The Wife's Sister; or, the Forbidden Marriage: a novel

Preface

. The events which my tale records cannot again occur. No individuals can now be placed in similar situations. It is a tale of days that are past. It was written previously to the great agitation on the question of the Law of Marriage ; and is now laid before the public, neither at the solicitations of admiring friends, nor with the ambitious intention of settling a much debated point; but purely from private and personal p onsiderations, the nature of which my readers are at liberty to guess for them selves. LOCKERLEY, HANTS, JANUARY, OR, THE FORBIDDEN MARRIAGE.

Chapter I

It was in the height of the London season, in the year 1831, that a large and brilliant party was assembled in a house in Grafton Street. All that was beautiful, and fair, and bright, be witching to the senses, and intoxicating to the youthful mind, was there collected; yet amidst the crowd, stood apart, abstracted, silent, a young man, who neither saw nor heard the united fascinations which surrounded him. His eyes, it is true, were fixed in earnest gaze on an^ exquisite painting of Raphaelle's, but he VOL. I. B was unconscious even of its charms, for his heart was far away, and he was listening to the soft low murmurs of memory, which rendered all sounds inaudible to him. Whilst thus wrapped in his own thoughts, and abstracted from the general throng, there was one as attentively observing him.

A graceful and handsome woman, having for some time regarded him with interest, softly approached him, and placed herself by his side. Crowded as were the reception rooms, the spot where he stood was slightly removed from view, for a marble column formed a small recess, and behind this he stood, to contemplate the painting before mentioned, which hung in this corner, as if in a temple devoted to itself alone. Perhaps it was no wonder that this retreat was shunned by the greater part of the as sembly ; the soft eyes of the Virgin Mother seemed to gaze almost reproachfully on the giddy triflers around, and even to the most careless observer, the impression was conveyed that either it or they were out of place. ' You were deeply engrossed, my dear cousin," said the young lady, who thus broke on Cecil's reverie, laying the tip of her finger half playfully on his arm as she spoke.

" Are you come to worship in this quiet little sanc tum ? Why will you ever retreat from life and merriment ?" He turned on her his deep black eyes, with a gaze as of one awakened from a long sleep, but which gradually acquired more interest and animation as he regarded her, until the look of warm admiration — that look which all women are so pleased to read, and which once seen no woman can mistake — made her drop her eyes, and brought a still richer carnation to her glowing cheeks. " I was under a spell, Laura," he replied, recovering himself, " and your voice has broken the illusion ; you know a word spoken would at once dissipate the moving pictures in the magic mirror." " I hardly know whether to wish your visions may have been pleasant or the reverse," replied Laura Mansfield, " since I should as much re gret that you had been distressed by what was painful, as that I should have put to flight b what was agreeable.

May I ask if this fair faced Madonna was the cause, or the subject of your reverie ?" Cecil again raised his eyes to the painting, and the former seriousness of his expression returned immediately. She observed it. " The painting, no doubt, calls up reminiscences," said she, as he continued silent. "May I guess, Cecil? Is it hke my late cousin, that you gaze so sadly ?" Her tone of deep sympathy touched his heart. " You guess rightly, Laura," replied he, still fascinated by the canvas ; " those loving eyes, that pure and delicate expression — yes, such was my Mary — and such is still — " He paused, and did not complete the sentence. " Yes, it is an angel face," replied Laura, looking for one moment at the painting, and then turning her own brilliant eyes on him with an expression of the deepest interest.

" It must be a pleasure to you to think that such she is still. No wonder you dwell on her likeness — " " Her likeness," repeated he, absently, " her very image — air — voice and gesture are the same ; thought — feeling — affection — everything external and internal, serves only to remind me of her." Laura thought her cousin gone a little mad upon the subject of his late wife, and the likeness to her which he had discovered in Raphaelle's painting ; but she was too polite, or too amiable to hint at such an idea, and after a short silence she began again : " I suppose you feel no inclination to dance. Cecil?" " Dance! oh, no ! pray excuse — indulge me. Allow me a momentary respite from the toils of civility ; surely there is no one here to whom I have any chance of making myself agreeable. I shrink from the attempt."

