CHAPTER I.

THE Ladies were ſoon at a fit diſtance for Sir Armine's purpoſe. He loitered behind, complained that the relics of the gout ſtill enfeebled him, "And, alas! my beloved, my favorite and moſt favored ſon," ſaid he, "I li⯑terally ſtand in need of a ſupport; a dear and tender child is the beſt crutch on which a parent can lean; it is one which Providence beſtowed in the days of his youth, to ſuſtain and to comfort his age."

Here Sir Armine took hold of Henry's arm.

They were both ſilent for ſome paces. "Whata reliance is this!" reſumed Sir Armine, leaning on Henry; "it is a pillar that ſuſtains the ſoul as well as the body! At this bleſt moment I feel myſelf as firmly protected as if the vigour of my own ſpring-time of life [2]were returned. The plant I reared repays my care. It is become the moſt goodly tree of my little garden."—He pauſed a moment to preſs on Henry's arm yet more forcibly. "And though," continued he, "I am now grown weaker than the ſhrub that the next rude blaſt may level with the duſt, this filial ſup⯑port ſhall prove a better dependance than the branches of the proudeſt oak! yea, were they formed into crutches lined with the down of the cygnet's boſom! nay, in the conflict of my laſt hour, which, you know, my Henry, cannot be remote, this prop"—lifting up his ſon's wreathed arm to his lips—"ſhall attemper the ſtorm of death, and give me, on the verge of the world, a foretaſte of what awaits an honoured Parent and an ex⯑piring Chriſtian in Heaven—a perfect reli⯑ance on the heavenly Father."

Henry's preſent emotions excited by this diſcourſe annihilated the paſt; and in remem⯑bering he was a ſon, he even forgot he was a lover. Returning his father's embraces with tearful rapture, he conjured him, in a voice that the union of love and duty only [3]can inſpire—he conjured him to lean the whole weight of that body and of that ſoul Sir Armine had mentioned entirely upon him.—"The ſtrength of my affection is equal to it all," ſaid he.

"I believe, hope, and feel it, Henry," re⯑turned Sir Armine, "and the trial that is pre⯑paring will but confirm the aſſertion.—He pauſed and wept.—The life or death of his father is in the hands of his ſon! Henry, you muſt prepare early to-morrow to begin a journey, in company with Mr. Clare, his daughter, and myſelf: a journey, my ſon, at the end of which, if youth, beauty, and inno⯑cence; if fame, fortune, and love unbounded; if that religion, of which I hope ſoon to ſee you—with all humility be it ſpoken—a wor⯑thy miniſter; if all theſe, in bleſſed union, can render a human being happy, you will be the happieſt of mankind."

Henry, upon whom was now forced a re⯑membrance of himſelf, was about to reply, when Sir Armine, ſeeing ſomething of reſiſt⯑ance and agitation in his air, preſſed more eagerly his hand, and ſaid—"Name not to me [4]your boſom prepoſſeſſions. Inaſmuch as you conquer them for the ſake of what you owe to duty and religion, that is, to me and to God, you will be meritorious. The matter lies in a narrow compaſs," continued Sir Ar⯑mine, raiſing his voice awfully, and dropping Henry's hand—"you ſelfiſhly unite yourſelf to the daughter of your father's enemy; ENEMY to his perſon, family, and faith, whatever gloſs he may, I fear for no virtuous reaſon, now put upon it, or to the daughter of your father's FRIEND, in all things that can give a title to that ſacred character: and in one word, inſtead of my dying thanks, my ex⯑piring reproaches will attend you as your de⯑termination proſpers or oppoſes this great ob⯑ject of my bane or bleſſing. It is ſuperfluous for me to ſay more; and I will expect your anſwer in your conduct, not your words. With me, when my opinion is formed, they are only waſte of time, you know."

Without waiting for reply of any kind, Sir Armine haſtened, unſupported, to the caſtle, dreading more the pain of a ſpeech that might thwart his favourite purpoſe, than the pangs [5]of his gout; or, perhaps, he loſt the ſenſe of the latter in the greater apprehenſion of the former.

They were indeed within a few paces of the caſtle, as Henry was aſcending, in diſordered ſilence, the ſteps at which Olivia and Lady Fitzorton preſented themſelves to view. The former had tript down the long flight of ſtairs to give her arm to Sir Armine; and as ſhe was conducting the old gentleman in this manner, Henry took notice of a circumſtance, which added, not a little, to his confuſion. He perceived that Olivia had quitted her mourn⯑ing, and was, for the firſt time ſince the death of a relation of the family, in colours. Lady Fitzorton perceiving he obſerved this, whiſ⯑pered to him to follow the example, ſince the white hours, ſaid ſhe, bleſſed be God! are at laſt returned. Well might he have replied in the language of Hamlet—

The embarraſſment, however, of any reply was taken off by the appearance of the good [6]old Mr. Clare, who coming up to Henry, with an air and aſpect of ineffable benignity, exclaimed, but it was plain to be ſeen he had been weeping, "At length, Henry, I am about to entruſt you with a treaſure, which, were I not aſſured you know how to prize even ac⯑cording to its value, I would not, for all the wealth of all the worlds that pay homage to their god below or above, put you in poſſeſ⯑ſion of! But, at preſent, I muſt borrow her a few minutes even from you, having occaſion for her ſervices."

Olivia and her father left the room. Hen⯑ry's heart ſeemed ready to burſt with variety of agonies ſuppreſſed, and uttering a terrify⯑ing groan, he flung himſelf firſt into a chair, and then at Sir Armine's feet, paſſionately embracing his knees with one hand, and Lady Fitzorton's arm with the other.

His parents raiſed him from his proſtrate poſture, and each taking hold of him—"Son," ſaid Sir Armine, "nothing truly great or noble was ever done without exertion. The ſub⯑lime duties demand, and deſerve it. You are truſted with all my motives. You are in the [7]confidence of my ſituation: a confidence de⯑nied to the reſt of my children—for I have neither told John nor James of my misfor⯑tune, nor of the generoſity that removed it. To you I would owe the re-eſtabliſhment of your family! After the appeals which have been made to your conſcience on the points of filial Duty and Religion, it were needleſs to add more reaſons for your ready obedi⯑ence; but I am this day permitted to inform you that Sir Rowland Firtzorton, allied equal⯑ly to our family and to that of the Clares, has left the Adſell eſtate, which yields ſeven thouſand pounds a year, to Olivia, on condi⯑tion only of her marrying one of our name and blood; and the fortune goes out of both families to public uſes, ſpecified in his whim⯑ſical will, in caſe ſhe fulfils not the obligation. By way of generous ſurpriſe to your heart, which ſhe has all along believed wanted no inducement in its love, it has been Olivia's prayer to her father, that this circumſtance ſhould be reſerved to the hour at which the day of marriage might be fixed; and though my friend and I have faithfully kept promiſe, [8]it has been with much difficulty ſhe has ad⯑hered to her own reſolves, on the idea of its being cruel to withhold from you any good."—"Generous even to cruelty!" ſighed Henry.

"Amongſt other ſingularities of the teſtator, he has ſtipulated," reſumed Sir Armine, "to have the marriage ceremony—for ſhame, my ſon, be more firm, at what do you tremble? to have, I ſay, the marriage ceremony per⯑formed at the altar of the chapel where he himſelf was united to his Lady, and that the wedding ſhould be kept holy in the room which was his own bridal apartment, giving, as a reaſon for this, a ſuperſtitious, but yet tender prophecy, that the young couple would be the happier from celebrating their nuptials in the place which confirmed his own felicity with the lovelieſt and beſt of women."

"Surely, my beloved child," ſaid Lady Fitz⯑orton, gently preſſing his hand to her boſom, "theſe accumulated motives might reconcile a heart like yours to forego a partiality, which, whatever may be the merit of the object, neither duty to your parents, your friends, nor yourſelf, permits you to cheriſh; I might [9]have added, duty to your God; for though you have of late neglected all offices, all ſtudies, you cannot but feel that a ſacred pro⯑feſſion ſhould again be cultivated."

Sir Armine perceiving Henry ſtill agitated, and divided what part to take, his embraces teſtifying the deſire he had to obey, and his tears manifeſting his paſſion for Caroline; "Henry," ſaid Sir Armine, "no good man can be miſerable with Olivia Clare! and no good man, under like circumſtances, could be happy with Caroline Stuart!"

Henry ſtill ſhuddered at the name, and he ſeemed to think, that if it was intended he ſhould profit by good counſel, this was not a time to couple Olivia with Caroline in any admonition.

Sir Armine pointed to Lady Fitzorton, and ſaid, "Behold an illuſtrious example for you to follow. This beloved woman was the object of my affectionate eſteem, not of my youthful enthuſiaſm. A great and commanding duty firſt united me; I did not romantically love, but I did mor. I revered, I honoured; on that honour, that reverence, I made her my [10]wife; ſince which, more than half a century has gone ſmiling by, and in all that time, ſhe has been as my own ſoul. Henry, prove yourſelf worthy of us. Make us proud—or, farther outſtripping us in the glorious career of filial piety—humble thy father and thy mother, which the Lord thy God has given thee."

He led Lady Fitzorton out of the apart⯑ment, ſaying to her—"Madam, the honour and happineſs of your family is ſafe. To-morrow will our filial preſerver prepare his hand and his heart."

"To-morrow, Sir! Good Heaven!" queſ⯑tioned and ejaculated Henry, and once more he fell at his father's feet; but Sir Armine, diſengaging from his embrace, hurried away, firmly ſaying to Lady Fitzorton—"There is but a moment on this ſide my deſtruction and your favourite ſon's diſgrace, Madam: if you would prevent both, aſſiſt me in making our eſcape." Then, turning to Henry, he ex⯑claimed—"To-morrow, at fix o'clock of the morning, I ſhall find my ſon prepared!"

CHAP. II.

SUCH was preciſely the ſituation of Henry. He ſat for ſome time motionleſs, then attempted to examine his condition. There is ſcarce an emotion of which the human heart is capable, but took its turn to tyrannize. At one time, his diſtempered ſancy painted the ruin, and even the poverty of his parents, brought about by the indul⯑gence of his fatal paſſion. He thought he ſaw them ſtretched on their dying beds, with their laſt breath accuſing him as the cauſe of their deſtruction. His filial heart ſhrunk as from the crime of parricide. He reſolved, in that afflicting moment, to ſacrifice his love to his duty; but in the next inſtant his imagination ſuggeſting his vows to Caroline, and the mi⯑ſeries he ſhould entail on himſelf, and perhaps on the innocent Olivia, made that offence more foul to his foul than the moſt deter⯑mined [12]diſobedience. "This," cried he, ſmiting his breaſt, "would be worſe than ſelf-murder—worſe than that impiety, againſt which the 'Omnipotent has ſet his ſeal.' Alas, Ca⯑roline! though Fortune were to remain my cruel perſecutor for years to come, ſhould not this hand be reſerved even to the end of life for thee; and were it never permitted to be united to thine, could my devoted heart, my violated conſcience, offer it to another without treaſon to honour, to tenderneſs, and to truth! And, leaſt of all, can I preſent it to thy brother's adored Olivia! Does filial duty require me to violate the ſacred laws of Love and Friendſhip? Shame on ſuch virtue! It is unnatural. I renounce it!"

In the midſt of theſe ſtruggles he retired to his chamber, whither he was accompanied by True George, who, ſeeing his maſter agi⯑tated, and thinking reſt would be the moſt likely means of reſtoring him, began, as uſual, to aſſiſt him. He intreated his Honour would pleaſe to go to bed; obſerving, that a little ſleep would do him good—"Sleep!" exclaimed Henry, throwing himſelf on the bed; "O that [13]it were my everlaſting one!"—The poorfellow ſhook at hearing this ejaculation, accompa⯑nied as it was with the moſt extravagant voice and geſture, as if his own laſt hour had been at hand.—"George," cried Henry, "thou art, thou haſt been proved faithful, and of that fidelity I muſt now make another trial." The countenance of the honeſt domeſtic bright⯑ened in an inſtant, and without loſing any time in profeſſions, or offers of ſervice, except by giving aſſent at almoſt every word his maſter uttered, he ſtood eagerly waiting for the word of command.—"My dear parents," con⯑tinued Henry, "are going to make me the moſt infamous and miſerable of human kind; my brothers, my whole family, and even the Clares, are in the plot againſt my peace. I have no dependance, no hope, but from thee!"—George's whole frame quivered with impati⯑ence.—"To-morrow I am, by their joint con⯑trivance, to be ruined; to-morrow they have determined I ſhall break my moſt ſacred pro⯑miſes, my moſt ſolemn oaths; to-morrow, therefore, my heart alſo will be broken, if I am not preſerved from the impending ſtroke [14]to-night!"—George traverſed the room at a ſtride, and ejaculated, "To-morrow, to-night! to-night, to-morrow!"—A caſe of piſtols hung over the chimney-piece in Henry's chamber; and George, as if by an involuntary impulſe, haſtily took them down, and held one in each trembling hand, intimating, though he ſpoke not a word, that he was now doubly armed, and only wanted the orders of his ſuperior to ſhoot any body and every body through the head, that ſhould ſtand in the way of effecting his maſter's eſcape from this terrifying cata⯑logue of ills.

"O Heavens!" cried Henry, at the unex⯑pected ſight of the piſtols. An often ſuggeſted and deſperate idea ſeemed to reſume its do⯑minion.—"Gracious Heaven! I thank thee, good fellow, for the hint."—"The hint, Sir?" queſtioned the trembling George—"what hint?" "Alas!" exclaimed Henry; "how many eaſy ways are there of eſcaping the tyranny of friends or foes! By the help of one of theſe friendly in⯑ſtruments," continued he, catching ſuddenly at one of the piſtols, "I might, in one moment, avoid, perhaps, a long life of miſery!"—"But [15]what will become of you after?" cried George. "And can this be a crime?" reſumed Henry. "A terrible one, your honour," interpoſed George; "the Lord gives, and the Lord only can take away."—"Or," continued Henry, not attending, "if a crime, can it be ſo atrocious, ſo immitigable, ſo beyond God's forgiveneſs or man's ſalvation, as that which proſtitutes for gold the ſanctity of the moſt ſolemn vows made in the preſence of that God, and falſify the moſt awful engagements? If both are evils, both iniquities; is not that the leaſt, which, to prevent the ruin of many, deſtroys but one?"

While Henry was entering into the latter part of this ſelf-debate, too often diſcuſſed in the ſame way, George, who ſtill trembled from head to foot, ſubſtituted action for words, by wrenching the piſtol from his hand, and diſ⯑appearing amidſt a profuſion of bows. Henry had ſcarce time to reflect on what had been done, before George came again bowing into the apartment, without any deadly weapon, and making a number of ſilent apologies for the liberty he had taken; at length, perceiv⯑ing [16]a frown gathering on his maſter's brow—"I hope your honour will not be offended at my obeying your honour's commands."—"Diſobeying them, you mean," anſwered Hen⯑ry.—"No," replied George, "you told me you ſhould be ruined to-morrow, if not preſerved to-night. Providence ſent me to your ho⯑nour's aſſiſtance; for I don't ſee how a man is to ruin himſelf, if another man takes out of his hand all ruinating weapons; at leaſt he muſt thereby get time to think better of it; ſo you may now go into a comfortable bed, and to-morrow may come as ſoon as God pleaſes to give it us. Bleſſed be the name of the Lord!"

The fervid devotion and humility with which George uttered this, bowing his head and folding his hands each time he ſpoke that name, which claims the reverence of all creation, diſarmed the riſing reſentment of Henry, who extended his hand in teſtimony of forgiveneſs, and ſeeming to acquieſce in what had been ſaid, went to his chamber, and deſired to be left to his repoſe. George, who was now eaſed of his terrible apprehenſions, [17]departed; but the poor fellow returning on tiptoe, and gently opening the door, about an hour after, to ſee that all was well, having perhaps ſtill ſome fears, found Henry had riſen from his bed, and by the glimmering light of the lamp had been writing a letter. He was fold⯑ing it up as George came in. "This is the trial I ſpoke of, George," ſaid Henry, as he wafered the letter. "It is to Lieutenant Stuart, and re⯑quires an immediate reply. He is at the ab⯑bey. Denniſon will take it to his apartment; and as the old man, you know, ſleeps apart from the family, it may be managed without alarm."

The latter part of theſe directions were loſt in air; for George was at the bottom of the ſtairs, and making his rapid way, but with in⯑audible ſteps, to the ſtreet-door, before they were uttered, ſetting off at full ſpeed with the words—immediate reply.

Henry now betook himſelf again to his bed; but it might be truly ſaid, Caroline had "murdered ſleep;" or rather, ſhe, in com⯑bination with many more, conſpired to baniſh that lenient power from ſhedding balms on [18]his pillow. The morrow began to dawn, and he anticipated all the horrors of a marriage, into which even tender parents plunged him; and while they knew his heart to be utterly averſe, and on which, therefore, a train of miſchieſs threatened to attend their beloved, their favourite ſon, and his poſterity, "even to the laſt ſyllable of recorded time." The motives of the parents were undoubtedly ma⯑nifold and mighty; but the ſingle objection of the child, declared, and unſhaken by all thoſe motives, each of which he felt and acknow⯑ledged, ſhould, at leaſt, have reſerved to him the right of withholding his hand from an object of his indifference, if it could not be given to that of his choice. Yet how many, in all otherreſpects excellent parents, are there, who refuſe the darlings of their hearts this comparatively happy alternative! Should any of this deſcription peruſe theſe annals, let the natural conſequences of ſimilar error prevent them from carrying their deſigns into effect.

CHAP. III.

WHILE the intended victim of the Fitz⯑ortons was anticipating the ſacrifice of all his happineſs, how differently paſſed away the hours in the apartments of Olivia!—Virtuous love, in like circumſtances, has ten thouſand times been felt by virtuous women, but has never, perhaps, been deſcribed even by themſelves without an injury to that feeling. And, in⯑deed, the combined ſenſations of love, firmly believed to be fondly reciprocated, of inno⯑cent paſſion, and of virgin modeſty, ſeem too bold for the contracted powers of language;—the language of love itſelf. The truly ami⯑able young creature, whom the Reader, long ere this, we truſt, both loves and pities by turns, experienced the ſweet reverſe of all thoſe bitter emotions which were afflicting the mind of her beloved Henry.

As the clock ſtruck five, ſhe roſe. It was in verity an April morn, both of life and na⯑ture. Olivia ſmiled and wept; and the ele⯑ment ſhowered and ſhone at the ſame mo⯑ment. [20]the ſummons of preparation was con⯑ſigned to Jenny Atwood, whom gratitude and her own diſappointed, but alas! not har⯑dened heart, kept wakeful. On entering the apartment, ſhe found Olivia almoſt dreſſed. They greeted each other kindly, but on Olivia's face had ſettled one of the tears, and another, in its "cryſtal ſource," ſtood ready; yet her cheeks glowed, and her eye looked the more bright from the luſtre of that pre⯑cious drop, but it trembled like early dew upon the roſe-bud gliſtening in a ſun-beam.

Meantime, the unfortunate Henry was ſtill toſſing on the bed, ſometimes traverſing the room, and ſometimes in a profound reverie, debating, but unable to determine, what courſe he ſhould take. At one time he reſolved to yield himſelf up the victim of filial piety, and prepare for the ceremony; at another, he re⯑jected this idea with diſdain, and reſolved to abſcond, attended only by True George. He even formed the outline of a plan to carry off Caroline by force, and gain over Charles to the conſpiracy, that Olivia might make her eſcape at the ſame time; by which ſtratagem, [21]his diſordered fancy repreſented the happineſs of both himſelf and friend, each poſſeſſing the object of his affection. But this thought was preſently abandoned, as the height of imprac⯑ticability and of madneſs. In the midſt of theſe conflicts, he heard, with horror, the ſtriking of that very clock whoſe ſound vibrated the tendereſt joys to the boſom of Olivia. It an⯑nounced the ſixth hour. Terrible was it to his ear, as if it had been the knell of a friend's death! To Olivia, it was the muſic of the ſphere. Reſolving and re-reſolving, but ſtill unreſolved, he roſe abruptly, packed and un⯑packed, filled and emptied a trunk ſeveral times, and after having, at length, determined to hazard temporal and eternal miſery, rather than proſtitute his heart by yielding a reluct⯑ant, alienated, betrothed hand, be the conſe⯑quence what it might—here he preſſed Caro⯑line's miniature, with almoſt a convulſed emo⯑tion, to his boſom—he ſat down with the com⯑poſure which a man always feels, when, after deep agitation, his fluctuating opinions be⯑come fixed. But this calm laſted only while [22]his imagination again took wing, which was in the ſucceeding moment.

At this criſis the faithful George returned from the abbey almoſt breathleſs with haſte; and informed Henry, that the Lieutenant had left the abbey within an hour after his ho⯑nour; that he ſet off without any ſervant, and left word for his ſiſter, that he ſhould not re⯑turn till late in the next day.—"Left the ab⯑bey," exclaimed Henry, "ſo ſudden! Did you ſee Denniſon?" "O yes, your honour, and I know not what is the matter; but I— I fear from the young 'Squire's ſetting off in the night-time, all alone, ſome harſh words have paſſed between the old gentleman and his honour; for Sir Guiſe is gone too." Before Henry could reply to this extraordi⯑nary intelligence, a meſſenger, on horſeback, deſired to ſpeak to True George, who ſetting off at full ſpeed, preſently returned at full ſpeed alſo, and delivered a packet to his maſ⯑ter, ſaying—"I underſtand it is from the Lieu⯑tenant, Sir: the horſe that brought it is all in a foam."

[23]To Henry Fitzorton, Eſq.

"Seeing, O my beloved friend! we are both hovering on the extremeſt verge of de⯑ſtruction, I have been ſome hours on my horſe, to prevent a marriage which, if not prevented, will be the precipice that muſt whelm us both into inſtant ruin. Henry, beware! Let no⯑thing urge you to an action which will heap havoc and horror on both, and on all that belong to us. The ſecret of your love of my ſiſter muſt one day or another reach the ear and pierce the heart of Olivia. I have re⯑flected, and find it is neither duty, honour, love, friendſhip, nor religion, to make your friend, yourſelf, the woman you love, and even the woman you wed, irreparably mi⯑ſerable. It is the falſe doctrine of your father's prejudice, not of his good mind and fine un⯑derſtanding—not even of his nature or his faith; and it will be virtue in you to ſave both him and yourſelf. You have no alter⯑native but flight—inſtant flight! Something may happen in your abſence favourable to all our loves; at any rate, the prevention of your marriage with Olivia will be an al⯑mighty [24]bleſſing, ſince it muſt avert an om⯑nipotent curſe—the curſe of loathing her you muſt ſwear to love. I have, by the aſſiſtance of a friend, deviſed a way to make your flight look like a matter of neceſſity. But the de⯑tail would take up the precious moments. Thinking me, therefore, as your guardian friend, attend to my inſtructions. Proceed in your preparations—be ready at your father's call—ſeem to enter into the ſpirit of his views—begin the dreadful deſtined journey with alacrity, and at the edge of Adſell Foreſt, which you muſt neceſſarily paſs in your way to the hall, expect to meet a DELIVERER!"

So great was Henry's perturbation on read⯑ing this, that though he ordered True George to prepare every thing, without knowing he ſpoke, and dreſſed with all poſſible diſpatch; and though he determined to follow his friend's advice, he was by no means in a ſtate of mind to conjecture, or indeed to connect thought on what could be intended by the promiſe of deliverance. The very idea, however, of eſcaping a marriage with Olivia, and of the bare poſſibility of reſerving [25]his hand for Caroline, gave him ſuch alacrity in preparation, that he was the firſt of the groupe to ſalute the intended bride, whom he met, arrayed in thoſe bridal veſtments which Lady Fitzorton's aſſiduity and taſte had pre⯑pared. At the ſight of her now almoſt huſ⯑band, ſhe was covered from her forehead to her boſom with the true "roſy red" of na⯑tive modeſty, and might literally be ſaid to bluſh and breathe ten thouſand graces. Lady Fitzorton, and both the fathers, had beſtirred themſelves, and were buſtling to get the car⯑riages to the door. Henry, animated by the hope which his friend Charles had inſpired, had aſſumed, all at once, ſo vivid an appear⯑ance, not only from that hope, but from the fluſh of hurrying employments and emotions, that Sir Armine thought his parting words had taken effect. Lady Fitzorton wept, and Mr. Clare forgot his age, and danced for joy. For Olivia's felicity there are no words; and if it was ſtill dreſſed "like April's ſuns in ſhowers," it was thence only the more bright and delicious.

CHAP. VIII.

As the carriages were driving up, Mr. Partington, to the ſurpriſe of the whole party, rode up on the full gallop. "Why, heydey! you abominable good-for-nothing raſcals!" ſaid he, addreſſing them all; "and ſo you thought to have ſtolen not only a march but a match upon me, without knowing whether I forbid the banns, or give conſent, did you? But I was not," added he, in the ſame pleaſant vein, "to be outgeneralled by a parcel of ſhallow vagabonds like you. My truſty ſcouts appriſed me of your operations, and brought me a full account of the enemy's motions long before the official letters of Father Fitzorton arrived at head-quarters. But, to ſhew that I do not mean to puniſh you for diſobeying orders, I will be ſo far from intercepting you in your expedition, that I propoſe to be your leader, and now give you the word of command to proceed on your march like a pack of ſad poltroons, as you are. To the right about! Make ready! March! Fire away!—at full trot—you ſorry, fore-footed caitiffs!" rejoined [27]he, turning round the horſes' heads with one hand, and performing part of the military ex⯑erciſe with the other—the huge crabſtick with which he always rode or walked ſerving him for a muſket.

The company, accuſtomed to his mode of addreſs, took all in good part, and were made happy at the unexpected rencontre. Henry performed the honour of aſſiſting the ladies to their carriages, with an agility which was ſtill miſtaken by ſome preſent for the impatience of a lover's tenderneſs; and having made his bow to Lady Fitzorton and Olivia, he ordered the poſtillion to drive on, obſerving, that he and Mr. Partington would lead the way.

"Now, that is as it ſhould be; ſo off we go, infantry and cavalry, to beſiege your grand⯑father's, old Sir Rowland's, caſtle—hey, my boy!" exclaimed the buſtling Partington, who appeared to be as well inſtructed, and as much intereſted in the conduct, motives, and diſ⯑patch of the journey, as if he only had the ordering of the arrangements, had fixed the day, and was going himſelf to be married to Olivia,

[28]The party in motion conſiſted of Sir Ar⯑mine and his Lady, Olivia and Mr. Clare in the family coach, followed by Jenny Atwood and True George, in the poſt chariot, at Oli⯑via's particular requeſt; Partington and Henry on horſeback; a ſuit of domeſtics following. In this order they ſet forward, on one of the lovelieſt mornings of the lovelieſt part of the year, and all appeared in ſpirits ſuitable to the occaſion.

They purpoſed dividing the journey into two equal parts; ſtopping to reſt, the firſt night, at Adſell, where they had previouſly beſpoke accommodations at an excellent inn on the weſtern road; and to reach the pri⯑ory early enough on the ſecond day to finiſh the great object of their tour.

