“You never lost a wife and son,” said Eldridge.
“No,” replied he, “but I can feel for those that have.”
Eldridge pressed his hand, as they went toward the door, and they parted in silence.
When they got without the walls of the prison, Temple thanked his friend Blakeney3 for introducing him to so worthy a character; and, telling him he had a particular engagement in the city, wished him a good evening.
“And what is to be done for this distressed man,” said Temple, as he walked up Ludgate Hill. “Would to Heaven I had a fortune that would enable me instantly to discharge his debt: what exquisite transport, to see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her father’s deliverance and gratitude for her deliverer: but is not my fortune affluence,” continued he, “nay superfluous wealth, when compared to the extreme indigence of Eldridge; and what have I done to deserve ease and plenty, while a brave worthy officer starves in a prison? Three hundred a year is surely sufficient for all my wants and wishes; at any rate Eldridge must be relieved.”
When the heart has will, the hands can soon find means to execute a good action.
Temple was a young man, his feelings warm and impetuous; unacquainted with the world, his heart had not been rendered callous by being convinced of its fraud and hypocrisy. He pitied their sufferings, overlooked their faults, thought every bosom as generous as his own, and would cheerfully have divided his last guinea with an unfortunate fellow creature.
No wonder, then, that such a man (without waiting a moment for the interference of Madame Prudence) should resolve to raise money sufficient for the relief of Eldridge, by mortgaging part of his fortune.
We will not enquire too minutely into the cause which might actuate him in this instance: suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan in execution; and in three days from the time he first saw the unfortunate lieutenant, he had the superlative felicity of seeing him at liberty, and receiving an ample reward in the tearful eye and half-articulated thanks of the grateful Lucy.
“And pray, young man,” said his father to him one morning, “what are your designs in visiting thus constantly that old man and his daughter?”
Temple was at a loss for a reply: he had never asked himself the question: he hesitated, and his father continued—
“It was not till within these few days that I heard in what manner your acquaintance first commenced, and can not suppose anything but attachment to the daughter could carry you such imprudent lengths for the father: it certainly must be her art that drew you in to mortgage part of your fortune.”
“Art, sir!” cried Temple eagerly. “Lucy Eldridge is as free from art as she is from every other error: she is—”
“Everything that is amiable and lovely,” said his father, interrupting him, ironically: “no doubt, in your opinion, she is a pattern of excellence for all her sex to follow; but come, sir, pray tell me, what are your designs toward this paragon? I hope you do not intend to complete your folly by marrying her.”
“Were my fortune such as would support her according to her merit, I don’t know a woman more formed to insure happiness in the married state.”
“Then prithee, my dear lad,” said his father, “since your rank and fortune are so much beneath what your Princess might expect, be so kind as to turn your eyes on Miss Weatherby, who, having only an estate of three thousand a year, is more upon a level with you, and whose father yesterday solicited the mighty honor of your alliance. I shall leave you to consider on this offer, and pray remember that your union with Miss Weatherby will put it in your power to be more liberally the friend of Lucy Eldridge.”
The old gentleman walked in a stately manner out of the room, and Temple stood almost petrified with astonishment, contempt and rage.
V
Such Things Are
Miss Weatherby was the only child of a wealthy man, almost idolized by her parents, flattered by her dependents, and never contradicted, even by those who called themselves her friends: I can not give a better description than by the following lines:
The lovely maid whose form and face
Nature has deck’d with ev’ry grace,
But in whose breast no virtues glow,
Whose heart ne’er felt another’s woe,
Whose hand ne’er smooth’d the bed of pain,
Or eas’d the captive’s galling chain;
But like the tulip caught the eye,
Born just to be admir’d and die;
When gone, no one regrets its loss,
Or scarce remembers that it was.4
Such was Miss Weatherby: her form lovely as nature could make it, but her mind uncultivated, her heart unfeeling, her passions impetuous, and her brain almost turned with flattery, dissipation, and pleasure; and such was the girl whom a partial grandfather left independent mistress of the fortune before mentioned.
She had seen Temple frequently; and fancying she could never be happy without him, nor once imagining he could refuse a girl of her beauty and fortune, she prevailed on her fond father to offer the alliance to the old5 Earl of D⸺, Mr. Temple’s father.
The earl had received the offer courteously: he thought it a great match for Henry; and was too fashionable a man to suppose a wife could be any impediment to the friendship he professed for Eldridge and his daughter.
Unfortunately for Temple, he thought quite otherwise: the conversation he had just had with his father discovered to him the situation of his heart; and he found that the most affluent fortune would bring no increase of happiness unless Lucy Eldridge shared it with him; and the knowledge of the purity of her sentiments and the integrity of his own heart,
