[]HENRY.

CHAPTER I. In which the Author confutes himſelf.

HAVING been ſo long employed in finding words, according to rule and method, for others, I begin to think I have a right to beſtow ſome according to my own fancy, and that juſt now prompts me to write without any rule or method whatſoever.

In the firſt place then, permit me to ſay, that I do not allow any man can have a fair excuſe for not reading theſe volumes once at leaſt in his life, provided he can read at all. For what is the plea, I would fain know, that he can ſet up for refuſing them a peruſal? Is he too wiſe to be taught any thing new?—they do not pretend to have any new thing in them or about them; they boaſt themſelves to be as old as nature; and as for inſtruction, [2] if he is too wiſe to want it, they are not ſo fooliſh as to force it upon him againſt his wiſhes.

Is he too lazy to be amuſed by any reading? then let him employ a toad-eater to recite them in his ears till he falls aſleep; he cannot purchaſe a cheaper or more harmleſs narcotic in his apothecary's ſhop.

Is he too proud to ſtoop his genius to the peruſal of a trivial novel? my life upon it, his genius is oftentimes more trivially employed. Is truth his conſtant ſtudy and purſuit? and has he not yet found out that there is truth in fiction; that by the device of fable (as the philoſopher Saint Pierre well obſerves) the ſoul gradually opens itſelf to truth? I am vain enough to think there may be many more truths in this poor fable, than he will diſcover or comprehend in all his meta⯑phyſics.

But ſome may plead buſineſs, and buſineſs muſt be followed.—True! and ſo muſt hounds; but the man who follows either, be it ever ſo cloſely, will ſtill find that he has gone many miles out of his way. Let the man of buſi⯑neſs recollect how much of his life is ſpent in being buſy about nothing, and he cannot but [3] acknowledge he has had time to beſtow upon the reading of theſe little books, and a hun⯑dred others. But all this while he has been accumulating money; if he dies to-morrow, he will die worth one hundred thouſand pounds; and if he does, is he any whit wiſer, (I put the queſtion in the words of the inimitable author of The Serious Call) is he any whit wiſer, I de⯑mand, than he who has taken the ſame pains to have a hundred thouſand pair of boots and ſpurs when he leaves the world?

But harkye, Mr. Noveliſt, the faſtidious phi⯑loſopher will ſay, my ſtudies do not lie your way. To him I could anſwer—then are my ſtudies, learned Sir, more complaiſant than your's; for as far as you yourſelf participate of human nature, ſo far you come within the ſcope of my reſearches; why then may not you deign to read me, though I do not aſpire to copy you? Though your proud caſtle is barred againſt my approach, my humble cot⯑tage is the ſeat of general hoſpitality, and open to you in common with the reſt of my fellow creatures. The ſimple gooſe-quill, that can fan one ſpark of pure benevolence into activity by the playfulneſs of its motion, has done more for mankind than the full-plumed philoſopher, [4] who, with the ſtrut of the gooſe itſelf, cackles out his deſpicable ſpleen, and hiſſes at each paſſenger as he goes regardleſs by him.

If but one of all my readers has felt the ſympathy of a generous ſentiment, if another has experienced the conſcious ſenſe of ſelf-reproaching turpitude, and bluſhed at the diſ⯑covery, I think I have thrown more light into the world, than the philoſopher can dig out of the bowels of the earth, though he may there⯑by affect to decide upon the world's age, as jockies do upon horſes by looking in their mouths. What if philoſophers have now found out that water is no element? they have neither added to its uſes, nor taken any away; and as for me, though, for peace ſake, I will for⯑bear to ſay it is an element, I will not promiſe them to reſt my faith ſo far upon their dogma, as to ſay, that it is not. The Author of Nature ſeems graciouſly to have ordained, that in ſearching after things without uſe, our enqui⯑ries ſhould be purſued without ſucceſs, ſo that no labour might be waſted upon things that cannot profit us: but it is only after theſe curious nothings that our philoſopher is ever on the queſt; and yet he pretends to ſay, that he has no leiſure to beſtow upon my men and [5] women. Why will he not rather ſtudy to be informed of what would profit him to know, and ſubmit to be ignorant of what the Great Diſpoſer of the Univerſe hath, in tender conſi⯑deration of his ſhort-lived creatures, buried out of ſight? As much truth as man's intellects can admit, is acceſſible to man's enquiries, but ignorance is given to the ſoul, as the lid is be⯑ſtowed upon the eye; it lets in all the light it can uſefully diſpenſe with, and ſhuts out what it cannot bear. And now, no more of the philoſopher; whilſt I am contemplating the ſtatue, let him hunt after the beetle that crawls at the baſe of it.

There is, notwithſtanding, more for me to do; and as theſe volumes are my clients, ſo am I their advocate, and muſt be prepared for all that may oppoſe me: the next, however, is a gentle caviller, and approaches in a form that challenges my reſpect; it is a reader I would not offend and ſhock for all that fame could give me; ſhe comes with modeſt bluſhes on her cheeks, and points to certain pages doubled down in my offending work, too highly colour⯑ed for her chaſte revolting eye to reſt upon. What ſhall I reply to this appellant? How de⯑fend myſelf from one, who comes into the liſts [6] with all the virtues armed in her ſupport? Where now is my impure Jemima? where is Fanny Claypole? where even my benevolent Suſan May?—Fled out of ſight, abaſhed and ſelf condemned! What avails it me to ſay that they are Nature's children? My reproving critic does not wiſh to make acquaintance with the profligates of her family. In vain I urge, that contraſt is the ſoul of compoſition; that joy and ſorrow, health and ſickneſs, good and evil, chequer life itſelf through every ſtage; that even virtue wants an oppoſite to give its luſtre full diſplay: ſhe does not think that ſcenes, which addreſs themſelves to the paſſions, can be defended by arguments that apply to the judgment: I may be juſtified by the rules of compoſition; ſhe is trying me by thoſe of de⯑corum. If I ſhelter myſelf in the plea, that temptations are the teſt of an heroic ſpirit; that I cannot make bricks without ſtraw; and that although the ſaid ſtraw be of an inflam⯑mable quality, yet I muſt work with ſuch ma⯑terials as I have: ſhe will not heſitate to admit the neceſſity of temptations, but ſhe will re⯑ſolutely condemn the too profuſe and promi⯑nent diſplay of them; ſhe would work her ſhades more tender; mine are too bold: if I [7] ſay, wait for the moral, ſhe replies, that it is the nature of ſuſceptibility not to wait; the miſchief is in the front, the moral is in the rear; the remedy cannot always overtake the diſeaſe; and ſhe aſks, where is the wit in vo⯑luntarily provoking the fang of the viper, be⯑cauſe, forſooth, we have a medicine in our cloſet that will ſtaunch the poiſon, if we do not ſlip the time of applying it?

Mark now, candid reader, if I have not wove a hedge about myſelf, which I have nei⯑ther cunning to creep through, nor agility to climb; but it is ever thus when I argue with the ladies. If their modeſty is of ſo touchy a temper, as to accuſe me of impudence, I know no better way to convince them of their miſ⯑take, than by copying that modeſty, and making no defence; and ſure I am, that ſuch would be their conduct in the caſe of real at⯑tack, when the relation of it only ſtirs them into ſuch tremors and palpitations: I fear, therefore, that their extreme ſuſceptibility proves too much; thoſe muſt ride their pal⯑freys with a very looſe rein, who are ſo ſoon thrown out of their ſeat upon every little ſtart or ſtumble that they make.

What I have written, I have written in the [8] hope of recommending virtue by the fiction of a virtuous character, which, to render ami⯑able, I made natural, and to render natural, I made ſubject to temptations, though reſolute in withſtanding them: in one inſtance only my hero owes his victory to chance, and not to his own fortitude: if virtue therefore can⯑not read her own encomium, without catching fire at the allurements of her antagoniſt, ſhe is not that pure and perfect virtue I was ſtu⯑dious to pay court to, but ſome hypocrite, who has baſely tricked herſelf out in the uniform of the corps, for the opportunity of deſerting over to the enemy with her arms and accou⯑trements.

CHAPTER II. A Peep behind the Curtain at Crowbery Caſtle.

WHILST the gentle boſom of Iſabella was rent with a thouſand perplexing in⯑quietudes, the proud exulting heart of Fanny Claypole was anticipating the fancied joys of rank and ſplendour, and already practiſing the [9] ſtately airs of a Viſcounteſs elect. Her uncle now began to paſs his time not quite ſo much to his ſatisfaction as he had done: though his niece ſtill continued to treat him with external civility, yet there was a gracious manner in it, that conveyed the idea of condeſcenſion and protection, rather than of cordiality or reſpect. The reſtraint which ſhe and her noble para⯑mour ſubmitted to in his company, though as little as decency could diſpenſe with, was ſtill ſomething more than they could willingly ſpare on certain occaſions, and he then began to diſcover, that all his accommodating com⯑placency did not quite anſwer their purpoſes, and that his abſence began to be wiſhed for by both parties. This indeed was more than in⯑ſinuated to him by dumb ſhew; for my Lord took frequent occaſions of enquiring, whether Sir Roger Manſtock would not be uneaſy at his pariſh being left without a reſident mi⯑niſter, and once or twice aſked him, in a natu⯑ral manner, if he was doing any thing at the parſonage, and whether it would require any repairs before it was made fit for his recep⯑tion, intimating, with much ſeeming kindneſs, that if there was any thing wanting for his comfort, he would ſend his own workmen over, [10] and fit it to his wiſhes; adding, that it would ever give him the moſt ſupreme delight to ſhew any mark of his reſpect to the uncle of his amiable friend Miſs Claypole. Theſe hints that ſagacious gentleman was not ſlow to comprehend; but it did not juſt now ſuit him to put them into practice.

When lawyer Ferret returned from Man⯑ſtock, and the copy of Lady Crowbery's will, which he had there taken, had been peruſed by his Lordſhip, that noble perſonage, in a man⯑ner ſuitable to his high dignity, expreſſed a moſt ſovereign contempt for the good things of this world, which it had conveyed in ſuch ample proportion to the fair Iſabella, and ſo ſparingly to himſelf; in fact, it is reaſonable to ſuppoſe, that as his Lordſhip's expectations were extremely moderate, his diſappointment could not be very great, ſo that he bore the event without any great exerciſe of his vir⯑tues; one thing, however, he remarked with a conſiderable degree of ſatisfaction, and this was, the unexpected omiſſion of any legacy to our hero Henry: this circumſtance he com⯑municated, without loſs of time, to Mr. Clay⯑pole and Miſs Fanny, commenting upon it in a ſtile that ſufficiently diſcloſed to them the [11] gratification he ſecretly derived to himſelf in talking of it.—‘"You ſee,"’ cried his Lordſhip, in his uſual ſtile of pleaſantry, ‘"what ſort of ſtuff her ladyſhip's liking to that young fellow was made of! no longer pipe, no longer pay, was her maxim. He muſt now ſink into his primitive obſcurity; all his golden hopes are blaſted, and, I dare engage, he is at this mo⯑ment venting execrations againſt her deceit and his own credulity. But he is rightly ſerv'd; may ſuch ever be the fate of all up⯑ſtart favourites of married ladies!"’—Here Claypole chimed in, with an inference or two in the way of retort upon Henry for his refu⯑ſal of Blachford's bequeſt, obſerving, that the man, who, from an affectation of diſintereſted⯑neſs, withſtood the favours of fortune when they were tendered to him, generally lived long enough to find himſelf the dupe of his own vanity, and to bewail his folly in the bit⯑terneſs of ſelf-reproach and vexation. ‘"I ſee but one chance that remains for this ſilly fel⯑low,"’ added he, ‘"which is, to betake himſelf with all humility to Blachford's leavings, and pay his court, without loſs of time, to Mrs. Suſan May of meretricious memory, by whoſe favour he may ſtill ſubſiſt upon the bread of [12] infamy, and ſing pſalms with Ezekiel Daw to ſome godly tune, whilſt the old dame ſcums the pot. So ends the hiſtory of Henry the Foundling, whoſe adventures, with the help of a little modern garniſh, may furniſh matter to ſome paltry noveliſt for a ſcurvy tale, to fill a gap in the ſhelves of a circulating library; and, if the writer has the wit to make the moſt of it, he may find out a moral in the cataſtrophe of his hero, and entitle it, The Riſe and Fall of Vanity; for ſuch in fact it is."’

Miſs Fanny threw a different light upon the ſubject; ſhe confeſſed he well deſerved the diſ⯑appointment he had met with; but ſhe did not think that was excuſe ſufficient for the perſon who diſappointed him. ‘"I own,"’ ſaid that candid young lady, ‘"I have always accuſtom'd myſelf to conſider a promiſe as a ſacred thing: where I give hopes I think myſelf in con⯑ſcience bound to make them good; and on the other hand, where they are given to me, I ſhould hold the perſon baſe in the extreme, abandon'd to all ſenſe of honour, and a wretch, whom, without a crime, we might treat as an outlaw and aſſaſſin, who violated the faith he had pledg'd, and the word of promiſe he had given. Now I do not mean to impute this [13] baſeneſs to any perſon in particular, much leſs to the reſpectable object of our preſent con⯑verſation; I only beg leave to obſerve, that in all connections between man and woman, where favours have been interchang'd, and promiſes grafted upon thoſe pledges of affec⯑tion, they are binding in the moſt ſacred ſenſe, and he or ſhe, who breaks from them, abandon'd in the extremeſt degree."’

‘"Certainly,"’ interpoſed my Lord, ‘"with⯑out all doubt you ſpeak what every perſon of honour muſt admit to be true, and what I, permit me to ſay, feel, and, I hope, practiſe, in its ſtricteſt ſenſe. Put the caſe, by way of elu⯑cidation only, that I profeſs myſelf the ad⯑mirer of a lady of reputation; I am ſmitten with her charms; in ſhort, I am in love with her. Very well. Believing me to be a man of honour, ſhe allows me to make ſuit to her; I gain her confidence, we'll ſuppoſe, and ſhe begins to favour my ſuit; ſhe ſmiles on my humble addreſſes."’—Here a ſoft glance from the bright eyes of Miſs Fanny brought his Lordſhip's eloquence to a pauſe. He gently took her hand, and in a whiſper tenderly mur⯑mured—‘"Lovely creature, if you look upon me with thoſe eyes, I ſhall forget every word [14] I was ſaying, every ſenſe will be loſt in ecſtacy and rapture."’—‘"Go on, go on,"’ ſaid Fanny, ſmiling, ‘"I am much intereſted in what you are ſaying, and ſhou'd be ſorry to inter⯑rupt you in the moſt important part of it."’—‘"Put me in then,"’ ſaid the peer, ‘"for I pro⯑teſt to you I am loſt."’—‘"Why, you had juſt gain'd the lady's affections,"’ replied Fanny; ‘"nay, I believe o'my conſcience you was going on too proſperouſly for her repoſe, un⯑leſs you was upon the ſtricteſt honour."’—‘"There you are rather before-hand with me,"’ reſumed my Lord, ‘"tho', I confeſs I was coming to the point: be it ſo then! Let us for a moment ſuppoſe that this lady, in pity to my ſufferings, or, if you will, in kind com⯑pliance with my importunate and empaſſion'd ſolicitations, generouſly concedes thoſe favours, which are the greateſt woman can beſtow or man receive, can it for a moment be doubted that I am bound by all the ties of honour, gratitude and juſtice, to indemnify the repu⯑tation of my benefactreſs? Heavens! I were the vileſt wretch that ever breath'd, cou'd I do leſs than tender her my heart, my hand, my name, rank, fortune, every thing that I poſſeſs on earth, as ſoon as ever opportunity [15] and circumſtances wou'd permit. Theſe are my principles, my dear Miſs Claypole, and they are ſuch as, I truſt, your worthy uncle, if he has liſten'd to our diſcourſe, will give me credit for, and approve."’

‘"Certainly, my Lord,"’ replied that re⯑verend perſonage; ‘"there cannot be two opi⯑nions on the ſubject; were the caſe to happen as you put it, every man of honour's conduct muſt be ſuch as you ſtate it; but I muſt take the liberty to obſerve, that no woman of ho⯑nour, who was wiſe, wou'd put him to the trial."’

‘"Ah! my good Sir,"’ ſaid my Lord, ‘"you ſpeak exactly within the line of your profeſ⯑ſion, and ſo far you ſpeak right. 'Tis as na⯑tural for you, who are a parſon, to preach up ſelf denial, as it is for an apothecary to recom⯑mend phyſic, tho' nature, in both caſes, nau⯑ſeates the doſe, and the fineſt gratification of the ſenſes is ſacrific'd by the preſcription. That rigid morality, that wou'd ſtrip life of all its beſt enjoyments, wou'd alſo diveſt our hearts of all their moſt exalted ſenſations. What wou'd become of thoſe glowing effu⯑ſions of love and gratitude, if there was no truſt, no confidence, no mutual interchange of [16] honour and good faith? The lawyer, who furniſhes my occaſions with a loan, and binds me down by the fetters of a mortgage, is a trader in money, who confers no favour on me by the accommodation I derive from it; whereas the friend, who confidentially ſupplies my wants, and reſts upon my promiſe for in⯑demnification, leaves me under an obligation, that convinces me I was in his eſteem, and fixes him in mine. Favours in love are like favours in friendſhip; the ſame rule applies to both; to truſt is the teſt of friendſhip, to be truſted is the triumph of love."’

‘"I believe, my Lord,"’ ſaid Miſs Claypole, ‘"we are talking upon a ſubject, that my uncle has not made his ſtudy, therefore we may as well drop it for the preſent."’

This being ſaid, a ſullen ſilence enſued; the advocates for the tender paſſion no longer deigned to maintain an argument with ſo un⯑equal an opponent, but contented themſelves with giving him to underſtand, by certain plain-ſpeaking looks, that if he had any private ſtudies to purſue, which might occupy an hour or two of his time, they had reſources within themſelves for filling up the interval. [17] The intelligent obſerver read their meaning in their looks, and placidly withdrew.

Doubtful as I am, whether ſome of my readers might not think that there was one dia⯑logue too many in my hiſtory, were I to record what now enſued between Miſs Fanny and the Viſcount, I ſhall omit the recital, and con⯑clude this chapter.

CHAPTER III. An Excurſion from Crowbery Caſtle.

THE next morning both Phoebus and Sir Roger Manſtock had harneſſed their ſteeds, and advanced upon their journey be⯑fore the beauteous Miſs Fanny broke the ſoft bands of ſleep aſunder, and aroſe to renew her charms at the toilette. Her protracted ſlumbers had ſo far exceeded the accuſtomed hour of breakfaſt, that ſhe gave orders to her attendant to ſerve her in her own apartment: polite enquiries were ſent up more than once by his Lordſhip, to which excuſes were returned of a ſlight indiſpoſition; in the mean time the following reflections aroſe in that gentle fair [18] one's mind, upon a review of paſt occur⯑rences.

‘"Well, to be ſure, there is ſomething very captivating in a title, elſe this ſame Lord Crow⯑bery wou'd be inſupportable; I perceive I ſhall be moſt heartily ſick of him before the honey-moon is half out; I ſhall never have the patience of his former lady; let him be⯑ware how he treats me in the manner he be⯑hav'd to her; I'll ſoon ſhew him that my ſpirit is at leaſt as good as his own; he ſhan't ſhut me up in this diſmal caſtle, and nauſeate me with his ſurfeiting fondneſs: ſure, of all viſitations under heaven, that of a ſtale doat⯑ing huſband wou'd be the moſt intolerable. Oh! Henry! Henry! why wou'd you reject me? Still, ſtill your image haunts me; my fond heart ſtill doats upon you, and wou'd ſpurn this odious creature and his titles with diſdain, cou'd I but gain your love. But hold! perhaps your diſappointment may have humbled you; all hopes now blaſted, and Iſa⯑bella thrown by fortune beyond the reach even of your meditations, who can tell but you are now regretting your own obſtinacy, and wiſhing to recal that fatal hour, when mad with love, and fir'd with reſentment— [19] Oh! horrible! I cannot name the reſt."’—Here ſhe threw herſelf back in her chair, and, burſting into tears, fortunately found vent for a guſt of paſſion, that would elſe have thrown her into violent hyſterics. Again ſhe reſumed her ſoliloquy—‘"What did my provoking uncle mean by ſaying you muſt marry Suſan May? No; that my Henry will never do. His ſpirit never will ſtoop to that; it never ſhall, if I have influence to prevent it. I'll ſacrifice ambition, fortune, every thing to love. I have befool'd myſelf enough, too much, with this deteſted lord; I ſicken at his name; I'll caſt him off for ever.—Stop! where is my fancy carrying me? There are ſome charms in title, rank and ſplendour; they gratify ambition, and do not exclude love. I have gone much too far now to recede; I were a fool indeed to pay the purchaſe, and not reap the profit: I have him ſure, and I'll not let him looſe. Viſcounteſs Crowbery will pique the pride of plain Miſs Manſtock. Oh! 'twill be bitterneſs and gall to that old Baronet to ſee his niece's coronet upon my head; de⯑licious triumph! glorious revenge!"’

Thus whilſt her mind was fluctuating be⯑twixt contending paſſions, my Lord announced [20] himſelf with a gentle tap at the door, and humbly aſked admittance. It was granted, and as he approached her, he ſaid—‘"I ven⯑ture to aſſume the privileges of a huſband, and come to aſk, if you have any orders for the carriages or ſervants this morning, as I think the day is fine, and promiſes you a pleaſant airing. Henceforward, Madam, you command in this houſe, and the humbleſt of your ſervants is now in your preſence."’ This was an addreſs, that merited what it received, a gracious ſmile, and threw a turning weight into the ſcale of the addreſſer and his peerage, that made poverty and Henry kick the beam. This fair beginning was ſtill further advanced by a very ſeaſonable auxiliary, in the ſhape of a handſome brilliant, ſet in a ring, which his Lordſhip with great gallantry put upon her wedding finger. The heart of Fanny Clay⯑pole was amenable to ſo many paſſions, beſides that of love in its common acceptation, that the donor of the ring could not fail to be de⯑lighted with the impreſſion it had made; and as that young lady was a better actreſs than Lord Crowbery was a critic, it is not much to be wondered at, if, upon this occaſion, he miſtook artifice for ſincerity.

[21]After a few indiſpenſible arrangements at the toilette, which my Lord was graciouſly permitted to be a ſpectator of, and which were not ill calculated to diſplay her charms in the moſt alluring attitudes, Fanny ſignified her intention of taking the air in a little ca⯑briole, drawn by one horſe of gentle condi⯑tion, having been long in the habit of obeying the hand of a leſs daring driver, and order was given accordingly. Fanny had a ſcheme in meditation, of paying a viſit to Suſan May in the courſe of her circuit, and for that reaſon choſe it ſhould be ſolitary; ſhe therefore ſet out, followed by a ſervant, leaving my Lord at home to meditate on his felicity, or diſ⯑cuſs new topics of edification with his reverend gueſt, as they ſtrolled through the plantations and gardens.

Miſs Claypole, after a tour about the park, came upon the village green, and ſtopt at the gate of Suſan's manſion, who ſoon preſented herſelf, and very reſpectfully invited her into the houſe. This was graciouſly accepted by the Viſcounteſs elect, and after a few common queſtions had paſſed and repaſſed, they fell upon the ſubject of Lady Crowbery's death, and then Miſs Fanny demanded of Suſan, if [22] ſhe had been informed of the circumſtances of her will: upon her anſwering in the negative, ſhe related to her the leading particulars, and obſerved, with much aſſumed concern, that it was a matter moſt ſurpriſing to her, how it came to paſs Henry ſhould be ſo totally for⯑gotten, that even his name was not once men⯑tioned, nor any thing that could allude to a proviſion for him recommended to the heireſs, even by the moſt diſtant hint.

Suſan gazed with aſtoniſhment upon her, as if in doubt whether ſhe was to yield credit to the account ſhe was giving of an event ſo unexpected. ‘"If it is ſo,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"and if my young lady is in poſſeſſion of the eſtate, and has it at her own diſpoſal, I can only pre⯑ſume to ſay ſhe has a noble opportunity of being generous to the moſt deſerving man upon earth; and I can't doubt but ſhe will avail herſelf of it."’—‘"I think of him as you do,"’ replied Miſs Fanny; ‘"but our ſenti⯑ments, my good friend, may not be every body's ſentiments; they may not be Miſs Manſtock's; and they certainly are not likely to be Sir Roger's. Refunding is a pitch of generous ſelf-denial, that is hardly to be found in any other breaſt, than one of ſuch ſuperior [23] magnanimity as your liberal friend's: if you had ſuch a fortune dropt into your lap, I can readily believe that you wou'd be generous enough to invite Henry to a ſhare of it; nay, I can tell you, Mrs. Suſan, there are ſome friends of your's, not far from hence, who credit you for that generoſity, even upon your preſent eſtabliſhment."’

‘"They may ſafely credit me,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"ſo far as to ſuppoſe I never can for⯑get to whom I am indebted for every thing I poſſeſs; I hope, therefore, I am capable of the gratitude they aſcribe to me, though not ſo preſumptuous as to annex to it the condi⯑tions which they ſeem to allude to. No, Madam, be aſſur'd I know him and myſelf too well, not to know that poverty can never ſo depreſs him as to level him with me; the woman Mr. Henry marries muſt not only be pure from guilt of her own contracting, but even from involuntary ſtains, which you well know I am not. I believe, Madam, even levity of behaviour, and a forward carriage in the perſon he might elſe have admir'd, wou'd change his liking into diſguſt, tho' ſhe had every other charm that cou'd attract him."’

Here it is ſuppoſed that Miſs Fanny would [24] have bluſhed, if art had not been before⯑hand with nature, and dipt her pencil in the counterfeited tint of modeſty and ſhame. But though nature was barred from one avenue, ſhe found vent at another; and whilſt conſcious recollection ſmote her heart, her tongue be⯑trayed how juſtly ſhe applied the obſervation to herſelf. ‘"I can readily underſtand,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"where your remark points, and what perſon I am to thank as the founder of it; for ſervants are very apt to retail the ſcandal that their miſtreſſes propagate. I know there have been very impertinent ſtories circulated about me; but I wou'd have you, and every one elſe concern'd with you, to be aſſur'd, that my re⯑putation is not to be ſlander'd with impunity: I have friends, Mrs. Suſan, that will make thoſe tremble who attempt it; and, I believe, you will ſoon be convinc'd, that if it is your wiſh to live here, and enjoy your newly ac⯑quir'd fortune in peace and quiet, you will be extremely cautious how you ſuffer any ex⯑preſſions to eſcape you, that can be conſtrued to impute the ſmalleſt indiſcretion to my con⯑duct."’

With theſe words, the lady elect made her exit with all due dignity, and without vouch⯑ſafing [25] a word more, or even a look to Suſan, who attended her to the ſtep of her cabriole, where ſhe replaced herſelf in her ſeat, and purſued her way towards the caſtle.

At that inſtant Ezekiel Daw came forth from his cottage, and turning into the houſe with Suſan began a converſation, which we ſhall reſerve for the enſuing chapter.

CHAPTER IV. There are more Ways than one of interpreting a doubtful Text.

‘"SO, daughter Suſan! I perceive you have had a viſit from that young madam of the caſtle. You did right to receive her with reſpect, for that is due to our ſuperiors in condition; but if ſhe came with the purpoſe of enticing you into converſation about our abſent friend Henry, it is to be hop'd you had diſcretion to keep a watch upon the door of your lips, and not to ſatisfy an importunate curioſity. I have here a letter from our friend [26] Henry, which announces the death of our re⯑ſpected Lady Crowbery. It is dated from Falmouth, which I underſtand to be the port from whence ſhe was to have embark'd for Liſbon. It pleaſed the Supreme Diſpoſer of all events to call her to himſelf from this world of ſorrow by a ſwift meſſenger. Be it ſo! we muſt all obey the ſummons, ſome ſooner, ſome later: it is in vain to lament. She was a pious and a charitable lady, and the poor have loſt a friend, which, I fear, will not be replaced to them by that young madam at leaſt, who, as common fame reports, is deſtin'd to be her ſucceſſor at the caſtle. As the Lady Crowbery died in poſſeſſion of a very ample pa⯑trimony in her own right, we may now expect to hear that our beloved Henry is rewarded for his diſintereſtedneſs, and made independent for his life: of this I am ſure, that the deceaſed lady was much too juſt to diſappoint the hopes ſhe had inſpir'd him with, and far too diſcerning to overlook his merits, and therefore, child, take notice, I predict a very ample proviſion for our abſent friend."’

‘"That is a very natural prediction for you to make,"’ cried Suſan; ‘"I wiſh I cou'd ſay it was a true one; but alas, alas, my good [27] Mr. Daw, our poor friend has got nothing; Miſs Claypole juſt now informs me, that he is not ſo much as nam'd in Lady Crowbery's will."’—‘"It is a lie,"’ cried Ezekiel, ſtarting from his ſeat, ‘"it is a falſe aſperſion; Miſs Claypole is a ſlut and a huſſey for her pains; a defamer of the dead, and that's a foul and heinous miſdemeanor. I pronounce it im⯑poſſible for the Lady Crowbery to be a de⯑ceiver, a dealer in falſe promiſes, and a hypo⯑crite at the hour of death, and therefore I reject your information, and abide by my pre⯑diction. What, child, will you tell me that I don't know what is in human nature, that I ſhou'd be made the bubble and the dupe of ſuch a prating minx as that Miſs Clay⯑pole, who never yet utter'd one truth of Henry ſince ſhe knew him? Don't we know enough of her dark dealings, not to take her word in any caſe where he is concern'd? Did not I tell you that ſhe came for no good pur⯑poſe? and now you ſee I did not ſpeak lightly and without good reaſon; learn from this, child, I exhort you, not to truſt too confident⯑ly to your own raſh opinions, but liſten to thoſe who have more knowledge and expe⯑rience than yourſelf."’

[28]Whilſt Ezekiel was uttering theſe words in an elevated voice and upright attitude, a letter was delivered to Suſan, which one of Sir Roger's ſervants had brought over from Man⯑ſtock. It was from the fair hand of Iſabella, and written on that very morning early before ſhe ſet out upon her journey. Suſan caſt her eye over it, and then read aloud to Ezekiel as follows:—

—‘"Right!"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"now you will find my prediction verified."’—‘"The ſad news of my poor couſin's death will probably have reach'd you before this comes to hand, and if ſo, you will be told at the ſame time, that he is in no reſpect benefited by Lady Crow⯑bery in her will."’—‘"There, there!"’ repeated the exulting prophet, ‘"you perceive the falſe⯑hood had got wind."’ Suſan made no anſwer, but reſumed her reading.—‘"It is true,"’—‘"It is falſe,"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"I won't believe it."’ [29] Suſan repeated—‘"It is true that his name is not to be found in the will; but leſt you ſhou'd be tempted in your zeal for his in⯑tereſt to make falſe concluſions, that wou'd be injurious to the memory of the excellent lady, I recommend to you to wait the event, in the full perſuaſion, that neither ſhe will be found regardleſs of her promiſes, nor your moſt amiable friend unworthy of her af⯑fection."’

No ſooner had Suſan read theſe concluding words, than Ezekiel, in an ecſtacy of joy, ſtruck the ſtaff in his hand with vehemence on the floor, crying out—‘"I told thee ſo, I told thee ſo: now wilt thou believe me, ſilly child, that art drawn away with every breath and vapour of falſe doctrine. Doſtn't hear? doſtn't underſtand that all is well and as we wiſh it, and that your prattling companion, and her politic uncle, will be confuted in their falſe ſayings? Did not I truly pronounce of the Lady Crowbery that ſhe wou'd not be found regardleſs of her promiſes; and doſt not thou mark thoſe very words repeated, as it were, from my prophetic lips in the young lady's letter? And now, child, why am I right in my judgment, and theſe wrong in their's? I'll tell [30] thee why, it is becauſe I draw my inferences from a clear and perfect inſight into human nature, whilſt they form their's upon crude conjecture, upon vain imaginations, with which they deceive themſelves. And now I will read thee Henry's own letter; liſten."’

What were the preciſe ſenſations that theſe laſt words ſtirred in the gentle boſom of the attentive hearer, we do not pretend to divine, but ſomething there was either in the found or in the ſenſe of them that ſuffuſed her face with bluſhes, which Doctor Daw, notwith⯑ſtanding his prodigious ſkill and penetration, juſt then happened to overlook, ſo that there [31] was time for them to fade away into a deadly pale, which ſucceeded without attracting the notice of the aforeſaid ſagacious critic in the human character. How he was employed whilſt theſe changes were in tranſition, we are not minutely informed; but ſurely not in the contemplation of one of the moſt expreſſive countenances in nature, elſe the ſcenery there diſplayed could hardly have eſcaped him, though the ſecret ſpring that gave movement to it, might have puzzled him to find out.

Now it had ſo happened in the reading of Miſs Manſtock's letter, as it has happened in the caſes of many other readings, that her two commentators, Ezekiel Daw and Suſan May, had two different methods of interpreting the ſame text; the preacher making it conform to his own prediction, and Suſan conſtruing it according to her own firſt impreſſion of the fact: whilſt the one therefore believed Henry very richly provided for, the other perſuaded herſelf he was not worth a doit. Now the reader perhaps may recollect that Miſs Fanny, who communicated the intelligence of his be⯑ing left out of Lady Crowbery's will, threw out a hint at a report, which ſaddled him upon Suſan for a moiety of her means; and [32] though Suſan inſtantly returned an anſwer, which, we hope, was proper for the occaſion, and well becoming her to make, yet it is not unnatural to ſuppoſe that it might raiſe ſome ideas in her mind, which ſhe did not hold her⯑ſelf bound to communicate, either to Miſs Fanny, or even to Doctor Daw himſelf. Combining, therefore, theſe ideas with the concluding paragraph in Henry's letter, that he had ſomething for her private ear, we may find a clue to the ſenſations that occaſioned Suſan's change of countenance at the hearing of that paragraph. As to the conſequences which this abſtraction of thought on her part had with reſpect to Ezekiel, they were only thoſe of affording him free ſcope for talking upon any ſubject he thought fit, whilſt ſhe meditated upon another, a privilege he fre⯑quently enjoyed in the company of his friends without finding it out.

CHAPTER V. Our Hiſtory ſhifts the Scene.

WE now turn our attention to the lovely Iſabella, who, on the ſecond day from her leaving Manſtock, arrived with her father at the ancient ſeat of the Adamants, called Hagley Hall. It was a ſtately though irre⯑gular pile of building, in the Gothic ſtile but in perfect repair, with a handſome park about it and a fine command of water. Lady Crow⯑bery had always kept up a ſufficient eſtabliſh⯑ment of ſervants, by whoſe care every thing was in good order to receive their expected viſitants, though the melancholy occaſion that brought them there, kept the neighbours and tenants, whom curioſity or reſpect would elſe have aſſembled, from intruding on their pri⯑vacy. One old gentleman, the rector of the pariſh and well known to Sir Roger, preſent⯑ed himſelf on their arrival, of which he had been appriſed by letter from the Baronet. He had been long the adminiſtrator of all affairs at Hagley Hall, and the appearance of the place [34] bore teſtimony to his care. This worthy per⯑ſon (by name and title Doctor Sandford) was greatly affected at the meeting with Sir Roger and the heireſs, whoſe tears kept pace with his on the occaſion: he informed them that a meſſenger had arrived to appriſe him that the body might be expected the next day; where⯑upon the day following was ſettled between him and Sir Roger for the ceremony of inter⯑ment.

It was about the hour of dinner when Sir Roger arrived at Hagley Hall, and Doctor Sandford had provided for their entertainment. His company was a ſeaſonable relief to the worthy Baronet, who, to his great concern, ſaw his beloved Iſabella much depreſſed in ſpirits; and though he did his beſt to comfort her, yet whilſt the painful ſecret of her lover's birth hung on her mind, it cannot be wondered at if all his kind endeavours failed of their effect.

After dinner, however, ſhe kept her ſeat at the table with her father and Doctor Sandford, with whoſe company ſhe was greatly pleaſed; and in truth he was an amiable and excellent man. In the courſe of their converſation, they fell upon the ſubject of Mr. Ratcliffe's death, [35] whoſe pariſh adjoined to Hagley, and whoſe preferment was yet undiſpoſed of. His par⯑ſonage houſe was ſtill unoccupied, bur the duty of the church was executed for the time by Doctor Sandford's ſon, a young man edu⯑cated at the univerſity of Cambridge, and lately admitted into prieſt's orders. In ſpeak⯑ing of the melancholy event of poor Ratcliffe's ſudden death, the good Doctor expatiated on the virtuous and amiable qualities of his late neighbour and friend with great ſenſibility, bewailing the irreparable loſs which his pa⯑riſhioners had ſuffered, but avoiding with great delicacy the moſt diſtant hint of any expecta⯑tion for his ſon. The ſtrongeſt ſolicitation would probably have been leſs efficacious than this very delicacy, which did by no means eſcape the obſervation of his hearers. Iſabella expreſſed a deſire [...]f viſiting the deſerted manſion of Mr. Ratcliffe before ſhe left the country; the contemplation of it, as the re⯑ſidence of ſo good a man, would impreſs her mind with melancholy awe and veneration. Sir Roger combined other impreſſions in his interpretation of this deſire; but Doctor Sand⯑ford, who did not dive quite ſo deep into her [36] motives, proceeded to ſay, that much as he lamented the loſs of his friend Ratcliffe, there was yet another reaſon with him, that made it a moſt gloomy ſpectacle in his ſight; ‘"I al⯑lude,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to the ſudden and unaccount⯑able diſappearance of a youth called Henry, who, under very myſterious circumſtances, was rear'd and educated from infancy to manhood by that excellent man."’ A look of marked at⯑tention from Iſabella, cauſed him to apply his diſ⯑courſe more immediately to her, and he proceed⯑ed to ſay—‘"Ah! Madam, to me, who knew this young man, and regarded him as a crea⯑ture little ſhort of perfection in mind, perſon and manners, the loſs of him without any tidings of his fate, is one of the heavieſt re⯑flections which my heart can muſe upon. He was devoted to his patron and preceptor, and at his death ſeemed to have vaniſh'd like a ghoſt: whither he went, and what may have befallen him, Heaven only knows; but if hu⯑man virtue merits a peculiar Providence, ſurely that youth, ſo loſt to us, will be the object of Heaven's care."’

‘"Your prediction is verified,"’ cried Sir Roger, and immediately turning to Iſabella, [37] who was pale as aſhes, tendered a glaſs of water, which perhaps was ſeldom if ever more critically applied.

Dr. Sandford, ſurpriſed at this alarm, gazed upon Iſabella and her father, like a man who perceives he has done miſchief, and neither knows what nor how.—‘"I hope,"’ he ſaid, ‘"I have given no offence, it is purely unintentional, if I have."’—‘"Not the leaſt,"’ cried Sir Roger, ‘"not the leaſt offence, good ſir, but quite the contrary; we think of this young man as highly as you do; we know him well, and we love him much."’—‘"I re⯑joice to hear it,"’ cried Sandford, ‘"from my heart, I rejoice to hear that the young man is under your protection: Heaven has indeed been bountiful in granting him ſo good a friend!"’

It was at this very moment that Iſabella, though agitated by a variety of thoughts, con⯑ceived the reſolution of ſuggeſting to her fa⯑ther the nomination of young Sandford to Mr. Ratcliffe's vacancy, and to back it with all her influence. No ſooner had ſhe rallied her ſpirits, than her eyes directed ſuch a glowing beam of gratitude and benevolence towards thoſe of the good old Doctor, that he [38] muſt have been blind indeed if he had not ſeen, and dull as death if he had not underſtood the language of that look. He was neither void of ſight or ſenſe, but ſufficiently quick in both, to perceive that he had given pleaſure by his praiſe of Henry, to one of the moſt beau⯑tiful and not the leaſt ſenſitive objects in crea⯑tion; and he was not ſlow to conclude, that where ſo much joy was cauſed ſome affection muſt exiſt; he therefore ventured to enquire where his favourite was to be found. To this Iſabella replied, by giving a ſhort narrative of his ſtory, which left him at Falmouth, beyond which her information did not enable her to proceed,—‘"Then I'll engage we ſhall ſee him here,"’ ſaid the Doctor, ‘"and I hope, if he comes, he will gratify me ſo far as to make my houſe his home, which will be matter of peculiar joy to my poor ſon, who has beat the whole country round in ſearch of him, till deſpair has driven him from the attempt."’—‘"I hope then,"’ cried Iſabella, ‘"you will loſe no time in giving Mr. Sandford the in⯑formation ſo agreeable to him."’—Here ſhe was joined by Sir Roger, who ſo cordially de⯑ſi [...]ed a ſervant might be inſtantly ſent off to invite him, that the old man, who confeſſed he [39] was hard by at the parſonage, conſented with no ſmall pleaſure to the ſummons; and if that fatherly pleaſure needed a juſtification, the ap⯑pearance of young Sandford, which a few mi⯑nutes produced, very effectually afforded it, for he was in perſon, manners and addreſs, a ſon to be proud of.

