CHAP. I.

BEFORE our hero went to Port⯑man-ſquare, he called at his former lodgings, to enquire for the ſervant who had attended him during his reſidence in town. The man was en⯑gaged; but the maſter of the houſe in⯑formed him "he knew another whom he could recommend in every re⯑ſpect." Sir George agreed to take him, and deſired he might follow him to Lord Milbanke's, where ac⯑cordingly he arrived that evening; and our hero being much pleaſed [2] with his appearance, and finding him at once ſteady, active, and diligent, determined to engage him as a regu⯑lar ſervant. On aſking him if he would be willing to leave London, and reſide with him in Northumber⯑land, the man replied, "he would follow him with pleaſure any whi⯑ther; but that Northumberland was his native county, and he ſhould moſt truly rejoice to return to it."

"To what part of it do you be⯑long?" ſaid Sir George.

"To Warrington, your honour; farmer Bever, your tenant, is my fa⯑ther."

[3]"I am very glad I happened to meet with you," ſaid Sir George; "your father is as honeſt a man as any in the village, and I ſhall be happy to have one of his family in my ſervice. But how came you to be diſengaged?"

"I am afraid, Sir," returned the man, "if I tell you I left my laſt place in diſgrace as it were, you will have a bad opinion of me; but indeed I was not to blame: if you will hear the whole ſtory, I am ſure you will think ſo."

Sir George replied, "Very willing⯑ly;" and the ſervant began:

[4]"I lived ſeveral years with Mrs. Barclay in her firſt huſband's time; and, when ſhe married Mr. Saxby and went abroad, ſhe choſe me out of the family as her attendant."

"Mr. Saxby!" interrupted our hero with ſurpriſe and emotion— "Did you live with him?"

"Yes, Sir," ſaid the man, aſto⯑niſhed at his vehemence.

"Well then, go on," cried Sir George.

The fellow obeyed; and mention⯑ed his meeting with Louiſa More⯑land, [5] her diſtreſs, and his contriving with Lucy Clerke to bring her as far as Montreuil, word for word as Louiſa had herſelf related it, and went on thus:

"At Montreuil we were to ſtay ſome weeks; and in the mean time I had the pleaſure of ſeeing the young lady ſet off for England, with two nuns who had been turned out of their convent; and very glad I was. But, as ill-luck would have it, ſome⯑how or other my miſtreſs diſcovered what we had done; and being, poor lady! a little jealous, though indeed ſhe has ſome reaſon for it, could not be perſuaded that we did it out of [6] compaſſion, but fancied Maſter had ſome hand in it. She was, therefore, ſo angry with Lucy and myſelf, that ſhe ſaid 'ſhe would not keep us a mi⯑nute after we got to London, and that we might think ourſelves very well off that ſhe did not turn us adrift upon foreign ground.' So we were diſcharged here, and Mr. and Mrs. Saxby went down to Barclay Manor. To be ſure, I was very ſorry, as I wanted to ſee my father and mother when I had been away ſo long: but I did not like to go down and ſay I had been turned off, but wiſhed to get me a place here; and if your honour takes me as your ſer⯑vant, I ſhall be very proud indeed, [7] and can ſhew my face at Warrington with the greater pleaſure becauſe I've bettered myſelf by the ex⯑change."

Sir George, who knew the truth of all he had aſſerted, was extremely pleaſed at having gained an atten⯑dant of whoſe principles he had ſo high an opinion; at the ſame time felt gratified by the conviction that he had not been wholly impoſed up⯑on, ſince Louiſa's ſtory was no fic⯑tion, however ſtrangely ſhe had ſince derogated from her natural charac⯑ter. He now told James "he had acted like a humane and benevolent man, and that he ſhould be no loſer;" [8] and then enquired where his fellow-ſervant was.

James replied—"With an aunt in the Borough, waiting till ſhe could get a place." A ſummons to dinner now put an end to their converſation for the preſent; and Sir George went down ſtairs, more than ever perplex⯑ed how to reconcile the inconſiſten⯑cies in Louiſa's character. At table he obſerved Lady Milbanke was un⯑commonly dejected; and, when ſhe left the gentlemen over their wine, he expreſſed his fears that ſhe was ill. "No," replied his Lordſhip, "not ill, but grieved at the reſult of an enquiry we made this morning for [9] her niece, whom ſhe expected from France, as we have reaſon to fear her ſituation is very forlorn, but can obtain no certain intelligence."

"May I aſk the particulars?" ſaid our hero.

Certainly," returned Lord Mil⯑banke. "About twelve or fourteen years ago, and juſt before we were married, Sophia's half brother Mr. Moreland went abroad to reſide, en⯑raged at the loſs of a law-ſuit, and extremely angry with his ſiſter be⯑cauſe ſhe refuſed to give her evidence in his favour, though juſtice for⯑bad it; for, in conſcience, had ſhe [10] ſaid any thing in court, it would have been againſt him, as ſhe was tho⯑roughly convinced his cauſe was not a juſt one. In conſequence of this diſpute, he kept up no correſpondence with her; but we occaſionally heard of him from thoſe of our acquaint⯑ance who went through —; and learnt that he lived wholly a recluſe from the world, and had placed his daughter as a boarder in a convent; and we ſome time ſince were inform⯑ed of his death, and that ſhe meant to remain in the ſame ſituation. Lady Milbanke then, at my particu⯑lar requeſt, wrote to offer her an aſy⯑lum with us; but we have too much reaſon to fear the letter never reached [11] her, as about that time the convent was deſtroyed, and all its unfortunate inhabitants turned looſe on the wide world. On hearing this, we made a point of enquiring for our young relation among the emigrants who hourly flocked to London, and at laſt were fortunate enough to meet with ſome ladies who had belonged to the ſame convent, and learnt Louiſa Moreland had refuſed to ac⯑company them, becauſe ſhe would not leave the Abbeſs, who was then in a very ill ſtate of health. We then wrote to her again, but received no anſwer, and continued in the moſt uneaſy ſtate of ſolicitude. A few days ſince we were accidentally in [12] company with a Madame St. Val from Montreuil, who informed us that herſelf and a friend had been ac⯑companied to England by a Miſs Moreland, who, on their arrival in town, had taken a place in one of the northern ſtages, with an inten⯑tion to go as far as —, where ſhe told them her former nurſe re⯑ſided, who, ſhe was aſſured, would receive and protect her. On learn⯑ing this, we inſtantly diſpatched a ſervant to —, who returned this morning, and ſaid 'no lady of that name or deſcription had been ſeen in the village, and that the farmer whom Madame St. Val had men⯑tioned was dead as well as his wife.' [13] This is the real cauſe of Lady Mil⯑banke's dejection, as the uncertainty of Louiſa's ſituation, ſo young and, as we are told, extremely handſome, fills her with a thouſand apprehen⯑ſions for her ſafety. Various are the temptations ſhe may meet with, and, ſtrangers as we are to her mind and principles, who can tell whether ſhe may have power to reſiſt them!"

Sir George aſſented to this with a deep ſigh, for he too well knew they had not aſſailed her in vain; con⯑ſcious, from the beginning of the ſtory. Lady Milbanke's niece and his once beloved Louiſa were the ſame. Indeed he had with difficulty [14] concealed his emotions during the recital; but his uncle attributed them wholly to compaſſion, and loved him the better for the intereſt he had taken in the unknown Louiſa.

At ſupper the converſation was renewed, and Lady Milbanke ex⯑preſſed the tendereſt concern for her loſt niece. Sir George, agitated as he was, did not let fall an expreſſion that could give them an idea he had any knowledge of her—too ſenſible his information would only add to her uneaſineſs: and unwilling, if they ſhould meet, to prejudice them in her disfavour, at the ſame time de⯑termined, on his return to the coun⯑try, [15] to viſit Mrs. Edgeworth, and if poſſible learn from her where Miſs Moreland now was, and then give her information where ſhe might gain a certain aſylum if her beha⯑viour entitled her to protection. He now ſaw thoſe features in Lady Mil⯑banke which he had ſo much ad⯑mired at his firſt introduction to her, were exactly reſembling thoſe of her niece, and that they had both the ſame beautiful turn of countenance, the ſame brilliant and expreſſive eyes.

Several days paſſed away very pleaſantly. Our hero was in a new world, where every thing was de⯑lightful, [16] and the ſociety ſuperior to any he had ever before enjoyed; as Lord and Lady Milbanke rather ſought a pleaſant than a general ac⯑quaintance—men of wit and bril⯑liancy, but not men of the world— women of faſhion, but not women of levity—thoſe whoſe manners had received the higheſt poliſh; not that poliſh which deſtroys the intrinſic value of the metal, but that which adds to it—where virtue was not thrown aſide as an old-faſhioned gar⯑ment, but only ſo well adorned as to appear like a new and becoming habit. Politics in theſe parties were a ſubject ſeldom ſtarted; and at home Lord Milbanke cautiouſly [17] avoided it, gueſſing the ſentiments of our hero were like thoſe of his father, and rather wiſhing he ſhould be con⯑verted by a better knowledge of the world, than by the mere force of ar⯑guments he felt unwilling to employ leſt they ſhould prove unſucceſsful; and Sir George concealed his prin⯑ciples, from a certainty that they would not meet with his uncle's ap⯑probation.

One evening, when Lord Mil⯑banke, from a particular engagement, had not ſeen our hero during the day, he addreſſed him on their firſt meeting thus, but with a ſmile: "Sir George, what are you about [18] in London?—I am afraid, going on in a bad way, ſince you are obliged to ſell or pawn your plate."

"Pawn my plate!" returned he laughing, "That would be a bad ſtory indeed. You muſt not, my dear Sir, continue to countenance me if this be true; but, jeſting apart, what is it you mean?"

"Well then," ſaid his Lordſhip, "you ſhall have the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You muſt know there is a young man whom I have aſſiſted to the utmoſt of my power, but I fear with little effect; ſince the rage of gambling [19] has ſeized him, and, unleſs he ſpeedily reforms, muſt reduce him to poverty. This morning I received a very pe⯑nitential letter from him, informing me he was reduced to his laſt ſhilling, and had even pawned his watch for immediate ſupport. Infinitely ſhock⯑ed at this (for his father was a brave officer, belonging to the regiment I was once in), I reſolved to make one more effort to preſerve him, and accord⯑ingly called at his lodgings, where I found all he had told me was too true. I gave him ſufficient for his preſent neceſſity, and then bade him go with me to the pawnbroker's to redeem his watch, that I might not be impoſed on. Having completed [20] this buſineſs, I accidentally caſt my eyes on an immenſe ſilver tankard, and diſcovered the Warrington and Milbanke arms quartered; and this convinced me the cup belonged to your family. I aſked the man care⯑leſsly from whence he had it; and the heſitation in his manner when he re⯑plied, aſſured me it had not been obtained honeſtly. Tell me, have you loſt ſuch a thing?"

Sir George during this ſpeech had been ſo much agitated, that he thought it prudent to diſcloſe the reaſon as far as it was in his power, without mentioning Louiſa.

[21]"Frankly then," returned he, "I will tell you all. I have not loſt the cup; but it was given by my father, when I was chriſtened, to Mr. Thom⯑ſon, the Vicar of Warrington, ſince my tutor: from him it has been ſtolen, and I acknowledge through my means."

"What!" interrupted his Lord⯑ſhip, "did you hire any body to recover it?"

"No indeed," cried Sir George laughing; "but, deceived by a tale of diſtreſs, I recommended a perſon to the attention of Mr. Thomſon, [22] who repaid his care with the blackeſt ingratitude, taking an opportunity of carrying off not only that but ſeve⯑ral other things of real value; and I am particularly glad of this intelli⯑gence, as I will go to-morrow to the pawnbroker's, and regain all I can."

"And will you not proſecute the villain, if you can find him?" ſaid Lord Milbanke.

"Certainly," replied our hero faintly; "but I am ſure I ſhall not meet with him. Indeed I have been deeply impoſed upon; and it was the [23] recollection of this that cauſed the confuſion you witneſſed when you began your ſtory."

Lord Milbanke now ſaw the ſub⯑ject pained him, though why he could not gueſs, and inſtantly turned the converſation.

