Chapter I: Front Matter

THE

LIBERTINE.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

W. Flint, Printer,
Old Bailey.

THE

LIBERTINE,

BY

CHARLOTTE DACRE,

BETTER KNOWN AS

ROSA MATILDA.

AUTHOR OF

_Hours of Solitude_, _Nun of St. Omer’s_, _Zofloya_, _&c._

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

If one by one you wedded all the world,
Or from the all that are, took something good
To make a perfect woman; she you kill’d
Would be unparallel’d.
SHAKESPEARE.

... Are not these strange self delusions, and yet attested
by common experience?
SOUTH.

_LONDON_:

PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.

1807.

THE

LIBERTINE.

CHAP. XVIII.

Time crept on, and all hope of discovering their child faded gradually and sorrowfully from the minds of the parents. Felix had attained his tenth year, and on him alone rested now their fond expectations. But the mind of the mother would often revert with a sigh of bitter regret to the probable fate of her beloved Agnes, who would now have been for her so sweet a companion, and filled up with delight many moments that were necessarily devoted to solitude; for Felix was more the companion of his father than her, and though a lovely and engaging youth, he needed that urbanity, softness, and docility of manner which fondly, she imagined in the gentle creature she had lost. The idol of his father, it was not unfrequently that she beheld insufficient her mild and rational controul to restrain the impetuosity of his manners, the wildness, and often serious impropriety of his conduct. But Angelo, who contended that all this was but the ardour and spirit of youth, and that it would yield to the soberer influence of judgment and increase of years, loved not that she should check the boy; for in the fulness of a proud self-love he would remember, that his son resembled what he himself had been at his age.

Thus by the mismanagement, and oftentimes imprudent interference of Angelo in his presence, many errors were suffered to take deep and fatal root in the heart of Felix, which the anxious vigilance and salutary reproofs of his mother might have timely extirpated, but would at all events have rendered of little influence in his future general character. Still she entertained hopes that unremitting perseverance on her side, and the ultimate prevalence of increasing reason over early folly, on his, would correct the imperfections of his present disposition, and render him all that her anxious love desired to behold him as a man.

The hopes of Gabrielle were however doomed to be frustrated, for the conduct of Felix, his inattention to her counsels, and disobedience of her commands, originated in a source deeper far than any of which she was aware; for while she considered as the wandering of the head merely, the errors of her child, they sprang from a heart corrupted and contaminated by the baneful influence of surrounding circumstance.

In the domestic establishment of Angelo, was a female named Milborough; she had been originally hired to attend exclusively upon the infant Felix, and to keep a guard over him, excepting when under the eyes of his parents. As Felix grew older however, and required no longer the vigilant care of a nurse, Gabrielle conceiving a regard for the woman on account of the attention she considered her to have bestowed upon her charge, retained her still in the family to officiate as a personal attendant upon herself. Nothing could be more gentle, modest, and unassuming than the general conduct of Milborough, nothing more treacherous, base, and diabolical than her heart: nothing could equal the propriety of her deportment but the depravity of her principles; nor any thing the conciliating anxiety she evinced to obey the smallest of Gabrielle’s desires, but the secret, malign, and unprovoked hatred which she bore her.

Possessed of a profligate intriguing spirit, she veiled it with the profoundest art, and under the guise of an inoffensive placidity, concealed a mercenary and deceitful soul; all she said, and all she did, bore the stamp of candour and disinterestedness; her countenance was never ruffled by impatience at reproof, she heard all with submission, but felt with rancour, and revenged with bitterness.