Iſabella's warm heart immediately accorded to him; he was the friend of Henry; that was enough: the blaze of beauty, that good humour threw upon her enchanting counte⯑nance as ſhe welcomed him with ſmiles, ſo dazzled him upon his firſt introduction to her, that his admiration reſembled awkwardneſs, and he ſcarce knew how to addreſs himſelf to her; the charms of her voice, and the en⯑couraging ſweetneſs of her manner, ſoon put him at his eaſe, without diminiſhing his re⯑ſpect. The company now naturally claſſed themſelves according to their ages, and whilſt the fathers fell into diſcourſe upon matters of buſineſs, the young people entertained each other upon topics more ſuitable to their taſte.

Friendſhip for Henry on one part, and love on the other, were not long in agreeing upon what that topic ſhould be, and it ſoon became [40] manifeſt that the hiſtory of our hero's ad⯑ventures was reciprocally the moſt intereſting ſubject they could talk upon. Iſabella again went over the account, enlarging upon it with many more particulars than ſhe had thought neceſſary to recite in her firſt narration; but there was now only one hearer, and to him every circumſtance was new; to ſay that he heard her with delight, is to do juſtice to but one of his ſenſes, when there was another at leaſt in full occupation, which filled his heart with rapture, and would have made the dulleſt tale of ſorrow pleaſing.—‘"What voice do I hear?"’ ſaid he, within himſelf; ‘"what viſion do I behold? She breathes through rows of pearls over beds of roſes. 'Tis an enchant⯑ment! ſhe will vaniſh preſently, and I ſhall ſtart out of my trance."’

When Iſabella had brought her hiſtory to a cloſe, young Sandford remained ſilent for ſome time, as if unwilling to take the diſcourſe from one whom he had liſtened to with ſuch delight; at laſt, perceiving that ſhe expected a reply, he thanked her for the entertainment ſhe had vouchſafed him, every circumſtance of which had been very highly intereſting to [41] him, whoſe mind had been ſo long kept in anxious ſuſpenſe about the fate of a friend, who was deſervedly ſo dear to him. ‘"I al⯑ways lov'd Henry,"’ ſaid he, ‘"from a boy, and though there were ſome years between us, yet his manly character, his command of temper, and excellent underſtanding, gave him advantages which my greater maturity of age and experience could not compenſate for: on many occaſions I have profited by his better judgment, not unfrequently by his friendly reproof, and more than once have been very ſeriouſly indebted to his zealous ſpirit and undaunted gallantry: I hear therefore of his behaviour in the fight at ſea with much more pleaſure than ſurpriſe; for I believe nothing braver lives on earth; but there is withal a tenderneſs and candour in his nature, that en⯑dear him to our hearts, as much as his more brilliant qualities entitle him to our admira⯑tion. If ever that day ſhall come to paſs, when the clouds that obſcure his birth ſhall diſperſe, I am perſuaded it will be found that he is of noble deſcent, and ſhould the ſame good fortune raiſe him to affluence and an ele⯑vated ſituation, I am certain there is no ſphere [42] in life ſo extended which his virtues will not adorn and fill.’

CHAPTER VI. A ſhort Excurſion leads to an important Interview.

AT the expected time arrived the body of the deceaſed Lady Crowbery, properly attended, and followed by a numerous com⯑pany of the tenants and peaſants appertaining to the eſtate. There is no need for us to de⯑ſcribe the ſolemn pageantry of a funeral, it will ſuffice to ſay, that the mortal remains of one of the meekeſt and moſt benevolent of God's creatures were committed to the vault of her anceſtors, with every ceremonious rite that could mark the reſpect of her ſurviving friends, and every tribute of unfeigned ſorrow that could teſtify their affection. The ſervice was performed by the reverend Dr. Sandford, aſſiſted by his ſon, and the body was followed by Sir Roger Manſtock and Iſabella chief [43] mourners: a great concourſe of ſpectators were aſſembled, amongſt whom two ſtrangers in horſemens' looſe coats, were conſpicuous for the eagerneſs with which they preſſed for⯑wards at the interment of the body, as well as for the intereſt they appeared to take in that affecting ceremony: deep affliction ſeemed to poſſeſs them wholly, and as they held their handkerchiefs to their faces all the while the ſervice was performing, none of thoſe whoſe attention was drawn towards them (and they were not a few) could get a ſight of their faces, or learn by any enquiry who they were. After the ſervice was over they ſeparated themſelves from the crowd, mounted their horſes, and rode off with ſpeed.

There was one however in that mournful aſſembly, whoſe attention had not been ſo to⯑tally engroſſed by his ſhare in it, as not to catch a ſudden glimpſe of theſe ſtrangers, which led him to a pretty confident conjecture as to the perſon of one of them. It was young Sandford who had made this obſervation, and upon the firſt opportunity which offered of his ſpeaking to Iſabella apart, he communicated to her his perſuaſion that he had diſcovered his friend Henry amongſt the croud, diſ⯑guiſed [44] in a clowniſh dreſs, and accompanied by another perſon in the like habit. The pro⯑bability immediately ſtruck her, though ſhe herſelf had not made any obſervation upon the ſpectators, general or particular.

We forgot to mention in its proper place, that we had a friend amongſt the mourners, Zachary Cawdle by name, who had accom⯑panied the hearſe all the way from Falmouth in an attendant coach: he was now lodged in Hagley Hall, and it is hardly to be ſuppoſed that our fair heroine had failed to make cer⯑tain enquiries of him, which might now have made any further queſtions about Henry's ap⯑pearance at the funeral unneceſſary; but the fact was, that theſe enquiries had not pro⯑duced any other information from honeſt Za⯑chary, except that Henry, accompanied by a gentleman who called himſelf Smith, had parted from him at Falmouth, diſcloſing no⯑thing more of his future plan, than that he would be at Crowbery within ſuch a time, and hoped to meet him there upon a certain buſi⯑neſs; to this Zachary added, under the ſeal of ſecrecy, that the ſe [...]amed Mr. Smith was veritably that identical Mr. Delapoer, from whom Lady Crowbery was reſcued by her fa⯑ther [45] within a ſtage of Gretna Green, and who had been ever ſince in the Eaſt Indies, from whence he was lately returned with an affluent fortune. Here Zachary ſtopt, and with a ſa⯑gacious look eyed the young lady, whoſe knowledge of the ſecret in his keeping ſup⯑plied all the reſt, which he in juſtice to his truſt ſuppreſſed.

All this Iſabella had gained from Zachary within a few hours after his arrival, ſo that when Mr. Sandford imparted to her his ſup⯑poſed diſcovery of Henry, in company with a perſon unknown, her own ſuggeſtions readi⯑ly found a name for that perſon, without re⯑ſorting to Zachary for any further intelligence. There was one reflection Iſabella drew from this account, that was conſolatory to her mind in its preſent ſtate of anxious ſuſpenſe—Hen⯑ry had found a father, and under all events was probably ſecured againſt any future dan⯑ger of experiencing diſtreſs of circumſtances: this conſideration alſo helped her to account in ſome degree for her couſin's ſilence in her will, an omiſſion otherwiſe both inexplicable, and in her ſenſe of it inexcuſeable.

It had occurred to Sandford, and he ſug⯑geſted it to Iſabella, that it was likely Henry [46] would be found ſomewhere in or about the houſe of his deceaſed benefactor Ratcliffe; and the probability of this ſo ſtruck that young lady, as to determine her upon putting her projected viſit to that manſion into immediate execution. She accordingly, with her father's conſent, obtained his chaiſe for an airing, and immediately directed it to the point ſhe had in view; fortunately for her purpoſe ſhe was alone, and whilſt her heart throbbed with the hopes of meeting the deareſt object of its thoughts, reflecting upon the difficulties that darkened all her views of happineſs, ſhe trem⯑bled as ſhe approached the ſpot, and dreaded what ſhe moſt deſired, an interview with Henry. At the bottom of a little hanging garden, in front of a neat but humble manſion, her carriage ſtopt and ſhe got out. A little wicket in a low ſhorn hedge-row of horn⯑beam was open, and admitted her into the garden; the ſlope was rather ſteep, and ſhe ſlowly ſauntered up it gazing about her on each ſide, and ſurveying the ſmall but intereſting ſcene with a penſive ſenſibility. She was no⯑ticed by an old woman, who preſented herſelf at the houſe door, and aſked her commands: Iſabella ſaid ſhe wiſhed to ſee the rooms, and [47] that it was not idle curioſity, but reſpect for the memory of the late inhabitant had brought her thither.—‘"Then pray, madam, walk in and welcome, perhaps you belong to the dear young gentleman who is now in the houſe, and ſure enough I am the happieſt creature living to ſee him ſafe and once more amongſt us, after being loſt ſo long: he is in the little back parlour, which was my late maſter's ſtudy, all alone, and there he has been theſe two long hours, forbidding me to interrupt him, though I wou'd fain have come in and kept him company, in hopes to have chear'd him a bit, for I know he muſt be melancholy to think of the days he paſs'd in that room with my dear good dead maſter, who lov'd him as if he had been the father of him."’

This intelligence ſo agitated the tender ſpirits of Iſabella, that ſhe pauſed in ſuſpenſe, and for a while ſtood muſing what to do. At length, having reſolved to proceed, ſhe deſired to be ſhewn the room where the gentleman was; the old woman conducted her through a little veſtibule into a plain neat parlour, and there pointing to a door that was oppoſite to the windows, ſhe ſaid, ‘"That is my late maſter's ſtudy; there Mr. Henry is."’

[48]Iſabella deſired to be left, and when the dame had diſappeared ſhe approached the door, and with a trembling hand turned the lock, and preſented to the ſight of Henry an object ſo welcome and ſo unexpected, that ſtarting with ecſtaſy from his ſeat he exclaim⯑ed, ‘"Good Heavens! do I behold Miſs Manſtock? May I believe my eyes? Are you alone?"’

‘"I am here alone,"’ ſhe replied, whilſt bluſhes overſpread her face; ‘"and I confeſs my purpoſe was to find you out. I heard you was preſent at a mournful meeting: you was diſcover'd, Henry, but not by me."’

He approached her reſpectfully; took her hand, and tenderly preſſed his lips upon it. It was viſible that he had been in tears, his eyes were red with weeping. He fixt them on her with a look ſo full of love and tranſport, as cauſed the timid ſenſibility of Iſabella to ſhrink back and retire a few ſteps, which in⯑ſtantly obſerving he recollected himſelf, and in the mildeſt accent beſeeched her to believe he knew the diſtance he ſhould keep in pre⯑ſence of ſuch purity. ‘"But if I had the power,"’ ſaid he, ‘"by words to paint to you how beautiful you are, how exquiſitely charm⯑ing [49] you appear, thus breaking forth upon me by ſurprize, and overpowering all my faculties with unexpected joy, you would in candour own I had ſome ſtruggles to ſubdue: yet fear me not; if it were poſſible to loſe myſelf through an exceſs of love, it is not here, within the manſion of virtue, you cou'd be a witneſs to my diſorder."’

‘"I have no fears,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"I com⯑mit myſelf to you with perfect confidence; and gladly ſeize the opportunity of converſing with you in private, anxious to aſſure you that my heart remains unalter'd, that it ſympa⯑thizes with you in your ſorrows, in your joys; for if you have loſt a mother, Henry, I am told you have found a father, and that I hope, in ſome degree, will balance your affliction. As to this eſtate, which I conſider myſelf as holding in truſt for your uſe, I have only con⯑jecture to aſſiſt me in my interpretation of my couſin's will, having receiv'd no private in⯑ſtructions from her before her death; therefore I conjure you, Henry, if you know her wiſhes, impart them to me fully and without reſerve: I am confident it cou'd not be her purpoſe to paſs you over, and heap an uſeleſs fortune in your wrong on me."’

[50] ‘"Ah! lovelieſt of women,"’ cried Henry, ‘"of what uſe is all this world can give to me, without the hope, on which alone I live? If I am bereft of that, I have more than miſery can want already; what matters it how a ſo⯑litary being languiſhes out an irkſome life? Let me ſink into obſcurity without a name, which only can diſgrace the memory of my unhappy mother, and give cauſe of triumph to her cruel peſecutor, who ſurvives her: perhaps my Iſabella's father wou'd be wounded in his pride of family, if I were publiſh'd to the world the heir of Lady Crowbery and the ſon of Delapoer."’

‘"Henry,"’ cried Iſabella, eagerly interrupt⯑ing him, ‘"you ſtrike upon the very circum⯑ſtance that cauſes all my terror and diſtreſs: my father's feelings are exactly what you ſup⯑poſe them to be; and all the oppoſition he ever gave to your pretenſions, aroſe from the ſuſ⯑picion he entertain'd of your being the ſon of his niece. He now, from the nature of my couſin's will, is perſuaded to the contrary of that ſuſpicion, and is become your cordial friend: knowing, therefore, that he is now acting towards you under the impreſſion of a miſtaken concluſion, what a ſituation am I in! [51] To avail myſelf of his deluſion, and carry on a deceit againſt him, is what my nature revolts from; to undeceive him and reveal a ſecret I have pledged myſelf to keep, is what I cannot do: hard indeed is that dilemma which puts me under equal difficulties, whether I reſort to ſilence or confeſſion. Nothing can extri⯑cate me from it, unleſs you are ſo fully poſſeſt of Lady Crowbery's mind, or have ſuch writ⯑ten inſtructions in charge, as may either direct me how to act towards my father, or leave me to make uſe of my own diſcretion by releaſing me from my engagement. If you have any ſuch therefore to report or to produce, impart them to me, I beſeech you, for both our ſakes."’

CHAPTER VII. The Interview is brought to a Concluſion.

WHEN our hero heard himſelf thus earneſtly called upon to produce the letter he was encharged with, though his de⯑licacy would have been better gratified, could [52] he have been abſent whilſt Iſabella read it, yet he no longer heſitated to deliver it to her, telling her at the ſame time that it was written by his mother three days only before her death, and that the contents had never been imparted to him, nor in any reſpect ſuggeſted by him. To this ſhe made anſwer, by aſſur⯑ing him, ſhe gave perfect credit to his deli⯑cacy in the buſineſs, and that her only apology for reading it in his preſence was her wiſh to be inſtructed in her couſin's pleaſure touching an affair, on which their mutual happineſs de⯑pended. ‘"I am fetter'd,"’ added ſhe, ‘"till this letter ſets me free, if indeed it ſhall do that: without ſome clue to guide me, how ſhall I ever extricate myſelf from this laby⯑rinth of difficulties, in which I am loſt? Oh Henry! before I open this important paper, let me confeſs to you that I perceive all which is dear to me in life may be decided by it; and I feel a thouſand anxious fears, leſt fide⯑lity to a fatal promiſe, and duty to a reſpected father, ſhould ſeal me down to ſilence, and ſe⯑parate us perhaps for ever."’

‘"And wou'd that ſad neceſſity,"’ he de⯑manded, ‘"ſo terrible to me, cauſe a regret in you? Does my beloved, my adored Iſabella [53] wiſh to reward her Henry's faithful love? Have I an intereſt in her heart?"’—‘"You ſhou'd know that,"’ ſhe tenderly replied, ‘"for you poſſeſs it wholly; that fond heart is your's."’

Language is nothing; words can give no picture of thoſe ſoft emotions which a ſincere and virtuous paſſion, when alarmed by dan⯑gers, can in the criſis of its ſate excite within a feeling boſom. It is then the ſoul looks through the eyes, and by its own intelligible emanation intimates to the beloved object thoughts and ſenſations, which no eloquence can ſo deſcribe. Such was the look that in this intereſting moment glanced from Iſabella's eyes to Henry's. He had been more or leſs than man, had he remained unmoved and maſter of himſelf. Our hero was a man, one of the braveſt and the beſt of Nature's family; but ſtill he was her ſon, and by inheritance made ſubject to thoſe ſallies and alarms of paſſion, which mere mortality cannot at all times conquer and repreſs. Temperance he had, we have given it upon proof recorded in his hiſtory; reſpect he never wanted in the preſence of virtue, and virtue was preſent in the perſon of Iſabella; yet impetuous love [54] hurried him on, and as her fond eyes glanced upon him, he threw his arms in rapture round her beauteous waiſt, and preſſed her ardently in his preſumptuous embrace.

I am but Nature's copyiſt, her ſcribe, and dare not add or take away without her leave: it is Nature therefore, and not I, that muſt ex⯑plain why Iſabella, pure as the untouch'd lily, did not ſhrink away and ſever her ſweet form from Henry's arms: yet ſo it was, and ſo I write it down as my reſponſible directreſs dic⯑tates. The letter was yet unopened, and now the bluſhing Iſabella, having mildly reproved her too ardent lover, and taken her ſeat at ſome little diſtance from him, read as follows:

Iſabella having peruſed this letter with ſilent attention, delivered it to Henry for his reading, which, when he had done, he ſaid, as he returned it to her—‘"My fate is in your hands; whether I am or am not avow'd to Sir Roger Manſtock, depends on your pleaſure; and ſo entirely am I reſign'd to it, that if your commands ſhall be for my immediate de⯑parture, painful as obedience in that caſe will be, yet I will obey, provided I am not ba⯑niſh'd without hope, but may be permitted to believe that there is one concluſion in that letter, on which all my happineſs depends, not falſely drawn, and that the fond perſuaſion, in which my lamented mother died, has ſome foundation in your heart. There, whilſt I hold a place, life muſt be dear to me, and my ambition to deſerve at diſtance ſome remem⯑brance in your thoughts, will animate me to ſuch efforts, as may happily, in time to come, obtain your father's favour. Behold me then, [57] lovelieſt of women, your devoted creature, and pronounce my doom."’

Here Iſabella raiſed her eyes, and turning them upon him, with a look that ſmiled through tears, replied,—‘"If 'twas with me to pronounce upon your fate, your happineſs wou'd be complete; for why ſhou'd I affect to diſguiſe what your own obſervation muſt have diſcover'd, that you have all the intereſt in my heart, which this letter gives you? Well might the dear lamented writer be perſuaded of a truth too obvious to eſcape her, nor doubt of an attachment which I, ſo far from ſtriving to conceal, hold it my point of honour to avow. Hypocriſy has ever been my ſcorn; I truſt that modeſty does not need it, and I am cer⯑tain that your character will ever grace the woman that admires it."’

‘"Then I am bleſt indeed!"’ exclaimed the enraptured lover; ‘"thus honour'd by your ap⯑probation, I am fortified againſt all difficulties: direct me what to do, for I am ready"’—‘"There I am ſtill to ſeek,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"and time does not allow for our debating this important point with the deliberation it requires. One thing is certain, whilſt you are undiſcover'd you will be ſure to find a wel⯑come [58] from my father: come to us then with all your former myſtery about you; make your own obſervations on the ſpot, we ſhall have opportunities of further converſation on the ſubject, and thoſe opportunities perhaps will not be totally unpleaſant, though they may not produce all the effects that our un⯑certainty might wiſh for. We may renew our walks at leaſt, and you may amuſe your fancy with projecting future alterations and embel⯑liſhments in a place that muſt at all events become your property. We ſhall remain a few days in this ſpot, and though we cannot cheer your ſpirits with amuſing ſcenes or lively company, my beſt endeavours ſhall not be wanting to diſpel the gloom of ſadneſs, or to ſhare it with you in bewailing our loſt friend, and ſoothing you with all the tender ſympathy that a fond faithful heart can feel."’

Saying this, ſhe leant her hand on his, and gently preſſed it; the ſweet manner of it was ſo modeſt, and withal ſo captivating, that all his ſenſes were abſorbed in love.—‘"Now we muſt part,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"my time is out, and theſe are moments, Henry, that will never ſtay: but come to us, I charge you come; I ſhall prepare my father to expect you, and let [59] it be this evening."’ This ſaid, the lovers ſe⯑parated; Iſabella returned to Hagley Hall, and Henry to his father.

CHAPTER VIII. The Diſcovery of a poſthumous Paper cauſes great Senſations.

THE death of Lady Crowbery had ſo deeply affected Delapoer, that Henry ſaw with concern a very viſible alteration in his ſtate of health, and a fixt melancholy that ſeemed to take poſſeſſion of him wholly. Ba⯑lancing between duty and inclination, he ſcarce knew how to decide with reſpect to Iſabella's tempting invitation. Upon diſcourſing with his father, however, he found him ſo reſolved to take up his abode in the neighbourhood of Hagley, that he immediately began to caſt about in his thoughts for ſome fit place for him to reſide in; and it ſoon occurred to him that the very houſe, where his late happy inter⯑view with Iſabella had taken place, would be [60] of all ſituations moſt deſirable, if that pre⯑ferment ſhould devolve upon any perſon un⯑encumbered with a family: this idea, by a very natural tranſition, ſuggeſted to him the probability of his friend young Sandford's being thought of for that ſucceſſion; and as he entertained a very high opinion of his merit, he determined to employ his intereſt with Iſa⯑bella in his behalf.

This idea Henry communicated to his fa⯑ther, and found him ſo eager to embrace it, and ſo preſſing for him to loſe no time in viſiting Sir Roger Manſtock, that he ſet out for Hagley Hall without delay; here he re⯑ceived a very cordial welcome from the worthy Baronet, whom he found alone, and already appriſed of his coming by Iſabella. Speak⯑ing of his niece's death, Sir Roger took notice to Henry of his being overlooked in her will as a matter that cauſed ſome ſurprize, and which he could not well account for, having heard the deceaſed more than once declare her intentions of providing for him at her death; adding, that he conſidered himſelf as heir to thoſe intentions, and telling him not to be caſt down, for in his friendſhip he ſhould find a reſource againſt all diſappointments.

[61]To this Henry made anſwer, that the excel⯑lent Lady alluded to, who always acted from the beſt and pureſt motives, had faithfully ful⯑filled all promiſes ſhe had ever made him, and that his grateful reſpect for her memory would never ceaſe but with life itſelf. He thanked Sir Roger for the offer of his friendſhip, which he accepted as the higheſt honour he could aſpire to, and which he would ſtudy to merit and preſerve by every effort in his pow⯑er; favours of any other ſort, he flattered himſelf he ſhould not ſtand in need of.

Here their converſation was cut ſhort by the arrival of Doctor Sandford, who had not been many minutes in the room, before Henry had the ſatisfaction to hear Sir Roger Manſtock acquaint him, that, with his daughter's con⯑currence, he had determined to nominate his ſon to the living late enjoyed by the Reverend Mr. Ratcliffe. The good man expreſſed a lively ſenſe of gratitude on this occaſion, and his happineſs ſeemed complete.

Henry, in a private converſation with his friend Zachary Cawdle, revived the ſubject of Billy Williams; and as Zachary was now de⯑termined upon retiring from buſineſs on his annuity bequeathed to him by Lady Crowbery, [62] he very readily engaged to make over his ſhop and effects to Williams, upon fair and equitable terms, which ſhould be adjuſted when that gentleman ſhould obtain a diſ⯑charge from his ſhip, and make his appearance at Crowbery, for which place Zachary intend⯑ed to ſet out the next morning. This matter being ſettled to Henry's entire content, for he was much attached to Williams, Zachary be⯑gan to ſpeak of matters more immediately in⯑tereſting; and turning to our hero, he ſaid—‘"In this very room where we are now ſitting, I brought you into the world; and ſurely it is now full time you ſhould aſſume ſome proper name and ſtation in ſociety. Life is uncer⯑tain; and though, thank God, I feel myſelf ſtout and hearty at this preſent moment, yet we are all liable to caſualties, and nobody can ſay how long it may be before I follow your good mo⯑ther, in which caſe you wou'd loſe a witneſs to your birth, whoſe teſtimony is moſt material. You have a father, it is true, whoſe fortune can in ſome reſpect indemnify you for the diſintereſted, and give me leave to call it, the wanton ſacrifice you have made of this noble property, which had elſe been your's; but that father a [...], if I have any ſkill in my profeſ⯑ſſion, [63] is in a very precarious ſtate of health; his ſpirits ſink, and his conſtitution threatens ſwift decay. It behoves you therefore, my dear Henry, to look about you: if you have put aſide your inheritance, in the hope of ſhar⯑ing it with the amiable young lady who now poſſeſſes it, methinks you wou'd do well to loſe no time in bringing that expectancy to bear; and why you ſhou'd perſiſt in concealing yourſelf from Sir Roger Manſtock, who ſeems to be ſo favourably diſpos'd, and enter⯑tains you with ſuch kindneſs and regard, is what I cannot underſtand. You'll pardon me for the freedom I take in talking to you on a ſubject, in which I am no otherwiſe con⯑cern'd, but as my friendſhip and good wiſhes intereſt me in every thing that relates to you; for in truth, dear Henry, I have a very warm and tender heart towards you, and ever had from the firſt moment fortune threw you in my way."’

‘"Your zeal,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"can ſtand in need of no apology; and I am free to confeſs to you, that my ſituation with reſpect to Sir Roger Manſtock bec [...]mes every hour more and more irkſome to me, as every ſpecies of diſguiſe muſt be. When I know that I am [64] indebted to a miſconception for the kindneſs he ſhews me, I cannot enjoy the fruits of it with content. It blights the happineſs I ſhou'd elſe receive in the ſociety of the lovelieſt of women; and though I have every reaſon to fear that the diſcovery of my birth wou'd be inſtantly follow'd by my diſmiſſion from every hope that points towards an alliance with his amiable daughter, yet my conſcience ſo revolts againſt deceit, that I will ſooner meet the worſt of misfortunes, and embrace deſpair, than perſiſt to act the counterfeit, as I have hitherto been compell'd to do. You therefore ſee, my worthy friend, how entirely my feelings coin⯑cide with your counſel; and I am reſolv'd, with Iſabella's leave, to-morrow ſhall not paſs without an explanation on my part: let me then requeſt, that you will not ſet out upon your journey, till that event is over, as it cannot fail to happen that we ſhall appeal to you."’

Zachary ſignified his perfect compliance with this requeſt, and Henry declared his re⯑ſolution accordingly. An occurrence in the mean time had come to paſs, which anticipat⯑ed all the conſequences incidental to that re⯑ſolution. Sir Roger Manſtock, whilſt diſ⯑courſing [65] with Doctor Sandford upon ſome particulars relative to the living intended for his ſon, had occaſion to refer to ſome papers of the late Mr. Ratcliffe, which the Doctor told him were to be found in a certain old-faſhioned cabinet, where he himſelf had de⯑poſited them upon the death of that gentle⯑man, and of which he kept the key. The papers were eaſily found; but in taking them out, it appeared to Sir Roger, that there was ſome ſecret machinery at the bottom of the cell, in which they laid, for hiding money or valuables in a ſmall compaſs; and upon a cloſer ſcrutiny, a joint was diſcovered, which, upon the inſertion of a penknife, was made to ſlide back, and in it was found a ſmall packet folded in the form of a letter unſealed. Upon opening this packet, Sir Roger immediately recognized the hand-writing of his brother-in-law Sir Stephen Adamant, and read as fol⯑lows:

This title he read aloud, and here he pauſed, cloſing the paper, and obſerving to his companion, that it was a very extraordinary [66] and to him a very intereſting diſcovery. ‘"I confeſs to you,"’ added he, ‘"my curioſity is highly agitated, nay ſo much am I affected by the ſuddenneſs of the ſurprize, that I can ſcarce command myſelf enough to proceed with the peruſal of it. It ſeems to have been my brother's purpoſe that I ſhou'd be made ac⯑quainted with the contents, yet no ſuch com⯑munication was ever made to me, ſo that in honour I am hardly ſatisfied that I ought to read any further. Have you, Doctor Sand⯑ford, any knowledge of this paper? You was moſt in the confidence of Sir Stephen: if you have any information on the ſubject, give it me; if not, adviſe me what to do."’

‘"I have nothing to guide me but conjec⯑ture,"’ replied the Doctor; ‘"but I ſhou'd pre⯑ſume there need be no heſitation on your part to read what profeſſes to have been written for your information. The early attachment of our dear lamented lady is well known to every friend of the family; and I ſhou'd gueſs the paper may refer to that: there has ever been a myſtery conſequential of that tranſac⯑tion; and as it is probably develop'd in that poſthumous packet, I will with your permiſ⯑ſion retire, whilſt you examine it in private."’ [67] So ſaying, he left the room, and Sir Roger read as follows:—

CHAPTER IX. The Counſel of a Friend in a Dilemma. More Secrets are brought to Light.

THE peruſal of this paper, which pointed out to Sir Roger Manſtock the ſon of his niece, in the perſon of Henry, the admirer of his daughter, threw him into deep medita⯑tion, and exceedingly perplexed him how to act in a caſe, where deciſion on either ſide mi⯑litated againſt his feelings. The appeal was ſolemn, that pleaded in favour of the youth, [73] the objection to his illegitimacy, and even to his proximity of blood, was no ſlight one, and Sir Roger's mind was long time balanced be⯑tween difficulties. One point his conſcience ſaw in the cleareſt light—the equity of Henry's claim to the property of his grandfather; and, accord⯑ing to the high ſenſe of honour natural to him, he interpreted the paper he had juſt been reading: but how to act with reſpect to his daughter, whether to oppoſe or to countenance her at⯑tachment, was the queſtion that embarraſſed him. On the oppoſing ſide, there was a ſtrong repugnance, ariſing from his habits of thinking, and from a certain pride of family, which re⯑volted from the ſtain of illegitimacy; on the favourable ſide, there was much occurred to mitigate the rigour of theſe thoughts. The character of Henry pre-eminently pleaded in his behalf; the fatal conſequences of paternal obduracy, ſo forcibly ſet forth in the recital of Sir Stephen, was a ſtriking example before his eyes; and the pathetic adjuration, at the cloſe of that recital, was an affecting appeal to his heart, which was ſenſibly felt.

'Tis in a criſis like this, when the mind is fluctuating between doubt and deciſion, that the voice of a friend is moſt welcome, and [74] then it is that new reaſons, or reaſons dif⯑ferently expreſſed and dilated, ſeldom fail to cut the knot that puzzles us to unravel. Sir Roger rung his bell, and requeſted the com⯑pany of Doctor Sandford.

A better arbitrator could not be choſen; he read the paper attentively, and when called upon for his ſentiments upon it, deliberately replied as follows: ‘"I am not ſurpris'd at the diſcovery, which this paper gives; for though I was not a party to the ſecret of this young man's birth, I was ever in my private opinion perſuaded of his being the ſon of thoſe very parents now diſclos'd to us. Well may the unhappy writer bewail his own obduracy; I knew the party rejected, and thought him every way deſerving of the alliance he courted; Sir Stephen knew my ſentiments, for he drew them from me, and I honeſtly committed my opinion to his conſideration; it did not tally with his own, and I loſt his confidence by the ſincerity with which I gave it. Mr. Ratcliffe, in conſequence of this, had charge of the in⯑fant—a better choice cou'd not be made, a worthier, wiſer, more enlighten'd mind no man poſſeſt—to an education ſo excellent, the ſon of your niece did ample juſtice. Nature [75] never form'd a more engaging perſon, in⯑ſtruction never cultivated a more accompliſh'd mind."’

Here Sir Roger interpoſed, declaring his entire concurrence in this teſtimony to his merits—‘"But with what face,"’ he demanded, ‘"can I hold up to the world the ſpurious iſſue of my deluded niece? What will Lord Crow⯑bery ſay? What will the world at large ſay to an adoption like this? I ſhou'd be glad to hear your ſentiments on this point of difficulty."’

‘"With this paper in my hand,"’ replied the Doctor, ‘"I cannot reſiſt the appeal it con⯑tains, nor refuſe being advocate for the feel⯑ings of the writer of it. When I ſee a father taking on himſelf the reproach of being ſole author of his daughter's errors and misfor⯑tunes, and weigh the circumſtances that at⯑tended their elopement and arreſt upon the way, I can hardly be induced to call their iſſue illegitimate. I ſhou'd go too far, if I was to deny the right of a parent to reſtrain, or to direct, the paſſions of his child; but Sir Stephen went farther, and exerted more authority than belong'd to him, when he compell'd a mar⯑riage with the Lord Viſcount Crowbery; that is an act of tyranny over the human heart, [76] which I hold in abhorrence. What vows were interchang'd between your niece and her firſt lover we cannot know, but we can well conjecture they were ſolemn and ſincere on both ſides. Their hearts were married, tho' the blackſmith was not found that wou'd have clinch'd the chain. Shall then the ſon of love and promiſe be diſclaim'd, becauſe a few hours interven'd, and force was employ'd to tear their hands aſunder, and compel them to a ſeparation? Mark how the parent ſuffers in his conſcience for this act of cruelty! So wou'd not I for all this world can give me. Henry is a virtuous youth: affix what criminality you pleaſe to the authors of his birth, we cannot ſo pervert all ſenſe of juſtice, as to attach their ſtain to his character, however much we may wiſh to cover the memory of his mother from the malevolent attacks of Lord Crowbery and others, who may be baſely diſpos'd to blaſt it. This, I confeſs, ſhou'd be avoided as much as poſſible; and ſurely it will be no impoſſible thing to do that by proper precautions, with reſpect to Lord Crowbery at leaſt, ſo long as he ſurvives, which ſeems to have been the clear intention of the deceas'd lady, when ſhe forebore to name her ſon in her will; and [77] as you have told me Henry himſelf was the chief promoter of this omiſſion, I cannot doubt but he was fully acknowledg'd by his mother before ſhe died."’

‘"I don't doubt that,"’ reſumed Sir Roger, ‘"and I hold my daughter bound to reſtore him to his inheritance upon every principle of honour and juſtice; but I am not bound to give him my daughter alſo."’—‘"Far be it from me,"’ re⯑plied the Doctor, ‘"to ſay that; your daugh⯑ter's inclination muſt precede a ſtep ſo eſſential to her own happineſs as that."’—‘"But am I bound to follow, with my conſent, her inclina⯑tions, if they ſhou'd point to him?"’—‘"I muſt decline an anſwer to that queſtion, being ſo partial as I am to Henry."’—‘"Why that is anſwering it,"’ replied Sir Roger, ‘"to the fulleſt extent."’ Here their conference was interrupted by a ſervant, who announced a gentleman of the name of Smith, that requeſted a few minutes converſation in private with Sir Roger Manſtock. Order being given for the gentleman's admittance, and Doctor Sandford having withdrawn, the father of our hero pre⯑ſented himſelf to the worthy Baronet, and ad⯑dreſſed him to the following effect:—

‘"I am perſonally unknown to you, Sir Roger Manſtock, but am no ſtranger to your [78] character, and hold it in the moſt perfect re⯑ſpect: I have therefore ſolicited a few minutes of your leiſure, and you have politely granted it, for which I thank you, and will ſtudy not to abuſe your patience. I have ſent in a name by your ſervant, which, in your preſence, I ſhou'd be aſham'd to wear, being only an aſ⯑ſum'd one, for reaſons that, I truſt, you will think not unworthy of a gentleman. My real name is Henry Delapoer, which, in times paſt, you may have heard attach'd to that of the lovelieſt, and by me the moſt lamented, of her ſex; pardon me, if for the preſent I can pro⯑ceed no further."’

Sir Roger ſtarted with amaze; he ſmote his hands together with more than uſual energy, and gazed upon the ſtranger with intenſe cu⯑rioſity—‘"May I believe what I hear!"’ he cried; ‘"Are you really Mr. Delapoer, the ho⯑nourable Henry Delapoer, father—"’ There he ſtopt ſhort, and checked the words that were upon his lips.—‘"Sir,"’ interjected the viſitor, ‘"you was proceeding with your ſpeech; may I requeſt you to fill up the ſentence?"’

‘"You may,"’ replied Sir Roger, after a ſhort pauſe; ‘"the words I was about to add were, the father of my niece's ſon."’—‘"My [79] conſcience then is clear,"’ ſaid Delapoer; ‘"you are poſſeſs'd of the ſecret, and I have broke no truſt. Yes, Sir, I am that very perſon; miſerable in the recollection of the bittereſt dis⯑appointment that ever blaſted human happi⯑neſs, but honour'd in the virtues of that ſon, who is at once the memorial of our misfortune and the relict of our love. I may now ſay to Sir Roger Manſtock all that a wounded heart ſuggeſts; I may ſpeak of my ſorrows, of my affection, of my deſpair, which is now hurry⯑ing me to the grave, where my betroth'd, my ever-lov'd Cecilia ſleeps."’ Here a guſt of tears interrupted his ſpeech for a few inſtants; he wiped them away, and proceeded—‘"It is now my requeſt, and I hope your charity will grant it, that my remains may be allow'd to reſt in the vault beſide thoſe of that ſainted being, who was by every obligation ſacred in the eye of Heaven my true and all but legal wife. Sir, we were bound together by the holieſt ties. Accurſed be the breath that dares to contaminate the purity of my Cecilia's fame! If there was crime in our precipitancy, that crime be on my head, I will embrace the whole of the offence; let her unfeeling father take on himſelf the reſponſibility of our ſepa⯑ration! [80] Sir, I have held it matter of the ſtricteſt conſcience, ever ſince that fatal moment, to keep unviolated the marriage bed, and I have religiouſly fulfill'd that ſacred duty. One melancholy conſolation Heaven vouchſaf'd; Providence employ'd the arm of my ſon to reſcue me from death, when I was a priſoner on board a ſhip of the enemy, and at the laſt ſtage of exiſtence; he brought me to the port of Falmouth; his piety and care preſerv'd my life; fortune directed Cecilia to the ſame ſpot; I paſs'd ſome days by the couch of that dying martyr, and ſhe expir'd in the arms of me and of my ſon. Grant me then, I beſeech you, my laſt earneſt prayer, and let my corpſe re⯑poſe by her's."’

The Baronet, whoſe long ſilence had been the effect of his ſympathy in the feelings of the ſpeaker, now found himſelf called upon for a reply at a time, when he was much more in⯑clined to give a looſe to tears than to words. He commanded himſelf notwithſtanding ſo far as to aſſure his viſitor, that his ſuit was granted, and to add withal, that he hoped it would be many years before that promiſe could be claimed. To this Delapoer replied, with many acknowledgments, that nothing but [81] his conviction that no time was to be loſt could have excuſed to himſelf the rude in⯑truſion of ſo unſeaſonable a viſit.

Here he pauſed, and ſeemed preparing to take his leave, when it occurred to Sir Roger as proper to appriſe him, that he had poſſeſſed himſelf by chance of a poſthumous paper, written by his niece's father, which had thrown great light on his ſtate of mind, and which at the ſame time devolved a duty upon him, on the part of his daughter, of reinſtating Henry in the whole of his grandfather's eſtate. ‘"This,"’ added he, ‘"is an act of juſtice which I think I can take upon myſelf to ſay will be infallibly perform'd on our part; and I ſhall now put the paper into your hands for your peruſal, and very highly intereſting it is to you, Mr. De⯑lapoer, and your repreſentative."’

CHAPTER X. Our Hiſtory records a dreadful Incident.

DELAPOER having read the paper, re⯑turned it to Sir Roger, obſerving, that although the writer's change of ſentiments [82] came too late for redreſs, it was to be hoped they were in time for the full purpoſes of repentance. He then proceeded to diſcloſe to Sir Roger the ſtate of his own circumſtances in point of fortune, which, being ſettled upon Henry, would at all events make him an af⯑fluent man. ‘"There is but one object in life,"’ added he, ‘"can make him a happy one. If I know his thoughts rightly, it is the perſon, not the property, of the preſent heireſs of this eſtate, which he would receive as the greateſt bounty ſhe cou'd beſtow upon him."’

To this Sir Roger ſimply replied, that Henry was certainly a very amiable young man; and Delapoer, too delicate to preſs his wiſhes any further, politely took his leave and departed. In fact, the mind of the worthy Baronet was by no means made up to any de⯑termin'd meaſure, and as the recent death of Lady Crowbery ſecur'd him from any preſent call from either of the parties, he very gladly availed himſelf of the excuſe for holding back his opinion, till it was more matured by ex⯑perience and reflection.

