THE LOST BRIDE.

BY GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1872. The right of Translation is reserved. LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.

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CHAPTER I. MY ITALIAN CHILDHOOD.

A QUIRE of foolscap paper is placed before me, and I am asked to relate the principal events of an apparently eventful life.

It now strikes me for the first time how little influence even the most marked of these events had on my character. Such, for instance, as the misery of sudden poverty, the loss or gain of riches, produced but little{2} effect or impression on my life. It was the friend and enemy, the influence of congenial companionship, or the reverse, which caused the development of my self—that selfish self which has now grown old in years, but not in feelings, for my enjoyments in this beautiful world are often keener than when I was a thoughtless and apparently gay and admired girl of sixteen.

But I should throw away this said quire of foolscap with a shudder at the fool’s-cap-fittingness of the undertaking, and leave its clean pages for some more useful object, if the history of my life were not interwoven with those I have loved better than myself, and for whose history and sufferings and joys I would gladly win the sympathy of a larger circle of friends. For friends are to be found{3} among readers, friends who sympathize with the better portions of our nature—who can look on us with admiration and love—can love even personally unknown friends better than themselves. “Better than ourselves!” These words contain the very pith of Plato’s teachings and Socrates’ wise sayings. This was ante-Revelation religion, and I only wish that modern so-called philosophers, who foster the fatal self-sufficing religion of the day, would “show us something as good.”

My early youth was passed in Southern Italy, my mother’s home; and although my father was English and a Protestant, I was brought up in my mother’s faith, such as it was, for she happened to have lived among bad exponents of the religion. My father possessed few of the characteristics of Pro{4}testantism, and his tolerance and charity were so great that instinctively I clung more to his religion than I did to my mother’s,—or, rather, I did so after his death, which happened at the most critical period of a young Italian’s girlhood—my fourteenth year.

It was my first grief, and to my wild, ill-regulated, and irreligious nature, it became despair. For a few weeks after I was carried forcibly from his grave, I shut myself up in selfish woe, neglecting the duty of endeavouring to comfort my mother—or, rather, I did not fully believe in her sufferings, for I fancied she had never been able to appreciate his noble nature. For she was one of those indolent and uneducated Italians whose chief occupation in life seems to be the en{5}joyment of a dolce far niente, and of their own loveliness and perfect health. From the torpid stupor of despair I was at last roused by the unexpected arrival of a distant relation of my mother’s—the young Marchese Carlo Spinola. His father lived near our home at Sorrento, and from the time he first helped my baby feet to climb the orange trees, till he went to college, when I was twelve years old, I hero-worshipped him, and the dream and ambition of my childhood was to be his wife.

Of late the news which reached my father’s ears of Carlo’s career at college made him look grave, and I sometimes feared that he disapproved of the kind of childish and half joking engagement there was between us; but neither my mother nor I would be{6}lieve that the handsome boy could do wrong. I afterwards learnt, many years afterwards, that his sudden return home, after two years’ absence, was caused by expulsion from the college for some grave offence.

I had never left my room since the day of my father’s funeral, and sullenly refused to accompany my mother in her solitary meals in the great state dining-room, or even in her walks by the beautiful sea-shore, in which I formerly delighted. Her old nurse Pepita attended upon me with a persevering assiduity and patience, which I sometimes half-ungratefully resented. One day I heard her running up the stairs with unusual alacrity, and bursting open the door, she called out, with a shrill glee, “Il Signor Carlo è qui, e t’aspetta nel salone!” With a cry of{7} joy, for which I afterwards felt ashamed, I rushed down stairs, not even casting one look in the large mirror, or attempting to arrange my flowing hair and negligent attire.

He was alone in the saloon, for it was the hour of my mother’s siesta, and I was about to rush up to him with the impetuous glee of former childish times, when a glance at the alteration which two years had made suddenly arrested my steps. He was certainly handsomer than ever, and yet there was an indefinite something I did not like, and I half shrank from the fiery expression of his dark flashing eyes, as I strove to disengage myself from the embrace which already had frightened me by more than its former impetuous warmth.

