The gaiety of Wetheral was not much interrupted by the marriage of its most influential members. Lady Wetheral lamented the loss of her daughters, and often in public alluded to her solitary hours of grief; but she was indefatigable in her efforts to amuse Miss Kerrison and Clara; and, though her lips breathed sorrowful words, her eyes and attention exclusively belonged to Sir Foster Kerrison. Her ladyship laboured to maintain "that no passion could be more selfish than sorrow," and she took credit to herself, "that, in despite of low and sad feelings which prompted her to remain at Wetheral in silent meditation, she had never given way to her wishes. Indeed, she felt the claims of others upon her time and attention; and, though her heart did hope Clara might remain single for some years, to be her companion, yet it was her [304] duty to chaperone her to the amusements which her youth expected, and, perhaps, required. All young people loved vivacity, and, though some parents forgot the days of their own youth, and checked the happy views of their children, she would not shrink from a mother's duty." With these impressions of "duty," Lady Wetheral was fully employed in escorting Clara and her young companion to every public amusement; and Wetheral still continued the scene of festivity, and the arena of matchmaking, as it had ever been, since the day Mrs. Tom Pynsent made her début in public.
However easily the tastes of young men might bend to Lady Wetheral's flattering lips, combined with her daughter's attractions, there was some cleverness required in guiding Sir Foster Kerrison to the desired point. His silent manner, and provoking absence of mind, perpetually defeated the mother's purposes, but her spirit rose superior to all annoyances. "It might and would take time to throw fetters upon a man who forgot every word or engagement of the previous half-hour, but perseverance must level every impediment. Clara was very young, and patience must be severely taxed, if people were resolved to carry a favourite wish into operation." [305] Clara had not such a provision of that precious gift as her mother possessed, and it required constant watchfulness on her part to subdue the appearance of irritability before the object of her wishes. Her mother, too, watched over the unquiet spirit, and diverted its attention in the time of need. One day, Clara became impetuous upon the subject. Sir Foster never called at Wetheral without a special invitation; and how was she to manage a great, stupid creature, who neither saw nor felt attentions? Lady Wetheral smiled.
"My dear girl, patience! Sir Foster must be managed, and if you will only leave the affair in my hands, all will be well. Do not, I beseech you, look so very cross; the sight of temper drives away all men who are not actually in love, and perpetual good-humour is a perpetual attraction."
"How can I keep any temper with such a heavy mass of human nature?" exclaimed Clara, scornfully.
"Don't call names, my love; I am going to tell you. Do not give yourself any trouble, only look pleased and pleasantly at Sir Foster; I will effect the rest. Some men are rather dull, but absence of mind requires skill only in the [306] parties concerned. I do not think Sir Foster dull; absent only—very absent; but perhaps that may operate in our favour."
"In what way?" asked Clara, inquisitively.
"Never mind, my love, look pleasantly at Sir Foster, and leave the minuti? to me. We must lead him gently and gradually to make Wetheral a daily resting-place; and while Lucy is here, it can be done. Pray, Clara, endeavour to check your temper before Lucy. I should not wish her to report unfavourably of your manners at Ripley; so much depends upon your trying to appear good-humoured—do, my love."
With evident painful effort, Clara did manage to conceal her irritable nature from the particular observation of her friend Miss Kerrison, who was the main spring of that machinery which was to involve her father. To Lucy Kerrison Lady Wetheral directed the most flattering attentions, and offered the most agreeable series of parties of pleasure; to her young and unsuspicious ear was consigned every compliment which could lull observation, awaken her love, and interest her in all Lady Wetheral's actions. In short, a separation from Clara and the delights of Wetheral was becoming unbearable to the heart and imagination of poor Miss [307] Kerrison, and her eyes filled with tears of real sorrow, soon made apparent to her ladyship's quick apprehension, the regret with which her young guest contemplated a return to Ripley. This was, to use her favourite expression, "all in their favour;" and she mentioned the circumstance to Sir John in her own way.
