or, The Lady's Dream.
Originally published in The Keepsake for 1828 (Hurst, Chance, and Co.; Nov 1827).
While my lady sleepeth,
The dark-blue heaven is bright;
Soft the moonbeam creepeth
Round her bower all night.
Thou gentle, gentle breeze,
While my lady slumbers,
Waft lightly through the trees,
Echoes of my numbers,
The dreaming ear to please.
Spanish Serenade.
"Venus and Minerva, both visible at once! this is an extraordinary pleasure," said Lord William Fitzwater, smiling as he spoke, partly in admiration of his wit, partly of his teeth; and he bowed, and passed on.
"What an insufferable coxcomb!" said Lady Matilda Vaux to her confabulaire, Miss Mont Clair. "What can
have brought him to Place des Roses?"
"Mamma's invitation, of course. You know he is related to the Gillardins, her great friends. Besides, he is quite the fashion, and mixes in the very best society."
"An excellent recommendation of solitude. But who is here? Mercy on me! is there no escape—no possibility of flight? Quick, my dear Julia, run."
"No, no," replied Julia, laughing, "she has caught my eye."
"But not your ear yet. Ah! well, if it must be so."
"Miss Mont Clair, my dear, I have been looking for you: well, I protest, you look charmingly. Lady Matilda, glad to see you; as grave as ever? Well, well, I like sobriety in young people, there is too little of it in our day. O dear! I have not half recovered, do you know, from my yesterday's journey. I do think I never did know such shocking roads. I protest my poor head is all in a jumble."
"Very natural," said Lady Matilda.
"Why, yes: the motion of a carriage never agrees with me, and—but where is your beautiful poodle, Miss Mont Clair? Ah, here he is, pretty creature! Kiss me, Junon. Now apropos: have you heard of poor Lady Tablet's terrible accident?"
"Accident! terrible accident! no, indeed: what is it?" asked Miss Mont Clair with eagerness; but Lady Matilda only said "no," with something like a smile.
"Amazing that you hav'n't heard; I'm quite happy that I can tell it you, for you must know her ladyship is my particular friend. Well then, she was informed that a peasant, or some of those people near Brussels, had a breed of dogs, perfect angels, with long tails and ears, and white—yes, as snow. Now Lady Tablet, you know, has quite a passion for beautiful dogs; so on hearing this, she gets her brother, the Earl of Powderdust, to write to a portrait painter then at Brussels to paint her one of these dogs; and to be sure she got the picture, and a loveliness it was: and what was best, she got the picture for nothing; only an old painting of her grandfather or grandmother by some Dutchman, that this painter wanted to have in exchange."
"And was this the terrible accident—losing her grandmother?" asked Lady Matilda, with a side-glance at her companion.
"Oh dear, no! but you shall hear. Not knowing how to get one of these dogs safely over, and as they are wonderfully delicate, she determined to send over an old servant of the family, whom she kept to please her brother; she determined, I say, to send over this old man to fetch one of the beautiful dogs. So he went, and, as she has since learnt, procured the dog after a world of trouble, for he could not speak a word of French. But he did get him, and took a place in a vessel for himself and the dog to come to England."
"Was the dog a cabin passenger, I wonder?" said Julia.
"That I can't tell, I'm sure; but I'll ask Lady Tablet when I see her next winter. Well, the ship had not half crossed the channel, when by some accident or other it caught fire, and for all they could do it could not be quenched. So the crew got out the boats, but they were too small by far to hold all the people, and one of them was upset by the crowding, and every soul drowned."
"Dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Clackfidget's auditors. "But the people on board the ship?"
"Oh, they were forced to stop there of course, and the old man and the dog amongst them, poor, beautiful creature! Lady Tablet went into hysterics the moment she heard of the dear animal's fate."
"But the old man? Do, pray, go on."
"Oh, he was blown up, of course, with the rest of the sailors and those people. But only think, how provoking to lose the sweet dog after so much pains: a shocking thing it was. And so I hear, Miss Mont Clair, that—ah! well, don't blush! I say nothing."
"I was perfectly unconscious of my blushing, as I am of your meaning."
"Oh! yes, of course, young ladies are of those sort of things."
"Pray, Lady Matilda, can you tell what Mrs. Clackfidget alludes to?"
"Not I, indeed."
"Lady Matilda, perhaps, has not heard that Mr. Beaulieu is coming."
