Court Secrets. A novel

Chapter 1. Old England

" It does one's heart good to see the windows open, and the men sweeping the leaves off the lawn.'' " So it does, Mr. Moody," said the worthy Mrs. Grimstone. " And a warm fire in the hall. I looked in as I came along — just like old times." " So it is indeed, Mr. Moody." " I calculate they will be here to-morrow," said Miss Nutcombe. " impossible ! dear madam, next to impossi- VOL. II. B ble. The other party may indeed be here, Lady Ormsby, and her brothers, and your niece, Mira, Mrs. Grimstone; but unless Mr. and Mrs. Cropthorne have wings, — and one can't fancy that, — they can't make out their journey till to-morrow evening." " You are quite right, Mr. Moody," said Mrs. Grimstone — " generally correct, I know. I am no judge. I never went farther on the continent than to Calais, where my poor mother wished so much to come back, she could not bear the thought of that long journey on a paved road, between rows of apple trees, — that my father sent us back, and went on to Paris him self."

" Quite right. Paris is the worst place in the world for young ladies," returned Mr. Moody. " Certainly what little I saw of the French I did not like," pursued the worthy old ladv, "but they may be improved since then: the world's improving, don't you think so?" she turned to Mr. Moody. " Don't ask me, don't ask me," answered the grumbling old bachelor, "just look at what is going on now, with all this talk of reform, and agitation about things which have been estab lished these hundred years. Just think of my brothers having lost Battle-end, where our family used to be returned year after year, and session after session, without a word of opposition !" "Very true, very sad, Mr. Moody," said Mrs. Grimstone mournfully, " I am sorry you do not think the world is improving, as people tell me it is.

I know the times are bad, but I was in hopes things were mending." After this short discussion, the party sat down to as good a dinner as was ever set before hungry man in the best of times. Young, but corpulent fowls, enshrouded in creamy sauces ; patties light as a feather ; mushrooms, like good company, adding luxury to solidity ; but, before the mutton had appeared, a ring at the hall-bell announced an event, and Mira Copthorne entered, just in time to see the " wrack," as Macready used to call it, of fowls, the ham, and their satellites. " Mira ; and looking so well too ! A little thinner, though ; don't you think so, Mr. Moody ?" Mr. Moody, who for years had been supposed to admire Mira ; a sort of hopeless hope, if one may so call it, of her aunt's — for his brother, the colonel, was just that sort of disagreeable man to live for ever — Mr. Moody answered with his usual bluntness, " Indeed, I do see it. and 'tis just what I expected.

Even chickens and ducks are half starved in Germany, so I don't see what good is to be got there for voung ladies." " What ! and dear Horace, too, cried Mrs. Grimstone, starting from the seat which she had just resumed, "this is indeed delight ful." They all sat down to finish dinner, and to discuss the events of the period of separation, which " had indeed seemed an age " to Mrs. Grimstone. " What, dear Mira, what about the poor lady who fell, down the rock, at some village you described to me, love — I can't carry the name in my head." " Oh, dear aunt ! she's dead ; — the very day before we left. Mamma sent me to inquire, though we did not visit these people ; we were put on our guard against them by such a de lightful friend of ours, Mrs. Flather. So we only inquired." " Horace, my good friend, a glass of wine ; you're looking pale, I think," said Mr. Moody.

" I was going to remind Mira," said Horace, " that before she trusts a word that Mrs. Flather says, she must remember that the avoidance came from the other side, and that Mr. and Mrs. Roper — " "Mr. and Mrs. Roper?" exclaimed Mr. Moody, " were they there ?" " Yes. Do you know them ?" cried Horace eagerly. " I suppose they had a little girl with them, or rather," muttered the old bachelor to himself " a young lady. Let me see — " " Do you know them ?" repeated Horace eagerly, " do you know the Roper's ?" " Not much." Mr. Moody looked sternly at some fritters, which were then just placed before him, sighed ; grew absent ; and not another word could be abstracted from him, on the sub ject of Mr. and Mrs. Roper ; he might have been a witness, from whom a cross-examinating barrister was in vain trying to extract the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ; and who had made up his mind to stand being committed for contempt of court, rather than divulge ; and Mr. Moody was a sort of man who would in olden times, have suffered torture rather than say a word more, or a word less than he chose.