“You no longer love me, I see; you are not{8} even glad I’m come,” he said, as he held my head between his hands and looked into my eyes. “And you are more lovely than ever,” he continued, as he stroked my hair. And then I first became aware of my neglected attire, and felt grateful to him for his affection.

From that day I recovered all my former high spirits, and the next three months were the most wildly happy time of my early youth; for I was only fourteen, and still quite a child in mind, and very backward in learning and accomplishments.

At the end of that delightful Summer my guardian, Mr. Mordaunt, a distant relative of my father’s, arrived from England, and the misery of my education began. He was horrified to discover how little I knew, and{9} shocked at the idle life I led with my cousin Carlo. There was an end of all our delightful rides and boating excursions along the beautiful shores; and Mr. Mordaunt seemed to have taken a most unaccountable aversion to my cousin.

He tried to persuade my mother to bring me to England, and place me at some good school in London. She could not bear the idea of leaving Italy, but consented to place me in a convent at Naples. But he shook his head, and at last, after many grave consultations, it was agreed that he should take me to Paris, and place me in a convent there.

I did not like my guardian at all, and could not help feeling much annoyed with my dear father for having thus given me up{10} to such a tyrannical and hard-hearted man. I discovered afterwards that it was Mr. Mordaunt’s father to whom my guardianship had been left, but he died quite suddenly in Ireland, a few days before my father, and his son inherited what he seemed to think a very troublesome office.

He was not rich either, and he complained bitterly of the expensive journey he had deemed it his duty to take. Yet he was not unkind in his manner to me; he rather bored me with the reverse, and I sometimes fancied that he loved me, and was therefore jealous of my evident affection for Carlo. The latter was of course furious at the prospect of my being taken away, and he extorted from me a promise that we were to keep up a secret correspondence, and that no{11} power on earth should prevent our marriage as soon as he became of age. This would be in two years, and in the meantime he said he should come to see me in Paris. So we parted full of hope, and I started with my guardian and Pepita, leaving my mother crying at the doorsteps, having showed more feeling at parting from me than I had believed she possessed; and I began to love her better than I had ever done before.

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CHAPTER II. MY ENGLISH HOME.

OF the two years I passed in the convent at Paris I shall say but little—for although I made considerable progress in learning and music, no other event than an occasional letter from Carlo diversified the monotony of the hours and days. Yet I enjoyed the apparently dull life, and even the constraint, and was rather sorry when my guardian came to take me on a visit to some of my relations in England. I had seen him several times during the two years,{13} and was still less favourably impressed by his countenance and manner. There was a cat-like quietness in his walk, and stealthy expression in his downcast eyes, that provoked me. Carlo had once contrived to see me at the home of one of my schoolfellows by whose means the correspondence had been carried on. We renewed our vows of eternal love, and he was still the hero of my romantic dreams; and if anyone had told me that in the course of years he or I should change, it would have aroused my utmost indignation.

I was to return to my mother at Sorrento after the visits to my English relations were ended, and then we resolved that our marriage should take place. I fancy that my guardian had discovered or suspected the clandes{14}tine correspondence, for he took every opportunity of abusing Italians in general, and the Marchese, as he would persist in calling Carlo Spinola, in particular.

I could now speak English pretty well, for I had learnt quickly that and other languages;—thanks to the judicious teachings of the good nuns. My father’s place, Langdale Priory, which I was to inherit when I became of age, had been let for many years to another of the Mordaunt family, and my first visit was to him at Langdale, this home of my ancestors.

There was a large picture of Langdale Priory at our Italian home, and also some good sketches made by my father, and he had often described to me the different rooms. The south drawing-room, that{15} looked on a broad terrace walk, and down a grassy slope to the lake below, in one of his sketches, was my favourite. I thought less of the north side, which, in the large oil-painting, was not so attractive, although that was evidently the principal or show side of the house, which had a fine portico in the Italian style that succeeded the Elizabethan in England.