"Mr. Beaulieu!"
"To be sure. I heard of it at Lady Tablet's, and speaking of her ladyship brought it to my mind. But goodbye, my dear; I must go and ask Miss Hyacinth how her new moss-roses go on. Do you know she fancies herself a great florist: such ridiculous vanity! I question whether she knows a poppy from a carnation. But don't say it again for the world, for Miss Hyacinth is my particular friend."
"I thought as much," said Lady Matilda, as Mrs. Clackfidget hopped away. "Her friends generally figure in her conversation. Her friendship and her feeling are equally refined. But who is this Mr. Beaulieu, Julia?"
"Oh, a wretch! but do not ask me now, my love. I must go and ask my mother if he is coming. Slip out with me after dinner into the grounds, and I will tell you."
Dinner came, and also passed, to the infinite regret of the gourmands then abiding at Place des Roses. Lady Matilda was serious, for she saw that her friend was uneasy; but for Lady Matilda to be serious was nothing new. Mrs. Clackfidget was very full of talk and scandal, but neither was that new; and Lord William Fitzwater talked a vast deal of nonsense, which was any thing but new; and the Reverend Peter Botherby announced a discovery, that Robert Ward was not the author of Tremaine, which was very old. But Sir Marmaduke Trot, an immense booby, and the owner of two boroughs (one of which returned Mr. Augustus Mont Clair) did not overturn his plate into his lap, or throw his wine on Miss Hyacinth's beautiful gros de Naples; and this was new, and the only novelty on record.
Dinner over, Lady Matilda hastened to meet her friend. Juliawas not come, but joined her in a few minutes. To the watchful eyes of her companion she appeared paler than usual; and when she spoke, it was with a rapidity that betrayed some anxiety.
"This Mr. Beaulieu was a companion of my brother when very young. I saw him often when a child; but since we were eight years old I have never beheld him. He is now a man, and—"
"And what, my dear?"
Julia was silent for a few moments. "They have fixed on him for my husband."
"For your husband!" exclaimed Lady Matilda with surprise.
"Yes: but it may not be."
There was a short pause, which was broken by Lady Matilda.
"What are your objections to this proposal, Julia?"
"How can you ask! Is it not sufficient to be deprived of all choice and freedom in a matter on which the happiness of one's whole life depends?"
"Undoubtedly, my dear; although what many, very many of our sex submit to, not only without complaint, but without an inclination to complain. To you I know it must be a severe hardship; but I think you increase it beyond its necessary limits. For instance: he may have all those qualities which you would yourself have chosen and valued in such a companion."
"Oh no, no indeed!" replied Julia in a low voice: then suddenly raising her tone, she added, "And if it were so, would that reconcile me, Matilda? I love these roses, but could I do so in obedience to another's taste?"
"Passing over for the present your last objection, my dear," said Lady Matilda, "how is it that you know so perfectly, that Mr. Beaulieu is devoid of the qualities I have supposed? for you say you have not seen him since he was eight years old."
"True; but he was a horrid child, and cannot be altered much. Now don't interrupt me," she continued, perceiving that a protest was about to be issued against this proposition. "Picture to yourself a great fat overgrown booby of a boy, with thick lips and ruddy cheeks, staring blue eyes, and a mouth from ear to ear, and his manners more disgusting than his person."
"Certainly no very prepossessing picture of his childhood; but I cannot agree with you, that he may not be altered."
"Perhaps he may; but if he be, it avails not."
"Nay, nay, Julia, now I must scold you: this is worse than prejudice. At all events see this Mr. Beaulieu, and give him his fair chance. In justice to yourself you should do this."
"I cannot, Matilda."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Julia hesitated, and her colour changed.
"Because what, my dear? Surely you are not afraid to intrust me with this secret, if there be one."
"Oh no! but—"
They had approached a garden seat, and Lady Matilda seating herself, drew Julia beside her. "Now surely you can tell me all under this great canopy of honeysuckles," looking up as she spoke to the shady arch that luxuriated above them; "and here, you know, you may blush or grow pale by turns, without my ever knowing any thing of the matter."
"Matilda, I cannot love Mr. Beaulieu! I cannot marry him!"
"So you say. But what is this secret cause, that you just now hinted at?"
Julia grew pale again; her breathing, short; and her friend felt her hand tremble within her own. She put her arm affectionately round her neck, and drew her closer to her breast. "Julia, you are in love."