" No wonder, dear Cecil ; you shall do as you please here ; I can quite comprehend how the scenes you trod with her at your side must now7 seem solitary and distasteful to you. But do not stand and indulge in sad and lonely reverie. Come with me into the conservatory ; we shall have it almost to ourselves, and you shall tell me all your past sorrows, and teach me to feel with you." She drew him away as she spoke, and they were soon standing in the small but gay conservatory, where they had no other companions than birds and flowers. " Now tell me," said Laura, " all about my poor cousin." Then seeing he hesitated, she exclaimed : " Ah ! I see you will not trust me ; perhaps you think me too light and giddy to deserve such a confidence ; but you do not know me. I have feelings — deep and lasting feelings ; and where my heart is concerned — " She stopped abruptly, and coloured over brow, and face, and neck.

" I do not doubt your feehngs, dear Laura," said her cousin, kindly, " but I mistrust my own ; it is that which keeps me silent, and in clines me to repay your offered sympathy with my best thanks, and nothing more." Laura was silent ; pride and affection struggled in her bosom, but the latter conquered, and she resumed, after a short space : " If you will not talk to me of one whose goodness and angelic virtues have reached even to my ears, tell me of your children. Talk of them, dear Cecil — what are they like ?" " Little cherubs," replied he, with enthusiasm. " You may smile, and call it parental vanity, if you please, but I boldly confess I think them beautiful, angelic — almost too much so — it makes me tremble to look at them." " How I should like to see them !" cried Laura, " twins are so interesting.

Which is most like you, the boy or girl ?" " I believe my little girl is considered most to resemble me ; at least her eyes are dark, which of course gives a great resemblance." " Poor little darlings, how they must want a mother's care," sighed Laura. " Ah ! Cecil, I can sympathize with them ; such has been my lot through life. I never even had that shadow of maternal care which a second marriage affords. Yet — " She stopped. " Yet you do not know whether you w7ould have liked it if you had. Was not that what you left unsaid, Laura ?" demanded her cousin. " No. I was going to say, where such a step is well advised, it is the best and kindest to very young children." Cecil was silent, and Laura felt disappointed. She would have had no objection to undertake the < THE WIFE'S SISTER. 8 office of stepmother to her little cousins ; and being altogether of opinion that she was the fittest object for that office that their father could select, was rather inclined to wonder that he did not take the present tempting opportu nity to tell her so himself.

Finding, however, that Cecil gave no proof that he agreed with her in opinion, she suddenly remembered that they had been sitting there quite long enough, and she therefore proposed that they should reborn to the company. Cecil made no objection, but very soon afterwards he took his leave of her, and returned alone to his melancholy lodgings. Cecil Mansfield was a young man of good family and fortune, with a handsome person, prepossessing address, and very amiable temper. With these qualifications, it was no wonder that his cousin, Laura, should regard his present sorrows with interest, or long to console him for them. Cousins certainly are privileged relations, and a very great degree of latitude is always allowed in the sympathy and affection manifested between them. A great deal more of tenderness than she demonstrated might, however, have passed unheeded by Cecil, who, engrossed by his own thoughts, feelings, wishes, and fears, scarcely heeded her attentions, certainly never solicited them.