"This poor, dear Lucy Kerrison, my love, is sadly overcome at the thoughts of leaving us. Clara and herself are exceedingly attached; the tears rush to her eyes whenever the subject is alluded to."
"Miss Kerrison is a ladylike, nice girl," replied Sir John.
"Yes, my love, she is quite the companion Clara should have. I approve her good and judicious selection. I wish they may often meet."
Sir John did not reply, and a short pause succeeded.
"I could almost wish Lucy was going to remain with us for Clara's sake. If I thought Sir Foster would not object, I would request him not to recall her."
"Isabel is still with us, Gertrude; Clara has her two sisters."
"Yes—to be sure—oh, yes, Mrs. Boscawen [308] is here, but she is never visible till the half-hour bell rings. I see very little of poor Isabel myself, and Clara still less. Bell is shut up, too, in the schoolroom, learning to be over-wise and disagreeable; besides, my love, Bell can be no companion to Clara. I wonder Sir Foster does not call to see his daughter! do you know, my love, he has been but once within this fortnight to see us."
"His company is not particularly acceptable, Gertrude."
"Well, Sir John, I only name the circumstance—I am afraid we are not very attractive; however, my love, I will try to extend Miss Kerrison's leave of absence for Clara's sake."
"Do as you please, my only objection is to her father being obliged to marry Clara. I have nothing to produce against his pretty, elegant daughter: don't let Kerrison marry a daughter of mine, and I shall not interfere in your plans."
"Oh! my love, I never compel men to marry. I hope my dear Clara will be my companion for some years. I feel very keenly my dear Lady Ennismore's loss, and so I do poor Mrs. Pynsent."
"Why is Anna Maria 'poor,' Gertrude?—she has married a good man, and a man she likes."
"She is in a manner banished Hatton," replied [309] Lady Wetheral, sighing; "I cannot think her happy while she roves about plain Mrs. Pynsent, no style—at least, not the Hatton style—no proper establishment, no home, like Lady Ennismore, who drove off to Bedinfield, like the wife of a nobleman—liveries, carriage—all magnificent! How I long to see Julia in her glory."
Sir John could offer no counsel which might check the eager delight his lady felt towards the good things of the earth; he therefore resumed his book, and her ladyship wrote, privately, a most polite billet to Sir Foster, upon the strength of her husband's concurrence in her wish to detain his daughter at Wetheral.
"My dear sir,
"It will break all our hearts to part with your lovely Lucy, and Clara suffers so much in the idea of parting with her friend, that we have a proposal to make. I will not tell you at this moment its nature, because I wish to see you. Ladies, my dear sir, prefer speaking to principals. May I hope to see you at Wetheral to-morrow morning?
"Yours truly,
"G. Wetheral."
Clara feared Sir Foster would withstand the invitation, so blandly expressed, by forgetting [310] its existence; but her mother conceived the ambiguity of its expression would raise a germ of curiosity in his mind, which even the inveterate disorder of his brain might not subdue. The wording of the note was talked over before Isabel, and explained to her. Mrs. Boscawen could only entreat Clara not to marry so old a man.
"My dear Clara, Sir Foster will put you into a schoolroom, as Mr. Boscawen has done by me, for old men are alike, I dare say. I assure you, it will be a shocking affair, and I can't give my consent unless you insist upon it. I can't imagine any body marrying an old man, and going to their studies as if they were schoolgirls. Pray take warning by me, Clara, and don't marry Sir Foster."
"My dear Isabel, I am resolved to make the man propose to me. Mamma says I shall lose caste if I am single, for Anna Maria did not marry till she was nineteen, and almost past hope. If I don't take immediately, I shall become passé; for mamma says my style of beauty ought to take effect at once."
"You are very handsome, certainly, dear Clara—very handsome. Mr. Boscawen says you are a very beautiful girl."
"Well," replied Clara, smiling complacently, [311] "I must be up and be doing. Sir Foster is very rich."
"Oh! Clara, and so is Mr. Boscawen: but I never have any money. Once Mr. Boscawen gave me a guinea, and then took it back again because I would not keep an account of all I spent. I bought a shilling's worth of alicampane, and made myself so ill! However, I did not say I had bought it; so, as I could not account for the shilling, I was obliged to relinquish the rest. Don't marry an old man, Clara!"