Henry now wiſhed to throw aſide a maſk he was no longer compelled to wear, and to declare himſelf to Sir Roger Manſtock; but [83] as it was neceſſary, in the firſt place, to conſult Iſabella's opinion in the caſe, he followed her into the park, where he underſtood ſhe was gone to take her evening walk. When he had mounted the hill that roſe from the houſe, he caught a diſtant glimpſe of her, as ſhe was entering a grove of oaks, and immediately ſet out towards the ſpot with all the ſpeed he could. He was yet at ſome diſtance, when a female ſhriek was heard as coming from ſome one in the grove, which ſtruck him to the heart with the apprehenſion that his lovely Iſabella was in danger or alarm. Already nearly breathleſs with his exertions, terror gave him all but wings upon a call ſo preſſing, and he ſprung forwards towards the voice with an impetuoſity undeſcribable.

Swift as his motion was, our hiſtory de⯑mands a pauſe before we bring him to the reſcue of the affrighted Iſabella, whilſt we ac⯑count for the cauſe of that ſhriek ſo terrible to the ears of love.

In the near neighbourhood of Hagley Houſe, without the encloſure of the park, there was a lonely manſion, tenanted by a perſon whoſe melancholy profeſſion it was to take charge of thoſe unhappy beings, who are deprived of [84] reaſon. One of theſe diſtracted objects, and probably the moſt pitiable in the whole wretched fraternity, was a young man of the name of Saunders, only ſon of a reſpectable clergyman, who had bred him in the line of his own profeſſion, and given him an excellent education with that view, both at ſchool and univerſity. The youth, whom nature had en⯑dowed with uncommon talents, had more than equalled all the warmeſt expectations of a fond exulting father. Every honour that moral conduct could merit, every prize that ſucceſs⯑ful genius could contend for, had been fairly gained, and worthily poſſeſt, by this young ſtudent; but ſtrong imagination and a feeling heart, the natural concomitants of ſuperior genius, had conſpired againſt the peace of poor Saunders, and by a diſappointment in love, had made wreck of a mind full freighted with ſcience, and richly endowed with every noble quality. The object of his paſſion was unfor⯑tunately one, to whom, in point of rank and circumſtances, he could not aſpire; and though ſhe felt his merits, and was flattered by his at⯑tentions, yet his ſuit was peremptorily and proudly rejected by her father, who had higher views, and over-ruled the affections of his [85] child with abſolute authority. The ſame fine taſte that taught him to ſelect and admire the pureſt models of claſſical compoſition, inſpired him with a paſſion for the elegant and beauti⯑ful Louiſa Beaufort: his opportunities of con⯑verſing with her were not frequent; for Sir Ferdinand her father was not eaſy of acceſs from one ſo much his inferior, and Saunders was reduced to a variety of humble ſhifts to make known to Louiſa the flame that was conſuming him, and gradually undermining the foundations of a ſolid underſtanding. The ſmile, which at ſome ſtolen moment ſhe could beſtow upon him, was his only hope; on theſe reflections he fed, and, by the help of a vivid fancy, ſketched out dreams and viſions of hap⯑pineſs, which in one fatal moment were for ever blaſted, by the intelligence of her being married to a titled lover. From this inſtant his deportment became irregular and capri⯑cious: at firſt he was loud and vehement in his complaints; he talked of the affair to all his friends, profeſſed to treat it with contempt, and railed againſt the ſex in general, venting upon them all the invectives, which his me⯑mory or imagination could ſuggeſt: he ranſacked the poets ancient and modern for [86] epigrams and lampoons, and had by heart every tag and fragment of ſatire, which made for his purpoſe, and which Greek, Latin, or Eng⯑liſh could ſupply. If any one of his acquain⯑tance ſpoke in praiſe of a woman, or even toaſted the health of his miſtreſs, he was ready with a daſh at his folly, which oftentimes would have brought on ſerious diſcuſſions, had he not been very generally conſidered as a licenſed railer, or had his companions been as prompt for quarrel as himſelf.

This humour being ſpent, his mind took a ſudden turn to the contrary extreme, and poor Saunders was no more to be found in ſociety; ſullen and inacceſſible, he ſhut himſelf into his college room, and centering all his ideas, heretofore ſo wild and excurſive, in one ſingle point, and dwelling invariably upon that with pertinacious melancholy, the vigour of his in⯑tellect began to melt away, whilſt his conſti⯑tution, partaking of the ſame debility, and at⯑tenuated by long faſting, was haſtening to de⯑cay by actual inanition. A ſtudent, late ſo regular in his duties, could not abſent himſelf from college hours without drawing the at⯑tention of his tutor and other members of the ſociety upon him; the former of theſe one day [87] took means of ſurpriſing him in his room, where he diſcovered him on his knees, em⯑ployed in loud and fervent prayer, to which his preſence gave not the ſmalleſt interrup⯑tion, whilſt the poor ſupplicant continued to deplore his wretched ſtate of mind in terms truly piteous and diſconſolate, intermixt with petitions moſt earneſt and devout for the pre⯑ſervation of his reaſon. His pitying viſitor was melted at the ſcene of ſuch diſtreſs, and having waited for a proper interval, applied ſuch conſolation as his charity could ſuggeſt upon the emergency, and inſtantly diſpatched a letter to the father, appriſing him of the dangerous condition to which his pupil was reduced. This ſad intelligence ſoon brought the afflicted parent to be a witneſs of the total ruin of his hopes; he took the poor diſtracted creature with him to his own houſe, where, find⯑ing no relief to his diſorder, but, on the contrary, an encreaſe of every ſymptom to an extrava⯑gance, that kept him under hourly alarm, he at laſt reſolved to reſign him wholly into the hands of a keeper, and in this houſe, before deſcribed, he placed him, where, for ſome months, he had been confined under proper regimen, though without any progreſs towards [88] cure, of which his wretched parent now began to loſe all hope.

It had ſo chanced this very evening, that with a cunning peculiar to his diſtemper, he had contrived to elope from his keeper, and running out of the houſe at random, had made his way into Hagley Park, eſcaping the ſight of his purſuers by hiding himſelf in the grove, where he was lying buried under the thickeſt of the underwood, when chance brought the beauteous Iſabella, in her ſolitary ramble, to the very ſpot where he was concealed. A glimpſe of her fair form, which his quick eye caught through the buſhes, rouſed him inſtantly from his lair, and ſpringing on her like a couchant tyger on the unwary paſſenger, he ſeiſed the trembling victim in his arms, roaring out in a yell of tranſport—‘"Have I caught you then at laſt, vile perjur'd woman! traitreſs to my love! murderer of my peace! falſe, faithleſs Louiſa, you have driven me to deſperation; you have made me what I am, mad as the fires of Hecla, wild as the waves that ſwal⯑low navigation up; and now, ſyren, I'll be reveng'd upon you for my transformation; a beaſt of your own creation ſhall devour you; I'll pluck aſunder thoſe fine limbs, and ſcatter [89] them to all the points of heaven. Come, come, no ſtruggling; hence with all this frip⯑pery! away with it! you are but Nature's counterfeit; we'll have her full in ſight, and then—."’

Upon the inſtant, in that ſaving momentary criſis on which humanity will not admit of ſpe⯑culation's pauſe, our hero Henry, breathleſs, aghaſt, led thither by that unſeen clue, which Providence had graciouſly beſtowed for vir⯑tue's timely reſcue, ſprung upon the lunatic, and with a phrenſy equal to his own, graſping him in his arms, hurled him violently to the ground, never quitting his hold, but accom⯑panying him in his fall: in the ſame moment, the diſhevelled Iſabella, her cloak, handker⯑chief, and clothes torn from her, dropt ina⯑nimate at his ſide, without uttering even a ſigh that ſhewed ſigns of life. Diſtracted with the ſight, ſtill he did not venture to let looſe his deſperate antagoniſt, who raved and foamed in all the furious exceſs of phrenſy, yelling and gnaſhing with his teeth, a ſpectacle too horrible for contemplation. Emaciated as he was, the very ſpectre of famine, ſtill his mad⯑neſs gave him nerves almoſt ſupernatural, and in their grappling all the vigour Henry's ac⯑tive [90] limbs could furniſh, ſometimes ſcarce ſuf⯑ficed to keep him under, and hold him down extended on his back; at length the wretched creature gave one deſperate ſtruggle, then uttered a direful groan, and ſwooned upon the ſpot, ſtretching his limbs as if in the laſt pang of life.

Happily at this moment the keeper and his follower, guided to the ſpot by the yells and howlings of their patient, made their ap⯑pearance, to the unſpeakable relief of our ex⯑hauſted hero, whoſe terrors for the beloved object, lying breathleſs by his ſide, were now become too agonizing to endure. Inſtantly he raiſed her in his arms, replaced the ſcatter⯑ed fragments of her dreſs with tendereſt at⯑tention, arranging it in a manner as decorous as her ſituation and his own diſtraction would admit, and calling out to the keeper for aſ⯑ſiſtance in recovering her from her ſwoon. The man had ſkill, and was not wanting in humanity; he knew withal the quality of the lady who ſtood in need of his aſſiſtance, and was terrified, not leſs on his own account than on her's, for the conſequences of what had happened: bidding his ſervant take charge of the lunatic, by tying up his hands, he applied [91] himſelf directly to the recovery of the lady, and drawing out a caſe of lancets, recom⯑mended the immediate opening of a vein; this was eagerly acceded to by Henry, and in a few ſeconds the pure blood that fed the veins of the faireſt form in nature ſprung forth from the lancet, and at the ſame time the brighteſt eyes that ever lover looked upon, unveiled their lids, and fixt their ſight on Henry, who, whilſt aſſiſting the operation juſt performed, had received upon his perſon the full guſhing tribute of that ſanguine ſtream ſo much dearer to him than what fed his own fond heart. The ſight of this, to which in his confuſion he had not adverted, ſo terrified the reviving Iſabella, that the firſt ſign ſhe gave of recollection was a ſcream of terror on the diſcovery, crying out to the operator—‘"Leave, leave me, and ſtaunch his wounds; he is bleeding to death, and do not think I will ſurvive him."’

Joy ſeiſed the heart of Henry to hear the voice of his beloved Iſabella, and to hear it firſt employed in anxious concern for him; he eagerly aſſured her he was not wounded; that the blood which alarmed her was her own: [92] and upon theſe aſſurances, the ſtream that had ſtopped began to flow again, and her ſenſes grew clear by the revulſion. When her arm was bound up, and her mind became com⯑poſed, her attention was attracted by the diſ⯑order of her dreſs; ſurveying the confuſion and derangement which her perſon had un⯑dergone, ſhe perceived that certain articles had been replaced by hands not practiſed in thoſe offices, and the ſenſation covered her with bluſhes: the emotion was not loſt upon Henry; he could interpret what was paſſing in her thoughts, and took occaſion, with a de⯑licacy peculiar to himſelf, to allay and ſoothe her inquietude. She turned a look upon him that beggars all deſcription; love beamed in her eyes, gratitude filled them with tears; then having caught a glimpſe of Saunders, as he was under cuſtody of his keeper, turned away with ſhuddering from the ſight, and fell upon Henry's neck, crying out—‘"Oh my Henry! my preſerver! from what horrors have you reſcued me!"’—Let thoſe that have the powers of deſcription paint his tranſports if they can; I ſink beneath the taſk, and re⯑commend it to the reader's fancy, if ever he [93] experienced joy like this; if not, I wiſh he may deſerve it, and obtain it.

The wretched object that had occaſioned all this terror now engaged their attention; he had recovered from his ſwoon, but ſo wan and woe-begone as would have extracted pity from a heart of a ſtone; he was ſitting on the ground, his hands confined with a bandage ſwathed round his wriſts; he rolled his eyes about in wild diſorder, and at laſt fixing them on his keeper, drooped his head, gave a deep ſigh, and burſt into tears. He was now at once become as meek and humble as he had been outrageous, and reaſon ſeemed to have reviſited his mind with the return of tempe⯑rance.—‘"I am a very wretched creature,"’ he cried, ‘"and ſenſible of my misfortunes, that ſometimes drive me into extravagancies I never fail to repent of: I know it is for my good that this worthy gentleman ties up my hands; but if he wou'd have the charity to ſet me at liberty, I wou'd convince him that I am not unfit to be truſted with the uſe of them; if he will not grant me this favour, I ſhou'd be much beholden to him, wou'd he have the kindneſs to remove a few paces out [94] of ſight, whilſt I ſpeak a word in the way of atonement to the gentleman I have offended. I have a ſecret on my mind, which I am de⯑ſirous of imparting to him, and I can aſſure him, on my honour, I am this moment as perfectly in my ſenſes as any man in Eng⯑land."’

Here the keeper turned a look upon him, which he quickly underſtood as a ſign for ſilence, and obeyed: a look no leſs intelligent was paſſing at the ſame moment in another quarter, for Henry, fixing his eyes upon the keeper's follower, recognized the perſon of the aſſaſſin O'Rourke, and perceiving certain indications in the fellow's countenance, which convinced him he was right, he ſaid to him in a whiſper—‘"Don't be alarm'd, O'Rourke, for I ſhall not betray you: if you execute this melancholy office faithfully and humanely, you are in a way to atone to ſociety for the crime you have committed."’

CHAPTER XI. Which deſcribes the Effects of that Incident, and concludes the Tenth Book of our Hiſtory.

POOR Saunders being now removed, and the operation of the bleeding having ſuc⯑ceeded in reſtoring Iſabella to the full poſſeſ⯑ſion of her ſenſes, and in ſome degree of her ſtrength, ſhe declared herſelf able to walk to the houſe, and forbade the propoſal of ſend⯑ing for a carriage, as it would create an alarm which could hardly fail of finding its way to her father. With her natural grace and good humour ſhe accepted the apologies of the keeper of the lunatics, Gordon by name, who was very anxious to exculpate himſelf to the heireſs of Hagley, and to tender his further ſervices, if occaſion required. In accounting for the eſcape of his patient, through the ne⯑gligence of his ſervant, he took occaſion to obſerve by the way, that a derangement of the reaſon, proceeding from diſappointed love, was univerſally experienced to be the very worſt ſpecies of madneſs that human nature was ſub⯑ject [96] to; this, he ſaid, was unhappily the caſe of Mr. Saunders, whom he deſpaired of as per⯑fectly incurable.

‘"Alas!"’ cried Henry, ‘"I pity him from my ſoul: I dare ſay his ſtory is a melancholy one, but we will not trouble you to relate it."’—This he ſaid as a hint to Gordon, that any farther diſcourſe on the ſubject, in Iſabella's hearing, ſhould be avoided; and it might be in part from the ſame motive that ſhe declined his offer to attend upon her home, relying ſole⯑ly on the arm of her protector for her ſupport by the way, and leaving Gordon to reſume his melancholy vocation in the manſion of miſery, on the ſkirts of the common, adjoining to the park.

Henry now, for the firſt time in his life, re⯑gretted the length of way he had to meaſure with his lovely but languid charge, and pro⯑ceeded ſlowly and cautiouſly, regardful of every motion that might diſturb her, and di⯑recting every ſtep for her ſecurity and eaſe. With hearts full of gratitude to Providence, and glowing with the tendereſt affection for each other, they walked ſilently on till they reached the boundary of the grove, where they came in view of the houſe, upon an open [97] lawn, that ſloped with a gradual deſcent for the reſt of their way. Here they were de⯑ſcried by Sir Roger and Doctor Sandford, as they were walking and converſing together within a few paces of the houſe: the Baronet obſerving that Iſabella walked ſlowly, and ſeemed ſupported by Henry, on whoſe arm ſhe was leaning, inſtantly took alarm, and call⯑ing out to the ſervants, who happened then to be out of the way, was heard by young Sandford, who, bolting out of the hall-door, flew to the call.—‘"Run, I beſeech you,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, pointing to the ſpot, ‘"run to Iſa⯑bella yonder, and tell me what has happen'd, for I greatly fear ſome accident has befallen, or ſome illneſs ſeiz'd her!"’—Whilſt theſe words were on his lips, the eager meſſenger caught ſight of the object they referred to, and, ſeized with the like terror, ſprung forwards with his utmoſt ſpeed, whilſt Sir Roger, trembling with apprehenſion, caught hold of his friend hy the arm, and ſtood motionleſs on the ſpot, in dreadful expectation of the event. In the ſame moment, whilſt Sandford was ſtraining every nerve againſt the hill, Iſabella, taken ſuddenly with a giddineſs and loſs of ſight, had come to a ſtop, and unable to keep her [98] feet, had fallen into Henry's arms, who, with one knee upon the ground, was ſupporting her whole weight on his breaſt and ſhoulder, him⯑ſelf pale as aſhes, and oppreſſed with ſuch agony of ſoul, as to be almoſt in the very act of fainting, when Sandford came moſt criti⯑cally to his aſſiſtance. The houſe-ſervants mean time had ſeen what was going on, and taken the alarm; a pair of horſes had fortu⯑nately been put to the chaiſe, and were ready in the ſtable-yard; one of the ſervants had preſence of mind to order them to the ſpot immediately, which was as inſtantly obeyed. During this operation, Sir Roger remained immoveable, a ſpectacle of pity: Sandford ſaw his diſtreſs, and as ſoon as ever the chaiſe and ſervants came to the aſſiſtance of Iſabella, ran back with all haſte to Sir Roger, making ſigns, and calling out by the way that he had good news, all was well, and no danger. Two ſervants had very conſiderately mounted behind the carriage, and by their help the faint and languid Iſabella was lifted to the ſeat, and placed upon it as much at her length as it admitted of: ſhe now opened her eyes, and caſt them round in ſearch for her preſerver; he was ſitting on the ground totally exhauſted, [99] and in a ſituation, as it ſeemed, more piteably helpleſs than her own. She would not move without him, and he could not ſtir without help towards her.—‘"Lay me on the floor of the chaiſe,"’ he cried, ‘"and let me expire at her feet."’—She heard his voice, but luckily the words did not reach her ear: at that in⯑ſtant ſhe ſtarted into life, and recovered as one out of a trance; the miſt vaniſhed from before her eyes, and ſeeing Henry on the ground, ſhe conjured him to ariſe and come to her in the chaiſe. Her father and Doctor Sandford now approached: Sir Roger's agi⯑tation, though much aſſuaged by what had been told him, was ſtill very great, and as he came up to the chaiſe, the door of which was held open, ſhe cried out—‘"Oh! my beloved father, be in no alarm on my account; diſ⯑miſs your fears for me, and exert all your care for the recovery of my heroic preſerver, to whoſe courage, under Providence, I am in⯑debted for my life."’—Henry was now on his legs, and re-animated with the ſound of her voice, ſeemed to have loſt his debility with the terror that had created it: as he pre⯑ſented himſelf to her ſight, Iſabella exclaimed,—‘"Oh! bleſſed be Heaven, my protector [100] lives!"’—Upon theſe words, Sir Roger turned a look upon him, in which that exceſs of gra⯑titude, which will not admit of language, was ſo ſtrikingly depicted, that, as he threw his arms about our hero's neck, he ſeemed to give him his whole heart with the embrace. His cheeks were wet with tears, he trembled and was faint; but nothing could perſuade him to avail himſelf of the chaiſe; he pe⯑remptorily inſiſted upon Henry's taking his ſeat by Iſabella—‘"Go, go,"’ he cried, ‘"I will not rob you of the honour you have earn'd; with you the darling of my ſoul is ſafe; take the place you ſo well merit, and let the ſame arm that ſav'd my child, ſupport her."’

CHAPTER I. Deſcribes what our Heroine is, and what we wiſh our Virgin Readers to be.

THE time is ſo nearly approaching, when I muſt cloſe this hiſtory, that I am now in the ſituation of a man, who, being on the point of parting from friends, in whoſe com⯑pany he has taken a long and pleaſant tour, is anxious to call to mind any faults or omiſſions he may have fallen into, that he may explain ſuch as will bear a juſtification, and aſk pardon for what demands an apology.

To enter on a review of all my errors, is a taſk above my hands; but there is one, I ap⯑prehend, apparently too groſs to be over⯑looked by any of my readers; I mean that of neglecting to deſcribe the perſon of my he⯑roine. If this is a crime, it is the more un⯑pardonable, foraſmuch as I cannot plead over⯑ſight [102] and inadvertency in excuſe of it; I have kept her portrait wilfully in its caſe, and not diſcloſed even the colour of her eyes, or ſet to view a ſingle locket of her hair. Fielding's Sophia had locks of gloſſy black, more mo⯑dern novels give their heroines flaxen treſſes and azure eyes; there is a faſhion in beauty; perhaps my Iſabella had neither the jet of the raven, nor the ivory of the ſwan: I would prefix to theſe volumes an engraving from her portrait, but Henry would not let it out of his hands; and our great artiſts are ſo fully em⯑ployed, that not one was at leiſure to go down to Manſtock-houſe to take the copy.

Now, as I have not the vanity to attempt an undertaking, which I believe no author has yet ſucceeded in, I will not aim to deſcribe what will not bear a deſcription: ſingularity or deformity may be delineated by the vehicle of words; perfect beauty eludes the power of language. Let it ſuffice for me to ſay, upon the faith of an hiſtorian, that my heroine was all the moſt doating lover, when dreaming of his miſtreſs, fancies her to be, and ſomething more than the ſelf-admiring beauty beholds, when ſhe examines herſelf in the glaſs. Yet in many things ſhe fell ſhort of ſome, whom [103] I have heard extolled above the modeſty of praiſe: her eyes could not expreſs what their's excel in; when they ſparkled, it was with benevolence; when they languiſhed, it was with pity; they were not repulſive enough to look a modeſt man out of countenance, nor attractive enough to inſpire an impudent man with hope; good nature dimpled round her lips, that encaſed two rows of pureſt pearls, but ſcorn never pouted in the one, and the grin of folly never was put on to diſcloſe the other: her voice was melody that kept the mid⯑dle tones, for it could neither ſound the pitch of an affected ſcream, nor grumble in the baſe note of a ſullen murmur: her motions were the expreſſive marks that charactered her mind; compoſed and temperate, rage never agitated them; pride never diſtorted them; light and elaſtic when ſhe haſtened to the ſuccour of the wretched, ſhe neither aped the languor of ſicklineſs, nor the mincing ſtep of affectation: ſhe danced gracefully, but not like a profeſſor; loved muſic, but was no performer; had an eye for nature, but never libelled a ſingle fea⯑ture of it by pen or pencil: ſhe had read ſuf⯑ficiently for her years, and profitably for her inſtruction; ſhe could expreſs her thoughts in [104] ſpeaking or in writing elegantly, and without embarraſſment; but ſhe poſſeſt in its perfec⯑tion, the ſtill happier gift of a patient ear whilſt others were ſpeaking, and of a polite attention to what they ſpoke. Being the only child of her parents, the little bickerings of brothers and ſiſters never irritated her temper, nor did the triumphs of a rival ever fan one ſpark of envy in her breaſt: educated entirely by an excellent mother, ſhe had no communi⯑cation with governeſſes and ſervants, nor any friendſhips with caballing miſſes. That ſhe was deceived in ſuppoſing her heart ſo pre-occupied by filial affection, as to be unaſſail⯑able by love, theſe ſheets have ſufficiently evinced; but when ſhe found herſelf ſurprized into a tender attachment, and fully underſtood the merits of the perſon who inſpired it, ſhe ſcorned to maſque herſelf in falſe appearances, played off no vain coquetries to teaze and tantalize her lover by affected ſcruples and counterfeited fears, but with a candour, that reſulted from her purity of thought, gave him to know the intereſt he had gained, juſtly con⯑ceiving artifice need not be uſed to ſmother a confeſſion, which honour dictated, and delicacy might avow.

[105]If I offend againſt refinement, by deſcribing an ingenuous nature, I make no other anſwer but by an appeal to the hearts of my readers, as in like caſes I have done to thoſe of my ſpectators: let them decree! when men of doubtful characters, for doubtful purpoſes, ap⯑proach the fair, let the fair reſort to their de⯑fences; I am no caſuiſt in a caſe of cunning, nor am I fond of working to my point by crooked paths, or deſcribing the baſe pro⯑perties of degenerated nature. If any of my female readers has been taught to think hypo⯑criſy a virtue, by the neceſſity ſhe has been under of reſorting to it, I will not argue againſt her prejudices for a friend that has been ſo uſe⯑ful to her, I can only ſay it is not a virtue I am ſtudious to beſtow upon the character of Iſabella.

CHAPTER II. A modeſt Suitor does not hurt his Cauſe.

WE left our heroine in diſtreſs, we there⯑fore ſeize the firſt inſtant that our hiſ⯑tory admits of to reſort to her again, and now [106] we find her with Henry at her ſide, under eſcort to Hagley Houſe, where we commit her to the care of her aſſembled friends, with every anxious wiſh for her ſpeedy and entire recovery.

As ſoon as the ſuperintendant of the inſane patients had ſeen poor Saunders ſecurely caſed in a ſtraight waiſtcoat, and lodged in proper hands, he haſtened to make his enquiries after the lady, who had ſuffered ſo ſeverely by the negligence of his people, who had let a crea⯑ture ſo wild as Saunders eſcape out of their charge. Intereſt and humanity conjointly prompted him to pay this mark of reſpect and atonement to a perſon who was now become proprietor of the houſe and land he lived in. Sir Roger Manſtock was acceſſible to every body, and of courſe Gordon was admitted: from him he received the whole melancholy detail of Saunders's caſe, and the providential reſcue of his beloved Iſabella from the clutches of a raving maniac, inflamed with revenge againſt the ſex, and probably bent both upon violation and murder. What were his obli⯑gations then to the courage and vigour of her defender, when he heard, with horror thrilling through his veins, this awful narrative of the [107] danger ſhe had been ſnatched from! His heart ran over with gratitude to Heaven, and ac⯑knowledgments to Henry.

No ſooner was Gordon departed, than Sir Roger ſent a ſummons to our hero, determin⯑ed to diſcharge himſelf in ſome degree of the weight of obligations which preſſed upon his mind, by an inſtant acknowledgment of him as the ſon of his niece, and every offer of an unreſerved friendſhip in future.—‘"If then he demands my daughter,"’ he ſaid within him⯑ſelf, ‘"can I refuſe him the poſſeſſion of what he has preſerv'd? Cou'd I hold out againſt a claim ſo juſt, and drive him who has given her life a ſecond time, into the like condition with that wretched maniac?"’—Whilſt theſe reflec⯑tions occupied his mind, the ſervant he had ſent for Henry, made report that he was not to be found, and indeed as he had not ventur⯑ed upon an intruſion into Iſabella's apartment, it is not to be wondered at that his ſearch was fruitleſs. Here his preſence was ſtill indiſpenſi⯑ble, for nothing but the chearing ſight of her de⯑fender, and his perſuaſive voice, could yet allay the tumult of her mind. Conſtitutions leſs ſtrong than Iſabella's might have ſunk entirely under ſuch a ſhock; the ravage it made in [108] her nerves was not inconſiderable, and great attention was neceſſary to prevent further de⯑rangement. Zachary, whoſe ſervices were now in demand, of courſe poſtponed his jour⯑ney, and paid cloſe attendance upon his lovely patient. Silence and repoſe were the great and only reſtoratives in requeſt; with this view a couch was provided in her dreſſing room, and on this was diſplayed the faireſt form in creation, whilſt at her ſide, in penſive mute attention to each breath ſhe drew, fate Henry, whilſt a ſervant, poſted without the chamber-door, kept watch againſt diſturbers of her ſlumbers. And now the gentle power of ſleep had viſited her ſenſes, deſcending like the dove of peace with downy pinions on her troubled ſpirit; one glimmering ray of even⯑ing light ſcarcely ſufficed to ſhadow out her form, and on this the eyes of Henry invari⯑ably were fixt, whilſt he held her hand faſt locked in his, careful to prevent the ſlighteſt movement, if it were poſſible, even of a fibre to awaken her.

In the mean time, the news had reached Doctor Sandford, who, in company with his ſon, inſtantly reſorted to Hagley Houſe: even Delapoer himſelf, in the adjoining vil⯑lage, [109] had received the alarming intelligence, magnified as uſual in its paſſage, and he had alſo joined the anxious groupe of viſitors to Sir Roger. Whilſt ſtrict order of ſilence was obſerved through all that region of the houſe, which was dedicated to Iſabella, this groupe of friends waited the iſſue of her preſent repoſe with anxious hope, and Henry's praiſes were in the mean time the general topic of their diſcourſe: even the modeſt diffidence of young Saunders was overcome by the warmth of their applauſes, and he gave his voice to the chorus with peculiar glee; for he loved our young hero, and was beloved by him; he alſo, at humble diſtance, adored his lovely patroneſs, whoſe grace of giving had the power of doubling every bounty ſhe beſtowed, and Sandford's was the very heart to feel that grace in its full compaſs and extent.

Honeſt Zachary alſo joined the company; he communicated to them with cordial de⯑light the favourable ſituation of his patient above ſtairs, wrapt in ſoft repoſe and guarded by the preſerver of her life. He then ex⯑patiated very learnedly upon the diſmal effects of ſudden frights and perturbations, with the different modes of treating them, arguing [110] with great diſplay of reaſon, that no one proceſs was ſo efficacious as the ſooting attention of ſome affectionate perſon beſt beloved by the ſuffering object. In the courſe of this diſ⯑cuſſion, the learned lecturer got himſelf ſo completely entangled amongſt the fibrous rami⯑fications of the nervous ſyſtem, that after many fruitleſs ſtruggles, and as many plunges into deeper difficulties, Zachary left nothing clear to the edification of his hearers, except that love was one of the ſtrongeſt of the human paſſions, that the perſon beſt beloved was decidedly the moſt welcome to the perſon loving; that ſleep was a grand reſtorer of exhauſted nature; and finally, that it was his opinion, the young lady up ſtairs would ſleep the better for Henry's ſitting by her, and of courſe that his ſociety would forward her recovery. To all theſe concluſions, there was not amongſt the com⯑pany preſent one ſingle opponent, though Sir Roger, whilſt he acquieſced in theſe general deductions, choſe to make uſe of the word gratitude on the part of his daughter, in place of the broader, and, perhaps, more appoſite term which Zachary had employed on the ſame ſubject.

There was indeed one perſon in company, [111] whom long experience of the fatal power of love, deep ſenſibility of its effects, and ſuffi⯑cient eloquence to have deſcanted on that topic, qualified to ſpeak what would have been worth the attention of the hearers, had he been ſo diſpoſed; but ſilence and ſorrow ſeemed to have entire poſſeſſion of poor Dela⯑poer; ſtill one ray of hope cheared the gloom of his ideas, and that was derived from the proſpect now given him, by the declared at⯑tachment of Iſabella to his ſon.

Doctor Sandford obſerved to Zachary with a ſmile, that he did not wonder if he had found ſome difficulty, in treating upon love, to pre⯑ſerve a due diſtinction of ideas, ſince it was an affection that ſhewed itſelf under ſo many ſymptoms and deſcriptions, being in ſome caſes an actual diſeaſe, in others an effectual remedy. The medicines commonly applied for the cure of it, were too often ignorantly adminiſtered, and few fathers, he believed, were good phyſicians in their own families. ‘"Very true,"’ cried Zachary, ‘"they deal too much in ſtrong repellants."’ A deep ſigh which eſcaped from Delapoer, not unperceiv⯑ed by the company, reminded them they were touching upon too tender a ſubject, and at this [112] moment, to their general joy, Henry entered with a chearful air, announcing the good news of Iſabella's amendment; ſhe had waked from ſleep ſo recovered and compoſed, that he hoped all effects from her fright would now be done away—‘"Hold, hold,"’ cried Zachary, inter⯑rupting him, ‘"young phyſicians are apt to be too ſanguine; old ones proceed with cau⯑tion: we muſt not pronounce upon the cure as perfect, becauſe the ſymptoms intermit."’—Sir Roger ſubmitted to this doctrine, and though impatient to ſee his daughter, ſuffered Zachary to viſit her without him.

Delapoer now ſaw a fair opportunity of ſounding the parties preſent, with regard to his wiſh of inhabiting the parſonage devolved up⯑on young Sandford; he expreſſed his inten⯑tion, with leave of the incumbent, to purchaſe the furniture and effects of the late Mr. Rat⯑cliffe, reſerving an apartment to the uſe of the ſaid Mr. Sandford, aſſuring him that what⯑ever he laid out, either in that or any other way upon the premiſſes, ſhould remain to his uſe and benefit; and as his life would be re⯑tired and ſingle for the reſt of his [...]ays, there would not fail to be houſe enough for them both, whilſt circumſtances remained as they [113] were at preſent.—‘"My motives,"’ ſaid he, ‘"for wiſhing to end my days in this ſpot of earth which covers all that was dear and va⯑luable to me in life, are known to Sir Roger Manſtock, and I believe I may add, that any promiſes I engage for with Mr. Sandford, will be guaranteed by this young gentleman now ſitting beſide me, who, by deed of gift, is heir irrevocable of all that I am worth. To the head of my houſe, who, with the title, in⯑herits every thing that appertains to it, I ſhall bequeath to the full amount of what I have re⯑ceived, my ſword and my honour, both un⯑tainted and no worſe for the wear. Of my great and early diſappointment in life I will not ſpeak, for the author of it is gone to his ac⯑count, and the object of it, alas! is now no more. One wiſh remains at my heart, which, if I am indulg'd in, I ſhall pray for ſo much life as may ſuffice for the completion of it; if it is refus'd to me, death cannot come too ſuddenly. This I will now explain before the preſent company, hoping they will ſecond my moſt earneſt ſuit to Sir Roger Manſtock; it is, that I may be permitted to raiſe ſome monument of affection and reſpect, to the memory of that beloved perſon whom we have lately followed [114] to the grave. I wou'd have it a mauſoleum ſeparate and ſelect, and in ſome degree re⯑ſembling certain edifices of that deſcription, which I have contemplated with awful vene⯑ration in the Eaſt. I have mark'd in my walks about this place, a location, as I think, peculiarly appoſite; and I have work'd upon a plan, (for architecture has been my favourite ſtudy) which I ſhall be prepar'd to exhibit to Sir Roger Manſtock, when I have his permiſ⯑ſion for ſo doing. The workmen and ma⯑terials are within my reach, the ſuperinten⯑dance of the work will be my taſk, the laſt melancholy gratification that my ſorrows will admit of."’

A requeſt ſo new and unexpected coming upon the worthy Baronet in this manner, em⯑barraſſed him not a little; he was at no time very quick at a reply, but now was more than ordinarily deliberate in arranging his thoughts. Indeed a ſuſpicion had haunted him ever ſince his laſt converſation with Delapoer, that grief and diſappointment had in ſome degree deranged his intellects, and this propoſal of the mauſoleum very much confirmed him in that notion; he therefore ſought rather to evade the ſuit than to ſatisfy it, obſerving to him, that the manners [115] of the Eaſt were different from thoſe of Eu⯑rope; that in ſome few inſtances edifices of the ſort he deſcribed had been erected in certain parts of England, but with an effect that did not much recommend them to his taſte; a monument attached to a church he had no ob⯑jection to, it had a local ſolemnity, and was ſeldom viſited by the obſerver but at religious ſeaſons, whereas a mauſoleum built upon un⯑conſecrated ground became, like other orna⯑mental buildings in parks and gardens, a mere ſpectacle to the curious, and was rarely found to impreſs the viſitor with any portion of that mournful reſpect, with which the founder of it might be ſuppoſed to have been inſpired. Beſides this, it was to be conſidered, that Lord Crowbery was ſtill living; and though his inſenſibility towards the deceaſed, had been ſuch as to devolve upon her kindred thoſe duties and decent attentions towards her remains which properly belonged to himſelf, yet this would be an affront that could not fail to provoke his utmoſt rancour, and expoſe her memory to the worſt inſinuations. Upon the whole, he thought it a matter of no ſmall moment, and therefore ſhould not wiſh to decide upon it haſtily. As for Mr. Sandford's [116] parſonage houſe, it was a queſtion entirely for the parties concerned to ſettle between them⯑ſelves, he could have no objection to oppoſe to a tender of ſo generous a ſort.

The project of the mauſoleum being thus adjourned, Delapoer retired with Dr. Sandford and his ſon, to negociate the treaty for the parſonage, when Sir Roger, finding himſelf left with Henry, addreſſed him as follows:—

‘"The ſervice you have this day rendered me is of ſuch magnitude, as no return of thanks on my part can ſufficiently expreſs, ſince there is no object in this world ſo pre⯑cious to me as the life, which, under Provi⯑dence, you have been the means of ſaving. You cannot therefore tax my gratitude above the value which I put upon your merits, and of courſe I muſt refer it to your own choice and arbitration, to name that favour within my power to grant, which will make you happy to obtain, if any ſuch there is: conſult your wiſhes, Henry, and let me know what it is I can do to recompence the preſerver of my daughter."’

‘"The firſt and greateſt favour you can beſtow upon me,"’ replied Henry, ‘"is the aſ⯑ſurance of your pardon for the ſeeming dupli⯑city [117] of my conduct, in keeping ſecret the af⯑finity I have the honour to bear to you, and the preſumptuous love that I have harbour'd in my heart for your adorable daughter. Obe⯑dience to the injunctions of a tender parent, compell'd me to ſilence in the firſt caſe, and nature over-rul'd the conſciouſneſs of my own unworthineſs in the latter; for how cou'd I approach Miſs Manſtock, and be inſenſible to her perfections? how cou'd I ſee her and con⯑verſe with her without ſurrendering myſelf up to love and admiration?"’

‘"If my pardon,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"be all you have to aſk, you wou'd indeed name a very ſlight return for a very weighty obliga⯑tion: but let us talk in plainer terms; by par⯑don, I preſume you mean conſent and appro⯑bation; when you deſire me to pardon you for loving my daughter, I ſuppoſe I am to underſtand it as a modeſt way of aſking me to give you my daughter."’

Henry bluſhed and was ſilent.—‘"Why, truly,"’ reſumed the Baronet, ‘"your diffidence makes a ſtop without diſcovering an excuſe for it, for whilſt you ſcruple to demand my daughter, you do not heſitate to ſecure her affections,"’—‘"If ſuch is my happy fortune,"’ [118] replied Henry, ‘"the intereſt I may have with her is all the merit I can claim with you: to her then I refer my cauſe, in her is all my hope."’

Here a meſſage from Iſabella to her father called him ſuddenly away, and cut ſhort a con⯑ference that was becoming very critically in⯑tereſting to our agitated hero.

CHAPTER III. Love is the grand Specific.

WHILST Sir Roger Manſtock attended the ſummons of his beloved daughter, Delapoer had brought his buſineſs to a con⯑cluſion with the Sandfords, and had ſet out on his return to the parſonage: damped and de⯑preſt in ſpirit by the chilling reception he had met with from Sir Roger, in the matter of his projected mauſoleum, he turned in his thoughts every mode his imagination could ſuggeſt for combating the objections he had heard, and as appearances towards the noble but unworthy widower, ſeemed the ſtrongeſt and beſt founded [119] bars to his propoſal, he brought himſelf, after long debate and meditation, to the romantic reſolution of ſetting out forthwith upon a ſecret expedition to Crowbery Caſtle, there to demand an interview with the Viſcount, and either by reaſoning or other means, if reaſon⯑ing would not ſerve, to return with ſuch au⯑thority for commencing his operations, as ſhould ſatisfy the delicacy of Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock with reſpect to oppoſition from that quar⯑ter. Thus determined, he put himſelf in order of march with all poſſible diſpatch, and taking with him a faithful ſervant in his poſt-chaiſe, left a note for Henry, ſimply informing him that he ſhould he abſent for a few days upon particular buſineſs, which he would explain to him at his return.

In the mean time Sir Roger viſited his lovely daughter, and had the happineſs to find her in a ſtate of ſuch convaleſcence as pro⯑miſed him a ſpeedy and complete recovery. His converſation with her was tender and gra⯑tifying in the extreme, for he talked of Henry in terms of the higheſt approbation, acknow⯑ledging his obligations to him with a warmth of gratitude and affection, that encouraged her to throw off all reſerve in ſpeaking of her at⯑tachment. [120] To this, in the ſame ſtrain of can⯑dour, he replied, that he had ſeen enough to certify the fact, which ſhe confeſſed to, and therefore any attempt to vary from it would be highly diſingenuous. It was natural, he owned, that ſhe ſhould be thus partial to a man ſo amiable in mind and perſon, and what muſt that heart be, he ſaid, which was not ſenſible of obligations ſo important as thoſe ſhe owed to Henry? Far be it then from him to oppoſe her inclinations: with two ſuch me⯑lancholy inſtances freſhly impreſſed upon his mind, he ſhould not riſk the fatal conſequences of exerting his parental authority to prevent her union with the man of her heart, ſo long as nothing could be urged to the impeachment of his character. But as time, which was both the friend of prudence and the teſt of truth, muſt now of neceſſity intervene before their connection could take place, he flatter⯑ed himſelf, that in decency to the deceaſed, neither Henry nor herſelf would take means to ſhorten it by any abrupt determination: let the ſeaſon of mourning run out its full date, during which he ſhould impoſe no illiberal reſtraint upon either of them, no leſs confiding in Henry's honour than in her diſcretion.— [121] ‘"My doors,"’ he added, ‘"will never be ſhut againſt the preſerver of my Iſabella, till I ſee, what I hope and truſt will never occur, ſuf⯑ficient reaſons for ſo harſh a meaſure."’