The next morning our hero went to the pawnbroker's, and, inſtantly diſcovering what he was in ſearch of, aſked the man how it came in his poſſeſſion. He replied, "It was left there to be ſold with ſeveral other things by a young lady whoſe name he was not at liberty to mention."

[24]"Let me ſee them," cried Sir George.

The fellow obeyed, and produced every article of any value that had been taken from Warrington, except the necklace and ear-rings, which he ſaid "he expected home every hour, as they were only let out to a lady to appear in at the play the evening before." Our hero then enquired their price, and found it, though far below their real value, as much beyond what he thought pro⯑per to beſtow on a worthleſs woman; and therefore, requeſting a pen and ink, wrote the following note:

[25]"Sir George Warrington will leave ten guineas with the maſter of this ſhop, for the ſeveral articles brought from Warrington and its neighbourhood, if the owner will part with them on theſe terms; if not, he will apply to a juſtice of the peace, and take legal meaſures to re⯑cover them."

This he gave to the man, deſiring it might be immediately delivered to the young lady he ſpoke of, and then left the houſe. On returning the next morning, he was informed the things ſhould be all reſtored on his paying the promiſed ſum. [26] This he complied with; and ſeeing them properly packed up, for which he beſtowed a farther gratuity, call⯑ed a hackney-coach, and conveyed them ſafely to his uncle's houſe, who ſincerely rejoiced in his ſuc⯑ceſs. A few days after this event, he was obliged to take an abrupt leave of his amiable relations, re⯑ceiving a haſty ſummons from Mr. Davenport, which he knew not how to refuſe. But he did not quit London, till he heard from Mr. Thomſon that the valuable packet he had ſent was arrived at War⯑rington, and the different articles it contained reſtored to their pro⯑per [27] owners, nor without promiſing again to viſit Portman-ſquare once more before his return to Northum⯑berland.

CHAP. II.

OUR hero had ſcarcely paid his firſt compliments at Violet Hill, when he began to relate the various occurrences he had met with in town, ſo eager was he to vindicate the cha⯑racter of Louiſa from ſome of the crimes it was charged with, as well as to defend his own penetration: "for," added he, "all ſhe told me of her previous hiſtory muſt be true, ſince it has been confirmed by two perſons, one of whom at lead is a woman of undoubted veracity, and [29] the other could have no motive for aſſerting a falſehood."

To his great ſurpriſe, whilſt relat⯑ing theſe circumſtances, he obſerved Roſetta and Fidelia look at each other in great confuſion; and, when he ſpoke of his intention of viſiting Mrs. Edgeworth, Fidelia replied very eagerly:—"That, Sir George, muſt be deferred—Mrs. Edgeworth is not in the country."

"When ſhe returns, I can take an opportunity of calling on her," re⯑plied our hero coldly; and, turning to Miſs Wilmot, ſaw in her coun⯑tenance marks of ſurpriſe that aſto⯑niſhed [30] and perplexed him; but he had no time to enter farther on the ſubject, as at that moment Mr. Da⯑venport entered, and of courſe the converſation took another turn.

With much art that gentleman hinted to our hero the good effect his remonſtrances would probably have on Mr. Anneſley, and adviſed him not to delay his application be⯑yond the following day, as the ma⯑nufacturers were all ready to attend him. Our hero replied, "he was perfectly at leiſure, and would meet them in New Barn Lane, the place of rendezvous, at ten o'clock." Mr. Davenport, delighted at gaining his [31] point, having feared ſo many days reſidence with his ariſtocratic rela⯑tion might have occaſioned a revo⯑lution in his ſentiments, now took leave, promiſing the men ſhould be punctual: and our hero retired, with no other idea than that he ſhould riſe to perform a glorious and noble action, in which his own courage and abilities would be called forth for the univerſal good of mankind; and in this diſpoſition he met the family at breakfaſt. Myrtilla looked at him with a mixture of grief and pity; but the other young ladies were too much devoted to themſelves ever to beſtow a thought on him with which [32] their own immediate intereſt was not connected.

At a quarter before ten his horſe was brought him, and, mounting it inſtantly, he ſoon reached New Barn Lane, where the men were all aſ⯑ſembled before him. They received him with three cheers; and one going before as a guide, the reſt followed our hero's horſe; and they proceeded for two miles towards Mr. Anneſley's in a regular and quiet manner, when, go⯑ing through a gate, they perceived at a diſtance three men guarding another, whoſe hands were tied in a way that implied his villany. When they [33] met, Sir George's party demanded the cauſe of his captivity, and were told by one of the conſtables, "he was a famous poacher who had been con⯑victed on Mr. Saville's manor, and was now going to gaol."—"What!" cried the foremoſt, "ſuffer a man to go to gaol for taking a hare or a pheaſant! No no, we are liberty and equality men, and will reſcue him from your tyranny."

At theſe words, they all attacked his conductors; the poacher was ſoon releaſed; who joined his friends glad⯑ly in tying the two conſtables to a tree, whilſt the other fellow, who [34] had been witneſs of the fact, and was his accuſer, took to his heels and ran off with all poſſible expedition.

Sir George, though he felt ſome⯑thing aſhamed of thus heading a party who were violating the laws of their country, and would not join them in their attack, knew not how to oppoſe it, becauſe he had always conſidered the game-laws as too ſtrict; and indeed, ſince the new opinions he had taken up had per⯑mitted his manor to be open to every perſon, poor as well as rich, he only remonſtrated on their cruelty to the conſtables; for he was ignorant [35] that the man was a hardened villain, and an offender in many other in⯑ſtances.

They replied, "The conſtables de⯑ſerved much more;" and then having liſtened to the poacher's ſtory, who, like the reſt of the world when they are their own biographers, placed his character in the moſt favourable point of view, began to imagine Mr. Saville was the moſt unjuſt and cruel man in the world, and declared "they would go to his houſe, and give him a leſſon before they pro⯑ceeded to Mr. Anneſley's." Our hero objected to this: but the mul⯑titude prevailed; and he merely con⯑ſented [36] from a hope of being able to ſee Mr. Saville, who was a ſtran⯑ger to him, and apologize for the conduct of his attendants in releaſ⯑ing the man he had committed to juſtice. The poacher led the way, and, at the end of five additional miles, they arrived in ſight of his houſe. At the entrance of a field near it, they met two ſervants; and, on en⯑quiring for their maſter, one ſaid, "He was at home;" but the other de⯑nied it. Fancying the laſt who ſpoke had not ſaid the truth, the men in⯑ſiſted on ſeeing him, and declared, "if he did not come out to them, they would enter the houſe forcibly, and ſet it on fire." The ſervants [37] begged for God's ſake they would uſe no violence, for that their lady was lately brought to bed. The ringleader of this party replied with a brutal oath: "They cared not, and would put their threat in execution, if their maſter did not come out."

The ſervants then ran towards the houſe, and ſaid "he ſhould come to them," but entreated they would ſtay where they were: but this they did not chooſe to comply with, and moved on till they were within fifty yards of the great door, in ſpite of Sir George, who, infinitely ſhocked at their conduct, uſed entreaties, re⯑monſtrances, threats, and bribes, in [38] vain. They had all puſhed before him; but he followed cloſe, in hopes he might at laſt perſuade them to give up theſe horrid meaſures, and retire peaceably. To this effect he harangued them, repreſenting with ſuch force the cruelty of their in⯑tended conduct, that five or ſix join⯑ed him, and, going on his ſide, de⯑clared "they would fight with him till the laſt drop of their blood was ſhed in his ſervice." The reſt, who were more daring fellows, exaſperated at this, became only more deſperate, and ſwore, if Mr. Saville did not ap⯑pear, the houſe ſhould be burnt without mercy. They were now cloſe by the railing that parted the [39] ſmall lawn before the door from the paddock, but, in liſtening and reply⯑ing to Sir George, had turned their backs to the gate, and appeared ra⯑ther as if defending it from his aſ⯑ſaults than intending to enter them⯑ſelves.

In the mean time the ſervants had alarmed the family. Mr. Saville was really abſent; but Mrs. Saville's brother, Captain Montague, being informed a party of villains headed by a gentleman were coming to at⯑tack the houſe, in conſequence of his brother's having committed a poacher to juſtice, took down his ſword and piſtols, and, accompanied [40] by a dragoon ſoldier his ſervant, and thoſe of the family, all armed as well as the ſhort time would permit, fallied forth to repel the intruders. Juſt as they were coming round a back-way, they met a country lad who on the firſt alarm had been ſent out as a ſpy to reconnoitre, and from him learnt the party was divided, and ſome of them had taken his maſ⯑ter's part. This was good news, as the Captain's company was not ſo ſtrong but they required a reinforce⯑ment; and ſtill purſuing their firſt plan, went out through the ſtables, and met the other party in the field.

Unfortunately Sir George had been [41] told by Mr. Davenport, as an incite⯑ment to his courage, that there were ſeveral gentlemen who would gladly join him, did they once know his in⯑tentions with reſpect to the general equality of mankind; and, not hav⯑ing obſerved from whence Captain Montague came, concluded, in the confuſion of his ſpirits, that he was an auxiliary to the oppoſite party; but his reſolution of defending the unfortunate Savilles was not damp⯑ed by the increaſe of his enemies. His countenance glowing with the ardour he felt in the real cauſe of humanity, his eyes ſparkling with honeſt indignation, he thus addreſſed the men who were ſtill leaning againſt [42] the gates, pouring out threats and imprecations:

"I inſiſt on your oppoſing me no longer; yield to me this moment, or by Heaven you ſhall all feel the fulleſt weight of my reſentment. Depart quietly, and let me enter the gates; Mr. Saville ſhall then know—"

Here he was unhappily interrupted by the Captain, who, arriving at that inſtant, and judging, from his ſpeech as well as his poſition, he was about to make a forcible entry, ſtruck him a blow with the flat ſide of his hanger that almoſt beat him from [43] his horſe. The oppoſite party, equal⯑ly miſled, ſuppoſing the Captain on their ſide, exclaimed unanimouſly, "Huzza! we have now an addition, and will conquer."

Sir George, recovering, exclaimed reſentfully, "This is not to be borne!" and then aſked Captain Mon⯑tague, in a determined tone, what he meant by his conduct, and why he thus oppoſed the cauſe of virtue and humanity?

Too much enraged to hear reaſon, and taking all that was ſaid in a wrong ſenſe, he replied furiouſly: "Whoever you are, you are a ſcan⯑dal [44] to the name of man; and I ſhall anſwer no impertinent queſtions. Be aſſured, I have good reaſons for what I do, and can anſwer my conduct, both to my judgment and my con⯑ſcience: that is more than you can do; but we waſte time. I would with pleaſure head theſe honeſt fellows, but wiſh to expoſe the life of no in⯑dividual; as for my own I care not, but will gladly lay it down, if Hea⯑ven ſo chooſe, in the defence of all moſt dear to me."

"Come on then," cried Sir George warmly. Captain Montague gave him a piſtol, and he fired without effect. The other returned the fire, [45] and the ball entering his ſide, he fell at once to the ground apparently dead.

The humanity of the Captain was now much ſhocked at the idea of having ſo ſuddenly deprived a fel⯑low creature of exiſtence, and that too at a moment, as he believed, when he was raſhly committing crimes, the extent of which no one could judge. He ordered his man to carry him into the houſe, and ſent inſtantly for a ſurgeon. The ſervant obeyed; and the few adherents of Sir George ſtood irreſolute, diſmayed, and alarmed at his fate; whilſt the oppoſite party exultingly cried out, [46] "Now we have this brave gentleman at our head, and the other is done for, we will go and ſet the houſe on fire this moment."

"Set the houſe on fire! What houſe?" exclaimed the Captain.

"Why, 'ſquire Saville's, to be ſure," cried the ringleader; "that was what we came for, but that there gentleman would not let us; but now he's gone, we will break down the gates, and have at them; ſo come on, come on, my boys."

"Stay, villains," interrupted Cap⯑tain Montague, "and tell me what [47] motive induces you to commit this act of outrage? What redreſs do you aſk? For what injury of my brother's do you ſeek revenge?"

