as warmly as my brother?”
“Indeed, I did not doubt your kindness,” said she, colouring again,
“but I thought Mr. De Courcy could do anything with my mother; but I
was mistaken: they have had a dreadful quarrel about it, and he is
going away. Mamma will never forgive me, and I shall be worse off than
ever.” “No, you shall not,” I replied; “in such a point as this your
mother’s prohibition ought not to have prevented your speaking to me on
the subject. She has no right to make you unhappy, and she shall _not_
do it. Your applying, however, to Reginald can be productive only of
good to all parties. I believe it is best as it is. Depend upon it that
you shall not be made unhappy any longer.” At that moment how great was
my astonishment at seeing Reginald come out of Lady Susan’s
dressing-room. My heart misgave me instantly. His confusion at seeing
me was very evident. Frederica immediately disappeared. “Are you
going?” I said; “you will find Mr. Vernon in his own room.” “No,
Catherine,” he replied, “I am not going. Will you let me speak to you a
moment?” We went into my room. “I find,” he continued, his confusion
increasing as he spoke, “that I have been acting with my usual foolish
impetuosity. I have entirely misunderstood Lady Susan, and was on the
point of leaving the house under a false impression of her conduct.
There has been some very great mistake; we have been all mistaken, I
fancy. Frederica does not know her mother. Lady Susan means nothing but
her good, but she will not make a friend of her. Lady Susan does not
always know, therefore, what will make her daughter happy. Besides, I
could have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mistaken in applying
to me. In short, Catherine, everything has gone wrong, but it is now
all happily settled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to speak to you
about it, if you are at leisure.” “Certainly,” I replied, deeply
sighing at the recital of so lame a story. I made no comments, however,
for words would have been vain.
Reginald was glad to get away, and I went to Lady Susan, curious,
indeed, to hear her account of it. “Did I not tell you,” said she with
a smile, “that your brother would not leave us after all?” “You did,
indeed,” replied I very gravely; “but I flattered myself you would be
mistaken.” “I should not have hazarded such an opinion,” returned she,