To this Iſabella made anſwer, that her re⯑collection did not ſerve as to all that had paſſed, but ſhe well remembered, in the midſt of her terrors, clinging to the breaſt of her defender. ‘"In his arms I ſought for ſafety, and I found it; in that terrible moment, the impreſſion of whoſe horrors will never be effac'd from my memory, he oppoſed himſelf to the raging phrenſy of my aſſailant, and ſnatcht me from a fate too terrible to think of. Even now my imagination is haunted by viſions, which no⯑thing but his preſence can diſpel; when he is abſent darkneſs falls upon my ſenſes, with his appearance light returns; and ſhou'd he leave us, I ſhall never know happineſs or health again."’

The agitation which accompanied theſe words ſo alarmed her father, that he beſeeched her to entertain no ſuch deſponding thoughts, but aſſure herſelf that Henry would continue where he was till ſhe was in a ſtate to travel, and ſhould attend her even to Manſtock Houſe, if ſhe wiſhed it. With theſe aſſurances [122] ſhe ſeemed pacified, and Sir Roger, willing to prevent any further irritation, took the oppor⯑tunity of Zachary's coming into the room quiet⯑ly to ſlip out of it, and retire in good time. Za⯑chary ſoon perceived that her ſpirits had been diſturbed, and wiſhed to preſcribe ſomething in his own way to allay them, adviſing her at the ſame time to ſolicit ſleep, and exclude all com⯑pany from her chamber.—‘"Ah! my good Sir,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"how widely you miſtake my caſe: ſolitude is my terror; I know not when I ſhall be able to encounter it; I have a horrid image continually before my eyes, and no one but he, who reſcued me from the reality, can fortify me againſt the ſhadow. Till I am ſatisfied that Henry is in the houſe, and that he will not leave it, I can never reſt."’—Zachary aſſured her that he was in the houſe, and would have been ere now at the ſide of her couch if he had not in the moſt peremptory manner proteſted againſt it.—‘"It is not to be told,"’ he added, ‘"what difficulty I had to perſuade him to ſtay away from you."’—‘"I hope then,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"you will for my ſake, as well as your own, never attempt that difficulty any more: why ſhou'd I reſort to art, when nature tenders me a ready cure? [123] What I may be brought to in time I know not, but I have not yet loſt my ſenſes, and therefore dark rooms and ſoporific doſes do not apply to my caſe."’

Whilſt ſhe was yet ſpeaking, the room door was gently opened, and a ray of light from one glimmering taper ſtriking on the perſon of Henry, preſented an object to her ſight worth all the recipes on Zachary's file. The Doctor ſaw the change that inſtantly took place in the countenance of his patient; joy now il⯑luminated her lovely features, the blood once more glowed in her cheeks, and Zachary ex⯑claimed—‘"Well, my fair Lady, if ſuch cures can be perform'd without the Doctor's help, 'tis time for me to leave off the profeſſion; I ſhall begin to think that phyſic is mere quackery, and a doſe of what the heart loves beſt worth all the compounds in the chymiſt's ſhop."’—This ſaid, he retired, whilſt Henry approached with cautious ſteps to the lovely convaleſcent, gently taking her hand, which was held out to him, whilſt ſhe ſaid—‘"Don't be any longer alarm'd about me, I ſhall ſoon recover all the unpleaſant effects of this day's miſadventure, and remember none but ſuch as gratitude to my preſerver have implanted in [124] my heart for ever. Oh! Henry, ſure it was my guardian angel brought you to my reſcue at that dreadful moment, and endow'd you with nerves to combat a creature, whoſe phrenſy ſeem'd to furniſh him with ſuperna⯑tural ſtrength. How loſt beyond redemption I had been but for you! Surely you will not leave me in this diſmal place, where I can look on nothing but what revives the ſcene of my terrors: ſurely you will return with us to Manſtock; it is my father's wiſh; 'tis my re⯑queſt: what ſays my Henry?"’

To this tender petition Henry replied with equal tenderneſs, that he was her's, his whole heart was devoted to her, and that he was pre⯑pared to obey every wiſh of her's, though it ſhould impoſe upon him the ſevereſt trial, and, not like the preſent one, flatter him with a proſpect of the higheſt happineſs he could re⯑ceive, that of being allowed to attend upon her in whoſe preſence only he could be ſaid to live. Whilſt he repeated this, he gently preſſed her hand, which he ſtill held to his breaſt, fondly regarding her with a look of ſofteſt pity and affection; a ſympathetic glow of chaſte de⯑light beamed on her bluſhing face; her eyes witneſſed the animating pleaſure which theſe [125] endearments gave her; and when ſhe ſaw him watchful of her emotions, and preparing as ſhe thought to withdraw himſelf through fear of diſcompoſing her tranquillity, ſhe ſmiled, and ſaid—‘"I perceive you have been tutor'd by our Doctor; Zachary has perſuaded you that you ought not to be here; but he is no phy⯑ſician for the mind; and you, (Oh Henry! why ſhou'd I bluſh to own it!) you are the maſter of thoſe ſprings which feed my heart with life and health; at your touch they move; in your preſence I revive; when you abſent yourſelf, they ſtop and relapſe into deſpair."’

Whilſt ſhe was uttering this, Henry was ſtruggling to repreſs his tranſports; with dif⯑ficulty he refrained from throwing himſelf at her feet; but recollecting in the inſtant all the danger of her ſituation, he checked the ardour of his paſſion, and with as much compoſure as he could ſummon on the ſudden, reaſſured her of his inviolable attachment, promiſing to be ever ready at her call, attentive to all her wiſhes, and reſolute to devote his whole life to her ſervice.—‘"Only be compos'd,"’ he cried; ‘"let me but ſee this gentle boſom reaſſume its peace, and all theſe tremors vaniſh, who then will be ſo bleſt as I?"’—‘"I perceive,"’ [126] ſhe replied, ‘"that you regard me with pity, as a being depriv'd of reaſon, and one who, according to Zachary's regimen, ſhou'd be kept in ſolitude and ſilence; it may be ſo, I am ſenſible I wander in my thoughts beyond the bounds of reaſon or diſcretion, for grati⯑tude perhaps betrays me into too much warmth of language, and ſenſibility in the exceſs re⯑ſembles madneſs; if ſo, I muſt ſubmit, and you muſt treat me as my malady requires; ſtill I will hope that your compaſſion ſome⯑times will prevail with you to viſit me in my affliction, and if you find that by your proceſs my diſorder is aggravated, not relieved, per⯑haps you then will think it time to try what contraries may do, and favour me with more indulgencies."’

A deep drawn ſigh, accompanied by tears, ſucceeded to this ſpeech; her head ſunk upon her breaſt, and ſhe ſeemed ſurrendering herſelf up to an agony of grief, when Henry, no longer maſter of himſelf, and cut to the heart with her conſtruction of his reſerve, caſt him⯑ſelf on his knees, and enfolding her in his arms, gave vent to all thoſe fond and ardent proteſtations, which with difficulty he had hitherto ſuppreſſed: the act and the effect, like [127] thoſe of electricity, were inſtantaneous; ſo quick ſhe caught the ſympathy of his tran⯑ſports, it ſeemed as if one ſoul had animated both, the gloom that hung upon her ſpirits vaniſhed in a moment, her mind became col⯑lected, and joy diffuſed ſmiles over her beau⯑teous countenance. Such was the magical tranſmutation love wrought in the mind and perſon of our fair heroine! To follow them in their converſation any further is a taſk we ſhall not undertake; the language of lovers is apt to be too broken and deſultory for regular detail, and their imaginations a little too vo⯑latile for ſober hiſtory; there is alſo more of action in theſe ſcenes than can well be brought into deſcription, and if attempted to be de⯑ſcribed, are they not open to miſconſtruction, which might wound the purity ſo characteriſtic of thoſe perſons, for whoſe honour we are truly zealous? Let it ſuffice to ſay, that though love reigned in both their hearts, honour kept guard over one, and innocence was inherent in the other; reſpect tempered the paſſion of Henry, virtue herſelf might have acknowledg⯑ed the ſenſations of Iſabella.

CHAPTER IV. Raſh Enterprizes are apt to miſcarry.

WHILST Henry and Iſabella were thus enjoying the bleſſings of a vir⯑tuous mutual paſſion, Delapoer, the melan⯑choly martyr of an unfortunate attachment, like a wounded veteran worn out in the ſer⯑vice of an ungrateful maſter, was purſuing his penſive progreſs towards the habitation of the Viſcount. Deep and dreary were his medi⯑tations by the way, and not one word eſcaped him to the humble companion of his journey: his mind continually pondered upon the ob⯑ject of his expedition, and various were the ſpeeches he compounded and decompounded for the event of their meeting. In all theſe reſentment was a prevalent ingredient, and the bitter drug of an inveterate averſion to the worthleſs poſſeſſor of his loſt and lamented treaſure, tainted every compoſition he deviſed. Nature had given him, together with a fair and comely perſon, a moſt kind and courteous diſpoſition, but the cruel ſtings of diſappointed [129] love had feſtered in his boſom, whilſt his travels and campaigns in an unhealthy climate had haſtened on a premature old age, and rendered him feeble and decrepid at a time of life when many others enjoy themſelves in full health and vigour of conſtitution. We have already ſtated the condition he was found in on board the prize by Henry, and his reſcue from that dangerous criſis: grief for the loſs of Lady Crowbery had ſince preyed upon him in ſuch a manner, as not only to reduce his feeble conſtitution in an alarming degree, but in ſome meaſure to impair his mental faculties, of which this chimera of the mauſoleum, and the journey he was taking in conſequence of it, were no ſlight ſymptoms: his thoughts, by dwelling perpetually upon one ſingle object, rendered him ſtrange and inſenſible to all other matters, and withal ſo vehement and pertinacious in the purſuit of his favourite meditation, that neither reſt, nor food, nor the calls of health, could awaken his attention; and in ſpite of all the remonſtrances of his faithful ſervant, he preſſed forward on his jour⯑ney, though he was evidently ſinking under fatigue, and at the ſame time exhibited ſtrong ſymptoms of a fever haſtily coming on.

[130]Theſe indications were no longer dubious at the concluſion of his journey, and as his chaiſe entered the village of Crowbery, the delirium had gained upon him to ſuch a degree, that he was no longer capable of giving orders to the drivers where to go, much leſs of executing the purpoſes of his expedition. The reader may recollect a certain public houſe on the village green, under the ſign of the George and Dragon; this being the only houſe of en⯑tertainment in the place, thither the drivers conducted our travellers, and there they ſtopt. It ſo chanced that Ezekiel Daw was at this inſtant perambulating the aforeſaid green, en⯑joying the freſh breeze of the evening, and his cuſtomary pipe, when curioſity led him to the alehouſe door to enquire who the ſtrangers might be; and probably the idea that his friend Henry would be found in the chaiſe had a ſhare in that curioſity, for ſure enough the thoughts of that good creature were at that very time employed in meditating upon our hero, whoſe abſence his kind heart very ſeri⯑ouſly regretted.

Delapoer was ſtill in the chaiſe, and Martin his ſervant in great diſtreſs how to diſpoſe of him, when Ezekiel coming up to the door, [131] diſcovered the perſon of the reputed Mr. Smith, and no ſooner heard, and indeed ſaw, the ſad ſtate he was in, than with the compaſ⯑ſion natural to him, he claimed acquaintance with the wretched invalid, and immediately directed the drivers to conduct him to the houſe of Suſan May, where he promiſed him a kind reception, and all poſſible care and at⯑tention proper for his ſituation. This was gladly accepted by Martin on the part of his maſter, and executed without delay. Ezekiel ſtrode acroſs the green with ſuch ſpeed, that he was at Suſan's door, and had warned her of what was coming, before the carriage got round and drove up to the gate. Benevolence, that glowed in Ezekiel's boſom, was no leſs warm in thoſe of Suſan and her mother; at the call of pity both parties turned out upon the inſtant, and as the chaiſe ſtopt, both with the ſame hoſpitable voice welcomed the ar⯑rival of their diſtreſſed and ſickly gueſt. Whilſt the women prepared a bed for him, Martin and Ezekiel lifted him out of the chaiſe, and with the aid of a proper cordial from the ſtore-cloſet of Dame May, ſaved him from a faint⯑ing fit.

As ſoon as they had got him into bed, and [132] provided all things neceſſary for his comfort and accommodation, Ezekiel advanced to the bed ſide, and having felt his pulſe with due ſolemnity and deliberation, drew Martin aſide, and in a low voice ſaid—‘"Of a truth, friend, I diſcover very ugly tokens of a febrile quality in the pulſe of this poor gentleman, to whom I preſume you ſtand in near degree of friend⯑ſhip or affinity, ſeeing you have exhibited proofs of ſo much care and ſolicitude about his perſon."’—Martin replied, that he was the gentleman's ſervant, but no leſs attached to him than if he had the honour of being his re⯑lation.—‘"Be it ſo! be it ſo!"’ quoth Eze⯑kiel, ‘"there is honour due unto all men, who fulfil the duties of the ſtation they are in, however humble it may be; and I perceive thou art not one that contenteth himſelf with eye-ſervice only, as ſome are too apt to ren⯑der. Let that paſs therefore, and to the point, which being no leſs important than that of the life or death of a fellow creature, de⯑mandeth brevity and quick diſpatch. I have myſelf a ſmattering in the medical art (I ſpeak humbly as becometh me) having been early train'd to wield the peſtle, and compound the drugs of a country practitioner of no mean [133] note; but I preſume not to undertake a caſe of ſuch danger and difficulty, as I much fear this will be attended with; at the ſame time I know not whither to reſort for better advice in this preſſing emergency, for the Aeſcula⯑pius of our pariſh is abſent at this preſent, and the ſubſtitute, who officiates in his ſtead, Alexander Kinloch by name, warrants not any great eulogium from me, ſeeing I cannot witneſs to the ſucceſs of his practice in gene⯑ral; in candour I wou'd ſay more, if in con⯑ſcience I was not check'd from uttering an un⯑truth; had Alexander Kinloch been a cobler or a butcher, I wou'd perhaps ſtrain a point to recommend a neighbour, but in the ſkill of the phyſician depends the ſafety of the patient, and therefore it is that I ſpeak not in his praiſe: to be ſhort, he is a very ſelf-conceited ſhallow fellow, wilful as a mule, and ignorant as an aſs, and woe betide the ſick that comes under his care; where he enters, death is at the door!"’

‘"What then is to become of my poor maſter,"’ replied Martin, ‘"if this is all he is to look to? Have you no phyſician within reach?"’—‘"We have had Doctors in the neighbourhood,"’ ſaid Ezekiel, ‘"but our coun⯑try [134] is ſo healthful, that it has ſtarv'd them all out: in fact, there is little or no employ for any but bone-ſetters and man-midwives. Therefore, if I may adviſe, we will let nature have her courſe for this night, which with good nurſing, and the attention of theſe kind women, we may hope will paſs well with our patient, and to morrow we will conſult what more may be done for Mr. Smith's relief and accommodation."’—‘"Smith, did you ſay?"’ demanded Martin, ‘"my maſter's name is De⯑lapoer, the Honourable Henry Delapoer, ſon of the late Lord Pendennis, and brother to the preſent; a gentleman of noble family and great fortune, acquir'd with high reputation and long ſervices in the Eaſt Indies."’—‘"Say you ſo! ſay you ſo!"’ interpoſed Ezekiel.—‘"And be aſſur'd,"’ added Martin, ‘"he is not a man to let theſe your kind offices go unre⯑warded, if he lives to come to a ſenſe of them: my maſter (Heaven preſerve him!) is of a noble ſpirit, and lets nobody ſerve him for nothing,"’—‘"What tell you me of his ſpirit,"’ cried the preacher, drawing himſelf up into the ſtiffeſt of all human attitudes; ‘"there be others, who have as much ſpirit as your maſter, and who will not allow of any recom⯑pence [135] to be made for the common offices of hoſpitality and humanity, which they have both the mind and the means to deal to thoſe who ſtand in need of their aſſiſtance; but I excuſe theſe ſentiments in you, which, had they been ſooner made known to me, I ſhou'd not have miſtaken your condition as I did."’—Here Martin finding he had rouſed the pride of his hoſt, began to make apologies, which he had no ſooner done, than the ſpirit of the good creature was inſtantly allayed, and with many friendly expreſſions, and a hearty ſhake by the hand, he aſſured him every idea of offence was totally done away; and as he felt, per⯑haps, that more reſentment had been ſhewn than the occaſion warranted, he ſet about to qualify appearances, by telling Martin that there was not a man in the kingdom leſs irri⯑table or captious than himſelf; every body that knew him could witneſs that his patience and forbearance were notorious to a proverb, ſo long as his motives were rightly under⯑ſtood; but as to them, he preſumed every well-meaning man was naturally and laudably ſenſitive; for to do eye-ſervice to God, and take wages of Mammon, was to make a ſtalk⯑ing-horſe of religion, and, in his opinion, a [136] a moſt heinous and deſpicable piece of hypo⯑criſy.

Ezekiel Daw had now ſufficiently develop⯑ed his own character for Martin no longer to miſtake it, ſo that having heard this harangue without returning any anſwer, peace was ef⯑fectually re-eſtabliſhed, and the features of the apoſtle relaxed from their rigidity. He then proceeded to enquire what friends or relations Mr. Delapoer might have in thoſe parts, whom it might be proper to appriſe of his ſituation, or if none ſuch were at hand, what particular call he might have to the village of Crowbery, which cauſed him to travel with ſuch ſpeed and perſeverance, to the ſenſible neglect of his health. To this Martin replied, that he concluded it was buſineſs of no ſmall importance, which brought his maſter to that place; but the particular nature of it he was not informed of; however, he underſtood ſo much from what had eſcaped him by the way, as to believe it had reference to the Lord Crowbery in perſon, with whom his maſter ſeemed very eager to have an interview.—‘"Enough ſaid,"’ quoth Ezekiel; ‘"his buſi⯑neſs lieth with the Lord Viſcount at the caſtle, and his ſpeed betokeneth the momentous na⯑ture [137] of that buſineſs: I do recognize his per⯑ſon heretofore in theſe parts, when he paſs'd himſelf upon me under the name of Smith: there is a myſtery at the bottom, that I am not curious to pry into: nevertheleſs, friend, it ſeemeth right unto me, that the Lord Viſcount ſhould be appris'd of his arrival, and alſo of the malady, with which it hath pleaſed God to viſit him, that ſo the aforeſaid Lord Viſcount may aid and aſſiſt us in this extremity with his counſel, and thereby lighten our reſponſibility in caſe your maſter ſhou'd die, which truly I do greatly fear will be the caſe."’

Having ſo ſaid, and no oppoſition being made on the part of Martin, Ezekiel ſtalked away, and with haſty ſtrides bent his courſe to⯑wards the caſtle.

CHAPTER V. Bellum, Pax rurſum.

THE party we left at the caſtle, conſiſt⯑ing of Claypole and his niece, with the Lord of the manſion, had paſſed their time in [138] their accuſtomed retirement, and received no addition to their number from the curioſity or civility of their neighbours, for the unſocial qualities of the Viſcount were well known to all the gentry round about him, and none of them loved or reſpected him ſufficiently to pay him an uninvited viſit. Amongſt the various cauſes in nature, which tend to corroborate or impair an attachment, we are not curious to ſearch for that particular motive which had operated to the evident abatement of his Lordſhip's paſſion for Miſs Fanny, but ſo it was, that his ardour had conſiderably cooled of late, ſo as to excite ſome uneaſy ſenſations in the mind of the ſagacious uncle, and at certain times emotions of indignation and reſentment in the tender boſom even of the lady herſelf. Perhaps it would have been prudent in this fair creature, whoſe perſonal charms were her chief, if not her only, recom⯑mendation, to have huſbanded that reſource with a little more oeconomy; but as her uncle had on his part been as prodigal of advice; as ſhe had been of favours, it may be preſumed he overacted his part, ſo as to force her into meaſures directly contrary to what he recom⯑mended. Certain it is, that ſhe did not love [139] the Lord Crowbery, and therefore we may conclude ſome paſſion ſtood proxy for incli⯑nation in her connection with that perſon⯑age; whatever this was, ſhe followed it as a guide to matrimony, though by ſo doing ſhe very much diſſented from her uncle's policy, who frequently objected to her in the vulgar phraſe of the common ſaying, that ſhe had put the cart before the horſe.

It ſo happened, that whilſt Ezekiel was on his way to the caſtle, meditating as he walked on the addreſs with which he purpoſed to in⯑troduce himſelf and his buſineſs to the noble Viſcount, a tête-à-tête between his Lordſhip and Miſs Fanny had taken place, in which ſome litle aſperity had mixed with matters of a ſweeter quality, that young lady having taken occaſion to inquire of his Lordſhip, what pre⯑ciſe time he had fixed for making good his promiſes, by preſenting her with a coronet, hinting in modeſt terms, that this was rea⯑ſonably to be looked for before ſhe returned the favour, by preſenting him with an heir. Amongſt various excuſes which the Peer had ready at hand to palliate his delay, the recent death of his lady was inſiſted on in a manner that provoked Miſs Fanny to advance a few truths upon the meanneſs of hypocriſy; after [140] ſo public a breach, ſhe obſerved, between him and Lady Crowbery, the world could not ex⯑pect even the ſemblance of ſorrow on his part; that if he had meant to treat her memory with reſpect, how came it to paſs that he failed to ſhew it to her remains, but conſigned them to her uncle for burial? She could not therefore regard his plea of her recent death in any other light than as a palpable pretence to evade an act of honour and juſtice, which it would be more manly in him to diſavow at once, and boldly face the conſequences of his breach of faith, than meanly fritter away both her time and patience with apologies and ex⯑cuſes that were as frivolous as they were falſe. And what was this Lady Crowbery, for whom he held himſelf thus bound to ſacrifice to ap⯑pearances? Upon what terms did they live? In what temper did they part? Did he ſtir one foot from his door to accompany her on her way, when ſhe departed from his houſe a dying woman? Had he any love, or reſpect, or even pity in his heart towards her, then was the time to ſhew it; but it was notorious he had not; and it was alſo as well known who had; it was no ſecret to her at leaſt, that Henry the adventurer was the object of her fondeſt [141] affection; that he embarked on board Captain Cary's ſhip for no other purpoſe but to give her the meeting at Liſbon; that when that un⯑dertaking failed, and illneſs ſtopt her ſhort at Falmouth, there he joined her, there he re⯑newed thoſe uninterrupted attentions, which cheered her dying moments, and in his arms ſhe fondly breathed out her laſt expiring ſigh.—‘"Damnation! Madam,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"do you think I have no feelings, that you ſport with them ſo unmercifully? Do you think I have no ſenſe of honour, of revenge? Can you ſuppoſe that villain ſhall eſcape my venge⯑ance? And is this a time to talk of marri⯑age?"’—‘"Say, rather,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"is this a wife to mourn for? As for revenging your⯑ſelf upon her favourite, if that be your ſerious purſuit, no fear but you will find it; Henry is not a man to avoid an open enemy; if your Lordſhip has the ſpirit, he will give you the opportunity."’—‘"'Sblood! Madam, do you doubt my ſpirit?"’—‘"Till I have better proof of your honour, I do doubt your ſpirit; but as I am perſuaded Henry will ſoon return to theſe parts, your Lordſhip may ſoon put that matter out of queſtion, though I ſhou'd rather think your firſt diſcuſſion ought to be with [142] your Lady's firſt love, Mr. Delapoer, who I underſtand to be returned to England, fraught with the treaſures of the Eaſt, and loud in his invectives againſt you."’

‘"Againſt me,"’ cried the Peer, ſenſibly alarmed: ‘"what has Mr. Delapoer to do with me? Becauſe he thought fit to run away with her before marriage, am I to be call'd to account by him after her death? If I am to fight my way through all her lovers, I had need have more lives than one for the under⯑taking. By the alacrity you expreſs in num⯑bering up my opponents, I ſhou'd almoſt ſuſ⯑pect you took pleaſure in my danger."’—To this ſhe calmly replied, ‘"I only warn you of your danger, my Lord, which is the office of a friend, and truſting to your courage, take an early opportunity of putting you upon your guard. I have a correſpondent who has in⯑form'd me of ſome particulars that perhaps you are unappris'd of; I am told that Mr. Delapoer had a meeting with your Lady at Falmouth, and that he paid the cloſeſt and fondeſt attendance upon her in her laſt illneſs; I hear alſo that he was preſent at her funeral, and remains inconſolable for her death; I fur⯑ther underſtand, that he ſpeaks of you with [143] leſs reſpect than any man of ſpirit will permit his character to be ſpoken of; in ſhort, my Lord, I ſhou'd not wonder if a man, whoſe blood is fir'd with the heats of India, and who avowedly imputes to you the death of the ob⯑ject ſo dearly lov'd, and ſo deeply lamented, ſhall be ſound capable of any meaſures, how violent ſoever, or how raſh: nay, truly it wou'd not much ſurpriſe me to hear his name announc'd to you this very evening, as my ſervant tells me there has been a chaiſe and four poſt-horſes arriv'd in the village not an hour ago, and that the travellers were receiv'd into the houſe of Suſan May, which, in your late friend Blachford's time, wou'd hardly have been open'd to viſitors at that hour, and of that deſcription."’—Whilſt Miſs Fanny was thus ſpeaking, the viſage of Lord Crowbery became ruefully aghaſt; he ſtruggled for words, but paſſion and pride ſtopt what fear and cowardice would have dictated. At laſt, after many efforts and much ridiculous geſti⯑culation, he made ſhift to mutter out a few broken ſentences, by which nothing was to be underſtood, but that he believed ſhe was in a league with theſe aſſaſſins to attempt his life. [144] With a ſmile of ineffable contempt, ſhe re⯑plied, ‘"I am not in any league againſt your life, for if I am injur'd, I know how to redreſs myſelf againſt the villain who betrays my con⯑fidence and violates thoſe promiſes he has em⯑ploy'd to ſeduce my virtue. Let ſuch a faith⯑leſs wretch tremble at my vengeance; de⯑fenceleſs as I may ſeem to be, I have a ſpirit that will not ſtoop to infamy, and a hand that can execute the merited puniſhment on the de⯑filer of my virgin honour."’

This ranting menace, uttered with all the emphaſis of a tragedy-heroine, might have loſt its effect at any other time than the preſent, when his Lordſhip's nerves were very much deranged from various cauſes; but now it was heard with terror; and when ſhe roſe from her ſeat with becoming dignity to make her exit, the ſpiritleſs and quivering lover earneſtly requeſted her not to leave him in anger, for that he was ready to obey her wiſhes, and give her every poſſible proof of his love, honour, and good faith. This atonement made her features ſoften into kindneſs, and whilſt ſhe tendered him her hand in token of forgiveneſs, ſhe declared herſelf ready to ſtand by him in [145] all difficulties and dangers, and make common cauſe againſt every impertinent that ſhould offer to annoy him.

CHAPTER VI. An humble Viſitor meets a haughty Reception.

THE terms that fear extorts, cunning commonly finds means to evade. Lord Crowbery had all the diſpoſition in life to ex⯑tricate himſelf from his embarraſſments with Miſs Fanny, and all the regret that heart could feel for having raſhly involved himſelf in them. The peace he had patched up was of courſe a dubious one, but at the preſent moment it was convenient.

A ſervant how entered the room, and re⯑ported to his Lord, that Ezekiel Daw was in waiting, and requeſted to be admitted upon buſineſs of importance. It was one of thoſe ill-timed ſtrokes that take a man in the moment of his weakneſs. My Lord might certainly have refuſed admiſſion to a poor neighbour of Daw's condition, but Miſs Fanny [146] had inſtantly given her voice in the affirma⯑tive, and for him to revoke it was to ſubject himſelf to greater inconveniencies than his confirming it might lead to. It is probable that the idea of Delapoer ruſhed upon his mind, when he heard the name of Ezekiel Daw; but a thouſand other trifling matters might occur to bring that good apoſtle to his door, who was ever buſy in the intereſts of his poor neighbours, and forward to ſtand forth as their advocate with the rich and mighty. Having therefore put the previous queſtion of ‘"What does the fellow want with me?"’ and received for anſwer from the ſervant, that Daw would not communicate his buſineſs; the cau⯑tious Peer directed his meſſage firſt to Mr. Claypole, deſiring the favour of his attend⯑ance, and then permitted him to tell Ezekiel that he would ſee him for a few moments. In conſequence of theſe orders, the Reverend Mr. Claypole and the untitled field-preacher entered the audience-chamber, where ſate the lord of the caſtle and his lady elect, nearly at the ſame moment.

Ezekiel made his reverence, and was told to deliver himſelf of his buſineſs in as few words as poſſible. ‘"I doubt not,"’ replied [147] the preacher, ‘"that time is precious to your Lordſhip, who ſo well knows the uſes of it; and I ſhall therefore intrude no further on your patience, than a brief recital of my motives for ſoliciting the honour of this audience will of neceſſity involve. Benevolence, my Lord, as this Reverend Divine can teſtify, is a virtue which—"’—‘"We do not wiſh to hear you expatiate upon,"’ ſaid Claypole, interrupting him; ‘"let brevity for once be your virtue, Ezekiel Daw, or patience will not be our's, and you will be diſmiſs'd without a hearing."’—‘"Reverend Sir,"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"I will be brief, and not put any virtue of your's to a trial, that might perchance be too hard for it. This is my buſineſs—A traveller hath this evening arriv'd in our village, who now ſo⯑journeth at the houſe of Suſannah May, of whoſe coming I held it as my duty to adver⯑tiſe the Lord Viſcount Crowbery."’—‘"And what is that to me?"’ cried the Peer, ſenſibly alarmed.—‘"My Lord,"’ replied Daw, ‘"I humbly conceive it is ſo far forth appertaining to you, foraſmuch as the gentleman, whoſe name is Delapoer, a perſon as it ſeemeth of high birth and noble family, incontinently ſeeketh your Lordſhip, upon buſineſs perad⯑venture [148] of no ſlight importance, ſeeing he hath travell'd with unremitting ſpeed, to the great detriment of his health, and at the imminent peril of his life; which, if I have any ſkill in prognoſtics, now draweth faſt to a conclu⯑ſion."’

At the name of Delapoer my Lord turned pale, and was viſibly in great perturbation: the information with which Ezekiel concluded his ſpeech, was of a more welcome ſort. Ral⯑lying his ſpirits, he aſſumed a haughty tone, and demanded of the preacher, if he knew the nature of the buſineſs that Delapoer pre⯑tended to have with him. To this it was re⯑plied, that he knew it not, nor was the poor gentleman himſelf in a condition to make it known, having arrived in a high ſtate of fever, which had ſeized his brain, and deprived him of his ſenſes.—‘"And where are your ſenſes,"’ ſaid Claypole, who knew enough of Delapoer's ſtory to unravel the whole myſtery, ‘"to come on ſuch an errand? What has my Lord Crow⯑bery to do with Mr. Delapoer and his deli⯑rium? Let Kinloch, or Dame May, or any other old woman of the place (yourſelf for inſtance) put a bliſter on his head, or nurſe your patient after any other faſhion you think [149] fit; we have neither doctors, ſurgeons, nor apothecaries in this family: I am aſtoniſh'd you have the aſſurance to intrude yourſelf up⯑on his Lordſhip and the company preſent with ſuch a tale."’—‘"If I am guilty of an indeco⯑rum in coming hither,"’ ſaid Ezekiel, ‘"I ſhould expect your Reverence wou'd be the firſt to find pardon for my error, ſeeing it can ſpring from none but Chriſtian motives of be⯑nevolence and charity. The ſtranger, who now languiſhes on the bed of ſickneſs, might draw comfort from the preſence of a noble perſon, whom he has ſought with ſuch avidity; and that noble perſon (pardon the preſump⯑tion with which I ſpeak it in his hearing) might ſeize the joyful opportunity of ſuccour⯑ing a fellow creature in the hour of diſ⯑treſs."’

This ſaid, and no anſwer given, Ezekiel made his humble obedience and retired. Clay⯑pole, who bore him an ancient grudge, did not ſpare him on the occaſion, calling him an officious, canting, methodiſtical raſcal. Miſs Fanny, who ſaw her prediction verified ſo un⯑expectedly, kept her eyes upon the Peer, ſe⯑cretly enjoying his confuſion, whilſt he main⯑tained a ſullen ſilence, perſuaded that the [150] whole had been a plot of her deviſing, and more than ever determined to eſcape out of her hands: for this purpoſe, he ſoon retired to his library for meditation, where it occurred to him to write to his couſin Captain Crowbery, whoſe aſſiſtance he foreſaw would be neceſſary to him on many accounts, and on whoſe cou⯑rage and counſel he could firmly rely. A ſhort letter, requiring his inſtant preſence, being written and diſpatched, he found his mind conſiderably more at eaſe; and to cover his deſigns, carried himſelf towards Miſs Fanny and her uncle with more than ordinary cordi⯑ality and good-humour. Claypole, though a cunning man in the general, was ſo effectually blinded by this fineſſe, and by the report his niece made of the reſult of her laſt alterca⯑tion with his Lordſhip, that he conſidered her as Viſcounteſs elect, and his labours crowned with ſucceſs. He commended her very highly for her ſpirit, and obſerved, that fear operated on her lover's nature as the more powerful paſſion of the two; but no matter for that, ſo long as the object was attained, he would not quarrel with the means. He hoped Delapoer was not abſolutely in a dying ſtate, but of that he was determined to ſatisfy himſelf very [151] ſpeedily, for he regarded him, under the preſent circumſtances, as a very lucky inſtrument for quickening his Lordſhip's meaſures, which he ſhould take the firſt fair opportunity of pro⯑moting, by ſuggeſting a temporary ſeceſſion from Crowbery, during which the knot might be ſecretly tied, and not only the appearances of precipitation avoided, but alſo the interview with Delapoer, that he ſeemed ſo much to dread: to theſe ideas Miſs Fanny on her part very cordially aſſented,

When Ezekiel arrived at Suſan May's, he had the ſatisfaction to hear that Mr. Williams, the ſurgeon, had ſurprized them with a viſit, and was then in attendance upon the ſick per⯑ſon. He had obtained his diſcharge from his ſhip, and was now come, upon Zachary's in⯑vitation, to give him the meeting upon the ſpot, and adjuſt the preliminaries of their treaty for the ſhop and trade. Nothing could be more critically fortunate for poor Delapoer, than the arrival of this intelligent young man, who had already rendered him ſuch ſervices, and made himſelf ſo acceptable to his patient. As for Daw, who eſteemed Williams, and de⯑ſpiſed Kinloch, his joy was exceſſive; and it was with ſome difficulty Suſan May prevented [152] him from ruſhing into the ſick man's room to tell him ſo. In the mean time, a bed was ap⯑propriated to Williams in her houſe, that he might be near at hand and within call at all hours, for he had already pronounced upon the caſe of his patient as extremely dangerous. His applications however had ſuch effect, that before the night was paſt, Williams had the ſatisfaction to ſee a change of ſymptoms, that augured favourably, and was recognized by Delapoer, with marks of joyful ſurprize and ſatisfaction. The meeting between Williams and Ezekiel was very affectionate, nor did his friend Suſan fail to give him a reception per⯑fectly kind and cordial. When he ſtated to them the object of his coming, they were re⯑joiced to hear there was ſo fair a chance of his ſettling amongſt them, to the excluſion of Kin⯑loch; and in truth Williams was deſervedly beloved by all that knew him, being a young man of moſt gentle and engaging manners, in perſon very agreeable, and of a well-in⯑formed underſtanding, with every thing that could recommend him in the line of his pro⯑feſſion: at ſuch times and ſeaſons as his pa⯑tient did not need his attendance, he gave the whole detail of his adventures by land [153] and ſea, ſince he had quitted Crowbery; but in a more particular manner he recited every thing that had paſſed from the time that Henry had joined the frigate. This was the moſt intereſting part of his ſtory to Ezekiel and Suſan, who liſtened with admiration and delight to the animated picture Williams drew of their heroic friend, and which he coloured to the height, with every warm tint that truth could give, or valour and humanity deſerve. Whilſt this was in relation, Ezekiel's glowing ſpirit would break forth into rapture and ex⯑ultation; ever and anon he would ſpring from his ſeat, erect himſelf into a martial attitude, and thunder forth his applauſes, forgetting ſometimes his accuſtomed ſobriety of ſpeech, and launching forth into apoſtrophes of tri⯑umph, which, if they did not abſolutely a⯑mount to a breach of the ſtatute againſt ſwear⯑ing, were yet but hair-breadth eſcapes from the penal letter of the law. Suſan's fine eyes meanwhile expreſſed the tendereſt ſenſibility of ſoul, now dropping tears of ſympathy, now gliſtening bright with tranſport, emotions that cannot be thought to have eſcaped the pene⯑trating obſervation of the narrator.—‘"I [154] knew,"’ exclaimed Ezekiel, in one of his rhap⯑ſodies, ‘"that my boy was brave. It was I, and I alone, who firſt diſcover'd the innate integrity of his heart; albeit, he was then op⯑preſs'd under a cloud of accuſations and ap⯑pearances of guilt: it was I, and I alone, who ſtept forth in the defence of innocence, and oppos'd my ſingle voice in arreſt of condem⯑nation, againſt a torrent of overbearing wit⯑neſſes: this good dame, I confeſs, took pity on his corporal ſufferings, and, like the chari⯑table Samaritan, pour'd oil and wine into his wounds: I do not aver, take notice, that it was identically oil and wine which ſhe admi⯑niſter'd, but it was ſomething as good, and ſerved the purpoſe ſhe intended by it; the alluſion is not leſs appoſite, becauſe it is not li⯑teral; Heaven will conſider the mind, and not ſcrutinize the medicine. He was guiltleſs, and we reſcued him; friendleſs, and we protected him; hungry, and we fed him; had he been in priſon, I wou'd have come unto him even there, for my bowels yearned towards him in chriſtian charity and compaſſion: and now, behold he is brave, he wieldeth the ſword againſt the enemies and blaſphemers of his [155] faith; he fighteth valiantly in the righteous cauſe of his king, his country, and his God. Who wou'd not do the ſame? who wou'd not die in ſuch a glorious conteſt? I wou'd for one.—But out upon it! whither does my paſſion hurry me? Do I not forget myſelf? have I not a calling that warneth me from deeds like theſe? Am I not a preacher of peace?"’

Here Ezekiel ſunk down in his chair, con⯑founded and abaſhed, whilſt his lips moved and his eyes were turned upwards in ſecret ejacu⯑lation; which Williams obſerving, kept ſilence for ſome few minutes, and then, watching his opportunity, threw in a few conſolatory re⯑marks, by way of qualifying his ſelf-reproach, which will be found, by thoſe who think it worth their while to ſearch for them, in the ſucceeding chapter.

CHAPTER VII. Firſt Love ſinks deep into the human Heart.

‘"I AM ſorry, friend Daw, that you ſhou'd ſeem for a moment to retract the ſenti⯑ments and expreſſions which my recital drew from you. What is ſo natural as to exult in the heroiſm of a friend? I proteſt to you, though my profeſſion has no more to do with the actual operations of the battle than your's has, yet my heart glows for my countrymen, when I hear them applauded for their valour; and as to this action which I have been relat⯑ing to you, though our victory was not great in its conſequences to the nation at large, yet none cou'd be more glorious to the brave hearts who obtain'd it; in which, let me tell you, our gallant young friend diſtinguiſh'd himſelf in a moſt conſpicuous manner. Had you but ſeen him, as I did, when he brought Tom Weevil to the cockpit to be dreſs'd, you wou'd have own'd you had beheld the perfect model of a real hero; ſuch a countenance,"’ (here he turned to Suſan) ‘"never in my life [157] did I look upon the like; why, 'twas what we may form to our fancies for the picture of Achilles; ſuch fire in his eyes, but then it was temper'd with ſo much pity and conſideration for the wounded object, who had indeed a moſt deſperate cut acroſs the cheek, that he had got in the boarding—."’

