The General's Daughter. A novel

Chapter I

It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of July, the park was brilliant with splendid car riages, and their no less splendid occupants ; Eotten-row was equally gay with fair eques trians, and their attendant squires. There is no place on earth that can compete, in the display of riches, rank and beauty, with Hyde park, on a fine day in the middle of the London season. Everything is first-rate ; the carriages, the horses, the appointments, the ladies, the gentlemen — all are first-rate. The Alameda at Madrid, the Prado at Vienna. VOL. II. B the Bois de Boulogne at Paris, are all very well in their way, but they will not bear a comparison with 'the Ring and the Row ' in Hyde-park. On the day I allude to, there was more than the usual number of equestrians gracing — or otherwise, as the case may be — 'the Row.' Kate St. Maur, attended by her brother and Vernon, was there ; and as our business is essentially with their proceedings, we will take the liberty of listening to their conver sation.

"Is not that Blanche, Frederick?" said Kate, as a lady and gentleman passed them in apparently deep and interesting commu nion. " And your friend, Mr. Spencer, with her too, I declare," she added. " Is that man a friend of yours, St. Maur?" asked Vernon, before he could answer Kate's question. " He was," replied Frederick ; " but I am sorry to say he has chosen to consider himself so no longer." " Sorry to say !" repeated Vernon, with surprise. "Well, it may be very uncharit able, but I own if ever I had been by accident or ill-luck in friendly intercourse with Mr. Spencer, I should only be too happy to assist him in dissolving the connection at his earliest convenience." " He saved my life once, Vernon," said St. Maur, " and that is a debt not easily can celled. You were at Eton at the time, and must recollect the circumstance, and him too."

Vernon did not reply ; he did remember both the circumstance and the man, but he did not choose to do so at that particular time. " Well," he resumed, after a pause, " he may have saved your life, but I defy you to save his reputation. Poor fellow, I really pity him, although I scarcely know him to speak to." " Why, what has poor Mr. Spencer done to excite your indignation so much, Mr. Ver non?" said Kate. b "Nothing to excite my indignation, Miss St. Maur, but a good deal to move my pity and contempt. Folly and vice are bad enough singly, but when combined in one individual, they are disgusting." " This is rather a new character you are appearing in, Vernon," said St. Maur — "a lecture on the immorality of the age." " Comes badly from me, you would say," replied Vernon, interrupting him. " I don't pretend to claim any right to moralize ; I dare say I am as bad, or perhaps worse, than my neighbours ; but there is a line which even I, bad though I may be, should be sorry to overstep."

" And which fine you think Mr. Spencer has passed, Mr. Vernon ?" said Kate, enquir ingly. Will you define the limit to which you think a person may go, and beyond which he ought not to trespass ?" "In a general point of view, I think I can," replied he. " Without mentioning what particular pursuits a man ought to shun, I am decidedly of opinion that no one is authorized in doing anything which might offend the con ventional rules of society, anything which by its grossness militates against the established etiquette and good order of the society in which we move." " And has Mr. Spencer so offended ?" asked Kate. " I think he has," replied Vernon, quietly. " Mrs. Brownlow appears to think other wise, at all events," said Frederick. " Who is Mrs. Brownlow ?" inquired Vernon. " She is a connection of mine," said Kate, " and the greatest friend I have."

Vernon bowed, and was silent. At that moment Lord Clifford rode up and joined the trio. " Vernon, again," he mut tered to himself. Kate received him with her usual kindness, but he was evidently ill at ease, aud almost out of temper. " How unlike what he used to be," thought poor Kate. " When do you start for the continent, Clifford?" said Vernon, abruptly, after a pause. " I don't know," replied he, almost angrily ; " to-morrow, the next day, perhaps, any day, in fact ; I have not decided." " To-morrow ! any day !" repeated Kate, to herself, " and not to have told me, not to have even hinted at his probable departure," she felt a burning blush mount to her very temples, " to think that he should have spoken of leaving London, as he evidently must have done to common acquaintances, and yet not thought it worth while to let me know any thing about it, it was cruel, it was unkind !"

