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Python Pocket Reference 4th Edition Mark Lutz Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): Mark Lutz
ISBN(s): 9780596800970, 0596800975
Edition: 4
File Details: PDF, 1.97 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
 Python
Pocket Reference
 FOURTH EDITION

Python
Pocket Reference

Mark Lutz

Beijing • Cambridge • Farnham • Köln • Sebastopol • Taipei • Tokyo

Python Pocket Reference, Fourth Edition
by Mark Lutz

Copyright © 2010 Mark Lutz. All rights reserved.

Printed in Canada.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Se-
bastopol, CA 95472.
O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promo-
tional use. Online editions are also available for most titles (http://my.safari
booksonline.com). For more information, contact our corporate/institutional
sales department: (800) 998-9938 or corporate@oreilly.com.

Editor: Julie Steele

Production Editor: Sumita Mukherji
Proofreader: Kiel Van Horn
Indexer: John Bickelhaupt
Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery
Interior Designer: David Futato

Printing History:
October 1998: First Edition.
January 2002: Second Edition.
February 2005: Third Edition.
October 2009: Fourth Edition.

Nutshell Handbook, the Nutshell Handbook logo, and the O’Reilly logo are
registered trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc. The Pocket Reference series
designations, Python Pocket Reference, the image of a rock python, and re-
lated trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc.
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish
their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear
in this book, and O’Reilly Media, Inc., was aware of a trademark claim, the
designations have been printed in caps or initial caps.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the
publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for
damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

ISBN: 978-0-596-15808-8
[TM]
1253806016
 Contents

Python Pocket Reference 1

Introduction 1
Conventions 2
Command-Line Options 4
Python Options 4
Program Specification 6
Environment Variables 7
Operational Variables 7
Command-Line Option Variables 8
Built-in Types and Operators 8
Operators and Precedence 8
Operator Usage Notes 10
Operations by Category 11
Sequence Operation Notes 15
Specific Built-in Types 16
Numbers 16
Strings 19
Unicode Strings 33
Lists 36
Dictionaries 41
Tuples 44
Files 45

v
 Sets 49
Other Common Types 51
Type Conversions 52
Statements and Syntax 53
Syntax Rules 53
Name Rules 54
Specific Statements 56
The Assignment Statement 57
The Expression Statement 59
The print Statement 60
The if Statement 62
The while Statement 62
The for Statement 63
The pass Statement 63
The break Statement 63
The continue Statement 64
The del Statement 64
The def Statement 64
The return Statement 68
The yield Statement 68
The global Statement 70
The nonlocal Statement 70
The import Statement 71
The from Statement 72
The class Statement 73
The try Statement 75
The raise Statement 78
The assert Statement 80
The with Statement 80
Python 2.X Statements 82
Namespace and Scope Rules 82
Qualified Names: Object Namespaces 83

vi | Table of Contents
 Unqualified Names: Lexical Scopes 83
Statically Nested Scopes 84
Object-Oriented Programming 85
Classes and Instances 85
Pseudoprivate Attributes 86
New Style Classes 87
Operator Overloading Methods 88
For All Types 88
For Collections (Sequences, Mappings) 93
For Numbers (Binary Operators) 94
For Numbers (Other Operations) 97
For Descriptors 98
For Context Managers 99
Python 2.X Operator Overloading Methods 99
Built-in Functions 102
Python 2.X Built-in Functions 119
Built-in Exceptions 124
Superclasses (Categories) 124
Specific Exceptions Raised 125
Warning Category Exceptions 129
Warnings Framework 130
Python 2.X Built-in Exceptions 131
Built-in Attributes 131
Standard Library Modules 132
The sys Module 133
The string Module 139
Module Functions and Classes 139
Constants 140
The os System Module 141
Administrative Tools 141
Portability Constants 142
Shell Commands 143

Table of Contents | vii

 Environment Tools 144
File Descriptor Tools 145
File Pathname Tools 147
Process Control 150
The os.path Module 153
The re Pattern-Matching Module 155
Module Functions 155
Regular Expression Objects 157
Match Objects 158
Pattern Syntax 159
Object Persistence Modules 163
dbm and shelve Modules 164
pickle Module 166
The tkinter GUI Module and Tools 168
tkinter Example 168
tkinter Core Widgets 169
Common Dialog Calls 170
Additional tkinter Classes and Tools 171
Tcl/Tk-to-Python/tkinter Mappings 171
Internet Modules and Tools 173
Commonly Used Library Modules 173
Other Standard Library Modules 175
The math Module 176
The time Module 176
The datetime Module 177
Threading Modules 177
Binary Data Parsing 178
Python Portable SQL Database API 179
API Usage Example 179
Module Interface 180
Connection Objects 181
Cursor Objects 181

viii | Table of Contents

 Type Objects and Constructors 182
Python Idioms and Hints 183
Core Language Hints 183
Environment Hints 184
Usage Hints 185
Assorted Hints 187

Index 189

Table of Contents | ix
 Python Pocket Reference

Introduction
Python is a general-purpose, object-oriented, and open source
computer programming language. It is commonly used for
both standalone programs and scripting applications in a wide
variety of domains, by hundreds of thousands of developers.
Python is designed to optimize developer productivity, soft-
ware quality, program portability, and component integration.
Python programs run on most platforms in common use, in-
cluding mainframes and supercomputers, Unix and Linux,
Windows and Macintosh, Java and .NET, and more.
This pocket reference summarizes Python types and state-
ments, special method names, built-in functions and excep-
tions, commonly used standard library modules, and other
prominent Python tools. It is intended to serve as a concise
reference tool for developers and is designed to be a companion
to other books that provide tutorials, code examples, and other
learning materials.

1
This fourth edition covers both Python versions 3.0 and 2.6,
and later releases in the 3.X and 2.X lines. This edition is fo-
cused primarily on Python 3.0, but also documents differences
in Python 2.6, and so applies to both versions. It has been
thoroughly updated for recent language and library changes
and expanded for new language tools and topics.
This edition also incorporates notes about prominent enhance-
ments in the imminent Python 3.1 release, which is intended
to subsume Python 3.0 (in this book, Python 3.0 generally re-
fers to the language variations introduced by 3.0 but present
in the entire 3.X line). Much of this edition applies to earlier
Python releases as well, with the exception of recent language
extensions.

Conventions
The following conventions are used in this book:
[]
Items in brackets are usually optional. The exceptions are
those cases where brackets are part of Python’s syntax.
*
Something followed by an asterisk can be repeated zero
or more times.
a|b
Items separated by a bar are often alternatives.
Italic
Used for filenames and URLs and to highlight new terms.
Constant width
Used for code, commands, and command-line options,
and to indicate the names of modules, functions, attrib-
utes, variables, and methods.
Constant width italic
Used for replaceable parameter names in command
syntax.

2 | Python Pocket Reference

Using Code Examples
This book is here to help you get your job done. In general, you
may use the code in this book in your programs and docu-
mentation. You do not need to contact us for permission unless
you’re reproducing a significant portion of the code. For
example, writing a program that uses several chunks of code
from this book does not require permission. Selling or distrib-
uting a CD-ROM of examples from O’Reilly books does re-
quire permission. Answering a question by citing this book and
quoting example code does not require permission. Incorpo-
rating a significant amount of example code from this book
into your product’s documentation does require permission.
We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution
usually includes the title, author, publisher, and ISBN. For ex-
ample: “Python Pocket Reference, Fourth Edition, by Mark
Lutz. Copyright 2010 Mark Lutz, 978-0-596-15808-8.”
If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or
the permission given above, feel free to contact us at
permissions@oreilly.com.