From his boyhood he had been his own master, and been accustomed to receive the sub missive attention of all around him ; for though he had a guardian who actually resided in the same house with himself, the temper of this gentleman was so easy, his habits were so indolent, and his pursuits so confined to the library and the arm-chair, that he and Cecil never inter fered with one another in the least. It was true that the natural disposition of the ward made the guardian's interposition apparently unnecessary. He had never shown any inclination for habits of dissipation ; had never been suspected of immoral or disreputable pursuits ; but it was unfortunate for him, perhaps, that this outward correctness gave so fair a ground of excuse and self-apology for the supineness of his guardian. Habits of self-indulgence and luxurious refine ment were formed, which, though apparently justified by his fortune and station in the world, were but a bad preparation for the struggle with B difficulties and sorrows which in some shape or other assail every individual ; and the custom of always following his own will, although that will had hitherto been tolerably correct, w7as likely to be inimical to his strength of mind, should there hereafter arise a contest between inclination and principle.

It is not in such a school that we can train those characters which shall triumph over themselves and their passions. Amongst Cecil's earliest friends, most agree able playfellows, and most yielding companions, were the twin daughters of a gentleman resident in the same village. They were charming girls, and it was so natural that he should seek their society as an exchange from his more manly pursuits, that their father took little notice of the fact. Having no companions at home, and apparently no near relatives, he naturally selected Mary and Fanny Ellis to fill up the vacuum which the want of the fraternal tie occasioned. At that time there was no cousin Laura to rival them, for Cecil's uncle, Mr. Henry Mansfield, had quarrelled with his only brother about their father's will, and the breach had not yet been made up.

To assist the two girls in their gardens, train dogs, and birds, and squirrels for them, accompany them on sketching or botanizing excursions, attend them at pic-nics, and dance with them at balls, was as much his delight as it seemed to be his duty ; and when he left them for the University, each departure was honoured by tears on their parts, and promises of constancy on his. That he should marry7 one of these, his con stant companions, had long been settled by the neighbourhood ; and though the choice between them puzzled most people, they trusted he would have less difficulty in deciding which he pre ferred. And so apparently he had, for, just when he had attained his twenty-second year, and the sisters were entering their twentieth, it was announced in the neighbourhood that Mary Ellis was betrothed to Cecil Mansfield, and that a verv gay wedding at the Park might soon be expected.

It was an event to give general satisfaction, not only to the guests at the wedding-breakfast, but more particularly to such as could assert that " they had always said it would be Mary," and it was surprising how many claimed thc merit of correct prophecies on the subject. But of all who heard it with satisfaction, there was none whose pleasure was so intense at the choice, as was that experienced by a certain young barrister then studying in Lincoln's Inn. It was not the gratification of a love of gaiety, nor the justification of a favourite prediction ; it was the relief from an acute feeling of jealousy which gave him this pleasure. Frank Linwood had likewise from his boyhood been the neighbour of the fair twins, and his attachment to Fanny was quite as sincere as that of Cecil to her sister, but not quite so prosperous, as he was not possessed of a ready-made income, and could only hope, by steady perseverance and unwearied industry, to work his w7ay to such a fortune as might qualify him to address the object of his love.

Nothing could exceed the happiness of the young couple, except the profound misery of Cecil, when death put a sudden close to the connection. Mary had died, after two years of unclouded felicity, when giving birth to twins. Such, like wise, had been the mother's fate. This was the first sorrow Cecil had ever known, and its violence overwhelmed him. For a time, he seemed nearly frantic, could listen to no consolation, attend to no business, and see no one but his father-in-lawand Fanny. But such passionate sorrow cannot last for ever ; the more violent the torrent, the sooner is it spent ; and as the flood of despair subsided, one by one former objects of interest made their appearance, and again became prominent with him. It had been a great addition to the domestic happiness of Mrs. Mansfield that her marriage had been but a nominal separation from her own family ; for such was the tender affection existing between the two sisters, that to live apart would have seemed impossible.

