THE LOST BRIDE.

BY GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. 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. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

DOCTOR JOHNSON did not call that day, which Aunt Jane declared was a good sign, and I tried to think so too. But the next morning I couldn’t help feeling very anxious for his hitherto daily visit, and we also expected Mr. Mordaunt. So I sat near the window with a book in my hand, listening and looking anxiously along the road to the village.

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At last I saw a carriage coming in the distance; it was not the doctor’s gig, nor Mr. Mordaunt’s fly, but a large well-appointed vehicle; and as it approached the door I recognised, by the ducal coronet, that it was the same carriage in which we went to the ball on that eventful night.

Then I saw a lady and two gentlemen get out, and I fancied that some one else remained in it; but I had no time to look again, for it drove quickly off, and Mary opened the door to admit the Duchess, with Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke. I felt rather confused and embarrassed, because I suddenly took it into my head that the other person who remained in the carriage was Carlo, and the question, “Was he well enough to travel?—and was he really going{3} away without my seeing him?” was on the tip of my tongue.

But the Duchess was one of those kind people who possess the valuable faculty of setting everyone at their ease, so she soon engaged my attention pleasantly by her account of Dorina, and how enchanted she was with that beautiful saint. Then she said that the Marchese Spinola was much better. “And,” added she, “he is so anxious to go to his father at Sorrento that I allowed him to take a little drive to-day; and if he bears it without suffering, he is to start on his journey to-morrow. But he has had a most extraordinary escape, and his recovery was, it was feared at first, quite hopeless.”

I inquired whether his mind was not{4} affected, because that was what the doctor at first apprehended.

“Not at all; and I suppose he has been of great use to Mr. Mordaunt about that strange business—your impostor cousin. For I am convinced he is an impostor,” she added, “and so is the Duke; and the matter is going to be well sifted, and I don’t despair of seeing you re-instated in your rights again.”

“How can that be possible?” I said. “But oh! if my father could but be cleared—if the slur they want to cast on my father could but be——”

“It will—it shall—it must!” interrupted the impetuous Mr. Mordaunt.

“Yes,” said the Duchess with a quiet smile, as she saw the Dresden china ink{5}stand vibrate, and the pens dance, from his thump on the table. “And now I have a petition to make, my dear Miss Vivian—it is that you and Miss Stanway will come and take our places at Castle Hall, for the Duke has business which he must not longer neglect. The Gräfinn Dorina must not be left alone; and no one is so well fitted to be her companion at this trying time as yourself. And you are the only relative she has in England; and she had much better remain in the old home of her English ancestors. So I shall send the carriage for you both to-morrow, and see you installed at Castle Hall; then the Duke will take me away in the afternoon. The Count Rossi will go on the following day, for now that the funeral of his poor wife is over, he{6} wishes to return for a time to his old home at Venice—for a time only,” she added, as she saw a disappointed look on my face. “Of course he will marry his own fiancée as soon as Dorina consents, and we will have a splendid wedding, or

rather a lovely and picturesque one, for it shall be a real old-fashioned fête, when all the villages for miles round will enjoy it; and I shall come and dance on the green with the old clerk; and the Duke shall dance a minuet de la cour with dear old Mrs. Lacy. How I love that genuine old dame, with her long family histories—you know, I have quite learnt them by heart from her—ever since the Conquest. And that clever rogue Cattarina has been ferreting out something most mysterious, that was even unknown to Mrs. Lacy.{7} I rather like that wicked Cattarina, for she would have gone through fire and water for her mistress, who was—well, never mind, her faults are buried with her, and we will think no ill; but what I mean is, that Cattarina was so fascinated by poor Cunigunda’s exterior charms, that now she has got a mistress as externally charming, and so good withal, I feel sure she ought to make a good and devoted servant. But there is the carriage, luckily, to stop the overflow of my eternal talk, as the Duke calls it.

Our horses want exercise,” she added, as she looked out; “and as our invalid is trying to get out, we will leave him and send it back in an hour. Good-bye, and remember to be ready by twelve o’clock to-morrow morning.”