"Sir Foster lets every body spend his money, Isabel."
"Ah, but remember what Mr. Boscawen promised, Clara! I was promised every thing, and got nothing. You don't know how disagreeable it is to be shut up in a morning, reading and translating."
"I shan't read or translate to please Sir Foster," said Clara, with scornful energy. "I marry upon other principles."
"Well, Clara, only try not to marry an old man, for I assure you it is a very unpleasant thing."
"I wonder if Sir Foster will call to-morrow, Isabel?"
[312]
"Oh, to be sure he will: I am sure I should, if any one asked me."
"Don't name this to Boscawen, Isabel: I don't wish him to know my intentions."
"Certainly not—that is, if I can keep it from him; but he manages to find out all my secrets. However, I will try to keep this all to myself."
So did Mrs. Boscawen resolutely intend; but her secret transpired at the touch of her husband's mental wand. Mr. Boscawen began to talk of returning to Brierly, the very evening of the conversation which had taken place between his lady and Clara, and, after retiring for the night, he mentioned his intention of leaving Wetheral the following week. Isabel clasped her hands in alarm.
"Oh, Mr. Boscawen, not so soon! must we return so very soon?"
"Why not, Isabel? are you afraid of the dullness of Brierly?"
"Yes—no," cried Isabel, "but I want to watch Clara, Mr. Boscawen: I want to observe something."
"What is it all about?" asked Mr. Boscawen. "Is your sister engaged in some speculation, or has your mother decided upon any one whom your sister is decreed to captivate? I think I [313] have stumbled upon the truth, Isabel, by your countenance."
"How you find things out, Mr. Boscawen!" cried Isabel, blushing and hesitating; "you never allow me to keep a secret."
"Then there is one, Isabel. Have the kindness to admit me into the mystery: a wife should have no secrets."
"Well, only promise not to tell," said Isabel, awed by her husband's grave manner and remark, "and I will not keep the secret to myself, though I promised to do so."
"Who required the promise, Isabel?"
Isabel became alarmed, and disclosed the plot upon Sir Foster. Mr. Boscawen listened in silence, and then coolly made his annotations upon the subject.
"When a mother plots for a son-in-law, and her daughter acts upon it, besides implicating a young married sister, under promises of secrecy, it is time to take steps towards withdrawing from such society. I had every intention of leaving Wetheral next week, but now I shall set off to-morrow, at twelve o'clock; therefore, Isabel, give your maid orders accordingly."
Mrs. Boscawen's distress was too violent to be controlled. "Oh, Mr. Boscawen, how can you take [314] me away to horrible Brierly so suddenly!—how can you frighten me, and threaten to leave Wetheral before our month is quite over! I shall never be confined at all, I'm sure, and Clara will be so angry!" Isabel sat down, overcome with terror.
Mr. Boscawen patiently and kindly explained his line of conduct to his terrified wife. He assured her no notice would be taken of her disclosure, and that no one should suspect the cause of his departure. He expressed his disgust at Clara's conduct, but he was silent upon the abhorrence he conceived to the untired man?uvring of the mother. He trusted Isabel would become attached to Brierly in the course of time; it was a safer home than the infected air of Wetheral; and, after her confinement, if she fancied change of air, he would take her to the sea.
Mr. Boscawen's observations, in some measure, pacified the extreme grief of Isabel; but her night's rest was gone, and she was extremely feverish in the morning, complaining of painful oppression and headache. Mr. Boscawen was fearful his young wife might suffer from the complicated effects of fear and dislike to returning home; but he was resolved in his purpose: nothing now could alter his determination to carry his lady from Wetheral. He announced his intention openly at breakfast, and Lady Wetheral's [315] polite expression of sorrow fell from her lips upon a cold and barren soil: no flowers rose under her gracious shower of compliments.
"My dear Mr. Boscawen, you surprise and grieve me by your resolution: the absence of Isabel and yourself will throw a deep gloom around us."