Soon after her introduction to the family, by an unfortunate accident, but one too easy of occurrence in a situation not strictly conformable to propriety and virtue, this woman had discovered that marriage was not the tie which bound in a union apparently so indissoluble those persons who gave her bread; and far from closing her eyes and ears, as duty dictated to a menial like herself, against a secret thus betrayed, she spared no opportunity of endeavouring to confirm, by prying curiosity, and unobserved remark, the truth of what at first had been but vaguely made known to her. She soon gained, or conceived that she did, proof sufficient to convince her. From that moment, those bad principles with which her soul was imbued were called into action; she no longer bore towards Gabrielle the smallest respect, viewing her no more in the light of a superior, though she still appeared to do so; for it is an invariable maxim with vulgar minds, when they discover aught amiss in those above them, immediately to place themselves upon a level with them, to consider all inequality at an end, and establish their own claims to distinction, merely upon a comparative view with their errors. Thus was it with Milborough, who not taking into her narrow conception the superior birth, merits, or high qualities of Gabrielle, saw simply an unjust difference in their present stations, and imagined when she beheld her unpolished figure in the glass, that _her_ title to rank and opulence was in no way inferior to that of her mistress. This ignorant and presumptuous idea laid the foundation of a train of evils at once mighty and incalculable.

The commands of Gabrielle, now that she beheld her in a light so humiliated, no more enforced obedience from her as a duty; consequently she obeyed reluctantly, for they galled and offended her; and she made herself amends for her condescension by every means in her power. Being from her situation (which her interest would not permit her to resign) so placed as to be necessarily subordinate to Gabrielle, she from first thinking herself degraded by obeying her, ultimately hated her who commanded; yet this low born upstart presumed to consider _Gabrielle_ a mark for envy, therefore for hatred; and in proportion as her high and superior virtues manifested themselves, supported by a steady dignity, the result of conscious nobility of mind, as well as birth, the hatred of this reptile increased with every foul aggravation which low minded malice could conceive, venting itself in secret, unsuspected, but dreadful mischief.

Though at the period of her entering the service of Angelo, Felix tenderly loved his mother, yet Milborough, from being constantly with him, acquired a sort of _second love_ in his heart, which soon usurped the place of the first,--an undue and irrational influence on his mind likewise, such as vulgar cunning suggests, may be easiest obtained over youth and inexperience. It was by yielding ever to his follies and caprices, acquiescing with a smile in his wildest sallies; by indiscriminate indulgence, improper temptations to disobey the anxious or rational injunctions of his mother; flattery, inducing him to commit faults for the purpose of raising her consequence in his eyes by concealing them, and gaining his confidence and affection through the channel of a perverted gratitude.

Felix grew fond of his nurse; his boyish mind preferred her society to that of his mother, who content to see him happy, was never displeased at his anxiety to return to Milborough after being a short time absent from her; and from being merely induced to think from that circumstance that she treated the boy with kindness, continually bestowed on her marks of her gratitude and satisfaction; thus unconsciously cherishing a snake, who was stinging her in the tenderest point. When Felix, still very young, had committed one day a slight error for which Gabrielle considered it necessary to reprove him, but did it in the mildest and most gentle manner, Felix burst into tears, and sought his flattering nurse, who perceiving her pretended favourite weeping bitterly, took him immediately in her arms, and inquired the cause of his distress. Felix, certain of being pitied and soothed, informed her, while his tears redoubled; when giving vent to her secret malice, Milborough exclaimed,

“Indeed!--but _she_ has no right to be angry with you, Felix.”

“Oh yes,” cried the boy, instantly checking his tears, and looking up in her face, struck as it appeared by so base an insinuation.--“Certainly my mother has a right to be angry with me.”

“Indeed she has not, Felix,” answered Milborough, with a lip of contempt, “your father has a right, but she is _nobody_.”

“Nobody! Milborough,” cried Felix, looking at her indignantly,--“my mother nobody? I do not understand you,” and, instinctively as it were, he withdrew her arm from round his neck.

“Why, Felix, you are too young to understand indeed, so let us say no more about it.”

But the curiosity of youth is not so easily appeased; this the artful Milborough reckoned on, and when a few minutes after Felix required an explanation of what she had meant by saying his mother was “nobody,” her eyes sparkled with the exultation of malice, and her base heart rejoiced at the thought of the revenge she was taking upon the excellence, and imagined happiness of Gabrielle, which she died to frustrate.

“Why then,” with pretended hesitation she replied--“I will tell you,--but first promise me never to mention it to any one, but above all, not to your mother.”

“Oh, but my mother says I must never have any secrets from her,” answered Felix.

“Pho, nonsense,” returned Milborough, putting her arm round him again, which action, his curiosity now on the stretch, he did not again repulse.--“Now listen.”

