St. Ronan's Well

She paused here, as if she found difficulty in expressing herself; and Lord Etherington, turning, with great appearance of interest, to Lady Penelope, began to enquire, “Whether it were quite agreeable to her ladyship to remain any longer an ear-witness of this unfortunate's confession? – it seems to be verging on some things – things that it might be unpleasant for your ladyship to hear.”

“I was just forming the same opinion, my lord; and, to say truth, was about to propose to your lordship to withdraw, and leave me alone with the poor woman. My sex will make her necessary communications more frank in your lordship's absence.”

“True, madam; but then I am called here in my capacity of a magistrate.”

“Hush!” said Lady Penelope; “she speaks.”

“They say every woman that yields, makes herself a slave to her seducer; but I sold my liberty not to a man, but a demon! He made me serve him in his vile schemes against my friend and patroness – and oh! he found in me an agent too willing, from mere envy, to destroy the virtue which I had lost myself. Do not listen to me any more – Go, and leave me to my fate! I am the most detestable wretch that ever lived – detestable to myself worst of all, because even in my penitence there is a secret whisper that tells me, that were I as I have been, I would again act over all the wickedness I have done, and much worse. Oh! for Heaven's assistance, to crush the wicked thought!”

She closed her eyes, folded her emaciated hands, and held them upwards in the attitude of one who prays internally; presently the hands separated, and fell gently down on the miserable couch; but her eyes did not open, nor was there the slightest sign of motion in the features. Lady Penelope shrieked faintly, hid her eyes, and hurried back from the bed, while Lord Etherington, his looks darkening with a complication of feelings, remained gazing on the poor woman, as if eager to discern whether the spark of life was totally extinct. Her grim old assistant hurried to the bedside, with some spirits in a broken glass.

“Have ye no had pennyworths for your charity?” she said, in spiteful scorn. “Ye buy the very life o' us wi' your shillings and sixpences, your groats and your boddles – ye hae garr'd the puir wretch speak till she swarfs, and now ye stand as if ye never saw a woman in a dwam before? Let me till her wi' the dram – mony words mickle drought, ye ken – Stand out o' my gate, my leddy, if sae be that ye are a leddy; there is little use of the like of you when there is death in the pot.”

Lady Penelope, half affronted, but still more frightened by the manners of the old hag, now gladly embraced Lord Etherington's renewed offer to escort her from the hut. He left it not, however, without bestowing an additional gratuity on the old woman, who received it with a whining benediction.

“The Almighty guide your course through the troubles of this wicked warld – and the muckle deevil blaw wind in your sails,” she added, in her natural tone, as the guests vanished from her miserable threshold. “A wheen cork-headed, barmy-brained gowks! that wunna let puir folk sae muckle as die in quiet, wi' their sossings and their soopings.”[41 - Note II. (#pgepubid00099)]

“This poor creature's declaration,” said Lord Etherington to Lady Penelope, “seems to refer to matters which the law has nothing to do with, and which, perhaps, as they seem to implicate the peace of a family of respectability, and the character of a young lady, we ought to enquire no farther after.”

“I differ from your lordship,” said Lady Penelope; “I differ extremely – I suppose you guess whom her discourse touched upon?”

“Indeed, your ladyship does my acuteness too much honour.”

“Did she not mention a Christian name?” said Lady Penelope; “your lordship is strangely dull this morning!”

“A Christian name? – No, none that I heard – yes, she said something about – a Catherine, I think it was.”

“Catherine!” answered the lady; “No, my lord, it was Clara – rather a rare name in this country, and belonging, I think, to a young lady of whom your lordship should know something, unless your evening flirtations with Lady Binks have blotted entirely out of your memory your morning visits to Shaws-Castle. You are a bold man, my lord. I would advise you to include Mrs. Blower among the objects of your attention, and then you will have maid, wife, and widow upon your list.”

