Lady Willoughby: or, the Double Marriage

Front matter

LADY WILLOTJGHBY; OB, THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE. BY MRS. LA TOUCHE. " Eh ! depuis quand un livre est-il done autre chose Que le reve d'un jour qu'on raconte un instant ; Un oiseau qui gazouille et s'en vole — une rose Qu'on respire et qu'on jette, et qui meurt en tomhant ? Un ami qu'on aborde, avec lequel on cause, Moiti-e* lui r£pondant, et moiti£ l'€coutant ?"' IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL I. LOKDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROTJGH STREET. 1855. PRINTED BY CHARLES BEVAN AND SON, STREET'S BUILDINGS, CHAPEL STREET, OROSVENOR SQUARE. IN MEMORY OF HAPPY DAYS, WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN TOGETHER, AT " THE OLD PLACE :" AND IN TOKEN OF THAT AFFECTION WHICH HAS BUT INCREASED WITH TIME: I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY BROTHER.

Chapter I

; Thou later Revelation ! silver stream, Breaking with gladness from the lake divine Whence all things flow ! O bright and singing babe ! What wilt thou be hereafter ?' Alex. Smith. It was a cloudless day in June — the first cloudless day after a week of summer storms and showers. Roses, which had not dared to venture from their buds during the past un certain weather, now came thronging forth in VOL I. B hundreds, assembling to meet the calm sun shine, and give their thankful incense and festive beauty to the world. Roses, white and red — wild and cultivated — small and large — roses of all sorts, hung, and twined, and clung in masses of foliage and blossom to every part of the old stone balustrade of the broad ter race that fronted Camolin House. And up the house itself they climbed, half hiding, half revealing their bright flowers among the dark foliage of the broad-leaved ivy that covered much of the fine old building.

They clustered round the open window of the drawing-room — a window which, in summer, was used as a. door — and, crowding to its sides, dragging forwards long wreaths of less presumptuous woodbine, they flung into the room the full influences of their beauty and sweet odour — gentle invitations, not easily to be resisted by those within. And not in vain did the flowers call to their playmate. Through the window, out into the sunshine, down the steps of the terrace, to the turf below, bounded a little child — a creature of about four summers — for only by summers could one count such years as his. He seemed almost the impersonation of the season, his beauty was so summerlike — so full of warmth and brightness — his eyes, though very dark, shone like stars even in the sunshine ; and there was a warm golden gleam on the tangled masses of his hair, though it was ad but black as night.

His form was tad and strong for his age, and his rapid and agile movements seemed those of a child much older than he even appeared to be — and every one took him for a boy of six. He ran about the lawn, chasing butterflies — hunting, he called it, for he knew already that man was made to hunt. He did not know that man was made to follow the unattainable — to strive and fail — to pursue what never may be his ; but this first bitter lesson of life was taught him that day, by the butterflies. There came fluttering round his head one of the most lovely of our British insects, of a common B species, known to every naturalist, and, still better, to every schoolboy — one of those white butterflies, whose wings seem tipped with fire, which generally congregate by river banks and sedgy streams, on bright summer days, lighting up the wdlow shades as with dancing flames.

It was the first of its species which the chdd had seen — and, as it rose far above his head, and disappeared be hind the cedars, he threw himself on the turf, with a scream of angry disappointment, hiding his face among the grass. " Mervyn, what is the matter?" said a voice beside him. He rose, and stood abashed by his grand mother's side. Lady Camodn's appearance harmonised well with the scene in which she found herself. If Mervyn seemed the playmate of the roses and the butterflies, in her there was something equally in keeping with the yews and cedars that formed the background of the scene. Like them, she was stately, and dark, and of a gloomy beauty ; like them, her presence seemed to shadow all the life and brightness round it, and yet was no cold or evil influence — for shadow, as well as light and colour, can be fair — at least, fair to us, chddren of the shadow — dwellers in a darkened world, where death stands ever in our sunshine, and sorrow flits across every ray that reaches us.

Lady Camolin had been beautiful, and was so still, though time had altered her much. She was not old — scarcely past the middle age ; but her years had brought her many cares, many long anxieties, and much of that wasting trouble which we do not cad sorrow, although we dread it as a worse foe. Her features were strongly defined and regular — her brow was deeply furrowed with lines that told of anxious, if not studious thought : she was very pale, and her dark and deep-set eyes burned, like fires in a mine, under her black and overhanging eyebrows. Scarcely a touch of sdver could be discerned on the smooth bands of her hair, which was nearly all concealed under her cap. She wore an immense ved of black lace, secured upon her head by a small diamond crescent, and salting over her shoulders so as nearly to envelope her whole form in its shadowy folds.

