New circumstances arose, which unexpectedly changed the course of our hero’s mind. There was a certain Lady Millicent, whose name Lady Norton had read from her memorandum-book among the list of guests expected at Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick, as Ormond recollected, had pronounced her to be a charming, elegant, fascinating creature. Sir Ulick’s praise was sometimes exaggerated, and often lavished from party motives, or given half in jest and half in earnest, against his conscience. But when he did speak sincerely, no man’s taste or judgment as to female beauty, manners, and character, could be more safely trusted.
He was sincere in all he said of Lady Millicent’s appearance and manners; but as to the rest, he did not think himself bound to tell all he knew about her.
Her ladyship arrived at Castle Hermitage. Ormond saw her, and thought that his guardian had not in the least exaggerated as to her beauty, grace, or elegance.
She was a very young widow, still in mourning for her husband, a gallant officer, who had fallen the preceding year at a siege in Flanders.
Lady Millicent, as Lady Norton said, had not recovered, and she feared never would recover from the shock her health had received at the time of her husband’s death. This account interested Ormond exceedingly for the young widow.
There was something peculiarly engaging in the pensive softness and modesty of her manner. It appeared free from affectation. Far from making any display of her feelings, she seemed as much as possible to repress them, and to endeavour to be cheerful, that she might not damp the gaiety of others. Her natural disposition, Lady Norton said, was very sprightly; and however passive and subdued she might appear at present, she was of a high independent spirit, that would, on any great occasion, think and act for itself. Better and better — each trait suited Ormond’s character more and more: his own observation confirmed the high opinion which the praises of her friend tended to inspire. Ormond was particularly pleased with the indulgent manner in which Lady Millicent spoke of her own sex; she was free from that propensity to detraction which had so disgusted him in his last love. Even of those by whom, as it had been hinted to him, she had been hardly treated, she spoke with gentleness and candour. Recollecting Miss Lardner’s assertion, that “Lady Annaly had used Lady Millicent barbarously,” he purposely mentioned Lady Annaly, to hear what she would say. “Lady Annaly,” said she, “is a most respectable woman — she has her prejudices — who is there that has not? — It is unfortunate for me that she has been prepossessed against me. She is one of my nearest connexions by marriage — one to whom I might have looked in difficulty and distress — one of the few persons whose assistance and interference I would willingly have accepted, and would even have stooped to ask; but unhappily — I can tell you no more,” said she, checking herself: “it is every way an unfortunate affair; and,” added she, after a deep sigh, “the most unfortunate part of it is, that it is my own fault.”
That Ormond could hardly believe; and whether it were or not, whatever the unfortunate affair might be, the candour, the gentleness, with which she spoke, even when her feelings were obviously touched and warm, interested him deeply in her favour. He had heard that the Annalys were just returning to Ireland, and he determined to go as soon as possible to see them: he hoped they would come to Castle Hermitage, and that this coolness might be made up. Meantime the more he saw of Lady Millicent, the more he was charmed with her. Sir Ulick was much engaged with various business in the mornings, and Lady Norton, Lady Millicent, and Ormond, spent their time together: walking, driving in the sociable, or boating on the lake, they were continually together. Lady Norton, a very good kind of well-bred little woman, was a nonentity in conversation; but she never interrupted it, nor laid the slightest restraint on any one by her presence, which, indeed, was usually forgotten by Ormond. His conversation with Lady Millicent generally took a sentimental turn. She did not always speak sense, but she talked elegant nonsense with a sweet persuasive voice and eloquent eyes: hers was a kind of exalted sentimental morality, referring every thing to feeling, and to the notion of sacrifice, rather than to a sense of duty, principle, or reason. She was all for sensibility and enthusiasm — enthusiasm in particular — with her there was no virtue without it. Acting from the hope of making yourself or others happy, or from any view of utility, was acting merely from low selfish motives. Her “point of virtue was so high, that ordinary