Nothing worthy to be recorded in this hiſ⯑tory took place till, almoſt after the whole of the firſt day's travel, they arrived at the ſkirts of the foreſt bordering on the village of Ad⯑ſell, when, juſt as they were deſcending a deep valley, enriched by a ſtream that took its way through the woods, Partington ex⯑claimed, jocoſely—"Now, if we have any of [29]us our deſerts, we ſhall be plundered by ſome of the robbers that infeſt this part of the fo⯑reſt! to prevent which," added he, "as the night draws on, and that pale-faced huſſy, the moon, holds a dark lanthorn to the ho⯑neſt gentlemen of the bullet, aiding and abet⯑ting, rather than diſcovering them, let us puſh on till we get clear of this plaguy wilderneſs, which is abſolutely an encouragement to the amiable aſſociates of the halter." Rather in ſport than in apprehenſion, Henry humoured his whimſical fellow-traveller; and they had not proceeded above a couple of hundred paces farther, ere Partington, checking his own horſe, and pulling the rein of Henry's, cried out, "Wo-ho—ſtop, you abominable good-for-nothing vagabond, we are juſt at the ſpot where you are to be robbed, ſtrip⯑ped, murdered, and raviſhed!—Let me ſee;—Aye! this is the very place. Prepare your⯑ſelf; your time is come."—He had ſcarce ut⯑tered this, when four ſtout men on foot, pre⯑ceded by one on horſeback, with vizors on their faces, ruſhed from behind a cluſter of thick elms that, forming an angle, came juſ⯑ting [30]into the road. They ſurrounded Henry, crying out—"Yield, you are amongſt friends!"—The horſeman now came up to Henry, and taking off his vizor, exclaimed, "Behold one of your DELIVERERS!"—"Charles Stuart!" exclaimed Henry.—"Yes," ſaid Partington, "my plot is now mature; you are to be delivered—delivered, I find, from a forced marriage!—I will allow no ſcoundrel to force another. But we muſt wait the arrival of the coach, becauſe it is neceſſary the old gentleman ſhould ſee you carried off. You may as well ſeem to reſiſt a little though, and I will appear to help you—but we muſt both cleverly ſuffer our⯑ſelves to be overcome—and while I am mak⯑ing my eſcape, with proper difficulty, you ſhall be carried to a place of ſafety—namely, to my own houſe, where I deſire you will re⯑main a cloſe priſoner." partington conducted the whole of this attack with too much rapi⯑dity to admit of more than ſilent ſurpriſe—but at this moment a violent ſhriek arreſted the general attention. "Hey-dey!" cried Par⯑tington, ſeeing the coach ſurrounded by armed men, and even ſome of the company dragged [31]out, "here are more rogues than we bargained for, Stuart." Hereupon, ſetting ſpurs to his horſe, and ordering the men to follow, blud⯑geons in hand, Henry, and the firſt body of aſſailants, with Charles at their head, were haſtening to inquire into the deſigns of the ſecond, which were ſoon diſcovered to be of a far more hoſtile nature. For, notwithſtand⯑ing the diſpatch of Partington, and his cohort, the villains had burſt open the door of the carriage, and while the women were trembling and beſeeching mercy, two of the banditti were belabouring Sir Armine and Mr. Clare with bludgeons, which would ſoon have put an end to their exiſtence, had not Partington, Henry, and the maſked men, one with the fury of an old, and the reſt of two young lions, aſſiſted in their reſcue. But this was not ef⯑fected before Sir Armine, who received a blow in his temple after he was otherwiſe much hurt, had fallen on the ground. While Henry and Partington were endeavouring to raiſe him up, the reſt were employed in pur⯑ſuing and ſecuring the ruffians. True George had faſtened upon the collar of one, and the [32]neck of another was nailed to the earth by his feet. The villain that was obſerved to ſtrike Sir Armine after he was on the ground, was the prize of the victorious Charles, who, conſidering him as devoid even of the com⯑mon compaſſion of an highwayman, in treat⯑ing a venerable and helpleſs man with ſo much barbarity, returned every blow he had inflicted on Sir Armine with tenfold intereſt. Nor were Partington and True George's myr⯑midons leſs liberal in their rewards of the reſt of the banditti, which conſiſted of two per⯑ſons beſides thoſe in George's cuſtody.

By this time the tender and aſſiduous Henry, who totally forgot all idea of his own eſ⯑cape in the apprehenſion and terror he felt for others, had ſo far compoſed the ladies, that he was at liberty to aſſiſt in lifting Mr. Clare and Sir Armine, who were both wound⯑ed, into the carriage. Meantime, the victors purſued their triumphant blows over the van⯑quiſhed: but villainy, though done "i'th' centre," will ſpeak, and great diſcoveries are brought about by ſlender means. Little Fitz, who, in the general ranſack of the com⯑pany, [33]had left the coach, and was too active a ſpectator to remount, ran to the perſon whom Jonathan Armſtrong was putting an end to, and expreſſed more ſigns of ſympathy than a ſtranger and a ruffian had a right to claim.—Fitz, however, either from indigna⯑tion or ſome other motive, leaped on the per⯑ſonage above deſcribed; and the moon coming from under her cloud, what could equal the ſurpriſe and conſternation of the whole com⯑pany, when, in proſecuting their chaſtiſement, one of George's captives turned out to be the infamous David Otley, Sir Armine's favou⯑rite ſervant, who had been truſted with or⯑dering the accommodations at Adſell, and who was ſuppoſed to be ſtill in waiting there to receive the family; the other, Mr. Va⯑lentine Miles! and, to complete the climax of aſtoniſhment, the perſonage under the ſe⯑vere diſcipline of Jonathan, about whoſe ſate or deſtruction little Fitz appeared to be ſo intereſted, proved to be Sir Guiſe Stuart!—while Valentine Miles had been the victim of Henry and Charles alternately! Theſe ex⯑traordinary diſcoveries were made ſo near to [34]the coach, that every body within, capable of ſight or ſpeech, exclaimed, "How! Sir Guiſe Stuart! David Otley! Valentine Miles!"—Sir Armine alone wanted power to know the prime offender, being utterly ſtunned by the back-handed ſtroke he received from that implacable wretch.

CHAP. IX.

THE rage, grief, and ſhame of the in⯑genuous Charles at this detection is not to be deſcribed: it was inſupportable to him—and giving way to a reſentment which ſhook his frame almoſt to diſſolution, and annihilated all ſenſe of affinity, he addreſſed the trem⯑bling Sir Guiſe with an oath, by which he ſwore, that he would ſee juſtice executed upon him, and be himſelf his principal evidence, even though the public diſgrace of an igno⯑minious death ſhould be the conſequence. "O thou — polluter of a family which never knew a ſtain, till in an evil hour its honour was committed to thy charge, for what ſin, committed or yet to be perpetrated, am I condemned to think the life which thou [35]haſt diſhonoured was beſtowed by thee?—As for you, wretch!" ſaid he, turning to Miles, "and thou, his meaneſt inſtrument, if my cor⯑rection towards thee knows any bounds, it is only in the hope that the reſidue of your puniſhment will be more ſure and exemplary in the hands of my country, than in thoſe of an individual. I require, Mr. Partington, that you and your friends aſſiſt in conducting theſe offenders to the next town, where they ſhall remain cloſe priſoners till I can properly diſ⯑poſe them; and do not think, abandoned aſſaſſins, the names of ſon or father, from which my ſoul alive, as it would be to every deſerving tie, turns with horror, ſhall ſcreen ye from the inſulted laws of your country or your God!" Partington, who deemed this no time for diſcourſe, proceeded to immediate action: he therefore arranged his men, and placed his priſoners in the midſt of them, in the manner of deſerters, taken up and moving to a court-martial. He then took the lead, and deſired Charles to guard and bring up the rear.

[36]In this manner was the long-foſtered re⯑venge of Sir Guiſe and his mercenaries de⯑feated by the very perſons whom his amiable but unhappy ſon had convened to reſcue his friend from a forced marriage.

The eſcort of priſoners arrived at Adſell, which was about two miles from the place of attack, ſooner than the coach; but the inde⯑fatigable George and his colleagues, which were no other than Jerom and his couſin Jo⯑nathan, for Henry had never left the ſide of the coach, had rode at full ſpeed, and had brought a rural ſurgeon to the inn-gate, where he waited the coming of the carriage. The inn-yard, and ſtreet adjoining, were ſoon crowded with ſpectators; for, beſides that, George had given the alarm, village curi⯑oſity, who had the eyes of Argus, opened all her viſual powers to ſee the wonderful phaenomena of a gang of ruffians, who always afford an holiday to the vulgar, as well when they are taken to priſon, as when they are ſent out of the world.

More than an hour elapſed in arranging the two different parties, in ſeparate apart⯑ments, [37]which were with difficulty procured; for David Otley had attended only to the accommodations at the foreſt, and neglected thoſe he was to have prepared at the inn, which having much company, who purpoſed ſtaying all night, the hoſteſs was driven to her beſt management to provide beds, even for Mr. Clare, her landlord, and his friends. As to Sir Guiſe Stuart, and his fellow aſ⯑ſaſſins, Mr. Partington and Charles diſpoſed of them with very little apparatus, in conve⯑nient out-houſes adjoining, where they were put without ceremony, under lock and key, and the truſty George ſet over as guard, relieved occaſionally by Jonathan or Jerom.

With equal politeneſs and humanity, how⯑ever, the party that occupied the beſt apart⯑ments hearing that a gentleman and his family were brought in wounded by aſſaſſins, whom they had taken, offered to reſign their claims as firſt-comers, and to mount or deſcend into whatever ſleeping-rooms the landlady could provide for them. By this civility Sir Armine was accommodated with a comfortable ſuite [38]of rooms, where he might be ſurrounded by Olivia, Lady Fitzorton, Henry, Jenny At⯑wood, and his attendants.

He was no ſooner put into a warm bed, than the ſurgeon, who, contrary to what books uſually repreſent gentlemen of the faculty re⯑ſident in the country to be, was a ſkilful and ſenſible man, deſired to be left alone with the patient, whom he immediately blooded; and, finding the bruiſes leſs violent than he at firſt ſuſpected, gently fomented the parts affected with a ſuitable embrocation; then, adminiſter⯑ing an anodyne, aſſured the company they would ſhew their affection in the moſt eſſential manner by leaving the patient to repoſe; "after which," ſaid the ſurgeon, "I do not doubt but we ſhall find him materially re⯑freſhed:"—And promiſing to call again be⯑fore bedtime, and to attend early in the morn⯑ing, he bowed and took his leave.

Somewhat comforted by this favourable report, the ſhattered party had leiſure and ſpirits to inquire about each other. Mr. Clare felt himſelf much recovered, having eſcaped with only two or three blows, and [39]thoſe on no vital part. Olivia and Lady Fitzorton, who had ſuffered only in ſympathy for the ſufferings of others, and from the na⯑tural terrors of ſo ſudden an attack, ſeemed to revive in proportion as Mr. Clare and Sir Armine were pronounced to be out of dan⯑ger. Henry could not be prevailed on to quit Sir Armine's bedſide, at which, begging his mother to ſleep in another apartment with Olivia, he kept watch the whole night. On the return of the good ſurgeon, finding the favourable ſymptoms continue, the reſt of the party felt themſelves ſufficiently at their eaſe to take ſome ſlight refreſhment; and after each had paid a tiptoed viſit to the chamber of Sir Armine, whom the vigilant Henry ſig⯑nified, rather by geſtures than by ſpeech, to be in a doſe, they withdrew to their apartments in order to follow ſo good an example.

It ſhould not be omitted, to the honour of his race, that little Fitz, whoſe various good actions entitle him to be now conſidered as a perſonage of ſome conſequence in this hiſtory, kept watch over Sir Armine at the feet of Henry; and, except that on the en⯑trance [40]of Olivia, whoſe paſſing careſſes he acknowledged, he remained there till the morning.

CHAP. X.

HAVING thus diſpoſed of the ſeveral characters at the inn in the beſt manner that the circumſtances admitted, it ſeems a fit opportunity to ſettle a running account, not only with hiſtoric conſiſtency, in regard to the cauſes which gave riſe to all this miſchief, but to acquit ourſelves of the claim which is ſo infinitely due to John Fitzorton. We left that ſingular young man ſitting down to the pleaſing and painful taſk of finiſhing his draw⯑ing of Olivia Clare. He had juſt taken his pencil from retouching the well-imitated fea⯑tures, over which he heaved many a ſigh, when Lieutenant Stuart was announced. John roſe and ran to the door with expanded arms to receive him; but willing to paſs over the ſubject of his promotion, which he knew might lead to what would diſconcert the ami⯑cable convention ſettled betwixt him and Henry on that matter, he exclaimed, "I am [41]appriſed, my good Charles, of all that gives me the ſincere ſatisfaction of ſeeing you, and having you amongſt us; but, as I ſee a great deal of your enthuſiaſtic friend Henry is mounting into your face, I muſt cut ſhort all unneceſſary effuſions. At a word, I think you do honour to any man's election, and I wiſh you the farther promotion you merit with all my heart. Are you come to remain with us now altogether?"—"No," replied Charles, "I have ſome affairs to adjuſt at home before I can have the honour of aſſociating, but thought it a firſt duty to make my bow to my new Captain and Colonel, en paſſant." "Then you are juſt in time to take letters for me to the caſtle; and may I trouble you to convey a ſmall parcel to our Olivia."—"Our Olivia!" cried Charles, reddening; "Ah! Captain Fitzorton, you know not how far nor through what perils I would go, had I a thouſand lives at ſtake, to render the moſt trifling ſervice to that dear angelic girl!" "Indeed!" ſaid John, employing all the powers of his ſcrutinizing eyes upon Charles's face, as if at the firſt idea of a new diſcovery—"Indeed!"

[42]There are moments, it is well known, which defeat the circumſpection of years. This was one of them. At the time, Charles intended nothing leſs than the unfolding of his heart to John; neither was there any thing in the occaſion itſelf that ſhould draw forth his confeſſion; ſo we can only ſuppoſe this was to be the period, according to the pre⯑deſtinarians in love, ordained by the god of that paſſion or the goddeſs of Fortune, for John Fitzorton to become acquainted with another of Olivia's military admirers. The ſteady gaze with which John purſued his ob⯑ject, deepened the tacit declaration in the cheek of Charles, and either by reflection, or by ſome other courſe, John felt an uncom⯑mon glow in his own countenance. On the repetition of the ejaculatory word, indeed! Charles found out that he had betrayed him⯑ſelf, and became yet more embarraſſed: John was diſcompoſed, and each continued to confuſe the other; till both ſought relief by turning their eyes another way. John, who of all men was the moſt ſenſible of ſhame, and who the moſt laboured with ſelf-reproach, [43]ſoon left the room, and gave Charles oppor⯑tunity for one of thoſe painful ſoliloquies which uſually burſt from a man after he has diſcovered the ſecret he would conceal.

"And have I," ſaid he, "after cautiouſly guarding the cruel ſecret in my own tormented breaſt, and after we had agreed ſo to ſhut up the fatal ſecret till happier times—perhaps for ever—have I divulged it to the man who, of all the Fitzorton family, would be the leaſt likely to forgive my paſſion? even to John? who, noble-natured as he is, will conſider my unfortunate attachment to Olivia—for, am I not a ſon of the offending Sir Guiſe?—as the height of madneſs and preſumption—nay more, I muſt appear to him as the rival of his brother, my deareſt friend—nor can I clear myſelf from this idea by explaining the ſituation of Henry, not knowing how far affairs at the caſtle may, at the preſent mo⯑ment, make this eligible. Doubtleſs, John is gone away diſpleaſed, or poſſibly my fears may interpret falſely—he may have been ſtartled at the warmth of the expreſſion—and yet perhaps—perhaps no preciſe diſcovery [44]has been made." In the midſt of theſe rumi⯑nations John re-entered, and cordially taking Charles by the hand, inquired when he would wiſh to ſet out for the abbey. "As ſoon," ſaid Charles, "as I have paid my reſpects to my new Colonel, and obtained his permiſſion of abſence, which, I muſt confeſs, is a little un⯑reaſonable to begin with." "By no means," ſaid John, generouſly, "I engage to procure you both immediately. Come, my friend, diſ⯑patch, you know, is the ſoul of buſineſs."

John took hold of Charles's arm, and walked away with him ſo readily, that the latter really believed his laſt reflection went to the truth; namely, that his expreſſion had not extended to the diſcovery of his affection for Olivia. The Colonel being found at head-quarters, John Fitzorton preſented Charles Stuart in the following manner:—"This, Sir, is the youth for whom Colonel Forbes has a friendſhip, of which the baſis is not favour, but merit. I need not ſay more in his behalf to make Colonel Warren con⯑ſider him as an acquiſition to the regiment; but I muſt add, from my own knowledge of [45]his virtues, and perſonal bravery, that if I ſhould be found as worthy to occupy the poſt of the lamented Laſcelles, as I will pledge myſelf this young man will approve himſelf of the ſtation my promotion leaves open, and which one of my family has preſented to him, under your auſpices, Sir, you will have reaſon to be doubly ſatisfied; and, what has rarely happened to me in any occurrence of life, I ſhall be ſatisfied with myſelf."

Colonel Warren received his new Lieu⯑tenant as ſuch an introduction gave claim to. "But," continued John, "the youth is deſirous to owe to his new Colonel an indulgence on advance, even before he has done any duty. He has a lovely ſiſter, whoſe ſituation re⯑quires a brother's immediate councils and con⯑ſolation; other family affairs likewiſe ſum⯑mon his attention; and though the diffidence which connects with high and genuine pre⯑tenſions induces him to ſhrink from the ſoli⯑citation, I have taken upon me, on the ſurety of your character, Sir, to come forward on the occaſion."—"Young gentleman," ſaid the Colonel, turning to Charles, "the ſooner [46]neceſſary buſineſs is done the better; we expect ſtirring work in the military line in another month or two—my advices of the day are pretty ſtrong—this then is the time you can beſt be ſpared from the ſervices my regiment may expect from a man who comes into it thus doubly armed, with the recom⯑mendation of Captain Fitzorton and Colonel Forbes. Adieu! therefore—you will return as ſpeedily as circumſtances admit."

Proper acknowledgments being given and received, John conducted the Lieutenant to the different officers of the regiment; and after dining at the meſs, by way of giving to the initiatory viſit all its advantages in favour of the Lieutenant, he left to the choice of that gentleman either to defer his intended jour⯑ney to the morning, or to ſet out immediately. "I rather think, my dear Sir," ſaid Charles, "that—that—that it will be expected I am now on the road;—and as—as—as you know the Colonel intimated I might be wanted in my place in a ſhort time, it will, perhaps, be better to—to—to—pray, what do you think yourſelf?" John, perceiving the Lieutenant [47]was getting into a freſh dilemma, rang the bell before the heſitation in the Lieutenant's ſpeech grew worſe, and on the ſervant's ap⯑pearing, ſaid, "You will make ready, and bring round to the door, this gentleman's horſe:" then, turning to Charles, he added, ſmiling, "Let me be your commanding officer at preſent, in giving marching or⯑ders." Immediately after which he ad⯑verted to more general ſubjects, in order to take off the too keen ſenſe of that particu⯑lar one on which he ſaw Charles was irritable. A ſoldier of the regiment, who attended John, ſoon came to ſay, "The gentleman's horſe was at the door." On which Charles, after more impediments than the ſimple queſ⯑tion ſeemed to demand, had it not been preceded by a ſucceſſion of little ſtumbling blocks, ventured to aſk, "If the letters for Fitzorton Caſtle, and the parcel for—for—for Olivia Clare, were ready?"—No," obſerved John, "I find, on reflection, I muſt have a little more time to make them up, and a few days more or leſs can make no material dif⯑ference."—Charles roſe to take his leave. [48]John advanced towards him, and opened the door with one hand, while he cordially offered the other to Charles. "Lieutenant," ſaid he, "you deſerve honour for your own good qualities, and generous compaſſion for the bad ones; but I will not wound you—you are, moreover, the choſen friend of our Henry Fitzorton:—for all theſe reaſons, and for numberleſs others, I ſincerely wiſh your hap⯑pineſs. I ſuſpect, alſo, you are ſomewhat too ſenſible of the charming powers of our Oli⯑via. Alas! do not ſhrink from the obſerva⯑tion; if it is unfounded, happier is it for your⯑ſelf; if it goes to the fact, ah! my friend, it is no way unnatural that you ſhould love what is moſt lovely: I, you, or any other man might have been carried beyond our powers—but have a care—you have not a heart to endure the thought of breaking in upon the plan of two of the moſt venerable men that ever gave luſtre to the character of parent; nor could you bear to enchain an ali⯑enated woman, even if ſhe ſhould be brought to ſacrifice herſelf to your arms. Alas! it is with reaſon we make a petition againſt being [49]led into temptation, a part of our daily prayer. That changeful cheek and averted eye ſeem to ſay you are going into the midſt of it. My dear brother-officer, the ſtrongeſt of the ſons of men can often be ſaved only by determined retreat. Oh, beware! You had better be the moſt miſerable of the wretched, alone and unobſerved, than call in another who cannot love you, to ſhare your fate. Haſten then your journey; but ſhould you, at the end of it, find your ſorrow greater than your joy, return to your appointment here, and aſſuring yourſelf that the only remedy for the diſap⯑pointments of life is employment, let even your calamity have the liberal effect of occupying you in ſome active virtue: ſo ſhall you, in a manner, remember others till you forget your⯑ſelf.—Give my love to the family, and fare⯑well."

It was not unlucky for Charles that John precluded reply by leading him to his horſe, which, having mounted, he rode away, at⯑tempting many ſilent acknowledgments, and looking as many promiſes—all of which, he remembered, with a predetermination to [50]fulfil them till he ſaw Olivia Clare; or rather, till he ſaw her likeneſs in that very picture which John was finiſhing on his arrival, and of which it was firſt intended to make him the bearer; but, after the ſuſpicious effuſions which eſcaped the Lieutenant, John thought this would be making himſelf acceſſary in the temptation he would wiſh him to avoid; and though John was too generous to throw any impediments, that might ſavour of the jealous lover, in this young man's way, he would not do any thing that might promote his unfor⯑tunate paſſion. When Charles had departed, John Fitzorton ſat, as was uſual with him in any new difficulty, in ſilent thought, his hands folded over his face.—"Ill-fated Charles!" ſaid he, when he could articulate; "it is hard upon us both. We have been attracted by uncommon beauty and uncommon virtue; yet there is no quarrelling with the Creator for having made ſuch a creature, nor with our beloved Henry for being poſſeſſed of happier powers to make her his own. I am very wretched, but methinks I love him the more, at leaſt I think the more exaltedly of his vir⯑tues, [51]for the very charm that has wrought my deſpair; for I am convinced that Olivia is not a woman to prefer one man to another on caprice, or the eye's abſurd vanity of call⯑ing a handſome man her own. No, Charles, our Henry, depend on it, has endowments of mind as well as perſon, which we do not poſ⯑ſeſs, that have given him this diſtinction over us both."

John turned the point many ways without coming to any thing ſatisfactory; and at the end of his ſoliloquies he took the miniature from his pocket, where he had placed it on the entrance of Charles, and after gazing on it with more true admiration than Pigmalion beſtowed on the adored maſterpiece of his art, he confeſſed he was yielding to great weakneſs, even though unſeen of the world, and then, preſſing the miniature to his lips, retired with it to his bed-chamber. His waking thoughts were pointed againſt human frailty, and a very energetic philippic followed on the weakneſs of man and the ſtrength of woman; during which he found the reſem⯑blance of Olivia had, ſomehow, found its way [52]to his pillow; but after he had riſen he ex⯑claimed, "I ſee plainly little of voluntary virtue is to be expected from incorrigible mortals; all is to be done by main force—the ſcourge, the wheel, the priſon, and the gibbet, are all neceſſary inſtruments of terror! A Damocleſian ſword muſt always hang over the human head! I have no ſuperior merit to Charles, except that I am playing the fool by myſelf, and I fear he is gone to expoſe himſelf before company."—At the cloſe of theſe re⯑flections, John paid his parting adorations to the picture; for by an opportunity, which happened in the courſe of the following day, he ſent it to the fair Olivia, to prevent farther miſchief to himſelf, and in diſcharge of his promiſe. The uſe which that enchanting girl made of it was ſuch as the reader has ſeen, and ſuch as the truly generous John had fore⯑ſeen alſo.

The next occurrence that happened to John was one of the moſt trying of his whole life, in the information which reached him by means of his father, who wrote to him in this manner:—

The reader perceives this epiſtle arrived when Henry, wholly ſubdued by the paternal bleſſing on his head, had promiſed to become obedient to his father's wiſhes, and Sir Armine took advantage of that moment to hurry off an account and invitation to his eldeſt ſon.

Having already ſaid, it was the moſt trying circumſtance that his ſon John had yet en⯑countered in life, a deſcription of particulars is thereby precluded; we ſhall only obſerve, that after having again fixed himſelf in one of his ruminating poſtures, the profound reflec⯑tions of an hour were concluded by the fol⯑lowing reply to the invitation:

This anſwer was addreſſed to Sir Armine, at Adſell Hall, and there met him on his ar⯑rival, after the diſaſtrous events at the foreſt: but it was earneſtly requeſted by Sir Armine, nay, and even made a condition by the apo⯑thecary, that Mr. John Fitzorton ſhould not be made acquainted with thoſe events, nor any thing that had alluſion to them, till Sir Armine judged proper, even were death to be the iſſue; "for I foreſee," ſaid the reve⯑rend ſufferer, "that worſe than death would be the conſequence of John's hearing of this freſh outrage of Sir Guiſe Stuart." Sir Ar⯑mine bound his whole family, by an oath of honour, to profound ſilence, and all readily joined in it. Well, perhaps, was it for the aggreſſor they did ſo, for dreadful muſt have been the reſult of the intelligence.

[57]The afflicted John, indeed, wanted not any freſh cauſe of grief. He attempted to en⯑gage, with earneſtneſs, in his official duties—he even ſought its ſocial reliefs—he mixed with his brother-officers—he employed him⯑ſelf in the ardours of a field day, and paſſed his evenings at the meſs; but, when the day appointed for the nuptials of Henry and Oli⯑via approached, his mighty heart and powerful nature were ſorely ſhaken—he invoked bleſſ⯑ings on them both—proteſted that Nature's moſt inſupportable curſe was upon him—re⯑ceived and was denied the ſolace of tears al⯑ternately—kept the ſhutters of his chamber cloſed, that he might indulge in the ſad lux⯑ury of his forlorn condition the whole day un⯑diſturbed—never quitted the bed on which he had thrown himſelf till towards midnight, and ſuppoſing by that time Olivia had be⯑come the bride of his tenderly beloved bro⯑ther, he kneeled down by his bed-ſide, and with a fervour that from the ſincerity of his agitated ſoul applied once more the expreſſive words that had been ſo long in family recol⯑lection, [58]on different occaſions—"Bleſs, O bleſs ye together!"

He then adverted to the Lieutenant, ex⯑claiming, "Ah! dear partner in deſpair! if thou haſt been an eye-witneſs to the events of the paſt day, thou art even more to be com⯑miſerated than John Fitzorton, whoſe only comfort is derived from his determined ab⯑ſence."

After two days ſilent ſuffering, in this man⯑ner, he nurſed his mind into ſufficient com⯑poſure to attend to the common duties of his life and ſituation; the heavineſs of the ſtorm was paſt—a calm ſucceeded—and as he did not receive any accounts from Adſell, or the caſtle, for a conſiderable time, he attributed their ſilence to their feſtivity, and rather dreaded than hoped the arrivals of the poſt.