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I saw that Carlo had great difficulty in moving, and though supported on each side by Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke, his progress along the little garden walk, which led from the entrance-gate up to the house door, was very slow.

I had full time to notice the look of intense suffering on his pale thin face, and the anxious look in his dark, speaking eyes. The gentlemen lifted him up the steps, and supporting him into the room, and placing him in Aunt Jane’s armchair, they left him alone with me. I hoped Aunt Jane was coming (she had gone with the Duchess to the hall door), but she did not, and I heard the carriage drive off.

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CHAPTER II. MY INTERVIEW WITH CARLO.

“YOU are not glad to see me,” he said, in a low, weak voice. “I knew it was better I should die, and then perhaps you would have thought more kindly of me. And yet I dreaded death, for I felt almost for the first time that I was going to eternal torture. And your indifference——”

“Oh! no, no!” I said, as I approached and took his hand. After that I scarcely{10} knew what we said, but an hour afterwards, when Aunt Jane came into the room, I had quite forgiven his apparent faithlessness, and I saw by Aunt Jane’s face that she was satisfied with the result of our long interview. Yet there was no result, for I was not conscious of having promised anything. I only felt kindly towards him, and felt most deeply for his sufferings.

“The carriage has come back for you, but you are to come and see us again before you leave the country,” I said.

“No, this must be the last time—not later, unless——”

“Unless you resolve not to come,” interrupted Aunt Jane.

“But we must now obey the orders of those who are interested in your fate. The{11} Duke is going to carry you off by force to Lorton Grange, till you are much more fit to travel than you are now; and he has promised to bring you once more to see us at Castle Hall, and then you can bid us an eternal adieu, if you are resolved to leave England for ever. So now cheer up, and don’t look as if all happiness had fled, and that you are doomed to misery for ever and ever. Remember an old homely proverb, ‘It’s never too late to mend.’”

“I wish I could think so,” said Carlo, as he tried to rise from his chair, but fell back exhausted with the effort; and Aunt Jane went to fetch some restorative, after ordering him not to stir, and promising that Mr. Mordaunt and the servant would come and help him into the carriage.

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“Am I to come again,” whispered Carlo, while his beseeching eyes looked anxiously into mine for an answer. I said nothing, but my looks probably satisfied him, for his face brightened, and with a voice to which hope seemed to give sudden strength, he added, after a pause,

“Then when I see you next, I shall have a great deal to say, for I hope that Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke are going to make me of some use.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Jane, “I know all about it, and highly approve of your plan; but you must not talk any more now. There, all right, you may kiss her hand, and mine too, if you like, for I admire your old courtier-like air. Good-bye; and get well quickly,” she added, as Mr. Mordaunt and{13} the Duke’s servant came to help him into the carriage.

“Oh! Aunt Jane,” I said, as they drove off, “why did you tell him to kiss my hand?”

“Because I saw it would do him good. Don’t you see that he is still so ill that it seems to me very doubtful whether he will ever recover?—and unless he has some hope, and meets with real kindness, I am certain he will die; and you would be sorry for that, though you did try to look as if you did not care what became of him.”

“Oh! no, I am certain I did not,” I said, while the tears came into my eyes.

“Well, you need not cry about it now, darling, for I know your position was a very difficult one—very, under all the{14} complication of circumstances. For the long and short of it is this (and we should always view things exactly as they are), you considered yourself engaged to him when you came to England, and you fancied that you were in love with him because you had seen no one else you liked as well. Then when you lost your fortune, he seemed to reject you, and this of course you could not forgive. You tried to hate him, and fancied you succeeded. You saw another man, the most fascinating man going, who made love to you as the reigning beauty of the season, and you fancied he adored you, therefore it would have been very ungrateful if you had not returned his love, in spite of the wise warning of Lady Horatia Somerton, and of the old poet, and half a dozen others, some{15} of whom knew of his kind of engagement to another, and that he was an inveterate gambler. Then you suddenly discovered,” she added, after a pause, “that he was loved by