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Command-Line Options
Command lines are used to launch Python programs from a
system shell prompt. Command-line options intended for Py-
thon itself appear before the specification of the program code
to be run. Options intended for the code to be run appear after
the program specification. Command lines have the following
format:
python [option*]
[ scriptfilename | -c command | -m module | - ] [arg*]

Python Options
-b
Issues warnings for calling str() with a bytes or
bytearray object, and comparing a bytes or bytearray
with a str. Option -bb issues errors instead.
-B
Do not write .pyc or .pyo byte-code files on imports.
-d
Turns on parser debugging output (for developers of the
Python core).
-E
Ignores Python environment variables described ahead
(such as PYTHONPATH).
-h
Prints help message and exit.

4 | Python Pocket Reference

-i
Enters interactive mode after executing a script. Useful for
postmortem debugging.
-O
Optimizes generated byte-code (create and use .pyo byte-
code files). Currently yields a minor performance
improvement.
-OO
Operates like -O, the previous option, but also removes
docstrings from byte-code.
-s
Do not add the user site directory to the sys.path module
search path.
-S
Do not imply “import site” on initialization.
-u
Forces stdout and stderr to be unbuffered and binary.
-v
Prints a message each time a module is initialized, showing
the place from which it is loaded; repeats this flag for more
verbose output.
-V
Prints Python version number and exit.
-W arg
Functions as warning control; arg takes the form
action:message:category:module:lineno. See warnings
module documentation in the Python Library Reference
manual (available at http://www.python.org/doc/).
-x
Skips first line of source, allowing use of non-Unix forms
of #!cmd.

Command-Line Options | 5
Program Specification
scriptfilename
Denotes the name of a Python scriptfile to execute as the
main, topmost file of a program execute (e.g., python
main.py). The script’s name is made available in
sys.argv[0].
-c command
Specifies a Python command (as a string) to execute (e.g.,
python -c "print('spam' * 8)" runs a print call).
sys.argv[0] is set to -c.
-m module
Runs library module as a script: searches for module on
sys.path, and runs it as a top-level file (e.g., python -m
profile runs the Python profiler located in a standard li-
brary directory). sys.argv[0] is set to the module’s full
path name.
−
Reads Python commands from stdin (the default); enters
interactive mode if stdin is a tty (interactive device).
sys.argv[0] is set to −.
arg*
Indicates that anything else on the command line is passed
to the scriptfile or command (and appears in the built-in
list of strings sys.argv[1:]).
If no scriptfilename, command, or module is given, Python enters
interactive mode, reading commands from stdin (and using
GNU readline, if installed, for input).
Besides using traditional command lines at a system shell
prompt, you can also generally start Python programs by click-
ing their filenames in a file explorer GUI, by calling functions
in the Python/C API, by using program launch menu options
in IDEs such as IDLE, Komodo, Eclipse, NetBeans, and so on.

6 | Python Pocket Reference

 NOTE
Python 2.6 does not support the -b option, which is re-
lated to Python 3.0’s string type changes. It supports
additional options:
• -t issues warnings for inconsistent mixtures of tabs
and spaces in indentation (-tt issues errors in-
stead). Python 3.0 always treats such mixtures as
syntax errors.
• -Q division-related options: -Qold (the default),
-Qwarn, -Qwarnall, and –Qnew. These are subsumed
by the new true division behavior of Python 3.0.
• −3 issues warnings about any Python 3.X incom-
patibilities in code.

Environment Variables
Environment variables are system-wide settings that span pro-
grams and are used for global configuration.

Operational Variables
PYTHONPATH
Augments the default search path for imported module
files. The format is the same as the shell’s PATH setting:
directory pathnames separated by colons (semicolons on
Windows). On module imports, Python searches for the
corresponding file or directory in each listed directory,
from left to right. Merged into sys.path.
PYTHONSTARTUP
If set to the name of a readable file, the Python commands
in that file are executed before the first prompt is displayed
in interactive mode.

Environment Variables | 7
PYTHONHOME
If set, the value is used as an alternate prefix directory for
library modules (or sys.prefix, sys.exec_prefix). The
default module search path uses sys.prefix/lib.
PYTHONCASEOK
If set, ignores case in import statements (on Windows).
PYTHONIOENCODING
encodingname[:errorhandler] override used for stdin,
stdout, and stderr streams.

Command-Line Option Variables

PYTHONDEBUG
If nonempty, same as -d option.
PYTHONDONTWRITEBYTECODE
If nonempty, same as -B option.
PYTHONINSPECT
If nonempty, same as -i option.
PYTHONNOUSERSITE
If nonempty, same as -s option.
PYTHONOPTIMIZE
If nonempty, same as -O option.
PYTHONUNBUFFERED
If nonempty, same as -u option.
PYTHONVERBOSE
If nonempty, same as -v option.

Built-in Types and Operators

Operators and Precedence
Table 1 lists Python’s expression operators. Operators in the
lower cells of this table have higher precedence (i.e., bind
tighter) when used in mixed-operator expressions without
parentheses.

8 | Python Pocket Reference

Table 1. Python 3.0 expression operators and precedence
Operator Description
yield X Generator function send() protocol
lambda args: expr Anonymous function maker
X if Y else Z Ternary selection (X is evaluated only if Y is true)
X or Y Logical OR: Y is evaluated only if X is false
X and Y Logical AND: Y is evaluated only if X is true
not X Logical negation
X in Y, X not in Y Membership: iterables, sets
X is Y, X is not Y Object identity tests
X < Y, X <= Y, X > Y, X >= Y Magnitude comparisons, set subset and
superset
X == Y, X != Y Equality operators
X | Y Bitwise OR, set union
X ^ Y Bitwise exclusive OR, set symmetric difference
X & Y Bitwise AND, set intersection
X << Y, X >> Y Shift X left, right by Y bits
X + Y, X – Y Addition/concatenation, subtraction/set
difference
X * Y, X % Y, Multiplication/repetition, remainder/format,
division, floor division
X / Y, X // Y
-X, +X Unary negation, identity
˜X Bitwise NOT complement (inversion)
X ** Y Power (exponentiation)
X[i] Indexing (sequence, mapping, others)
X[i:j:k] Slicing (all bounds optional)
X(...) Call (function, method, class, other callable)
X.attr Attribute reference
(...) Tuple, expression, generator expression
[...] List, list comprehension

Built-in Types and Operators | 9

Other documents randomly have
different content
feelings of regret hitherto prevented my acquiescing in your desire;
but, as nothing better now offers for passing away the hours, I will,
if you please, relate them.” “You will oblige me by so doing,” cried
Adela; “my curiosity, you know, has been long excited.”
CHAPTER XIII.
 “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.”—Goldsmith.

