The Mistakes of a Life: a novel

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Chapter I

Still in my heart that cry goes on, For ever gone ! for ever gone ! Golden Legend. To describe the trepidation of nry spirits after this conversation would be impossible. Strong as my love for Theodore really was, and absolute as my belief in him might be in general, there would be moments of misgiving, moments when my respect and affection for St. John made me stagger in my belief towards the other. 1 knew Mr. Suffield must have VOL. III. B TIIK MISTAKES OF A LIKE. had gool foundations for his opinions, or he would not have interfered. And suppose he Bhould be right? what then? Then when I thought of myself, there was the mortifying conviction that I must have sunk immeasurably in his respect, when he discovered how far I had strayed from the open, straight path of womanly rectitude and decorum!

He might talk of esteem, and trust in me, but cudd he really feel either? I was humiliated and abashed. Still he did not know the worst ; he only guessed it ; and perhaps he might never know it. How deeply my heart was engaged in this affair, he need not discover, unless I succeeded in bringing it to a prosperous issue. I did not give myself any time to reflect on what the result would be if Theodore persisted in secresy ; all I wished at the present moment was to conceal my agitated feelings. Sir Thomas Fenton dined with us that day, and in receiving his attentions, I was able to dispel reflection, till I was again alone. I had promised to meet Theodore the next day as soon after eleven as possible. I sat in the drawing-room with Grace and Mrs. Brook as usual. St. John came in just as we left the breakfast table, and also — as usual — read to us, until when the appointed hour drew near, I scribbled on a scrap of paper : — " 1 am going to meet M. M., for the purpose mentioned, and trusting to your secresy, renew my promise.

Do not let me be followed, and I will be back in an hour." I threw this down on the table before him, and with an expressive look, left the room. Very slowly and thoughtfully I walked to the rendezvous. Suppose the result were unfavourable to my wishes, could I keep the promise by which I had voluntarily bound myself? I was very weak, and 1 dared not contemplate such an alternative. Theodore must, should yield ! If he would do no more, he should at least explain his situation to St. John ; and, supported by his approbation, guided by his opinion, we would consent to B separate if necessary, for the present, that we might meet hereafter on happier terms. This was my idea, as I reached the spot where my lover was impatiently waiting for me . The gravity of my looks caught his attention immediately, and he eagerly inquired what was the matter.

I had intended to begin with circumspec tion, and introduce my arguments carefully, but every idea of the kind vanished now, and I exclaimed, abruptly : — " Theodore, you must come and explain to my father your situation, and appear openly at home as my suitor !" Just the thing which, in sober earnest, I knew was impossible, and which I had deter mined not to ask. The natural reply was an exclamation of astonishment, and inquiry if I were mad. " Xo, I am perfectly serious ; this is the last time I mean to meet you here, in a way which makes me blush to think of. Henceforth, you must, if you wish* to see me, seek me at my father's house." Such a scowl passed over his brow ; and when it cleared off, there remained fixed an expression of indignation which I did not like, it bordered on contempt.

" Is that all you have to ask?" said he, in a low, constrained voice. " Will you comply with this, dear Theo dore?" said I, trembling, and laying an anxious baud upon his arm. I believe he was struggling for self-com mand ; his compressed lips were white, and the muscles round his mouth, by their twitch ing, showed his internal agitation. I watched him narrowly. His brow gradually cleared, before he answered ; and fondly taking my hand, as he turned to me with a smile, he said : " What new caprice has seized my betrothed, that she comes to prove me by such proposi tions ?" " It is no caprice, Theodore ; it may put your love to tin? proof, but it must be done !" I answered, earnestly. " So it shall as soon as it can be, con sistently with other duties," he replied, quietly. " Whv not at once 7" " You know ; to ask your hand would be to acknowledge my faith, and ruin to all my family would ensue."

