CHAPTER I.

IN one of the ſouthern vales of Devon, where the myrtle is ſaid to bloom unpro⯑tected, though viſited by the ſea-breeze, ſtood Fitzorton Caſtle.

A writer of deſcriptive talents, might, in reſpect of ſituation, expand himſelf into volumes; but, as the delineation of the minds and manners, the paſſions and pur⯑ſuits, the ſtrength and weakneſs, imagina⯑tions, and ſtudies, of human beings, are more immediately the objects of this hiſtory, we muſt conſider vegetable beauty, however faſcinating, but as the ſcenery of our picture, and diſmiſs this part of our ſubject with as few words as poſſible.

The caſtle was erected on the ſloping of a hill; the Manor-houſe of Clare on the declivity of an oppoſite mountain, with [2]a uniformity of taſte correſponding to the ſentiment which had long united the fami⯑lies; and at a diſtance only to render the proſpect more engaging, a third venerable pile reared its head ſo centrically between the two, that, whether viewed from the manor-houſe or from the caſtle, the eye ſurveyed its aſpiring tur⯑rets, the majeſtic avenues that led to its fold⯑ing-gates, and the delightful woods that ſtretched themſelves on either ſide.

Indeed, the three domains were placed amidſt the very romance of Nature; but we are called from them at preſent by an earneſt deſire to introduce the reader to their inhabitants.

CHAPTER II.

THE Honourable and Reverend Armine Fitzorton, at the ſetting out of theſe annals, was in the ſeventy-fourth year of his age. He had been, for full ſixty of that number, one of the healthieſt and happieſt men in the world. He married, early, a lady ſo entirely like him⯑ſelf [3]in mind, in manners, and as far as femi⯑nine ſoftneſs may be permitted, without ſtep⯑ping out of itſelf, in perſon alſo, that a juſt portrait of one might give a ſtriking reſem⯑blance of the other. They were of the ſame age to a day, and retained, in the ſame degree, the remains of thoſe graces, which time itſelf ſeemed reluctant to deſtroy. Their very features, had, in ſome meaſure, tri⯑umphed over the tyrant who is, figuratively, ſaid to rejoice in the ruins of mortality; and their eyes, of the ſame deep and luſtrous colour, ſtill retained much of their pene⯑trating and ſhining power.

Their virtues might be divided, as ſome have divided virtue itſelf, into Benevolence, Prudence, Fortitude, and Temperance; and from like motives of diviſion: becauſe, Benevolence propoſes good ends, Prudence ſuggeſts the beſt means of attaining them, Fortitude enables us to encounter the diſ⯑couragements that ſtand in our way, and Temperance repels, and over-comes the paſſions that obſtruct our progreſs.

[4]Sir Armine brought with him, into holy orders, all the principle neceſſary to practiſe the precepts they enjoin. A ſincere belief in thoſe precepts formed, indeed, the moſt exalted ingredient in his worldly happineſs; and the example of his life finely illuſtrated his doctrine, if we except the prime error that ſhaded his character—a very ſtrong tincture of bigotry in matters of religion.

As a private gentleman, his character and conduct might very juſtly be ſummed up, in the words of the celebrated Lord Clarendon; he maintained the primitive in⯑tegrity of the Engliſh nation, and ſupported in his Caſtle the good old manners, old good humour, and old good nature, of old Engliſh hoſpitality.

Three Sons had the happineſs of call⯑ing Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton their parents; and when the characters of theſe young men began to form, that of Henry ſeemed to be compounded of properties that uſually conſtitute very contrary diſpoſitions. His mind ſometimes ſunk to the thickeſt [5]melancholy, ſometimes flamed with irritable ardour, then took a ſoft intermediate ſhade between both of theſe extremes; and then ſoared again to the boldeſt heights of poetic enthuſiaſm; now rapid and uncontrolable, and now obedient to command, a fancy ſuddenly catching fire, and as ſuddenly becoming extinguiſhed in ſolemn meditation. Such were the tints that ſeparated him from his brother John.

"I ſhould be aſhamed to be every body's favourite" ſaid John, frowning as in ſcorn! "for then muſt I aſſociate with fools and knaves; and how am I to diſtinguiſh the wiſe, and honeſt, but by giving them my time and company?" "I do not ſee that is at all neceſ⯑ſary," anſwered Henry, ſmiling; "civi⯑lity does not imply univerſal aſſociation; nor general good manners particular regard."

"Flattery is vice, but ſuavity is virtue," ſaid Henry: on this maxim he invited and conciliated. Before he opened his lips, his air gave promiſe of redreſs to the injured, [6]protection to the helpleſs, and friendſhip to the worthy. John, according to a more ſtern hypotheſis, was diſtant in his addreſs to moſt men, to ſome inacceſſible. This had an in⯑fluence no leſs on their minds, than on their manners, and even ſimilar qualities were thereby diſtinctly coloured.

For inſtance, the courage of Henry was, like his other virtues, animated by more pre⯑cipitation, and more conformable to the enthuſiaſtic ſpirit, the poetic romance of his character; but then, theſe threw over it a kind of popular and chivalric ſplendour that dazzled while it warmed. No leſs daring and heroic, John was more methodical, more cor⯑rect, more deliberate, and he often retained his ſkill, of no leſs importance in conteſt than ardour, even when his antagoniſt had loſt all ſcience in a ſtorm of the paſſions.

Their perſons, however, were uniformly in keeping with their diſpoſitions. They were both the favourites of Nature; yet even in externals ſhe had diſplayed her accuſtomed love of variety. John was ſtrong and muſcular, but without corpulence, lofty without ſtoop⯑ing, [7]and of majeſtic ſtature, without being unwieldy. Henry was elegantly proportioned, and exhibited a delicacy neither inconſiſtent with agility of body, or activity of mind. The eyes of each were dark, but ſparkled with appropriate intelligence. Thoſe of John, by a permanent inſpection, never gave their object the relief of a moment. Their perſe⯑verance, in caſes of doubt or difficulty, was ſo determined, that, neither the moſt hardened guilt, nor the moſt conſcious innocence, could endure their ſcrutiny.

On the contrary, Henry's appeared to com⯑paſs every thing by a glance, and the object under their ray frequently ſuffered as much from the intolerable brightneſs of their flaſh, which was ſudden and impetuous, as from the more ſlow and immitigable look of his brother.

The ſeparating marks alſo extended to language, accent, and effect. Love and pity breathed in the voice of Henry: in com⯑paſſion he wept himſelf, and others wept with him; nor did mirth even beſtow on him a ſmile, or ſorrow a tear, which he did [8]not repay with intereſt. His features, bor⯑rowing their caſt and colour from the ſubject, preſented moral and perſonal beauty, under a thouſand different forms and tintings; ſome⯑times diſcovering ideas, light, eaſy, and full of fire, and ſometimes anticipating ſentiments more weighty and profound. Theſe were ſet off by an ingenuous feeling of diffidence, which now painted his cheek with the bloom of the roſe, and now with more than the lily's paleneſs.

The countenance of John, on the other hand, was florid from conſtitution, and pale only from intenſity of thought, or agony of ſenſation. In his voice there was neither melody nor perſuaſion; but tones of ſuch authority, expreſſion; ſo firm, and ſenſe ſo un⯑obſtructed, perhaps he deemed it unneceſſary to court the attention he knew he could com⯑mand. The living volume of Nature, even from his earlieſt youth, had been his principal ſtudy; and the knowledge which is thence derived to the mind, was alone thought wor⯑thy of his contemplation: whereas, Henry was impatient of toil, and ſeemed to mount [9]on the pinion of the eagle to eſcape from every taſk impoſed. John rarely con⯑deſcended to trifle, while Henry had the happy art of rendering every trifle intereſt⯑ing: whatſoever he touched, though dull, and droſſy before, acquired, by the alchemy of genius, ſome ſhining quality.

With regard to the ſecond brother, al⯑though his ſhare in that part of the family tranſactions deſigned to form the following hiſtory, was only occaſional; he was, in ſome important inſtances, ſo interwoven with his relatives, that a neglect of his character would be not more diſreſpectful to him than in⯑jurious to the hiſtory.

The perſon of James Fitzorton, had neither the ſtrength of his elder, nor the elegance of his younger brother, being of the middle ſize between both. His eyes varied in colour, as in expreſſion, from thoſe already deſcribed; they had not the ſearching power of John's, nor the brilliancy of Henry's; but were a pair of grey, full ſet, uſeful, honeſt optics, not deſtitute of meaning. His complexion was neither ſo fair as Henry's, nor ſo dark as [10]John's; and his diſpoſition was a juſt, and not ſeldom a neceſſary, equipoiſe between the exceſſes of Henry's natural ſenſibility, and John's artificial government of himſelf. Na⯑ture had formed his mind as ſhe: had modelled his perſon; in the middle way, be⯑tween the fraternal extremes: a mediocrity which, however humble, had its uſe in the family; ſometimes checking the impetuous effuſions of Henry, ſometimes attempering the ſaturnine habits of John. In ſhort, a very proper middle man to be placed between two ſuch extremes.

Yet the wide diverſity of life could ſcarcely furniſh a circumſtance in which their modes of conduct were ſimilar, even when their mo⯑tives were the ſame. Their characteriſtics began to ſhew themſelves in the moſt early, and continued to the lateſt period. From the former, we will ſelect an almoſt infantine occurrence, becauſe it aſcertained their in⯑delible points: the ſoft exceſs of Henry, the moderation of James, and the energy of John.

In the cold ſeaſon, a poor blackbird had [11]taken ſhelter in Sir Armine's green-houſe. Animated by the genial heat, it was baſking upon an orange-tree, and warmed out of the cold remembrances of time and place, ſtretch⯑ed out its wings, in a kind of ſummer languor over the branches, and had begun to pour a ſemi-note of gratitude and joy. Henry, haſtily, yet on tip-toe, ran round to ſhut the window at which it had entered, firſt cloſing the door. "I have wiſhed for a blackbird I know not how long", whiſpered he, "and it will be quite a charity to give that poor fellow good winter quarters in the caſtle. I own, it is almoſt a pity to diſturb him now, he ſeems ſo com⯑fortable; but if he knew how very kindly I would uſe him, he would come a volunteer into my chamber." "Very kind to be ſure," ſaid John, "to make him a ſlave for life; to my thoughts, he had better chooſe his own lodging, though the beſt to be had were in a barn, or in a hollow tree, and get an indepen⯑dent warm here in the hot-houſe, when he finds an opportunity, than be a priſoner in the beſt room of the caſtle, nay, in the king's [12]palace; ſo be adviſed brother, and let him alone."

John ſoftly opened part of the window neareſt the bird. "No, I'll tell you how it ſhall be," obſerved little James,—" give the bird fair play; leave the window open, and let Harry try his fortune; if the bird ſuffers himſelf to be caught, when the path of free⯑dom is before his eyes, why it will be his own affair you know." "But the act of catching him at all is arbitrary," ſaid John—ſturdily throw⯑ing his hat at the orange, and other exotic plants, that grew in the direction of the tree where the blackbird had been perched. "Not at all brother," cried Henry, "when it is only to convey him to a better place"—running, as he ſpake, after the object of his wiſhes, almoſt with the ſwiftneſs of its own wings. John kept always behind, in the hope of pointing its flight to the window, and James ſtood im⯑partially in the middle, unleſs he ſtept on one ſide or the other, to maintain fair deal⯑ing. The blackbird, mean time, alarmed by all parties, flew, irregularly, from ſhrub to ſhrub, from window to window, ſometimes [13]beating its breaſt againſt one object, ſome⯑times ſtriking its wing or beak againſt an⯑other, often being in the very path of liberty, and as often driven out of it. At length it ſank exhauſted to the ground, and was taken up almoſt without an effort to flutter, by Henry, whoſe little heart palpitated like its own. His ardent eye, quick breathing lip, and high colouring cheek, ſpoke his triumphs; yet amidſt his exultings, he forgot not mercy: the faireſt laurel of the conqueror, is huma⯑nity; and the very inſtincts of Henry were humane. He ſmoothed the ruffled plumes of his captive; poured over it every aſſurance of protection; preſſed its gloſſy pinion on his cheek; detained it with a ſoft trembling hand, and at length putting it, lightly held, into his boſom, ran with it to his chamber. "He has fairly won the bird, brother," ſaid James, fol⯑lowing. "Certainly," replied John, with a diſſatisfied tone, "nothing can be fairer, than to run down a poor terrified little wretch, who has no power to reſiſt; then ſeizing and drag⯑ging it to priſon! It ſtruggled for freedom, till it was almoſt gaſping for breath; and I [14]am aſhamed, that I ſuffered any thing to prevent my taking part with the unpro⯑tected in the cauſe of liberty. But this, I ſuppoſe, you and my brother would call foul play, juſt as you have ſtyled his theft a kind⯑neſs! Yes, the kindneſs of a chriſtian robber, who ſteals the innocent ſavage from his native land, and covers him with chains!"

Dreading the loſs of his treaſure, Henry guarded it with a miſer's care; kept it con⯑cealed in his own room; but treated it with the utmoſt indulgence, being at once its nurſe and companion, and ſuffering no hand but his own to feed it. "Alas! it droops," ſaid its protector—bringing it down one day into an apartment where his brothers were ſitting— "what can be done for it, James?" queſtioned he, with tears in his eyes. "Let it go," inter⯑poſed John; "it pines for the friends from whoſe ſociety it has been raviſhed; it languiſhes for freedom: let it go, and it will ſoon recover." "Perhaps," anſwered James, "it only wants more air, your chamber may be too con⯑fined: Suppoſe then," continued he,—willing to compromiſe betwixt liberty and ſlavery,— [15]"you were to tie a ſilken ſtring round its leg, and lead it now and then about the garden?" "I propoſe an improvement on that idea," ſaid John—"clip one of its wings, and as you perſiſt in refuſing it its right to fly in the air, let it have the run of the garden; that on the ſouth ſide of the caſtle, you know, is walled round, and it cannot walk off." He reconciled Henry to this meaſure, by telling him that it would produce many good ends, beſides re⯑ſtoring the blackbird's health, and giving it a reliſh of its former enjoyments; amongſt other things he aſſured him, that it would recover its ſpirits, which would enable it to whiſtle back its loſt friends and relations. Henry could not reſiſt this: the idea of giving joy to others, was a joy to his own heart; the action by which it was beſtowed, could alone ſurpaſs it.

In effect, the bird was all the better for its liberty; it hopped, pecked, twittered, and daily appeared to gain new viſitors. There was in the walled garden, a ſhed, where it neſtled towards evening; but Henry, with ſoft ſteps, would take care while it re⯑poſed, [16]to ſtrew food on the ground below, ſo that it always found breakfaſt ready in the morning; nor was dinner, or ſupper pro⯑viſion forgotten, ſo that what it picked up in the garden was mere amuſement to reliſh exerciſe. The kind-hearted Henry was per⯑fectly ſatisfied with this plan: John was only half ſatisfied. James prudently ſuggeſted giving the growing wing another cutting. Henry agreed; for his favourite could now take half the garden at a low flight, though not top the walls. "Wait a little longer" ſaid John: "He is ſo tame, and ſo well pleaſed with his preſent uſage, that perhaps he will indeed be a volunteer amongſt us, and there will be a thouſand times the gratification in having his ſociety with his own conſent." "But if he ſhould leave me?" ſaid Henry. "Have confidence in him; think how delight⯑ful it is to have friendſhip as a free-will offer⯑ing: I ſhould hate any thing I forced to ſtay with me, as much as it could hate me. Can a jail bird love the jailor?" "I have a good mind to truſt it," obſerved Henry; "but I ſometimes think it looks up at the walls very [17]ſly."—" That is nothing but a way they have with them," ſaid John, laughing. "What is your opinion James?" queſtioned Henry. "There can be, I ſhould think, but one opi⯑nion about that," replied James, taking out a little pair of ſciſſars. "O, he always was for cutting out, juſt like a girl; but act a more liberal part my brother," ſaid John; Henry was over-ruled. The feathers grew, and the blackbird flew away. Henry accuſed; John defended; James mediated. The grateful bird, however, ſtaid in the neighbourhood; ſang better, looked happier; Henry was, therefore, reconciled to his loſs, and John was at length contented. He was, indeed, nearer the age of mingling reflection with ſenſation, being ſix years older than James, who was Henry's ſenior only by eighteen months; but theſe traits of childhood remained fixed. As life advanced, John determined to inveſt rea⯑ſon with the honours of that ſovereignty which the moraliſts have aſſigned her, and which "can bear no rival near her throne." "The Paſſions," ſaid he, "ſhould be treated as good, or diſloyal ſubjects; the firſt with indulgence, [18]the laſt with rigour; ſo will I govern them." James was nearly of the ſame way of think⯑ing, except that he was diſpoſed to a more equal diſtribution, both of puniſhments and rewards. But Henry generally felt more than he reaſoned; yet of the majeſty and preroga⯑tive of the rational power, he had ideas even more ſublime than either of his brothers; but a more ardent temperament, and a fancy more vivid, made it more difficult to keep the paſſions within the line of their privileges. "My dear Harry," quoth John, "you do not think enough."—" My dear John, I ſuppoſe my thinking time is not yet come; but it appears to me, at preſent, that if you would not ſuffer your thoughts to be ſuch ſpies upon your feelings, you would be ſometimes a much happier boy," replied Henry. "Much oftener the reverſe, I believe," reſumed John; "but ſhould I be wiſer and better?" "For my part," obſerved James—who was ſtand⯑ing between them, and taking a hand of each,—"if we could always be as near one another as we are now, we ſhould get on bravely."

CHAPTER III.

SUCH were the Sons of Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton: And when theſe young men might be ſuppoſed to have gained ſome ac⯑quaintance with themſelves, and with that would moſt contribute to their happineſs, their father convened them to meet in that apartment of the caſtle, which had always been ſacred to pious meditation, or parental counſel. The Brothers being aſſembled, he addreſſed them thus: "Dear, very dear objects of my equal affections! you have now had time to cultivate that ſelf know⯑ledge, which may aſſift you, in chooſing the paths, in which ye may go with the moſt honour to yourſelves and profit to others. A life of idleneſs is uſeleſs at beſt, and of what it is at worſt I would not wiſh to give your pure minds any idea. Select then ſome object which may keep in virtuous, and wholeſome occupation, your minds and bodies. I am aware that this important matter has been deferred beyond the uſual [20]date, at which it becomes a ſubject of arrange⯑ment, betwixt parents and their children; but, I think, it is generally brought into diſ⯑cuſſion too early. How can a juſt notion of human conduct be acquired before the human character is in ſome meaſure formed? and until nature has had uncontrolled opportunity to point out her bias? I deſired to make ſilent obſervation on that bias as publick or private occurrence called it forth; that when it be⯑came a deciding and important queſtion, if I thought of your choice leſs favourably than you did, I might offer ſuch reaſons as would ſatisfy your minds, that my objections were grounded not on paternal tyranny, but fatherly love.

"Perhaps I am by this delay competent to anſwer my own queſtion, even as you would anſwer it. There can be little doubt, I think, that you, my eldeſt hope and bleſſing, will decide for the ſenatorial character, which is highly favourable to your argumentative powers, and no way inconſiſtent with the profound reſearches of a philoſophical mind. Your wiſh, James, I can ſee, will take an active part in the adminiſtration of public [21]juſtice, and you may, in due time, unite the ſenator with the legiſlator. There is an equanimity and poiſe in your diſpoſition, which in both theſe high offices is of the laſt importance: And my Henry's election will probably be that of his happy father; be⯑cauſe without any in fringement of the paſtoral, which I am convinced will be conſidered as the primary duties, he may cultivate the muſe; and ſhe is not more the adorner of ſocial life than the hand-maid of Religion, when under the direction of that aweful power.

"Tell me then, deareſt honours of my life, if in theſe conjectures I have anticipated your wiſhes?"—John and James replied in the affirmative. Henry ſtifled a ſigh in a cough, but his aſſent was included. "Nothing then remains but to gratify them,"—continued the venerable man, his voice attuned, and his look ſoftened to his expreſſion.—"And may ye, in all good things, be thus unanimous. Your election made, you will with general purity of life, connect and improve the parti⯑cular qualifications which are requiſite, and [22]it will be my delightful care to give them effect.

"But there is another topick; I mean that of your patrimonial fortune. In the diſtribu⯑tion of this I ſhould, by ſome parents, be thought as much to oppoſe the opinions and practice of the world, as in having conſulted you on the choice of life, I mean with reſpect to dates of conſultation and of diſtribution; yet nothing can be more certain than that one principle governs me in both; for as, I think, young people are called upon to fix their profeſſion much too early, I am of opinion, likewiſe, that the knowledge and adjuſtment of their inheritance, excluſively of what may be derived from ſuch profeſſion, comes to them too late. When youths are really capa⯑ble of ſelecting the grand object of their future purſuit, as members of the commu⯑nity, the degree of judgment, which ren⯑ders them competent to this, fits them to be truſted with the ſecret of their inheritance; unleſs, indeed, filial profligacy has made paternal confidence imprudent; but, in my bleffed caſe, where the unſullied bloſſom [23]gives promiſe of the faireſt fruit, in due feaſon, and has grown into no wanton luxuri⯑ance by the warmeſt influence of parental ſuns,—you ſee, my Henry, I, like you, con⯑ſider poetick imagery ſometimes an auxiliary to the diſplay of truth,—I can have nothing to fear! Ah no! from dividing amongſt you my little ſtores in poſſeſſion, and pre-acquaint⯑ing you, with thoſe in expectance, I have every thing to hope."

The young men took their eyes from their father, and looked at each other.

"It might perhaps be good policy in parents to make their children not only wiſh the ex⯑tenſion of their lives, on motives of natural affection, but on thoſe of worldly intereſt, and it ſeems to me there is nothing tends ſo much to—I will not ſay forgetfulneſs of the parental tie, for that is a moſt tremendous extreme,—but to ſeducing the heart's moſt ſacred comfort—humanely ſpeaking—to an act of mere duty as a ſordid attention to what may be gained by a parent's death! It may force the beſt children to grow indifferent about the life of him who gave life to them; and it undoubtedly makes children of leſs [24]happy diſpoſitions much worſe; for as kind⯑neſs begets affection, there can be little doubt that rigour, if it cannot extinguiſh the ſenti⯑ment of natural affection, impairs its pleaſure, and obſtructs its energy.

"That it may ſtill be the heart-felt wiſh of my dear boys, that their fond father, aged as he is, ſhould yet live to ſee their happineſs; I will to-morrow preſent a ſtatement of our mutual property; I ſay mutual, becauſe I have invariably conſidered it as held only in truſt for them and their beloved mother; and, though there have been ſome entanglements, I hope to prove I have been a faithful family ſteward; and, indeed, my children, that is the only character in which it ſhould be a father's ambition to appear.

"For one of you," continued he, looking at Henry, "will, I truſt, aſcend the ſummit of fortune; but equal in the affection of my nature, your patrimonial rights are indepen⯑dent of adventitious aid, and ſhould be equa⯑lized alſo; did not the ſucceſſion to a family title, to which is attached the decent dignity of an ancient houſe, make ſome extraordinary ſupply neceſſary to my ſon John."

[25]John, who ſeemed leſs to reliſh the ar⯑rangement than either of his brothers, put a negative ſo ſolemn on this that it eſtabliſhed his point, notwithſtanding Sir Armine ſtrug⯑gled with a frown: James maintained the ſilence which often waits on affecting emo⯑tions; and Henry had been weeping ſome time. The father's frown melted away.

"Be it ſo then," rejoined Sir Armine, giving, at length, a ſmiling ſanction to his eldeſt ſon's negative. John bowed reſpect⯑fully, and declared, in his laconic way, that the houſe ſhould be ſupported.—"But how my dear boy?" aſked his father, giving yet more force to his ſmile, "philoſophy is rather apt to neglect the ſublunary contemplations of brick and mortar, records and rent-rolls, courts-leet, and courts-baron."—"Then poetry, Sir," exclaimed Henry, with glowing cheeks, "ſhall aſſiſt!"—"Worſe and worſe!" cried Sir Armine, broadening the ſmile into a laugh; "the Muſe, you know Harry, conſiders Ruins as her beſt materials; diſmantled towers, a broken column, a moul⯑dering wall, dilapidated manſions, and caſtles in confuſion, ſerve but as the ſcenery of [26]her pictures, and it is well a votary of frag⯑ment-loving Phoebus is not heir to this old Fitz⯑orton fabric." "But in the adminiſtration of juſtice, Sir," ſaid James, "I truſt domeſtic equity would not be thought unprofeſſional." "Nor," interpoſed John, adopting parlia⯑mentary language, "ſhall I, ſurely, be called to order," bowing to Sir Armine, and giving a hand to each of his brothers, "or be thought unparliamentary, if I enter a proteſt againſt any ſuch meaſure,—as I apprehend it very poſſible for a little diſcretion, and ſaving in ſuperfluities, no way, I hope, incompatible with the dignity either of Philoſophy or the Houſe of Com⯑mons, to grant me the ſupplies requiſite for the dignity of my own houſe, without levying burthens, or raiſing contributions, on my allies. Not," added John, qualifying the former independent notions; "not that I ſhould proudly reſiſt aſſiſtance ſhould it be neceſſary; neither would I unnaturally, in ſuch caſes, go out of my own houſe to maintain its honours."

The brothers joined hands.

"Well, well," anſwered the father, "I ſee there is little danger of our good old manſion [27] falling, in any ſenſe of the word, while the Virtues, Arts, and Nature herſelf, are reſolved to ſupport it."

"O!" cried Henry, "may it want no other pillar, for many a ſmiling year, than the ſacred one which has long, and, ah! bleſſed be God, ſtill preſerves, unimpaired, its beauty and its, ſtrength."

"Dear boy!" exclaimed his father.

"Henry has ſpoken for us all," obſerved John to James.

"With ſuperior eloquence," anſwered the latter.

And aſſerted the former, "with equal ſince⯑rity, bleſſings on our father! But he is too good."

Here the ſons dropt on their knees.

"Bleſſings on my children!" ejaculated Sir Armine, raiſing them; his accents more tender than diſtinct.

The brothers, during this conference, were ſupporting, and ſupported by their truly venerable Sire: a ſoft pauſe enſued, and they withdrew.

CHAPTER IV.

THE next day was taken up in ſettling the propoſed independencies of theſe young men; and as John ſturdily maintained the right of equal diviſion, both immediate and reverſionary, his father no longer reſiſted. He laid before his children the rent-roll of his eſtates. He neither concealed the prodigalities of ſome, nor failed to dwell on the prudence of others of his anceſtors; he did not hide his own indiſcretions; they were chiefly generous ones, ſince the property came into his poſſeſſion: In ſhort, he diſcloſed every thing that might operate on their impreſſive minds in the way of emulation, or of eſcape. What he deemed was not yet ripe for diſcovery he reſerved, and at the cloſe of the conference he ſaid: "Dear youths, I have now developed to you thoſe things which fathers too often conſider as Family ſecrets, till their bodies are moulder⯑ing in the grave. I have unfolded myſelf to the hearts of my children, and put into their [29]hands the means of being juſt and generous, wiſe and good. You have always been free to think. You will be now free to act. The three deeds I now deliver will ſhew, that though the ſtreams are amply ſupplied the ſacred fountains are by no means exhauſted; my ſons, we may henceforward form a little re⯑public of our own, and enjoy the wholeſome freedom ſo eſſential to a commonwealth. It has, indeed, been my endeavour to train you to independent thoughts, that on their baſis you might conſtruct independent actions; for nothing honourable, nothing noble, in truth, nothing natural, can proceed from minds ſlaviſhly controuled."

Here Lady Fitzorton made her appear⯑ance, and embracing her ſons, ſmilingly, con⯑firmed their eſtabliſhment. Sir Armine, by way of giving a ſolemn finiſhing of the whole, requeſted that the bleſſing of God Almighty might be humbly implored on the arrange⯑ments of the morning, obſerving, that no work could be deemed concluſive, or good, until ratified by prayer.

[30]The parents went out together; Sir Armine ſaying he ſhould expect them in an hour in the private chapel of the caſtle.

The ſenſations of Henry, as uſual, crim⯑ſoned his cheek, and bathed his eyes, while they enchained his tongue: from ſimilar, and on this occaſion, equal ſenſibility, James, alſo, was ſilent; but a doubt aroſe in the always ſcrutinizing mind of the elder brother. When John had reached the porch of the chapel he thus expreſſed himſelf: "Warmed, and hum⯑bled, by the generoſity of the propoſal, are we, my brothers, perfectly right in accept⯑ing theſe aſſignments in Sir Armine's life time?" "Good heaven!" exclaimed Henry, "how un⯑dutiful a thought!" "It ſtrikes me, however, as a juſt one: Is it fit or proper to ſuffer our father to put us in a manner out of his power; the power of reſtraining our vice ſhould we degenerate?"

"Vice! how can you ſuppoſe it poſſible brother John? Will not what the beſt of men and of parents has done, be at once a pre⯑ventive from evil, and an encouragement to good?"

[31]"I am not upon ſuch good terms with my⯑ſelf, brother Henry. The love we bear to a parent ought, perhaps, like that we owe to our heavenly father, to be attempered and chaſtened by fear. And if the latter be de⯑ſtroyed, I am not ſure that the other may not preſume a little too much."

"And," anſwered Henry, "ſhall I reve⯑rence —methinks that, brother, is the better word—ſhall I reverence my beloved father leſs for conduct that not only endears but exalts him? If I before loved and honoured, ſhall I not now venerate? ſhall I not adore him?"

"I hope not brother: That dear father will tell you, adoration belongs to another parent; not that we will ſtand here upon the threſhold of the Temple of the Moſt High to contend about words, or to criticiſe the hyperboles of a muſe-ſtruck mind—I give that mind credit for its ſincerity on this ſubject, even amongſt all the viſions of poeſy—but, in human life, there is always a poſſibility of the worſt of human errors—that worſt is ingratitude."

James admitted this, but thought there might be a medium—half the intended bounty [32]given to their diſcretion, and half retained by the father, as an experiment. "And of this vice the ſublime, if ſublimity can apply to atro⯑cious deeds, is ingratitude filial," continued John, throwing out his ſecond brother's amendment. The whole maſs of Henry's generous blood ſeemed to undergo a ſudden revulſion—"Brother, brother, how can you have ſuffered a thought ſo unnatural to enter your boſom!" "And has not your poetical reading then," retorted John, "furniſhed you with an example of its being amongſt the poſſible ſtains in human nature?—Have you forgot the ſtory of children under our very cir⯑cumſtances? —and is not that ſtory recorded by Nature's moſt profound Poet and Hiſto⯑rian? —were not Lear's daughters as ten⯑derly careſſed, as amply accommodated, as fondly confided in, as the ſons of Sir Armine Fitzorton?—Think, brother, on what has been; tremble for what may be."

"Oh! if I could believe myſelf," exclaimed Henry, reddening, "capable of making a return like their's, my prayer would be to prevent that capacity by immediate death, [33]brother—even on the ſacred ſpot whereon I now ſtand! Ingratitude to my father! O! God!"

"God forbid!" anſwered John, "any of us ſhould be capable of it—but I am always more afraid of myſelf than of any body elſe; and as I dare not put much truſt in my own nature, nor have had, as yet, any expe⯑rience how command will operate on minds accuſtomed to obey, I could wiſh the entire authority of a father had ſtill accompanied his affection; and that he might have granted, or denied, our wiſhes, inſtead of yielding us up to thoſe who may be diſpoſed to deny too little, and grant too much."

"I wiſh brother John," ſaid Henry, "you had not put an image ſo painful into my mind. It is enough to make one turn an eye of ſuſpi⯑cion on oneſelf."

"There can be no great harm in that," anſ⯑wered John. "A citadel is not the leſs ſecure for ſuſpecting there may be an enemy lurking within the walls, and thereupon doubly urging the commander to vigilance; for my part, [34]I already ſee enough of human nature to know it cannot be too well watched."

"On the contrary, brother," argued Henry, "the more credit we give to ourſelves, or others, the leſs will our faith be abuſed. Who will take an unfair advantage of generoſity? and, indeed, there are many ſituations in which confidence begets honour:—The truſted man will be emulous to prove himſelf truſt worthy."

Sir Armine, attended by his Lady, now join⯑ed the youths.—"My ſons let us proceed to the chapel, and there commemorate a day which, I hope, will be one of the moſt joyful of my life."

"I believe it from my inmoſt ſoul" cried Henry.

"I hope it from the bottom of mine," ſaid James, "and betwixt generous hope, and pious fear, our virtue may be ſafe.

"Amen!" ſighed John—following his bro⯑ther into the chapel ſomewhat reluctantly.

CHAPTER V.

SIR Armine officiated, and having finiſhed his uſual ſervice of the day, he adjoined ſome extemporaneous effuſions applicable to the occaſion. They ſo touchingly characterized both the paſtor and parent, that the little family congregation were extremely moved.

The reſt of the evening was employed in ſports innocently feſtive, or in reflections ſuit⯑able to the tranſactions of the day; and at night, from the full, but not overflowing, bowl of temperance, ſucceſs was wiſhed and drank to the Senate, the Pulpit, and the Bar— and the ſecond round to John, Henry, and James Fitzorton.

In the morning, however, John, who in⯑herited his father's tenacity, and always main⯑tained that if a parent had prerogative, a child had privileges, formally reſumed his diſcuſſion of the grand queſtion, Whether a child's being made independent of the father, during the life of the latter, was fit and proper to be acceded to; and, after arguing the caſe various ways, [36]brought his brothers ſo thoroughly into his way of thinking, it was, at length, reſolved, nem. con. that how generous ſoever it might be for a parent to offer, it was indecorous in a child to receive, what ſhould be, from time to time, beſtowed in reward, or withheld in puniſhment.

This deciſion was followed by a ſolemn ſurrender of their independencies. The three ſons having deſired, and obtained, an audi⯑ence, the deeds of gift were preſented on their knees. John, for himſelf and his bro⯑thers, explained, with reverence and humility, the motive. "Your children, Sir, entreat you will not deprive them of the greateſt happi⯑neſs they can enjoy in this world—that of your diſpenſing your benevolence to them, according to their deſervings—they feel over⯑whelmed and embarraſſed with the ſudden poſſeſſion of ſo important a ſum; and that from your hand alone, they could be content ro receive it."

Sir Armine's parental ſovereignty was here⯑in ſo ably ſoftened away, that he was ſubdued without perceiving he had been oppoſed.

[37]Indeed, although this unexpected circum⯑ſtance cut up by the root the benevolent deſign which the worthy prieſt had long cheriſhed; he ſo clearly ſaw into the motives of the mover, that, with the agreeable flat⯑tery, he accepted the relinquiſhment of his children's rights, though given back within a few hours after they had been ſettled. Each of the ſons had his own argument in favour of the meaſure. John, the propoſer, declared his approbation of it, becauſe it was philo⯑ſophically agreeable to the nature of things. James found it worthy of adoption, becauſe he was happy to be removed from the danger of running into extremes. Henry played with the ſubject, after his own airy and agreeable manner, and ſettled his ſatisfaction by a copy of verſes, in which he aſſerted, that from the parent ſource, the ſtreams of bounty would be diſpenſed by ſuperior wiſdom, fertilize every flower of the fancy by due ſupplies, and invigorate the virtues, thoſe fruits of the heart.

Sir Armine undertook the inſtruction of his ſons, in all the elementary knowledge that [38]could prepare them for their deſtined pro⯑feſſions. The reverend preceptor, wiſely and wholeſomely divided the day into equal parts, for the purpoſes of ſerious ſtudy, amuſing mental relaxation, and intermediate exerciſe. For a conſiderable time there were few deviations or interruptions in theſe in⯑tereſting pleaſures, or purſuits; although Henry cheriſhed a concealed diſinclination to the path which had been chalked out for him.

After the venerable teacher had ſettled the grand baſis of morals and of religion, on which Sir Armine propoſed to build the cha⯑racter of his ſons, he was anxious to give to their manners and external behaviour, which he conſidered as the ſuperſtructure, every amiable embelliſhment; for, although ſome⯑what too tenacious of his own modes of faith, he was not of thoſe zealots who imagine the innocent adornments, either of the human figure or underſtanding, that render man ſo intereſting to man, incompatible with ſpiritual duty; but when his ſon John expreſſed an erudite ſcorn for all ſort of dreſs, beyond even [39]a coarſe ſimplicity, he obſerved, obliquely, to Henry, "I take it extremely kind in your brother John, to labour as I perceive he doth, to reconcile the habit of a gentleman, with the mental dreſs of a ſcholar. I dare ſay, a little more time will convince him, there is no good reaſon to be given, why a man of ſcience ſhould be a ſloven. I am, in the ſame degree, flattered to ſee than you, Henry, have had the good ſenſe to correct the contrary exceſs; an extreme attention to the faſhion of the day is no leſs a fault, than a con⯑temptuous negligence. The ſimplex mun⯑ditiis of James, always gratified me. James bowed. John inclined his head alſo, but ſtubbornly; and contended, that he could not ſtill help thinking the dreſſing hour a heavy ſacrifice of the immortal, to the animal part of man—and that not being to any good end, in ſhortened a very ſhort exiſtence. "By no means," urged his father; "in many inſtances it lengthens life; in all, it renders it more acceptable to ſociety, and more comfortable to ourſelves."

"But then, Sir," argued the perſiſting [40]John, "ſuch ſcrubbing, ſpruceing, trimming, ſcrapeing—ſuch tayloring, perfumering, mantua-making—ſuch a convolvement and tranſmutation of the quick and dead; of the natural living man, into the dried ſkins and hides of dead beaſts, and all this even before modern men and women are fit to be ſeen by one another! It humiliates one to think, that the verieſt inſect or animal, which is mur⯑dered and ſtripped to cover the ſhivering favourite of creation, is leſs the ſlave of con⯑tingence. The butterfly paſſes in his robe of many colours, and mocks my patch-work finery. My ſpaniel ſhakes his coat, and is dreſſed without loſs of time; but laborious man!"—"On the contrary," rejoined his fa⯑ther, "a habit of external neatneſs, renders all the labours of the toilette, in a great meaſure, unneceſſary; and I am of opinion, that the creature would not have been featured ſo fair, faſhioned with ſo much harmony, nor endu⯑ed with a deſire of appearing amiable and attractive to thoſe of his kind, with whom he is deſtined to aſſociate, were it not pleaſing alſo to the Creator; and, methinks, it is as [41]much a contempt of God's gracious bounties, to ſuffer that which is ſaid to be expreſſive of his ſacred image, to be disfigured by filth; as for the ſoul herſelf to be defiled by moral uncleanneſs."

John, though proud of intellectual inde⯑pendence, was ſtruck, not more by the purity, than the piety of this concluſive remark; and from that hour, to the lateſt of his life, he was as attentive to exterior, as a being to whom is intruſted the care of a body and a ſoul ought to be.

CHAPTER VI.

THE diſſimilitude between John, James, and Henry, ſtrengthened as they grew: Henry continued unſuſpecting; John was more ſuſpicious and reſerved; James preſerved a medium betwixt implicit confidence, and jealous caution. A compaſſionate heart led John to relieve diſtreſs whereſoever he found it; but he generally imputed even his own bounty to a degrading ſource; but then John had to number amongſt his firſt impreſſions [42]a deception on his heart. "It is my weakneſs, not my judgment," would he ſay, "my paſſion, not my reaſon, that ſtill diſpoſes me to liſten to tales of woe; not a word of which I be⯑lieve one time out of an hundred. I know, that all the joys, and all the miſeries, all the pains, and all the pleaſures of life, with the tears and ſmiles that ought to be their honeſt and invariable ſignals, can be counterfeited! Limbs, which enjoy the fair proportions of nature, are diſtorted to work on my huma⯑nity. Rags, and other appearances of the moſt ſqualid and abject poverty, are aſſumed as the beſt engines of deceit to procure riches to the idle, and debaucheries to the infamous. Infants are purchaſed or ſtolen, to multiply the appeals of the hypocrite; for every actual neceſſity of almoſt every kind, mental and bodily, the benevolence of the land in which I live, has afforded its adequate ſupply, and thoſe who are thruſt from its protection, either find an intereſt in continuing the trade of apparent diſtreſs, or are deſervedly the outlaws of public compaſſion. In more cul⯑tivated ſocieties, where, alas! diſſimulation [43]too often gains ſtrength as it ſoftens, con⯑trary to the general effects of refinement, I am not to be told, that frequently the gene⯑roſity of one man, is the purchaſe of ingrati⯑tude in another; inſomuch that it might be well to do the kindneſs ſolicited, and conſider the neglect and ungrateful treatment there⯑upon, not as an inevitable, but probable conſequence:" Sir Armine ſaw clearly this difference of conſtruction without deploring it; he believed that all would live like good brothers, and turn out good men. They converſed much; agreed but little in opinion, yet ſeldom altercated. "I dare ſay, all which we have read or been told," would Henry fre⯑quently ſay, "reſpecting the deceit of man, and of woman kind, is true; but my heart has no time to weigh its emotions, brother, in the ſcrupulous balance which is held by rea⯑ſon. I do not ſtop to calculate chances. I hear a tale of diſtreſs. I ſee an object of ap⯑parent poverty; my hand is extended, and the relief adminiſtered before I hardly know what I have done. I follow a tender emotion: nature has commanded, and I obey; but I do not reaſon upon it."

[44]"What does all this prove," would John reply, "but that we are both fools, brother? and have only a different way of committing the ſame folly. I with, you without thought? Here you have the advantage."

"Not at all," would Henry anſwer, "I wiſh the perſon benefited had been a better ſort of being; but his wants ſeemed as immediate as extreme; yet if I had taken all the time which reaſonable and judgmatical gentlemen require to trace out character, and fortify myſelf by vouchers, the man muſt have ſtarved before I knew whether I could be juſtified in preventing it."

"A truce, a truce!" interrupted James, who uſually ſummed up theſe family converſa⯑tions, when Sir Armine was not preſent— "Your hearts deſerve to be treated with more reſpect. Hypocriſy deducts from the pleaſure of the generous, it is true; but ſhould never deſtroy it. The ſanctions of judgment and reaſon on our actions, are always to be wiſh⯑ed, but cannot always be obtained, without, at leaſt, an equal hazard of as much wrong as of right. Againſt the caſualties of bounty, [45]my brothers, no tender nature can be defend⯑ed. The appeal is made to a power which often arrives at maturity, before we know there is any thing of equal force in the world."

CHAPTER VII.

ONE day when the ſame party were aſſembled, and the diſcourſe had taken a ſimilar turn, John attacking human nature, Henry defending it, and James acting as a check on both, a poor man with every ap⯑pearance of the moſt abject wretchedneſs; his limbs almoſt as tattered as the garments that covered them; a patch on his eye, and both his legs tucked under ſtumps, aſſailed their pity. "What's the odds now," ſaid John, "that this is not a damn'd rogue? Here, fel⯑low, keep the tricks which you are preparing to play off upon us for the next traveller; and, for once, I will make it your intereſt to tell the truth," throwing ſixpence into his hat; "confeſs, are not you a ſad hypocrite? and were not you on the point of telling us a pack of pity-moving lies?" "Fie, brother!" ſaid [46]James, "you have no right to inſult, if you do not chooſe to relieve the man. His misfortune is ſufficiently obvious, however it may have been induced." Hereupon, the mendicant began the cant of his profeſſion, which drew from Henry an additional ſhilling. "Nay," ſaid John, "there are very few of the beſt dreſſed beggars have virtue enough to refuſe falſ⯑hood, when they are paid double for it." "Are there no ſuch things then as principles?" ſaid Henry:—"Not amongſt beggars, in high or in low life," rejoined John. "There, fellow, as you cannot ſerve God and Mammon, take your choice, a rogue or an honeſt man?—my ſixpence, or his ſhilling"—"Lord, you're a merry gentleman. I like both, an't pleaſe your honour, and God bleſs you!" "There, I told you ſo," ſaid John, "a damn'd rogue!"— Henry ſmiled. "The good man would offend neither of you; ſo accepts the bounty of both," obſerved James, joining their plea⯑ſantry. "Well," anſwered John, "I need not ſay who is the rogue, but I know who are the fools." At this inſtant, a poſt-chaiſe paſſing rapidly was met by another carriage, and over⯑ſet, [47]the driver was thrown, and the horſes were dragging the carriage. The three brothers aſſiſted: the beggar inſtantly drew the patch from his eye, diſincumbered his legs, tucked the ſtumps under his arm, and paſſed them. The accident happening within a ſhort diſ⯑tance from the family manſion, James pro⯑poſed ſending for Sir Armine's carriage.— "What occaſion for carriages?" cried the beg⯑gar, catching the lady in his arms, and run⯑ning off with her, "I warrant the gentleman, who don't ſeem much hurt, will follow." The three brothers entered the apartment juſt as the beggar, having procured every accommodation the caſtle afforded, ſet off for the village apothecary with incredible ſpeed. He returned with ſome hartſhorn. "There, an pleaſe your ladyſhip, that will bring you about—pure ſtrong—has taken away my breath, and, I hope, it will bring back yours."

The lady was now recovering apace. The gentleman had received little injury. Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton were from home. The apothecary followed his hartſ⯑horn; the cure was ſoon perform'd; for the [48]miſchief conſiſted rather in alarm than injury, and the travellers purſued their journey. The tumult of circumſtances now ſubſiding, the brothers had leiſure to advert to the meta⯑morphoſis of the beggar. "Well!" ſaid John to Henry, "and who is in the right now? a rogue or no rogue? why, what's become of your timber Mr. Beggar?"—"The Lord knows," replied the beggar, archly: "I hope, gentle⯑men, you have not left my legs behind you." "To be ſure," ſaid James, "they muſt be conſider'd as part of the accident." "O, he can do very well without them, I ſee," ſaid John. "I beg your pardon there," anſwer'd the beggar, "I ſhould ſtarve without them: I uſe theſe things," pointing to his natural legs, "only upon extraordinary occaſions: but my timber is my ſtaple commodity—well, God ſave your honours—I muſt go look after my ſupport." The facetious mendicant was bowing out, leaving his company not a little amus'd and delighted with him, when John caught his hand—"You are a fine fellow! and yet you muſt be a rogue too! or elſe thoſe legs would have carried you into a much more reputable buſineſs." The beggar ſhook his head!— [49]"However," continued John, "if all the ex⯑traordinary occaſions upon which you uſe them are like the preſent, 'tis pity you ſhould ever again tuck them behind you. So here's ſomething to keep them in repair," giving him a crown-piece—"and here's a trifle," added Henry, pouring out the contents of his purſe, "to buy you a new pair."—"Now that's an encouragement to the ſcoundrel part of him," ſaid John! "I think, indeed," ſaid James, "half a crown a piece would have been a more juſt diviſion." "All, an' pleaſe your honour," replied the man, "its very well as it is: but for that matter, I would not take a dozen purſes for my ſtumps, and yet I'm no ſcoundrel neither; Ah! gentlefolks, if you knew but their hiſ⯑tory!— but that's no matter," added he, fetching a deep ſigh. Tears guſh'd to his eyes, and he turn'd away his face. "Poor fellow," ſaid Mr. Burton, "you have made a miſtake; here is Sixpence coming to you out of your ſhilling." "I forgot that, maſter," anſwer'd the beggar; "however, I'll take the teſter." "I hope," whiſper'd James to John, "you will allow, though it was only in the [50]diviſion of a ſhilling, that this action of our Apothecary tells to his honeſty, when you remember that, his large family and ſlender means of ſupporting it, make every ſixpence a matter of conſequence." "Say you ſo," cried the mendicant. "The heart beneath theſe many-colour'd rags," cried Henry, "would give dignity to ermine." "Who would be the loſer then," ſaid the beggar? "A noble fellow," exclaim'd John, "in ſpite of his ſtumps." Henry ſhook him heartily by the hand, in doing which, one of the tatters of our beggar's coat of patches, got entangled in one of Henry's wrought buttons, and, as is generally the caſe, when the weak and poor come into contact with the ſtrong and ſplendid, fell to the ground. Henry expreſſed regret. "Bleſs your honour, no conſequence, only I muſt not loſe it:— 'Tis a little bit of my property," ſaid the beg⯑gar, ſtooping to pick up the remnant. "Thou ſhalt have a new ſuit," ſaid Henry. "Your honour's all goodneſs, but that would be my ruin. Every rag about me, is, at a moderate computation, worth a guinea: but, as I have a [51]poor bedridden father, who has no objection to having a good coat upon his back: and as your honour's bounty has enabled me to give him one, his ſon ſhall bleſs you with his laſt breath, although, he ſhould live to wear out a whole foreſt in ſtumps." Sir Armine. here, took the beggar a moment aſide; after which, the latter ſmiled merrily on the com⯑pany, and ſeeing the apothecary making his bows to the family, exclaim'd, "And now if you pleaſe Maſter Doctor, I will purchaſe a few things for poor father in your way." They went out together.

CHAPTER VIII.

ARRIVING at the ſhop, for the adven⯑ture would not be complete were we not to tell you what happen'd there; our mendicant, who had luckily found the ſtumps, perceived the apothecary in waiting, ſurrounded by his family.

Henry's whiſper reſpecting the worth and poverty of poor Burton was ſtill in his memory: and while he was in ſearch of the [52]ſtumps, he argued,—"Here now is a man who muſt be honeſt, or elſe he never would have thought of returning my ſixpence: and he muſt be poor, for the honourable gentleman that gave me the purſe ſaid ſo in a whiſper. He muſt not dig, and I may: he is aſham'd to beg, and I am not: he is a father, and has perhaps a dozen mouths to feed three times a day, and I have but two,—dad's and my own: Yes, yes, I ſee plainly, the ſame good fortune that turn'd the carriage over for me, had a hand in turning me over to him,—One good turn deſerves another."

This reaſoning brought him almoſt to the threſhold of the apothecary's ſhop; where, after paying his reſpects, as they are com⯑monly paid by thoſe who expect to receive favours, and as rarely by thoſe who intend to beſtow them; he made out a liſt of what he did—not want: that he might handſomely furniſh the vender with a little of what he did want; for, notwithſtanding his ſtumps, our mendicant had as little to do with phyſic as moſt men, and was not indeed much ac⯑quainted even with the names of more than [53]half a dozen out of the million of poiſons and antidotes diſcovered by the art of man, to prolong or to cut ſhort the miſerable little life of that melancholy, merry little wretch, who, though at the top of the creation, ſeems to have more difficulty of getting into the world, to have more wants after he has got in it, and to have more ways of being ſent out of it, than all the other little or great wretches of that creation. Such drugs, how⯑ever, as he could recollect, and in ſuch pro⯑portions as he found, upon enquiry, would amount to the quantum of caſh he had pre⯑determined to diveſt himſelf of, he bought: put them into his pocket, as carefully as if the life of a friend depended upon their ope⯑ration; then facetiouſly entering into a ſhort diſcourſe with the apothecary's wife, dancing the ſmall children on his knee; and as to the larger ones, if he found any ſweet-hearts at the ſair, or any where elſe in his hops, worth ſending, they ſhould hear from him again.

CHAPTER IX.

IN relief of their ſerious ſtudies came in the intellectual amuſements of the three brothers. The juvenile muſe of the younger, by her light and playful ſallies, pleaſantly contraſted and agreeably ſet off the more ſolid, not to ſay ſolemn meditations of John; thence, indeed, and from an early ſorrow, the ſports of the latter took an aweful turn. he read the poets as a relaxation from the philoſophers, yet he read them not as an enthuſiaſt, but as a critic; and therefore detected more faults than beauties. Henry, on the other hand, with all the ardour of poetic paſſion, read, as he wrote, to be delighted, and ſo found more beauties than faults; he was too much in love with the muſe to look ſeverely for, or at, her little inconſiſtencies, and, as is the caſe with all lovers, was too ſincerely ſmit with the charms of his object to be angry at her foibles.

This diſſimilitude in their opinions, how⯑ever, was a freſh ſource of amicable con⯑tention.

[55]Henry, had been reading to his father ſome pieces of poetry, and had made liberal reflexions, mix'd with expreſſions of admira⯑tion on various paſſages.—At a pauſe in the compoſition, John was referred to for the ſuffrage of his opinion.—"You are ſilent brother," cried Henry—"yes—now for a libel on the lyre."

"Far be it from me," return'd John, "to treat any lady, mortal or immortal, with diſ⯑reſpect, but really, Henry, the goddeſs of your idolatry is ſo very uncertain and capricious a deity, that even you, who are one of her warmeſt votaries, muſt confeſs ſhe is in no wiſe to be depended on, either for inſpiration or happineſs.—She has been known, indeed, to leave her ſuppliant in the midſt of his ſighs and groans."—"Avaunt the ſlander of ſuch cavil!" exclaim'd Henry.—"Away with the common-place detraction of ſuch as never knew the ſoul-chearing influence of the power they condemn! Never was the Muſe faithleſs to thoſe ſhe loved. Even I, my brother, the leaſt favor'd perhaps of her votaries," con⯑tinued our young enthuſiaft, "yet ſincerely [56]proud of her ſlighteſt attentions—even I, in countleſs inſtances, have relied on her to ſtrengthen me in good, and prevent me from the commiſſion of evil—but cold-blooded critics, and freezing philoſophers, and flut⯑tering coxcombs, and ſordid worldlings, are inſenſible of the potency of the heaven⯑deſcended muſe, to diminiſh the pains, and heighten the tranſports of human life. Ah they do not know with what a force ſhe acts, what an ardour ſhe kindles, what a ſoftneſs ſhe diffuſes, what an energy ſhe inſpires!"

"Very ſine, brother! but were you to be the denizen of all the nine, and the ſelected ſavourite of their inſpiring god, I am ſtill of opinion, poetry muſt yield the palm to philoſophy. The firſt is as the flame of the meteor, that glares and paſſes by—while we admire, we tremble. Not ſuch the ſteady rays that dart into the ſoul from ſacred philoſo⯑phy! at once bright and laſting; animating as the ſun—powerful as"—"And what," queſtioned the eager Henry, "has this proud Philoſophy, that the Muſe is not more nobly gifted with? Does the vaunted pre-eminence [57]conſiſt in beſtowing more fortitude in mental, or more patience in corporeal anguiſh?— Does it better defend the boſom from wrongs, or pour a more ſalutary balm upon its wounds? Ah, my cold brother! yes, let me repeat, had you but for a moment, felt the genuine magic of the lyre, had nature per⯑mitted you to experience the rapturous ſenſa⯑tions which ſwell the heart, when fancy paints her viſionary favourite, or its ſtronger throbs, when poetic truth,—truth adorn'd by the muſe, draws her real hero; had you ever been conſcious of the enviable ſigh, which heaves from the breaſt, the delicious tear which guſhes from the eye of genius, when innocence is to be protected, guilt confronted, and benevolence or pity pourtrayed—or had you ever been ſenſible to the muſe's power, to ſoothe the thouſand ills, to which, alas! her votaries are heir: to charm away their ſenſe of cruel injuries, till injury itſelf is forgot, and the aggreſſor as often forgiven, you would confeſs that the immortal wreath is not aſſigned to her without a cauſe."