To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further preface, I was

the only child of a country curate, in the southern part of England,
who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced family. Contented
dispositions and an agreeable neighborhood, ready on every
occasion to oblige them, rendered them, in their humble situations,
completely happy. I was the idol of both their hearts; every one told
my mother I should grow up a beauty, and she, poor simple woman,
believed the flattering tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat
romantic, she expected nothing less than my attaining, by my
charms, an elevated situation; to fit me to it, therefore, according to
her idea, she gave me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of
education. My father being a meek, or rather an indolent man,
submitted entirely to her direction; thus, without knowing the
grammatical part of my own language, I was taught to gabble bad
French by myself; and, instead of mending or making my clothes, to
flourish upon catgut and embroider satin. I was taught dancing by a
man who kept a cheap school for that purpose in the village; music I
could not aspire to, my mother’s finances being insufficient to
purchase an instrument; she was therefore obliged to content
herself with my knowing the vocal part of that delightful science,
and instructed me in singing a few old-fashioned airs, with a
thousand graces, in her opinion at least.
To make me excel by my dress, as well as my accomplishments, all
the misses of the village, the remains of her finery were cut and
altered into every form which art or ingenuity could suggest; and,
Heaven forgive me, but my chief inducement in going to church on a
Sunday was to exhibit my flounced silk petticoat and painted chip
hat.
When I attained my sixteenth year, my mother thought me, and
supposed every one else must do the same, the most perfect
creature in the world. I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and ambitious
to an extravagant degree; yet, truly innocent in my disposition, and
often, forgetting the appearance I had been taught to assume,
indulged the natural gayety of my heart, and in a game of hide-and-
go-seek, amongst the haycocks in a meadow, by moonlight, enjoyed
perfect felicity.
Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the dancing-
master’s school, to practise country dances. One evening we had
just concluded a set, and were resting ourselves, when an elegant
youth, in a fashionable riding dress, entered the room. His
appearance at once excited admiration and surprise; never shall I
forget the palpitation of my heart at his approach; every girl
experienced the same, every cheek was flushed, and every eye
sparkled with hope and expectation. He walked round the room,
with an easy, unembarrassed air, as if to take a survey of the
company; he stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller’s daughter—
good heavens! what were my agonies! My mother, too, who sat
beside me, turned pale, and would actually, I believe, have fainted,
had he taken any farther notice of her; fortunately he did not, but
advanced. My eyes caught his; he again paused, looked surprised
and pleased, and, after a moment, passed in seeming consideration,
bowed with the utmost elegance, and requested the honor of my
hand for the ensuing dance. My politeness had hitherto only been in
theory; I arose, dropped him a profound curtsey, assured him the
honor would be all on my side, and I was happy to grant his request.
He smiled, I thought, a little archly, and coughed to avoid laughing; I
blushed, and felt embarrassed; but he led me to the head of the
room to call a dance, and my triumph over my companions so
exhilarated my spirits, that I immediately lost all confusion.
I had been engaged to a young farmer, and he was enraged, not
only at my breaking my engagement without his permission, but at
the superior graces of my partner, who threatened to be a
formidable rival to him. “By jingo!” said Clod, coming up to me in a
surly manner, “I think, Miss Fanny, you have not used me quite
genteelly; I don’t see why this here fine spark should take the lead
of us all.” “Creature!” cried I, with an ineffable look of contempt,
which he could not bear, and retired grumbling. My partner could no
longer refrain from laughing; the simplicity of my manners,
notwithstanding the airs I endeavored to assume, highly delighted
him. “No wonder,” cried he, “the poor swain should be mortified at
losing the hand of his charming Fanny.”
The dancing over, we rejoined my mother, who was on thorns to
begin a conversation with the stranger, that she might let him know
we were not to be ranked with the present company. “I am sure, sir,”
said she, “a gentleman of your elegant appearance must feel rather
awkward in the present party; it is so with us, as, indeed, it must be
with every person of fashion; but, in an obscure little village like this,
we must not be too nice in our society, except, like a hermit, we
could do without any.” The stranger assented to whatever she said,
and accepted an invitation to sup with us; my mother instantly sent
an intimation of her will to my father, to have, not the fatted calf,
indeed, but the fatted duck prepared; and he and the maid used
such expedition, that, by the time we returned, a neat, comfortable
supper was ready to lay on the table. Mr. Marlowe, the stranger’s
name, as he informed me, was all animation and affability: it is
unnecessary to say, that my mother, father, and myself, were all
complaisance, delight, and attention. On departing, he asked, and
obtained, permission, of course, to renew his visit the next day; and
my mother immediately set him down as her future son-in-law.
As everything is speedily communicated in such a small village as we
resided in, we learned on the preceding evening he had stopped at
the inn, and, hearing music, had inquired from whence it proceeded,
and had gone out of curiosity to the dance. We also learned that his
attendants reported him to be heir to a large fortune; this report,
vain as I was, was almost enough of itself to engage my heart;
judge, then, whether it was not an easy conquest to a person, who,
besides the above-mentioned attraction, possessed those of a
graceful figure and cultivated mind. He visited continually at our
cottage; and I, uncultivated as I was, daily strengthened myself in
his affections. In conversing with him, I forgot the precepts of vanity
and affectation, and obeyed the dictates of nature and sensibility. He
soon declared the motives of his visits to me—"to have immediately
demanded my hand" he said, “would have gratified the tenderest
wish of his soul; but, in his present situation, that was impossible—
left, at an early age, destitute and distressed, by the death of his
parents, an old whimsical uncle, married to a woman equally
capricious, had adopted him as heir to their large possessions—he
found it difficult,” he said, “to submit to their ill-humor, and was
confident, if he took any step against their inclinations, he should
forever forfeit their favor; therefore, if my parents would allow a
reciprocal promise to pass between us, binding each to each, the
moment he became master of expected fortune, or obtained an
independence, he would make me a partaker of it.” They consented,
and he enjoined us to the strictest secrecy, saying, one of his
attendants was placed about him as a kind of spy. He had hitherto
deceived him with respect to us, declaring my father was an intimate
friend, and that his uncle knew he intended visiting him. But my
unfortunate vanity betrayed the secret it was so material for me to
keep. I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morning a young girl
who had been an intimate acquaintance of mine till I knew Marlowe,
came to see me, “Why, Fanny,” cried she, “you have given us all up
for Mr. Marlowe; take care, my dear, he makes you amends for the
loss of your other friends.” “I shall take your advice,” said I, with a
smile and a conceited toss of my head. “Faith, for my part,”
continued she, “I think you were very foolish not to secure a good
settlement for yourself with Clod.” “With Clod!” repeated I, with the
utmost haughtiness. “Lord, child, you forget who I am!” “Who are
you?” exclaimed she, provoked at my insolence; “oh, yes, to be sure,
I forget that you are the daughter of a poor country curate, with
more pride in your head than money in your purse.” “Neither do I
forget,” said I, “that your ignorance is equal to your impertinence; if
I am the daughter of a poor country curate, I am the affianced wife
of a rich man, and as much elevated by expectation, as spirit, above
you.”
Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and reached
the ears of Marlowe’s attendant, who instantly developed the real
motive which detained him so long in the village. He wrote to his
uncle an account of the whole affair; the consequence of this was a
letter to poor Marlowe, full of the bitterest reproaches, charging him,
without delay, to return home. This was like a thunder-stroke to us
all; but there was no alternative between obeying, or forfeiting his
uncle’s favor. “I fear, my dear Fanny,” cried he, as he folded me to
his bosom, a little before his departure, “it will be long ere we shall
meet again; nay, I also fear I shall be obliged to promise not to
write; if both these fears are realized, impute not either absence or
silence to a want of the tenderest affection for you.” He went, and
with him all my happiness! My mother, shortly after his departure,
was attacked by a nervous fever, which terminated her days; my
father, naturally of weak spirits and delicate constitution, was so
shocked by the sudden death of his beloved and faithful companion,
that he sunk beneath his grief. The horrors of my mind I cannot
describe; I seemed to stand alone in the world, without one friendly
hand to prevent my sinking into the grave, which contained the
dearest objects of my love. I did not know where Marlowe lived,
and, even if I had, durst not venture an application, which might be
the means of ruining him. The esteem of my neighbors I had
forfeited by my conceit; they paid no attention but what common
humanity dictated, merely to prevent my perishing; and that they
made me sensibly feel. In this distress, I received an invitation from
a school-fellow of mine, who had married a rich farmer about forty
miles from our village, to take up my residence with her till I was
sufficiently recovered to fix on some plan for subsistence. I gladly
accepted the offer, and after paying a farewell visit to the grave of