One of the men who had been con⯑vinced by Sir George's arguments now came forward, and, deſiring ſilence, explained the whole affair in a manner tolerably clear; placed the conduct of our hero in a right point of view, and made Captain Mon⯑tague underſtand his own fatal miſ⯑apprehenſion. But he had no time to reflect on the unhappy conſequences; for the men became outrageous, and he was obliged to exert himſelf and rally his own party; when they were [48] ſuddenly relieved by the ſight of ano⯑ther at a little diſtance, all of whom he knew would be on his ſide, as they were led by the footman, who had previouſly eſcaped on the firſt attack, and had raiſed the inhabi⯑tants of a neighbouring village. By the aſſiſtance of theſe, the villains were ſoon diſperſed, and the ring⯑leaders ſeized and committed to juſ⯑tice. Captain Montague exerted himſelf vigorouſly, and with ſuch ſucceſs, that in a ſhort time the field was cleared, many of the wretches ſecured, and the reſt ran away. Thoſe who had previouſly repented of their intended outrage went quietly to their own homes, but not till they [49] had learned that Sir George ſhewed ſome ſigns of life, though his reco⯑very was yet extremely doubtful.

Captain Montague, when his im⯑mediate fears for his ſiſter's family were removed, was agonized with remorſe and horror at the reflection of having too probably killed the man who was nobly riſquing his own life for their ſafety and defence. He enquired his name of ſome of the people; and, learning he was Sir George Warrington, his grief increaſ⯑ed almoſt to phrenſy. He flew into the houſe, and, meeting the ſur⯑geon, aſked his real opinion. That was little calculated to relieve his [50] mind: he ſaid "his recovery was ſo doubtful, he thought his friends ought to be immediately informed of his ſituation; that the ball had in⯑deed happily miſſed his lungs; but the effuſion of blood had been ſo violent, that, though the wound in itſelf was not mortal, he could not anſwer for his recovery."

Diſtracted at this intelligence, he called for his horſe, and, inſtantly riding over to Violet Hill, related to the family the melancholy events of the day, and the unhappy part he had taken in them, and voluntarily offered to ſurrender himſelf to juſtice. Mr. Wilmot was deeply ſhocked at [51] the conſequences of his young friend's undertaking the cauſe ſuggeſted by Mr. Davenport, which in his heart he had never approved, though he allowed its juſtice; and reſolved im⯑mediately to ſet off for Saville Houſe, from whence it was impoſſible to re⯑move Sir George, and judge himſelf of his ſituation. He was accompa⯑nied by James Bever, who was ex⯑tremely concerned on learning the accident that had befallen his maſ⯑ter.

Mrs. Wilmot ſaid, "It was a great pity ſo fine a young man ſhould be thus cut off in the prime of life." Roſetta ſobbed—Fidelia fainted, or [52] pretended to faint—but Myrtilla felt deeply, ſecretly, and doubly: a thou⯑ſand anxieties preyed on her mind, which ſhe dared not reveal; for ſhe had no confidante in her own family, and her favourite friend was at a diſ⯑tance which precluded all communi⯑cation but by letter. Captain Mon⯑tague was too anxious for our hero to remain longer at the Hill when he had the ladies a little recovered. Myr⯑tilla followed him to the door, where he mounted his horſe: ſhe attempted to ſpeak, but could not; and again burſting into tears, a ſervant appear⯑ing at that moment, ſhe returned to the parlour; but, diſguſted by her mother's inſenſibility and her ſiſters' [53] affectation, retired haſtily to her own room, where ſhe indulged without reſtraint the grief and horror that tor⯑mented her mind.

CHAP. III.

CAPTAIN Montague, on his ar⯑rival at home, heard that Mr. Wil⯑mot was ſitting by his wounded friend, who was fallen into a happy ſlumber that promiſed relief and amendment. He then went to his ſiſter's chamber, which fortunately was not in the front of the houſe; and great care having been taken by her immediate attendants, ſhe knew nothing of the confuſion and terror they had been in till it was wholly ſubſided; and then was only told [55] ſuch particulars as it was neceſſary ſhe ſhould be informed of, to account for the buſtle the arrival of the ſur⯑geon and the accommodating our hero had occaſioned. Her brother now related ſome farther circum⯑ſtances, and hinted a wiſh, though Miſs Wilmot was unknown to her, that ſhe would invite her to the houſe, alleging that between her and the wounded man, to whom every atten⯑tion was due, there ſubſiſted a real friendſhip; and that conſequently her preſence would contribute to his comfort, and perhaps haſten his re⯑covery. Mrs. Saville the more rea⯑dily aſſented as ſhe meant to go down ſtairs the following day; and [56] the meſſage was ſent by Mr. Wilmot, to whom the ſame compliment was paid; but he declined it. Captain Montague then re-urged his requeſt, and added, that Mrs. Saville, who was wholly a ſtranger in that coun⯑try, having only been there a few days previous to her confinement, would be happy in that opportunity of cultivating the friendſhip of a fa⯑mily ſo amiable and ſo reſpected as that at Violet Hill.

Here Captain Montague for once acted like a man of the world: for the family at Violet Hill he cared nothing; but for one individual of it he felt all that a lover can feel; [57] how much that is, I leave to be de⯑cided by the younger part of my fe⯑male readers. In fact, to make a myſtery no longer of what there is no real reaſon for concealing, Cap⯑tain Montague was the incognito ad⯑mirer of Myrtilla Wilmot: but, a ſtranger to the reſt of her family, he had perſuaded his ſiſter to accept the offer made by her huſband's eldeſt brother, on his going abroad for his lady's health, to reſide in their houſe during their abſence, that he might form an acquaintance with them, and perhaps influence Mr. Wilmot in his favour. Mr. Edward Saville, in com⯑pliance with his wife's requeſt, con⯑ſented to take up his abode in — [58] ſhire for ſome months; but, being detained in town by law buſineſs, had been there but a few days when the poacher was committed by his orders. Captain Montague, ob⯑taining leave of abſence from his re⯑giment, had arrived only the night before; therefore had no opportunity of informing Miſs Wilmot, though ſhe was previouſly acquainted with his plan, and had urged her mother with unuſual earneſtneſs to wait on Mrs. Saville. But Mrs. Wilmot al⯑ways replied, "It was too far—ſhe would not take the trouble of viſit⯑ing at ſuch a diſtance;" and Myrtilla could not go without her. Of courſe the invitation which Mr. Wilmot de⯑livered, [59] and which he as well as her mother conſented ſhe ſhould accept, filled her heart with a degree of hope and joy; and the more as it had been torn by the knowledge of Sir George Warrington's danger, whom ſhe ſin⯑cerely eſteemed, and her conſequent fears for her beloved Montague, whoſe ſafety, ſhe concluded, depend⯑ed on the life of our hero.

Mrs. Saville was prepared to eſteem and love her; and, on her arrival the next morning, ſhe met with the moſt cordial reception from all the family but our unfortunate hero, who was yet inſenſible to all that paſſed. To⯑wards evening, however, he revived; [60] and the ſurgeon gave more hopes of him than he had yet done. A quiet night and the unremitted attention of Captain Montague and Mr. Sa⯑ville, with the occaſional preſence of Myrtilla, all contributed to re⯑ſtore him; and in a few days he was pronounced not merely out of dan⯑ger, but in a fair way of recovery.

Lord Milbanke, who had been ſent for immediately on the accident, now took leave for ſome time, as he was obliged to attend parliament, but choſe not to quit his nephew whilſt he remained ſo extremely ill. Be⯑tween Mrs. Saville and Myrtilla a real friendſhip was ſoon formed; their [61] minds were ſimilar, their hearts equal⯑ly excellent, and their underſtandings equally cultivated. Mr. Saville, who was a moſt amiable man, ſaw this with pleaſure, and promiſed Captain Montague he would himſelf under⯑take to ſpeak for him to Mr. Wilmot, who, he doubted not, would conſent to give him his daughter, as he had very good intereſt in his profeſſional line—an independent, though not a large fortune—and was certain of an addition to it on the death of an old lady his great-aunt, whoſe jointure was entailed on him. The family all united in their attentions to our hero, who was now able to ſit up and enjoy their converſation ſome [62] part of every day; and, as he conti⯑nued to mend, their little circle be⯑came extremely cheerful.

Mr. Saville and Captain Mon⯑tague diſcovered, on their farther ac⯑quaintance, that Sir George poſſeſſ⯑ed an excellent heart and a ſuperior underſtanding, and wiſhed to remove thoſe prejudices, which obſcured his virtues and made every good qua⯑lity ſubſervient to their own purpoſes. To effect this, they laid in his way thoſe publications they thought moſt proper for their plan, and obſerved with pleaſure he read them with avidity and apparent conviction. The newſpapers of the day were alſo [63] conſtantly on his table: and learning from them, and particularly from the famous, or rather infamous, ſpeech of Du Pont, that the gene⯑rality of thoſe who betrayed their king denied their God, he was ſeized with a horror inexpreſſible, and, with a quickneſs which diſtin⯑guiſhed all the actions and revolu⯑tions of his mind, he rang the bell; and a ſervant entering, he deſired to ſee Mr. Saville immediately. Mr. Saville, ſurpriſed at this haſty ſum⯑mons, ran up ſtairs, and, perceiving an unuſual degree of emotion in his countenance, enquired what was the matter. Sir George, pointing to the paper, replied: "My good friend, is [64] this true, or is it the trick of party? I know your candour equals your other good qualities, and can depend on your word."

Mr. Saville anſwered coolly, "It was undoubtedly true, and nothing extraordinary; ſince thoſe who could act as they had done muſt expect the ſcene to cloſe for ever in this world, or they would not riſk the terrors of eternity in the next."

Sir George ſhuddered at this reply, and, aſking ſtill farther queſtions, was ſtill more ſhocked to think he had adopted the ſentiments and approved the conduct of atheiſts and infidels— [65] of thoſe to whom murder was ſport, and ſacrilege glory.

Mr. Saville now ſaw this was a proper time to work on his feelings; and repreſenting in a cool diſpaſ⯑ſionate manner the actions of the democrates, from the moment of their gaining an aſcendancy to that ſtain⯑ed with the blood of their guiltleſs and unfortunate monarch, he pro⯑ceeded to inform him, "that whoever led, even in the moſt diſtant way, towards a revolution in this now happy, becauſe innocent, kingdom, would be in a degree anſwerable for all the ills that might follow. Thoſe, Sir George," continued he, "who [66] raiſe a ſpirit of diſcontent only in one man, know not how far the evil may extend, and that it may cauſe a ne⯑ver-ending calamity. As a proof: had you not been induced by the arguments of Mr. Davenport to in⯑fuſe rebellious ſentiments into the minds of thoſe who followed you to this houſe, they would have gone on in their old way, quietly and even happily: Mr. Anneſley would not have been the object of their anger, and conſequently of their vengeance: and, had they not been collected in a body, I ſhould have been ſafe from their attacks; and but for the inter⯑vention of Providence, my brother's activity, and your bravery, what [67] might have been the conſequences! My wife, my child, my property, would all have been loſt!—And for what?"

Sir George, ſtruck with the force of his arguments, and the laſt in particular, wrung his hand, and with much emotion requeſted his pardon.

"You have no pardon, Sir George, to aſk of me," returned Mr. Saville: "you defended me bravely and no⯑bly when you diſcovered their vio⯑lent intentions: but you were the firſt cauſe; and I only wiſh to con⯑vince you of the impropriety of your [68] conduct." He then in a long ſpeech, which it is unneceſſary to repeat, as it contained only the beſt arguments from all thoſe who have ſo ably ex⯑erted their talents for the good of their country, proved to him, beyond a doubt, that a revolution in this kingdom would be its deſtruction, as it had been that of France; and that without the ſame plea—ſince, whatever trivial faults there might be in our Conſtitution, it was, on the whole, the beſt calculated to promote the happineſs of the people in ge⯑neral: that equality was neither to be wiſhed for nor expected, in a country where every man roſe by his merits, and that degree of exertion [69] which gave a ſpirit of emulation, without which, like a ſtagnant pool, we ſhould grow inactive and corrupt; whereas, in the preſent ſtate of the kingdom, every man diſplayed the abilities nature had beſtowed on him, to raiſe him to that ſtation he was conſcious his merit deſerved."

