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Although there is nothing very new in the Child of Mystery, it is nevertheless an interesting story, and well calculated to engage the attention of those persons who are fond of novel reading, to whom we think that it will prove an acquisition. The principal characters are a perfidious and treacherous uncle, a worthy guardian, a profligate husband, an exemplary wife, a faithful Irish servant, and a warm-hearted thoughtless female friend. These are characters that been brought forward over and over again, and dished up for the public taste in various ways with various success. In the present work these characters are, however, very well delineated; and, though there are many improbables in the story, the whole [306] is exceedingly agreeable. Alinda, the Child of Mystery, is entrusted to the care of a Mr. Graham, to bring up and educate. This Mr. Graham is a clergyman in very distressed circumstances. He is one evening waited upon by a gentleman, a total stranger, who makes the following proposal, saying, that he was recommended by a friend.
'I have a little girl whom I want to place with respectable people,' said he, 'who will educate her, and treat her as their own; therefore it is my wish to see Mr. Graham, to know if such a charge would be agreeable to her. One hundred a year I shall allow for her cloaths, maintenance, and education, until she shall arrive at the age of fifteen. Then two thousand pounds will be her portion, and she will either remain under your protection, or, as to her may seem best. If you treat her well, she will be likely to attach herself to you. If she feels herself uncomfortable, independence will give her the power of choosing other friends. Graham knew not how to reply, decidedly, to such an offer. It seemed so abrupt, and betrayed such indifference as to the child, that he appeared to demur. "You are not in affluence, I am afraid," cried the stranger, "and may not be prepared for a guest: but I shall pay twenty pounds on entrance, and every quarter will be paid in advance, with due regularity."
When Mrs. Graham appears, who, by the way, is represented as a great fool with a pretty face, she thinks the proposal so pleasant that closes the bargain with the stranger without letting her husband have a voice on the subject. The stranger departs to fetch the child; and in the course of an hour our heroine makes her debut in the family of the Grahams in the following manner:
'In another hour the waiter of the Swan inn brought a sleeping child in his arms, attended by the hostler with a small trunk, which enclosed the wardrobe of the little girl, and knocked at the curate’s door. When he was admitted, Graham took the sleeping child, and enquired for the gentleman. He then learnt that the stranger had been gone nearly an hour, leaving the child asleep on a sopha. On departing, he bade them not disturb the child, as it was fatigued, but to allow it to sleep for an hour, and if then it did not awake, it was to be carried sleeping to Mr. Graham’s and to be left in his care; or with Mrs. Graham, if she were to be seen. The man said every thing was paid by the gentleman, and a letter from him would be found in the trunk, the key of which the waiter had brought in a paper sealed with the gentleman’s own seal. Mrs. Graham now came out, and looked at her future charge. She exclaimed, that she was a perfect angel: but the husband eyed it with the deepest concern. Mystery hung over its innocent head, and Graham hated mystery. "Good," he said, "spreads its broad [307] visage to the open day; but evil shelters in mysterious guise, and shades itself in the darkness." * * * From the extreme sound sleep that continued till late the next day, it appeared as if something had been given her of an opiate nature; for when she woke, she appeared confused, and half alarmed at her situation. "Where is nurse, Ma'am?" said the little creature, as her lip trembled with repressing a cry. "I must be your nurse, my dear," answered Mrs. Graham; your papa left you with me till he comes back." "I never had any papa," cried the little one. "Who then is the gentleman that brought you here?" "I don’t know," answered the child. * * * * "I don’t love him, he tells fibs; he said he would carry me back again." "To where?" asked Eliza. "To nurse," was the reply. "And where does nurse live, my dear.?" "On the forest," whimpered the poor babe. "What forest?" asked Eliza. "I don’t know," said the child, sobbing bitterly. "I want to go home; I want my nurse." On opening the letter which was placed in the child’s trunk, was found bank notes to the amount of twenty-five pounds, with the words "Advance of first quarter for Alinda." '
No clue could be found to unravel the mystery; for when Mr. Graham wrote to his friend, by whom the stranger said he was recommended, to his astonishment he sends him word that he had no knowledge whatever of such a person or such a transaction. Mr. Graham becomes attached to the child, and pays every attention to her education which he undertakes himself. In a short time he is presented to a living, and removes to Durham. Years roll on, and Alinda improves in the graces of her person, and the cultivation of her mind. At the age of fifteen she was womanly beyond her years, amiable, gentle, and elegant in her manners. She was besides, as most heroines are, very beautiful. About this time Mrs. Graham and Alinda received an invitation to accompany some friends to the races at Newcastle; and, at one of the assemblies during the race week, Alinda is introduced, and dances with a Mr. Fitzmaurice, an Irish gentleman, who was bringing up to the bar; and lived, when at his studies, in chambers at the Temple. The following will give our readers the character of this Irish Adonis.