All ! efforts to draw him out on that one point were useless. But it was observed, that even before the cheese went away Mr. Moody grew into one of his fiercest moods of invective against foreigners, and Englishmen who aped them. A residence on the continent, he said " broke down man's nicest principles of honour, and woman's finest sense of propriety ; substituted the habit of equivocation for broad English sincerity ; lessened the standard of character, and made the association of the good with the bad, a mat ter of necessity at first, and of choice after wards." All this had so much reason in it, that Mr. Moody's hearers were amazed and silenced by the force of his denunciations. Some men encourage others to talk ; some strike them dumb by their vehemence. Mr Moody was one of the latter description, his energy put out the little lights of the small world in which he moved, a luminary, which like the Bude light, made all other flames look foolish.

His involuntary admission that he had once known Mr. and Mrs. Roper gave him an interest in the eyes of Mr. Clavering, which though they had been acquainted some fifteen years, Mr. Clavering had never felt before. He had seen Mr Moody's hair grow greyer and greyer, then whiter and whiter, and had always heard that it was owing to the loss of fortune, and the treachery of a friend, that he was becoming both bald and grey. Miss Nutcombe had sighingly pointed out the fact ; and Horace had looked upon it as a. fact to be sorry for — and forget : or if remembered, as one of those dead truths that had better not be inhumed ; but out of the grave of which should arise kindly actions, and a more consider ate and less ostentatious politeness than he cared to shew to the bluff, fox-hunting Colonel, Mr. Moody's rich brother.

And after thus viewing Mr. Moody's case, he generally got out of Mr. Moody's way — deeming him a bore — as fast as he could. But now, as none of us are wholly disinterested, Horace clung to Mr. Moody's side, and left no gentle art untried, by which he might elicit the remembrance of Mr. Roper, and draw from among the dim visions of the past, some clue to his history, and to that of Irene. His efforts were utterly useless ; or, indeed worse, they were perceived by Mr. Moody, and he built up his barricades, and set his storehouse of memory in a state of defence. He listened, that was much for him to do, after dinner, to Mr. Clavering's detail of the accident to Mrs. Roper ; but, (they had drawn near the fire) Horace could not make out whether he was going to sleep, or was intent upon watching the slow burning of a piece of coal, which now and then, Mr. Moody struck with a vehemence that startled his companion.

A path-way to confidence was, however, so far opened, that Horace, struck by something kindly and honest in Mr. Moody, (perhaps it was after so lately seeing Mr. Boase, and by contrast) told him the latest events of the dire, and life-long quarrel between his sister and Sir Richard Ormsby ; the subject was introduced by way of accounting for the unexpected return to England. At first, Horace referred to it slightly, he spoke calmly, he could enter minutely then, into vexations which had often made his nights sleepless. But, as he proceeded, the recital of his sister's wrongs, the threat of Sir Richard, that he would compel her by law to return to him and to her polluted home, that if he could not COLRT SECRETS. do that, he would persecute her till he drove her for ever from England, these, and all minor de tails were told with a passion and emphasis that gave to the simple narrative an eloquence that made the heart of him that listened to it, thrill, and roused feelings long suppressed.

Mr. Moody had the poker in his hand; he had recently given that same obdurate lump of coal, a most outrageous, but fruitless blow. He looked now as if he were going to strike Horace himself, — so he suddenly turned to him, laid his hand upon that of the young man, and in a voice low, and faltering, said — " Keep up, don't sink, I have known what treachery means, / have met perfidy ; don't take it to heart as / have done, my good fellow, — don't— don't." His voice was lost in a gush of emotion. He turned to the well-filled decanter, and poured out a glass — I am afraid it was a bumper — of port. Horace was touched, and became thoughtful ; most people would consider him unfeeling if I say that his mind ran back at that moment, to Irene, and the Ropers. Could Mr. Roper be the treacherous friend, who, about fifteen years ago, had wronged Mr. Moody ; and then, does it seem likely, gone abroad upon the profits of that dark, cheating transaction ?

That surmise gave Horace exquisite pain, not for Mr. Roper's sake alone, but for that of Irene. But good people would not get their deserts in this world, if, under cir cumstances of suspicion, the uprightness of their general conduct, did not plead for them, and ensure their acquittal. Horace thought of honest Thomas Roper, careful of his money, but just, and not niggardly, abjuring all games of chance, domestic, contented in his home, devoted to his home, devoted to his insipid wife, could he be a villain ? — impossible. The question, and the answer were asked, mentally, and answered, in the few fleeting minutes during which Mr. Moody again filled up the glass of wine, and then pushed the decanter away from the side of the table where he sat. " So then you have a long, litigious warfare before you ?" resumed the old bachelor sneeringly ; all his kindly mood had evaporated, and it was difficult to say whether he was sneering at the law-suit or at its victims.