When he had repeated all that occurred to him on the ſubject, and placed Mr. Davenport's character and conduct in its proper light, he concluded by ſaying, "And now, Sir George, are you convinced?"

"Indeed, my beſt friend," replied our hero, "I am; and I bluſh at the recollection of my folly, and at the diſ⯑covering [70] what a dupe I have been made. The few incidents of my journey ought to have opened my eyes; and perhaps they would, had I fallen into the hands of unprejudiced people: but, led aſtray by the apparently amiable idea of univerſal juſtice, charity, benevolence, and religion, I have committed the moſt flagrant crimes againſt them all. As an act of juſ⯑tice, I have oppoſed the laws of my country; as the champion of the poor, I have taken away their com⯑forts, by diſplaying to their view miſeries they were before unacquaint⯑ed with; and, in my univerſal philan⯑thropy, have headed a party of vil⯑lains, and in my enthuſiaſm might [71] (had it not pleaſed Heaven to place before my view the horrors of the action) have deſtroyed the virtuous and the innocent, whilſt I fancied myſelf taking the part of the bene⯑volent and humane. Though ſtrong⯑ly attached to the religion of my country in particular, and of courſe to the Chriſtian religion in general, I have followed, applauded, and admired, thoſe who have renounced it—whoſe crimes, whoſe barbarity, proved they had renounced it; though till this day I knew not that they boldly triumphed in their infidelity, and gloried in denying the exiſtence of a power ſuperior to their own. Mr. Davenport's conduct fills me [72] with diſguſt. I ſee his meanneſs, his duplicity, and am thankful to Hea⯑ven that I did not fall a victim to it; and, on a retroſpection of my own, I have no comfort but in re⯑flecting that I meant not to injure Mr. Anneſley, only to remonſtrate with him on what I then thought his injuſtice: and that with reſpect to yourſelf, from the firſt moment of the party's determining to come to your houſe, I oppoſed them; and, when I found oppoſition vain, only agreed to attend them, from a hope of convincing you that I had taken no active part in releaſing the man you had committed."

[73]"Say no more on this ſubject, I beſeech you, my dear Sir George," returned Mr. Saville; "I have only ſpoken for your good, and only wiſh for your happineſs." Our hero thanked him with the utmoſt ſince⯑rity and the entrance of the ladies; now put an end to the converſa⯑tion.

Conſidering Mr. Saville and Cap⯑tain Montague as his beſt friends, our hero intruſted them with the ſe⯑cret of his unfortunate attachment; nor was Mrs. Saville excluded from his confidence. That lady, who poſſeſſed real good ſenſe and much knowledge of the world, was aſto⯑niſhed [74] at his relation, for he con⯑cealed no circumſtance from them.

"I ſee," ſaid ſhe, "the ar⯑dency of your temper requires a check rather than a ſpur; yet I muſt ſay (though I beg you will not ſuf⯑fer yourſelf to be too much elated by it), that there is a myſtery in all this not eaſily accounted for, and which I would adviſe you to deve⯑lop when your health is reſtored. Call on Mrs. Edgeworth, enquire of her the preciſe time when Miſs More⯑land became an inmate of her fa⯑mily, and the particulars of her con⯑duct whilſt ſhe remained in it Then go to London, and, if you can, trace [75] her through the means of the pawn-broker: ſee her yourſelf; truſt the evidence of nothing but your own ſenſes; and I have ſome hopes this apparently ſtrange affair may be cleared up to your ſatisfaction. There is, Sir George, more conſiſtency in the human character than you perhaps imagine; and it is therefore very improbable that a young woman, ſo amiable in every reſpect as Louiſa muſt have been, from her own ſtory, which was confirmed by the teſti⯑mony of Lady M [...]lbanke and your ſervant James Bever, ſhould all on a ſudden, without any viſible motive, become a diſgrace to her ſex: it is [76] not natural, trace it in what way you will. Had ſhe deſigned to make her fortune by attracting your notice, ſhe would have ſecured the favour of Mr. and Mrs. Thomſon as the leading ſtep to yours. Had ſhe been tempted ſolely by intereſt, ſhe muſt ſurely have ſucceeded better by re⯑lying on your bounty, than by ha⯑zarding her life for the ſake of a few guineas—for more it could not have been. To confeſs the truth, it ap⯑pears to me, that ſome perſon who overheard your converſation took on themſelves her name and cha⯑racter, and thus impoſed on your friends; though, how ſhe could con⯑trive [77] it, I own I am at a loſs to de⯑termine."

Sir George, delighted with this idea, willingly indulged it, and re⯑ſolved to follow her advice the mo⯑ment it was in his power. Indeed the animation this hope gave him con⯑tributed greatly to his recovery; and, in a fortnight from this time, he was well enough to return to Violet Hill, where he wiſhed to ſpend a few days, partly for the purpoſe of paying his intended viſit to Mrs. Edgeworth, and partly becauſe he thought it a civility due to a family from whom he had received many inſtances of friendſhip, and from Mr. Wilmot [78] in particular during his late confine⯑ment.

In the intermediate time, he em⯑ployed himſelf in writing to Lord Milbanke and Mr. Thomſon; to both of whom the account of his reformation was extremely welcome. Indeed the former knew not his po⯑litical ſentiments, till he received the letter in which Mr. Saville gave him a recital of the accident, at the re⯑queſt of Mr. Wilmot. But of Miſs Moreland he ſaid nothing, determined to be fully convinced before he men⯑tioned the ſubject to any but the Sa⯑ville family and Myrtilla. The at⯑tachment between her and Captain [79] Montague gave him real pleaſure; and he gladly undertook to uſe all his intereſt with Mr. Wilmot to gain his conſent to their union. Mr. Da⯑venport quitted the country, on the firſt intelligence of the rencontre be⯑tween our hero and Captain Mon⯑tague, and meant not to return till the man he had ſo much miſled, and might have ſo deeply injured, had left Violet Hill and its neighbour⯑hood.

CHAP. IV.

OUR hero took a grateful and affectionate leave of his friends at Saville Houſe, whom he promiſed to reviſit on his return from town; and accompanied by his faithful ſer⯑vant James Bever, who had paid him the ſtricteſt and moſt unwearied at⯑tention during his confinement, ar⯑rived at Mr. Wilmot's. Roſetta and Fidelia, piqued at not having been invited to Mr. Saville's, and mor⯑tified by the coldneſs of Sir George's replies to their congratulations, be⯑gan [81] to reſign the hopes they had ſo long cheriſhed. But each, fearing that in giving up her own cauſe ſhe might forward that of her ſiſter, formed, mutually but ſecretly, a plan to deſtroy the expectations of each other: but in the mean time a vio⯑lent quarrel ariſing, at firſt, as moſt quarrels do, from a mere trifle, in the height of rage and reſentment, they diſcovered their ſcheme; and, their fury increaſing from this circum⯑ſtance, they ran down into the par⯑lour, where Sir George was ſitting with Myrtilla, who had returned the day after him to Violet Hill. Fi⯑delia entered firſt; but paſſion chok⯑ed her utterance, and, ſtammering [82] out ſome invectives they could not un⯑derſtand, ſhe threw herſelf into a chair, and waited to recover her breath. Roſetta, who was equally enraged, but leſs furious, ſoon followed, and, with that marked ſneer which even the height of reſentment could not ſuppreſs, ſaid, "ſhe ſuppoſed Fide⯑ [...]a had been making her honourable confeſſion of the part ſhe had taken in deſtroying Miſs Moreland's hap⯑pineſs and ruining her character."

Roſetta was a perfect adept in every ſpecies of irony, except that diſtinguiſhed by the name of humour, which is only uſed in pleaſantry; for her irony was of the bittereſt kind: [83] ſhe had learned from her childhood every method of tormenting with her tongue, and was completely ſkill⯑ed in uſing

But at this moment, when her wrath was raiſed to its higheſt pitch, her art in ſome degree forſook her, and, in the pointed ſarcaſms ſhe threw out againſt Fidelia, ſhe too frequently ac⯑cuſed herſelf.

The other was a vixen and a ter⯑magant in the fulleſt ſenſe of the words, though her uſual air was all [84] mildneſs; and in the preſent inſtance, inſtead of ſeeking to defend herſelf, ſhe only thought of pouring her rage on Roſetta; who, growing every mo⯑ment more calm, as her artifice con⯑quered her rage, deſired the aſtoniſh⯑ed and anxious Baronet to hold her ſiſter's hands and ſtop her mouth, and ſhe would explain what had ſo much perplexed him. This requeſt he could not poſſibly comply with; and Fidelia becoming ſtill more fu⯑rious, it was with the utmoſt diffi⯑culty he collected the following par⯑ticulars from the different expreſſions they let fall:

That on making their charitable [85] and benevolent viſit to Mrs. Edge⯑worth to prevent her being any longer impoſed upon, they learnt, to their utter diſmay, that Louiſa had been with her from the time, as near as they could gueſs, of her parting with Sir George: that, as this cir⯑cumſtance would have defeated all their views, they ſaid nothing of the period, but only mentioned the events that had paſſed at Warrington, which they declared Sir George would cor⯑roborate: but wiſhing to prevent their meeting, leſt an eclairciſſement ſhould enſue, they hinted that Sir George was always affected by the ſubject, and avoided it as much as poſſible: they were therefore con⯑vinced [86] in their own minds, that, as this was undoubtedly the real Miſs Moreland, ſhe who had been at Mr. Thomſon's was certainly an impoſ⯑tor. This was the ſubſtance of their information; but each accuſed the other of framing and executing the artifice; alleging, ſhe only conſent⯑ed from a fear of expoſing her ſiſter.

Sir George was too much ſhocked and concerned to attempt a reply; but, darting on them looks of mingled horror and contempt, he ſeized Myr⯑tilla's hand, exclaiming, "Forgive me, dear Miſs Wilmot, for taking this abrupt leave of you; but I can ſtay no longer here, leſt I ſhould fail [87] in the reſpect due to your family, but not due to —". He ſtopped an inſtant in confuſion, and then conti⯑nued: "I ſhall ſee or hear of you at Saville Houſe; in the mean time I will write to your father, apologize for my preſent conduct, and not for⯑get my promiſe to you." Then haſ⯑tily ſhaking her hand, he bade her once more farewell, and left the room.

He ſent for his ſervant, and, order⯑ing his horſe immediately, bade James follow him with his baggage to the Star in the county town; and then rode off inſtantly, and ſoon arrived at Mr. Edgeworth's. On enquiring for his la⯑dy, he was ſhewn into a parlour, where [88] he had ſcarcely time to recover from his agitation before ſhe appeared. After informing her of his name, and apologizing for his intruſion—"Will you, Madam," ſaid he, "allow me to aſk you a few queſtions reſpecting the Miſs Moreland ſo lately a reſi⯑dent in your family?"

"Undoubtedly, Sir," replied the lady; "as many as you pleaſe; though, believe me, I was ſorry to find you and I had both been deceived in her."

"There was ſome miſtake in all that, Madam," cried our hero, "which I wiſh to rectify."

[89]"If the explanation," returned Mrs. Edgeworth, "is in her favour, I ſhall moſt truly rejoice to hear it; for never was there a more prepoſſeſſ⯑ing young woman than Louiſa, and I was ſincerely attached to her till I heard, from ſuch undoubted au⯑thority, ſhe was ſo completely un⯑worthy."

Our hero's eyes ſparkled with pleaſure. "Will you, Madam," ſaid he, "only tell me at what time and at what place you firſt ſaw her? I will then give you my reaſons."

"I was," replied ſhe, "returning from —ſhire with my two eldeſt [90] daughters, whither we had accom⯑panied their late governeſs, who was married to a clergyman; and ſtop⯑ping at — to change horſes, the woman of the houſe came out, and entreated, as it was growing late, that I would proceed no farther that night, as there were highwaymen in the neighbourhood. This terrified the children ſo completely, that for their ſakes, though I was not afraid myſelf, I would not go on, but alighted inſtantly, and ordering tea, the landlady herſelf brought it in: and I then enquired what grounds ſhe had for her ſuſpicion. She re⯑plied, 'A young lady came to her houſe a few hours before, who had [91] been ſtopped, and robbed, ſhe be⯑lieved, of all that ſhe was worth in the world, as ſhe was ſtill in fits, and exclaimed continually ſhe had nei⯑ther money nor friends; that the poſt-boy ſaid ſhe was a foreigner; and added, that he was obliged to re⯑turn without being paid for the chaiſe.'