" Going abroad !" said Frederick, " when did you settle that, Clifford ? and where are you going to ?" " Oh ! I really don't know either when or where I am going, Paris, Geneva, Rome, any where, I am sick of London." " Well, I can't say I am," said Vernon, " I have passed several seasons in town, but never one so much to my taste as this." " Then there is no chance, I am afraid, of my being able to persuade you to be my com panion on the continent, Vernon," said Clifford, bitterly. " Not the slightest, my dear fellow," replied he, with great cheerfulness ; "I candidly ac knowledge that I am much happier where I am, and do not, in the least, wish for any change whatever. London is good enough for me at present, but then I am, probably, easier pleased than you are," he added, significantly ; " by-the-bye," he continued, " as you are going abroad, it is almost a pity you sold your yacht, Clifford, you might have found it useful."

" I don't the least repent having done so," replied Clifford, quietly, though he was in a towering passion at the impudent sneer con veyed in those last words. " I only wish I could get rid of my evil acquaintances as easily as I have managed to dispose of some of my evil habits." He looked Vernon straight in the face as he said this. There was no mistaking the ex pression of his countenance — it was a calm, deliberate insult, and Vernon felt it to be so, but he did not choose to appear conscious of it — it did not suit his present pursuit to appro priate the term, ' evil companions,' to himself. He was not deterred from taking notice of Clifford's words and manner, through fear, for he had not the slightest bodily fear in his composition, but it did not suit him to notice it. Kate had scarcely heard anything that had been said since Clifford's avowal of his inten tion to go abroad, and his disgust at London.

She felt very much hurt at his conduct, but her pride supported her, and the consequence was, that she made matters worse by looking at Clifford with an expression almost of de fiance on her countenance, at least, so he inter preted the look ; and immediately determined to leave town the very next day. " That look," he mentally exclaimed, " tells me to go, as plain as eyes can speak ! Oh ! if she had given me but one look of kindness or encouragement to stay ! — but no, there is nothing but scorn and contempt there !" He forgot — as angry people always do — that he was — and had been for some time — treating her with any thing but kindness ; and, consequently, in reality, had no right to expect much from her ; but he did expect it ; however distant or cold he chose to be towards her, he seemed to imagine that she was to smile on him just the same as if he behaved himself as he ought.

Poor fellow, he was madly in love ; and that is the only excuse I can frame for his folly. He was desperately jealous, too, of Vernon, and seemed half in clined to knock him off his horse every moment. " Good morning, Miss St. Maur," he said, all of a sudden, lifting his hat from his head. Kate bowed, and muttered something in audible ; Clifford did not take any notice of either of the gentlemen, but walked his horse leisurely towards Mrs. Brownlow and Tom Spencer, who were just crossing his party, and joined them. Blanche received him most graciously, though she was sorry to see him leave Kate ; she knew that there had been some misunder standing between them of late, but had hoped, from seeing him riding with her, that it had only been a lover's quarrel. " Perhaps, after all, it is all right, and he is only coming to have a chat with me," she said to herself.

Tom, on the contrary, wished him far enough, for he had very nearly worked himself up to proposing pitch. Blanche, seeing that Tom was silent (not to say sulky), exerted her self to amuse Lord Clifford all the more, that he might not guess at the cause of Tom's taciturn humour. But all her efforts were useless ; Clifford, indeed, did not fathom the cause of Tom's silence, for he was not at that moment aware of his presence ; but even Blanche, fascinating though she was, failed to attract his attention. He was in the clouds — he scarcely heard a word that was passing, only now and then catching just sufficient to mystify him. Kate and Vernon were for ever before him, and he kept continually fancying that every word that was uttered had reference to one or the other of them. Mrs. Brownlow perceived his ab sence of mind, and perfectly understood the cause.

" Oh ! it was jealousy, was it, and not my charming society, that induced him to come to my side," flashed across her. " How excessively well Miss St. Maur is looking !" she said, aloud, as they again passed them, and she observed Clifford's eyes riveted on her as they went by. " Mr. Vernon seems to be of my opinion, too," she continued ; " I never saw more devoted attention than his has been for the last fortnight. I must say I am surprised at Miss St. Maur's taste." " Are you — why so ?" said Clifford, calmly, but with a face as pale as ashes ; " Mr. Vernon is seemingly a very agreeable and a very fashionable man — but perhaps you are not acquainted with him, Mrs. Brownlow." " Quite as much so as I hope I ever shall be," replied Blanche ; " and it is for that very reason that I expressed my astonishment at Miss St. Maur allowing so very objectionable a person to pay her such exclusive attention.