"I am obliged to you," quietly replied Mr. Boscawen, as he buttered his piece of dry toast.
"Losing three daughters at one fell swoop, is a severe trial," continued her ladyship. "I shall miss my dear Isabel every hour."
Mr. Boscawen deigned no reply; but Isabel, pale and without appetite, sat dissolved in tears, and dared not trust her voice: she feared to displease her husband by any manifestation of grief, but her heart was sinking under the fearful anticipations of Miss Tabitha, and the gloomy routine of Brierly.
"I suppose Sir John is in his study," observed Mr. Boscawen, rising at the conclusion of breakfast.
"Oh, yes, Sir John breakfasts at seven o'clock, when people are, or ought to be, fast asleep. I can't comprehend such ungenial hours and taste. Surely, if breakfast is ended before eleven o'clock, there is sufficient leisure for the affairs of life."
[316]
Mr Boscawen's disgust rose to his eyes, and overflowed in the expression of his countenance; but a strong effort subdued the sentence which trembled upon his lips. He rose, and quitted the breakfast-room. When the door closed upon his awful figure, Isabel's misery burst forth: she threw her arms around Clara, who was seated near her, and sobbed violently.
"Oh, mamma, I wish I had never, never married!"
"My dear Mrs. Boscawen," replied her mother, in very soothing accents, "you are not aware of what you say. I am sure you would have been miserable single, and I should have been tormented to death with an unmarried daughter always at my elbow. You are very comfortably and happily married, my love."
"Oh, how can you say so, mamma! I wish I was Chrystal, to sit with papa, and never be obliged to do what I did not like! I wish I was you, Clara, happy and unmarried! I wish I was a bird, or the cat, or any thing but what I am!" Poor Isabel wept freely: she proceeded—"I am going to be shut up with Miss Tabitha and Mr. Boscawen, in that large, gloomy Brierly; I must not laugh, or speak to old John, or see any pleasant [317] company. Oh, no one can tell the dullness and frightfulness of Brierly!"
"My dear Isabel, reflect upon matrimony, and tell me who you ever saw perfectly free from care in that state? I consider it a very proper and natural institution, so very properly arranged, and so particularly enforced, that I confess I have no opinion of a woman who does not marry, if all the comforts of life are secured to her. If a woman is protected by a handsome settlement, and those kind of things, she ought to marry."
"Do you think so?" said Isabel, languidly.
"I do: I think you married extremely well, and you ought to consider yourself peculiarly fortunate. If Mr. Boscawen is rigid in exacting painful sacrifices from you, remember he was very liberal in making a settlement; there must be trials, my dear children. I am a proof that the happiest matrimony has cares. Your poor father never assisted me in my anxieties about you all: I am certain Lord Ennismore would never have married Julia, if my unwearied efforts had not domesticated him at Wetheral."
"Tom Pynsent will never contradict Anna Maria," said Isabel, as the tears sprang again [318] to her eyes—"Tom will never wish my sister to read!"
Mr. Boscawen was heard in the hall, giving orders.
"Oh, we are going, mamma; I hear Mr. Boscawen ordering the carriage. I know the tone of his voice in giving that order so well! how my heart beats!" Isabel clung to her mother's arm.
Mr. Boscawen entered, and gave his arm to his pale, trembling wife. "My dear Isabel, I have arranged every thing; you have only your father to visit before you enter the carriage."
His lady appeared ready to faint. "Don't let me see papa! don't let me see papa!" she exclaimed.
"You are agitated, my love," observed her husband, putting his arm round her waist, and speaking kindly. "Do not be flurried, my dear Isabel, you shall see and speak to no one. Clara will be kind enough to tell Sir John how you feel. You tremble very much; try to gain firmness, my love."