The intermediate hiſtory of our admirable John thus brought down to the events at Adſell, we go back to the family party aſſem⯑bled there with more eaſe and ſatisfaction.

CHAP. VII.

THE reader has been already appriſed, that Sir Guiſe Stuart meditated an effectual revenge, and was prepared to expect ſome violent but cautious meaſures; and he now ſees that this affray was intended to ſatiate his evil deſigns; but there are various particulars which, as they cannot be known but by our explication, ſhall now be developed. Per⯑haps there are ſome impatient ſpirits who have already condemned us for not ſatisfying them ſooner; not conſidering that divers are the events of life, which, whatever pain and inconvenience they give, cannot be explained till after we have ſuffered from them, and that we often feel the blow before we diſcover the hand from whence it comes.

To untie, therefore, the ſeveral knotty points in order, as they lie before us, we muſt firſt uſe the privilege of a victor, by ſtripping the vanquiſhed of whatever we deem valuable. In the pillage of the ingenious David Otley's pocket, we find the following letter from his prime ſeducer, Mr. Valentine Miles:

From this ingenious epiſtle the reader learns, that Otley was wholly in the intereſt of Miles, to whom he communicated the firſt news of the intended nuptials, time, place, &c.; and being a confidential domeſtic, he was [61]employed to make a very early report at the abbey of what was in contemplation at the caſtle. In the next place, we find hereby, that Mrs. Tempeſt entered into the myſteries of this confederacy; urged indeed ſimply by the ſpirit of a diſappointed woman's venge⯑ance; for, as to the inſults which either Sir Guiſe or Miles had received, ſhe would, pro⯑bably, have ſat with the moſt philoſophical patience to have ſeen either or both of them mount the ſcaffold. But the affronts they had received, ſerved very well to cover the revenge ſhe reſolved to take on her own account. In truth, her deſigns were more deeply vindictive than the Baronet's: they went to the blood not only of the offending Henry, but of his whole family; and her hate, like her love, was a conflagration that conſumed almoſt her own life, and made it extremely difficult for her to ſupport the ne⯑ceſſary ripening of her own purpoſes. Her joy, therefore, was exceſſive on the news of this promiſing journey, and her impetuous fancy outſtripping that of her compeers, ſug⯑geſted the whole buſineſs of the aſſaſſination, [62]and had furniſhed "all appliances and means to boot" before either of her colleagues, fer⯑tile as each was in miſchievous expedients, had ſeen any advantage to be derived from Otley's communication. By theſe means, the work of a few hours made ſo good, or rather ſo bad progreſs, that all things were arranged before ſunriſe; and never, perhaps, ſallied forth a troop of murderers more determined than the heroine Mrs. Tempeſt, her generals Sir Guiſe Stuart and Miles, and her aid de camp the renegade David Otley, and three other choſen men who had been picked from the maſs of their dependents, and bought up to the moſt hazardous enterpriſe. The chief delay aroſe on the part of the Baronet, who, though he heartily deſired to promote the work of vengeance, apprehended it might prove a ſervice of much danger, notwith⯑ſtanding all the precautions he meant to take; and he would have been contented to ſtay at home, and hear from his agents a hiſtory of the attack and its ſucceſs, without taking an active part in it. But Mrs. Tempeſt ſo ex⯑cited him by her daring arguments and biting [63]reproofs, that he leſs dreaded to join in the attack of the common enemy, than encounter her virulent upbraidings ſingly. And though the ſuperaddition of Miles's terrifying con⯑verſation was not wanting, it wound up his fears to a pitch that prepared him for the de⯑ſtruction of all the travellers. Thus, partly from ſhame, and partly from cowardice, but, more than all, the aſſurances he received of there being little or no hazard, he ſuffered himſelf to join the banditti, and aſſiſt in per⯑ſon.—His conduct and caution afterwards in the action are already unfolded.

The gang were ready to ſet out from Mrs. Tempeſt's lodge, where the plot was laid, as Mr. Otley arrived, ſaying he had been de⯑layed by Sir Armine, but that there was not a ſingle moment to loſe, as the Fitzorton party would be in their carriages, and on their horſes, at ſix. "It is now," he obſerved, "on the ſtroke of four, and if we make pro⯑per uſe of our time, ſhall have the advantage of two hours." "Which will be all we can deſire," ſaid Miles; "but let us not ſet out in a body: that will look ſuſpicious." After a [64]few more arrangements, they began their march by the contrary road to that which the Fitzortons were to take; for Otley, having been conſulted on this ſubject by his old maſ⯑ter, with whom his advice in all ſuch matters was looked on as oracular, told his own party how they might avoid a premature rencontre; "as," ſaid he, "I found no difficulty in per⯑ſuading Sir Armine, that the way I wiſhed him to go was that he ought to take." In ſnort, he ſettled the geography of the route, and marked the ſpot at which the attack ſhould be made.

CHAP. VIII.

WHILE theſe tranſactions were in pre⯑paration at the abbey, a conſpiracy of a very different kind was laid by the ill-ſtarr'd Charles Stuart, who immediately, on the receipt of the letters that intimated the wedding-day, and the intended particulars of its celebration, fell into a ſtate ſo near diſtraction, that a thou⯑ſand plans to prevent the nuptials were form⯑ed, approved, and renounced almoſt in the ſame inſtant. Several of theſe, indeed, were [65]ſcarcely poſſible to enter into the brain of any but a man agitated by the extremes of love and of deſpair. Rather, however, than ſuf⯑fer the hated ceremony betwixt Olivia and Henry to take place, he determined, think⯑ing, perhaps, with Othello, ſuch murders would be heavenly, that the death of friend and miſtreſs ſhould be crowned by his own. But, to avoid this tragic cataſtrophe, he re⯑ſolved on a project, which, to him, appeared capable of producing the end deſired. The idea of Partington's reſolute ſpirit; his love of doing what men, not daring to act for them⯑ſelves, would be afraid to think on; his in⯑defatigable perſeverance in whatever he en⯑gaged; and, amidſt all his ſingularities, his uncorrupted integrity;—all theſe, forming one grand idea, ruſhed upon his fancy ſo ſtrongly, that without preciſely knowing what good might reſult from it, and feeling that the bad was nearly at the worſt, he aſſumed a compoſure which lulled even the penetrating Caroline, who now but ill-diſguiſed her own ſorrows. The Lieutenant gave out that he would make a viſit to a brother officer at [66]ſome miles diſtance, and try if change of ſcene, and of company, could not reſtore him to that tranquillity which he had loſt. The houſe at which Mr. Partington was then reſident ſtood at the diſtance of a very long day's journey from the abbey, yet, literally travelling on the ſpur of the occaſion, Charles reached it juſt as Partington was ſitting down to dinner. The company at table conſiſted of the whole family of the Atwoods, at leaſt all that part of it which had been taken under Partington's protection—Jenny being, as the Reader well knows, happily ſituated with the Fitzortons.

At the ſight of a ſtranger they all roſe; upon which Partington, calling them a ſet of vile ſcoundrelly good-for-nothing vagabonds, inſiſted upon each reſitting in the ſeat, and pulled the Lieutenant down into a chair, at the ſame time ordering him to partake of the family fare, and feel himſelf as much at home as if he were the ſon of a friend. "But," ſaid Partington, "I know how to make diſtinc⯑tions between an infamous raſcal like Charles Stuart, and his all-glorious father, Sir Guiſe!" [67]While Partington made this obſervation, in his own extraordinary manner, he was heap⯑ing Charles's plate with what he conceived to be the rarity of the table.

At the name of Stuart, the blood in a tide of the moſt violent crimſon covered the coun⯑tenance of young Atwood; and at the words father Sir Guiſe, the youth could hardly conceal or contain an indignation which roſe from his full heart, till a repetition of the Baronet's name quivered on his lips, and died upon his tongue.

"You muſt be friends," cried Partington, noticing the young man's emotion. "The Lieutenant here is as great a vagabond as yourſelf: he has, like me, the higheſt reſpect for his exalted ſire; but I ſhall think you youngſters leſs good for nothing than I could wiſh, if you do not, like me, know how to make diſtinctions." So ſaying, he put the hand of Charles into that of young Atwood, who would have ſhrunk back from the ſlighteſt contact with the ſon of the man who had diſhonoured his family—but Partington ex⯑claimed, "I tell you, ſtripling, this is as good [68]for nothing a ſcoundrel as any I know, and therefore you muſt be friends."

Charles, however, made a ſhew of eating, without reliſhing a morſel; and immediately on the cloth being removed, Partington, per⯑ceiving his diſtreſs, forcibly led, or rather carried him into another apartment, where Charles, eagerly catching Partington by the hand, exclaimed, "The nuptials of Olivia Clare and Henry Fitzorton are to take place within twenty-four hours. He loves her not. It will be a ſacrifice. I adore her. Our deſ⯑tiny will be determined. The effect will be dreadful. Sir Armine is not to be perſuaded. O! Mr. Partington, is there no ſtratagem—no miracle to ſave us all? Accumulated will be the horrors that muſt enſue, if this forced alliance takes place. O! pardon the folly, the madneſs of this incoherence—this journey—the laſt effort of a deſperate man!—Farewell! Something terrible is at hand—for, at the hazard of ten thouſand lives, Olivia Clare ſhall not give her hand to Henry Fitz⯑orton."

[69]"And when is this forced alliance, as you call it, threatened?" queſtioned Partington. "To-morrow begins the accurſed journey, and on the following day my doom is to be ſealed. Farewell!"—"Hold! you headſtrong vagabond!" ſaid Partington, detaining him; "let us return to the company—not an⯑other word."—He then hurried back the paſſive Charles into the dining-room, and with yet greater vehemence than he had pre⯑cipitated him out of it. And ere he had well opened the door he ejaculated, "Avaunt, ye lazy, good-for-nothing devils; here is a world of work to be performed.—Young man," ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to Atwood, junior, "your benefactor's favourite child, young Fitzorton, and your ſiſter's patroneſs, demand your aſſiſtance. Yet more, you vagabond, your enemy's ſon, but my friend, is to be reſcued from deſpair—even the ſon of Sir Guiſe Stuart."—Atwood gave his hand to Charles. "Aye!" ſaid Partington, "you are the caitiff I thought ye, ſo take home theſe old vagabonds, your father and mother, who would be uſeleſs lumber in this expedition to [70]their farm: and if none of us return alive, for dire are our deſigns, take care of yourſelves as well as you can. For you, Charles, mount your horſe:—no—firſt write a few lines to Henry, ordering him to be of good cheer—to ſmile—to—in ſhort, I will give you final inſtructions what is to be ſaid to the vagabond as ſoon as I have adjuſted a little preliminary with that old ſcoundrel my ſteward."

The buſineſs with Le Maitre, the ſteward, was to furniſh a ſtout ſtaff and ſuitable diſ⯑guiſe for each perſon intended to act a part in Partington's drama.

"Diſguiſes, weapons offenſive and defen⯑ſve, you old vagabond!" were all the orders Le Maitre received: obedient to which, in ſome⯑thing leſs than half an hour, Le Maitre had got together ſuch habiliments and accoutre⯑ments as would have equipped a pillaging party in the days of Robin Hood. Young Atwood ſoon returned from the farm attended by two huſbandmen, who, he ſaid, were to be truſted. The means of conveyance were ready, a ſervant was diſpatched with the letter to Henry, and on the road were unfolded the [71]particulars of the enterpriſe. The whole groupe, more eſpecially young Atwood, who was of an affectionate diſpoſition, entered into it with ardour and alacrity. "Olivia," ſaid Partington, "is an abominable ſcoundrel, and muſt be ſaved even from the man ſhe loves, becauſe he does not love her, it ſeems—but the raſcal cannot help that. Yet, take notice, Charles, I will prevent forced matches, but I will not be a match-maker: ſo you and the wench muſt ſettle it as well as you can af⯑terwards—though I will own to you I ſhould engage with ſome good will in any project that might favour the eſcape of a vile ugly young ſcoundrel like your ſiſter, from ſuch a noble-minded, brave, generous gentleman as your father! So that when we have, by the plot now rolling in my head, prevented Olivia from running into the arms of Henry, I ſhall be ready, provided the girl be willing, to aid and abet Henry to run into the arms of Ca⯑roline; and as for Olivia, get you but the conſent of that little villain, and you ſhall have mine; and after that, a fig for the oppoſition of fathers and mothers!—the handſome raſcal [72]will be the dearer after ſhe has put you to a good deal of trouble. For my part, I know of but one natural or reaſonable impediment to a man's marrying the laſs he fancies, and that is, her fancying another; or not fancy⯑ing him. So now for our expedition—to releaſe a love-ſick knight from a damſel who is ſallying forth to have him whether he will or not!"

In this ſort of diſcourſe did Partington and his companions ſhorten their way to Adſell foreſt: what followed their arrival at the ap⯑pointed place has been circumſtantially re⯑lated from the firſt and ſecond attack, even to the cataſtrophe.

Now, ſhould the reader, in a retroſpect of his own life, be unable to trace any wild pro⯑ject of love or revenge; if, in a ſurvey of his antipathies, and of his affections, he ſhould diſcover no ideas conceived, nor ſchemes exe⯑cuted, as little ſenſate as thoſe which inſti⯑gated Sir Guiſe to vengeance, Mrs. Tempeſt to jealouſy, Miles to ſtudy at once his intereſt and revenge, and the traitor David Otley to prefer a golden bribe to the duty he owed [73]his truſting maſter, we congratulate him on his exemption from the darker ſhades in the human character. On the other hand, ſhould he, in the aforeſaid examination of himſelf, happen upon none of thoſe generous exceſſes in his own feelings which correſpond to the feelings of Partington, nor any which urge him to love Olivia, and to beſtow his pity on Henry and Charles; if, moreover, he finds no congenial touch that ſends the ſorrows of Caro⯑line Stuart thrilling through his blood, nor any glow of approbation at the defeat of villainy, as it was diſcovered and puniſhed at the edge of Adſell Foreſt, we commiſerate him for that he is incapable of paſſing any manner of judg⯑ment on the fair, the beautiful, and the good of human nature.

CHAPTER IX.

THE night was paſt at the inn with more compoſure than the fatigues of the day, and diſaſters of the evening, gave reaſon to ex⯑pect. Even the ſlumbers of Sir Armine were unbroken till towards the break of day, [74]when, ſeeing the ſtill wakeful Henry at his bed-ſide, he affectionately ſaid to him, "I feel in leſs particular pain, and am ſo gene⯑rally refreſhed, that, I truſt, I ſhall be able, about mid-day, to proceed in our journey. Meantime, my beloved child, you require reſt yourſelf, which I intreat you to take while I make trial to ſleep again. Bleſs you for ever!"

At this moment little Fitz ſuddenly ſtarted from his light ſlumbers, leaped upon the bed in dumb but expreſſive eloquence of fond careſſes—made with thoſe timid advances and modeſt tremblings, creeping betwixt hope and fear—which ſeemed to purport—"I am the dog of an enemy, and my humble gratulations may not only be unwelcome, but ſuſpected." This was, aſſuredly, Sir Armine's idea, if not the dog's, for no ſooner did that venerable man perceive the poor little fellow, than, with an encouraging be⯑nignity, he cried, while he patted the ſmooth head, and ſtroked the ſilken ears—"I have no quarrel with thee, ſimpleton; and I thank thine honeſt love for theſe teſtimonies of thy good [75]wiſhes." Little Fitz liſtened to the kind voice, and fondled, in turn, the careſſing hand, then gently retired to Henry's lap, where he had paſt the night. Yet ſuch was the entire love that Henry bore his father, and ſo wholly was he engroſſed by the injuries that good man had received, that he never adverted once to the dog's belonging to his beloved Caroline, till his father's notice of the animal, and the viſible progreſs he made towards recovery, had eaſed his heart of terrors for a life dearer than his own. He now received the dog with a ten⯑derneſs which indicated feelings that attached themſelves to the minuteſt thing living or dead, with which the object of the maſter paſſion has, or can, by the magic power of fancy and the heart, be made to connect.

Sir Armine dropt again to ſleep, and con⯑tinued to doze till the ſurgeon came to exa⯑mine the wounds. Lady Fitzorton, Olivia, Mr. Clare, Jenny Atwood, her brother, and True George—the latter had, unbidden, kept watch on the outſide his old maſter's chamber door—were all ready to overwhelm the ſur⯑geon with queſtions on Sir Armine's recovery. [76]How great then was their wonder! their ec⯑ſtacy! to hear this intelligent diſciple of Aeſculapius exclaim to the whole aſſembled party,—"The patient, methinks, cannot do better than get his breakfaſt in bed, about an hour after which, if the ſun continues his fair promiſes, it will be his own fault, or yours, ladies and gentlemen, not Nature's, if he is not again in his carriage, ſo as to eat his din⯑ner at the place of your deſtination."

The general rapture into which the whole family were thrown by theſe tidings, pro⯑duced the very delays that each individual deſired to avoid. Lady Fitzorton and Olivia, neither of whom had cloſed their eyes through the night, could have embraced the ſurgeon; the venerable Clare ſhook his hand heartily; and Henry, emptying his purſe into the ſur⯑geon's not-refuſing palm, leaped about with all the demonſtrations of an extravagant tranſ⯑port, which wholly obliviated the idea, that, with the recovery he ſo hailed, would end his every hope, and revive his abſolute deſpair. Jenny's tender heart dropt tears on her bro⯑ther's boſom, and haſted to prepare breakfaſt. [77]But honeſt George had always, like Denniſon, the art of being extremely happy, and uſeful at the ſame time; and, with the lightning's ſpeed, he had flown into the kitchen imme⯑diately on the utterance of the ſurgeon's hint, that his old maſter would be in a ſituation to travel, if not the fault of himſelf or ſome one of the family. He reſolved, at any rate, the fault, if any, ſhould not lie with him: though he would have been extremely ready to take the blame of it from any other.

While theſe matters were tranſacting above in the houſe, Partington and his corps were not idle below in the ſtable, where the de⯑graded Sir Guiſe and his aſſociates were ſtill under the guard of young Atwood. About midnight, Partington betook himſelf to a truſs of clean ſtraw, as nothing could prevail on him to repair to any other bed: he had ſworn not to quit ſight of ſo honourable a perſonage as Sir Guiſe Stuart till he had the ſupreme felicity of ſeeing him fully com⯑mitted. He made this obſervation with a profound bow; and, indeed, through the [78]whole night treated the Baronet with an ex⯑ternal reſpect, which he would have refuſed to any but one for whom he felt the moſt ſovereign indignation.

"Be ſure, you young, good-for-nothing ſcoundrel," ſaid he to the worthy Atwood, "that you do not ſuffer your eyes to cloſe, ſhould mine be caught napping; for I have not the ſmalleſt doubt but that noble, ge⯑nerous, magnanimous gentleman in the ſtraw"—three reſpectful bows—"would try to eſcape, by which I ſhould loſe the heartfelt ſatiſ⯑faction I promiſe myſelf, in ſeeing him dun⯑geoned, if not hanged"—two more bows.

At the end of this ſarcaſtic ſpeech Partington croſſed his arms, and neſtling in the ſtraw, ſoon enjoyed the repoſe he courted, and which did not refuſe to viſit him in his lowly bed. Atwood graſped his crabſtick, and in manly ſilence waved it over the head of the priſoners, not condeſcending to ſpeak during the whole night.

CHAPTER X.

BY this time it had gone forth, that the ſaid priſoners were not actually highwaymen, but wanton aſſaſſins, who had maliciouſly plotted againſt the lives of Mr. Clare, Sir Armine Fitzorton, and their families, to gratify their private revenge.

This hint was no ſooner ſpread abroad, than the inhabitants of Adſell were up in arms; for the whole of that pariſh was in the manorſhip of Olivia, and almoſt every houſe in the village, and moſt of the land that ſmiled around it, was, by virtue of her grand⯑father's will, the property of that young lady. An eſtate of Sir Guiſe, or rather of Mrs. Tempeſt, lay within the diſtance of a few miles in the ſame county, ſo that both parties were well known at Adſell. In conſequence of which, the yard adjoining to the barn wherein Sir Guiſe and Co. were depoſited, was crowd⯑ed by people of both ſexes, who would have made it unneceſſary for young Atwood to ſtand centinel any longer, as they would cer⯑tainly have knocked the Baronet and his [80]illuſtrious companions on the head, had not Partington diſperſed the populace before he betook himſelf to reſt, and pacified them by an aſſurance, that they ſhould have timely no⯑tice of the execution of the honourable gen⯑tleman, who, he made no doubt, would ſuffer to their hearts content, in a very little time.

In this hope they departed to their ſeveral houſes; and it was about the third hour of the morning, when all was quiet in the inn and its environs. But juſt as young Atwood had traverſed the outſide of the barn, the court adjoining, and returned to his ſtation within,—it was at this tempting moment, "the very witching time o' th' night," that a whiſpering, ſucceeded by a ſoft, fearful tread of perſons, was heard moving towards the barn. A ſmall lanthern, which one of them held, diſcovered a man and a woman, the latter led by the former, and each, by turns, in earneſt converſation.

Young Atwood did not doubt but ſome kind of treachery was on foot, as the firſt words that reached his ear were touching the liberation of Sir Guiſe; he retired, therefore, [81]a few paces, that he might gain more inform⯑ation. The perſons advanced, and obſerving the barn door half open, they entered cau⯑tiouſly; and, after walking on tiptoe a few ſteps, one of them ſaid, "All is ſtill; the guard and the guarded are equally overcome by ſleep—I have thus far performed my pro⯑miſe—you deſired only to ſee the vile author of your ruin, and to warn him, that he may leave off his wicked courſes before it be too late. I have conſented to this, becauſe it is what a Chriſtian ſhould do; but as for this Sir Guiſe, he ought to wiſh, for the ſake of his own ſoul, that he ſhould have time to re⯑pent, and then be hanged out of the way, for the good of mankind. So, as this is the laſt time, I hope, the wicked man can be ſeen on this ſide the gallows. Take faſt hold of my hand and follow me, for by the ruſtling of the ſtraw we muſt be near the priſoners." Say⯑ing this, the perſon who ſpoke ſtepped for⯑ward, holding up the lanthern, by whoſe light the object he and his companion were in ſearch of preſented itſelf to view, lying in an abject [82]poſture, his hands and legs bound, and his aſſociates in the ſame ſituation.

Young Atwood receded as the night-walk⯑ers advanced, deſirous to ſee the real motive and end of their enterpriſe. One of the ad⯑venturers now held the lanthern to the face of Sir Guiſe, the miſerable paleneſs of which, and every other ſign of guilt and fear, cauſed the perſon who had not yet ſpoken to ex⯑claim, in a piteous tone—"Alas! unhappy man! did I ever think your conduct would bring you to this? and that the woman you have moſt injured ſhould live to ſee it?"—Then, turning to her companion, ſhe ex⯑claimed, "Wicked as he is, I cannot bear to ſee him in this ſad poſture, tied like a crimi⯑nal, and thrown, as it were, into a dungeon! If," added the ſpeaker, falling on her knees to her companion—"Oh! if there is any compaſſion in your heart; if it has a ſpark of the love you profeſs to feel for me, ſuffer me, and aſſiſt me, to looſe theſe cruel cords. I aſk no more."—"Looſe the cords!" returned the other—"No! were I never to ſee you [83]more, although you are dear to my ſoul, and I now tell you ſo all at once, as my heart to my body, I would neither aſſiſt, nor ſuffer you to give that monſter liberty of hand or foot. Had I thought Mrs. Jenny could have deſired ſuch a thing, not all the world—no, not my love for you, which I feel will be all the world to George, ſhould have made me ſhew you the place! What would your good brother ſay to this? If poor dear Jerom had his eye on us now, only think how angry he would be!"

At the names Jenny and George, young Atwood ruſhed forward, and cried out in a terrible voice, even before he was ſeen, "O wicked! wicked girl! would you ſet at liberty the wretch who has undone you; who had well nigh brought your poor father and mother with ſorrow to the grave; and who has almoſt murdered your beſt friend and benefactor—for whoſe ſake, and for his other numberleſs ſins, he is deſtined to meet his deſerts at laſt?—Yes, vile ſinner," added he, turning to Sir Guiſe, "you will be hanged, you and all your accomplices: but alas! what are your lives, or [84]the lives of ten thouſand thouſand ſuch vil⯑lains, to the finger-ache of ſuch a noble gen⯑tleman as Sir Armine Fitzorton; or the in⯑nocence of this poor, wicked, unhappy girl, whom you have ruined, and who is ſtill ſinful enough to wiſh you were free? As for you, George," continued he, "I am not angry with—;I know your love for my ſiſter, and am ſorry for you. I know you would have died ſooner than conſent to let him eſcape; and you only came here with the girl, out of pure good will, becauſe ſhe pretended ſhe wanted to rebuke her ſeducer. Rebuke him! why, you could not ſay an angry word to him; you know you could not, Jenny. Surely the girls are diſtracted mad, George! they love the ſcoundrels who undo them better than the men who would ſooner loſe their lives than do them a wrong!"

The poor Jane, overwhelmed with her agi⯑tations, at being thus in the preſence of her brother, lover, and betrayer, could ſcarcely ſtand under the ſupport of the two former—"Would to God I were dead!" ſaid ſhe: "but you wrong me, brother; I did not [85]mean to make Mr. George guilty of ingrati⯑tude to his maſter by releaſing Sir Guiſe, I—I—I—only wiſhed him not to be—be—bound in that manner."—Here her tears choaked her utterance, and ſhe wept aloud.

Her ſorrows awakened Partington, who no ſooner heard the ſtory from the honeſt lips of George, than he called Jenny a good-for-no⯑thing little vagabond, ſhaking her moſt kindly by the hand all the time, and deſired George and Jerom to lead her back to the houſe, commanding them to ſay nothing of her ad⯑venture to any of the Fitzortons, and inſiſt⯑ing the pretty young ſcoundrel ſhould no more be ſcolded.—"Scolded, your honour!" re⯑plied George; "I would not let her own brother, nor even your honour ſcold her, if I could help it, without knocking out both your brains; only I thought"—"The thought of knocking out our brains is good, and might in that caſe be juſtifiable, perhaps," cries Partington; "but thinking is loſs of time, you raſcal.—Here, both of you give her a kiſs, and do as I ordered, while I relieve guard over this all-worthy gentleman"— [86]a profound bow to Sir Guiſe—"and his two veteran aſſociates,"—a bow to each, till his head almoſt touched the ſtraw.

Jenny went away ſomewhat pacified, but could not help caſting more than one look behind. For though, perhaps, even Parting⯑ton did not more thoroughly deſpiſe the ac⯑tions of the Baronet, nor more execrate his principles, than did this virtuouſly-diſpoſed young woman—ſhe felt for him involuntary emotions of pity and tenderneſs.

The good Partington ſaw this midnight enterpriſe, as, in truth, he did moſt other things, in the proper light; and his know⯑ledge of the human heart joined the pity he felt in his own, to determine it was a matter to be huſhed up. On the return, therefore, of the young men, he took each of them by the hand and deſired them to be of good cheer, ſince they had every reaſon to believe that "when that amiable gentleman"—a pro⯑found reverence to Sir Guiſe—"had hung his hour, the grand enemy to the girl's peace of mind would be removed; and he did not doubt but he ſhould ſee Jenny as good-for-nothing [87]a ſiſter to Jerom, and as infamous a wife to George, as any happy little varlet could deſire to be."