'Fitzmaurice was a true Irishman; ardent and energetic in every thing; very susceptible and enslaved by his passions. He studied the law it is true, but acknowledged no law that thwarted his inclinations. He cared not for riches, notwithstanding he made use of them. His drafts on his father attested that fact! But he was a darling, and hitherto had met no check from a too indulgent parent. He dashed away, with a gay [308] groom, and pair of horses, and with an allowance of four hundred a year, spent a thousand.' Alinda is much entertained by his vivacity. 'He was very handsome, peculiarly humorous, lively, and attentive. Timid as she was, she found no inclination to repel him, or place a bar against his vivacity; it was so good-natured, so gay. His manner of speaking even excited a laugh, from its novelty to her; and the rapidity with which he expressed his drollery, shewed the fervor of his mind, and the velocity of his ideas. “Sure you will dance another set with me, charming Miss Graham,” (for Alinda went by the name of her valuable protector, Mr. Graham), said he, “upon my soul I will not be denied. Not a fellow in the room shall be as happy as myself; I would cut his throat if he was. By all that’s heavenly! I never was so happy before. You will dance with me, won’t you? Ah! those bright consenting eyes speak compliance’ ah! you will now! I am sure you will.” ‘
This gentleman gets introduced to the friends with whom Alinda was visiting, and, of course, attends them every where, when he soon declares himself most desperately in love, and presses her to consent to be his. Alinda, though so young, sees the impropriety of his behaviour, and tells him, she is too young and inexperienced to listen to such declarations. Fitzmaurice exclaims in the true Tipperary Style,
‘It is your youth and innocence that murders me, artless as a new-born baby, yet matured in beauty and discretion. Oh, what an angel wife!’ exclaimed he; ‘you must be mine—by heaven you must.’
Alinda endeavours to stop him, and tells him that
‘Mr. Graham would be angry, if he knew she encouraged such a theme.’ “The d—l take him,” cried Fitzmaurice, “what has an old parson to do with youth and love?” “Ah, you don’t know him,” rejoined ’Alinda; “he would merit more respect from you if you did.” “Why, don’t I know his wife, and that’s all the same?” replied Fitzmaurice; “sure, the first word she spoke, I saw she was a ninny; so I dosed her up with a potion of flattery, and I saw she sucked it down like flummery: she will never stand in any body’s way, I’ll engage for that. I should recommend her to study the longitude with all speed, for they say it will be found out by a fool.” “Hush, hush,” cried Alinda, “I do not allow of this; they are both sacred characters with me, and must not thus be sported with.” “No indeed, and I won’t say another word of them, “ replied he, “for I only live to please you, and to get your promise that you will be mine.” “Five years hence, if Mr. Graham pleases,” said Alinda. “You had better say five-and-fifty,” cried he; “but never mind, an Irishman does not stand upon trifles, Miss [309] Graham; take your own way, I will be a match for you,” added he, emphatically.’
This is rather a curious specimen of an Irish courtship; and what few English ladies, we presume, would relish or encourage. Alinda was alarmed; but the next time she saw Fitzmaurice was at the play-house, when he was serious and almost thoughtful. Alinda rejoiced at it—and attended to the performance. A cry of fire suddenly issued from the gallery. In an instant all was confusion and tumult; and Alinda, in endeavouring to escape, fell down and was raised up by Fitzmaurice, who carried her in his arms out of the house, and placed her in a carriage that was waiting at the door of the theatre—and drove off at full gallop.