Poor Isabel was placed in her carriage, half fainting, without the power to speak or move. Mr. Boscawen was hurt and alarmed for the effects of this agitation upon his lady's health; [319] but his mind was decided to persevere in removing Isabel. He deputed Clara to explain to her father how much emotion her sister evinced at the thoughts of taking leave; and bowing to Lady Wetheral and Miss Kerrison, Mr. Boscawen took his place by the side of Isabel, whose head reclined against the side of the carriage, nor did she raise it to look her adieus. She appeared too exhausted and sick at heart to make an effort of any kind. How differently she quitted Wetheral upon her nuptial morning!
Sir Foster Kerrison did actually call at Wetheral some hours after the Boscawens' departure. Clara was soothed and flattered, her mother charmed, by the visit. Sir Foster sat silent till he was spoken to.
"My dear sir, this is courteous, indeed," Lady Wetheral began; "I feel much honoured by your polite attention to my wish."
Sir Foster winked his eye and tapped his boot, but he did not seem to comprehend the purport of her ladyship's speech. "Umph, eh?"
"Papa, you received Lady Wetheral's note, of course?" said Miss Kerrison.
"Eh, what?"
"Lady Wetheral's note, papa—the note you received yesterday from Wetheral!"
[320]
Sir Foster sat winking, but could not remember any note.
"Oh, papa, you received a note, and I am sure it is in your pocket. Pray, let me look into the recesses of your enormous pockets?"
Miss Kerrison playfully emptied her father's pockets, and Lady Wetheral's note appeared with its seal unbroken, accompanied by sundry letters, straps, nails, and a shoeing horn. Clara's eyes flashed indignation, but her mother's smiled sweetly.
"My dear Sir Foster, I must not complain of your very absent mind, since I only suffer with the rest of the world. Upon my word, this is very amusing! See, my dear Lucy, how entertaining this assemblage of articles promises to be!"
Sir Foster stared, while the ladies laughed over the miscellaneous contents of his pocket. Clara alone sat dignified and offended. Lady Wetheral explained the purport of her note, and begged the company of Miss Kerrison for a longer and indefinite period. Sir Foster hummed an air and tapped his boot during her complimentary and lengthy speech.
"Papa always implies consent when he hums and taps, Lady Wetheral, so that is delightfully [321] arranged: but why, papa, did you call here this morning?"
"Where's Boscawen?"
"They have left some hours, to return to Brierly, papa. Did you want to see Mr. Boscawen?"
A smile curled Sir Foster's handsome lip.
"I am sorry Mr. Boscawen is gone then, papa. I suppose you had some horse in view?"
Another smile and tap of the boot.
"I thought so. But, papa, you will never read your letters and notes if I do not return to Ripley; will you?"
Sir Foster winked his eye in silence.
"My dear Lucy," said Lady Wetheral, playfully, "Sir Foster must bring his letters here every morning for your perusal and advice."
"Oh yes, papa, that is an excellent plan; is it not? You must ride over every morning to be searched, and then you will not require my presence at Ripley."
Sir Foster sat two hours without speaking, or appearing to attend to the conversation which took place between his fair companions. He sat in the most complete absence of mind, tapping his boot, which Clara resented by silent looks of contempt. Miss Kerrison was so intimately [322] acquainted with her father's ways that her chat flowed on undisturbed, till the ormolu clock struck six; Miss Kerrison then approached her father.
"Well, papa, it's time for you to return home; it is six o'clock."
"Eh, umph, what?"
"You must order your horse, papa, and go to Ripley to dinner."
"Oh, Sir Foster surely will not quit us; we shall hope for his company at dinner to-day." Lady Wetheral spoke in earnest and bewitching tones.
"No, thank you, dear Lady Wetheral, not to-day. This is papa's way; he always goes on in this way at some person's house, and I dare say, having once called here, papa will be regularly at Wetheral every day."
Her ladyship's quick perceptions saw the advantage of gaining Sir Foster Kerrison as a daily visitor; she caught at once the propriety of allowing him to take his own way in the manner and time of his visits: she therefore ceased to pour forth invitations, but, taking at once a comprehensive view of his character and habits, Sir Foster was allowed to depart in the same mechanical form which characterised his [323] entrance. Clara's indignation almost threatened destruction to her plans. She inveighed against the excessive stolidity of a man who could sit in a fine woman's society, and yet be ignorant of her presence! Such a man as Sir Foster might visit at Wetheral innocently enough, for he had not the use of his senses.