They had never been sundered before Mrs. Mansfield accompanied her young husband on a wedding tour of a few weeks, the conclusion of which was hailed with dehght by both sisters. Living in the same village, and meeting every day, the wife had not experienced those sensations of loneliness, and uneasy pining for intimate female companionship, which too often oppress a young girl when removed entirely from her domestic circle, and separated from the tender sympathies of mother and sisters. Of course, young ladies about to marry con sider that their husbands will be all in all to them- — that they can never need another friend or counsellor, and give up their family ties with rapture ; but when the husband has them all to himself, and female friends are banished, or at least absent, then the want of them begins to be experienced ; and it w7ould be strange in deed — strange and unnatural — were the bonds of the wiiole lifetime to be thus lightly cast aside for perhaps a very recent acquaintance.

But none of this was the case with Mary Ellis, and her short matrimonial career seemed scarcely to be dimmed by a single cloud, until the moment of its sudden termination. Fifteen months had passed since Cecil became a widow7er, and having been obliged to quit his beloved home in Brookensh Park, for a few weeks' residence in London, he had, for the first time, been sought and courted by his uncle, Mr. Henry Mansfield. He had at this time so far recovered his spirits, as to be able to make himself a very agreeable companion to his hand some cousin, and though they never arrived at the verge of a mutual flirtation, a good deal of tenderness on the lady's side had been expended in her efforts to captivate him. She attributed his moments of silence, absence, and melancholy, to recollections of his loss, and was at much pains to give a liveher turn to his thoughts, or to persuade him that a second attachment would be the best cure for his sorrows.

She might have spared herself the trouble. He had already tried the experiment, and it was only the obstacles in his present pursuit which now distressed him. These, how7ever, were serious. He loved, but hitherto he had not dared to address the object of his love, for she was his sister-in-law7. From the time of his wife's death, Mr. Ellis and Fanny had been inmates of his house. To soothe his sorrows, and watch over his children, had been at first the object of their removal thither, and their abode had been prolonged from the circumstance of their having no other home. The lease of the house in which Mr. Ellis had hitherto lived having expired,unexpected difficulties arose respecting its renewal, and for some time they had been in considerable uncer tainty as to where their future home would be.

This point had, however, been lately decided, and Mr. Ellis intended to remove very shortly to some property which had recently come into his possession in the south of Scotland. It was this prospect w7hich had first opened the eyes of Cecil Mansfield both to his feelings and his fears. As his wishes became distinct, so also became the magnitude of the difficulties he must en counter. The doubt which assailed him was not so much as to Fanny's feelings — of those he was tolerably assured ; it was the principles of his father-in-law which stood in his way. Often had he revolved the question as to this marriage in his own mind, and conning over all the argu ments which he could muster to prove its legality, its expediency, and its morality, he had told himself that Mr. Ellis must yield to such opinions.

But his courage invariably failed him when an opportunity was presented for putting it to the proof; he shrank from the trial, and bv thus shrinking he showed at once how hollow were his self-assurances, and his secret flattering hopes. Something told him that had Mr. Ellis imagined such a connection possible, he would never have allowed his daughter to reside under her brother-in-law's roof. The connection be tween them alone rendered such a residence per missible ; and this could only screen the fact from censure, because it was supposed to banish love and marriage from their thoughts. But something must be done immediately ; some decisive step must be taken, for if Fanny were removed to Scotland, the difficulties in his way would be increased tenfold. Full of these thoughts he had returned pen sively to his lodgings from his uncle's house, and spent a great part of the night in fruitless ruminations on his future conduct.

The morning brought him some relief. A letter arrived by post from Mr. Ellis acquainting him that urgent business called him suddenly to his new property ; and not liking to take Fanny from the children duiing their father's absence, he had determined that she should remain at Brookensha till Cecil's return, when she might follow her father, who did not expect to revisit Yorkshire. This announcement all at once opened a new train of ideas to Cecil. Here was Fanny left alone ; unguarded by her father might she not be persuaded, when thus situated, to take a step which never could receive the sanction of his presence? With a heart softened by the dread of a speedy separation, an event which must afflict her with the keenest sorrow, would she not be peculiarly in a state to yield to the temptation, and avert for ever the threatened evil ?