She was dressed entirely in black — her costume was tastefully, though, perhaps, not carefully arranged ; and, without being fantastic, it was evident that fashion was unthought of in its formation, and that its wearer was utterly indifferent to any charge of singularity which the world might choose to bring against her. Laying her small, transparent hand on the head of the chdd, she quieted his passion as by a spell. He did not confide to her his trouble — he felt that the fire-winged butterfly was nothing to her. "Grandmamma," he said, quietly, " let us gather a heap of flowers, to put into Mamma's room, and uncle Camolin's." " Yes, Mervyn— I came out to gather them, and you shall help me. But you ought not to forget Uncle Alan." "I am not glad that he is coming," said the boy, with a fearless look upraised to the darkening countenance above him.

But the expected chiding did not come. Lady Camodn's attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was advancing to wards her from a group .of cedars, through which a narrow path lecf to the avenue. Mervyn, following her eye, and discerning the approaching stranger, sprang shyly away to a haven of refuge among the shrubs, best known to the rabbits and himself — and Lady Camolin, careless of his disappearance, advanced rapidly, with a smile of recognition, to welcome the new comer. They met as old friends meet — with a warm shake of the hands — a few kind, earnest glances — and not many words, till ooth had recovered from the shock of their sudden meeting. For there is always something very like a shock of pain in such meetings, joyful as they may be. After long absence, we feel stunned, as it were, at the sudden clasp of a friend's hand — and both tongues are nearly silenced for a time.

It requires no great in timacy, or strong affection, to produce this effect — the unexpected re-appearance, after long absence, of a familiar face, has always something ghost-Uke and startling about it. " And when did you arrive, Mr. Winton ?'" asked Lady Cam&lin. " Last Monday," was the reply — " I should not have reached Ireland till to-day, if I had not given up my plan of spending a day in Paris, as I passed through. Once fairly on my way home, I gave up all idea of delay — and now I am fixed." " That is right," said Lady Camolin, senten tiously — " You are much wanted at Russagh." " By my tenants — and one or two old ser vants — and my dog, perhaps. But they are enough — and I return to them very gladly. Now tell me about ali my friends — How is Camolin ? I know he is in Scotland, at pre sent — and how is Lady Willoughby ?"

How strangely he hesitated at that name ! " My children are all well," Lady Camolin replied — u I expect them this evening. They have spent the last three weeks in Scotland, with the Morays — Sir Geoffrey's cousins — in Invernessshire. Camolin has not mentioned his health, in writing to me — so I conclude that he is well. Alan's leave does not expire for another month — which he will spend here, I hope." "And Lady Willoughby?" he said, in a constrained voice. " She is quite well, and enjoyed Scotland much. But let us come in, and sit down — we can talk more comfortably in the house. Mervyn ! where are you, chdd ? Mervyn ! come here !" The child came running from his hiding place, and stood before the stranger, with heightened colour, and glistening eyes. " Speak to Mr. Winton, my dear," said his grandmother.

" This is Una's child, Mr. Winton," she added, with a proud smile — " This is Mervyn Wdloughby." And, obeying an impulse very rare with her, she stooped and kissed the boy — thus she faded to observe the shudder with which Arthur Winton almost recoiled from the little hand's soft touch, and the look of deep com passion in his eyes, as he turned them, slowly and unwillingly, on the child. He did not speak, or notice the little creature, till Lady Camofln abruptly asked him, whether he could trace any likeness to the family in Mervyn's face or form. "I am not a good judge," he said, hesitatingly — " No, I see no likeness to your family." " He has a look of Alan, I think," said Lady Camolin — and they entered the house together, the child lingering on the terrace he was not fond of strangers.

" How long you have been away ! " said Lady Camolin to Mr. Winton, as they sat to gether — " I have not seen you since Una's marriage — indeed, not since some time be fore it." Again a cloud passed over Arthur Winton's usually clear and open countenance — but he spoke calmly and firmly. " I have been always unfortunate, in coming home just when you were all absent — but now my travels are ended. I shall never leave Russagh again for any length of time. When did Lady Wdloughby return from India ?" " Six months ago — Her health made it im possible for her to remain there ; and, though the child did not suffer, he would surely have done so before long, had he not been sent home. I trust Una may never return to India : Sir Geoffrey expects very shortly to be recalled." " But no one knows what may happen next, in the present disturbed state of India — he may be detained there from year to year — and in that case* " In that case, Mr. Winton, my daughter will consider it her duty to rejoin her husband."