my regretted parents, I set off in the cheapest conveyance I could
find to her habitation, with all my worldly treasure packed in a
portmanteau.
With my friend I trusted I should enjoy a calm and happy asylum till
Marlowe was able to fulfil his promise, and allow me to reward her
kindness; but this idea she soon put to flight, by informing me, as
my health returned, I must think of some method for supporting
myself. I started, as at the utter annihilation of all my hopes; for,
vain and ignorant of the world, I imagined Marlowe would never
think of me if once disgraced by servitude. I told her I understood
little of anything except fancy work. She was particularly glad, she
said, to hear I knew that, as it would, in all probability, gain me
admittance to the service of a rich old lady in the neighborhood, who
had long been seeking for a person who could read agreeably and
do fancy works, with which she delighted to ornament her house.
She was a little whimsical, to be sure, she added, but well-timed
flattery might turn those whims to advantage; and, if I regarded my
reputation, I should not reject so respectable a protection. There
was no alternative; I inquired more particularly about her, but how
great was my emotion, when I learned she was the aunt of Marlowe.
My heart throbbed with exquisite delight at the idea of being in the
same house with him; besides, the service of his aunt would not, I
flattered myself, degrade me as much in his eyes as that of another
person’s ; it was necessary, however, my name should be concealed,
and I requested my friend to comply with my wish in that respect.
She rallied me about my pride, which she supposed had suggested
the request, but promised to comply with it; she had no doubt but
her recommendation would be sufficient to procure me immediate
admittance, and, accordingly, taking some of my work with me, I
proceeded to the habitation of Marlowe. It was an antique mansion,
surrounded with neat-clipped hedges, level lawns, and formal
plantations. Two statues, cast in the same mould, and resembling
nothing either in heaven, earth, or sea, stood grinning horribly upon
the pillars of a massy gate, as if to guard the entrance from
impertinent intrusion. On knocking, an old porter appeared. I gave
him my message, but he, like the statues, seemed stationary, and
would not, I believe, have stirred from his situation to deliver an
embassy from the king. He called, however, to a domestic, who,
happening to be a little deaf, was full half an hour before he heard
him; at last, I was ushered up stairs into an apartment, from the
heat of which one might have conjectured it was under the torrid
zone. Though in the middle of July, a heavy hot fire burned in the
grate; a thick carpet, representing birds, beasts, and flowers, was
spread on the floor, and the windows, closely screwed down, were
heavy with woodwork, and darkened with dust. The master and
mistress of the mansion, like Darby and Joan, sat in arm-chairs on
each side of the fire; three dogs, and as many cats, slumbered at
their feet. He was leaning on a spider-table, poring over a
voluminous book, and she was stitching a counterpane. Sickness and
ill-nature were visible in each countenance. “So!” said she, raising a
huge pair of spectacles at my entrance, and examining me from
head to foot, “you are come from Mrs. Wilson’s ; why, bless me,
child, you are quite too young for any business; pray, what is your
name, and where do you come from?” I was prepared for these
questions, and told her the truth, only concealing my real name, and
the place of my nativity. “Well, let me see those works of yours,”
cried she. I produced them, and the spectacles were again drawn
down. “Why, they are neat enough, to be sure,” said she, “but the
design is bad—very bad, indeed: there is taste, there is execution!”
directing me to some pictures, in heavy gilt frames, hung round the
room. I told her, with sincerity, “I had never seen anything like
them.” “To be sure, child,” exclaimed she, pleased at what she
considered admiration in me, “it is running a great risk to take you;
but if you think you can conform to the regulations of my house, I
will, from compassion, and as you are recommended by Mrs. Wilson,
venture to engage you; but, remember, I must have no gad-about,
no fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my family. You must be decent in your
dress and carriage, discreet in your words, industrious at your work,
and satisfied with the indulgence of going to church on a Sunday.” I
saw I was about entering upon a painful servitude; but the idea of
its being sweetened by the sympathy of Marlowe a little reconciled
me to it.
On promising all she desired, everything was settled for my
admission into her family, and she took care I should perform the
promises I made her. I shall not recapitulate the various trials I
underwent from her austerity and peevishness; suffice it to say, my
patience, as well as taste, underwent a perfect martyrdom. I was
continually seated at a frame, working pictures of her own invention,
which were everything that was hideous in nature. I was never
allowed to go out, except on a Sunday to church, or on a chance
evening when it was too dark to distinguish colors.
Marlowe was absent on my entering the family, nor durst I ask when
he was expected. My health and spirits gradually declined from my
close confinement. When allowed, as I have before said, of a chance
time to go out, instead of enjoying the fresh air, I have sat down to
weep over scenes of former happiness. I dined constantly with the
old housekeeper. She informed me, one day, that Mr. Marlowe, her
master’s young heir, who had been absent some time on a visit, was
expected home on the ensuing day. Fortunately, the good dame was
too busily employed to notice my agitation. I retired as soon as
possible from the table, in a state of indescribable pleasure. Never
shall I forget my emotions, when I heard the trampling of his horse’s
feet, and saw him enter the house! Vainly I endeavored to resume
my work; my hands trembled, and I sunk back on my chair, to
indulge the delightful idea of an interview with him, which I believed
to be inevitable. My severe task-mistress soon awakened me from
me delightful dream; she came to tell me: “I must confine myself to
my own and the housekeeper’s room, which, to a virtuous, discreet
maiden, such as I appeared to be, she supposed would be no
hardship, while her nephew, who was a young, perhaps rather a wild
young man, remained in the house: when he again left it, which
would soon be the case, I should regain my liberty.” My heart sunk
within me at her words, but, when the first shock was over; I
consoled myself by thinking I should be able to elude her vigilance. I
was, however, mistaken; she and the housekeeper were perfect
Arguses. To be in the same house with Marlowe, yet without his
knowing it, drove me almost distracted.
I at last thought of an expedient, which, I hoped, would effect the
discovery I wanted. I had just finished a piece of work, which my
mistress was delighted with. It was an enormous flower-basket,
mounted on the back of a cat, which held beneath its paw a
trembling mouse. The raptures the old lady expressed at seeing her
own design so ably executed encouraged me to ask permission to
embroider a picture of my own designing, for which I had the silks
lying by me. She complied, and I set about it with alacrity. I copied
my face and figure as exactly as I could, and, in mourning drapery
and a pensive attitude, placed the little image by a rustic grave, in
the church-yard of my native village, at the head of which, half
embowered in trees, appeared the lovely cottage of my departed
parents. These well-known objects, I thought, would revive, if
indeed she was absent from it, the idea of poor Fanny in the mind of
Marlowe. I presented the picture to my mistress, who was pleased
with the present, and promised to have it framed. The next day
while I sat at dinner, the door suddenly opened, and Marlowe
entered the room. I thought I should have fainted. My companion
dropped her knife and fork with great precipitation, and Marlowe
told her he was very ill, and wanted a cordial from her. She rose with
a dissatisfied air, to comply with his request. He, taking this
opportunity of approaching a little nearer, darted a glance of pity and
tenderness, and softly whispered—"To-night, at eleven o’clock, meet
me in the front parlor.”
You may conceive how tardily the hours passed till the appointed
time came, when, stealing to the parlor, I found Marlowe expecting
me. He folded me to his heart, and his tears mingled with mine, as I
related my melancholy tale. “You are now, my Fanny!” he cried,
“entirely mine; deprived of the protection of your tender parents I
shall endeavor to fulfil the sacred trust they reposed in my honor, by
securing mine to you, as far as lies in my power. I was not
mistaken,” continued he, “in the idea I had formed of the treatment
I should receive from my flinty-hearted relations on leaving you. Had
I not promised to drop all correspondence with you, I must have
relinquished all hopes of their favor. Bitter, indeed,” cried he, while a
tear started in his eye, “is the bread of dependence. Ill could my
soul submit to the indignities I received; but I consoled myself
throughout them, by the idea of future happiness with my Fanny.
Had I known her situation (which, indeed, it was impossible I
should, as my uncle’s spy attended me wherever I went), no dictate
of prudence would have prevented my flying to her aid!” “Thank
Heaven, then, you were ignorant of it,” said I. “My aunt,” he
proceeded, “showed me your work, lavishing the highest encomiums
on it. I glanced my eye carelessly upon it, but, in a moment, how
was that careless eye attracted by the well known objects presented
to it! this, I said to my heart, can only be Fanny’s work. I tried to
discover from my aunt whether my conjectures were wrong, but
without success. When I retired to dress, I asked my servant if there
had been any addition to the family during my absence; he said a
young woman was hired to do fine works, but she never appeared
among the servants.”
Marlowe proceeded to say, “he could not bear I should longer
continue in servitude, and that without delay he was resolved to
unite his fate to mine.” I opposed this resolution a little; but soon,
too self-interested, I fear, acquiesced in it. It was agreed I should
inform his aunt my health would no longer permit my continuing in
her family, and that I should retire to a village six miles off, where
Marlowe undertook to bring a young clergyman, a particular friend
