Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 2 (of 3). Jonah Barrington
body,) was Honor’s greatest partisan.
Such females ever appeared to me unnatural and disgusting. A humorous and vulgar Amazon, who forgets her own sex, can scarcely expect that ours will recollect it.
Mary, the younger sister, was of a different appearance and character. She was as mild and unassuming as, from her low occupation and habits of life, could be expected: though destitute of any kind of talent, she yet appeared as if somewhat better born than Honor, and her attention to her guests was at the same time assiduous but properly reserved; which conduct, contrasted with the masculine effrontery of the other, gave her, in my mind, a great superiority.
It must have been remarked by every person who has observed the habits and manners of provincial towns, that the distinctions of society are frequently suspended by the necessary familiarities of a contracted circle, and that inferior females frequently excite (especially among youthful military) sensations of tenderness which in a metropolis would never have been thought of – at least in the same point of view. And here the evil genius of Hartpole first commenced her incantations for his ruin.
Throughout George’s painful and harassing confinement, the more than assiduous care of Mary Sleven could not escape the observation of the too sensitive convalescent. Hartpole has often described to me the rise and progress of the giddy, romantic feeling which then seized upon him; how he used to catch her moistened eye watching his interrupted slumbers, or the progress of his recovery; and when she was conscious of being perceived, how the mantling blush would betray a degree of interest far beyond that of an ordinary attendant.
Mary was rather well-looking; though there was little to captivate, there was nothing about her to excite his distaste: he was not permitted to have society; and thus, being left nearly alone with this young female during many weeks of pain and solitude, and accustomed to the solicitude of a woman, (so exquisite to a man in every state of suffering,) Hartpole discovered in the sequel, that a feeling of gratitude of the highest order had sunk deeper than he wished within his bosom.
He could not but perceive, indeed, that the girl actually loved him, and his vanity of course was alive to the disclosure; but his honourable principles prevented him from taking any advantage of that weakness, which she could not conceal, and whereto he could not be blind. It was in truth a dangerous situation for both. There were, as I have said, no external objects to divert George’s mind from this novel sensation; there was no one to point out its folly or interrupt its progress. Her partiality flattered him in his seclusion, and led his thoughts gradually and imperceptibly into a channel inconsistent with the welfare of himself, the honour of his family, and the becoming pride of a gentleman. It certainly was, after all, a sort of non-descript passion: it was not actually love.
Meanwhile the keen masculine understanding of Honor soon perceived the game which it would be wise in her to play, and conceived a project whereby to wind up Hartpole’s feeling to the pitch she wanted, and insensibly to lead his gratitude to love, and his love to matrimony. This was Honor’s aim; but she overrated her own penetration, and deceived herself as to Hartpole’s character: she overacted her part, and consequently diminished its effect.
At length, awakened from his vision of romantic gratitude, and beginning to open his eyes to the views of the two women, my friend felt ashamed of his facility, and mustered up sufficient resolution to rescue himself from the toils they were spreading for his capture. He had never made any species of proposal to Mary, and she could not, with just or honest hope, look to marriage with a person so greatly her superior. On his perfect recovery, he determined, by going over to England, to avoid all their machinations; and he also determined that his departure should be abrupt.
The keen and rapid eye of the designing Honor, however, soon discovered the secret of his thoughts; and guessing the extent of his resolution, she artfully impressed upon him (under the affectation of concealing it) the entire attachment of her pining sister; but at the same time communicated Mary’s resolution to be seen by him no more – “since it would be useless further to distract her devoted heart by cultivating society from which she must so soon be separated for ever.”
Here Honor was again mistaken: – no melting looks, no softening blandishments, now intervened to oppose George’s pride or stagger his resolution. He had only to struggle with himself; and after a day and night of calm reflection, he fully conquered the dangers of his high-flown gratitude, and departed at day-break from the inn without even desiring to see the love-lorn and secluded Mary.
The sisters were thus totally disappointed. He had paid munificently for the trouble he had given them, written a letter of grateful thanks to Mary, left her a considerable present, and set off to Dublin to take immediate shipping for England.
Hartpole now congratulated himself on his escape from the sarcasms of the world, the scorn of his family, and his own self-condemnation. He had acted with honour; he had done nothing wrong; and he had once more secured that rank in society which he had been in danger of relinquishing. In Dublin he stopped at the Marine Hotel, whence the packet was to sail at midnight, and considered himself as on the road to Stratford-place, London, which his uncle, Lord Aldborough, had built, and where his Lordship then resided.
The time of embarkation had nearly arrived when a loud shriek issued from an adjoining chamber to his, at the hotel. Ever alive to any adventure, Hartpole rushed into the room, and beheld – Mary Sleven! She was, or affected to be, fainting, and was supported by the artful Honor, who hung over her, apparently regardless of all other objects, and bemoaning, in low accents, the miserable fate of her only sister.
Bewildered both by the nature and suddenness of this rencontre, Hartpole told me that for a moment he nearly lost his sight – nay, almost his reason; but he soon saw through the scheme, and mustered up sufficient courage to withdraw without explanation. He had, in fact, advanced to the door, and was on the outside step, the boat being ready to receive him, when a second and more violent shriek was heard from the room he had just quitted, accompanied by exclamations of “She’s gone! she’s gone!” Hartpole’s presence of mind entirely forsook him; he retraced his steps, and found Mary lying, as it should seem, quite senseless, in the arms of Honor: his heart relented; his evil genius profited by the advantage; and he assisted to restore her. Gradually Mary’s eyes opened; she regarded George wildly but intently, and having caught his eye, closed hers again – a languid, and, as it were, an involuntary pressure of his hand, conveying to him her sensations. He spoke kindly to her: she started at the sound, and renewed the pressure with increased force. As she slowly and gradually revived, the scene became more interesting. A medical man being (by preconcert) at hand, he ordered her restorative cordials. Madeira only could at the moment be procured. She put the glass to her mouth, sipped, looked tenderly at Hartpole, and offered it him; her lips had touched it; he sipped also; the patient smiled; the doctor took a glass; Hartpole pledged him; glass followed glass, until George was bewildered! The artful Honor soon substituted another bottle: it was Hartpole’s first wine after his accident, and quickly mounted to his brain.
Thus did an hour flit away, and, meanwhile, the packet had sailed. Another person affected also to have lost his passage while occupied about the patient, and this turned out to be a Catholic priest. Refreshments were ordered: the doctor and the priest were pressed to partake of the fare: the Madeira was replenished: the moments fled! The young man’s brain was inflamed; and it is only necessary to add, that the morning’s sun arose, not on the happy George, but on the happy Mary, the wedded wife of Hartpole.
I will not attempt to describe the husband’s feelings when morning brought reflection. Every passion met its foe within his bosom: every resolve was overwhelmed by an adverse one: his sensitive mind became the field of contest for tumultuous emotions; until, worn out by its own conflicts, it sank into languor and dejection. He had lost himself! he therefore yielded to his fate, abandoned all idea of further resistance, and was led back in chains by the triumphant sisters.
None of his family or connexions would ever receive her; and George for awhile, sunk and disgraced, without losing all his attachment for the girl, had lost all his tranquillity. After two years’ struggle, however, between his feelings for her and his aspirations after a more honourable station in society, the conspiracy which had effected his ruin,