# Duty and Inclination/Chapter 29

CHAPTER VIII.
"And who can chase the sorrowing sigh
When discord's voice sounds loud and nigh;
When fortune, sportive, makes display,
Beguiles, and then withdraws her ray?
In early life, alas! thus doomed
To see thy fairest hopes entombed."
The object which had detained the General in London now no longer existing, he would have returned to his country villa. But previous to his departure he addressed a letter of condolence to her Ladyship, the widow of his lamented father, couched in terms the most respectful, and deeply expressive of participating in the loss she had sustained. The performance of this duty, so incumbent upon him, could not but be supposed to conciliate her Ladyship's future favour and esteem.
Nevertheless, how confounded, how amazed he ​was! how utterly incomprehensible seemed the reply he received!—dictated in the most poignant and bitter invectives, upbraiding him as the cause of bringing his father to a premature grave, in the perpetual sorrows, mortifications, and disappointments he had, throughout his life, burthened him with,—ending at length her dreadful charges and accusations by the passionate exclamation, "Might she never have the misery to see him cross her path again!"
Tried as the General already had been by the melancholy occurrence of his father's death, it was with increased perturbation of feeling he perused this phrensied epistle. From what motive could it proceed? Could the heart of the writer coincide in what her pen had expressed? Came it from that overwhelming grief, causing those wanderings, those delusions of reason, portrayed in ideas so enormous, so torturing to the feelings of a son? Could he for one moment suppose that such sentiments derived their existence from the least shadow of truth?
And how was he answerable for his father's death, since, according to her Ladyship's account, admitting even that the mind of Sir Aubrey had ​been thus painfully affected, the nature of his malady was such as to be entirely unconnected with the mental powers? Besides, those powers had been exhibited, in all their native vigour, even to the last stage of his life, and had wonderfully operated in sustaining him during the whole course of an excruciating and protracted illness.
"No," thought the General, "view the subject in any light, and it cannot but be seen that when an inflammatory disorder spreads its destructiveness throughout the frame, at an age within a few years of eighty, but little hope can reasonably be entertained of recovery."
Soothed by such reflections, the warm stream which had fled to his heart again circulated through his veins. However inwardly he might deplore his early errors, or whatever might have been his misfortunes, he was certain they had never so much unhinged his father as to produce the fatal catastrophe alluded to by her Ladyship. If her feelings were not heightened, by excessive anguish, into a sort of temporary delirium, the letter she had written to him sprung from the politic and subtle motive of shutting her doors against him—the doors of that dwelling which, after her own demise, ought properly to descend to himself, in right of ​succession; to hide from his view those appendages, family paintings, and splendid services of plate bearing his crest and arms.
Such were the conceptions the most obvious and natural which could occur to him, and which a copy sent to him of his father's will was decidedly calculated to confirm. To the principal part, which had been written at a distant period, some codicils were added of later date, but none since he might have indulged in better hopes of allotment arising out of the introduction of his daughters to Sir Aubrey.
Had not the General been denied intercourse with his father during moments when, in making his peace with the Deity, his heart might have become accessible to pity and forgiveness, in acknowledging him,—though unwise and unreflective, yet well-meaning and amiable, he might have revoked his former testament, written under impressions of resentment, and have proclaimed De Brooke his lawful heir; instead of which he was but barely named,—a few trifling legacies were left, to be distributed between him and his children; and those in a manner that his stepmother might afterwards either annul or confirm them, according to her caprice or pleasure.
​ And what remained for him but passively to submit? To dispute the legality of so cruel a treatment as that dealt out to him during the period of his father's provocations against him, was now impossible. Even from the grave Sir Aubrey's voice of disapprobation might sound upon his ear—he had carried his unforgiveness there!
"But no!" exclaimed the General, starting at the thought, "my father died a Christian, and I should not accuse him unjustly; my father called upon my name in his dying moments, as I have been confidently informed on indisputable evidence; his heart had returned to me; and that his fortunes also would have returned is highly probable, had those about him acted fairly, honestly, and uprightly!"
Under such aggravated calamities to himself and family, the General might have sunk into despondency, had not the Royal bounty just at that interval acted in his favour. The first governorship falling vacant had been promised for his son, and from motives of attachment to the memory of the deceased, and no longer to keep the former in uncertainty and suspense, he was immediately granted a sinecure appointment, held by military commanders of note; and as such, though not lucrative, ​yet waiving interested considerations, the General was gratified to find he had become the successor of an ancient peer.
Thus honoured, what could prove with greater force to the world, and to the military of every rank, that he had in no ways forfeited the Government favour—that from the late inquiry passed upon his conduct, his name and character remained pure and unblemished? Taken in this sense, however small the revenue he had acquired, and however late in coming, it was received with joy and thankfulness. By bounding his wants and ambition it might be found adequate, if not to the expenditure of Mount Zephyr, yet to some humbler retirement.
He returned to his family. The summer months had passed away, the winter was succeeding, and the days of mourning for the lamented Sir Aubrey were about expiring, when the visit of Oriana to her aunt, interrupted on account of the sudden indisposition of her grandfather, was desired to be renewed; the invitation included her sister, and Mrs. Arden proposed sending her carriage to convey them to Fairfield Lodge. This act of complaisance from his sister was very gratifying to the General, as it proved that no cessation of her kindest feelings towards him had taken place since the death of his father.