At theſe words Suſan ſhrunk back in her chair, and put her hand before her eyes, whilſt Dame May eagerly demanded if poor Tom Weevil was killed, to which Williams an⯑ſwered, that it was a mere fleſh wound, in no degree dangerous, and which was juſt ſufficient to leave an honourable ſcar upon his ſkin: he then, addreſſing himſelf to Ezekiel, proceeded to ſay—‘"You, Mr. Daw, and the good Dame here preſent, have ſome experience of theſe matters, but you can have little if any con⯑ception of the horrid caſes we have to deal with during the carnage of an action. Of this, however, we will not ſpeak in the preſence of Mrs. Suſan, whoſe tender heart is ill ſuited to ſuch deſcriptions: the virtues of Mr. Henry will be a more pleaſing ſubject to her ears, and of theſe the catalogue would be in a manner inexhauſtible."’ Whilſt he proceeded to re⯑count a variety of anecdotes to the credit of [158] Henry, particularly his humane exertions for Mr. Delapoer, who was found a priſoner on board the enemy's ſhip, and alſo his kindneſſes to himſelf in the negotiation with Doctor Cawdle, he read the heart of Suſan in her countenance, and perceived, that whilſt he was praiſing Henry, he was recommending him⯑ſelf, for this her eyes declared with a ſenſibility that could not be miſtaken. Firſt impreſſions are not eaſily obliterated; Williams's ſoft heart had felt thoſe impreſſions early in life for Suſan, then in the firſt bud of beauty: time, that had matured her form, had improved her charms, and though there was ſomething for delicacy to ſtumble at in the hiſtory of her ad⯑ventures with Blachford, yet there were ſuch mitigating circumſtances to ſet againſt it, that he began to feel in himſelf a ſtrong propenſity to wave all refinements, and revert with ar⯑dour to his firſt paſſion. We have already ſaid, that a more alluring perſon than Suſan's was hardly to be met with; we may now add, that a more ſuſceptible heart than Williams's muſt have been a rare diſcovery in nature; if therefore he was not eaſily revolted by ſmall dangers, it was a conſequence of his being operated upon by ſtrong attractions. When [159] they were boy and girl under the ſame roof, every minute they could reſcue from the duties of their ſervice they devoted to each other; at a playful age their love was merely ſport and playfulneſs; as time advanced, op⯑portunities were more greedily ſought, and more ingeniouſly improved; inexperienced youth is prone to curioſity, and the dalliance of the ſexes is ſure to be progreſſive; in the path of pleaſure there is no pauſing-place, upon which the foot of the novice can reſt even for a moment's recollection. So was it with this fond pair; they had no Mentor at hand to break the ſpell; Jemima was herſelf no edi⯑fying example to Suſan; Zachary was no ri⯑gid moral maſter to Williams; prudence was not the reigning virtue in Suſan's character; ſelf-denial was not the beſt attribute that Wil⯑liams had to boaſt of: as their meetings be⯑came more delicious, ſo they contrived to make them more ſecret; ſtill they were ſub⯑jected to repeated interruptions, and the inno⯑cence of Suſan was frequently indebted to the petulance of her miſtreſs for its timely reſcue: but fortune is not ſuch a friend to virtue, as to work miracles for its ſake; and if there is nothing but chance to ſave a poor damſel from [160] a falſe ſtep, I am afraid there is but little chance of her being ſaved at all. In a ſoft and yielding moment, Suſan's protecting ge⯑nius being aſleep on his poſt, and love alert and wakeful, Williams ſtole unheeded to her chamber, and, without the church's ſanction, was admitted to all the privileges of a huſ⯑band.

Furtive enjoyments are ſeldom leſs fleeting than they ought to be. Our lovers were ſoon diſcovered in their meetings, and the conſe⯑quence was their inſtant ſeparation. Williams went to ſeek his fortune at ſea, and Suſan ſtaid on ſhore to bewail his abſence: not that he left her like a man, who runs away from the miſchief he has committed; on the contrary, he tendered to her every recompence in his power, but nothing cannot be divided, and the proferred indemnification was of courſe poſtponed till better days ſhould enable him to invite her to a better ſituation. During the whole of his peregrinations, no rival ever detached his heart from its firſt love; he kept in faithful remembrance all his own promiſes and Suſan's favours, anxious to ſeize the firſt moment his good fortune might preſent to him for fulfilling his engagements. Three [161] years had now paſſed away whilſt he had been beating the round of ſervice, with little other gain than of experience in his profeſſion. He was now at the age of twenty-three, and Suſan had ſcarce completed her nineteenth year, and within that period events had occurred, which ſtand recorded in this hiſtory, that in one ſenſe favoured their union, and in another diſ⯑couraged it; but the explanation Henry had given him of Blachford's treachery in the caſe of uſan's ſeduction, had qualified his repug⯑nance, and converted into pity what would elſe have been averſion and contempt. In the mean time, her perſonal attractions were im⯑proved by years, and his ſenſibility not abated by abſence; the only ſtruggle he had now to ſuffer was his dread of being thought a mer⯑cenary ſuitor (for the balance of worldly wealth was ſtrongly on the ſide of Suſan) and his diſcovery of an impreſſion in Henry's favour, which ſeemed to him to be paramount to all things elſe in her remembrance. Of this, however, time and future obſervation could alone give him the neceſſary aſſurance; and in the mean while his attendance upon Mr. De⯑lapoer would in a manner occupy his whole time, and be a ſufficient excuſe for his delay [162] in entering into any converſation with her, that might draw him into a premature diſcuſ⯑ſion of what was paſſing in his thoughts.

Whilſt matters hung in this ſuſpenſe, the Reverend Mr. Claypole, impatient to be in⯑formed of Delapoer's real ſituation, and, if poſſible, to gain ſome light into his buſineſs, called at Suſan May's, and meeting with Wil⯑liams, was not ſorry to hear that his patient was no longer in ſo deſperate a ſtate as was at firſt apprehended. As to the derangement of his ſenſes, concerning which he was particu⯑larly inquiſitive, Williams naturally told him that there was no mental debility in Mr. De⯑lapoer, except what was incidental to his fever, and even that was conſiderably abated. Did he know, Claypole aſked, what particular con⯑cern he had with the Lord Crowbery, that had brought him in ſuch haſte into thoſe parts?—To this Williams replied, properly enough, that it was out of his line to pry into thoſe matters; but candidly confeſſed, that he could collect enough from the rambling diſ⯑courſe that his patient would at times ſtart into, that there was ſomething on his mind of a very irritative as well as intereſting nature; and it was much to be wiſhed that ſome com⯑mon [163] friend of the parties could ſeaſonably in⯑terpoſe for the prevention of extremities. Claypole, rightly conceiving this to be pointed at himſelf, ſaid, that for his own part he had no commiſſion to enter upon the buſineſs; and being a perfect ſtranger to the gentleman above ſtairs, as well as to the motives of his diſcontent, he ſhould by no means chuſe to thruſt himſelf officiouſly into an unwelcome office, but wait till he ſhould be called upon, when his beſt endeavours, as a friend of peace, would not fail to be forthcoming. With this profeſſion he broke up the conference, and re⯑turned to the caſtle.

CHAPTER VIII. When Parties underſtand each other rightly, Buſineſs advances rapidly.

IT was in the evening of this day, whilſt Ezekiel was engaged with his pipe, and Dame May employed in affairs of the family, that chance threw Williams and his friend [164] Suſan together in a moment, and after a man⯑ner ſo pointedly commodious for a tête-à-tête, that they muſt have been ingenious indeed to have found means of avoiding it, without be⯑traying more diſinclination towards each other's company, than either of them in reality poſ⯑ſeſſed. The ſick man was aſleep; Suſan had taken up her work; Williams was ſeated be⯑ſide her; the parlour-door was ſhut, and the hour was ſacred from interruption.

Suſan kept her eyes upon her work; Wil⯑liams directed his upon her; both parties were embarraſſed, and neither could at once find courage to break ſilence. A kind of prepara⯑tory hum, like the tuning of an inſtrument, beſpoke an effort on the part of Williams, this produced a reſponſive note in uniſon from Suſan, who at the ſame time raiſed her eyes from the object they had been fixt upon, and guided them in that direction, as to claſh with his by the way; a ſoft and almoſt impercep⯑tible relaxation of the muſcles, which none but a lover's ſenſibility of perception could have conſtrued into a ſmile, ſtruck courage into his heart, as an invitation to hope, and the words found way:—‘"'Tis along age, in my account of time, ſince we parted,"’ ſaid Williams.—‘"And [165] I doubt you have ſuffer'd a great many hard⯑ſhips in that period,"’ replied Suſan.—‘"Many people wou'd have thought them ſuch,"’ he re⯑joined; ‘"but where the whole ſoul is engroſs'd by one over-ruling affliction, leſſer evils are ſcarcely felt."’—‘"That is true, indeed,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"if ſuch was the ſtate of your mind, Mr. Williams, you might well be indifferent to ſmall inconveniencies, when ſo great a ſor⯑row poſſeſs'd you altogether."’—‘"What cou'd be more afflicting,"’ he ſaid, ‘"than the cruel neceſſity I was under of flying from one I ſo dearly lov'd? Truſt me, my dear Suſan, it was a heart-breaking ſeparation, and that no⯑thing but the hopes of eſtabliſhing myſelf in ſome ſuch way of buſineſs as might enable me to fulfil thoſe engagements towards you, which I ever held as ſacred, cou'd have ſupported my ſpirits through ſuch a length of time; and ſuffer me to aſſure you, my ſweet girl, that my heart has been ſteady to its firſt love through all changes and chances; it has been ever your's; and if I heſitate at this moment to convince you of its ſincerity, it is becauſe for⯑tune has made your ſcale ſo much heavier than mine, that I might perhaps be thought to act from mercenary motives, an imputa⯑tion [166] which I diſdain and diſavow from my very ſoul."’

‘"That is an imputation,"’ ſaid Suſan, ‘"I ſhall never make againſt you. But alas! thoſe very advantages I have gain'd in point of for⯑tune muſt be regarded by you, who know my hiſtory, as inſuperable objections to any views you might otherwiſe have had. An unmarried mother will never be your object in an ho⯑nourable light; and neither you nor I have any longer the plea of inexperienc'd youth to excuſe our frailties, as once we had."’—Here ſhe caſt down her eyes, and yielded to a ſuffuſion of bluſhes, that ſo captivated the enamoured heart of Williams, that by an irreſiſtible im⯑pulſe he caught her in his arms, and, in a tranſport of love, ſmothered her with careſſes. A negociation conducted upon theſe terms was not likely to be very tedious between parties ſo tempered as Williams and Suſan May.—‘"I proteſt to truth,"’ he cried, ‘"that the wrongs you have ſuffered from that villainous ſeducer only render you more dear to my heart, and more lovely in my eyes, inaſmuch as they add pity to affection, and inſpire me with the moſt ardent deſire to ſtand forth as your defender againſt all the world, who ſhall [167] dare to breathe a word againſt your reputation. By my ſoul, Suſan, if I could flatter myſelf that your heart was untoucht by any other paſſion, than that which I firſt planted in it; if I cou'd believe that no happier lover, ſuperior to me in every point, had effac'd the impreſ⯑ſion I once made on that dear boſom, it is not all the injuries that Blachford, or a hundred ſuch as Blachford, cou'd accumulate upon you wou'd hold me back one moment from your arms. No, no, I have no ſuch principles by nature, nor have I learnt any ſuch amongſt my country's brave defenders on the ſea, as ſhou'd induce me to deſert the girl that has favour'd me with her confidence, becauſe I found her either plung'd in the extremeſt po⯑verty, or ſuffering under undeſerv'd diſgrace."’

One of the kindeſt glances which Suſan's faſcinating eyes could beſtow, witneſſed the ef⯑fect, which this gallant declaration had upon her heart: it was a ſignal of ſomething more than hope to her happy lover, and produced no common returns of gratitude from him—but it has been more than once made known to the readers of this hiſtory, that we are no dealers in deſcription; to recite what is ſaid, ſo far, at leaſt, as it refers to the elucidation of [168] events, is all that we undertake for; it muſt be left to imagination to fill up the ſcenes with action and dumb-ſhew. After an interval, in which, though the parties were ſilent, the bu⯑ſineſs did not ſleep, Suſan candidly explained to Williams the nature of her attachment to Henry, giving him a brief but fair account how it aroſe, to what length it reached, and where it ſtopt; and this account had a farther claim to his entire belief, inaſmuch as it per⯑fectly accorded in all points with what our hero himſelf had told him in their converſa⯑tion on the ſubject. It was natural that ſuch a perſon as Henry's ſhould attract attention; it was impoſſible that a nature ſo animated as Suſan's ſhould overlook it. But as honour forbade her to accept his hand, when the hu⯑mility of his fortune might have tempted him to offer it, ſo the change in his circumſtances, and the attachment he had formed, were now become ſuch inſuperable bars to hope of any ſort, that all danger and deluſion were totally at an end: it was clear that nothing had oc⯑curred which Suſan had cauſe to regret, and that nothing could occur which Williams had any reaſon to fear. Doubt and miſtruſt being thus removed, and a mutual good underſtand⯑ing [169] eſtabliſhed with abſolute confidence in each other's honour, Williams renewed his former vows, and Suſan ſcrupled not to confeſs her former liking: if we had the privilege of the comic poet, who makes marriages a momentary buſineſs, we would couple theſe lovers in thoſe holy bands without loſs of time, and the rather becauſe we are not perfectly ſure but that they ought to have been married, or acted as if they had been married; but alas! we hiſ⯑torians are tied down to forms, and dare not do them violence, though they might not be ſo ſcupulouſly regarded by thoſe, whom we have at this moment found occaſion to bring together on the ſcene. Let it be remembered, however, in the way of palliation, that there is no moment ſo dangerous to female diſcretion, none ſo favourable to an ardent ſuitor, as that in which firſt love is renewed.

O Nature, whom alone it is my deſtiny to follow, when I attempt to paint the characters of my fellow-creatures, why wilt thou not al⯑ways lead me through pure and unſoiled paths, in the way that I moſt wiſh to go, ſetting up a mark at every reſting place for morality to ſteer by, and preſenting no one object to my view but what throws a luſtre on the hiſtory of [170] man, and reflects a bright example to that por⯑tion of poſterity that ſhall chance to read it? Why wilt thou compel me to record the frailties of thy faireſt works, thou mother of all na⯑tions? How often have I combated thy obſti⯑nate authority to the length almoſt of rebellion itſelf, whilſt I have been perſuading thee to acknowledge ſome unfriended outcaſts from ſociety as children of thine own! What is it I have not attempted, in my zeal to reconcile thee to the ſufferers by prejudice? But thou art capriciouſly ingenious in deviſing models for thy academy, which are daſhed with blemiſhes ſo cunningly interwoven into the very eſſence of the work, that he who aims to mend a part mars the whole. In copying thy pro⯑ductions, ſo faithful muſt be the hand of the imitator, that every blot in the original muſt be reflected in the tranſcript.

CHAPTER IX. Some People preach over their Liquor.

WHILST ſleep was refreſhing the ex⯑hauſted faculties of Delapoer, and love in poſſeſſion of the whole ſoul of Williams, Eze⯑kiel's pipe was out, and his meditations at an end; the fire he had kept up in both quarters was burnt down to the embers; and as he was coming from the next door, Suſan, who kept a good look-out againſt a ſurprize, adjuſted her apartment, and put herſelf in proper trim to receive him.

O woman! woman! thou art a curious compound of ſincerity and fineſſe, of candour and cunning; alert in thy reſources when diſ⯑covery threatens, feeble in thy defences when temptation aſſails thee! Love, thou art a traitor, an incendiary, a thief, on whom the hardeſt name I could beſtow would be a term too gentle for thy unutterable wickedneſs: all the world knows thee, yet more than half of it truſts thee to their coſt: though they call thee a god, it would diſgrace the very devil [172] himſelf to claim kindred with thee. There is Suſan, for inſtance, to whoſe virtues I would elſe have conſecrated the faireſt page in this immortal hiſtory, would have been a mirror of all human excellence but for thee, thou inſinuating imp!

‘"Heyday!"’ exclaimed the preacher, look⯑ing her in the face as ſhe met him at the par⯑lour door, ‘"what a change is here in thy countenance, daughter of mine! I ſhou'd gueſs thou haſt ſome extraordinary good news to tell me by the livelineſs of thine eye, and the luſtre of thy complexion. Is thy ſick gueſt on the recovery? Hath our friend Wil⯑liams chear'd thee with the glad tidings of his convaleſcence? And truly he alſo doth appear very ſenſibly exhilerated. Why this is well, my children; this is as it ſhou'd be; this is the feaſt of the ſoul, which conſcience ſerves up to us when it brings into review the good deeds we have been doing. This is the fruit of love, my girl, of that love I have often re⯑commended to thee, as yielding the moſt rap⯑turous gratification to the ſenſes; joys, in which thou mayſt indulge without ſtint or remorſe: no fear, my good child, that thou ſhou'dſt be ſatiated with theſe enjoyments, for they are [173] congenial to thy nature, they flow from thy benevolence, and in ſharing them with thy fellow-creatures thou fulfilleſt the great pur⯑poſe of thy creation. And thou, friend Wil⯑liams, art a young man of goodly parts and endowments; thou haſt done well in thy vo⯑cation, working the good work of love in con⯑junction with this hoſpitable damſel, and com⯑forting her kind heart with the timely efforts of thy ſucceſsful ſkill and experience in the ſecret powers and energies of nature, with which gift I do pronounce thee to be in no ordinary degree furniſh'd and endow'd; and happy is it not only for the ſtranger above ſtairs, but for all our neighbours, that thou art come to reſide and practiſe in theſe parts. Now then we will ſit down and rejoice over the reflection of a well-ſpent day, whilſt the good dame, our willing caterer, ſhall provide us a temperate refreſhment, with a can of that mild wholeſome beverage which our own fields afford: I envy not the vineyards of France, Portugal or Spain, I covet not their intoxicating, their adulterated draughts; a tankard of my own native ale, freſh, ſmiling in my face, and mantling to my lips, whilſt both the ſenſes of taſte and ſmell ſympathize in the [174] joint delight, is to me a treat which all the vats of the wine-preſs cannot compare with. Come, my child, let thy good mother re⯑pleniſh the pitcher, and we will pledge each other to the health of the poor ſtranger above ſtairs, and to the many and happy repetitions of this gladſome moment."’

Thus having predicated, Ezekiel depoſited his hat and ſtaff in a corner of the room, whilſt Suſan glanced a ſmile at Williams ſo expreſſive and withal ſo ſweet, that the muſe of comedy, or thou her ſecond ſelf, inimitable Eliza! might have deigned to acknowledge it; then ſpringing nimbly from her ſeat, ſhe haſtened to obey the ſocial propoſal.

Reader, to thy heart I dedicate this humble ſcene! Let thy fancy fill it up with all thoſe pleaſing images that creative genius can ſupply. Call forth thy benevolence, let every joyous particle that warms thy veins and ſets thy heart in motion towards mankind animate the compoſition, and then thou ſhalt paint the dame with glowing philanthropy in her coun⯑tenance, and the foaming goblet in her hand, entering the room, followed by the jocund miller, father of the brave Tom Weevil, and welcomed by all voices with the glorious all-hail [175] of neighbourly love and cordiality: ſee them aſſembled round the board, hand claſped by hand, lip ſucceeding lip in their ſalutations to the ſpirit-ſtirring tankard, whilſt the triumphs of old England, and libations to the health of her brave defenders, circulated round the table, and whilſt Williams recounted to the exulting father the gallant actions of his boy, not omit⯑ting to relate the circumſtance of his wound, and the honourable ſcar he would bring home as a trophy of his victory and fame.

A flood of thanks to Williams poured from the hopper of old Weevil's lips, backed with hearty invitations to the mill, and congratu⯑lations upon his ſettling amongſt them, gar⯑niſhed with many oaths and proteſtations of good will and zeal for his ſucceſs.—‘"'Sblood! my dear Billy,"’ he vociferated in his loudeſt key, ‘"I wou'd not only be contented to fall ſick to bring you cuſtom, but damn me if I wou'd not even die to do you credit."’

‘"Hold, hold!"’ cried Ezekiel, interpoſing, ‘"ſwear not at all, friend Thomas, neither be⯑lieve that the death of the patient can bring credit to his doctor. Die, if it be required of thee, for thy country's ſake; die for thy religion, for thy faith, for the defence of thy [176] family, but in the mean time live for thyſelf and thy friends here preſent, and drink about for good fellowſhip."’

‘"Aye, by my ſoul,"’ quoth old Tom, ‘"I ſhall be glad to ſtop a bit longer amongſt you, for I have a heart for my friends, and thou art a true one, Zekiel, I will ſay for thee, and ſo is my dear Billy and the good dame, and my pretty pretty Mrs. Suſan; damn it—"’—‘("Huſh,"’ cried Ezekiel) ‘"I wou'd fain ſee the ſcoundrel that dares wag his tongue to her diſparagement in my hearing. Zooks! I wou'd ſoon clap a ſtopper upon his clack; and I hope I ſhall live to ſee the day very ſhortly when ſhe ſhall be married to her deſerts: a fair creature, friend Williams, and a dainty one, though I ſay it to her face, as ever the bleſſed ſun ſhone light upon; is ſhe not?"’ Here Williams nodded aſſent, and ſhook him by the hand, whilſt Suſan tittered and looked archly under her eye-lids.—‘"What!"’ con⯑tinued the miller, ‘"ſhe muſt not live in this lone houſe, like a mope, when ſome good fellow may be bleſt in her arms, and have corn, wine and oil in abundance: why, 'tis againſt nature, and ſo the good mother will ſay, and ſo ſays friend Zekiel, for all he looks [177] ſo grave upon it. Come, Doctor, I'll give you a text, and you ſhall give us a preach⯑ment upon it. Increaſe and multiply."’

Though levity of converſation ſeldom paſ⯑ſed unreproved by Ezekiel, eſpecially when it glanced upon ſacred topics, yet it ſo happened that juſt then Ezekiel was in no diſpoſition for reproof. The exhilerating tankard had given him a flow of ſoul, that would not ſuffer him to chill the gaiety of his companions; yet as far as Weevil's challenge went for a preach⯑ment, as he termed it, the good apoſtle was no flincher, and perhaps never found himſelf in a much better cue to take up the gaunt⯑let.

Planting himſelf therefore in his oratorical attitude, with his thumbs tucked into his waiſtcoat pockets, and his fingers expanded like the claws of a bird, he gave two or three folemn hums to beſpeak attention, and be⯑gan as follows;—‘"When I revolve in my thoughts the wide-waſting ravages of death, I cannot but regard with gratitude and reſpect thoſe prolific matrons, by whoſe labour of love the gaps and chaſms in creation are fill'd up and repleniſh'd, which ſword, peſtilence, and famine are hourly making. Praiſe be to [178] their patriotic endeavours in an honeſt way, and much are they to be preferr'd to thoſe ſolitary and ſequeſter'd damſels, who, ſhutting themſelves up in nunneries and convents, keep their natural faculties inert and lifeleſs, leaving to others of their ſex to ſtruggle under heavy burthens, whilſt they go free and par⯑take not of the toil. If all women were of their perſuaſion, the world muſt wear out like an annuity, and ceaſe with the preſent gene⯑ration; for I believe I may boldly aſſert, that no way has yet been diſcover'd by the curious in all ages, how ſuch a conſequence cou'd be prevented, if the fair ſex were one and all to ſtand out, and no longer lend a helping hand to the work. Again, when I call to recollec⯑tion, that before a ſingle babe can be produc'd in the world, two rational free agents muſt be in the ſame mind to give it life; I am aſtoniſh'd there can have been through ſo many ages ſuch a coincidence of ſentiment and good will between the ſexes, as to keep the work going; and more praiſe of courſe muſt be due to that party, on whom the weight bears hardeſt, which, if I rightly gueſs, is the woman. I ſpeak under correction, my worthy neigh⯑bours; for having no poſitive experience to [179] guide me in either caſe, I will not take upon myſelf to pronounce from my own knowledge on the point in queſtion. Tell me who can, for I profeſs it is paſt my finding out, to what ſecret cauſe it is owing that the population of this globe of earth is upheld. How comes it to paſs, that there is no drawing back, no renegation in that quarter where the whole pain and peril of the taſk falls with ſuch par⯑tial preponderance? When I reflect on this, I own to you I have ſometimes trembled for the fate of poſterity, fearing it ſhou'd be cut off at once, and the world dock'd of it's entail at a ſtroke: but when I look round me, and perceive how vain theſe apprehenſions are, and that my fair countrywomen, for whom I have ſuch fears, fear nothing for themſelves, but carry the world merrily on, (and indeed in many inſtances with more haſte than good ſpeed, as the ſaying is) I take heart and believe, that as the hand of heaven ſet it a going, no⯑thing but the ſame hand will ſtop it, conclud⯑ing within myſelf, that when the command⯑ment was given to increaſe and multiply, there was ſomething given with it that makes up to thoſe who are at the pains to obey it."’

‘"You need not doubt it,"’ ſaid old Weevil; [180] and immediately Williams, who pretty well gueſſed how Suſan thought upon the ſubject, ſtarted ſome other topic and changed the diſ⯑courſe.

CHAPTER X. Four Parties fairly matched at a round Game of Hypocriſy.

AT the caſtle, in the mean time, all parties were buſily employed in plots upon each other. The Reverend Mr. Claypole made his beſt uſe of the intelligence he had picked up from Williams for alarming the Lord Crowbery, and grounding upon his fears his favourite propoſal of a temporary retirement and a ſpeedy marriage. His lordſhip gave him the hearing with all due courteſy and good breeding, but with no inclination to follow it in any other point but what ſuited his own purpoſe; as to quitting Crowbery they were both of a mind, but ſo far from turning it to Claypole's views of haſtening the marriage, his intention was to employ it as the means of [181] totally avoiding it. Miſs Fanny entertained her fancy in deviſing projects for poſt-matri⯑monial amuſements; and in theſe it may well be doubted if his Lordſhip's honour and re⯑poſe were the ruling objects of her meditation. Privileges of rank, extenſion of authority, and indulgence of propenſities, attached to her con⯑ſtitution, had certainly ſome ſhare of her at⯑tention, and had her ſyſtem taken place, the wrongs her predeceſſor ſuffered might have been amply avenged.

Captain Crowbery, whom my Lord had ſummoned to his aſſiſtance, obeyed the call, and, having heard the caſe, acted as gentle⯑men in his predicament moſtly act, and re⯑commended thoſe very meaſures which he found his principal prediſpoſed to purſue. It was therefore reſolved upon with joint conſent, that it would be adviſeable for his Lordſhip to take a tour upon the continent, whilſt the Captain kept guard upon the caſtle, with full powers at diſcretion to get rid of Miſs Fanny and her uncle, upon the beſt terms he could make; and here let it be remarked for the edification of my female readers, that thoſe very ſteps, which Miſs Fanny took to ſecure her conqueſt, were urged againſt her as the [182] firſt and ſtrongeſt impediments to the com⯑pletion of it.

This commiſſion, it may well be ſuppoſed, was not in all reſpects the moſt pleaſant to the undertaker of it, but it was attended with no ſmall bribe to his diligence, inaſmuch as in the event of his Lordſhip's death without heirs, the Captain was next in ſucceſſion to his title and eſtate, and it was ſomething more than probable, on the ſuppoſition of Miſs Fanny's marriage taking place, that my Lord would not long be childleſs. The Captain was a man of ſpirit and addreſs, not naturally diſ⯑poſed to put his hand to every mean unworthy job, but too good a politician to oppoſe his couſin's will, and not ſo much his own enemy as to have an unconquerable repugnance againſt ſerving him in a caſe like the preſent.

It is not to be expected that his coming at this criſis was the moſt welcome of all events to the uncle and niece, and it certainly required ſome management to maſk the plot he had concerted againſt them. To Mr. Claypole he talked freely on the reaſons of his invita⯑tion, aſcribing them to the alarm that De⯑lapoer's arrival had given to his noble couſin, hinting in no very diſtant terms at his want of [183] ſpirit, and acknowledging in conformity to his ideas, that the beſt thing his Lordſhip could do, would be to ſtep aſide for a time, and leave the matter, whatever it might be, to be made up in his abſence by deputation, which, he ob⯑ſerved, was indeed an unpleaſant office, though he was ready to undertake it for the good of all parties, and the reſcue of his kinſman's re⯑putation.

This paſſed tolerably well upon Claypole, who knew enough of Lord Crowbery's want of ſpirit, to think it perfectly natural that he ſhould wiſh to have the Captain about him, and as this gentleman agreed with his wiſhes in adviſing the ſame meaſures for a change of place, he ſaw no immediate danger of his ſchemes being traverſed, and therefore con⯑tinued to flatter himſelf that the promiſed marriage was in a fair train to take place.

Captain Crowbery had a part alſo to act with Miſs Fanny, and upon this he entered with conſiderable advantages; for beſides that her character was too open to be miſtaken, and her foibles well known to him, he had the requiſites of an agreeable manner, a good perſon, great powers of flattery, and a facility of aſſuming any ſpecies of diſguiſe that might [184] ſuit his purpoſes. With her he put on a gay and careleſs air of a mere ſoldier of fortune, who conſidered her as the lady elect of the head of his houſe, and paid court to her ac⯑cordingly. This ſo effectually flattered her vanity, that ſhe ſeemed never weary of en⯑couraging his humility with the ſmile of pro⯑tection, nor was he deficient in humouring her with opportunities for the diſplay of thoſe graces ſo condeſcendingly beſtowed. He had enough of that faculty of ſmall talk to be ſuf⯑ficiently eloquent upon inſignificant topics; he could point a compliment, or envelope a double meaning with all the readineſs of a practitioner in that commodious art, and in⯑deed he was not behindhand with any man of modern honour in the true principles of the ſect; for he had courage to juſtify ſeduction, and gallantry to deſpiſe friendſhip, whenever the charms of a wife, of a daughter, or (which is more than either) of a miſtreſs came in con⯑tact with his paſſions, and with opportunity to profit by: with theſe accompliſhments we need not wonder that he ſucceeded in his ef⯑forts to lull the ſuſpicion of a lady not over incredulous; and had his ambition prompted him to higher objects than a little inglorious [185] deceit, we may preſume he would have been no leſs fortunate, for Miſs Fanny ſeemed in a very likely train to overlook both his ſituation and her own.

His Lordſhip's preparations in the mean time, were put forward with unremitted di⯑ligence: as it was neceſſary for him to provide himſelf for his tour, and ſettle his remittances with his banker before he ſet forward, a jour⯑ney to town became indiſpenſible, and for this he had only to pretend the cuſtomary occaſions of conſulting his conveyancer upon the mar⯑riage ſettlement, and providing a licence, to⯑gether with all other neceſſary appendages to a noble bride: Theſe were pleaſant tidings to the parties intereſted, and his Lordſhip's pre⯑parations were cordially ſeconded by the re⯑verend uncle of the young Lady, whoſe in⯑tereſt was ſo much concerned in quickening his departure, that ſhe ſeemed to have forgot the obvious compliment of lamenting it. There was a concurrence of circumſtances, that made it in a manner unavoidable for his Lordſhip to invite Mr. Claypole to bear him company on this jaunt; it had its pro and con in point of convenience, but as it was no dif⯑ficult matter for him to give that reverend [186] gentleman the ſlip in ſuch a town as London, the offer was made of a place in the chaiſe with all ſeeming ſincerity, and accepted with no other heſitation, but as to the point of de⯑corum towards his niece, who in that caſe would be left to keep houſe with Captain Crowbery alone; but as this ſcruple was with himſelf ſingly, and not admitted by my Lord himſelf, or the Lady elect, who indeed treated all ſuch out-of-date ideas with the contempt they merited, it was withdrawn almoſt as ſoon as it was advanced, and the engagement was made.

‘"I think,"’ ſaid my Lord to the Captain on the eve before his departure, ‘"this buſi⯑neſs will be better manag'd between you and my Madam in the abſence of the parſon, than if he was to ſtay where he is, and make third-fellow in the fray: two to one is odds in ar⯑gument, and Claypole is a plaguy proſer, as I ſhall find to my coſt, but I'll keep the wheels going till I have him ſafe in London, and then I'll ſoon bequeath him to his meditations: a fellow that has treated his own patron with ſuch ingratitude, deſerves no mercy. As to Miſs Fanny, I don't expect you will find much difficulty in qualifying her anger, for as love [187] is out of the queſtion, which of all paſſions is the moſt turbulent, you will have only to contend with a little dogged diſappointment, and when ſhe has ſpent her fire in abuſing me, in which I give you free leave to join her, I predict that you will find her as reaſonable and as flexible as you can wiſh; only let me eſcape from her talons, and I have little care what becomes of her afterwards."’

‘"That's a happy indifference,"’ cried the Captain, ſmiling, ‘"and I can only promiſe you I will do my beſt to pacify her by every means but marrying her in your ſtead, which I ſuſpect wou'd not altogether ſuit her pur⯑poſe, and mine not at all."’

‘"Ladies of her ſort,"’ reſumed the Peer, ‘"are not intitled to much delicacy, and in my opinion, merit little pity; ſo that you have full powers from me to uſe your own diſcre⯑tion, which, if it deſerves the name, will never ſuffer you to fall into that ſnare ſhe had ſpread for me. She has ten thouſand charms as a miſtreſs, but not one recommendation as a wife: the devil of a temper, and an unbound⯑ed propenſity to play the devil with it; for whatever ſhe may ſay to the contrary, I am in my own mind perfectly perſuaded that ſhe [188] dealt a foul blow to your antagoniſt Henry in the vengeance of her diſappointment, and then pretended he had hurt himſelf with a knife by accident: therefore have a care of your ribs, George, for if you ſhou'd fall into the ſame fault as he did, 'tis a chance but you meet the fame fate."’

‘"'Tis not juſt the death I ſhou'd chuſe,"’ ſaid the Captain, ‘"nor am I the man in the world to ſtand out like that young Joſeph, againſt ladies who make love with weapons in their hands; I wou'd rather of the two, meet the favour than the puniſhment."’—‘"Be prepar'd then,"’ replied the Peer, ‘"for if I have any gueſs, you are not unlikely to en⯑counter the alternative: for my own part, I am clear in conſcience, and ſhall die in the perſuaſion that I am neither the firſt, nor ſhall be the laſt in her good graces."’

Here a gentle tap at the door announced the fair ſubject of their diſcourſe in perſon. His Lordſhip in a moment dreſſed his face in its beſt trim, to welcome her with looks of love, and with all due regard to truth, de⯑clared that it was of her and her alone they were converſing, and that he flattered himſelf the tender inſtructions he had been giving to [189] his couſin would be punctually obſerved.—‘"He will tell you, faireſt of creatures,"’ ſaid he, fondly taking her hand in his, ‘"for he knows what place you hold in my affections: it is on your account only I ſubmit to be a ſtranger to my own home for a time, but they will be heavy hours of abſence from my charmer; and Oh! when we meet again—"’ Here his Lordſhip thought proper to be much affected, and his voice faultered, whilſt the gentle Fanny acted all the ceremonials of a tender bluſh, which wanted nothing but change of colour to make it real, and artifice was thus repaid with artifice: meanwhile, a wandering glance ſtole its way by a ſideway paſſage towards the Captain, who with infinite gravity of countenance reſpectfully liberated her hand, that was then held captive by my Lord's, murmuring in ſoft accents whilſt he ſecretly preſſed it in his own.—‘"Come, come, my lovely couſin, you muſt let me part theſe hands, ſo ſoon to be united for ever: ſcenes like this will only agonize you both."’

CHAPTER XI. Breakfaſt Table Talk.

THE next morning our travellers ſtarted with the ſun, whilſt ſleep held the bright eyes of Fanny Claypole in his downy fetters, and ſpared her the painful taſk of ſqueezing out a parting tear. At the hour of breakfaſt, ſhe iſſued forth from her chamber, armed for conqueſt. We have already obſerved, that this young votary of the graces was in the art of undreſs eminently ſucceſsful: on this oc⯑caſion ſhe had by no means forgot to employ that art in ſuch a ſtile of ſtudied negligence, as contrived to diſplay her perſon in its moſt at⯑tractive points, by a ſeeming careleſſneſs in thoſe articles on which moſt care was in fact beſtowed; and this we take to be the very firſt excellence, the grand deſideratum of the mo⯑dern toilet.

A penſive look, that had an air of ſorrow for the abſence of her Lord, was neceſſarily aſſumed, and the Captain could do no leſs than counterfeit a ſympathiſing face of pity [191] on the meeting: now we have the experience of human nature to inform us, that when an agreeable young gentleman takes upon him to play the comforter to a tempting young woman in affliction, it is ſo much like making love to her, that he ſeldom fails to run one office into the other. The obſervation was not diſcredited by the caſe in point, for whilſt Miſs Fanny acted her part to admiration, the Captain ſuſtained his ſhare in the farce of hy⯑pocriſy with no leſs ſpirit and addreſs: her ſorrow was juſt enough to find occupation for his attentions, and not ſo much as to diſcourage him from perſiſting in them from a deſpair of their effects; in ſhort, ſhe was cheared, and he was flattered by the diſcovery that his conſo⯑lation was not loſt. In their converſation, which he took care to regulate according to the point he had in view, he did not ſcruple to glance at the character of his noble relation, in ſuch particulars as might ſerve to pave the way for his purpoſe: he ſtood in admiration at his good fortune, in gaining the affections of a lady ſo beautiful, ſo young, and ſo worthy of a more accompliſhed lover: he was ſorry to confeſs, but truth could not be diſguiſed, that his couſin did not make the beſt huſband [192] in the world to his former lady; in fact, his temper was not ſo good as he could wiſh, his heart was narrow, and his diſpoſition unſocial and moroſe: a ſoul like her's, he ſaid, wou'd find itſelf curb'd and confin'd by rules ſo rigid as he laid down: what were rank and title if they did not bring happineſs with them? and who was there in the kingdom ſhe might not aſpire to? In ſhort, if this was a matter of choice, he begg'd pardon for what he had been ſaying; if it was a match of prudence, he wiſhed it might not deceive her expectations in the iſſue of it.

Theſe inſinuations, well timed and artfully introduced, had their deſired effect; they ſaved Miſs Fanny all the pains which hypocriſy would have coſt her, inaſmuch as they threw Captain Crowbery entirely on her mercy, and put his fate in her hands: had he been guarded in his diſcourſe, ſhe would certainly have been inexcuſably imprudent to have truſted him with her real ſentiments; but when he had ſo far committed himſelf on the ſubject, ſhe ſaw no danger in meeting him with the like candour, and vindicating her taſte at the ex⯑pence of her ſincerity, for ſhe was aſhamed to be ſuppoſed guilty of a real liking for ſo con⯑temptible [193] a perſon as Lord Crowbery. Not diſcerning what motive he could have for re⯑poſing ſo much confidence in her, but that of good opinion and zeal for her happineſs, ſhe felt greatly flattered by the turn of his diſ⯑courſe, and knowing how abſolutely dependant he was upon his couſin, and that he had been uttering words, which if repeated againſt him would never be forgiven, ſhe ſaid in a ſtile of mock reproof—‘"What a giddy thoughtleſs ſoul you are to talk this language to me, and put it in my power to ruin you with my Lord."’

‘"If ever I deſerve to be ſo puniſh'd by you,"’ he replied, ‘"I ſhou'd have no right to complain of being betray'd; but if without my deſerving you ſhou'd think fit to do it, the neceſſity I ſhou'd be under of ceaſing to eſteem you, wou'd be the greateſt misfortune I cou'd ſuffer by the event."’

‘"That is very gallant, on my word; but why do you ſuppoſe I am the one woman in the world that can keep a ſecret; and what do you think you diſcover in me to truſt me with your whole fortune?"’

‘"Shall I anſwer that queſtion fully and ſincerely?"’

[194] ‘"No,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"for that perhaps wou'd not be to anſwer it favourably; and women, you know, are naturally fond of flat⯑tery. Don't you ſee what miſchief I cou'd make, if I was wickedly inclin'd to it?"’

‘"Whatever your inclinations are,"’ ſaid the Captain, looking tenderly upon her, ‘"I wou'd have you gratify them, though my in⯑ſignificant ſelf was made the ſacrifice; for after all, what am I but a ſoldier of fortune, and what is my fortune but the ſword by my ſide? There is my ſubſiſtence, and that my Lord cannot take from me, or, if he cou'd, he dare not uſe it."’