Mr. Winton bit his dp, but said no more on the subject. They had many others in common, as neighbours always have. After half an-hour's talk, he rose to go. "Will you dine with us on Saturday?" said Lady Camolin, as they shook hands. " You will meet Una and my sons — and a stranger, Mr. Winton — a beautiful young lady, if I am to believe Alan's report." "Who?" asked Mr. Winton. "Not that she will be an additional attraction to me. I shall be too glad to come, were it only for the pleasure of seeing you all together in the old house once more." " Thank you," said Lady Camodn, with a smile half courteous, half cordial (if, indeed, the terms are not synonymous). " The young lady is Miss Moray — Florence Moray — Sir Geoffrey's cousin. Una is very fond of her, and has persuaded her to come with her to Ireland for a short time.

It is very long since I have received a stranger at Camolin. I hope she will not find it dud." " She will not be worth much, if she does," said Mr. Winton. " At this time of year, and, in such scenery, no one can be dud, I should think." And hastdy taking leave of Lady Camodn, he left the house. The shadow, which had so often crossed his features during the past conversation, now settled there, as he walked slowly round to <*Æhe door, and mounted his horse. " Oh !" thought he, as he rode home — "oh, why was I away ! — why did I not hear it one week sooner ! — I could have saved her ! And yet they say there is a Providence I"

Chapter II

' Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, Which in a queen's secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared.' Matthew Arnold. WHILE Mervyn Willoughby was chasing but terflies on the lawn at Camolin, the Glasgow7 steamerVas passing the light-'house at Howth. My readers must forgive me, if I take them somewhat abruptly out to sea— on a calm summer noontide, a sail in the Bay of Dubdn can be no great hardship. The Glasgow steamer, as I have said, was passing the light-house at Howth, on her way to Dublin. Waveless and breezeless were the sea and air — and the Wicklow mountains rose in soft blue hazy outlines against a cloudless sky. The Bay was in its greatest beauty — and the passengers on board the steamer had more time to admire it than they perhaps de sired, for the receding tide was against them. and their progress was slow.

But there were few people on board, and those few did not appear to be impatient travellers — which is the more wonderful, as their passage had been a peculiarly tedious one, a sea fog having already detained them several hours in the early part of the day. Lord Camolin was walking slowly up and down the deck, his sister leaning on his arm. On the steps of •the paddle-box, a young lady was seated, while beside her stood the indi vidual, who, in contempt of steam-boat pro prieties, had placed her there, that she might have a good view of the Bay. He was a young man, of singular and striking beauty — she, a pretty child of eighteen*-— for there are many chddren of that age. She looked round upon the sunny hills and gleaming sea, with that pleased and wondering glance, which, in childhoid and youth, is so beautiful — and Alan de Vesci gazed on her with eyes that told of manhood's force and power — and could tell, too, of manhood's darker passions.

Meanwhile, his brother and sister talked earnestly together, as they pursued their limited walk — pausing at times to look at the beautiful coast they were nearing. " We are nearly in," said CamoUn — " we shad reach home in good time, after ad, Una." " Before Mervyn's bed-time, I hope," said Lady Willoughby — " But, Camolin, I am in great suspense at this moment. I cannot help wondering what destiny awaits me at home — there will be a letter from my hus band, I am sure. The Indian mail is due." " I scarcely dare ask you, Una, what news you wish to receive ? I know my own wishes wed — but I ought not to express them to you." Lady Wdloughby glanced at her brother, with a strange look of mingled sorrow and affection. " There are some things, dear Camolin," she said, " which, even between us two, must re main unexpressed.

Whatever happens, you wid help me to be contented — will you not ?" " And who will help me to do without you ? How shall I ever fad back into my old life — become a hermit again — after having known such sweet companionship as yours, Una?" " Don't be a hermit," she replied, with a smde. "And now let us put the future out of our heads, if we can. What is Florence doing ? Sitting on the paddle-box, I believe, under this scorching sun ! She will have a dreadful head ache. Do go, Camolin, and make her come to us here, under the awning." " She is very happy," remonstrated Camolin. " Alan is between her and the sun, and she is amused looking at the bay." " Let us go and talk to them," said Lady Wdloughby. It did not satisfy her to hear that Alan stood in the girl's sunshine. It might vol. I. c become symbolicady true, she thought ; and his would be a baleful shadow.

