Part 3

Ellen felt sincerely grieved to leave her, and proposed that she should be removed to London for better advice, but found this expedient had been before resorted to, and Doctor B----'s advice frequently renewed by letters since, and that it was thought the air of London did not agree with her. The weather now, for the time of year, the second week in March, was remarkably mild; and the medical man in attendance on Juliet, who had now been for some days tolerably free from the low fever which generally hung about her, permitted her to go out once or twice in a garden chair, for the benefit of the air: the returning verdure of spring seemed, for a time, to revive her: but whether the exertion was too much, or some unobserved change in the atmosphere affected her delicate frame, could not be known; but she was suddenly seized with one of those attacks of fever which had so frequently brought her to the brink of the grave; and on the day before that fixed for Ellen's leaving Northamptonshire, a note from Laura announced that the life of this admirable young creature was despaired of.

"She is perfectly sensible," added the afflicted sister; "the dear angel retains all her usual pious composure; she wishes to see you. Could you, dear Lady St. Aubyn, without being too much affected, come to her?"

Ellen, bursting into tears, put the note into St. Aubyn's hand, saying, "Oh, my dear Lord; let me go--pray let me go directly!"

"Be less alarmed, be more composed, my dearest love," replied he, after glancing over the contents, "or I cannot consent to your going. I wish it had not been asked."

"Oh, indeed, dear St. Aubyn, I am quite composed, quite easy; but I shall suffer much more in not seeing the dear, dear creature once again, than even by witnessing this sudden and most unexpected change."

"Well, my love, we will go together; but do not be too much alarmed; she may yet recover: Laura's fears may outrun the occasion: Juliet has often been very ill before; but we will go: they will both, I know, be pleased at your coming."

He then ordered the carriage, which was soon ready; and half an hour brought them to Rose-hill. Ellen was immediately shewn to Juliet's room: by the bed-side sat Laura: her cheeks, lips, and whole countenance, were the colour of monumental marble; not a tear fell from her eyes; not a sigh heaved her bosom; but the woe, the deep expressive woe which marked every feature, no language could describe: she rose, and advanced a few steps to meet Ellen, grasping her hand with one which the touch of death could alone have rendered colder; her lips moved, but no articulate word broke the mournful silence.

Ellen turned pale, shuddered, and looked ready to faint; Miss Cecil made a sign to an attendant, who, bathed in tears, stood near her: she placed a chair for Lady St. Aubyn, and brought her a few drops in some water; she wept, and was relieved.

"Oh, why did I send for you!" said Laura, in a low tone, and speaking with difficulty; "I fear it is too much."

"Don't be frightened, my Lady," said the nurse: "Miss Juliet is a little easier; she is dozing."

In a few minutes Juliet moved and spoke, but so faintly, her voice could hardly be distinguished. In an instant Laura was on her knees beside her, and catching the imperfect sounds, replied in a voice which betrayed not the anguish of her soul, "Yes, my love, she is here--will you see her?"

Then turning to Ellen, she motioned her to approach. Ellen rose, and went to the bed-side; she looked on Juliet, and saw that sweet angelic countenance, slightly flushed, and looking as composed as ever; and ignorant of the appearances of disease, fancied her better, and was, in some measure, comforted. Juliet faintly articulated a few words, expressive of the pleasure she felt in seeing Ellen, and would have said more, but the nurse, for the sake of all, interposed, and requested that Miss Juliet might not be allowed to speak much. With difficulty she held out her feeble emaciated arms to Ellen, who tenderly embraced her, and half dissolved in tears, retired to the window, whither she drew Miss Cecil. Still the wretched Laura shed no tear; and the deep grief, impressed on her fine countenance, was much more painful to the beholder than the loudest expressions of sorrow could have been.

"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"

"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura," said Ellen, "endeavour to take comfort; surely she is better--she will recover!"

Laura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, "Indeed, Madam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off these two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment passed her lips this day."

"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food," cried Laura, "I can partake of neither."

Ellen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands upon her heart, she replied, "Oh no, oh no--I could not; indeed I could not. Go," she added, "my dear friend--go, this is no place for you; nothing but the request of ----; nothing but _her_ request should have induced me to send for you."

"But now I _am_ here," said Ellen, "surely you will allow me to stay; I may be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet."

In vain she urged. Laura sacrificed all selfish considerations, and insisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet wish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to request his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and looking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily dozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another shower of tears, left the room.

St. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home, though she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.