"Her tears and ſighs I am diſpoſed to [58]allow her," anſwer'd John, "they are part of the heavenly dame's paraphernalia; but what if Philoſophy ſhould, upon a more manly and ſober principle, puniſh vice and protect virtue, pardon offences and pity offenders, without all this mourning and wailing? No, no, philoſophy and proſe for me!" "And for me," retorted Henry, "no apathy either in verſe or proſe. The one deſtroys, and the other preſerves; the one raves, and the other reaſons."

All this time, James had ſeated himſelf quietly in the middle of the room, employed with his pencil; every now and then taking his eye from the drawing-paper to the diſpu⯑tants, and then calmly proceeding in his work. "Was ever anything ſo provoking?" exclaim'd Olivia, "only ſee if that immova⯑ble James is not coolly engaged in"— "What?" interpoſed Henry eagerly, look⯑ing over the paper, which James as earneſtly concealed. "Nay," ſaid the latter, "that is not ſair; I did not interrupt you or John in your amuſements: why ſhould you diſturb me in the enjoyment of mine? Not that I [59]have any ſerious objection either to ſhare with you what has given me pleaſure, even though I could derive no ſatisfaction from yours. And yet, ſtrictly ſpeaking, mine has ariſen out of yours: but indeed, I have but juſt begun my ſketch."

James diſcover'd his drawing, which he had entitled, "Moral Geography." It repre⯑ſented three veſſels of different ſize and figure, the one, a pleaſure barge, lightly and elegantly conſtructed, the colours diſ⯑played, the top-gallant ſails ſet, and bound⯑ing over the billows with incredible ſwift⯑neſs. The ſecond, was a line of battle ſhip of majeſtic port, proudly buffeting a ſtormy ſea, and ſeeming indignant of the oppoſing winds, ſhe held her determined courſe. The third, was a veſſel of burthen, a ſlow ſailor, very little ornamented, yet ſtrongly and uſe⯑fully built: all were deſtined for the ſame port, all ſtarted nearly at the ſame time, the firſt two were placed very forward as having got a-head of the other, but braving the tempeſt and raſhly confident in themſelves, they were exhibited in another part of the draw⯑ing, [60]preſenting ſignals of diſtreſs, firing guns, the one ſtruck againſt the rocks of Scilly, the other againſt Charybdis, mean⯑while, the third veſſel, too humble to contend with hurricanes, and not preſumptuous enough to hazard extremes, laid to, till the ſtorm was over, and paſſed ſafely, though unambitiouſly, between. "Your rocks and quickſands, upon paper, James, prove nothing—Ah! how do I wiſh my deareſt father," ſaid Henry, after giving the matter a little reſt, "that you would deign to ſettle our ever-jarring opinions on this ſubject. Yours have, indeed, been already favourable, but John, I perceive, wants conſtant repe⯑titions of high authority to make him think well of any art but his own." "I admit what you have related, brother, to be poetry," replied John, "and ſome of its fire has reached me, but there is no degree of autho⯑rity can make me an advocate for palpable abſurdity, whether in life or literature, in verſe or in proſe, though the undue exerciſe of ſuch authority, which I can never have to fear from our father, might make me ſilent."

[61]John bowed reſpectfully to Sir Armine, who took his hand cordially, and ſmiled kindly on Henry. "You muſt not, my Harry," ſaid the impartial James, "ſuffer your name to be catalogued amongſt the irritable race; nor muſt you, my dear John, be ranked amongſt the ſnarlers of the day. From true criticiſm, a poet ſhould not ſhrink; and falſe, can ultimately do him no harm. Let John's cenſure, therefore, rather animate Henry to triumph over what may be hyper⯑critical, and to remove from his compoſition what may be really objectionable." "In the days of youth," ſaid Sir Armine,—"they are commonly days of intrepidity, I was myſelf, you muſt know, hardy enough to write—yea, and to write a romance."

"A romance, Sir!" queſtioned John? "Verily, a romance," anſwered his father. "Where is it, Sir, what is its name? I never heard you mention it before," obſerved Henry, earneſtly. "I can eaſily conceive the reaſon of that," cried John ſignificantly. "You think," ſaid Sir Armine, "I was aſhamed of having miſemployed my time." [62]"The wiſeſt youth hath its indiſcretions, Sir," obſerved John, reſpectfully. "Had it been a treatiſe on Philoſophy, it would not have been thought indiſcreet, I dare ſay," cried Henry tartly, looking at John, "and I have not a doubt, but my dear father had every reaſon to be proud of it," continued Henry. "In truth, neither proud nor aſhamed," replied his father. "You ſhall hear; when I had written my romance—it really was a romance, John; there is no denying it; I felt curioſity to collect the private ſentiments of acquaintance upon my labours."—"La⯑bours, Sir!" interrupted John, drily. "Yes, labours, ſon John; there may be ſerious labour in giving the eaſe of nature to every work of art. In caſe the general ſenſe of a private circle had been againſt me, prudence, I had hope, might prevail with vanity." John ſhook his head, "to take warning from the 'ſtill ſmall voice,' of limited diſapprobation, without provoking the clamour of public cenſure."

Henry liſtened eagerly: John hemm'd twice. "At the time this idea ſtruck me, I had reſided [63]in London many years, and mixing freely, as well with the gay, as grave aſſociations of that wonder-working Metropolis, I could be at no loſs for people, who, from enmity, if not friendſhip, might be inclined to give me the wholeſome ſeverity of truth."

"Had my father then, at any time, an ene⯑my?" queſtioned Henry, affectionately. "I hope ſo:" anſwered John, bluntly. "It would be one proof of his wanting many noble qualities, which I am proud to know he poſ⯑ſeſſes, if he had not no fervid friend without a bitter enemy. Cold friends, cold enemies, fervid enemies, warm friends," ſays a pro⯑found thinker, "God make me worthy enough of a friend to create a foe." James extended a hand to each of his brothers. "But London," continued the venerable Fitz⯑orton, "was a ſcene too indiſcriminate, too deſultory, and too mighty for ſuch an expe⯑riment. It blew hard, and the froſts of No⯑vember chilled the day, as this ſuggeſtion roſe to my mind. The long evenings are at hand! I will begin to try my book in the country. The idea animated.—A ſocial [64]blaze—a ſelect party—the uſual delightful litter of work and work baſkets—the cur⯑tains let down—the fire ſtirred up—the tea things removed—the Miſſes, not yet in their teens, put to bed, to be out of the way—the eldeſt hope of the houſe, whether a Miſs or Maſter, indulged with ſitting up to hear the new book—but forbid to make the leaſt noiſe, on pain of the bedchamber!—how pro⯑miſing! and how eaſy to be perform'd—in the country. In the winter, too! When people are thrown upon the tricks of a kitten for amuſement! And as to criticiſm, every body is, naturally, more or leſs, a cri⯑tic, in whatever reſpects the emotions and paſſions of human nature, and the joy or ſorrow of human life. Nay, every family is a little world of critics.

"Brother James," cried Henry, "how can you be reading that abominable Wood's In⯑ſtitutes, at a time like this, when my deareſt father is juſt beginning to read his novel?"

"In the progreſs of reading," continued Sir Armine, "I experienced all that can be exhibited of human variety, in human opi⯑nions. [65]The favourite paſſage or character of one hearer, became the furious objection of another: ſome approved only of the pathos, others yawned and nodded in the midſt of it. Theſe, again, were awaked by a laugh, which threw my pathetical admirers into the va⯑pours. Some objected to the length, ſome to the brevity: traſh, trumpery, ſtuff, non⯑ſenſe! obligingly echoed one of the party.— Delightuful, charming! incomparable! re⯑ſounded another fair auditor.

"And pray, Sir," queſtioned Henry, ſigh⯑ing, "what in this perplexing counter-action of judgment, did you do?" "I conſidered, that if a compoſition deſerved to travel down the ſtream of time, unjuſt criticiſm would not long obſtruct its courſe. That which is im⯑periſhable in its own nature, ſhall aſſert its immortality amongſt things immortal; nor can any degree of elaborate panegyric re⯑ſtore to life what oblivion has ſwept away, at the command of reaſon and truth."

"Ah! I feel the ſacred truths, Sir," cried Henry; "but, methinks, I ſhould have loſt [66]all confidence in myſelf, and dropt the trem⯑bling pen."

"I would have held mine the faſter, or mended it," rejoined John, "if I found it worth the pains; if not, I would have thrown it away, and taken up a more uſeful inſtrument."

"Alas! I fear, I ſhould have renounced the preſs at once," ſaid Henry. "No doubt," retorted John, "there are cowards enough in the world; and their fine timidity may, for aught I know, be a mark of genius; but give me the ſoul rough, determined, and if you will, inelegant, which, like the mountain pine, however it may for a moment bend to the blaſt, riſes again as often as it is aſſailed. I am for proud elaſtick reſiſtance, and have ſcarce yet ever ſeen, heard, or read any thing that a man, or woman either, ought not to be aſhamed of, come of the yielding quali⯑ties; and as to critics, a writer ſhould no more be diſpleaſed, or diſcouraged, by hav⯑ing his faults corrected, or pointed out, than he ſhould quarrel with a guide, for ſhewing him a pitfall, or taking him out, when raſh⯑neſs or ignorance had led him into it."

[67]"But I remember," continued Sir Armine, "my great difficulty was about a Preface. I wiſhed, extremely, to affix ſome explanatory matter; but had ſeen ſo many inſtances where the preliminary pages were paſſed over, that I was alarmed leſt mine ſhould ſuffer a like neglect, and thereby loſe the opportunity of illuſtrating therein the points I intended chief⯑ly to impreſs: for I felt ſcandalized at the thought of having it ſuppoſed, I had written a book to tell a long ſtory, which was dignified neither by its plan nor execution:" "As to prefaces," ſaid John, archly, "I would be a match for any body, in that particular. If the modern reader runs away from wiſdom in the uſual form, a form which gave our forefathers ſatisfaction, ſome extraordinary means muſt be deviſed, to beguile him. The appetite, which is diſeaſed by heating and improper aliments, calls aloud for medicines to prevent a corruption of the whole maſs; but if the ſickly patient rejects the phyſic, which he ought to take, in ſubſtance, its ſalu⯑tary bitters muſt be adulterated in ſyrups."

[68]"In other words," cried Henry, "you would ſtrew flowers over the formidable paths of ſcience; and that is juſt coming round to my point. I thank you, brother."

"I would tie together, ſince it muſt be ſo," ſaid John, "a ſolid ſheaf of wheat, which invigorates the heart, and a florid, ſweet ſmelling, but ſickly weed, that only tickles the noſe."

CHAPTER X.

THE converſations on theſe and other ſubjects, however, were not confined to them⯑ſelves. There had ſubſiſted between the fami⯑lies of Clare and Fitzorton a long courſe of good offices, from a principle of amity, which had deſcended, pure and unabated, from father to ſon, for upwards of a century; during all which time, the tradition of their houſes had not recorded one difference, ſocial, political, or religious; but, on the contrary, thoſe tra⯑ditions diſplayed innumerable teſtimonies of the affection which knit them together: their [69]parks joined each other; and the avenues of venerable oak, which led from one houſe to the other, opened on the view the ſeats of their mutual hoſpitality, and interchanged endearment.

Mr. Clare, the proprietor of the manor⯑houſe, did not tarniſh the virtues, nor miſ⯑apply the fortunes, which had deſcended to him. He had loſt his lady only a few months after their union, of which the ſole fruit was a living conſolation, blooming in his only child.

With reſpect to Mr. Clare's daughter, as it ſeems to be a ſettled convention betwixt romance writers and their readers, that the caſket ſhould be ſuited to the gem, the reader's fancy has, no doubt, already con⯑vened the loves and graces to meet and contribute each their ſhare of appropriate attraction. Now it did actually happen in life, and ſhall, therefore, be recorded in this hiſtory, that the perſon of Olivia Clare was not unworthy of the mind, by which it was illumined.

[70]Perſonal beauty, it has been ſaid, falls under one or other of theſe four heads— Colour, form, expreſſion, grace; the two former of which have been conſidered as the body; the two latter as the ſoul of beauty. The young lady, under our pencil, had all theſe in very intereſting proportions. Her complexion was of that bright brown, which the critics, on beauty, have determined gives luſtre to all other colours, a peculiar vivacity to the eyes, and to the whole look a richneſs, which is in vain ſought for in the whiteſt and moſt tranſparent ſkins. The radiance of thriving health ſhone forth upon every fea⯑ture, and from her eyes beamed that gliſtening fire, which is only viſible in the morning of life.

Her diſpoſition was ſo artleſs, ſhe would have been an eaſy prey to the inſidious, had ſhe fallen amongſt the wicked, inſtead of the good. Such was her innocency, that it was as difficult for her to ſuſpect an ill in the heart of another, as to conceive any in her own; without the ſurfeiting fuſs of female ſentimentality, or the ſickning affec⯑tation [71]of novel-born benevolence, ſhe was generous, confidential, ſimple, and ſincere.

A happy grace of nature to give to every thing its kindeſt conſtruction, was ſo impreſſed upon every lineament of Olivia's face, that had her countenance, or figure, wanted every other attraction, this alone muſt have rendered her an object of eſteem and admiration. So victorious, indeed, over all events, and oc⯑currences, was this unpretending, but all⯑ſubduing, charm, that it was an inexhauſtible ſource of conſolation to herſelf and others.

CHAPTER XI.

THE preference ſhown by this young lady to Henry Fitzorton, though ſhe tenderly loved the whole family, began to ſhow itſelf before ſhe was conſcious of any nice diſtinc⯑tion in her own ſenſations. If ſhe preſented flowers, which uſed to be the offering of al⯑moſt every day, inſomuch that a bouquet with the dew upon it graced the ſide of every cup upon the breakfaſt table, that deſigned for Henry was always arranged with the moſt [72]care, and conſiſted of a more beautiful aſſem⯑blage; nor did ſhe forget to blend in it a ſprig of laurel, or myrtle, to adorn her little poet. She would uſually chooſe him as her companion in a walk, and expreſs ſome little diſpleaſure, and mortification, if ſhe was not his choice in the dance.

At later periods ſhe would leave John to his philoſophical, and James to his legal, ſtudies, and wandering with Henry amongſt the woods, or meadows, diſcourſe on the witching ſubject of his muſe; not that ſhe was herſelf a votary, but that ſhe loved what moſt intereſted Henry Fitzorton. She was never ſo happy as when he permitted her to make tranſcripts of his verſes, get them by heart, and recite them at the Fitzorton fire ſide; ſhe would almoſt embrace thoſe who appeared touched with their merits, and diſ⯑cover the moſt pointed chagrin if they fell ſhort of making a ſuitable impreſſion; and once upon John's ſaying they were hardly good enough for the bellman at Chriſtmas, but might do well enough for a girl's thread-paper, [73]ſhe burſt with tears, and did not ſpeak to him for almoſt an hour after.

Indeed John often aſſumed the critic in his judgment of Henry's poetry, and Henry in turn threw a dart, not without effect, at John's philoſophy. Olivia always ſided with the former. Sir Armine ſummed up; Mr. Clare ſmoaked his pipe, ſent forth a ſhrewd obſer⯑vation between the whiffs, ſometimes ani⯑mated the combatants, ſometimes arbitrated. James, juſt, ſenſible, and candid, tried to keep the youthful diſputants within bounds. Lady Fitzorton always gave the ſtrength of her remarks to the weak; but Mr. Clare, from a gleeful diſpoſition, would now and then ſpirit up the ſtrife, aſſiſt the ſtrongeſt under an arch pretence of ending the debate; his real deſign, however, was always tra⯑verſed by Olivia, who, when Henry appeared to have the worſt of it, would, when other arguments failed, bribe the old gentleman over with a kiſs. Many were their literary contentions, ſerious and ſportive; ſuch of theſe as more immediately connected with their re⯑lative ſituations as ſons and brothers, their [74]paſſions as friends or lovers, and their characters as men, will occaſionally be introduced.

As time ſtole on, the brothers grew into men. The attachment of Olivia Clare to the youngeſt Fitzorton, was of a more intereſting, and deciſive kind; her tenderneſs aſſumed a more affecting form: it had gained more power, but produced leſs happineſs; it had loſt nothing of its innocence, but much of that gaiety and ſport by which it was before cha⯑racteriſed. If then it was a roſe-bud in her boſom, it was now the ſame flower, more blown, more fragrant, perhaps, but ſur⯑rounded by its thorns, whoſe puncture the heart wherein it grew and flouriſhed, began ſenſibly to feel. She was reſtleſs when apart from Henry, and yet troubled in his pre⯑ſence; ſhe caught, imperceptibly, all his ideas of delight and ſorrow; and their very genius ſeemed by more than inſtinct, more than habit, to aſſimilate. The moon-beam, the muſe, the nightingale, the ſoft ſeaſon of the twilight, the lapſe of the ſtream, the ſigh of the zephyr, the turbulence of the ſtorm, and the roar of the cataract, had long been [75]his, and, at length, became her objects of enthuſiaſm. But whenever theſe ſombrous charms gave way to brighter images their reflected luſtre would irradiate Olivia. The fathers ſaw what they preſumed was a ſym⯑pathy in both. They nouriſhed and looked forward to it as the only bond that could poſ⯑ſibly add ſtrength and beauty to a friendſhip, that had been the growth of more than half a century.

Henry, however, who had all this time borne only the affection of a tender brother to his lovely aſſociate, was no ſooner informed of the nature of her affection, and of the family views thereupon, than he remitted his ſtudies for the clerical office, and cheriſhed more than his wonted melancholy. The family views, however, not being yet declared formally, he collected the ſenfe of them from certain caſual hints, and ſportive inſinuations. Sir Armine would often ſay, in the hearing of Henry, when Olivia was miſſing, "Where is the Poeteſs? Corydon, what have you done with your Phillis?" and if Henry was abſent nothing was more [76]common than for one or other of the families, turning to Olivia to exclain, "Bleſs me! where is your intended?" They always were ſeated ſide by ſide at table, and if the one or the other were out of the way, the place was held ſacred, and, excepting a caſe of neceſſity, unoccupied. John, indeed, would, now and then, uſurp the chair, but a grave look from Olivia, would make him reſign it.

The aſſociation of ideas, indeed, was, by long habit, become ſo familiar, that the names of Henry and Olivia, were always mentioned together; and however involved any other parts of the family might be in the queſtion then before them, it never happened that Olivia and John, or Olivia and James, were united, but Olivia and Henry, were ſure to come together; nay, they ſeemed in that order to be ſo properly placed, that it was difficult to tranſpoſe or mix them with any other, even when it was really neceſſary. John would exert, occaſionally, his confuſing talents and thereby derange the plan for ſeve⯑ral minutes, coupling his own name with Olivia's, and joining together thoſe of Henry [77]and his muſe, declaring, that ſhe only was the proper miſtreſs of a poet; but theſe perplexi⯑ties produced more pleaſantry than vexation, and always ended by John's giving up the point.

CHAPTER XII.

THAT, however, which more ſtrongly marked the intention of both houſes was Henry's diſcovery of the motive with which he and Olivia were left together; and not ſeldom ſuch excuſes of abſence made by the reſt of the families as plainly indicated that Henry and Olivia, were to be conſidered by every body as lovers; and, indeed, had any ſtronger proofs ben wanting, the behaviour of Olivia, on theſe occaſion, when every word, look, and accent, betrayed her, would have been fully ſufficient. She imputed the ſudden, and unuſual, reſerve of Henry to the ſame motives that produced her own—an increaſe of that timidity which ariſes from the increaſe of innocent and conſcious love; and though no two emotions in nature could be more diſ⯑tinct than thoſe, which at that time governed [78]their hearts, they produced, at the moment, a reſemblance ſo accurate that any obſerver might have miſtake the one for the other. Fearful to offend, and alive to all the merits and graces of Olivia, convinced that her con⯑duct, ſince he began to obſerve upon it, muſt, in a thouſand little inſtances, have ariſen from affection; grateful for the virtuous hap⯑pineſs his youth had received from the ſociety of one whom his heart had long ſince adopted as a ſiſter, and honoured by a ſentiment which he could not return, and which threatened to break in upon the felicity of both; Henry could not perſuade himſelf to an alteration of conduct, without, in ſome meaſure, account⯑ing for it; and to do this would not only be the moſt formidable undertaking, in as much as it might affect Olivia, but as it would vio⯑late a ſolemn vow by which he had pledged himſelf for a certain ſeaſon, and which for eſpecial reaſons did not admit even of frater⯑nal confidence; all, therefore, which could be done, in the preſent poſture of affairs, was to recede, imperceptibly as it were, from the degree of attention, which he had formerly [79]ſhewn this lovely creature; and as he could not bear treating her with the ſemblance of unkindneſs, or of openly reſiſting thoſe op⯑portunities which were ſo purpoſely thrown in his way, he had recourſe to other means; namely, to withdraw himſelf as often as he could from her ſociety. The abhorrence in which Sir Armine held public education did not afford the uſual ſeparations of ſchools and univerſities; he was himſelf in all part of knowledge and ſcience the inſtructor of his children, who had, indeed, aſſiſted each other ſo much in claſſical and polite learning, and were ſo inſeparable, that the abſence of a few days at this period of their lives, the only one, indeed, in which they were much toge⯑ther, was extremely unuſual. For ſome time, therefore, he could proſecute his intention no otherwiſe than by thoſe pious frauds which the ſituation allowed.—Was any party of pleaſure propoſed? Henry was ſeized, on the ſudden, with ſo violent an head-ach, that it was impoſſible to join them. Did the gentle Olivia offer her ſervices in the character of his nurſe? "She was all goodneſs, but he [80]could not endure company?" Was a freſh plan ſtarted upon his recovery? he feared adven⯑turing too ſoon into the air might bring back his complaint. On theſe occaſions the ſturdy John always maintained "that the ſociety which was to be got by begging made the perſon invited appear too rich, and the beggar too poor; and that as he ſhould always conſider the company of another a fair exchange for his own, and no more, whether the ſpoiled child (ſo he ſometimes called Henry) went abroad or ſtaid at home, was, in his opinion, perfectly immaterial: at any rate he ſhould not condeſcend to turn coaxer:" at this Henry would ſhake his head; and Olivia thank her ſtars Henry was a poet not a philoſopher! Was Henry at any time tenderly urged by all the reſt of the family in conſpiracy againſt him; and did a parent's ſoft authority con⯑troul him? the language of refuſal was ever the hardeſt to Henry's heart; he obeyed, but was always compelled to return the worſe for it: the tears would guſh from his eyes in the midſt of the general hilarity; and the tender terrors of Olivia, her killing aſſiduities, and [81]her unbounded affection, ſoon convinced him that ſtratagems of this kind could no longer avail.

Henry now meditated ſome excurſions re⯑mote from home, and eſpecially to ſuch of his young friends as he knew were acquainted with no other parts of the family. He had cheered his ſpirits, in the idea that this pro⯑ject would be more auſpicious than the reſt. He took, therefore, the firſt opportunity when his own family were aſſembled, and Olivia at the other houſe, to mention the probable good that might be produced by change of air, naming the perſon he intended to viſit. But in the very inſtant that Sir Armine nodded, as if acceding to the propoſal, Lady Fitzorton, in the moſt unequivocal manner objected, as the very worſt meaſure he could adopt; "For, beſides," ſaid ſhe, "that the preſent unfavourable weather, my dear Harry, makes it madneſs for an invalid to go abroad; the houſe you would mention has not, I be⯑lieve, had a well-aired bed in it theſe ten years. I therefore muſt inſiſt, as you value my life"—At this inſtant Olivia came in. "Yes, [72]I muſt ſeriouſly inſiſt Henry, that you do not hazard our lives, by riſking your own." The cheeks of Olivia, which were before tinted with the bloom of exerciſe, by a little excur⯑ſion ſhe had taken from the caſtle to the ma⯑nor-houſe, became pale as death—"Hazard your life and his, madam! did you ſay? Good heaven! what can he mean?" "Why, my dear, this—what ſhall I call him? huſband that would-be, is, for aught I know, going to deprive himſelf of a handſome wife, and good mother at once." Olivia who had been inſen⯑ſibly untying her cloak, now let it drop upon one arm—"Would you believe it? this raſh Strephon, my dear, is going to leave us!" Olivia's cloak fell from her arm on the floor. "I did not think Henry would leave us—to⯑morrow is ſomebody's birth-day!" "Yours!" exclaimed Henry, "I had forgot it"—"Forgot it! had you?" replied Olivia, "Would then it were the day of my death!" Henry, rather tottered than walked towards her, took her gently in his arms, and kiſſing away her tears, "Happy be your birth-day, Olivia! Indiſpo⯑ſition—you know how ill I have lately been,— [83]had hurried it a moment from my mind. I will ſtay to bleſs it! and could Henry's wiſhes prevail, its returns ſhould augment your felicity, until felicity could grant no more." Olivia raiſed her head at theſe accents, which ſeemed to have brought back not only the deſire of living, but life itſelf. She dropped involuntarily upon her knee, then riſing ſuddenly, influenced by the ſame emotion, and caſting an appealing glance, as if to juſtify her unſpeakable ten⯑derneſs, and bluſhing ten thouſand vir⯑tues, ſhe ran into the arms, which were thrown open to receive her. The two vener⯑able fathers and lady Fitzorton left their ſeats, with one voice, exclaiming, "Bleſs! bleſs you together!" James ſtood by, and lifting up his hands to heaven, reiterated the bleſſ⯑ing, "Bleſs! bleſs you together!"

Olivia was now as much overcome with joy, as before ſhe had been overborne by ſorrow. Lady Fitzorton received her from the arms of Henry, and every one aſſerted their right to enfold her. John, who happened to be at ſome diſtance, received her laſt; [84]and though he was not eaſily moved, the whole ſcene had affected him deeply.

The thought of eſtabliſhing happineſs in that innocent boſom, which he had diſtreſſed by the appearance of unfriendly neglect, operated on the generous diſpoſition of the amiable Henry, ſo far as to produce a ſatisfaction in his mind, to which it had for ſome time been a ſtranger. Believing that he owed Olivia the atonement of unuſual attention, and not being in a ſituation to reflect, a greater de⯑gree of that ſoftneſs accompanied his manner, which was irreſiſtible, than he had for a long ſeaſon dared to indulge. His melancholy now took that penſive ſhade, whoſe magic communicated a charm, when it was ſo at⯑tempered, to every object around him; and this again melted gradually away, like thoſe thin miſts which often mingle in the ſun⯑beams. In the progreſs of the evening, he ſaid and did numberleſs things, which recon⯑ciled him to himſelf, and was ſo evidently felt as a full recompence by Olivia, that the one had evidently forgot he was diſplaying the fondneſs of a lover, and the other had [85]every reaſon to ſuppoſe ſhe was the beloved object. Animated by theſe deluſions, this too was the night, on which, had not Henry's "oath been in heaven," and the ſecret of his heart along with it, Olivia muſt have triumphed; for never did ſhe look ſo fair; never did ſhe repeat with ſuch effect thoſe effu⯑ſions of the lyre, which ſhe knew were moſt in his own eſteem; never did ſhe ſtrike the chords of his favourite inſtrument with a touch ſo tremblingly delicate; never did ſhe appear to feel ſo much love for Henry, an affection ſo fraternal for his brothers, nor ſo filial a reverence for his parents.

John, in the courſe of the evening, broke from company thrice, from ſudden indiſpo⯑ſition, but returned the inſtant he felt him⯑ſelf recovered, and contributed his quota to the general joy: the gaiety increaſed, the hours flew, and on Sir Armine hearing the clock ſtrike eleven, his uſual hour of retreat, cried out, "Silence, tell-tale! you envy our happineſs, and would ſhorten it." "Rather," ſaid his lady, "command it to go faſter, that [86]it may bring on the hour which gave birth to Olivia!"

As if this had ſuggeſted a new idea, Henry gave the rein to his creative fancy, and en⯑tering into the ſpirit of the harmony that touched them all, hurried them from one ſubject to another, until warning was given for the twelfth hour; immediately upon which, he filled a goblet of Burgundy, and, as the clock was ſtriking, drank it on his knees, to the health and long life of Olivia Clare, before any other perſon could ſeize the bottle. This, indeed, he held at arms length, repleniſhing with a rapidity, that made him pour one half of his libation on the floor, and then putting round the bottle to John, "I muſt," ſaid he, "complain of your delay, (though he had not even then parted with the bottle;) and he ſwore that he could drink to the dregs, while ſuch a tardy fellow was filling his glaſs." This declaration he accompanied by three huzzas! which he in⯑ſiſted upon ſhould be joined by every one preſent.

[87]The company were ſo taken up with the enthuſiaſm of his voice, action, and addreſs, and were ſo divided between one rapture and another, they had not time to think about themſelves. It was with difficulty that Olivia, betwixt one ſenſation and another, kept her little wits. She cried and laughed by turns; but both theſe emotions were the happy hyſ⯑terics of the heart. She became pale and red alternately, and turning to lady Fitzorton, ſhe exclaimed, half drowned in tears, "that ſhe was the happieſt creature upon earth!" Then winding up the affections of the even⯑ing, to their higheſt pitch, filled her own glaſs, and expanding her lovely arms to the whole circle, exclaimed, "Bleſſed be ye all! and may the houſes of Fitzorton and of Clare be thus united for ever!"

John, who remained a few moments in the room, after the family had left it, ſat thought⯑ful—"My father is right; there can no longer be any doubt of their affection. My bene⯑diction, then, ſhall not be with-held—Bleſs them together!"

CHAPTER XIII.

THESE little ebullitions of a heart, anxi⯑ous to make full reſtitution for unintended offences, had, by this time, wrought ſo ſtrongly on the enthuſiaſm of Henry, that they accompanied him into his apartment, after the ſocial circle, highly in humour with each other, had diſperſed for the night. Be⯑fore he cloſed his eyes, his imagination was on the wing, aſſiſted not a little, by the effects of the Burgundy, yet more by the hilarity of the family, and above all, by the rich conſciouſ⯑neſs of having himſelf been the chief cauſe, and he invoked his muſe, which, like the harp of David, was his conſtant refuge in time of trouble, or of joy, to celebrate the anni⯑verſary of Olivia's birth. He addreſſed to her a ſonnet, in matter ſo chaſte, and in manner ſo delicate, even heated as he was, that the fair object of his compliment, but for that ſweet prejudice of love, which applies every thing of this kind to itſelf, might have looked upon as the tribute of an affectionate brother, [89]"ſmit with the love of ſacred ſong," to his moſt favoured ſiſter. Not that this ſo nice accuracy of expreſſion, reſulted from an un⯑uſual degree of care; for, beſides that his preſent agreeable delirium baniſhed all ſuch caution, he followed only that fraternal ſen⯑timent, heightened, perhaps, by the late events, which was the extent of what he really felt for Olivia.

After Henry had reviſed and tranſcribed his performance, the hurry into which his ſpirits had been thrown by the preceding ſcenes, terminated in a ſound repoſe. Not ſuch the hiſtory of the tender-hearred Olivia, after ſhe bade her friends adieu. The exceſs of her joy ſtill continued, and baniſhed ſleep. Morpheus is a timid and quiet power, that dares not venture to ſhed his opiates on the pillow, until the paſſions themſelves are diſpoſed to reſt. She would have thought the beſt offers of that drowſy god a waſte of the precious hours. The ſpirit of happy, and, as ſhe had every reaſon to believe, of mutual love, kept her beautiful eyes un⯑cloſed. But, if Henry was lulled to reſt [90]while Olivia was without a wiſh to partake it, ſhe had the advantage of him, not only from preſent joy, but ſuture delight; for he no ſooner opened his eyes, than he ſaw, felt, and underſtood, the miſchiefs to which the deliriums of the preceding evening would lead; and he had need of the refreſhments of ſleep, and the renovations of ſtrength and life they brought with them, to ſupport him on the preſent day.

He awoke, as from a voluptuous, yet diſ⯑ordered dream, after a night of intemperance. A train of circumſtances had taken place, which, he foreſaw, would not only augment the paſſion of Olivia, but give her and the families reaſon to believe he had himſelf been acceſſary to its increaſe. "Heavens!" ex⯑claimed he, ſtarting from his bed! "every ingredient I have adminiſtered, by way of an⯑tidote, has not only increaſed the force of the poiſon, but is, in itſelf, compounded of poiſons the moſt ſubtle and malignant—and this too is the birth-day of Olivia!"

He aroſe haſtily. The firſt object that engaged his attention was, the ſonnet which [91]had given him ſo much generous joy in the compoſition. He now conſidered it as an abettor, in the general perplexity, and was upon the point of ſacrificing it to his reſent⯑ment, when Sir Armine and James came into his room. "I am here, Sir," ſaid his father, "to rebuke your idleneſs, when your miſ⯑treſs and your muſe ought to have rouſed you the firſt in the houſe. Your beloved has been tripping round the garden theſe two hours, and her charming bluſhes, which ſur⯑paſs the roſes ſhe has been culling for you, ingrate, upbraid your lazineſs!"

"Indeed, my dear Sir," replied Henry, as if willing to explain, "there is ſuch a com⯑plication of miſtakes—ſuch a ſtrange ſeries of—of—"

"Miſtakes!" rejoined his father, obſerv⯑ing the ſonnet, that had been haſtily thrown on the dreſſing-table on his entrance—"Yes— yes, I ſee now in what the miſtakes conſiſt"— as I live, a poem to the 'lady Olivia's eye⯑brow'— ſee—ſtanzas, ſacred to the birth-day of"—. Here, his father recited the firſt couplet, and then taking hold of Henry with [92]one hand, and James with the other, hurried with them down ſtairs into the breakfaſt⯑parlour, but exclaiming at every ſtep, "I will lofe no time in clearing up theſe miſtakes I am determined."

He had ſcarcely opened the door of the apartment, in which the families were aſſem⯑bled, than he gave the anniverſary offering to the ſweet Olivia. She had that moment finiſhed a fragrant tribute; herſelf far more lovely than the faireſt of the flowers ſhe had collected. Sir Armine turning to Henry, exclaimed, "why doſt thou not offer them on thy knees, thou love-lorn Damon? Haſt thou forgot the proſtrations due to a goddeſs, when thou wouldſt ſacrifice?—but, I ſup⯑poſe, the poor trembling mortal is afraid leſt his offering ſhould prove unworthy of the ſhrine."

Thus was it rendered every way impoſſi⯑ble for Henry to negative a word, and his very ſilence was naturally enough converted to the ſubmiſſive awe, which is apprehenſive it never can preſent any thing worthy the acceptance of a beloved object.

CHAPTER XIV.

INDEED, ſuch was the undiſguiſed ſin⯑cerity with which Olivia acknowledged, and ſuch the impaſſioned gratitude and ſweetneſs with which ſhe received the poetical tribute; it would have been more than churliſh in Henry, to have found utterance for a ſentence that might chill the innocent delight it had created; and this delight was ſo viſible in the whole countenance of Olivia, that ſome of its radiance ſeemed to be reflected back even upon John; who, approaching her with one of his beſt bows, "albeit unuſed to the bending mood," ejaculated with unwonted fervor, "This is, my dear Olivia, the only moment of my regret, that the gods have not made me as poetical as Henry!—and if he had not invoked his muſe, I feel that I ſhould for the firſt, and probably, the laſt time of my life, have tried my hand at an acroſtic at leaſt. From Apollo and the nine young goddeſſes I ſhould have had nothing to expect: for I was not born under a rhyming [94]ſtar; neither would Aganippe, Helicon, nor Caſtalia, have done any thing for me: for I was never dipped in the ſtreams of fancy, nor could I have looked for better luck from Pegaſus or Parnaſſus: for I had never the art of managing a winged horſe, nor of clambering up an imaginary mountain; but if there is ought of inſpiration, in actual exiſtent beauty, grace, and goodneſs, 'as it lives, moves, and has a being,' in Olivia, ſhe ſhould herſelf have been both my ſubject and my muſe: and I will be judged even by Henry here," clap⯑ping his brother on the ſhoulder, "if ſuch inſpirations are not of more potency than all the fictions of the heathen mythology!"

This unexpected gallantry on the part of the philoſopher, as, on account of the debat⯑ing ſpirit, and ſententious gravity, they uſed to call him, enlivened the company.

To heighten the intereſt of all this, Lady Fitzorton, whoſe fine countenance illumined at ſome of the ſentiments of the birth-day verſes, began to read them aloud, pauſing at every ſtanza, as well to pay a juſt tribute to the genius of a beloved ſon, as to afford the [95]reſt of the company opportunity to join in his praiſe. The commentary written on the features of every face in the progreſs of his mother's recital, inſinuated into his heart ſo delicate a falttery, that not to have been touched with it, would have placed him above or below the feelings of humanity. But if we could even ſuppoſe it poſſible, that the general incenſe which was offered to a young man in full aſſembly, had fallen ſhort of its effect, upon a diſpoſition grateful and ingenu⯑ous as his, the particular homage which it drew from Olivia herſelf, could not but have fully made up the deficiency. She did not, indeed, utter a ſyllable, nor was it neceſſary. The words of love, it has been obſerved, ſleep in the ear that is too dull to comprehend its ſilence. A maxim happily verified in the countenance of our Olivia, whoſe eyes ſpark⯑led, cheeks glowed, and tears dropt, ſo as to ſhew moſt eloquently the excellency and the graces of her nature. In addition to which, ſhe had, even in the ſelection of the morning bouquet, conſulted thoſe three great maſters of effect,—time, place, and circumſtance. Moſt [96]of the flowers were emblematic, or could eaſily be brought to apply, to the caſe in point. The maiden's pride was relieved by the vir⯑gin's bluſh, and this again was veiled in laurel leaves. The ſweet-brier, which has ſo ſtrong an alluſion to the pains and pleaſures of at⯑tachment, was ſkilfully placed in the midſt of a bunch of love-lies-bleeding, around which was entwined not only balm of Gilead, but plenty of double balſams, and over the whole were diſperſed heart's-eaſe and the maiden's delight.

CHAPTER XV.

THUS did every moment tend to ac⯑cumulate cauſes of ſatisfaction to the reſt of the ſociety, and increaſe the difficulty for Henry to breathe an accent of diſcontent; or to give any of his friends the ſmalleſt idea that ſuch diſcontent was in his boſom. The anniverſary hours paſt ſmiling on, and although Henry could not be betrayed into the hilarities of the preceding night, when he [97]wholly forgot himſelf in others: although, neither the powers of wit, or of wine, nor the more animating ſenſation of genius receiving its reward from beauty, love, and family affection, could allure him out of ſome memory of himſelf, he was too much wrought upon by ſeeing every face happy about him, to damp, by any ill-timed gravity, the gene⯑ral joy. On the contrary, his behaviour was perhaps more touching even than before; for his exceſſive gaiety, which was rather a ſtrain upon his nature, and might be ſuppoſed to have left him ſomewhat exhauſted, was exchanged for a ſofter penſiveneſs of diſtreſs. Indeed, Henry was never ſo perfectly attract⯑ing, as when a certain tender ſhade, like a thin clouding over the ſun, veiled the efful⯑gence of his genius: if his happineſs, there⯑fore, now appeared leſs vehement, it was thought more genuine, and if a more ſerious ſigh than he intended eſcaped him, he would himſelf break its effect by a ſmile that chaſed away all ſuſpicion of latent anxiety. Before the aſſembly broke up, his ſpirits rallied, his happy powers were again exerted, and when [98]each perſon bade adieu to the other, it would have been difficult for a tranſient ſpectator to ſuppoſe there had been any aching hearts amongſt the company.

Some aching hearts, however, there were, and one of them throbbed in the breaſt of Henry. No ſooner had this devoted youth gained his own apartment, than the con⯑ſtrained part he had acted for ſuch a number of hours, ſo oppreſſed him, a thouſand emotions at once ſtruggled for vent, and could be relieved only by a flood of tears. The hap⯑leſs youth had done the utmoſt, that a regard for the happineſs of others could inſpire. He had yielded to occurrences not in his power to foreſee, or to obviate; and for two days together, without a poſſibility of pre⯑venting it, had been the ſacrifice of contin⯑gencies.

It is now high time we ſhould account for this extraordinary degree of miſery in Henry, while ſo many other dearly loved individuals, of both families, were happy. The reader, indeed, would have good reaſon to accuſe him of unpardonable caprice, or of ſtrange [99]inſenſibility, if ſome motive, ſtrong as honour, and aweful as fate, had not fixed in his mind an inſuperable objection to the plan, which was carrying on for his union with Olivia. In order, therefore, to juſtify his determined oppoſition to the family meaſures, it is neceſ⯑ſary the reader ſhould now be informed of that ſecret which he held ſacred, and "pluck out the heart of his myſtery."

And yet, we have hitherto employed ourſelves, in bringing the reader acquainted with ſo many good and benign characters, and ſeating him by their comfortable and ſocial fire-ſide, in a manner, like one of the family: that it is not without regret, we are now to lead him farther into the neighbour⯑hood; where he muſt meet with ſome perſons of a different deſcription. But if Paradiſe had its ſerpent and its fiend, it cannot fairly be expected, that Fitzorton Caſtle ſhould have been without ſomething to denote its being placed in a mixed and imperfect world.

Yet, if thy mind, O reader! like Olivia Clare's, is of that pure and virgin innocency, incapable of having deviſed, or practiſed, [100]any thing which has ſullied its native white⯑neſs, it will feel a pang, unknown before, to be ſhewn the ſpots, which have darkened and debaſed the mind of another. To be the firſt to inflict this pang, can only be compen⯑ſated by the good effects, which may be adduced from it; for it were to be wiſhed, thou ſhouldeſt remain, even all thy life long, as unknowing of the wickedneſs of the world, as incapable of adding to it: and, indeed, that the purity of thy own ſoul, ſhould, as it did in her caſe, lead thee to a firm belief, no ſuch wickedneſs exiſted in that world: deeming thyſelf, but one, amongſt all the millions that people it, who preſerve undefiled the expreſs image of thy maker. But as ſuch credulity, alas! is incompatible with—we had almoſt ſaid,—the preſervation of ſuch innocence, we think it fitting thou ſhouldeſt, in ſome meaſure, be prepared for the enſnarers, and the ſnares thou mayeſt poſſibly meet with in, perhaps, thy long journey, through the mazy windings of human life. If, then, in this faithful record of what has really been ſaying and doing [101]in the world, almoſt, ſince its beginning, and will, probably, continue to its end, we hold up to thee ſome ſtriking contraſts to the characters already introduced; and which were in perfect ſympathy with thy princi⯑ples, and affections; conſider us only, as acting the part of tender parents, whoſe protecting roof thou art about to quit, for buſy ſcenes beyond their reach; and who, before they truſt thee from their arms, diſ⯑cover to thee the perils by which thou art environ'd, warning thee to beware!

We mentioned a third manſion, within the view of Fitzorton Caſtle, and the Manor-houſe of Clare. This edifice, was called Guiſe⯑abbey, the immediate poſſeſſor of which, was Sir Guiſe Lorrain Stuart, whoſe anceſ⯑tors had been amongſt the partizans of the Queen of Scots, while thoſe of Sir Armine, had diſtinguiſhed themſelves as the moſt zealous ſupporters in the royal army. Sir Guiſe had ſtill in his family, ſeveral reliques of the Princeſs, who is ſaid, by hiſtorians, to have been unmatched in beauty, and un⯑equalled in misfortune.

[102]The fillet and veil that bound the beaute⯑ous eyes of the Scottiſh Queen, the rich habit of ſilk and velvet, in which ſhe arrayed her lovely form, and the ivory crucifix, which ſhe held in her hand on the morning of her ex⯑ecution, were yet preſerved in an apartment called Mary's room. On the other hand, and with no leſs pride of character and blood, Sir Armine enrolled in the line of his anceſtors, the chancellor, who affixed the ſeal to the warrant for Mary's death; another kinſman, was one of the Earls to whom the fatal inſtrument was confided, with orders to ſee the bloody commiſſion, which it bore, duly executed: and the portraits of theſe perſons, were ſtill to be ſeen at the caſtle.

Nor had the houſe of Guiſe, or of Fitz⯑orton, been more zealouſly attached to the domeſtic conflicts, which happened between thoſe rival ſovereigns, Elizabeth and Mary, than to their religious tenets.

The firſt ſevere ſhock their friendſhip received, was occaſioned by a very fierce conteſt, that ſprung up after dinner, at the [103]Abbey, on the very day that Sir Armine made the overture viſit, deſigned to eſtabliſh a good underſtanding between them as gentle⯑men and neighbours, however little they might accord in matters of Church or State. After Sir Guiſe had drank "forgetfulneſs of the paſt," in a half pint bumper of claret, he aſſerted, "that, to ſhew his neighbour all was abliviated, although he would drink three more half pints to the memory of Queen Mary:"—here, he filled and emptied with ſpeed;—"Sir Armine was welcome to pay what homage he pleaſed to her mur⯑derer!" Sir Armine reddened.

But Sir Guiſe, before the meeting, had poured down his throat nearly the quarrelling quantity. Sir Armine bore it long, with right chriſtian patience, moving now and then in his chair, ſtriking a tune with his fingers on the table, and twice ſhifting his ſeat, grinding however, at different pauſes, the indigeſtible word "murderer!" "Why, that ſhe was a moſt foul murderer in this inſtance," reiterated Sir Guiſe, filling his glaſs, "I preſume, there is not a man living [104]will dare to deny." "I dare, ſir," returned Sir Armine, bounding up, and taking half the room at a ſtride. "Then who was?" retorted Sir Guiſe; "Mary! your Mary!" "'Tis falſe, ſir!" replied Sir Guiſe, hurrying down another bumper, from whoſe aid he derived a courage not his own;—"by the illuſtrious ſpirit of her, whoſe wrongs fill my ſoul, no leſs than her blood my veins, 'tis falſe!"—here, he ſtruck the table with his ſpread hand, and threw the glaſs in which he had been drinking, on the ground;— "wiſhing,"—as he ſtampt upon the frag⯑ments, "that all the enemies of that ill-fated woman, were cruſhed into duſt in the like manner." Sir Armine threw up the ſaſh for air, then rang violently: on a ſervant's ap⯑pearing, he "ordered his carriage," in a voice ſcarcely articulate, folding his tremb⯑ling hands, and turning up his flaſhing eyes, as if to implore the ſuccour of the God of long-ſuffering, to grant him a few more moments of patience. But Sir Guiſe, unwil⯑ling to loſe the time before him, adopted the worſt character that hiſtory has recorded of [105]Sir Armine's heroine, riſing in his aggrava⯑tions at every word.

Sir Armine oppoſed to this, the reverſe of the picture, ranſacking the inexhauſted ſtores of his memory, for thoſe hiſtorical teſtimonies of this Princeſs's activity, pru⯑dence, and diſcernment: "but above all," added he, "her vigorous and immortal de⯑fence, and eſtabliſhment of religion—a pro⯑teſtant Queen, led as it were by the hand of the Almighty to a proteſtant throne, even till popery became her footſtool."

"I ſay," cried Sir Guiſe, ſtarting up and ſtaggering; "I ſay, with the beſt hiſtorians, the whole exiſtence of this queen, this pre⯑tended virgin, was a tiſſue of falſehood, in⯑ſincerity, and cunning." He then run into an elaborate defence, equally intemperate, of the queen of Scots, contraſting it with the moſt violent ſarcaſms on Elizabeth.

This burſt of acrimony called forth all that was irritable in Sir Armine. "O ſhame where is thy bluſh! can ſhe find a vindicator at this time of day: and a vindicator in one who aſpires to the friendſhip of Sir Armine Fitzorton—Fie upon it, Sir Guiſe!—Are then [106]the credulous Darnley, the execrable Both⯑well, the abandoned Rozzio, the infamous Douglas all forgotten? Are the ſelf-con⯑demning letters, ſeductive ſonnets, and ſedi⯑tious pacquets, all vaniſhed from your memory?"

"Lies! lies! forgeries! damnable forgeries," raved Sir Guiſe, "all deeds of darkneſs worked in that gulf of ſin the ſoul of Elizabeth! Did not your cloth protect you"—"My cloth is no protection," replied Sir Armine, "nay, 'tis my proper robe of defence, and reminds me of the duty of puniſhing a de⯑famer of the glorious defender of the faith I profeſs, and of the holy religion of which I am a miniſter"—"But," continued Sir Armine, ſomewhat recovering himſelf, "I have done with you for ever, Sir—it is well ſor thee that the blood of the Fitzortons, rather than that of the Stuarts, fills my veins." This menace had effect enough on Sir Guiſe to make him congratulate himſelf on the de⯑parture of the menacer.

This ſpecimen of their political difference, indeed, is allowed a place merely to ſhew an [107]important feature in the diſpute between the families; but we muſt, thus early, enter a caveat againſt the reader's expecting any more on the ſubject, unleſs, by tranſient reference, it may be neceſſary; as it is by no means our intention to mix domeſtic annals with contro⯑verſial hiſtory, on a point that will probably remain in violent contention to the end of time.

CHAPTER XVI.

WITH reſpect to the perſonal accom⯑pliſhments of Sir Guiſe Stuart, they were yet ſufficiently attractive to be numbered amongſt the ſhining ſnares that involved his admirers. Conſidering the excellence of his conſtitu⯑tion, which even the ſuicide hand of intem⯑perance had not been able hitherto to un⯑dermine, the Baronet might ſtill be ſaid to enjoy the prime of life. Although he was by nature ſtubborn, he became flexible by art, ſuperficial in underſtanding, but profound in deceit, by means of which he won not only the eſteem of a nobleman eminent for his knowledge of mankind, but the love of that nobleman's heir and only child Matilda, with [108]whom Sir Guiſe received fifty thouſand pounds on the day of marriage, and the like ſum the year following at her father's death.

Select, reader, from amongſt the productions of nature ſome flower as the emblem of ſoft⯑neſs, humility, fragrance, and beauty; give to it that unreſiſting, and appealing delicacy, which trembles at the gale that it perfumes, and thou wilt have a juſt idea of Matilda Edgecumbe.

Then call to thy imagination ſome noxious, but fair-looking, plant, able, from the ſtrength of its ſtem, and vigour of its foliage, to endure the rudeſt ſtorm, extending its "marriageable arms" to protect the lovely flower, while that flower ſeems to thrive under its ſhelter; but ſoon the bitter and oppreſſive leaves of evil growth, overwhelm with their ſhade and blaſt, with their poiſonous qualities, all that are beneath. Hence wilt thou gain ſome feeble image of Matilda's huſband. Who is ſeared by all the weak, ſays a philoſo⯑pher, deſpiſed by all the ſtrong, and hated by all the good, may ſecurely ſay to himſelf, no matter if there be no other raſcal left on earth, I am ſtill one: and the Baronet might [109]very ſafely give himſelf this conſolation. The impracticable temper and offenſive man⯑ners of Sir Guiſe Stuart, his habits of riotous loquacity, or of ſullen gloom, ſoon looſened his hold on all good men: nor had he indeed been even on converſation terms with the Fitzortons or Clares for ſome years. Anxious indeed to live in charity and peace with all mankind, and from the goodneſs of his own diſpoſition, as well as from a conſciouſneſs of his own infirmity, always imputing to himſelf a ſhare in the cauſe of eſtrangement; Sir Armine had ſo far alleviated the party rage, produced by diſcuſſion of the merits of the two Queens, as to give Mary's champion a meeting ſome time after at the manor-houſe, in the life time of Mrs. Clare, who had been intimate with Lady Stuart's mother: and then it was that Olivia Clare, and the female part of the Abbey family, were for a few days thrown together; and an unbroken amity would on their part have enſued, particularly between the ladies, had not the ſtormy Sir Guiſe thrown, as uſual, an intercepting cloud over the proſpect.

[110]Unable ſincerely to forget or to forgive what paſt on the ſubject of Mary and Elizabeth, or indeed any injury, yet wanting the manly courage, honeſtly to reſent it, he did every thing that in him lay to make the contiguity of the eſtates of thoſe families to the Abbey lands matter of diſpute: yet at once aſhamed and afraid to diſcloſe the real motives, he added falſehood to malice! In the daſtardly hope of covering them.—Under pretence of removing diſagreeable objects, he de⯑moliſhed ſeveral pictureſque fragments and ruins, which had been of great effect in dif⯑ferent points of view from the caſtle. From Sir Armine's pleaſure ground the eye could, formerly, take in a fine cataract, which rolled down the rocks through the foreſt, the ob⯑ſtructions of which had been cleared away by Sir Guiſe's father on purpoſe to enrich the proſpect: this alſo, giving out that it muſt certainly annoy eyes and ears, the imperious Baronet obſcured, with ſuch malice of deſign, that inſtead of a cataract the eye was offended by an invidious ſcreen of clay, ill thatched and purpoſely disfigured, ſo as to reſemble [111]the dead blank of an enormous barn; he gave it the air of tumbling to pieces, be⯑cauſe he ſaid his neighbour loved ruins, and theſe were a ſubſtituted improvement on the fragments he had before taken away. Various openings in the foreſt gave peeps of ſeveral towns, ſpires, and buildings, and all theſe were likewiſe cloſed; and the abbey itſelf, which formed one of the nobleſt objects to the caſtle, was by one contrivance or another, even to Sir Guiſe's own inconvenience, ſo intercepted, as to be completely ſhut out from obſervation. One aſpiring tower at the top of the abbey,—which he remembered, in the days of intercourſe, to have heard Sir Armine obſerve it had ſtood as the friendſhip of their progenitors, and truſted it would remain ſuch to their poſterity,—he en⯑cloſed in a wooden caſe, becauſe he inſidiouſly ſaid it would preſerve it, though in effect it became an object of even more deformity than it had ever been of beauty. The ſpirit which incited him to theſe acts of ſubordinate meanneſs being treated with manly contempt by Sir Armine, his neighbour's malignity be⯑came [112]more diſcoverable in matters of greater conſequence; he forbade his wife, children, and every part of his family, or domeſtics, to mix with, or ſpeak to, thoſe of Fitzorton, or Clare, on peril of his utmoſt reſentment; warned both houſes not to treſpaſs on his ma⯑nors; ſet up a pack of harriers and fox-hounds, though a fearful rider, and no ſportſman, and, to the deſtruction of nurſeries, fences, and plantations, ran the dogs and game to the gates of the caſtle.