They walked forward together, and con fronted the group on the paddle-box. Alan's countenance darkened, but Florence Moray rose with a glad smile, and offered her seat to Lady Willoughby. " Sit here, dear Una," she said, " and I'll take the step below. Is it not a lovely day ? And such a passage as we have had ! I have enjoyed it so much ! Mr. De Vesci has been teding me the names of those hids, and show . ing me the direction of Camolin. I could find my way there quite wed, if I were a bird.'' As she talked on, Alan wandered moodily away, past the engines, towards some inaccessible region in the fore part of the ship. Una's eye followed him anxiously ; and for a moment she did not respond to the lively chatter of her friend, who immediately continued — " Is he standing over that dreadful engine. room ?

What are you looking at, Una ? — he is quite safe, surely." Una was not thinking of his safety, although she fodowed him with her eye ; but turning to Florence, she replied — ' ' Was I looking at anything ? Alan can hardly fad through the very solid grating that covers the engine, Florence." Florence laughed, and looked somewhat con_ fused withal. The vessel was now gliding slowly up the river, and the usual bustle and noise preceding debarcation, had already com menced among the sadors, and such of the passengers as could not trust to Fate for the care of their luggage. Footmen and maids congregated among trunks and carpet-bags — cloaks, parcels, and parasols were eagerly seized by their respective owners — stray chil dren were caught and dragged, sometimes out of the way, sometimes into it — and ladies dived into the Avernus where they had passed the night, in search of books, bags, and other treasures, which, in their frantic haste to emerge into the upper air, they had left be hind.

All conversation, ad admiration of the o scenery, was at an end — besides, there was now nothing to admire, except the architec ture of the Custom-house, and the picturesque groups of beggars assembled on the quay, to receive and escort the voyagers. A few mo ments more, and our friends are on terra firm a. '■' Welcome to Ireland, dear Florence," said Una to her companion. "Cead mille fadthe ! " added Alan, with mock solemnity. But Lord Camolin stood looking absently about him, and said nothing. Now, that they are safely landed, we may leave them to pursue their journey. It is time that the reader should know something of their antecedents— for, at present, they are but strangers to him, and I mean him to know them thoroughly, ere long. Lord Camolin, now in his twenty-fifth year, was the head of the De Vesci famdy— the pos sessor of a large encumbered estate, extending over miles of turfy uplands, heathery hills, and reclaimable, but unreclaimed bog — a fine old house, containing more pictures than chairs, more antique chimney-pieces and Ita lian statues than beds and tables — a beautiful wild id-kept park and garden — and a very small income, with the smallest possible hopes of it ever increasing. — His father, many years dead, had been a man of ruinous tastes — totally unable to refuse himself anything he wished for — and equally unable ever to bring himself to the contemplation of his accounts, or the comprehension of his circumstances.

He thought himself a poet, a painter, a mu sician : he was but a second-rate amateur — yet he had good taste, and a strong love of the beautiful — I mean the externally beauti ful — for of the beauty of self-denial — the beauty of wed-directed action — he had no idea. And so he travelled to Italy and Greece — surrounded himself with works of art — married the beautiful, but almost penniless daughter of a Greek count (whose Irish wife was a connection of the house of De Vesci) — came home, wrote, painted, played — ruined himself and his chddren — and died at five-and thirty : leaving his widow sole guardian of his two sons, and their sister Una. Lord Camolin inherited many of his father's tastes — but with more earnestness and truth of character he combined a far more truly poetic temperament and a higher appreciation of art; yet he had not his father's ruinous mania for possession — his narrow means had always contented him ; and his refined and fastidious taste never led him into extravagance.

His health from childhood had been weak — too weak to admit of his receiving the advantage of a school and college education ; but his boyhood was not wasted, for he was a student by nature. He eould not ride, and run, and fight, like other boys ; there were days toge ther when he could not even walk — for he suffered from a weakness of the spine, which often incapacitated him from all exertion — but he could think — he could read — he could dive into the secrets of nature — nature, whose beauty was his spirit's food, whose hidden lore he sought after, lovingly and reverently — studying, not as a phdosopher, but as a poet, the uses and meaniny of the creations around him. He was companionless, save for the company of his " thick-coming fancies," and his dttle sister Una, who was to him a sort of chdd-Egeria, an embodied Spirit of Nature, a young Dryad, yet of a muse-like wisdom.

He was more deeply read in classic than in Christian lore, or he would have seen in her a second St. Agnes : which, indeed, she was, in all save circumstance. For she, too, had her martyrdom ; but I must not anticipate. Alan, the second son, was his mother's favourite, and the world's. We seldom find it thus. It is believed that ' The mother dotes upon the reckling child More than the strong.' — but in this case it was otherwise. Lady Camolin's proud glance often turned coldly from her puny first-born, to rest with admiring THE DOUBLB MARRIAGE. love on Alan's strong and graceful proportions, and glorious countenance. He had been a noble looking boy, and the beauty of his childhood and infancy is stid remembered at Camolin, among the glories of the past. His father sent for an artist from Italy, when Alan was four years oki, to paint his portrait.