of his, to perform the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was carried
into execution, and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was now, you
will suppose, elevated to the pinnacle of happiness; I was so,
indeed, but my own folly precipitated me from it. The secrecy I was
compelled to observe mortified me exceedingly, as I panted to
emerge from the invidious cloud which had so long concealed my
beauty and accomplishments from a world that I was confident, if
seen, would pay them the homage they merited. The people with
whom I lodged had been obliged by Marlowe, and, therefore, from
interest and gratitude, obeyed the injunction he gave them, of
keeping my residence at their house a secret; they believed, or
affected to believe, I was an orphan committed to his care, whom
his uncle would be displeased to know he had taken under his
protection. Three or four times a week I received stolen visits from
Marlowe, when, one day (after a month had elapsed in this manner)
standing at the parlor window, I saw Mrs. Wilson walking down the
village. I started back, but too late to escape her observation; she
immediately bolted into the room with all the eagerness of curiosity.
I bore her first interrogatories tolerably well, but when she
upbraided me for leaving the excellent service she had procured for
me, for duplicity in saying I was going to another, and for my
indiscretion in respect to Marlowe, I lost all command of my temper,
and, remembering the inhumanity with which she had forced me
into servitude, I resolved to mortify her completely, by assuming all
the airs I had heretofore so ridiculously aspired to. Lolling in my
chair, with an air of the most careless indifference, I bid her no
longer petrify me with her discourse. This raised all the violence of
rage, and she plainly told me, “from my conduct with Marlowe, I was
unworthy her notice.” “Therefore,” cried I, forgetting every dictate of
prudence, “his wife will neither desire nor receive it in future.” “His
wife!” she repeated, with a look of scorn and incredulity. I produced
the certificate of my marriage; thus, from an impulse of vanity and
resentment, putting myself in the power of a woman, a stranger to
every liberal feeling, and whose mind was inflamed with envy
towards me. The hint I forced myself at parting to give her, to keep
the affair secret, only determined her more strongly to reveal it. The
day after her visit, Marlowe entered my apartment—pale, agitated,
and breathless, he sunk into a chair. A pang, like conscious guilt,
smote my heart, and I trembled as I approached him. He repulsed
me when I attempted to touch his hand. “Cruel, inconsiderate
woman!” he said, “to what dreadful lengths has your vanity hurried
you; it has drawn destruction upon your own head as well as mine!”
Shame and remorse tied my tongue; had I spoken, indeed, I could
not have vindicated myself, and I turned aside and wept. Marlowe,
mild, tender, and adoring, could not long retain resentment; he
started from his chair, and clasped me to his bosom. “Oh, Fanny!” he
cried, “though you have ruined me, you are still dear as ever to me.”
This tenderness affected me even more than reproaches, and tears
and sighs declared my penitence. His expectations relative to his
uncle were finally destroyed, on being informed of our marriage,
which Mrs. Wilson lost no time in telling him. He burned his will, and
immediately made another in favor of a distant relation. On hearing
this intelligence, I was almost distracted; I flung myself at my
husband’s feet, implored his pardon, yet declared I could never
forgive myself. He grew more composed upon the increase of my
agitation, as if purposely to soothe my spirits, assuring me, that,
though his uncle’s favor was lost, he had other friends on whom he
greatly depended. We set off for London, and found his dependence
was not ill-placed; for, soon after his arrival, he obtained a place of
considerable emolument in one of the public offices. My husband
delighted in gratifying me, though I was often both extravagant and
whimsical, and almost ever on the wing for admiration and
amusement. I was reckoned a pretty woman, and received with
rapture the nonsense and adulation addressed to me. I became
acquainted with a young widow, who concealed a depraved heart
under a specious appearance of innocence and virtue, and by aiding
the vices of others, procured the means of gratifying her own; yet so
secret were all her transactions, that calumny had not yet attacked
her, and her house was the rendezvous of the most fashionable
people. My husband, who did not dislike her manner, encouraged
our intimacy, and at her parties I was noticed by a young nobleman,
then at the head of the ton. He declared I was one of the most
charming objects he had ever beheld, and, for such a declaration, I
thought him the most polite I had ever known. As Lord T.
condescended to wear my chains, I must certainly, I thought,
become quite the rage. My transports, however, were a little checked
by the grave remonstrances of my husband, who assured me Lord T.
was a famous, or rather an infamous libertine; and that, if I did not
avoid his lordship’s particular attentions, he must insist on my
relinquishing the widow’s society. This I thought cruel, but I saw him
resolute, and promised to act as he desired—a promise I never
adhered to, except when he was present. I was now in a situation to
promise an increase of family, and Marlowe wished me to nurse the
child. The tenderness of my heart seconding his wish, I resolved on
obeying it; but when the widow heard my intention she laughed at
it, and said it was absolutely ridiculous, for the sake of a squalling
brat, to give up all the pleasures of life; besides, it would be much
better taken care of in some of the villages about London. I denied
this; still, however, she dwelt on the sacrifices I must make, the
amusements I must give up, and at last completely conquered my
resolution. I pretended to Marlowe my health was too delicate to
allow me to bear such a fatigue and he immediately sacrificed his
own inclinations to mine. I have often wondered at the kind of
infatuation with which he complied with all my desires. My little girl,
almost as soon as born, was sent from me; but, on being able to go
out again, I received a considerable shock, from hearing my noble
admirer was gone to the Continent, owing to a trifling derangement
in his affairs. The vain pursuits of pleasure and dissipation were still
continued. Three years passed in this manner, during which I had a
son, and my little girl was brought home. I have since often felt
astonished at the cold indifference with which I regarded my
Marlowe, and our lovely babe, on whom he doted with all the
enthusiasm of tenderness. Alas! vanity had then absorbed my heart,
and deadened every feeling of nature and sensibility; it is the parent
of self-love and apathy, and degrades those who harbor it below
humanity.
Lord T. now returned from the Continent; he swore my idea had
never been absent from his mind, and that I was more charming
than ever; while I thought him, if possible, more polite and
engaging. Again my husband remonstrated. Sometimes I seemed to
regard these remonstrances, sometimes protested I would not
submit to such unnecessary control. I knew, indeed, that my
intentions were innocent, and I believed I might safely indulge my
vanity, without endangering either my reputation or peace. About
this time Marlowe received a summons to attend a dying friend four
miles from London. Our little girl was then in a slight fever, which
had alarmed her father, and confined me most unwillingly, I must
confess, to the house. Marlowe, on the point of departing, pressed
me to his breast: “My heart, my beloved Fanny!” said he, “feels
unusually heavy. I trust the feeling is no presentiment of
approaching ill. Oh! my Fanny! on you and my babe, I rest for
happiness—take care of our little cherub, and above all (his meek
eye encountering mine), take care of yourself, that, with my
accustomed rapture, I may, on my return, receive you to my arms.”
There was something so solemn, and so tender, in this address, that
my heart melted, and my tears mingled with those which trickled
down his pale checks. For two days I attended my child assiduously,
when the widow made her appearance. She assured me I should
injure myself by such close confinement, and that my cheeks were
already faded by it. She mentioned a delightful masquerade which
was to be given that night, and for which Lord T. had presented her
with tickets for me and herself; but she declared, except I would
accompany her, she would not go. I had often wished to go to a
masquerade; I now, however, declined this opportunity of gratifying
my inclination, but so faintly, as to prompt a renewal of her
solicitations, to which I at last yielded; and, committing my babe to
the care of a servant, set off with the widow to a warehouse to
choose dresses. Lord T. dined with us, and we were all in the highest
spirits imaginable: about twelve we went in his chariot to the
Haymarket, and I was absolutely intoxicated with his flattery, and
the dazzling objects around me. At five we quitted this scene of
gayety. The widow took a chair; I would have followed her example,
but my Lord absolutely lifted me into his chariot, and there began
talking in a strain which provoked my contempt, and excited my
apprehensions. I expressed my displeasure in tears, which checked
his boldness, and convinced him he had some difficulties yet to
overcome ere he completed his designs. He made his apologies with
so much humility, that I was soon appeased, and prevailed on to
accept them. We arrived at the widow’s house in as much harmony
as we left it; the flags were wet, and Lord T. insisted on carrying me
into the house. At the door I observed a man muffled up, but as no
one noticed him, I thought no more about it. We sat down to supper
in high spirits, and chatted for a considerable time about our past
amusements. His lordship said: “After a little sleep we should recruit
ourselves by a pleasant jaunt to Richmond, where he had a
charming villa.” We agreed to his proposal, and retired to rest. About
noon we arose; and, while I was dressing myself for the projected
excursion, a letter was brought in to me. “Good Lord! Halcot!”
exclaimed I, turning to the widow, “if Marlowe is returned, what will
become of me?” “Oh! read, my dear creature!” cried she impatiently,
“and then we can think of excuses.” “I have the letter here,”
continued Mrs. Marlowe, laying her hand to her breast, and drawing
it forth after a short pause, “I laid it to my heart to guard it against
future folly.”