The little Felix opened his ears to drink in the base pernicious communications of the abandoned Milborough; and she availing herself of the deep attention with which he listened, made as clear as she possibly could to his childish capacity, that there was a certain ceremony called marriage, which if not duly and regularly performed between two persons deciding to live together, the female lost all consequence in society, and was regarded as an unfit companion for other females, honourably married; that the children, likewise, were never considered by the world as entitled to any distinction, but on the contrary; and that therefore they were not obliged to honour or obey a mother whom no one honoured or esteemed, and who had so little considered in her conduct their future welfare or estimation in society. “Thus, Felix, you perceive I was right,” she concluded, “in saying that your mother was nobody.”

Felix was silent, his mind was confused, he felt something like painful conviction, and this conversation made a deep impression. Above all, he remembered a sensation of uneasiness which he had experienced at that part of Milborough’s discourse wherein she had made an observation respecting the opinion which the world entertained of children situated as he now understood himself to be.

A frequent recurrence to that most infamous insinuation produced a baleful effect upon his character: he endeavoured, child as he was, to divest himself of all pride, conceiving from what Milborough had said, he had no right to possess any, and in so doing unfortunately divested himself of _that_ pride which is the foundation of every virtue, the pride of principle. As he grew older, the destructive effect of this idea produced daily more lamentable consequences. He lost all self respect, all solicitude for proper conduct; he said to himself, “However good, honourable, or virtuous I may be, no one will look at me, or think me worthy notice.” Thus is it but too true, that however injurious may be an excess of pride, to be wholly devoid of it is to be devoid of every virtue; for when we despise ourselves, we are indifferent to the approbation of others, to the noble distinction of superior worth, and all that gives consideration to the man.

Unhappily for Gabrielle, she knew not the corruption that had been engendered in the heart of her son; she knew not the dreadful sentiments that there had taken root, or her anxious counsels, her just and animated representation of that wherein true virtue and dignity consist, depending solely on the mind, and on the heart, towering singly and unaided, neither to be raised or depreciated by surrounding circumstances, but making in itself the nobility of the individual; had she but been aware, she might have destroyed the evil in its germ, and applied the remedy ere it had proved in vain.

Her who had been the nurse of his childhood, as Felix advanced to maturer years became the friend, the adviser of his youth, the faithful depositary, and often partaker of his secret follies and intentions; he now understood perfectly, from the frequent questions he had proposed to Milborough, and which she ever answered with unwearied readiness; from combining in his naturally intelligent mind such ideas as presented themselves, from observation, or an inquisitiveness of spirit, all which at first he had found it difficult to comprehend. From the joint operation of these circumstances his respect for his mother gradually decreased; with it decreased his love likewise, and involved with the dereliction the finer and better qualities of his soul; for filial love and respect cannot causelessly quit the young mind without depriving it of some of its best and brightest virtues.

The abandoned Milborough rejoiced in the train of mischief she was secretly laying, which in time she hoped to see explode, causing dreadful and unspeakable havoc. The boyish partiality of Felix for her increased rather than diminished with his years--she was so gentle, so yielding, so ever ready to acquiesce in all his wishes however difficult to be atchieved; she appeared too so happy when she could compass for him any point he desired, so delighted to favour or oblige him. Being frequently the companion of his father, he would sometimes in the plenitude of youthful exhiliration speak of her in terms of highest praise. Angelo would listen with a smile; he was not surprised at the fondness of a young boy for the woman who had been a kind nurse to him in his childhood, but he was wholly incompetent to judge of the merits of Milborough; she did not come within his sphere, and he had scarcely ever bestowed on her a moment’s attention. Induced at length by the reiterated observations of the youth in her favour, he one morning, when she entered the room where he was sitting with Gabrielle, raised mechanically his eyes to her face.--He beheld there an expression of modesty and ingenuousness which pleased him, and sufficient attraction to obviate the charge of ugliness, an attraction which, though devoid of youth or beauty, boasted a sort of charm independent of either.

Felix, who had remarked with pleasure that his father had noticed Milborough, seized the first opportunity of their being alone to ask him if he did not think Milborough handsome.