As she spoke she felt Julia's heart throbbing with sudden violence; in another moment she had burst into tears, and, hiding her face in Lady Matilda's bosom, wept and sobbed without restraint.
Lady Matilda's attentions to her friend were kind and soothing; and when the agitation of the latter had somewhat subsided, her friend renewed the subject.
"And who is it, dear, that has taken hold of your heart so adroitly, that even your best friends have to owe their knowledge of the theft to your own free confession?"
"Nay," replied Julia, looking up and smiling through the drops that yet hung on her eyelids, "I have not confessed."
"That excuse, my love, is like the man's in the fable, who pointed to where the poor stag lay, without speaking, and claimed thanks for his silence. Now, my love, muster courage and speak boldly—who is it?"
Julia's countenance fell. She attempted to speak—stopped, trembled, and made a fresh effort.
"I do not know," she said at last.
"Not know! I was not aware you had been all along jesting."
"Do not—pray, do not be angry, my dear Matilda. I am not jesting. I tell you true, indeed." Then with a strong effort to command herself, she added: "He of whom you ask me I do not know, I have seen him but in a dream."
"In a dream!" The first moment Lady Matilda was inclined to laugh, in the next to weep, for she trembled for her friend's intellects. That a dream should cause such agitation was so extravagant, that she felt at a loss how to receive such a communication.
After a brief silence she addressed Julia, and with much gentleness endeavoured to combat the idea, that seemed to have engrossed her thoughts. She rightly judged, that to treat the subject with ridicule, or to insist against it with any approach to harshness, would equally tend to strengthen the impression she was desirous of removing. They would, too, inevitably destroy all confidence, and confidence in the fullest was necessary to enable her with success to war with the fancy-born enemy, that had usurped a rule over Julia's heart.
The conversation that ensued was however little satisfactory to either. The particulars of this dream Julia seemed unwilling to disclose. All that her friend could learn was, that the pleasant seat, on which they now rested, was dignified by the name of "the Dreaming- Chair"—why, was unknown; and that Julia, having sat there when a little fatigued, had been overpowered with slumber, and like the patriarch of old had "dreamed a dream."
"And now, Matilda," said her companion, as she finished her imperfect narrative, "leave me awhile. I will join you in your dressing-room in half an hour; I shall then be more composed."
"Adieu donc, ma petite," said her friend: "in truth I am not unwilling to leave this haunted spot, for I am even more attached to free will than you, and do not choose to have a husband forced on me even in a dream."
Julia remained involved in her own painful thoughts. She was not unconscious of the strangeness of her situation, and felt keenly that singular and uneasy loneliness, that afflicts a timid disposition when influenced by motives alien from those by which the many of the world are governed. She weighed all that her friend had said to her, reconsidered all that her own mind had presented in the endeavour to shake off the thraldom that oppressed it. But if her judgment were convinced, her feelings were not.
Every one has felt the soothing power of nature's quiet scenes under the pressure of deep anxiety. To Julia this cool fragrance and sweet retirement of the place came with much of this influence; and the song of those thrilling choristers, the birds, that filled the surrounding branches, would at times win her attention from her sorrows.
Such was the repose of the place, that it speedily communicated itself to her senses. Her reveries became less impressive, and her feelings less distinct. External objects lost their definite outline, and the song of the birds sank dimly on her hearing. Presently she ceased to see and to hear. A gentle sleep weighed on her eyelids, and wrapped her in forgetfulness.
She was awakened from her dream by the pressure of a hand on her own, and the sound of Lady Matilda's voice. She blushed as she started from her sleep, and shunned the eye of her friend.
"I was alarmed," said the latter, "at your prolonged absence; and besides it is remarked by the company in the drawing-room. I perceived on my entrance, that Mrs. Clackfidget was anxious on our account."
"How I hate that woman!" said Julia: "were she to be absent for a year, I am sure I should never inquire after her; and why she should after me, I cannot tell."
"Very true; but it is her occupation—her food likewise, which she must enjoy or die. But your looks are wandering, my dear: surely you have not had a return of your dream?"
"I have."
"And it still leaves the same impression?"
"Undoubtedly! so remarkable a repetition of the same dream is —"
"The most natural thing in the world," interrupted Lady Matilda.
"Natural! how so?"