"My dear Clara," argued her mother, "you are wrong in all your conclusions. Sir Foster has peculiar ways, it is true, but I consider them altogether in our favour. I wish him to become a daily visitor, under the idea of seeing Lucy, who assists me most materially without being aware of it. I wish him to sit as stupidly as he pleases, and to come whenever he pleases; only, my dear Clara, don't look so indignant."
"I cannot understand your tactics," said Clara, sharply. "I can't comprehend how stupidity and indifference can be considered in my favour."
"I dare say not, my love; but when you become a mother, these things will explain themselves. Give me a little credit for foresight, I beseech you, in the establishments I procured your sisters. Be patient, and appear calm, Clara, till I have decided yours."
Clara became impatient and offended, which [324] caused her mother infinite vexation and alarm. She dreaded lest Clara's irritable spirit should transpire even to Lucy Kerrison: she dreaded lest her own web should become unravelled by the very hand she wished to bestow upon Sir Foster. It was necessary to deal very gently and delicately with a disposition like Clara's. She did not possess the gentleness of manner which was so eminent in Anna Maria, or the sprightly sweetness of Lady Ennismore. Her beauty was superior to both sisters, which prepossessed many in her favour; but her wayward and powerful temper was known only in her own home. It was her mother's aim to shield it if possible from observation. Thompson, who had ever played a conspicuous part in the family, was at this time installed into a kind of confidential friend; and to her Lady Wetheral bitterly complained of the fatigue and terror attendant upon her own watchfulness.
"I declare, Thompson, Miss Clara gives me infinitely more trouble than my three eldest daughters combined. I am always fearful of some display of temper occurring in an unfortunate hour to betray her to gentlemen."
"Yes, my lady, that would be sad indeed. [325] I'm sure I am always boasting of Miss Clara's sweet temper, as far as I am concerned."
"I wish her to be silent and calm in appearance, yet I am ever upon the watch to soften Miss Clara's remarks, and explain away offensive looks. I don't think, Thompson, Miss Clara will marry soon."
"Oh, my lady, I have heard many remarks about Sir Foster Kerrison's attentions at my young ladies' wedding!"
"What remarks, Thompson? what do foolish people say now?" asked her lady, affecting nonchalance.
"People say Sir Foster is not a very talkative gentleman, my lady, but then he stood always close to Miss Clara; I heard too he called this morning; so people put two and two together, as they very well may."
"If people calculate so erroneously, they must expect to be wrong in the sum total," replied her ladyship, smiling and internally pleased at remarks having been uttered; "but we shall see, Thompson."
Miss Kerrison's prediction concerning her father's way of sitting hours in silence at people's houses was verified. Having called at Wetheral to see Mr. Boscawen upon some affair [326] connected with horses, and having also remained his usual two hours with the ladies, unnoticed and unbored with attentions which required him to talk, Sir Foster Kerrison, on the following morning, again deposited himself at Wetheral, and was allowed, with the tact of a veteran matron, to sit in a lounging chair, tapping his boot, and winking his eye without molestation. Miss Kerrison took an inventory of the stores deposited in his pockets during the first moment of her father's entrance, an employment he never noticed beyond an absent smile; after which ordeal he was consigned to a half-dozing kind of existence, till Miss Kerrison warned him to depart, by assuring him the clock had struck six. Day after day Sir Foster was found regularly installed in the ladies' boudoir at Wetheral, and as regularly did he depart at his daughter's summons.
Had Lady Wetheral rashly urged Sir Foster to dine at the Castle, it would have broken through the habit which impelled him to move backwards and forwards at stated times, and by certain sounds; it might too have drawn him towards new people and other houses. Lucy Kerrison was perfectly right in her suggestion [327] that, having called by accident, his visits might continue through habit.