‘"Fie upon you,"’ ſmiling, ſhe replied, ‘"you can't ſuppoſe but he wou'd uſe his ſword in a good cauſe."’—‘"He wou'd hardly be per⯑ſuaded,"’ rejoined the Captain, ‘"to think any cauſe was good enough for that, I believe. He will never let it ſee the light in anger with his good will, elſe that young Henry wou'd have brought it out of its hiding-place, for he ſpelt hard to get a ſight of it."’

‘"That's a brave lad after all,"’ ſaid Fanny. ‘"I have a right to ſay ſo,"’ quoth the man of war; ‘"and now this Delapoer, this man of myſtery, hangs over us like a cloud: what [195] you may think of this journey to town, my ſweet lady, I won't pretend to ſay, but for my part I muſt think, if all his Lordſhips fears were out of the queſtion, there would not be much left for his love to boaſt of."’—‘"Oh! you mortifying creature,"’ ſhe ex⯑claim'd, ‘"if I cou'd believe this, he de⯑ſerves—."’—‘"What!"’ demanded the Cap⯑tain interpoſing, ‘"what does he deſerve? Not the handſomeſt woman in the creation, I will boldly ſay; not the tranſport of being wrapt in thoſe arms, which were never meant by na⯑ture to embrace a coward."’—‘"Well, well,"’ ſhe rejoined, ‘"perhaps it is not the beſt uſe I cou'd put them to."’—‘"What a pity then,"’ he obſerved, ‘"it ſhou'd be the only one."’—‘"The only one,"’ ſhe repeated, breaking into a loud laugh, ‘"ſurely you draw your infe⯑rences very nimbly, my good friend, but am I bound to make them good? Do you think that every marriage preſuppoſes liking? Can you find no other motives for a connection between a ſimple Miſs like me, and a titled perſonage like your couſin, but a preference that wou'd diſgrace my judgment, and a paſſion that has no intereſt in my heart?"’

‘"None, ſo heaven help me,"’ cried the [196] Captain, ‘"in your caſe I can find no plea for the ſacrifice, and I ſhou'd think myſelf bound to congratulate you on your eſcape, if you was never more to ſee his face."’—‘"Oh! you cruel monſter!"’ ſhe exclaim'd, rallying him, ‘"wou'd you break my heart with the very mention of it? Do you ſuppoſe a married lady is without reſources? is ſhe therefore loſt to all the world, or all the world to her? Are there no happy wives but what are in love with their huſbands? Nay, let me put the queſtion cloſer, are there no wives in love with any but their huſbands? Come, come, I'll talk with you no longer."’—So ſaying, ſhe rolled up a pellet of the bread on the break⯑faſt-table, and threw it at him in that pretty playful manner, as we have often ſeen it done by many a fair hand with exquiſite addreſs and good aim.

If a man knows any thing of modern breed⯑ing, he knows how to anſwer all attacks like this: the Captain made too much of it, for he ſwore it had wounded him to the heart; there was a little too much of knight-errantry in this, and he did better when he drew a roſe from his button-hole, and gallantly toſſed it into her lap, declaring that no ſoldier ought to [197] take a blow without returning it: he had done better ſtill, if he had ſaid nothing, for at beſt this is but the trick and pantomime of coquetry and wantonneſs. This is the time when wit is not wanted, and action takes the whole ſcene upon itſelf.

Miſs Fanny, with the ſweeteſt grace in na⯑ture, took the roſe and placed it in her boſom, adjuſting it with all that pretty difficulty of choice, that rivetted the beholder's eyes upon the charming operation.—‘"Bleſt flower,"’ the Captain cried, ‘"to what a paradiſe have I promoted thee?"’—Then ſmiting his hands to⯑gether, ſprung from his chair, and turned to the window, as if to divert ſome emotion too violent for his controul.—‘"Come,"’ cried the Lady, riſing alſo from her ſeat, ‘"we have talk'd nonſenſe long enough, let us take a grave walk in the garden, and drive nonſenſe out of our brains."’

Her cloak was in the room, the Captain flew to reach it to her, and in aſſiſting to put it on made ſo many awkward blunders, and was treated with ſo many pretty reprimands, that few cloaks perhaps have given room to more raillery, or been leſs applied to the pur⯑poſes which cloaks in general are underſtood to be made for.

[198]To the garden they went, and here we will leave them to ramble amidſt ſhady bowers and love-inſpiring grots, not the moſt in⯑nocent pair that ever took their ſolitary walk in garden or in grove, yet fairly matched in nature as in art, and fitted for each other. Whither they went, and what they did, we are not careful to recount; for though the juſtice of the hiſtorian ſhould be equal towards all characters he is concerned with, yet he muſt be allowed to dwell with more delight, and expatiate with greater felicity upon the ami⯑able than upon the unamiable; as far as theſe prejudices may be deemed excuſable, ſo far I hope I may be indulged in them, and there⯑fore I ſhall now drop the curtain upon this ſcene, as I have upon others of the like de⯑ſcription, and cloſe the eleventh book of this important hiſtory now haſtening to its conclu⯑ſion.

CHAPTER I. The Author's laſt Addreſs to his Readers.

WE are now drawing nigh to the conclu⯑ſion of our hiſtory, and if my kind reader has found amuſement in his taſk, I ſhall not regret the toil and labour of mine. Great muſt be that author's mortification, who miſ⯑carries in a trivial undertaking; and certain it is, that ſmall matters ſhould never be attempt⯑ed without ſtrong preſumption of ſucceſs. Something there muſt be in every man's view, who commits himſelf to the preſs; and as all ſpeculations upon profit are now becoming more and more precarious, there ſeems little left to animate the adventurer but a diſintereſt⯑ed paſſion for fame: I think it is therefore to the credit of the corps, that we ſtill continue to volunteer it with ſuch ſpirit, that no abate⯑ment is yet diſcernible either in our numbers [200] or exertions. When I ſearch my own heart for the motives that have operated with ſuch activity upon me for reſorting to my pen, I find myſelf impelled by a principle I am not aſhamed of, ſince it has been uniformly that of doing every thing in my power for keeping alive a general ſpirit of good humour, and endearing man to man, by bringing characters under re⯑view, which prejudice has kept at diſtance from the maſs of ſociety; I have never failed to lend my feeble hand to their's, who are benevolent⯑ly employed in recommending love and har⯑mony to mankind: I love my contemporaries, and deteſt that language ſo much in uſe, which tends to ſink the preſent age on a compariſon with ages paſt; and as I hold this to be an illiberal and ungenerous propenſity, I thank God I have reached that time of life when it is chiefly prevalent, and yet perceive myſelf more than ever abhorrent from the practice of it.

I muſt now ſend my hero into the world to ſhift for himſelf; I have done what I could for him whilſt he was under my care, and have bequeathed him nature for his guide at part⯑ing. The trials and temptations I have ex⯑poſed him to, are ſuch as might befal any [201] perſon in his ſituation, and not greater than every man of ſteady principles, without any romantic ſtrain of virtue or courage, may re⯑ſolutely meet. I have not ſet his character upon ſtilts for ſentimental enthuſiaſts to gaze at, but kept him on the plain ground with nature's common ſtock, ſtudying to endow him with the patient virtues rather than the proud.

To my heroine, I have given as many charms as the reader's imagination ſhall be diſpoſed to afford her, without being indebted to deſcriptions, which I reject upon conſcience, having ſo often read them in other noveliſts with ſatiety and diſguſt; and I flatter myſelf, my Iſabella will appear not the leſs attractive for the very few and ſlight demands I have made upon her health and conſtitution, not having been able to diſcover, amongſt all the numerous examples of ſickly and tormented heroines, any peculiar delicacy in their diſeaſes, or much amuſement in their caſualties: in one inſtance only I have fallen in with the faſhion.

I have kept my narrative free from the perplexities of epiſode and digreſſion, and given the ſcene to my characters without any in⯑truſion of my own perſon, which I hold to [202] be an unpardonable impertinence. Of poetry I have made no uſe, and of quotation ſo very ſparingly as ſcarce to be perceptible. The incidents, I truſt, are in no caſe improbable; and as to that combination of circumſtances, which appears to criminate my hero in the ſecond book, I have, ſince the writing of it, been told of a caſe upon record, which ſo nearly reſembles it as to give my narrative the air of being founded upon fact in that parti⯑cular, which in reality it was not. In point of ſtile, I flatter myſelf the critic will not find much to reprehend; but in that and every other particular I am fairly before him; let him ſtrike with juſtice, and I will not murmur at the ſtroke.

And now, if this page ſhall meet the eyes of a certain lady, not leſs diſtinguiſhed for her many amiable qualities than for her exalt⯑ed rank, ſhe will perceive that I have ful⯑filled her inſtructions, and compoſed a novel, to the beſt of my ability, in the form ſhe re⯑commended and preſcribed. Uncertain of its fate, I forbear to make known whoſe com⯑mands I have been honoured with, content if ſhe alone is ſatisfied with my obedience, and not entirely diſappointed with the execution [203] of a work, which but for her I never ſhould have undertaken.

CHAPTER II. The Hiſtory goes back to the Hero.

THE ſudden diſappearance of Delapoer, and the ſtate of mind in which he had departed, cauſed great uneaſineſs to Henry, and damped thoſe joys he would elſe have reaped in the unreſtrained ſociety of his beloved Iſa⯑bella, to whom every hour of his time was de⯑voted. Her health was now ſo nearly re⯑eſtabliſhed, that Sir Roger had named a day for his return to Manſtock, and that was now ſo near at hand, that Henry was alarmed leſt the time ſhould not allow for his father's coming back, and till that event took place, or ſome intelligence was obtained, duty fixed him to the ſpot he was in. He knew too well the reſentful feelings of his father, and the ſtrong expreſſions he had repeatedly thrown out againſt Lord Crowbery, to be at any loſs to find a motive for the ſuddenneſs and ſecrecy of his [204] departure, and thoſe conjectures were as pain⯑ful as they were plauſible; not that he appre⯑hended any danger to his father's perſon from a ſuppoſed diſcuſſion with that unworthy Lord, for he had all poſſible contempt for his want of ſpirit; but it was the impropriety of the thing itſelf, and the unfitneſs of the under⯑taker, which ſtruck him ſo forcibly, and pre⯑ſented ſo many unpleaſant thoughts upon re⯑flection, that he debated very ſeriouſly within himſelf whether he ſhould not ſet out upon a venture, in the hopes of overtaking his father, and diſſuading him from the interview. The practicability of this, however, was made more than doubtful by the time that had elapſed, before he had intelligence of Mr. Delapoer's departure, ſo that when he came to confer with Sir Roger upon the idea which had ſtarted in his mind, that worthy gentleman had ſo many good reaſons to oppoſe againſt it, and his own maturer thoughts, prompted withal by an unſeen advocate, ſuggeſted ſo many more, that he reſolved upon waiting the iſſue of his father's promiſed return; till after ſome days anxious expectation, a letter from Wil⯑liams to Zachary, written after Delapoer's arrival at Crowbery, put an end to all ſuſpenſe [205] as to the deſtination of the abſentee, but gave at the ſame time ſo alarming an account of the illneſs he had been ſeized with, that Henry, apprehending him to be in the utmoſt degree of danger, no longer heſitated what to do.

He had provided himſelf with two excellent riding horſes, and Tom Weevil received or⯑ders for making ready without delay. The diſtance was little more than ſixty miles, and it was his purpoſe, for expedition ſake, to ride part of the way, but there ſtill remained the painful taſk of reconciling Iſabella to the neceſſity of an unexpected parting. This was a diſtreſsful moment, for though a heart like her's could not ſcruple to admit the urgency of the call, yet love and tender apprehenſion could not be made to accord, without anguiſh, to the diſappointment. Neither was Sir Roger himſelf a diſintereſted party in the diſ⯑cuſſion of this unwelcome buſineſs; for when he ſaw the ſtruggle it occaſioned to the fond, yet candid heart of Iſabella, he offered to ſet out the next morning with his whole fa⯑mily, if Henry would bear them company; but as Sir Roger's equipage was in the ſtile of ancient times, and bore not the leaſt ſimili⯑tude [206] to a mail-coach, a diſtance of ſixty miles was to him a journey of two days, whilſt our hero's impatience did not mean to appropriate more than ſix hours to the road; a compromiſe was therefore ſtruck upon by Henry, who engaged to come back and give them the meeting at the inn where they reſted for the night, unleſs he found his father's ſituation ſuch as to prevent it. This was eagerly em⯑braced by Iſabella, who, at parting from him with eyes full of tears, and a look of the tendereſt affection, ſaid to him, ‘"Go, then, and may ſucceſs attend you! Remember only you have that in charge, which is infinitely dearer to me than the life you have pre⯑ſerv'd."’

His horſes were at the door, duty preſſed, time was on the wing, he ſnatched a haſty adieu, and, light as Perſeus, or the equeſtrian ſon of Leda, ſprung into the ſaddle, and was out of ſight in an inſtant—‘"He is gone,"’ cried Zachary, who, with Sir Roger and Iſa⯑bella, had attended him to the door," ‘he is off like a ſhot; 'tis a rare thing to be young and nimble; but after all, I'm afraid his labour will be loſt, and he will come too late, for I augur ill from Williams's account of Mr. De⯑lapoer's [207] caſe."’—‘"Heaven forbid!"’ cried Iſa⯑bella, ‘"that any ſuch unhappineſs as you pre⯑dict ſhou'd befal him."’—‘"Come, come,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"we will not anticipate miſ⯑fortunes."’—Then taking Iſabella's arm under his, walked forth to give his orders to the ſer⯑vants without doors for the next day's journey.

‘"I perceive, my dear child,"’ ſaid he as they paſſed along, ‘"tho' your life has been ſav'd by your friend who has juſt left us, your heart is irrecoverably loſt. It behoves us therefore to conſider what you have ſubſtituted in its place, that ſo we may compute and ſtrike the balance between profit and loſs. If I did not think as highly of Henry's virtues, and predict as favourably of his temper, as an old man like me ought in reaſon to do of a young one like him, I ſhou'd contemplate my lovely Iſabella's ſituation with alarm and terror; for tho' I ſhou'd not deſpair but my authority might prevent imprudence, I fear it wou'd not ſerve to extinguiſh love: it demands therefore all the prepoſſeſſion that I entertain for Henry's character to bring me to acquieſce, as you may now perceive I do, in your decided attach⯑ment to him. I own to you, my Iſabella, I once thought no circumſtances cou'd have induced [208] me to favour a connection with him or any perſon under his predicament; but it ſeems as if Providence had decreed, that, in ſpite of all my prejudices, I ſhou'd be compell'd by the force of facts to be the convert of his virtues, and renounce my oppoſition to him. How ſtrongly have events conſpir'd to mark this out, ſince fortune firſt made him known to us by throwing him in the laſt extremity of diſtreſs upon the unexpected protection of a myſterious mother! What an eſcape had he from the murderous deſigns af Blachford, and the deſperate rage of that infuriated wanton! What perils did he incur in the boarding of the Frenchman! and what but the hand of Heaven itſelf cou'd ſo critically conduct him to your reſcue in the laſt awful inſtant, that ſtood betwixt you and a diſaſter too terrible to think upon! How ſingular was the chance by which I diſcover'd that poſthumous and impor⯑tant writing of Sir Andrew Adamant, addreſs'd to me in his behalf, and which ſeem'd to have lain conceal'd for the ſole purpoſe of bringing it to light in the happieſt moment for his intereſt and advantage! The very caſe of that wretched maniac, from whoſe hands he ſnatch'd you, had a moral in the hiſtory of his madneſs, that [209] applied itſelf to my conviction: but when to theſe I add, the very ſtriking circumſtances that attended his meeting with his father, and reflect upon his uncommon generoſity in the caſe of Blachford's will, and again in that of Lady Crowbery, how can I ſay he is not de⯑ſerving of your affection, or any longer interpoſe between him and the happineſs he ſeems deſtin'd to enjoy?"’

Here Sir Roger concluded, whilſt his at⯑tentive hearer ſtill waited in reſpectful ſilence; but perceiving after a pauſe that he now ex⯑pected her reply, ſhe turned upon him the moſt lovely countenance in nature, and—‘"Oh! my dear father,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"think not that I have been ſilent becauſe I wanted gra⯑titude for your goodneſs, but becauſe I feel it to an exceſs that ſtifles my expreſſions. I truſt I never cou'd act in oppoſition to your will; but I wou'd fain not entertain even a wiſh in contradiction to your judgment: had you therefore interdicted my attachment to Henry, I muſt, and I wou'd have ſtrove to have torn him from my heart, terrible although the ſtruggle would have been; but when I hear his praiſes from your lips, and receive your ſanction to confirm me in my choice, [210] words cannot ſpeak the happineſs you beſtow upon me, and if I did not ſooner make reply, it was becauſe I was loth to interrupt you on a ſubject I cou'd liſten to for ever."’

In the mean time Henry, thus ever preſent to the thoughts of his Iſabella, proceeded briſkly towards the deſtination where his duty called him. New affections had been ſtirred within his boſom by the diſcovery of his parents; but hard fortune, which had already bereft him of a mother, loſt as ſoon as known, and beloved only to be bewailed, ſeemed now in the cruel diſpoſition to deprive him of his father alſo. This and his meditations on the dear object he had newly parted from, were his companions by the way, and honeſt Wee⯑vil, who followed him, had full ſcope to in⯑dulge his own imagination without let or hin⯑drance, till our hero, having meaſured more than half the way, found himſelf at the inn, where Sir Roger propoſed to take up his reſt. Here he left Tom and his horſes, and having delivered to the maſter of the houſe the ne⯑ceſſary inſtructions for the reception of his gueſts next day, he took poſt and proceeded with all poſſible expedition towards Crow⯑bery.

[211]The day had cloſed when Henry arrived at Suſan's hoſpitable door, and was received by Williams with a chearful countenance, that beſpoke the happy report he had to make of his patient's amendment. Delapoer had quitted his ſick chamber, and was ſitting in the par⯑lour; great was his joy at the ſight of Henry, claſping him in his arms and bleſſing his good providence, that he had ſurvived to ſee him once again: of his obligations to Williams, who had now for the ſecond time reſcued him from death, he ſpoke in the warmeſt terms, and not leſs gratefully of honeſt Ezekiel and the kind women, whoſe tender care and ſoli⯑citude had contributed to reſtore him. He confeſt the object of his journey had been a ſudden reſolution of ſeeking Lord Crowbery, in conſequence of the objection ſtarted by Sir Roger Manſtock, with reſpect to his projected mauſoleum. ‘"And what,"’ added he, ‘"might have been the conſequence of our meeting, had it taken place, I will not preſume to ſay; certain it is, that ſecond thoughts and a calmer ſtate of mind, have placed that project in another light from what it firſt appeared in to me, when under the impreſſion of a recent diſappointment: I have now renounced it, and [212] think it a lucky circumſtance, that the wretch I came in ſearch of is out of my reach, and gone from home to prepare, as it is ſaid, for a ſecond marriage with the niece of Mr. Clay⯑pole, now reſiding at the caſtle."’

‘"Unfeeling, ſhameleſs profligate,"’ exclaim⯑ed Henry, with indignation and aſtoniſhment; ‘"will he ſo groſsly inſult the virtuous me⯑mory of his injured wife, as to plot a ſecond marriage before ſhe is ſcarce cold in her cof⯑fin; and with the niece of Claypole wou'd he marry? Is Fanny Claypole of all women breath⯑ing to be the Lady Crowbery, that ſo haſtily ſucceeds to my unhappy mother? be it ſo! if he is ſo rank of ſoul as to ſet decency at de⯑fiance, let him couple with a fury, and may his paſſion be his plague! I know her well, and if Providence for his ſins ſhall ſurrender him into her hands, you and I, my good Sir, may let our vengeance ſleep; his puniſhment is provided for, the taſk is taken out of our hands, and the tyrant over others is his own executioner."’

The evening was now in advance, and though Delapoer's ſpirits were greatly exhi⯑lerated by the arrival of his ſon, yet, in conſi⯑deration of his ſtrength, the converſation was not protracted beyond the time that Williams [213] thought fit to indulge him with; and nothing more occurred between them worth record⯑ing in this hiſtory.

CHAPTER III. A ſingular inſtance of a Journey performed by our Hero and Heroine, without one Caſualty by the way.

AS ſoon as Delapoer had retired to his chamber, Suſan May and her mother preſented themſelves to Henry, and were met by him with all the warmth of former affec⯑tion. The good dame as uſual was loqua⯑cious in her joy, and had many queſtions and enquiries to be reſolved: Suſan's ſenſibility was of a more ſilent ſort, and whilſt ſhe greet⯑ed him with ſmiles of gratitude and love, the tear gliſtened in her eye, and the bluſh glowed upon her cheek.

Henry ſaw her emotion, and perfectly un⯑derſtood the cauſe of it, making a plea there⯑fore of his impatience to ſee Ezekiel, he cut ſhort the interview, obſerving, that the evening juſt ſerved him to ſnatch a ſight of his friend, [214] over his concluding pipe, before he turned in to his cockloft. He proceeded to the cottage, and opening the door without ceremony, diſ⯑covered the rural apoſtle ſeated in his chair of meditation, with his back towards him, and too deep in thought to be rouſed by ſo quiet a viſitor. Henry ſtopt and contemplated him for a few moments, with a placid delight: ‘"Kind ſoul,"’ he ſaid within himſelf, ‘"thy thoughts are occupied in benevolence, and thy communications are with Heaven!"’ Then going up to him, and putting his hands upon his ſhoulders over the back of his wicker throne, called upon him by name, to wake from thought and welcome a friend. Ezekiel ſtarted at the well-known voice, ſprung from his chair, and threw himſelf upon Henry's neck: ‘"Praiſed be Heaven!"’ he exclaimed, ‘"praiſed be Heaven! I am bleſt above my hopes in embracing thee once more, thou child of my affection."’ He then took two or three ſtrides acroſs the room, rubbing his hands and crying out; ‘"What wilt eat? what wilt drink? I warrant thou art faſting, freſh from ſea."’

Henry ſmiled at Ezekiel's want of recollec⯑tion, and ſtopping him as he was poſting to [215] the ſtore where he kept his proviſions, told him that the pleaſure of ſeeing him was all the refreſhment he ſtood in need of for the preſent. The good man now became a little more collected, but ſtill ran from ſubject to ſubject, miſtaking many things that he might have recollected, and repeating others Henry was already informed of; ſuch as the death of Jemima Cawdle, the arrival of Williams, the reports about Lord Crowbery, and other anecdotes neither quite new, nor over-intereſt⯑ing in his relation of them; yet our hero had patience for them all, and in the end was re⯑paid for that patience, by hearing that the wretched Jemima had, by Ezekiel's aſſiduous remonſtrances, been brought to a due ſenſe of her condition, and a better train of thoughts in her latter moments: what money ſhe had ſcraped together, ſhe bequeathed to her huſ⯑band, and every thing in which Zachary was intereſted, had been faithfully and diſcreetly adminiſtered by Daw himſelf, with the aſſiſt⯑ance of old Tom Weevil the miller.

Ezekiel's ſpirits were now ſo thoroughly awake, that Henry would hardly have pre⯑vailed with him to think it was time to go to reſt, had he not pretended that he ſtood in [216] want of it himſelf. He found his friends at next door expecting his return, and every thing ſet in order for his comfort and repoſe, that Suſan's hoſpitable care and attention could provide.

The next morning brought Williams to his bed-ſide, with the chearing intelligence, that he could now with confidence pronounce his patient to be out of danger. His apprehen⯑ſions thus allayed, he felt himſelf at liberty to make good his conditional engagement to Iſabella, for which he made the neceſſary pre⯑parations. After devoting the whole fore⯑noon to his father, and declining his generous offers of an immediate eſtabliſhment, ſuitable to the heir of an ample fortune, he left him highly ſatisfied with the errand he was going upon, and much delighted with the happy proſpect it ſeemed to open on his future hopes.

Relieved from his alarms about the friend he left behind him, and impatient to meet the beloved object towards whom his courſe was now directed, our hero with a joyful heart, whilſt the chaiſe whirled him rapidly along, counted every mile that diminiſhed his diſtance from Iſabella. Sir Roger with [217] the punctuality that governed all his motions, had calculated to a minuteneſs the time of his arrival at the inn. It was a full hour before this given time, when Henry's well-feed poſtilions drove their panting horſes to the door. His firſt care was to examine if the houſe was in a ſtate of preparation for their expected gueſts; and it was with ſatisfaction he ſaw, that all his inſtructions had been punc⯑tually obeyed; when this was done, and the little derangements of his dreſs repaired, he found himſelf at leiſure to make the proper enquiries after Tom and his cavalry: the brave lad ſoon appeared upon the ſummons, and gave a good account of his charge; he alſo informed his maſter, that part of Sir Roger's ſuite were arrived, and that the coach was near at hand with all well within-ſide of it.

At length the much-wiſhed-for moment arrived, that brought the cavalcade in view, and Henry at the coach-door received a hand in his, whoſe touch inſpired him with delight. All inquiries made and reſolved, Iſabella now, with Henry ſeated beſide her, all her fond fears diſmiſſed, and greeted with the ſmile of approbation from her beloved father, felt that tranſcendent glow of ſoul, which is the ex⯑cluſive [218] property of virtuous love, and Hea⯑ven's beſt gift to the thrice-bleſſed few that merit it. No traces of her late diſorder were any longer to be ſeen; her animated counte⯑nance beamed with ſuch luſtrous beauty, health and joy, as made it dazzling to behold. Henry gazed in ſpeechleſs rapture; Sir Roger himſelf ſate in fixed contemplation, and the very people who attended upon the gueſts, ſeemed to make errands into the room, for the purpoſe of treating themſelves with a glimpſe of the lovely ſtranger. Unconſcious of her charms, until ſhe ſaw them in the glaſs of Henry's face, ſhe no ſooner perceived the tranſport they excited, than ſhe dropped her eyes with modeſt ſenſibility, and was co⯑vered with bluſhes.

Enraptured at the ſight, Henry could no longer command himſelf, though in the pre⯑ſence of Sir Roger: ‘"Pardon me,"’ he cried, ‘"thou lovelieſt of women, for oppreſſing thee with my admiration; and you my patron and protector, be my advocate ſo far, as to confeſs that her beauty is irreſiſtible."’—‘"Why in very truth, Henry,"’ ſaid the Baronet, ‘"if you could look upon that form without rapture, I muſt think you wou'd not be ſo worthy as [219] you are of an intereſt in her heart."’—‘"How generous is that apology!"’ exclaimed the hap⯑py youth; ‘"how flattering to my preſumptu⯑ous hopes! by Heaven, I wou'd go to death for the father of my Iſabella!"’—‘"You have done more than that for me,"’ replied Sir Roger, ‘"when you preſerved my child: ſhe is, under Providence, your gift to me; what can I do leſs than endow you with that bleſſing you ſo gallantly redeemed?"’

The gratitude and joy which Henry now felt, were not to be expreſſed by words; his firſt impulſe was to throw himſelf at Sir Ro⯑ger's feet: a motion on the part of that gen⯑tleman, which forbade the attempt, and a cer⯑tain look, which reminded him of the place he was in, brought him to inſtant recollection; yet he ſeized his hand with ardour, and preſſed it to his lips: Iſabella's beauteous and bluſh⯑ing countenance in the mean while took a deeper tint; ſhe too like Henry was ſilent. The good Baronet underſtood enough of na⯑ture to interpret rightly for both parties, and accordingly took an early occaſion to relieve their ſenſations, by ſtarting ſome topic more appoſite to the place they were in; but a more effectual ſtop was ſoon put to all converſation [220] on this ſubject, by the preparations for ſup⯑per, and the buſtle thoſe manoeuvres never fail to produce amongſt the waiters of an inn. The joy, however, which our hero now expe⯑rienced, was too diſcoverable to be overlooked by her who was the cauſe of it: how far her own ſenſations accorded with it, was only to be gueſſed at by the ſagacity of a lover; for modeſt timidity kept in check all emotions that might lead to obſervation, and nature only ſhewed herſelf in a complacent ſmile, and now and then a tender glance, that eſcaped as it were involuntarily and by ſurprize.

Sir Roger, meanwhile, was in high good-humour with every body and every thing: exerciſe had given him appetite, and he had a heart to partake of the happineſs he had be⯑ſtowed; he declared his entertainment to be excellent, chatted familiarly with the landlord, praiſed his houſe, and promiſed never to paſs it without a call. There is certainly ſomething in an inn, which, by contraſt with other ſcenes, is oftentimes found highly pleaſing; it gives an eaſe and relaxation from thoſe domeſtic at⯑tentions which, though they may not be irk⯑ſome in general, are ſometimes interruptions to occupations more amuſing. It may be [221] preſumed Sir Roger felt it at this time, and we agree with him in the following remark—That the man, who cannot find contentment in a decent Engliſh inn, is a four unpleaſant fellow, and a companion no one would wiſh to travel with.

Moments, paſſed thus happily, paſs quick⯑ly, and our lovers found themſelves ſummoned to their repoſe, before they were ſenſible of any wiſh for it. The next morning they were early ſtirring, for Sir Roger propoſed reach⯑ing home by dinner-time, whilſt Henry on, horſeback took a circuit by Crowbery, under promiſe of coming to Manſtock Houſe in the evening, if he found nothing to prevent him on his viſit to his father. As far as to the point where his road branched off, he accom⯑panied Sir Roger and his beloved miſtreſs; whoſe look at parting told him how unwel⯑come the moment was that carried him out of ſight: from this intimation he very natu⯑rally inferred, that the interval of abſence was not to be lengthened by his voluntary delay; no ſooner, therefore, had he uttered the word 'Farewell!' than, giving the reins to his horſe, he put him to a pace that made quick diſpatch with the ſolitary remainder of his way.

[222]He was welcomed by Williams on his re⯑turn, with the ſame good news, and had the happineſs to find his father advancing faſt in his recovery. Williams was ſtill ſole manager in office, though Zachary was arrived. The good man was certainly not apt to under⯑value his own abilities, but in this caſe he made no attempt to interpoſe his advice for any change of ſyſtem, which probably would not have been accepted by Delapoer, from the firſt authority in England. As for Doctor Zachary Cawdle, Surgeon, Apothecary, and Man-Midwife, though his name and titles ſtill glittered on the ſky-blue ſcroll, that be⯑ſtrode the poſterns of his gate, yet had he now touched the happy period that cloſed his medical career, and delivered him bodily over to eaſe, indolence, and the gout for the reſt of his days. The annuity deviſed by Lady Crowbery, and Jemima's bequeſt, made up a comfortable independency; and it was for the purpoſe only of introducing his ſucceſ⯑ſor into buſineſs with a better grace, that he kept his name in the firme; as to all money arrangements for ſtock in hand, good will, or any other deſcription of particulars, Delapoer himſelf had ſo generouſly ſtood forward in [223] that eſſential part of the negociation, that no⯑thing was left to the chance and uncertainty of any after-reckoning between the contract⯑ing parties.

Having thus diſpoſed of our honeſt Doctor, we ſhall probably find little other occaſion to call upon him, in the further progreſs of this hiſtory, except with our hearty good wiſhes for health and long life, to enjoy the tranquil⯑lity and repoſe, which his good fortune has provided for him.

As for Sawney Kinloch, he by his own choice ſeceded from the ſhop, and beat his retreat to his beloved town of Aberdeen, with a fortune which, reduced into Scotch pounds, made no contemptible diſplay in his own coun⯑try;—an example, amongſt many others, of the very extraordinary things which cloſe and perſevering oeconomy can effect.

CHAPTER IV. When Marriages are making, 'tis a Sign the Drama is drawing nigh to it's Cataſtrophe.

WILLIAMS now found himſelf in con⯑dition to think ſeriouſly of matrimony, without the painful ſenſation of conſidering [224] himſelf as the penſioner of a wife: Suſan on her part had all due partiality for him, and there can be little doubt but he was ſatisfied with the proofs of it; yet the arrival of Henry was an incident of ſome importance, and the effects of it had been watched by Williams with all that attention, which wary lovers are apt to beſtow upon a new-comer, whom they ſuſpect to be in greater favour than them⯑ſelves. Suſan's deportment, however, had been ſuch, that the reſult of this ſcrutiny had not been unfavourable to her, or diſcouraging to her admirer: the ſame ſmile was reſerved for Williams when they met in private; and if occaſionally a cloud was ſeen to paſs over her brow, or a ſigh to eſcape from her boſom, the voice of love ſoon reſtored her to peace; he was therefore firmly bent upon rivetting the nuptial chain, yet a previous word or two with Henry, by way of preface to the awful deed, was anxiouſly ſought by him; and as our hero's viſits to his father were daily re⯑peated, that opportunity ſoon offered itſelf; when the following dialogue took place.

‘"I have fully reflected,"’ ſaid Williams, ‘"upon our friend Suſan's ſituation in life, and I think I may ſay truly and without reſerve, [225] that my feelings are entirely reconciled to put up with the conſequences of her involuntary connection with the father of her child. If my mind was not made up upon this point to a perfect acquieſcence for all time to come, I wou'd not do her, as well as myſelf, ſo baſe a wrong as to engage with her on any terms; but repreſented as the tranſaction has been to me, (and I cannot doubt the truth of it) ſhe appears in heart ſo innocent, that I confeſs to you, Sir, I feel no heſitation in reſolving to propoſe to her, and I truſt I never ſhall find cauſe to bluſh at the connection."’

‘"There is no ground to ſuſpect you ever will,"’ ſaid Henry: ‘"you was her firſt love, my friend, and ſhe, I underſtand, was your's: a thief indeed ſtole in, and made ſome pillage of your treaſure, but you yourſelf had firſt unlocked the cheſt."’

‘"That's true, that's true,"’ quoth Williams colouring; ‘"I owe the debt of honour, and will pay it: yet give me leave to ſay, I ſuſpect there will be a ſort of blank in her heart for a while to come; but what of that? I muſt truſt to her good ſenſe and my own attentions, to fill it up before long."’

‘"And how can you doubt of either,"’ re⯑joined [226] Henry?—‘"I will not doubt,"’ replied Williams; ‘"nay, I do not doubt, for ſhe has conducted herſelf hitherto in a manner to my perfect ſatisfaction, and it wou'd be injuſtice to ſuppoſe ſhe will fail me in future; never⯑theleſs, if I am not aſking too great a fa⯑vour, and intruding on your kindneſs and condeſcenſion further than I ought, I confeſs it wou'd be a very ſingular gratification to me, to know the ſtate of her mind in theſe par⯑ticulars from your examination and report of it."’

To this Henry made anſwer, that he ſaw no reaſon to doubt of Suſan's ſincerity, neither was he convinced the method he propoſed of putting it to the teſt was altogether adviſe⯑able.—‘"Nevertheleſs,"’ added he, ‘"if you are reſolv'd to put the probe in my hand, and inſiſt upon my uſing it, as it is your profeſſion to underſtand the application, ſo it muſt be your buſineſs to ſtand to the effects of it."’—Williams ſmiled, and replied he would abide by the conſequences.

Theſe words were ſcarce out of his mouth, when Suſan entered the room; and Williams, glancing a ſignificant look at Henry, left them together. A leading kind of converſation [227] was ſtarted by Henry on the ſubject of her little boy under his charge, which he contrived to train towards the point he had in purpoſe to diſcuſs.—‘"I think, Suſan,"’ he ſaid, ‘"as buſineſs will gather upon your hands with the growth of your child, it might not be amiſs to look out in good time for ſome honeſt and well-tempered man to be your partner in the taſk."’ Suſan bluſhed, but at the ſame time had a certain arch intelligence in her look, whilſt ſhe ſmiled upon him, that gave him to underſtand ſhe was aware at whom his in⯑troduction pointed.—‘"I ſee you are before⯑hand with me,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"but if I am touching upon an unwelcome topic, tell me ſo with ſincerity, and I'll ſay no more; but if I am ſtill as much in your confidence as I us'd to be, and you are not diſinclin'd to open your mind to your friend, why ſhou'd we not diſcuſs this ſubject together as naturally as any other? and ſurely none can be more intereſting and important."’

‘"Certainly,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"none can be ſo intereſting to a perſon in my circumſtances, nor have I any friend on earth, to whoſe opi⯑nion I ſhall attach ſo much attention and re⯑ſpect as to your's: yet I know not how, nor [228] ought I perhaps, if I knew how to deſcribe the ſenſation it gives me, to find myſelf ad⯑dreſs'd by you on this ſubject. In every mat⯑ter I can lay my heart before you without ſcruple or reſerve, in this only I feel a back⯑wardneſs and repugnance, which ought not to be there, nor ſhall it be, if my utmoſt ef⯑forts can prevent it; therefore I humbly pray you to proceed, and if I miſbehave myſelf by any ſudden weakneſs I am not able to con⯑troul, let me rather meet your pity than incur your diſpleaſure or contempt."’

‘"Fear not,"’ replied Henry, ‘"that you can poſſibly be expos'd to either one or the other, nor ſuffer yourſelf to believe I have any motives but thoſe of the pureſt friendſhip for preſſing this unwelcome explanation upon you. You and I, Suſan, have been in certain ſituations, for which I muſt remain your ever⯑laſting debtor in gratitude, and in the courſe of which the benevolent warmth and ſenſi⯑bility of your heart have been ſo far intereſted in my favour, that I feel myſelf in ſuch a de⯑gree reſponſible for your happineſs and ſecure eſtabliſhment in life, as to make it a matter of conſcience with me, to ſee you ſettled and content, before I can enjoy with perfect peace [229] of mind the happineſs I myſelf have ſo flat⯑tering a proſpect of. You have known my friend Williams longer than I have, and I need not ſpeak to you of his worth; as little need I ſay that he loves you to the length of marrying you."’

Here Suſan demanded if Williams had ſaid that voluntarily, and of his own accord, or if Henry had urged him to it, in conſequence of any thing that had been talked of in con⯑fidence between them. To this Henry replied, ‘"I am free to confeſs to you, that all I have to tell him he already knows; but as I have had nothing to tell, except what makes for your credit and recommendation, he views your character in its beſt and faireſt light: a ſoft ſide perhaps towards the tender paſſion he may credit you for, but of me he has no right to be jealous, and for himſelf he has no rea⯑ſon either to glance at what has paſt, or ap⯑prehend for what may be to come. A hand⯑ſome fellow at all points as he is, can have nothing to fear from an honeſt-hearted girl like you, whoſe very firſt leſſon of love was of his teaching."’—Suſan caſt her eyes down, and bluſhed. Henry proceeded, ‘"He is now eſtab⯑liſh'd in a profeſſion, where his diligence and [230] ſkill will enſure ſucceſs: what can you better determine upon than to join your means with his, and fix for life with an amiable and worthy man, who has a heart to love you, an underſtanding to adviſe you, and a ſpirit that will protect and uphold you under all events of life?"’

‘"Thank you for your good counſel,"’ re⯑plied Suſan, keeping her eyes fixt on the floor; ‘"I have a great opinion of Mr. Williams, but—"’; here ſhe pauſed, ‘"if you are ſo con⯑deſcending as to be his advocate in this mat⯑ter, you will adviſe him not to talk to me on the ſubject for ſome two or three days to come."’

‘"I underſtand you,"’ ſaid Henry; and right⯑ly judging that a longer pleading would not help his client, haſtened out of the room.

CHAPTER V. Some of the principal Characters in this Hiſtory are winding up their Parts.

WHEN our hero had concluded his conference with Suſan, he repaired to his father, and had the ſatisfaction to hear him ſay he found himſelf ſo well recovered, that he propoſed, with Williams's permiſſion, to ac⯑cept Sir Roger Manſtock's kind invitation, and pay him a viſit the very next day. If our reader has not heard of this invitation, we have his pardon to ſolicit, as well as that of the hoſ⯑pitable Baronet, for our neglect to record it. At the bottom of the ſtairs, as he came down from his father's room, he was met by old Weevil, who came to return thanks for his kindneſs to his ſon: Tom was now returned home, to the great joy of his family, who con⯑templated his ſcars with triumph, and heard his tale with rapture and delight. His father propoſed to him to take on with the trade of the mill, and Sir Roger Manſtock had offered to put him into a ſmall farm, but Tom was a [232] lad of an enterpriſing ſpirit, and in his ſhort cruize had contracted a paſſion for the ſea. The cut in his ſkull had not cooled the courage at his heart, and a ſea-faring life was ſo decid⯑edly his choice, that Captain Carey, at the ſuit of our hero, had promiſed him employment: And as we are now more at leiſure to attend to his particular hiſtory than we ſhall probably be when nearer to the concluſion of our gene⯑ral one, we ſhall take the opportunity of in⯑forming our readers by anticipation, that Thomas Weevil, through Carey's intereſt, ob⯑tained the lucrative employ of purſer to his frigate; and in the courſe of a ſucceſsful war⯑fare, earned enough to provide a comfortable retreat for himſelf in time of peace.