This inverted mode of compliment being well underſtood, the youths were made again comfortable, and the whole affair ended by Jerom's taking George by the hand, ſaying, "If ſo be things went that way, there was not a man in the world he would ſo ſoon wiſh to call his brother, provided the affair with that vile monſter could be put up with—but, for his part, he would not marry a ducheſs, no, not the queen's majeſty herſelf, if he knew ſhe had been miſs to another man, though it were a king on his throne."—"Jerom, Je⯑rom! you talk like a hector and a fool!" ſaid Partington.—"He talks," ſaid George, "a'nt pleaſe your honour, like a young fellow who has never been in love; true love forgives every thing that happens before wedlock, and moſt things that happen after. And as to Jenny, I think her the modeſteſt girl in the whole world, and I love her the beſt, though I never told her ſo till to-day; and when Sir Guiſe is dead, I think all will be well between Jenny [88]and me; though I had rather he ſhould live fifty years, and keep me out of Jenny's heart for ever, than that any harm ſhould betide my dear good old maſter, or any of my honoured young ones, or any of the family, not forget⯑ting Mr. and Miſs Clare."

"George," ſaid Partington, affecting to cough, "you are one of the moſt unſupport⯑able young raſcals I ever knew—give me your hand. But take this for your comfort; whether Sir Armine lives or dies, Atwood's ſiſter ſhall be your wife, and this right-worthy old youth"—another bow—"ſhall ſwing with both his excellent friends, becauſe it would be a ſin to part them."—Here he rolled the Ba⯑ronet and his aſſociates about, and heaped the ſtraw over them as if they were ſo many pigs.

CHAPTER XI.

THE proviſions which the youth or⯑dered to be brought into the barn were now reſorted to, and the exulting trio ſat down to the repaſt, ſpread upon a winnowing machine, [89]turned the wrong ſide, with as high ſpirits, and as hearty an appetite, as they ever en⯑joyed; particularly as one of the waiters en⯑tered with a billet to Partington, containing the following words:

Partington having read this note, and fold⯑ed it up, he handed it about, firſt penciling on the back of it theſe words—"Read, but let not the worthy Sir Guiſe ſuſpect it brings any good news."—He gave it to George, who opened it, and ſcarcely able to conceal his joy, put it in the hands of Jerom.

"Miſerable intelligence!" ſaid Partington, with great gravity:—"No hopes you ſee;— [90]the ſurgeon, no doubt, gives it up as a loſt caſe.—Heigho!—let us raiſe our ſpirits with a glaſs of that wine. Fill, George. Come, here's to Sir Guiſe's ſpeedy mounting, and to the ſudden execution of Valentine Miles, Eſq. the chaſte Mrs. Tempeſt—for we ſhall nooſe her too—and that moſt true and truſty of all valets"—an inclination of the whole body as he mentioned each—"David Otley, gentle⯑man!"

"It would be a compliment, gentlemen, to offer you any refreſhment; indeed, ſeeing you have ſo ſhort time to live, it would be throw⯑ing good things away upon almoſt dead car⯑caſes; and I hate to be extravagant:—ſo, wiſh⯑ing, with all our ſouls, that the hangman may do juſtice to all three of you, we have the honour to drink your good health in all Chriſtian charity!"

The bitter ſarcaſm of tone, geſture, and action, which characteriſed the ſcorn of Par⯑tington, cannot be conveyed in language.

The bottle was emptied, and the repaſt finiſhed, in the like ſpirit of biting ridicule, which often extorted an oath from the daring [91]Valentine, and drove the abaſhed Sir Guiſe, looking more ſwiniſh than before, under co⯑vert of his ſtraw.

One of the waiters now brought a letter into the barn, ſaying, it came by a ſpecial meſſenger, who was then waiting a reply in the kitchen. It contained what follows:

In the progreſs of peruſing this letter, the colours of compaſſion and indignation alter⯑nately mounted, and ſometimes mixed in Par⯑tington's cheek. Theſe were ſucceeded by tears that guſhed from his eyes, and that al⯑moſt to the drowning of his voice. "Inſuffer⯑able young villain!" ſaid he, "this is not to be endured!"—Then darting a look of rage and contempt—which no features could more for⯑cibly expreſs than Partington's, ſharpened by that ironical aſperity which was edged at every word and intonation with the moſt cut⯑ting energies—"Here," cried Partington, "liſten to the ſentiments of that ſcoundrel of a ſon who has run away from his amiable ſire in his laſt diſtreſs, and left him in confine⯑ment in his way to an ignominious death."—He then read the letter aloud, ſinking only [93]the laſt ſentence, mentioning Sir Guiſe's being ſuffered to eſcape; thundering in the ear of Sir Guiſe every expreſſion that manifeſted the deep ſenſe which Charles had of his father's villainy. And at the end, ſeeing him un⯑moved, or, if moved, only from the impulſes of fear, "Behold," ſaid Partington, "how the good Baronet's tender heart bleeds at the wounds which his ungracious boy has inflicted! What ſenſibility! What affliction! What exqui⯑ſite feeling! Honeſt, conſcientious gentleman! He will hardly ſurvive ſo unfilial an attack. It will go with him to the gallows!"

The reverences which Partington made, during this addreſs, were repeated at every ſentence, till, at laſt, they arrived at almoſt Perſian proſtration. Then, deſiring the Ba⯑ronet and his two friends would be kind enough to riſe from the ſtraw, and hold them⯑ſelves in readineſs to be tried, condemned, and executed, he left them in the charge of young Atwood, ordering True George to follow him into the houſe.

CHAPTER XII.

THE good Partington, to the infinite joy of his honeſt heart, found the Fitzorton family ſtill rejoicing at the unexpectedly rapid recovery of Sir Armine. Olivia had juſt prepared for him the third cup of tea, and was going to place it on a waiter to be con⯑veyed by a ſervant, when this ſingular man ſnatched it from her hand, declaring, "ſhe was an infamous little villain to ſuppoſe any other perſon ſhould carry it the old raſcal but him⯑ſelf, when he was within reach of him."

"That trouble is unneceſſary," ſaid Lady Fitzorton; "Sir Armine feels himſelf quite ſtout enough to finiſh his breakfaſt be⯑low; and that you, Olivia, may be out of pain as completely as ourſelves, your good father gently turned me out of his apartment juſt now, ſaying, he would be my ſubſtitute. Hark! I hear them coming." The door was opened, and diſcovered the truly reverend and honourable Sir Armine walking into the room with a not infirm ſtep, and rather affec⯑tionately embracing, than leaning upon his [95]friendly ſupporters, Henry and Mr. Clare. "There," ſaid the old gentleman, diſmiſſing his attendants by ſpreading his arms to their extent, "Armine's himſelf again!" Then taking every one by the hand, he acknow⯑ledged their tender care, aſſuring them of his freedom from pain, except a kind of confuſion in his head from the ſevere blow he had there been ſaluted with, probably by the hand of Sir Guiſe Stuart.

"No doubt!" exclaimed Partington, "your obligations to that very worthy gentleman are ſo great, that I hope you will have no objec⯑tion to attend him and his brace of myrmidons to the Juſtice, who, I find, reſides three miles on our road to Adſell Hall, ſcarcely a fur⯑long out of your way,—though, I truſt, you have enough of Chriſtian ſpirit in that old abominable body to travel to a court of equity as far as the Alps, in order to do your coun⯑try the ſervice of committing ſo very de⯑ſerving and amiable a perſonage to the halter. Indeed, as you are alſo in the commiſſion, I do not ſee why you ſhould not paſs ſentence on the gentleman yourſelf:—but, perhaps, you may think it right to pay your brother juſtice [96]the compliment of hanging an honeſt man found in his diſtrict. I expect, at any rate, that you will be well enough to ſee him ſwing; for, although you have given the death deſigned for you the ſlip, there is, I think, malice prepenſe enough in the attack to hang the aſſaſſin; and, to tell you the truth, if I did not think ſo, I ſhould ſcarcely forgive you for recovering;—and if you are of a different opinion, I muſt really beg the favour of you to die off as faſt as you can, that juſtice may be ſatisfied.—I ſuppoſe," added he, "you know that the worthy trio are under my cuſtody, and re⯑freſhing themſelves at this moment in an un⯑roofed barn, with ſome unpeppered, unſalted, and unbuttered water-gruel, ready to march at the word of command."

All the time Partington was ſpeaking, poor Jane Atwood then happening to be in the room and behind Olivia's chair, was obliged to hold it faſt to ſupport herſelf from falling. Henry, from contrary cauſes, but productive of the ſame effects, was in a ſcarce better con⯑dition. They were all, however, ſoon relieved by Sir Armine, who, taking a paper from his [97]pocket, at the ſight of which Olivia's cheeks took the hue of the deepeſt crimſon, thus ad⯑dreſſed his friends:—"I will read a paper of propoſals to you, my friends, and muſt own it has wholly decided me as to what ſhould be done with the priſoners. I need not inform you that it was drawn up by that bluſhing little girl of ours, and, as I believe, placed by Lady Fitzorton upon my pillow."

"Why, what wickedneſs has the little raſ⯑cal been at now?" quoth Partington.

"You ſhall hear," replied Sir Armine; and then putting the paper into Lady Fitzorton's hand, deſired her to read it for the good of the company, which, while Olivia ſat between the palpitating Henry and Mr. Clare, ſhe did as follows:—

When Lady Fitzorton was preparing to read, Olivia would have quitted the room, [102]and ſtarting up, had got to the door; but Partington caught hold of her and exclaimed, "Stop! you inſufferable ſcoundrel! ſtop!—I knew you had done ſomething to be aſhamed of, but there's no eſcaping. I am an excel⯑lent hand to catch a thief, and to keep him too:—witneſs Sir Guiſe and Co.!"

For ſome time Henry had manifeſted emo⯑tions almoſt beyond his nature to endure. Generoſity, goodneſs, compaſſion, and every other quality that exalts Humanity, in thoſe happy moments, when every principle is alive, and every paſſion moving to virtuous impulſe, reflected from the conduct of Olivia, ſtruck on his heart, well fitted to receive ſuch diſtin⯑guiſhed gueſts; at length, dropping on his knees, "O teach me!" he exclaimed, "teach me how I can deſerve ſuch excellence?"

Olivia, who had not till that moment raiſed her head, which alternately repoſed on her father's and Henry's arm, as the proper ſup⯑ports of her blooming merit, now ventured to look up, ſummoned by a voice to her indeed "ſweet as the ſhepherd's pipe upon the moun⯑tains," and tenderly returning the embrace [103]of her Enthuſiaſt, ſhe declared, "that although the whole company had, out of all bounds, over-rated common ſentiments of Chriſtian charity, ſhe felt herſelf rejoiced not to have offended; and if there was any merit, it was all borrowed from conſtant aſſociation with thoſe whoſe conduct was at once her emu⯑lation and her example."

"Then, I ſuppoſe, the worthy Baronet is not to be hanged this time?" ſaid Parting⯑ton.

"No," ſaid Sir Armine; "I think I ſee myſelf ſo well, and ſo ſatisfied, that I ſhal take Olivia's advice."

"Why, for that matter," rejoined Parting⯑ton, "I muſt own, I too have a letter to be read which ſeems to ſtrengthen an idea of that ſort; and as I plainly perceive my vote to break the honeſt man's neck will paſs for nothing, where a pack of abominable good-for-nothing ſcoundrels are reſolved to ſave him,—here, Henry, do you give us the con⯑tents of this:"—preſenting him with that letter from Charles which was before offered to the reader.

[104]It was with great labour that Henry, after many ſtops, lets, and hindrances, from the overflowings of his own heart and that of the company, finiſhed this epiſtle. All the paſ⯑ſions of his nature had been up in arms for a conſiderable time. In this laſt letter, there were ſome hard lines which pierced him, and him only of the party, to the quick.—The forlorn ſituation of Caroline, wondering, per⯑haps, at the abſence of her father; the tender goodneſs of Olivia, the benevolent diſpoſition of Sir Armine, and the dire heart-rending condition of his friend Charles, formed, in his boſom, ſuch a maſs of contrary and conflicting paſſions and principles, deſires and duties, hopes and fears, that Henry Fitzorton's ſitua⯑tion at this criſis was, perhaps, as truly to be commiſerated as at any period, not of his individual, but of the human hiſtory.

"Do you, Henry," ſaid Sir Armine, "for I know you will do it in the beſt manner, an⯑ſwer your friend's letter—Partington will only interlard it with vagabonds and ſcoundrels.—No—it will be better, dear boy, in your hands:—You will aſſure your friend of my [105]continued eſteem for him; and that while you are telling him ſo, his father will be ſet at liberty."

Jane Atwood here quitted the room very haſtily.

"And add, my Henry," cried Sir Armine, "that it ſhall be by no fault of mine, or my family, or my friends, if the cruel and unpro⯑voked aſſault is ever divulged to—to—to—his—to Miſs—"

Sir Armine heſitated, ſeeing ſome paper which had lain on the table tremble in Henry's hand, to pronounce the name of Caroline or Stuart. He therefore only added, in an un⯑der tone, heard only by Henry—"you know who I mean, Henry."

"And while Harry is thus employed, you, my dear Sir Armine," obſerved Lady Fitz⯑orton, "you may go with me, if you pleaſe."

They did ſo, and while they were abſent, Partington, being now left alone with Henry, exclaimed, "What, you vagabond! is to be done now? Our plan, you ſee, has been over⯑turned, and there is no time for another. You cannot be carried off again. This forced [106]match, I fear, after all, muſt take place: yet who, but ſuch a fellow as you, would re⯑quire force to poſſeſs ſuch a darling little vil⯑lain as Olivia? What do you intend?"

"Would I were dead, and buried!" ejacu⯑lated Henry, "or would I had never ſeen!—Indulge me, dear Mr. Partington, by leaving me alone a little. I will endeavour to do what I ought—what is right. Order the car⯑riages as deſired.—Some delay will, of courſe, happen after this accident—at leaſt, one day! and if I gain another day, I ſhall have time to think and to decide."

Partington, who, amidſt all his ſingularities, was never troubleſome, and who, indeed, knew not how to adviſe Henry, whom he ſincerely loved, left the room, ſaying only, with viſible ſigns of anxiety—"All I know of a certainty is, that you are one of the moſt atrocious young ſcoundrels I ever ſaw; and, therefore, I wiſh with all my ſoul I could ſee you happy, without ſeeing others who are as great vagabonds as yourſelf mi⯑ſerable."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE letter which Henry, after he had recovered himſelf, wrote to Charles, contained all the generous ſentiments his father dictated, with every grace they could receive from elo⯑quent expreſſion; but they were mingled with others that betrayed a diſordered and almoſt diſtracted mind, but which would become in⯑telligible to Charles, in addition to his father's kind commands. He told his friend, that nothing but rocks and precipices were before him; that all the powers of gratitude, duty, love, friendſhip, honour, pity, hope, and deſ⯑pair, were at once warring in his breaſt; that whichever way he moved, ſome of theſe were his conſtant attendants in oppoſition to each other, with regard to his power of reconciling them with his peace, and agreed only in one de⯑termined point—a general confederacy againſt his happineſs; for that even Hope herſelf, which, in any other man's ſituation, would bring heal⯑ing on her wings, ſeemed to make her viſits of a moment to him, only to ſhew his ſtate was ſo forlorn, ſo deſtitute, there was no reſt⯑ing-place [108]whereon ſhe could ſet her foot; and that ſhe was compelled to leave him to Deſpair.

"Ah! my dear! dear friend! and partner in grief!" obſerved the unhappy Henry, "the firebrands of hate and animoſity, which our af⯑fectionate care, joined to the goodneſs of Sir Armine's heart, had almoſt extinguiſhed, are by this baneful rencontre and its effects kin⯑dled afreſh, and muſt conſume you and your beloved Olivia, Henry and his adored Caro⯑line in aſhes."

He then implored the advice and aſſiſtance of Charles, without the ſlighteſt expectation that either could be availing! He ran on to ſome length in a ſtate of incoherence that en⯑tangled the deſign, and obſcured the ſenſe with which he began; and, in fine, diſcovered that his enthuſiaſm threatened to hurl Reaſon from her throne! He then recurred to that laſt dire refuge of the deſperate, and argued the point of life and death by his own hand, with a caſuiſtry ſo ſubtle that he had almoſt perſuaded himſelf ſuicide was the only virtue left him to perform.—"This way only," ſaid he, "can Olivia eſcape a man, whoſe heart [109]is for ever alienated—for ever poſſeſſed by another! This way alone can my friend avoid the miſery of ſeeing the woman he adores in the arms of another.—This way, too, ſhall he be diſſolved from his everlaſting oath, and die faithful to the vows of his heart."

After a long indulgence of this phrenzy, he took the path which led to the contrary extreme, where duty to his father, and ad⯑miration of the tender virtues, as well as ten⯑der pity for the affection of Olivia, convinced him, though his days were to exceed thoſe of the longeſt liver upon earth, he ought ſtill to wiſh their prolongation, that he might reward ſo much benevolence, beauty, and goodneſs. He concluded the epiſtle by confeſſing, his whole ſoul was in the ſtate of this globe of earth, when all its materials were diſcordant atoms, and not having ſuffered his paſſions or his imagination, intemperate as they were, to extinguiſh, for more than a moment, thoſe heavenly ſparks which his principles had lighted up, and which his education had foſ⯑tered in his ſoul, he ended with a prayer, that the Power who called into order a world, and [110]perhaps myriads of worlds, from anarchy, would deign to bring his deeply-diſtracted mind from its preſent chaos!

The unfortunate writer of this farrago hav⯑ing addreſſed, ſealed, and diſpatched it, felt an impulſe, he could not but indulge, to join the party now aſſembled in the barn. He there found Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton, Olivia and Mr. Clare, who had been inter⯑rupted in their way thereto by a little adven⯑ture of Jane Atwood's.

The reader may recollect the latter of theſe perſons left the room ſuddenly, the occaſion of which was this:—Finding, through the benevolence of Olivia and Sir Armine, that her ſtill too kindly-remembered Sir Guiſe would receive no farther hardſhips, and conjecturing ſhe ſhould incur no cenſure by a little antici⯑pation of the intended clemency, the poor girl, obeying the ſoftneſs of her heart, which told her, that Nature inſiſted on her dues of daily bread, as well in her guilty as inno⯑cent ſubjects, had ventured to gain one of the waiters over to her wiſhes of adminiſtering ſomething to eat and drink more nutritious [111]than the bread and water which that vigilant diſciplinarian, Mr. Partington, had permitted to be ſet before them ſince their captivity. Having ſeen her brother, therefore, ſafe at his own breakfaſt, and True George, whoſe heart, on this ſide a breach of duty, could deny her nothing, fixed as his ſubſtitute, ſhe had paſſed the firſt centinel, namely the aforeſaid George, and had got with her baſket of proviſions to the barn door, and was juſt giving orders to the waiter to take it to the priſoners, when Sir Armine and the reſt caught her in the fact.

It is not eaſy to conjecture the ingenuous diſtreſs and embarraſſment of Jane Atwood. She entered upon her defence in ſo very lame a manner, that her offence would have been extremely aggravated had ſhe not found a better advocate in Olivia, who, with honeſt energy, declared, ſhe ſhould have done the ſame, or worſe, had ſhe reflected on the cir⯑cumſtances of the poor wretches; "for I do not think," ſaid ſhe, "I could know the wickedeſt creature upon the earth; no, not my father's murderer—though the very thought of [112]him would nearly murder me too—no; I am poſitive I could not let even him die of fa⯑mine while I had charge of his life, and power to adminiſter to thoſe bitter wants which would make him incapable even of repent⯑ance in his laſt moments."

"Take that baſket, George," ſaid Sir Armine, "and carry it to the party who are in need of its contents—or no—ſtop," conti⯑nued he, "I have a thought may anſwer the purpoſe better.—Here, Jane, do you carry this into the houſe, and in a room apart from that which we occupy, order a proper repaſt to be prepared for the perſons you intended to relieve; and ſee, good girl, that it be done immediately."

Jane, burſting into tears, could anſwer to this kindneſs only by them, and ſeveral bows which George made for her, ſaying, "Their honours ſaw the young woman was not well." George then took hold of her arm, and conducted her into the houſe.

It was at this moment that Henry arrived. Sir Armine undertook the explanation ſo much to Olivia's honour, that Henry, inceſ⯑ſantly [113]warmed by inſtances of her excellent diſpoſition, felt it was, if not the conquering, the reſiſtleſs moment, and with violence proteſted he was ſure ſhe muſt be an angel. "No," replied Olivia, putting her face cloſe to that of Henry; "alas! no angel, but a mere mortal, who conſiders that the poor wretch, bad as he is, gave birth to Charles and Caroline, of whoſe ineſtimable value we are both conſcious."

Thus perpetually did Olivia promote the cauſe of others, and counteract her deareſt intereſts! At the diſplays of her character and conduct, Henry often glowed with ſuch admiration and gratitude, that he could have been proud to have flown with her to the al⯑tar; but then her converſation ſo frequently brought back the image and virtues of Caro⯑line to his mind, that ſhe was, in a manner, acceſſary to his looking on that altar as the place where, ſhould he yield his hand to Oli⯑via, he muſt at the ſame time ſacrifice his love, his fame, his friend, his honour, and his virtue!

CHAPTER XIV.

SIR ARMINE, with his family, now en⯑tered the place where the proud, creſt-fallen Sir Guiſe, and his infamous accomplices, were degraded; and, advancing within a few paces, ſtopped ſhort.

For a moment we too muſt pauſe, good reader, to converſe in a friendly manner with one another. Peradventure thou haſt formed great expectations of this meeting of the two Baronets: thou mayeſt ſuppoſe that the in⯑jured Sir Armine, after much triumph over the captive Sir Guiſe, will diſmiſs him with all the pride of a conqueror. If thou art of a ſanguine complexion, thou wilt prepare for the grand ſublime of ſome great action, ac⯑companied by all its verbal pageantries; and if of a phlegmatic turn, thou wilt be diſſatisfied if any thing be ſaid or done beyond the barren limit of thy own cold nature. Either way, if thou art deeply read in faſtidious learning, thou wilt be diſappointed in this tranſaction, which conſiſted—after a moment's delay to beg Lady [115]Fitzorton and Olivia would apprehend nothing—in the offended party going up to the grand offender, and with his own hand unbinding his legs and arms, beckoning to George and his ſon Henry to do the ſame for Miles and David Otley.

The contraſt exhibited in the two Baronets at this inſtant was ſuch, as a delineator of the human character has ſeldom an opportunity to obſerve. The awful and ſuperior majeſty of an inſulted and innocent man giving liberty to a baſe clandeſtine enemy, who, though nearly dead to the exceſſes of conſcious infamy, ſeemed almoſt to wiſh that the cords thus looſened were drawn tight, even to ſtrangu⯑lation, round his neck.

Sir Armine pointed to the door, and ſigni⯑fied, by ſufficient tokens, that the path to the Abbey, or wherever elſe he might deſire to take his way, would not be obſtructed: but Sir Armine uttered not a word till he gained the court-yard, that led from the barn to the houſe, and then, in a voice that penetrated the heart of every hearer, he ſaid—"Attri⯑bute, thou Implacable! thy undeſerved en⯑largement [116]to thy children and mine, whoſe virtues are a balance—and ſurely higher praiſe cannot be given them—for vices ſuch as thine!"

Diſdaining to caſt a look on the ſubordi⯑nate engines of baſeneſs, Sir Armine, with his aſſociates, went into the houſe, but he had ſcarcely paſſed his foot over the threſhold be⯑fore Jane Atwood and True George came running into the paſſage, by another door, to ſay, that "an armed multitude were marching on from the neighbouring villages to revenge the injuries committed againſt their reſpected patron, Sir Armine, by their deteſted tyrant Sir Guiſe."

"He muſt be protected," ſaid Sir Armine. George flew to his protection ſwift as the word. Young Atwood, who was at hand, did the ſame. His ſiſter repeated Sir Ar⯑mine's orders till Adſell woods re-echoed—"Sir Guiſe muſt be protected." Henry Fitzorton forſook, for a moment, the ſide of Olivia to attempt the reſcue of the father of Caroline. But the mob, who now poured into the inn-yard, covering the [117]fields adjacent, were at firſt too clamorous to be oppoſed—they had heard the ſtory of the aſſaſſination with all the extravagant addi⯑tions of a travelling tale; and here, as at the abbey and caſtle, Sir Guiſe being an object of general hatred, and Sir Armine of as ge⯑neral love, even the entreaties, explanations, promiſes, and threats of the latter, could not prevent the enraged multitude from hooting, pelting, hiſſing, huſtling, buffeting, and beating the former out of the inn⯑yard; and in deſpite of Henry, Partington, young Atwood, George and Jane, who fol⯑lowed the rabble from one end of the pa⯑riſh to the other, their unmitigated fury was purſued by the aſſailants even to that part of Adſell foreſt where the poſtillion told them the attack was made. At that memorable place, had not the ſhrieks and at length the ſwoons of Jane Atwood, like a guardian genius, broke the raging paſſions, by exciting the general pity and humanity of the mob to reſtore a beautiful young wo⯑man whom ſome of them ſuppoſed was the Baronet's daughter, Sir Guiſe, Otley, [118]and Miles, would have breathed their laſt on the identical ſpot where they had begun the aſſaſſination.

Thus implored, they ſuffered at length the miſcreant and his minions to eſcape, and the mob turned all their attention to the young woman, who,—after recovering, and being aſſured, by the generous George, in a ten⯑der whiſper, that Sir Guiſe had got off alive,—was carried by the people ſafe back to the inn. Here they met Sir Armine, Mr. Clare, and the ladies, coming in conſternation to know what had been the reſult of the affray. Olivia ſeeing Henry, for whom ſhe had felt terrors not to be deſcribed, fell into a ſtate ſcarce leſs pitiable than that of Jane. But at length the adventure of the running fight was explained, the company took ſome more refreſhment, and the good ſurgeon telling Sir Armine, the ſooner he left the ſcene of agitation, and got to his own quiet home, the better, Partington ordered the horſes and carriages to be brought out, and Sir Armine, his friends and familty left the eventful inn.

[119]But they had not yet arrived at the land of peace; for the ſame multitude which had diſ⯑miſſed Sir Guiſe with ſo many marks of diſ⯑approbation, would not part with Sir Armine without greetings of as violent applauſe; they hung on the wheels of his coach, took off the horſes, and drew him along in triumph; they ran after him for ſome miles, crying out "God bleſs Sir Armine!" and at laſt ſtop⯑ped the carriages and horſes, inſiſting that Partington, Henry, and all the retinue, ſhould join them in three cheers, to the honour of Sir Armine. After which they gave a univerſal huzza, and ſuffered the vehicles and horſemen to proceed.

CHAPTER XV.

THE reſt of the journey was performed without any farther interruptions, except that towards the end of it Sir Armine complained of uneaſy ſenſations in his ſtomach, which, he ſaid, he was apprehenſive were the forebod⯑ings of his old conſtitutional enemy, the gout.

At length, however, the antique towers and gothic avenues of Adſell Hall appeared in [120]view, and the evening ſun was playing its beams on the romantic ſcenery around, at the proſpects of which different ſentiments were produced in the minds of ſome of the com⯑pany.