In one of theſe purſuits, Sir Armine, who had been at that time enjoying the peace of benevolence, and the beauty of nature, with his ſon John, in his own grounds, was ſo ex⯑aſperated at the wanton triumph of Sir Guiſe, as he rode by him full ſpeed, blurting the mud in his face, though no game had been found, that John, lifting up the cane with which he had been walking ſhook it at the Baronet, and exclaimed in an almoſt whiſper⯑ing voice, "Villain! there wanted but this, and I thank thee for it, even though at the price of an inſult to my father! I am thy debtor!" Sir Guiſe, who was within hearing of [113]the menace, turned his horſe ſuddenly, and in the head-long fury of his vengeance, for⯑getting his uſual diſcretion, rode round both the father and ſon in a circle ſo narrow, as al⯑moſt to cover them within length of his whip. Guiding his horſe ſo as to draw him ſtill nearer, John caught the ſkirts of the coat, and had nearly diſmounted him, when Sir Guiſe, ſpurring the horſe with great violence, backing him at the ſame time, the animal was forcibly drawn upon the venerable Ar⯑mine, who, in falling, received a blow in the left ſide, and might have been trampled to death, had not John Fitzorton, at the hazard of his own life, ſtruck the horſe with ſuch force as to make him ſpring forward and throw the rider. "Coward! aſſaſſin!" mut⯑tered John, but ſtill with governed articula⯑tion, "did not a ſuperior duty claim my firſt attentions, I would chaſtiſe thee as I ought!" John held in his arms his fainting father while he ſpake, then carried him to the park-cot⯑tage, caſting over him a look of love and terrour, that for the moment abſorbed his indignation.

[114]Of this blow Sir Armine fell ſick, and un⯑derwent a tedious confinement; in the courſe of which the tender love borne to the vene⯑rable man by his own family, and that of the Clares', was variouſly manifeſted. Lady Fitzorton, and the gentle Olivia, were, by turns, his nurſe. John preſerved the virtues of his character. He had, for motives which will be explained, recently entered the army, and but for this accident, was about to join his regiment; and Henry, though at this time more frequently, and for a greater length of time abſent, diſcovered, whenever he ap⯑peared, a degree of trouble and anxiety even ſuperior to that of John. James was in London.

No ſooner had Sir Armine quitted his bed, than he ſummoned John into his apartment, and deſiring him to ſit down near enough to receive confidential diſcourſe, "My dear John," ſaid the good man, "I have ſelected you from the reſt of my ſons, not becauſe I love you better, but becauſe there is in you more of that firmneſs which I have occaſion to employ. I need not inform you that the [115]family of which you are a part, never incurred diſgrace, or ſuffered diſhonour—a character unimpeached, and unimpeachable, has, for more than ſix hundred years, been as its creſt, and has reared itſelf amongſt the beſt and proudeſt of honourable anceſtry—honourable not ſimply from titles—for what are they but the ſhadow of a ſhade?—but from ſoul⯑ennobling action, and I truſt it ſhall deſcend to you, and your poſterity, without a ſtain.— At the preſent moment, however, you can⯑not but know a ſtain there is of the fouleſt nature caſt upon it. My ſon I ſhall in a few days be in a ſituation to wipe it away. I abhor all impotent menaces, and, therefore, I ſpake not of this till the power was added to the will; but even now that they are pre⯑paring to unite, beſides that I hold the mo⯑dern deciſions in ſcorn, let me honeſtly pour myſelf into your boſom. I am terrified at the ideas I had formed in wrath—they were impious. You are not to learn the duty of a chriſtian paſtor—and, though the laws of private honour, like thoſe of fate, are unal⯑terable, how can I obey them? To-morrow [116]I am allowed to air, of courſe to-morrow ſhould be the day of clearing your birth⯑right; but I dare not meet, as in a ſecular character I ſhould, the ruffian who has ſtained it. Until the hour was almoſt at hand, I in⯑dulged the anger-born error of perſonal ven⯑geance; but ſhould a miniſter of the goſpel of peace, whoſe weapons are meekneſs and forbearance, preſume to take into his own hand—"Sir," interpoſed John, "were the meaſure ſanctioned, it would be unneceſſary." "Unneceſſary!" exclaimed Sir Armine, who roſe and walked acroſs the room for the firſt time ſince his illneſs, unſupported. "Ill ſhould I deſerve your confidence, had I per⯑mitted the ſpot of which you ſpeak to remain ſo long on us." Sir Armine's colour gathered in his cheek—"Explain, Sir!" cried he: John diſappeared, but returning, gave an inſtrument to Sir Armine, ſaying "It was this, Sir, which cut out our ſtain—See it is ſpotted with the blood of Sir Guiſe Stuart."

"Dead! I truſt in God, not dead!" ex⯑claimed his father, unſheathing the ſword with one hand, and graſping the arm of John [117]with the other, ſometimes looking at the ſword, and ſometimes at his ſon. "The triumph of an ignoble mind going on, per⯑haps, to our diſgrace, I ſought and met the aggreſſor, with his ſon Charles. I told him I came as my father's repreſentative. The vil⯑lain would have fled; but partly by ſhame, partly by force, he raiſed his arm, and we fought. I pierced his breaſt, and ſhould have gained his worthleſs heart, but that he threw down his ſword, and with a coward's ſpeed, fled to the abbey." "We are alone, Mr. Fitzorton," ſaid Charles, "this is an affair that admits not parly." He threw him⯑ſelf into a poſture of attack; "Unleſs, Charles, you think the blood of an honeſt man can expunge the infamy of a ſcoundrel," replied I, "it would be well to deſiſt." The brave youth pauſed, and ruſhed into my arms: he felt too powerful for utterance. I gave him my hand: he wept with tender⯑neſs, and bluſhed with ſhame.

The varied emotions and paſſions which Sir Armine had undergone, during this expla⯑nation, added to the length of the pauſes, in [118]which he was obliged to indulge himſelf, kept him cloſeted with John until the reſt of the family began to ſuſpect it was occaſioned by his having relapſed, and by John's endea⯑vours to reſtore him without alarming the reſt of the family; lady Fitzorton, therefore, haſtened into the library, attended by James, Mr. Clare, Olivia, and Henry. Sir Armine, hearing them on the ſtairs, ordered John to throw open the door, and ſcarce giving them time to enter, he leaped up in an exſtacy, ex⯑claiming to his wife—"Madam, embrace your ſon; to him you owe the eternal ſhame of the Stuarts, and the glory of the Fitz⯑ortons.— Boys, acknowledge a brother, who has reſcued your father, yourſelves, and your poſterity."

At the name of the Stuarts, Henry turned paler than death, and upon his exclaiming, "Has any thing, Sir, happened to the Stuarts?"—

"That has happened, boy," rejoined Sir Armine, "which"—"Your pardon, Sir, the name of Charles Stuart, a brave young man, a brother officer, and the friend of Henry, is [119]involved in this affair, and it ſhould not be talked of. Indulge and honour me ſo far as to forbear again the diſcuſſion.—Our father, you know, my brother, is always too good, and gives to common duties im⯑meaſureable rewards."

He ſpoke with a dignity that demanded obedience, even from a parent, and left the room. "Noble youth!" exclaimed his fa⯑ther, "my praiſe, my gratitude, my bleſſing follow thee!"

Soon after this occurrence, the quarrel ſettled into an inveteracy, ſo generouſly avowed on the part of Sir Armine, and ſo meanly clandeſtine on that of Sir Guiſe, there was not left the ſmalleſt hope of the breach being repaired. Indeed, religion, manners, and morals, ſeparated this turbulent and over⯑bearing man from the worthy Fitzortons.

Yet had this turbulent and over-bearing man a daughter, who in mind and manners contraſted her father. Caroline Stuart to the brighteſt powers of the intellect, adjoined the ſofteſt affections of the heart; nor, had her cultivated endowments taken any thing from [120]that touching ſimplicity, which is the charm of female youth. Her face was leſs exactly beautiful than that of Olivia Clare; but was of that intereſting kind, it was impoſſible to be looked upon, without a certain tenderneſs, to which every feature of it laid claim. Her eyes, though wanting the effulgence that beamed from thoſe of Olivia, were of a luſtre ſo extremely mild, that they appealed to the protection of every beholder, and ap⯑pealed not in vain. Her ſhape had leſs of majeſty, but more of grace, than that of Olivia. Her whole figure, indeed, wanted Olivia's dignity, but poſſeſſed a no leſs at⯑tractive eaſe.

In one part of Caroline's character, there ſeemed to be an inconſiſtency. Although her heart overflowed with the moſt melting ſen⯑ſibility, her mind was ſo firm, as to have rarely abated any thing in thoſe points, which ſhe had eſtabliſhed as matters of duty—and this was carried, from her earlieſt days, to ſuch an extreme, that while her heart ap⯑peared properly to belong to her as one of the moſt tender of her own ſex, her mind, [121]for by that word can we only make the diſ⯑tinction, ſeemed to form the moſt intrepid feature of what has been thought heroic in ours. Thus, for inſtance, no tyranny of her father, whoſe ſtern commands might be ex⯑pected to ſhake the nature of ſo gentle a being, ever gave the air of reluctant obedi⯑ence. "Diſpoſe of the life you gave, Sir," ſhe would ſay, "as you pleaſe, I ſubmit"— She often felt the wrong, foreſaw the conſe⯑quence, in ſecret mourned the error, but never queſtioned the authority. "Implicit obedience," has ſhe been heard to obſerve, "might be weakneſs rather than ſtrength in me; but in this caſe, I do not belong to my⯑ſelf, and where the author of my exiſtence is concerned, I feel myſelf as having no judg⯑ment, no will, no reaſon, nor any of thoſe faculties, which, in every other circumſtance of life, I am free to exerciſe."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE reader has anticipated the power of Caroline Stuart over the heart of Henry Fitzorton. He ſees that ſhe was a ſucceſsful rival of the no leſs amiable Olivia; not that her character correſponded more with that of Henry, for it was, in ſome reſpects, leſs con⯑genial; and congeniality has been thought an univerſal magnet. But there had happened in early life one circumſtance, which exalted Caroline above all compariſon on the throne of Henry's affections, and eſtabliſhed her there too ſtedfaſtly for the whole ſex to ſup⯑plant her, even had every other woman been an Olivia. Caroline had the advantage of a firſt impreſſion. She had been the ſecret goddeſs of his idolatry an whole year, before his other little playmate; and though not an inmate of his family, the houſes of Fitzorton and Stuart having become formal viſitors prior to this aera, yet had Henry, who hap⯑pened to be in friendſhip with Charles, the [123]only ſon and only favourite of Sir Guiſe, fre⯑quent opportunities of ſeeing and converſing with little Caroline. Olivia Clare was at that time with a relation in London, her mother being then recently dead.

What mighty revolutions in human affairs have not twelve months, twelve days pro⯑duced? In caſes of the heart, a ſingle hour has ſometimes decided its choice, even be⯑yond the power of mortal change.

Sir Guiſe had conceived an early diſlike to⯑wards Caroline, which bordered on antipathy. The principal reaſon for which was, not ſo much his inordinate affection for Charles, as her being tenderly beloved of her mother lady Stuart, whom the Baronet deteſted with an abhorrence, yet more deadly than that he bore his daughter; for it was founded on the conſciouſneſs of her poſſeſſing virtues, which at once excited his diſgrace and envy. Lady Stuart had all the meekneſs of her daughter, but none of her magnanimity. Her ſpirits ſunk before the brutal violence of her huſ⯑band, who, when he did not find it for the intereſt of ſome favourite point to be gloom⯑ily [124]ſilent like an inſidious calm, was vehement as an hurricane, that deſolates every thing in its path; and poor lady Stuart was driven in terror before it, as the atom is driven by the whirlwind: whereas little Caroline ſuſtained the ſhock, unmoved, without oppoſing it. It is hard to ſay which conduct moſt exaſpe⯑rated Sir Guiſe: that of his lady he regarded as contemptible weakneſs; and he heſitated not to pronounce that of his daughter, obſti⯑nate ſtupidity. The terrors of his wife, ter⯑minated in that uncomplaining miſery, which is dumb through fear; and he frequently ſwore Caroline wanted voice, only becauſe ſhe wanted feeling. This deciſion incited him to new modes of tyranny, to innovations in the art of tormenting. But if the be⯑haviour of Sir Guiſe was thus odious, that of young Caroline was in the ſame proportion admirable. The tempeſt whoſe rage ſhe could not appeaſe, ſhe never controuled;—when⯑ever, therefore, ſhe perceived the ſtorm bearing hard on the tender ſpirits of lady Stuart, ſhe drew her imperceptibly, on ſome pretence or other, into the ſhelter of another [125]apartment; and that Sir Guiſe might not be more furious, wanting an object whereon to wreak his vengeance, which is always the laſt aggravation of ſuch a temper, ſhe re⯑turned in haſte, and uſually remained till the violence abated; when, like the angel of mediation, ſhe haſtened to comfort her trem⯑bling mother. To theſe ordeals of Caroline, was Henry often witneſs.

Yet was this contemptible tyrant what a certain diviſion of ſociety calls a pleaſant companionable man, who could be gay, flexi⯑ble, and almoſt forget his nature in general company. It was only at home that he fol⯑lowed thoſe baneful and malignant impulſes, which, like obſtructed torrents, are the more overwhelming for being repreſſed. "The moſt abhorred thing in nature," ſays a pro⯑found writer, with the moſt penetrating truth, "is the face that ſmiles abroad, and flaſhes fury when it returns to the lap of a tender, helpleſs, family:" Such was Sir Guiſe Lorrain Stuart.

In one of his moſt ſtormy ebullitions of paſſion, accompanied, as they always were, [126]when he dared to vent them, with the loudeſt vociferations, his terror-ſtricken wife ſunk ſubdued at his foot, which, with exaſperating inſult, he raiſed to ſpurn her. "God!" cried lady Stuart, "he will kill me!" Caro⯑line, who perceived the deſign, threw her⯑ſelf between, and received the blow upon her lovely arm; but inſtead of attending to the pain, ſhe extended it to her father, while ſhe raiſed and ſupported lady Stuart with the other, then kiſſing the face of her mother, and preſſing the half-reluctant hand of her father to her lips until ſhe had drawn it, in⯑ſenſibly, to thoſe of his wife, ſhe held it there until it had received a token of for⯑giveneſs, to which it was no way entitled. But this failing to effect her purpoſe com⯑pletely, ſhe perceived it was the moment to change her attack, and looking at the bruiſe of her arm ſmilingly, and in a tone apparent⯑ly betwixt jeſt and earneſt, ſaid to it,—"a fine mark to be ſure—no matter for that! if you were the means of gaining a reconcil⯑ing kiſs from my father, and making him and my mother good friends only for this fort⯑night [127]to come, you have my leave to be black and blue theſe twenty years!" Then, lift⯑ing it ſportingly again to the lips of Sir Guiſe, joining his hand at the ſame time to that of lady Stuart, now within reach, ſhe exclaim⯑ed —"There, Sir, the colours are fixed you ſee already, you have ſpoiled me a dozen conqueſts, at leaſt, at our next ball; but I have gained a victory," drawing her father's arm round his wife's neck, "worth a thou⯑ſand of them, and ſo the beauty of my poor dear arm is much at your diſpoſal, Sir, when⯑ever you pleaſe."—By this time, lady Stuart like a ſpirit of peace, yet ſhrinking almoſt from herſelf, was brought by Caroline into the embrace of Sir Guiſe, who, relaxing of his rigour, condeſcended with ſullen humility to ſay, "Madam, I beg your pardon, büt you are ſo curſed timid and frighted, it always throws me into a paſſion; but this lioneſs in ſheep's cloathing, weathers it out you know, let the winds and waves do what they will, and ſhe will have her way, though one were ready to expire with vexation."

Caroline who always knew her opportunity, [128]ſaw this was the criſis to gain more, and as her gentle heart was by no means ſatisfied, ſne changed her battery again, and with additional vivacity ſaid—"Yes, Sir, but you do not get off ſo. I have you now"— tightening her handkerchief in a true-lover's knot, "and I proteſt I will not let you ſtir an inch until you have aſked her ladyſhip's pardon as you ought to do. Come, Sir, put your hands together prettily, in this manner, for inſtance."—

Sir Guiſe, betwixt contending and yield⯑ing, ſuffered her to fold his hands in a pray⯑ing poſture—"Well, what nonſenſe next?" cried he, with a ſoftened kind of growl.

"I vow," added Caroline, "I never ſaw any thing ſo well become you, Sir, as good humour.—Tell me, Madam, is not he quite handſome when he ſmiles? if you do not reward him for it, you do not deſerve it."

Here ſhe playfully put both their faces together, and Sir Guiſe was almoſt human. The gentle Matilda was paſſive in his arms, but neither inſenſible of her huſband's ex⯑torted [129]kindneſs, nor of her charming Caro⯑line's generous interceſſion.

A little ſtratagem atchieved the reſt of her duteous purpoſe, and ſettled her ſavage ſire this once into unwonted cordiality. "Good gracious!" cried ſhe, dropping on a chair, and from thence on the carpet, "what can be the matter with me? I am certainly going into an hyſteric."—Sir Guiſe, taken in his beſt humour and by ſurprize, was on his knees to aſſiſt her, perceiving which, and quitting the part of the ſick lady, ſhe bounded up with the lightneſs of a ſylph, and holding Sir Guiſe to his kneeling poſture, declared that was the very attitude in which he ought, for the laſt time of aſking, to beg lady Stuart to forgive him, which betwixt the pleaſantry of the ſally, and the ſubmiſſive ſweetneſs of his wife, who involuntarily dropt on her knees, as if aſhamed to ſee him on his, he did not wholly without grace; after which the triumphant Caroline danced, ſung, and tripped round them as if ſhe had completed the conqueſt of the globe. In the fulneſs of her felicity ſhe wept. O Alexander! [130]what at the unſatisfying termination of thy victories, was thy tear to that which fell from the lovely eyes of Caroline Stuart!

At other times when her own efforts miſcarried, or met from her father ill-mannered repulſe, ſhe would employ the mediation of her brother Charles, whoſe goodneſs of diſpoſition was no more to be warped by undue indulgence, than was that of Caroline by undue ſeverity. Beſides which, Charles Stuart tenderly honoured his mother, and loved his ſiſter. He was always, there⯑fore, conſidered by Caroline as the dernier reſorte, in ſuch family diſturbances as baffled her own efforts; and whenever theſe heavy ſtorms aroſe, ſhe has introduced Charles into the apartment where the tempeſt raved, at the exact criſis, ſometimes when Sir Guiſe thought him out of reach, and more than once when that amiable youth had threatened never to ſee his unrelenting father again; nay, ſometimes, ſhe has been known to ſend off a private expreſs to him, ſtating, "that his immediate preſence could ſave his mo⯑ther from vengeance." On theſe occaſion [131]ſhe would empty her little purſe, to reward the meſſenger; or when Henry was viſiting at the abbey, during the important impreſſive twelve months, ſhe would give him the com⯑miſſion, which the good-natured youth would execute with incredible ſpeed, and arrive with his friend Charles: the latter no ſooner made his appearance than Sir Guiſe was charmed, as if by ſome magic power that had his ſavage nature in controul. His violent ecſtaſies at ſeeing his ſon, and his dread at loſing him, were ſo great, that he ſeldom enquired into the abruptneſs of the viſit, but welcomed him with open arms, the more eſpecially if Caro⯑line happened to be by, in the hope ſo decided a preference might add to her mor⯑tification; for ſuch was the radical baſeneſs of this man, that even the happineſs of his own heart, ſo far from expanding, contracted it to that of others; and he could purſue the hateful paſſions of his nature, and remember his averſions in the midſt of his enjoyments. Little, however, was he ſkilled in the tem⯑per of his noble-minded daughter. Superior to the ordinary jealouſy which ſuch favouritiſm [132]in parents ſometimes excites in children, ſhe ſecretly triumphed in her father's predilection for her brother, whom ſhe called the general peace-maker of the family. And as Charles was paſſionately fond of muſic—ſhe would exert her utmoſt ſkill, and ranſack all her little ſtores of harmony to detain him at the abbey. She would, moreover, ſometimes call in Henry to the aſſiſtance of her own powers, in order to render her brother's continuance at the abbey more pleaſant to him.

But when Charles entered the army, and was abſent with his regiment in diſtant quar⯑ters, which was at an early period, it was her cuſtom to walk herſelf to the neighbouring poſt-houſe, at the diſtance of a ſhort mile from the abbey, and receive the letters for the family. It was a tender compact between the brother and ſiſter to make the latter alone the correſpondent of the former, ſo that ſhe was the medium of all tidings from Charles and Sir Guiſe, who, though a general ſeal-breaker, never had the courage to uſe open violence with his ſon's letters. With one of theſe, therefore, ſhe would reward his kind⯑neſs, [133]or rather his leſs degree of harſhneſs; for he was never kind to her mother—with another ſhe would threaten him into better treatment—with a third bribe—with a fourth beguile him into ſomething like civility; and, in ſhort, by theſe and a thouſand other inno⯑cent manoeuvres, ſhe would ſometimes abate, ſometimes prevent, his anger, and always receive the heavieſt weight of it herſelf, when to prevent or abate it was impoſſible.

CHAPTER XVIII.

IF the reader takes into conſideration the youth, ſuſceptibility, genius, and native ſoftneſs of Henry Fitzorton, he will think the firſt fond emotions of his heart towards this fair object inevitable; and if again he reflects on that young man's amiable endow⯑ments of mind and perſon, he will believe it as unavoidable for him to have had ſuch almoſt conſtant intercourſe, without her be⯑coming ſenſible of his virtues and graces in return. To Caroline, Henry addreſſed the firſt inſpirations of his infant muſe—"He [134]liſped in numbers, for the numbers came:" from Caroline he received the firſt ſmile of woman that ever reached his heart—and as the tears of virtue fell on her cheek, after any ſtrong exertion of filial duty that left her ſpirits exhauſted, they ſeemed to drop upon his very ſoul, melting it to ſoftneſs like her own—from Caroline he received the firſt ideas of female beauty, grace, goodneſs, and affection—from her he drew his heroines and his goddeſſes! She even outwent his very fictions as a poet, and his viſionary powers all borrowed their beſt magic from the real Caroline. Did he wiſh to deſcribe the gentle⯑neſs of his heroine? it was the gentleneſs of Caroline—to give her firmneſs of ſoul? He gave her Caroline's.—Did he deſire to adorn her with the fineſt eyes? He attempted to deſcribe the eyes of Caroline—the faireſt complexion? it was Caroline's.—Shape? Who could be ſo good a model as Caroline?—Voice? Where could ſuch dulcet notes be found as attended the accents of Caroline?—In a word, ſhe was in every acceptation of the term—his 'firſt love;' yet ſtrange as it may [135]ſeem to many readers, who are, perhaps, by this time prepared for declarations of love, many months paſſed in this endearing inter⯑change without his once having ſaid—"Ca⯑roline, I love you, Caroline!" She was the innocent enchantment of his life: he ſaw her in the magic moments of her grief, and there was little doubt but the faſcination was re⯑ciprocal; yet a certain delicate terror pre⯑vented both from declaring what each per⯑fectly ſaw, felt, and underſtood. The ſen⯑ſations of Henry were combined of genius, conſtitutional diffidence, and the ſweet awe, without fear, that touched him in the preſence of Caroline. Theſe bound up his voice as by a ſpell; and Caroline invariably took re⯑fuge either in another ſubject, or flight, whenever ſhe ſaw him on the trembling edge of a declaration. And this was ſo well adjuſted on both ſides, that no one of the families, not even Charles, had ſuſpicion of what was paſſing in their boſoms. It was at length, however, betrayed by one of thoſe omnipotent trifles which often lead to, and determine, the great events of human life.

CHAPTER XIX.

CAROLINE had retreated from the rage of Sir Guiſe, on a day that he could not be wrought upon, and when Charles was from home. Her handkerchief was at her eyes, and as ſhe took it from them, ſhe exclaimed, "this laſt ſeverity is indeed hard to bear!—he has almoſt beat me to pieces!"

Henry, who had been taking his twilight walk, near the avenue, that led to the abbey, ruſhed through the boughs, vociferating, "beat you Caroline! who is the villain that dares lift his hand againſt the beloved of my heart and ſoul? his life ſhall anſwer it! ten thouſand lives cannot atone it. Inſult you! Beat you! O that the aſſaſſin were here! He ſhall die, Caroline, he ſhall die!— no!—heaven be your avenger—he is, could be none other than Sir Guiſe Stuart, your ſavage father!" The ungovernable wildneſs of this ſpeech, the tender phrenzy in which he preſſed her cheek upon his own, without ſcarce knowing that he touched her, increaſed [137]for a moment the terrors of Caroline; but, on reſuming herſelf, ſhe ſaid, with penetra⯑ting firmneſs, colouring as ſhe ſpoke, "There is a ſanctity, ſir, in the very infirm⯑ities of my father, while you are in his daughter's preſence! and though, in a frail moment, you heard me bewail their effects, I muſt inſiſt upon your aſſixing to his name, no epithets unbecoming his child to hear."

Henry was ſilenced.

"In the preſent inſtance, it was particu⯑larly unſeaſonable, ſince it was chiefly in de⯑fence of your honour, ſir, that I have ſuf⯑fered."

Henry chilled with apprehenſion.

"You have been accuſed to Sir Guiſe, of carrying tales of our little diſturbances, from the abbey to the caſtle."

The cheeks of Henry ſeemed to hold all the blood that had filled the channels to his heart.

"For you Henry, have I committed againſt my father, the firſt diſobedience of the life he gave."

[138]Henry's blood ſallied back, and left his countenance colourleſs as death.

"I told him, that his ears had been abuſed, and that I would pledge my duty on the in⯑tegrity of Henry Fitzorton."

Henry paſſionately caught her hand, and preſſed it to his pale and trembling lips. "You did me indeed but juſtice, Caroline: but was this juſtice repaid by blows?—O! the honour of my whole life were purchaſed too dear at ſuch a price."

"My rebellious anſwer ſtruck like unex⯑pected thunder upon my father's ear, and juſtified what enſued."

"Juſtified!" rejoined Henry, looking over her lovely countenance, as if to ex⯑amine the injuries it had received, all the indignant and tender paſſions ſtruggling in his own.

"But in the end, I triumphed; for a letter that inſtant arrived from my brother, replete with honourable teſtimony of Henry's con⯑fidential virtues. John Fitzorton, had com⯑plained to Charles, that though he was regular in his enquiries after Charles, he [139]never could get a ſyllable from his brother Henry, reſpecting any part of the Stuart family.

"I left my brother's written juſtification in my father's poſſeſſion; ſaying, as I with⯑drew, that I ſhould as ſoon connect diſhonour with my own ſoul, as with that of Henry Fitzorton!"

Henry heard this with a thrill of tranſport ſo univerſal, that, unable to contain himſelf, he caught Caroline in his arms.

Sir Guiſe Stuart, accompanied by his Lady, came haſtily down the avenue, and ſurpriſed the lovers in this ſituation.

The Baronet ſhook with a ſenſation be⯑tween the exceſſes of rage and aſtoniſhment; and running up to Caroline, with the dread⯑ful violence of deſperate and uncontroulable authority, would have committed ſome out⯑rage which his life perhaps, muſt have anſwered, had not lady Stuart, ſeeing his fury, thrown herſelf on her knees on the bare earth, between her huſband and her child, while Henry ſpread himſelf as a ſhield before Caroline, aſſeverating in a voice that echoed [140]through the foreſt, "ſhe was the moſt inno⯑cent and noble creature, now under the eye of an atteſting God!"

Caroline with a modeſt intrepidity, ran from her protector, and raiſed her mother from the ground.—"I cannot bear to ſee you in this poſture, madam: it becomes the daughter, not the wife of Sir Guiſe Stuart"— then embracing her father's knees, ſhe entered into an explanation, as to the entire accident of the meeting.

He now heard the whole of Caroline's narration, and either was, or affected to be, ſatisfied: for with more ſerenity than could have been expected, he ſaid, "Mr. Fitzor⯑ton may be ſure I think as well of him as the reſt of my family, or ſhould long ſince have for bidden him the abbey. Lady Stuart, indeed, and I, have been this half hour in ſearch of Caroline, to tell her, I was ſatisfied the reports made againſt you were falſe, though at the time I heard them, they had as bad an aſpect as our late diſcovery, and juſti⯑fied as ſtrong ſuſpicion; but explanations have done away both, and ſo if you are not en⯑gaged [141]at the caſtle, come and paſs your evening with us at the abbey."

Henry accompanied them home to the infinite ſatisfaction of himſelf and Caroline, and not a little to the comfort of Sir Guiſe and his Lady; though it was a comfort ſpring⯑ing from very different cauſes: and Henry after having ſaid a number of things in the courſe of the evening, which proved the perfect innocence of himſelf and Caroline, but unluckily proved ſomething more, left his friends and took his way through the foreſt by the light of his beloved moon to the Caſtle of Fitzorton. When he came, however, to that part of the great evenue where the adventure that began the evening had happened, he could not but go a little out of his path to reviſit the ſpot, and to do ſome act that might mark the aera of the firſt avowed declaration of his paſſion for Caro⯑line. Favoured, therefore, by the moon, he ſtopt to carve the names of Henry and Caroline, with the dates of the month and year upon the bark of that very tree, under which he had for the firſt time held her in his [142]arms, while he breathed forth fervours of as chaſte a paſſion as ever animated the breaſt of man. "Bleſſed day," ſighed he, "and bleſſed be its returns to the end of time!"

But no ſooner were the parties at the abbey retired to their ſeparate chambers, than they gave way to their ſeparate reflections, each of which, though carried on in a different train, too plainly demonſtrated, that with⯑out diſputing any part of the facts which Caroline had explained, that very explanation went amongſt a thouſand other matters now firſt made to apply, to place beyond a doubt the long-cheriſhed, though long-con⯑cealed affection of Caroline and Henry. The amiable Lady Stuart ſecretly approved the flame, which ſhe nevertheleſs ſaw, would if it went on, enwrap the hoſtile houſes in a blaze, that in the end would probably reduce both of them to aſhes. Sir Guiſe groaned in the bitterneſs of ill-ſmothered antipathy, even at the idea of uniting the families of Stuart and Fitzorton, the youngeſt branch of the latter, being ſuffered in obedience, ſtrange as may ſeem the expreſſion, to the wiſhes [143]of the ſon, who, and who alone, had ſovereign dominion over this impracticable tyrant of a father: and Caroline herſelf, when ſhe con⯑ſulted her pillow on the events of the even⯑ing, and on thoſe occurrences which had preceded them, could not but foreſee innu⯑merable evils riſing in aweful array before her view. Till this fatal night ſhe had never fully inveſtigated the extent of the miſchief which an affection for Henry would inevitably produce. The declaration of his paſſion had made the intereſt they took in each other more formidable: it had unbound as it were the charm, which, as a bandeau of love, had by a ſort of enchantment covered their eyes from looking too minutely into their hearts. Caroline had ſo often engaged Henry in the gentle offices of family pacification, made him one of her principal inſtruments in her little conciliatory plans, reſorted to him for council in her domeſtic difficulties, and looked upon him ſo entirely as another Charles, that though ſhe felt his ſociety communicated a more intereſting kind of joy, and his abſence a more lively kind of depri⯑vation, [144]ſhe either had not time or inclination, ſhe either did not, or dared not, aſk her heart, very ſeriouſly or formally, "to what a degree Caroline was dear, or to what an extent Henry might be precious." She now, there⯑fore, for the firſt time, began to rebuke her⯑ſelf that the ſame motives which had ſo often impelled her to change Henry's converſation, break it ſhort, or leave him abruptly, had not ſerved as warnings of the ſtate of both their hearts: and of that ſorrow which was in reſerve for them, if an immediate ſtop were not put to their proceedings.

From accuſations of herſelf, ſhe proceeded to accuſe Henry, whom ſhe could not think with⯑out his ſhare of blame in theſe tranſactions: "the miſery we were preparing for ourſelves, and the wrongs we were heaping on our already but too much outraged houſes. After the laſt conteſt between them, which termi⯑nated in the hazard of his brother's life, it was indelicate, it was undutiful in him to approach the abbey:—and if his affection for Charles was conſidered as diſtinct from theſe unhappy feuds, that affection ſhould have [145]been carried on at third places, and not clan⯑deſtinely, under a roof where reſided, whe⯑ther juſtly or unjuſtly, the known enemy of his father. Scarce had ſhe given vent to theſe ſentiments than her heart brought forth all its ſoft apologies to excuſe, and even to juſtify him. She called to mind the benevo⯑lent aſſiſtance ſhe had often received from him, when the rage of her father had over⯑borne her poor mother in its vortex, and left her undefended in the ſtorm; ſhe had heard too from Charles of the inceſſant, though concealed, endeavours of Henry to heal the breach of the contending houſes, till the laſt fatal ſtroke made it a crime to attempt it farther. In referring the caſe to her own heart ſhe there found his virtues, his tender⯑neſs, and manly graces, had enſhrined him as the firſt of human beings.—She found him worthy to be its entire poſſeſſor, and had not an argument remaining againſt him but that he was too amiable, and too unfortunate.

CHAPTER XX.

IN this diſpoſition ſhe roſe. Sir Guiſe firſt entered the breakfaſt room—Lady Stuart and Caroline ſoon followed; and the three ſat down without knowing any thing which had paſſed in each other's mind ſince they laſt parted; for as Sir Guiſe and his Lady ſlept in ſeparate apartments,—for a reaſon as diſ⯑graceful to the one as it was honourable to the other, with which the reader ſhall, in its place, become acquainted,—they had no op⯑portunity to communicate. The ſecret, therefore, which each ſuppoſed had been diſcovered, though each found out the ſame fact, only reaſoning on it differently, pro⯑duced a ſimilar effect on their conduct: nei⯑ther of them ſpoke to each other for ſome time, though each appeared to be labouring with ſomething extraordinary. The terrors gathered and diſperſed on the brow of Sir Guiſe; Lady Stuart ſometimes ſurveyed Ca⯑roline with tender diſtreſs, that mingled the emotions of pity and apprehenſion; and [147]Caroline looked abaſhed, anxious, and con⯑founded.

Sir Guiſe, after the firſt diſh of tea, roſe up, ſtrode acroſs the room thrice, ſlapped his hand on his forehead, and ſtamped with his foot, exclaiming—"If it be ſo, woe to them both!"—then turning to Caroline—"when the library bell rings it is for you Miſs Stuart."

The trembling Caroline bowed aſſent, and Sir Guiſe left the room, ſlapping the door after him with tremendous violence.

"My dear child," ſaid Lady Stuart, expanding her beautiful arms to receive Caroline, who, on her father's departure, ran into them for ſhelter—"you are un⯑happy —and I fear, too, Sir Guiſe has diſ⯑covered the cauſe.—If it be that which I think I alſo have traced, what will become of us?"

"What, indeed, Madam? for it is—it can be only that—my own guilty mind con⯑vinces me it can be none other," anſwered Caroline.

"The guilt of tenderneſs for Henry Fitz⯑orton," reſumed her mother, gently careſſing [148]her,—"Ah! my deareſt-loved child, that the worſt paſſions in the breaſt of others ſhould make the beſt in ours criminal!"

Caroline, touched to the quick with this kindneſs, anſwered only with her tears.— "Forgive me what I cannot forgive myſelf."

"Forgive you!" ſaid Lady Stuart, "heaven is my witneſs, did my power keep pace with my inclination, your tender heart ſhould never heave a ſigh that did not proceed from the perfection of its joy. Are you not more than my child? Have you not been more than my parent? How many times has this feeble frame, ſinking under my huſband's diſpleaſure, been raiſed from the very duſt of the earth by Caroline? How many bitter ſarcaſms has her gentle nature borne for me? How many cruel ſtrokes, intended for me, has that ſweet form received, and how often have you ſmiled in agony to think they did not reach your mother!"

"Spare, ſpare me, Madam," ſaid Caro⯑line, weeping and clinging round her neck— "indeed, indeed, my life is of no value, but [149]as it can be of ſome uſe, or comfort, to thoſe who beſtowed it."

"Yet do not ſuppoſe," continued Lady Stuart, "I did not feel the blows that you took from me. I felt them in my 'heart of hearts'—and at this moment could a mother's gratitude, love, or tender adoration, aught avail, the beſt of men ſhould be given, by this maternal hand, to the beſt of women— But, as it is, I tremble for you both."

Here the fatal bell began to ſound, and Caroline, who had hid her face in her mother's boſom that her bluſhes might not be ſeen during the laſt ſpeech, ſtarted up as if it were the knell of death, and begging her mother to be compoſed, and depend upon Caroline's duty, obeyed the ſummons.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE library was at the farther-moſt part of the abbey, and the long dreary paſ⯑ſages that led to it, with the echo that at⯑tended every ſtep, together with the rebound [150]of the maſſy doors as ſhe opened and ſhut them, gave a ſolemnity to the ſcene ſhe was approaching: She came, at length, to the apartment, which ſhe no ſooner entered than ſhe threw herſelf at the feet of Sir Guiſe, who had collected all the terrors of his diſpoſi⯑tion to receive her. Oft he circled the room which, even at mid-day, was always ſom⯑brous, and even ſepulcharl; oft he threw a glare of malignant diſdain towards her, ſtill ſuffering her to keep her lowly poſture. He dropt a curtain ſo as ſcarcely to admit the entrance of the light—then faſtened the door. —His cruel nature never omitted giving to every puniſhment its pageantry and apparatus to make it the more terrifying.—At length, with a voice that was the more dreadful for being controuled, he ſaid—"Audacious! you are beloved by the ſon of my bittereſt enemy!"

Caroline bowed her head.

"This is not the worſt," continued he, "you return his paſſion!"

Caroline was ſilent.

[151]"Mark me," ſaid Sir Guiſe, "forbid him the abbey, and let the act ſeem to be your own."

Caroline bowed aſſent.

"Frame ſome fit reaſon to your brother for your conduct, and let neither his anger, nor that of your inſolent lover, wring from you the ſecret that this was by my command."

Caroline bowed again.

"For the preſent," ſaid he, "you may withdraw." "Seeing her riſe to obey," he continued,—"no,—remain you here, while I give orders to your mother, who is to under⯑ſtand, remember, it is a ſettled point for which you alone are accountable, that Henry Fitzorton never enters more the Abbey of Stuart."

The daſtardy of ſpirit, which betrayed itſelf in the midſt of this hard command, could not but ſtrike the noble-natured Caro⯑line, and ſhe beheld the ſhrinking coward dreſſed in the robe of the tyrant: that tyrant, however, was her father, and ſhe had made it the law of her life to obey him. After Sir [152]Guiſe had left the room ſhe remained for ſome moments without motion—then fetching a deep ſigh ſhe exclaimed—the tears almoſt choaking her utterance—"This is the hardeſt duty ever yet impoſed on me: Enable me, good heaven, to bear it!—and is Caroline to let him underſtand, it is ſhe who ſhuts the door againſt him for ever! Muſt I appear cruel, and unjuſt, in order to be obedient? How ſhall I endure it! And have I ſeen for the laſt time Henry Fitzorton. O! it is too much!"

There was, however, as we have already obſerved, a fortitude in the mind of this amiable girl which equalled the tenderneſs of her heart, and on this great occaſion ſhe re⯑ſolved to ſummon it to her aid. Nothing but the ruin of herſelf, and the ruin of the object ſhe loved, and, probably, the utter deſtruction of both the houſes, could, ſhe foreſaw, be the conſequence, if ſhe liſtened to any arguments that pleaded in her boſom in favour of this unfortunate paſſion—and ſhe ſoon perſuaded herſelf it would be a me⯑ritorious ſacrifice to cruſh it at once. She, [153]therefore, began, ſeriouſly, to conſider how this might beſt, and moſt effectually be done; not a little felicitating herſelf that as Henry was now gone home, ſhe ſhould have time to deviſe means proportioned to the end. While ſhe was ruminating on theſe matters the library folding-doors were again thrown. open,—Sir Guiſe re-entered—ſtood fixed an inſtant—turned back—and beckoned her to follow him. They paſſed along the winding labyrinths, and cloiſter-like glooms, without ſpeaking a word; and as they came within view of the room to which he was guiding her, he ſaid, in a firm but fearful kind of whiſper—"That is the apartment— and this the opportunity—obedience of death!" then abruptly leaving her, he ſtrode back towards the library. The handle of the door ſhook as ſhe opened it, without knowing what ſhe had to apprehend: but what was her aſtoniſhment when ſhe ſaw Henry Fitz⯑orton, ſitting with Lady Stuart, half drowned in her tears! Caroline had not time or power to articulate her ſurprize, before her mother roſe, as ſhe had been previouſly commanded, [154]and looking unutterable tenderneſs, firſt at Caroline, then at Henry, left the room.—On Caroline's following her ſhe gently repulſed her—ſhook her head, and ſhewed every ſign of dumb diſtreſs as ſhe withdrew.

She now found herſelf alone with the very Henry ſhe thought never to ſee more. It was a prophetic pauſe on both ſides. Henry firſt broke ſilence by informing her, that he could not reſt in peace till he found the reconciliation of the paſt night were confirmed: but that from the preſent air of Sir Guiſe, and the unexplained anxiety of Lady Stuart, he had fears that ſome new commotion had happened, and begged earneſtly to know if he could any way be made inſtrumental to reſtore the quiet of the family.

"You can, and you only," anſwered Caroline. "You, yeſterday, declared your love, and to-day I renounce, what, alas! I could not accept without complicated injury and injuſtice. We have erred; let us reform that errour: but, as the taſk may be more difficult while we are in the preſence of each [155]other, it is a duty—perhaps a hard one—but ſtill a duty that we owe each other—and, certainly, that we owe our unhappily divided houſes, to meet no more."—It was ſome minutes before ſhe could utter the laſt ſentence!

Perceiving, as ſhe ſaid this, that Henry was about to combat all her arguments, and knowing how powerful an advocate in his favour ſhe nouriſhed in her own boſom, ſhe anticipated, and annihilated, whatever he could have advanced by this deciſive ſen⯑tence. —"I have ſpoken on conviction Henry, and my actions muſt accord with my words."

Having delivered herſelf thus, with an unuſual degree of ſolemnity, ſhe advanced towards Henry, gave him her hand in a manner that at once expreſſed tenderneſs and reſolution, and with a voice in uniſon with theſe, exclaimed, "my dear, my excellent Henry, may the bleſſings of heaven follow you as unceaſingly as my regard!"

The agitated Henry wanted courage to releaſe her hand, or to retain it.—His own trembled in it—the unutterable anguiſh of [156]ſuch a parting was painted in his looks as he ſurveyed thoſe of Caroline, who perceiving his ſituation, and, perhaps, feeling her own would, in the next inſtant, be ſimilar, by one powerful effort—as the tears were ſtealing unbidden down her lovely face—as her colour began to vary, and her limbs to fail—firmly, but not rudely, broke from his hands, and ruſhed out of the apartment.

In her way back to the library ſhe met Sir Guiſe, to whom with reſumed force, for pre⯑ſence of mind was amongſt her extraordinary powers, ſhe ſaid, "you ARE obeyed my father—ſuffer me now to enjoy the victory over myſelf."

Meeting no interruption from Sir Guiſe ſhe ſought her chamber, while her father went into the apartment ſhe had juſt left, in order to enjoy a victory of another kind. On his entrance he found Henry overwhelmed in his grief and deſpair, and apologized to him, on pretence of buſineſs, for having left the room ſo abruptly: while Henry,—ſo in⯑finitely do circumſtances change the objects of fear to hope, and hope to fear,—ſoftened [157]his deſperation by a thought that an enemy might be converted into a friend; his agi⯑tated heart believed it poſſible that the father, in his pitying goodneſs, would intercede with the daughter, to relax ſo much of her cruel reſolution, as to ſuffer his viſits at the abbey as a friend.

Had Sir Guiſe ſhaped an event to his wiſh it could not have been more auſpicious than this to his purpoſe; for every pang he in⯑flicted on any individual of the Fitzorton family, ſo as he eſcaped the danger of diſ⯑covering that he was the inflictor, gratified that revenge he felt for the whole. He now, therefore, began to ſing forth the praiſes of his own friendly wiſhes on the occaſion; de⯑claring how infinitely he was aſtoniſhed, firſt at the affection itſelf, and ſecondly, at the girl's ſo abſolute rejection of him. "However I will do my beſt, and hope I may ſucceed," added he, "and if you fail the fault will not lie with me." Sir Guiſe ſhook him by the hand, adviſed him to ſuſpend his viſits for a few days, that he might have the better op⯑portunity to befriend his cauſe, and ſmiled [158]as he bade him farewell. Henry, who be⯑lieved that every ſmile and promiſe was ſincere, left the abbey much conſoled.

CHAPTER XXII.

WHILE theſe matters were carrying on in the family of Sir Guiſe Stuart, tranſ⯑actions no leſs intereſting, but of a very dif⯑ferent nature, had happened at the caſtle. For a conſiderable time after the feſtivities, on the birth-day of Olivia, the houſes of Fitz⯑orton and Clare, were in that ſtate of hap⯑pineſs, which, in good minds, generally are in the train of reconciliations. John had more than one cauſe of hoarded regret, but he had learned early to ſacrifice; and although Henry yet carried, like the wounded deer, an arrow in his boſom, which often ſeparated him from the ſocial circle, he ſtill nouriſhed the hope of a cure alſo, and waited in ſecret an opportunity to explain. Meanwhile his flights, and his reveries, were variouſly ac⯑counted for, defended by Olivia, bantered by John, and pardoned by all.

[159]While Lady Fitzorton was one day lament⯑ing a longer abſence than uſual in her youngeſt ſon—and Olivia Clare;—not without an half ſuppreſſed ſigh, had elaborated his apo⯑logy by aſſuring his mother, he would con⯑trive to make amends when he came again amongſt them, he entered the pavilion where they were then aſſembled.—"I am ſure by the fine phrenzy of his look," continued Olivia, "and that poetic pale of his coun⯑tenance, he has been paying his devoirs to that nature which even love itſelf may allow to be, ſometimes, a rival—and I do not doubt but we ſhall all be delighted with the rich reſults of her inſpirations." "Very likely," anſwered John, "and pray brother which of the natures has the honour to be moſt in your good graces at preſent?—nature abſolute or nature poetic?"—"Are there two natures then?" queſtioned Henry. "Well ſaid poet!" obſerved Sir Armine. "Two! yes, as certain as that you have two eyes"— "Nothing can be more certain than that," interpoſed Olivia, "looking at Henry."— "Aye, and fine ones too," audibly whif⯑pered [160]pered his mother. "What, for inſtance, can be more diſtinct than nature abſolute and nature dramatic; in other words, nature on and off the ſtage. Hard, indeed, is the work of nature dramatic, who is forced to own fathers and mothers, huſbands and wives, ſiſters and brothers, uncles and aunts, which have been ſtolen or ſtrayed, dead, buried, and forgotten, for twenty or thirty years. Nay, and to manifeſt the ſtrength of her ſympathizing power, you poets, brother, inſiſt on our believing it is a ſure guide in any exigence whatever. Hence we aſcertain conſanguinity at a moment's warning, yea, and without any aſſiſtance from the five ſenſes, unleſs we can ſuppoſe ſhe is directed, like ſpaniels or maſtiffs, as in the caſe of Ulyſſes and his houſe-dog, by the ſmell. For, as inſpiration is never given when immortality, poetically ſpeaking, is with-held; we can⯑not, I apprehend, conſiſtently account for theſe operations of nature, in her dramatic capacity, except by the medium of her great acuteneſs in that faculty we have men⯑tioned. Nature on the ſtage then we will [161]conclude is endowed with a wonderful ſaga⯑city of the naſal organ, which, far ſurpaſſing the ſubtleſt inſtinct, ſcents the relation it has never ſeen, and never expected to ſee; and like the pointer, ſtands fixed on a certainty of having found its proper game long before it riſes to the eye. And this I take to be that ſecret ſomething, that irreſiſtible ſympathy, that nameleſs indeſcribable emotion, which make heroes and heroines, who, unprepared by any ſentiment, circumſtance, or event, burſt into tears, ruſh into one another's arms, and almoſt ſmother each other with kiſſes; till, forgetting all the violations by which the good people came together, we feel only how we ſhould weep, and embrace for joy, were a ſimilar incident brought about by actual nature to happen to ourſelves, and thus we not only applaud but encourage the counterfeit."

"Well ſaid philoſopher!" obſerved Sir Armine, "I preſume you have been reading what a mitred author of our own country, diſtinguiſhed as well for profound as elegant literature,—ſo you ſee 'tis very poſſible to [162]unite them with the clerical character Henry—has ſaid on the incredulus odi of Horace. That which paſſes in repreſentation, and challenges as it were the ſcrutiny of the eye muſt be truth itſelf, or ſomething very nearly approaching to it—but you note at the ſame time that the obſervation is confined ſingly to the ſtage—the learned Biſhop allows the caſe is different with the more creative poetry; and guards you from extending a particular precept into a general maxim."

"True, Sir," anſwered John, "on the ſame reverend authority, I am diſpoſed to admit yet more," here he looked keenly at Henry, "a young and credulous imagination loves to admire and be deceived, and has no need to obſerve thoſe cautious rules of credibility ſo neceſſary to be followed by him, who would touch the affections, and intereſt the heart."

"You have twiſted and applied this to your own purpoſe John," ſaid his father.— "It is in addreſſing the paſſions that poetical truth is ſaid to be 'almoſt as ſevere a thing as hiſtorical." "Diſtinguiſh, dear brother, if [163]you pleaſe, betwixt a dauber and an artiſt," ſaid Henry—"The ſterling and the droſs," added Olivia—"A contemptible copyiſt and a noble imitator," remarked Sir Armine— "The weak attempts of a few from general excellence," noted Lady Fitzorton—"Rather ſay, Madam, the excellence of a few," an⯑ſwered John, "and the weak attempts, to call them no worſe, of many: for Apollo, and my brother, who I am ready to admit it, are not wholly unknown to each other, will tell you that genius is rare, and pretenders to it general." Olivia declared, ſmilingly, "the philoſopher had here made rather a ſenſible remark."—"Why, in truth," ſaid Sir Armine, "it muſt be owned that there is a pretty deal of literary juggling now a days."— "Hocus Pocus, my dear father," interrupted John, "you had better call it; and it has now gained ſuch an influence over the public taſte, that, thanks to noveliſts and poets; nay, no frowning Olivia." "He has made ſome⯑thing like an exception in Henry's caſe," ſaid Lady Fitzorton—"O, as to that my lady," reſumed John, "if my brother has any [164]thoughts of appearing beyond this ſmiling circle as an author, he muſt, more or leſs, give into the abſurdity of the times—for a writer can no more be out of the faſhion of the moment than a beauty." "You only mean, I preſume," obſerved Sir Armine, "that a little of the art magic is a neceſſary ingredient in modern compoſition—eſpecially in the two branches of writing you have ſpecified."

"Art magic, with a vengeance!" ex⯑claimed John, "for I obſerve the ladies and gentlemen of the quill, can fill the purſes with gold,"—"On moſt diſintereſted prin⯑ciples, certainly; for they ſeldom fill their own," cried Mr. Clare;—"and croud the pocket with bank bills," continued John, not heeding the interruption, "without any viſible cauſe, or, indeed, aſſigning any reaſon for their conjuration and coining, ſave that having brought the favourite perſonages of their poems, or romance, into ſome dreadful ſcrape, to excite your commiſeration, they find it expedient to work a miracle in their behalf, finding nothing ſhort of a miracle [165]will extricate them; and thus to effect the double aim of entrapping wonder, and leav⯑ing the myſtery juſt where it was; but what I chiefly admire in this buſineſs, and more par⯑ticularly on the ſtage, is the dexterity and foreſight with which a poet equips his heroes and heroines, with money or bills, exactly proportioned to their unexpected contin⯑gencies. If a hero or heroine walk forth in a night-gown or ſlippers, and meet with an object, on which to exerciſe his or her grandeur of ſoul, the purſe, or pocket-book, is as well furniſhed for the occaſion, as if he or ſhe were going to the world's end in ſearch of any ſuch object; or if heroes themſelves want money, the provident poet always ſends ſomebody to accommodate them; and as to how this matter was brought about, is left to exerciſe the reader's faith and ſagacity. And, indeed, the writer's practiſe herein is not a little politic; for to develope the miracle, would be far more arduous than to perform it. It is all done by thoſe magicians, in the true ſpirit, as I termed it, of hocus-pocus, is it not, brother? And yet by an operation [166]ſo ſimple, that the moſt aſtoniſhing and truly unaccountable revolutions, ſuch as in the ordinary courſe of things might take nature abſolute the progreſſive toil of ages, are atchieved by the waving of a feather. And albeit, we all know, this feather grew on the wing of a bird, by no means miraculouſly gifted, nor in any degree popular for the brilliancy of its intellect; we muſt not mea⯑ſure the power of the inſtrument with the weakneſs or ſimplicity of the agent; for by the necromantic potency of that little rod, more miracles are performed than by that of the patriarch, yea, and without the ſmalleſt inſpiration derived from the ſame divine ſource." "Brother," interpoſed Henry, who now ſummoned his defenſive powers, "have you never repoſed in any of thoſe bowers of eaſe, palaces of pleaſure, and temples of devotion, which the literary magi of gothic, yea, and ſometimes of modern days, have commanded to ariſe for your admiration out of their creative fancy? Auſtere as are your judgments, ſevere as are, indeed, many of your delights, have you never been led into [167]willing relaxations of all the ſublime, but unſmiling powers, by the enchantment of that feathery wand you hold ſo much in ſcorn?" "In ſcorn! O, pardon me!" rejoined John Fitzorton: "Although, peradventure, the ſilly bird, on whoſe wing it grew, will drop it as ſhe grazes on the green, unconſcious of what ſhe throws away, I bow to it as to a new wonder, added to the old ones of our world. Imperial gooſe-quills, all hail! with one of theſe has a valley been ſwelled to a mountain; a mountain ſunk to a valley; with another a ſavage foreſt has been converted into a well-ordered city; and a city again turned into a foreſt; by a third, has the mul⯑titudinous ſea been dried up, and flocks, ready made, and ready ſhorn, ordered to cover its once pearl-paved, now flower-ena⯑melled, bottom. It is all done, indeed, in as ſhort a ſpace, and, perhaps, with yet leſs labour than it has coſt me, poor ſublunary crawling creature, to inform this fair com⯑pany that ſuch miracles have been, and con⯑tinue to be, performed daily.—But, alas!" added John, after a pauſe, "I am in ſhort, [168]ſo ſtupid, that although I am aware the ſlight⯑eſt fabricator of the ſlighteſt romance you may have in your library, my dear Henry, would have charms upon charms for your fine feeling ſuſceptible hearted tribe, I have more ſatisfaction in the tricks of a kitten, or monkey, becauſe their antics are more en⯑tertaining, and a great deal more natural."