"Laura," said he, "judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly: you could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly improper; you must not think of it."

Two days of the greatest anxiety now passed, and at the end of that time the fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were attended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might well have taught the worldly "how a Christian could die!"

For many days Laura was confined to her bed, and it was feared she would follow her sister to the grave; but by degrees she shook off the excess of her sorrow, and for her father's sake endeavoured to recover from the dreadful shock she had received.

Sir William Cecil, who had long been convinced that Juliet would not live many months, was more easily consoled. The St. Aubyns of course had delayed their journey to London on this event; and finding that Sir William Cecil was disposed to make an excursion to Bath, which his gouty habit indeed rendered almost necessary, they endeavoured to prevail on Laura to come to them at St. Aubyn Castle for a short time, and then go with them to London. From this proposal, especially the latter part, she for some time shrunk, and wished to be allowed to remain at Rose-hill alone: but that her friends would not permit: and Sir William having arranged to go to Bath at the same time with a neighbouring family, and to be in the same house with them, Laura was at length prevailed on to remove to the Castle, and from thence, after a short stay, to accompany her friends to London, where they promised her an apartment exclusively her own, and that she should see no other till she herself wished it.

"Yet why," said she, "my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, why should I burden you with one so powerless to add to your comforts, or partake your pleasures?"

"Is not that an unkind question?" said Ellen; "or do you really believe me insensible to the gratification of soothing your mind, and supporting your spirits? Whenever you will permit me, I will be your visitor in your apartment; whenever my company would be irksome, I will leave you to yourself, provided I do not find you the worse for the indulgence."

All was therefore thus arranged, and Miss Cecil, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn in one carriage, and Miss Cecil's maid, and Ellen's talkative but faithful Jane, in another, with out riders, &c. in great style left Northamptonshire, and arrived the next evening at the Earl's magnificent house in Cavendish-square.--Lady St. Aubyn's first care was to select such an apartment for the mournful Laura as would make her easy, and free from restraint; and having conducted her to it, she told her she was entirely mistress there, and never should be interrupted unless she chose it.

Ellen, who had made several little attempts in verse since she had seen those of Miss Cecil, now soothed her sorrow for the loss of the sweet Juliet by a few stanzas, which, when she thought her able to bear them, she gave to Laura, who was gratified by this little tribute to her loved, lamented sister's memory.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

How mourns the heart, when early fades away The opening promise of a riper bloom; When youth and beauty, innocently gay, Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!

Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn, Arose superior to that childish frame, (Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn, To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.

Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care, Which future years perhaps had bade the prove; A heart so tender, and a form so fair, Ill with the perils of the world had strove!

Thy heart expanding at affection's voice, How had it borne in native kindness warm, To check the rapid fire of youthful choice, And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!

To thee were graces so benignly given, A soul so tender, and a wit so rare; A love of harmony, as if kind Heaven Had bade thee for an early bliss prepare.

Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace, The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain; Thy winning manners studiously retrace, And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.

Nor shall that heart to present scenes confine Its views and wishes; but with worthier care, Seek to preserve an innocence like thine, And humbly hope thy happiness to share.

CHAP. IV.

To such how fair appears each grain of sand, Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand! A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view.-- ----See with what art each curious shell is made: Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid! What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn, Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!

S. JENYNS.

The arrival of the St. Aubyns in London opened a wide field for conjecture and conversation in the fashionable world. It was known, for St. Aubyn's haughty relations had not failed to publish it, that he had married a young woman far inferior to him in rank, and absolutely without fortune. It was also known that she was uncommonly beautiful; and great anxiety, mixed with no small share of ridicule, was excited by her expected _debut_; but the modest Ellen was in no haste to afford the starers and sneerers so rich a treat: she merely went to a few morning exhibitions, attended only by her Lord, for the first fortnight of her stay in town; and indeed St. Aubyn hoped, notwithstanding her present distance and displeasure, to induce his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt, to chaperon Ellen to some of the public places, being fully sensible what an advantage it would be to her to be so supported: he therefore acquiesced in her wishes, till he could bring about this desirable arrangement, and allowed his wife to spend most of her evenings at home.

Several ladies had however called on Lady St. Aubyn, some of whom had left their cards, and others she had seen. Most of these visits she had returned; but one of those, who had shewn the greatest desire to see more of Lady St. Aubyn--indeed, a distant relation of the Earl's, she had not been yet to see.

