“My dearest childe,” such was its tenor in style and spelling, “I
never more deeply regretted the reumatizm, which disqualified me
from riding on horseback, than at this present writing, when I would
most have wished to be where this paper will soon be, that is at
Fairy Knowe, with my poor dear Willie’s only child. But it is the
will of God I should not be with her, which I conclude to be the
case, as much for the pain I now suffer, as because it hath now not
given way either to cammomile poultices or to decoxion of wild
mustard, wherewith I have often relieved others. Therefore, I must
tell you, by writing instead of word of mouth, that, as my young
Lord Evandale is called to the present campaign, both by his honour
and his duty, he hath earnestly solicited me that the bonds of holy
matrimony be knitted before his departure to the wars between you
and him, in implement of the indenture formerly entered into for
that effeck, whereuntill, as I see no raisonable objexion, so I
trust that you, who have been always a good and obedient childe,
will not devize any which has less than raison. It is trew that the
contrax of our house have heretofore been celebrated in a manner
more befitting our Rank, and not in private, and with few witnesses,
as a thing done in a corner. But it has been Heaven’s own free will,
as well as those of the kingdom where we live, to take away from us
our estate, and from the King his throne. Yet I trust He will yet
restore the rightful heir to the throne, and turn his heart to the
true Protestant Episcopal faith, which I have the better right to
expect to see even with my old eyes, as I have beheld the royal
family when they were struggling as sorely with masterful usurpers
and rebels as they are now; that is to say, when his most sacred
Majesty, Charles the Second of happy memory, honoured our poor house
of Tillietudlem by taking his disjune therein,” etc., etc., etc.
We will not abuse the reader’s patience by quoting more of Lady Margaret’s prolix epistle. Suffice it to say that it closed by laying her commands on her grandchild to consent to the solemnization of her marriage without loss of time.
“I never thought till this instant,” said Edith, dropping the letter from her hand, “that Lord Evandale would have acted ungenerously.”
“Ungenerously, Edith!” replied her lover. “And how can you apply such a term to my desire to call you mine, ere I part from you, perhaps for ever?”
“Lord Evandale ought to have remembered,” said Edith, “that when his perseverance, and, I must add, a due sense of his merit and of the obligations we owed him, wrung from me a slow consent that I would one day comply with his wishes, I made it my condition that I should not be pressed to a hasty accomplishment of my promise; and now he avails himself of his interest with my only remaining relative to hurry me with precipitate and even indelicate importunity. There is more selfishness than generosity, my lord, in such eager and urgent solicitation.”
Lord Evandale, evidently much hurt, took two or three turns through the apartment ere he replied to this accusation; at length he spoke: “I should have escaped this painful charge, durst I at once have mentioned to Miss Bellendon my principal reason for urging this request. It is one which she will probably despise on her own account, but which ought to weigh with her for the sake of Lady Margaret. My death in battle must give my whole estate to my heirs of entail; my forfeiture as a traitor, by the usurping Government, may vest it in the Prince of Orange or some Dutch favourite. In either case, my venerable friend and betrothed bride must remain unprotected and in poverty. Vested with the rights and provisions of Lady Evandale, Edith will find, in the power of supporting her aged parent, some consolation for having condescended to share the titles and fortunes of one who does not pretend to be worthy of her.”
Edith was struck dumb by an argument which she had not expected, and was compelled to acknowledge that Lord Evandale’s suit was urged with delicacy as well as with consideration.
“And yet,” she said, “such is the waywardness with which my heart reverts to former times that I cannot,” she burst into tears, “suppress a degree of ominous reluctance at fulfilling my engagement upon such a brief summons.”
“We have already fully considered this painful subject,” said Lord Evandale; “and I hoped, my dear Edith, your own inquiries, as well as mine, had fully convinced you that these regrets were fruitless.”
“Fruitless indeed!” said Edith, with a deep sigh, which, as if by an unexpected echo, was repeated from the adjoining apartment. Miss Bellenden started at the sound, and scarcely composed herself upon Lord Evandale’s assurances that she had heard but the echo of her own respiration.