“Not particularly so,” was the reply of Angelo; “but since she has deported herself so well towards you, tell her from me, that whenever she chuses to marry, I will give her a sufficient portion to ensure the good-will of her husband.”

Felix, delighted at the idea of having so pleasing a communication to make to Milborough, and hoping that it would infinitely raise his consequence with her, hastened when he left his father to impart it to her. Scarce had Milborough heard him to an end, ere an idea flashed across her mind which tinged her cheek with the fire of exultation; she beheld in the munificent promise of Angelo, not merely what it proposed, but far more that it implied; disguising her joy however, she with an apparent modesty and humility entreated Felix to return her most grateful thanks to her lord, but with an air of embarrassment added, that she had no intention of ever marrying.

That night, sleep was a stranger to the eyes of Milborough; visions of aspiring hope floated before her; extravagant presumptuous calculations filled her brain, and she wondered at her dulness in having so long failed to see the road which lay most open for her to opulence and grandeur, but above all, to compass that destruction in which unceasingly she had longed to involve her envied hated mistress. The casual notice of Angelo, and the intimation sent her by him through Felix, formed the basis of her present golden dreams. Since he had deigned to listen to her praises, and so far acquiesced in their justice as to send her a special embassy proving his disposition in her favour, what might she not in reason expect? Well she knew she could not appreciate too highly the estimation in which she was held by Felix. He possessed an unlimited influence over his father, it was only therefore to render him voluntarily or involuntarily, no matter which, the medium of introducing her more fully to the observation of Angelo, and her most sanguine anticipations might be easily fulfilled.

Pursuant to this idea, she redoubled her attention towards the son, and threw herself, as much as her department in the family would allow, without suspicion, in the way of the father; she endeavoured by every artifice compleatly to estrange the affections of Felix from his mother, and to court him from her society to her own. For this purpose she filled her apartment with entertainment for him, drawing materials, with subjects more amusing than instructive, from which to copy, books, pernicious rather than edifying, musical instruments and songs that she accompanied him with, calculated from their tendency to corrupt the heart and mislead the imagination. Milborough, who had not an indifferent voice, one evening carelessly and with a smile observed to Felix, after concluding a song, “Do you not think, Felix, that my lord would like to hear some of our songs?”

“I am certain he would,” answered Felix eagerly, “but you would not sing before my mother, Milborough.”

“How simple you are,” returned Milborough; “certainly not.”

“Shall I ask my father then to come and hear you?” said Felix.

“Oh, not for the world,” returned Milborough laughing, “I am certain I could not sing a note in the presence of my lord.”

“Well, but if you did not see him?” cried Felix, smiling archly and looking at Milborough.

“Oh, perhaps I might then,” answered the artful Milborough, catching his idea.

“To-morrow evening I will bring my father to hear you, as if by accident, and he shall remain in the next room to you.”

“But he must not know,” interposed Milborough, “that I have any knowledge of his being there.”

“He shall not, indeed.”

“Well, upon those terms,” said Milborough with a musing air, but secretly rejoiced, and desiring to have the air of submitting to an arrangement of which she had been the first instigator, “upon those terms I think I have no objection.”

“It is decided,” cried Felix: “now let us have another song, and then I must leave you.”

The next evening Felix proposed to his father to be an unseen auditor of Milborough’s singing. Angelo, who had not the least anxiety to hear such vulgar harmony as he conceived hers must be, at first directly refused, but yielding to the entreaty of his son, he at length consented, and promised, laughing, that he would accompany him to the room adjoining hers for that purpose, at the time mutually agreed on. When the hour arrived, Angelo had forgotten his promise, but at the vexed remonstrance of the impetuous youth, he yielded acquiescence, and followed him to the appointed spot. A small glass window fixed in the door which separated the two rooms, was usually covered with a curtain, but the scheming Milborough, whose plan was artfully laid, had drawn this curtain the least degree possible aside, yet sufficiently, while it appeared the work of accident, to give an insight into the chamber. There accurately drest, that is modestly, though to the highest advantage, she awaited the moment when by a little signal previously agreed on between her and Felix, she should be informed of their entrance, and know when to begin her song. No sooner had she received from the unthinking boy the necessary hint, than she commenced by carelessly humming an air, not without taste, which at intervals she interrupted, as more intent upon her employment, which was embroidering flowers in a frame; then gradually she entered on the song of the air she had been humming. The subject was simply interesting and artfully chosen. It related to the concealed love of a maid in lowly station for a lord of high rank, and it painted her secret anguish in mournful expression, and melancholy tone, to which she managed to give peculiar effect, and concluded with the death of the maid from her hopeless passion, in consequence of the marriage of her lover with another.