Could he not convince her by the reasonings which satisfied himself, and induce her for once to follow the dictates of her feel ings without looking too closely into the pro priety of the action ? Oh, yes ; if, as he was persuaded, her heart beat with the same passion which was consuming his, there would be little difficulty in the task. Not a moment should be lost ; and accordingly summoning his servant and giving the necessary orders for the journey, he employed himself meanwhile in purchasing some costly cadeaux for the little group at home. We must now transport the scene to Brook ensha Hall, where the object of his thoughts and wishes was residing. There could not have been found a more graceful group, nor a more charming subject for a painter's pencil than was formed by Fanny- Ellis and her two infant relatives, on that summer evening.

Bright rays from a golden sun streamed through the old stone-mullioned windows, and depicted on the checquered floor those heraldic bearings of many dyes with which the small panes were charged. Antique paintings were suspended round the oaken pannelled walls, and, uninteresting as they might be in themselves, they enlivened the otherwise sombre tone of the wainscot. Many useful moral lessons might wisdom have gravely deduced from those records of the past, rising in importance, from hints on the advantage of simplicity of dress, to lectures on the muta bility and vanity of earthly distinctions. Of many the names were forgotten, and of some they were only remembered to be detested, whilst nearly the whole were so fantastically or unnaturally attired as to raise a sort of contemptuous pity for the taste which could have tolerated such a costume.

But there they hung now, and wonderfully well they har monized with the carved cornices, old armour and weapons, antlers of enormous deer, and other trophies which decked the walls. There was the old furniture too — not the imitations which wrere just then the rage — but the genuine old chairs of massy carved oak, captivating to all lovers of the antique, much too high and stiff to be sat on with ease, and too heavy to be moved by ordinary strength, but matching perfectly the handsome and richly carved balustrade of the magnificent staircase, which swept in two graceful branches across one side of the hall, with that superfluity of width and breadth of step which modern economyof space and timber too often forbids. The air of antique grandeur which such a garniture of the place imparted, was softened and relieved by the elegant modern flower stands, crowded with all that was gayest and richest from the conservatory and hot-house, filling the air with a luxurious perfume which in a less lofty apartment would have been oppressive.

But lovely as were the flowers, they could not attract the eye a moment from the more lovely living group which I am about to describe. Half kneeling, half sitting on a large, low, Moorish cushion in the centre of the hall, was a young woman of a remarkably interesting, rather than a beautiful countenance. Of a delicate complexion, and light brown hair, with a slender and graceful figure, and exquisitely beautiful hands and arms, which an evening toilette displayed, she might have served a painter for the model of a Grace sporting with a pair of Cupids, or a Saint caressed by a couple of cherubs, according as his taste led him to dwell on the poetical images of ancient Greece or modern Rome, and his imagination were heathen or Christian in its cast. Sporting she certainly was with a pair of the prettiest infants of fifteen months that ever tottered over marble floor, or velvet carpeting; they were ahke in size and dress, complexion and features, except that the large dark eyes of the girl were indicative of a milder and more timorous disposition, than was shown in the open, fearless, penetrating blue eyes of her baby brother.

They laughed and clapped their graceful hands, and pattered their tiny feet upon the pavement, sometimes flinging their round rosy arms about their grown-up playfellow's waist, then quitting her to follow, with slow, puny, and quaintly grave self-importance, the ball which she threw for them to chase, returning breathless and joyful with their prize, which, fit emblem of what might probably be the future object of their wishes, owed its value alone to the difficulty of ob taining it, and was no sooner possessed than again spurned from them. These were Fanny Ellis, and her niece and nephew, who were now concluding the day with a game of romps ; and, to complete the group, there stood at a short distance, a grave, respectable, middle-aged female, evidently nurse to the children, whose air of interest and affec tion towards Fanny, as well as the infants, showed her to be superior to the ordinary class of hired servants, and seemed to indicate that she had been long in the family.