One morning Lord St. Aubyn said he would go with her to see the museum of an old friend of his, who lived at Knightsbridge, who was a great collector of every thing rare and curious, particularly shells, pictures, and gems. "He is quite a character," added he: "but I will not anticipate your surprize: we can go there early. I told him we would go to-day, or to-morrow; and after we have been there, you can call on Lady Meredith, who gave herself a trouble so extraordinary, as actually to alight from her carriage and make you a personal visit."

"You will go with me?"

"Pardon me, my love, that is not necessary, and you really must learn to _go alone_, and not depend so much on me."

"I hope her Ladyship may not be at home."

"Indeed, my love, I hope she may; for dissimilar as they are in every respect, my aunt, Lady Juliana, spends a great deal of her time there. She is so fond of finding fault, and differing in opinion from others, that I really believe she goes to Lady Meredith's chiefly for the pleasure of lecturing her, who is so indifferent to the opinion of any one, that she does not think it worth while to be at the trouble of resenting the sharp things Lady Juliana says to her."

"What a strange motive for being intimate with any one."

"Strange enough: but when you see more of the world, you will discern that affection is not the only bond of union between those who call themselves friends."

"I think I have seen that already in Mrs. Dawkins and Miss Alton."

"True: convenience, the wish of finding a patient _hearer_, accident, the want of a more pleasing companion, are amongst the numerous inducements which form what we are pleased to call friendship. Nay, I once heard a good lady say she was sure a family she mentioned had proved themselves _real friends_ to her, for they had sent her a _large plumcake_[A]."

[A] A fact.

Ellen laughed at this curious definition of friendship.

"Well," said St. Aubyn: "but to return to Lady Meredith. I hope she may, by reporting well of you to Lady Juliana, induce her to become more friendly towards us: you know how anxious I am to have you in her good graces--not, believe me, on account of her immense fortune, but because, with all her pride and stiffness, she has a warm heart and excellent qualities, and would be to you a most valuable friend; so pray do your best to please Lady Meredith."

"Very well: but will you tell me the most likely way to succeed?"

"I am afraid it will be difficult: she will think you too handsome, unless indeed she intends soon to have a large party."

"How is it possible _that_ should have any thing to do with the matter?"

"Why, Lady Meredith's great ambition is to outshine all her competitors in the number and fashion of those collected at her routes; and as sometimes, in spite of her charms, and the lustre of her abundant jewels, there are some obstinate animals who will be uncivil enough to recollect they '_have seen them before_,' consequently become rather weary of them, and desert her for some newer belle. Lady Meredith may think you (so new to the world, and so beautiful) a desirable reinforcement, and may therefore honour you with an invitation: pray accept it, if she does, and take great pains at your toilette to-day: for my friend, Mr. Dorrington, is a great admirer of beauty, and will shew you his fine collection a great deal more readily if he admire your's, particularly if he should fancy you like a bust he has of the _bona Dea_ (at least he gives it that name, though it is so mutilated, he confesses he does not exactly know for what or whom it was designed), which he almost idolizes."

Ellen hastened to obey, but she wished herself at Castle St. Aubyn, for she had not liked the little she had seen of Lady Meredith, and she shrunk from the idea of this formidable morning visit. Conquering her fears, however, as well as she could, and looking uncommonly beautiful, she rejoined her Lord. Her milliner had just sent home a most elegant and expensive morning dress, bonnet, and cloak, all of the finest materials, and in that delicate modest style, which she always chose, and was to her peculiarly becoming. St. Aubyn thought he had never seen her look so well, and gave great credit to Madame de ---- for consulting so admirably the natural style of her beauty, as to embellish, without overloading it. The barouche was at the door: she had therefore only time to say "farewell" to Laura, and stepping hastily in, half an hour brought them to Mr. Dorrington's.

As the carriage stopt at the house, the figure of a fine old man with grey hair caught the eye of Lady St. Aubyn: he was at the instant ascending the steps to knock at the door, and was so meanly dressed, that she supposed him a mendicant, or at least extremely poor, and her ready hand sought her purse, intending to give relief to the infirm looking old man. What then was her surprize, when, just as she stretched out her hand for that purpose, the old man, looking into the carriage, and seeing Lord St. Aubyn, advanced, and taking off his hat with the most courtly air imaginable, displayed a fine commanding forehead, expressive eyes, and a contour of countenance so admirable, as, once seen, could never be forgotten.