In the fine eyes and complexion of Olivia, were written all thoſe tender perturbations, hopes, and fears, which till now the late occurrences had baniſhed from her gentle bo⯑ſom, but ſhe ſaid nothing. "It was at the altar of that old chapel, my child," obſerved Mr. Clare, "that your grandfather was made the happieſt of mankind.—O may the heirs to his fortune, the fair domain that is now opening upon us, ſucceed to that richer poſ⯑ſeſſion, his unſpeakable felicity! for I know by my own heart—widower as it is, and wholly bereaved as it would be but for thee, Olivia," the old gentleman tenderly drew his daughter towards him, "I know there is no earthly treaſure ſo invaluable as a chaſte and virtuous companion—ſuch as, alas! I have loſt!" Mr. Clare brought his daughter's hand from his boſom to his lips, and impreſſed it with a kiſs that was moiſtened with a [121]tear, while Olivia gently lifted her other hand to the old man's cheek, and wreathing her arm by degrees round his neck, repaid the precious drops which he had ſhed with ten⯑fold intereſt.

Meantime, Sir Armine forgot every for⯑mer pain in the ſupremely happy reflection of ſtill poſſeſſing the excellent Lady Fitz⯑orton, whom having viewed for ſome mo⯑ments with conſcious pride, he exclaimed, with an energy that ſpoke the ſoul—"The years of that lovely girl almoſt thrice num⯑bered," pointing to Olivia, "haſt thou been the bleſſing of my life!"

The coachman was ordered to ſtop at the top of the hill, from whence Adſell Hall park and chapel were diſcovered, and where theſe little pictures of family happineſs were drawn. Henry and Partington had rode on one ſide of the road, keeping even with the coach; and the poſt-chariot, in which were George and Jane, to whom her brother was now added, drew up on the other, more in appre⯑henſion of Sir Armine's returning ſickneſs, [122]than in expectance of thoſe ſweetly tearful ſenſations which welcome the pains, if pains they may be called, of a tender heart. The whole group, therefore, characteriſtically felt the ſcene. Henry, who had witneſſed it from the time of Mr. Clare's paternal prayer to Sir Armine's laſt reflection, and to whom the ſight of the chapel brought back every ago⯑niſing anticipation, counterfeited but ill the ſmile he gave to Mr. Clare when that good man wiſhed him all the bliſs that both their houſes had experienced in marriage. Henry bowed acknowledgment, but, obſerving the evening dews were falling, adviſed his father to avoid them by ſuffering him to order the coachman and poſtillion to drive briſkly to the Hall. By this manoeuvre he eſcaped the ſeverity of any farther trial of his feelings. True George wept and laughed by turns; young Atwood bore him company; but Jane was ſo overwhelmed with the con⯑flicts which preceded, that, when the car⯑riages were again in motion, ſhe felt relieved. Some minutes before, Partington, whoſe [123]ſenſibility had been variouſly excited, turned his horſe from the coach again into the road, ſwearing, "that Sir Guiſe and his worthy pair of friends were archangels to Sir Armine and his family, who, he plainly ſaw"—here he rubbed his eyes, which were not dry—"had a deſire to blind him firſt, and then to break his heart; for which, amongſt a multitude of other obliging favours, he conſidered the whole body, men and women, as a ſet of d****d good-for-nothing aſſaſ⯑ſinating caitiffs and ſcoundrels."

At length they arrived at the place of deſtination. The ſun had juſt made "a golden ſet;" the villagers were aſſembled on the green which neighboured the hall, to pay their firſt ſalutations; and the rural bells joined merrily in chorus to the notes of univerſal welcome. It was, indeed, conſidered by the inhabitants of the ſurrounding pariſhes as a jubilee, which had been expected by the peaſantry and huſbandmen for many years: Their lovely patroneſs was now come amongſt them, not only to take poſſeſſion of her [124]ample inheritance, but to ſhare it, as they had often heard, with a youth generous as herſelf, and from whoſe liberal regulations they ex⯑pected to derive all the benefits of honeſt induſtry, and of eaſy ſervitude; for it had been given out that if the young 'ſquire and his lady liked Adſell-Hall, they were to fit it up for their general reſidence; a point of the utmoſt importance to the ſons and daughters of poverty. That nothing on their parts, therefore, might be wanting, whatever could demonſtrate reſpect, gratitude, and zeal, were now to be ſeen and heard.

A village poet, whoſe metre was looked upon, by the ruſtics, as the ſublimeſt effort of human genius, preſented a gratulatory ode, in the laſt ſtanza of which he promiſed an epithalamium when the young couple ſhould attend the altar of Hymen. A rural mu⯑ſician, whoſe untutored melody was at leaſt a match for the uncouth rhime of the afore⯑ſaid bard, compoſed a cantata, which was to be rehearſed the evening of the arrival, but to be played to a full band, immediately [125]after the ceremony—the barber having pro⯑miſed his flute, the huntſman of a neigh⯑bouring 'ſquire, his horn, and the clerk of an attorney from the next market-town, his fiddle, the compoſer himſelf literally execut⯑ing harmony on the baſſoon. Six of the village maids were ſelected, by ſage matrons, to twine chaplets of jeſſamine and roſes; cudgel-playing, ſingle-ſtick and cricket were alſo in preparation, and a variety of other honorary tokens of duty, good-will, and ho⯑mage, were deſigned to celebrate the nuptials of Henry Fitzorton and the blooming lady of the manor.

Theſe innocent teſtimonies of ruſtic ſatiſ⯑faction were highly acceptable to all but Henry, who, having now had leiſure for retroſpect, looked upon every preparation as a garland to decorate a grand ſacrifice, of which he was to be the principal victim. And yet matters had now gone to ſuch length, he ſaw no way to eſcape. His obligations to Olivia, whoſe virtues were ever under his eyes, multiplied every hour. His obſtacles to the hand of Caroline were [126]increaſed tenfold within the laſt two days; even though, before, they did not ſeem to admit of augmentation. All that could be expected was a little delay, that his father might recover his late fatigue before he entered on a freſh courſe of tumultuary hap⯑pineſs; and even this, Sir Armine determined, ſhould poſtpone the feſtivity only twenty-four hours.

There was a rough honeſty in the good Partington, who, albeit, unuſed to the ſoft parts of ſpeech, had as much nicety in feel⯑ing, as bluntneſs in expreſſion. He was often on the point of at once extricating Henry by unfolding his ſituation to Mr. Clare, or even to Olivia herſelf; for he en⯑tered into the ſpirit of Henry's objections; and though he did not ſee the leaſt poſ⯑ſibility of his friend being united to the woman he loved—the daughter of the villain, or, as Partington himſelf called him, the worthy gentleman who would have murdered Sir Armine—he could look for nothing but grief and diſappointment in marrying one whom he did not love, [127]even though it was the charming Olivia. But the buſineſs of interference was difficult and delicate; and after long deliberation, he once more took Henry aſide to ſay, "My dear ſcoundrel, I can do you no good, and I do not chooſe to run the hazard of doing you any harm; ſo to-morrow morning I ſhall take myſelf back into my own country, attended by young Atwood, whoſe family are now in ſuſpenſe about him. All I have to obſerve is, that if you have no better means than a ſecond elopement, and wiſh for an aſylum, I can lock you up in my cellar; in deſcending to which there is a well-ſtored pantry, and there you may remain, you unhap⯑py villain, till you have drunk and eat me out: for I muſt confeſs, as love is not on your ſide of the queſtion, you would do better to live with "toads in the vapour of a dun⯑geon," as that incomparable old ſcoundrel Will Shakeſpeare expreſſes it, than with the faireſt and fineſt girl in the world in a palace; for in that caſe, to my firm thoughts, Olivia is no better than an oyſter-wench."

With this ſentiment he left Henry, forlorn and undecided, and would have made ready [128]for his journey, but for one of thoſe un⯑foreſeen interventions which, in this world of changes, baffles the limited foreſight of man, and ſometimes, at a moment's warning, ſometimes without it, levels emperors and empires, and every laboured edifice of their power, fancy, and ambition, in that common duſt of nature, out of which they, and all that they create or inherit, were formed; proving at once the ſtrength and weakneſs of mortality.

CHAPTER XVI.

ON the evening of the day preceding the intended nuptials, Sir Armine felt him⯑ſelf unexpectedly faint, accompanied by a ſlight return of his pains in different parts of the body, but particularly in that where he had received the ruffian's laſt daſtardly blow. He withdrew to his chamber, before the uſual hour, convinced himſelf, and convincing others, that a few hours reſt, which he felt he ſhould enjoy, would make him riſe more alert in the morning than either the intended [129]bride or bridegroom. Reſiſting all offers to have anybody ſit up with him, and it having been ſettled, before he was taken ill, that on this, the laſt night of Olivia's ſingle ſtate, Lady Fitzorton was to be the partner of her bed, he went up ſtairs, peremptorily refuſing company or aſſiſtance: and as Lady Fitz⯑orton ſaw he was not in a temper of mind to be controlled, ſhe vexed him not with importunity.

But growing worſe in the night, he reſorted to, as he thought, a bottle of lau⯑danum, in whoſe powers he had always too much faith; and although in much agony, he was unwilling to diſturb any of the family, thinking the diſorder would paſs away in the profoundneſs of that ſleep which the ſuppoſed laudanum, his favourite panacea, would procure. He went ſo haſtily to the cloſet, where, the day before, he had locked up all his medicines, that the lamp went out; and in this ſtate of darkneſs and uncertainty, as he was in ſearch of ſomething to hold the laudanum, he unfortunately laid his hand on a cup in which had been mixed up, and [130]incautiouſly left by the houſe ſteward, a pre⯑paration of arſenic and other poiſonous drugs, to deſtroy ſome rats which had infeſted ſeveral parts of the dilapidated manſion. Anxious to remove the malady which he felt every minute increaſing, he reſorted again to the medicine-cheſt, and poured a double proportion of his favourite anodyne upon the dregs, which having drunk, he re⯑turned to his bed.

The deadly quality of the poiſon was for ſome time overborne by the balmy power of the anodyne, and poor Sir Armine en⯑joyed a temporary repoſe; out of which, alas! he was rouſed at the dawn of the day by ſenſations of miſery that raged through his whole frame. The family were alarmed: they found Sir Armine in ſpeechleſs agony; at a tranſient interval of which, he with difficulty exclaimed,—"The laudanum! the laudanum! ſome dire miſtake!"—A ſhriek from the wife of the houſe ſteward, who had taken up the cup out of which Sir Armine had drank the fatal potion, now augmented the conſternation by wildly crying out— [131]"O! why did not my huſband remove this cruel, cruel cup? His Honour, ladies, has ſwallowed poiſon!—This cup, alas! this cup!"—Incapable of finiſhing the ſentence, ſhe fell on the floor.—"Poiſoned! Sir Ar⯑mine poiſoned!" ejaculated every one pre⯑ſent; "the God of heaven and earth for⯑bid!"

On the arrival of the very ſurgeon who attended Sir Armine at Adſell, and whom True George, almoſt with the rapidity of wings, had fetched from thence, medicines were adminiſtered, which, after a violent operation of ſome hours, gave gleams of hope that Sir Armine might be reſtored, ſo far as human means could recover him. On the fourth day, by judicious treatment, he could bear to ſit up, and ſaw, by turns, every one of his family in his chamber: Henry was ſtill his conſtant attendant, and rarely left the bed-ſide. His beloved hand—for in ſickneſs as in health he was his darling—adminiſtered the cordials, and they ſeemed to acquire new energies from [132]ſuch miniſtration. The gentle Olivia too was often at the door, even when it was impoſ⯑ſible to gain entrance. The ſolicitous inquiries of the villagers, after their venerable and reverend paſtor and patron, were inceſſant. In the end, the poiſon ſeemed wholly ex⯑pelled by the antidotes, but had left his ge⯑neral health ſo much invaded, his frame, even to its ſtamina, ſo ſhaken, his ſtomach was ſo torn by his old malignant enemy, and, perhaps even yet, ſome internal pains from thoſe bruiſes which a more inveterate foe had inflicted, that the effects of all theſe evils brought on a complication of ills, for which perhaps, in the moſt vigorous bloom of man's life, there could have been no eſtabliſhed cure, but which muſt inevitably, even in the firmeſt conſtitution, and ſuch Sir Armine had been bleſt with, have ter⯑minated in a manner the moſt fatal.

The dreaded ſtroke which was to ſeparate this venerable man therefore from his family came on "with ſolemn ſteps, and ſlow;" but, alas! they were not leſs certain than if the dire [133]power of the poiſon had continued to rage: he was in a manner dying daily under their eyes, but happily his pangs were leſs and leſs acute. Thus he regained comparative eaſe of body and tranquillity of mind; and though aſſured of death's approaches for ſome weeks before the "fatal arrow ſped," he diſplayed to all around a rare example of paternal tenderneſs, patience, and every chriſtian virtue.

When Sir Armine felt his hour at hand, which he expected more than a week before it arrived, he expreſſed wiſhes to her whoſe delight had ever been to obey them, that he might breathe his laſt at Fitzorton Caſtle. Thither, therefore, he was removed by ſlow degrees, and ſeemed much the better both for the air and exerciſe of the journey.

What a ſeducer is the heart! It again de⯑ceived all the Fitzortons and Clares with a falſe but ſoothing hope, that Sir Armine might yet be ſpared to them. And when theſe fond expectations were imparted to their object, he received them with a ſmile, [134]which ſhewed his reluctance to damp an in⯑nocent deluſion which he ſaw gave them pleaſure.

The diſorder, nevertheleſs, in ſilent depreda⯑tion went on; and in the evening of the fatal night in which its victim departed, he deſired ſuch of the family as were then in his room to leave him. "All of you," ſaid Sir Armine, holding Henry by the hand, "but this young man, with whom I wiſh to confer; and when I ring the bell, let it, I pray, be conſidered as a ſummons for your return to me."—They obeyed.

"O! thou the neareſt to my heart!" ſaid he to Henry, "in this its laſt hour of motion—for the hand of death is outſtretched, I ſee it hovering over my pillow—Thou! for whom it throbs with tenderneſs unutter⯑able—I charge thee with my expiring breath, and by my parting ſoul's eternal hope, as ſoon after my deceaſe as the decent forms of the world allow, not to delay fulfilling the purpoſe for which the journey that will produce my diſſolution was undertaken; for [135]were all other motives annihilated,—and I have pardoned all men—even as I hope to be pardoned—all motives, I ſay, but thoſe which are due to the beſt of the aged, and of the young—to my earlieſt friend, and to his child, thoſe are all ſufficient. My own immediate death is not more inevitable, than would be theirs on your refuſal. Perhaps, my dear Hen⯑ry, this point of union has been preſſed on my part with too fond a ſolicitude—beyond a parent's authority. It is my only pang in death. You muſt place it amongſt the faults of my long life; but it is, alas! now too late to avail yourſelf of this error. Guard then with the moſt religious care from the father, and the child, whoſe fate is in your hand, the remoteſt thought of it ever having been neceſſary for me to urge this ſubject, and con⯑ceal yet more religiouſly the ſecret attach⯑ment you have unadviſedly once entertained for any other woman, more particularly for the daughter of the man who—but I will not inſult you by farther mention of that Im⯑placable, whoſe conduct you muſt deprecate. [136]Think that my lateſt bleſſing, even if not withheld, cannot be deſerved—if—."

"O! I will be the victim of a thouſand ſacrifices, die a thouſand deaths," exclaimed Henry, in an agony, "to deſerve and to re⯑ceive that bleſſing."

"Receive it moſt certainly thou ſhalt," ſaid Sir Armine, "even if it be not deſerved: It will be my duty to give, but it reſts with my ſon to beſtow, or to refuſe, what will im⯑part to that duty all its ſweetneſs. My ſon, decide; thy father's life hangs by a thread, which the next breath may ſever."

Henry was ſo utterly abſorbed as ſcarce to hear his father's thrice repeated command, to ring the bell; when, however, he obeyed, the family re-appeared.

Amongſt theſe, we have to number John Fitzorton, who had been, at length, informed of Sir Armine's extremity, the cauſe of which however was to be imputed to the accident of the poiſon. Every one, but eſpecially Sir Armine, trembled at the conſequences, ſhould the part that Sir Guiſe had taken be made [137]known. From the vow of ſilence, therefore, which Sir Armine impoſed, the family was only in part releaſed. John had rode almoſt at full ſpeed two days and nights, to take his everlaſting leave of a parent whom he loved with a ſtrength and ardour not infe⯑rior to that which was borne him by Henry or James, and this ardour inſpired him with a ſpeed that even outſtripped the rapidities of the former.

But his father's exhauſted appearance, the depredation that had been made in his majeſtic form, the ſinking voice, the faded eye, the trembling hand, and the various wrecks of a deathbed ſickneſs, ſtruck the heart of John with a diſmay far beyond the powers of ſpeech; but though ſilence enchained his tongue, the friend, the ſon, the man, ſpoke in every feature, flowed, when he could weep, in every tear, and agoniſed in every groan.

"Thou art in good time, my ineſtimable John," ſaid his father, "to receive my warmeſt bleſſing! my warmeſt gratitude! Thou art in time, alſo, to witneſs the hap⯑pineſs [138]with which a chriſtian can leave this world! pleaſed, and proud, at the thought of bequeathing to it, in his own family, ſome of its nobleſt ornaments and examples."

John Fitzorton uttered not a ſentence, yet ſeemed almoſt ſuffocated from the powers of ſpeech refuſed—the relief, even of a ſingle tear, was long denied him. After his firſt ſurvey of his father's ſituation, he had hurried round to the left ſide of the bed, fell on his knees, put his father's hand into his boſom, there held it, and looked ſteadily at Sir Armine's countenance.

The object of his care here ſpread forth his arms, as if to illuſtrate his eulogy by en⯑circling his family, Mr. Clare, and Olivia. In the intermediate ſpace betwixt his life and death, as Henry was leaning over his pillow, a whiſpered queſtion and reply paſſed between Sir Armine and his youngeſt ſon.

"Is my bleſſing to be deſerved?"

"O! in all things now left within my power."

"All I require is in your power," ſaid Sir Armine.

[139]Henry ſeemed eager to ſay ſomething in reply, but his father prevented, by invoking upon his obedient ſon the laſt benediction of a dying parent. He then claſped Henry in his arms, beckoning to Olivia to receive him from an expiring father as her future guardian and huſband. Then taking up a Bible which he had been frequently reading, and which at all times, in ſickneſs and in health was laid behind his pillow, he preſſed it with fervour to his lips, emphatically re⯑peating—"The everlaſting benediction of a father be upon ye both!" He then delivered the book to Henry, ſaying, after an earneſt gaze, whoſe meaning could not be miſtaken, "Do thou likewiſe."

Henry, the victim of a thouſand emotions, kiſſed the ſacred volume with an ardour, as if he hoped, from its holy power, the inſpira⯑tion of fortitude greater than his own; and, in a voice ſuited to ſuch expected ſuccour, exclaimed, "On the holy bond of theſe awe⯑ful leaves do I ſwear to ratify the commands of a dying parent."

[140]"Enough," ſaid Sir Armine: "I die in peace."

Sir Armine ſurvived this ſpeech only a few hours; but the reader will permit us to conduct him haſtily from the ſacred apart⯑ment, and quit for a while the melancholy caſtle of Fitzorton.

CHAPTER XVII.

WE were conſtrained to leave the un⯑happy Caroline in various diſtreſs, occaſion⯑ed by the receipt of Olivia's letter, which, as the reader remembers, threw the whole party whom it concerned—and it involved the deſtiny of ſeveral perſons—into per⯑plexities, out of which there appeared no friendly clue.

To this, on the part of Caroline, ſuc⯑ceeded the ſecret departure of her brother and father, with an air of myſtery which foreboded freſh calamities. In this ſolitary ſtate, while ſhe was wandering in the thorny labyrinths of conjecture, one of her maids came into [141]her chamber, and officiouſly related the news which had been brought by a tenant who had paſſed through Adſell, and was come to ſettle his yearly accounts at the ab⯑bey.

This man had told Denniſon, in the heed⯑leſs girl's hearing, the hiſtory of the affray as he had picked it up in the kitchen of the inn, where truth was ſo far from being the hiſtorian, that every fact was diſtorted; and by the time the good farmer had travelled with it to the abbey, for he made a ſtop at every public houſe in his way, it had grown to ſuch a frightful ſize, that even at Adſell, had it been carried back again in the ſtate it was delivered to Caroline, or at leaſt as related to her by the maid-ſervant, it would ſcarce have been known to be the ſtory of Sir Guiſe's aſſaſſination, and of Sir Armine's conſequent malady.

The farmer recorded, "That his worſhipful reverend Honour of Fitzorton was at the point of death; that all the company, men and women, even to the coachman on his box, were beaten almoſt to mummies; and that, [142]inſtead of marriage, there was, God willing, in all likelihood, to be a burial ceremony of them all.—That his honorable's diſhoneſt landlord Sir Guiſe, his unhonorable madam, who 'tis thought is lurking hard by, and his hanger-on Miles, as pure a limb of the devil as you ſhould wiſh to ſee, and another ill-looked fellow, all jumped out of a wood at once, ſnapped their blunderbuſſes, drew their broadſwords, and went deſperateouſly to work; and being taken by one 'Squire Bart⯑ington or Partington, were thruſt into an old barn till Sir Armine was dead, then to go before juſtice, who, it was thought, would order them all for gaol, then to the gallows." To this intelligence the farmer added, "that the young Captain Stuart, brave as a lion's whelp, ran for it, leſt he ſhould be hanged too, as one of the accompliſhes, though he had no hand in it; but like father like ſon, they ſay you know; yet he took Sir Armine's part againſt his own father, whom he thraſhed heartily: good that; but, thought I, he ſhould have got another thraſher. I had ſome notion, Maſter Denniſon, of aſking to ſee [143]the wicked old gentleman after he had got into Lob's Pound, ſo ſave myſelf the trouble of this journey, by paying my rent to him⯑ſelf," ſaid the farmer; "for though he's an old rogue, under favour, it's no reaſon I ſhould be one too; but on ſecond thoughts, I remembered to have read in a book, that a priſoner's bond is no bond, a nulli⯑fication, as they ſay; ſo, thought I, what ſignifies his Honour's receipt to I, now, ſeeing his body is the lawyer's, and his hand-writing, by the ſame token, a nullification: another rea⯑ſon was, that I did not like to be ſeen in com⯑pany with his Honour after he was a ſaſſin⯑ator, for thought I—I am, you know, Mr. Denniſon, a pretty bit of a thinker—yes, thought I to I, I may be had up as a wit⯑neſs, or ſummut or other, and law work often takes a man from buſineſs: and moreover, I had my thoughts about me after another faſhion: I did not like to give ſo much money into the hands of a man who was in a hanging condition, ſeeing as mayhap his family had a better right to it than Mr. John Catch; and moreover there's no knowing, [144]thought I, to what ſtraits a great gentleman like Sir Guiſe may be driven to, before he takes to the highway: and who knows, thought I—a keen one, an't I—but if I pay this rent of mine to Maſter Denniſon, who I know to be an honeſt man, but Miſs or the Captain may be the better for it—an honeſt one too, you ſee—ſo thought I, I will e'en ſeem to take no notice; but after baiting my beaſt, and lunching a bit myſelf, I will jog on and let 'em know how matters are here at Adſell; for, thought I, mayhap poor Miſs at home knows nothing of what rogues tricks her father has been doing in thoſe um' parts there: So, Mr. Denniſon, here I am, here's my money, and here's the long and ſhort of the ſtory."

Had not Denniſon been too much occu⯑pied by the circumſtances to attend whether there had been any auditors in the room but himſelf, he would, doubtleſs, have attempted to ſet the ſeal of ſecrecy on the lips of the loquacious maid; but ſhe happened to have juſt returned from ſweeping Denniſon's little parlour, when the farmer came; and as the [145]door was left on the jar, the girl ſtood with open eyes and ears, ſuſpended on her bruſh, devouring every ſyllable, and the moment the tale-bearer had ended, ſhe ran, without wait⯑ing to hear Denniſon's comments, to make a report of even more than the whole; firſt to her young lady, and then to every one of her fellow ſervants.

Notwithſtanding the terror and aſtoniſh⯑ment which theſe tidings produced in the mind of Caroline, ſhe ſaw that much was magnified by the fears of the maid, and al⯑lowed for the natural progreſs of a malicious tale; yet enough of the probable remained, after all reaſonable deductions, to excite ap⯑prehenſions that ſomething dreadful had hap⯑pened, and that almoſt every perſon moſt near and dear to her was concerned. She would have gone down to the farmer and queſtioned him herſelf, but that another of the maid ſervants at that time came to the apartment with Denniſon's dutiful deſire, as he expreſſed himſelf, to hold ſome diſcourſe with her. The object of this interview was to conceal with much care every thing that [146]had been already divulged, and at the ſame time to frame ſome excuſe for his (Denni⯑ſon's) journey to Adſell, where the good ſteward ſaid he had reaſon to ſuppoſe his pre⯑ſence might be ſerviceable on a little matter of buſineſs. "Farmer Spedman has been here, Miſs," ſaid the good old man, under great emotion which he laboured to hide; "and I find by him all matters, reſpecting his honour's eſtates which lie in that county, are not to his honour's liking; and—and—and—as—perhaps—his honour, and young maſter, and the reſt, he had reaſons to ſuppoſe, were detained there—or—or thereabouts—and perhaps did not chooſe to let your ladyſhip know, becauſe it might vex your ladyſhip, I—I—I think—it may be right for me to ſet off and ſee what can be done—ſo I deſired the farmer to go before, and—and—"

"Denniſon," ſaid Caroline, "I ſee your diſtreſs; but I have heard as much of the ſad ſtory brought by Farmer Spedman as your⯑ſelf, and am ſo far from diſapproving your journey to Adſell—for there I underſtand the unfortunates are aſſembled—that I am deter⯑mined [147]to be your companion, and deſire the chariot may be got ready directly; from the next town we can go poſt. I do not, my good Denniſon, ſuſpect, and Heaven forbid I ſhould! half the dreadful events which the ig⯑norant farmer has talked upon; but ſome⯑thing, depend upon it, is wrong, and we are both called upon by our duty to ſet out this inſtant." Then turning to the maid ſervant, and ſaying, "Betty, I ſhall want your aſſiſt⯑ance," was haſtening out of the room. Den⯑niſon, who apprehended more than Caroline, or at leaſt than ſhe thought fit to expreſs, tried many ways to gain permiſſion for his undertaking the journey alone; obſerving, "that if any thing worſe than he hoped had happened—"

"The more unfortunate my father's or brother's ſituation, the more ſhall I [...] wanted," cried Caroline; "and at [...] I am reſolved to go—ſo without [...] time or words, I muſt intreat," [...] with a more peremptory voice and [...] than uſual, "that the carriage may be [...] door immediately." As ſhe was [...] [148]ſecond time, her brother the Lieutenant made his appearance. The happineſs of ſeeing one of the perſons deareſt to her ſoul return alive, gave cheerful preſage of the reſt, and ſhe was opening her arms to receive him, when that afflicted youth, after violently ſtamping on the ground to expreſs contrary emotions, too ſtrong for utterance, ſtaggered to a chair and burſt into a flood of tears; preſently, ſeeing only the confidential Denniſon with his ſiſter, the maid ſervant being gone out of the room, "My dear Caroline," ſaid Charles, "pre⯑pare to leave this peſt-houſe immediately—It is the ſeat of contagion, diſgrace, and ſhame. It has covered us with bluſhes—Fly with your unhappy brother this moment."