I consider Mr. Vernon to be one of the most fascinating, most unprincipled, and conse quently most dangerous men for a young lady to become acquainted with." Every word she said went through and through poor Clifford like a dagger ; he could with difficulty sit upon his horse. He knew that what she had said with regard to Vernon's character was perfectly true ; and to think that Kate, his own beloved Kate, should be subject to the machinations of such a villain ! and yet he dare not, he could not, bring him self to warn her against him. " If I do," he thought, " she will suppose I am jealous of him, and wish to ruin him in her estimation — wish to rise by his fall. No ! I had sooner die than do it ; I will enter into no competition with him whatever. She is free to choose whom she will ; I neither wish, nor have I any right to interfere.

If she prefer him to me (and he shuddered involun tarily as he said it) let it be so ; I would not speak a word to her against that man for any recompense that this world can offer me." And he said this to himself, as though he were making up his mind to the performance of some great and noble action, on which he felt that he had a right to pique himself, as being rather above the common run of virtuous deeds to be met with in these degenerate times. Oh, Pride, Pride ! what a fool thou makest of the sons of men — and daughters too, for the matter of that. How many hearts hast thou broken ? How much happiness and peace of mind hast thou destroyed ? How many lives hast thou taken ? " I know I was in the wrong," says the duellist to himself, " but I will never tell him so, I had rather stand the chance of a shot."

He does so, and is carried home on a shutter. " I believe I ivas too harsh," says the gentleman to himself; " but she had no right to take up what I said so hastily, however ; if she choose to do so, I am sure I don't mind ; it's not my place to apologize to her." " I dare say I was foolish and hasty, in taking notice of his unkindness in the way I did," says the lady to herself ; " but I never — no, never — will own it to him, till he begs my pardon for his rudeness." They both keep to their determination, eventually and consequently marry against their inclinations, and are miserable for life, and very likely vicious, besides ; and all this loss of happiness and virtue is owing to a false pride, an unwillingness to own oneself in the wrong — positively nothing else. Half the immorality of the age has its origin in the ill-assorted marriages, which are, alas ! so universal amongst the higher orders of society.

How very, very seldom does a girl marry her ' first love.' It has been, and is is still much the custom to ridicule ' first love.' " Only a boyish (or girlish) fancy," one too often hears applied to an affection which neither time nor absence ever completely effaces. First impressions are frequently, if not always, the most true; although, like first love, they too are commonly sneered at. A person may accustom himself to anything — ay, anything ! — a frightful woman, a smoky chimney, a stumbling horse, a dozen children, bad wine, a prison, a ship (which is much the same thing) — each and all of these may, nay, will, by habit, be looked upon with indiffer ence, possibly with affection. What the first impression of any of the above-named misfor tunes would be, I leave to the candour of my readers to determine.

Men or women (I beg their pardons — ladies and gentlemen) — are all on the look out for the same things — money and rank. The first question a gentleman asks when he meets a pretty woman is, "Has she any money ?" No matter how much he may have himself, it is still, " Has she any money ?" A mother sees her daughter dancing with a handsome, gentlemanly man — "Whose son is he? what are his expecta tions?" are her inquiries. And she is quite right to make those inquiries, if they are made with a view to prevent her daughter from forming a connection with a man of bad cha racter. But that is not the object of her anxiety. If the gentleman prove to be rich, or of high rank, no further questions are asked. That is sufficient — he is rich, or a lord, perhaps both ; he may be ill-tempered, mean, or unprincipled, perhaps all; such trifles weigh not in the scale against riches and rank.

A dead set is immediately made upon the mam mon of unrighteousness ; he is flattered, fed, and fooled to his heart's content. The daugh ter is taught to aid and abet her mamma in securing so desirable a parti. She probably loves another, but he is a younger son, ' a scorpion ' — very amiable, and all that ; be sides, it is merely ' a girlish fancy.' She is talked, perhaps scolded, into marrying the rich profligate, whom she does not love ; and, if she unfortunately possess any feeling, becomes wretched for life. But, worse than the mere wretchedness of being linked to a person she never loved, is frequently the consequence of this fatal, this pernicious system. After her marriage, she meets the person she does love, and then commences the struggle be tween principle and passion. Her husband neglects her, becomes careless and indifferent — her lover is attentive and devoted ; she contrasts the behaviour of the two — she can not avoid doing so.