While she sang, so apparently unconscious that any human being was nigh, Angelo, whose expectations she had completely surpassed, for he had attributed the praises of Felix merely to his want of taste in the science, found himself first involuntarily drawn towards the artfully contrived aperture, better to catch the notes of her voice, and next rivetted there, by the well arranged figure and pleasing countenance which displayed itself to his view. He continued gazing near a minute after the song was ended, and was only roused from his intentness by the gentle voice of Felix, who pulling him by the arm, in the spirit of boyish mischief whispered, “Let us break suddenly in upon Milborough, my lord, and tell her we have heard her song,--she will look so frightened and confused!”

“No, no, Felix,” replied Angelo, laughing, “what folly!”

“Oh, to oblige me, my lord--to oblige me, my dear father; do not refuse, I entreat you,” said Felix; and dragging his father forward, half reluctant, half careless, he with his foot burst open the door which led into her room, and both stood suddenly before her, Felix laughing immoderately at her confusion and alarm, so well affected as to deceive even himself. But since Angelo had for the first time entered her apartment, she was desirous to avail herself of the auspicious moment. On their sudden entrance the frame had fallen from her hand, she started up, and appeared in the greatest perturbation; now she trembled violently, seeming unable to sustain herself, attempted to catch at a chair for support, and failing, staggered and fell to the ground.

Angelo, somewhat flushed with wine, had given inconsiderately into the frolic of his son; but now seriously sorry for the terror he had occasioned a weak and timid female, he instinctively attempted to raise her from the ground, in which Felix, no longer gay and laughing, most earnestly assisted. At length Milborough appeared to recover, she was raised from the ground, but seeming suddenly to perceive that it was the hand of Angelo which held hers, to assist her, she swiftly withdrew it with a slight exclamation of alarm, and glanced on him a look, in which love struggling with apprehension, and pleasure with trembling timidity, were artfully contrasted. Angelo observed the expressive look; though past his youthful day, his natural character remained unchanged, at least in principle; ever open in a degree to the blandishments of women, he had not yet learnt to contemn them, and his vanity was still susceptible of being flattered by their admiration, as his heart to be influenced by their charms.

Thus Milborough, whose look had penetrated immediately to his self-love, began to wear additional attractions in his eyes; he now fancied there was meaning in the expression of her song, and while vanity faintly whispered that she dared to entertain an affection for him, self-love extenuated her presumption, and bade him pity, rather than despise her.

Honour and propriety would have dictated to Angelo at this imagined discovery, an unvarying countenance, excepting of increased coolness, and a speedy departure from her chamber, which if not expressive of his disgust, must have convinced her at least of the total impossibility of his supposing that _such_ a look directed to _him_, could contain the slightest meaning. But no, true to the latent principles of his nature, of a character that wanted energy, firmness, and decision, that was ever acted on by the influence of circumstance, or the moment, and was devoid of the dignified fortitude which can resist adventitious temptation, he suffered _more_ softness to be visible in his looks, more interest in the tone of his voice, more tenderness in the assistance he gave; but all this was urged by _pity_, and by the delicacy which a woman commands from a man, who discovers that she unhappily cherishes an imprudent passion for him. Instead of hastening from her room, as soon as possible, his stay was prolonged; nor did he quit her till he beheld her perfectly recovered, and then with the hope, expressed in the gentlest accents, that by the following day she would suffer no ill effects from the alarm she had experienced. Milborough seeming overpowered with confusion, scarcely lifted her eyes from the ground; and when Angelo rose for the purpose of departing, she arose likewise, for he had compelled her to sit in his presence, and seemed incapable, from a sense of the honour conferred upon her, of returning her faltering acknowledgments for such condescension.