" But, Theodore, this is an ungrounded tear, I am sure ; my family could shield you in England, from any possible harm, and my fortune would support you, and all belong ing to you." He gravely shook his head, and repeated " Impossible." " I am sure your objections must arise from ignorance of our ways and customs, Theo dore." " Xo, Henrietta ; but your urgency comes from not understanding ours." "Then let me propose an alternative. Consult a friend of mine, state the whole case to him, take his advice as to what you can safely do, and if he judges with you, that se cresy is still necessary, I will agree ; if he takes my view, you shall submit to his verdict." " And what friend do you suggest, and wish to invest with such power?" said Theo dore, gloom again gathering in his eyes. " St. John Suffield, my future brother-in law."

" St. John Suffield — my former rival !" he exclaimed, with a flash of anger. I was silent from pride. " Henrietta, why insult me by such a pro position?" he added, impetuously, striking his hands together. " The insult is to vie, in using such language Monsieur," said I, indignantly, drawing up my head. " May I ask," inquired he, in a voice qui vering with emotion, " if Mr. Suffield suggested this plan to you, Miss Moore?" " He did ; not directly, but he agreed to it ; TIIK MISTAKES OF A LIFE. and I promised that my future conduct should depend on his decision. If you consult him, it will be easy to arrange as to what we shall do; if you refuse, I have pledged him my word to see you no more here, in this way. Theodore sprang to his feet and stood be fore me, trembling with passion. After one or two choking sounds — vain efforts to speak, he exclaimed : — " And what has become then of your prior vows to me ! of the pledge you gave me of secresy and truth ?"

My spirit was thoroughly roused now. Theodore despairing, adoring, entreating, was irresistible ; I could not harden myself against love so vehement and flattering. But Theo dore enraged, unjust, and overbearing, might frighten, but would never soften me. My pride was equal to his, if my passions were less vehement. His tone and voice offended me deeply. I rose also, and drawing back, I replied : — " To inquiries made in so unbecoming a manner, I will not condescend to answer." " And in what manner would it be becoming in me to express my feelings at finding that you had broken your faith, forgotten your promises, and endangered me, and all dearest to me, by revealing to the spy of my bitterest enemy the hopes and wishes most necessary to be concealed. Should I kiss your hand and say, Madam, I thank you, I am obliged that you have defeated my dearest plans, that you have exposed me to suspicion, contempt, and dishonour on one side, or to vengeance inevitable on the other ; that you have con demned me to a perpetual exile, or perpetual imprisonment ; to misery and poverty here without advantage to my cause, or to suffering there without honour to my name.

I am grateful to you for these favours ; oblige me farther by trampling on my affections, and mocking at my presumptuous love ; make the heart you have won a subject for your witty satire amongst your rich English friends ; b divert yourself by laughing at the infatuation of the Italian priest, who madly imagined that he had secured your love." He stopped, I believe from his passion de priving him of words, and even of the power of articulation. I stood before him like a statue. I knew, this mood would pass, and that in proportion to the vehemence of his present fury, would be the depth of his peni tence. When he was silent, I answered gravely : " St. John is not a spy, he is a true friend to me. I am not a traitress, but an injured and insulted woman. Though I might justi fy myself if I would ; to language such as this I will grant nothing ; I will explain nothing !

Did I not know how much pain your intem perate conduct will cause you, I should be more angry than sorry for you. Xow, remember, I will never meet you here again, and take this warning — you had better keep off Mr. Suffield's premises yourself." I moved to go. I had to pass him, and the path was narrow. He would not let me proceed. He spread out his arms to bar the way ; he did not speak, he only uttered inar ticulate sounds, and his face was convulsed. I waited a moment, and then haughtily said : " I shall be obliged if you will suffer me to 71 pass. " Pardon !" he exclaimed, clasping his hands, but not moving a step. I was silent. " Pardon !" he repeated, in the same suffo cated voice, as if he had no power to utter another word. I felt softened. " I knew you would be sorry," I said, looking at him.