"Merely because your mind being wholly engrossed with one subject at the time when you fell asleep, you, I may almost say of course, dreamed of it. Quelle merveille?"
Julia could not deny the force of this simple argument, but it produced no effect on her state of mind. They walked on in silence, and entered the drawing-room together.
Wishing to shun observation, Julia seated herself near a large screen, and in appearance busied herself in examining a heap of new prints. She had not however been there long before she regretted her choice of a seat. On the other side of the screen a small knot of talkers had taken their station, and Julia ere she was aware of it was in full possession of their conversation.
"I certainly think it very odd," said Miss Hyacinth, "that she should perpetually cut every one's society for that Lady Matilda. I wonder what she can find in her."
"Is she amiable?" inquired Lord William Fitzwater. "Who? Lady Matilda? oh! dear, no—she does not like poetry, to tell you the truth, though you must not say it came from me."
"If he do you will both lose your characters," said Mr. Wycombe, who had just joined them.
"Heavens! Mr. Wycombe-and why?"
"You for communicating a truth, and he for reporting that you had done so."
"Ah! you are in one of your quizzical humours, I see; but, as I was saying, I really think she does not like dancing."
"Ah!" exclaimed Lord William Fitzwater. The interjection was accompanied with a sigh suitable to the extent of Lady Matilda's depravity.
"But is it true," asked Mrs. Amarynth, who had just lighted a match at Hymen's torch, "that Miss Mont Clair is going to be married?"
"I'm sure, I don't know," replied Miss Hyacinth; "I never trouble my head about such matters."
"True," said Mr. Wycombe, "it is generally understood, and I in common with all the world must lament it, that Miss Hyacinth has determined to keep her heart, that sweet citadel, free from all invaders."
"You don't say so, Mr. Wycombe?" exclaimed the object of this speech, completely thrown off her guard by this report of a celibacy which was far from her wishes: "who can have spread such a malicious report?"
"I protest I am quite ignorant of its origin," replied Mr. Wycombe, "nor did I inquire, having heard it at Lady Margrave's, where it was mentioned as an understood thing, with the view, I conceived, of preventing Colonel Delmar from forming any hopes inconsistent with your determination, and of course with his own happiness."
The success of Mr. Wycombe's invention was complete, and Miss Hyacinth was unable to speak for mortification. Colonel Delmar, a man of the first fashion, the owner of Delmar Castle, in Kent, and of fifteen thousand a year, and all lost through a groundless report—how groundless—Miss Hyacinth felt.
To her great relief the arrival of Mrs. Clackfidget at this moment took away from her the attention of her companions, with the exception of Mr. Wycombe, who could not sufficiently enjoy his achievement.
"Make way! make way!" exclaimed the new-comer in triumphant tones; "let me see—Mr. Wycombe, Lord William, Miss Hyacinth—why you are out of spirits, my dear?—Mrs. Amarynth: ah! well, I can trust you all even with a great secret."
"What! who! how! when! where!" burst from all the tongues, Miss Hyacinth's included.
"Be patient and you shall hear. Miss Mont Clair and Lady Matilda Vaux, you know, are great friends."
"Oh! every body knows that," said Miss Hyacinth. Julia for the twentieth time looked for some way of escape, but in vain.
"Well," continued Mrs. Clackfidget, lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper, "it will not last long."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Hyacinth with exuberant delight.
"Indeed!" said Lord William Fitzwater, opening his dull eyes till they looked like two green gages with the skins peeled off.
"So it is," continued the oratrix, "and now, will you all be silent in what I am going to tell you?"
"As the grave," said Mr. Wycombe, with an affected gravity.
"Well, then; Miss Mont Clair and Lady Matilda are both in love-and with one person!"
There was a burst of astonishment from all the coterie, except Mr. Wycombe.
"The man I know," said he.
He was instantaneously devoured by eyes which turned upon him; Mrs. Clackfidget's in resentment at having the pith and marrow of her story thus forestalled—the rest in curiosity.
"Lord William Fitzwater."
There was a general laugh, and Mrs. Clackfidget recovered her good humour, while the object of the joke coloured, and very gravely disclaimed the honour imputed to him.
"But who is the gentleman?" interrupted Miss Hyacinth.
"Mr. Beaulieu," replied Mrs. Clackfidget.
"Mr. Beaulieu!" exclaimed Mrs. Amarynth, "I did indeed hear something of the kind whispered as to Miss Mont Clair ; but how came Lady Matilda to be concerned?"
