the last piece of information was a relief; but the announcement of the elopement cost him a pang. both surprised, and the first shocked him. we are unreasonable in love, and do not like to be anticipated even in neglect. an hour ago lady aphrodite grafton was to him only an object of anxiety and a cause of embarrassment. she was now a being to whom he was indebted for some of the most pleasing hours of his existence, and who could no longer contribute to his felicity. everybody appeared deserting him.
he had neglected her, to be sure; and they must have parted, it was certain. yet, although the present event saved him from the most harrowing of scenes, he could not refrain shedding a tear. so good! and so beautiful! and was this her end? he who knew all knew how bitter had been the lot of her life.
it is certain that when one of your very virtuous women ventures to be a little indiscreet, we say it is certain, though we regret it, that sooner or later there is an explosion. and the reason is this, that they are always in a hurry to make up for lost time, and so love with them becomes a business instead of being a pleasure. nature had intended lady aphrodite grafton for a psyche, so spiritual was her soul, so pure her blood! art — that is, education, which at least should be an art, though it is not — art had exquisitely sculptured the precious gem that nature had developed, and all that was wanting was love to stamp an impression. lady aphrodite grafton might have been as perfect a character as was ever the heroine of a novel. and to whose account shall we place her blighted fame and sullied lustre? to that animal who seems formed only to betray woman. her husband was a traitor in disguise. she found herself betrayed; but like a noble chieftain, when her capital was lost, maintained herself among the ruins of her happiness, in the citadel of her virtue. she surrendered, she thought, on terms; and in yielding her heart to the young duke, though never for a moment blind to her conduct, yet memory whispered extenuation, and love added all that was necessary.
our hero (we are for none of your perfect heroes) did not behave much better than her husband. the difference between them was, sir lucius grafton’s character was formed, and formed for evil; while the duke of st. james, when he became acquainted with lady aphrodite, possessed none. gallantry was a habit, in which he had been brought up. to protest to woman what he did not believe, and to feign what he did not feel, were, as he supposed, parts in the character of an accomplished gentleman; and as hitherto he had not found his career productive of any misery, we may perhaps view his conduct with less severity. but at length he approaches, not a mere woman of the world, who tries to delude him into the idea that he is the first hero of a romance that has been a hundred times repeated. he trembles at the responsibility which he has incurred by engaging the feelings of another. in the conflict of his emotions, some rays of moral light break upon his darkened soul. profligacy brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly that man is the subject of sympathy, and not the slave of self-love.
this remorse protracts a connection which each day is productive of more painful feelings; but the heart cannot be overstrung, and anxiety ends in callousness. then come neglect, remonstrance, explanations, protestations, and, sooner or later, a catastrophe.
but love is a dangerous habit, and when once indulged, is not easily thrown off, unless you become devout, which is, in a manner, giving the passion a new direction. in catholic countries, it is surprising how many adventures end in a convent. a dame, in her desperation, flies to the grate, which never reopens; but in protestant regions she has time to cool, and that’s the deuce; so, instead of taking the veil, she takes a new lover.
lady aphrodite had worked up her mind and the young duke to a step the very mention of which a year before would have made him shudder. what an enchanter is passion! no wonder ovid, who was a judge, made love so much connected with his metamorphoses. with infinite difficulty she had dared to admit the idea of flying with his grace; but when the idea was once admitted, when she really had, once or twice, constantly dwelt on the idea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about to indulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and of which she had been rifled; when, i say, all this occurred, and her hero diplomatised, and, in short, kept back; why, she had advanced one step, without knowing it, to running away with another man.
it was unlucky that de whiskerburg stepped in. an englishman would not have done. she knew them well, and despised them all; but he was new (dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they were strange, she believed to be unhackneyed; and he was impassioned. we need not go on.
so this star has dropped from out the heaven; so this precious pearl no longer gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in a foreign land, among strange faces and stranger customs, and, when she thinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries to persuade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country, and blood, and opinion. and her father’s face no longer shines with its proud love, and her mother’s voice no longer whispers to her with sweet anxiety. clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the radiancy of her budding sister’s bloom.
poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those who set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite, by a gentle kick, a falling friend. and yet, when we just remember beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although the beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we don’t know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.
but this is wrong. we should not pity or pardon those who have yielded to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. besides, it is right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.
to stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your penates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return, no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone; to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have your children asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the influenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard to digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends mr. ward or mr. bulwer.