"Struck with horror and compaſ⯑ſion at this account, I begged to ſee the young lady; and ſhe inſtantly admitted me. As ſhe was now more calm, I learnt that, having loſt her father abroad, ſhe came from France to ſtay with a woman who had taken care of her in her infancy; but that [92] finding her and her huſband both dead, ſhe was on the point of diſ⯑traction, when a gentleman, hearing her diſtreſs, had given her a bank⯑note, and a letter of recommendation to a friend of his to take care of her till ſhe could form ſome plan for her future ſubſiſtence. Theſe were in⯑cloſed in his pocket book, which, for greater ſafety, ſhe placed in her trunk, which was in the carriage then waiting for her; conſequently had only once read the direction, no trace of which now remained on her mind, which ſhe imagined was owing to her being unaccuſtomed to Eng⯑liſh names; and that of her generous benefactor ſhe was ignorant of. That [93] about half way between the place ſhe left and that ſhe was now in, a high⯑wayman ſtopped the carriage: ſhe gave him all that was in her pocket; but, that being only a few ſhillings, he was not ſatisfied, but inſiſted on her opening the trunk, and from thence took the pocket-book and all its contents, leaving her in a ſtate of mind more eaſily imagined than de⯑ſcribed. She added, ſhe was now to⯑tally without friends in this country, or any other; and that ſhe had but one relation in the world—this was a half ſiſter of her father's, whom ſhe had never ſeen ſince her infancy; and as her father, from ſome family quarrel, had kept up no correſpondence with [94] her, ſhe knew not where to find her, and was totally ignorant of every circum⯑ſtance relative to her, except that her maiden name was Moreland. She con⯑cluded her little narrative, every word of which I gave implicit credit to, with an agonizing burſt of tears. Much hurt at her diſtreſs, and fearing the con⯑ſequences of ſo forlorn a ſituation to ſuch youth and beauty, I offered her an aſylum with me for the preſent. She joyfully accepted it, and the next morning arrived at home. In a very ſhort time I diſcovered that ſhe ſpoke the French and Italian languages with the utmoſt propriety, and was a perfect miſtreſs of painting, and every kind of fine work. This gave [95] me more ſatisfaction, as I really be⯑gan to have an affection for her, and it was now in my power to ſecure her a permanent eſtabliſhment as a go⯑verneſs to my girls. She gladly un⯑dertook the taſk, and I every day found greater reaſon to be ſatisfied with her conduct, and their progreſs in all the branches of education ſhe undertook to teach them; till the viſit of the Miſs Wilmots obliged me to part with her. They aſked me the ſame queſtions you have done, and I made them the ſame replies: they then aſſured me, that of the firſt part of her ſtory they knew nothing, but believed it was as falſe as the reſt; ſince you were the gentleman [96] who had given her the letter and mo⯑ney; but that inſtead of loſing it, as ſhe had aſſerted, ſhe had been at Warrington, where her conduct was ſo notoriouſly bad as to render her liable to a proſecution: that ſhe bor⯑rowed ornaments of the ladies to whom your letter had recommended her, and had taken them away, to⯑gether with plate and money to a conſiderable amount from the fa⯑mily ſhe reſided with. On hearing this, I would have queſtioned her; but Mr. Edgeworth, whoſe temper is a little warm, inſiſted on her leaving the houſe directly, and would not let me ſee her, leſt, as he ſaid, ſhe ſhould farther impoſe upon me. He went [97] up to her himſelf, and, without en⯑tering into particulars, only ſaid 'ſhe muſt quit us inſtantly, and the ſooner ſhe went the better, as the gentleman who had ſeen her at church meant to proſecute her for a robbery, wherever he found her.' Terrified at this, ſhe began to excuſe herſelf: but Mr. Edgeworth refuſed to liſten; and, or⯑dering the carriage, he ſent her off in leſs than an hour, and we have heard nothing of her ſince."

Sir George then, with much emo⯑tion, begged to know exactly the day of their meeting; and, learning it, knew it to be that on which he had parted from her at —; con⯑ſequently [98] her innocence was evident. Claſping his hands together in an agony of grief and remorſe, he ex⯑claimed, "Juſt Heaven! what is become of the lovely, the injured Louiſa?"

He then explained the whole af⯑fair to Mrs. Edgeworth, who liſ⯑tened with aſtoniſhment and plea⯑ſure, mingled with a proper degree of contempt for Roſetta's and Fide⯑lia's baſeneſs; "who," ſhe ſaid, "muſt be themſelves aware that the time did not agree, as they had told her it was many weeks ſince the af⯑fair had happened at Warrington, when they muſt be conſcious it was [99] during that period when Miſs More⯑land was reſident under her roof. It will, however, Sir George," conti⯑nued ſhe, "be a leſſon to me in fu⯑ture to take nothing upon truſt, but examine the truth of an accuſation before I pretend to decide."

Sir George agreed with her as to the propriety of this; and then, con⯑vinced he had no chance of gaining any farther intelligence of his beloved Louiſa in this part of the country, determined to ſet out inſtantly for London, and trace the wretch who had robbed her and then aſſumed her name. Yet knowing it was too late to begin his journey that after⯑noon, [100] he refuſed not Mrs. Edge⯑worth's invitation to dinner, and was fully repaid, by hearing the ſin⯑cere teſtimony both that lady and her children paid to her merits. The little girls expreſſed their concern for her loſs, and declared unanimouſly, "though ſhe was always melancholy, ſhe was never out of temper;" whilſt Mrs. Edgeworth ſpoke of her talents, her underſtanding, and principles, in terms of the higheſt and warmeſt praiſe. Mr. Edgeworth was abſent on a viſit: a circumſtance our hero by no means regretted, ſince he would have found it difficult to be cordial to one, the warmth of whoſe diſpoſi⯑tion had led him into an error that [101] had cauſed Sir George ſo much mi⯑ſery. In the evening he returned to his inn; and writing a few lines to Mr. Wilmot to apologize for leaving his houſe ſo abruptly, and a letter to Mr. Thomſon, giving him a conciſe account of the important diſcovery, went to bed with a mind torn by a thouſand contending emotions, deter⯑mining, the next morning as ſoon as it was light, to ſet out on his return to London.

CHAP. V.

BEFORE I relate the events of our hero's journey to town, it will be neceſſary to give my readers a clear account of all that happened to the unfortunate Louiſa from the period of her parting with Sir George; who had not mentioned to her his name, from the deſire he then felt of concealing his title from the world. This he choſe not to explain to her, and therefore was ſilent on the ſub⯑ject; knowing, on her arrival at the vicarage, his plan would be diſco⯑vered, [103] if he had announced himſelf only as Mr. Warrington; and had he at once declared himſelf to be Sir George, the people of the inn could not be ignorant of what he wiſhed to keep ſecret; ſimply forgetting the addreſs on his letters from Mr. Thomſon would at all events fruſ⯑trate his plan.

All the circumſtances Miſs More⯑land had related to Mrs. Edgeworth were exactly true; but it is not eaſy to give a juſt idea of the tranſport ſhe felt, when that lady offered her an aſylum, and ſhe found it poſſible to be uſeful to her in the quality of governeſs: her tranquillity returned, [104] and her happineſs increaſed every hour, as ſhe every hour grew more attached to Mrs. Edgeworth and her amiable daughters. Of Mr. Edge⯑worth ſhe ſaw little but at meals: he was a mere ſportſman, rough in his manners, and unfeeling almoſt to brutality: his behaviour to his wife and family was ſufficient to give her a diſguſt to him, though to her, till the interview preceding their ſepara⯑tion, he had always behaved with as much civility as he was capable of. Nothing interrupted the calm ſerenity of her life but a wiſh to know the name and addreſs of her generous benefactor, that ſhe might again expreſs the gratitude ſhe felt, [105] and inform him of the true reaſon why ſhe had not availed herſelf of his benevolent offer, fearing, too juſt⯑ly, he might accuſe her of having acted with duplicity. Without be⯑ing guilty of the weakneſs of falling in love at firſt ſight, he had made ſome impreſſion on her heart: ſhe ſtill retained his image in her mind, and, by comparing it with the gentle⯑men who viſited at Mr. Edgeworth's, it ſoon acquired an ideal ſuperiority; for of his real character ſhe could only know he was benevolent and humane, and this his conduct to⯑wards her had fully proved.

The joy ſhe felt on meeting him [106] at church was mingled with embar⯑raſſment, from her ſcarcely know⯑ing how to begin her juſtification; and this gave her an appearance of guilt, the conſciouſneſs of which ſhe was far from feeling: but the inſo⯑lent ſpeech of Fidelia overthrew the little courage ſhe had been ſtruggling to obtain; and, before ſhe could re⯑cover, they had both left the church. Apprehenſion, though ſhe knew not of what—diſappointment, and mor⯑tification, now completely ſubdued her; and, as the Miſs Edgeworths had declared, when called on for their evidence, they could ſcarcely keep her from fainting during their ride home; and, arriving there, ſhe reach⯑ed [107] her chamber with difficulty. Ca⯑roline Edgeworth, who loved her ten⯑derly, gave her ſome drops, and ſtaid with her till ſummoned to the par⯑lour, whither ſhe went with the leſs reluctance as Miſs Moreland was conſiderably better. But this amend⯑ment laſted not long: Mr. Edge⯑worth in a few minutes entered her apartment, and, in a voice choked with rage, bade her leave his houſe, accuſing her alternately of theft and impoſture. It was in vain ſhe de⯑clared her innocence, and begged to know who had vilified her. He re⯑plied ſullenly, "It was no matter; but that thus far he would tell her— the gentleman ſhe had ſeen at [108] church would ſwear before any ma⯑giſtrate in the kingdom, that ſhe had robbed him of plate, money, and jewels, to a conſiderable amount; ſo ſhe had beſt get off as faſt as ſhe could, for he would proſecute her wherever he found her."

"For Heaven's ſake!" exclaimed the diſtracted Louiſa, "tell me his name, that I may apply to him in perſon, and juſtify myſelf; for in⯑deed, indeed, I am innocent; there is ſome terrible miſtake in all this."

"No no," cried Mr. Edgeworth, "there is no miſtake; he ſaw you himſelf, and could not ſay his pray⯑ers [109] for thinking about it. As to his name, that's all a fetch—you know it as well as I do—ſo pack up your things and be off, d'ye hear, within this hour, or the conſtables will be after you. The carriage ſhall take you to —, and that's more than you deſerve; but you had as good not ſtay there, I can tell you."

He then left the room, diſregard⯑ing her tears, and her entreaties that he would liſten to her if but for a mo⯑ment. The agony ſhe was in for ſome time prevented her from taking any ſteps towards her removal; but terror at length overcame every other ſenſation, and ſhe collected her little [110] wardrobe. Whilſt locking her trunk, ſhe heard the carriage drive to the door; and at that moment Caroline, entering the room on tiptoe as if afraid of being overheard, ran up to her, and, embracing her affectionate⯑ly, gave her a paper.—"Mamma ſends you this," cried ſhe; "ſhe muſt not come herſelf, but ſhe wiſhes you well, and hopes you are inno⯑cent; and, if not, that you will never be guilty again. I do not very well know what is the matter; but I am ſure I am ſorry to part with you."

"God bleſs you, my dear Caro⯑line!" replied Louiſa in broken ac⯑cents. "Indeed I am guilty of no [111] crime, nor can I gueſs what I am ac⯑cuſed of."