mortals might well console themselves by perceiving the impossibility of ever reaching it.” Exalted to the clouds, she managed matters as she pleased there, and made charming confusion. When she condescended to return to earth, and attempted to define — no, not to define — definitions were death to her imagination! — but to describe her notions, she was nearly unintelligible. She declared, however, that she understood herself perfectly well; and Ormond, deceived by eloquence, of which he was a passionate admirer, thought that he understood when he only felt. Her ideas of virtue were carried to such extremes, that they touched the opposite vices — in truth, there was nothing to prevent them; for the line between right and wrong, that line which should be strongly marked, was effaced: so delicately had sentiment shaded off its boundaries. These female metaphysics, this character of exalted imagination and sensitive softness, was not quite so cheap and common some years ago, as it has lately become. The consequences to which it practically leads were not then fully foreseen and understood. At all times a man experienced in female character, who had any knowledge of the world, even supposing he had no skill in metaphysics, would easily have seen to what all this tends, and where it usually terminates; and such a man would never have thought of marrying Lady Millicent. But Ormond was inexperienced: the whole, matter and manner, was new to him; he was struck with the delicacy and sensibility of the fair sophist, and with all that was ingenious and plausible in the doctrine, instead of being alarmed by its dangerous tendency. It should be observed, in justice to Lady Millicent, that she was perfectly sincere — if we may use the expression of good faith in absurdities. She did not use this sentimental sophistry, as it has since been too often employed by many, to veil from themselves the criminality of passion, or to mark the deformity of vice: there was, perhaps, the more immediate hazard of her erring from ignorance and rashness; but there was also, in her youth and innocence, a chance that she might instinctively start back the moment she should see the precipice.
One evening Sir Ulick was talking of Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, a book at that time much in vogue, but which the good sense and virtue of England soon cast into disrepute; and which, in spite of the charms of wit and style, in spite of many sparkling and some valuable observations mixed with its corruption, has since sunk, fortunately for the nation, almost into oblivion. But when these private letters were first published, and when my lord, who now appears so stiff and awkward, was in the fashion of the day, there was no withstanding it. The book was a manual of education — with the vain hope of getting cheaply second-hand knowledge of the world, it was read universally by every young man entering life, from the nobleman’s son, while his hair was powdering, to the ‘prentice thumbing it surreptitiously behind the counter. Sir Ulick O’Shane, of course, recommended it to his ward: to Lady Millicent’s credit, she inveighed against it with honest indignation.
“What!” said Sir Ulick, smiling, “you are shocked at the idea of Lord Chesterfield’s advising his pupil at Paris to prefer a reputable affair with a married woman, to a disreputable intrigue with an opera girl! Well, I believe you are right as an Englishwoman, my dear Lady Millicent; and I am clear, at all events, that you are right, as a woman, to blush so eloquently with virtuous indignation:— Lady Annaly herself could not have spoken and looked the thing better.”
“So I was just thinking,” said Ormond.
“Only the difference, Harry, between a young and an elderly woman,” said Sir Ulick. “Truths divine come mended from the lips of youth and beauty.”
His compliment was lost upon Lady Millicent. At the first mention of Lady Annaly’s name she had sighed deeply, and had fallen into reverie — and Ormond, as he looked at her, fell into raptures at the tender expression of her countenance. Sir Ulick tapped him on the shoulder, and drawing him a little on one side, “Take care of your heart, young man,” whispered he: “no serious attachment here — remember, I warn you.” Lady Norton joined them, and nothing more was said.
“Take care of my heart,” thought Ormond: “why should I guard it against such a woman? — what better can I do with it than offer it to such a woman?”
A thought had crossed Ormond’s mind which recurred at this instant. From the great admiration Sir Ulick expressed for Lady Millicent, and the constant attention — more than gallant — tender attention, which Sir Ulick paid her, Ormond was persuaded that, but for that half ............