The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.
[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]
(Continued from our last.)
I resolved to conceal Harland’s visit, but my father heard of it from his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it, I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.
I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland. Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion—the alteration of his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him, and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up, and perceiving Harland’s writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused the following lines:
“Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object who has banished peace—will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not, I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul.”
I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it, the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of. The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my unspotted character, my father’s proud soul swelled at the ignominy of his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family, as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed, “wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the sight of heaven never more to see you.” For a moment I stood transfixed like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired of: the Almighty, however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend, neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust—I felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude—Heaven, I fancied, accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I shall now describe.
Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country, retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the course of their lives.
The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their pleasure.
He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest, a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle; scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved son.
Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.
The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to her complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.
Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly—not the largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready welcome—often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,
“Shoulder’d his crutch, & shew’d how fields were won.”
Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.
Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains, enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled by dissipation, can never experience.
Louisa was my constant companion—like a ministering seraph she hushed the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.
(To be continued.)