THE LETTER.
The presages of my heart were but too true—we parted never
to meet again. Oh! Fanny, beloved of my soul, how are you lost
to yourself and Marlowe! The independence, splendor, riches,
which I gave up for your sake, were mean sacrifices, in my
estimation, to the felicity I fondly expected to have enjoyed with
you through life. Your beauty charmed my mind, but it was your
simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as I thought, the perfect
child of innocence and sincerity to my bosom; resolved, from
duty, as well as from inclination, to shelter you in that bosom, to
the utmost of my power, from every adverse storm. Whenever
you were indisposed, what agonies did I endure! yet, what I
then dreaded, could I have possibly foreseen, would have been
comparative happiness to my present misery; for, oh! my Fanny,
far preferable would it have been to behold you in the arms of
death than infamy.
I returned immediately after witnessing the last pangs of my
friend—oppressed with the awful scene of death, yet cheering
my spirits by an anticipation of the consolation I should receive
from my Fanny’s sympathy. Good God! what was my horror,
when I found my little babe, instead of being restored to health
by a mother’s care, nearly expiring through her neglect! The
angel lay gasping on her bed, deserted by the mercenary
wretch to whose care she was consigned. I inquired, and the
fatal truth rushed upon my soul; yet, when the first tumult of
passion had subsided, I felt that, without yet stronger proofs, I
could not abandon you. Alas! too soon did I receive those
proofs. I traced you, Fanny, through your giddy round, till I saw
you borne in the arms of the vile Lord T. into the house of his
vile paramour. You will wonder, perhaps, I did not tear you from
his grasp. Could such a procedure have restored you to me,
with all your unsullied innocence, I should not have hesitated;
but that was impossible, and my eyes then gazed upon Fanny
for the last time. I returned to my motherless babe, and, I am
not ashamed to say, I wept over it with all the agonies of a fond
and betrayed heart.
Ere I bid an irrevocable adieu, I would, if possible, endeavor to
convince you that conscience cannot always be stifled—that
illicit love is constantly attended by remorse and
disappointment; for, when familiarity, or disease, has diminished
the charms which excited it, the frail fetters of admiration are
broken by him who looks only to an exterior for delight; if,
indeed, your conscience should not be awakened till this hour of
desertion comes, when it does arrive, you may, perhaps, think
of Marlowe. Yes, Fanny, when your cheeks are faded by care,
when your wit is enfeebled by despondency, you may think of
him whose tenderness would have outlived both time and
change, and supported you, without abatement, through every
stage of life.
To stop short in the career of vice is, they say, the noblest effort
of virtue. May such an effort be yours; and may you yet give joy
to the angels of heaven, who, we are taught to believe, rejoice
over them that truly repent! That want should strew no thorns
in the path of penitence, all that I could take from my babe I
have assigned to you. Oh! my dear culprit, remember the
precepts of your early youth—of those who, sleeping in the
dust, are spared the bitter tear of anguish, such as I now shed
—and, ere too late, expiate your errors. In the solitude to which
I am hastening, I shall continually pray for you; and when my
child raises its spotless hands to Heaven, it shall implore its
mercy for erring mortals; yet, think not it shall ever hear your
story. Oh! never shall the blush of shame, for the frailties of one
so dear, tinge its ingenuous countenance. May the sincerity of
your repentance restore that peace and brightness to your life,
 which, at present, I think you must have forfeited, and support
you with fortitude through its closing period! As a friend, once
dear, you will ever exist in the memory of
Marlowe.