" I will leave you to repent." " Leave me to despair, " he exclaimed, " Henrietta, beloved Henrietta." I stopped and hesitated. I suppose he saw his advantage. " One moment," he whis pered. " If you can be rational," I said; "but to converse with a man under the influence of TnE MISTAKES OF A LIFE. mistakes which delude him to such a degree is but waste of time." " Henrietta, my passion is gone ; but my fear and my sorrow alike remain. Your be trayal of our secret may have the most fatal consequences. Of what I said, the manner was unpardonable, but the substance was truth. I am not one ot your cold country men. I cannot contemplate unmoved such ruin to my dearest hopes. I gave way to emotions which undoubtedly were too violent, but not unfounded." " They were totally and entirely unfounded, Monsieur," I replied, deliberately ; "and were you in a state to listen to reason and calm expostulation, I would prove that they were so."

" May I venture to ask," said he, clasping his hands in au attitude of supplication, "that you will explain? Not for my sake, for I deserve nothing, but for the sake of justice and truth." " I do not know that I have any more time than inclination now," was my reply. " You have wasted in extravagant declamations of ang;er the moments which miofht have been given to rational discourse, and to arranging some plans for the future. And now we must part. I have pledged my word to re turn home within an hour; and more than that, I have promised absolutely not to repeat these, stolen interviews. It is, as I told you, the last meeting we shall have." i I spoke with a firmness which surprised myself; but somehow, although I talked of a last meeting, I did not realise the idea ; I expected fully that he would yield, or that something would occur, some accident, some chance, some sudden change of circumstances to prevent my being so very unhappy as a final parting would have made me.

At the worst, I knew that if I gave up our meetings, we might still correspond, there would be no thing to prevent that. " An hour !" was his reply, " but you have been here only five minutes at most." I looked at my watch, half an hour only had flown since we had met ; there was still time to spare. He pleaded with me earnestly that I should again sit down, and say what was to be said, deliberately and calmly. I yielded, for I wished it spoken. I told him that I had not betrayed our se cret, but that it had betrayed itself. Appa rently his steps had been watched, our meet ings had been discovered, and had reached St. John's ears. The consequences of this discovery I detailed to him. "Now," said I, ' you see how unjust you were ; how kind and true St. John is ; and how perfectly right he is in his representa tions.

What could I do less or more than I have done ? It is for you to act now. Con fide in him, and he will help you at once to arrange some plan by which all these objec tions might be overruled or obviated. Trust in him, and all will be well." " Darling Henrietta," he replied, " I do not wonder that your upright and candid mind cannot discover that this whole pro ceeding is an artful snare, of which St. John Suffield is only one of the tools or baits. It is so natural to you to trust ; your whole nature is so confiding and generous. But, oh, the base treachery of those who take advan tage of your goodness to deceive you, and would use your affection as a lure to make me their victim !" " Nonsense, Theodore," I interrupted him, " you are too suspicious. You are in Eng land, a free country, not a land of conspiracy and treason.

Your head is bewildered by the intrigues of your native land, until you fancy every stranger a spy, and every question a snare. Reflect a moment; what object could St. John have in interfering, except my character?" " A thousand ! you little know, love, how many intrigues, even in this country, spread below the surface which we see. But I cannot reveal more ; you must take my word, and believe that all this is only a part of the plan my enemies have made to ensnare me." "And what then?" said I, earnestly, and beginning to feel uneasy, for I saw Theodore did not mean to yield to my entreaties. " That I dare not grant what you ask. Don't frown, let me smooth away that con traction of your brow by my lips, dearest!" I drew back coldly. " You are angry, carissima mia, what can I do ? What would you have me say but the truth !" continued he, anxiously, and in a voice of most touching tenderness.

" Then, Theodore, listen ; since you will not make this small concession for my sake, I have promised absolutely to break off these meetings. I will not, I must not, see you again. I gave my word to St. John, and my character is at stake, as well as my truth. For worlds would I not forfeit St. John's esteem, and only in this way can I retain it." " St. John's esteem !" repeated he, " and is that the real motive which prompts you to this cruel determination ? Can his esteem make up to you for my love ; are your views and affections so easily swayed, that the fear of his reproaches can influence you beyond all concern for my agony ? If you loved me, Henrietta, you could not, you would not so calmly announce this determination." " If you loved me, Theodore, you would value my character beyond every selfish con sideration."