"Nay, I cannot tell you the hows and the whys; but that it is so, I know. But you will not, of course, mention it again, as it may be all a mistake—possibly, you know; and besides one would not wish such a story to get abroad, at least to be known as having reported it. So you'll promise me?"
All promised the most inviolable secrecy, and immediately set off in quest of their particular friends, to whom they might communicate the story. All except Mr. Wycombe, who, though an idler, was neither a fool nor a busy body, and strolled away in a half reverie; and Mrs. Amarynth, who being Mrs. Clackfidget's most particular friend, stayed with her, to extract, if possible, the kernel of the sweet fruit of scandal.
Mrs. Clackfidget's foundation for her story consisted in some words of the conversation between Lady Matilda and Julia, which she had overheard in the honeysuckle walk, had as usual misunderstood, and with her customary invention worked into a story. For it was that lady's pride, that nothing was ever lost with her or upon her.
It was no little gratification to Julia, to be able to leave her hiding-place, for such it had been, though unintentionally, to her. As to the nonsense she had heard, it gave her little concern. Julia was not yet fully imbued with the spirit of the world, and cared little for the ill-nature of people whom she disliked and despised. Besides heavier cares pressed upon her, and left her no time for more trifling, though perhaps not less imaginary discontents.
In a few days all the guests had left Place des Roses. Lady Matilda was the last to depart, and the parting was, if not so ostentatiously, more sincerely felt as a privation than the separations of lady-friends usually are. When Lady Matilda was gone, Julia felt herself alone.
Mrs. Mont Clair was an affectionate mother, and perhaps an estimable—certainly an irreproachable woman. Still she was a woman of fashion and of the world, and had been too long so not to have had the susceptibility of her feelings hardened by collision with the multitude. Her daughter loved her, but did not quite place the confidence in her, to which a mother—a good mother I mean—is entitled, and the withholding of which is no little loss on both sides. I am not sure, that I make myself understood: my language on this subject may, to ears polite, seem aboriginal; the expression of ideas long since fadés and worn out. I shall be intelligible, I hope, in the statement of this simple fact, that Julia never imparted her dream to her mother.
But in expressing her reluctance to have Mr. Beaulieu introduced to her, Julia was less reserved than in disclosing her motives On this subject she was earnest in her remonstrances—her persuasions.
"I do not wish, my love," said Mrs. Mont Clair, "to compel your inclinations, though, perhaps, they are more in your own power than you imagine. But I surely cannot appear unreasonable in pressing you to see Mr. Beaulieu, to hear his representations. With your feelings I do not wish to intermeddle farther than with advice and suggestions; but in all those things, in which it is my province and duty to consider for you; I mean, the rank, expectations, and general opinion in society of Mr. Beaulieu; he is unexceptionable."
"I do not doubt it, my dear mamma; but—" and Julia broke off and coloured, as she had before at the very same word a hundred times.
"Well, Julia, I would not distress you; but if you can with happiness receive Mr. Beaulieu on the footing I have mentioned so often, it will give me great satisfaction. At all events you are quite free; but do see him."
"Immediately, mamma?"
"No—that is not absolutely required: you shall fix your own time."
"I wish then, particularly wish, that this meeting might be delayed till the thirteenth of the next month is past."
Mrs.Mont Clair fixed her piercing eyes on her daughter. "This is a strange request, Julia—so long a period; and why that particular day? Were you as some daughters, whom I have known, I should fear; but you I do not suspect: you will not, I am sure, deceive me."
"Mamma, I will not. After the time I have mentioned, I am willing to receive Mr. Beaulieu's visit."
Time fled, and Julia counted his hours and his minutes—a weary occupation to the gay mind; but worse, far worse, to the sorrowful. And Julia was sad and anxious; full of fears, and hopes that took the semblance of fears.
The day which she had mentioned to her mother was that, on which her last dream had taught her to expect the decision of her fate. As it approached, she grew more anxious and more fearful: she had wished for it fervently; but when it drew nigh she felt a not uncommon revulsion of mind, that almost induced her to wish it might be blotted out, and she escape the possible happiness or wretchedness it might bring. Two days only were to intervene: her agitation was at its height. One had passed, and her over-excited mind subsided into an unnatural quiet—almost apathy. The day itself came,
Though the change in her daughter's temperament did not escape the vigilant observation of Mrs. Mont Clair, she refrained from noticing it, and only strove by unobtrusive kindness to allay the inquietude, which she rightly judged inquiry would serve to irritate and increase.