The footman now entered for her trunks, and Caroline, once more em⯑bracing her, left the room ſobbing violently; and Louiſa, with extreme agitation, followed the ſervant down ſtairs, and, entering the carriage, in a ſhort time arrived at the inn; but, fearful of remaining, ordered a poſt⯑chaiſe, and in the mean time ſat down to conſider whither ſhe ſhould go, and what method ſhe could take to avoid falling into the hands of her cruel perſecutor—for ſuch ſhe now too juſtly eſteemed our hero. On opening the paper given her by Ca⯑roline, [112] ſhe found it contained a twenty pound note; and this re⯑moving ſome of her fears, by ſup⯑plying her with preſent ſupport, ſhe returned her warmeſt thanks to Hea⯑ven for not abandoning her in this hour of diſtreſs, and then mental⯑ly acknowledged Mrs. Edgeworth's kindneſs; and as ſhe had ſeveral guineas already in her pocket, ap⯑prehenſive of a misfortune ſimilar to that ſhe had before experienced, ſhe diſpoſed of the note and three gui⯑neas in a way not likely to be diſ⯑covered, by faſtening them within the lining of her beaver hat: and then, believing ſhe ſtood more in need of countenance and protection than [113] even on her firſt arrival in England, it occurred to her to go to the farm formerly occupied by her old nurſe, and enquire whether ſhe had any re⯑lations now living, as their recom⯑mendation might be uſeful to her, and ſhe ſhould probably want no⯑thing elſe. Unlocking her box, ſhe took out a parcel of Mrs. Garland's letters, to identify her if required, and reſolved, when once made known to them, to change her name, that ſhe might be concealed from the know⯑ledge of our hero. Having ſettled this, her mind grew eaſier; and, when the chaiſe was ready, ſhe or⯑dered it to the next ſtage towards the northern road. But, on her arrival, [114] ſhe grew ſo extremely ill as to be wholly unable to continue her jour⯑ney; the agitation of her mind throw⯑ing her into a fever, which laſted her ſeveral days: towards the latter end of the week ſhe recovered, and, pur⯑ſuing her firſt plan, about four o'clock on the Friday afternoon reached the place of her deſtination, having taken the name of Weſtern, and affixed the ſame direction on her portmanteau.

She would not ſtop at the little inn where ſhe had before met our hero: it revived too many painful recollections; but, ordering the man to drive to the end of the ſtreet neareſt [115] the farm, ſhe alighted, and, bidding him wait, walked through a meadow to the houſe. In her way ſhe met a labourer, and enquiring the farmer's name, he ſaid it was Johnſon: ſhe then aſked if he was at home, and was anſwered in the affirmative. On this ſhe walked on, and, repeating her queſtion, was ſhewn by a girl into a very decent parlour, where the firſt object that ſtruck her eyes was a piece of her own needle-work, framed and glazed, hanging over the chim⯑ney, which ſhe had ſent her nurſe when a girl about twelve years old. The recollection drew tears into her eyes, and, when the farmer entered, ſhe could ſcarcely ſpeak.

[116]With a ruſtic bow he enquired her commands, and ſhe replied, by aſking if he had had poſſeſſion of the farm ever ſince the death of the for⯑mer tenant.

"Yes, Madam," anſwered he.

"Then perhaps you can inform me, whether farmer Garland or his wife left any near relations, and where they at preſent reſide."

"She was my ſiſter, Madam," re⯑turned he; "but, excepting myſelf and a couſin or two, ſhe left no kin⯑dred at all."

Louiſa now believed ſhe traced a [117] diſtant reſemblance; and, her tears ſtill flowing—"Did you never," ſaid ſhe, "hear her ſpeak of a little girl ſhe ſuckled, Louiſa Moreland?"

"Ay," cried he, "many a time and oft: 'twas ſhe that worked that fine picture yonder, and poor Mary uſed to grieve ſo about her in her laſt illneſs, becauſe ſhe had heard nothing of her for a long time, and ſaid ſhe was among outlandiſh people and pa⯑piſhes; for Mary loved her like her own child."

Miſs Moreland, quite ſubdued by this inſtance of tenderneſs, replied in a faltering voice—"I am that [118] Louiſa; theſe letters (taking them from her pocket) will prove to you I am no impoſtor: that picture, as you ſay, was worked by my own hand; my name and age are at the back, with the date of the year."

"So it is, indeed," cried the far⯑mer in much ſurpriſe; "you are young Madam Moreland, to be ſure; but what, Miſs, did you not know our Mary and her huſband were dead?"

"Oh yes," returned ſhe weeping, "I knew it too well; I learnt it ſome time ſince; and now you ſhall hear my buſineſs with you. I am in great [119] diſtreſs, but it is not for money; of that I have ſufficient for my preſent ſupport: but I have no where to go, no friend in the world; and I am too young, too unprotected, to live by myſelf. If you have a wife and fa⯑mily, let me board with you for a ſhort time, till I can form ſome plan for my future ſubſiſtence: perhaps even in that reſpect you can aſſiſt me, by recommending me to a place where I may gain a decent living. I aſk only your protection."

She pauſed, impatiently expecting his reply: he was ſilent for ſome mi⯑nutes: at laſt, "I am very ſorry, Miſs," ſaid he, "for your misfor⯑tunes, [120] and wiſh I was able to do as you would have me; but, to tell you the truth, the grey mare is the better horſe here, and my wife won't ap⯑prove of your living with us, and that: beſides, we have no gentry here⯑about, where you could go to ſer⯑vice; being as they're all ſingle men, as comes down once or twice a year a-hunting and ſhooting and the like, with their fine Miſſes and Madams: but now I think on't, you ben't ſo friendleſs as you do believe; for 'twas but laſt Tueſday night a gentleman's ſarvent was enquiring for you; and when I ſaid my ſiſter as nurſed you was dead, and that you had never been here, the footman ſaid, 'his [121] maſter would be ſo ſorry, he did not like to go back with ſuch bad news."

Louiſa trembled. "Will that mercileſs man," exclaimed ſhe, "ne⯑ver ceaſe to perſecute me! Tell me, my good friend, whoſe ſervant it was?"

"Indeed, Miſs, I never thought to ax, not expecting to ſee you here; but never fear—he'll come again, I warrant him —for he ſaid his maſter would never reſt till he had found you."

"Good Heaven!" cried ſhe, "what will then become of me! Where ſhall [122] I go for ſafety and protection! — for here I muſt not ſtay, even if they would permit me."

The good farmer was much moved by her diſtreſs, though believing it only aroſe from his refuſing her an aſylum. "I'll tell you what I can do, Miſs," ſaid he; "you ſhall bide here for a fortnight; and then I'm a-go⯑ing farther down the country a good way to arreſt a man that owes me for a matter of fifty head of oxen: now I ſhall not be far from a couſin of mine and poor Mary's, that lives in a very ſober family as houſekeeper: now I'll take you to her behind me, if ſo be as you can ride double; and [123] ſhe is ſuch a good woman, I am ſure ſhe will take care of you for Mary's ſake."

Louiſa joyfully accepted an offer in many reſpects ſo eligible, and which would, as ſhe hoped, convey her far from thoſe ſhe had moſt rea⯑ſon to fear; and was received by Mrs. Johnſon with tolerable civility. The farmer himſelf, at her requeſt, undertook to diſcharge the chaiſe and take care of her trunks. She paſſed the fortnight with more tranquillity than ſhe expected, though not with⯑out many fears that the footman farmer Johnſon had ſpoken of would return; and on the appointed day, [124] tying up a few neceſſaries in a bundle, and equipping herſelf as properly as ſhe could for her new expedition, ſhe ſet out behind the farmer, leaving her clothes to be forwarded if her appli⯑cation ſucceeded. Here then for a while let us leave Louiſa and return to our hero.

CHAP. VI.

WHEN Sir George aroſe in the morning, it occurred to him that James Bever, being well acquainted with the perſon of Louiſa, might be employed in ſearching for her dur⯑ing his ſtay in town; and now, for the firſt time, imparted to him all that had paſſed, lamented his own credulity, and execrated the baſeneſs of the younger Wilmots, yet cau⯑tioned him againſt mentioning their names. James heard him with grief and aſtoniſhment, and, forgetting [126] his maſter had only ſeen her for a few hours, wondered he could poſſibly believe ſhe was guilty of ſuch de⯑praved conduct; but he ſaw how deeply he ſuffered already, and avoid⯑ed ſaying any thing that might add to his diſtreſs.

The firſt hope of Sir George was to trace her through the means of the poſtillion who had driven her from the inn he was now at, as Mrs. Edgeworth, to aſſiſt his enquiries, had informed him her carriage had conveyed her there; but this hope was vain. The landlord recollected the circumſtance inſtantly, but ſaid "the man had ſince left his ſervice, and [127] was gone he knew not whither." All that could now be done was to enquire at the next ſtage every way. This was a work of time: James Bever, however, gladly undertook it, hoping to reſtore the amiable Louiſa; and, promiſing to write to our hero at Lord Milbanke's if any fortunate event occurred, he ſet out at the ſame moment that our hero got into the carriage that was to convey him to London.

He proceeded inſtantly to Lord Milbanke's, and, fortunately finding them without company, related every occurrence reſpecting Miſs More⯑land that had come to his know⯑ledge; [128] candidly confeſſing the part he had acted, at the ſame time excuſ⯑ing himſelf by ſhewing the letter of Mr. Thomſon, which, as he knew not of the robbery, was a teſtimony not to be doubted. The affliction of Lady Milbanke was evident and ſin⯑cere; and his Lordſhip, though he had not the ſame reaſon, was deeply concerned at the relation, and the dread of what Louiſa's ſufferings might be in future, forlorn and un⯑protected as ſhe was. He promiſed our hero to join him in every exertion for her reſtoration, and hoped much from James Bever, who was not only a well-principled diligent fellow, but particularly anxious for the fate of [129] Miſs Moreland, from having once been inſtrumental to her preſerva⯑tion.

The following morning, the gen⯑tlemen ſet out on the expedition in which, next to regaining Louiſa, they were moſt intereſted. This was to ſolve the apparent enigma of the rob⯑bery; and for this purpoſe they went to the pawnbroker's, and, threatening him with a proſecution for receiv⯑ing ſtolen goods if he did not con⯑feſs from whom he had thoſe articles he formerly reſigned to our hero, he inſtantly complied; and giving them a direction to Kitty Harris in the Seven Dials, they went immediately [130] in ſearch of her. On arriving at the houſe, they were ſent up ſtairs by a woman in the ſhop; and, entering a miſerable apartment, found the ob⯑ject of their enquiry the victim of ſickneſs and poverty, and ſo ſitu⯑ated as in their humane hearts pre⯑cluded all idea of revenge. On their opening the door, ſhe lifted up her languid head, and, in a voice ſcarcely audible, demanded their buſineſs. Our hero was too much ſhocked to reply; but Lord Milbanke, whoſe longer acquaintance with the world had rendered theſe ſcenes leſs ſtrange to him, aſked "if ſhe was the young woman who at Warrington had taken the name of Moreland?" She looked [131] terrified at this queſtion; which our hero perceiving, told her, in a mild accent, "ſhe had nothing to fear; they only begged ſhe would relate all ſhe knew of the circumſtance he al⯑luded to." With ſtill greater con⯑fuſion ſhe promiſed to comply; but her voice failed through mere weak⯑neſs, and ſhe then aſſured him ſhe had not taſted food that day. On hearing this, Lord Milbanke, fearing ſhe would not be able to go through with the ſtory, ran down ſtairs, and diſpatched a boy from the ſhop to the next tavern for a bottle of wine and a cold chicken. When he returned, ſhe took a little of the latter, and drank a glaſs of wine, and, appear⯑ing [132] much revived, inſtantly began her narrative; but, as we are better acquainted with ſome of the facts than ſhe was herſelf, we beg leave to give it in our own words.