CHAPTER XXIII.

HERE lady Fitzorton ſaid to Henry, "But the goddeſs is not ſo partial to him, is ſhe my dear poet?"—"No, that is ſhe not," rejoined Olivia, "not by ten thouſand degrees; and I thank heaven, I am not ſo formidably wiſe, and tremendouſly ſenſical as our philoſopher." The latter part of her ſentence was half ſunk in a whiſper, addreſſed to her father, while ſhe ſpoke at John and looked at Henry. "Now that," cried John, in turn ſpeaking at Olivia, and looking at his brother James, who had hitherto taken no part in the converſation, "that puts me in mind of another great ſecret in nature poetic, [169]and dramatic, wholly diſtinct from nature abſolute; in other words, the nature which is the goddeſs of Henry's bards and romances, and ſhe who preſides as the tutelary deity of my monkeys and kittens. You have adopt⯑ed, my ſweet Olivia, the ſtage whiſper, I perceive, of the fine effect of which I am tremendouſly ſenſical, and formidably wiſe enough to be not a little amuſed by, when⯑ever I over-hear it." Olivia bluſhed.—John perceived the colour he had raiſed, and it found a ſympathy in his cheek. "My re⯑mark was made ſportingly, ſo far as it reſpected you, dear Olivia," ſaid John, kindly taking her hand, "nor am I, in this matter, out of humour with the dramatiſts—for who⯑ever makes me laugh when he has been try⯑ing to make me weep is my benefactor, inaſ⯑much as I love to laugh, and hate whimper⯑ing; but to be ſure theſe ſtage whiſperings are ſomewhat curiouſly managed. The bard, indeed, as my tuneful brother knows, takes as many liberties with the ears as with the eyes. He never intends his whiſpering cha⯑racters ſhould conceal their ſecrets—even ſhould they be Family Secrets,—from the [170]audience, to whom they are often more com⯑municative than could be wiſhed."

But although the audience may hear, the actors may not: this is a ſettled point; if, for inſtance, three perſons are engaged in the ſcene at the ſame time, a lady and her two lovers, the latter we will ſuppoſe are rivals; there is nothing, I have obſerved, more com⯑mon than for the lady ſtanding equally diſtant from both the gentlemen, to aſſure him whom ſhe moſt favours, of her eternal affec⯑tion for him, and of her as eternal averſion to the other, in a ſtage whiſper, or what is technically called an—aſide, not a ſyllable of which reaches the ears of the man ſhe hates, although her declaration mounts to the laſt row of the upper-gallery, and puts every 'unwaſhed artificer' ſitting there in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the lady's ſecret. But that the dramatic probability, ſo much inſiſted on by the critics, may not herein be thought to be too groſsly violated, I beg to remind them of that well-known philoſophical truth, that fire is a body which, by its own nature, aſcends; and in ſtage affairs it may mount [171]with ſuch convenient velocity, that, like a ſtroke of lightning, it may ſeize one perſon by the ears, and be finiſhing its commiſſion in the ſame way upon the ears of another, at many miles' diſtance, without ſo much as ſingeing the curls of thoſe who may hap⯑pen to be in company with the perſon firſt ſtruck. For my own part, this way of ac⯑counting for it is very ſatisfactory. Perhaps the lover, who ſtands on one ſide of the lady, as well as he who ſtands on the other, would, in the very proſe of truth, hear alſo, and ſome⯑what more diſtinctly than the audience, con⯑ſidering the difference of ſpace betwixt the ſpeakers and hearers, were it not neceſſary to pre-ſuppoſe—countleſs are the things to be pre-ſuppoſed in poetry, you know, Henry,— a ſort of partial deaſneſs in ſuch of the cha⯑racters as ought not to hear, our imagina⯑tions at the ſame time throwing wide open the ears of thoſe who ought."

"Son, John," ſaid Sir Armine, "you ſhould conſider that the buſineſs of the drama, like that of life, cannot be carried on with⯑out ſometimes putting in practice a temporary [172]ſuſpenſion of the faculties, both of ears and eyes. Upon that great ſtage, the ſtage of the world," continued Sir Armine, "we are obliged to ſeem deprived of half our ſenſes, in order to preſerve any ſhare of our good humour:—nay, we are frequently reduced to ſeem both deaf and blind to certain incon⯑ſiſtencies in others or in ourſelves; and few are thoſe who have not been under a neceſſity of turning the apparently deaf ear, and the blind eye, on our own conduct, or on that of our neighbours. Perhaps the chief fault of the literary magi is their violation of all pro⯑bability, which is ever a ſource of diſguſt to the reader, except in an Arabian tale, or any other work of pleaſant impoſſibilities; the delight of peruſing which ariſes wholly from obſerving to what an extent the human fancy may go, even while we know it has over⯑leapt the bounds of human affairs, without receiving a check on the delight we take in theſe well-conſtructed, though avowed fictions, from the human underſtanding; but in a compoſition that is offered to us, as a faithful copy of nature and life, theſe extravagancies [173]produce a very contrary effect; and therein I have too often juſt cauſe to enter a ſerious proteſt againſt modern poetry and romance."

CHAPTER XXIV.

"I REMEMBER a certain literary friend of mine," ſaid John, caſting a ſort of iden⯑tifying glance at his brother Henry, "who, in a little narrative which then employed his pen, had occaſion for ſome hawthorn buſhes to hide a pair of true loveyers from a croſs old grandmother who oppoſed their flame— Well, theſe hawthorn buſhes—I forget, Henry, whether they were in bloſſom, but I dare ſay they were—theſe full bloſſoming hawthorns then were exceſſively convenient, and very pretty; but, as in the preceding page, we had been on a barren heath, where nothing but the furze and thiſtle could bloom, and we had not ſhifted ground, I could not help remarking, that I preſumed the ſcene of his ſtory was in fairy land, and theſe ſame buſhes brought and popt down in the very place they were wanted, by a fairy, [174]one of the bard's familiars, inviſible to all but the poets to whom they appertain."

Some indignant fluſhings paſſed over Henry's countenance, but tarried not.

"And had theſe flowering ſhrubs been tranſ⯑planted from the garden of a rich, and if you will permit the term, a fragrant imagination— than which, properly cultured, there is no⯑thing more blooming, nothing more beauti⯑ful," obſerved Sir Armine, regarding his ſon Henry with a ſmile, which was repaid to the father by two from Olivia,—"they might appear very properly placed, and give ſweet⯑neſs to the tale." "Undoubtedly, Sir," re⯑plied John, "I know very well that moſt grave and potent biographers, ſuddenly force into their ſervice, much more difficult mat⯑ters than a few hawthorn buſhes, and the beſt authorities may be found in ſupport of the practice, if my brother Henry chooſes to ſhelter himſelf under them."

"What, they were Henry's hawthorns, were they?" queſtioned his mother. "Then I am ſure they muſt be natural and charm⯑ing," ſaid Olivia.

[175]"You do not ſufficiently allow for poetic licenſe, perhaps, John," remarked his father. "O yes," rejoined John, ſinking his ſeverity in ſportive tones and obſervations, not, how⯑ever, without ſome juſt acumen, "I have ſpoken with all imaginable reſpect to the poet's licence, which many have thought ex⯑tends to the raiſing an oak from an acorn in a moment; and, what I take to be as arduous, changing the ſexes ſo entirely by the ſlight aid of petticoat on the gentleman, and breeches on the lady, that although not ſo much as a gauze veil is thrown over their faces—note here that I mean a gauze cover⯑ing, in all acceptations of the word, actually and intellectually—nor any attempt at con⯑cealment, or diſguiſe in their voices, they are as effectually guarded from obſervation, as was the blue-eyed goddeſs when ſhe de⯑ſcended to the angry ſon of Thetis in a cloudy chariot. The necromancers in literature," continued John Fitzorton, ſmiling, "per⯑form nightly miracles upon the modern ſtage without any intervention or aſſiſtance from the goddeſs of wiſdom. There, by [176]the ſimple transfer of dreſſes, the perſons wearing them are ſhrouded ſo, that their moſt intimate friends and their neareſt relations cannot find them out: lovers, conſumed with the tender paſſion, about which they have diſcourſed at large, in their natural characters, the very act or ſcene before this their meta⯑morphoſis, it is pre-determined are not to know one another. Now as this mighty magic is done on a public ſtage, it is to be taken for granted, that there is really and truly ſome necromancy about it, which our dulneſs does not enable us to account for, and that the ſpectators, who not only accommo⯑date to, but appear frequently delighted with it, are virtually ſo charmed, that all theit ſenſes are, for the time being, abſolutely and moſt conveniently thrown by the poet into a moſt poetical trance."

"This, it muſt be confeſſed," exclaim⯑ed Henry, with ſome warmth, and a little aſperity, "not only out-Herods Herod, but out-Ovids Ovid, and is drawn in diſ⯑temper, after my brother John's caricature manner; but as I pretend to no ſuch ſuper⯑natural [177]powers, I muſt deny every impotent attempt at ſuch marvellous atchievements." — "What ſay you, ſon James, to all this?" queſtioned Sir Armine, — "You know, Sir," he anſwered, "my conſtant quarrel with all exceſſes—and the principal fault I have to alledge againſt novel-writing, and their read⯑ers, is their over deſire to ſurpriſe, and to be ſurpriſed, by enormous events and gigantic atchievements, above the ſize of any inci⯑dents I have ever yet been able to ſee in nature; and which, were any ſuch diſcover⯑able in life, I ſhould turn from them, after the indulgence of a kind of fearful curioſity, with the diſguſt or ſatiety that follows our ſurvey of all monſters. Now, in compoſi⯑tion, this paſſion for the grand and marvel⯑lous, has ſhut the ſenſes of dealers in that way, whether writers, or readers, againſt what, as oppoſed to their mighty magic, may be termed the minute and natural; by which I only mean ſuch objects as, bearing due proportion to humanity, may be ſeen or felt continually; or, even if they do not come [178]within our own notice, the repreſentation of them ſtrikes us, as a faithful copy of what may reaſonably be felt or ſeen by mortal be⯑ings in ſimilar circumſtances.—In my opi⯑nion, the three veſſels is a drawing that applies to literary as well as moral geography, and I cannot be laughed out of it.

"In a word, Sir, I am a friend to due proportions, which are, I think, of the middle ſize, avoiding either extreme of pain⯑fully high, or inſignificantly low: the giants and hobgoblins of the preſs, are as little to my taſte as its dwarfs and pigmies. Indeed, I loſt all reliſh for heroes or heroines of that deſcription, ſince I began to conſider them as bad copies of their great originals—Tom Thumb, and Jack the Giant Killer!"

CHAPTER XXV.

IN this manner would the Fitzortons and Clares conſole their griefs, correct their judgments, aſſert their intellectual inde⯑pendency, or improve their moral happineſs; but Henry and John had, as we have ob⯑ſerved, each ſubjects nearer to their ſouls than any thing that attaches to the purſuits of ſcience. That of the former is already be⯑fore the reader, and the themes which too often employed the contemplations of John, were of a nature ſo heavy to his thought, and ſo unyielding even to his diſcipline, that it became neceſſary to call in the active pro⯑feſſion of arms, in aid of a ſtrong, yet in⯑competent philoſophy. In the colliſion of opinion, the mind is ſeized upon, and warmed by ſecondary objects, and its primary emo⯑tions are awhile ſuſpended; but, faithful to theſe, ſhe flies back to her maſter-paſſion: even when replete with woe; and although ſhe again finds it neceſſary, perhaps, to force herſelf into oppoſite trains of reſlection, or [180]of employment; many are the returns, and many the deſertions, ere that grand and bleſſed deſideratum in morality—an eaſy government of the heart and its paſſions, can be attained.

Meanwhile, James continued the plain and even track of his profeſſion, and was, on his own account, the leaſt annoyed by care.— Even in his temper, regular in the exertion of his talents, and undeviating in his purſuits, he followed the path he had choſen, without any other ambition than that of being diſ⯑tinguiſhed as a man of ſound principles, ſound underſtanding, and a ſound lawyer—the ho⯑nourable points towards which he found himſelf quietly advance. His vacations, whether of days or weeks, were paſt at the caſtle, where he entered literally into all that cencerned his family or his friends; now ſettled a difference, and now ſtrengthened an agreement; and although both John and Henry retained their own ſentiments, after they had conſulted him, each had ſo good an opinion of his fairneſs in judgement, and [181]candour in deciſion, that when Sir Armine delivered them over to themſelves, declaring they muſt e'en battle it out, they ſometimes ſuffered the diſputed point to ſtand over until James ſhould come down.

But, alas! there were ſeveral important points which neither Henry nor John could ſubmit to the arbitration, even of a tender brother, and which, indeed, they ſcarcely dared whiſper to their own minds. The laſt affray betwixt Sir Armine and Sir Guiſe, and the filial piety of John on that occaſion, had ſo widened the family breach, that there ſeemed no way, conſiſtent with Henry's duty, either to become an advocate for Sir Guiſe, or to carry on a correſpondence with his ſon. Nevertheleſs, a more active power even than his general benevolence, or than his particu⯑lar friendſhip—his love of Caroline, em⯑boldened him to attempt both theſe arduous points. His efforts, however, to conciliate, produced from his father the firſt frown he had ever received from him; and under the miſery of this, he languiſhed until he had made atonement by a ſolemn promiſe, never [182]to mention Sir Guiſe Stuart in the preſence of Sir Armine, until permitted by the latter.

Olivia happened to be preſent at the mo⯑ment of his father's diſpleaſure; and Henry had obſerved her ſympathizing tears deſcend, as ſhe ſaw the open brow of Sir Armine contract. Thoſe tears fell like the dews of heaven upon his anger, and melted away the frown. "Behold," ſaid ſhe, to Henry, "your good father has the ſweeteſt ſmile on his countenance you ever ſaw; it would grace the brow of the angel of forgiveneſs." Then approaching Sir Armine, with Henry in her hand, ſhe exclaimed—"His firſt offence will receive your full pardon, Sir, when you con⯑ſider, there has been diſcovered in it, more virtue than we can find in moſt other people's beſt actions." This, though it produced an embrace from Sir Armine, was a freſh blow to Henry, who knew there was leſs virtue in his interceſſions for the Guiſe family, than in moſt of the other actions of his life, unleſs it be among thoſe cardinal virtues of human nature, which, according to the celebrated Maximiſt, "begin and end in ſelf."

[183]Olivia ſtill ſaw that Henry was at war with himſelf, ſhe therefore conſidered how ſhe could more perfectly reſtore his peace. With this view, getting John into the plot, ſhe took Sir Armine aſide one evening, ſaying in a ſeducing kind of half-whiſper, "ſhe had a boon to prefer;" the Baronet replied, "ſhe ſhould not aſk in vain." They with⯑drew, and in leſs than an hour returned hand in hand in high good humour. Mr. Clare obſerved, "that if ſhe went on in that man⯑ner, making palpable love to Sir Armine, he ſhould be jealous;" "and if you, ſir, are not jealous," ſaid James, "methinks my brother Henry will have good reaſon to be ſo, or elſe he is all at once grown a very even-tempered youth." Many little pacific ſallies ſucceeded: ſupper was ſerved, after which Sir Armine deſired Olivia's toaſt; ſhe gave "Charles Stuart;" Henry looked alter⯑nately at his Father and Olivia. Sir Armine repeated the toaſt with an amicable emphaſis; Henry then filled his glaſs, bowing firſt to his Father, then to Olivia, who ſat in her accuſtomed ſeat at his ſide: the bumpers [184]paſſed round, after which Sir Armine ob⯑ſerved, "it had been the opinion of advo⯑cates Olivia and James, and confirmed by Philoſopher John, that the white lambs ſhould be ſeparated from the black ſheep, and that as neither Lady, Charles, nor Caroline Stuart, had at any time, aided or abetted the domeſ⯑tic hoſtilities, they were no ways contami⯑nated by their neceſſary connections with their offending father;"—"and as," inter⯑rupted John, "it has been determined in our family-cabinet to re-inſtate Charles at the caſtle"—"and to allow you, my dear Henry," exclaimed Olivia, "to return his viſits at the abbey." "And I hope," re⯑ſumed John, "as I hate talking about it goddeſs, and about it, or fringing and tin⯑ſelling a plain act of juſtice, this will take place without any unneceſſary delay."— "Delay! O heavens, no!" exclaimed Henry, bowing and hurrying off.—"But deliver this pacquet to your friend," ſaid John, holding him, "and be ſure you tell him I acknowledge him as a brother officer;" "and take notice, my Harry," rejoined his [185]father, "I am ready to ſign the treaty imme⯑diately." "Very fine," quoth Mr. Clare, "but what have all of you to ſay to my girl, who I plainly ſee, has coaxed Fitzorton out of all this? don't tell me! it was neither your law James, nor John's philoſophy, no, nor yet Henry's poetry:—It was my Olivia's magic—neither youth nor age can withſtand her ſpells. O my conſcience! the next ren⯑contre we hear of, I ſuppoſe will be between Sir Armine and his three ſons, contending for my fair daughter!"—"Bleſs me!" ſaid Olivia, "you make a great piece of work about a trifle. I wiſh every hour of my life could add either to the father or the ſons ſome proof of the gratitude and affection I owe them!"

Henry was fully conſcious of the extent of his obligation to Olivia. Not to have been touched with it, only as it had reference to his friend Charles, whoſe heart was almoſt breaking for reaſons better known to Henry than to any of the company, would have placed him amongſt the moſt baſe of the ungrateful; but when to that conſideration, [186]is added the circumſtance of his hitherto clandeſtine viſits at the abbey, receiving thence a ſanction from his father, the ſenſe of what he owed to her kindneſs was like the obligation itſelf, multiplied a thouſand fold.

CHAPTER XXVI.

YET nothing is more certain, than that Henry had rather have been indebted for ſuch obligation and ſuch ſervice, infinite as they were, to any one than to Olivia.

On the morning that followed theſe tranſ⯑actions, a letter, under the great ſeal of the family, was diſpatched to Charles Stuart: then, as Henry, who was maſter of all his movements, perſectly knew, on a viſit in the neighbourhood. That amiable youth ſoon obeyed the ſummons; for friendſhip, high and aweful as are her claims, was but ſecon⯑dary in his boſom. The firſt grand object of attraction at the caſtle, like that of Henry at the abbey, alas! was Love; a ſecret known as yet only to each other.

[187]Charles Stuart, for the firſt time ſince the fatal affair in the pleaſure-grounds, was uſhered into the caſtle by John, who met him with Henry at the gate; Sir Armine then received him with a ſmile ſo ineffable, that a by-ſtander might have ſuppoſed he had been embracing the ſon of a dear friend inſtead of an inveterate enemy; then turning to Olivia, "Young ſoldier," continued he, "I have made a miſtake. It is here that you ought to pay your firſt acknowledgments: it is to that fair mediatrix we are indebted for your reſto⯑ration to your friend Henry, and to our fire⯑ſide."

Charles conjured up in a moment an hoſt of hopes which he had never before dared to indulge; for he was not now to learn Olivia's prepoſſeſſions, and never having received any marks of kindneſs from her which were not evidently beſtowed upon Henry's account, he trembled before her without uttering a word, and did not even make his bow with⯑out embarraſſment. Olivia perceiving this, and who always ſaw actions in the beſt light, imputed it to the auk wardneſs of his ſitua⯑tion, [188]and to the abruptneſs with which John had brought him in: following therefore that impulſe, which invariably led her to aug⯑ment pleaſure and diminiſh pain, ſhe cried out, "Indeed, Mr. Stuart, we owe the hap⯑pineſs of your return to your own merits and to Sir Armine's thorough ſenſe of them; and we are all equally happy to ſee you at the caſtle, where thoſe merits muſt always ſecure an independent welcome."

Charles having now had a moment to re⯑cover himſelf, replied with ſome coherence: obſerving, "that his preſent re-inſtatement, had been owing infinitely leſs to his own merits, than to thoſe of every other indi⯑vidual then preſent."

CHAPTER XXVII.

NOTWITHSTANDING this renewal of his privileges, Charles Stuart's reſtoration at the caſtle was in ſome reſpects more perplex⯑ing than Henry's diſmiſſion from the abbey. For if it gave him all the opportunities of ſeeing and converſing with Olivia, he thereby [189]witneſſed but the more evidences of her entire attachment to his rival. Whenever Charles and Olivia were tête-a-tête ſhe ſeldom enter⯑tained him with any thing but the praiſes of his divine friend. If any work of genius happened to be the topic, ſhe would criticiſe her own remarks, and exclaim, "how much more gracefully the opinion I have offered you, would have been expreſſed by your friend." If any benevolent action had been reported to her, though ſhe granted it great merit, ſhe could not but obſerve, "what additional charms it would have received from the manner with which his friend Henry would have done it." If the author of ſuch action, was not yet diſcovered, ſhe would inſiſt, "it could be no other than his friend Henry; ſhe plainly ſaw his generous and delicate ſoul in every part of it: indeed, not more in the goodneſs itſelf, than in the caution with which it was concealed." Or if elegance of manners, grace of motion, hap⯑pineſs of expreſſion, harmony of voice, or caſe of addreſs were talked of, ſhe would be ſure before the cloſe of the converſation, [190]to give powerful reaſons why his friend Henry ſurpaſſed every other man in all theſe particulars, and generally concluded by ap⯑pealing to Charles himſelf for a confirmation of her opinion.

Charles Stuart was perfectly ſenſible of Henry's high pretenſions, and very readily admitted Olivia's eulogy to its utmoſt bound; yet he could not help now and then thinking it hard, that whenever he attempted to do juſtice to the claims of his friend, he rendered Olivia wholly forgetful of his own.

Thus the opportunities of cultivating her regard were of no effect; even the favourite character which Henry gave of him to Olivia, with the many recommendations of his perſon, heart, or underſtanding, all un⯑objectionable, though they ſecured for him the moſt perfect eſteem, did not blend there⯑with the ſmalleſt particle of love; yet Henry, as well from his ſincere friendſhip to Charles, as from his ſincere love to Caroline, tried hard to make his friend an object of Olivia's affection. But, as a diſcovery of this would have counteracted his purpoſe, theſe endea⯑vours [191]were indirect: and theſe very obliqui⯑ties added to the perplexity. Olivia, for in⯑ſtance, like Caroline, was enamoured of muſic; Charles had ſkill both to ſing and play; and Henry would ſeldom let an even⯑ing paſs without calling upon Charles for a ſong. Olivia moved a minuet to great perfection; and when the families were aſ⯑ſembled, her fond father would often whiſper Henry, "to uſe his intereſt with Olivia to give him his favourite." Henry, to avoid this, would every now and then frame excuſes that might give to Charles the chance of Olivia for a partner. At one time he pre⯑tended to be ſuddenly ſeized by the cramp, at another, he had ſome how twiſted his ancle, and would limp towards Olivia to make his apologies, propoſing at the ſame time, the ſervices of his friend Charles, de⯑claring, "he himſelf, as ſhe muſt perceive, could not walk the figure if he might have the univerſe." At another time, ſo violent an head-ach, without any warning, would come upon him, juſt as Mr. Clare was mak⯑ing the requeſt, that he would approach [192]Olivia, holding his hand to his forehead, intreating, "that his misfortune might not prevent her father or the company from the pleaſure of ſeeing her dance, eſpecially as his friend Charles could ſo well ſupply his place:" then, without giving her time to object, he would haſten to Charles as his ſubſtitute. The very idea, however, of pain or of indiſpoſition of Henry, was ſufficient to unfit her for the reliſh of any amuſement; ſhe would generally, therefore, be taken ill on ſuch occaſions as ſuddenly as himſelf, though with much more of reality; and once when Charles attempted to conquer her objection, and earneſtly repeated the requeſt, ſhe cried out, "Good heavens! Mr. Stuart, have you no feeling? would you have me dance when your friend is unwell?" Now and then her father, to whom her dancing was a perfect banquet, would interpoſe, in obedience to whom ſhe would ſtand up and ſuffer Charles to take her hand, but even then her attentions would go to Henry: ſhe would beg her father "not to hum the air quite ſo jovially as uſual," and bribing him [193]to ſofter tones with a kiſs; "becauſe you know, dear ſir," would ſhe ſay, "it will diſtract poor Henry's head;" then tripping to Lady Fitzorton, ſeated at the harpſichord, ſhe would beſeech her "to play the minuet as lightly as poſſible.—Piano! pianiſſimo! my dear madam!" cried Olivia, "I can plainly ſee Henry is in torture with that ugly head⯑ach." After all this, ſhe acquitted herſelf ſo ill, that even her father, in whoſe opinion ſhe could do few things ill, would ſometimes ſay, "O' my conſcience! child, one would think that you had never been at a boarding ſchool;" and ſometimes Lady Fitzorton perceiving her ſituation, would riſe to her relief, and by an handſome apology to Charles, "beg ſhe might be permitted to ſit down, and take ſome other opportunity, for you cannot be ignorant, my dear ſir," addreſſing herſelf to Charles, "if your friend Henry's finger does but ach, it is a death wound to this apprehenſive ſimpleton." When, how⯑ever, ſhe did labour through her taſk, ſhe would run to Henry, whom ſhe fancied by his gravity, was offended at her inattention [194]to his friend, or perhaps, at her own defects, and ſay, "nay, but you muſt not be angry with me for my aukwardneſs, it was your own fault, and it will be quite ill-natured of you if you don't make my excuſes to Mr. Stuart, by telling him I ſhould have done more juſtice to him, if his friend Henry had been in better health and ſpirits."

Thus was poor Charles ſtill making good the ground of his rival in all things. The mortification was ſhared equally by Henry, who, though juſtified by the unconquerable love he bore to Charles's ſiſter, in every fair endeavour to wean Olivia from her attach⯑ment to him, and blocked out as he was on all ſides from any more direct methods, could not but reproach himſelf for practiſing upon her, even on the beſt motives, theſe little deceptions; yet they were in his caſe ſanc⯑tioned in a peculiar manner; for from the firſt diſcovery of the bent of Olivia's affec⯑tions, and of the family deſigns built there⯑upon, he could have taken no meaſures leſs circuitous, without the hazard of greater miſchief. But for a diſpoſition like Henry's, [195]not to do or ſay ſomething kind, after he had done or ſaid any thing harſh or cruel, appear⯑ed the hardeſt taſk in the world: and if there had been a moment of his life in which he could have forgot his whole heart was Caro⯑line's, he would in that moment have offered it to Olivia.

Thus he was continually haraſſed at the caſtle and at the abbey: the tendereſt love of Olivia innocently, yet ſtrongly accumulated his embarraſſment; to render it yet more arduous, Olivia multiplied her claims to his love and honour; and all who had a natural right over Henry, and whom in every other inſtance he delighted to obey, grew more and more pointedly importunate.

A ſituation ſufficiently arduous; yet was that of his friend Charles no leſs difficult. His honour, which was ſuch as became a ſoldier and a friend, bound up the ſecret of Henry's attachment to his ſiſter with more than ribs of iron, although a diſcloſure, either through the generous or indignant paſ⯑ſions of Olivia, or of ſome of the family, might immediately, or ultimately, produce [196]a turn in his favour. Henry, indeed, more than once wiſhed to make him the medium of his explanation on this head; but the little chance of its ſucceſs, and the great hazard of throwing the families into confuſion, with the fear that Charles himſelf might be looked upon as a go-between, and again expelled the caſtle, with the hope he ſometimes in⯑dulged—what is the wild hope, that love cannot indulge?—that time and opportunity might, in the boſom of Olivia, operate in his favour, determined both the young friends to enter on an oath of ſilence.

Not a ſyllable, therefore, that implied pre⯑attachment, dared poor Charles adventure in his moſt unreſerved converſations at the caſtle, about Henry's attachment to his ſiſter; and whenever Olivia expreſſed an impatience to become perſonally acquainted with lady and Miſs Stuart, all he could do was deeply to regret the unhappy diſpute, or elſe return the compliment by a bow. Neither could this hapleſs lover, for equally cogent reaſons, utter a word to Caroline of Henry's ſituation with Olivia, or even of his own paſſion for [197]that lady, ſince the firſt would have betrayed his friend's ſecret, and the ſecond would have diſcovered his own: ſuch are the labyrinths of love!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHARLES and Henry, therefore, could confide ſafely only in each other, and under many trying circumſtances they were found faithful. With the moſt generous ardour and ſincerity they congratulated, and condoled as occurrences of hope or of deſpair aroſe be⯑tween them. If Henry ſought occaſion to throw the merits of Charles under the eye of Olivia, Charles with no leſs zeal favoured his ſuit with Caroline. They mingled ſighs and tears of friendſhip and of love: they felt forcibly that the ſame doating fondneſs of their fathers, procured them, in deſpite of alienation, the welcome of one at the caſtle, and of the other to the abbey. But Henry had, hitherto, withheld, even from his boſom friend, the dire alteration of his affairs at the abbey; yet Charles began to wonder that [198]Henry had become a leſs frequent viſitor there—he was ſurpriſed to find him melting into tears, and yet more to hear him fre⯑quently aſk thoſe queſtions about Caroline's health, to which he himſelf could, as he ſup⯑poſed, receive a perſonal anſwer.

He obſerved him not ſeldom burſting into agony as he pronounced Caroline's very name, and was aſtoniſhed at the myſterious manner of Henry, when, accompanying him to the end of the avenue that led to the abbey, he would linger there, ſurvey the manſion, embrace his friend, contend with heavy emo⯑tions, then ruſh towards the caſtle in the utmoſt diſorder. At home alſo, Charles per⯑ceived that Sir Guiſe had become more [...]awningly civil than uſual to his wife and daughter,—a certain prognoſtic of ſome un⯑dermining artifice; and that lady Stuart and Caroline maintained a dumb kind of grief. Indeed, the mazes were ſo involved that Henry could not come to an explanation with any one, and leaſt of all with Olivia. Often was he on the verge of pouring into her gentle heart his fulleſt confidence, and throw⯑ing [199]himſelf on her generoſity—and once, when the conſeſſion of his heart had aſcended his lip, and trembled there, he was reſtrained by an unexpected ſeries of circumſtances, that bound him to ſilence more firmly than before—circumſtances which, alas! tied his tongue more potently, than if it had been bound by a thouſand chains.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WHATEVER favourites the reader may have at the caſtle of Fitzorton, and we truſt it contains not a few, he will accompany us back with a ſympathizing heart to Guiſe Abbey.

No ſooner had Caroline, that fair pattern of filial piety, gained her chamber, after her folemn taking leave of Henry, than a certain triumph which attends a truly great mind, after it has ſacrificed the deareſt paſſions to the aweful duties of nature, ſeemed to play about her like a ſurrounding glory. Yet was this triumph not like that of the ſtoic, who prides himſelf upon obtaining a conqueſt [200]where there has been no formidable enemy to contend with, his own cold nature leaving him nothing to ſubdue, but of an heart fully ſenſible of its loſs as of its gain. The amiable victim had obeyed an abſolute father; but a lover worthy even of her affection was the price of that obedience. Her own gentle hand had heaped upon him a freſh burden of ſorrow, and though ſhe repented not of the duty ſhe had performed, nor the pangs with which it was attended to herſelf, ſhe felt the deepeſt concern that the peace of Henry ſhould be involved,—as it muſt appear to him, by her own cruelty or caprice; for ſhe could plainly perceive, he was neither con⯑vinced of the neceſſity nor virtue of her conduct. Amidſt reflections like theſe, ſhe walked to that window of her apartment which gave her a proſpect of the caſtle, and which being at the top of the abbey, over⯑looked all malicious obſtructions. She in⯑ſtantly beheld her Henry, taking his melan⯑choly way towards his home, through that very avenue ſo dear, yet fatal to remem⯑brance. That moment a thouſand tender [201]thoughts crouded upon her, and in a tone of the moſt piercing miſery, ſhe exclaimed— "What! Oh! what, dear youth, would I not give, did rigid duty permit me to open this caſement, and invite thee to retrace thy footſteps! and intreat of thee to return to love and Caroline? Methinks, I would pur⯑chaſe ſuch a tranſport, though but of one day's continuance, with years of captivity; nay, with the years of my life! and art thou going from me with a ſentiment in that gentle boſom againſt thy Caroline, as if ſhe were inſenſible to virtue, worth, and tenderneſs, like thine?"

As ſhe had finiſhed this paſſionate apoſtrophe, ſhe obſerved Henry quicken his pace, then ſtop abruptly, and turn towards the abbey, then meaſure back the ſpace, and then move penſively forward. "Alas!" reſumed Caro⯑line, "that ſhe who thus afflicts may not comfort thee! that ſhe who has thus the power to bruiſe may not make thee whole again! Too well thoſe diſordered ſteps, and irreſolute motions, denote the diſorders of thy ſoul!" While ſhe was thus ſpeaking [202]Henry had turned again, and ſtood fixed in the centre of the avenue, directing his eyes to her apartment. She had evidently caught his view, and touched by the occaſion had half opened the window to repeat, and re⯑ceive the laſt look and adieu, when that ſtern duty ſeemed to menace reproof more terrible than her father's, and in thunder to ſay, raſh girl forbear! and as if ſhe had, indeed, heard theſe words pronounced by Sir Guiſe, ſhe ſuddenly turned from the window, and denied her heart the only comfort it was capable of taſting. "When, O! when, will implaca⯑ble duty have done with its rigours?" reſumed ſhe, withdrawing to the other end of the apartment remote from the caſement. She then folded her hands together, and kneeling down, ſhe exclaimed—"O! eternally beloved, though for ever relinquiſhed, youth! if thou art ſtill gazing on the walls that encloſe thy Caroline, may ſome good angel, who has diſtreſſed virtue in guard, whiſper to thee the prayer which now breathes from my ſoul; and may a knowledge of thy Caroline's employment at this moment ſtrengthen thee [203]to bear our parting, and teach thee to vener⯑ate the cauſe, though thou art grieved by the effect! Bleſſed be the ſpot whereon thou ſtandeſt, that conſecrated earth more precious to Caroline than all that remains of the uni⯑verſe —where my eyes laſt beheld, and, alas; for the laſt time, their ſole delight! or if in diſpleaſure or deſpair thou haſt torn thyſelf away, and art haſtening from the manſion that hath ſo ill intreated thee to that which ſhall open all its gates to give thee welcome, may the peace which thou haſt been robbed of here be reſtored to thee in the boſom of a family, to whom every virtue of thy ſoul, and every grace of thy nature is dear!—and, Oh! in due time may ſome happy and deſerving maid"—abruptly ſtopping at theſe words, ſhe unfolded her hands, then claſping them more fervently together, and riſing up, ſhe threw herſelf upon the bed, in an agony of grief, and cried out, with heart-rending accents— "It is too much! I cannot, cannot bear it!" then raiſing herſelf again, and ſinking almoſt in the ſame inſtant, ſhe exclaimed, "O God, who haſt chaſtiſed, enable me to endure!"

CHAPTER XXX.

IN this ſituation lady Stuart, ſtrongly agitated, entered the room, and ſeeing the ſtate of her daughter, exclaimed—"O my child, my child, that the life or death of a mother could make thee happy! I come to thee for comfort, and thou haſt none to be⯑ſtow, but art in want of it thyſelf; nor has thy powerleſs parent any to give—ſhe flies to thy protection, to thy pity, in the bitter moment of a huſband's curſe—yes, my child, thy father ſends me to thee with his curſe upon us both!"

Caroline, at the terrifying ſound, ſprung up, and fervently ejaculating, "my father's curſe!" then lifting up her eyes, ſtreaming with tears, to heaven—"But the Father of all ſhall bleſs us both!" ſaid ſhe, "he is a forgiving parent, and we will intercede with him for the pardon of him whofe wrath is thus kindled againſt us! alas, it is the infir⯑mity of his nature, and he ſuffers more ſorely than ourſelves!" Lady Stuart ſhook her [205]head, and tenderly kiſſing her child—"The prayers of innocence, like thine, may call down pardon, even for the guilty," ſaid ſhe; "but for the unremitting, unprovoked, and unreſiſted cruelty of Sir Guiſe"—Here ſhe ſtopt, and burſting into a flood of tears— "ſurely, ſurely," added ſhe, "there is, there can be no hope—but I dare not tell thee, my child, how hardly he has treated me!" "Neither dare I enquire," replied Caroline, returning her mother's kiſs.— "The god of pity and pardon intercede for us all!"

The fact was, that Sir Guiſe had no ſooner quitted the room, after his diſcourſe with Henry, than lady Stuart, from her ſuite of apartments which communicated with that where Henry was ſitting, came to him like the angel of compaſſion; and Henry, upon ſeeing her enter, ſprung up and fell at her feet in the moſt paſſionate diſtreſs—"O lady Stuart!" ſaid he, "Caroline has baniſhed me from her preſence for ever! ſhe is more inexorable even than her father, who would have mediated between us, had not her fixed [206]obduracy prevented; and I am now left, by both, in utter deſpair."

Lady Stuart bewailed his misfortune, but exhorted him to patience, and the hope of happier days; aſſuring him that the wiſhes of her heart went with his own ſo entirely, that ſhe not only deſired to ſee her daughter and him united, but that from that union might proceed a bond of reconcilement be⯑tween the too long-divided houſes of Stuart and Fitzorton.

As ſhe pronounced theſe words, her huſ⯑band, haunted by that perturbed ſpirit of guilt and cowardice, which, like the never⯑dying worm, kept him always reſtleſs, and in motion, and practiſing every ſubterfuge of concealment and deceit, returned, and from his uſual hiding place, for his ears and eyes were acquainted with every crevice and aperture throughout the houſe, overheard every ſyllable: he ſtrode with gigantic ſteps from the door at which he entered to that which was oppoſite, and then diſappeared, caſting a ſcornful look at his lady, but without uttering a word; ſo ſubordinate was [207]even the madneſs of his rage to the daſtardy of his fears. His poor wife, however, could but too well interpret his ſilence. She knew that his unuttered purpoſe, like that of the lioneſs ſurveying her prey before ſhe extends her fangs, or exalts the terrors of her voice, is but the more inveterately fell for being preceded by dumb delay. And Henry him⯑ſelf underſtood it ſufficiently to exclaim, "O lady Stuart! ſhould I be the cauſe of involv⯑ing you too, by drawing freſh ſeverities from Sir Guiſe, who may, perhaps, miſinterpret my ſuppliant poſture, I am a wretch in⯑deed!"

"Whatever may be the event, do not ſtay to ſhare it, I conjure you," ſaid lady Stuart, "and if Caroline be dear to thee go this moment from the abbey. She, hapleſs girl, has too many of my griefs, and of yours, to bear already; and if I can prevent this riſing ſtorm from reaching her, I will abide its utmoſt fury with joy. If then ſhe be precious to you, Mr. Firzorton, depart before my huſband returns, and depend upon [208]all that a powerleſs, but doating mother can do, for a child who is a benefactreſs."

Henry folded his hands upon his breaſt, and, bowing his head almoſt to the earth, in token of unutterable gratitude and grief un⯑ſpeakable, again left the houſe, which con⯑tained, at once, his hope and his deſpair. After he was gone lady Stuart remained ſilent and motionleſs, as a ſtatue, her gentle heart foreboding a thouſand terrors. Never ſtood ſhe in ſo much need of her filial com⯑forter, whoſe aſſiſtance, however, ſhe had predetermined not to invoke. And, indeed, all unable as ſhe was to bear the hurricanes which were inceſſantly beating againſt her by the guſts of this tempeſtuous man, ſhe never called her Caroline to her aid, ſave when ſhe happened to be by as the clouds were gathering, or likely to gather. On the contrary, ſhe would felicitate herſelf when⯑ever they burſt on her alone, and rejoice in the thought that her poor child had been ſpared: and after the ſtorms were paſt, her greateſt care was to prevent Caroline from [209]knowing there had been any matter of diſ⯑turbance. In order to effect this, ſhe would uſe every means to compoſe her ſpirits, and try to eſcape the penetrating eyes of Caro⯑line, till the redneſs, occaſioned by torrents of tears, from her own, left no traces that might betray ſhe had been weeping.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE feeble frame, ſhattered nerves, and impaired health of lady Stuart, though blooming as her daughter, when ſhe firſt married, would generally prove too weak for her utmoſt efforts, and, indeed, whenever ſhe was longer abſent than uſual, Caroline would hunt her griefs through every apart⯑ment where ſhe attempted to hide them, and inſiſt that ſhe had a claim from nature, and nature's god, to number "ſigh for ſigh, and groan for groan."

The abject-hearted Sir Guiſe, who had been on the watch, like ſome fearful ſcout, and trembling under his commiſſion, not daring to put himſelf a ſecond time in [210]Henry's preſence, ſent into the room to ſee if his lady was alone, "but," ſaid he to the ſervant, "if any one ſhould be with her, pretend ſome errand and return."

Every ſervant, however, of the family, held the commands of Sir Guiſe in abhor⯑rence, and were perfectly acquainted with his tyranny to their miſtreſs, and their young lady, for whom they bore love and reſpect equal to their contempt and hate of the ty⯑rant. Two, indeed, of the domeſtics had been opprobriouſly turned out of doors, for refuſing a bribe, to become ſpies upon the words and actions of either lady Stuart or Caroline.

The perſon, who was now diſpatched by Sir Guiſe, was named Denniſon, who came into the family with his lady. At her re⯑queſt, alſo, when it was the Baronet's intereſt to comply with all her wiſhes, it was ſettled that this worthy adherent, who had paſt his blameleſs life in the ſervice of her ladyſhip's family, ſhould be transferred to the abbey on the union of his younger miſtreſs, and hold the ſame place he had filled at Edge-combe-Hall, [211]which was that of houſe ſtew⯑ard. The quarrels, which had ſince paſſed between him and Sir Guiſe, on his lady's ac⯑count, had been innumerable, and the ex⯑periments which the Baronet had made to force Denniſon to a reſignation of his place, were no leſs; "but where my lady lodges, there will I lodge," was his maxim, and theſe attempts to get rid of him had been for ſome time ſuſpended, or rather Sir Guiſe's folly abroad had defeated his tyranny at home. And the good ſteward had diſcovered certain infidelities, of which he forbore to tell any of the family, for two reaſons: firſt, becauſe he held the ſecret over the head of his maſter, as a ſword in the ſcabbard, to deter him from farther ill uſage of his lady or daughter; and ſecondly,—which, indeed, was his only hold over him, ſoon after the Baronet had him⯑ſelf betrayed the ſaid ſecret to his wife, with every wicked aggravation,—becauſe he was fearful any revival of the ſubject might encreaſe her uneaſineſs, if not on the article of violated love, of indignant virtue; for the wretch with whom Sir Guiſe aſſociated was [212]low born, and of a mind yet more abject. Her name was Tempeſt, who had been, in⯑deed, one of the menial ſervants of the fa⯑mily; yet were there points independent of this woman, the knowledge of which ſtill made Denniſon, in ſome ſort, formidable. As Sir Guiſe, therefore, was giving orders to another domeſtic, Denniſon, who over⯑heard them, and who, from his maſter's reſtleſs agility, knew there was ſome freſh miſchief on foot, undertook to be himſelf the meſſenger.

This honeſt adherent, who was ſtill an un⯑corrupted child of nature, no ſooner ſaw the condition in which he found his miſtreſs, than, diſregarding the injunctions of Sir Guiſe, he ſaid, "my maſter, madam, de⯑ſires to know if you are alone; but pray, my lady, let me ſay you are unwell, for I fear he is not, juſt now, in the beſt humour, and I am ſure your ladyſhip is not able to put up with what he may chooſe to ſay in tantarums. Do pray, good my lady, let me tell him it will be out of your power to receive him for ſome hours; and in the mean while, I will [213]ſee what can be done to bring him about; and ſhall I beg Miſs Caroline to come, and keep your ladyſhip company, until I have got him round a little? ſhe is a dear ſoul; and will do all ſhe can to make the beſt of bad matters, but it is a ſad pity young maſter ſhould be from the abbey. He could tame the old lion, at once, and make him as meek as a lamb; dear Mr. Henry Fitzorton is gone away. I met him awhile ago, poor gentleman, juſt as he was opening the great door, and his honour ſhook me by the hand, God bleſs him; and with his heart ready to burſt, ſaid, 'farewell Mr. Denniſon, fare⯑well; pray take care of your lady, and of your young miſtreſs, for when I have paſſed this threſhold, Mr. Denniſon, I muſt never come within theſe doors again.'

"Then the devil may ſhut it, honoured Sir, ſaid I, for Denniſon, for I would be turned out of doors myſelf, ſooner than be the man to cloſe it upon ſuch a friend to the family, as you are, and whom both my lady and young miſtreſs love ſo dearly. 'Do they love me ſo much?' cried the Squire, [214]'does Miſs Caroline, think you? and yet, Denniſon, ſhe it is who'—Here, madam, the poor gentleman's words were choaked in his ſighs, and offering me a purſe of money— which your ladyſhip muſt be ſure, I refuſed, and then bidding me again, farewell, and again ſhaking me by the hand, he ran out of the houſe."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE ſuſpicious diſpoſition of Sir Guiſe not ſuffering him to wait while honeſt Den⯑niſon ended his harangue, and having learned from another of the ſervants that Henry had left the houſe, and muſt by this time have got to the caſtle, he went into the room, bid⯑ding Denniſon, who, from an unexpected mildneſs in his maſter's voice, withdrew.

The very inſtant, however, he had ſo done, he approached lady Stuart, dying with her tears, and in a governed tone, which, as it were, ground his words into a dreadful mutter between his teeth, which teeth he gnaſhed together, cried, "traiterous woman! [215]I ſee you are ſtirring up my daughter to rebel againſt her father's authority, and are divid⯑ing my own houſe againſt me, as much as that of deteſted Fitzorton's. Do not ſpeak; I heard you promiſe your aſſiſtance to the young ſerpent, out of that neſt of ſnakes, crawling to you on his knees. But theſe are my open enemies; they are, by compariſon generous;—the moſt baneful vipers ſprung from my loins, or are nouriſhed in my bo⯑ſom. My curſes on you—yes, the curſe of an huſband repay your treachery! and for that young adder, whom you preſented to me in the ſhape of a daughter, go bear to her an equal execration, and tell her an in⯑jured father ſent it as his laſt legacy; go— and if a ſentence, from either of you, reaches even the ſervants' hall, tremble for the con⯑ſequence!"

This terrible menace he accompanied with action ſo fierce, his eyeballs rolling, and his lips covered with foam, from the torture of paſſion controuled, that lady Stuart had hardly ſtrength enough left her to totter out [216]of the room, and ſtagger up to Caroline's apartment, in the manner before deſcribed.

Fain would ſhe have withdrawn to her own chamber, but was, on this ſore occaſion led, by an involuntary impulſe, to her only com⯑forter, her Caroline, who loſt her own ſor⯑rows in thoſe of her mother; but, preſſed by a multitude of emotions, ſhe ſunk at her child's feet into the moſt violent convulſions; nor, in the intervals of ſenſe, could ſay more than, "Oh! let me not ſee my huſband. I cannot bear the ſight of him again." She remained in this condition the whole night, and with little intermiſſion until the night following—a troubled doze enſued, on awak⯑ing from which, ſhe felt her ſenſes, but not her frame, reſtored. The tender Caroline ſeldom left her arms, while her guilty huſ⯑band diligently avoided both his wife and child.

Once, however, when he found his lady had not been able to quit his daughter's apartments, he heard the voice of his wife, exclaiming, "my deareſt Caroline, grieve [217]not, all will be well ſoon;" on which he took himſelf down ſtairs, muttering, "this is no time for me; I ſuppoſe ſhe is in one of her damned fits again, and I have had enough of them already.

Her diſorder was on the third day aug⯑mented by a fever, in the beginning of which ſhe intreated ſhe might be conveyed to her own chamber—Caroline oppoſed this with ſtrong, but tender controul. "More than my life depends upon it," ſaid lady Stuart; "but do you, my Caroline, and your own woman be my conductors." Finding her fixed on that meaſure, Caroline obeyed in the evening of that day, and aſſuming a ſtrength, which on every other occaſion would have been wanting, and was even now incredible, for ſhe was delicate in the extreme, ſhe folded her ſick parent in her arms, and with ſcarcely any aſſiſtance from the attendant, bore her to her own bed; nor did the pious ſon, the filial example of ancient days, when he carried Anchiſes, his aged father, from the flames of Troy, exhibit a ſight ſo touching, as did this fair and duteous daughter, bending under [218]the weight of an agonized and tender mother, kiſſing her burning cheek at every ſtep, and proteſting, that if the breath with which ſhe cooled her feveriſh lip, could inſpire into her the ſpirit of returning health, ſhe would die with tranſport.

Two long months did the uncomplaining victim endure this bitter viſitation of heaven, during which, amidſt the ſcorchings of her fever, the ſilence of her ſwoons, and the ravings of her delirium, when ſhe would call with piercing ſcreams of terror upon her child, her life-preſerving child, to ſave her from the imagined fury of her huſband— during all theſe was that angelic child, her conſtant nurſe and attendant. Often did ſhe ſteal from her mother's pillow, wet with her tears, and bathe her father's hand with the ſtill dropping tears of filial miſery, to intreat he would come and ſpeak comfort to his diſtracted wife. But the thought that lady Stuart had betrayed his ſecret to Henry and Charles, and the conſequent vengeance he had to expect, with the idea that Caroline had aſſiſted in the plot, made him not only [219]deaf to all her interceſſions, but induced him often to ſpurn her from him with the moſt bitter denunciations, and brutal violence.— Denniſon, alſo, exerted his utmoſt power, and would ſecretly have called in the aſſiſt⯑ance of his young maſter and Henry, had not Caroline, apprehenſive of the fatal con⯑ſequences that might enſue, enjoined him to keep his lady's illneſs, as long as poſſible, from her brother, and every other perſon.

Luckily the enſign was, at this time, in winter quarters, which he could not again quit as well on account of his late fre⯑quent trips to the abbey and caſtle, as a reprimand from his Colonel; and Henry Fitzorton, who lived within a very few ſhort miles of this houſe of miſery, and who, in⯑deed, reſided in the conſtant view of it, hav⯑ing appropriated an apartment in the caſtle, as did Caroline in the abbey, parallel to that which held the object of his affections, was daily more and more abridged of the power of communicating his griefs even to Charles, by the cruel injunctions, as he then conceived them to be, of the once-complying Caroline; [220]but notwithſtanding all theſe lets and hindrances he never ſuffered a day to paſs without taking his ſolitary circuit round the precincts of the abbey, wandering through its woods, or even brooding in its caverns.

At the ſight of Sir Guiſe, or any of the family, when he ruſhed from his haunts, though his heart yearned to make enquiries, he would again plunge into the middle of the foreſt. How did he wiſh to preſent the pacquet which he was ſtill augmenting, and ſtill carried about with him, yet without daring to profit, even of opportunity! Alas! twice ſince his baniſhment had he attempted to gain admittance for his letters, by the medium of Denniſon, and twice received them back unopened.

If after this he met the faithful Steward, he would ſtill run to him, as to an aſſured friend, and eaſe his afflicted ſoul by haſty in⯑terrogations, which, ſince the unfortunate delivery of the letters, the poor old man could only anſwer with ſorrowful looks, that ſent the wretched wanderer away more miſer⯑able. Sometimes would he paſs the darkeſt [221]night, ſtormy and bitter, beneath a clump of venerable oaks, mingled with cypreſs, that encircled her chamber; to the window of which he would direct his eyes, and addreſs his prayers, liſtening every ſound that came from within and without. Thus would he remain until the unwelcome light of the morning drove him again into his leafy con⯑cealments; in the moſt gloomy receſſes of which, forgetful of his accuſtomed delights, forgetful even of his duties, ſo ſore was the preſſure of his deſpair, and ſo had it warped his ſoul—he would linger out the day, roam⯑ing from one entangled path to another, often throwing himſelf down in the moſt un⯑frequented places, and often climbing the higheſt tree to gaze a moment at the abbey, ſtraining his eager view to diſcover that part which contained his Caroline; and then at night-fall would he ſteal out of the foreſt, like one of its fearful inhabitants, and return to his nocturnal abodes.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AT the end of the third month of lady Stuart's ſickneſs, in the courſe of which the mercileſs fever had nearly drunk her ſpirits, withered her heart, and dried her blood; and when inceſſant watchings and ſympathizing griefs had reduced her ſtill aſſiduous child almoſt to a like condition, the maternal martyr, feeling that the ſilver chord of life was almoſt broken, pointed to a little cabinet of ſilver, curiouſly inwrought, which ſtood at the edge of her dreſſing-table.—Being brought, ſhe gave the key of it to Caroline, and pointed to a locket that hung to her boſom, deſiring Caroline to touch the ſpring which would preſent her with another key. "And that key, my child," ſaid her ladyſhip," "will diſcover what the drawers in the cabinet contain."

In a cover of pea-green ſilk tied, lady Stuart took from the innermoſt cabinet three ſmall boxes inveloped in as many caſes; her [223]whole frame was under viſible agitation. Thrice ſhe ſunk down on her pillow, and roſe to reſume her labour; at length ſhe produced from their coverings the miniatures of her own father and mother: ſhe looked at them alternately for ſome time, preſſing them by turns to her boſom, and then gave them to Caroline—"My deareſt child, when theſe were firſt beſtowed upon me, the oath of my ſecret ſoul was given to my God, never to part with them, but in the laſt hour of my life, nor even then, unleſs I could be⯑queath them to one whom I was aſſured would value them even, if that were poſſible, as I have done—elſe, it was part of my vow, to have them buried with me on my boſom, neareſt to my heart. That hour is come."