Our female readers will, we doubt not, by this time, perfectly understand the plot. The alarm of fire was given by Fitzmaurice’s servant; and during the confusion his master, after securing Alinda’s person, makes the best of his way to Scotland. Whilst on this expedition he implores her to marry him; and at last threatens to destroy himself, if she negatives his request. Alinda renewed her entreaties to be taken back: but, without avail; and finding tears and intreaties useless,
‘She calmly met her fate; and when the marriage was solemnized in Scotland, she silently prayed that she might be enabled to keep the contract that had been obtained by such unlawful means.’
Though Fitzmaurice’s father was rich, it was necessary, as her husband informed her, to keep their marriage secret for two years, when he should attain his majority; and, as his father lived in Ireland, this was thought very feasible.
The bride and bridegroom return to Durham, where they reside for a short time; but as Fitzmaurice was obliged to go again to London, Alinda returns to her friend and guardian Mr. Graham. After some months Fitzmaurice is summoned home by his father; and he sends for Alinda to follow him to Ireland. This is a heart breaking affair to poor Alinda, who is in expectation of becoming a mother; and, as she is to be kept in petto when she gets there, her prospects are by no means of the most enlivening sort. Fitzmaurice puts her into a dilapidated castle of his father’s some miles from Dublin, where he visits her secretly, and where Alinda is delivered of a son. After this event Alinda sees a paragraph in the newspaper, which announced that sumptuous preparations [310] were making for the marriage of Charles Fitzmaurice with the beautiful Miss Mongomerie; and she next receives a letter from her husband, with the following development of his views.
‘He said he had been ten days confined to his bed with a fever, arising from the anxiety of his mind. He professed to be fonder of her than ever, and that he never would or could forsake her; and in order to secure for her the property of his father, and to prevent being disinherited, he had at length fallen upon an excellent plan, which was to marry Miss Mongomerie [sic], who had also a large fortune, to be paid on her marriage, and to keep his marriage with Alinda a secret, till his father should die; when she must immediately put in her prior claims, which the law would justify, and it would be published to the world that she was a real wife, and her son come in for the succession.
Our fair heroine now finds herself wedded to a miscreant, void of honour, honesty, or humanity. After some consideration, she determines to fly from him, and write to Miss Mongomerie to warn her of danger. She goes to Cork attended by her maid Judy, who takes care of her infant, and sets sail for England, determining to hide herself from the search of her abandoned husband. In the mean time Miss Mongomerie, who dislikes Fitzmaurice, makes her escape in the disguise of a youth from her father’s house, and embarks in the same vessel for England with Alinda, when seeing the name of Fitzmaurice on Alinda’s trunks after their arrival in Devonshire, where the vessel puts in, she makes herself known; and a mutual confidence and friendship are the result. These two ladies agree to take up their abode in a small cottage which they hire near the little harbour of Ilfracombe. We must pass over the many circumstances and events which occur during their residence in this place, which are very interesting and pleasing, particularly their acquaintance with the Molineux family. After some time had elapsed, Fitzmaurice dies. Alinda writes to his father, and states her marriage and the claim which her son has on his protection, &c. Mr Fitzmaurice is at first unwilling to believe the marriage valid; but, on enquiry, he acknowledges Alinda as his daughter-in-law; and receives her son as his grand-child.
Alinda again returns to Ireland; and on the first interview with the father of her husband, fancies she sees in him the stranger who committed her to the care of Mr. Graham. The shock is so great, that, for a time she is deprived of her reason; but, on her recovery, she learns [311] from an old domestic that Fitzmaurice, her father-in-law, is her uncle, who had deprived her of her fortune by giving out that she died at school in England; and that having had a false funeral imposed upon the world, he had seized the property of his niece.
Such is the old Fitzmaurice’s desperate character that Alinda dared not disclose to him she has discovered her birth; and, though he treats her with kindness, it does not lessen her misery.