" Henrietta, you are not sincere, you do not own your real motives," he exclaimed, angrily, " but you cannot blind me. This English baronet, this rich and gay Sir Thomas — yes, yes, I see it all ; he offers a far better match than any prospect I can hold out, and what can love, even such love as mine, oppose to ambition and a desire of wealth ? This is the real motive, veil it as you will." " Theodore !" I exclaimed, impatiently, " you will drive me wild with this perverse misinterpretation. If you will not believe me, there is an end of it, no assertion of mine can have the least effect. But I will be heard for my own sake. Listen, and then take your choice. Although I have determined to break off these meetings, and your passionate and unreasonable conduct convinces me all the more of the propriety of doing so, I had not resolved to break our engagement.

I would allow you to write freely, and promise to answer regularly ; all I would ask is, that if secresy is inevitable, that you would leave the country until this mystery may be cleared up. Remove from the neighbourhood, and the whispers about our intercourse will die away. Whenever circumstances allow you to come forward openly and claim me, do so ; meantime be satisfied, without exposing me to slanderous misrepresentations. That is my proposal. The only alternative is to part for ever ! " Leave you — withdraw — disappear — that you may be at liberty to pursue the conquest of Sir Thomas's heart. Say it at once, Miss Moore ! why not ? be it so ! I resign you to him !" " Repeat that insult once more, Monsieur Mentesi, and I take you at your word !" I exclaimed, indignantly. " I have a spirit, which, though forbearing and forgiving to a certain point, will not bend to every indig nity.

I am going. Our intercourse is at an end. Farewell !" " No, no, no !" he exclaimed, catching my dress, " I am mad, I did not mean it, stay, listen to me, let me implore, forgive me ! in mercy, stay. Henrietta, must we part?" " Yes, we must ! but it is for you to choose whether we shall meet again !" " Choose ! for me to choose ! can you doubt ! but dearest, sweetest, hear me. It is my failing perhaps, the infirmity of my nation, of my temper, to be madly jealous whilst my future happiness is so uncertain. But were you once mine — mine entirely — mine for ever — " He stopped and looked at me earnestly. I did not catch his meaning. " You mean to say it would cease ? be it so. I forgive you all the past, but for your own sake I recommend you to subdue a temper wdiich must make you miserable."

" But, you do not understand. Henrietta, become mine, my wife without delay, and then I will no longer torment you, or myself by fears of a rival." His hurried manner, and embarrassed air, made his words not easy to understand. I was puzzled. "What do you mean?" I exclaimed, quite bewildered. " Just now you said you could not own our engagement, and now you talk of marriage ! You are strangely mysterious !" " Not to have it known. I did not mean a public marriage, but a private, a concealed marriage ; surely we could arrange it, and then I should fear no more." Every vein in my body seemed to tingle with indignant contempt. 1 drew myself up in anger. " A clandestine marriage ! and you dare to propose this to me ? Now, Monsieur, you have indeed shown me how I have degraded myself by consenting to meet you in private.

Had I not condescended to do what nothing but confidence in your honour led me to grant, I had not been exposed to the insult of such a proposal. Take that, and fare well." I snatched from my finger the ring which he had placed there a week ago. I flung it indignantly at him, and I rushed away, with out once pausing to look at, or to listen to his gestures and words of wild entreaty. I have no memory of any thing which fol lowed, until I found myself seated in the drawing room. My angry feelings so en grossed me, that I mechanically directed my steps there, without a moment's consideration. Yet, I believe, to outward appearace, I must have been calm, for Grace would have been disturbed had my movements been more hur ried than usual ; aud she expressed no sur prise. But I was conscious that St. John was looking at me earnestly, and I suppose my face was pale, for I felt sick at heart ; and after a little while St. John came to me si lently, and placing a bottle of eau-de-cologne which stood on the table, within my reach, pressed my hand with a kind and brotherly action.