your dearest friend Norah, and that you had been the means of inducing him to forget her. All this excitement brought on a most dangerous illness, from the effects of which you are scarcely yet recovered. It has left your mind in a kind of blank, dull state, and you shrink instinctively from emotional or decided feeling; and your bad opinion of Carlo has been confirmed by the rumours you heard, that he was too attentive to Cunigunda. I think these rumours were exaggerated; but I saw what an extraordinary, fascinating syren she was, and that Carlo’s pleasure in her society might be{16} somewhat excused. How irresistibly fascinating she was is proved by Count Rossi having been induced to forget his beautiful betrothed, and marry, after such a short interval, a person who was her very opposite in character. Yet Count Rossi is really a good and most conscientious man, and not nearly so likely to be led away as such a young and untrained person as Carlo is. Your Marchese is by no means perfect, but I fancy I see in his countenance that many

fine qualities might be developed, and that under judicious influence he may become quite a different creature.”

“Do you really think so?” said I, with anxious hope.

“I hope so. But as it must depend on you—and I would endeavour not to cause{17} him to despair before he has had time to recover his health, and to give you some proof that the severe shock and illness he has had, may not have been sent in vain.”

“I certainly should not wish to do him any harm, but——”

“But you cannot, of course, make up your mind all of a sudden to—and that is quite natural. You are also surprised that I should thus seem to advocate the cause of one of whom many would disapprove. Perhaps it is surprising, but when you have seen as much of the world, or rather of mankind, you will see that the unfortunate moral or character training of men is so inferior to that of women, and their temptations are often so much greater, that it is{18} wonderful if one in a thousand turns out really well.”

“I do not expect perfection, but I am sure I would rather not marry, unless——”

“Unless you find it, or unless you can feel the kind of wild intoxication of delight Sir Alfred Rivers called forth. But you would not have been happy with him, nor would you have had the power to call forth his best qualities. No one could do that but Norah. You are better suited to draw forth Carlo’s, that I see plainly; and would have the greatest advantage, that of early intimacy, which always helps to create a good influence.”

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CHAPTER III. AUNT JANE’S SAGE ADVICE.

“IT is a very great advantage,” added Aunt Jane, later in the evening of that day, “to be reminded of early youth. To think of those who loved us, and whom we loved in days when we were comparatively innocent and unsuspicious of evil, has generally a beneficial influence on our character in after-life. There may be many objections to the marriage of cousins, but he{20} is not your first cousin, and I have generally found that they turned out very happily—I mean among those cousins who had been brought up together; and I attribute it chiefly to this reason, that each helps to keep alive in the other’s mind a vivid recollection of early days. That was why I was so glad when you told me of your talk about your childish adventures with Carlo in the cameo boudoir that eventful night.”

By all Aunt Jane said, I fancied that she wished I should become engaged to Carlo; but I did not tell her this, for a strange kind of reserve seemed to spring up, not more towards her than towards myself, if such a thing can be explained. I shrank from analysing my feelings. I did not like to talk or think of him as connected in any{21} way with my own future destiny, yet I wished earnestly to see him again before he left England.

I suppose Aunt Jane perceived this, for she said nothing more about him that day. But the next morning, before we left the Grange for Castle Hall, she told me that Carlo had undertaken the difficult and arduous office of investigating the case of (as she considered) unjust usurpation of my property, by a pretended heir to my uncle; and as soon as he had seen his father at Sorrento, he intended to start for America, and proceed to the place where the mysterious child was said to have been born.

“He is going to tell you of this himself, but I thought it as well you should know it before you see him, that you may know{22} how anxious he is that your father’s character should be vindicated.”

“It is most kind, indeed,” I said, “for that is the object I have most at heart.” But I could not help adding that “I wished there was no fortune to be gained by this vindication:” and the next minute I could have bitten my tongue out for uttering it, for it seemed to imply a doubt of the sincerity of his love or disinterestedness of his efforts.