And so in fact she had, having been the nurse of the twin sisters from their birth, and feeling something of a mother's tenderness towards them. At this moment Fanny Ellis was gay, but she was not happy. Her feelings were agitated and perturbed. She was missing Cecil every hour, and yet dreading his return, which was to be the signal for her own departure. How she should be able to bear this threatened separation she could not imagine. For fifteen months, she had been the companion of Cecil, the guardian, the almost mother, of his children. Every object, every occupation had been subordinate to the great employment of consoling the widowed father, or attending to the motherless infants : and now she was looking forward to a speedy and a complete rupture of this tender bond. She must leave the children, and she must leave dear, dear Cecil ; how could she, how could they bear it ?

Her father told her Cecil would then marry again ; and once more be happy as he ought to be ; but an indefinable and inex plicable feeling stole over her heart at the idea ; she did not comprehend her own sensations, but the suggestion of his marrying again seemed as improbable as it was painful. Meanwhile, she was hoping that his prolonged absence in Lon don, the termination of which was quite uncertain, would defer for some time at least the dreaded departure. She had spent the long hot summer's day alone, except for the children, and yet it had appeared brief to her. She had written to her father, had re-arranged the flowers in their usual sitting-room, bringing from the con servatory fresh blossoms of the kind Cecil loved, more luxuriant heliotropes, fresher mig nionette, cape jessamine, blossomed myrtle and tea-roses — then she had finished the watch guard, which was to be a parting souvenir to him, and completed a miniature copy of his large portrait, which hung in the state drawing room, a memorial which she intended to carry away for her own satisfaction ; she had caressed his favourite dog, driven out his children in the pony phaeton, not forgetting to call at the village carpenters, to know if the rustic chairs for which Cecil had been so impatient, were yet complete.

And now she was about to see her little darlings laid in their quiet beds, and for that purpose was rising to accompany the nurse, when an exclamation from the children made her look round, and there behind her, beneath the arch which communicated with the vestibule and porch, stood Cecil himself. The little ones immediately rushed forward to clasp their father's knees, and after hastily kiss ing them, he passed his arm round Fanny's waist, and pressed his hps to hers with some thing more than brotherly affection, which made her colour and shrink back ashamed. Of course the going to bed must be delayed for half an hour at least, that papa might have time to see a httle of his darlings, and then the children disappeared, and to his disappointment the aunt was going with them. " Do come and walk with me, Fanny," said he, stopping her ; " the children can go to bed without you for one night."

" Oh, Cecil, and so soon as I may have to leave them !" said Fanny. " Do you not leave me at the same time ?" said he, half reproachfully. " Well, I will come," said she. She could vol. i. c never resist that look of entreaty which Cecil called up ; and in five minutes she was at his side, equipped for a walk. The day had been intensely hot, and the cool balmy evening was most refreshing, especially to Cecil, who had been travelling the greatest part of the day. For some time, they proceeded in silence : Fanny was the first to speak. " I did not expect you so soon, Cecil ; w7e thought your stay in town was to have lasted another week at least." " And you are sorry to see me now ?" said he, inquiringly. " If I ever could be sorry to see you I certainly should be now," replied Fanny. " Why did you hurry away from London ?"

" Because I learned you were alone here, Fanny, and I wanted to be with you. I did not expect you would reproach me for coming." " Reproach you ! oh, Cecil ! you know I did not mean that," said poor Fanny, looking distressed. " You have a right to come when you please to your own house ; but, indeed, I do love Brookensha so much that I cannot bear the thoughts of leaving it," and her eyes filled with tears as she looked round upon the well-known scenery. " And must my coming home hurry you away, dear Fanny ?" inquired he, tenderly press ing the hand which leant on his arm against his breast. " Shall you leave the place you say you love an hour sooner because I am here to share your pleasures with you ?" " Yes, indeed," replied Fanny, sorrowfully ; " for my father desired me to have everything ready for leaving this as soon as possible after your return."