‘These splendid rooms, these daily feats, these far-sought luxuries,’ said she to her friend Miss Mongomerie, ‘suit not me; the acrid features of Fitzmaurice poison them all; and yet he strives to unbend them towards me; but his smile seems like a mask; it is not his natural face; the vizor does not fit; and he appears only to hold it up before him in disguise.’ Fitzmaurice, at length, proposes that Alinda should marry a Russian prince who had fallen in love with her; and, on her refusal, he shuts her up in a ruined tower. From this place she is making her escape, when she discovers her uncle who, in a struggle with his servant whom he had confined also in the same tower, had accidentally broken a blood-vessel. On the sight of his danger her own safety is thought of no more; and she waits upon him with all that tenderness with which a noble mind ministers to the sufferings of a fellow creature. Fitzmaurice, however, conveniently dies; and declares her his niece whom he had so cruelly injured.
This is a slight sketch of the story, omitting all the love-business between Miss Mongomerie and Lord Hazelford, and Alinda and Sir Herbert Molineux. The following description of the management of an Irish gentleman’s household will perhaps, be amusing to our readers, and teach our fair friends economy in domestic concerns. When the haughty Lady Molineux paid a visit to her husband’s relations in Ireland,
‘Mrs Dalton perceiving that her ladyship grew weary, she conducted her to the rooms that were prepared to receive her, which were not very uncomfortable, as every room in the house had subscribed a something to decorate them. On observing her ladyship look round, Mrs Dalton asked if any thing were wanting. “No,” said her ladyship, almost in tears, “but who could exist in this place without breaking their heart?” “O, that is the last thing I should think of,” said Mrs Dalton, gayly. “I have been fifteen years at Balgoney and never was sad, and yet I was a smart girl when I came first. At eighteen I married Dalton, with a nominal property of two thousand a year; though somehow we can make out but eight hundred; but what of that? I am as happy as the day I married. I never go to a town because I can’t afford it; but I have neighbours enough, and I have ten children and twenty servants, so that we have a town in ourselves, and I have my coach and my car, and am looked up to as the queen of the country.” “A coach and a car, and twenty servants,” exclaimed her ladyship, “upon only eight hundred a year, with ten children to feed and maintain, ‘tis out of the nature of things!” “wait awhile, and I will tell you,” said Mrs. Dalton. “In the first place, the coach is an heir loom with the estate; and by the help of the blacksmith and good strong ropes it serves at particular times. The car is what we use to bring the turf from the bogs; on which, when we go abroad, we put palliase and feather bed; then I and the elder girls set ourselves at ease, singing and laughing merrily, and if we roll off the laugh is louder, as no harm can arise from the tumble. As to servants we might keep a hundred of them, as the butter we export yields more butter-milk than feeds the servants and the pigs; potatoes we not only grow, but export, as well as feed the family upon; for my children rarely taste of meat, and habit makes them prefer the lighter food. When I have a young one, which sometimes happens once a year, off it goes the moment ‘tis born, and I send as many bags of potatoes as there are children in the nurse’s family, or more if it is required, while my child stays with her; a bag of oatmeal now and then is an extra present for good care of my bantling. At four years old I take it home, and send it for a month to my infirmary, (for we all of us have a room of that kind) there my old nurse purifies the child from the irruption it is sure to contract when it first goes off, which is a thing of course, and thought wholesome amongst us; when cleansed I take to it, and let it loose without shoes, stockings, or hat, till it is ten years old: and finer creatures you never beheld than my whole brood. I am very proud of them, and would shew them off with any ten in the kingdom. My farm supplies me with every thing, and I would not change situations with any one, bad as you think it is.” “Astonishing,” cried her ladyship, “but how will you educate these brats, and put them into the world?” “They must take their chance,” replied Mrs. Dalton. “They can most of them write and read, as our butler stands schoolmaster, and Dalton inspects their progress; and they sing and dance intuitively.” “The butler! how has he time to give lessons?” asked her ladyship. “O my dear soul,” cried Mrs. Dalton, “he is every thing; schoolmaster, coachman, salter of beef and pork, that is, he is the principal in every thing; for he has so many to command, that I may add, he is house-steward and overseer; and when company are in the house, add butler to the list of his occupations.” “What a treasure is this man,” said her ladyship; “I never heard of the like, what will my English coxcombs think of this? what a lesson for them.”
The lively character of Judy, the Irish servant, who attends upon Alinda, very much contributes to enliven the whole; and is one of the best and most natural characters in the book.
Provided by Donna Wharam
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