As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been gradually

receding, entirely forsook me, and I fell senseless on the floor. Mrs.
Halcot and Lord T. took his opportunity of gratifying their curiosity by
perusing the letter, and when I recovered, I found myself supported
between them. “You see, my dear angel,” cried Lord T., “your cruel
husband has entirely abandoned you; but grieve not, for in my arms
you shall find a kinder asylum than he ever afforded you.” “True,”
said Mrs. Halcot; “for my part, I think she has reason to rejoice at
his desertion.”
I shall not attempt to repeat all I had said to them in the height of
my distraction. Suffice it to say, I reproached them both as the
authors of my shame and misery; and, while I spurned Lord T.
indignantly from my feet, accused Mrs. Halcot of possessing neither
delicacy nor feeling. Alas! accusation or reproach could not lighten
the weight on my heart—I felt a dreadful consciousness of having
occasioned my own misery. I seemed as if awaking from a
disordered dream, which had confused my senses; and the more
clearly my perception of what was right returned, the more bitterly I
lamented my deviation from it. To be reinstated in the esteem and
affection of my husband was all of felicity I could desire to possess.
Full of the idea of being able to effect a reconciliation, I started up;
but, ere I reached the door, sunk into an agony of tears: recollecting
that ere this he was probably far distant from me. My base
companions tried to assuage my grief, and make me in reality the
wretch poor Marlowe supposed me to be. I heard them in silent
contempt, unable to move, till a servant informed me a gentleman
below stairs desired to see me. The idea of a relenting husband
instantly occurred, and I flew down; but how great was my
disappointment only to see a particular friend of his! Our meeting
was painful in the extreme. I asked him if he knew anything of
Marlowe, and he solemnly assured me he did not. When my
confusion and distress had a little subsided, he informed me that in
the morning he had received a letter from him, with an account of
our separation, and the fatal cause of it. The letter contained a deed
of settlement on me of a small paternal estate, and a bill of fifty
pounds, which Marlowe requested his friend to present himself to
me. He also added my clothes were sent to his house, as our
lodgings had been discharged. I did not find it difficult to convince
this gentleman of my innocence, and, putting myself under his
protection, was immediately conveyed to lodgings in a retired part of
the town. Here he consoled me with assurances of using every effort
to discover the residence of my husband. All, alas! proved
unsuccessful; and my health gradually declined. As time wore away,
my hope yet left still undiminished my desire of seeing him. Change
of air was at last deemed requisite to preserve my existence, and I
went to Bristol. I had the good fortune to lodge in the house with an
elderly Irish lady, whose sweet and benevolent manner soon gained
my warmest esteem, and tempted me to divulge my melancholy
tale, where so certain of obtaining pity. She had also suffered
severely from the pressure of sorrow; but hers, as it proceeded not
from imprudence, but the common vicissitudes of life, was borne
without that degree of anguish mine occasioned. As the period
approached for her return to her native country, I felt the deepest
regret at the prospect of our separation, which she, however,
removed, by asking me to reside entirely with her. Eight years had
elapsed since the loss of my husband, and no latent hope of his
return remained in my heart sufficiently strong to tempt me to
forego the advantages of such society. Ere I departed, however, I
wrote to several of his friends, informing them of the step I intended
taking, and, if any tidings of Marlowe occurred, where I was to be
found. Five years I passed with my valuable friend in retirement, and
had the pleasure of thinking I contributed to the ease of her last
moments. This cottage, with a few acres adjoining it, and four
hundred pounds, was all her wealth, and to me she bequeathed it,
having no relations whose wants gave them any claim upon her.
The events I have just related will, I hope, strengthen the moral so
many wish to impress upon the minds of youth, namely—that,
without a strict adherence to propriety, there can be no permanent
pleasure; and that it is the actions of early life must give to old age
either happiness and comfort, or sorrow and remorse. Had I
attended to the admonitions of wisdom and experience, I should
have checked my wanderings from prudence, and preserved my
happiness from being sacrificed at the shrine of vanity; then, instead
of being a solitary in the world, I might have had my little fireside
enlivened by the partner of my heart, and, perhaps, my children’s
children sporting around; but suffering is the proper tax we pay for
folly; the frailty of human nature, the prevalence of example, the
allurements of the world, are mentioned by many as extenuations
for misconduct. Though virtue, say they, is willing, she is often too
weak to resist the wishes they excite. Mistaken idea! and blessed is
that virtue which, opposing, ends them. With every temptation we
have the means of escape; and woe be to us if we neglect those
means, or hesitate to disentangle ourselves from the snare which
vice or folly may have spread around us. Sorrow and disappointment
are incident to mortality, and when not occasioned by any conscious
imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials from Heaven
to improve and correct us, and therefore cheerfully be borne. A sigh
stole from Oscar as she spoke, and a tear trickled down the soft
cheek of Adela. “I have,” continued Mrs. Marlowe, “given you, like an
old woman, a tedious tale; but that tediousness, with every other
imperfection I have acknowledged, I rest upon your friendship and
candor to excuse.”
 CHAPTER XIV.

“Denied her sight, he often crept

Beneath the hawthorn’s shade;
To mark the spot in which she wept—
In which she wept and prayed.”—Mallet.