Caroline's own heart appeared to wither at the words. "That hour is come," re⯑iterated lady Stuart, with a ſmile, as if to ſoften the intelligence, "and my daughter will prize the legacy as tenderly as did her mother. Take them, my Caroline—Ere many moments more ſhall be numbered, I truſt in the ſupreme I ſhall again behold the [224]originals, but until you, my child, join us in a better world, theſe faint copies ſhall give you the images of two of the beſt, nobleſt, wiſeſt, deareſt, of human beings."

Caroline received the miniatures in the eloquence of ſolemn ſorrow, yet uttered not a word, nor ſhed a tear.

"They were the gift of my dear parents upon my bridal day. From that day was expected more happineſs, perhaps, than I have ever deſerved; but to whatever cauſe, alas! my bitter diſappointment might be owing, I will not, cannot, call it a day ac⯑curſed, ſince my child has been a recom⯑pence for a whole life of miſery. Let me preſs once more the precious reſemblances to theſe adoring lips, and then they are thine, my love, until it ſhall pleaſe Providence to bring thee alſo, to the bed of death. There ſhouldſt thou find thyſelf parent of a child like thyſelf, and as worthy to be truſted with a pledge ſo ineſtimable, let them accompany thy parting benediction, even as they do mine; if not, let them repoſe upon thy filial boſom, whereon I now imprint the laſt ma⯑ternal [225]kiſs—O, let them deſcend with thee into that tomb, where it is my lateſt charge, whoſoever may go before thee, to take eſpe⯑cial care thy remains are placed as near to thoſe of thy mother, as thou art at this, her dying moment!"

The latter part of this ſpeech ſhe articu⯑lated with great difficulty, and with many interruptions for renovated power of utter⯑ance.

Caroline raiſed and reclined her by turns, but was ſtill ſilent—hearing voices below, ſhe appeared ſomewhat moved, and lady Stuart was agitated. The latter, however, recovering, gently ſaid, "if Sir Guiſe ſhould chance to come, my love, let him be ad⯑mitted, and if he ſhould not, you will not forget to tell him, that more than one prayer for him has paſt my lips, and thouſands have been offered up, in ſilence, from my ſoul."

Here Caroline firſt found a voice—"Un⯑uſed to griefs of this nature, perhaps he is now mourning apart—O, if any ſenſation re⯑bukes him at a moment like this, his abſence [226]is kind, and he is more to be commiſerated than his child."

Lady Stuart roſe with energy to embrace Caroline, and then taking up the ſilken caſe, which encloſed the third miniature, ſhe ſaid, "This too, thou frequent preſerver of the life I am about to lay down, will be dear to thee. It is a likeneſs of what was once thy mother; alas! how changed."

As Caroline was placing it in her boſom, ſhe looked at the ſimilitude of the once blooming happy maid, now broken-hearted wife, and abruptly turned her head, to hide from her dying parent, the agony that roſe out of the compariſon.

After this, lady Stuart lay for near a quar⯑ter of an hour, as in death, during which, a gentle tapping was given at the door of her chamber, heard only by the female attendant; Caroline being abſorbed, with her eyes fixed on thoſe of her mother: and as ſhe reclined her lips near thoſe of lady Stuart, to catch the laſt aſpiration of life, her woman paſt ſoftly, and unperceived, to the door.— [227]"Huſh!" ſaid the perſon that entered, mak⯑ing at the ſame time ſigns of ſilence, and moving on tiptoe. The maid gently drew the curtain of the bed, on the door ſide, to its extent. A ſoft tread was again heard on the ſtairs, but the appearance of the phy⯑ſician, in the next inſtant, ſeemed to explain it. Caroline, delivering her mother's hand into the phyſician's, ſaid, with trembling hope—"ſhe has a pulſe, ſir, and I felt her breath this inſtant on my cheek." "Yes, there is life," replied the doctor, "but, alas! ſo little, that a few more imperfect pulſations, and probably"—"For pity's ſake," interpoſed Caroline, "anticipate not her death—I fear, I fear I am not yet pre⯑pared to bear it." Lady Stuart began to move her lips, and then, without opening her eyes, ejaculated faintly—"Help, Caro⯑line, help me to bleſs your brother, my always good and tender Charles." A whiſ⯑pered voice from the other ſide, ſcarcely more forcible than that of Lady Stuart, breathed forth—"ſhe ſpeaks!"

[228]"And if departed ſouls," continued her ladyſhip, "are permitted to know, and to feel the concerns, of what was moſt dear to them in this mortal world"—

She made a ſecond pauſe, to gain ſtrength, for the tide of life had nearly ebbed away.

"My firſt prayer to the fountain of all good, ſhall be"—

A third time ſhe wanted breath.

"Yes, my firſt prayer to the great diſ⯑poſer ſhall be, that Caroline and Henry"—

"Good God! can this be ſupported?" whiſpered a voice more faint than the former.

Caroline turned, as if ſhe had indiſtinctly hear the ſounds, but in the next moment a lengthened ſigh from lady Stuart recalled her whole attention.

"That is her laſt!" ſaid the phyſician— "Laſt! O God! O God! my mother is dead," reſumed the voice on the other ſide.

Caroline ſtarted.

"Your mother," rejoined the phyſician, addreſſing himſelf to that part of the room from whence the voice was heard, "is now [229]an angel in heaven." The oppoſite curtains were ſuddenly thrown aſide, preſenting to the aſtoniſhed view of Caroline, her brother and Henry Fitzorton ſtanding ſide by ſide, and holding the curtain in their hands to ſupport them.

A ſhriek, which ſeemed to be the burſt of her long accumulating, and long ſuppreſſ⯑ed emotions, broke from Caroline, as ſhe ſunk to the floor, like one who has been ſtricken with ſudden death. Henry ran round to the other ſide of the bed, and caught her in his arms, while Charles aſſiſted to convey her to the air of the window, which the phyſician had thrown open for that purpoſe. Mean while, the terror-ſtruck at⯑tendants ran down ſtairs for the uſual reſtora⯑tives, exclaiming, "my dear young miſtreſs, and my lady, are dead! both dead!—where is Sir Guiſe? where is my maſter?"

The Baronet and Denniſon were at this time together: the latter, not expecting his lady to be ſo near her end, was trying to keep his maſter in converſation till Charles and Henry, to whom he had opened the [230]door, had come down ſtairs. This ſudden alarm, however, hurried him out of his re⯑collection, and rather dragging than leading his maſter, who was himſelf bewildered, they got into the chamber before Caroline had recovered from her ſwoon, or any of the parties had altered their poſition, ſave that the cheek of Caroline, utterly unconſcious of a preſſure, was repoſing upon that of Henry.

A new language muſt be invented, before a juſt deſcription can be given of Sir Guiſe in this ſcene; his figure, attitude, and look, denoted ten thouſand emotions, ſubordinate to one, however, which, like Aaron's ſer⯑pent, ſwallowed up the reſt.

The phyſician fearing that if Caroline, on the firſt return of her ſenſes, ſhould be pre⯑ſented with the view of her deceaſed mother, it might bring on ſome fatal relapſe, had again drawn the bed curtains cloſe round, ſo that the corpſe was concealed from view. It was not, therefore, the condition of his breathleſs wife, nor was it the ſight of his daughter, ſtretched like another corpſe un⯑der his eye; nor yet was it the unexpected [231]ſight of the darling ſon, whom he ſuppoſed at the diſtance of ſome hundred miles, and whom, at any other time, his ſavage heart would have bounded to embrace; but it was ſimply, and ſingly, the ſoul-ſtaggering ſight of that Henry Fitzorton, whom he thought never more to behold within the walls of the abbey, holding that daughter, who at his command had ſolemnly forbade him her pre⯑ſence, enfolded again in his arms! and in his wife's bed-chamber! and manifeſtly with the conſent and concurrence of his ſon! In con⯑firmation of all which, one hand of this very ſon was tenderly claſped in Henry's, while he gently chaſed the temples of his ſiſter with the other. After ſurveying the parties for the ſpace of a minute, almoſt ſuffocated for want of utterance, he ſhouted forth in a voice ſo little human, that it ſeemed the howl of a famiſhed wolf in the wilderneſs on the firſt ſight of its prey, after long deſpair to find it—"Hell! and its choſen fiends! what do I ſee?"—

This ſavage exclamation, which might al⯑moſt have raiſed the dead, and killed the [232]dying, reſtored Caroline, in ſome meaſure, to herſelf, ſhuddering as if the icy hand of fate was on her; and not yet knowing where, and with whom ſhe was. On ſeeing Sir Guiſe, ſhe ſunk from Henry's arms on her knees, and dropt, as if deprived of life, at her father's feet; yet nothing now ſeemed to have attraction for Sir Guiſe but Henry Fitzorton, on whom he ſtill fixed his ſtaring eye, until the almoſt idiot ſteadineſs of his gaze drew, at length, the eyes of Caroline to the ſame object.

Amidſt the diſtraction of confuſed ſenſa⯑tions ſhe ſprung from him; but her brother perceiving a dreadful intent brooding in the fell ſoul of Sir Guiſe, then too violently agi⯑tated to attend to conſequences, advanced towards him—"Forbear, deſtroyer, to add the broken heart of thy daughter, and the diſtraction of thy ſon, to the murder of thy wife." "Thy life," ſaid Henry, approach⯑ing him, "depends ſolely upon thy child's! Beware!"—But Sir Guiſe, driven by his foaming rage out of every prudent paſſion, ſtill cheriſhed a deſperate purpoſe, when [233]Caroline, with that preſence of mind, which never but in the abſence of ſenſe wholly for⯑ſook her, undrew the curtain between Sir Guiſe and her mother's corpſe, and then led her father towards the bed with one hand, while with the other ſhe pointed to the body; but not a ſyllable eſcaped her lips. O weak⯑neſs of human language! what form of words could have added energy to ſuch a ſilence? The heart of the hardened quaked under it. "Unnatural! behold the work of thy hands," ſaid the ſon, dropping on his knees, and preſſing his mother's clay-cold hand fervently to his lips—Henry again whiſpered Sir Guiſe "to beware!" but Charles, now almoſt frantic with grief for the loſs of a parent, whom he loved tenderly, and maddening with reſent⯑ment againſt her deſtroyer, would certainly have completed the horrors of this chamber of deſpair and death, had not Henry, Den⯑niſon, and Caroline, thrown themſelves be⯑tween the father and the ſon. Unable, how⯑ever, for the moment, to ſeparate the parent from the criminal, no oppoſing force could prevent the noble and indignant youth from [234]dragging down Sir Guiſe on his knees, and ſwearing by the angel-ſpirit of his departed mother, that if he did not that inſtant be⯑ſeech forgiveneſs of the murdered ſaint now ſtretched before him, no power on earth ſhould make him endure the ſight of him again, but he would brand him as the aſſaſſin of the innocent, until the habitable earth ſhould not contain a corner to ſhield from ſcorn his opprobrious head.

Sir Guiſe, divided between the miſcreant emotions of fear and ſhame, folded his hands together, and muttered ſomething like a ſor⯑row for what had happened; then being permitted to riſe up, he ſlunk, like a detect⯑ed robber, out of the room, attended by Denniſon and the phyſician.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THUS died the excellent and gentle lady Stuart, and ſuch were the events which hap⯑pened immediately after ſhe had expired.— Had ſhe lived an hour longer, her laſt mo⯑ments muſt have been diſturbed by ſcenes which, in her firmeſt health, ſhe had neither ſpirits nor ſtrength to ſupport.—

Should the untimely fate of this lady have drawn from the reader, therefore, a tear of grief, another of conſolation will ſucceed; as he reflects that ſhe was then diſmiſſed to the realms of eternal reſt, amidſt the calm of innocence, the peace of virtue, and love of the good.

The next point we have to ſettle with the reader, is the unexpected appearance of Charles and Henry; to ſatisfy him on which head, he muſt be informed, that Henry having by letter acquainted his friend of the news that had been imparted to him, re⯑ſpecting lady Stuart's declining health: Charles communicated the tidings to his [236]colonel, obſerving at the ſame time, that though his duty, as an officer, was dear to him as his own life, the duty that he owed to, perhaps, a dying mother, was dearer ſtill; and that he verily believed deſertion would follow refuſal of leave to attend her, unleſs at the time of ſuch refuſal, he was put under an arreſt, which he intreated might be the caſe, as the only means to ſecure him from a breach of duty. His colonel, touched with an ardour like his own, and diſdaining to at⯑tend to the literal traits of a threat, which was ſanctioned by its motive, and which tried not by martial law, but in the courts of humanity, might have almoſt juſtified the offence itſelf, replied, "Take my hand, young ſoldier, and with it, take not my conſent only, but my command, to remain with your mother as long as your ſociety can adminiſter to her one comfortable moment; and if you return from your poſt ſooner, damn me, if I do not give my vote to have you broke—aye, and you would deſerve to be ſhot more than any deſerter upon earth, and that for diſobedience as well of my [237]orders, as of thoſe of my ſuperior, the great god of nature himſelf. And as to your abſence, were it even on the day of battle, my boy, by the god of war, I would fight with a ſword in each hand, as your ſubſti⯑tute; aye, and do you juſtice too upon the enemy: ſo march, my lad, and don't ſtay any longer here to parley—but here's a letter, I received from a brother officer, which came to me a few poſts ago, and in which you are concerned; you may read it on the road; time is now precious." Charles preſſed his colonel's hand to his glowing cheek, bowed, and diſappeared. Poſt⯑horſes, and the travel of night and day, brought him with breathleſs haſte in the twilight of the ſecond day's journey, to the gate of the abbey, where being met by Henry, who was at that time taking his evening round of ſolitary ſorrow—"My friend," ſaid Charles, alighting from his horſe, "do I behold Henry Fitzorton?"— "O, Charles!" replied Henry, "this has been my night's ſojourn—theſe woods have [238]ſo long received me, that I now ſeem to be one of their natural inhabitants."

"Does my mother yet live?" demanded Charles, "and how is my poor ſiſter?" then, without waiting a reply, he took Henry by the hand, and would have thundered for admittance at the abbey door, had not the thought of the ſick lady Stuart intervened. He gave, therefore, a more gentle ſummons, which being luckily anſwered by Denniſon, who was, at that moment, ſitting penſive in the cloiſters of the grand entrance, "Help me, good old man," ſaid Charles, "to aſcend the chamber of a dying mother, and of a ſiſter, who, I fear, alas!"—"Siſter!" ſaid the terror-ſtricken Henry. He had nei⯑ther time nor breath to utter more, for Charles trembled like himſelf, at every ſtep, as he paſſed the cloiſters. At remote diſtances lamps were hung on the pillars; their foot⯑ſteps reverberated a ſound that was porten⯑tous and ſepulchral; the veteran, who accom⯑panied them, whiſpered, "leſs noiſe! dear young maſter, leſs noiſe!" and when the im⯑patient, [239]but tender youth, and his friend, had gained the back ſtair-caſe, Denniſon diſ⯑appeared, and ſought Sir Guiſe, for the pur⯑poſe already related.

There remains but one circumſtance more, therefore, to be ſettled with the reader, and that is, the letter that Charles Stuart's worthy colonel gave that heroic youth at parting. This will beſt explain itſelf, as well as the parties concerned.

Sir Guiſe, from want of honour and good faith in himſelf, ſuſpecting every body elſe, ſuppoſed Caroline had betrayed him to Henry, that Henry had of courſe imparted it to Charles; and that he had the juſt re⯑ſentment of both;—he took refuge in the moſt obſcure and remote part of the old buildings, ſeparated from the tenanted part of the abbey, and could he, by any means whatever, have have ſhaken off old Denniſon, he would have gone alone: although it was now ſome [241]hours before break of day, and he was both timid and ſuperſtitious.

CHAPTER XXXV.

INDEED his hiding place was well fitted to the darkneſs of his ſpirit, the daſtardy of his guilt, and the fears that are natural to both. It was ſituate in a part of the abbey, which, from being long untenanted, had fallen into decay, inſomuch, that the chatter of the daw, the croak of the toad, and the heavy wing of the raven, and of other birds that ſeem to delight in the ruin of human grandeur and ambition, were heard through the broken apertures, which time, that great diſmantler of all the laboured towers of va⯑nity, had made in the walls. A number of ſubterraneous paſſages yawned, like cavern mouths, in different parts: gaps alſo were opened in its ſides, through which the wind emitted an hollow ſound, which was hoarſely repeated by the affrighted echo—In ancient days, this gloomy receſs had been, as re⯑cords teſtified, a place of ſepulture: more⯑over, [242]it was damp and deſolate to ſuch an extreme, that a chill like that of death ran through the blood as you entered it; in ſhort, it was the laſt receſs that Sir Guiſe, of all men, would have entered in the hours of darkneſs, had he not been driven into it by thoſe overwhelming terrors, which now ſeized upon him.

Often did he look behind, as he traverſed the long ailes that led to this Golgotha: and finding neither force nor flattery could get rid of the vigilant Denniſon, he ſubmitted to his entering, after drawing acroſs the door, which was knotted with enormous ſtuds of iron, the ruſty bolts, that terrified him.

Denniſon, whoſe heart would have done honour to the moſt exalted, even as it dig⯑nified the moſt humble, ſtation, began to feel towards his maſter a degree of pity; and, indeed, there is not, perhaps, in the whole world a more complete object of commiſer⯑ation, than an unhappy wretch, trembling under a thorough conviction of his own un⯑worthineſs, and flying from the man he has injured.

[243]The good Denniſon on perceiving Sir Guiſe in great terror, and rightly judging it muſt be of his ſon and Henry Fitzorton, aſſured him, in a voice that even guilt itſelf, with all its train of ſuſpicions, muſt have be⯑lieved, that he might make himſelf quite eaſy, as he had left both the young ſquires in his poor dead lady's chamber;—"As for her," obſerved Denniſon, "ſhe is now a ſaint above all of us; ſo all is for the beſt, and as ſhe could get no happineſs in life, I am glad ſhe is gone where ſhe is ſure to find it. I am crying, to be ſure, becauſe I ſhall not ſee her any more; and I uſed to love to ſee her:— ſhe was a perfect beauty, you know, when you married her, Sir, and ſhe was handſome to the laſt; nay, her ſweet good ſoul went out of the world with a ſmile on her; and you might have ſeen it after ſhe was dead, while you were all taken up about Miſs Caroline, who is as good as her mother, and that is ſaying every thing:—I ſay, Sir, while you were all buſy about poor young lady, who ſeemed to have a mind to follow her mother to heaven, and, for aught I can tell, [244]may die yet, for ſhe has had but a weariſome time of it, and has but weakly health; well— while you were bringing her out of her fit, poor ſoul, I ſtole round to my dear lady, and got within the curtains, and ſtood looking at the ſmile ſhe died with, until my heart was ready to burſt. I could have kiſſed it, but thought I ſhould not be ſo bold when ſhe was dead, ſeeing I ſhould as ſoon die myſelf, as think of ſuch a thing when ſhe was alive; and as my boldneſs would have been ſeen— what, does not God and his angels ſee, you know, Sir?—every thing, Sir; aye, juſt as well in this dark hole, as in full day time; and, if they did not, a man cannot run from his own wicked heart—ſo I only made free to kneel down by her bed-ſide, and take my lady's hand; O, 'twas juſt like a lump of ſnow, only colder and fairer, all to nothing!— you know ſhe always had ſuch a hand and arm as you ſhall not ſee, except Miſs Caro⯑line's—and I could not help ſaying—'Well, God bleſs you! you are out of your troubles at laſt—I am not ſorry; you were too good for this world, and the beſt always go firſt: [245]you have been a good lady to me, as you was to every body elſe; and, for a mother and wife, I think, I never looked on your like;'— which your honour knows was no more than the truth, though you uſed to be ſo hard with her at times; but, loſt goods are moſt prized; and, I dare ſay, your honour would be ſhut without light until Whitſuntide, in this deſperate hole to have her back again. But all this is no matter, ſhe is in heaven, and you are here ſkulking in this dirty corner— there's the difference; ſo we have nothing to do but make the beſt of a bad matter; but as it would not be pleaſant to ſleep in this old charnel, amongſt owls, toads, and dead men's ſkulls—what I have to ſay is, if you are afraid to meet young maſter, who, to be ſure, is as brave as a lion; ſo is Mr. Henry,—why, I will engage to get them out of the way, and then come and let your honour know: I would not betray you, even if your honour was a murderer, and man's blood on your hand, if I once ſaid the word. If a man's word cannot be taken, there's an end of him. Thus, you may get to your comfortable [246]bed, and matters will be blown over by the morning."

Sir Guiſe, had not his tongue been chained by his fears, and every limb in ſubjection to the idea that devoured him, would have ſoon checked theſe effuſions; but he now heard them without any interruption, and accepted the propoſal. "I know," ſaid he, "you are to be depended on, Denniſon; and, as I do not chooſe to have any words with my ſon, and as you well know what reaſon I have to diſlike the Fitzortons, though Henry, I own, is the beſt of them:—Why, my good Denniſon, you may do as you mention; I am ſure, you would die rather than betray your maſter. Yes, yes; I am not now to learn, Denniſon is to be depended upon: I would truſt him with my life."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"So any man might, Sir," quoth the Steward, "if I ſaid it, even if a man ought to be hanged:" Denniſon, however, had, on the preſent occaſion, little left for the farther trial of his integrity, for he found his good-natured deſigns already anticipated by Caro⯑line. This Britiſh daughter, whoſe filial virtues might well contend with thoſe of the moſt celebrated one of older times, met Denniſon juſt as he had regained the habit⯑able part of the abbey;—"Where is my father?" ſhe exclaimed; "I have ſought him wherever I thought it poſſible he ſhould take refuge, but all in vain, and I am in ten thouſand terrors. Have you ſeen him? Is he ſafe? I am almoſt diſtracted. Good God! where can he be gone—why do not you ſpeak?"

The rapidity and confuſion with which ſhe uttered this, made it impoſſible for Denniſon to edge in any thing like a reply until ſhe had done ſpeaking, and then the honourable [248]ſtruggle of a moment, betwixt the deſire of his heart, to compoſe the fears of his young miſtreſs, and the debate of his conſcience, whether he ought to do ſo by a breach of his word, produced in Denniſon a ſhort heſita⯑tion, which Caroline interpreted the worſt way; namely, his reluctance to tell what had happened to his maſter. This fear ſo agitated her that the taper dropped extinguiſhed from her hands, and ſhe herſelf would have fol⯑lowed it, had not the affrighted Denniſon called out—"He lives, dear my lady miſ⯑treſs, he lives, and I will conduct you to him—You would not harm a worm—he will not be afraid of ſuch an angel as you; only we muſt not ſay any thing to young maſter and Mr. Fitzorton."

"They are ſafe," replied Caroline, ſome⯑what recovered, deſiring Denniſon to lead on and never to ſtand for light, but if any was wanted to fetch it afterwards.

"Permit your ſervant then, my lady," ſaid Denniſon; "to be ſo bold to take your hand and be your guide; I dare ſay, I can [249]make out the road, though I never took it above once or twice before in my life, and then in broad day, except juſt now, for the hall, you know, is haunted, not that, I think, there is a ghoſt on earth would chooſe ſuch a fearfulſome place as that, and if he did I defy him;—for a guilty conſcience is worſe than he, if he were the devil himſelf; and a man cannot get out of the way of that, no not in a ſummer's-day, ſeeing he carries it about with him. Where that goes will he go; where that lodges will he lodge, as the ſcripture ſays. And for that matter, maſter is but a timmerſome bit of a gentleman, you know, and mayhap will wonder he came for to go to ſuch a hobgoblin old nick of a— But that's his affair; and as for lights, why we are going, where, on ſuch a night as this—do but hear how the rain beats, and the wind roars, through theſe old piaches—a torch could not ſtand it; no, hardly; an' it were in an horn lantern."

All this time Denniſon, gently holding Caroline with one hand, and exploring his [250]way with the other, was retracing his former footſteps—and Caroline at the end of his ſpeech, which though all in whiſper, vibrated back upon them hollow reſponſes, exclaim⯑ed —"I care not for light or darkneſs, ſo that you conduct me to my father!"

"Here then we have him, miſs," ſaid Denniſon, "for we have but to get through this alley, ſo then into the court-yard, then paſs the old tower, then into the back ruins, ſo then by the broken draw-bridge, and leave Monk's moat, as we call him, to the right, until we come to the Abbot's Baſon, ſlipſide which, is Deadmen's Corner, and there is maſter." "Deadmen's Corner! what! in the charnel-houſe in the old buildings?" ex⯑claimed Caroline.—

"Yes, miſs, my lady, there he is ſure enough—and glad enough he will be, I war⯑rant him, to get out by this time, for he had never a hat on his head, until, as I was com⯑ing out, I clapt mine on it: by the ſame token, it would not be amiſs, before we creep through this hole, which brings us into [251]the ruinations, to throw a bit of a covering over your ſhoulders."

Theſe words he accompanied by the action ſuggeſted, and had his ſurtout, which he al⯑ways wore ſummer and winter, in door and out, buttoned over her before ſhe could gueſs what he was about.

"God ſave thee, good miſs!" ſaid Den⯑niſon, as they gained the open area, "did you ſee that flaſh of lightning?—Well, that will light us on a bit; we ſhall have a fine clap of thunder roll after him, I warrant, preſently. Aye, there he comes—I told you ſo—and how the wind whizzes the rain in one's face—ſtop a bit—Its clean, though coarſe, miſs, I took him out of lavender, of my own drying, this morning—ſweet as a roſey, an't he—"

The Steward was all this time faſtening his handkerchief over Caroline's head—"Pull it, my lady, a little more over your pretty face," continued he, "in the way of a hood like; or ſuppoſe now, you were to hold the two ends in your mouth in this-um faſhion— by the ſame token, this is a terrible night at [252]ſea; but there's one who can take care of thoſe who travel by land or by water, you know; though I wiſh I had my hat upon your head, my lady miſs, inſtead of where it is, too; for 'tis pity O' the world to wet ſuch locks as theſe-um—alack! you are my lady⯑ſhip now, more's the mis-hap, for my poor miſtreſs, my lady that was, is all this time where no ſtorms nor tempeſts can reach her: ſhe is far enough away, thank God, from ſuch things."

The laſt ſentence is the only one in this harangue, or in its accompaniments, that appeared to divide the attention of Caroline from what ſhe was in purſuit of:—neither thunder, lightning, the delay, length, or ruggedneſs of the way, nor the rain that fell upon her, notwithſtanding all honeſt Den⯑niſon's precautions, were deemed worthy of her notice, but at the mention of her mo⯑ther's ſituation, a long and heavy ſigh, as if from the bottom of her ſoul, burſt from her, and ſhe exclaimed, "Oh! God, Oh! God, never till we join in heaven, Denniſon, ſhall we behold ſuch another woman!"—

[253]"That's a ſure thing, miſs, and God forgive me, I was going to ſay, nor then neither, except your ladyſhip's ſelf—yet, with reverence, I might have ſaid it too—for were there more angels than a body could count, you and ſhe ſhall be amongſt the firſt of them—ſo don't grieve, miſs, any more. For ſhe is better off than we a thouſand to one, though inſtead of being thus pelted, we were in the midſt of ſummer, on a ſun⯑ſhiny day.—But we have got to Abbot's Baſon, and—aye, here we have it—I now have got to the door—I have my hand on one of the nails—They are bigger, miſs, than your little fiſt—ſo now for it."

Saying this, Denniſon tapped at the door, which Sir Guiſe, on recognizing the voice, opened, and Denniſon entered, leading in Caroline.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A CONTINUED flaſhing of the light⯑ning, however, aſſiſted by the faint ap⯑proaches of the dawn, threw light enough upon them, to diſcover that the companion of Denniſon was habited as a man; Sir Guiſe, therefore, aſſiſted by his guilty fears, eaſily magnified the poor unoffending Caroline either into his angry ſon, Charles, or the vindictive Henry Fitzorton. Under this apprehenſion, he ſhrunk back to the fartheſt corner of the diſmal cell, and in a voice more fearful than the thunder that rattled over the ruins, cried out, "Villain! you have be⯑trayed me, and have brought either my hated enemy, or my own rebellious child, to aſſaſſinate me." "Your own child, ſure enough ſhe is," ſaid Denniſon, "but I do not think ſhe would aſſaſſinate, as you call it, the gnat that ſtung her pretty face; it is, miſs Caroline, buttoned up in my old wea⯑therall, and by the ſame token, as the rain don't ſeem to give over, I ſhall make bold [255]with my hat off your honour's head, ſeeing a man has a right to take his own wherever he can find it, and my old handkerchief that I have tied, you ſee, under madam's little chin, is handſomely ſoaked by this time."

While Denniſon was ſaying this, Caroline had run to her father, and convinced him ſhe came in her accuſtomed character, as the meſſenger of peace, and took the hat, which Denniſon had transferred from father to daughter, and replaced it upon that head which leſs deſerved protection, tenderly ex⯑claiming, "For goodneſs ſake, my dear Sir, let me conduct you from this dreadful place to your own apartment, and do you go be⯑fore, Denniſon, and fetch a light"—"As to light, madam, as I told you before, we can have none but that which God ſends us, and muſt e'en go back as we came, and for that matter, it lightens ſo, you may ſee to pick a pin up, though between whiles, it is as dark as my hat."

Sir Guiſe exclaimed, "I'll not ſtir, I tell you, until Charles is in bed, and that fellow, to whom you, Caroline, have betrayed me, [256]and whom you brought into the abbey after you had forbidden him, is out of my houſe."

Caroline now perceiving the nature of his fears, and of his miſtake, "aſſured him, that ſo far from being privy to Mr. Fitzorton's gaining entrance into the abbey, her ſurprize was equal to her father's, on ſeeing him in her poor mother's chamber.

"O, your honour, I can ſet that right," ſaid Denniſon. The good old man then re⯑lated the circumſtances of Henry's being brought in by Charles, in conſequence of a letter ſent by the former, reſpecting lady Stuart's dangerous ſickneſs, and other par⯑ticulars, with which the reader is already acquainted.

Cowardice itſelf, born, as it often is, of conſcious crimes, though in the caſe of Sir Guiſe, it was a timid daſtardy of conſtitution, aggravated by guilt, and, indeed, by every thing that pointed at perſonal danger, might have caught encouragement from ſuch ex⯑planations, and ſuch explainers. Sir Guiſe, therefore, ſuffered himſelf to be conducted out of the Golgotha by his daughter, and [257]ſoon regained the inhabited part of the abbey. Hearing from one of his ſervants, that Mr. Henry Fitzorton was gone home to the caſtle, but that the captain had returned, and was gone to bed, he ſtole up the back⯑ſtairs on tiptoe to his own apartment, like a thief in the night, leaving Denniſon and his daughter to diſpoſe of themſelves as they thought proper.

"If, my good Denniſon, you are not too wet and weary," ſaid the gentle Caroline, as ſhe deſcended the ſtairs from the apartment of her father, "if, indeed, you are not quite worn out, I wiſh you would betake yourſelf to my brother's chamber door, and wait there until you hear him ſtirring in the morn⯑ing, then do not fail to let me know before he can poſſibly come down ſtairs.—You will find me in my poor mother's apartment, which, alas! I have quitted too long; but you know, my good Denniſon, it has been unavoidable."—"Wet, and weary!" an⯑ſwered Denniſon, "why if you will promiſe to put on ſomething dry, and take a drop of ſomething comfortable yourſelf, and a bit of [258]a nap, I would ſtand up to the chin for half a day in one of our old moats! I have got ſome rare ſtingo, miſs, in my cloſet here hard-by, will keep the cold out of your ſto⯑mach curiouſly, I warrant him a perfect cor⯑dial." —"I am glad you mentioned it," ſaid Caroline, "a glaſs of it, may, perhaps, do my father good, after ſtanding ſo long in that miſerable place: I will take it to him directly; and you know, Denniſon, you may at the ſame time carry another to my bro⯑ther, for he too has been expoſing himſelf this ſhocking night,—alas, I wiſh this had been mentioned before his—his—his—friend went out of the houſe, for—though—Hen— Henry—Mr.—Henry Fitzorton has done ſomething very much to diſpleaſure me, I don't bear him the leaſt ill will, Denniſon." "Ill will, miſs! why you love him as well as you do the eyes in your head, and he the ſame! and both of you know it,—and I hope you will both come together yet—for all this. Don't you remember my poor lady's dying words about it?"

[259]Denniſon, who the reader remembers al⯑ways held diſcourſe, and did buſineſs at the ſame time, had now unlocked his cloſet, and produced a goodly ſtone bottle that promiſed comfort, and while Denniſon was pouring ſome of its contents into a little glaſs that ſtood beſide it, and was its conſtant com⯑panion, he cried, "Miſs, if you don't take off this thimbleful to the poor young gentle⯑man's health, neither my young nor my old maſter, ſaving your preſence, ſhall have a drop of it, if it were to ſave their lives! I am ſure," added he, holding it to Caroline's lips, "if Squire Henry did but know we were drinking his health, he would not mind the wet weather, no, not even if he had been drawn through an horſe-pond.—I know what true love is, as well as either of you; but all this time you're in your damp cloaths, ſo warm the inſide firſt with this, and then I promiſe to do as you deſire."

While Caroline preſſed her lip on the glaſs, he ſaid, "now remember, miſs, you are drinking the health of young Squire Fitzorton."

[260]Caroline ſighed, gave the good old man a preſſure of the hand, and begged him to pour out another glaſs for Sir Guiſe.—"Cer⯑tainly, miſs," ſaid he, "but not before I have done honour to your ladyſhip's firſt toaſt in this kind of manner," here he took off a bumper; and filling the glaſs a third time, Caroline took it to her father's chamber door, where, unable to gain admittance, though ſhe heard him move, and told her errand, ſhe was obliged to bring it back to Denniſon, who carried it to her brother, with charge, however, not to diſturb him if he appeared to be aſleep.

Thus they ſeparated to their different occupations; Denniſon, who in Caroline's abſence had thrown on ſome dry cloaths, to keep guard at his young maſter's door, and Caroline to the corpſe of her dead mother.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

WE muſt there leave them awhile, in their reſpective ſtations, to ſee what happened in lady Stuart's chamber, after it had been left in ſuch diſorder by Sir Guiſe, Caroline, Denniſon, and the phyſician: for beſides the intereſt which, we truſt, the reader will now take in whatever concerns young Henry and his friend Charles, the amiable Caroline had concealed ſeveral matters which it is neceſ⯑ſary, to the connection of the hiſtory, the reader ſhould know.

For ſome time after the young friends were left together, Charles was ſo agitated by grief for the loſs of his mother, and reſentment againſt his father, whom he looked upon as the entire author of her death; and the whole ſcene appeared to Henry ſo powerful an en⯑chantment, "that their eyes were, alternately, faſtened upon the living and upon the dead, without ſpeech or motion. At length the tender-hearted Charles, as if no longer able to ſupport the view, flung his arms around [262]his friend, and, looking on the corpſe, ex⯑claimed,— "O Henry! one of the ſtrongeſt ties of my life is there rent aſunder; yet ſhall not thoſe which remain be the more preci⯑ous? but you muſt not conſider this effuſion of exceſſive ſorrow for the untimely, I fear the unnatural, fate of that excellent parent, as my weakneſs."

Henry, who was ſufficiently touched be⯑fore, now joined his ſighs and tears in generous ſympathy, but exhorted him to withdraw from the ſight.—"When I have preſſed upon this cold maternal lip one kiſs," continued Charles, "it ſhall be ſo;" in ſtooping down to do which he diſcovered the little caſe out of which his ſiſter had taken the miniatures which, as the reader already knows, ſhe had ſafely depoſited. The cabinet ſtill remained; and in the confuſion of lady Stuart's laſt moments, or perhaps from deſign, it had got between her face and her pillow, and in that ſituation was it found by Charles. And now a diſcovery was made, which threw Henry into a ſtate impoſſible to deſcribe; for the miniatures of his beloved Caroline, [263]and of his friend Charles, were at the bottom of the cabinet; and as the excellent mother did not bequeath theſe to her daughter, or even mention them with that of herſelf, or thoſe of her parents, ſhe probably deſigned to have had them buried with her. Henry being unable to ſpeak, looked thoſe unutter⯑able wiſhes, which Charles eaſily interpreted, exclaiming, "Yes, deareſt of my friends! they ſhall be yours! both yours! does not the ſituation in which I found them, ſeem to whiſper to us, that they received a mother's bleſſing with her lateſt breath?"

Henry took the miniatures with a trem⯑bling hand, and preſſing them to his lips, put them haſtily into his boſom, ſaying only, "this is their proper manſion, they are here at home." "But where," exclaimed Charles, "is the aſſaſſin of our peace? that inhuman, I will not outrage the ſacred name by calling him father! where has his atrocious guilt hid itſelf from his deſolated, his degraded ſon? He has murdered my mother, and is making my ſiſter cruel as himſelf: perhaps ſhe is [264]now protecting him from my juſt and pious indignation!"

"If the memory of your deceaſed mo⯑ther, whoſe ſpirit may, perhaps, be now diſturbed in heaven itſelf, by the knowledge of our indecent ill-timed contentions, be dear my friend," ſaid Henry, "do not attempt to find Sir Guiſe, whatever aſylum he may have choſen, while the ſacred corpſe of your dear mother is yet in the chamber that gave you and Caroline birth! rather, ah! rather aid her, to perform the laſt ſad offices with filial decency and chriſtian reſignation."

Charles melted as he heard,—and em⯑bracing his friend, "Well," ſaid the generous youth, "it ſhall be ſo; I will try to conduct myſelf in every thing at this awful criſis, as your piety ſuggeſts. Were it not for my ſiſter's ſake," continued the lieutenant, "I would leave the houſe this moment, never to return; and, indeed, it is not ſafe, my friend, for me to remain here any longer at preſent: ſhould I meet with the author of all our miſeries, I fear neither the living nor the dead [265]will make me remember my promiſes." In this diſpoſition Charles and Henry left the abbey.

Caroline re-entered her mother's apart⯑ment at midnight, when addreſſing the at⯑tendants who were ſitting up with the body, ſhe ſaid ſhe choſe now to undertake that office herſelf, and deſired they might go to reſt. The reader is ſufficiently acquainted with the mind of Caroline Stuart to know, that the dutiful oppoſition which was made to this, on the part of the ſervants, effected no change in her deſigns, though it received the kindeſt acknowledgment. One of the chambermaids intreated ſhe might ſit by the corpſe of her dear lady, proteſting ſhe would lay down her life to reſtore her. "And if my young miſtreſs will go to bed," ex⯑claimed another, "I will engage not to have a wink of ſteep get into my eyes for a month, if my miſtreſs's precious remains could be preſerved above ground."

When Caroline was left alone, ſhe ſeated herſelf by the ſide of her bed, without any of the ordinary terrors on being in the room [266]with the dead. Various are the inſtances we have already given the reader, of her extra⯑ordinary ſtrength of mind. It was that alone, which enabled her to ſupport the fatigues and miſeries of the paſt memorable ſcenes; and it now aſſiſted her to perform other offices which her love ſuggeſted.

The pride of female youth, even as it was diſplayed in the redundant locks of Caroline, ſurpaſſed not thoſe beautiful treſſes which ſtill adorned her mother. Caroline paſſed ſome time in adjuſting theſe with as much care, though with the ſtricteſt homage to nature, as if her mother were alive. She parted them, ſpread them over the ſhoulders, diſpoſed them into ringlets, talked to them, preſſed them to her lips, and bathed them with her tears. Looking earneſtly in her mother's face, ſhe could ſometimes fancy ſhe was about to ſpeak. She perceived the ſmile which Denniſon had ſo artleſsly celebrated, ſtill impreſſed: at length, ſhe confined the hair under a ſimple veil of white crape, as her mother had directed, and after a thouſand other tenderneſſes,—which, if the reader has [267]not a heart to take an intereſt in, we can only condole with or congratulate him upon it, which he likes beſt—ſhe felt herſelf weighed down by the different occurrences of the night, and taking her mother's cold hand in her own, ſhe lay down by her ſide, and fell into a ſounder ſleep, than, it is probable, her guilty father had enjoyed during the night.

The ſun and Charles Stuart roſe together, and the truſty Denniſon came to the door of his lady's apartment to announce,—ſaying, "My young maſter is ſtirring, madam, and on ringing his bell, I went myſelf to receive his orders, which were to get his horſes ready, and ſend up his boots and ſpurs immediately; ſo, calling his own man to do theſe things, I came, as promiſed, to let you know it, miſs;—and here you have never had your clothes off I ſee, and I ſuppoſe have been lying by the ſide of my poor lady all this time; aye, here is the length of ye; and I can ſee you have juſt let go that cold hand. For that matter, my young maſter had but a weariſome time of it any more than yourſelf; I heard him very reſtleſs, and taking on [268]pitiouſly, for I did not budge an inch, and he called out by times upon his mother and yourſelf, miſs, and Squire Henry; and once I heard him ſay, poor Denniſon! More than all, he mentioned the name of Olivia, which, as I take it, is the name of the young lady now come down again to paſs the ſummer with her father at the manor-houſe."

"Olivia!" ſaid Caroline, "what Olivia Clare! ſince our infant days we have not met, alas! we then were tender friends; but I have heard ſhe is—" "as pretty a crea⯑ture, they tell me," interpoſed Denniſon, "as yourſelf, miſs. Yes, my young maſter mentioned her, and ſighed ſo between whiles that, for my part, I believe—yet, for certain if it is ſo, its a ſecret, or elſe we ſhould, ſome of us, have heard of it. I remember I myſelf was given to talk about my love before any body elſe knew any thing of the matter. By this you will ſay I muſt be a blabbing old fellow to tell you of it, and I ſhould ſay ſo too, only I look upon you to be another him⯑ſelf, as I may ſay, and, mayhap, may ſtand [269]his friend in this affair; for, you know, if he ſhould have taken a fancy to this miſs Olivia, ſeeing our houſe and theirs do not ſet their horſes' heads very well together, there will be a fine coil, ſpeciouſly as we are papiſhes, and they are proteſtants, you know, miſs."

Denniſon, who though he had the garrulity of age, and loved a long ſtory at his heart, had, alſo, the active diligence of youth. He contrived his narrations ſo as to recite them, and do other buſineſs at the ſame time; in ſo much, that he would frequently carry on a debate, or continue a ſtory for miles to⯑gether; and, according to the given diſtance, compreſs his facts and effuſions ſo as to finiſh his harangue and his errand together, or rather, to end his harangue where his errand begun; and when this could not be done, he would break his ſtory off ſhort, with a pro⯑miſe to give you the reſt another time; a promiſe which he would always ſooner or later fulfil, taking it up at the very ſentence, and ſometimes with the very word which he left off, as if no interruption had happened, pre⯑facing, it only, "and ſo as I was ſaying;" [270]and would then proceed, either until he had done, or met with a ſecond interruption.

The foregoing harangue was performed by Denniſon, almoſt at full ſpeed; for the inſtant Caroline was informed of her brother's pre⯑paring to ride out, at ſo early an hour, ſhe haſtened down ſtairs, followed by our orator, and met the lieutenant juſt as he was leaving his apartment. They ſaluted each other with all the tenderneſs of affection; ſoon after which, Charles deſired to ſpeak with his ſiſter alone, and, diſmiſſing Denniſon, took her by the hand and walked into the garden, which ſeparated the caſtle from the park. "I muſt leave the abbey, my dear Caroline," ſaid Charles; "I feel there is no other way to obſerve thoſe decorums which the preſent ſituation of the family require. I dare not truſt myſelf with another ſight of my poor mother's remains, much leſs aſſiſt at that ceremony which ſhall convey them to the cold grave; neither dare I, in the preſent diſorder of my mind, hazard the preſence of one to whoſe account I continue to ſet down not only the loſs of a mother, but the miſery which [271]my ſiſter continues to inflict upon my boſom friend; but I feel alſo, that the preſent is no time for inveſtigations of this ſort; lady Stuart claims all your attention, the more eſpecially, as, for the reaſons I have men⯑tioned, I muſt transfer to you my ſhare of the laſt duties I owe to her, or rather include mine in yours. Alas! Caroline, there are other motives which make it expedient for me to quit this houſe, and this neighbour⯑hood for a time, though never has it been more intereſting or dear to me than at this moment. Do not aſk for explanations until we meet again."—"But where are you go⯑ing?" ſaid Caroline. "To my regiment," anſwered Charles. "Independent of other reaſons, the duty I owe the kind-hearted colonel ought to haſten my return; the leave he granted me, extended only to the moment in which I could give comfort to my mother. That moment, alas! is expired with her, and I muſt never more behold!"—Charles was unable to proceed; and, tenderly em⯑bracing his ſiſter, went haſtily towards a gate [272]that led to the ſtables, and mounting his horſe rode away.

Although the ſociety of ſuch a brother would, at ſo aweful a period, have been in the higheſt degree acceptable to ſuch a ſiſter; although, likewiſe, the idea which Denniſon had ſtarted, reſpecting his attachment to Olivia, and his own obſervation that there were "other motives" which made it ex⯑pedient for him to quit the abbey, created a new intereſt for him in her heart; the rea⯑ſons he urged, added to ſome others which her own mind ſuggeſted, reconciled her to his departure. As ſoon, therefore, as he was gone, ſhe went back to Denniſon, who an⯑ticipated the queſtion ſhe began to aſk, by obſerving, that Sir Guiſe had rung his bell, to know whether his ſon was come down ſtairs, and if not, to get his own horſe brought round to the green lane at the back of the abbey wall.

Without waiting any reply, Caroline made the beſt of her way to aſk her father where he would be pleaſed to have breakfaſt, as her [273]brother being under the neceſſity to return to his regiment, had ſet off early, leaving her to perform his duty where it was due.

Hereupon Sir Guiſe, who affected bravery when he thought himſelf out of danger, and whoſe imperious nature never knew reſtraint but from his fears, cried out with pretended anger, even though the tidings were juſt ſuch as his puſillanimous ſoul could have wiſhed, rather than have expected, "Gone! me⯑thinks he might have ſtaid at leaſt until his mother was in her grave, if he paid no re⯑ſpect to me! Is this your fine brother? but no matter, I ſee what you are all at: you may order breakfaſt in the library, and I will come down, and, do you hear, let the groom put up my horſes, I ſhall not go out yet."— The truth is, this daſtardly man, after quak⯑ing in his bed for ſome hours, and fancying he heard an enemy in every guſt of wind that forced its paſſage into his room, roſe up with an intention of eſcaping the ſtill dreaded vengeance of Charles, by taking ſhelter in the chapel-houſe of father Ar⯑thur, [274]of whom we ſhall preſently make honourable mention.

The good prieſt was an univerſal peace⯑maker, and well deſerved the bleſſedneſs promiſed to perſons of that character, as will be more fully evinced in the courſe of this hiſtory. The Baronet intended to employ this worthy Monk, as he had done on former occaſions, in a treaty betwixt father and ſon. The departure of the ſon, however, made, in the preſent caſe, interceſſions of this kind unneceſſary; and in due time, Sir Guiſe reſumed his haughty character in the fami⯑ly, and dealt his commands about him with as little diſmay as if nothing had hap⯑pened.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

AFFAIRS at the abbey being now placed in as quiet a poſture as circumſtances would admit, we may leave it awhile to ſee what befel the family at the caſtle. The anxieties there augmented with thoſe of Henry, whoſe very frequent ſeparations, for whole nights together, and the abſence or agitation of his mind upon his return, ſtill evading explanation, yet ſtill wiſhing to ex⯑plain, alarmed his friends.

Mean time the health of Olivia fell a martyr to her apprehenſions, which tortured her inceſſantly with the dread of a thouſand evils, and amongſt others, the total over⯑throw of Henry's ſenſes; an opinion which his ſtrange demeanour ſufficiently juſtified. On the night of lady Stuart's death, Olivia could not be diſſuaded from a preſentiment that ſomething fatal had happened to him; poſſeſſed of which notion, ſhe refuſed taking any repoſe; and, terrible as was the night, ill as ſhe was in her own health, ſhe intreated [276]her father to ſuffer her to ſit up and wait his coming home. Her father in vain offered to be himſelf her ſubſtitute, and to bring her an account the moment of his arrival. John and the reſt of the family made the like offer, propoſing that Mr. Clare, whoſe age and infirmities were daily increaſing, ſhould go to reſt. This he peremptorily refuſed, ſay⯑ing, "a night's ſleep was leſs to him than they ſuppoſed;" adding, "that ſince his child's illneſs, though he had gone to bed at his uſual hour, he had ſeldom cloſed his eyes."—"I will retire this inſtant, Sir," replied Olivia, "if that will contribute to your reſt."—"No, my dear," rejoined her father, "wrap yourſelf up warm, and I ſhall ſtand a better chance of ſleeping in this arm-chair by the ſide of my Olly, than in the beſt bed in the world out of her com⯑pany." The concluſion of the matter was, that none of the family went to bed, except Sir Armine, who had been for ſome time indiſpoſed.

In deſpite of the beſt endeavours, how⯑ever, to quiet the fears of Olivia, they [277]viſibly increaſed with the delay. She ran to the door on the leaſt noiſe. The thunder and lightning ſerved only to confirm her apprehenſion that ſome accident had hap⯑pened, ſtill repeating, that if there had not, he certainly would have come. In this way, the time paſſed until his actual arrival. When he came into the apartment where the com⯑pany were waiting,—orders being left with a ſervant who attended at the caſtle gate for that purpoſe,—the conſternation both of Henry and Charles, who, the reader remem⯑bers, went out of the abbey with him, was not leſs at ſeeing the family ſtill up, than was theirs at obſerving the condition in which they now appeared:—"I told you ſo," ſaid Olivia, running to Henry, "My fears were but too true. Good heavens! what has been the matter? tell me, Mr. Stuart, what has befallen your friend?"

Though Charles could not but feel that Olivia wholly overlooked his own ſituation, in her anxiety for that of her beloved Henry, he haſtened to relieve her terrors, by telling her, that his bleſſed mother, lady Stuart, had [278]died that night; that at his requeſt, Henry had exerted his friendſhip to adminiſter con⯑ſolation to the family, under the diſtreſſes of that fatal event.

"Alas!" ſaid Olivia, taking the hand of Charles, "I forget all that Henry has made me ſuffer from his abſence, ſince it was in ſo righteous a cauſe: my little cares are loſt in the contemplation of yours." Fearing ſhe ſhould, by dwelling on the theme, augment his ſorrows, ſhe preſſed his hand to her cheek, which was wet with her tears, and then ran to her own father, as to a treaſure held on a tenure ſo precarious, that ſhe trembled even as ſhe poſſeſſed it. "You may now repoſe, my deareſt father," whiſ⯑pered ſhe, caſting a look of affection on Henry, and of pity on Charles, while, with unſpeakable tenderneſs, ſhe conducted her father out of the room.

The reaſons aſſigned by his friend for Henry's late abſences, tended greatly not only to recover Olivia's health, but to re⯑ſtore the family tranquillity; and when on his interview with Sir Armine the next day, [279]he was commended for his care of his friend's family, but blamed for a neglect of his own. Olivia, who though ever the greateſt ſuf⯑ferer by his abſence, was always the firſt to excuſe it, turned even this heavy charge to his advantage, by ſaying, "Dear ſir, if we had all of us endured ten times more, his motive ought to ſanctify his omiſſion: he knew how much greater grief we ſhould have undergone, had he told us he was ſo often at the abbey attending the ſick, and under the roof of the miſtaken Sir Guiſe Stuart, though you now ſee his friendſhip for Charles exacted his attendance; and for my own part, ſo far as I have been a loſer by being deprived of his ſociety, I declare I ſhould have loved him a little the leſs if he had not attended:—though, I muſt own, if ever he is called again to aſſiſt at ſuch ſevere and ſolemn duties, I ſhould wiſh it were poſſible for Olivia to be ſo far in his confi⯑dence, that ſhe might be his nurſe and com⯑forter while he is nurſing and comforting others, and then you know I might contrive to make ſome little bird tell the reſt of the [280]family where he was, and what he was doing, in a ſort of way that would prevent them from being under any apprehenſions."

Thus did this innocent girl throw a luſtre about the very myſteries of the man ſhe loved;—thus furniſh an apology, unconſcious that it was againſt herſelf, out of the unſuſ⯑picious goodneſs of her own mind, and the almoſt unequalled tenderneſs of her own heart. It was, nevertheleſs, with ſecret an⯑guiſh ſhe beheld the effects which the late exertions had upon Henry's health and ſpi⯑rits; the muſe and even herſelf neglected; and though ſhe ſubſcribed to the neceſſity of his obeying his friend Charles, reſpecting lady Stuart's funeral, ſhe ſaw the day ap⯑proach with an anxiety not to be deſcribed, well knowing how ſincere a mourner Henry's gentle nature would make him on that oc⯑caſion. Thinking, therefore, that her pre⯑ſence would ſerve two gracious purpoſes, that of dividing the office of her beloved Henry, and ſoftening the grief of his friend's ſiſter, in whoſe favour ſhe ever retained an intereſt, founded not only on the memory of [281]carly attachment, but on what ſhe had heard of her filial piety, ſhe watched her beſt opportunity to offer her ſervices, which were tendered firſt to her own father, and then to Sir Armine, with a grace ſo irreſiſtible, that had not an increaſe of her own indiſpoſition, on the night preceding the ceremony inter⯑cepted her deſign, Olivia Clare would in⯑evitably have met Caroline Stuart; and in ſo doing both would probably have returned home, in deſpite of the aweful ſcene at which they would have aſſiſted, with ſenſations of anguiſh never felt by either of them be⯑fore.

Henry had ſcarce leſs difficulty to get rid of the importunity of John, who wiſhing, as he ſtrongly expreſſed himſelf, "to make a proper diſtinction betwixt the amiable dead, and the infamous living," and think⯑ing, moreover, it would be a fit occaſion of paying a compliment to a brother officer in diſtreſs, declared his intention to accompany Henry on the morrow. From this dilemma, however, he was alſo re⯑lieved [282]by a meſſage from his father, de⯑ſiring John to inſpect ſome family papers which required diſpatch; and thus was he reſcued from a diſcovery, which would have been ſcarce leſs fatal to his ſecret, than if it had been detected by Olivia.—James forbore to multiply her perplexity by an offer of himſelf in the place of John, be⯑cauſe he ſaw plainly, though without at all knowing the reaſon, that Henry preferred going alone.

And well it is, perhaps, for all that he did go ſo unattended; for ſuch circum⯑ſtances paſt on the evening of the funeral, as even Henry himſelf was by no means prepared to encounter or expect.