Henry's converſation with the Miller was now cut ſhort by a more conſequential viſitor; his late antagoniſt, Captain Crowbery, was in the parlour, and requeſted a few words with him in private. He underſtood Mr. Dela⯑poer had intended his noble relation the ho⯑nour of a viſit, when he was taken ſuddenly ill; that his Lordſhip was now from home, and in his abſence he wiſhed Mr. Delapoer to be informed, that if the buſineſs was ſuch as he could execute, or was thought worthy to [233] be entruſted with, he ſhould gladly receive his commands.

Henry made anſwer, that from what he un⯑derſtood of Mr. Delapoer's mind on the ſub⯑ject, he had no preſent wiſh of troubling Lord Crowbery or any of the family upon the bu⯑ſineſs in queſtion; it ſimply related to a deſign which he had laid aſide: at all events, it did not apply to him, the Captain, and if it ſhould be taken up afreſh, he preſumed Lord Crow⯑bery would be at home again in a few days. To this the Captain replied, he was ſorry to ſay that was not likely to be the caſe, as he muſt confeſs it was not a very honourable way he had taken of terminating a raſh en⯑gagement, by running away from it: it could not be denied that Miſs Claypole was unfairly treated, for matters had gone great lengths, and now my Lord had taken leave of her in a very abrupt faſhion, by going out of England without any warning, either to her or to her uncle, who accompanied him to town upon the pretence of arranging matters for the marriage: that Mr. Claypole was now come back, hav⯑ing had a letter put into his hand after his Lordſhip's departure, in which he avows his reſolution of diſcharging himſelf from his en⯑gagements [234] upon prudential reaſons; and ſays he has probably taken leave of England for ſome years to come.—‘"I have ſought occa⯑ſion of telling you this,"’ added he, ‘"becauſe I would fain ſtand clear in your opinion as to my part in the tranſaction, which is ſimply that of being left here in a moſt unpleaſant predicament; the neareſt relation of a man, whoſe conduct I cannot approve, but whoſe intereſts at the ſame time I muſt not abandon. My ſituation will, I truſt, apologize for this; and I proteſt to you, upon my honour, I have not been his Lordſhip's adviſer in the proceeding. I ſhould have expected that decency alone would have kept him out of an engagement ſo unſeemly and precipitate. Whilſt that affair was carrying on, I was baniſh'd from the caſtle, to which I am but juſt recall'd, there to be left in truſt of his concerns, with the diſtreſsful aggra⯑vation of being made witneſs to a ſcene, that beggars all deſcription. And now, having treſpaſs'd on your patience with a detail little intereſting perhaps to you, I have only to add, that if Mr. Delapoer, as your friend, has any thing to propoſe within the compaſs of my power to gratify him in, I ſhall be happy in the opportunity of ſhewing my regard to [235] you, by the attention I ſhall pay to his com⯑mands."’

‘"Captain Crowbery,"’ ſaid our hero, ‘"I am much beholden to you for the kindneſs of this offer. The candour with which you mark a conduct, that cannot be juſtified by any prin⯑ciple of honour, leaves me nothing to add to your comments on that proceeding. I am ſorry for the lady; but as I ſuſpect no other paſſion but ambition has part in the diſap⯑pointment, I hope ſhe will the ſooner forget it. With regard to her uncle, I am afraid it is not in my heart to find much pity for his mor⯑tification: in the mean time, Sir, I ſhall im⯑part to Mr. Delapoer the very handſome manner you have expreſs'd yourſelf in to⯑wards him, and I doubt not but he will be duly ſenſible of your politeneſs."’

This ſaid, Captain Crowbery took his leave, and in a few minutes after, whilſt Henry was ſitting alone pondering on theſe events, to his unſpeakable ſurprize, the door was thrown open, and Fanny Claypole herſelf, without any previous ceremony, haſtily and wildly burſt into the room.

‘"I was reſolv'd,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"to ſee you once more for the laſt time; and if you have [236] any pity in your heart for an injur'd woman, you will not refuſe to hear me. That monſter Crowbery, that murderer of his wife, has aſ⯑ſaſſinated my reputation; but I have found out his hiding-place, and I am ſetting out this moment in purſuit of him: villain as he is, he ſhall rue my vengeance. After the moſt ſeducing promiſes, the moſt ſacred vows to marry me, he has fled from his engagements out of England; and before I follow him, perſuaded it will never be my fate to ſee you more, I cannot go in peace till I have declar'd to you my contrition, and implor'd your for⯑giveneſs: Oh! Henry, there is one moment of my life I muſt never ceaſe to think upon without horror! Thank Heaven you ſurviv'd it! I was mad and deſperate to deſtroy you."’

‘"Say no more of it,"’ replied our hero, ‘"baniſh it from your memory, as I ſhall bury it in ſilence; and be aſſur'd I cordially forgive you."’—‘"I know,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"you are ca⯑pable of every thing that is great and noble, and I implore of Heaven to reward you in the arms of the beſt and moſt beautiful of her ſex, your beloved Iſabella: I only lov'd you; ſhe loves, approves and deſerves you."’—‘"I have heard,"’ reſumed he, ‘"how baſely you have [237] been treated; but what elſe cou'd you expect from ſuch a wretch? So far from allowing you ought to regret his flight as a misfortune, it appears to me you ſhou'd rejoice in it, as an eſcape out of the hands of a villain, which, to a lady in your ſituation, is a moſt providential reſcue."’

‘"Ah! Henry,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"it is my ſituation that makes him a villain, and the worſt of villains; but I repeat to you that I will not be injur'd with impunity; and when you hear of me again, you ſhall hear I am reveng'd. England I ſhall never viſit more; and now, before we part for ever, if you are ſincere in your forgiveneſs of me, you will hear with favour this my laſt requeſt. My uncle, poor deluded man, is broken-hearted on his own and my account; he repents from his ſoul his ingratitude to Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock, and his enmity to you; he juſtly deſpairs of regaining your loſt opinions; but as he has no where to reſort but to his reſidence at Manſtock, he ardently ſolicits your good offices to ſecure him ſuch a reception on his return, as may encourage him to reſume his functions with ſome degree of comfort, and not entirely diſgrace him in the eyes of his [238] pariſhioners. When I am gone, his ſituation will be ſad indeed; my indiſcretion, and his own ambition, have deſtroy'd his peace; your benevolence may preſerve him from abſolute deſpair. Have you the magnanimity to ex⯑tend it to him, and return good for ill?—I am ſatisfied you have."’

‘"I hope,"’ replied Henry, ‘"we both are capable of returning good for ill. No one, who ever taſted that ſweet tranſport, can re⯑gret the ſacrifice of ſuch a direful paſſion as revenge. The virtue of forgiveneſs is in its own nature ſo lovely, ſo congenial to man, that if it had not been preſcrib'd to us as a duty, we ſhou'd have practis'd it as an in⯑dulgence. When we are inſtructed to forgive our enemies, knowing them to be ſuch, it is a precept, that does not take away our ſenſe of injuries, it only abridges us of the privilege of revenging them; and you, who ſwell with rage againſt the wretch that has betray'd you, who threaten to purſue him with your ven⯑geance, tell me, is it a pleaſurable ſenſation you now nouriſh in your heart? Would it not be a happy reformation, were it poſſible, to change the tempeſt into a calm with the word of power? Religion has that power, mercy [239] can ſpeak that word; ſhe can breathe peace into your boſom, and purify the heart in which ſhe dwells, till nothing evil can ap⯑proach it—mercy is that virtue, which offers opportunity to all; for who is there that has not ſomething to forgive, although he may have nothing to beſtow? 'Tis general as the ſun; no ſolitude can exclude its emanation. Caſt me upon a deſart coaſt, an exile from ſociety, where animated nature does not draw the breath of life, ſtill I can find ſome object to engage my care; the plant that feebly vegetates for want of ſoil, the rill that ſtruggles for a clearer channel, will demand my help; and mercy, like heaven's general dew, ſhall fall upon the naked earth, though not an inſect that has life be preſent to par⯑take of it."’

‘"I muſt not hear you on this ſubject,"’ cried the relentleſs damſel; ‘"my nerves are brac'd to the undertaking; my wrongs will not be reaſon'd with, my heart pants for revenge; the interceſſion of an angel cou'd not ſhake me from my purpoſe. Farewell for ever!"’—With this terrible denunciation, ſhe ſprung out of the room, leaving our hero to purſue his fruitleſs meditations by himſelf.

CHAPTER VI. When the Judge is in League with the Advocate, 'tis eaſy to predict the Iſſue of the Suit.

THE ſcene laſt recorded made ſo deep an impreſſion on the ſenſibility of our Henry, that when he returned to Manſtock Houſe in the evening, the effect was ſo diſ⯑coverable, that he found it neceſſary to im⯑part to the enquiring Iſabella what had cauſed it. When he had finiſhed his recital, which, though not coloured to the height, was ſuffi⯑ciently horrible to account for what ſhe had remarked, ſhe produced a letter, that day re⯑ceived from the unhappy object of their con⯑verſation, wherein ſhe takes ſhame to herſelf for her conduct towards Henry, and paints his character in the higheſt terms of praiſe: ſhe ſpeaks of Lord Crowbery as a wretch too baſe to live, and takes a final leave of Iſa⯑bella, with the warmeſt wiſhes for her happi⯑neſs; recommending, as her laſt petition, her repentant uncle to pardon and protection, and entreating her to employ her generous efforts [241] for mitigating the juſt reſentment of Sir Ro⯑ger. ‘"There is juſtice, at leaſt,"’ ſaid Iſa⯑bella, ‘"in this poor creature's heart, tho' it is the ſlave of paſſion and revenge. Alas! I fear ſhe is deſperate enough to execute any dreadful act ſhe meditates; but what is to be done with this poor deluded uncle of her's, whom ſhe recommends to our pity? Methinks it wou'd be hard to refuſe him that, now he has ſeen his error, and ſmarts for it ſo ſeverely. It cannot be expected my father ſhou'd ever entertain the ſame affection for him as before, nor is it, perhaps, to be wiſh'd he ſhou'd; but I think I may anſwer for it that he will never ſhew him any marks of his reſentment. I am told he came early to the vicarage this morning, and no doubt it is a heavy moment with him, whilſt he is uncertain what recep⯑tion he will meet from this family, by whoſe notice or neglect all the pariſhioners will go⯑vern themſelves. Poor man! he wants a com⯑forter: I know the tenderneſs of your heart, Henry, and I wiſh you cou'd prevail upon yourſelf to pay him a charitable viſit."’—‘"May all your wiſhes be as readily antici⯑pated!"’ replied Henry; ‘"I have done that already."’—‘"Have you?"’ ſhe exclaimed; [242] ‘"how like yourſelf is ſuch benevolence! I cannot tell you, Henry, what delight I take in every thing that does you honour; but what is that but ſaying every action of your life diffuſes pleaſure to your friends?"’—‘"That praiſe is more than I deſerve,"’ ſaid Henry; ‘"for I really ſought my own gratification in viſiting Mr. Claypole, who is ſo much an al⯑ter'd man, that I got rid of ſome unpleaſant im⯑preſſions I had receiv'd in his disfavour; and when a man has the good ſenſe to ſee and can⯑didly to confeſs his errors, ſo far from being leſ⯑ſen'd in my opinion, he ſeems to me a more amiable character than before he had committed them."’—‘"I dare ſay I ſhou'd think as you do,"’ replied Iſabella, ‘"if I did not recollect there is one perſon in the world who has ne⯑ver taken that method to encreaſe my good opinion of him."’—‘"That only proves your partiality is greater than your memory,"’ re⯑joined Henry, looking tenderly upon her; ‘"but whilſt my whole heart is your's, and every thought which it conceives is inſpir'd by the ambition of approving myſelf to you, following that impulſe, how is it poſſible I ſhou'd err?"’—‘"Ah, flatterer!"’ ſhe replied, ‘"if my approbation is your object, that is [243] long ſince obtain'd."’—In ſaying this ſhe yield⯑ed him her hand, whilſt her enraptured lover, preſſing it to his lips, dropt on his knee at her feet: ‘"And may I not,"’ he ſaid, ‘"preſume, upon that approbation, to ſolicit the ſurrender of this lovely hand for life? When will the charming Iſabella deign to bleſs her fond devoted ſupplicant, whom ſhe has condeſcended ſo to praiſe and honour above all that he can merit? Oh! when will that ſoft heart, ſo full of pity, yield to my interceſſion, and conſent to ſhorten my ſuſpence? How many anxious days have I to number betwixt hope and happineſs?"’—‘"Days!"’ ſhe exclaimed, ‘"what are you think⯑ing of?"’—‘"Of you, the firſt in all my thoughts, the faireſt, lovelieſt object in creation; of my⯑ſelf next, the wretchedeſt of beings, if, after a few weeks, I muſt be doom'd to bear the pangs of ſeparation from all that is dear to me in life."’—‘"And why of ſeparation?"’ ſhe de⯑manded; ‘"my father, it is true, will be call'd up to town at the meeting of Parliament, but you will be with us, Henry; I am ſure my father does not mean to part with you: don't you perceive he is never happy without you?"’

‘"He is very good to me,"’ he replied; ‘"but ſtill I cannot look forward to that time [244] without alarm. London is my terror: what can I do in it? I have never been in the ha⯑bits of a London life, nor can I accord to them. Adieu to the ſoft ſhades of Manſtock, and our delightful walks beneath them! Fare⯑well our peaceful evenings, undiſturb'd by noiſe, uninterrupted by intruders! No more morning rides, amidſt flocks and herds and cultivated farms, to viſit the improve⯑ments of the huſbandman and the works of the labourer: no peaceful cottager will be ſtanding at her door to greet my Iſabella with a bleſſing as ſhe paſſes; no infant children cloath'd by her bounty, no aged objects feed⯑ing on her bread; all tranquil pleaſures will vaniſh, and, perhaps, the very ſenſes them⯑ſelves change with the ſcene that ſhifts before them: the eye may loſe its purity of ſpecula⯑tion, the ear its chaſte abhorrence of unmean⯑ing folly or inſidious flattery; and the heart, ſurpriz'd by novelty and ſapp'd by diſſipation, may in time be perverted from its ſimplicity; and theſe venerable towers, the ſeat of hoſpita⯑lity and peace, when viſited again, may preſent nothing to the imagination but the gloomy haunts of ſolitude and melancholy."’

‘"Heavens! what a picture,"’ ſhe exclaim⯑ed; [245] ‘"but can theſe fearful predictions be re⯑aliz'd? No, Henry, I have been train'd to do⯑meſtic habits, and to them I will adhere. My duty leads me to attend upon my father, and to that alone I will devote myſelf: you ſhall never have to ſeek me at public places and aſ⯑ſemblies: we will paſs our evenings at home, and hold to the old faſhions of Manſtock Houſe, till it is our happy deſtiny to return to it again, and then you ſhall witneſs if my ſpirits ſink upon the ſight of it!"’—‘"Wou'd to Heaven that day was come!"’ rejoined Henry, with a ſigh; ‘"or that my adorable Iſabella wou'd be graciouſly diſpos'd to ſave me from thoſe ago⯑nies that parting muſt inflict."’—‘"Again you talk of parting; where is the neceſſity for that?"’—‘"Becauſe I am a ſon,"’ he replied; ‘"and have as yet no nearer, no ſuperior, duty to oppoſe to nature's call upon me. Can I de⯑ſert my father in his declining ſtate? His melancholy ſtation, as you know, is fixt, and nothing can allure him from it: how then can I acquit myſelf to conſcience, and be juſtified to him, unleſs my lovely advocate will furniſh me with a plea to put to ſilence all oppoſing claims? Can the moſt generous of her ſex [246] reflect that ſhe has power to bleſs me with a word, and will ſhe not pronounce it?"’

He accompanied this appeal with a look ſo touching, and action ſo tender, that the fond and unoppoſing Iſabella was diſarmed and vanquiſhed. The dread of ſeparation on the one hand, and the impulſe of all-powerful love on the other, conſpired to ſecond and enforce his ſuit. As ſhe meditated upon a reply, her colour came and went, as alternate emotions ſucceeded one another: delicacy ſuggeſted ſome repelling thoughts; the recent death of Lady Crowbery oppoſed a ſtrong impediment to haſty meaſures; but then ſhe called to mind two months were yet to paſs before her father would be called from home, and then the ſame objections of decorum would not remain in the ſame force. She perceived that every hour improved her lover's intereſt with Sir Roger, and in two long months there were many hours to mature that intereſt, till what was Henry's wiſh might be her father's alſo, and then her precipitation would not ſtand in need of an excuſe: in ſhort, theſe ſame intervening months were ſuch a reſource in her reaſonings upon this petition, and love is ſo ingenious to [247] avail himſelf of every reſource againſt heſita⯑tion and delay, that ſhe did not feel herſelf neceſſitated to quaſh his hopes by a peremp⯑tory refuſal; but, on the contrary, turning her eyes upon him with a ſmile that would have animated any heart which had not totally for⯑borne to beat, and bluſhing with a conſciouſ⯑neſs that ſhe was to ſpeak upon a ſubject that awakened all her ſenſibility, ſhe ſaid, ſhe hoped he was more ingenious than ſincere in ſtating an alternative to puzzle her poor wits, and make a choice of difficulties, ſo artfully de⯑viſed, that ſhe could only ſay he had found that one circumſtance to alarm her with, more terrible on reflection than all ſhe had to dread by yielding to his importunity.—‘"Oh, Hen⯑ry!"’ added ſhe, her ſweet voice trembling and ſinking into tones the moſt tender, ‘"it is plain you know the power you have upon my heart, when you menace me with a ſepa⯑ration I have not fortitude to bear, and re⯑preſent yourſelf in affliction and diſtreſs of mind, which you tell me is in my power to relieve you from with a ſingle word, con⯑vinc'd, as you muſt be, there is no ſacrifice I wou'd not make to purchaſe your releaſe. If in this ſtreight, therefore, you are reſolv'd [248] to hem me in by terrors on both ſides, I freely own I have not the heart to make you wretched, and do not want the courage to reſort to that alternative, which takes the in⯑quietude from you, and fixes it on me alone."’

Henry replied to this with ſuch reſpectful, but impreſſive tenderneſs, and though his heart overflowed with gratitude, he tempered it with ſuch delicacy, that before their intereſting con⯑verſation was concluded, every objection Iſa⯑bella's timidity had oppoſed was removed, and her fond heart became ſo complete a convert to the rhetoric of love, that when they broke up their conference, it would have been hard to decide, could their ſecret thoughts have been diſcovered, which of the two was moſt impatient for the happy moment that was to unite them for life.

CHAPTER VII. Occurrences upon a Viſit at Manſtock Houſe.

THE next morning Henry rode over to Crowbery, and found his father pre⯑paring himſelf for his viſit to Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock. [249] ſtock. It was a bold experiment, but his heart was ſo much bent upon the undertaking, that Williams no longer oppoſed it. At the hour appointed Sir Roger's horſes came over, and Delapoer ſtept gaily into his chaiſe, after taking a moſt grateful leave of the hoſpitable women and honeſt Ezekiel, who were aſſembled on the occaſion, and with many kind wiſhes at⯑tended him to the carriage. The day ſeemed to ſmile upon his enterprize, and he arrived at the gates of the venerable manſion with ſtrength and ſpirits recruited by the freſhneſs of the air and the gentle exerciſe which the vehicle had given him. On the firſt ſtep before the door the worthy Baronet received his viſitor, and welcomed him with that hoſpitable grace which was peculiarly his own. As he entered the ſtately hall, through two files of domeſtics ranged on each ſide, he was ſtruck with a pe⯑culiar delight, in contemplating a ſcene that ſo ſtrongly contraſted every thing his eyes had of late been accuſtomed to, and carried his imagination back through centuries paſt to the times of feudal ſtate and chivalry. He ſeemed never weary of praiſing and admiring every thing he ſaw, nor was Sir Roger backward in explaining every object of his curioſity; he [250] knew the owners of each ſhield and corſe⯑let, had the hiſtory of their battles by heart, could point out their portraits in the picture-gallery, and elucidate every banner and bear⯑ing of the family coat; to all which Delapoer, who was an adept in heraldry, gave a willing and attentive ear.

In the midſt of this diſcourſe, when Sir Roger had brought down his narrative ſo near to modern times as to be juſt then engaged in relating an anecdote of his great grandmother, very much to the credit of her beauty, Dela⯑poer's attention was drawn off by the entrance of Iſabella, in whoſe perſon he beheld a living model of ſuch exquiſite perfection, that he could not reſiſt whiſpering to the Baronet, that what⯑ever might have been the charms of the anceſ⯑tor, he was perſuaded they were outdone by thoſe of the deſcendant. Sir Roger ſmiled, and pro⯑bably was not diſpleaſed with the apoſtrophe, though he ſtill ſeemed unwilling to give up his great grandmother—murmuring, in an under voice, that he could aſſure him Lady Rachel was a famous woman in her time. Iſabella's manners were of that natural and engaging ſort, that all the graces which others gain by ſtudy, ſhe ſeemed to poſſeſs to a ſuperior de⯑gree [251] by the gift of nature: how then could ſhe fail to charm a man of Delapoer's ſenſi⯑bility, who at the ſame time recognized in her fine perſon a family likeneſs of that be⯑loved image which ſad remembrance had in⯑delibly impreſſed upon his mind? His figure, though in decay, had ſtill a grace and high⯑born elegance about it, which neither lapſe of years in a debilitating climate, nor the more fatal inroads of corroding melancholy, could ſo efface, but that there ſtill remained the vene⯑rable ruin of a noble form. His addreſs, though certainly not that of the preſent aera, was not ſo ſtiffened by oriental forms as to be trouble⯑ſomely ceremonious; it had all the gallantry and good-breeding of the old court, with ſome ſlight tints, perhaps, of its pedantry and pre⯑ciſion: this, in Sir Roger's eye, was the very model of a fine gentleman, and no inſtruments in uniſon ever harmonized more perfectly than the good hoſt and his gueſt.

Sir Roger's ſtile, as we before obſerved, was, in point of open hoſpitality, that of the feudal ages, and his return to Manſtock brought a great reſort of the neighbouring gentry to his houſe, where the board might literally be ſaid to groan with plenty; but the moſt inte⯑reſting [252] ſpectacle to Delapoer was that of the domeſtics at their dinner, ranged at three diſ⯑tinct tables, according to their gradations and degrees. ‘"This is true magnificence,"’ he cried; ‘"this is a princely manner of admi⯑niſtering a great eſtate."’ Some venerable per⯑ſonages at the head of the garriſon particularly ſtruck him; when a grey-headed ſenior, who preſided at the upper table, giving a ſignal for ſilence, roſe from his ſeat, and lifting a can to his lips, proclaimed aloud, ‘"Proſperity to the houſe of Manſtock!"’ which was repeated by all with the like action, and in the like poſture; where⯑upon, the libation being finiſhed, the whole company broke up, and diſperſed to their ſe⯑veral occupations and employs.

In the great parlour, where Sir Roger en⯑tertained his gueſts, Delapoer was much amuſed by the ſeries of family portraits, exhibiting cu⯑rious ſpecimens of characters and dreſſes in the ſeveral faſhions of their times; whilſt the Gothic windows of painted glaſs reflected variegated gleams of the priſmatic colours, which played upon the faces of the company with a ſingular and whimſical effect: Zachary Cawdle in par⯑ticular, who was one at the table, ſate directly in the ſtream of ſo broad a glare of crimſon [253] light, that he exhibited a moſt ferocious and reſplendent maſk of foil, that would not have diſcredited the hue of Bacchus himſelf in the gayeſt of his frolics.

When the ladies had retired, after dinner, ſomething was ſaid of Lord Crowbery by a gentleman who ſate next to Henry. He might have known it was a topic not very acceptable or polite at Sir Roger's table; and as he ſeemed going into an account of his attachment to Miſs Claypole, Henry, in a whiſper, reminded him that there were ſome preſent who would be thankful to him if he would change the ſubject he was upon. The young man was proud, ill-mannered, and irritable; he took Henry's hint as an affront, and turning to him with an indignant look, ſaid, in a tone that marked his purpoſe to be heard by every body round him, ‘"I don't know how I have de⯑ſerv'd your reprimand, Sir, nor by what right I am ſtopt in my ſpeech, when I was neither addreſſing it to you, nor about to ſpeak diſre⯑ſpectfully of Lord Crowbery, to whom I have the honour of being related, and for whom I entertain a very high regard and eſteem."’

All eyes were inſtantly upon the angry gen⯑tleman; Sir Roger was preparing to inter⯑poſe, [254] and Delapoer had drawn himſelf up into a martial attitude, when our hero with the moſt perfect compoſure, not elevating his voice, nor retorting the acrimonious tone in which he had been addreſſed, replied, that he was not aware of his connection with Lord Crowbery, but ſince that was the caſe, he would compromiſe the matter without any further interruption to the company—‘"For, if you, Sir,"’ added he, ‘"will be pleas'd to ſay nothing more as to your opinion of his Lordſhip, I will be perfectly ſilent as to mine."’—‘"You will do well, Sir,"’ replied Mr. Hard⯑ham (for that was the name of the ſpeaker) ‘"to be ſilent in this and every other com⯑pany, where that noble Lord is nam'd."’—Then riſing from his ſeat, he ſaid—‘"With your leave, Sir Roger, we will adjourn to the ladies."’—‘"Hold, Sir,"’ cried Henry, ‘"we are both at iſſue before this good company, and if either of us has receiv'd an inſult, let him that gave it deliver an apology: if there is here one gentleman, that pronounces me in fault, I am inſtantly prepar'd to make atonement on the ſpot."’—‘"No, no, no!"’ was echoed by every voice; and one gentle⯑man added, that he dare ſay Mr. Hardham [255] would apologize.—‘"If that is your opinion,"’ he replied, ‘"you will be pleas'd to tell me, in the firſt place, for what I am to apologize, and next to whom, for to this moment I never heard what name the gentleman chuſes to be addreſs'd by."’—‘"By mine,"’ replied Dela⯑poer, ‘"by a name which he inherits as my ſon, and by which he is intitled to exact ſatis⯑faction from any gentleman that has the hardi⯑neſs to inſult him."’

Theſe words were calmly, though pointed⯑ly delivered; Mr. Hardham pauſed for a few moments, then addreſſing himſelf to Mr. De⯑lapoer, ſaid—‘"I am anſwer'd; and from what I felt as a relation of Lord Crowbery, can al⯑low for what you muſt feel as ſo much nearer allied to this gentleman; to you therefore, as his father, I refer myſelf implicitly, and whatever you in your candour think proper to dictate, that I will repeat."’—‘"Then, Sir,"’ replied Delapoer, ‘"I can be at no loſs to pronounce; you have already ſaid enough, and all I have further to wiſh for my ſon is, that he may have the honour and happineſs of being better known to you."’

Thus, by the timely application of a few patient words, an altercation was put a ſtop [256] to, which threatened fatal conſequences, for Mr. Hardham was a young man of a very forward ſpirit, and had more than once been engaged in what are called affairs of honour; he had withal a full ſenſe of his own conſe⯑quence, being a man of great property in the county, ſon of the lately deceaſed member, and the very perſon whom his party meant to have ſet up as candidate, had not Sir Roger met the wiſhes of the coalition, and prevented a conteſt. His petulance nobody wondered at, for that was habitual to him; how he came to be ſo right-headed in getting out of the quarrel, was matter of welcome ſurprize to every body; but there was a latent motive, which operated upon him for curbing his temper in the preſence of Sir Roger; and it was not ſo much the firm words of Delapoer, as the fair eyes of Iſabella, that were the peace⯑makers on this occaſion: he had watched her during the entertainment; her manners charm⯑ed him, her beauty enchanted him; but there was ſomething in her looks at times, that di⯑rected his ſuſpicion towards the perſon of our hero; and this, together with a report, that had reached his ears, of an attachment in that quarter, threw a ſpark of jealouſy upon the [257] combuſtibles of his frame, which accounts for the exploſion that ſo ſuddenly took place: the event, however, ſhews that this quarrel⯑ſome gentleman, like others of the like qua⯑lity, had temper at command, when it ſuited him to make uſe of it.

Few things could have given greater pain to the hoſpitable heart of Sir Roger Manſtock, than to have had the peace and good order of ſociety diſturbed beneath the ſacred pro⯑tection of his roof: the harmony that now ſucceeded, was of courſe grateful to him above all, and he ſpared no pains to convince Mr. Hardham of this by repeated marks of the moſt pointed attention. After a few chearful and conciliatory glaſſes, it was again propoſed to adjourn to the drawing-room: here the pa⯑cified gentleman had a fair opportunity of re⯑newing his attentions to the lovely Iſabella, without any interruption from Henry, now cloſeted with his friend Williams, who had galloped over from Crowbery, to impart the glad tidings of his approaching nuptials with his fair betrothed, who had conſented to yield (what alone ſhe had withheld) her hand in marriage on the day but one next enſuing. Henry was truly rejoiced at the news, but put [258] as much gravity into his features as the feli⯑city of the occaſion would admit of; all which Williams, who read his thoughts, un⯑derſtood without a comment. Mr. Delapoer was likewiſe called into conference, not only for the purpoſe of congratulation, but to un⯑dergo certain medical interrogatories, that Williams had to put to him; all which were diſcuſſed to the mutual ſatisfaction of both parties, for nothing was now wanting but gen⯑tle exerciſe and cautious regimen on the pa⯑tient's part to confirm his recovery, and there⯑by eſtabliſh the profeſſional fame of the bride⯑groom elect.

CHAPTER VIII. A certain Gentleman repeats his Viſit.

WHEN Henry returned to the drawing-room, he found nobody there but the father and daughter; the company were all gone, and Mr. Hardham the laſt. His atten⯑tion to Iſabella had been ſo marked, that when, [259] upon taking leave of Sir Roger, he begged permiſſion to wait on him the next morning, upon an affair of conſequence, there was little doubt to be made but that it had reſpect to Iſabella. This was conveyed to Sir Roger in a whiſper, as he paſſed through the hall to his carriage; and the Baronet had now been im⯑parting it to his daughter, with his comments upon it to the above effect: her own obſerva⯑tions alſo coincided with the ſame idea, and the point was not long in debate what ſhould be the nature of the anſwer to the propoſal, if it came; for, independant of all prior engage⯑ments, Mr. Hardham had not the happy fa⯑culty of recommending himſelf to the good graces of either party: Sir Roger, indeed, ac⯑knowledged that his pretenſions were unex⯑ceptionable in point of fortune and family, but he thought him of a proud imperious nature; and when he came to reflect upon his beha⯑viour at table towards Henry, he thought he could diſcover other motives for his acquieſ⯑cence than what reſulted from pure candour and conviction. Iſabella ſaid, ſhe had never found herſelf ſo embarraſſed by the attentions of any man in her life, his whole addreſs ſeemed artificially put on to cover a character [260] and temper very different from what he aſ⯑ſumed; but of all the perſecutions ſhe ever ſuffered, by being looked out of countenance, none was to be compared with what his eyes had the faculty of inflicting, when ſhe found them for ever fixt upon her; in ſhort, throw⯑ing all compariſons out of the queſtion, Mr. Hardham was poſitively, in her opinion, the moſt unpleaſant man ſhe had ever met with.

In this period of their diſcourſe Henry en⯑tered the room; and related what had paſſed between him and Williams. A new ſubject was now ſtarted, and of a pleaſanter nature: Henry ſpoke in the higheſt terms of Williams, and as his father was now retired to his cham⯑ber for the night, he gave an account of all he had done for Williams, and how he had adjuſted matters with Zachary on his behalf, by which he had ſet him out clear in the world, with a fair proſpect of ſucceſs in his profeſſion, and of a happy connection with the girl of his heart, now comfortably eſtabliſhed. Iſabella aſked if he was fully appriſed of Su⯑ſan's hiſtory. Henry aſſured her, he was acquainted with every particular of it, and had little difficulty in reconciling himſelf to cir⯑cumſtances, more imputable to ill-treatment [261] than miſconduct.—"And was Suſan very rea⯑dily conſenting [...] march? had ſhe no ſru⯑ples to overc [...] [...] wholly and ſolely attach'd to [...] ſmiled, and turning to Sir [...] appealed to the court if theſe were queſtions he was bound to anſwer.—‘"I can underſtand,"’ replied the worthy magiſtrate, ‘"that they are queſtions you wiſh to evade; however, as Suſan was her own miſtreſs, and under no controul, we muſt ſuppoſe ſhe had good reaſons for the choice ſhe has made; and I think Iſabella herſelf will allow that is a fair concluſion."’

Mr. Hardham was mentioned, and Henry, in a kind of whiſper, aſked Sir Roger if he did not think it wou'd be right for him to pay that gentleman the compliment of a viſit the next morning. Sir Roger anſwered that he ſhould have thought ſo, but that Mr. Hard⯑ham had ſignified his intention of coming over to Manſtock; and if he conjectured rightly of his buſineſs, the ceremony of a viſit might very well be diſpenſed with. Henry took the hint, caſt a tender look upon Iſabella's bluſhing countenance, and immediately gave a turn to the converſation, by ſpeaking of Mr. Claypole: he had been with him that morn⯑ing, [262] and found him in great affliction, on ac⯑count of a letter he had received from his niece, by which it appeared ſhe had taken the deſperate reſolution, of purſuing her baſe deceiver out of England, and was then on the point of embarking in a pacquet for that pur⯑poſe. ‘"Is the girl mad,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"to run after a raſcal that any other woman wou'd think herſelf happy to be rid of? what can ſhe propoſe to gain by ſuch a crazy expedi⯑tion?"’—‘"Revenge,"’ cried Henry, ‘"if I am to believe her own profeſſions; and if I may judge from the frantic menaces ſhe vented againſt him, when ſhe ſurpriz'd me with a viſit at Suſan May's, I wou'd not enſure his Lordſhip's ribs from a ſtiletto, if once he falls within her reach."’—‘"A wretched cataſtrophe truly,"’ cried Sir Roger, ‘"that wou'd be, but a ſtriking moral for tyrants: Mr. Hardham will then have to mourn the loſs of his re⯑ſpected friend and relation, and this miſguided this unhappy man, poor Claypole, will bring his politics to a miſerable end; 'tis ever thus with over-cunning men."’—‘"But he has thoroughly repented of his ingratitude,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"and is now a real object for your pity and forgiveneſs."’—‘"He is welcome to [263] them both,"’ rejoined Sir Roger, ‘"and to every thing that I can ſubſcribe to his conſo⯑lation and relief; but what I cannot com⯑mand, my affection and eſteem, them I have not in my power to beſtow; when once in⯑gratitude has chill'd the heart that glow'd with friendſhip, who can kindle it afreſh? I ſpeak ſtrongly and explicitly to you, my dear chil⯑dren, upon this ſubject, becauſe I know that both Henry upon this occaſion, and you, Iſa⯑bella, upon others as well as this, have pur⯑poſely introduc'd it with a kind deſign of re⯑inſtating Claypole in my good opinion, by ſetting forth his ſufferings and contrition: the attempt does honour to your hearts; 'tis amiable in the extreme, and I rejoice that you are capable of being advocates for one, that was no advocate for you, but artfully abus'd my confidence, and turn'd what intereſt he had in me (and that I own was not a little) inſidiouſly againſt you both. Baffled in this project, and diſappointed of his malice, he betook himſelf to a wretch, whoſe very name is poiſon to my ears, and there began an in⯑famous cabal, which having ended in miſ⯑carriage and diſgrace, he now repents of; but remember, children, it is repentance after pu⯑niſhment, [264] and therefore, when I ſay that I forgive him, I have ſaid enough;—I have no⯑thing more to do with Mr. Claypole."’

To this no anſwer was attempted, and pro⯑bably from this time till certain circumſtances, hereafter recorded, came to light, neither Hen⯑ry nor Iſabella felt in themſelves any diſpoſi⯑tion to revive the ſubject. Claypole in the mean time kept himſelf retired from all ſo⯑ciety, except when Henry occaſionally paid him a charitable viſit, or Sir Roger cheared him with a civil word, which every Sunday he took care to addreſs to him after divine ſervice, in the ſight of the congregation.

The next morning came, and Sir Roger was obſerved to be more than ordinarily thoughtful during breakfaſt: his mind was oc⯑cupied with the expectation of his unwelcome viſitor. When he reflected upon what had fal⯑len from him at table, where he was interrupt⯑ed by Henry, he called to mind ſo many unpleaſant marks of a purpoſed affront, ſo much arrogance in his manner, and ſuch in⯑dications of a ſuppreſſed reſentment, even in the very act of atoning for his inſult, that he was not without ſuſpicion that the flame of his temper would find ſome other vent, if [265] upon the preſumption of his propoſing for Miſs Manſtock, he was to meet him with an inſtant and abrupt refuſal. On this account he was not a little perplexed how to deport himſelf in the conference, ſo as neither to ir⯑ritate him againſt Henry as a rival, nor en⯑courage him to conſider Iſabella as a lady he was warranted to purſue with his addreſſes; and the whole reſult of Sir Roger's medita⯑tions amounted only to this, that he had a clearer ſight of his difficulty than of the way to lead him out of it. It was therefore not a little to be regretted, that before he had gained any diſtinct perception of the line he was to follow, Mr. Hardham was announced, and of courſe immediately admitted to a private con⯑ference.

Mr. Hardham prefaced his more material buſineſs, by apologizing for words that had eſcaped from him yeſterday, in the heat of converſation, which, as far as they alluded to Lord Crowbery, he feared might have con⯑veyed an impreſſion in his disfavour, as ſeem⯑ing to imply that he approved of his Lord⯑ſhip's conduct in general, when in fact he only alluded to that part of his character, which was uppermoſt in his thoughts, the ſteady ſup⯑port [266] which he had always given to the county intereſts of his family: that he was not then appriſed of the juſt reaſons Sir Roger had to reſent his treatment of an amiable lady, un⯑fortunately loſt to the world; neither was he informed of the late diſgraceful ſtep he had taken, of flying from engagements, which though raſhly made could not be honourably abandoned;—theſe circumſtances, he confeſſed, had been candidly explained to him that very morning by Captain Crowbery; and it was but fair to ſay, that upon that ſtatement he felt himſelf obliged to give up his noble re⯑lation as indefenſible on both accounts; and this he hoped would ſuffice to ſet him ſtrait in Sir Roger's good opinion, if he had un⯑fortunately endangered it from any thing he had inadvertently been led to ſay the day be⯑fore.—Here he came to a ſtop, and ſeemed to expect ſome anſwer from Sir Roger.

Sir Roger replied, that it was a point with him to enter into no diſcuſſion of Lord Crow⯑bery's conduct, eſpecially with Lord Crow⯑bery's relations: his niece was dead, and what⯑ever were her ſufferings in this life, they were now at an end: as to Miſs Claypole's caſe, he had nothing to do with it; it was a ſtory he [267] did not wiſh to lend his ear to; in like man⯑ner he begged leave to ſay, that with reſpect to any opinions Mr. Hardham might adopt, in favour or disfavour of the Lord in queſtion, he hoped he underſtood himſelf too well to interfere in any ſhape with them, much leſs was he diſpoſed to revive the mention of a trifling altercation, which was ſo completely done away to the honour of both parties, and for that reaſon ſhould be buried in perpetual oblivion.

‘"Then if I may indulge the hope,"’ he re⯑joined, ‘"that my condeſcenſion in accommo⯑dating myſelf to the gentleman's vivacity was acceptable to Sir Roger Manſtock, let me preſume to draw one obvious concluſion from it, and take for granted that he underſtood the ſacrifice to have been, what it truly was, a mark of my reſpect to him, and an ambition ſo to recommend myſelf to his opinion, as to ground ſome title to his favour and protec⯑tion in a ſuit which I have now to make, and on the iſſue of which the happineſs of my whole life depends."’

Mr. Hardham pauſed for a reply, but none being made, he proceeded to explain:—‘"I flatter myſelf I need not dwell upon particu⯑lars [268] ſo much within your knowledge, as my family or fortune; they are ſuch, I truſt, as will entitle me to credit, when I aſſert that neither intereſt nor ambition have any ſhare in the ſincere and pure attachment which I profeſs to have for your moſt amiable daughter: no, Sir, it is by the heart alone I am attracted to Miſs Manſtock; and as I hope my cha⯑racter may boldly face the light, and never need the veil of myſtery, I hold it fair and honourable to appriſe you of my wiſhes, and requeſt your ſanction to the tender of my moſt humble addreſſes to your lovely daughter."’