But on the south and garden side the building was more irregular, and a fine old gable and window remained, which I heard had been part of a much older house. My father had pointed out the nurseries in this; and a little oriel window on a lower level, which he said had been his dear mother’s boudoir, was my especial object of admiration.

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It was fortunately a fine sunny evening when we drove through the park gates, and as I caught a first sight of Langdale Priory, the whole palatial front showed to great advantage against a background of fine trees which grew on the rising ground beyond the lake. It was exactly the point of view taken in the large picture, and I at once distinguished the library windows on the left side of the broad portico, and those of the dining-room on the right, and one of the windows of my father’s bed-room over it at the western corner, looking towards the stables, which was also a fine building, in the same kind of Italian style, with a high clock-tower.

“Yes, it is a fine place,” said my guardian, in his slow, oily voice, when he heard my{17} exclamation of delight at the first sight of the place. “But how little prospect there seemed to be, when your father left England, that you would ever inherit the property!”

“How was that?” I inquired, much startled at the idea. “My father never gave me the slightest hint.”

“Oh! I can quite understand that, for he never would believe in the possibility of his elder brother’s marriage. I always suspected it, and that some fine day we should have a great deal of trouble. However, here we are at the door, and I will not mar the joy I see you feel at your arrival in your ancestral home, by any evil prognostications.”

“Oh! but do tell me all there is to know, pray.”

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“Another time I will. See, here are actually Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt, and Miss Stanway, a tiresome old woman they call Aunt Jane, at the door, come to have a look at the young heiress.”

He always called me the “young heiress,” and there was something in the words and tone that grated on my ear particularly.

I liked the appearance of the Mordaunts, and was still more pleased with the somewhat odd-looking but genial countenance of Aunt Jane.

“You are no relation of mine,” said the latter, as she gave me a warm embrace, “but I like your face, and you must always call me Aunt Jane, remember.”

“That I will,” said I, as I kissed her on both cheeks, according to the French fashion{19} I had been accustomed to see among my companions at the convent.

As we had crossed over from Calais that morning, and travelled all the day, Mrs. Mordaunt said that I must be so tired and starved, that I was to go and lie down, and have some refreshment at once.

But Aunt Jane, who saw how eagerly I was looking round the large hall, and devouring with my eyes every picture, and the finely-carved chimney-pieces at each end, said,

“Oh! no, she is not tired; and, besides, she could not possibly rest till she has seen the house and gardens. I know she is longing to be inside, and outside, and everywhere all at the same moment. Come, I will take {20}charge of her, and show her the drawing-rooms, and her grandmother’s old south boudoir.”

“Oh! do, for I always longed to be inside that beautiful oriel window I saw in my dear father’s sketch.” And here the recollection of him, and the feeling that every part of this house was hallowed by his presence, that his eyes had rested on those very pictures of our ancestors, his dear footsteps and harmonious voice must have echoed through these halls from the time he could first crawl till he finally left the loved home to accompany a still more loved wife to Italy, aroused emotion almost beyond control.

My mother could not stand the English climate, and this had been the greatest trial of my father’s life, owing to his peculiarly{21} deep attachment to his ancestral home. He had let it at a very low rent to the Mordaunts, in order to ensure some good inhabitants to enjoy themselves in it, and to take care of the village poor. When Aunt Jane took me out through the breakfast-room, along the south terrace, to the farther corner, from whence my father had taken his painting, my tears flowed so fast I could scarcely see.

“Now, sit down on this bench, and I will leave you alone to look round on all the objects your father loved so well. You will find me in the breakfast-room when you have wandered over the garden, where I am sure you will like to go quite by yourself.”

