Having finished reading Lord Worcester's letter I hastened to examine the second epistle, which had fallen to the ground. It was as I suspected, or rather as I hoped, from Meyler. He had at first, he said, determined to forget me, since there was so very little chance of our ever meeting again. However that, as he was pleased to add, was out of the question. He was in fact unwell, and required Devonshire air. I must not be surprised therefore to see him in my neighbourhood. He had only once called on Julia since I left town; because seeing my friends only added to his melancholy now I was gone. There was nothing like Worcester's sort of rapture in his letter, yet something melancholy and interesting about his style of writing which appeared perfectly unaffected.
Meyler was anything rather than romantic: his manner and voice were particularly pleasing at all times; but the former had generally something of melancholy, till he had drunk a few bottles of claret, and then, though not at all noisy or ungentlemanlike, he appeared all animation and happiness.
I was a good deal affected by his letter, and the idea that I had no chance of seeing him again; nevertheless I immediately answered his letter as follows:
"CHARMOUTH
"MY DEAR MR. MEYLER,—I must candidly confess that I am glad that you have not forgotten me: and I wish you happy with all my heart and soul; but, believe me, I cannot prove myself more desirous of being liked and esteemed by you, than I have done and shall continue to do. I have often been surprised at the imbecility of the silly, weak, mistaken females, who fancy they can make themselves beloved by breaking the solemn vows they have made to God and their husbands, and forsaking for ever a whole family of helpless children; as if a man could esteem trust, love, or honour one, who proves herself a heartless hypocrite and an unnatural mother! One who, for the indulgence of mere animal passion (for of real affection she must be incapable), can forsake her children and forget the laws of God and man. I have never been married it is true. My mother's marriage was unhappy, and besides being somewhat disgusted with what I saw of it, I cannot for the life of me divest myself of the idea that, if all were alike honourable and true, as I wish to be, it would be unnecessary to bind men and women together by law, since two persons who may have chosen each other from affection, possessing heart and honour, could not part, and, where there is neither the one nor the other even marriage does not bind. My idea may be wicked or erroneous: indeed I think it is so, with regard to mothers: but, at least, I hope I am incapable of acting towards any one with a want of honour, or of such tenderness of heart, towards those who deserve it from me, without which feeling a woman is in my opinion unsexed. As I keep my faith to Worcester, so hereafter will you be inclined to trust me, if any unexpected circumstance should oblige me to separate from him. In the meantime, I must throw myself on your honour and kindness, as to your idea of intruding your society on me in Devonshire. I assure you that, on the very day of your arrival, I shall hold myself in readiness to leave these very hospitable, new friends, who have been so very kind to me; but you are of course only joking! How, in fact, can I be so ridiculous as to fancy for an instant the rich, handsome, gay Meyler, would so far astonish the natives of this little village as to come and establish himself among us? How you would laugh to see me in my quiet straw bonnet, trotting down the hill to church, and lending my arm to the curate's father, aged ninety-five! After church, I appear in the character of My Lady Bountiful, paying visits to the sick, followed by my maid, bearing my good host's medicine, with my own wine and broth. Charity is stimulated here, where the number of poor is so limited that, by each of us contributing our mite, we may hope to meet only smiling, happy faces in our walks.
"Last week I found a poor woman, and six fine beautiful children without a roof to her house: for a trifle I made it a comparative paradise, and now Miss Edmond and her mother are employed in making up the stuff-frocks I purchased for the children. But enough of Harriette Wilson as Lady Bountiful.
"I suppose you will soon get into parliament, à present, que vous avez vingt et un ans bien sommés. Do you see much of your favourite, the Duchess of Beaufort now? Pray tell me all the news you can scrape together. Of course the Beauforts have received news from Lord Worcester long ago? My last letter from his lordship, which I received with yours, had been delayed by being directed to London. My old beau, Wellington, is going on famously, thanks to the fineness of his nerves and his want of feeling, and his excellent luck. I do not mean to say he has not a good notion of commanding an army; for, though I do not understand things, I am willing to take it for granted that this is the case; and yet, I am told, but I will not venture to say by whom, that he is miserably ignorant of the country, and ought really to hire a master for geography, instead of sitting still and looking so stupid after dinner. It is really quite disgusting, when one has been hearing him so cried up, to see him such a savage! Nevertheless, tel qu'il est, he has made, I understand, a desperate conquest of Lady Caroline Lamb; but then her ladyship was never very particular you know.
"I will now take my leave, with sincerest wishes for your welfare and happiness; therefore, whether we meet again or not,
"God bless you.
"H.W."
Though I remained a year at Charmouth, I really can remember no one incident that occurred to me during the whole of my séjour there, worthy the attention of my readers. Mrs. Edmond was invariably obliging, gentle and melancholy, her sister, "my aunt Martha," as Eliza Edmond used to call her, was a very merry, comical old maid. Eliza was, without any one exception but that of my beloved mother, the most truly virtuous being, according to my acceptation of the word virtuous, which does not mean chastity only, I ever met with in my whole life. Nay, my dear mother herself cannot have been purer in her thoughts, hopes and wishes, than was the beautiful Eliza Edmond; but then Eliza possessed a less enlarged mind, and was more a bigot, and had less quickness, and natural strong sense, than that dear parent. Eliza lived and breathed but to serve, oblige and benefit others, and yet she was afraid of God our Father who is in heaven. This I could never understand.
My mother would have lived for others, whether it pleased God or not; because her heart would have it so; but, when she felt her death approaching, instead of praying or sending for a priest, she merely said, "I wanted rest, and God is about to reward me with it: yet I fain would have remained with my children had it so pleased him; for I asked not to be happy before they were."
Eliza was beautiful; but my mother's beauty was that of spirit and mind alone. It was not earthly; for I have seen nothing on earth like it: so pale, so still, and so expressive. In the whole course of my life, I never saw my mother anxious, even one instant, unless for others; and yet I have nursed her in the bitter pangs of child-bearing, and have often seen her tortured with bodily pain; yet, God's will be done, was all she said or thought as to herself, while, in regard to serving others she was the most sanguine, eager and romantic that could be possibly imagined.
Eliza was too religious, too devoted to the observance of every form of the Christian faith, to have cast an eye of love on anything but a parson; and her heart would therefore have been safe, but that, unluckily, a certain black-eyed, most libidinous divine, having been thrown into her society just before I became acquainted with her, his hypocrisy had proved more than a match for poor Eliza's simplicity; and she had loved him, from the belief that he was most pure and holy. My readers may conceive what her feelings must have been, when this first object of her warmest, devoted love, finally declared to her that their marriage must be kept secret, since his friends would never receive her as their daughter.
From that hour Eliza had never seen her lover, and no power on earth could have induced her to consent to a single interview.
"You are then, very proud, Eliza," said I, to her, after her mother had related this story to me in her presence.