Kitty Harris was the daughter of an inferior tradeſman in the Bo⯑rough; but the ambition of her fa⯑ther and the vanity of her mother inducing them to ſend her to a more eminent ſchool than ſhe had any right to be educated at, ſhe imbibed higher ideas, and cheriſhed higher hopes, than ſhe had any proſpect of gratifying, though in perſon ſhe was really pretty and rather genteel. Her parents, on her return, ſaw their [133] error, but knew not how to remedy it. Kitty now wanted finer clothes than they had any means of ſupply⯑ing her with, and languiſhed for amuſements ſhe was far removed from. When they wanted her to ſtand behind the counter, ſhe ſullenly refuſed; and, when they threatened her with puniſhment, replied, "ſhe would run away from them;" but of this they had no fear, well aſſured ſhe had no where to run to. But this was not the caſe long. To obtain finery was now her ſole object; and, to en⯑able her to purchaſe it, ſhe made no ſcruple of robbing her father's till from time to time of ſuch ſmall ſums as might not be miſſed. This led [134] her to ſtill greater crimes, as it en⯑abled her to dreſs, and afford the expence of public places; and a com⯑panion was only wanting; for ſhe well knew her father and mother would not let her go alone. With⯑out much difficulty ſhe made a friend⯑ſhip with a young woman who lodg⯑ed in the ſame ſtreet, whoſe nominal profeſſion was a mantua-maker. With her ſhe paſſed moſt of her time, and with her went to the plays, and ſuch places as her pocket would af⯑ford; and at them increaſed her ac⯑quaintance conſiderably. The gra⯑dations of vice are at firſt ſcarcely perceptible; but its conſequences are dreadful and certain. Kitty Harris [135] ſoon formed a connection with a young apprentice; and influenced by the example of her companion, the regularity of her father's houſe be⯑came irkſome, and ſhe conſented to elope with him. He placed her in a ſmall lodging in Oxford-ſtreet; and, thus far removed, there was little probability of her parents tracing her; and for ſome time ſhe lived in comparative affluence. But this ſoon ended: the young man was recalled to the country by his friends; and taking a French leave of Kitty, ſhe was deeply involved in diſtreſs and poverty, aſhamed to return to her abandoned home, yet afraid of the horrors of a priſon, as the miſtreſs of [136] the houſe threatened to arreſt her for the rent. This, however, ſhe eſ⯑caped; and, meeting with another pro⯑tector, who was journeyman in a ca⯑pital warehouſe, was again lifted to a ſituation ſimilar to that ſhe had been in before. But whether in poverty or affluence, the native depravity of her principles never ſuffered her to be inactive; and ſhe was only guilty of petty thefts, becauſe, though her genius led her to higher crimes, for⯑tune had not yet given her an oppor⯑tunity to exert it.

It happened, as it uſually does happen, that her keeper, unable ho⯑neſtly to ſupport the expence of a [137] miſtreſs and a couple of horſes, took the liberty of applying to his maſter's till; and this being at length ſuſpect⯑ed, he was diſcarded with ignominy. But as no poſitive proof appeared, he for this time eſcaped the puniſh⯑ment he merited; and, being deprived of all other means of ſupport, took to the highway, where he gained a precarious livelihood; but, fearing a diſcovery if he conſtantly frequented the ſame places, he ſet out with two or three more on a country expedi⯑tion. They picked up among them a capital ſum, and, then diſperſing, took different roads to London.

This young man, after riding all [138] night, came in about ſix in the morn⯑ing to the little public-houſe where our hero met Miſs Moreland; and waiting till his horſe was reſted and he had taken ſome breakfaſt, being too far removed from the ſcene of his depredations even to fear ſuſpicion, he overheard the converſation that paſſed between them, and witneſſed (for the door was a-jar) the gift of the pocket-book, and learnt its contents. A capital prize was now in view, and he determined it ſhould not eſcape him. He called for his horſe, and, waiting to hear which way the car⯑riage was ordered, ſet out ſoon after, and, purpoſely riding ſlow, would not overtake it till he had reached a ſpot [139] conveniently lonely for his purpoſe. The robbery was effected without any trouble, for the terrified Louiſa yielded it up without remonſtrance; and he rode off highly ſatisfied with his expedition.

On his arrival at London, which was not immediately, as he ſtaid ſome little time on the road, he flew to Kitty's lodgings, related all his ſuc⯑ceſs, flung a few guineas into her lap, and, opening the pocket-book, took out the bank-note and ſecured it; broke the ſeal of the letter, and, finding it contained nothing of value, threw it on the fire; but the pocket⯑book itſelf, which was very hand⯑ſome, [140] having a gold lock and ſilver inſtruments, he alſo preſented to Kitty; and, then riſing, ſaid 'he muſt meet his old friends at the uſual place, as he had promiſed.'

The curioſity of woman never ſleeps. When he was gone, ſhe took the letter from the fire, which for⯑tunately was almoſt out, and it had received no injury except a little duſt, and began peruſing it. When ſhe had finiſhed, the poſſibility of per⯑ſonating Miſs Moreland occurred to her; and ſhe determined to attempt it, allured by the hopes of gain, as the injunction to Mr. Thomſon to ſupply Louiſa with any ſums ſhe [141] might require induced her to believe it might be a profitable journey; and the intended abſence of Sir George afforded her a ſufficient time to com⯑plete her plans. On looking at the date, ſhe ſaw only a few days had elapſed, and reſolved inſtantly to put her ſcheme in execution, and that without ſaying a word to any one. The next morning, therefore, leav⯑ing a meſſage with her landlady that ſhe was gone into the country for a day or two, ſhe ſet out in one of the northern coaches, and arrived at Mr. Thomſon's in ſafety, giving him as a reaſon for not being there accord⯑ing to the date of the letter, that [142] ſhe had been detained on the road by illneſs, which had conſumed the lit⯑tle pittance beſtowed by Sir George.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomſon gave implicit belief to this account, ex⯑erted themſelves for her comfort and accommodation, and introduced her to all the friends of Sir George, by whom ſhe was received with particu⯑lar civility, though not with particu⯑lar ſatisfaction. Miſs Kettering, hav⯑ing loſt all hopes of the Baronet, at⯑tached herſelf to the pretended Lou⯑iſa, wiſhing to form a laſting inti⯑macy; ſince, next to being Lady Warrington herſelf, to be Lady War⯑rington's [143] choſen friend was the ſtep now to be obtained; and this wiſh actuated many others.

Till I knew the world as well as I do at preſent, it was ſometimes a ſub⯑ject of wonder to me, conſidering the envy and jealouſy that too often per⯑vade the boſoms of the fairer ſex, that young ladies, apparently neglect⯑ing their own intereſt, attended ſole⯑ly to that of their acquaintance: but the myſtery was ſoon developed: to be the friend of the Ducheſs, Mar⯑chioneſs, or Counteſs, is a much eaſier attainment than to be Ducheſs, Marchioneſs, or Counteſs, yourſelf; and perhaps the kind friend whom [144] you may have aſſiſted may aſſiſt you in turn, though in an humbler purſuit.

Kitty now endeavoured to recol⯑lect and practiſe all the refinement ſhe had learned at the boarding-ſchool: but in vain; for ſhe had ſince imbibed much coarſeneſs of manner, and could not wholly check it, though ſhe did in part; and, aſ⯑ſuming a great degree of vivacity, concealed from moſt of the inha⯑bitants of Bellingham the natural vulgarity of her language and ad⯑dreſs. But Miſs Carruther, edu⯑cated in real high life, and having lived ſo long among really faſhion⯑able [145] people, was not to be deceived. She thought it ſtrange; but endea⯑voured to perſuade herſelf it was in Miſs Moreland the effects of a con⯑vent education, and the want of knowing Engliſh cuſtoms; for Kitty, by finding out Miſs Carruther's weak ſide, and accommodating herſelf to her foibles, was become a peculiar favourite. In converſation ſhe al⯑ways addreſſed her in this way— "Emily, my dear girl, how good you are to a forlorn ſtranger like me:" and this appellation, "dear girl," was very liberally beſtowed by the artful impoſtor; and it ſucceeded but too well, as the reader is already in⯑formed: therefore to dwell longer on [146] theſe circumſtances would be unne⯑ceſſary.

When Mr. Thomſon, in the good⯑neſs of his heart, mentioned the re⯑turn of the Saxbys, whoſe ſervants, he ſuppoſſed from the contents of Sir George's letter, ſhe would be ſo hap⯑py to ſee, ſhe was panic-ſtruck by the apprehenſion of diſcovery, and determined to leave the country with whatever ſhe could pick up; but before this ſcheme was put into exe⯑cution, ſhe was told Mrs. Saxby had diſcharged both James and Lucy for the aſſiſtance they had afforded her; and this, by renewing her hopes, induced her to alter her plan.

[147]A few days after this, ſhe met Mr. Saxby accidentally. He had learned ſhe was in the country, and introduced himſelf by apologizing for the conduct of his wife, and hinted a wiſh that ſhe had claimed his protection inſtead of his ſervants, "as he ſhould have been happy in devoting his future life to her.'

She replied, with extreme cour⯑teſy, that "even now his protection would not be unacceptable;" and he was too gallant not to take a hint ſo fairly given. In ſhort, a few meet⯑ings more ſettled their ſcheme; and it was agreed he ſhould meet her on the road from Sir William Arling⯑ton's, [148] and take her to London. This was effected as has been already deſcribed, and they ſet off together; but their harmony was not of long continuance. Mr. Saxby detected her in an attempt to ſecure his purſe, and diſcarded her with the ignominy ſhe merited. Kitty then returned to her former lodgings, and, enquir⯑ing for her old lover, learned he was apprehended for a burglary which he had committed during her coun⯑try excurſion, and it was ſuppoſed he would be condemned. Diſtracted at this information, ſhe flew to the priſon, and, diſpoſing of all her ill⯑gotten treaſure to the pawnbroker, who gave her a trifle compared to [149] their real value, promiſing a far⯑ther ſum when they were ſold, ſhe gave it to her unfortunate lover, to ſecure, if poſſible, his ſafety. In the mean time Sir George viſited the pawnbroker, and ſhe was glad to accept the ten guineas, leſt her life alſo ſhould be endangered. But this as well as the reſt of the money ſhe could raiſe was ineffectual: her lover was brought in guilty, and ſoon after ſuffered the puniſhment ſo juſtly his due. Kitty then, having diſpoſed even of her wearing apparel to pro⯑cure him the few indulgencies he re⯑quired, fell into poverty and ſick⯑neſs; for her conſtitution, weakened by diſſipation and her attendance [150] on him, could not reſiſt the attacks of a ſlow fever, under which ſhe was ſinking when Lord Milbanke and our hero paid her this apparently un⯑welcome viſit.

Except palliating a few circum⯑ſtances and excuſing others, ſhe re⯑lated the above hiſtory with tolerable preciſion; and Sir George, far from proſecuting his intended revenge, now only thought how he might re⯑lieve her. He drew out his purſe, and, cautioning her againſt a relapſe into vice (for ſhe proſeſſed herſelf a ſincere penitent), gave her ſufficient for her preſent exigencies. Lord Milbanke then aſked a direction to [151] her parents, and enquired if ſhe would return to them? "They will not re⯑ceive me, I fear," replied ſhe, her eyes ſtreaming with tears. "That we will enquire," returned Lord Mil⯑banke, greatly affected; "and, if ſucceſsful, you ſhall hear from us again tomorrow." She endeavoured to expreſs her thanks: but her voice failed; and, before ſhe could articu⯑late, they had left the room.

They went directly to the Borough; and painting the ſcene they had wit⯑neſſed in the moſt pathetic colours to Mr. Harris and his wife, they conſented to receive their miſerable child; and when reſentment for her [152] crimes had ſubſided, parental ten⯑derneſs overcame them, and they would have gone to her inſtantly: but this Lord Milbanke would not permit; he ſaid, "in her ſtate of health, ſuch a ſurpriſe might be fa⯑tal; but he would prepare her to re⯑ceive them the following morning." He then gently hinted, that all her errors were originally the effects of an education improper for her ſta⯑tion in life: to this they aſſented, and promiſed to atone for it by every effort in their power, to reſtore their unhappy child to health, to virtue, and conſequently to happineſs.

On leaving the Borough, they went [153] once more to the poor girl, and in⯑formed her that the next day ſhe might expect her parents, who had promiſed not only to receive but for⯑give her; and then entreated ſhe would cautiouſly avoid the ſlighteſt temptations to vice, and perſevere in a ſtrict penitence. In a tranſport of gratitude ſhe fell on her knees, and, after thanking them for recon⯑ciling her to her father and mother, declared, in the moſt ſolemn manner, "ſhe would ſtrictly adhere to their ad⯑vice," aſſuring them that "the miſer⯑able and untimely end of the man with whom ſhe had lived ſo long had its proper effect on her mind, [154] by proving the folly as well as the danger of unprincipled conduct."