" I am sure that will be our lot, and there are persons to back up even Sir Richard Ormsby; there's Sir Claudius Mainwaryng — who is, it seems, a relative of his, — '' He was checked by a burst from Mr. Moody. " For Heaven's sake have nothing to do with that man !" he cried out in much excitement, " avoid him as you would the foul fiend." " Why my dear Moody," answered Horace, " he has put himself into direct opposition to us, he is our antagonist, our foe, even our foe !" " Better so than as a friend. As a mediator reject him at once, decidedly, firmly, and for ever. He will beguile you if you do not, and once beguiled by him ! ah, I know his arts !" Mr. Moody's agitation was such that Horace thought he must now have made a discovery which 'every one had attempted in vain, the author of poor Moody's misery, the instrument of his ruin, the responsible traitor who had robbed the ill-starred Moody, not only of fortune, but of that better inheritance, energy ; and of that solace in blighting calamity, confidence in man's nature.

" Be assured, I shall avoid him as I would the very fiend himself, for he seems by your account to resemble him,'' said Horace emphatically. " He is the most plausible, the most fascinating (I hate the word), of men: — yes, fascinating is the word; for he fascinates even when esteem is gone, and when all trust has been again and again deceived. Would I could hate him ! " As he uttered these words, Mr. Moody sank into a deep reverie, in which, as Horace fancied, the remembrance of past wrongs gave place for a brief time to the gentle recollections of a once strongly knit friendship. " When did he return to England ? I thought he was far away somewhere ?" said Mr. Moody, breaking suddenly upon the silence. " I really cannot say ; I know nothing of him, except that it is he who has prompted Sir Richard to this new measure, a measure that may, and must, plunge us into misery, but can never benefit Sir Richard."

" Just like him," returned Moody fiercely. " I repeat, keep him your foe, and you may be safe. Whenever he becomes your friend, you are un done." " Your words are prophetic," said Horace, as now rising he stood by Mr. Moody's side leaning over the fire. Long afterwards those words were recalled to his mind, and the unlooked for ex citement of that hour, recurred, under no ordinary circumstances, to his recollection. From this time there was an undefined bond between Mr. Moody and Horace : not that ever Mr. Clavering renewed the painful conversation of that evening ; with the delicacy of a gentle man, and with that nice discrimination which the French call, " la petite morale," he abstained from all recurrence to Sir Claudius Mainwaryng, whose character, he nevertheless, diligently en deavoured to comprehend from others.

Few persons knew much about Sir Claudius ; he had been long abroad ; was a person of in fluence in a high appointment, and bore an honourable reputation ; — over the events of his youth time had thrown a veil of oblivion. He was now esteemed to have as fair a name as that of most public men ; no one could remember to have heard much about him. If any thing dis creditable were attached to his career, it must have been long ago. The chronology of human errors often pleads — as it should do, — perhaps, in their behalf. Who thinks much of the utmost rapidity of evil deeds in a " fast man " at college ? does it ever injure, irretrievably, his subsequent reputation ? Who thinks about the early indis cretions of a young man about town ? Such was the answer to every searching enquiry made by Horace about Sir Claudius.

He might have been wild — there was a sort of reminiscence that he was so, but no one knew exactly. The line he now took in coming forward as the adviser and partizan, of a nephew whose part many sensible people were disposed to take, as sensible people often are, in despite of fact, biassed, was that of a kind, and courageous man, — so many persons declared. Meantime, a deluge of warm water, and a for est of brooms, were waging war against dust and cobwebs in Cropthorne Hall ; of which a part only, a few rooms of one wing of the red brick family barrack, had been hastily prepared for Lady Ormsby, her brother, and Mira, on their arrival ; it being thought better that Lady Ormsby should remain there, under the protection of her relations, than go even to her brother's house, where there were no ladies to be her stay, and to support her in the eyes of a world which generally takes a husband's part.

Mr. Cropthorne's affairs had been unexpec tedly, and satisfactorily arranged by the aid of Mr. Clavering's liberality; and he was every day expected home ; and every evening Mrs. Grimstone and Miss Nutcombe drank tea at Cropthorne, for fear of missing their arrival. The reason given out in the country for their return so soon, and without " doing " more than the Rhine, leaving Germany, Italy, and France " undone," was " this sad affair of poor Lady Ormsby." One evening, Miss Nutcombe was making tea at the hall, it was a Saturday night — the great hall bell was heard. " There they are ! " burst from Mrs. Grim stone. " I thought my sister would never travel on Sunday, nor stay at an inn." She rose as she spoke and placed herself in an affectionate attitude near the door. Presently, Mrs. Cropthorne was led in by Mr. Cropthorne, " much overcome," as that pattern husband said, by coming home, and it was thought requisite, in compliment to the occasion of all present, to shed a few tears of joy.