It stdl hangs in the hall, at Camolin, they call it now "The Infant St. John," for in this holy character was the child represented. And Alan's mind was as gifted as his form — so, at least, his mother thought — he was full of talent, stdl of ardour and power, quick, bridiant, perceptive, an eagle-like spirit. He was a true child of genius, his mother said ; one who could never fail, one whose career would be a fine of light; born to greatness, born to distinction and success. And Lady Camolin practised the most rigid economy, lived in total seclusion, stinted herself and children in every particular, that Alan might be wed educated. He wished to enter the army. She had dreamed of other things for him, but his genius, she thought, would win fame wherever it was placed, and he went to Sandhurst, and afterwards entered an infantry regiment, ultimately exchanging into the Guards, at considerable expense to himself and his mother, who regarded not ex pense, where a wish of Alan's was concerned.

All her hope, and nearly ad her affection, were centered on this youth. She was glad that Camolin could not go to school, for it left her the more free to spend her means on Alan. She would gladly, had she been able, have given him his brother's birthright — aud she often bitterly repined at the decree of Providence, which had sent the sickly child into the world a year before his more promising brother — and then a cruel, unmotherly thought would cross her mind — a half -hope, that after all the title and property might in the end be Alan's. But as Lord Camolin grew older, his health improved. Nature, whom he loved so well, was to him a kinder mother than his own — and year by year the youth grew stronger — ad symptoms of the threatened spinal disease 1T1E DOUBLE MARRIAGE. gradually vanished, and in his twentieth year, he found himself able to join a party of young and middle aged men — some of the latter being his father's friends — on a travelling expedition to the more remote parts of the Continent.

This expedition afforded him much enjoyment. and contributed greatly to the further improvement of his health. He remained abroad ayear, :md returned if not a strong, at all events a healthy man — and handsome too, though very unlike his brother. Camolin was the taller of the two — he was very much above the middle height, but his figure was singularly slight and frail — his hands and feet were like a woman's — his shoulders had not the squareness, or his chest the depth which men so much admire in each other — he was a fragile looking being — remarkably ill made, hismother thought — Butitwas wonderful to see the singular grace that marked his every movement — there was nothing angular or awk ward in the attitudes of his slender limbs — he stood well — moved wed — did everything with a natural grace seldom to be met with.

His walk was peculiar, but in that as in all things, he had a noble bearing — he dressed neg ligently — his clothes were generady dl-fitting, always strangely loose — never fashionable — yet they seemed always so becoming, that one never desired an improvement in them. His features were delicate as a woman's — the pure oval of his face had not a fault — his eyes — one could hardly say whether they were blue or hazel — but though deep set, they were full of fight, clear and truthful. They were the eyes of a poet, or a seer — thoughtful, vatic eyes. His head, though smad for his height, was of a noble outline — his soft brown hair fell round it in careless waves — it had the singular beauty of never appearing disordered, and yet never suggested the idea of the smallest care having been bestowed on its arrangement — it was purely and naturally graceful, dke everything else about him.

Lord Camolin would have remained longer on the Continent, had he not there received the announcement of his sister's approaching marriage with Sir Geoffrey Willoughby — a person perfectly unknown to him. More shocked than gratified at the intelligence — although his mother conveyed it to him as rare good tidings — he hurried home; but arrived too late — the marriage had taken place. It was a bitter blow to Camolin — yet he did not repine, for he trusted it was for his sister's happiness. Una de Vesci was only seventeen, when her hand was given to Sir Geoffrey Wdloughby — " Her hand was given" I say — for it was no gift of hers. She was a child — characters like hers, with ad their heavenly wisdom, have a long chddhood. Sir Geoffrey was very kind — seemed very good ; she Uked him extremely — liked no one better, except her dear brother Camolin.

Her mother thought him perfect — urged her (yet without seeming to do so) to accept his proposal — told her of all the happi ness that would be for ever secured by such a union — persuaded her, innocent and trusting as she was, that it would be sin and cruelty to reject one so true and good — one who loved her so deeply and tenderly — one who could not but win her strongest love, in time. Who can wonder if she yielded ? she had none to counsel her — her mother surely had her hap piness at heart — surely, what she wished her to do, must be good and right — so the child obeyed. She knew nothing of love, save of the love she gave to Heaven and Nature, and to those around her. Her heart was as a folded lily — a bud, whose white petals closed over the un developed centre — the golden, glowing Life of the Flower hereafter to be laid open to the burning glance of the summer sun.