Every feeling is outraged by the one, and soothed by the other. All her long-cherished affection returns with treble force, now that she finds herself despised and avoided by him, with whom in an evil hour she united her fate, and is in constant inter course with one who seems to live but for her alone — with one who, her heart too plainly tells her, is its true lord and master. How can such a conflict end? Alas! how does such too commonly end but in ruin and disgrace ! e vol. n

Chapter II

But to return to the riding party. Lord Clifford very soon made his bow to Mrs. Brownlow, and left the Park ; he was low and dispirited, vexed with himself, with Kate, and the world in general — he thought of days gone by. Stokes's farm, and the scenes which had been enacted around it, arose with painful distinctness to his mind. " Oh, how different she is now to what she was then!" he involun tarily exclaimed, as he rode home. So was he, but he perceived it not. " Oh ! wad some power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as ithers see us." If this were so, the self-complacency of many would be sadly put out of countenance, I suspect. " What can be the matter with Lord Clif ford ?" said Blanche, after his lordship had left them. " He is quite an altered man ; he used to be so agreeable, and now he has scarcely a word to say for himself.

I suspect he must be in love." " Does that make a person disagreeable, Mrs. Brownlow ?" whispered Tom, trying to look sentimental, and succeeding in looking silly. "When he is not with the object of his affection, it does," she replied. " A lover is generally absent and silent and stupid (as Lord Clifford was just now) to every one but the one." " I hope I do not appear absent and stupid, and all that, to you," stammered out Tom, sidling up to the lady. " Oh, gracious !" said Blanche to herself, " it's coming at last, I suppose. No, Mr. c Spencer," she said softly, " you do not ; if you did, we should not be riding together at this moment." " Oh ! Mrs. Brownlow, dear Mrs. Brown low !" — it was the first time he had ever ven tured upon so affectionate an expression, and he blushed at his own audacity — " if I only thought that you liked me " — he stopped, and tried to catch the expression of her countenance, but her head was turned away from him.

She made no answer, and he was forced to go on. " Do you think you could — you could like me, if — if you tried ?" he added. . " I do like you, Mr. Spencer," she replied, not daring to look at him, for fear he should see the smile of derision and contempt which she could not restrain. "Do you, oh! do you really? — so — so do I you," he at length blurted out. " Oh, heavens !" she mentally exclaimed, " what a dreadful goose this is !" — she sighed deeply at the thoughts of the sacrifice which she felt she was about to make. That sigh settled the business ; it was heard and inter preted by her lover as a proof of affection. " Yes," he said quickly and desperately, " I do like you very much — I more than like you, I love you — I do so love you, dear Mrs. Brown low — I — I never shall be happy again, unless you consent to — to — to marry me " — and having delivered himself of this tremendous speech, he gasped for breath, and waited for the lady's answer ; nor had he long to wait.

" You have quite taken me by surprise, Mr. Spencer," she faltered out ; " I really was not at all prepared for this — so sudden — so unexpected — if I thought you were in earnest — " " Oh ! I am," he said, eagerly, " indeed I am ; I love you dearly, more than anything — do — pray do, say that you will consent to it ■to marry me, I mean." " I will give you my answer to-morrow, Mr. Spencer," she said, after a slight pause. " I really cannot now ; I am so confused, so over powered by the suddenness of your question. I feel very grateful, I assure you, but it is a momentous affair, you know, and you must give me time to decide." " Nothing like the present time," replied Tom, who began to pluck up courage ; " dearest Mrs. Brownlow, say you will be mine, and make me happy at once ; you must know that I love you — I have long loved you — I am sure, if you will only consent, I will do all I can to make you happy and com fortable, and all that — do say you will have me !"

Blanche turned towards him, and looked as kindly as she could at his unmeaning, vacant face. " Oh, say yes ! — say that you love me !" he faltered out. " Mr. Spencer," said Blanche, calmly and coldly, " I do not love you — I will not deceive you into supposing that I either do, or ever shall — ' love,' is to me a sound without a meaning. I have no heart to give you, Mr. Spencer ; but — but," she stammered, and could scarcely go on ; by a violent effort she controlled her self — " but I will marry you, if you wish it — if you can be satisfied with a hand without a heart." She listened — oh ! with what intensity — for his answer ; that heart, whose existence she denied, stood still. " Surely, surely he will never be satisfied with this!" she said, to herself; she was quickly undeceived. " Satisfied !" he cried, with rapture — " oh !