“Upon my honour, your ladyship is too severe,” said Lord Etherington; “you surround yourself every evening with all that is clever and accomplished among the people here, and then you ridicule a poor secluded monster, who dare not approach your charmed circle, because he seeks for some amusement elsewhere. This is to tyrannize and not to reign – it is Turkish despotism!”

“Ah! my lord, I know you well, my lord,” said Lady Penelope – “Sorry would your lordship be, had you not power to render yourself welcome to any circle which you may please to approach.”

“That is to say,” answered the lord, “you will pardon me if I intrude on your ladyship's coterie this evening?”

“There is no society which Lord Etherington can think of frequenting, where he will not be a welcome guest.”

“I will plead then at once my pardon and privilege this evening – And now,” (speaking as if he had succeeded in establishing some confidence with her ladyship,) “what do you really think of this blind story?”

“O, I must believe it concerns Miss Mowbray. She was always an odd girl – something about her I could never endure – a sort of effrontery – that is, perhaps, a harsh word, but a kind of assurance – an air of confidence – so that though I kept on a footing with her, because she was an orphan girl of good family, and because I really knew nothing positively bad of her, yet she sometimes absolutely shocked me.”

“Your ladyship, perhaps, would not think it right to give publicity to the story? at least, till you know exactly what it is,” said the Earl, in a tone of suggestion.

“Depend upon it, that it is quite the worst, the very worst – You heard the woman say that she had exposed Clara to ruin – and you know she must have meant Clara Mowbray, because she was so anxious to tell the story to her brother, St. Ronan's.”

“Very true – I did not think of that,” answered Lord Etherington; “still it would be hard on the poor girl if it should get abroad.”

“O, it will never get abroad for me,” said Lady Penelope; “I would not tell the very wind of it. But then I cannot meet Miss Mowbray as formerly – I have a station in life to maintain, my lord – and I am under the necessity of being select in my society – it is a duty I owe the public, if it were even not my own inclination.”

“Certainly, my Lady Penelope,” said Lord Etherington; “but then consider, that, in a place where all eyes are necessarily observant of your ladyship's behaviour, the least coldness on your part to Miss Mowbray – and, after all, we have nothing like assurance of any thing being wrong there – would ruin her with the company here, and with the world at large.”

“Oh! my lord,” answered Lady Penelope, “as for the truth of the story, I have some private reasons of my own for ‘holding the strange tale devoutly true;’ for I had a mysterious hint from a very worthy, but a very singular man, (your lordship knows how I adore originality,) the clergyman of the parish, who made me aware there was something wrong about Miss Clara – something that – your lordship will excuse my speaking more plainly, – Oh, no! – I fear – I fear it is all too true – You know Mr. Cargill, I suppose, my lord?”

“Yes – no – I – I think I have seen him,” said Lord Etherington. “But how came the lady to make the parson her father-confessor? – they have no auricular confession in the Kirk – it must have been with the purpose of marriage, I presume – let us hope that it took place – perhaps it really was so – did he, Cargill – the minister, I mean – say any thing of such a matter?”

“Not a word – not a word – I see where you are, my lord; you would put a good face on't. —

‘They call'd it marriage, by that specious name
To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.’

Queen Dido for that. How the clergyman came into the secret I cannot tell – he is a very close man. But I know he will not hear of Miss Mowbray being married to any one, unquestionably because he knows that, in doing so, she would introduce disgrace into some honest family – and, truly, I am much of his mind, my lord.”

“Perhaps Mr. Cargill may know the lady is privately married already,” said the Earl; “I think that is the more natural inference, begging your ladyship's pardon for presuming to differ in opinion.”

Lady Penelope seemed determined not to take this view of the case.

“No, no – no, I tell you,” she replied; “she cannot be married, for if she were married, how could the poor wretch say that she was ruined? – You know there is a difference betwixt ruin and marriage.”

“Some people are said to have found them synonymous, Lady Penelope,” answered the Earl.

“You are smart on me, my lord; but still, in common parlance, when we say a woman is ruined, we mean quite the contrary of her being married – it is impossible for me to be more explicit upon such a topic, my lord.”