There was another advantage attendant upon Sir Foster's morning lounge. Sir John, who rarely appeared out of the precincts of his study, was ignorant of the events which gilded the pleasures of the boudoir. The study was far removed from sights and sounds, and the chapel must be traversed to reach its perfect seclusion. The windows received light from a court, walled round, and closed to curious view by a deep and impervious shrubbery of laurels and evergreen oaks. In this sequestered part of the castle, its master loved to pass his mornings; and how could he suppose his wishes, nay, almost commands, were of non-effect? Sir Foster was not seen at his table—his name was rarely mentioned at Wetheral—no visiting-ticket met his eye—no allusion was made to recent visits on the part of his family—every thing appeared regular and in its usual order. Sir John was, therefore, calm, and almost oblivious to the existence of Sir Foster Kerrison. This was most favourable to his lady's schemes.
For three weeks, consecutively, this order of things continued; and only once, during that period, did Sir John meet Sir Foster within the [328] domain of Wetheral; which was, of course, attributed to an anxiety to see his daughter. Under that impression, Sir John hastened to do him honour; and, on the morning in question, he ushered Sir Foster into the boudoir himself, with the politeness and consideration due to a gentleman, and a fond father visiting a beloved child.
Astonishment was depicted in his countenance, when he beheld his guest, sans céremonie, take possession of the lounging chair, and, after placing his hat upon a work-table, begin, as was his wont, to hum an air and tap his boot, without offering a word of compliment, or even addressing the daughter he had ridden four miles to see. There was something extraordinary, he fancied, in the quiet smile bestowed upon Sir Foster by Lady Wetheral, and he was much displeased at Miss Kerrison's sudden movement to examine her father's pockets, without bestowing a word of filial obeisance to a parent she had not seen for some weeks; yet did the truth escape his unsuspicious mind. It never entered into his heart to believe his expressed resolutions were unheeded. His good taste was shocked at the style of Sir Foster's entrance into a lady's sitting-room, and he did not remain to endure its continuance. He retired again to his study; [329] secure, at least, that such a man could never propitiate Clara, however strongly his lady's wishes might point that way.
So far all things combined again to favour Lady Wetheral's plans and hopes. It seemed as though Fortune went hand in hand with her thoughts, and that Fate set his seal upon her wish. Sir Foster's constant visits produced much remark, and prepared the way for her last stroke—a stroke which was to end all further suspense, and decide for ever the happy fortunes of Clara. Every event led the way gently and surely. Sir Foster had walked into the net with his own free will: he came each day to Wetheral, uninvited; and her ladyship could affirm, most seriously and truly, that no effort had been employed on her side to coerce Sir Foster's intentions. He had not even been asked to dinner. He had never been alone with Clara. If he came to visit his daughter, a parent possessed a right to demand admittance any where; but no attractions had been held out to allure him—no second-hand influence detained him. Sir Foster came without invitation, and remained without any inducements beyond his own pleasure. Sir Foster, therefore, prepared his own destiny; for Lady Wetheral, anxious to preserve her daughter's [330] peace of mind, thought it now high time to understand upon what terms they were in future to meet.
To be so very regularly at Wetheral—to sit with herself and daughter daily, uninvited, and without inquiring for Sir John—wore an appearance which the world could express only in its conventional language, as "paying his addresses to Miss Wetheral." Young ladies had feelings, which must be cared for; they had sensibility, which should not be wounded with impunity. There was a part which every parent should act with firmness towards a young girl, whose affections were trifled with; and she would undertake the painful task of leading Sir Foster to explain his sentiments, herself. Clara was to engage Miss Kerrison, the following morning, in a walk round the garden, at the hour of Sir Foster's visit; and Lady Wetheral would soon penetrate his intentions. If all went well, the window of the boudoir was to be thrown open; in which case, Clara was to appear as by accident. If Sir Foster was very resolute and ungallant, all would remain closed; but she would not allow a doubt, in her own mind, to arise upon the subject.
At breakfast, on the eventful morning, Lady Wetheral issued her orders to the butler—
"When Sir Foster Kerrison comes, show him into the drawing-room."
Sir Foster was shown into the drawing-room, accordingly.
END OF VOL. I.