Aunt Jane saw I was horrified at my implied doubt, so she merely said,

“After such a miraculous recovery as he had, and the look of despair we both saw on his pale face, I do not think it likely that bad motives are mingled with his efforts to be of use.”

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And I fully agreed with her, but at the same time I felt puzzled by her evident wish that I should become engaged to him. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be on Norah’s account—that it might facilitate a reconciliation between Sir Alfred and that most injured and ill-used girl. And, oh! if this were the case, I would most willingly make any sacrifice.

“How deeply you are meditating,” she said, after the pause in our conversation while this new idea occurred to me. “Yes, I see by the sudden colour in your cheeks, and bright flash in your eyes, that you think you have read my thoughts; and so you have. But, remember, I should not advise this step if I thought it would be an heroic sacrifice; and you are wondering, too,{24} that I, being such a happy old maid, would not be satisfied with the plan which, at the present moment, seems to you to be right, that you should never marry. You are thinking now that Aunt Jane never found any man who came up to her beau-ideal—therefore, why should you? And all this seems likely; but, my dear, it was not the case, for I did find one, and we were engaged; but he was in the army. He went to India just after our engagement, and——”

“Oh! don’t try to tell me,” I interposed, as I saw the look of intense sorrow on her face, for I remembered hearing a kind of rumour that an officer she was engaged to had been killed in battle, after gaining great renown, just before the time which had{25} been fixed for his return to England, when they were to have been married.

“No, I will not tell you any more,” said Aunt Jane. “I will only try to explain that I think your disposition is even less fitted than mine is for a lonely life, and that I have great hopes that Carlo will become worthy of you—worthy of anyone—after two years’ probation.”

“Well, then let it be so, if I find he really wishes it,” said I; and I suddenly felt as if a great load and responsibility were lifted from my mind.

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CHAPTER IV. THE RENEWED ENGAGEMENTS.

ON our arrival at Castle Hall we found Dorina very ill, and the Duchess of Dromoland was extremely anxious about her. She had never quite recovered from the effects of her fall, of the news of her father’s death, and the disappointment which her betrothed’s marriage with Cunigunda had caused.

Then the painful scene at Cunigunda’s death-bed seemed to have re-awakened all{27} her powers of suffering, and aroused her out of the state of half-unconsciousness in which she had lived since she took the resolution not to appear, or to allow the reports of her death to be contradicted. More than half her vitality of mind and body seem to have departed in this fearful effort.

Since that night when she and Count Rossi knelt together by the dying Cunigunda, she had not seen him, nor could she be persuaded to quit the strange little apartment in the ruined wing of the old Castle, where she had secretly lived for so many months; but she had at last promised to see him once before he left the Castle, and to come down and live in the house when he had gone.

“There is a naïve decision and simplicity{28} in all she says or does,” said the Duchess to Aunt Jane, “that is most touchingly fascinating. She has such beautiful faith, too, and unwavering trust in the goodness of God, and is so extraordinarily forgiving. When I ventured to say that we all hoped she would fulfil her long-standing engagement to Alphonso, she said, ‘I should wish to try to make him happy if I live, but I am not what I was before.’ Still I hope,” added the Duchess, “that with very great care she may recover. It is chiefly her mind. It seems to me that her beautiful trusting nature has never got over the surprise of finding such wickedness in human nature as must have actuated that extraordinary Cunigunda; but she evidently does not condemn the Count, nor does she wonder at his having been fascinated by her{29} rival. You must try to interest her about all her poor people, and show her the greatness of her responsibilities as possessor of these vast estates. What immense power she has of doing good! I fancied she listened to me more

attentively when I tried to impress this upon her than she did to anything else I said. So you must keep it well up, and take her to see all the poor people and the schools as soon as you can get her out at all.”

About a fortnight after our arrival at Castle Hall, the Duke of Dromoland wrote to tell Aunt Jane that he was going to bring the Marchese Spinola the next day, to take leave of us before his departure for Italy.