But on this day Julia's indisposition was so great, that her mother begged her to retire to her room. At first she was unwilling, but bodily weakness compelled her to follow the advice. She had passed two sleepless nights, and now, a little after noon, she sank into a disturbed slumber, from which she was aroused by a voice in the house as of some new arrival.
She rang her bell. "Buxton," said she, as her woman entered, "what is all this confusion—have company arrived?"
"Yes, ma'am, a gentleman. I haven't heard his name. I'll inquire, and —"
"Stay a moment. Let mamma know I wish to see her when at liberty."
This message was anticipated by Mrs. Mont Clair's knock at the room door, followed by her entrance.—"Buxton, you may go."
"So," said Mrs. Mont Clair, with a smile, "you are more of a schemer than I thought. Your secret is out now, it seems; though I do think you have made an odd choice. I suppose this letter will convey no new intelligence to you; however, you can read it."
It was from Mrs. Mont Clair's uncle, a rich old Indiaman, containing a brief proposition of alliance between a relation of his own, Mr. Frederick Barron, a gentleman of considerable property, and Miss Mont Clair. The letter had been brought by Mr. Frederick Barron in person, who for that purpose came express in a post-chaise and a storm.
Julia cast her eye over the letter and trembled. Her mother endeavoured to inspirit her. "You have certainly made a prudent match, Julia; though I should have thought Mr. Beaulieu the more eligible one, in all respects. But will you see him?"
"Not till to morrow, mamma."
"Very well, we will be patient; and to morrow, my love, try to assume a rather less melancholy aspect, or the poor man will have reason to judge himself as unwelcome, as I should have expected him to be."
We shall not attempt to describe Julia's state of mind that night. In all probability we should make nothing of it; and if we did, no one would thank us."
To morrow came, and came also Mrs. Mont Clair into her daughter's room. First ensued inquiries after the invalide, and these were answered satisfactorily. "And now, Julia, do you know it is almost three o'clock?"
"Three o'clock!"
"Yes, and as the morning is going on, had you not better be introduced to Mr. Barron? He is all impatience, I assure you. So call Buxton, and in two hours Mr. Barron and I will come to you in the library."
And two hours were all between Julia and her destiny! Hitherto all had corresponded with the indications of her dream; the time, the manner of his arrival, were all true to her vision. It must be he-the same in all things. The amiable, the accomplished youth, whose idea, wafted by some sylphite power to her sleeping mind, had conquered her heart. Having dressed, and swallowed a single cup of coffee, she betook herself to the library. As she expected, she found it empty. She sat down and struggled with her emotion. The door opened, and her mother entered, along with some one, upon whom she did not dare to look.
"Julia, my love, this is Mr. Barron—Mr. Barron, Miss Mont Clair."
Julia rose, but did not venture a glance. Her mother withdrew, and the lover, approaching her, spoke.
His mistress started as he did so. The voice of her lover should have been soft, and melancholy sweet: Mr. Barron's was harsh and grating. His language was, even to the ears of a mistress, one so prepossessed too, to say the best, commonplace. Her confusion grew less, and was succeeded by a feeling of disappointment. She raised her eyes, and beheld him.
He was five feet in height; a little handsomer than the Black Dwarf or the Veiled Prophet, but not much: more literally, his complexion was of a dry brown; his mouth wide; he had one eye.
Julia felt inclined to faint; then to ring the bell. She did neither, however, for unwillingness to give pain was part of her nature; and she compelled herself to listen, with sad civility, 'till the arrival of a pause in Mr. Barron's harangue. Then she got up, and excusing herself, said she should make her mother the depositary of her sentiments on the proposal, with which Mr. Barron had honoured her; and wished him a good morning.
She retired hastily to her chamber, and, giving way to all her feelings, wept profusely. That a dream so loved as this should thus have deceived her, that her hopes should thus be blighted when seemingly bursting into flower, could not but occasion her pain. But when the first transport of disappointment and grief was over, she was herself surprised, to find how much lighter her heart and spirits were; how much less was her pain than she would have anticipated, had the idea of such a chance been presented to her before it actually occurred.