The night was waning fast, and Adela rose to depart as her friend
concluded her story; yet it required an effort of resolution to retire.
Mrs. Marlowe, however, was too well convinced of the expediency
and propriety of this to press her longer stay, though the eyes of
Oscar, suddenly turned to her, seemed to entreat she would do so.
The night was dark and wet, which prevented Mrs. Marlowe from
accompanying Adela to the carriage. Not so Oscar; he took the
umbrella from the servant, who held it for his mistress, and bid him
hasten on to have the carriage-door opened. “Oscar,” cried Mrs.
Marlowe, extremely unwilling to allow even this short tete-��-tete,
“Mrs. Belgrave will dispense with your gallantry, for you are really
too great an invalid to venture out such a night as this.” Adela
attempted to dissuade him from it, but her voice was so low and
faltering as scarcely to be articulate. Oscar gently seized her hand,
and pulled it under his arm; he felt it tremble as he did so. The
touch became contagious; an universal tremor affected his frame,
and never, perhaps, had he and Adela experienced a moment of
greater unhappiness. Adela at last found herself obliged to speak,
conscious that her silence must appear particular, and said, she
feared he would be injured by his attentions to her. More fatally
injured than he already was, he might have replied, he could not be;
but he checked the words ready to burst from his lips, and only
answered that he would be unfit for a soldier, if he could not endure
the inclemency of the wintry blast. The light from the globes of the
carriage gave him a view of her pale lovely cheeks, and he saw she
was weeping. Confused at the idea of betraying her distress, she
averted her head, and hastily ascended the steps; yet, for a
moment, her trembling hand rested upon Oscar’s, as if, in this
manner, she would have given the adieu she had not the power of
pronouncing. Lost in agony, he remained, like a statue, on the spot
where she had left him, till roused by the friendly voice of Mrs.
Marlowe, who, alarmed at his long absence, came to seek him.
Soothed by her kind solicitude, he directly returned with her to the
house, where his indignation against the perfidious Belgrave again
broke forth. He execrated him, not only as the destroyer of his
peace, but a peace infinitely more precious than his own—that of the
charming Adela.
Mrs. Marlowe essayed every art of consolation, and, by sympathy
and mildness, at last subdued the violence of his feelings; she
acknowledged the loss he sustained in being deprived of Adela; but,
since irrevocable, both virtue and reason required him to struggle
against his grief, and conceal it. By their sacred dictates, she
entreated him to avoid seeing Adela. He felt she was right in the
entreaty, and solemnly promised to comply with it; her friendship
was balm to his wounded heart, and her society the only pleasure he
was capable of enjoying. Whenever he could absent himself from
quarters he retired to her, and frequently spent three or four days at
a time in her cottage. By discontinuing his visits in the gay
neighborhood of Woodlawn, he avoided all opportunities of seeing
Adela, yet often, on a clear frosty night, has he stole from the
fireside of Mrs. Marlowe to the beloved and beautiful haunts about
the lake, where he and Adela passed so many happy hours together.
Here he indulged in all the luxury of woe; and such are the
pleasures of virtuous melancholy, that Oscar would not have
resigned them for any of the commonplace enjoyments of life.
Often did he wander to the grove from whence he had a view of
Adela’s chamber, and if a lucky chance gave him a glimpse of her, as
she passed through it, a sudden ecstasy would pervade his bosom;
he would pray for her felicity, and return to Mrs. Marlowe, as if his
heart was lightened of an oppressive weight. That tender friend
flattered herself, from youth and the natural gayety of his
disposition, his attachment, no longer fed by hope, would gradually
decline; but she was mistaken—the bloom of his youth was faded,
and his gayety converted into deep despondency. Had he never been
undeceived with regard to the general and Adela, pride, no doubt,
would quickly have lessened the poignancy of his feelings; but when
he reflected on the generous intentions of the one, on the sincere
affection of the other, and the supreme happiness he might have
enjoyed, he lost all fortitude. Thus, by perpetually brooding over the
blessings once within his reach, losing all relish for those which were
yet attainable, his sorrow, instead of being ameliorated, was
increased by time. The horror and indignation with which he beheld
Belgrave, after the first knowledge of his baseness, could scarcely be
restrained. Though painful, he was pleased the effort had proved a
successful one, as, exclusive of his sacred promise to Mrs. Marlowe,
delicacy on Adela’s account induced him to bear his wrongs in
silence. He could not, however, be so great a hypocrite as to profess
any longer esteem or respect for the colonel, and when they met, it
was with cold politeness on both sides.
The unfortunate Adela pined in secret. Her interview with Oscar had
destroyed the small remainder of her peace. His pale and emaciated
figure haunted her imagination; in vain, by dwelling on his unkind
letter, did she endeavor to lessen her tenderness. She felt the
emotion of pity stronger than that of resentment, and that the
friendship of Oscar would have been sweeter to her soul than the
love or attention of any other object. By obeying the impulse of
passion, she feared she had doomed herself to wretchedness.
Belgrave was a man whom, upon mature deliberation, she never
could have chosen. The softness of his manners gradually vanished
when the purpose for which they had been assumed was completed.
Unfeeling and depraved, the virtues of Adela could excite no esteem
in his bosom, and the love (if it can merit that appellation) which he
felt for her, quickly subsided after their marriage; but as the general
retained the greatest part of his fortune in his own power, he
continued tolerably guarded in his conduct. A slave, however, to the
most violent passions, he was often unable to control them; and,
forgetful of all prudential motives, delighted at those times in
mortifying Adela by sly sarcasms on her attachment for Oscar.
Though deeply wounded, she never complained; she had partly
forged her chains, and resolved to bear them without repining.
Tranquil in appearance, the poor general, who was not penetrating,
thought his darling perfectly happy. Such, however, was not the
opinion of those who visited at Woodlawn. The rose of health no
longer spread its beautiful tints on the cheek of Adela, nor were her
eyes irradiated by vivacity.
The colonel never went to Enniskillen except about military business,
but he made frequent excursions to the metropolis and other parts
of the kingdom in pursuit of pleasure. Adela felt relieved by his
absence; and the general, satisfied at his not attempting to take her
along with him, never murmured at it. The period now arrived for
the departure of the regiment. Adela had not seen Oscar since the
interview at Mrs. Marlowe’s. She declined going to the reviews which
preceded the change of garrison, and sincerely hoped no chance
would again throw him in her way. Oscar sickened at the idea of
quitting the country without seeing her. He knew she was not to
accompany the colonel. The officers were going to pay a farewell
visit to Woodlawn, and he could not resist being of the party. They
were shown into the drawing-room, where Adela and the general
sat. She was startled at the appearance of Oscar, but though a blush
tinged her pale face, she soon recovered her composure, and
entered into conversation. The general pressed them to stay to
dinner, but they had many visits to pay and begged to be excused.
“My dear Fitzalan,” said the general, who had long dropped his
displeasure, “I wish you happiness and success, and hope I shall
soon hear of your being at the head of a company; remember, I say
soon—for I am an old veteran, and should be sorry to drop into the
trench till I had heard of the good fortune of my friends. Your father
was a brave fellow, and, in the speedy advancement of his son,
should receive a reward for his past services.” Oscar pressed the
general’s hand to his breast. He cast his tearful eyes on Adela; she
sighed, and bent hers to the ground. “Be assured, sir,” he cried, “no
gratitude can be more fervent than that your goodness has inspired
me with; no wishes can be more sincere than mine for the happiness
of the inhabitants of Woodlawn.” “Ineffectual wishes,” softly
exclaimed Adela; “happiness, from one of its inhabitants at least,
has, I fear, fled forever.”
The general’s wishes for the success of Oscar may be considered as
mere words of course, since not enforced by more substantial proofs
of regard; but, in reality, soon after his daughter’s marriage, in his
usual blunt manner, he had mentioned to the colonel his giving a
thousand or two to help the promotion of Oscar. Belgrave, who could
not bear that the man whom he had injured should have a chance of
obtaining equal rank with himself, opposed this truly generous
design, by saying, “Oscar was taken under the patronage of Lord
Cherbury, and that the general’s bounty might therefore, at some
future period, be better applied in serving a person without his
interest.” To this the general assented, declaring that he never yet
met with a brave soldier or his offspring in distress without feeling
and answering the claim they had upon his heart.
Oscar obtained a ready promise from Mrs. Marlowe of corresponding
with him. He blushed and faltered as he besought her sometimes to
acquaint him with the health of their friends at Woodlawn. Change
of scene produced no alteration in him. Still pining with regret, and
languid from ill-health, his father and sister found him. The comforts
of sympathy could not be his, as the anguish which preyed on his
heart he considered of too sacred a nature to divulge. He hoarded
up his grief, like a miser hoarding up his treasure, fearful that the
eye of suspicion should glance at it, as he pressed his lovely sister to
his heart. Had he imagined she was the object of Colonel Belgrave’s
licentious passion, the bounds he had hitherto prescribed to his
resentment would in a moment have been overturned, and he
would, had it been necessary, have pursued the monster round the
world, to avenge the injury he had meditated, as well as the one he
had committed.
We shall now bid adieu to Oscar for the present, and, drawing on
our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and Amanda.
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