CHAPTER XL.

THE ceremony was performed at a ſmall Catholic chapel belonging to the abbey, but detached from that edifice about a quarter of a mile, in a receſs of the foreſt. In times of old, there had been a ſubterra⯑neous paſſage from the abbey to this little chapel, which had been the family burial-place for many ages. It was awefully pictureſque. Within a few paces was a building, whoſe architecture denoted the ſame antiquity, and had been the reſidence of the family prieſts time immemorial. It was now the dwelling of father Arthur, a Monk of the order of St. Francis, and though he often made excurſions to the metropolis, where his duty, as well as his affections called him, he would, ſometimes, take refuge from the world in this ſequeſtered ſpot, which he rented of Sir Guiſe, to whoſe family he adminiſtered whenever he was in the country. As this extraordinary perſonage will, as we have already announced, be fre⯑quently [284]under the view of the reader, we cannot take a better occaſion than the pre⯑ſent, of entering into a few particulars re⯑ſpecting his life, converſation, and character.

This diſtinguiſhed Capuchin was deſcended from an ancient and once powerful family in the kingdom of Ireland; but, in the revolu⯑tions of that country, had long been deprived of hereditary property, in common with many other illuſtrious names.—The perſonal fortune, however, of his parents, enabled them to give their ſon a private education; and to ſend him into foreign countries to extend his knowledge, as the poſſibility of further improvement was denied him in his own, through the deſpotiſm of penal laws.

Having completed his ſtudies, he diſ⯑covered in his mind a ſtrong bias to a reli⯑gious life, and indulged it by entering into the communion of the holy order of Saint Francis. On his ordination, he was appointed chaplain to a regiment, but was removed, and forfeited a penſion, becauſe he would not comply with the requiſition of a foreign ſovereign, to enliſt in his ſervice the ſubjects [285]of the king of his own country: a practice which had continued ſince the formation of a code of ſtatutes which prohibited them from the military ſervice of their own monarch.

It has been recorded, that the deiſt, the enthuſiaſt, the bigot, the tyrant who uſurps the right to controul the conſciences of free born men, and to puniſh them for their mental errors, flew ever at the approach of father Arthur: a Moliere, when he laughs;— a Locke, when he reaſons;—a Tully, when he writes;—a Tillotſon, when he exhorts. And in regard to his religious tenets, his own language, ſo well calculated to adorn the energy of truth with the charms of elo⯑quence, has told us, that he conſidered him⯑ſelf as an advocate pleading for the proteſtant in France, and for the Jew in Liſbon, as well as for the catholic in Ireland; exhorting mankind, at the ſame time, to let religious diſtinctions be laid aſide, ſince it was equal to the Iſraelite releaſed from bondage, whe⯑ther his temple was built by Solomon or by Cyrus, provided he had liberty to pray un⯑moleſted, and to ſleep under his own vine.— [286]Enforcing this with an apoſtrophe, which, for its benevolence and pure truth, ought to be engraven upon the tablet of every heart. "Let not the ſacred name of religion, which even in the face of an enemy, diſcovers a brother, be any longer a wall of ſeparation to keep us aſunder! though it has been often perverted to the worſt of purpoſes, yet it is eaſy to reconcile it to every ſocial bleſ⯑ſing."

Father Arthur connected the wiſdom of the world with the innocence of paſtoral, and even of primitive manners. His benevolence was of the moſt unaffected kind; his piety fervid and ſincere; his manners the moſt winning and artleſs; anticipating his good will and urbanity before he opened his lips; and when they were opened, his ex⯑preſſions did but ratify what thoſe manners had before enſured. And you had a farther earneſt of this in the benign and inffable ſmile of a countenance ſo little practiſed in guile, that it at the ſame time invited to con⯑fidence, and denoted an impoſſibility of your being betrayed. But if his ſmile beckoned [287]the worthy to approach, his frown ſtruck terror into the heart of the guilty, and made him dread to advance. Sir Guiſe had more than once felt its potency. His voice was ſonorous, bold, and nervous, correſponding with the manly and ſterling ſenſe it imparted. He had ſtudied with labour, and written with eaſe and energy. His reaſoning was ſound, and his love of liberty a ſteady light, rather than a tranſient blaze; rather the vital prin⯑ciple of an honeſt mind, conſcious of its rights, than the ravings of a factious ſpirit, infected by popular frenzy. All he ſaid and all he did was genuine, even to his moſt tri⯑fling ſports. The reader will therefore pre⯑judge the zeal of his devotion. It was glowing, without papiſtic rage; and earneſt, without catholic prejudice.

Our reſpectable Franciſcan diſcovered the cloyſter only in his dreſs and deportment; not that the firſt exhibited his gown of coarſe ſerge, his cord, or his roſary, but, that his out-of-faſhion ſuit of ſables hung upon him ſomewhat monaſtically; and the latter was ſtately and inflexible enough to have cha⯑racteriſed [288]the fellow of one of our colleges. He was nearly ſix feet high; a perfect per⯑pendicular, with a kind of rigour in his muſ⯑cles that ſeemed to ſuffer from bending. There was, of courſe, a formality in his bows; and this, in ſome meaſure, extended to his addreſs; but an original vein of hu⯑mour, and quaint jocularity, rendered him gay with the ſprightly, in the ſame propor⯑tion that his more ſolid powers made him ſedate with the grave; it was ſcarcely poſſi⯑ble to meet a perſon ſo univerſally acceptable to all ranks of people. His ſociety was ſought, and appreciated, by men and women of all perſuaſions; and his life, in all its changes, from the Monk in his cell to the man of the world, from the ſocial friend to the ſolitary recluſe, had been ſo unſpotted, and blameleſs, that to boaſt an acquaintance with pere Arthur was an honour; and to poſſeſs that honour without love and vene⯑ration, impoſſible.

The little romantic ſcene in which this domeſtic chapel, and its neighbouring habi⯑tation were ſituate, with the profeſſional [289]duties annexed, were amongſt the firſt grati⯑fications of his innocent heart; and ſuch was his predilection for it, that he was wont to conſider his migrations to the great city as his wanderings into the world, and the chapel-houſe as his home.

He had highly revered the character of lady Stuart and her daughter, to ſooth the anxious hours of whom, he would often ſteal at twilight from his beloved chapel-houſe, and paſs his evening at the abbey; taking care, however, even in the boſom of chear⯑fulneſs, never to outſtay the twelfth hour; and if he could ever be prevailed on to re⯑main in company after the clock had ſtruck that preſcribed period, which he uſed to ſay, was dividing the day from the morrow, it was only when, by ſuch an infraction on his general rule, he could be of ſome ſervice to the party that detained him.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE chapel-houſe conſiſted of four ſmall apartments, a dormitory and ſcrip⯑torum above; an eating room, and kitchen below. The windows were adorned with paintings from ſacred hiſtory: every pane containing ſome figure or fragment of holy writ, of exquiſite colouring and delineation. Within the chapel were carved with curious workmanſhip, various effigies and repre⯑ſentations of our Saviour, and the bleſſed Virgin, all which as well as every other part of this dwelling, were kept by father Arthur, and that of his Indian aſſociate,—to whom we promiſe the reader an introduction,— with a religious care, teſtifying that the good man believed and inculcated that text which pronounces cleanlineſs to be in alliance with holineſs.

The chapel itſelf, though certainly erected at the time of the abbey, was compleat and in high preſervation. The traditional hiſtory [291]of the place told us, that the chapel was intended for the private devotion of the principal abbot, and the chapel-houſe, if not for his conſtant reſidence, for his occa⯑ſional religious retirement; and this, indeed, ſeemed the more likely, as the names of ſome of the chief monks were ſtill legible in the carving about the dwelling; and the name of Stuart was yet to be ſeen on four of the moſt ancient tombs. The burial⯑place, however, appropriated to the late and preſent branches of the Stuart family, was ſeparated from the reſt of the building by a railing of iron, defending it round; upon your gaining the inſide of which,—this rail⯑ing being intended for no other purpoſe than to encircle the conſecrated ſpot,—you de⯑ſcended a flight of marble ſteps until you came to the door of the grand mauſoleum, in which were depoſited the remains of the Stuarts for the three laſt generations, ranged according to the dates of their deceaſe. All this was now laid open and every preparation made for the burial of lady Stuart, who had deſired the ceremony might be performed [292]with the utmoſt privacy, none attending but ſuch of her own family as choſe to be pre⯑ſent, in obedience to which her duteous daughter had given the neceſſary inſtructions, aſſembling all the domeſtics about an hour before the time appointed for the ceremony, and enjoining ſuch as attended to give their aſſiſtance, to deport themſelves with that de⯑cency and quiet which their miſtreſs had required; but, as the choice of attending or not was left with themſelves, it was a pleaſing proof of that reſpect which was borne to the dead, to ſee that every ſervant of the family, from Denniſon to the moſt menial attendant, had prepared to pay their laſt duty to one whoſe memory ſo well merited their vene⯑ration. And this inſtance of it was the more genuine, as the deceaſed had it not in her power to make ſuch arrangements at her death, as her generous heart would have prompted. Indeed, it was not without ſome management, ſhe left mourning to Denniſon, and thoſe others of the family whom ſhe nominated as bearers. And even this would have been beyond her ability, ſo mercenary [293]was the wretch to whoſe affluent fortunes ſhe had largely contributed, had it not been for Caroline, who, after muſtering up all the forces of her own ſlender purſe, and finding them inſufficient, reſorted to Denniſon for a re-inforcement, inſiſting, at the ſame time, upon depoſiting ſome of her moſt valuable trinkets, as ſecurity againſt any accident to herſelf; "And then, my good Denniſon," ſaid ſhe, "I can truly ſay it came from my father, in whoſe ſervice, you know, it was acquired. Sir Guiſe himſelf," added ſhe, "may not like, in this time of our affliction, to be vexed about money matters; and as I heard my mother expreſs her wiſhes yeſter⯑day, —alas! yeſterday, you know, ſhe was alive!—that ſhe could leave ſome little token of her good will to the ſervants, perhaps, ſhe might like to extend the bounty to ſome others."

All oppoſition on the part of Denniſon, as to the depoſit, was fruitleſs, although ſhe knew that the gains of his paſt, and the fer⯑vitude of his future life, would have been joyfully ſurrendered to her diſpoſal. This [294]tranſaction happened before, the arrival of Charles from his regiment; but, no ſooner did this generous youth make his appearance, or, more ſtrictly ſpeaking, no ſooner was his mother dead, than he left to his ſiſter's dute⯑ous care a ſum, for which he drew on the agent of his regiment, ſufficient to every purpoſe. Yet the ſupply of honeſt Denniſon had its uſe; for as that of Charles did not arrive until after the deceaſe of his mother, the firſt fund was appropriated to the afore⯑ſaid purpoſes, and the ſecond Caroline helo in reſerve, intending to return it to her bro⯑ther, knowing the ſcanty profits of his pro⯑feſſion, and how often he had forced upon her mother and herſelf thoſe accommoda⯑tions which ought to have been furniſhed from the coffers of Sir Guiſe.

Amongſt the depoſits from her own little treaſury, we are to reckon all her new guineas, half-guineas, pocket-pieces, and, indeed, every thing that had but the aſpect of currency, except a ſilver penny, which was the firſt keep-ſake of Henry Fitzorton, [295]given in the flowery days of their mutual childhood.

Mean time, it would be a flagrant viola⯑tion of what was due to Denniſon, not to ſay that he carefully put his young lady's depoſit in his ſtrong box, ſacred and apart, and ſuperſcribed, "Theſe, placed here for ſafety, belong to Miſs Stuart, with ſundry other articles mentioned in my laſt will and teſta⯑ment, a copy whereof is within."

Previous to adjuſting this little conven⯑tion, due praiſe was beſtowed on the conduct of lady Stuart's ſervants, in preparing them⯑ſelves for the funeral. And this their be⯑haviour was the more laudable, inaſmuch as it was voluntary and diſintereſted; for al⯑though Caroline had, in obedience to her mother's injunctions, an intention to preſent ſome little memorial to them all, thoſe afflicting events in which we have ſeen her involved, had hitherto prevented the diſtribu⯑tion of any ſuch memorial, except to Den⯑niſon. Unconſcious, therefore, that Caroline had any thing in reſerve for them, they had, out of the love and good will for their lady, [294] [...] [295] [...] [296]at their own expence, put themſelves into habiliments ſuitable to the ſolemnity, and would probably have thought an injunction to ſtay at home on the night their late beloved miſtreſs was to be buried, the only ſevere duty they ever performed in her ſervice. Caroline, therefore, had ſcarcely given them permiſſion to follow their inclinations than they thronged about the coffin, as it was bringing down ſtairs, with a jealouſy of gra⯑titude, as if each envied the other a ſhare of the melancholy burthen, accompanied by ſuch lamentations as attend only virtue to the tomb.

They were met at the outward porch of the abbey, by the venerable Monk, with ſix aſſiſtants of his order, whom he had con⯑vened, bearing the holy crucifix and the lighted torches; and on their receiving the corpſe, they began to chaunt their ſolemn anthems.

The abbey clock ſtruck eleven as they entered the wood, through which the pro⯑ceſſion moved to the chapel, and from thence, after thoſe ceremonies which the [297]Roman church has ordained, was conveyed to the vault; upon the firſt ſight of which, Caroline, who had ſuſtained herſelf hither⯑to with a mournful fortitude, that ſerved as an example to the reſt, ſhrunk back and exclaimed, "O God, ſupport me!" Though ſhe had taken a religious care to re⯑ſerve a ſpace for her own remains, ſhe could not behold the place where ſhe was to take leave of thoſe of her mother, and at the ſame time ſee herſelf ſurrounded by the moulder⯑ing ruins of her anceſtors, and more eſpecially of thoſe who had been the originals of the miniatures which were her mother's death⯑bed legacy—all this ſhe could not behold without a ſenſe of anguiſh not to be con⯑trolled; and that of the worthy Denniſon was ſcarcely leſs. Upon the coffin being com⯑mitted to the place where it was deſtined to repoſe, it was with difficulty the domeſtics could bear the ſight. The venerable Arthur was himſelf deeply affected; for though he had the firmneſs of a man, and the ſub⯑miſſive virtues of a chriſtian, his affections were warm, and his feelings tender. Caroline [298]approached the body as if to bid it a final farewell. The good man conducted her to the foot of the coffin, at which ſhe kneeled, and the wailings of the attendants, at this aweful moment, reſounded through the vault.

Henry had been traverſing that part of the wood which led to the chapel, ſome hours before the proceſſion began. He joined it ſoon after it had paſſed the abbey gate; but was ſo ſhrouded by the night, the undiſtin⯑guiſhing gleam of the tapers, and ſtill more by the abſorbing grief which fixed every eye and every heart to its object, as to paſs in the train unſeen. He was unwilling to ob⯑trude himſelf upon his beloved Caroline, in this ſolemn moment of her duty and affliction: a ſentiment which probably would have led him to pay ſilent reſpect to the living and to the dead, without diſcovering himſelf, had not events determined it otherwiſe.

Unable to ſupport the laſt look, and the neceſſity of leaving the vault, Caroline was attempting to riſe when ſhe ſunk upon her mother's coffin, over which ſhe threw her [299]arms in that ſort of dumb deſpair, which could be relieved only by a temporary de⯑privation of every ſenſe.

A ſight like this was inſupportable to Henry, who, running to the object of his ſoul, exclaimed, "O Caroline! if Charles be dear, be comforted!"—"Charles!" cried Caroline faintly; "and has his grief and duty brought him to this ſad ſpot? Alas, my brother!"—Here, without lifting up her eyes, ſhe claſped her arm around his neck, and weptaloud.—"No," rejoined Henry, "not Charles, but his friend, his repreſentative, appointed by himſelf; of this, if you are not appriſed, the occaſion ſurely juſtifies the treſpaſs, and will urge you to forgive it."— "Forgive it," anſwered Caroline, withdraw⯑ing herſelf from his embrace, yet caſting on him a look of penetrating tenderneſs,—"Are you my brother's repreſentative? O! where⯑fore am I deprived the power of offering the pure incenſe of my heart for ſuch diſinter⯑eſted—this generous!"—She could not connect theſe unfiniſhed ſentences, and at [300]the end of the laſt, ſhe dropped, rather than reclined, on Henry's ſhoulder.

The widower, we will not call him mourn⯑er, willing to avoid the odium of thoſe reports which he foreſaw would go forth againſt him, and dreading to be left at the abbey in no better company than his own reflec⯑tions,—now when he thought the ceremony was nearly over, entered the vault with all thoſe mockeries of woe which he ſo well knew how to aſſume, when it ſerved his purpoſe.

But theſe counterfeit griefs were changed to the moſt undiſſembled paroxyſms of rage, the moment he beheld Caroline Stuart ſup ported by Henry Fitzorton; and without reflecting on time, place or circumſtance, and before his conſtitutional fear had checked his conſtitutional impetuoſity, he aſſeverated, in a voice that might affright the echoes of the vault, "perdition on you both! again! and in ſight of your mother's very grave! And thou, infamous accomplice," added he, turning to Arthur, "to permit ſuch things! [301]at ſuch a ſeaſon! But it belongs to your trade."—Arthur, though the gentleſt of hu⯑man beings, brooked not the ſmalleſt irreve⯑rence either againſt his character or office;— "In performing the commiſſion of my im⯑mortal God," ſaid he, "I am not to be interrupted by mortal man!"

"Sir," ſaid Henry, delivering the ſinking Caroline to her father, "I am here, you are to be informed, as the ſubſtitute of your ſon, and at his ſtrong injunction: why this ſacred duty was to be performed by proxy you beſt can tell."—"I know not of it," ſaid Caro⯑line, recovering; but Sir Guiſe, with un⯑manly violence, thruſt her from him, and ſhe would have fallen again, had not Arthur ſprung to receive her, exclaiming, "I, ma⯑dam, will be your protector, in a place and in a cauſe like this, againſt a thouſand cruel fathers!—Sacrilegious! bring not your de⯑ſtructive paſſions into the tombs of your family! let thoſe at leaſt be privileged. You know not how ſoon you may be num⯑bered with their cold inhabitants; and your [302]unprepared ſoul ſummoned to anſwer for the outrage here committed."

Hearing this, the aſſembly, and more eſpecially his own domeſtics, began to be tumultuous. The words "unnatural father! vile huſband! and tyrant maſter!" were heard from one to the other, till it ſpread beyond the vault, even to the chapel, which was now filled with the multitude. The prieſts and the people, who had attended the funeral, ruſhed in diſorder out of the ceme⯑tery. The indignation became general, and every one ſeeming glad of an opportunity to expreſs their ſenſe of the unhallowed violence which Sir Guiſe had perpetrated, and their deteſtation of his character, gave a looſe to their ſenſations in a way that would pro⯑bably have put an end to the iniquities of the object of their fury, had not Caroline implored the aſſiſtance of Denniſon, Henry, and Arthur, to ſave her father; and, almoſt at the hazard of their own lives, they con⯑ducted him home amidſt the groans and hiſſes of the populace.

CHAPTER XLII.

CAROLINE, meanwhile, was leſt by Henry and father Arthur in the charge of two ſervants, with directions to lead her to the chaple-houſe; but no perſuaſions nor any conſiderations of herſelf, could prevent her from following her father, whoſe life ſhe thought in danger. The reſt of the ſervants were aſſiſting to lead her to the abbey, and ſuch of the populace as her pitiable ſituation had attracted round her, took her in their arms, and, placing her in a chair which they brought from the chapel-houſe, they carried her in triumph upon their ſhoulders, huzzaing and calling down bleſſings upon her at every ſtep.—In this condition ſhe was met by fa⯑ther Arthur and Henry; commanding the ſtill clamorous people to keep ſilence, to venerate the dead, and ſo far reſpect the living, as not to commit farther violence. Henry reinforced theſe arguments with all his eloquence, and declared, he would de⯑fend the father of Caroline Stuart, on ſuch [304]an occaſion, with the laſt drop of his blood. "Is he ſafe?" exclaimed Caroline. Being ſatisfied on which head, ſhe ſo movingly aſſiſted Henry and Arthur by a ſpeech which might almoſt have touched Sir Guiſe himſelf, that the multitude, after crying out, as with one voice, "Long live miſs Caroline!— bleſſed be miſs Caroline!"—quietly and re⯑ſpectfully departing to their habitations.

At the abbey gate, Henry, alſo, took his leave, for which he was repaid by a look from Caroline that almoſt atoned for the loſs of her ſociety. He took father Arthur aſide to requeſt that modern patriarch would remain at the abbey until the break of day, leſt any freſh tumult ſhould happen, which his authority might quell; obſerving, that there were particular reaſons why he himſelf could not tarry; adding at the ſame time, that he would one day probably be made acquainted with them. Poſſibly Arthur had been ſtruck with ſome of the expreſſions, that had dropped from Caroline in the fore⯑going ſcene, but he had not an atom of impertinent curioſity in his diſpoſition;— [305]as he, therefore, bade him farewell, he aſ⯑ſured him if he thought it too early in the morning to repair to the caſtle, and would accept of a Franciſcan's coarſe and humble, but clean, and wholeſome bed, the chapel⯑houſe was at his devotion: "And this, ſir," ſaid he, preſenting him with a ſmall key, "will open a cloſet that holds a cordial worth being taken off in a bumper, even to the health of the good young lady whoſe cauſe you have ſo nobly defended."

To the abhorrent poiſon brooding in the mind of Sir Guiſe Stuart, were now added his diſgraces at the chapel-houſe. He collected the ſcattered points of his growing antipa⯑thies, and the focus preſented to him Henry, Arthur, and Caroline in a conſpiracy.—The country was up in arms againſt him—the multitude had made him their mark.—Exe⯑crations had been poured in torrents in the middle of the night—and that, the night of the funeral of his wife, whom his tyranny, they ſaid, had brought to an untimely end— nay, there were not wanting ſome who be⯑lieved, or feigned to believe, that ſhe had [306]been privately murdered; ſome that he was himſelf the murderer; while others, very gravely aſſerted that the barbarous monſter had made her lay violent hands on herſelf, and that Caroline was about to follow her example, but was found juſt in time to be ſaved by her brother and Henry Fitzorton. There are always thoſe who exceed the truth, or diminiſh it, on the oppoſite principles of candour and malevolence. The co-opera⯑tions of theſe reports, in their natural pro⯑greſs from bad to worſe, all tended to feed in his breaſt that ſerpent which brooded there as in its congenial neſt, waiting, like its wilely progenitor, a ſecure opportunity to eject its gathered poiſons upon the innocent and unſuſpecting.

But however ſingular it may appear to ſuch of our readers as are unpractiſed in a knowledge of thoſe frauds of life, which teach men of the world to diſſemble their hate; others, who are more deeply read in the hiſtory of human nature, will find, alas! nothing very extraordinary, when they are told that Sir Guiſe Stuart concealed his aims [307]and purpoſes with a circumſpection propor⯑tioned to the increaſe of the deteſtation from whence they ſprung; and when ſuch deteſ⯑tation was at its height, ſo that even his boſom, fitted as it was for the nouriſhment of evil paſſions, could hold no more, the rude and ſudden ſtorms, which ſhook his frame on former occaſions, were all huſhed; his turbulent nature ſeemed to repoſe as in a dead calm, over the face of which was fre⯑quently ſeen a ſmile, as if the tempeſtuous part of his diſpoſition had ſpent its force, and nothing remained but the ſpirit of peace. This wonderful revolution took place on the morning of his being hooted from the chapel to the abbey. From that epoch, we are to date the laſt poſſible exceſs of his inveteracy to the whole houſe of Fitzorton, and to the whole of his own family, except Charles, for whom he ſtill felt, at it were againſt his will, an unaccountable predilection.

Henry, on the other hand, had made ſome diſcoveries at the funeral ſcene, melancholy as it was, which returned upon his mind the beams of hope. He ſaw he was ſtill in poſſeſ⯑ſion [308]of Caroline's love, and that her conceal⯑ment of that love did not proceed from her own caprice, or from any diſpleaſure againſt him, but from her father, who, he concluded, had impoſed on her a cruel obedience. This diſcovery, endeared the daughter in the degree that it rendered the parent odicus. Yet his anger abated whenever he reflected that its object was the father of his deareſt friend, and of his beloved miſtreſs: and the parting look which Caroline beſtowed, although it gleamed on him—only from the light of funeral tapers, afforded him a ray far more chearing than had the noon-tide ſun, when he trod that very path, on the day that Caroline diſmiſſed him from her preſence.

The turret clock ſtruck three in the morning, as Henry arrived at the caſtle, where he had the misfortune to hear that Olivia was much worſe than when he leſt home. It ſeems that the diſorder which had prevailed at the funeral, had communicated part of its confuſion to the caſtle, from [309]whence two of the ſervants ran to ſee the ceremony. The name of one of theſe was George Trewe, commonly called, by way of characteriſing his worth, True George, who went out of pure good will to his young maſter; the other ſervant, out of curioſity, having never ſeen the catholick ceremonies of burial. The ſervices of this youth had been divided between John and Henry: for ſome time paſt he had wholly attached himſelf to the latter, and had been on all occaſions the ſhadow of his maſter; though in his nightly expeditions, leſs ſeen than that ſhadow. Whenever he feared that his attending would not be acceptable, or that they would appear obtruſive, impertinent, or unneceſſary, he was, from motives yet undivulged, ſtill his inviſible aſſociate; and when his preſence might be uſeful, he would appear in the twinkling of an eye, and impute ſuch ap⯑pearance to accident. Thus, George was among the moſt active in hooting Sir Guiſe, while Henry ſeemed to declare againſt him; and the moſt vigorous in his defence the moment he heard his maſter aſſert, that he [310]would protect the father of Caroline, even with his blood. George too, was the centre pillar of ſupport to Caroline, when ſhe was carried in the chair, which he fixed upon his head, while the reſt aſſiſted only with their hands and ſhoulders; and thus was George hid from his maſter; while he rendered him the moſt welcome ſervice in the world. George alſo it was, who, after the affray, made ſome ſhort cuts through the wood at full ſpeed, that he might reach home before his maſter, and have, what the poor fellow uſed to call the "little comforts" prepared; more particularly ſince. Henry was be⯑come, as George aptly enough called him, "a night walker;" in which character, though George always took care to keep aloof, he was, when it was either bitter weather, or he ſuſpected any danger, his maſter's inviſible companion; but ſimply to do him ſervice, and to take care of him without the leaſt deſire to entrap his ſecrets. Thus was the honeſt adherent, privy to Henry's moſt retired ſoliloquies; and he it was, who placed in the foreſt, which Henry [311]ſo frequently haunted, thoſe accommoda⯑tions, which the heated brain of his maſter ſometimes attributed to magic: and well he might! for ſometimes a peach would ripen upon a barren thorn, a pine-ap⯑ple enrich a bramble, and bunches of the grape be twiſted with the May-buſh. Hence alſo, George was as well acquainted with his maſter's paſſion as he was himſelf, and from juſt as unqueſtionable an authority,—namely, from his maſter's confeſſions, uttered by his own lips; from all which the poor fellow had drawn an inference, which led him one dark night to kneel down in a wood, they were then haunting, even on the wet ground,—being at a conſiderable diſtance from his maſter,—and ſwore, "he would he might be d****d if ever he left him alone again, if he could help it, after eight o'clock."

The other ſervant, however, had been before-hand with George, having retreated from the chapel as ſoon as the mob began to be riotous: for though this man had much curioſity he had little enterpriſe, and, on [312]the moſt diſtant proſpect of danger, alway; took the worſt that could happen for granted, anticipating murder before a blow was ſtruck. Upon this ſyſtem, therefore, concluding that when the rabble began to huſtle the baronet, there would be much havoc, he made the beſt of his way home, and told Olivia and John, whom he firſt encountered, not only what he ſaw, but what he did not ſee, and what in fact did not happen, except in the wild regions of his own terrified fancy. He related, with ſuitable marks of conſternation, "as how the daughter ſell into fits upon her mother's grave, and how his young maſter picked her up, and with the help of the papiſh parſon,"—as he called father Arthur— "had almoſt brought her to herſelf, when her father coming in, and ſeeing her held up by Mr. Henry, doubled both his fiſts and knocked her down again, for letting one of the caſtle family touch the hem of her garment; and as how then the papiſht gave a knock to Sir Guiſe, who returned it on Mr. Henry; whereupon the whole place was in an uproar; tumbling over the coffins, and [313]getting out of the chapel as well as they could; and how, when they got into the chapel-yard they were met by all the coun⯑try with ſticks and ſtaves, trying to part Sir Guiſe and Mr. Henry, who fought like two lions; and as how, after this, many cried out murder; upon which," continued the fellow, "I ran home to get ſome more hands to help my maſter, who ſeeing the grudge Sir Guiſe bears him, may, perhaps, be dead by this time."

True George no ſooner heard this, than he execrated his fellow-ſervant both for his babbling and cowardice; and upon being further informed that Olivia had been car⯑ried to her chamber in hyſtericals, as the fellow called them;— "I'll tell you what," ſaid George, "that being the caſe, if you ſtay until my young maſter, who is ſafe, God bleſs him, comes in, and he is juſt behind; it will be worſe for you, that's all: I ſhould not wonder if he was to murder you on the ſpot; and if it was not for the law I would do it myſelf!"—As he pro⯑nounced [314]theſe words a rap was given at the door, when the affrighted author of all this miſchief, already half-killed with George's menace, diſappeared.

Upon the entrance, however, of Henry, it was neceſſary for him to be apprized of what had happened, and accordingly George was beginning to recapitulate, when John Fitzorton came down, and, ſuperior to en⯑quiry, inſiſted that nothing ought to ſatisfy Olivia of his having eſcaped with life, but his going up ſtairs that inſtant to convince her of it in perſon. This he accordingly did, but had ſome difficulty in perſuading her he was not hurt; he aſſured her that the fellow, in his fears, had overcharged the facts, which were no more than that miſs Stuart, overborne by her diſtreſs, was ſup⯑ported, mutually, between himſelf and father Arthur; that Sir Guiſe Stuart having exaſ⯑perated the rabble, it was partly to prevent worſe conſequences that he had remained as his abſent friend's repreſentative. This was nothing but the truth, though it was by no means the whole truth, and, perhaps, Henry [315]fineſſed a little more than uſual on the occa⯑ſion; like modern politicians, he ſunk all ſuch articles as would have made againſt his cauſe, and preſerved ſuch only as ſet off what he really did unfold, to the beſt advan⯑tage: a ſaving kind of knowledge, well known to generals and ſtateſmen, and by them practiſed in their official recitals of more bloody affrays than that which hap⯑pened at the funeral of lady Stuart.

Now if ſuch ſuffrages cannot juſtify Henry's adoption of this military and miniſ⯑terial manceuvering, we muſt give him up to the reader's cenſure. Our hiſtory records the actions of men, and not of angels, and it is our province to deſcribe human nature ſuch as it is, rather than ſuch as it ſhould be.

Henry's account was, however, the beſt that he could have choſen to anſwer his pre⯑ſent purpoſe, and, perhaps, much better than he intended, for his principal deſire obvi⯑ouſly was, to ſilence the alarms of Olivia: and, indeed, his ſtaterments had not only effected this, but alſo ſatisfied the reſt of the [316]family. John, in his deciſive way, pro⯑nounced it proper to defend even an infamous individual againſt the oppreſſions of many, though he owned it would have been for the good of ſociety had they devoured him.— "Yes," ſaid Olivia, "and how much more generous is the conduct of your brother, when you conſider who that individual is— an hated enemy."—" It is all very fine and heroic," ſaid Olivia's father;—" but, in the mean time, theſe great exploits of one ſort or another happen ſo often, that our young hero generally contrives to diſturb us once or twice a week in the middle of the night; and after he has kept us from our beds, and frightened us out of our wits, the buſineſs finiſhes with a hiſtory, in which the ſaid hero has acted ſo diſtinguiſhed a part, that the more he terrifies us, the more we find we ought to return him our thanks. I wiſh," added the old gentleman, "we could con⯑fine him to one great action a month, or that, at leaſt, he would take day-light for his magnanimous exploits, as theſe nocturnal marches and counter-marches by no means [317]ſuit either with my age or my Olivia's youth; to prevent any new adventure befalling our amiable Quixote, let us to bed."

The propoſal was univerſally agreed to.— "George," ſaid Henry, as he was undreſſ⯑ing, "I find that bungling blockhead has made a pretty piece of work about nothing; but as no harm has ariſen from it, and as the poor devil hardly knew what he ſaid, I think we may as well let him live this time: yet it was a tremendous ſcene; you are a ſpirited fellow, and had you been preſent, I do not know what would have been the conſe⯑quence."

"Me, your honour!" ſaid George, not to be thrown from his guard, having more than once ſuffered thereby, "what ſhould I do there, unleſs your honour was in danger, and my poor ſervices could do any thing for you? but as to my fellow-ſervant, ſince 'tis your honour's pleaſure, I'll not be hanged for him yet, which I certainly ſhall be one day or another; for to tell your honour the truth, I do not think it right to let a fellow's [318]head remain upon his ſhoulders any longer than he can keep the tongue in it from bladding:—if a fellow can't keep a ſecret, why there's an end of a fellow—there's an end of him, your honour." Henry ſmiled, and deſired True George to betake himſelf to reſt.

CHAPTER XLIII.

WE fear there will appear to the reader, as there did to True George, who was no leſs in the ſecret, that theſe ſallies of Henry were inconſiſtent with the character which he had before ſupported; for though nothing could be more amiable than his de⯑portment at the funeral, and at the affray, his forgetfulneſs of what had paſſed at home, and his ſudden oblivion of what he had ſeen, nay had made, Olivia ſuffer, cannot, perhaps, be readily excuſed. If the reader, however, recurs to the diſcovery he preſumed he had made of Caroline's unaltered love, thoſe who happen to be of the ſame ſanguine diſpoſi⯑tion, or who, being thoroughly in love, may have experienced ſimilar ſenſations, will find nothing unnatural in this part of his conduct; in truth, a kind look, a ſoft ſigh, an affec⯑tionate word, when that affection was before doubtful, will put all the pride of reaſon and philoſophy, and, it is to be feared, every conſideration that does not connect with [320]that look, ſigh, or word, to flight; and al⯑though upon a full ſurvey of the matter, not one of the numberleſs impediments that ſtood between Henry and Caroline were removed by the diſcovery which he had made, yet, it animated his ſpirits, and chaſed from his heart every image of deſpair.

Olivia ſoon recovered from her indiſpo⯑ſition; the more ſhe ſaw of her beloved Henry, the greater was her tenderneſs. "There are points in his diſpoſition," ſhe would ſay, "which appear to make him ſometimes prefer ſolitude even to my ſociety; and with theſe, I am apt to quarrel, but this is ſelfiſh. To that ſolitude I owe the effu⯑ſions of his charming genius. He engages in ſcenes which make me tremble for his ſafety, it is true, but that proceeds from the weak⯑neſs of my fears, or the ſtrength of my affec⯑tion; on his return to me, I always find him good, affectionate, and kind; and have rea⯑ſon to congratulate myſelf. Even the abſence which I ſo often mourn, produces from his bounteous heart ſome relief to the unfor⯑tunate, or a more perfect joy to the happy. [321]It is, indeed, hard to ſay whether the mirth or melancholy of my deareſt Henry is 02 moſt ſeducing; or which ought moſt to endear him to me. He never finds his na⯑ture yielding to the felicities of the firſt, that he does not haſten to ſhare it with thoſe who are dear to him; but when, perceiving his mind under the involuntary dominion of the penſive part of his nature, ſolitude is ſweet to him, not only becauſe he is too generous to caſt a gloom over the happineſs of his friends, but, perhaps, becauſe penſiveneſs, and the ſequeſtration it uſually ſeeks, is a ſource of his happineſs. It is true, there are times when the melancholy power comes upon him, even in our ſociety; the ſight of ſorrow, a tear, a ſigh, a thought that but leads to ſadneſs will ſtrike the nerve to which his affections tremble.—But ought this to be brought againſt him, when I have ſeen him ruſh from the ſociety moſt precious to him,—from friends, brothers, parents, and his Olivia,—leſt he ſhould communicate ſadneſs?"

[322]With ſuch arguments would ſhe ſoothe her ſpirits, and account for the wanderings of Henry. It was after a ſoliloquy of this kind, when ſhe had, in like manner, ſettled the moſt irreconcileable parts of his beha⯑viour to his credit, and her content,— what cannot the tender love of woman effect!—that he entered the room where ſhe had been reaſoning. It was the morning after theſe nocturnal diſturbances, and when his vivacity had been called forth by the lucky conſtruction which had been given to the late events, that he joined Olivia, with whom imagination had been playing as many vagaries, and, in this mutual deluſion, they deceived each other without deſigning, or, it is probable, being conſcious of it; for every word they ſaid, was at firſt, the mere effect of good ſpirits on both ſides, created by what to them appeared good proſpects; though they were never farther than at this moment from looking on the ſame objects, in the ſame point of view.

"I have been chiding myſelf, Henry," ſaid Olivia.

[323]"Then you have been very wicked," he anſwered; "for therein you accuſed the innocent; but, as I believe, it is your firſt fault, I think I muſt intercede with my good friend, father Arthur, to give you abſolution."

"The firſt fault! by no means!" replied Olivia; "I have done it a thouſand times; but, if it be a ſin, you are generally the cauſe of it, and ought, of courſe, to ſhare the puniſhment; and yet, methinks, could it be proved that you partook the guilt, I would exempt you from the penalty, and ſuffer for us both."

"That would not be fair," ſaid Henry; "but how have I been the cauſe, pray?"

"Why you are too good, and I am always finding fault with you for it," replied ſhe.

"I rather think the faults are mine, the goodneſs yours," cried Henry. "Indeed, I think you ſo good, that I have feared, until very lately, there could not be found a mortal man who truly deſerved you; and yet, I am almoſt bold enough to ſay, [324]ſuch a man, I think, I have found too, aye, and you know him."

"I am ſure I do," ſays ſhe, ſmiling. "O, that a woman could be found worthy of Henry Fitzorton!" exclaimed Olivia.

"And yet there is," interrupted Henry, with ardour, "ſuch a woman to be found worthy of a man, were he ten thouſand times—were he as much my ſuperior in every thing—as ſhe is herſelf."

"Then it is impoſſible," anſwered Oli⯑via, colouring highly, "that I ſhould have the ſmalleſt acquaintance with this paragon."

"And yet—and yet, ſhe is not in any one grace or virtue ſuperior to Olivia; but for the man who can merit an alliance with this all-accompliſhed! I verily believe, after all, he is yet to be born."

"Poh, you are in love with her, and are beſides a poet, you know," anſwered Olivia, bluſhing a deeper carnation; "for my part, I really think there are fifty men deſerve a much better woman than Olivia."

"And yet there is but one man in the [325]creation I would give my conſent ſhe ſhould marry," returned Henry.

"Would to heaven!" ſaid Olivia, "that your choice may make you as happy as it will your Olivia."

Here the very names of Caroline and Charles, and all the hiſtory thereunto be⯑longing, were hovering on the edge of Henry's lips, when Olivia ſent them back again to the receſſes of his boſom, by an⯑ſwering with an ardour, that matched his own, giving her hand at the ſame time;— "Ah, you know that it is ſo—you know, that poor and humble as are my pretenſions, inferior in all things, but in affection, to that one being you allude to, I have long been, and ſhall be for ever, devoted to him! The terrors that invade me, when I behold a gloom upon his brow, a tear upon his cheek, or hear a ſigh burſt from his boſom, and all the griefs I experience in his abſence, ariſe only from the certainty, that were I more near to him in the virtues which firſt made me love him, all would be well. I tell my heart, he then could not look ſad, or [326]ſigh or weep, becauſe my power over him would be no leſs than his over Olivia, whoſe worſt evils flee at his bidding, and vaniſh even at his ſight: inaſmuch, that as his abſence is her ſickneſs, ſo is his preſence her recovery. Yes, Henry! thoſe perfections in me would render you as happy in the company of Olivia, as ſhe ever is in yours: and it is this inequality on my part, that is the ſource of thoſe reproaches, with which I load myſelf, until, in my anger, I utter a prayer that you were leſs amiable, or I more worthy."

Olivia poured forth theſe confeſſions of her heart,—confeſſions which ſeemed to be called for,—into the boſom of a youth with whom, one eventful year excepted, ſhe had been bred, educated, and taught by duty and in⯑clination, judgment and paſſion—by all ſhe loved, and all ſhe honoured, to appreciate;— and of whoſe love ſhe never for a moment doubted, though the reader is aware, he never once mentioned that word to her. She delivered herſelf with a rapidity and unre⯑ſerved fervour, accompanied by endearments, [327]at once ſo delicate and kind, which their long intimacy, and the ſuppoſed near ap⯑proach of that day which was to unite them in the holieſt of all human ties, ſtrictly war⯑ranted, that Henry muſt have had a very different heart from that he carried in his boſom, if he had not been ſomewhat more than paſſive to ſo much innocence, beauty, and tenderneſs, cheriſhing a ſweet deluſion, upon which depended the hope not only of her happineſs, but that of the authors of both their beings, and, indeed, every indi⯑vidual of both their families.

"Sweet Olivia!" exclaimed he, gazing earneſtly upon her, "I do not deſerve this,— and yet from my inmoſt ſoul I wiſh—"

He continued his gaze, and while he was ſo doing, ſoftly approaching her, a tear dropped on her lovely face, which ſhe no ſooner felt, than lifting her eyes towards him, as if to read the hiſtory of his countenance, ſhe ſaid, in accents no words can paint,— "There are tears to relieve, and expreſs an heart overburthened with its joy, are there not, my Henry? I hope theſe are ſuch: I do [328]not weep myſelf; yet when I been ſo happy!"

"Long be you ſo," replied Henry; "and, Oh! that it was decreed as long for me to make you ſo!"

"We are very young," anſwered Olivia, with inexpreſſible ſimplicity, "and may reckon upon many many years like this bleſt moment! I am ſure you will never be leſs beloved!"

Henry was labouring to ſmother a heart⯑ſick ſigh; he gently kiſſed off the tears he had let fall on her cheek, when both their fathers came in and ſurpriſed them: "Proofs roſe on proofs, and ſtill the laſt ſeemed ſtrongeſt!"

CHAPTER XLIV.

THOSE of our readers who are parents, and have their darling children circum⯑ſtanced like theſe, or at leaſt as theſe were ſuppoſed to be, can decide on the emotions that now took full poſſeſſion of theſe vene⯑rable men. How unlike to what Sir Guiſe experienced when he diſcovered Henry and Caroline in nearly a ſimilar ſituation!

Through a glaſs door, ſhaded only by a curtain of ſlight ſilk that was eaſily drawn aſide, the happy parents had ſtood ſome moments delighting themſelves with the view, and on their entrance could only ſay, "Deareſt, deareſt children, we have been concerting meaſures for the happineſs of Henry and Olivia!" and they both wept.

Lady Fitzorton entered, and was made happy by the relation of what had ſo ſen⯑ſibly affected the reſt of the party.

In the mean time, John Fitzorton, leaving the company who had walked into the gar⯑den, betook himſelf to his chamber, his [330]uſual ſanctuary under any ſudden preſſure of thought, or of emotion: but he ſoon rallied, and rejoined his friends, then catching Henry's arm he ſaid, as he turned with him into a private path, "You have often hinted, your friend Charles regretted that his mili⯑tary ſtation was inconvenient to him. It muſt be more ſo ſince the death of his mother; as his ſiſter is now wholly in the power of her execrable father. I have thought about this, and had it often in recollection ſince my return from the cam⯑paign, to refer myſelf to you for thoſe particulars which your intimacy with the family might have afforded."—Henry trem⯑bled —"But you have of late been ſo ſhut up within yourſelf, that I have not had an opportunity to mention either that, or ſome intelligence out of the family reſpecting yourſelf."—Henry's agitation increaſed.— "I underſtand," continued John, "that intereſt is ſtill paying for the money which Charles borrowed of an uſurer to purchaſe his lieutenancy."

Henry was in the ſtate of him who is [331]told of his reprieve with the halter about his neck. "Suppoſe," reſumed John, "your friend were to diſpoſe of that com⯑miſſion, and apply the profits of it in diſcharge of that loan, and then come into our regiment, where, by the loſs of a brave youth who fell fighting by my ſide, I can introduce him without coſt."

The generous reader muſt himſelf ſupply the ſenſations of Henry on this propoſal.

"But," obſerved John, "though there are no impediments in the way of the gift itſelf, there are ſome in that of giving. The recent meeting I have had with his ſcoundrel father makes it impoſſible for me to be ſeen in tranſaction of this nature. It would appear like parading a ſervice which I knew the brave youth would not receive. What I would not accept I will not offer. But you are the friend of his heart. He cannot, or ought not, to have any heſita⯑tion with you; for if there be yet any of this ſort of ſentimentizing between you, both are yet to learn the truth of a [332]friendſhip, which if it does not level all diſtinction of mere property, making obliga⯑tion impoſſible on either ſide, and render a refuſal to receive from the one what may be neceſſary to the accommodation of the other, a breach of union, it amounts to nothing.—I do not think very highly of human profeſſions, or of human practices; for I have felt the fallacy of both!"—He ſighed—"But as a brother I demand your acceptance of the powers with which theſe papers will inveſt you."—He gave a pac⯑quet.— "I have, from this moment, nothing to do with it: inſtructions as to the for⯑malities will be found encloſed. There is a blank ſpace, and your heart, without my inſtruction, will tell you how to fill it up."

John perceived Henry getting into what he was wont to call his enthuſiaſticks. The emotion of his full heart had for ſome time coloured his cheek, his eye flamed with more than poetic luſtre, and the ecſtacy was juſt burſting from his tremu⯑lous lips, when his tongue refuſed to give [333]it voice, and, after the ſtruggle of a mo⯑ment, he fell upon his brother's neck and wept.

John was by no means unmoved. Even to his firm ſoul it had been a trying day. James, who had been abſent during the above diſcourſe, now entered. "My dear Henry," ſaid John, "we live in a world in which it is our duty to correct rather than to indulge ſenſibility. Your affections, my Henry, are too general."—Here John preſſed his brother's hand to his boſom.— "They magnify objects beyond what they can bear; they give to actions which are, in truth, no more than the reſults of common honeſty, and juſt thinking, an importance which they are by no means entitled to. Brother, I love you, but you often grieve, and ſometimes diſpleaſe me. Few of the greateſt events in human life would juſtify the feeling excited in your mind by the moſt trifling; and this exceſs of ſenſation confounds the diſtinction which ſhould be made betwixt what is ſmall and what is great. There is, my brother, in the con⯑ſtruction [334]of this poor panting heart of yours enough of irritation to make up half a dozen feveriſh young ladies, who reckon an hectic of the heart amongſt their charms. In them it is uſually affectation; in you, I know, it is nature; and therefore to be deplored.

"It is too true," ſaid James, taking part in the converſation—"you have no ſobriety, no temperance in your emotions, my dear Henry: your pains or pleaſures are all ex⯑ceſſive: you want moderation."

"Apathy, apathy! would have been your better word, brother," ſaid Henry; "This, I confeſs to you, I do want, and of which I hope for ever to be deſtitute: I cannot be indifferent; there is no cold medium in my nature.—Countleſs are the objects, which, by the majority of mankind, thought im⯑portant, paſs by me unnoticed, or noted, only to be deſpiſed. Power, place, gran⯑deur, titles, and all the purſuits to which they lead, the authority which they give in ſociety when they are ſucceſsful, and the diſgrace which attends their diſappointment, I hold of ſo little account in the eſtimate of [335]my happineſs, or miſery, that truly I never had a ſmile or ſigh to beſtow upon them, and herein only conſiſts my apathy."

"I return you my beſt thanks," ſaid John, bowing ironically, "for your having added a new hypotheſis to the old, and be⯑fore imperfect ſyſtem of ethics. Nothing ſhort of a genius like yours, could have ren⯑dered a total diſregard of thoſe cauſes, which are acknowledged to work the weal or woe of the majority of mankind, compatible with the ſocial principle, on which I have, ſo fre⯑quently heard you expatiate, or with the character of one, who is ambitious of being thought a philanthropiſt. You will have the candour to impute it to the true cauſe, my ignorance in the refinements of morality; and I own that I knew not, until ſo great a maſter inſtructed me, the art of uniting in the ſame character the apathiſt and the lover of mankind."

"The thruſt," returned Henry, "diſ⯑covers more vigilance than ſkill. I muſt repeat, that I am an apathiſt—only, in moſt [336]of thoſe things which ſtir the affections of many other men, and on which depend all their glory, and all their ſhame. But is this avowing an indifference to the happy or fatal effects, in which ſo many thouſands of human beings around me are involved? Does it imply, that I behold with total diſregard the meteors of ambition as they riſe or fall? the man of power raiſed in one day to the ſummit of popular favour, and on another, ſunk to the centre with public diſgrace? Does it inſinuate, that I can obſerve the turns of life, which, whether ſudden and reſiſtleſs, or by ſlow and ſubtle gradations, level with the duſt thoſe fabricks of happineſs, fame or fortune, which promiſed to the artificers a ſhelter from every ſtorm? or, does it ren⯑der me inſenſible to thoſe tranſitions, from hope to deſpair, from health to ſickneſs, from life to death,—tranſitions, which in the whirl of purſuit, often ſtop the great and powerful in their mid-career? ſurely, not! It implies only, that there are other griefs into which my affections enter with more [337]intereſt, and more concern. To detail theſe would be as endleſs as are the varieties of miſery by which they are induced.—The now joyful wife, for inſtance, exulting in her progeny, but reduced by one diſaſtrous ſtroke to a mourning widow: her children deprived, in a moment, of their only ſtay, and made orphans. The wicked man in⯑veſted with the ſpoils of the virtuous: thoſe ſons and daughters of miſery, whoſe tears are ſhed, and whoſe ſtruggles are made for life in its moſt humble vale, where whole fami⯑lies are crouded together, far removed from the path of ambition, and are only likely to be found—for I ſpeak not of loud and querel⯑ous miſery,—by him who has leiſure to ex⯑plore the haunts of the needy and the afflicted. My wandering diſpoſition, or, if you will, my inſenſibility of what has reſiſtleſs charms for the generality of mankind, often con⯑ducts me to ſuch receſſes, where I have not ſeldom diſcovered a kind of diſtreſs, for which the benevolence of my country, large and liberal as it is, has made no proviſion; a [338]diſtreſs not known by the ordinary ſymptoms; truſt me, my brother, there be wants and ſorrows which have no diſplay, which fly to the deepeſt ſhades of the country, or moſt unobſerved nooks and corners of a great city, not to conceal guilt, but to eſcape 'the whips and ſcorns o' th' time.' Misfortune has her victims, which yet the world 'know not of.'—Where is the aſylum for the heart⯑broken being, who is ſinking under the accumulation of indigence and wrongs—a ſtarving progeny around him?—or for the man of high birth and proud feelings, who has ſolicited, but cannot be importunate, and who is mouldering in his ruins? Or, again; for the martyr of generoſity, who, too ten⯑der for reſentment, and too delicate for ſtrife, has been conſtrained to quit the ſeats of hoſ⯑pitality, where all were welcome, and where all reſorted, for the deſolate hut of famine, which has the ſolitude of the tomb? Or for the hapleſs female who has ſacrificed to her credulity, perhaps, to an exceſſive virtue in her heart, but loſt nothing of that nice ſenſe [339]of ſhame, which is ſharper than a ſerpent's tooth? Can the hoſpitals or magdalen houſes of our country 'medicine to minds thus diſeaſed?' To ſuch, thoſe houſes would be inſult, diſgrace, and worſe than death. The hiding places of ſuch unfortunates muſt be ſought, even with the zeal with which you, my brother, have ſought and penetrated them;—ſought ſometimes amongſt the abodes of the captive, but much oftener in thoſe retirements leſs accommodated than a priſon, but far more ſacred. Dear is liberty, and dreadful its loſs; but the degrees of human ſufferance can only be determined by the nature and conſtitution of the ſufferer; and it may poſſibly happen, that the only re⯑maining bleſſing which freedom has to beſtow on the wretched, is the power of chooſing its cell."

"I am proud," rejoined James, "to claim alliance with the heart from whence ſuch ſen⯑timents proceed. I feel a ſort of triumph to think that the blood, which grows warmer in my veins at the conſciouſneſs, flows from the ſame ſource; but I muſt ſtill regret, that [340]extreme ſenſibility, like yours, has, if I may ſo expreſs it, my Henry, a natural bias rather to woe than joy; that where a temper diſ⯑poſed, or, to continue the phraſe, bleſſed with a natural promptitude to chearfulneſs rather than to gloom, will extract the honey, yours will diſtil the poiſon of life!"

"Say rather," exclaimed John, "this flying in the hour of diſtreſs from man, who is the proper protector of man; this getting into holes and corners to weep and to wail, is rarely warranted by the unfortunate; and ſuch places are oftener the receptacles of fugitive guilt, than of retiring virtue in diſ⯑treſs; beſides this, more real good, I am perſuaded, is to be done by the philanthro⯑piſt, and more advantage to be received by the unhappy, be the cauſe of diſtreſs what it may, in the open paths of life, than by ſkulking into its lanes and alleys. Of virtuous diſtreſs no man ought to be aſhamed; and misfortune never can be contemptible but by the conſciouſneſs of deſerving it. In adver⯑ſity, the mind of the ſufferer is always the firſt to degrade itſelf; and the world, my [341]dear Henry, the world is the proper ſphere, not only for benevolence, but for its ob⯑jects."—

"Generally, no doubt," ſaid Henry, "but in the particular caſes I have deſcribed, and in numberleſs others, men of the world could never know many of theſe objects. They ſhun diſcovery, and can be explored only by ſuch roving diſpoſitions as my own; and to find them is, perhaps, the higheſt delight— melancholy, indeed, as ſweet—of ſuch diſ⯑poſitions. I will confeſs to you, that public ambition never felt a joy from the attainment of its favourite aim more ſincere, than that which I experience, when my rambles bring me within view of the miſery, which may be removed with leſs coſt than would pur⯑chaſe one of the trappings of ambition— even its feathers;—yet, were I a man of the world, I might not be diſpoſed, perhaps, to diveſt myſelf of one of thoſe feathers."

"Notwithſtanding all this, dear youth," reſumed John, affectionately, but fervently, "this but half acquits you; it is performing [342]but part of the duty of a ſocial being: it is not enough that you weep with thoſe that weep."