I am so happy — of course you can't love me — I am not worthy of you — I know that — but you will marry me — and — and — perhaps, aster a time you may — " "No, Mr. Spencer, no time will make any difference — if — if you still wish to marry me, I will try to do my duty towards you as your wife," — a burning blush of shame crossed her brow ; " but affection — such affection as you would have a right to from a wife — I never — never can give you — for I have it not to give." 3' Again she listened and hoped, but very very faintly. " Oh ! thank you — thank you — how kind you are — wish to marry you ? — I should think I did, too — I scarcely dared to hope, I — I," he was so confused — so surprised at his own success — and so delighted, that he could not go on. Blanche sighed deeply. " Oh ! Aunt Sarah !" she thought.

Presently Tom continued — " Oh ! dear Mrs. Brownlow, I do love you so much — you are so beautiful ! I never saw any body so beautiful, as you are, in all my life. We shall be so happy — so nice together — shan't we be happy ?" " I hope so," said Blanche ; " and now, I think, we had better go home," — she felt that she could not continue the painful scene any longer ; she was dreadfully agitated, for she had feelings — she had a heart — and the thought of the step she had taken — although she had contemplated it for a long time — nearly overpowered her. She was, moreover, herself, a clever woman, able to appreciate talent in others, and equally alive to the ridiculous. " Oh !" said she, to herself, when she got home and began to think seriously of what she had done — " oh ! what — what shall I do with him ! — a rogue — a roue — a miser — a spend thrift — may all be turned, driven, or led, but how to manage a fool ! — and such a fool, too !" — she put her hands before her face.

" Shan't we be happy — you are so beautiful," she repeated, laughing, in spite of her disgust. " Oh ! if I were not to be the victim — but it is no laughing matter to me. I shall be positively ashamed of him — his manners ! — his appearance ! — his dress and address ! — all equally odious and foolish." "I am wrong," she presently added, as she walked rapidly up and down the room ; "a fool is not so bad as a rogue and a roue." The old hard expression was on her face, for she thought of one who had been both rogue and rouL " Mr. Spencer is certainly fond of me, and by that fondness I will guide him — for his good. Aunt Sarah will be satisfied ; she will die happy, as she says, knowing that I have a protector and a home." A scornful smile curled her lip. " And I — what does it signify to me whom I marry ?

They are all alike — alike false, in reality — not that I think Mr. Spencer will be what the world calls false, but, after a few weeks or months, he will like his dog, or his horse, or his gun, or some other bauble, as well, or better, than he does me — that is what I call being false. Love, in deed — man's love! what a contemptible thing! This man, now — this Mr. Spencer — he really thinks that he should be miserable for life if I did not marry him. He can't live without me; he follows me about with his eyes — he can't take them off me ; he adores, loves, dotes on me ; he would give up anything, everything — do anything, everything, to please me now! now! — but how will it be six months hence? 'Pooh! nonsense! — what harm can the smell of tobacco do you ? I am sure I am not going to give it up.' Or — ' What harm can a dog do in the room ?

I hke a dog in a room.' And this is love ! — this the adoring, expiring lover, who would give up everything — do everything !" She laughed scornfully. " Oh, yes, I might just as well marry him as any one else, and Aunt Sarah has set her heart upon my marrying some one — dearest Aunt Sarah ! I ought not to repine at anything that gives her pleasure ; and, yet — and, yet, how can I — oh ! how can I ? Have I really fallen so low as to think of Mr. Spencer as my future husband ? — to marry him ! I, Blanche Howard — no ! Blanche Howard never could — Blanche Brownlow may !" A bitter smile passed over her face, succeeded by one so sad, so touchingly mournful. "Oh!" she continued, "papa, dearest, dearest papa, how you would blush for your child, could you know — could you guess — perhaps, perhaps you can, you do — perhaps even now you are looking down upon your blighted, forsaken, despised daughter."

She got up, and walked rapidly about the room. " No one can despise me for what I am hardening my heart to do, more than I despise myself. Let me see ; I will look it steadily and honestly in the face. I am going to marry Mr. Spencer — to marry him — him ! vulgar, vain, and silly — but he will be a protector, and Aunt Sarah will be at peace !" — she smiled bitterly. " That is not all, though — that is not the only reason " — her eyes flashed and her lip curled — " I have been betrayed and forsaken — my affections trifled with — the passionate warmth of my heart thrown back to me as a worthless gift ! Why should I spare him — was I spared? Man, man, man ! you deceive, insult, spurn, and forsake, and we are to bear it all — bow to it — but never retaliate — oh ! no, never re taliate. You deceive — it is a feather in your cap ; you pique yourselves on your cleverness, perhaps boast of it.