They now left her, and had the following day the ſatisfaction of hear⯑ing ſhe was removed home with leſs difficulty than from her weak ſtate could have been expected; and our hero, incloſing a bank-note, wrote a few lines to the father, deſiring it might be appropriated to procuring her every aſſiſtance her melancholy ſituation required. He thus acquit⯑ted his conſcience with reſpect to Kitty Harris, who certainly deſerved not ſo much attention, if the rules of juſtice were only to be conſidered; [155] but Sir George Warrington always remembered,

And his own boſom proved,

CHAP. VII.

OUR hero now meant to devote every hour to the ſearch for Louiſa, in which Lord Milbanke intended to aſſiſt; but their plan was fruſtrated by a letter from Mr. Thomſon, in⯑forming him that his ſteward was dangerouſly ill, and wiſhed if poſ⯑ſible to ſee him before his end, to reſign all his accounts into his own hands. This requeſt, though it came very mal à-propos, Sir George reſolved inſtantly to comply with; and, taking a haſty leave of his uncle [157] and aunt, ſet out the ſame day: but, on his arrival late in the evening, heard Mr. Wharton was ſo much re⯑covered as to be out of danger; the gout, which had been flying from his head to his ſtomach, being now ſet⯑tled into a regular fit. He would not, therefore, viſit him that night; but the next morning went to his houſe, which was ſituated in the park, and, after ſtaying with him a ſhort time, proceeded to Mr. Thomſon's, with whom he ſpent the remainder of the day, converſing on paſt events, and mutually regretting the impo⯑ſition that had been practiſed, ſince the conſequences were ſo unfortu⯑nate. But the good Vicar ſincerely [158] rejoiced to ſee his young friend ſo much improved in mind and perſon, and to learn from himſelf, that his underſtanding was cleared from thoſe errors which had overclouded it when they parted. Indeed his im⯑provement in every reſpect was too viſible to eſcape notice. An ac⯑quaintance with the faſhionable world, the ſociety of informed and poliſhed men, of amiable and ele⯑gant women, had given a dignity to his own manners and addreſs, and a refinement to his language and con⯑verſation, that had been only want⯑ing to render him a complete gentle⯑man; and Mr. Thomſon had now the ſatisfaction of beholding him all [159] he wiſhed. His attachment to the beautiful Miſs Moreland had alſo contributed its ſhare to this altera⯑tion in our hero: perhaps, indeed, love alone might have effected it; and Louiſa, like Iphigenia, without any foreign aid might have poliſhed this ruſtic Cymon—"a ſwain" (for he was not a clown) "who never dreamt of love."

When our hero returned home, about eleven o'clock at night, the converſation of the day had ſo ſtrong⯑ly impreſſed the image of Louiſa on his mind, that, certain he could not reſt till his thoughts had taken ano⯑ther turn, he diſmiſſed the ſervant [160] who attended him, ſaying "he ſhould read for an hour or two," and bade the man go to bed. On opening a book that lay on the table, he found it was not congenial to his preſent ſentiments, and reſolved to look for another. No other, however, was in his apartment; and, taking up the candle, he walked ſlowly and ſilently along the gallery, at the other end of which was the library, leſt he ſhould diſturb the family, who he imagined were all quiet. But a faint light flaſhing acroſs at a diſtance convinced him he was miſtaken. On approaching nearer, he ſaw it pro⯑ceeded from the ſtudy-door, which was half open; and, on looking in, [161] ſaw a tall figure in white, with a light in her hand, at the farther end of the room, taking down a book from one of the higher ſhelves. He was ſtartled, but not terrified, at this appearance, well convinced it was none of his own family: but what were his emotions when, on her turn⯑ing half round, he diſcovered his long loſt, long regretted Louiſa! Surpriſe for a moment totally over⯑came him; he diſbelieved the evidence of his ſenſes, and almoſt imagined that the wildneſs of his fancy had raiſed an illuſive form to cheat him into momentary happineſs. But an⯑xious for conviction, and forgetting the place, the hour, and the terror [162] he muſt excite, he threw open the door, and, flying towards her, caught her in his arms, exclaiming—"Have I then found you, moſt beloved, moſt adored of women!" He could ſay no more: a loud ſcream from Louiſa at once convinced him of the folly of his conduct; and ſhe fell ſenſeleſs at his feet. The alarm brought Mrs. Newel the houſe⯑keeper from her apartment; and, ter⯑rified at the appearance of her maſ⯑ter and the ſituation of Miſs More⯑land, ſhe ſummoned the other ſer⯑vants, and, calling for drops, endea⯑voured to reſtore her to life; but in vain: her diſorder reſiſted all the efforts of medicine; and our hero [163] walked the apartment in an agony of grief and deſpair. After repeated applications, ſhe ſhewed ſome ſigns of returning ſenſe, and in the ſame degree Sir George found his hopes revive.

When tolerably recovered, he gen⯑tly approached her; but on his at⯑tempting to ſpeak, he was interrupt⯑ed by her addreſſing him with a mix⯑ture of apprehenſion and dignity— "Why, Sir, do you thus perſecute a defenceleſs and unhappy being, who is not conſcious of having ever offended you? You have already driven me from one ſecure aſylum, and deprived me of the only friend [164] the whole world afforded me. Do not again force me to ſeek another refuge; at leaſt tell me what it is you accuſe me of—inform me how I have injured you?"

Mrs. Newel's ſurpriſe was ex⯑treme: ſhe thought the fright had deprived her of reaſon; but Sir George's anſwer calmed her terror. He threw himſelf at Louiſa's feet, and beſought her to hear him.

"You have," ſaid he, "indeed been cruelly treated, but believe me I was innocent: it was the Miſs Wil⯑mots who, under the maſk of juſ⯑tice and benevolence, vilified you to [165] Mrs. Edgeworth: but ſhe as well as myſelf is now undeceived; and if, Miſs Moreland, you can condeſcend to forgive a man who has been un⯑deſignedly the cauſe of your misfor⯑tunes, my future life ſhall be de⯑voted to proving the ſincerity of my repentance, and the extent of my gratitude."

Miſs Moreland's aſtoniſhment was extreme, and her anxiety to under⯑ſtand his meaning was no leſs: but it was too late for an explanation that night: he promiſed in the morn⯑ing to relate every thing, but en⯑treated ſhe would then retire, as he ſaw her ſpirits were ſtill too much [166] agitated to bear any farther conver⯑ſation. She complied with his re⯑queſt, and, attended by Mrs. Newel, went to her apartment. Sir George alſo returned to his, but was unable for ſome time to compoſe himſelf.

Let me now account to my rea⯑ders for the unexpected appearance of Louiſa at Warrington Caſtle.

During her journey with farmer Johnſon, ſhe entreated ſhe might be introduced to his relation by the name of Weſtern; alleging ſhe had very ſtrong reaſons for wiſhing to be unknown; and with this requeſt he complied. On his arrival at War⯑rington [167] Caſtle, where his couſin was houſekeeper, he related all he knew of her ſtory—ſaid "ſhe had been ſuckled by his ſiſter, but had not a friend in all England"—and begged her protection for a time, and that ſhe would, if poſſible, recommend her to ſome way of life where ſhe might gain an honeſt livelihood. This was the ſum of the good farmer's ſpeech to Mrs. Newel, whilſt the trembling Louiſa waited in the park to hear what her recep⯑tion would be. Indeed it was every thing ſhe wiſhed: Mrs. Newel came out, and, begging her to walk in, aſ⯑ſured her of every attention in her power to beſtow; and added, as her [168] maſter was now abſent, and not like⯑ly to return for a long time, ſhe was miſtreſs of the Caſtle and all it con⯑tained.

This intelligence was very agree⯑able to Miſs Moreland, who would not have liked to be the inmate of a large family; and farmer Johnſon had the ſatisfaction of leaving her well, and happily ſettled with his benevolent relation, who grew every hour more attached to her young gueſt: but her ſpirits, ſo long ha⯑raſſed by alarm and anxiety, now at once gave way, and ſhe was ſeized with a violent nervous fever, which obliged her to apply to phyſical ad⯑vice. [169] Mrs. Newel attended her with the utmoſt kindneſs; and ſhe was only juſt recovering when the illneſs of the ſteward occaſioned the return of Sir George. This circumſtance the houſekeeper carefully concealed, knowing it would diſtreſs her; and as ſhe ſlept in a chamber looking into the garden, and had yet only left it to go into the ſtudy, which it joined, ſhe thought ſhe might keep it a ſecret for ſome days at leaſt. Had Louiſa been accuſed of any thing but abſolute fraud, ſhe would have told every circumſtance to her kind friend; but, as it was, cautiouſly avoided the ſubject, as ſhe could only deny, not diſprove, the fact; and [170] there was ſomething ſo degrading even in the ſuſpicion, ſhe could not bear to avow it. Or had Mrs. Newel been of the common character of houſekeepers, and given her an ac⯑count of the impoſition ſo ſucceſs⯑fully carried on at Mr. Thomſon's, the whole myſtery would have been at once revealed; but, as this was not the caſe, they each remained in utter ignorance.

On the evening this important diſ⯑covery was made, Louiſa, finding herſelf diſinclined to ſleep, went in⯑to the library, from the ſame motive that brought Sir George. What paſſed in conſequence of their meet⯑ing [171] has been already related; but when Louiſa retired with Mrs. Newel, the latter, who had heard Sir George addreſs her by the name of Moreland, could no longer conceal her knowledge of the events which ſo lately occurred at Warrington, and inſtantly related all that had paſſ⯑ed at the vicarage to the aſtoniſhed Louiſa, who now underſtood why ſhe had been ſo unjuſtly accuſed, and of what. In return ſhe confeſſed to Mrs. Newel the whole of her hiſtory; and the good woman ſympathized in her troubles, and rejoiced they were now at an end.

The next morning, when our hero [172] and Miſs Moreland met, an entire explanation enſued; and Sir George informed her that ſhe had a tender and expecting relation, who would afford her the protection ſhe wiſhed for, but he added a ſlight hint of the hopes he had ventured to indulge, which, he ſaid, "he knew Lord and Lady Milbanke would endeavour to ſtrengthen." When their converſa⯑tion was at an end, he flew to the vicarage; but Mr. Thomſon and his wife were already acquainted with the happy diſcovery through the means of a ſervant, who was impa⯑tient to be the firſt to tell the news, as he called it, of the right Miſs Moreland's being come to Warring⯑ton [173] at laſt. Mrs. Thomſon now anticipated his wiſhes, and invited Louiſa to ſtay at their houſe till ſhe was well enough to attend her aunt. This invitation ſhe readily accepted; and Sir George, conſcious ſhe could not remain with propriety under his own roof, was well pleaſed at her being in a family where he might be a conſtant as he was always a wel⯑come gueſt, and could avail him⯑ſelf of every opportunity to obtain an intereſt in her affections.

His next ſtep after her removal was to write to Lord Milbanke, Mrs. Edgeworth, and Captain Mon⯑tague. The former anſwered his [174] letter in perſon. Lady Milbanke had been confined with a ſlight fever, and could not accompany him; but he was charged not to return with⯑out her niece, if ſhe was well enough to bear the journey: and her health being now re-eſtabliſhed, ſhe pre⯑pared to attend him. Mr. and Mrs. Thomſon could not part from her without great reluctance, as from her ſociety they had received as much pleaſure, as they had expe⯑rienced pain from the viſit of their late unprincipled gueſt. But they were conſoled by a well-founded hope, that it would not be very long before ſhe would return in the cha⯑racter of Lady Warrington.

[175]This important diſcovery ſoon reached Bellingham; and thoſe fa⯑milies in particular who had coun⯑tenanced the pretended were now impatient to know the real Miſs Moreland: but her late illneſs and naturally retired diſpoſition pre⯑vented the indulgence of their wiſhes. But Mr. Kettering, purpoſely making a viſit to the good Vicar, was for⯑tunate enough to ſee her; and the report he carried back of her ex⯑treme beauty and elegance was by ſome diſbelieved, by others unwil⯑lingly credited; but the young la⯑dies were ſingly and unitedly of opinion, that, if ſhe were as hand⯑ſome as poſſible, Sir George might [176] have had a wife as beautiful and accompliſhed without going ſo far from home.