Mrs. Grimstone was all happiness. The flow of friendly conversation and affection ate expressions lasted till midnight, and Horace Clavering seemed to be the only person who did not share in the universal joy. He disappeared early, " to write letters," an excuse that had more of reality in his case than in that of most people VOL. II. C who avail themselves of it. He had been summoned from N by the necessity of his sister's affairs, the very day after Mrs. Roper's death. After that event had taken place, and delicacy had prompted him to retire from the house, no further ingress had been allowed. Shutters were closed, servants were prohibited from almost speaking to strangers, and though the poor corpse, in conformance to German customs was trotted off to the cemetery the same evening, there to await the funeral, Mr. Roper continued to weep in the apartment which had witnessed his sorrow.

Wretched as he was, Horace had no time to lose, in order to prevent legal proceedings being began against his sister. It was his full inten tion to return to N as soon as possible ; meantime he consoled himself with writing to Mr. Roper. Horace Clavering did what few men do ; — he wrote a capital letter ; natural, forcible, tender, but manly, his style was well descriptive of his feelings, a rare accomplishment indeed. He explained his departure, he poured forth senti ments such as, perhaps, the stern Roper might never have inspired before : — he announced his almost immediate return to N . Alas ! it is to be feared that his letter may, perhaps, almost at this very day, be stuck up, (yellow with time) within an iron grating in the post office at N , with its fellows in mishap, outlaw of the post, — worse than exiles, because doomed never to return to the broken-hearted crea tures who may be waiting for a response that never comes, or, at all events, expecting the return of their missives.

There, illegible from the years that have passed, is the love breathing epistle of the desolate girl who wrote and begged one line, one last adieu — it came not, and she sank ; there, the fatherly forgiveness, perchance, to the prodigal who had asked it, — but died before it reached him ; there, the large official hand-writing that announced joy and wealth to a destitute wanderer, and summoned the homeless to home ; and there, too, for years remained the letter of Horace Clavering, for, in those days, if letters reached their destination on the continent, it was much — to expect them to be forwarded was insanity.

Chapter II

A PERIOD OF TRIAL. A few days before Horace Clavering de spatched his letters, a party, in deep mourning, quitted the town of N — ■ — , and entering the steam-boat, which proceeded southwards, took what was, perhaps, a last farewell of a place, the remembrance of which a severe bereavement had saddened. As they stood on the jetty, awaiting the steam-boat, what varied and agitating thoughts crowded into the hearts of some of that silent and sorrowing group. There was Mr. Roper, in a hat almost covered with crape ; his stout frame shattered by watch ing and grief ; shrunk, so as to give it already an appearance of premature age. His white handkerchief w-as applied more than once to his eyes, when he looked back on the platz; every acacia, upon it, reminded him, as he said to his mother, of walks with his lost Bessey.

There was Mrs. Roper, her face enveloped in white muslin frills, her mourning — a present from Thomas — good and new, and her feelings for the departed, though much softened, by no means those of inconsolable grief. There was Magdalene — active, loud, manag ing; seeing to the luggage, and paying the porters, and treating every one around her as if they were incompetent to those offices. Her face was flushed, and a high spirit carried her on impetuously through every difficulty and obstacle, great and small. A new prospect had opened before her. She was to be the com panion of Miss Vincent; to accompany her home ; to live with her ; and Mrs. Roper was to go also — to add respectability to the arrange ment. Letters, which had been received and answered, had decided this point. Adieu, for ever, to St. Michael's Grove, and to the shades of Brompton !

Adieu, to dull seclusion, and nar rowing poverty ! All hail ! to the bright future ! There was Irene — confused, pensive ; yet not unhappy, for, on the previous night Mr. Roper had called her down stairs, and had solemnly warned her that he had something to communi cate. He begged her not to be agitated ; on no account to go into hysterics ; by all means not to faint. He hoped she would remember what he had gone through with his wife. He walked about the room for a few minutes, and then divulged what he had to say. This was, that Irene's father was an old and particular friend of his, as he had often said to her ; and that his father, who was surgeon to some ship which lay off Corfu, in which he, Thomas Roper, also served as lieutenant of marines, had attended her mother when she was born.

Mr. Roper then took another turn ; and said he hoped he did not distress her. Was she pre pared to hear that the rank of her father was not that of a merchant, although merchants were most respectable, and he trusted she would never hold her head high. Her father's name was Mainwaryng ; and he was, Mr. Roper added, with an inward satisfaction, in the best society — as, indeed, all Mr. Roper's friends were, Sir Philip Roper and his family inclusive ; and, in short, he had chosen that Miss Irene should bear the name of Vincent, during her childhood nd girlhood, on account of family reasons. " What, then, was her name ?" Irene had tremblingly inquired. Her name, and that of her father, was, of course, Mainwaryng. He was, in short, Sir Claudius Mainwaryng ; and, in regard to her mother, Mr. Roper begged to say he knew nothing.