Sir Roger pauſed a while; and then with much gravity, and in a deliberate tone, ſaid, ‘"Your pretenſions, Mr. Hardham, in point of fortune and family, are, as you ſay, too well known to ſtand in need of any explanation; they are ſuch as qualify you to propoſe for any lady in this kingdom; and certainly, Sir, in the attachment you profeſs for my daugh⯑ter I have every reaſon to believe you guided by no other motives than thoſe of free choice, and diſintereſted inclination. When, therefore, you appeal to me, that I wou'd ſanction the tender of your addreſſes to Miſs Manſtock, (I believe I uſe your own expreſſion) I can have [269] but one anſwer to make, ſo long as your re⯑ference is confined to but one point, and that ſimply to demand a paſſport to my daughter: no father, I believe, whatever may be his views for his child, will refuſe that to Mr. Hardham."’

To this he replied, ‘"If I have explain'd no further to you on this intereſting ſubject, Sir, I hope you will conſider it as a very na⯑tural wiſh on my part to owe my ſucceſs, if I am ſo bleſt as to obtain it, wholly and ſolely to my own intereſt in the lady's good opinion, who is to conſtitute my happineſs; and as I cannot doubt but Miſs Manſtock is incapable of condeſcending to beſtow her regards on any man of dubious character, or juſt emerg'd from meanneſs and obſcurity, I truſt, if I am permitted to approach her, I ſhall at leaſt not have to combat with a heart pre-occupied by any rival, or, if by any, not by one that will diſgrace her preference, and make me feel myſelf degraded by the com⯑petition."’

‘"As you put no queſtion to me in the mat⯑ter,"’ replied the Baronet briefly and coldly, ‘"I am not put to any anſwer.—You have free acceſs to Miſs Manſtock."’

[270]This brought the proud ſuitor to a pauſe: he perceived he had gone too far, and carried his language too high; and he ſaw himſelf in the neceſſity of qualifying what he had ſaid with an apology, or throwing up the negotiation at once: ‘"I am afraid,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that I have expreſs'd myſelf too warmly and unwarily; but I entreat Sir Roger Manſtock will be aſſur'd, that I entertain a moſt profound reſpect for his perſon and character, and if I ſpar'd to ſo⯑licit his good favour and protection to my ſuit, it was ſolely dictated by an ambition, which I hope will be thought both natural and com⯑mendable."’

Here he turned his eyes upon Sir Roger;—a ſilent bow was all the anſwer he obtained.

‘"I perceive,"’ added he, ‘"I am unfortu⯑nate in my manner, and deficient perhaps in ſomething, which in the character of a peti⯑tioner I ought to carry about with me; but I am new in the predicament, and having failed to conciliate the father's favour, I will not chuſe ſo unlucky a moment for requeſting an audience of the daughter. I am not quite prepar'd to receive two rebuffs in the ſame breach."’—With theſe words he quitted his ſeat, and Sir Roger riſing at the ſame mo⯑ment, [271] they took a ſilent leave, and Mr. Hard⯑ham mounted his curricle in waiting, highly out of humour with his reception, his proud heart ſwelling with vexation to find his ſelf-importance humbled; and prepared to vent his ſpite upon two unoffending horſes, whoſe tender ſkins ſoon ſmarted under the ceaſe⯑leſs laſh of their unfeeling tyrant.

Oh! what a wretch is man, when pride and ſelf-importance ſeize upon his heart! the ſcorn of every noble mind, the peſt of all ſo⯑ciety, a monſter amongſt men! Begone from me, thou ſelf-ſwolen blockhead, who art at once too fooliſh for my reſentment, and too miſchievous for my pity. In ſome bye turn and croſſing of my walk in life when I chance upon thee, (for nothing elſe but chance can throw me in thy way) no ſooner do I recog⯑nize thy ſtaring owl-eyed viſage, than I poſt down a promiſe in my tablets, to ſketch thy gloomy portrait from the life, and hang thee up to public mockery as ſatire's lawful prize. But when I ſtretch the canvas, and begin to daub it with thy uglineſs, I ſoon perceive thou doſt not own a ſingle feature, that can furniſh any thing but loathing and diſguſt; too dull to help my fancy to a jeſt, too deſpicable to [272] inſpire it with a ſerious thought, and too hard⯑ened to be mended by correction—I caſt thee from my thoughts, diſcovering thee to be ſo mere a caput mortuum, that no chemiſtry can extract ſo much virtue out of thee, as would even ſerve to give phyſic to a dog.

CHAPTER IX. Why is Earth and Aſhes proud?

MR. Hardham, inſtead of returning to his own houſe, drove to Crowbery Caſtle, to make report to his friend the Captain, and conſult him upon the poſture of affairs at Manſtock. The advice he got here was on the whole very prudent, but he was not juſt then in the beſt temper to receive it. Captain Crowbery, as we have before obſerved, enter⯑tained a very high opinion of Henry, and ever ſince his rencontre with him had taken all occaſions of doing juſtice to his behaviour, not only in that affair, but in every other that had come to his knowledge, particularly as to the ſhare he had in Carey's action with the frigate. When Hardham therefore ſpoke [273] contemptuouſly of him as a rival, and ſeemed to reproach himſelf for having ſtooped to any apology, Crowbery plainly told him that he could by no means be a party in any ſteps for grafting a ſerious quarrel on a ſilly altercation, that had been once fairly diſmiſſed: for his own part, he had been already flagrantly in the wrong towards Henry, and had turned out with him in conſequence of it; it muſt then be a very ſtrong caſe indeed that would call him out again, either as principal or ſecond.—‘"And was it not a ſtrong caſe,"’ Hardham demanded, ‘"when the character of Lord Crowbery was glanc'd at in ſuch pointed terms, and in a public company, by a fellow who had no right to uſe his name, in any place or on any occaſion, but with deference and reſpect?"’

‘"I thought,"’ replied Crowbery, ‘"that I had open'd enough to you in our morning's converſation on this ſubject to juſtify the words that Henry us'd, had they been even ſtronger than you ſtate them. I can now truly ſay, that if you and I, as relations of that unhappy man, have any ground left us to ſtand upon in his defence, we owe it to the candour of the very perſon you complain of. The melancholy news I receiv'd this day, led me to turn ſome [274] papers over, which, at Blachford's death, were honourably deliver'd up by Henry, that in ſome hands wou'd have been arms no mortal cou'd have parried. If he open'd them, we are at the mercy of his honour for keeping them ſecret; if he return'd them unexamin'd, we are indebted to his delicacy for our poſ⯑ſeſſion of them. You may believe me, Mr. Hardham, that thoſe papers, which I have now deſtroy'd, wou'd have brought to light very dark dealings, and made the title, that has now by a moſt dreadful accident devolv'd on me, a title of diſgrace and ſhame."’

Hardham eagerly demanded what accident he alluded to?—‘"The death of Lord Crow⯑bery,"’ he replied. His Lordſhip had landed at Oſtend, and, from the poſition of the armies, had been ſtopt there for ſome days; in the mean time, a villain found means to aſſaſſinate him in the ſtreets, as he was coming home late at night to his hotel: he was taken up by the patrole, mortally ſtabbed, and incapable of giving any account of what had paſſed. Every means had been taken by the commandant for diſcovering the murderer, but hitherto without ſucceſs, he had ſtrong ſuſpicions in his mind, which pointed to a certain perſon, who had [275] cloſely followed him out of England, but theſe he would not make public, being determined to ſet out the next morning, and purſue his enquiries on the ſpot.—‘"I am ſhock'd,"’ re⯑plied Hardham, ‘"at the account; and whilſt I congratulate your Lordſhip on your acceſſion to the title of your family, I muſt deplore the cataſtrophe, that has devolv'd it upon you under circumſtances of ſo melancholy a caſt. If I can be of any ſervice to you here in your abſence, or even by accompanying you in your journey, I am at your command."’—‘"Your offer,"’ ſaid the new Lord Crowbery, ‘"is moſt kind and friendly, and in part I will accept it, as you may be of moſt eſſential uſe and ſervice to me here, if you will conſent to put my mind at peace with reſpect to a family, for whom I entertain the higheſt reverence and eſteem; I mean the houſe of Manſtock. There is nothing lies ſo heavy on my heart as the treatment they have met with from the unfor⯑tunate deceas'd; I am the laſt man living that ſhou'd ſpeak too harſhly of Lord Crowbery, my benefactor, but I have been made a pain⯑ful witneſs to ſuch things, as make me ſhudder to reflect upon. I hold it therefore my firſt duty to make all the atonement in my power [276] to that much-injur'd family; and in doing this I think I ſhall approve myſelf a real friend to the memory of the deceas'd. And now, my dear Sir, ſuffer me to appeal to you, and put it to your heart, if in honour you have any juſt cauſe of animoſity againſt that excellent young man, who, if I'm well inform'd, is firmly en⯑gaged to the lady you propos'd for. Is he in the fault of that, or are you warranted to af⯑front and decry him becauſe he is approv'd of by Miſs Manſtock, whom you hardly knew by ſight, and never thought of before yeſterday?"’—‘"I don't know from authority that he is engag'd to Miſs Manſtock: Sir Roger did not tell me that."’—‘"You did not aſk him, I be⯑lieve,"’ replied Lord Crowbery; ‘"but the fact is eaſily aſcertain'd, if you chuſe to take the direct courſe of applying either to Sir Roger or to the lady herſelf."’—‘"I confeſs to you,"’ ſaid Hardham, ‘"it wou'd not be very pleaſing to me to be ſo inform'd by either of them, tho' I ſhou'd not be ſorry to come at the truth by any other channel. I am not ambitious to be mark'd as a rejected ſuitor to any lady, who prefers Mr. Henry Delapoer."’

Here a ſervant came in, and announced the gentleman laſt mentioned—‘"Shew him into [277] the ſaloon,"’ ſaid my Lord, ‘"and ſay I will wait upon him immediately. You have now an opportunity,"’ ſaid he, applying himſelf to Mr. Hardham, ‘"of granting me the favour I have requeſted, if you will condeſcend to re⯑main here a few minutes, whilſt I ſtep out to him, and will allow me to bring him when I return, to take you by the hand, which I per⯑ſuade myſelf he'll gladly do: you are both men of honour, and only need to be known to each other to be the beſt of friends."’—‘"I know you to be ſuch,"’ replied Hardham, ‘"therefore do by me as you think right, and I will wait your pleaſure."’ Lord Crowbery haſtened to his viſitor—‘"Am I before-hand with my information,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"or is it known to you that I am now to addreſs you as Lord Crowbery?"’ He was informed of the event.—‘"I ſhou'd have to apologize for this viſit,"’ reſumed our hero, ‘"if it was not purely on a caſe of conſcience; but I cannot keep a circumſtance conceal'd, that may in any way affect the inveſtigation of a crime ſo horrible as murder."’—Here he recited the converſa⯑tion of Fanny Claypole, when ſhe forc'd her⯑ſelf upon him; and concluded with expreſſing his regret that he had ſuffered ſuch menaces [278] to paſs without taking inſtant meaſures for preventing their effect—‘"If you have any thing to regret on that account,"’ ſaid my Lord, ‘"how much more cauſe have I to re⯑proach myſelf, who was ſo immediately in the way of her fury, and a witneſs to the whole torrent of it! but I conſidered it as the im⯑potent raving of a diſappointed woman, and let it paſs."’—He then explained the meaſures he intended to purſue, for tracing it, if poſſible, to a diſcovery, by reſorting to the ſpot—‘"But before I depart from this place,"’ added he, ‘"upon that mournful buſineſs, there is a matter of a moſt preſſing nature on my mind, which I earneſtly requeſt you will ſo far take charge of as to pledge me to Sir Roger Manſtock in the moſt reſpectful terms, for every ſatisfaction in my power to make, not only with regard to the liquidation of the funeral expences by him defrayed, but alſo of my entire acquieſcence in the will of the Lady Crowbery, which I ſuſpect there was a meditation of conteſting, and at the ſame time I ſhall give orders that every article perſonally appertaining to that lady in this houſe, which I am ſorry to ſay were permitted to be put out of their places, ſhall be brought together and collected for his [279] reviſion and Miſs Manſtock's, whom I ſhall requeſt to make choice of any ſuch things which they may put a value upon, as remem⯑brancers of one ſo worthily lamented and be⯑lov'd; and this I deſire you will tell them I tender as the only atonement in my power to make, on the part of an unhappy man, who, if life had been ſpar'd to him, wou'd, I flatter myſelf, have ſeen his error, and done what I now do in his name, and in honour to his me⯑mory."’

‘"My Lord,"’ cried Henry, riſing from his chair, and taking his hand, ‘"I thank you; you have juſtified the high opinion I conceiv'd of you, and have greatly honour'd me by this commiſſion."’—Here he ſtopt, for his voice faultered; and glancing his eyes upon a picture of his mother, over the chimney, which gave a ſtriking character of her in youth and beauty, nature forced her way, and putting his hand⯑kerchief to his eyes, he yielded to the irre⯑ſiſtible emotion, and ſaid no more.

‘"We will adjourn to the library,"’ ſaid Lord Crowbery; ‘"where a friend of mine is wait⯑ing, who wiſhes to pay his compliments to you. Suffer me only to aſk you, before you go, if you think that picture will be an ac⯑ceptable [280] preſent to Miſs Manſtock; and I name her in preference, becauſe I conſider it in ef⯑fect the ſame as giving it to you. I perſuade myſelf,"’ added he, ‘"I am not premature in ſuppoſing her intereſts and yours are one and the ſame."’—To this Henry made a modeſt and grateful reply, neither affirming nor de⯑nying the aſſumption above ſtated; but ſaid he would report to Miſs Manſtock his moſt obliging offer. Lord Crowbery then informed him who the perſon was that expected him in the library; and, after a few words introduc⯑tory to their meeting, took him by the hand, and uſhered him to Mr. Hardham, addreſſing himſelf to each in turn with many civil ſpeeches and profeſſions of eſteem, hoping it might be his good fortune, as common friend to both, to bring forward ſuch an explanation as might have no grounds for future miſunderſtanding on the part of either. Mr. Hardham ſaid, he truſted the gentleman could not doubt his readineſs to do away affronts, whether juſtly or unjuſtly taken up; and he preſumed it was no ſmall proof of his continuing in the ſame diſpoſition, that he had waited his leiſure for the ſole purpoſe of paying him his compli⯑ments in Lord Crowbery's preſence. Henry, [281] on his part, aſſured him, that he had devoted that morning to the honour of paying him a viſit at his own houſe, but had been told he would be from home. He hoped Mr. Hard⯑ham had carried with him no impreſſions from their laſt meeting that made a ſecond explana⯑tion neceſſary, reſpecting any thing which had there occurred; if it was ſo, he was perfectly ready on his part to renew the aſſurances he had then given him of his entire acquieſcence in the manner he had taken for terminating that trivial diſpute.

Here the Lord Crowbery interpoſed; he hoped there was no intention on either ſide of look⯑ing back to what was paſt, but, on the con⯑trary, by looking forward, to prevent occaſion of diſputes in future: ‘"And this,"’ he added, ‘"may be eaſily effected where two men of honour meet, mutually diſpos'd to deal can⯑didly with each other, ſhou'd they find them⯑ſelves competitors in the ſame purſuit."’—‘"I do not quite pledge myſelf to that,"’ ſaid Mr. Hardham; ‘"as I wou'd not chooſe to engage in any purſuit where I did not ſee myſelf either fairly pitted againſt any that might oppoſe me, or well aſſured of ſurmounting competition. Much as I reſpect Miſs Manſtock, I have no [282] ambition to be pointed at as her diſcarded ſuitor; and great as my opinion may be of Mr. Delapoer's extraordinary merits, I muſt own I do not covet the honour of being known as his rival in a ſtruggle for that lady's favour, if he has already ſecur'd her affections, and been approv'd of by Sir Roger as his ſon-in-law."’

‘"And does Mr. Hardham expect,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"that I ſhou'd account to him for my proceedings, having no deſire to make enquiries into his? Wou'd it become me to ſpeak out of Sir Roger Manſtock's family of what I know or believe to be paſſing in it? That I will never do; theſe lips ſhall never preſumptuouſly profane the name of Miſs Man⯑ſtock, nor will I ſuffer any others ſo to do in my hearing with impunity."’

‘"Then I muſt take the liberty to tell you—"’ ſaid Hardham; and was proceeding, when Lord Crowbery, putting his hand upon his breaſt, ſaid, ‘"Stop, I conjure you, Sir, if it be only for my ſake, and let us argue calmly, or diſ⯑miſs the ſubject. I was the promoter of this interview, and am pledg'd for the iſſue of it. Cou'd I have ſuppos'd that you, my friend and relation, wou'd have expreſs'd yourſelf in [283] a ſtile ſo lofty and ſo irritating, I wou'd as ſoon have burnt this houſe over my head as ſuffer'd it to have been made a ſcene of quarrel and contention. What Mr. Delapoer has ſaid is not one word too much for the occaſion that gave riſe to it. How elſe cou'd you expect a man of honour to reply to ſuch a ſpeech, in which you ſeem'd to make your own ſelf-conſequence your whole concern? Methinks, of all men living, Mr. Hardham, you ſhou'd keep a guard upon yourſelf, and, being ſo quick to feel in your own perſon, ſhou'd be cautious how you wound the feelings of others. I ſpeak plainly, Sir, but I have the rights of hoſpitality to protect; and if you are offended with me for it, I muſt meet the conſequences."’

All this while Hardham ſate with a con⯑temptuous ſmile upon his countenance, af⯑fecting to receive every reproach as a com⯑pliment, bowing with an air of counterfeited reſpect; when perceiving that Lord Crowbery had concluded, he replied, ‘"I am infinitely oblig'd to you, my Lord, for your extraordi⯑nary politeneſs, and ſhall endeavour to con⯑vince you that I have not loſt one word of your edifying lecture, by the early opportunity I ſhall take of requeſting you to hear the com⯑ments [284] I have made upon it."’—Lord Crow⯑bery with quickneſs replied, ‘"Uſe your own pleaſure, Sir; I ſhall be at home for the day: when you are ready with your comments, I ſhall expect you; and for ſecurity's ſake you may bring a prompter with you."’

CHAPTER X. Pride meets its Puniſhment, and Love its Reward.

‘"LET him go,"’ ſaid Lord Crowbery, as Hardham bounced out of the room; ‘"he has the pride of Lucifer."’—Henry ex⯑preſſed great uneaſineſs at what had paſſed, and ſtrongly contended that the affair was his own. This Lord Crowbery would not admit, nor did he look to be farther troubled with his angry couſin; he had had many ſuch ſparrings with him, which had paſſed off as he ſuppoſed this would, for he never ſpared him when he was in that vaunting ſtile; how⯑ever, if he ſhould chance to be juſt then in one of his fighting fits (for his courage came [285] by ſtarts, though his petulance was conſtitu⯑tional) it would not, he owned, be amiſs to be ready for him.

Henry hoped he would have no farther trouble with him, felt great reſponſibility for the conſequences, and would hold himſelf at his call, either in his Lordſhip's houſe or at Williams the ſurgeon's, ſo long as there was any chance of his ſervices being wanted.—‘"I will intrude upon you no longer than for two hours of your time,"’ he replied; ‘"within which, if our angry gentleman does not make his appearance, I ſhall think no more of him; if in that interval you can amuſe yourſelf in this library, or pre⯑fer going to Mr. Williams, I will overhawl my artillery in the interim, and put my hand to a few papers not quite ſo convenient to be left at the iſſue of chance and accident."’

This ſaid, they parted, Henry taking his courſe to his friend Suſan's, where he found Williams and his betrothed, this being the eve of their wedding-day: here he took the firſt opportunity of telling Williams, in a whiſper, the probability there was of an affair taking place, where his attendance would be moſt acceptable, which he readily engaged for; he then, with as much gaiety as he could aſſume, [286] made his congratulations to Suſan; and whilſt this diſcourſe was going on, as he ſtood by the window, Sir Roger Manſtock's chaiſe was dis⯑covered coming acroſs the green, and making directly for the houſe. It was quickly at the door, when he heard himſelf joyfully greeted by his beloved Iſabella, who was ſeated at the ſide of her father. They quitted the carriage, and after a moſt reſpectful welcome on the part of Suſan, Williams having modeſtly re⯑tired, they were at their own requeſt left in private with our hero.

Sir Roger opened the buſineſs, by informing him of Mr. Hardham's propoſal, and the anxiety thereby occaſioned not only to Iſabella, but himſelf, from the known impetuoſity of that haughty ſuitor's temper, and the dread he had of conſequences thence reſulting: he would not diſguiſe from Henry that his ſudden diſappearance that morning, ſo quickly follow⯑ing Hardham's unſucceſſful viſit, had ſo alarm⯑ed his daughter, that at her deſire he had come over thither with her, in hopes of find⯑ing him, as fortunately they had done.—‘"I let you into this ſecret,"’ ſaid he, ſmiling, ‘"though Iſabella is here preſent, and hears herſelf betrayed by me, becauſe, to ſay the [287] truth, there is now an end to all reſerve be⯑tween us, and my only wiſh is to put a final ſtop to all ſolicitations, by joining your hands without delay, and rendering my ſoul's dar⯑ling into your entire protection: and I pray God to bleſs you, my dear children, in each other, and me in both!"’

Henry, who was ſeated between them, took the hand of each, and preſſed it to his heart in ſpeechleſs ecſtacy. Iſabella, ſuffuſed with bluſhes of the deepeſt dye, and not venturing to raiſe her modeſt eyes, which ſenſibility had filled with tears, kept ſtill ſilence, which was not interrupted till Sir Roger, reſuming his diſcourſe, and addreſſing himſelf to Henry, ſaid, ‘"Now if you are queſtion'd by that haughty interloper, tell him you have my au⯑thority to ſay that Iſabella Manſtock is—(what ſhall I bid you ſay?) tell him at once, and ſtop his importunity—ſhe is your wife.—Now aſk her if I've ſaid a ſyllable too much."’

The reference was obeyed upon the in⯑ſtant;—the enraptured lover was at the feet of his miſtreſs, the unoppoſing miſtreſs was en⯑folded in the arms of her lover.

After a proper portion of time had been devoted to joy and gratitude on the part of [288] our hero, Sir Roger began to comment on the circumſtances of Lord Crowbery's aſſaſſi⯑nation. The deed was horrid, the ſuſpicions it involved afflicting, but the removal of ſuch a worthleſs being out of life was providential; he had ſeen that unhappy man, the uncle of a deſperate creature, ſtained, as he greatly feared, with the blood of the deceaſed; he comforted him as well as he could, yet he perceived his mind was immerſed in deep deſpair and me⯑lancholy.—‘"Whether he is inform'd,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"of any circumſtances that fix the guilt upon his niece, I forbore to enquire, but I ſhou'd fear he knows more than he thinks proper to reveal."’—Henry perceived that Clay⯑pole had been leſs communicative to Sir Roger than to him, for he had actually ex⯑hibited to him in confidence a letter under his niece's hand, exulting in the completion of her revenge, and boaſting that ſhe had found a hand to puniſh perfidy; a Frenchman who had been lurking about London for evil pur⯑poſes, and had been warned out of England, took his paſſage in the ſame pacquet with her to Oſtend; ſhe ſounded him, and found him the fitteſt agent for her deſperate purpoſe, being deep in all the maſſacres that had deluged Paris [289] with human blood: he had made good his eſcape, and was ſafe amongſt his brother ſans⯑culottes; for her part ſhe defied purſuit; ſhe had lodged herſelf where no ſearch could fol⯑low her;—let her uncle therefore ſet his mind at reſt, ſhe ſhould never be heard of more, and bade him everlaſtingly farewell.

Time had imperceptibly ſlipt away during this converſation, and Sir Roger had juſt re⯑collected to order his chaiſe, when Williams came into the room, and whiſpered Henry that Lord Crowbery expected him at the caſtle; in ſpite of all his ſelf-command, he changed colour at the ſummons, and Iſabella inſtantly caught alarm. Honour demanded inſtant obedience to the call, yet Henry's in⯑genuity could hardly ſuggeſt an excuſe ſufficient to bear him out; the beſt apology he could deviſe upon the ſudden was, that Lord Crowbery being on the point of ſetting out for Oſtend, and underſtanding he had had an interview with Fanny Claypole juſt before her leaving Crowbery, had requeſted him to come to him without delay.—‘"Tell me only,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"that you are not going to meet that hateful Hardham, and I ſhall be at peace."’—‘"I have nothing to ſay to Mr. Hardham,"’ replied [290] Henry; ‘"and I conjure you not to think about him."’—So ſaying, he hurried out of the room, and bidding Williams follow him as faſt as he could, made the beſt of his way to the place of aſſignation.

Iſabella's apprehenſions were by no means quieted, for his agitated looks and impatient motions augured ſomething on his mind more important and more preſſing than the cauſe he had aſſigned. She ran to Suſan May, and aſked for Williams.—He was gone with Henry.—This was a circumſtance to aggravate her terrors: duels and wounds immediately oc⯑curred; why elſe ſhould he take a ſurgeon with him? Even Sir Roger's equanimity was not proof againſt this. At one time he would go to the caſtle himſelf;—this Iſabella would not hear of—he would ſend a ſervant to ſpy what was going forward—he would contrive a meſſage to Lord Crowbery himſelf;—he could neither reconcile his mind to the one, nor invent the other. The chaiſe was at the door, but Iſabella could not ſtir from the ſpot, her fears had rooted her; and Dame May, who foreſaw there would be a demand upon her cloſet, was buſied in providing reſources againſt faintings and hyſterics: Suſan ſtrove to [291] adminiſter the conſolation of reaſon; but no ſooner did the apprehenſion of Henry's danger ſeize her fancy, than ſhe ceaſed to reaſon againſt imaginary fears, and, by ſubſcribing her own to Iſabella's, aggravated both.

In the midſt of this confuſion, Zachary Cawdle came into the houſe. A new-comer in ſuch ſituations, let him come from whence he will, gives a ſpring to curioſity, and awakens hope.—‘"Did he know if Mr. Hardham was at the caſtle?"’—‘"He ſaw him paſs his door towards Lord Crowbery's not many minutes ago."’—It was the ſentence of temporary death to Iſabella: ſhe fell back in her chair pale as aſhes.—‘"Hell and confuſion!"’ exclaimed Zachary, ‘"what devil has bewitch'd my tongue, that it ſhou'd ſtumble on this miſ⯑chief?"’—He then beſtirred himſelf to retrieve the damage he had done, and Dame May was diſpatched for the requiſites, whilſt the father ſtood motionleſs and aghaſt. Zachary had his fingers on her pulſe:—‘"Courage! worthy Sir,"’ he cried; ‘"the defection is paſ⯑ſing off; the pulſation of the artery is per⯑ceptible; we begin to revive."’—‘"God be prais'd!"’ exclaim'd the father, in a tranſport—When, in the ſame inſtant, a voice was heard [292] from without, calling aloud upon Doctor Cawdle, and in a few moments after, Suſan, who had run out upon enquiry, came back with the joyful tidings that Henry was per⯑fectly ſafe: Zachary's aſſiſtance was wanted for Mr. Hardham, who was ſhot by Lord Crowbery in a duel.—‘"Jump into my chaiſe,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"and bid them drive to the wounded man's relief as faſt as they can gal⯑lop."’—‘"Fair and ſoftly, worthy Sir,"’ quoth Zachary; ‘"I can neither jump nor gallop to his reſcue: Williams is on the ſpot, and is well us'd to gun-ſhot wounds; he only wants me as ſurgeon's mate."’—Zachary now with due deliberation ſeated himſelf in the chaiſe, and the meſſenger, having mounted behind it, gave directions where to drive. Hardham was found on the ground, and Williams had juſt then ſucceeded in ſtaunching the haemor⯑rhage; the ball had entered a little above the knee, and had lodged itſelf by a ſlanting courſe up his thigh, as he ſtood in a crouching poſture when he gave his own fire, and re⯑ceived that of his opponent almoſt at the ſame moment. He fell, and fainted on the ground; when he came to himſelf he was earneſt with Williams to be taken to his own houſe, but [293] in this he was not indulged: when Zachary arrived they found means to convey him into Lord Crowbery's houſe; and Henry now, at the earneſt wiſh of his principal, took Zacha⯑ry's ſeat in the chaiſe, and haſtened back to the party at Suſan May's. Great was their joy at his return, and every countenance (but chiefly that on which his eyes were firſt fondly fixed) was brightened at his preſence. To them he related the particulars of the ren⯑contre, in the event of which the overween⯑ing pride and inſolence of Hardham, who was obſtinate againſt all accommodation, was proportionably chaſtiſed.

CHAPTER XI. The Drama cloſes, and the Curtain falls.

HENRY accompanied the chaiſe to Man⯑ſtock Houſe, and to gratify Iſabella no leſs than himſelf, was hardly ever out of ſight by the way. Hardham, in the mean time, was depoſited with all poſſible care in the houſe of his antagoniſt: during ſix days Williams, who remained in the cloſeſt attention, found [294] no moment when the operation of extracting the ball could be undertaken with ſafety to his life, which remained in ſo precarious a ſtate, that Lord Crowbery felt himſelf obliged to poſtpone his intended expedition; and ſent his lawyer, properly inſtructed, to purſue all neceſſary meaſures at Oſtend on his behalf.

On the ſeventh morning Williams ſucceſs⯑fully extracted the ball, and ſymptoms became ſo favourable as to flatter him with a cure. Some time after this, Hardham was carried to his own houſe, and Lord Crowbery's mind was relieved from its weight of anxious ſuſ⯑pence: his journey, however, was now en⯑tirely laid aſide from the report of his agent, whoſe attempts to trace the murderer had been entirely fruitleſs: the body of the de⯑ceaſed was brought over, and committed to the vault of his anceſtors.

Williams was in ſuch favour with his pa⯑tient, that no other ſurgeon was permitted to approach him. One important buſineſs there was, in which the fair Suſan had a ſhare, that ſuffered a poſtponement by his attendance upon Hardham; the matrimonial knot was not yet tied: this indeed, in the preſent caſe, was ſimply the delay of a ceremony; and the [295] very firſt leiſure morning Williams could with a ſafe conſcience avail himſelf of, that ceremony was effectually performed; and Suſan took poſſeſſion of that honourable title, which her fidelity and good conduct ever after main⯑tained, through a ſeries of many proſperous and happy years.

In Manſtock Houſe, Love took his ſtation undiſturbed by any cares or interruptions, ſave only thoſe chaſte tremors, which the gentle breaſt of Iſabella felt, whilſt Time, for ever on the wing, was weaving the ſoft ſilken fetters, now almoſt complete and ready for the hand of Hymen, that artiſt who too often makes but blind and bungling work, coupling ill-ſorted pairs with coarſe and clumſy tools. Not ſuch our hero and his fair betrothed—lovely in perſon, lovelier in their virtues, their ſoft and tender hearts melted into each other with a coaleſcence ſo entire, that ſoul with ſoul never more ſweetly harmonized: yet ſometimes, when the ardour of his looks alarmed her, ſhe would chide him with her bluſhes; ſometimes ſhe would turn away and hide her face, or bid him go from her and join the company; this had he done, he would have miſunderſtood the ſpirit of the order [296] totally, inſtead of which he had a way of mak⯑ing peace, that nature pointed out, which gained him pardon by repeating the offence.

‘"You are incurable,"’ ſhe would tell him at theſe times, ‘"and I give you up; another time I'll lock my door, and keep you out."’—The minutes ſtill rolled on, and yet the door was not locked; the offence was ſtill com⯑mitted, and the menace, though repeated, was never executed.—‘"What are you muſing upon?"’ ſhe ſaid one day, as he ſate rapt in thought.—‘"I am reducing days to hours,"’ he replied, ‘"and hours to minutes, that I may calculate each fraction of the interval 'twixt this and Monday."’—‘"Add to it another year,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"and you'll be nearer to the ſum. Don't talk of Monday, I'll not hear about it."’—At that moment the porter's bell announced an arrival. Iſabella ran to the window, and deſcried Doctor Sandford coming up to the door.—‘"There, there!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"you are all together in a plot againſt me: I'll not go down to Doctor Sandford; much as I eſteem him, I'll not quit my chamber this whole day; I know for what he comes."’—‘"He comes to bleſs your Henry, by entitling him to call the lovelieſt object in creation his; [297] he comes to ratify the vows that I have made, to honour, love, and ſerve you with my life; and what is there ſo terrible in this, that ſhou'd diſturb my Iſabella's gentle ſpirits? What does the ruler of my paſſions diſcern in her devoted Henry, that ſhe ſhou'd ſhrink from with affright? Command me, taſk me as you will, and I'll obey, ſo you do not forbid me to adore you and to doat upon you as I do this moment, have done ever, and to life's lateſt period ever muſt.—Say, Iſa⯑bella, are theſe arms, thus preſſing, thus en⯑circling you, bonds that you wiſh to break, chains that you fain wou'd fever and caſt from you? Queſtion my heart, 'tis your's; aſk if there's mercy in it for my Iſabella; mark if it does not throb with tender pity and compaſſion for your virgin fears; and wit⯑neſs if the drops that fall from it are half ſo dear as theſe which your ſoft eyes diſtil. Oh! my ſoul's treaſure, are you not at reſt upon this faithful boſom? Do you not feel a conſcious ſatisfaction, thus to know your⯑ſelf belov'd, protected, cheriſh'd by a friend, who lives but on your ſmiles, nor has a ſenſe of earthly happineſs, but what the contem⯑plation of your charms beſtows upon him?"’

[298] ‘"Oh! Henry,"’ ſhe replied, and ſunk upon his breaſt, ‘"I render you my heart, and all that it contains; even my terrors are fled from me, and nothing now remains but all-ſubdu⯑ing love: your words, your looks, beſpeak ſuch mild conſideration for your poor trem⯑bling Iſabella; and I well know there is ſuch mercy in your manly nature, that I am yours this day, this hour, this inſtant, and for ever."’—Silence enſued, what elſe their thoughts ſup⯑plied, love found expreſſions for, more elo⯑quent than words: the minutes were not few; but, rated to their value, they had outweighed years of common price.

Iſabella now was not averſe to welcome her late dreaded viſitor, the worthy Doctor Sand⯑ford—ſevered from the arms of her enraptured Henry, with love in every glance, and grace in every motion, ſhe came forth in beauty's richeſt bloom, a form to charm all eyes, and captivate all hearts.

Every body was occupied in preparations for the approaching journey: great as was the ſacrifice Sir Roger made to the peace of the county, when he took upon himſelf the pain⯑ful duty of attending parliament, there were ſome circumſtances that qualified the diſagree⯑able [299] neceſſity at the preſent moment, as he had affairs of great conſequence on his hands with reſpect to Iſabella's marriage, which could only be adjuſted in London. Mr. Delapoer, the father of our hero, had alſo buſineſs not leſs important, and agreed to accompany him; and a houſe large enough to receive the whole party, and perfectly commodious, had fortu⯑nately been ſecured for Sir Roger, and was already well aired, and occupied by part of his houſehold, ſent before him for that purpoſe. His plan was to have the wedding on the morning of his departure, and as private as poſſible. The Rev. Mr. Claypole, in a bad ſtate of health, was gone to Bath, and Dr. Sandford had been invited from Hagley to perform the ceremony. The bride and bride-groom were to take their departure together, and reach town that evening; Sir Roger, Dela⯑poer, and Sandford were to follow in the family coach by eaſy ſtages, and ſleep by the way.

On the morning before theſe events were to take place, Henry rode over to Crowbery, and took a friendly leave of the Lord of the Caſtle; he had alſo a parting converſation with Mr. and Mrs. Williams and the good Dame; to Ezekiel he devoted a full hour, which the [300] good man filled up, after his manner, with ad⯑monitory leſſons for his conduct in the me⯑tropolis, that ſink, as he pronounced it, of infamy and corruption. Ejaculations, prayers and bleſſings in abundance he cordially ſuper-added; and at laſt let him depart with this exhortation—That if affluence and proſperity ſhould await him, he would never forget that he had felt the ſorrows of poverty and diſtreſs; but, on the contrary, if diſappointments and misfortunes (which Heaven avert!) ſhould prove to be his lot, then let him take religion to his aid, and place his whole reliance on that all-gracious Maſter, who never fails his ſervants in affliction, when they piouſly reſort to him.

The awful morning arrived, and Iſabella, beautiful as an angel, and freſh as the dew of Heaven, roſe with the dawn; and having attired herſelf with a ſimplicity pure as her thoughts, and elegant as her manners, came forth from her chamber, and preſented herſelf to the eyes of her expecting lover: he led her down the ſtairs to the room where her friends were aſſembled, and the Rev. Dr. Sandford was in readineſs to perform the ſolemn office, and pro⯑nounce the nuptial benediction; which ſervice being cloſed, turning to her father, whilſt Henry [301] yet held her trembling hand, ſhe dropt on her knees at his feet, and jointly with her huſband, in the like reverential attitude, received his fatherly bleſſing, accompanied with tears of joyful ſenſibility and tender embraces: the ſame ſuit was preferred to the father of Henry, and the ſame affectionate return was made to it by that amiable perſon, in a ſtile peculiarly impreſſive and affecting. A few old and faith⯑ful domeſtics were admitted; and honeſt Za⯑chary Cawdle, by claim derived from long attachment, and ſervices as old in date as the firſt breath that Henry drew, was preſent on the occaſion; and now, in his ardent manner, joy boiling over at his eyes, pronounced them to be indiſputably the moſt lovely couple that ever plighted their faith to each other—‘"And, by the bleſſing of Heaven,"’ added he, ‘"upon their laudable endeavours, I predict they will give being to others as beautiful as them⯑ſelves."’

They now ſate down to a haſty breakfaſt, which being diſpatched, Sir Roger again em⯑braced his daughter, and then reſigning her hand to its happy poſſeſſor, attended them to the door, where their chaiſe with poſt-horſes was in waiting, which whirled them in their [302] rapid courſe to London; where they arrived, with happy omens, as the evening cloſed, and found all things ready for their reception.

The following day the worthy Baronet, punctual to his appointed hour, arrived with his friends, Mr. Delapoer and Dr. Sandford, the latter of whom took up his abode with a relation at the other end of the town. Sir Roger was well pleaſed with the airy ſituation of his houſe, and ſtill more delighted with the unremitted attention of his ſon and daugh⯑ter, who devoted to him and Delapoer all thoſe hours which ſome beſtow on frivolous amuſements, ſome on leſs innocent occupa⯑tions. In the courſe of their reſidence here every thing that the ſage proviſion of the law could do for them and their poſterity was completed; and, at Sir Roger's ſuit, our hero had a grant, by royal licence, to take the name and bear the arms of Manſtock, thus becoming the adopted repreſentative of that antient and opulent houſe.

When the ſeſſion was cloſed, and they re⯑turned to the family ſeat at Manſtock, the feſtivities they had fled from were celebrated with becoming ſplendor, and the hoſpitable doors were thrown open to their neighbours, [303] both rich and poor. Heaven bleſſed their days with proſperity, and crowned their wiſhes with a beauteous offspring. Faithful to Ezekiel's charge, Henry never forgot the leſſons of ad⯑verſity, nor thoſe faithful friends whom his adverſity had tried and approved.—To Za⯑chary, to the houſe of Williams, and to Eze⯑kiel, in his humble cottage, he was ever the ſame grateful, cordial and unaltered friend. The charge of young Blachford's affairs he devolved upon Ezekiel, with a proper allow⯑ance, but ſtill under his own ſuperintendance; Lord Crowbery alſo put the good apoſtle into certain offices of truſt, which brought him ſome profit, and, what was more grateful to his ſpirit, a ſituation of ſome reſpectability amongſt his neighbours. Williams throve in his profeſſion, and Suſan was not wanting to provide him with thoſe that ſerved to keep his houſe aſide and his induſtry alert.

Delapoer retired to his manſion near Hag⯑ley, where he had every year the pleaſure of embracing his children, when they viſited their maternal manſion and property in thoſe parts.

If perfect happineſs was ever dealt to mor⯑tals, it was ſurely the peculiar lot of Henry and Iſabella.—Domeſtic harmony that knew [304] no interruption, hearts fondly united, and tem⯑pers happily matched, the good-will of all who knew them, the abundant gifts of for⯑tune, and the grateful bleſſings of the poor, compounded their enjoyments. Meanwhile the beauteous form of Iſabella never yielded up one fleeting charm to the wide-waſting hand of Time, but Heaven reſtored the loſs by adding every hour freſh beauties to her mind.