"I had but half acquitted myſelf," ſaid Henry, warmly, "but you are always, my brother, in arms againſt me: Ever on guard with your ſword drawn, and your eye on the watch for an opening where you may ſtrike: On the ſame principle, that I feel for the unhappy, or, borrowing the ſacred language you have quoted—'as I weep with thoſe that weep, I rejoice with thoſe that rejoice:' The felicity of others is, by vibration, my own; I feel their good fortune or good ſucceſs, though brought about by means, I ſhould never, in my own caſe, even had I been driven from all my own congenial ſupports, have taken, nay, which I certainly ſhould, in any extremity, have rejected; or, to ſpeak yet more cloſe, which, being un⯑congenial, never would have preſented them⯑ſelves to me as means of this ſucceſs, and not being adapted to my taſte and temper could have afforded me no happineſs; con⯑ſequently, [343]their miſcarriage not being in my liſt of evils, could inflict upon me no miſery: in ſhort, cauſe or effect would be alike matter of indifference. Yet, I am not ſurpriſed that minds of another conformation ſhould con⯑ſider that as their chief good, or ill, which would thus be loſt upon me; and therefore, I am never diſpleaſed when my own pains and pleaſures, except on principles of general conſideration, ſhould be to them objects of no import. When I declare, for inſtance, that the moſt minute, and to others, perhaps, imperceptible ſlight, or reſerve, from a friend into whoſe boſom I have been uſed to pour my confidence; when I avow that a look, a word, or even a ſilence, that has but the ſemblance of coldneſs or un⯑kindneſs;— when I confeſs, theſe are amongſt my ſcarcely-ſupportable grievances; and that the reverſe of theſe, in all their nice diſtinctions, are amongſt my higheſt joys: when I furthermore confeſs"—

"Brother, brother!" exclaimed John, impatiently, "you have already confeſſed too much; it is by nurſing this ſickly kind [344]of ſenſibility, you have acquired that ſoreneſs of mind, which not only ſhrinks at the touch, but induces you to imagine that aim is taken at your honour and happineſs, when the very reverſe may be intended, or when, more probably, you are not at all involved in the queſtion."

"Perſons of our brother's vivacity ſhould always have the pleaſures of imagination in the check of more ſolid avocations," inter⯑poſed James,—"avocations, which inſiſt on a certain degree of daily attention. Men of genius ſhould, if the commixture were prac⯑ticable, be alſo men of buſineſs; they ſhould vigorouſly engage in ſome liberal employ⯑ment, that might connect the ornamental with the uſeful part of character: this would, perforce, abate that feveriſh irritation digni⯑fied with the name of exquiſite feeling: a ſplendid vapour, my Henry, which is the parent of half our modern diſorders of body and of ſoul. There is an intoxication in fancy which diſdains the ſobriety of reaſon; ever agitated, ever in purſuit, yet over⯑taking nothing that is worthy the chaſe:— [345]behold, ſuch is the hiſtory of your ſelf⯑devoted men of fine feeling and exquiſite ſenſibility!"

"And I, you think, am one of that de⯑ſcription?" queſtioned Henry.—"Decided⯑ly," replied John, with firmneſs, yet with feeling; "can you believe that your cha⯑racter, your happineſs, and your conſequence in life, my amiable brother, nay more, your value to the community, would not have all been gainers had you employed thoſe talents, which God has intruſted to you, in a different way from the buſy idleneſs to which they have been dedicated? Genius, and integrity, like yours, had they been engaged in any of theſe muſt have made you long ere this as eminent as eſtimable; and this, believe me, might, in your caſe, have been done without becoming the ſlave of that ſenſeleſs am⯑bition, or frivolous grandeur, on which, per⯑haps, ſomewhat too much, in the common cant of ordinary moraliſts, you have de⯑claimed. In the ſcenes of honourable action you would have had no time to lie in wait for opportunities of miſconſtruction; your eye [346]would have been fixed on nobler objects, your fancy would have been under the controul of your judgment; it would then have been an auxiliary to reaſon herſelf; it would have given to the force of your eloquence an amiable fire that would, at the ſame time, have warmed and illumined your ſubjects: thoſe ſubjects too, would have been worthy of your powers; your genius would have expanded; your mind would have acquired a fortitude not to have been carried into ſudden exceſſes, ſo fatally cheriſhed by your preſent train of ſtudies and habits: I beg pardon, it is this moment only that a ray of Henry's brighter genius has enabled me to ſee, James, that we are both in an error:—how can we have lived ſo long in the blunder of believing that the pride of talents was inde⯑pendent of adventitious aids; and that ſuch independence conſiſted in firmneſs of mind, deciſion of thought, and actions formed upon theſe? No ſuch thing! genius, I find, ſub⯑jects its poſſeſſor to the caprice of every trifling caſualty, renders him a minute inter⯑preter of looks, makes him diſſect words, [347]and analize ſilence itſelf; drives him from the chearful abodes of men, into an alliance with ſubordinate beings; makes him fly from friends and relations, his proper com⯑forters, to beg the fellowſhip of birds and beaſts; throws him on the alms even of inanimate nature; takes him out of all de⯑pendence, and reverence for himſelf; and places him wholly in the power of others. Proud and bleſſed Independence! that re⯑duces ſoul and body to the moſt abject ſlavery! how I regret that my ſtubborn nature cannot ſtoop to ſuch happy ſervi⯑lity!"—

"Alas, my brothers!" exclaimed Henry, ſtriking his boſom, "I rather ſtand in need of conſolation than cenſure,—of your pity, than your rigour, or your ridicule."

"Deareſt Henry," anſwered John, much moved, "let not what I found, long ſince, a ſcorpion in my boſom, be a viper in yours. Fable has not given to the ungrateful ſnake ſo fell a tooth as the ſmiling miſchief which you cheriſh in your boſom, and call ſenſi⯑bility. Let me conjure you then; to cir⯑cumſcribe [348]its power, and if it is one of the tyrants in your blood, conſider it like the 'lurking principle of death,' which, one of your poets has told us, is mixed up in our frame, ſooner or later to conſume what it feeds on: or, if you love the deluſion of ſtill thinking it your friend,—for, alas! like all favourites, it has but too many powers of recommending itſelf,—teach it only to glow at what is really great or good: and let it not prompt you to the injuſtice of conferring on the mean, the honours that belong only to the illuſtrious.—I do not chide, my dear Henry, I only counſel," added John; "but if you think I have too much rebuked the power, which I ſee is the favourite denizen of this boſom,"—laying his hand on Henry's heart,—"if you think I have been too hard on this ſenſibility, let me atone for my cen⯑ſure by a juſt applauſe."

James, being ſummoned on buſineſs, had withdrawn.

"One object there is on which this ſenſi⯑bility may employ all its blandiſhments:— When it feduces my brother from himſelf— [349]when it makes him forget that a parent's and a brother's life is intruſted to his charge; when it

'Waſtes its ſweetneſs on the deſert air,'— you ſee I have caught the ſpirit of your muſe, though, by the bye, ſhe ſometimes leads you into errors;—then I muſt quarrel with it:— but, when it leads your bounding heart to pay to Olivia what is ſo abundantly her due;— when it urges you to do homage to the beauty, innocence and love, ſhe has in ſtore for you, I am reconciled to its full dominion over you: I blame not even the tears it makes you ſhed, nor the enthuſiaſm it excites, even if it draws from my own eyes, or exacts from my own feelings, ſuch ſympathies as give me the ſuffering without the recompence, the wound without the balm; though, whatever may be the wounds of John, they can never want a balm while Henry and Olivia are happy!"

CHAPTER XLV.

JOHN, in the courſe of his philipic againſt ſenſibility, exhibited many ſigns that, while he was reaſoning as a philoſopher, he felt as a man. James had only followed the even tenor of his reflections.

Towards the cloſe, John appeared to be ſeized with one of thoſe ſudden and ſtrong contentions within, which ſometimes ſecluded him from his family and friends. More than one dire cauſe contributed to this; but the greateſt was impenetrably cloſed from every eye but that which ſearches the heart.

An ebullition of this kind in the mind of John Fitorzton, was frequently attended by that bilious miſery which ſo often turns the whole maſs of blood; and in him would produce a confinement of ſome days, during which he would admit no witneſs of its effects; nor, till the confinement was paſt, would he reunite himſelf to ſociety. Then he would come forth, an [351]obvious victim of the ravage that had been made. The extremes of pleaſure or of pain would produce more or leſs this boſom contention. The ſtudy of his whole life had been to manage himſelf in theſe exceſſes, to which he was but too conſcious his diſ⯑poſition was prone; and when, as was in ſome inſtances the caſe, his beſt endeavours failed, he fervently offered up a prayer that to human efforts might be added divine aids for the government of his nature.

His reſentment was rarely implacable: for although no earthly power could make him return his hand to any from whom he had withdrawn it, on conviction of unprincipled offences; it was not unuſual with him to ſerve thoſe, on impulſes of general compaſſion, with whom he would never more aſſociate. His immitigability was indeed chiefly confined to himſelf. It was there principally he inverted the ordi⯑nary laws of ſelf-love, by ſeverely, though ſilently, becoming a ſelf-accuſer; and ſome ſenſations which accompanied the delivery [352]of the ſentiments that concluded his addreſs to his brother, returned on him ſuch accu⯑ſation.

Henry, on the contrary, though on the firſt receipt of an injury, he was tumultu⯑ous, vehement, and ſudden, if, after thoſe impulſes had ſubſided, any palliative pre⯑ſented itſelf, by which the cauſe of his wrongs, even by a little ſtrain upon can⯑dour, could be imputable to misfortune, to the preſſure of hurrying events, or indeed to any thing but cold and meditated baſe⯑neſs, he would forget how far the effect had operated againſt his own feeling or intereſt, and be the firſt to ſeek accommo⯑dation.

So touched was the ingenuous youth by the affecting and affectionate manner, as well as matter, of his brother, in this admonitory diſ⯑courſe, that though he was unable to ſpeak from a certain mixture of awe, reſpect, and attention, he looked all that could denote at once a grateful and an afflicted heart. But collecting himſelf a little towards the con⯑cluſion, and when John had, by degrees, [353]opened his arms to give to his laſt words the impreſſion of an embrace.—"O my brother!" exclaimed Henry, "that you could deſcend into this overburthened heart!—that you could ſee, or that I could tell you—that it were permitted me—that I dare to diſcloſe."—

"Dare!" cried John, reſiſting a ſudden indiſpoſition that had nearly ſunk him at Henry's feet:—"Does that heart then con⯑tain any thing it dares not unfold? A Fitz⯑orton can fear nothing—but himſelf!"— The death-like paleneſs which had the moment before uſurped the cheeks of John, now ſeemed tranſpoſed to thoſe of Henry.— "That expreſſion would almoſt juſtify me, in the belief of a tale which has been poured into my ear," reſumed John, "re⯑ſpecting Henry Fitzorton; a tale of ſo incre⯑dible a nature, that I renounced it as a vile aſperſion; nay, concluding it ſuch, I ſtopt its progreſs."

"A tale!" queſtioned his brother, with confuſion too mighty to be concealed, [354]"ſurely I have a right to know the accu⯑ſation, and the accuſer!

"The accuſer," replied John, throwing his examining eye over Henry, "is the terror of the perſon accuſed."

"That terror is of John's creation. It is not the firſt time we have ſeen innocence abaſhed, and misfortune appalled in the pre⯑ſence of John Fitzorton:"—here the roſes began to reviſit Henry's cheek.—"Yet have I beheld even John himſelf ſtruggling with emotions which, to any one unacquainted with the purity of his heart, might have ſubjected him to the cenſure of men who, like himſelf, are diſpoſed to judge hardly.— I have ſeen him wrought into agony, his very ſpirit on the rack; he has thrown into every countenance, and ſunk into every boſom, a ſadneſs like his own. In the midſt of this painful ſympathy he has left friends, brothers, parents, without explanation: has reſiſted the ſoftneſs of one, the authority of another, and the wiſhes of all; and when has his ſilence been imputed to guilt? when [355]have the effects been attributed to his not daring to diſcover the cauſe?"

It is, indeed, true, that it would be im⯑poſſible for an aggreſſor, or for any perſon he conceived to be ſuch, to ſtand in the preſence of John Fitzorton, without feeling more terror in his ſilence than in the moſt rending climaxes of Henry's indignation. It was an awful dumbneſs, which diſmayed the very ſoul, and when, at the end of this tremendous pauſe, he at laſt ſpoke, the ſen⯑tence which he paſt upon the action, was bitter, and commonly brief; as if the ſud⯑den death of the offender were to be pro⯑nounced and executed in the ſame moment. Yet, how ſhall we find cenſure for emotions which, whether excited againſt others or himſelf, were emotions of a mind zealous in the cauſe of honeſty? and if we admit that the paroxyſms which attended them were the vices of his blood, we muſt allow alſo that they aroſe from the virtues of his heart.

Sometimes however, before he had done ſpeaking to Henry, the agitated, yet then [356]empaſſioned John, began to droop: his ingenuous ſoul felt force of his brother's remarks: and, ſelf-condemned, he advanced to Henry, from whom he had receded, and preſenting his hand, he ſaid, with a voice humbled even to penitence, "It is but juſt I ſhould offer what perhaps it is no leſs right you ſhould refuſe: Henry forgive me! I have thrown your tender diſpoſition into confuſion, and puniſhed you for my own fault. My nature and my habits are ſtern. I will try to mend them. How came ſo harſh a being to be a brother of yours, my Henry? I have my ſoftneſs too—ſometimes: I have not always been the knotted oak; I have even been weaker than the bending reed; and it is indeed true that you have never chid me for it; nor have you even ſuppoſed, as I did, that my want of confi⯑dence has been the want of honour: I am unworthy of your pardon!"

As he was withdrawing his hand, Henry caught it with all the eagerneſs of fraternal love, and preſſed it to his lips; then ſpread⯑ing his arms he exclaimed, "O my dear, [357]dear brother! you are worthy of every thing: this—ah, how long has it been de⯑ſired! —this is the moment—this is the ſitua⯑tion," —drawing John ſtill more cloſely to his embrace—"when I am to convince my beloved John, if I have not dared to"—

At this criſis, Olivia came into the garden. Powerful, indeed, muſt be the pencil that could colour her feelings at this joyful ſight! While the brothers were yet enfolded in each others arms, ſhe ſoftly encircled her own around them both; and with accents that might, indeed, melt ‘Contending nations into brotherhood,’ She reiterated the expreſſion which had before ended an affectionate ſtrife ^*, "bleſs! bleſs ye together!"

"I proteſt," ſaid Olivia, "I had forgot my errand, which was to inform you dinner waited, but this richer banquet for my heart had obliviated every other."—"To dinner then with what appetite we may," ſaid John [358]ſmiling, but not without an half ſuppreſſed ſigh, as he reſigned the hand of Olivia to Henry. "Nay, cried Olivia, placing herſelf between the brothers, and preſenting a hand to each, "are we not all united? I muſt," added ſhe, playfully, "on this happy occaſion go in all the ſtate of my proud heart—ſup⯑ported by the family arms!" In this manner they entered the caſtle. But as True George opened the dining hall door: "We muſt ſeparate here," obſerved John, "only two can go in at a time, and thoſe muſt of courſe be Henry and Olivia." As ſoon as they had entered, John ordered George to cloſe the door; then traverſing with hurried ſteps the antechamber, George took it for granted that the "older young 'ſquire," as he ſometimes called him, was more agree⯑ably employed than if he were ſeated at a good dinner, ſo letting himſelf into the dining room to wait at table, left him with as little noiſe as poſſible, whiſpering, "Huſh! huſh! hang the door, how it creaks!"

[359]At length, having made his exit, the honeſt domeſtic hinted to the family, that his honour, the philoſopher, was ſuddenly taken with one of his coggibunduſſes, and he could ſee that his honour thought as little about dinner as if there was no ſuch amuſement as eating and drinking in the world.

CHAPTER XLVI.

JOHN'S ſoliloquy was brief and pointed. —"It muſt be done—and immediately. I am a fool to my own heart, and a knave to my brother's. I have been in miſery. Deciſion is happineſs. I am de⯑cided."

Each of theſe ſhort ſentences was ſpoken walking, and each was performed in a long ſtride. The word "deciſion" brought him to the dining room door, which he opened with the firmneſs and energy of a man, who, after various debate of thought, and irreſolution of conduct, had determined.

[360]In the evening, the family as was cuſ⯑ſtomary, aſſembled in the library, where they frequently paſſed the evening in literary converſations. John had recovered the hue of his countenance; and even his ſarcaſtic ſportiveneſs returned to the general joy of the company; and, clouded as had been the day, it was an evening of family happineſs, in which even Henry was beguiled from the immediate memory of his diſappointments and perplexities.

In order to force his mind from other thoughts, which he felt would diſqualify him for that calm ſeparation on which he was reſolved, John again opened his unexhauſted artillery upon what he called the monſtro⯑ſities of Poeſy and Romance; in reply to all which Sir Armine, taking part with Henry, pleaſantly exclaimed, "Your proſing brother has again aſſailed us unprovokedly, my Harry; it is now a common cauſe. I like you, have romanced and poetiſed, and am invaded; and depend upon it, under the auſpices of inſulted Phoebus, we ſhall [361]rout this furious Drawcanſir, 'Thou nature art our goddeſs."—

"Inſpired by her," interpoſed Henry, taking up the theme as he always did, zea⯑louſly, "I inſiſt that a play, a poem, or romance, though ſo inceſſantly the objects of my brother's ridicule, poſſibly of his envy and deſpair, I maintain that either of theſe may become as uſeful to the intereſts of virtue as the moſt laboured diſquiſition in the proud circle of philoſophy; and on this ſubject I muſt own, I have long wiſhed to obtain my dear father's more decided and circumſtantial opinion; becauſe, whether diſ⯑couraging or favourable to my own, I ſhould hear it with great deference; conſcious i [...] would be founded on true judgment, tem⯑pered by candour, which I take to be true criticiſm."

"A critic, my Henry," ſaid Sir Armine, "ſhould be the guardian of the public taſte, the public virtue, and the public happineſs; on all which public literature has an impor⯑tant influence."

[362]"No doubt, ſir," cried John, "but thoſe effuſions of a boiling head and feveriſh heart, denominated novels, of all ſilly books, uſually the moſt ſilly, the very names of which are become diſguſting, will not, I truſt, be allowed by my father to conſti⯑tute a part of public literature, although I have my fears, they may have contributed not a little to vitiate the public taſte."

"We have not time, nor is it neceſſary to go back to the origin of romance; nor to trace its progreſs from the early ages to the preſent century, when it took the name of novel," ſaid Sir Armine, reſiſt⯑ing his ſon's ludicrous images with ſome gravity: "under all titles, however, and in all ages, from its epocha, this ſpecies of com⯑poſition has been conſidered as one of the moſt agreeable parts of literature: and although rigid moraliſts, miſtaken zealots, and indiſcriminate ſatiriſts,"—Here Olivia and Henry looked full at John—"Affected ignorance," continued Sir Armine, "or more affected learning, have fulminated againſt it, [363]ſtill does it remain a ſource of great delight, not ſeldom of as great utility."

"It appears to me, ſir," obſerved Henry, kindling, "that compoſitions of ſcience may be compared to the aſpiring oak, and the works of fancy to the flowerets of the valley."

"Very true, brother," cried John,— "creeping like the latter amongſt the hedges, or ſlinking into the bottom of the ditches; or, perhaps, timorouſly peeping from the banks, as conſcious of their inſignificance."

"No, brother," retorted Henry, riſing, and elevating his hands to illuſtrate the image,—"not creeping amongſt hedges, but blooming full in view;—a bloom immortal as the proudeſt growth of the foreſts, and carrying their odours even to the mountain top."

"A literary compoſition," reſumed Sir Armine, "like a military operation, ſhould be conſidered, whatever be its nature, in its conſtructions, its progreſs, and its conſum⯑mation. Both ſhould be contemplated in [364]the felicity of the idea, the unity of the deſign, and the energy of the execution. My Henry is ſupported by the united wiſ⯑dom of our anceſtors, who all concur in the moſt favourable ſentiment of a well-contrived work of the imagination: and the moſt illuſ⯑trious amongſt the moderns have given the ſuffrage of their names to a defence of the very books, which ſenſeleſs witlings, affected coxcombs, or too rigid critics,—pardon me, dear John,"—Sir Armine had thrown a glance on his eldeſt ſon, as he pronounced the two laſt words,—"too rigid critics pre⯑ſume to contemn. One of the moſt learned and elegant of thoſe moderns, indeed,—a dignitary ^* of the church too, John,—has obſerved, that, in ſpite of philoſophy and faſhion, Faery Spencer ſtill ranks higheſt amongſt the poets; earth-born critics may blaſpheme, ſays he, But all the Gods are raviſh'd with delight Of his celeſtial ſong, and muſic's wond'rous might.

[365]"I believe, however," interpoſed John, "that the high and reverend authority you have quoted, ſir, allows, that all theſe lying wonders of the Gothic magicians, theſe griſly ſpectres raiſed out of their own horror-creating fancies, when men loved to aſtoniſh and affright themſelves, when every village had a ghoſt, the church-yards were all haunted, and every large common had a circle of fairies belonging to it, were at the dawn of reaſon, but that her growing ſplendour put them all to flight."

"True," returned Sir Armine, "there wanted a reform in the world of fiction, and the revolution of letters effected this by compelling fancy to league at leaſt with probability:—in the end ſhe became more obedient to the laws of nature; and, thus allied, the wildneſs and extravagance of the fable is chaſtened, and, as his lord ſhip has expreſſed it, the excellence of the moral, and the ingenuity of the contrivance, remained, after the magic of the old romances was perfectly diſſolved.—But he adds, what we [366]have got by this revolution is a great deal of good ſenſe: what we have loſt is a world of fine fabling—the illuſion of which is ſo grateful to the charmed ſpirit."

"Surely," ſaid Olivia, who had been ex⯑tremely attentive, as indeed had the whole party, "ſurely, that charmed ſpirit, in its chaſtened ſtate, walks the world at this day, and can no longer be called unnatural or romantic. Takes it not a ſhape to reform, while it alarms, in many an antique dome and aweful foreſt?—In theſe, it is, methinks, a ſpirit raiſed by genius in the cauſe of vir⯑tue. It comes like a benign angel to guard and warn the good, or like a threat⯑ning demon to terrify and puniſh the wicked. It is conſcience perſonified: I conſider it with a fond and ſacred pleaſure, mixed with a religious dread; but, at the ſame time, I hold in contempt thoſe unneceſſary and wanton, as well as impertinent apparitions, which the vulgar noveliſt conjures up merely to terrify his readers; to ſet before their eyes a literary maukin to ſcare and ſurpriſe— [367]avaunt ſuch childiſh viſions!—vaniſh ſuch uſeleſs ſpectres!—What are the pages in which they are ſaid to groan and ſtalk, but fables of diſguſting monſters, like the re⯑poſitories of wild beaſts, where curioſity is at once attracted and terrified by frightful deformities? But I cannot endure that theſe ſhould have the honour to be claſſed with the productions I have deſcribed before."

John had ſeveral times looked towards Olivia while ſhe was ſpeaking, with approv⯑ing eyes: and Henry had as frequently taken her hand. Mr. Clare, and the reſt of the families, were always pleaſed whenever her modeſt talents could be brought into diſ⯑play.

Sir Armine and Henry intreated her to pro⯑ceed. "Alas" ſaid ſhe, bluſhing, "from my own ſcanty ſtores I have nothing worth offering, but in the ſenſible Euphraſia ^* I have found the moſt convincing arguments, drawn up in the moſt agreeable language. [368]She informs me, that romances were the de⯑light of barbarous ages, and that they have always kept their ground amongſt the mul⯑tiplied amuſements of more refined and cul⯑tivated periods; containing, like every other branch of human literature, both good and evil things. Theſe, as nearly as I can re⯑member, are her own words. You will eaſily believe," continued Olivia, ſpeaking to Sir Armine, and looking at his youngeſt ſon with eyes that told her ſatisfaction, "that I was charmed to find the inſtructive Euphraſia expreſſing an aſtoniſhment, I have ſo often felt myſelf, that men of ſenſe and learning, who reliſh the beauties of the old claſſic poets, and dwell on them with ſuch fond admiration, ſhould be indifferent to, or ſpeak contemptuouſly of the romance; for its ſtories are not more wild and incredible than the moſt admired epic."

"Surely," ſaid Henry, with emotion, "ſurely it is to a moral purpoſe the aweful ſcenery of times long paſt is diſplayed; we cannot look back upon them, even in theſe [369]enlightened days, without ſomething of a conſcience-born emotion: vice reads with terror and diſmay, as if ſhe ſaw the menacing phantom; virtue peruſes them with that holy fear which is the beſt guard of firm, yet unpreſuming innocence."

"It appears to me," ſaid Olivia, diffi⯑dently, "that to remove the groſſneſs of ſuperſtition, and the blind or wilful violation of nature, were the great points of reform moſt wanted in the ancient romance, pre⯑ſerving and meliorating the ſacred effects of the holy fear my Henry has mentioned."

Olivia then went to that ſide of the library which ſhe and Henry had arranged and ap⯑propriated, and where might be ſeen every truly ingenious production of the ſpecies in queſtion, as well of olden times as of theſe our days, and in all languages; but more eſpecially thoſe of her own country and ſex ^* The latter ſhe enumerated with a [370]conqueror's ardour, and with a champion's liberality, as the volumes ſhone before her.

CHAPTER XLVII.

WHILE Henry and Olivia were en⯑gaged in their panegyric, and the reſt of the company liſtening to, or ſurrounding them, John concealed ſome powerful emotions, and irregular movements and geſtures, by leaving the room; and when he returned, he found his father, at the repeated urgency of his poeti⯑cal brother, proceeding in the converſation: John again ſat down, and while he was a ſilent auditor, had opportunity to recover himſelf.

"Whoſoever propoſes to make amuſe⯑ment the miniſter of inſtruction," reſumed Sir Armine, "is like a mariner between two tremendous rocks. On this ſide he hath to encounter the pomps of learning, on that the affectations of vanity: both theſe pre⯑tending, with equal contumacy, to hold romances and novels in ſcorn. But there are few compoſitions which are not better [372]than the converſation of that ignorance which affects wiſdom, or of that learning which deſpiſes knowledge, through whatever chan⯑nels it may flow. Nevertheleſs, I have ob⯑ſerved theſe ſagacious perſons are ſo wonder⯑fully gifted, as to anticipate every thing a book of this kind contains on the firſt glimpſe of the title, and not, forſooth, having time to waſte on trifles, throw aſide the ſaid book; which appears to me juſt as fair a proceeding as if a phyſiognomiſt, pretending to ſee fool or knave written on a man's fea⯑tures, ſhould look in his face, expreſs his ſuſpicion, and knock him down."

"Alas, my father! there is no juſtice in this," cried James; "while the being that ſpeculates, like the being which is ſpeculated upon, remains human, many of his firſt-ſight judgments muſt be queſtionable, whether he be a phyſiognomiſt of men or of books. The countenances of both are ſometimes, indeed, copious indexes, but ſometimes mere title-pages, inſomuch, that the moſt pro⯑found obſerver muſt often be at fault: a very [373]promiſing title, may, like a prepoſſeſſing ſet of features, cover a great deal of nonſenſe or of villany, in the ſame manner as a crooked noſe, bleared eyes, jutting lips, and ſhagged brows, curved againſt all rule for ſenſe and honeſty, may be the rugged caſkets to con⯑ceal a direct underſtanding, an upright heart, and principles in the ſymmetry of perfect moral beauty."

"But my ſon James," rejoined Sir Ar⯑mine, "forgets that vanity has her votaries, both amongſt the wiſe as well as the fair, the learned as the unlearned. As the former of theſe would bluſh to be caught with a book they wiſh the world to believe below their underſtanding, the latter often contrive to be ſeen at ſtudies above their capacity; and it is pleaſant enough to obſerve, both of them labouring to maintain a character, which neither can reaſonably hope to eſta⯑bliſh."

"It is well known," continued James, "I am a determined foe to all extremes, and that becauſe almoſt every good—moral and [374]natural,—lies between them. Too wiſe, too fooliſh, too erudite, too illiterate, too dull, too brilliant, are exceſſes I equally tremble at. I never ceaſe to wiſh my dear brothers had more of my unaſpiring, and yet neither unprofitable nor unhappy mediocrity in all things."

"In poeſy, brother! O Phoebus!"—eja⯑culated Henry, firing—"You, ſurely, are not an advocate for intellectual mediocrity— Save, ſave me from that, O God of inſpi⯑ration!"

"A middling philoſopher, a middling lawyer, are not characters much to be com⯑mended either," cried John.

"Yet," ſaid Sir Armine, ſmiling on all his ſons, "let me not be miſunderſtood.— If by ſilly books are meant thoſe miſerable and meagre productions, which reſemble every thing more than the humanity they profeſs to paint, I will as ſtrongly diſpute the ſovereignty of my contempt for ſuch as John Fitzorton; but I ſhould as ſoon think of con⯑founding the extremes of light and darkneſs [375]in the phyſical and natural, as in the intel⯑lectual world. For which reaſon, methinks, ſome mark of ſeparation ſhould be made betwixt the authors who correctly imitate the works of nature, and thoſe who produce monſtrous compoſitions with which nature hath nothing to do: compoſitions that are run up with the ſpeed, but not with the inge⯑nuity of the ſpider's web,—as eaſily ſwept away, and as ſoon forgotten. But far apart, and honourably diſtinct from theſe, are the accurate delineations of very many romance writers of the laſt and preſent age, whoſe reputation ſhall endure with that of any hiſ⯑torian, philoſopher, or poet. Indeed, if 'the proper ſtudy of mankind be man,' the author who beſt deſcribes the human character and conduct, unfolds moſt ſkilfully the various mazes of life, and enters moſt minutely into that which produces, and that which deſtroys, domeſtic happineſs, is the moſt uſeful author. Abſtract reaſonings, philoſophical diſcuſſions, ſuch as "John cultivates, and the ſublimer ſoarings of the muſe, which are ſo dear to [376]Henry, have genuine charms only for a few, and of theſe, ſome affect to admire what they neither can reliſh nor underſtand; but the hiſtorian of private life, for to that name he ſhould aſpire, paints ſcenes and characters which are familiar to every man. To ſay the truth, what are the domeſtic annals of the whole world, my ſons, but ſo many hiſtories of this kind, abounding with character, in⯑cident, and adventure? Every day affords matter for a new chapter, and every year ſwells the work into another, merry or melancholy, volume; or rather a miſcellany compounded of both.

"And, in point of that knowledge which equips us for the world, and opens, as it were, upon the underſtanding a window through which we may ſee the ſecret work⯑ings of the heart, I will oppoſe a well-drawn copy of life, in a ſeries of natural adventures, to the proudeſt ſpeculations of any of thoſe profound thinkers, the worſt of whom might imagine himſelf diſgraced, were he compared with the beſt writers of that claſs.

[377]"In concluſion of the ſubject, which, ex⯑cept in a family party, might be deemed by the faſtidious to have employed too much time, and by the ordinary novel-devourer to have been provokingly interruptive, I will borrow the words which I remember to have been uſed by a public critic in his review of the work of the Defender of Romance, whom our Olivia has juſtly commended.—If Hurd, Beattie, Wharton, and Percy, ſays he, whoſe names reflect the higheſt luſtre on modern literature, did not regard the ſubject of Euphraſia as unworthy of their reſearch, no one need to bluſh at devoting ſome portion of his time to the ſame enquiry; nor can that be deemed undeſerving the notice and protection of the public, to which the prac⯑tice of a Sydney hath given ſanction, and which hath received the approbation of a Milton."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE conqueſt which our young poetic enamorato ſeemed to have gained by the favourite ſentiments of his father, was now ſo complete, that he could not help drawing John and his father into that compartment of the library which had been ſacred to poeſy and romance, and which John had altered from 'Poets' to 'Trumpery corner,' and provokingly paſted thoſe words on the edge of the ſhelves with a caricature figure of Folly, laughing with her cap and bells, and boys on each ſide of her crying over them— "Victoria! victoria!" exclaimed he; "I hope now trumpery may be expunged— judgment, judgment, brother James! I truſt the diſpute betwixt theſe men of ſnow, who call themſelves philoſophers, and the children of the ſun, who feel themſelves to be poets, is now ſettled:—what ſays the family Ballan⯑cer, —what ſays my judicial brother to this?"

[379]"I have wondered at nothing more," re⯑plied James, "than at the unfair dealings of readers with authors."

"Authors with readers I believe you mean," quoth John.

"Rather," continued James, "it is mat⯑ter of ſurpriſe to me, that conſidering the injuſtice of readers there ſhould be any au⯑thors at all."

"Now you have mended it!" cried John.

"James has reaſon on his ſide, notwith⯑ſtanding," ſaid Sir Armine.

"It appears to me, Sir," anſwered James, reſpectfully, "that the golden mean finds as few friends amongſt books as among men;— a certain extravagance pervades all things.— Every reader, more or leſs, exerciſes the tyranny of a critic, if the work hap⯑pens to be adapted to the degree of his capacity and modes of feeling, no panegyric ſeems warm enough; if it be written above or below that capacity, thoſe modes, or dif⯑ferent from his general idea, or particular experience, or the temper of the moment, [380]there is not any cenſure deemed ſtrong enough to condemn it.

"A morning I once paſſed in a London circulating library, illuſtrates this whimſically enough," obſerved Mr. Clare, taking his pipe. "I do not often enter into theſe matters, you know; but I will endeavour to deſcribe what I heard, and ſaw, at one of thoſe repoſitories of ſenſe and nonſenſe. 'Have you read ſuch a performance?' cried one to his friend—coming in, arm in arm.—'I have dipped into it,' replied the friend, affecting the ſcholar—'dull, Sir, very dull!"

"Thus is the wrong idea," continued James, "ſpread abroad to the extent of that man's connections; the book is avoided, and its very name becomes contagious. On the other hand, it may, with as little reaſon, by the extravagance of ill-deſerved praiſe, be⯑come epidemical another way—too many ſweets are as nauſeating as exceſſive bit⯑ters."

"Were I to be deſperate enough to write another book," ſaid Sir Armine, "methinks I would try a new experiment. I would [381]write up to the capacity and feeling of half a dozen perſons, with whoſe different diſ⯑poſitions I had acquaintance: for argument's ſake, we will ſuppoſe the characters to ſtand thus—a philoſopher, a poet, a divine, a hu⯑mouriſt, a politician, and a man of the world; for each of whom I would prepare ſome eſſay, treatiſe, or poem, ſuitable to their re⯑ſpective genius. But, agreeably to the deſign I had in view, I would ſo arrange theſe, that, preſuming each to be excellent in its kind, two very contrary effects ſhould be produced by that arrangement. The book being ready, I would take care that the ſix perſons for whom it was intended, ſhould be ſummoned to a private recital, in a more finiſhed and ſelect way than before. I would commence my experiments on the humouriſt, delineating that ſingularity, whim, or weakneſs in mind or manners, in which he would moſt delight, but which my man of the world would pro⯑nounce 'execrable ſtuff;" the philoſopher,— 'beneath the dignity of the human under⯑ſtanding;' —the poet, 'deſpicable;'—the divine, 'frivolous;'—the politician, 'ab⯑ſurd.' [382]—I would then make an attempt upon the reſt indiſcriminately, and ſhould certainly find that the pleaſure of one, while his fa⯑vourite ſubject was before him, would have a nearly contrary effect on the others; until in the end, each man would depart with a favourable impreſſion of the work, not be⯑cauſe it might be generally excellent, but becauſe the particular taſte, and, perhaps, predominant paſſion of each had been grati⯑fied. —Were you the next day," continued Sir Armine, "to hear the philoſopher paſſing his opinion on the performance to any friends of his own deſcription, he would tell you there was one eſſay worth all the reſt:—The bard would recommend it to his brethren of the laurel, purely for the poem: The poli⯑tician, for its happy ſtrokes at miniſtry or the oppoſition: The divine, for its polemics: The man of faſhion, for its elegance in trifling; and the humouriſt, for that diſplay of character, which, though ſeen every hour in life, is always welcome to men of his diſ⯑poſition, when found in books. Thus, if every book could be uſhered into the world [383]with ſuch an experiment, the reading of it would be general: but my complaint is, that were ſuch book to be placed in the way of ſix ſuch readers ſeparately, without a table of contents to anticipate the ſubjects, and ſhould it happen that the order in which the book was opened, preſented the philoſophy to the humouriſt,—the divinity to the man of faſhion, the airy pleaſantries to the di⯑vine, the politics to the bard, and the poetry to the politician, my poor book would call forth more vengeance againſt it, than was ever fulminated at a miſerable culprit from that book of pious curſes—the Romiſh ex⯑communication."

"Your quarrel with readers then, ſir," ſaid James, quietly, "is for their want of candour, and of patience. You would wiſh them to begin diſpaſſionately, to ſit down to their author with a mind diſpoſed to be pleaſed, and proceed to the end before they paſſed judgment. Juſt as we do in legal af⯑fairs. And there ought to be courts of juſtice, no doubt, in literature, as well as in law."

[384]"Read books to the end, hey!" ſaid Mr. Clare, having now filled and lighted his pipe: "I wiſh you could ſee the circulators at my friend Page's ſhop, and hear Page de⯑ſcribe his cuſtomers. ‘Five changes a day, ſir,’ he has ſaid to me—you know his quaint humour, and ſhrewd brevity,—‘aye, and come for the ſixth at night. I ſay read a book to the end, indeed! they begin with end, return to the title, ſkip preface, jump to middle, daſh again to end, and away for another vol! and as to folio men;’ quoth Page, ‘as to my folio and quarto gentry, Maſter Dugdale, Domine Chillingworth, Gaffer Clarendon, and ſuch like old grecians, they don't come home for half a year; great bodies move ſlow. In the name of nonſenſe, ſays one cuſtomer, why, Page, do you ſend me ſuch trumpery as this? Buffon's hiſtory, Harris's Hermes, Hume's ſketches, Britiſh Zoology! I wonder you don't load me at once with Chambers's Dictionary, the Statutes at Large, and the State Trials: here bring them in if you can, Thomas, they have almoſt broke [385]down my coach. Beg pardon for my miſ⯑take, replied I, was told you were one of our learned ladies, and wiſhed for ſomething to ſhew off a little: can change them in a twinkle—heavy old boys theſe, to be ſure—only mention your taſte—hit you off to a nicety!"—The laſt plays and novels to be ſure ſaid ſhe.—"Really, Mr. Page," ex⯑claimed another cuſtomer, failing ſtately into the ſhop, two lazy livery-men behind, all be-book'd—"really, Mr. Page, it is inſult⯑ing, your people will be troubling me with theſe contemptible things; "Children of Nature," Filial Piety," "Misfortunes of Love," "Man of Feeling," and "Man of the World!"—all this time her ſervants were unloading—' how often muſt I tell you there never were more than three or four of theſe things written ſince the be⯑ginning of the world, worth a rational woman's reading, and they are now as old as Poles; and if you will perſiſt in vexing my nature with ſuch trumpery, I poſitively muſt take my name out of your book; you know I ſtudy only metaphyſics."— [386]Sorry, my lady—blunder of ſhopman— will make amends—there, ma'am, have you down for phyſics in future—'Well, let me have "Prieſtly on Neceſſity," "Mandeville's fable of the Bees," "Hutchenſon's En⯑quiry," and the "Philoſophical Arrange⯑ments," for the preſent; and you may throw in ſome nonſenſe for the ſervants— (exit frowning,—ſervants ſmiling to each other, and winking.)—"Pray, dear Mr. Page," cries a pretty liſper, who had been looking over the catalogue, "is not that lady Sarah Dingey? ſhe who makes your books ſmell ſo horridly of ſpirits, and is ſo generous with her ſnuff?—I declare my ſiſter Bab and a whole party of us were the other evening almoſt poiſoned, in the firſt vo⯑lume of "Delicate Diſtreſſes;" and ſweet Jane Hectic was quite overcome before ſhe had half got through "Exceſſive Sen⯑ſibility" —Mum, miſs, whiſpered I, a word to the wiſe—ſat: ſap.—"I thought ſo," ſaid the liſper,—well let me have that dear "Man of Feeling" I have ſo long waited for; and though I have it coming from [387]the hands of that inveterate ſnuffler, and I know it ought to perform a month's qua⯑rantine, I will even hazard ſuffocation for any of that writer's books,—O, why don't he write again?—Well, this will do for one—I'll take No. 1889, "Cruel diſap⯑pointment," for another, "Reuben, or Suicide, heigho! No. 4746," I ſuppoſe he killed himſelf for love—"Seduction," yes, I want that more than any thing, "Unguarded moment," ah! we all have our unguarded moments, Mr. Page.— "True delicacy, No. 2," that muſt be a ſilly thing by the title; "School of Vir⯑tue," heaven knows, mamma gives me enough of that: "Teſt of Filial Duty," at any rate ſhe puts me to that teſt pretty often: "Mental Pleaſures," worſe and worſe! I'll look no longer—Oh! ſtay a moment: "Mutual Attachment"—"Aſſig⯑nation, Frederick, or the Libertine"—juſt add theſe, Mr. Page, and I ſhall not have to come again until the day after to-mor-row! —and then I hope to bring three new cuſtomers—all annuals, the Diggey, Rake, [388]and Rifle families, great readers—juſt come into our neighbourhood—Immenſe acqui⯑ſitions!" Then fluttered out of their car⯑riage a bevy of young things. Theſe, Page told me after they were gone, only read a volume or two a week: toilette-ſtudents, who juſt run over a letter or chapter at hair-dreſſing time: my books come home,’ cried Page, ‘ſo powdered, ſo pomatumed, ſo perfumed, my old dons and ladies de⯑clare, they are worſe than the ſtrong waters, ſnuff-blots and brandy-ſtains of my metaphyſicianeſs. O! but, I muſt not forget to mention my whiſ⯑perers, moſt of whom ſend confidentials;— or, ſuch as venture themſelves, hem, cough, bluſh, ſtammer, and ſo forth— have I got this? could I get that? for— for—for—"a friend in the country?" others deſire me to make up parcel to penny-poſt liſt—ready-money—own price —no queſtions aſked—to be called for,— caſh in hand—and all in the way of ſnug. Thus I diſpoſe of my good things,’ quoth Page;—‘ſometimes tucked between muſ⯑lins, [389]cambrics, ſilks, ſattins, and the like, or rolled into a bundle, then thrown into a coach by ſome of my fair ſmugglers; the old ones meanwhile, Mams and Dads, never the wiſer—Laſt enter, what I call my conſumers—laſſes, young and old, who run over a novel of three, four or five volumes faſter than book-men can put them into boards: three ſets a day; morning vols, noon vols, and night vols; pretty caterpillars, as I call them, becauſe they devour my leaves. Deviliſh troubleſome though; but write as much as they read, cor⯑reſponding miſſes, and ſo make it up to me in ſtationary.’ But you have ſaid nothing as yet, ſaid I to Page, of your rational readers and writers. ‘O yes, there muſt be a ſprink⯑ling of your high-prizers, you know; but they don't go much out—I keep moſt of my wiſe ones to myſelf, ſuch as Maſter Gibbon, Domine Robertſon, Old Verulum, and bold Sir Iſaac.’ 'Perhaps,' continu⯑ed Page, ‘you would like to hear ſome⯑thing about my ſpinners, as I call them; [390]my dear Web, ſpins me a couple of vols. off hand—Gay or grave, Mr. Page?"— Tears, tears, Mr. Web, miſſes muſt cry, or its nothing: write for the white hand⯑kerchief, dear Web, 'an you love me.— "I will waſh it in the water from their own lovely eyes,’ quoth Web, flouriſhing his pen. ‘After this we ſmoked a pipe, and drank ſucceſs to literary ſpinning in a glaſs of cherry-brandy.’ "Such," concluded Mr. Clare, "were the deſcriptions my friend Page uſed to give me; and I fancy pretty faithful ones, of ſome of his readers."

Much amuſement had been produced by Mr. Clare's report of Page's ſhrewd account of his cuſtomers.—John cloſed the conver⯑ſation by preſſing his brother Henry's hand, while he aſſured him, that with whatever aſperity he might, ſometimes, have attacked his art, it had never been with deſign to deſpoil him of his laurel, or depreciate its value; but to ſeparate it from the florid weeds with which it is too often ſurrounded, and to make it, indeed, an immortal plant worthy to grace his brows.

[391]The triumph which Henry had before be⯑gun to feel from his father's ſanction, was compleated in his brother's generous con⯑feſſions.

But John Fitzorton had yet another theme to adjuſt before the company withdrew, and the parting moment being at hand, he an⯑nounced his intention of joining his regiment on the morrow. "There is, indeed," ſaid he, "an indecency, an ingratitude in being appointed to fill the place of the ever-lament⯑ed Lacelles, without endeavouring, at leaſt, to make myſelf acceptable to the ſoldiers, who have loſt the commander they ſo juſtly honoured and loved.

"We will here take leave, therefore, of one another, wiſhing, by way of toaſt to this brimmer of claret,—filling his glaſs,—that whatever alterations may take place, during my abſence, in the caſtle of Fitzorton,— looking earneſtly at Olivia and Henry—may be for the better!"

After the company had quitted the ſupper⯑room, John accompanied Henry up ſtairs, [392]when taking his hand with great cordiality, he addreſſed him thus:—"My brother, farewell!—cultivate your family; it loves you: cultivate your genius; cultivate;"—he heſitated,—turned pale,—attempted ſpeech, but failed.—"We will correſpond," ſaid he, ſaintly, and preſſing his brother's hand while his own ſhook; "yes, we will communi⯑cate by letter. I leave you in the faireſt proſpect of unbounded happineſs,—I ſee how you are beloved, honoured, adored, and am ſtill ſhocked to think I have ever admitted a doubt."—Saying this, he embraced Henry; repeated his farewell, and expreſſing a wiſh to be alone, he gently cloſed Henry's apart⯑ment, went haſtily into his own, and locked the door.

Thus was Henry deprived of another op⯑portunity to unfold himſelf; for he knew it would be a vain attempt to deſire an audience with John, after he had expreſſed a wiſh of privacy.

It was, however, a ſevere diſappointment. He had even anchored his beſt hopes upon [393]it; and though he had been dexterouſly ſeduced into his ſecond ſubject, the inſtant he reverted to himſelf he had anticipated the certainty of converſing with John as a point of infinite importance, and yet his anti⯑cipation was a mixture of fear and hope. But when the moment ſo anxiouſly expected, and ſo hard to be attained,—on account of John's frequent abſence from the caſtle—ar⯑rived, his brother's emotions, and reſolute tones, deſtroyed his hope. "It is plain," ſaid he, "he knows my cruel ſecret, and is diſ⯑pleaſed, but unwilling to part in altercation, has tried by every way to avoid a rupture, and will diſcloſe himſelf by letter."

After paſſing ſeveral uneaſy hours, he com⯑poſed himſelf a little, on reflecting, that he ſhould ſtill have the opportunity of which he had thus again been deprived, by catching John in the morning before he ſet off. But here again he was prevented by, perhaps, the laſt impediment he would have thought could have been placed in his way. He fell into a doze which continued to hold him faſt locked in the arms of Morpheus, not only [394]till the hour was paſt at which John had riſen, but till True George tapt at his chamber door, to acquaint him that the family waited breakfaſt for him. Yes, reader, wearied with turning his arguments, and oppreſſed with the vigour with which he ſupplied the ideal fire, againſt whatever artillery he ſuppoſed John would-bring into the field, in the inſtant that our luckleſs youth had brought his forces to the higheſt degree of order and perfection, ſleep overtook him, and the day was loſt.

CHAPTER XLIX.

JOHN Fizorton's journey was not pleaſant. He rode with unuſual haſte, as if to leave behind him the reflection that ſpur⯑red him on. But what human power can outſtrip the velocity of thought? or eſcape the mind that gives it wing? Alas! he tra⯑velled with more than one arrow in his boſom. "And wherefore," ſaid he, "this ſcrutiny into Henry Fitzorton's myſteries? have I none of my own? and what if his ſhould [395]proceed from an unfortunate paſſion? Is there no allowance to be made for involuntary feeling? and ſhall not ſecret contention, and ſacred reſerve in ſuch an affliction, be accounted to him as virtue? yet into Henry's apology am I not inſinuating my own? Futile ſophiſtry!"—

John broke from his ſubject; and, chang⯑ing the attack, levelled his artillery againſt one whom he moſt dreaded to offend. This ſelf-diſpleaſure was an anathema, fixing the immitigable curſe. "For Henry," ſaid he, "there are palliatives, for me, there can be none. Fool! ideot! hypocrite! and have I forgot my warning?"

Amidſt ſuch rebuking thoughts, he rode on, till, midway betwixt Fitzorton caſtle and the place of his deſtination, he came within view of a village ſpire. He approached it in ſilence, and on arriving at a little inn near the church, he put up his horſe. While he is there indulging meditation, we will relate, briefly, the hiſtory of his youth.

The elder brother derived from his ſeni⯑ority only an earlier acquaintance with ſorrow. [396]Not an eaſy or a vulgar prize, he yielded up his heart, in his ſixteenth year, to a lady, who, within a few weeks of the appointed nuptials, diſpoſed of herſelf to a more adu⯑lating and gaudy lover. In the firſt effuſion of reſentment, he predicted the deſtiny which afterwards befel her; and on her being diſ⯑graced and abandoned, he paid her a viſit ſolely to expreſs his joy, that the aims of ambition and of falſehood had been diſap⯑pointed. But while he was about to clothe this ſentiment in language that might aggra⯑vate its import, news arrived that the pretended huſband was dead, and that the imaginary widow had no lawful claim even to the name of the man who had enſnared her. John came to reprove; but the victim being already overwhelmed he departed, obſerving, that the prophecy was fulfilled ſomewhat ſooner than he expected!

Scarcely had he cloſed the door ere his heart urged him to knock for re-admittance. In ſhame, diſappointment, and deſpair, Maria ſunk on the floor the moment he re-entered. Unable to meet his eye, ſhe covered her [397]face with her hands, and withdrew to her chamber. He remained ſome time, con⯑tending with himſelf, and again left the houſe. "She is in ruins," ſaid John, "ſhe has ſurvived my affections, and I bluſh at the ſimplicity that truſted them to her poſ⯑ſeſſion; but ſhall the ſimplicity of a child influence the conduct of a man? I will ſee her no more, becauſe I could not behold her without reproach. But ſhe has lived in affluence, and ſhall not die in poverty.

The day ſucceeding theſe reflections, he addreſſed the following letter to Sir Armine Fitzorton.

The infidelity of Maria was connected with no common artifice. Village-bred, as was the maiden, ſhe might have taught leſſons of coquetry to the moſt practiſed lady of the metropolis. Within one month of the appointed mock nuptials, ſhe urged her new lover to a ſecreſy, founded, ſhe ſaid, on the fear of Mr. John Fitzorton, who tormented her with his addreſſes. Her lover was pleaſed at the propoſal of ſecreſy; for it favoured his own plan of deception. But ſhe was ſometimes embarraſſed how to divide herſelf [399]between them. John, ſhe knew, was not a man to be triſled with; nor her earl, for ſuch he was, a man to trifle till his point was gained. Some objections mingled in the lady's family hiſtory; and ſhe would not have herſelf been the elected of John, had not a well-imitated ſentiment of tender ſorrow, terminating in as well-feigned a ſickneſs, found their way to his generous heart. Indeed, to imagine we have wounded, and to be told we can heal, are, in themſelves, deciſive motives with a noble mind. He ſo long believed himſelf beloved, that in the end, if he did not love, his affections were intereſted to reſtore the happineſs which he ſuppoſed he had deſtroyed, and he generouſly reſolved to complete the felicity which he believed it was in his power to beſtow, by an immediate viſit.

Maria reſided with an aunt, who having arrived at the age of cards, and living in a card-loving pariſh, was a very proper aunt for a niece addicted to lovers. The good old lady happened to be at a party in the [400]neighbourhood, when John called at her houſe to communicate the joyful news he had in ſtore.

His rap at the door denoted that ſome⯑thing animated his heart. It could not be the rap of John,—thought the young lady— for two ſturdy knocks, with a pauſe between, foretold the coming of that gentleman. It could not be the well-bred violence of a modiſh viſitor; for no ſuch were in the liſt of her acquaintance. It could not poſſibly proceed from her aunt; for that good lady had not ordered Mrs. Betty and the glaſs lanthorn, and the warm night-cloak, till half paſt nine, and the curfew had not yet tolled its appropriate hour. Neither could it be the noble lord; for, beſides that he ſeldom availed himſelf of his privilege when con⯑ducting an intrigue, he was at that very moment in tete-a-tete with Maria. Whoſe knock then could it be? Mrs. Betty having ſurveyed the announcer from a chamber win⯑dow, which had, for ſome time, been the obſervatory, ran down in a violent hurry, [401]and anſwered the queſtion by firſt practiſing the celebrated poetical ſignal: ‘Juſt three ſoft ſtrokes upon the parlour door,’ and then let in John Fitzorton. John always frowned on denials, and laughed at apolo⯑gies; ſo made his way directly into the parlour. Maria was alone, but in ſtrange diſorder. This he imputed to the ſight of the man ſhe loved.—"I have often read about roſy terrors, and my little brother Harry is much addicted to them. The boy is a ſuſceptible liſper, and I uſed to ſmile at him; but ſince my own heart has been a flutterer alſo, I only ſmile when he is in his roſy terrors, pat the lad on the cheek, or ſtroke his head. But," continued John, ſeeing Maria's tremblings augment, "I now come with an aſſurance that the period deſ⯑tined to make us bleſt, will bleſs my parents alſo." John expreſſed himſelf in a voice that beſpoke the honeſt feeling of his heart, and preſſed Maria to a boſom which might truly be called the manſion of ſincerity.

[402]While ſhe was yet in his embrace, a move⯑ment of feet, as if in fear to tread, and a ſound of voices, as if afraid of betraying a ſecret, were heard in the paſſage. Pre⯑ſently a blundering againſt the door, was followed by an oath extorted by pain; "Damnation! I have broke my ſhins!" exclaimed ſome one. Maria's terrors en⯑creaſed. John, rather from ſurpriſe than ſuſpicion, ran to the door.—"For heaven's ſake! dear John, do not attempt to—to"— and ſhe placed her back againſt the door, that the blunderers might have time to get off. While John liſtened, another voice yet louder than the former, roared out, "By G—d! unleſs we get a candle we may grope about this d—d entry all night, and ſtill not find the curſed key."—Nay, but there's miſchief at work!" cried John.