"I was going to quit it," replied the trem⯑bling Caroline; "but wherefore do I ſee you thus agitated? Where is my father? Alas! I have heard in part; and I ſee in your terror-ſtriking looks, your trembling lips, and ſhaking frame, the dreadful news—Yes, let us fly this inſtant to his reſcue."

"His reſcue!" cried Charles, "the reſcue of an aſſaſſin! a common cut-throat! a mur⯑derer! Wouldſt thou fly to reſcue him? [149]No; it is to eſcape his preſence—to avoid him for ever. Ah! my unhappy, beloved ſiſter, let us hide our diſgraceful heads in ſome unthought-of corner; for that I am come; and but for the love of thee, no earthly power ſhould have brought me to the accurſed ſpot, which returns on my me⯑mory the author of our injuries."

Denniſon ſaw this was no time to reaſon down the rage, and almoſt phrenzy of Charles, or to enter into a detail of queſtions; falling, therefore, on his knees, while the big drops of ſympathy flowed down his cheeks, he im⯑plored to be partner of his young maſter's and lady's fortunes whitherſoever they led. While he was yet kneeling, the good father Arthur entered, like a patriarch bearing a commiſſion from the God of gods.

"Rather implore my brother, good old man," cried Caroline, "in the ſupplicatory poſture you are now in, not to defert him, to whom, whatever are his frailties, or even his vices, he owes his exiſtence, and leaſt of all to leave him in miſery, and wretchedneſs, and ſhame, if ſuch are to be his fate. No! [150]my deareſt, deareſt brother; you will not for⯑ſake your father at ſuch a deſolate moment. If he is moſt guilty, he is moſt pitiable; if he is in a priſon, his ſoul and body equally call upon us by the voice of Nature to miniſter calm to his deſpair. His conſcience—nay, his very crimes invite us to him. O! holy monk! convince my brother of this. Sir Guiſe, it ſeems, has, in the furious extreme of ſome unfortunate paſſion to which his nature, alas! is ſubject, done a deſperate deed, which threatens his life. Exert, I conjure you," continued ſhe, falling at Arthur's feet, and catching one of his hands, as Denniſon had done the other—"exert, I conjure you, your pious eloquence to penetrate the filial heart of this good youth with a due ſenſe of what he owes even to an erring parent—convince him that a father cannot be guilty beyond the reach of a child's commiſeration."

"Riſe, deareſt Caroline; I am convinced that thou art as good and virtuous as he is vicious and unworthy. But collect yourſelf, my worthy friend," ſaid Arthur, "and be not too raſh in deciding any offence beyond the [151]reach of God's pardon; and if not paſt the reach of God's, ſurely not beyond that of a ſon? What offence hath Sir Guiſe commit⯑ted?"

Charles incoherently related all the facts as they had happened, aſſerting, they ought no to be concealed.

Her father's barbarity, and calm, deter⯑mined rancour, Sir Armine's ſufferings and ennobled humanity, her brother's wounded ſpi⯑rit, from the bleeding arrows of hopeleſs love, lacerated friendſhip, and a parent's vices, all ſhot into the boſom of Caroline at once; and, alas! not the leaſt hard to bear, the filial, ever-active vigilance of Henry, ſo like her own, the agonizing ſtruggle betwixt uncon⯑querable love, his conſideration for Olivia, affection for his diſappointed friends, and duty to an injured father, who, by ſaving the al⯑moſt-forfeited life of Sir Guiſe, had new claims on his ſon's obedience;—all theſe, and a thou⯑ſand other piercing reflections bore down her ſpirits to the earth, on which ſhe fell, with a wiſh, that it were indeed the meaſure of her grave. She recovered from theſe accumulated [152]ſhocks, only to feel new pangs, for Charles read the letter ſent him by Henry from Adſell Inn.

Denniſon and Arthur, abſorbed almoſt be⯑yond ſenſe of Caroline's ſituation, lifted up their hands in ſilent aſtoniſhment; and the latter, on reviewing the wonder-working powers of Providence, thus making the very means that Sir Guiſe Stuart had uſed to de⯑ſtroy others deſtructive of their ends, burſt out—"Yes, it cannot be diſputed; the Poet is right— ‘All chance direction, which we cannot ſee!’

Caroline now again ſignified her unſhaken reſolve to ſeek her father, and follow him whereſoever diſtreſs might purſue him, en⯑joining her brother, by all the laws of nature and of blood, to do the ſame. Here a vio⯑lent noiſe, as of many voices ſhouting within and without the houſe, arreſted every one's attention, but before any conjecture as to the cauſe could be aſſigned, the tumult increaſed to a degree that baffled all inquiry, and, in⯑deed, rendered it unneceſſary; for Denniſon had ſcarce opened the door, when every ſer⯑vant [153]in the abbey, with a number of thoſe from the caſtle, filled the room with the con⯑trary cries of—"Spare him! ſpare his life!—Kill him! kill him! he has murdered my poor maſter.—Help! help! I ſhall be de⯑ſtroyed in my own houſe!—The laſt excla⯑mation was ſoon known to proceed from the miſerable Sir Guiſe, at the ſudden ſight of whom Caroline and Charles ſtood like ſta⯑tues, motionleſs with ſurpriſe. The buffeting of the multitude, however, filling all the rooms and paſſages, made it neceſſary that an active part ſhould be taken by ſomebody, unleſs a worſe fate was ſuffered to overtake Sir Guiſe at the abbey than that he had eſcaped at Adſell.

Accordingly, the good father Arthur and Denniſon—Charles having forced himſelf from the riſing ſtorm of paſſion at the ſight of Sir Guiſe to leave the houſe—ſo powerfully exert⯑ed themſelves, and produced a calm, chiefly by an obſervation from father Arthur, on the im⯑propriety indecency, and impiety of ſuch out⯑rage before a fair and equitable trial had con⯑demned a man, however deeply accuſed, ex⯑horting them to remember they were Engliſh⯑men, [154]and, of courſe, the ſupports of that grand charter of their country—A BRITISH JURY.

National vanity, whether well or ill found⯑ed, is ſeldom flattered in vain. Arthur's po⯑pular bait was inſtantly ſwallowed, and antici⯑pating that univerſal holiday when Sir Guiſe ſhould be hanged, the mob diſperſed in the ſame manner, and from the ſame motive, that influenced the inſurgents at Adſell. He was reſcued, however, barely on this ſide death, and Otley was left without any viſible ſigns that there remained any life in his worthleſs body.

But a trial more awful was at hand—the Baronet had yet to paſs the ordeal of an in⯑dignant ſon's reſentment; indeed, had not the populace driven Sir Guiſe into this ſnare he would have avoided it, and had taken pre⯑caution once more to that effect, his intention being to paſs the firſt night at Mrs. Tempeſt's lodge in the foreſt, where ſhe herſelf had lain perdue, and to remain there till he ſhould learn whether the coaſt was clear at the abbey. His hope was, that his ſon would remain with [155]the Fitzortons, and either not return home for ſome time, or, as he thought more likely, wholly give him up in ſilent contempt, which he could have far better ſupported, and with him the eternal abſence of the only being he loved, than thus meet him in the height of his fury. Happy was it for Sir Guiſe—if diſ⯑graceful life can in any poſition be called hap⯑pineſs—that, as uſual, the ſweet and merciful Caroline, the humane Denniſon, and that man of peace and of every virtue, father Arthur, were at hand to attemper the rage of the Lieutenant;—happy, in this criſis of his fate, was even the hypocriſy of this worthleſs ſire.

To a painter, who has the human paſſions at the command of his pencil, the whole groupe might, perhaps, furniſh materials for a picture of ſingular effect ^*: The father of a family returning degraded from the diſcovery of an infamous action, amidſt the groans and hiſſes of thoſe very perſons who would have re⯑ſpected his rank, and even looked up to his [156]protection, had not his vices made even the poor and ſimple hold his wealth and grandeur in utter contempt—a parent aſhamed to meet the eye of his own children, or enter, except by felonious ſtealth, into his own houſe, once the manſion of honour and hoſpitality, now the reſidence of a man ſo deformed by vice, that the heir to all its ancient privileges would have fled from it as from the ſeat of peſti⯑lence! Behold, too, an injured daughter, checked in her gentleſt impulſe of embracing a father by a high and holy ſenſe of the dig⯑nity of inſulted virtue; yet ſtill puſhed for⯑ward by thoſe impulſes to plead a parent's cauſe and ſave a brother, from, perhaps, for⯑getting Nature herſelf! Behold, too, the ve⯑nerable and juſt ſteward joining in the appeal; and the blameleſs prieſt reſtraining the impe⯑tuous arm of the youth from committing the crime of parricide, and pointing to heaven, while he exclaimed—"THERE, young man! THERE alone, in the majeſty of juſtice, reſides the Great Avenger!" To finiſh the ſcene, be⯑hold the abject father, while his trembling mi⯑nion, happily too contemptible for notice, is [157]ſtealing out of the room;—behold, I ſay, this abject father, as dead to ſhame, as alive to fear, crawling on his knees, in the ſpirit of ſerpent and ſatanic hypocriſy, to beg the ſon, when he re-entered the apartment, would par⯑don offences, which he himſelf repented of, only in that they failed of ſucceſs. The hu⯑miliated ſon covers his eyes with his trembling hand, that he ſhould not look upon ſuch mean⯑neſs; while, raiſed from ſo grovelling a poſture by the fair daughter burning with her bluſhes, he ſuffers himſelf to be led away by Denni⯑ſon and Arthur, their wounded ſouls flaſhing through their eyes a ſilent but ſublime indig⯑nation!

Doſt thou not feel thyſelf relieved, O read⯑er! at his departure? Is not the decent pride of thy nature releaſed from what it endured at the view of cowardice and of guilt, when act⯑ing with full power on the heart of man? Yet wilt thou not be conſoled to think that in that very guilt and cowardice is ſhewn at once the allotments of vice and the awful diſtinctions of virtue?

CHAPTER XVIII.

WE have now briefly to unravel the mazes by which Sir Guiſe Stuart and Mr. David Otley encountered the dangers exhi⯑bited in the laſt chapter.

No ſooner, then, was the Baronet and his two aſſociates releaſed from the fury of the exaſpe⯑rated rabble, whom the reader will recollect were purſuing the culprits after they had receiv⯑ed their freedom from Sir Armine's clemency, than the redoubted Valentine, having ſecured a horſe, the other conveyances being ſtill at the inn, ſet off as precurſor for the reſidence of his dulcinea, Mrs. Tempeſt, and where the Knight of, by this time, the Woeful Counte⯑nance, with his truſty, but leſs ſorrowful 'Squire David Otley, might have arrived without any freſh enterpriſe or diſaſter, had not Sir Guiſe's evil genius ſuggeſted the policy of getting into his poſſeſſion certain dangerous written teſti⯑monies of his own and his mercenaries com⯑bination to do miſchief. He therefore, in an unfortunate hour, adviſed Otley to go, now [159]that the Fitzortons were abſent, to take ſome moveables out of the caſtle; but particularly a ſmall box, containing a ſecret correſpond⯑ence on ſeveral ſubjects, which neither of the writers were deſirous ſhould fall into the hands of Sir Armine, or any of the Fitz⯑ortons.

As to what had paſſed at Adſell, he ſup⯑poſed the time was yet too recent for the par⯑ticulars of their atchievements to have reached the caſtle, as Sir Guiſe and his colleagues loſt no time in returning from the ſcene of action, after Sir Armine had permitted them to be ſet free, and the hiſſing delays which ſaluted them on the road were paſt.

Now it fell out, to the confuſion of Otley's calculations, that the identical farmer Sped⯑man, who brought the news to the abbey—where the alarm he ſpread prevented the good cheer which better tidings or better opportu⯑nity would have produced from the hoſpitable ſteward—did not make all the allowances that might have been expected for the diſtreſs he occaſioned; and ſeeing himſelf neglected, after diſcharging himſelf of ſo much good money, [160]and ſo much important intelligence, he re⯑pented him that he had brought either news or money. Taking, therefore, his horſe, no better treated than himſelf, out of the ſtable, he jogged on much out of humour, and finding himſelf moreover, both hungry and thirſty, he ſtopped at the village of Fitzorton, at the ſign of the Fitzorton Arms, reſolving to conſole himſelf, where he was ſure to meet a hearty welcome for ſome of the caſh that ſtill remained in the yellow canvas rent-bag.

Scarce had he ſeated himſelf by the kitchen fire, all the other rooms in the little inn being engaged, and lighted his pipe—which has ever been conſidered a conſolatory as well as companionable inſtrument, and which, when pipes were the mode angry gentlemen reſorted to, as angry ladies do their ſnuff-boxes, for compoſure—ſcarce, then, had ſhe honeſt farmer puffed away the firſt whiff of his chagrin, when a general huzza, after three diſtinct cheers, to the health of the new married couple, aſſailed his ears. The landlord coming at that inſtant from the company into the kitchen, was queſtioned [161]by our huſbandman, touching the jovial ſounds he had juſt heard.

"Sounds, farmer? why you muſt know that Sir Armine Fitzorton, our great gen⯑tleman of the caſtle, has a ſon, the Lord love him! who is this day, or to-morrow, or was yeſterday, married to the famuſt heireſs, Miſs Clare, of theſe parts. So the young lady's father (by Miſſes deſire) ordered the ſervants and neighbours to make merry on the occaſion—and merry we are, you hear, and you ſhall be ſo too! for all comers are welcome to-night at the Fitzorton Arms!—Huzza! huzza! Fitzorton for ever!" The half-fuddled landlord now carried off the farmer, "nothing loth," to the company, aſſuring them, he ſaw he was a fine old Grecian and a lover of the family, and would drink Fitzorton for ever, and no Stuart, and hour longer than he could ſtand."—"Would he?" ſaid one of the party aſ⯑ſembled,—"D—mme—then he is one of us, my boy—come—'tis a nem. con. buſineſs.—Charge (all filled),—preſent (all lifted their glaſſes to their lips),—ſire (all drank)!" [162]"But what think you, gentlemen," ſaid the landlord, who had an eye to profit as well as pleaſure, "to our following this up with an⯑other bumper?" "Aye, aye, come, a ſenti⯑ment,—d—mme, I love a ſentiment! a ſenti⯑ment is the ſoul of drinking,—May the caſtle ſtand and the abbey fall! What ſay you to that, gentlemen?" "I ſay," ſaid the landlord, "it muſt be drank."—"Drank, yes,—but how?" ſaid one: "Marry, out of our hats! upon our knees!" "With all our hearts," cried one of the grooms;—"Charge, gentlemen."—"No, no," ſaid one of Mr. Clare's footmen,—"No hats, but pint baſons,—Landlord—bring in all your cargo of crockery—leap, fly, you brave old youth," ſaid the landlord, thumping him on the back. "I am flying," ſaid the hoſt, and ran out. The farmer ſwore that he would drink the health of every honeſt man, and the confuſion of every rogue on the face of the earth, eſpecially the confuſion of Sir Guiſe Stuart, whom he believed to be the greateſt rogue, under favour, as yet unhanged:" Upon which declaration a half-pint rummer of punch was poured out by one of the ſervants, who, [163]giving for his toaſt,—"May every rogue have a halter!" ſubmitted it to the company, "Whether ſuch a ſentiment, as in a par⯑ticular manner applicable to Sir Guiſe, ſhould not be a ſwimmer as well as a brimmer? So, away ſome of us for that dear roſy gilled ancient boy, who is gone for the crockery—" The landlord, while the man was yet ſpeak⯑ing, returned with his wife, maid ſervant, and waiter, loaded with punch-bowls, ſugar-baſons, and ale-pots: The toaſt was repeated and drank, every man kneeling and joining hands with his neighbour. To this ſucceeded more drinking, a great deal of pleaſantry, and as much wit as ſuch aſſociations, whether in low or high life, generally furniſh: But the ſincere love of the families they ſerved was manifeſted both by the domeſtics of the Fitzortons and Clares, and an equal degree of univerſal execration of Sir Guiſe, but with reſervo's in favour of Charles and Caroline, the good ſon and daughter.

Hitherto, farmer Spedman had no poſſible opportunity,—for there had been no receſs from hard drinking,—to mention the ſorrowful tidings [164]he had related at the abbey; and the good man, now ſoftened by happineſs and hoſpitality, felt really a reluctance to damp it by unwel⯑come news; particularly as he had an in⯑timation the female ſervants of both the friendly houſes were expected to a ſupper, which was about to enter. And the farmer thought bad news would arrive too ſoon, even if kept till after ſupper. Making up his mind, therefore, to the maxim, that bad luck never can come too late; honeſt Sped⯑man ſet in for a full and complete atonement with his new friends at the caſtle, for the ill-uſage he ſuppoſed himſelf to have met with at the abbey. With this idea, he joined in the general ſpirit of the occaſion, ſhook hands with the landlord, and all the ſervants, as if they had been bred up together, in the ſame kitchen; he received the ladies with a ſalute as they came in, and ſelected one of the prettieſt as a partner; and when his recollection had wholly left him, begged the lady's pardon, and fell aſleep on one of the benches, to the infinite diverſion of the whole company. His naſal organ gave ſo⯑norous [165]evidence of ſolid repoſe, till the peep of day appriſed the party-coloured aſſembly it was time to break up. The butler obſerved to the landlord, who would not himſelf have made the remark, had they drank out the week, even had they drank dry his cellar, "that there was reaſon in every thing, and that though their maſters were abſent, ſervants ſhould be merry and wiſe." The morality of this ſentiment alſo being agreed to nem. con. ſave and except the aforeſaid landlord, who would have ſupported a very different doctrine, while he could have ſupported himſelf—the ſnor⯑ing farmer was rouſed, and reminded of the hour.—"So farewell, my brave old blade," ſaid the butler, "you have been as welcome to whatever fare and fun you have found here among us, aye, and your good nap of a brace of hours into the bargain; and ſo one ſweepſtakes, one parting bowl to the young couple before we bid good bye; and then to our ſeveral dwellings."

The bowl was brought, and ſoon emptied, and ſo thoroughly had the whole company [166]entered into the ſpirit of keeping it up, that there is no conjecturing with how many more good wiſhes the ſuppoſed nuptials would have been celebrated in flowing, indeed overflowing cups, had not the farmer, between the extremes of ſleep, intoxication, forgetfulneſs, and memory, juſt found enough of the latter to tell the long concealed in⯑telligence, in nearly the ſubſtance he gave it to Denniſon, attaching, however, many bitter epithets to the name of Sir Guiſe, and as many hyperbolical encomiums whenever that of Sir Armine was mentioned. It was not without many interruptions they heard him to the end of his tale, and, at laſt, they all fell upon him for keeping them ſo long ignorant of their honoured maſter's deſtiny: indeed had it not been for the protection of the women, the farmer, who made his eſcape under their auſpices, would have paid dear for his good feaſting and mental reſervation of the ill tidings.

The deteſtation they bore to Sir Guiſe, was now augmented tenfold; but the ſen⯑timent of rage they conceived for Miles, and [167]more than all for David Otley, the betrayer of Family Secrets, ſurpaſſed all deſcription. It could be equalled by nothing but their love, pity, and regret, for the fate of Sir Armine, on recollection of whoſe deſtiny, their late univerſal joy was changed into as univerſal ſorrow, and they ſought the now diſmantled caſtle in the honeſt anguiſh of their ſouls. So genuine is love and hate in the boſoms of the genuine children of na⯑ture, and ſo true is the love or hate of do⯑meſtics, the criterion of the virtue or vice of the Maſter and Miſtreſs. Otley's ingra⯑titude forms but the exception which be⯑longs to a general rule.

CHAPTER XIX.

As the Fitzorton ſervants were en⯑tering the caſtle gates, they perceived the apoſtate Otley coming with his letter box, out of the houſe, and ſuffering him to move a few paces, they beheld the ever-droop⯑ing Sir Guiſe, who was waiting near one [168]of the out-houſes to join him. The whole pack opened at once, calling out—"There they are—there are the aſſaſſinators of our dear, dear—perhaps dead maſter, eſcaped from priſon! It is both law and juſtice to ſlay them—they ought to be torn piece-meal!" And piece-meal they would have been inſtantly torn, had the feet of rage been as rapid as thoſe of fear. The fugitives were however over-taken in the abbey-yard, and driven into the houſe bruiſed and beaten almoſt to death, as we have de⯑ſcribed.

The miſerable and daſtardly heart of Sir Guiſe, however, permitted him not to reſt, even when he was withdrawn to his chamber, where the filial Caroline carried him, and adminiſtered with her own hand, every com⯑fort that ſhe was conſcious he did not de⯑ſerve, nor did ſhe forget to diſpatch off a meſſenger for the family phyſician. Charles, once ſo neceſſary to the happineſs of Sir Guiſe, was now become the grand impedi⯑ment; for he knew what heavy weights might yet be impoſed on the feelings of the un⯑complaining [169]Caroline, and he had ſuffered of late ſo many pains and penalties from the reſiſting virtues of his ſon, that a grand revolution was working in his heart, that is to ſay, the change of his inordinate affections to⯑wards Charles into as extravagant an anti⯑pathy: yet as this could not be evinced by any of the open cruelties he exerciſed upon his daughter, he adopted a more ſecure yet no leſs effectual mode of manifeſting his hate, viz. in giving it the ſmootheſt appear⯑ance—even the appearance of love.

He would have been beſt pleaſed, indeed, to have made his eſcape from the abbey, but as every body had now an eye upon him, and as the additional odium he incurred really rendered it unſafe for him to be ſeen abroad while his late unwarrantable aſſaſſina⯑tion of a man univerſally beloved was recent in every memory, he foreſaw that he would be better accommodated in his own houſe than in that even of Mrs. Tempeſt, as it was by no means certain what the popular mad⯑neſs might effect on the property of a woman or her paramour, or their agents, who were [170]conſidered as inſtrumental in ſuch villany; though it muſt be owned he was impelled thereto by the artful practice of Miles; but if any miſchief ſhould reſult from it, Sir Guiſe rather wiſhed it might happen during his abſence; for the deſtruction of the whole world was an object of no figure in his mind, compared with the ſlighteſt ill that could befal himſelf. That the abbey, therefore, might be, while he was thus conſtrained to do penance in it, a place of tolerable cap⯑tivity, he cauſed it to be given out that he felt himſelf ſo much indiſpoſed, which was by accident the truth, and it would be be neceſſary for him to keep his chamber, and even to avoid company, as he found it rather oppreſſive to ſpeak.

His object herein was to eſcape his ſon Charles, the ſhot of whoſe angry eye he dared not encounter. But this did not avail him, for though it is true he was ill enough in body, and haraſſed enough in ſpirit, to keep his chamber, that very indiſpoſition was a motive with the virtuous Caroline to attend him in his hour of languor; nay more, judging [171]from the goodneſs of her own heart, that it would be a cordial to his—the moſt com⯑fortable, indeed, he could receive—to ſee his darling ſon, this duteous daughter, by inceſ⯑ſant entreaties, and filial arguments, contrived ſo far to pacify Charles, as to gain his aſſent to an interview with his father; and that this ſuppoſed cordial might have the greater effect, ſhe introduced Charles imperceptibly, drop⯑ping on her knee, at the inſtant of ſuch intro⯑duction, aſſerting at the ſame time that the bleſſing of everlaſting conſciouſneſs would at⯑tend him, if he offered the reconciling hand to his ſick and unhappy father.

The reader muſt have noticed it was a fixed maxim of this truly exemplary daughter, that the duty from child to parent can never end, but with the being he gave, or with its own; although ſhe could make a clear diſtinction in her mind betwixt the offender and the offence. Her duty to the one, being a parent, was by this pious diſtinction as invariable and eternal as her ab⯑horrence of the other; and ſhe maintained that the father's throwing off either the vir⯑tues [172]of the manly or of the paternal character, was no good warrant for renouncing thoſe of the filial. On the contrary—"I will not allow," would ſhe ſay to her brother, con⯑teſting this point during Sir Guiſe's ſickneſs, "I cannot allow, my deareſt Charles, that either my ſervices or yours admit one mo⯑ment's relaxation in the whole courſe of our lives. We may deplore, we may avoid, we may even ſhudder at the conduct of the un⯑happy parent now brought by that conduct to the ſick and ſorrowing bed. Our filial mini⯑ſtrations may loſe the ſweet bloom which uſed to embalm them, while we believed the au⯑thor of our lives was good, and juſt, and worthy; but a duty is not to die or even to languiſh, becauſe part of its acompanying delights are taken away. No, Charles—it ſhould ſurvive the grave, and when almoſt all our hopes are buried, we ſhould have a faith⯑ful memory of our impayable obligations to thoſe who ſupported us in the years of infancy. How often muſt I repeat, that his great guilt ſhould excite our compaſſion [173]even if it robs us of our tenderneſs? and we ſhould continue from pity what we began from love."

Thus, ſometimes by ſtrength and ſometimes by ſoftneſs, but ever with ſincerity, did the charming Caroline plead her own juſtifica⯑tion, her father's cauſe, and win over to his ſide even his worſt enemies; at the ſame time, after many attempts ſeconded by the good father Arthur, ſhe reſiſted the reſolves even of the firm Charles, who had fully determined never to ſee or hold intercourſe with Sir Guiſe any more, and whoſe mind was like his unhappy ſiſter's, torn by parental diſgrace, lacerated friendſhip, and diſappointed love. She found means, however, as we have ſeen, to ſoften the ſterneſt reſolutions of Charles; who, partly by her eloquence, partly by the pious remonſtrances of Arthur, and partly by the natural compaſſion of his own heart, was brought, firſt to promiſe he would not quit the houſe till his father was in a condition to leave the chamber, then to bear the mention of his name, and laſtly to endure the thought of an interview.

[174]But though Caroline had done the very thing Sir Guiſe wiſhed to have avoided, the latter dared not to ſhew any repugnance; he therefore attempted to make the beſt of a very bad matter. A tale was to be told, and a point gained thereby, which brooked not delay, and this appeared to him a favourable, at leaſt a poſſible, opportunity.

Thus, therefore, the baronet began to ma⯑nceuvre, "This is more than I expected—more, perhaps, than I deſerve, my children; for you know not the extent of my offences. Great as is your duty, I fear my impru⯑dence, in one inſtance, goes beyond your power to forgive. Know that I have done a deed,—"—here a profound ſigh, moſt likely from his heart—"a deed!—how ſhall I ſpeak of it?" (Another pauſe and another ſigh, heavy almoſt to groaning, and not leſs ſincere.) Caroline turned pale, and Arthur, who had followed Charles into the chamber, croſſed himſelf.—Charles trembled. "I ſay," reſumed Sir Guiſe, "I have been for ſome time—ſecretly—becauſe I knew it would diſ⯑pleaſe my children—."

[175]"In the name of God! what?" cried Charles.

"Married!" replied Sir Guiſe.

"Is that the offence?" quoth Arthur.

"To whom?" queſtioned Charles, in terror.

"Since it muſt be known—nay ſince this very houſe, which was in the hour of my weakneſs given to my widow for her life—and as being a woman of a high temper,—ſhe may inſiſt on reſidence—"

"This houſe!—a high temper!—inſiſt on reſidence!—Do not diſtract me," ſaid Charles, "but ſpeak."

"Whomſoever you have thought fit to make your wife, will of courſe deſerve and receive the reſpect of your children," ſaid the trembling Caroline; "for Heaven's ſake then, Sir, make us acquainted with the name of the lady we are to conſider as—as—as—"

The remembrance of her amiable mother impeded her utterance, and it was long be⯑fore ſhe could finiſh her queſtion by repeat⯑ing—"Whom, ſir, are we to conſider as Lady Stuart?"