There were only those two in the room with me, and his silent demonstrations of sympathy and friendship were not of a nature to attract my sister's attention. I saw plainly that he was anxious to win my confidence, and in spite of my misery, feeling desirous of retaining his good opinion, I sought an early opportunity of giving him the information he wdshed for. I told him we were entirely parted ; that I had resolved never to see my lover again, for that M. Mentesi was not to be persuaded by any argument of mine, to declare openly his views and wishes in remaining in this neighbourhood. That I presumed he would now go away, but that at any rate, whether he went or stayed, I had decided on avoiding his society for the future. St. John was most unaffectedly happy, and grateful at this communication.

He expressed again aud again, his conviction that I should hereafter see reason to rejoice in having broken off a dangerous acquaintance. " Would to heaven I had never known them at all !" I exclaimed, in a burst of uncon trollable regret, and disappointment. " I never thought it a wise acquaintance," he answered, quietly ; " but regret for the past will soon merge in peace of mind. You have done right now, and will certainly find it happiest." St. John did not know all. Theoretically no doubt, doing right ought to bring peace and quiet, but then it must be done from a right motive ; the will must be in the deed, and mine was not. There is no peace to be found where even a correct action is deduced from a false principle, and to do right with a wish that wrong may result, is no better than to do evil that good may come of it.

In the whole transaction, I do not believe that I had one feeling which deserved to be called good ; I was swayed by pride, by passion, by affec tion, but not by principle. It was a miserable time that followed. Discontented, weary, wanting occupation, craving for excitement, regretting Theodore, I was a prey to unhappy thoughts and idle murmurs. Like all persons of an ill-regulated mind, I had been accustomed to give way to the vain amusement of indulging my imagination with ideal scenes of happiness, of which I Avas the heroine. I had pictured romances to my mind, until I hardly could live without these airy visions on which to feed my vanity. To these re sources I now turned for distraction to my thoughts, and busied myself in building these unreal castles for the future. Theodore was always the hero and centre of my dream.

Theodore returning, penitent, devoted, explaining all mysteries, clearing up his charac ter, renouncing his country, and openly pro fessing his adoption of our Protestant Church, whilst he honourably sought my hand in marriage. How proudly then should I bestow it, how gladly would I proclaim to all the woidd, my disinterested affection, and the entire confidence I felt in his worth. Such were my fancies; and in addition to this occupation, my only other diversion was flirt ing with Sir Thomas Fenton. His attentions were becoming every day more marked, and had my behaviour been more certainly en couraging, perhaps he would speedily have made his suit in due form. But I was capricious and variable, and sometimes so cold to his demonstrations, that it kept him in a state of suspense, exactly calculated to induce a man of his sanguine temper to pursue his object with the more resolution and animation.

There was no necessity for him to be in a hurry ; he had no apparent rival, and he could VOL. III. c not expect, or even wish me, to marry before T attained the full possession of my estate. Meanwhile, what had become of Theodore? This was a question which tormented me day and night. Apparently he had left the country ; certainly he had quitted his lodgings at Crowfoot Farm, and the inquiries which at my urgent request, St. John made, resulted in the information that he had sent off all his boxes by waggon to London, and was supposed to have gone there himself. At first I could hardly believe this. It seemed to me impossible that he should have left me thus abruptly, without one effort at communication, one attempt to soften my resolution, or recall my tenderness. Every day I waked up expecting to have some note, some letter placed in my hand, imploring pardon, and beseeching for an interview ; every time I went out, I looked about in a sort of fearful longing to see some trace of him again ; to find him following my steps, or hiding in my old haunts.

I did not, indeed, go any where alone, I dared not do that ; but I thought he would have been watching for the chance of seeing me. Every day I was disappointed, and the bitterness of my angry sorrow is not to be expressed : it was the more bitter, because I was so totally unable to give it vent. I had no one to speak to of what was nearest my heart. I hardly remember how long this wretched state of mind continued ; I was slightly roused by a proposal that we should go to London for a fortnight or three weeks. We were to meet Stuart and his wife there, and taking a house together, to form one family. Part of our plan was to get Grace's wedding clothes, part to indulge her with hearing the cele brated Catalani, whose voice excited just then the furore of the London world. Sir Thomas indicated his intention to follow us, and I revived a little at the prospect of the novelty.