He opened the door, all was in darkneſs; he took one of the parlour candles, and then ſaw huddled into a corner two terror-ſtricken beings; their faces folded in their coats. John caught hold of both, and declared he would immediately have them carried to his [403]father, Sir Armine, if they did not reſtore whatever they might have taken out of the houſe. How condeſcending is guilt!—Inſtead of replying to this ſtern accuſation, the gentle earl, who now unhooded, milkily ſaid, "You are miſtaken, young gentleman. I have the honour to viſit in this family." Maria had ventured to the parlour door. "Theſe perſons boaſt the honour of being on terms of intimacy here," ſaid John, indignantly dragging his captives. "Good heaven!" exclaimed Maria, "Is it poſſible you ſhould be here, Mr. Durfey! I am afraid, in the confuſion this pair of true lovyers"—point⯑ing to the ſervants—"were thrown into, by your preſence, that they were ſuffering you to go away without ſpeaking to us. I am ſure my aunt would never forgive me if you were to leave us in that manner."

John did not interrupt their converſation, which, though a little disjointed, he looked upon as entirely doing away the charge of petty larceny, ſo he let go his hold.

"This," reſumed Maria, "is the poor ſick gentleman who is down here for the [404]recovery of his health, and ſometimes drops in to paſs an hour at picquet with my good aunt; and this is Mr. Thomas his valet, who is an humble ſervant, you muſt know, of our Betty's." Mr. Thomas, unveiling, bowed affirmatively. Mrs. Betty declared with rap⯑ture ſhe had found the key. "How came it loſt?" queſtioned John. While the inge⯑nious handmaid was looking about for an anſwer, Mr. Durfey very ſmoothly expreſſed his ſincere acknowledgments for the young lady's goodneſs; but he had merely called en paſſant, ſeeing the ſervants ſweet-hearting at the door; and though he was labouring under a cough which would have made it impoſſible for him to ſtop for more than a few moments, he could not be guilty of even the appear⯑ance of neglect, where he had received ſo many civilities. He begged his beſt com⯑pliments to the young lady's good aunt, and heartily wiſhed them a good night.

There was one circumſtance in this ſtory, which very rarely happened to any of the nar⯑ratives of this right honourable hiſtorian: one expreſſion in it was true. He actually was [405]the influence of ſo ſevere a cough, that the imperious neceſſity of ſuppreſſing it, while he remained where his miſtreſs ſuddenly con⯑veyed him, had almoſt ſuffocated him; and after he had tried the different modes of ſtifling this traitor to all family ſecrets, by holding in his breath, and cramming his cambrick handkerchief into his mouth, he was obliged to lift up the ſaſh of the cloſet window, and take a lover's leap into the gar⯑den, making his way from thence into the kitchen, where he found Betty and his valet warmly engaged in another tête-à-tête. "Bleſs me! there's ſomebody coming!" ſaid the fair Abigail.—"Only my lord," replied the valet, with the familiarity which is ſanctioned by aſſociated vice,—advancing with eaſy bows as he ſpoke: "Mrs. Betty and your humble ſervant, my lord, having agreed to make a match of it, we were ſettling a few prelimina⯑ries." —"Huſh! this is no time for ſport: don't make any noife; ſhew a light to the door ſoftly."—The man and maſter ſtole on tip⯑toe along the paſſage, attended by the light⯑footed Mrs. Betty; but as the latter per⯑ceived [406]the key was not in the lock, ſhe ſtoop⯑ed down to ſee if it had not fallen, when the wind that iſſued from under the door, blew out the light, and brought on the ſeveral events with which the reader has been made acquainted.

CHAPTER L.

"MARIA," ſaid John, I dare ſay your aunt's motive for receiving that Mr. Durfey, is pity; your's, of courſe, is obedience: but, take my word for it, he will ſome way abuſe the goodneſs of you both." "O no," replied Maria, "he's a poor ſick gentleman!"

"But why," queſtioned John, did he try to tuck himſelf out of ſight? a creeper into holes and corners is always a worthleſs fellow!"

"Conſider his ſtate of health, his nerves; he ſeems in a deep decline; were it not for this idea I ſhould never forgive him for inter⯑rupting the delightful tidings brought by my deareſt, deareſt John."

Maria contrived, in ſomething leſs than ſixty moments, to make even her half-ſuſpi⯑cious [407]lover forget every thing but what ſhe thought it convenient he ſhould remember. She had now only to clear away the little roughneſſes which the adventure had left be⯑hind it. To effect this, ſhe called into action all her witchery, and lo! every contraction was taken from the brow of her lover. Never did Mrs. Betty herſelf with her beſt ſmooth⯑ing iron bring her own apron or handker⯑chief, after romping with Mr. Thomas, more dexterouſly out of its tell-tale rumples.

But this was not to be a very lucky hour either to the miſtreſs or maid. In the midſt of theſe ſweetly oblivious moments, while the hand of Maria was tenderly preſſing that of John; while her cheeks, and even her lips, invited and received the conciliatory kiſs, Mrs. Betty's well-known turn of the key, made it proper for the lovers to reſume their ſeats; in doing which, Maria was ſo overcome with joy that it was neceſſary, ſhe thought, to apply a handkerchief to her lovely, but unweeping eyes: and while ſhe held it up to her fair face, John perceived a letter which had been whiſked out of her pocket, in a very [408]diſcompoſed ſtate. As it lay on the floor, John was ſtruck by the words, "Fear not tall boy John, that great oaf ſhall be beat hollow." The reſt of the ſentence was loſt in the folds.

John trembled as if he had been viſited by a palſy in every joint. His teeth partly gnaſhed, and partly chattered: he felt a tear in his eye, which burning rage ſoon dried up; then he reſumed his ſeat, and while the letter was in his hand, the good aunt came in. John attempted in vain to ſpeak; "Good heaven!" ſaid the old lady, "what is the matter?" The changes in the countenance of the abi⯑gail were only leſs rueful than in thoſe of her young lady. The innocent aunt took out her ſmelling-bottle, ordered Betty to get a cordial from the corner cupboard, and ſpoke with ſincere ſympathy.

John roſe, and ſeemed aſhamed to have been wrought on. "I fancy, madam, I have the cue of my diſorder, here is my hand: your niece dropt this letter in the ſtate you now ſee it, and I perceived my own name moſt villainouſly coupled with words that [409]demand inſtant explanation; but, as the letter is not my property, I can only throw it within reach of the woman to whom it is addreſſed, thus!—If ſhe is diſpoſed to do herſelf, her correſpondent, and the man to whom ſhe is contracted, juſtice, ſhe will account for all this."

John again ſat down.

"You muſt have miſtaken names," ſaid the aunt: "yours could never be joined to any diſreſpectful words. Child, read the letter directly, and there will be an end of it."

"There will ſo," ſaid John.

"Only my couſin Charlotte, who is always ſaying ſome fooliſh nonſenſe or other for ſport againſt Mr. Fitzorton, to vex me: you know her way, aunt."

"Then your niece, madam, can have no difficulty in reading it," ſaid John.

"But that I cannot do, you ill-tempered creature! Charlotte would never forgive me if ſhe thought I ſhewed her letters; beſides you ought to know, I had rather die, than hear a ſyllable againſt you ſeriouſly."

[410]Here ſhe ſelt again for her handker⯑chief, and probably found it, but fearing, perhaps, another accident, did not draw it forth.

"I require only to look at the direction of that letter," exclaimed John.

"Hold up the letter and let Mr. Fitzorton ſee the ſuperſcription inſtantly, niece."

"There then, you croſs thing!" holding it at arm's-length, and affecting to pout.

"Nearer," ſaid John; "in your hand it is in perpetual motion; confide it to mine."

"Aye, aye, let Mr. Fitzorton have it," ſaid the aunt; "you have been at girl and boy's play long enough."

Maria ſhook with apprehenſion, and as a laſt effort to prevent the dreaded diſcovery, ſhe made a feint as if to ſnuff the candles that John might ſee better, when diſguiſing her terror in a trick, to which ſhe gave the air of a frolick, ſhe extinguiſhed one light, and blew out another; and then burſting into a well-imitated laugh, hurried towards the door, and would, doubtleſs, have taken [411]good care of the letter, had not John arreſted her progreſs.—"Nay then, inſtead of girl's play, I perceive your niece, madam, has been, and ſtill is, very hard at work. I muſt now inſiſt on having the matter inſtantly cleared up."

"I muſt inſiſt on it too," rejoined the good aunt. She went blindfold to the bell, and rang it violently.

The young lady now at her laſt ſtake, firſt ſqueezing the letter into a twiſt, began to thruſt it between her ruby lips, and would have incontinently torn it to pieces with her ivory teeth, had not John wrenched it from her, ſwearing "that were the author before him, attempting, as Maria had attempted, to elude his inſpection, he would purſue its contents to the centre of his heart."

In this ſituation of the parties the conſcious Mrs. Betty entered. It was a deſperate moment. Maria, coming up cloſe to John, whiſpered him to beware—he might repent it—ſhe would adviſe him not to proceed too far—he did not perhaps know of what ſhe was capable.

[412]Diſdaining reply, John ſecured the key of the parlour door, and ordering the terrified abigail to light the candles, he took one of thoſe "flaming inſtruments" to the poor aunt, and with a voice and manner that, in every tone and movement, ſeparated the innocent from the criminals, obſerved, "that although he felt himſelf warranted, conſider⯑ing the predicament in which he ſtood, to read a letter wherein the writer had dared to inſult him, he had ſuch faith in what he had heard and ſeen of her integrity, that if ſhe aſſured him it was written by a woman, he would require a far leſs important ſacrifice than he ſhould otherwiſe exact."

Maria now ſat herſelf down in a kind of ſorrowful deſperation. Yet ſhe conceived a gleam of hope, and but a gleam, that her aunt would make a little free with her uſual probity, to ſave a niece whoſe fame and fortune ſhe might thereby clear up or caſt into utter darkneſs.

"Sir," ſaid the aged lady, "though it would be with poignant miſery I ſhould find my niece capable of what you have [413]laid to her charge, depend on my vera⯑city!"

All hopes were over with Maria, ſo the faithful Betty walked off. The aunt put on her ſpectacles, and rubbed them with the corner of her handkerchief that ſhe might ſee the clearer. John held the candle. She opened the fatal ſcroll, from which, on an impulſe of honour, John turned away his head.—A pauſe!—The paper ſoon began to tremble in the aunt's hand. John darted a look at Maria. "Pleaſe, madam, to make report."—A ſecond and yet longer pauſe.—The good old lady exhibited every mark of conſternation; her tears dropped on her ſpectacles.—"Alas! alas! there was left only this girl's ſuppoſed truth and good⯑neſs to ſuſtain me, ſir; the hope and con⯑fidence of many years is overturned in a moment; yet, to bring her to this, ſurely, ſurely ſome heinous arts muſt have been prac⯑tiſed againſt my niece, by this Mr. Durfey."

"Durfey!" ejaculated John:—"Yes, ſir, Mr. Durfey, whom I ſuppoſed a poor, inof⯑fenſive, ſick gentleman."

[414]"Madam," interpoſed John, "I releaſe you from the trouble of any further peruſal; and I grieve that a neceſſary explanation has cauſed you pain. The juſtice of poſſeſſing myſelf of that letter you will not refuſe me, ſince the honour of both our families is in⯑volved in it."

She ſuffered him to draw the letter out of her hand, and, bowing reſpectfully to her, he left the houſe.

CHAPTER LI.

AT the date of theſe events, John was on a viſit to Mr. Clare, who then reſided, part of the year, at a ſeat about three miles from Maria's village.

He walked to his friend's houſe ſo in⯑tenſely thinking on what had paſt, that the ſpace was in a manner annihilated. On his arrival he reſiſted all entreaty, and avoided all explanation, though his diſordered ap⯑pearance excited inquiry. The inſtant he [415]reached his chamber, he opened Durfey's letter, and read as follows:

To attempt any deſcription of the ſtate into which John was thrown by this letter would be preſumption. The emotion, which, [416]by its magnitude, ſuſpended every power of ſpeech, is too mighty for written language. Not words only, but the capacity of action was, for ſome time, ſo entirely taken away, that he ſat fixed in his chair, pale, motionleſs, and cold; as if ſome new and peculiar fate had hardened his body into a petrefaction; and when the power of changing poſture, in any degree, returned, he caught at the bell, but wanting force to ring, he ſunk on the bed, where he remained ſome hours, weaker than infancy or age.

He recovered, only to find himſelf the make-game of an intriguing girl, the ridicule of an unprincipled impoſtor, and, on all hands, circumvented in his generous deſigns, in re⯑turn for an unpractiſed and unſullied heart, that had ſoftened to pity, ere it glowed with love. He meditated terrible puniſhments. They went not to the honourable death, but extended to the aſſaſſination of the impoſtor. "His blood," ſaid John, " ſhall anſwer it! openly, and in the face of day, will I maſſa⯑cre him. It will be a deed of philanthropy, [417]and of public good to put an end to his crimes.—Yet—ſhall the ſon of Armine Fitz⯑orton turn common ſtabber? No. I muſt ſubmit to the cuſtom of the times, and give to a rogue the chance of killing an honeſt man."

All his ſenſations pointed to Durfey; not a thought deviated to his aſſociate. Maria was not more defended from his vengeance by her ſex, than by the contempt which had ſunk her in his eſteem. She now wanted importance in his mind, to entitle her to the dignity of his anger:—ſhe had fallen from the eminence of his higheſt confidence to the profoundeſt inſignificance. But the audacity of a man, who had dared to mingle the name of Fitzorton with the ribald ſallies of a gal⯑lant, was an object of correction, and he roſe before the ſun to chaſtiſe him. But the hurry of his ſpirits, and of his reflections, ſtill in⯑tercepted his purpoſe. In raiſing himſelf from the bed, and in getting down ſtairs, his ſtrength was nearly exhauſted; and while he was attempting to remove the faſtnings of [418]the outward door, every corporeal power again forſook him, and he dropped ſenſeleſs on the threſhold. Such was the condition in which he was, at length, found by the ſervants, whom he had alarmed, and who conveyed him back to his chamber. This debility was followed by an acceſſion of fever ſo intenſe, that life became at hazard. In a ſhort inter⯑val, however, that the diſorder afforded, he thus wrote to Durfey.

"Villain!—This appellation explains it⯑ſelf, when you learn that I am in poſſeſſion of your infamous letter to Maria. I will be prepared to receive you here any time before the cloſe of the preſent day, to ſettle with you for the liberties you have taken with JOHN FITZORTON."

The writer's malady was not abated by having penned this letter; yet the thought of having written it, and of having found a truſty domeſtic, no leſs than True George, then a boy, but a boy of honour, ſeemed to give him ſpirits. His friends looked upon [419]theſe as omens of returning health. His doctor imputed them to the operation of well-prepared medicines; John to the real cauſe, the hope of exterminating from ſo⯑ciety one of its monſters. He gave out that he expected to ſee a perſon, with whom he had the greateſt wiſh in the world to con⯑verſe; and he forced a ſmile, which led Mr. and Mrs. Clare to ſuppoſe he had planned a tête-à-tête with his Maria, more eſpecially when it was found that little George had taken the road to the village where the young lady reſided.

"As that is the caſe, friend John," ſaid the good Mr. Clare, adopting the idea, "you will want all your force to ſay pretty things to the damſel of your affections, and muſt be kept quiet until ſhe comes." John believing it might facilitate his deſign, did not diſ⯑courage this notion; and Mr. Clare gave orders to admit into Mr. Fitzorton's room, whoever might require converſation with him.

John remenbered to have ſeen a pair of piſtols hang in the adjoining room. Theſe [420]he conveyed into his apartment, unperceived, and placed them behind his pillow; then made ſome ſlight alterations in his dreſs, and waited the arrival of the counterfeit Durfey with extreme ſolicitude. The hour of his fever returned; yet he now thought himſelf better; miſtaking the fire raging in his veins for the genial exhilaration of renovating health. At length, a rap was given at his chamber-door, and he ſprang to open it, aſſured of ſeeing little George and Maria's paramour. The former, always faithful, ap⯑peared to his wiſh; but the latter, profiting by Maria's information of what had paſſed at her aunt's, after he had made his well-bred bow, had taken himſelf off at the dead of the night following, in company with his "charming nurſe," who had condeſcended, like himſelf, to reſign all bridal pomps for the comfortable obſcurity of a ſecure elopement. She was attended only by the ductile Betty, who, in the ſame hour, at the ſame place, became, by virtue of ties almoſt as ſacred, the eſpouſed of Mr. Thomas, who had given away his hand yet oftener than his lord.

CHAPTER LII.

To this early piece of treachery, we are to attribute ſome of thoſe rigorous judgments and ſuſpicions which gave force to the natural acumen of ſome parts of John Fitzorton's diſpoſition; and, indeed, it was treachery of the worſt kind, and falling out at the worſt period of life. The mere diſ⯑appointment paſſed away; nay, he ſoon look⯑ed on it as an eſcape from the temerity of boyiſh purſuits; and it had the effect of leading his thoughts to profound and manly contemplations, to the ſoul-expanding ſtudy of philoſophy and reaſon, of nature and of God. The heavy ſenſe of the deception, however, entered his boſom, and engraved there an image of perfidy that had taken the form of beauty and love: a fiend in the angel ſemblance of Maria. "But out of evil there cometh good," cried John—"I am armed for ever againſt woman!"

[422]There would, indeed, have been ſome danger that a mind like his, working under ſuch an influence, might have brooded over its ſuſpicions until they grew into miſan⯑thropy. But the example of a benevolent family continually before his eyes, whenever he viſited Fitzorton caſtle, kept alive the principles of human kindneſs in his heart; and ſerved as a counterpoiſe to the unſocial check it had thus received in early life; even as the flower whoſe bud the chilling breath of one inauſpicious morn had begun to nip, is recovered by the ſun: another ungenial gale might have blighted it for ever; but a ſucceſſion of vivifying beams reſtores it; and though it may long ſhew the injury which it received in the ſeaſon of the tender leaf, it ſhall ſtill be numbered amongſt the proudeſt blooms of the garden. Not⯑withſtanding this, John felt it neceſſary ſoon after to add the active to contemplative em⯑ployments; and on a mixed principle of policy and paſſion he became a ſoldier.

And now, reader, we are haſtening to the [423]point from which we ſet out. The juvenile hiſtory of John is drawing to a cloſe. We have ſeen his young heart, under the influ⯑ences of pity and gratitude, and of a love grafted only upon theſe. We have obſerved him under the emotions of reſentment, rage, and deſpair. The ſupplementary parts are few, but potent.

Maria's aunt fell a martyr to grief ſoon after theſe tranſactions; and Maria herſelf ſurvived her deceiver but eighteen months, during which ſhe remained the object of John's bounty, ſolely for the reaſons aſſigned in his letter; nor did ſhe know the ſource, even in her expiring moments.

In thoſe moments, however, ſhe earneſtly ſupplicated an interview with John. Whe⯑ther he would have reſiſted the appeal, had it reached him in time, cannot be known, for the petitioner died the evening of the day on which the requeſt was made.

"It is too late," ſaid the perſon who brought the news; "the ſoul of Maria is now ſoliciting the pardon of its maker!"

[424]"May he grant it!" ſighed John.—"Is ſhe in her grave?" added he. On being told that ſhe would not be buried until the night following, he obſerved, "that his vow renounced the ſight of her, only while liv⯑ing;" he then ordered his horſe.

Maria's remains had been removed out of the hearſe into the houſe of her late aunt, when John reached the memorable vil⯑lage.

It was amongſt the wiſhes of the deceaſed, that her body might be ſuffered to remain awhile in the apartment where ſhe had won, and loſt, the heart of John Fitzorton. And this indulgence was, by the intereſt of the perſon whom John had employed, and who brought the tidings of her deceaſe, procured of the tenant who then occupied it. And thus he found himſelf once more with Maria, in the very room where ſhe had gained his affection, and incurr'd its forfeit.

"Is the coffin ſoldered?" demanded John. Before any one could reply, he had felt the lid, and found it faſt. "Better as it is, per⯑haps, [425]added he.—"Sir," ſaid the principal attendant of the hearſe, "if it is your plea⯑ſure it can eaſily be opened.—Indeed, I had before my doubts, whether all is quite as it ſhould be within; ſo I have only tacked down the head-piece."

John making no reply, and his anxious looks being taken for aſſent, the lid was lifted up, and the dead Maria preſented to his view. The hearſe-driver aſked, whether that which the lady had got in her right hand ought to go into the ground with her?—"To my thoughts, Sir," continued the man, "it is too good to be thrown into the earth; but it ſeems his honour, your father, would have it ſo, becauſe the lady, when dying, de⯑ſired it:—but dying people have ſtrange fancies."

John, looking into the coffin, perceived within the graſp of Maria's clay-cold hand, a miniature of himſelf, given to her in the day of his confidence. But while he was yet ſurveying the miniature, another object aſ⯑ſailed his attention: a female, whoſe face [426]was covered with a veil, and who appeared to be the chief mourner, now unfolded a ſable covering that wrapped up an infant, which, being lifted to the height of the coffin was bade, by the perſon holding it, to take, ſince the coffin was again uncloſed, another look of her poor mother. John ſtarted. The unconſcious babe put in its little arms, and began to play with the flow⯑ers that were ſtrewed over the corpſe.—"Whoſe is this?" queſtioned John.—"Ma⯑ria's," anſwered a trembling voice.—"And that villain Durfey's?" ſaid John.—"Alas, yes, ſir!" replied the female.—"No mat⯑ter," ſaid John, taking it gently in his arms: "It has a likeneſs of the mother,—ſuch as once I ſaw her—And is this the only fruit of—" "It is, your honour."—"Poor little wretch!" ſaid John, returning it to the woman, whom he found to be the very ſervant who had been ſo active in the plot againſt him; but was no ſooner recog⯑nized than ſhe dropped her double-folded veil, and ſhrunk from the humid eyes of John.

[427]The hearſe-driver put his hand into the coffin, and would have taken out the minia⯑ture from the dead hand.—"Let it alone, fel⯑low!" ſaid John, ſternly. Then looking in Maria's face, "Thou haſt not deſerved it," ſaid he, "but 'twas a gift; and the dead ſhall not be plundered."

He inſiſted on the ſoldering being done in his preſence; and had his eye on the coffin until it was depoſited in the grave. As he moved ſlowly from the reliques he ſaid, "Alas! after all, misfortune is not the leſs to be pitied, when reſulting from vices by which the offender is robbed of every energy, human and divine, to bear it with fortitude. Ill-fated Maria! I pity thee."

From this aera, whenever John felt his ideas opening to the poſſibility of a ſecond attachment, againſt which the deception he met with in the firſt had, in a manner, caſed his heart in armour, he would recal to his memory the danger he had eſcaped; and in order to bring that deception more imme⯑diately under his eye, he would betake him⯑ſelf [428]to the burial-place of the firſt faithleſs object of his confidence.—Even from the tomb of the trait'reſs ſeemed to proceed the counſels of a friend. Amidſt the ſtillneſs of night and the ſhadows of the moon, he would gaze on the graſſy hillock that covered the remains of Maria, till a voice—a warning voice,—appeared to riſe from the ground, conjuring him to beware.

And this warning was more than uſually neceſſary at the time he ſtopped at the gate of the church-yard, where we recently left him. "True," ſaid he, advancing to the grave, "I live not in reſentment of the dead, but ſomething ſtronger than my own reaſon, or experience, admoniſhes me to ſtand, once more, guarded againſt the liv⯑ing! —O, had ever falſehood, predetermined falſehood, a form more beautiful, a voice more ſweet than thine, Maria? I truſted thee! wert thou not my faith, my hope, my conviction?—Could malice, envy, hatred,— could ought but thyſelf have deſtroyed thy⯑ſelf? —Yet even in the moment that I [429]thought thy faith moſt entire, was it not moſt broken? Continue then to harden my heart! and peace to thy ſhade! But, alas!" continued he, after a pauſe of ſeveral minutes, "what defence can the memory of a thouſand falſe and wicked beings, afford againſt the virtues of one innocent woman? and that I have found one good being, even of womankind, it would be willful blindneſs againſt the light of heaven to deny. Shall he who conſtantly ſees and feels the ſun's bleſſed beams, diſpute his power? ſhall he heſitate to confeſs it is a ſpark from God, becauſe he has been once miſled by a ſhining vapour of the air, or an exhalation of the earth?—Adieu, Maria!—thy grave can no longer avail! farewell to it for ever!—Yes, unleſs thou canſt teach me to forget worth, and beauty, and fraternal love, and filial ho⯑nour, —all that is due to myſelf, my family, and my god,—farewell to the ſpot that en⯑cloſes thy duſt! But if thou canſt teach me to remember all theſe, yet ſubdue the rebel powers that agonize my ſoul with vain wiſhes, that the affections of the lovely being [430]who winds round my heart, had fallen to the lot of John, inſtead of Henry Fitzorton;— then will I conſider this thy place of burial, as the ſpot moſt holy, moſt beneficent,—then will I repair to it with more than pilgrim veneration, and it ſhall be my ſanctuary."

In a word, John found out a truth im⯑portant to the heart—thát the affection pro⯑duced only by gratitude, or pity, is not love.

CHAPTER LIII.

BEFORE any tender ſentiment had been ſtrongly excited by Henry in the breaſt of Olivia Clare, John had witneſſed her attrac⯑tive powers. He ſaw that no being within her reach could ſuffer without calling forth her compaſſion, which, during his own ſick⯑neſs and ſorrows, while at her father's houſe, was diſplayed in ſo many artleſs ways, that while her own perſon was yet the care of a nurſery, ſhe was able herſelf to nurſe the wounded mind.

She would ſometimes ſteal into. John's chamber, during his illneſs, and try all her [431]powers of conſolation. Then knowing little of the pleaſures, and leſs of the pains of love, ſhe had heard they made the heart more happy, or more miſerable, than any other joy or grief in the world; and ſhe had col⯑lected enough from the family below, to underſtand that the poor youth above, ſuf⯑fered from the falſehood of one he had loved. Hence, whenever the little Olivia detected, in ſpite of his efforts, a tear guſh from his eye, ſhe would aſcend his knee, to wipe, or to kiſs it away. John often noticed this, when he overlooked every thing elſe. It was little leſs than a cherub's pity, and came in a moment, when whatever had been long enough in the world to have been polluted by its practices, would have rendered it ſuſ⯑pected. —"Yes," would he frequently, and ſighingly ſay, while Olivia attempted to ſoothe him,—"yes, ſweet girl, at preſent it is nature. Ah, how do I lament the impoſ⯑ſibility of thy remaining thus genuine!" Gazing earneſtly, he proceeded,—"Once that very being who has thus baſely deceived [432]me, was ſuch as thou art. O, if thou art to grow up, like her, into frauds, and to array thyſelf in faſcinations, manifold and mighty enough to cover the worſt deceit; 'twere better, far better, for thyſelf, thy parents, all whom thou art to enſnare, and for thy own ſoul, that thou wert taken to heaven, while thy purity may render thee acceptable."

In the midſt of theſe expreſſions he would careſs her on his lap, or fold her in his arms, and, as he raiſed her to his lips, would ex⯑claim, with an emotion, and emphaſis that ſtartled her, "Surely it is not decreed for thee to be another traitor!—another Ma⯑ria!" —The child aſſured him ſhe ſhould always be a very good girl, and very truly love thoſe who loved her.

At the end of John's ſickneſs, which was not until the end of his long viſit, he ſaw little more of Olivia for ſome time, except when he repaired to the grave of Maria, or when the Clare family were down at the manor-houſe, in the pariſh of Fitzorton; yet, even in theſe caſual glances, the unfold⯑ing [433]graces of her mind and perſon, ſerved as antidotes to the poiſon which the conduct of Maria had infuſed into his heart.

But on the Clares' coming after the death of Olivia's mother to reſide in London, John had yet more opportunity to ſee the beauty of Olivia's form and heart yet in their bud, and more keenly to deplore what, he ſuppoſed, muſt happen to the bloſſom.

He would vigilantly watch every action, as if he expected to diſcover ſome female artifice beginning to ſpring. The innocent creature ſeemed to ſuppoſe an idea of this kind was working in his mind; for one day after John had been examining her looks, then employed on ſomething that appeared much to intereſt her, ſhe exclaimed,—"You may look! but I mean juſt what I ſay, Mr. John, and am a very good little girl ſtill, I aſſure you; am I not, papa? ſo pray don't fix your eyes on me ſo; for though I mean, as I told you at Clare-place, to be a good girl as long as I live, you make me afraid of you, Mr. John!"

[434]This was, indeed, the truth; perhaps, for John, a fatal truth: ſince it is certain there grew up in this lovely girl's mind towards him a certain awe, which, though it aroſe from a veneration for his virtues, and a gra⯑titude for his guardian care, was the moſt unfavourable ſentiment for his latent affec⯑tion, that he could poſſibly inſpire.

Hence, although John had exactly the opportunities with Olivia in London, of the very twelve months which Henry had partaken with Caroline in the country; and though, with reſpect to theſe two brothers, both then received the indelible impreſſions of love;— that love, ſo often at croſs purpoſes, con⯑trived to reſerve for Henry the heart, which, coming into his poſſeſſion by that important year too late, was deſtined to render the one inexpreſſibly miſerable, and would have made the other exquiſitely happy.

Not that the latter then conſidered Olivia at an age to be the proper object of a de⯑claration, had ſhe ſufficiently obliviated his former diſappointment, which was by no [435]means the caſe; but he experienced a ſenti⯑ment ſo extremely anxious, about her future ſincerity, and felt ſo uneaſy at the perſuaſion that her preſent integrity could not laſt, that a man who ſecretly knew of a hidden trea⯑ſure, and had an almoſt conſtant foreboding that it would ſooner or later be explored and taken from him, or, by ſome ſtrange power, turn to droſs, could not be more diſquieted in the intermediate time.

This led Olivia now and then to complain to her father, that ſhe feared ſhe had, un⯑knowingly, ſaid, or done, ſomething to offend Mr. John Fitzorton, which, ſhe de⯑clared, ſhe would not do for the world, as ſhe believed him to be a very good, though a terrifying young gentleman.—"Two things," ſaid ſhe, once in a whiſper to Henry, "have always aſtoniſhed me; firſt, how any young woman ſhould dare to love John Fitzorton: or, how, having ſo dared, ſhe ſhould dare to be falſe to him!—For my part, had I been ever ſo much inclined to be bad, I ſhould have been abſolutely afraid."

[436]It was about the time Mr. Clare quitted the metropolis to reſide conſtantly at the manor-houſe, that John entered into the mi⯑litary profeſſion, in the hope, as we have ſeen, of deriving conſolation from more active ſcenes.

On parting with Olivia he deſired her "to remember her promiſe of being a good little girl;" obſerving, "that if favourable report ſhould be made of her on his return, he would be her knight-errant, and ſhould ſhe ever be in diſtreſs or danger, her quarrel ſhould be his; and he would lay the caitiff, who ſhould wrong her, dead at her feet. But that, if ſhe turned out a 'whitened ſepulchre,' a golden idol, a demon maſqued, he would, in pity to her father, and in juſtice to mankind, move her to the darkeſt tower of ſome caſtle he ſhould take in war, and there keep her from the ſight of injured friends and betrayed lovers, for the reſt of her life!—uſing the very arms which ſhould fight her cauſe while it was juſt, againſt thoſe who ſhould dare to attempt her reſcue! [437]On this I pledge my faith: ſo have a care, Olivia, honour or ſhame!"—Hereupon, John took her trembling hand, and preſſed it to his lips, kneeling down at the ſame time, with chivalric homage, to confirm the treaty. He ſpoke between jeſt and earneſt; but there was ſomething in the air and form of words that quickened the motion of her heart, and made it palpitate with apprehen⯑ſion. "Is it a compact?" ſaid John, riſing ſolemnly. "It is," anſwered Olivia; "but on my life, you are a very proper ſoldier; for ſo formidable a friend, muſt needs be a moſt terrible enemy! However," added ſhe, "I believe you would neither be friend or foe, but on juſt grounds; ſo the god of armies be your guard, and return you to us a conqueror!" Alas, the victory was hers; and John Fitzorton was wounded, and a captive, before he entered the field."

Yet, whatever were his duties, or however he multiplied them, they were performed. Neither the ſoftneſs, nor the diſappointment, of his heart diminiſhed its natural energy. [438]Had love returned, animated his arm, and Olivia been the expected reward, he could not have deported himſelf with more manly ardour.

Henry meantime,—ſo involved in mazes is the heart,—diſplayed to Olivia the very mind and adornments, that by a compariſon with thoſe of John, perhaps more powerfully attracted her than they might have done, if they had been ſeparately viewed: but thus forced into a contraſt between the two bro⯑thers, the awe in which ſhe had always held the one, found even a relief in the ſoftneſs with which ſhe contemplated the inviting addreſs of the other.

Very ſoon after the young warrior's return from his firſt campaign, to Fitzorton caſtle, he perceived, that whatever victories he had obtained abroad, he could ſtill hope for none at home. He found Henry in full poſſeſſion of the citadel. Olivia herſelf acknowledged her commander; and the ſacred lips of his parents ratified the avowal. There was an end of enquiry, and of hope. From that [439]moment he looked on his own partiality as a rebel in his breaſt; and invariably uſed every mode he could deviſe to proſper their paſ⯑ſion, and ſubdue his own. He lived in eter⯑nal warfare with his generous heart; taxed it moſt ſeverely; inflicted on it a weight of reproof it could never deſerve; and when military duty did not ſummon, he broke from the caſtle, leaving all he loved, and all he honoured, the moment he felt his heart too tender to bear—what, indeed, is the moſt in⯑ſupportable thing in the world, to a man who has any heart at all,—the perpetual converſation of the family, about the diſ⯑poſal of the only woman he ever truly loved; nay, frequently to hear from the enraptured lips, or ſee in the fluſhing cheeks, of that very woman, every ſentiment and ſenſation, which, in a leſs elevated and diſciplined character, would inflame jealouſy, and put in motion every act of vengeance or ſup⯑plantation. John, alas! only drooped and diſappeared.

On the firſt day, however, of his return [440]from the field, he took occaſion to aſk Olivia, in the preſence of both the families, aſſem⯑bled to greet him, whether, before he laid down his arms he was to cover her with his laurels, or convey her to the dark tower? Had ſhe kept, or had ſhe violated her word? was ſhe ſtill the honoured, or the degraded Olivia?

Olivia bluſhed and trembled; "I ſee," continued John, "the bud has unfolded into more decided blooms. Its colours, have gained ſtrength without loſing ſoftneſs; but are there not ſome flowers that ſhrink from a too near approach; and others that ad⯑vance to meet it with congenial warmth? I am no poet, Henry, and know not, there⯑fore, how to manage this image. Prith'ee, finiſh it for me."

"I will take upon me," ſaid James, the moderator, "to anſwer that queſtion. When⯑ever John Fitzorton ſtalks with a giant's force towards this amiable girl of ours, whom we are all in love with, ſhe is the ſenſitive plant, and trembles, over-awed, at his powers; [441]but when, laying aſide his terrours, he makes her the object of his guardian enquiries, or confers on her mind, or perſon, thoſe praiſes which, it is known, he never laviſhes on the undeſerving, the warmth of her gratified heart, like the ſunflower, ſprings to meet him, and ſends a glow into her cheek that ſhews ſhe is enamoured of ſuch praiſes, and is proud to have deſerved them."

"Hey day!" exclaimed the hero, rally⯑ing, "I am afraid our balancer has loſt his equilibrium. Runs the tide even ſtill, James," added John, laying his hand on his brother's heart.

"I proteſt," cried Olivia, after ſome confuſion, "I know not what to ſay to any of you. If I am ſtill not at leaſt the vaineſt of women, I am certainly not without ſome claims; for every one of you has ſaid enough to ſpoil me, and as to our warrior brother— if trembling, and bluſhing, receding, and advancing, be proofs of merit, whenever I am in his preſence, I certainly muſt be one of the moſt deſerving girls in the world. I [442]do certainly, always did, and believe ever ſhall tremble, like an aſpin, whenever Mr. John Fitzorton ſpeaks to me, and I cannot poſſibly help it. But if, before he has done ſpeaking, I perceive, or feel, that any part of my conduct could be reported to his ſatis⯑faction, if I then bluſh, it is with pleaſure, to think myſelf ſtill worthy the notice of ſo ineſtimable a friend."

The hero was diſarmed; he pauſed; felt his own cheek burn, and his own heart tremble.

"No dark tower, ſon John," ſaid lady Fitzorton, "but ſome gorgeous palace fit for one who is the boaſt of both our houſes, and likely to be the glory of our poſ⯑terity!"

A certain conſciouſneſs of his own ſitua⯑tion, and the reliance he had on Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton's repreſentations, added to thoſe of Mr. Clare, and the confirming teſ⯑timonies of undiſguiſed predilection on the part of Olivia, kept John from any parti⯑cular conference with Henry on the ſubject. [443]There had never been any means of his knowing, that though Henry was moſt fondly loved by Olivia, Olivia never had been, nor ever could be, the choice of Henry. Alas! Olivia had never ſuſpected it herſelf; and thus, by a ſtrange concurrence, the one giving form, colour, and countenance, to the other, John and Henry Fitzorton, Charles and Caroline Stuart, and Olivia Clare, were all entangled in a web, out of which there appeared no hope of extrication.

CHAPTER LIV.

JOHN Fitzorton had no ſooner left the grave of Maria, than he continued his way to the village, and paſſed the houſe where his heart's firſt confidence had been given and betrayed.

"Thoſe walls," ſaid he, "encloſed a beautiful deceiver! true, yet even the man⯑ſions of the bleſt, we are told, had their demoniac ſpirits;—but did a few degenerate angels make heaven leſs the abode of the good?—And in the vicinity of this polluted [444]dwelling, had not, at the very moment of its fouleſt ſtain, the unſullied Olivia Clare a reſidence?—did Maria's contaminating breath ever reach it? Ah no!—trembling, almoſt deſpairing, to ſee female integrity paſs beyond the impotent purity of childhood, have I not recently parted from one, whom with a jealous, an almoſt malicious eye, I have watched to the eſtate of womanhood, with⯑out finding any affectation ſtrong enough for remonſtrance, or any error deſerving a wo⯑man hater's reprobation? Alas! I can diſcover in her nothing but my own faults!—She is enriched," continued he, "with more virtue, and that virtue is graced with more beauty, than I can endure the aſſociation of, without ſelfiſh and often tormenting thoughts. I can no longer bear ſuch ſociety!—Ah, how often have the ſame feelings driven me from it!— and how often have I returned to prove my weakneſs—my wickedneſs!—Wretch that I am! is ſhe not betrothed? had ſhe not long ere this been my brother's wife, but for imperious circumſtances that poſtponed the nuptials?—Has not every hour, every mo⯑ment, [445]ſhewn me that ſhe has not one beating of her heart which does not vibrate to Henry? —yet, incorrigible John, in deſpite of all this, can only ſave himſelf from ſhameful detection by inglorious flight!"

He ſhuddered at himſelf, as he purſued his train of thought; and with hurried ſteps ſought a perſon a few miles farther on the road, with whom he had particular buſineſs: for alas! more ſecrets yet connect with John.

The name of the perſon he now viſited was Herbert. She was at home.

"You ſee," ſaid John, bowing to her with the utmoſt reſpect, and even trembling as he ſpoke, "you ſee I am returned alive, and am come to pay you my ſincere acknow⯑ledgments, and to ſettle accounts, and to make enquiry after the object of our mutual care. And how fares ſhe? ah, how fares the little unfortunate confided with you?—does ſhe grow in perſon, and in mind?—has ſhe talents?—has ſhe beauty?—or gives ſhe the promiſes of either?—more than all, has ſhe all comforts?—and offers ſhe yet any ſymp⯑toms [446]toms of a heart that may one day deſerve them?—and is your own heart as firm as I wiſh it? and your happineſs?—alas, Mrs. Herbert, how is your happineſs?"

She ſighed, and was ſilent, then after a pauſe.

"We are well, my beſt friend—well in health—nor is either of us unhappy:—can we be otherwiſe under the protection of ſuch a friend?"

"Call me your foe, your bittereſt enemy: call me what alas, I am; neither war nor peace can make me forget."

"My deareſt patron, my deareſt friend, ſuch have you been, ſuch you are; for pity's ſake, ſhift to other ſubjects."

"I always love, yet dread to ſee you, Amelia."

"I will ring for our Johanna," ſaid Mrs. Herbert. "O how good ſhe is: how true in mind, how fair in perſon! ſo ſprightly; yet ſo timid; ſo ſimple, yet ſo acute. How de⯑lighted will ſhe be to ſee you!"

"Me," cried John, agitated, "how ſo?"

Mrs. Herbert left the room haſtily, and returned leading in a beautiful young creature; [447]at the ſight of John, ſhe ſtood rapt in aſtoniſh⯑ment, then exclaimed, "Good heaven! yes, it muſt be he, the original of my boſomed treaſure!"

John ſtartled, then recovering, "The power of a few years over that girl, is extra⯑ordinary," ſaid he: "don't be alarmed, my dear; I am a rough young ſoldier: we are perhaps both wondering at one another. You ſay ſhe is good, Amelia; is ſhe good enough to hear a—a—well-wiſher tell her ſhe is beautiful? for that is being good indeed! But I would have that which ſpoils older women, only ſtimulate this girl to merit your report. Yes, you are very beautiful; but you may nevertheleſs, be more deformed in mind than the moſt ugly creature in the world."

Johanna was abaſhed. She found herſelf in the preſence of John Fitzorton! wondrous ſtories of whom ſhe had heard ſince laſt ſhe ſaw him: and remembering theſe, ſhe felt awed; and John was, as the reader is aware, an awful man. But, in making an obeiſance never taught in the ſchools, ſhe anſwered, [448]"Yes, honoured Sir, all my books tell me, beauty may be nothing worth; of beauty I know nothing; yet preſume I muſt poſſeſs ſome traits of what is uſually eſteemed ſuch, or it would not have been imputed to me by my protector."

"Protector!" exclaimed John.

"And of one thing I am convinced, that I had rather be the moſt ugly young woman in the world—ſuch honoured ſir, you men⯑tioned —with a heart ſenſible of, and grateful for, the thouſand goodneſſes I receive from my governeſs and my guardian, than that world's moſt admired beauty, without the ſacred delight I now feel in this unexpected but long deſired opportunity of paying my duty to the beſt of benefactors."

"Benefactors!" reiterated John; "what means that expreſſion?"

Tears filled, even to overflowing, the eyes of Johanna, and, attempting to ſpeak, ſhe fell at his feet, claſped his knees, and called him her "more than father."

"I have been betrayed," cried John.

"Oh!" exclaimed Johanna, diſdain not [449]the effuſions of a heart, that liſted from the duſt, glories in acknowledging the hand that raiſed it. Do not, ah, do not, honoured Sir, call it infamy to have that known to me which the God of pity who gave me to your care, muſt look upon with ſacred pleaſure."

"What you know cannot be helped, child," ſaid John, raiſing the ſuppliant: "I have not time to talk of theſe matters at preſent, having buſineſs with your friend here. Continue to ſurpriſe me as you have done this day, whenever I may happen to ſee you, and you ſhall call me what you will."

After a ſuitable reply, Johanna withdrew, directing to John, at parting, a look of ten⯑derneſs and veneration.

The man to whom this look was addreſſed, had an eye to ſee, and a heart to feel ſuch acknowledgments; but it had been obtained for him, by ſome means, to which even the end, gracious as it was, could not be recon⯑ciled to his peculiar way of thinking.

"Madam," ſaid he, to Mrs. Herbert, "it is true I merit from you every wound; as you deſerve from me all the balms I can [450]beſtow.—I have to thank you for the care which you have evidently taken of the child's perſon. I owe you on another account, alas, more than I can ever ſettle,—but I muſt remove Johanna."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Her⯑bert.

"I knew you wife, and thought you ho⯑nourable. I knew you was unhappy: I knew I had made you ſo; I wiſhed fervently to offer ſome reparation. I gave to you the ſociety of an innocent being, who knew not the misfortune of her birth;—and you have raſhly and officiouſly made her, I ſee, ac⯑quainted with her mother's infamy, her own wretchedneſs, and my diſhonour."

"You are yourſelf the cauſe of what your generous heart wiſhed to have concealed, being known to Johanna," returned Mrs. Herbert. "You could not ſeparate her from the perſon in whoſe arms you firſt ſaw her."

"The jade!" cried John, "and ſhe has, woman-like, repaid me, for attending to the ſupplication, with treachery! My own fault indeed! I admit it: for ſhe deluded me once [451]before, and I was fool enough to truſt her again. I hope, madam, you have turned her out of your houſe."

"Alas! ſhe has quitted it more than four months."

"Run away!—I am glad of it!"

Mrs. Herbert ſhook her head.

"Robbed you too, I ſuppoſe—good! but you ſhall not be a ſufferer. An infamous thief as well as trait' reſs!"

"Alas, no!"

"Some way done wrong. You are not a woman to turn a domeſtic out of your door, while fit to ſtay within it, Mrs. Herbert."

"I turned her not away, ſir."

"I hope ſhe will not get into place again, till ſhe has fully repented."

"Be not ſo impetuous: I truſt in God that ſhe has repented, and in a much better place now, ſir."

Mrs. Herbert now told him, that the attendant he had recommended to her was dead; that till her dying moments, ſhe kept the ſecret conſided to her; but that in thoſe [452]moments, the attachment which Johanna had conceived for her, made her an almoſt con⯑ſtant attendant in her chamber, and particu⯑larly when the ſervant was near her end; becauſe ſhe had ſaid ſhe ſhould die more compoſedly if Johanna was near her. Our dear charge was in an adjoining cabinet when the laſt prayers were offered to the dying perſon, and when, rather in the wan⯑derings of her departing ſoul, than in medi⯑tated treachery, ſhe informed the clergyman, there were ſome papers ſhe had put into the bottom of her box, which it would be better to throw into the fire, as the dear child, whom they concerned, was now placed hap⯑pily. "To be ſure, ſir, thoſe papers being written by the mother belong to the child: but, as I have never mentioned them to her, nor to any body elſe, there can be nothing wrong in it."

The ſervant lived not to finiſh the ſen⯑tence, and before the officiating paſtor had opportunity to impart the converſation, Johanna, feeling herſelf fully entitled, poſ⯑ſeſſed herſelf not only of the papers, but alſo [453]of their ſad contents; for they proved a too faithful journal of all that preceded and fol⯑lowed her mother's fall, and all that con⯑nected, ſir, with your ſhare in her hiſ⯑tory."

"And who raſhly threw that hiſtory upon paper?" demanded John, but with no ac⯑cuſing voice.

"Johanna's mother, ſir," anſwered Mrs. Herbert.

"It was, perhaps, natural, but I think it was wrong." ſaid John, indiſtinctly.

"The maternal hiſtorian had embelliſhed her ſad ſtory with an etching of its principal character, ſir," continued Mrs. Herbert,— "which ſhe had placed in the front of her narrative, and had written round it, with her own hand, theſe words—'JOHN FITZORTON, THE BEST, AND THE MOST INJURED!"

"Indeed!" ſaid John, extremely affect⯑ed; "but this, Mrs. Herbert, did not go to that perſon's protectorſhip of the child, which happened not till after that hand was cold in the grave: where then are we to look [454]for this officious information, to call it no worſe?"

"In another female, I muſt confeſs, ſir."

"No doubt," ſaid John, ironically.

"In the daughter of the worthy proprie⯑tor of yon almoſt deſerted manſion," added Mrs. Herbert.

"Olivia Clare!" exclaimed John, with great emotion.

"The old gentleman, you know, ſir, now only pays it a viſit of two or three ſummer days in the year, and on one of thoſe the ſweet young lady paid a viſit to our little charge, whom, it ſeems, ſhe had met in ſome of her wood walks, when attended only by her maid; ſince which miſs Clare had begged to have her at the hall during their annual ſtay. She always brought her home in her own carriage, but requeſted, for rea⯑ſons, ſhe ſaid, ſhe was not at liberty to ex⯑plain, I would not mention the matter to any body, unleſs it ſhould appear neceſſary."

John ſeeming ſtill inclined to liſten, Mrs. Herbert went on,—"One day our Johanna [455]came home with eyes that I ſaw had ſuffered from weeping, and freſh tears fell from them as I enquired the cauſe. She told me, that Miſs Olivia had been reading the papers which had been found in the box; that ſhe had wept over them more bitterly than her⯑ſelf: ſhe told her, that the Mr. John Fitz⯑orton, ſo often mentioned, was one of the deareſt and moſt beloved of her friends; lived often under the ſame roof; and though, for ſome time paſt he had been on foreign ſervice, he was expected home by her and every part of her family with the kindeſt impatience: and that upon Johanna's aſking whether the etching reſembled him, ſhe an⯑ſwered that it did; but that ſhe thought her knowledge of his countenance might enable her to make it more ſo. Whereupon miſs Olivia took out her pencil, and while ſhe retouched the features, related to Johanna a number of circumſtances, which induced that ſweet girl, it ſeems, to ſay,—'What a happineſs, madam, muſt you enjoy to live in family friendſhip with ſuch a man!' [456]'a happineſs, indeed!' replied Olivia Clare, 'I reckon it amongſt the moſt exalted de⯑lights with which it has pleaſed Providence to ſurround me.'

"Did ſhe—it was extremely—no doubt— ſhe—ſhe—did me too much honour, ma⯑dam: —but—a—a—nothing more paſſed—I ſuppoſe?"

"Yes," continued Mrs. Herbert, "on giving back the drawing, miſs Clare ſaid, 'I think it now comes nearer to the original; but of that the expreſſion is ſo very power⯑ful, and goes ſo very far beyond any imita⯑tion of life, that'—'Might I not be permitted to ſee the life?' queſtioned Johanna, with trembling earneſtneſs.—'When he comes down to us,' returned Miſs Clare, "I will watch an opportunity; and if it be poſſible, let you have notice.'—'Meanwhile,' ob⯑ſerved Johanna, 'ſhould any chance or de⯑ſign bring him amongſt a hundred others to my revered and loved Mrs. Herbert, with whom his dear good hand has placed me.'— 'I think this ſketch of his features would [457]point him out. Indeed I will carry it always about me, that I may be prepared: would I could ſee him!'—'No doubt you will often, my ſweet girl,' ſaid miſs Clare; 'but your papers mention that the drawing is but a copy of ſome more finiſhed likeneſs.'

Johanna, on coming home, aſked me if I had heard any thing about that likeneſs, but I could not tell her."

"I could," ſighed John,—"but I am glad that part of the ſtory has not gone farther."

John roſe, offered his reconciled hand to Mrs. Herbert, to whom he repeated his ſenſe of the injuries he had done her for⯑merly; then ſaid, that "he believed the child could not be in better hands, though it was rather unlucky ſome ſpot more remote from part of former events had not been thought of at firſt."

He ſighed heavily, and was ſilent, at length he took his leave, with a promiſe to return, or to write very ſoon.

CHAPTER LV.

WE will not ſo far inſult our reader's underſtanding, as not to ſuppoſe that he has not, long before our declaration, concluded, that the promiſing Johanna was the daugh⯑ter of the unfortunate Maria; and that her deceaſed attendant was the no leſs unfortu⯑nate Betty.

It will be remembered that John Fitzorton had declared the infant ſhould not lie at the mercy of a forlorn condition, and myſterious birth. Uninfluenced by any other motive, than a conſideration of the innocent, he cauſed the child to be placed with one who had been endeared to him by a ſingular, and moſt diſaſtrous event, which threw her happineſs, and her fortunes, on his protection.

The houſe which he had, at firſt, taken for her, ſtood midway between the village of Maria, and that very ſeat of Mr. Clare's, where John was a viſitor, when the father of Johanna alienated her mother's affections [459]from John Fitzorton. We have heard him already regret, that Mrs. Herbert was placed where part of Maria's hiſtory had been cir⯑culated in whiſpers; but it was a meaſure of haſte, and almoſt immediately after the bu⯑rial of Maria; and he thought it, on reflec⯑tion, wiſer to fix the child with a woman known and approved, and herſelf an object of his "ſworn attention," than with a ſtranger.

Having thus diſcharged his duty to the living, and to the dead, he continued his journey; and the next object that caught his attention on the way, was the well-remem⯑bered ſeat of the Clares, where firſt the lovely Olivia had been the nurſe of his wounded ſpirit.

Something impelled him to check the ſpeed of his horſe, at the firſt view of that manſion, and to go a foot pace, until he had paſt the boundary. He then turned round, rode part of the way back, to gain a point of ground which commanded the whole eſtate, and ſuffered his ſteed to graze, as he ſat obſerving the eventful ſcenery around. [460]After which, ſuddenly recollecting himſelf, he exclaimed, "Deliver me, O God! from temptation." He reſumed the reins of his horſe, and proceeded with ſuch vigour, that as the ſhades were drawing their thin curtain over the brow of evening, he gained his quarters, where entering, earneſtly, upon official employment, the intervals of which were occupied by drawing out a plan of life for the future good of Johanna, he prepared his mind for events, which ſo far from wiſh⯑ing to prevent, he deſired to promote, and yet which he had never been able to hear or think of, even at the diſtance of near two hundred miles, without ſhuddering.—"Ah, how weak is the ſtrongeſt!" would he often ſay; "philoſophy is the pigmy, and nature the giant."

John numbered the pencil amongſt his reſources. It occupied, in this ſtate of his mind, many an hour that would have been more painfully engaged without its aid; though it occaſionally ſeduced him into ſub⯑jects too near his heart.

[461]A few minutes prior to his quitting the caſtle, Olivia reminded him of a promiſe to preſent her with a likeneſs of her beloved Henry; "for though I deſpair of even John's pencil doing him juſtice, yet you know," ſaid ſhe, "he is ſuch a woodland, or mountain wanderer, and ſo often gets out of ſight, that when I cannot have the original, the copy would be company for me.—Do then, John, think of it."

Some days after joining his regiment, this circumſtance came into his mind, and he ſat down to give the laſt touches to the minia⯑ture. In which employment, having now brought down his ſtory to the point of time propoſed, taking a retroſpective and imme⯑diate view of him, thereby combining his own portrait, at full length, we are recon⯑ciled to the bidding him farewell.