[176]"Mrs. TEMPEST," anſwered Sir Guiſe.—He then took ſhelter from the rage that might be expected to follow ſuch thunder-ſtriking in⯑telligence under the bed clothes, in which he ſo muffled himſelf, that had the aſtoniſhment and anger of Charles, and the conſternation of Caroline and Arthur, been expreſſed with the voice of a lion, they could ſcarcely have been heard.

Caroline was ſtunned, and Arthur ſhocked, but both tried to pacify and reconcile Charles to this irremediable circumſtance. "Ac⯑curſed is he," obſerved the good monk, "who putteth aſunder man and wife; and although it might be wiſhed theſe perſons had never come together in holy matrimony, they were now bound by a divine obligation, and it behoved all perſons—but a ſon and a daughter in particular—to—"

The good man was proceeding in his ha⯑rangue, every word of which Sir Guiſe con⯑trived to hear, when a vehement clamour aſ⯑ſailed the ears of the company, as of a perſon ruſhing up the ſtairs and exclaiming at every [177]ſtep—"Where, where is he? I will be ſhut out of my own houſe no longer; tell not me of lieutenants or captains, or ſons or daughters; are their claims ſuperior to mine? Alas! too long have ye withheld him from me. I will ſee him though the congregated earth were to oppoſe me. Beat, bruiſed, and in bed! Good Heaven!"

And now this vociferous perſonage, in de⯑ſpite of the remonſtrances and almoſt ſtrength of Denniſon, made a forcible entry into the chamber, flew to the bed-ſide, caught hold of the ſick man's hand, and in a violence which rather overacted the character, called out in all the rant of dramatic affectation, "My love! my life! my huſband!"

The ſurpriſe of ſo ſudden an appearance, attended by ſuch concomitants, did not per⯑mit the company immediately to recogniſe the ſpeaker; and the aſtoniſhment was as much increaſed as it could be, when at laſt they per⯑ceived the new Lady Stuart, who continued to perform her conjugal duties in the ſame magnanimous ſtyle, without ſeeming to know any third perſon was in the room. "How [178]do you find yourſelf, my dear huſband? Why did you ſuffer a falſe delicacy, perhaps, I may call it, an unkind fear of your children, ſo long to baniſh your wife? While you were well, I ſubmitted to my hard deſtiny, and kept aloof, even immured; I bore the imputation of being a wicked woman, rather than ſubject you to cenſure from a ſon and daughter, who you taught me to believe would treat the woman to whom you gave your hand in holy wedlock, with undutiful ſeverity; but now that I find your precious health is in danger, I burſt through all idle ceremonies, and ſetting the whole univerſe at naught, when in oppoſition to my love and duty, I am come to inſiſt that you permit me to re⯑main here, and to offer my ſhare in your comforts. No; never, never will I quit this roof, this bed, this hand, till you promiſe to receive all the ſervices I can give; no power on earth ſhall tear you from me! nor bolts, nor bars, nor chains of iron! I am your wife, Sir Guiſe, yes, Sir Guiſe, your wedded wife, your true and lawful lady, and who ſhall dare to bar her way? Deſtruction's in the thought.

[179]She then proceeded to ſtring rhapſodies, collected from different tragedies, with which her memory furniſhed her; and, perhaps, Sir Guiſe himſelf began to think ſhe carried it a little too far, for he emphatically deſired her to ſtop, declaring "ſhe had given him ſomewhat too much of this.—"My dear," ſaid he to Mrs. Tempeſt, "meet my be⯑loved children half-way;" then catching his ſon's eye, he popped his head again under the clothes.

As in duty bound, his gentle ſpouſe obeyed. She begged pardon for her apparent over⯑ſight, but was convinced her new relatives would make allowances for that overwhelm⯑ing ſorrow which they themſelves ſhared too deeply not to account for.

Next, with all poſſible condeſcenſion, ſhe advanced towards Charles and Caroline, and made an offer to embrace them. Father Arthur, in the goodneſs of his heart, ear⯑neſtly promoting it as a fit preliminary of that domeſtic harmony he ſo anxiouſly de⯑ſired to ſee take palce: "Embrace, my worthy friends, embrace one another."

[180]The worthy Caroline was ſo tortured be⯑tween one ſenſation and another, that half-willing and half-reluctant, ſhe was juſt ſtep⯑ping forward to own Mrs. Tempeſt as her father's ſecond wife, when Charles forcibly pulled her back, grinding between his teeth ſomething which, in the ears of the lady, ſounded like the words—abandoned woman! touch her not.

"Abandoned!" repeated my Lady, in a thundering accent, which, did we not know the power of ſudden rage, we ſhould have thought rather too violent for a lady under her circumſtances: "Abandoned!"

"Be not too ſevere upon the ſinner," ſaid Arthur: "I have not the leaſt doubt but that now the lady is become the wife of a baronet, and is by this unexpected ſtroke of good fortune brought into a reſpectable fa⯑mily and innocent connections, which is more than ſhe could reaſonably have expected—ſhe will not only quit for ever her former vile way of life, but be wrought to ſo thorough a ſenſe of that decency and modeſty which be⯑comes her ſex, the pure-minded Miſs Stuart [181]herſelf would not have any more reaſon to be aſhamed of her."

A ſpectator, leſs intereſted in the ſcene than any of the parties then preſent, would have been variouſly amuſed at the winks and nods of Sir Guiſe, who now peeped from the bed-clothes, to keep down the ſtrong ſpirit which he ſaw working in his Lady; and at his ſigns to Arthur, to hold his peace; but his bride diſdained all conſiderations and conſequences. Rowe has ſo exactly deſcribed her ſituation, that you muſt ſuffer me to bor⯑row it for your more perfect idea.

She raved, ſhe ſtamped, and—SWORE!

Pardon me, ye ornaments of the ſex, for painting a contraſt to yourſelves with all the force it deſerves;—ſwore—yes, reader, ſhe did actually ſwear, that Sir Guiſe was a poor cowardly fellow to take any pains to ſhew that he was maſter of his own houſe, hand, or for⯑tune [182]—that if he, however, was mean enough to be trampled upon by his own children, ſhe, being now his wife, was determined, by the privi⯑leges and authority of the nuptial character, to aſſert herſelf, and that ſhe was humiliated, diſgraced, and aſhamed to have given into her huſband's miſerable plots and creeping ſchemes to conceal his marriage, and bring his lawful wife into her own houſe.—"None of your winks to me, Guiſe—I ſay you were a poor mean-ſpirited man, and you ought to bluſh at all theſe pranks and fuſſes, to do me juſtice;—get up, for ſhame get up—and don't play the fool any longer, prithee. And as for you, Mr. Im⯑pertinence,"—meaning Arthur,—"if Guiſe had the ſpirit of a butterfly he would twiſt your old babbling tongue out of your mouth.—Don't ſtand lifting up your eyes and hands at me, you ſuperannuated, canting raſcal; for if you do, woman as I am, you ſhall repent it, I promiſe you.—In future, I deſire your viſits may ceaſe at this houſe, ſir. If my huſband has not the ſoul to forbid you, I do; and unleſs I ſee better manners in that young gentleman, who is now ſwelling up in that manner, ready [183]to burſt with venom, the leſs he gives us of his company here, the better. As for the young Lady—don't cry Miſs—you are the only decent young body in the houſe."

Any attempt to deſcribe the ſituation of the party, conſequent on this harangue, would be preſumptuous abſurdity—becauſe, the tears of Caroline, and the agony of her brother's ſtruggling paſſions, and the foaming madneſs of the ſpeaker, and the choaking indignation of father Arthur, and, above all, the unutterable fears of Sir Guiſe, whoſe teeth chattered in his head, would baffle the united talents of Shakeſpeare and Hogarth, and of all the painters and the poets in the world.

Arthur, who firſt recovered ſpeech, declared, after thrice croſſing himſelf, that ſhe was certainly the devil himſelf, ſent into this world in female ſhape to puniſh Sir Guiſe, as a dreadful example to all wicked hypocrites, and that he did not doubt but her feet were cloven.

"Would that my hands were ſo!" cried ſhe, furiouſly aiming a claw at his ears, which were luckily buried in the buſhineſs of his [184]wig,—"then," ſaid ſhe, "there might be ſome hope that they would cleave in twain that impudent ſkull." But, before he had time to reply to this ſalutation, Charles, whoſe paſſions were too often ungovernable, had ſeized hold of Sir Guiſe's arm—the only part of him that was viſible, the reſt being hid under the bed-clothes—and beginning to drag him forcibly, exclaimed, in a voice broken with exceſs of paſſion—"O thou!—moſt ſhameleſs!—moſt pitileſs!—Why, why am I and this unhappy girl inceſſantly to be thus diſhonoured? And why is it not piety and virtue in a ſon to relieve his family and the world of ſuch a ſcourge?"

In a moment Lady Tempeſt, Arthur, Ca⯑roline, and Denniſon, whom the clamour had brought into the room, were all employed. The firſt, without any reſpect of ſex, acted the Amazon, and, oppoſing force to force, tried to diſengage the ſon from the father.

Caroline entreated, yet was ſo much ſtruck, that her ſupplications were feeble, and ſhe went weeping out of the room.

[185]Denniſon and Arthur drew off Charles by main force into another apartment; and the whole buſineſs concluded by leaving Sir Guiſe and his Lady to a conjugal tête-a-tête, which was equally ſhort and deciſive. It was, how⯑ever, a curioſity in its kind, and muſt there⯑fore be recorded.

After a pauſe of ſome minutes, Sir Guiſe ventured to emerge.

"Aye, you may creep out of your hole, poor trembling wretch—and a fine hand you have made of it.—Did not I tell you ſo?—You have nothing now but to die in good earneſt."

"If you come to that, who was it that overſet my plan? But for your damn'd un⯑reaſonable paſſion, and impetuous temper, I had brought you into the houſe, reconciled all parties to you, and we ſhould have had the abbey to ourſelves; for the old prieſt would have perſuaded Charles and the girl to leave us—inſtead of which, I am now in a worſe condition than ever."

"Whatever may be your condition, mine is that of a woman who has the misfortune to [186]be married to a poltroon, who is afraid to de⯑fend himſelf, or avow his wife! However, here I am, and here I will remain, let who will go or ſtay, live or die; d—n me if I don't."

CHAPTER XX.

THE heroic lady having ſaid this, ſhe inſiſted upon Sir Guiſe's getting up and dreſſ⯑ing himſelf, ill as he really was—"yes, and give orders like a man," ſaid his gentle lady, "to your ſervants for the proper reception of, and obedience to your wife." Her yet more gentle lord was too well experienced in his ſpouſe's tempeſtuous talents to diſpute her commands, and his late miſcarriages had ſo ſunk his authority, even in his own eyes, that, inſtead of oppoſing to her the power of the ſuppoſed lord of the creation, he reſigned him⯑ſelf, in the moſt ſlaviſh humility, to what cen⯑ſurers have called the weaker veſſel—juſt add⯑ing, therefore, to his habiliments a pair of ſtockings and ſlippers, he roſe out of his ſick bed, and almoſt lamented, now, with his dear [187]wife, that it had not proved his dying one. How⯑ever, he ſhook himſelf, and his rumpled robes, two or three times on feeling himſelf once more on terra firma, and actually reeled with weakneſs and affright. He had, moreover, ſuffered, from ſheer diſmay, his beard to grow to a great length: his hair had been long ne⯑glected, ſo that his face was pallid and cada⯑verous; and he exhibited, at the end of the ſcene, a haggard, rueful-looking wretch in⯑deed.

Lady Tempeſt, for ſo, henceforth, though with the greateſt reluctance, we are con⯑ſtrained, by the rights of a femme covert, to call her, deemed this no fit object of his be⯑ſtirring himſelf to the ordering of her lady⯑ſhip's arrangements, without any hope of obe⯑dience following command. She therefore rang the bell, and directed the ſervant who anſwered it, to ſend the valet with warm water, and the reſt of the Adonizing paraphernalia, taking care to ſay it was for the immediate uſe of her huſband Sir Guiſe, who, ſhe ſaid, was now well enough, thank God! to riſe, and would ſoon be down ſtairs. Not any rumour [188]of the baronet's marriage having reached the abbey kitchen, or indeed any part of the houſe, the ſervant who received this meſſage was ſcarce leſs the victim of aſtoniſhment than had been every body above ſtairs; for neither Charles, Arthur, or Denniſon had, as yet, revealed the freſh diſgrace which the Baronet had brought into the family.

Yielding, therefore, to ſudden ſurpriſe, whoſe nature is to ſtand ſtill, the aſtoniſhed domeſtic, who happened to be thus taken unawares, remained fixed at the wonderful word huſband! Whereupon, the lady re⯑peated the orders, with an emphaſis ſo thoroughly convincing, that, if ſhe was not the wife, ſhe would henceforward let him know ſhe was miſtreſs of the houſe—the poor fellow took to his heels, ſcarce giving himſelf time, or finding breath to ſtammer out in his exit—"ye—ye—yes—yes—my—my—la—la—my mad—madam."

A ſecond delay happened in the ſervant's hall, where the lady-ſtruck domeſtic no ſooner arrived, than the threw himſelf into the ſtew⯑ard's great chair, by way of recovering; [189]after which he ſummoned every adherent of the family, from the under-butler (Denniſon being otherwiſe employed) to the under⯑ſcullion girl, prefacing the news he had to communicate by a ſolemn aſſurance, "that it would make every one of them run mad." Then, ſeeing their mouths all opened wide to ſwallow the threatened inſanity, "Sir Guiſe, is mar—mar—mar—married to—to—to—to that raſcal Valentine Miles's con—con—concu—concubine! think of that, fellow-ſervants!—and has, more—moreover, brought his harlot of a wife into the houſe!" "Who?" anſwered the corps culinary,—"that whore of Babylon, Mrs. Tempeſt, who ſeduced my dear young lady's young gentleman 'Squire Henry, and gave up her wicked ſelf to Sir Guiſe, and that Valentine, and perhaps half a thouſand others?—Is ſhe to be our miſtreſs, and take the place of the good, virtuous, dear, dead and buried lady whom we all followed to the grave, with our hearts ready to break, and willing to do ſo that we might follow her?"

[190]The grievous reflections which followed theſe queſtionary exclamations, produced ſo univerſal a groan of the ſpirit, that it re-echoed through all the dreary and ſubter⯑raneous abodes, and aſcended even to the central cupola of the abbey.

Meantime, Lady Tempeſt, exaſperated at the delay in the performance of her firſt con⯑jugal commands, reſorted to the bell again, with a vehemence that broke part of the wires, and left the taſſel in her hand. The inceſſant vibrations which preceded this ac⯑cident had more than the deſired effect, for it brought up, not only Sir Guiſe's valet, but Denniſon and Caroline, who, from habits rather of duty than reflection or ſentiment, now followed the idea of his being really at his laſt gaſp. They were ſoon undeceived, by ſeeing Sir Guiſe walking backwards and forwards about the chamber, and his lady inſiſting that every body ſhould go about their buſineſs, except her huſband's valet. Seeing him amongſt the crowd that had mechanically obeyed, ſhe drew him towards [191]her by the profuſe neckcloth and chitterling, calling him at the ſame time, "a creeping, lazy raſcal;" ſlapping the door in the faces of the reſt, who were thus agreeably repulſed, and were again left to their re⯑flections on the proſpect of domeſtic hap⯑pineſs.

In a word, their ſorrows at the entrance of their new miſtreſs into the abbey almoſt equalled that which they felt for the untimely exit of their firſt lady out of it. Indeed, the marriage of the one could be exceeded in cala⯑mity, only by the burial of the other; and look⯑ing, as very truly they might, upon Sir Guiſe Stuart as the wicked cauſe of both miſ⯑fortunes, the ſervants came, after ſome far⯑ther conſultation amongſt one another, to an honeſt reſolve to ſave their character—that common neceſſary of a ſervant—by giving warning, before they could be ſuppoſed to have received any taint of corrup⯑tion that might diſqualify them for more reputable places. This combination being entered into with ſpirit, nem. con., many of the domeſtics ſacrificed their month's wages [192]and took themſelves away on the inſtant, others dropt off occaſionally, and at the end of the month, the kitchen was emptied even down to a poor limping dwarf, who acted under the ſcullion as a ſort of human turnſpit; but who, being aſſured that his good name, and of courſe his good bread, was in imminent danger, hopped away with his brown paper bundle of property, to ſave his reputation.

The firſt mover of all this was Robert Irwin the cook, and his wife the dairy-woman. The troubled valet having finiſhed his part of the buſineſs of diſembruting his maſter, and certain other ablutions being performed, Sir Guiſe, in the courſe of two hours, was humanized, and the ſuits and ceremonies of ſickneſs, pain and death, being thrown aſide, though he had really ſuffered ſeverely in body and in mind, yet he was ſtill much better in health than any other of his family.

The unhappy Caroline and her brother paſſed ſome hours in the company of the good Arthur and the conſoling Denniſon, but they were in a ſtate of miſery too ſevere to decide what courſe to take. In a retroſpect of her [193]father's courſe of life, which the late occur⯑rences had more eſpecially forced upon her, Caroline ſaw a dreadful hiſtory of the paſt, and an inſupportable proſpect of the future. Her uncorrupted nature ſhuddered at the view. So far was ſhe from ſuffering deſtruc⯑tion of that moral principle, which not only guided her actions, but governed her very thoughts, that ſhe admitted not the ſlighteſt deprivation of it in herſelf, nor could her penetrating mind diſcover it in another, though but an acquaintance, without great pain. How aggravated then muſt have been this nice ſenſe of rectitude, when ſhe re⯑flected upon the utter extinction of every thing like a moral principle in her father; whoſe conduct had ſo often covered her in⯑nocent cheek with bluſhes, as if her own pure heart had, unwittingly, done ſomething which produced and deſerved the diſgrace of her family?

Charles thought, in the preſent poſture of affairs, it would be a right meaſure, to expel the baſe intruder who had trepanned their father into a marriage—but this was overruled [194]both by Caroline and Arthur, who inſiſted, that no man living could, with a ſafe con⯑ſcience, divide man and wife, while they conſented to live together.

Caroline propoſed that the abbey ſhould be left to the unhappy couple, and ſome place of eſcape be ſought for us, "no matter where," cried ſhe, with a trembling voice—"Alas! I have done with choice, ſave that I feel it neceſ⯑ſary to remove hence, ſince the thoughts of another Lady Stuart, even were ſhe better en⯑titled to that precious, regretted name, than my father's preſent wife—would be too much, with other deep loads, upon my heart;—O, it would be too much for me to bear—as I ought."—

She ſpoke, or rather ſobbed out the laſt words on her tender brother's boſom. While the virtuous youth feeling the ſtring jarred, on which hung his own miſery, too much like his ſiſter's, in nature as in degree, em⯑braced her with all the ſympathies of affec⯑tion and of woe. Denniſon held down his dejected head and kiſſed their hands, with miſery inferior only to their own; and the pious, gentle-hearted Arthur called upon [195]the protection of that Power he adored ſo truly, and wept aloud; after which, circling his arms around them, as if to afford a ſhelter, he cried out, "There is a good and juſt Providence, my children, who will take care of us all."

Charles however, reſolving that neither himſelf nor his ſiſter ſhould paſs another night under the ſame roof with Sir Guiſe and his conſort, the monk, after a ſhort pauſe, exclaimed in a rapture, as at the acquiſition of a lucky idea—"Ye may ſojourn at the chapel-houſe, my children, for a few days, till we ſee what is beſt to be done. There is room for four quiet people who love each other; I include friend Denniſon in the number—yes, there is ſpace enough to be happy, and though we fare not as the dwellers at the abbey, in what are called the good things of life, we ſhall there eſcape abundance of the worſt, the ſtrife and diſcontent, which will ſurely be found amongſt the inmates of thoſe we leave be⯑hind us in this lordly manſion—and as to [196]attendants, fear not our being tolerably ſerved. I am myſelf not a bad cook, and my Indian boy is both diligent and know⯑ing."

"As to that matter," quoth Denniſon, ſeeming as if ſuddenly to have recovered his youth, "my young lady and maſter and your reverence can tell I can beſtir myſelf upon occaſion, and do not doubt but I ſhall have every thing prepared in the little chapel-houſe and in ſuch good order, that the old furniture ſhall give a ſhining welcome, before we have been twenty-four hours its inhabitants."

While they were diſcourſing thus, a ſer⯑vant brought down word from the new miſ⯑treſs of the houſe, that Sir Guiſe and her Ladyſhip deſired to dine private that day, and to paſs the evening by themſelves, pre⯑vious to certain family arrangements which they intended in future to make, and which, when properly digeſted, ſhould be preſented to them, to the end, that, whatever rules the principal thought fit to lay down, might [197]be adopted, and paſs unqueſtioned into do⯑meſtic laws. Charles and Caroline were therefore to give orders for themſelves.

This imperious meſſage, which every one of the family ſervants refuſed to carry, was brought by one of her Ladyſhip's own do⯑meſtics, who, within the laſt hour, had called with diſpatches from Valentine Miles.

Father Arthur, impoſing ſilence on Charles, returned for anſwer, that neither he, nor his children, for ſo he often called Charles and Caroline, were ſurprized at the deſire expreſſed by Sir Guiſe to keep out of ſight, and that as it was probable certain arrange⯑ments below ſtairs—meaning thoſe of his own party at the chapel-houſe—would take place before thoſe in agitation above; he, for his part, would adviſe them to turn their ſtudies from the laws of eating and drinking to thoſe of faſting and prayer, and all the other laws inſtituted and appointed for the uſe and performance of wicked ſin⯑ners who were deſirous to be ſaved.

The ſervant was ſcarce departed, before the monk preſented one hand to Caroline, [198]the other to Charles, beckoning Denniſon, with a ſmile, to bring up the rear.

"Come, my dear children, let us remove with all convenient diſpatch out of the ha⯑bitation of guilt, miſery, and hardened inſo⯑lence, and ſeek refuge in that decent, un⯑obtruſive abode, where peace, honour, inno⯑cence, and the merits of a life pure and un⯑defiled, await to receive us."

This propoſition was accepted by Charles, becauſe he felt that his longer continuance at the abbey would probably be attended by events too dire to name; by Caroline, be⯑cauſe her poor heart was bowed by ſorrows too manifold and mighty to reſiſt or to make any lection for herſelf; and by Denniſon, becauſe the good old man, as he lived at the abbey only to be of ſervice to his young lady and maſter, ſo he wiſhed to paſs the reſidue of his blameleſs days whereſoever their fate or fortune, their happineſs or miſery, ſhould carry them. Orders being, therefore, given to Charles's man and Caroline's woman to pack up, and bring their different trunks and other baggage after them—they ſet out [199]in the manner above deſcribed, for their ſmall but comfortable dwelling.

They had gone about half way, when Ca⯑roline ſtopped ſuddenly, and declared ſhe had left ſomething, which none of the keys given to her woman could diſcloſe, and which as none but herſelf could find, ſhe muſt beg the delay of a few minutes while ſhe returned for it, obſerving that ſhe ſhould be wretched in the extreme to know it was in the abbey after her baniſhment! Without waiting any reply, ſhe ran back as faſt as her delicate limbs could carry her, and in about a quar⯑ter of an hour returned, breathleſs, and bathed in tears, yet with a ſmiling countenance, de⯑claring, that ſhe was much eaſier for what ſhe had brought out of the houſe, though ſhe had the misfortune to meet the ſtrange lady in her way, and heard her aſk ſome⯑body, juſt as ſhe entered, whether Miſs too was of the run-away party? "Yet, do not think, my dear Charles, it was an improper or trifling errand that could make me detain you thus long on the road. No; it was [200]for what my brother will eſteem no leſs than myſelf—this precious—precious picture of her—who—O! my God! what a change! what an alteration has this ſecond marriage made in that abbey, which could once boaſt of the angel whom this little miniature—in her mortality, ſcarcely mortal—reſembled! and on whoſe honoured head theſe treſſes once grew!"

Turning the picture—ſhe exclaimed, "O! my ever beloved and ever lamented mother! how wilt thou forgive him this laſt, this greateſt of his offences?"

As if jealous and fearful of again parting with it, even for a moment, and to a loving brother who yet ſeemed wiſhing to pay it homage, ſhe took it from her own lips warmed with the ſenſations of her filial heart, and preſſed it upon his: while Arthur, who never ſuffered the mourner to ſorrow alone when he was at hand, broke forth into thoſe moving ſentiments of Hamlet ſo truly ap⯑plying to the preſent picture; ‘That it ſhould come to this!’

[201]Theſe and other reflections, in the ſame train of ſolemn thought, were interrupted, juſt as the little chapel-houſe appeared in view. It was opened by Irwin the cook, the footmen, and all the maid and men ſervants of the family, who, underſtanding from the young lady's woman, left in care of the baggage, that Charles and his ſiſter, with the old ſteward, were leaving the abbey, and as the woman told them, never to return, but to live at the chapel-houſe till they could ſuit themſelves, had come, in a body, like volunteers, to offer their poor but honeſt ſervices to their honoured young maſter and miſtreſs. They proteſted their humble love and duty with a fervour that denoted their ſincerity. One declared, he would ſerve their worthy honours and the good Mr. Denniſon by night and by day, far and near, all the world over.—"Nay as to that," ſaid another "you know, William, we had rather a thouſand times paſs our whole lives with ſome good gentry in hard labour, without fee or reward, than with Sir [202]Guiſe and his good-for-nothing Madam for half his fortune." They then, with one voice, ſupplicated to be received; declaring, that they had all a little modicum hoarded up and got in their late good Lady's days, and which would keep them in comfort, without wages, till it pleaſed God to bring things about a little; "and for that matter, we had all of us," exclaimed Irwin, "re⯑ſolved amongſt ourſelves, to leave our pre⯑ſent place before we knew of your worthy honours quitting the abbey; but now we have nothing left there to make us amends for what we ſuffer—our poor, dear, true, and virtuous Lady Stuart is dead and gone, and another woman, not fit to be named with her, or with any Chriſtian woman, is put into our poor Lady's place, the abbey is no ab⯑bey for us, and we will not ſtay to do ano⯑ther hand's turn!—So pray, good, dear your honours, let us follow and abide with you, go where you may. Do, your Reverence, and Mr. Denniſon," continued Irwin, "ſpeak a word for us—pray, pray do, and bid young [203]my Lady and the "Squire conſider, that we were all in the family when the true Lady Stuart was alive, and followed her to the grave when ſhe was dead, and we are ſure her ſoul would not reſt in heaven, where for certain it is gone, if ſhe knew the doings that were now at the abbey, and that her poor old ſervants ſtaid in the houſe when her bleſſed ſon and daughter were in a manner turned out of it."

The voice of natural eloquence ſeldom pleads in vain, for it generally is exerted in the cauſe of genuine and unaffected good⯑neſs. This unexpected appeal, however, pro⯑duced ſome generous embarraſſment. The affections were ſtrongly touched, but the little chapel-houſe would ſcarce have held the ſupplicants, and as that, in the preſent moment of indeciſion, was literally to be the reſting place, ſuch a retinue would be in⯑conſiſtent with their decent and unobtruſive plan of life; father Arthur, therefore, putting on the arch ſmile which reconciled every thing in a moment, obſerved, that the cha⯑pel itſelf would be barely ſufficient to the [204]purpoſes of the accommodation of his own little family, though he would readily give up his monk's bed to them, as a reward for the honourable feelings, which muſt have dictated their offer of ſervice.—"And me woud give mine, maſſer," cried Floreſco, his Indian boy, who had joined the company as he ſaw them gathered together—"yes, maſſer, me would give my ickle bed, and make up anoder wis my warm blankey and ſhawl, I brought out of my country, if maſ⯑ſer will let good hearts peoples come and live wis us, and we'll be ſo merry and ſo glad."