Now this, though strange to her, was but very natural. Her loss was merely the loss of an imagined prospect of happiness, which she now saw never to have had existence. She half smiled at her own credulity; and though the wound could not so suddenly heal, she felt a placidity, to which she had for some time been a stranger.
Her next step was to send to request her mother's company. "Well, my love," said the latter as she entered, "is every thing arranged?"
"Quite, mamma; and you may send for Mr. Beaulieu when you like: I am ready to see him."
"Why, Julia, how is this? I did not suspect you of caprice. Mr. Barron, I thought, was your own choice."
"Mamma! how could you?"
"Nay, ask yourself, and the circumstances will answer for me. But if you do not mean to encourage his addresses, what answer shall I give him?"
"Any thing, dear mamma; you know best: only let him know I cannot receive his attentions."
"You are quite decided?"
"Quite."
"Very well; I will undertake your commission."
The next morning Julia rose refreshed, and almost at ease. She looked through the window: all nature seemed happy and riant. She threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh breezes as they came laden with the fragrance of the garden and of distant hayfields. The loveliness of the scene tempted her, though the breakfast hour had not yet approached, to dress and descend to the garden. She did so, and walked about with a pleasure the more delightful for its novelty. She wished but for Lady Matilda Vaux, to share the happy feeling that began to break in upon her mind.
She was stooping to pluck a hyacinth, when she heard the sound of a footstep, and, looking around, saw a gentleman cross the bottom of the walk. Unwilling to be seen, she threw her veil over her head, and crossed into another walk, in order to return to the house. Her intention was defeated; for instead of avoiding, she by this proceeding directly met the person she had seen, and who, unwilling to intrude, had himself changed the direction of his walk.
It was impossible not to pass him. He raised his hat as she approached; she acknowledged the act by a slight inclination of her head, and in so doing caught a glimpse of his features. She started and shrieked, and but for his intervening arm would have fallen. It was the lover of her dream.
She speedily recovered, and would have passed on, but her feet refused their office. The stranger was conscious of her inability, and with some diffidence offered his arm, and to accompany her to the house.
"Oh no, no! I would not for the world my mother should see you!" exclaimed Julia, thrown off her guard by the surprise.
The stranger seemed puzzled by her words. "I have the happiness of addressing Miss Mont Clair?"
She motioned assent.
"You do not, of course, retain any remembrance of me; but—"
"Oh! yes, yes!" she exclaimed with emotion: "can I have forgotten already?" Julia spoke with her dream present to her remembrance. The stranger was bewildered, and felt relieved by the approach of Mrs. Mont Clair.
On seeing her mother, when yet at some distance, Julia sprung forward to meet her, and clasping her hands with earnestness, said, "Forgive me I cannot now see Mr. Beaulieu."
"Julia, you alarm me. Not see him! How can this be, or what can it mean? But command yourself; you must be introduced to him." And drawing her daughter's arm within her own, she advanced towards the stranger. "Accident," she said, "seems already to have partially introduced you, Mr. Beaulieu, to my daughter."
"Mr. Beaulieu!" exclaimed Julia: "is this Mr. Beaulieu?"
"What is your name, N. or M.?" said Mrs. Mont Clair.
I hate an author whose microscopic pen leaves nothing to the imagination of his readers; who greedily monopolizes all scenes, thoughts, and speeches. It is an odious egotism. So the rest of this scene, and indeed of my story, the reader may make out for herself or himself: I wish him or her much pleasure in the occupation.
Mrs. Clackfidget was absolutely worried when it was known, that Miss Mont Clair was to be married to Mr. Beaulieu, and that Lady Matilda was to be bride's-maid. All who on her authority had reported her story were taxed with their incorrectness, and revenged themselves in reproaches on her.
"I wonder," said Lady Matilda to her friend, "how you could think of marrying Mr. Beaulieu!"
"Matilda!"
"Yes: you know he was a horrid child, and, as you correctly supposed, not altered much now."
"Matilda, I beg—"
"A fat overgrown booby—"
"Nay, now, this is not kind!"
"With great thick lips and staring eyes—"
"I certainly think, Matilda—"
"And his manners as disgusting as his person, you know. Well, I will not be malicious!"
"Ah, but you are! I was right in my dream, however. He came at the very day and hour, though I did not see him till afterwards."
"Oh certainly! You remember Mr. Barron, of course?"
"There is the second bell," answered Julia: "we must dress for dinner."