"Ah! my dear St. Aubyn," he exclaimed, "how rejoiced I am to see you! I am really happy that I returned in time to receive you: as you did not say positively you would come to-day, it was all a chance; but come, do me the favour to alight: I have just succeeded in making the finest purchase--a shell, a unique: you shall see it."

By this time St. Aubyn had alighted, and giving his hand to Ellen, introduced her to this extraordinary man. Nothing could be more polished than his address, nothing more elegant than the grace with which he received her, or more spirited than the little compliment he made St. Aubyn on his happiness, and the beauty of his lady.

Whoever looked at Mr. Dorrington, when his shabby old hat was removed, must instantly see the man of sense and superior information: whoever heard him speak, heard instantly that it was the voice and enunciation not only of a gentleman, but of one who had lived in the very highest circles; and yet his appearance, at first, would have led any one to suppose him, as Ellen did, in absolute poverty. He led the way into his favourite apartment, indeed the only one he ever inhabited, except his bed-chamber; and into neither would he ever suffer any one to enter unless he was with them. No broom, nor brush of any kind, ever disturbed the sacred dust of this hallowed retirement: in the grate, the accumulated ashes of _many months_ remained; the windows were dimmed with the untouched dirt of years: and nothing but the table on which his slender meals were spread (for his temperance in eating and drinking were as remarkable as his singular neglect of personal attire), and two or three chairs for the reception of occasional visitors, were ever wiped. In one of these he seated the astonished Ellen, who gazed around her at treasures, the value of which exceeded her utmost guess. A handsome cabinet with glass doors contained a variety of curious gems, vases, and specimens of minerals: some invaluable pictures stood leaning against the walls: heaps of books in rich bindings, which Ellen afterwards found were either remarkable for their scarceness, or full of fine prints, lay scattered around.

"Now, my Lord," said Mr. Dorrington, "I will shew you and Lady St. Aubyn my new purchase: I said it was unique, but it is not exactly so: I have another of the same sort; but these are the only two in the world: I think this is a little, a very little finer than that I had before; I bought it at ****'s sale, and gave a monstrous price for it; but I was determined to have it: it was the only thing in his collection I coveted."

He then displayed his new purchase, and descanted for some time on its various beauties; and seeing Ellen really admired it, pleased also with her beauty and sweetness, he proceeded to shew her his collection, and even those rare articles which never appeared but to particular favourites, saying she was "_worthy to admire them_." Some beautiful miniatures particularly pleased her, and he was delighted that she seemed to understand their value. He also produced some fine illuminated missals, and explained every thing with so much grace and perspicuity as quite delighted her.

Two hours fled swiftly in examining these wonders, and even then they had not seen half, but promised to visit him another day. He told Lady St. Aubyn he should be at her command at any time; and then most politely attending her to her carriage, he with a courteous bow took his leave.

On their way home, St. Aubyn told Ellen that the extraordinary man they had just left had for many years led a life of dissipation, by which he reduced a large fortune almost to nothing; but that having once, in consequence of his extravagance, been obliged to sell a collection still finer than that he now had, he had determined to gratify his passion for _virtu_, without the risk of again ruining himself, and therefore denied himself every thing but the bare necessaries of life; and was, consequently, enabled to purchase rare articles at any price, and to outbid other collectors, who had different demands on part of their incomes. He kept no man, and but one female servant; and St. Aubyn said, that when he had called on him a few days before, he found him in a storm of rage with this poor servant-girl, for having dared, while he was engaged with some company in his sitting-room, to brush out his bed-chamber, in the door of which he had, _par miracle_, left the key.--"And I am sure, Sir," said the girl, crying, "I never touched nothing but that great wooden man" (meaning a layman which always stands in Mr. Dorrington's room), "that's enough to frighten a body; and he I only just moved, for master never won't have nothing like other people; and I thought if he brought the gentlefolks in his bed-room, as he sometimes will, it was a shame to see such a place, and such a dirty table cover; so I was only just going to make it a little tidy, and I never broke nothing at all."

"I comforted the poor girl," said St. Aubyn, "by giving her a trifle, and advised her by no means to provoke her master, by presuming to touch a brush in his rooms again without order: and she promised me she would in future be contented with cleaning her own kitchen and passages--'And never touch nothing belonging to master's rooms, nor any of them outlandish things, that be all full of dust, and enough to breed moths and all manner of flies all over the house.'----And I think," said he, laughing, "she appears to have kept her promise very exactly."

CHAP. V.

---- So perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with it. ---- She did lie In her pavilion, cloth of gold.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.