​ Passing over much of the time as it elapsed at Fairfield Lodge, suffice it to say, that Lady De Brooke, who was of the party, conducted herself to the sisters in a manner the most courteous and amicable. Previous to the death of Sir Aubrey, her Ladyship had suffered from an accumulation of maladies, which, during the past year of her widowhood dejection and sadness had greatly increased. A retirement from the busy scenes of life in consequence had afforded her many profitable moments for reflection, having taught her, in recalling the memory of her husband, to subdue those bitter feelings she had harboured against his progeny; her jealousy, in particular, entertained towards his grand-daughters decreased with the cause exciting it.
Had Sir Aubrey lived, it was his intention to have patronized them; and how better could she honour his memory than by a performance of the acts he meditated, and thus afford herself peace of conscience by redressing the injuries she had done them? With such reflections, desiring to put into immediate practice the good resolutions she had formed, it had been by her express wish the invitation from Mrs. Arden had been given.
As to their father, she could not bring herself to ​see him, fearing that, if she did so, the force of former impressions might rekindle. The poet too truly says, "they never pardon who have done the wrong;" and Lady De Brooke had not yet reached that degree of virtue which might have enabled her to make concessions to one whom she was conscious she had injured.
Lady De Brooke left town, therefore, to give the wished-for meeting to the sisters at Fairfield Lodge, when, in bestowing her exclusive attention on the objects which had called her thither, she was often charmed by the wit and vivacity of Oriana, and soothed by the sweetness and gentleness of Rosilia; inwardly admiring each alternately, she felt delighted at becoming their benefactress, and styled herself their old grandmamma. Nothing could be more conciliating or flattering than the whole general conduct of her Ladyship to the daughters of De Brooke. Sometimes, in playful raillery, she described the partners they might select, the advantageous and brilliant matches she would form for them, did they suffer themselves to be guided by her influence and advice.
On the New-year's day, and Twelfth-night, a large company had been invited to celebrate the season;—and who more calculated to ornament the circle than those fair sisters, arrayed in fashionable ​elegance! Her Ladyship, with friendly nods and encouraging smiles, sought to chase from Rosilia that wish to retire from the notice she elicited. Bearing away the palm, how willingly would she have yielded it to another, had not her Ladyship's agreeable condescension emboldened her, turning from the language of flattery, to join in the intellectual sentiment, the thought that flowed from cultivation and refinement.
It was thus that time passed at Fairfield Lodge, until Lady De Brooke expressed a desire for returning home; previous, however, to which, arrangements had been made by her for receiving the sisters under her roof, at some agreeable place of public amusement to which she intended resorting the ensuing summer.
Making many signals of adieu, when stepping into her carriage, she was driven from their sight. Alas! those sisters little thought, amidst the fair dreams of happiness they indulged in, they should never see her Ladyship more! No sooner was the cup of expectation raised a second time to their lips, than it was again to be dashed from them!
They returned to the villa of their parents shortly after the departure of her who had filled their young minds with gratitude in the pleasing recollection of her kindness towards them. The ​various maladies that had so long afflicted her Ladyship began towards the spring of the year to assume an alarming appearance. Having accustomed herself occasionally to the use of opium to lull the pains of body and of mind, she began to administer it with indiscretion in quantities injurious to the powers of her intellect, acute and discriminating as it had been; her rational faculty became stupified, and she sunk, during long and repeated intervals, into states of lethargy.
Scarcely had fifteen months elapsed since the decease of Sir Aubrey, than he was followed to the tomb by his lady.
Thus, too, those fair prospects again were blighted which seemed to open and smile more propitious than before on the daughters of De Brooke. She, who was in no way related by blood, but who had become so friendly to their interests—who, above all narrow prejudices or contraction of sentiment, had it so greatly in her power to advantage them, uniting at once both the inclination and ability to do so,—was now no more.
Of a temper generous to excess in carrying into execution schemes well-digested and approved of with ardour, the only object she had felt worthy of recalling her to her former existence—to scenes of life, otherwise wearisome and insipid, was to ​bring into notice the grand-daughters of her late husband, and form for them establishments accordant with the rank they held in society; publicly make them known, by introducing them into those distinguished circles she frequented, as the grand-daughters of the late Sir Aubrey De Brooke; and, by so doing, reap the reward of her goodness, in the peace, satisfaction, and content diffusing themselves, as a natural result, over the remnant of her days. What more remained for her on this side of Heaven than, when the last trying moments came, to close her eyes amidst the lamentations and regrets of those she left behind?
"Procrastination is the thief of time."
When too long delayed, how futile are all human intentions!—those of her Ladyship proved truly so, for no sooner was her purpose formed of retrieving the past and of making some signal alterations in her will in favour of the sisters, than the ability became lost—reason became absorbed in apathy, and the scenes of past existence faded for ever from her view.
On this event, the ill-fated De Brooke, having no further hope, frustrated in all he had ever allowed himself to encourage, might truly have exclaimed of the world, "'Tis a cheating sprite," ​and have renounced for the future building upon its uncertain and precarious base. His sister, however, Mrs. Arden, was still in being, and might still befriend her nieces;—she who could with justice claim the merit of having brought them forward to the notice of those who were now no more, whose bodies mingled with the common soil, but whose souls were gone to an hereafter, there to answer for those ruling affections and motives which had influenced their conduct here.
Meanwhile, from the incompetency of the General's income, as we have already seen, to support the expenses of his villa, and dreading a repetition of those pecuniary embarrassments in which he had been formerly plunged, he brought himself to the decision of retiring from the world and all its vain pretensions. He fled to solitude—to humble life—to the far distant, lonely haunts of Wales—there to live unmolested and obscure with his beloved wife and engaging children, those tender ties which formed at once his solace and his pride.