I seized her hand, but could not speak,{22} for a sudden pang of violent despairing sorrow for my father’s loss seemed to paralyze my senses, and I could scarcely refrain from throwing myself on the ground, and crying out with agony. For I was wild and impetuous as ever, and had profited but little in disposition or judgment from the convent life. Although I was now what many people called learned and accomplished, my mind and temper were still as entirely uncultivated and untrained as when I selfishly shut myself up at my father’s death, and would not be comforted.

The result of my solitary walk in the south garden was an increased feeling of adoration for my father’s memory, and intense love for this place. I knelt down and kissed the old high massive stone sun{23}dial, where he used to climb up as a child to see the hour. A thousand little stories of his boyhood and youth, long half forgotten, now returned; and I heard the very tones of his voice as he had related them to me. A longing to know more about him was mingled with a wonder that I had hitherto been so strangely indifferent about it.

The sight of his old residence seemed to have developed suddenly a number of new interests and ardent attachments. I felt that I loved that old place better than anything in the world. And Carlo? A pang of almost remorse seized me as I thought of him at last. I seemed to dread being unfaithful to him, as it occurred to me that even his love would not reconcile me, as love for his{24} bride seemed to have done my father, to live away from this enchanting place.

“Then I suppose I love my father even better than Carlo? Can this be possible?” I thought. Strange that the first time I had ever really analysed my feelings, or ever put them into words, was during that first stroll through the Langdale Priory gardens. “But of course Carlo will like to live here,” I continued to reflect. “I shall be rich, too, and he values riches; and he will have even greater luxuries here—the fine English horses and carriages which I had heard so much praised both in Italy and Paris; and he has already spent more than his father can afford to give him,” I reflected, too. “Yes, he will certainly be happy here,” and I walked with a proud step to{25}wards the house, with the foolish exultation of being able to confer all this on my betrothed.

At that moment I discerned my guardian’s face in the oriel window, and the sneering and exultant smile on it reminded me most painfully of the mysterious words he had uttered. “How little I thought this property would ever be yours!” I fancy that he could read my exulting thoughts, and saw the buoyancy of my step and proud bearing.

A shudder came over me as I felt that he might, by some mysterious agency, have power to deprive me of all this. I had heard my father say, “Mordaunt is a good, clever man of business—a lawyer that could make people believe black was white. He{26} would be sure to manage her property well, and there may be difficulties.”

I now remembered his having one day said this to my mother, when he was first taken ill, and he told her he had appointed Mr. Mordaunt my guardian. She was to write to him at once if he got worse. I felt now quite sick with apprehension, and determined I would ask Aunt Jane about him, and why my father appointed his father my guardian—why it was necessary to have such a clever man to manage it—why it might be necessary to make people believe black was white. I now felt that if I were ever deprived of this dear place, with all its hallowed recollections, I should never be happy again—never could be happy anywhere else.

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The idea of its possible loss intensified my adoration for it. And that horrible man evidently wanted me to love him. Could he really love me, or was it for my riches? If the latter, why did his evil eyes glisten with satisfaction when he said those mysterious words that cast a doubt upon my inheritance? Yes, he had rapturously enjoyed the horror and surprise which, I am sure, my countenance must have shown.

I ran into the breakfast-room, with the intention of asking Aunt Jane, and was much disappointed at not finding her alone.

“Well, my dear little girl,” she said, “you have lived a good deal during the last half hour. I really believe you have thought more in that time than all the rest of your little life.”

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“How could you know that? Does my face show all I have been thinking and feeling?”

“Yes; you are several years older than you were yesterday. You have thought, and you have put your feelings into thoughts and words for almost the first time in your life; you have been very happy and very miserable, and now you are in a kind of mysterious doubt, which it annoys you to remain in.”

“You must be a perfect witch,” I said, “to discover all this, and I do so long——”

“You do so long for a good talk with me?” said the old aunt. “Well, you shall have it after dinner in my room, and I will tell you all I know, or rather suspect.”

As she repeated the last word my guard{29}ian entered the room. I saw that he turned pale, and he said, with oily politeness,

“What is it Miss Stanway suspects?”