“I defer to your ladyship's better judgment,” said Lord Etherington. “I only entreat you to observe a little caution in this business – I will make the strictest enquiries of this woman, and acquaint you with the result; and I hope, out of regard to the respectable family of St. Ronan's, your ladyship will be in no hurry to intimate any thing to Miss Mowbray's prejudice.”

“I certainly am no person to spread scandal, my lord,” answered the lady, drawing herself up; “at the same time, I must say, the Mowbrays have little claim on me for forbearance. I am sure I was the first person to bring this Spa into fashion, which has been a matter of such consequence to their estate; and yet Mr. Mowbray set himself against me, my lord, in every possible sort of way, and encouraged the under-bred people about him to behave very strangely. – There was the business of building the Belvidere, which he would not permit to be done out of the stock-purse of the company, because I had given the workmen the plan and the orders – and then, about the tea-room – and the hour for beginning dancing – and about the subscription for Mr. Rymour's new Tale of Chivalry – in short, I owe no consideration to Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's.”

“But the poor young lady?” said Lord Etherington.

“Oh! the poor young lady? – the poor young lady can be as saucy as a rich young lady, I promise you. – There was a business in which she used me scandalously, Lord Etherington – it was about a very trifling matter – a shawl. Nobody minds dress less than I do, my lord; I thank Heaven my thoughts turn upon very different topics – but it is in trifles that disrespect and unkindness are shown; and I have had a full share of both from Miss Clara, besides a good deal of impertinence from her brother upon the same subject.”

“There is but one way remains,” thought the Earl, as they approached the Spa, “and that is to work on the fears of this d – d vindictive blue-stocking'd wild-cat. – Your ladyship,” he said aloud, “is aware what severe damages have been awarded in late cases where something approaching to scandal has been traced to ladies of consideration – the privileges of the tea-table have been found insufficient to protect some fair critics against the consequences of too frank and liberal animadversion upon the characters of their friends. So pray, remember, that as yet we know very little on this subject.”

Lady Penelope loved money, and feared the law; and this hint, fortified by her acquaintance with Mowbray's love of his sister, and his irritable and revengeful disposition, brought her in a moment much nearer the temper in which Lord Etherington wished to leave her. She protested, that no one could be more tender than she of the fame of the unfortunate, even supposing their guilt was fully proved – promised caution on the subject of the pauper's declaration, and hoped Lord Etherington would join her tea-party early in the evening, as she wished to make him acquainted with one or two of her protegés, whom, she was sure, his lordship would find deserving of his advice and countenance. Being by this time at the door of her own apartment, her ladyship took leave of the Earl with a most gracious smile.

CHAPTER XIV.

DISAPPOINTMENT

On the lee-beam lies the land, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.

    The Storm.
“It darkens round me like a tempest,” thought Lord Etherington, as, with slow step, folded arms, and his white hat slouched over his brows, he traversed the short interval of space betwixt his own apartments and those of the Lady Penelope. In a buck of the old school, one of Congreve's men of wit and pleasure about town, this would have been a departure from character; but the present fine man does not derogate from his quality, even by exhibiting all the moody and gentlemanlike solemnity of Master Stephen.[42 - p. 220. “Master Stephen.” A character of Ben Jonson's already referred to – he who wished for a stool to be sad upon.] So, Lord Etherington was at liberty to carry on his reflections, without attracting observation. – “I have put a stopper into the mouth of that old vinegar-cruet of quality, but the acidity of her temper will soon dissolve the charm – And what to do?”

As he looked round him, he saw his trusty valet Solmes, who, touching his hat with due respect, said, as he passed him, “Your lordship's letters are in your private dispatch-box.”

Simple as these words were, and indifferent the tone in which they were spoken, their import made Lord Etherington's heart bound as if his fate had depended on the accents. He intimated no farther interest in the communication, however, than to desire Solmes to be below, in case he should ring; and with these words entered his apartment, and barred and bolted the door, even before he looked on the table where his dispatch-box was placed.