He should refer her to her father, Sir Claudius. After this disclosure, and thus overpowering her with Baronet for a father, Mr. Roper had added some advice, the chief point of which was this — " not to make any inquiries about her mother ; in the first instance she was ' no more.' Sir Claudius was in the same position as himself." Here Mr. Roper sighed heavily, and Irene assured him that she would not enter upon a subject so painful. Stupefied and absent, she had then, without comprehending it, heard Mr. Roper say some thing about good principles, and bad principles, about his and his poor Bessey 's having done justice to her ; about his mother, whom he recommended to her kindness, and called her the best of mothers ; about his certainty of the advantages she would derive from his sister's example ; and more about himself, a desolate man, wandering somewhere, Irene could scarcely understand .where ; in Arabia, in Egypt, Pales tine, or Morocco, about one or all, she thought ; and then, reminding her that the steamboat sailed at six, and extending a cold and trembling hand, Mr. Roper wished her well, added a few counsels about not running into expense, to which he thought her prone ; placed in her hands a little present, a memorial of her " who had been a mother to her in place of her own mother," who, his hints implied, had been a very different sort of person from the virtuous Mrs. Roper — and then left her.

His responsi bility was ended ; his sway over her was superseded then, and for ever. All this conversation, which seemed still to sound in her ears, occupied Irene's mind so entirely, that had it not been for Magdalene, the guardian angel of the luggage, she would have left all her clothes, her school-books and her music-books behind her, on the jetty. Lastly, like actors in the underplot of that serious comedy, stood Katinka and Lina ; their broad faces on the full grin ; much delighted with all the little excitement of the jetty and the platz ; sorry to part from a good master, but looking upon the " Englander " and his household as aliens ; to whom the German servant seldom becomes attached. The boat swept along on its course, and a sort of dizzy sensation came over Irene, as if she were on some mountain height, pathless, but precipitous, and knew not where next she was going.

The travellers passed St. Goar ; they touched the very same plank of the jetty there, that they had left two months before, carrying with them the languishing form which they had so late followed to a foreign grave. The trees near the Rhein-Fells were now leafless, and the old ruins stood out in bold character, bare and desolate, but in feudal majesty, as if those shattered towers, still lorded it over the pass of St. Goar. Mr. Roper turned a last look upon the scene of his first sorrow. What was the remembrance that also rivetted Irene's gaze to that spot? The party had completed the voyage up the Rhine, and travelled several days, before they were met on the frontiers by Dr. James, who was to conduct them from that place to Anspach, where Sir Claudius Mainwaryng resided. After consigning his young charge to the care of Dr. James, and taking leave of his mother and sister with genuine affection, Mr. Roper departed on his route for the Mediterra nean, thence to pursue his travels in the East, every detail of which he promised to preserve in a copious journal — and he kept his word.

The reins of government were then relin quished into the easy hands of Dr. James, who attended infinitely more to the comforts of the creature, than to the improvement of the creature's intellect, as Mr. Roper had done, and made his "ladies," as he called them, warm and merry with good stoves, and good dinners ; kept them warm with jokes, which were uttered between two great fur corners of a standing-up sable collar ; and responded to their glances with glances from underneath a fur cap, with the ears turned back. It was a comfort to lose sight of Mr. Roper's black crape, and the face that too well accorded with his deep mourning. Then Dr. James tried to keep up the courage of " his ladies," who were all alarmed at the thoughts of Sir Claudius, whom he described as the most generous of men ; hinted that those who managed his "little peculiarities" well, were sure " to get on with him ; " spoke of him, nevertheless, with a sigh, which interested Irene much.

A generous, handsome, unhappy father is not to be found every day ; and she was anxiously longing to behold, yet dreading to be seen by that father, as she proceeded along the wintry flats of Wurtemberg. It was evening when they reached Anspach. Irene then, for the first time, comprehended that she had passed for ever the epoch which separates the careless days of girlhood from the duties and interests of womanhood. As the travelling carriage rolled into a spacious porte cochere, and a huge porter, in a cocked hat, and clothed up to the very ears in fur, rang a bell, at the sound of which two chasseurs in plumed hats, stepped out, and planted themselves on the stairs ; — the young inhabitant of Mrs. Roper's one parlour (with Katinka and Lina as waiting women), hesitated before she put her foot on the stairs.