"Aye, my noble child of the ſun, which, I ſee, has taught your heart to glow like his own beams, but here is a whole congrega⯑tion you ſee."—

Charles was greatly moved, Caroline ex⯑perienced emotions peculiar to her charac⯑ter—they were compoſed of the tenderneſs of her heart and the firmneſs of her ſoul—and ſhe ſettled the buſineſs, by aſſuring the petitioners, that if they went back to the abbey, and gave proper notice of their in⯑tentions [205]to quit their ſervice, but without en⯑tering into any improper explanations, ſo that all might be done with decency and or⯑der, they would probably find her at the chapel houſe; at leaſt obtain her addreſs there, ſhould ſhe have left it; and they might de⯑pend on her beſt ſervices and thoſe of her brother to ſettle them reputably and com⯑fortably in new ſituations. Father Arthur, Charles, and Denniſon, giving their fulleſt ſanction to this meaſure, the groupe were perſuaded to turn back, after receiving the honour to ſhake the hand of the gentleman, and to kiſs that of the young lady. The next morning, however, Robert Irwin contrived to ſend his ſweetheart, Margaret, one of the chamber-maids, with a baſket with the beſt things of his larder, and though all theſe were rejected and returned, as coming from the abbey, the motive with which they were ten⯑dered was not forgotten.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE aſſiduous Floreſco opened the chapel-houſe door; and Arthur, who to the gravity of a monk adjoined the courteſy of a man faſhioned by courts, with a hoſpitable ſmile gave that ſmile in welcome, and by the endearing names of friends and children, had entreated his little train to enter in and be at peace.

But one of the domeſtics returned in haſte, and preſented a little packet to Caroline: "I fancy, Miſs, this muſt have been dropt by your Ladyſhip, as this ſlip of a card was found with it, and William the footman, who is a ſcholar, ſays he knows it is a piegram or croſs ſtick, which means rhyming verſes made upon letters in ladies' names, or ſome ſuch gonundrum; and ſee, Miſs, it begins with C, and ends, lookee, with E, which William ſays makes out Caroline, which to be ſure is your Ladyſhip, God bleſs you, and pleaſe your honour; there it is, Miſs—and I will now go to fellow-ſervants, who are a waiting for me o' the wood-ſide."

[207]Caroline had begun to outglow the ri⯑band that bound the packet, as ſoon as ſhe ſaw it, and the hue of confeſſion increaſed and ſpread to ſuch a degree before the ſervant had done ſpeaking, that when ſhe received it, her whole frame atteſted it was a matter of great importance, coming at ſuch a moment: "'Tis nothing but a—nothing," ſaid ſhe, "but a—ſmall—little bit—of—paper—and—and—a—kind of—and—a—which you,—brother,—you know—deſired me—to—to—to take care of for you."

As Caroline's head, heart, and voice, con⯑federated to betray, were all fluttering at once, the diſcovery of her ſituation was threefold; for while her delicate fingers were, as ſhe thought, tightening the riband round the paper, they, in reality, were looſening it at every turn, and being thus detached, a little engine of mighty power, in caſes of affection, known by the name of a locket, dropt from the paper, and was caught on its way to the ground by Charles, who inſtantly recogniſed what it was, to whom it belonged, and from whence it came.

[208]That the reader may be in the ſecret alſo, he is to underſtand, that this locket, contain⯑ing a braid of Henry's hair, was, in the hap⯑pier days of Henry and Caroline's intercourſe, and yet when there had happened one of thoſe ſlight yet delicious differences which ſweeten agreement, given to their mutual friend Charles; to the end that it ſhould find its way, by that medium, into Caroline's boſom, where the kind Charles took care it ſhould repoſe ſhortly after; and he watched his op⯑portunity ſo well, that he procured for it that enviable reſting-place in the courſe of the very day it was preſented, and could it have known its happineſs, "right proud would it have been of its lodging." It was a token of reconcilement; and as Caroline, then un⯑der the influence of thoſe hopes, which an innocent paſſion, and the firſt of the heart, believed, as all lovers do, every thing poſſi⯑ble, or more truly ſpeaking to the ſweet ex⯑travagance of the affections, impoſſibilities probable, ſhe looked a vow as ſhe tied that very riband round her neck, which had lately bound the paper, then faſtened to the locket, [209]that neither time, nor chance, nor aught but the diſſolving power of death, ſhould rob her of that taliſmanic offering.

A cruel combination of circumſtances, inexorable as death itſelf, ever ſince that fatal hour, which extinguiſhed every tender hope, had made her take it, with a trem⯑bling hand, from its lovely manſion: Yet tenderneſs like hers ſurvives even the ex⯑tinction of hope, and manifeſts itſelf, perhaps moſt firmly, in the moment of deſpair. Her ultimate deſign was to return it by the medium ſhe received it; in the meantime ſhe looked upon it as a ſacred property in truſt, and deemed it worthy a place in the little ſanctuary where her mother's picture and other reliques of the heart were depoſited. Nay, ſhe had carefully put them not only into the ſame drawer, but bound them to⯑gether in the ſame paper, as fit companions for each other, ſeparating them only ſince ſhe brought them from the abbey, perhaps to avoid the diſcovery, which, putting them as ſhe ſuppoſed in different pockets, pro⯑duced.

[210]As the locket remained in the hand of Charles, Caroline caſt a look firſt upon it, and then upon her brother, which was clearly underſtood by both; and perhaps by the whole company, to imply, "Alas! It is ours no longer. It is the property of Olivia, and muſt be reſigned to the donor, with a ſecret injunction, to remember the friendſhip of Charles, but to forget the love of Caro⯑line!" Some ſuch ſympathy muſt have ſtruck the brother and ſiſter at this criſis, for, as if ſuffering on the ſame ſentiment, they ran into each other's embraces, conſoling and commiſerating one another.

Arthur ſaw the dilemma was of a ſingular kind, but had yet no clear idea of its cauſe: Charles, unwilling to deprive his ſiſter of the locket, and Caroline reluctant to part with, yet reſolved not to keep it longer in her poſſeſſion, a train of objections having by this time muſtered themſelves; Arthur ex⯑claimed, "My dear children, entruſt this to my charge, till it ſuits with the time to re⯑claim or reſtore it. It ſhall be preſerved as a relique of innocence, ſenſibility, and [211]adverſity; the ſevere, but ſalutary ſchool in which thoſe gifts of heaven are beſt taught."

Thus have we ſeen the gentle Caroline, earneſt in the preſervation of a ſmall unorna⯑mented miniature of her mother, and of a ſimple braid of Henry's hair, and to reſcue them from the ſacrilege of that plunder which might be expected from the new Lady Stuart; and, in ſhort, jealous in her care of two precious trifles of nothing worth to the un⯑feeling heart, while ſhe abandoned her pearls, jewels, and other attractive ornaments, which have charms for many of her ſex, without beſtowing a thought on what might become of them; and this would have been the caſe had every drawer been filled with gems of Golconda.

And now they all entered the chapel-houſe, where, by the ſoothing attentions of Denni⯑ſon father Arthur, and his good little "white-hearted blackamoor," as he uſed to call him, in the courſe of the evening they recovered a more conſiderable portion of their tranquil⯑lity, in the habitation of a poor monk, than [212]could have been expected, in the moſt ſpendid apartments of the lofty manſion from whoſe vicious influence their virtue had eſcaped.

CHAPTER XXII.

THEY had remained at the chapel-houſe ſome days, and, by the mingled powers of ſympathy, holy friendſhip, and unaffected communications with the Author of comfort, by the medium of his zealous and upright miniſter father Arthur, had found relief, when one evening, juſt as they had finiſhed a twilight converſation, the purport of which was their yet-undetermined ſcheme of life, the bell of death, from the church of Fitzorton, aſſailed their ears—

They had rather looked than expreſſed ap⯑prehenſions, when, alas! freſh trials of their fortitude aroſe.

[213]True George, with a countenance like that which drew "old Priam's curtains in the dead of night," came charged with a letter to Charles, containing the following words—

"O Charles! my father is no more!—His ſoul has taken with him to heaven my oath—an oath ratified by my lips on the book of life, and given in the dying moment of the beſt of fathers—to become the huſband of Oli⯑via. Yes, dear, unhappy one! to marry her, ſo ſoon as the decent forms of ſepulture will permit. My rebel heart delayed giving this fatal bond till he appeared to be in the laſt extremity. I could not endure to embitter a period ſo agonizing and awful. I gave up myſelf, you, and even Caroline, to the eaſe of an expiring parent. Alas! my friend, the Author of my being ſpoke to me, methought, on the border of eternity: he appeared to me, then, ſcarcely an inhabitant of this earth, and the voice with which he implored a ſon to bleſs a dying father, ſounded as if it came from heaven. Trembling, I gave the fatal affirmation;—I dared, in that deep moment of lacerated nature, in which my ſoul ſeemed, [214]like Sir Armine's, prepared to leave this world, and all its hopes and fears—I dared to promiſe that I would give my proſti⯑tute hand to the beloved of my friend, and prove a traitor to my heart's former vows to —. Oh! fill up the ſpace with the name of one precious to thy friend as Olivia is to thee; and tell me how this double duty, or this double violation—this infidelity to one, and hypocriſy to another—an hypocriſy, too, which is to laſt for life,—ah! it may be a long, miſerable, mournful life—are to be re⯑conciled! To you only I can, I dare appeal. John is more awful than —. Forget that thou art the ſon of Sir Guiſe Stuart, and ſpeak to me as the friend of my youth, the partner of my few joys, the depoſit of my many ſorrows. Dying, my father ſeparated your name from the name of him that gave it you; and requeſted the good Charles might be told he knew how to love and pity him. Olivia too, dear, unſuſpicious girl, then kneel⯑ing at the ſide of his bed, intreated he would extend his bleſſing, his pity, and his love, to one no leſs deſerving of them.—'O thou [215]beſt of innocents,' cried Sir Armine, preſſing her ſoliciting hands to his quivering lip, and caſting at me a look which my bleeding heart interpreted, 'I do bequeath Caroline Stuart all thou requireſt, and, next to thyſelf, the report of her virtues are neareſt to me. Cir⯑cumſtances, my dear child, may ſo fall out—for the world I am leaving teems with hourly revolution—that one day thou mayeſt contrive to impart to her my benediction without pain to thyſelf or others.' Another interpretable look was here addreſſed to me; and the artleſs Olivia, who, without being able to conſtrue it, fervently exclaimed, 'She hoped he would live to be himſelf the bearer of his bleſſing, and that, for her part, ſhe did not believe even Henry's ſociety could make her quite happy without that of the ſuffering Caroline. 'But,' added ſhe, taking my hand, 'I am ſure his own heart will incline to indulge me in this inſtance. Will you not, my deareſt Henry, promiſe Sir Armine that you will imitate his father's almoſt divine goodneſs in making di⯑ſtinctions betwixt the wicked and virtuous of the ſame family?' One may better ſupport [216]undue ſeverity than an exceſs of unmerited kindneſs. Why do not the never-ending vir⯑tues of this exalted woman ſoften my ſoul-felt eſteem to heart-felt fondneſs? O thou re⯑cently-departed ſpirit of my dear father! in⯑tercede with thy now aſſociate angels; yea, with thy God, to infuſe new love into my heart; or, intercede with that Fountain of Love, to releaſe me from an oath which falſi⯑fies the paſſion that feeds upon my life! How can I ſupport this pitileſs ſtorm, which rages on every ſide? How could that dear parent give it birth?—O! my friend, the tyranny of Olivia's virtues oppreſs me almoſt to mad⯑neſs. They touch me with enthuſiaſm—they animate my whole frame,—they throb at every pulſe, and every nerve of my ſoul atteſts their power. But the heart, my friend, the heart, in the midſt of all this, is cold, inſen⯑ſible, uninfluenced, uninſpired. Alas! it is another's!—O! didſt thou know this, my Olivia, thou wouldſt more than pardon—thou wouldſt pity me, and, ſo well do I know thy tender nature, wouldſt become a willing ſa⯑crifice.

[217]"The continued excellence, Charles, of this young woman, to my father, to me, and to all of us, ſtrengthens her claims, and adds to the infinity of my deſpair—for my heart is ſtill undivided, uncontrolled, and ſtill is Ca⯑roline unrivalled there. Behold me at once the victim of gratitude and love.

"To detail the ſcenes I have paſt ſince laſt I wrote would be impoſſible. Have you any thing to propoſe by which I may eſcape an event, that, though chained by the moſt ſolemn but coercive bonds, I dare not think upon? Were I alone the ſacrifice of my promiſe, it ſhould be fulfilled; but when I turn my thoughts towards you, and—and—, I dare not truſt myſelf with her name—there ſeems to be no ſanctity in extorted vows, nor any crime which can meaſure to the anguiſh of my friend, and the eternal loſs of her whom I hourly beg of the good God to ſurround with bleſſings. Why did I ever behold her?—Yet I bleſs my deſtroyer! How ſhall I commit my dear fa⯑ther's body to the grave? The bell at this moment tells the rich, the poor, and all who have heard his name, and felt the influence [218]of his virtues, that their companion, bene⯑factor, patron, and common parent, is this very night to be cloſed in the cold vault.

"A cruel accident was the immediate cauſe of his death! But Sir Guiſe—O that he were not the father of my friend! I will add no more!—Olivia, my agonized brothers, my afflicted James, and the ſubdued John, death-like in looks, as in ſilence, yet ſoft as love when thoſe looks are directed to us, and Partington, forgetful of all his ſingularities, and weeping like a ſtricken babe, are gathered together around the venerable corpſe, ſurvey⯑ing his lifeleſs face.

"Juſt as I was about to quit the room, I thought I beheld the ſmile which my, alas! ex⯑torted obedience impreſſed on every feature, and made him die happy. How am I involved in the depths of miſery! and what a calamity is even my reſpite from theſe oath-bound nuptials? For is it not derived from the death of the nobleſt of men, and deareſt, beſt of fathers? I write in this deſolate hour to ſave myſelf from, perhaps, greater deſolation. My bro⯑thers, John and James, preſerve their ſenſes; [219]and though they feel like duteous ſons, they reſign themſelves like Chriſtians. They can bear the apparatus of the parting hour. Even the afflicted matron, the mourning widow, and the gentleſt, or almoſt the gentleſt of the ſympathizing ſex, ſupport the ceremonies of the tomb with a decent dignity of grief, which in vain holds out an example to your friend. The ſound of the hammer that cloſed the coffin almoſt unſettled my ſenſes. Methinks I could at this moment lay myſelf at my dead father's ſide, and claſping his clay-cold hand, be buried alive, as well from filial affection, as to end this anarchy of my brain.

"O God! I am ſummoned to attend the hearſe.—Olivia, with ſainted voice and ſo⯑lemn ſteps, bids me remember my father is in heaven—ſhe bids me be reſigned, with her eyes ſwimming in tears.—My father is in hea⯑ven! O that I were any where, my friend, but in this hateful world! And yet I am told ſelf-releaſe from it is the hydra of human crimes.—I can no more.—My father is carry⯑ing out of the houſe—never, never to return! Adieu! I feel greatly diſordered. Olivia [220]wonders at my delay, and at my employment; ſhe little ſuſpects I had, perhaps, been dead ere this, had I not thus relieved my burſting heart and burning brain!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

EVERY paſſion of his friend's ſoul was arouſed by the peruſal of this letter; which having read, he put into the trembling hand of his ſiſter, exclaiming, "Our ordeal is not yet over—Sir Armine Fitzorton is paſſing from the caſtle to the tomb."

He then conferred apart with the bearer of the letter, and informed Arthur and Den⯑niſon with the contents; while Caroline was left the victim of ſome indeſcribable emo⯑tions, excited by every ſentence—for every ſentence had its appropriate pang.—She often pauſed, and every pauſe was filled with the diſmal bell that ſtill rang out for the father of her ſoul-beloved Henry. The night was dark and the air was ſtill, ſo that not a vibra⯑tion of the lengthening toll was loſt. There is in ſolemn and ſudden ſounds an awe-in⯑ſpiring [221]power, which ſuſpends, for a time, the more clamorous ſallies of grief.—Caroline having finiſhed the letter, ſtood fixed as in profound thought. She then intreated to be left alone with her brother, while Denniſon and Arthur diſpoſed of True George. She walked with Charles by the light of the moon, and, inſenſibly taking the path which led from the chapel-houſe to the chapel, ſhe ſtopped at the porch of the latter.

"Sole ſupport of our fallen family!" ſaid ſhe, "and only hope of an unhappy ſiſter! honour me in this heart-ſearching criſis of both our lives with your attention. We are called upon by every ſolemn appeal to ſhew ourſelves not wholly degenerate. Deep are the atonements which we owe to that ill-treated family, now mourning their irrepara⯑ble loſs; and deep are the ſacrifices which we muſt make. Alas! that piercing note of death, which ſends its ſound from the church of Fitzorton to the chapel of Stuart, informs us that all we can offer up will fall ſhort of the ruin which our unhappy father has contri⯑buted, I fear, to produce."

[222]There was a pauſe of a minute, and Charles ſaid, "Yes, there is much to be done. Ah, my ſiſter! many are the victims now demanded.—You and I are of the num⯑ber.—I know the nature of the duty, but fear"—"Fear nothing," interpoſed Caroline, "It is not heroiſm we muſt invoke, it is honour and juſtice, whoſe aid will do more for us than all that fabled deities have deviſed. My part is already decided, yours ſhould be ſo too. We have long been, and are ſtill, the grand impediments in the way of Henry Fitzorton's duty; yet hitherto we have been only unfortunate. All beyond the preſent hour would be guilt."

"Alas!" anſwered Charles, "muſt we reſign Henry to Olivia for ever?"—"We muſt," rejoined Caroline, "do ſome act to prove to Henry the utter impoſſibility of an union elſewhere. This part is mine, and can be done only in one way—and that I will purſue—A life devoted to the God that gave it, ought never, my dear Charles, to be thought a ſacrifice, not even in the bloſſom of youth and happineſs; but when there [223]is not a ſingle joy left in the bereaved heart—when every aching ſenſe bears throb⯑bing witneſs of hopeleſs deſtitution; a ſe⯑cluded ſtate, employed in holy offices, is not only a refuge from preſent deſpair, but will gradually obliviate the paſt diſappointment, and light up in the ſoul ſublime hopes that ſhall irradiate the future. To-morrow, I will conſult the good father Arthur, and my part of reply to that letter ſhall be the com⯑munication of a reſolve, which Henry Fitz⯑orton knows I will not enter upon lightly, nor violate, when adopted, for the wealth of all created worlds, though every ſtar which is now glowing above our heads was a globe of gems. With Caroline he would be wretched, with Olivia he cannot long be unhappy.

"We are within a few paces of our dear mother's tomb, and by the ſacred aſhes it contains, and O! an oath more holy, by her fainted ſpirit, which is above, I have here unfolded my intents, and expect you will not obſtruct me in their performance.—Ob⯑ſtruct! no, my deareſt Charles, you will aſ⯑ſiſt your ſiſter in the performance of her [224]duty—for whom of all her houſe has ſhe now but thee, my brother?"

"Caroline!" replied Charles, "you ſhall be aſſiſted, and though a monaſtic life is no fit refuge for a ſoldier, I will not be left behind you in becoming a ſelf-devoted victim. As my tenderneſs for Olivia is not ſurpaſſed by that you have felt for Henry, neither ſhall my reſignation be inferior."

"Have felt!" exclaimed Caroline.—"Ah, you are yet to know the extent of your poor ſiſter's affection and deſpair. My youth has been a ſeries of heart-breaking duties, and this laſt is—not the moſt eaſy to be born, but born it ſhall be! HAVE felt! O God, that ſeeſt and ſearcheſt the heart—thou knoweſt, at this moment, the bleeding ſenſibility of mine! I bluſh not, O thou that haſt adorned the being I love with every virtue of the human heart, and every grace of the human form! I bluſh not before thee to avow the affection which thou haſt thyſelf inſpired; and I withdraw myſelf, under thy aſſiſtance, only to promote his good, prevent the evil which my abiding longer in his [225]ſight would bring upon him, and, in the humble hope that my unceaſing prayers for his temporal and eternal happineſs will be heard."

During this ejaculation, Charles paid the tribute of a tear to the virtuous diſtreſs of a ſiſter, of whom his heart was proud, and of whom he determined to prove himſelf worthy. He interrupted not her pious rhapſody, but when ſhe had ended it, gently preſſed her hand, as they walked on, ſilently meditating the important taſk they had undertaken. The moon ſuddenly became clouded, yet they continued to walk arm wreathed in arm, as if to bring their deſigns into arrange⯑ment.

They were in that profound occupation of the mind, whereof the body has no ſhare, whereof, indeed, even the faculties of the mind are excluded, ſave the one godlike faculty of virtuous fortitude, which may be ſuppoſed, in a caſe like the preſent, to emulate two young people, ſummoned on a great occa⯑ſion to yield up the deareſt part of themſelves to another, and to confirm the mutual ſacri⯑fice, [226]by ſome act which ſhall put it beyond their own power to retract their engagement, ſhould even the ſeducing weakneſs of the heart at any time convene the relapſing paſ⯑ſions to repent of what they had done. Un⯑der ſuch abſorbing employment of the ſoul, the motions of the body are wholly mechani⯑cal; we are carried we know not whither, for neither time, nor ſpace, can then be mea⯑ſured. In this ſituation were Caroline and Charles; their feet had wandered from the track, and followed a direct contrary path; they found themſelves, at length, in that which led to Fitzorton church. The moment that ſucceeded this diſcovery, preſented to their view the ſolemn light of funeral torches, and ere they were aware of it, they perceived themſelves at the gate of the church-yard, where the hearſe had ſtopped, and its ſacred depoſit, Sir Armine's corpſe, was juſt lifted on the ſhoulders of ſix of his ſervants, as he had ordered. "O gracious Heaven!" whiſ⯑pered Caroline; "whither, Charles, have our devious ſteps beguiled us? Alas! to the grave of Sir Armine."—"Even ſo," an⯑ſwered [227]Charles, retreating ſome few paces. They haſtily walked into a remote path of the church-yard, while the proceſſion kept its way to the burial-place of the Fitzortons. "Ah God!" exclaimed Caroline to Charles, "I diſcover Henry amongſt the mourners:" "And there, cloſe at his ſide," replied Charles, "is Olivia, ſupporting her weeping father with one hand, and receiving the ſupport of Henry with the other, leaning for his help."—In one moment they both forgot they had been making reſolutions.

As the bearers gained the porch of the church, and the multitude followed in decent ſorrow, Charles and Caroline paſſed in the train undiſtinguiſhed, and were as ſincere mourners as any of the aſſembly. They felt themſelves involved in the public calamity, to which they had ſtill their ſuſpicions that their own father had been acceſſary. Hold⯑ing down their humiliated heads from the oppoſite preſſures of grief, ſhame, and fear of diſcovery, they went with the lamenting multitude into the church. Forgetting all modes of faith, they joined with the fervour of [228]devotion in that ſublime form of prayer ap⯑pointed in the proteſtant ſervice for the burial of the dead.

The widowed matron, the venerable Clare, the ſweet and mourning Olivia, and the three heart-united brothers, were arranged on one ſide of the body; Partington with the whole family of the poor Atwoods on the other. The houſehold ſervants, the gentry of the neighbourhood, and all the tradeſmen and tenants of the deceaſed, were gathered into diſtinct groupes within view of the coffin, and a mixed multitude filled not only every other part of the church, but the church-yard, ſo that every grave and tomb-ſtone was loaded with living ſpectators.

The vault of the Fitzortons lay in the eaſtern ſide of the church, bordering the ſteps of the altar. The coffin was ſlowly mov⯑ing towards it, when Caroline, carried forci⯑bly along by the preſs of the too eager mul⯑titude, loſt the hitherto protecting arm of her brother, and was driven forward even within ſight of the chief mourners. The ſolemn reſignation of duſt to duſt was at [229]this inſtant pronouncing by the prieſt; the ſexton proceeded to cloſe the vault, and the aſſembly diſperſed—Henry remained—"Stop, for pity's ſake, ſtop one moment," exclaimed he, "diſregard me not, good friends, but as you honoured the dead, and love the living, I conjure you leave me to myſelf."—Then finding himſelf obeyed, and the ſexton ſuſ⯑pending his office, he kneeled down, bowing his head to the vault, and claſping his hands forcibly together, remained mute. Olivia and Lady Fitzorton, overwhelmed by exceſs of grief, had been led away, by Partington and Mr. Clare, from the ſcene they could no longer ſupport.

An action ſo characteriſtic of the enthu⯑ſiaſm of Henry had a too powerful effect on Caroline, whoſe tenderneſs and terror of heart proved, in this one inſtance, too pow⯑ful for the firmneſs of her ſoul. She ſprang forward, exclaiming, "O God! O God!" as ſhe pronounced which words ſhe perceived Henry Fitzorton. He ſtarted at the well-known ſound of her voice, and caught her in his arms. Her face being concealed by her [230]poſture, and moſt of the congregation being by this time diſperſed and in diſorder, little notice was taken by the ſexton of a circum⯑ſtance which might naturally happen at a funeral in two of the ſuppoſed ſame family. After Henry and Caroline, both deprived of utterance, had been in this ſituation the ſpace of a minute, Charles, who had followed Olivia unſeen, only for the melancholy ſa⯑tisfaction of a laſt look, came up, and find⯑ing Caroline in the attitude above deſcribed, kneeled down by the ſide of his ſiſter and friend, and, in a ſuppreſſed voice, exclaimed, "O Heaven! Is it poſſible? whom do I ſee? Caroline and Henry!"

Charles took Caroline by the hand, and they walked out of the church by the chan⯑cel door, eſcaping thus the general ob⯑ſervation. Henry followed, and did not ſpeak till they had reached the grand ave⯑nue of afflicting memory, and which led equally to the abbey and caſtle. "I know not," ſaid Caroline "how to account for this, otherwiſe than an event brought about without the conſent, or, I might almoſt [231]ſay, the knowledge of either me or my bro⯑ther. The wiſdom of Providence worked by ways inſcrutable. The ſtory of our wan⯑derings at this awful hour is unneceſſary to mention, but deeming it of heavenly direc⯑tion, I ſhall uſe it to acknowlege that your letter found its way into our ſouls, and that it is our joint deſire and ſupplication that you obſerve your oath, and obey your fa⯑ther and your God."

Caroline trembled as ſhe ſpoke; the ef⯑fort to be firm, and to recover herſelf, did but the more plainly ſhew the exceſſes of her agitation.

Henry looked at Charles, who tenderly taking his hand, entered into a brief explana⯑tion of all that had paſſed in their diſcourſe at the porch of the chapel, which preceded their meeting at the funeral. He ended with the determination of his ſiſter, if the monk ap⯑proved. "And for my part," added Charles, "I have come to reſolves which will render it no leſs impoſſible for me to obſtruct your union with Olivia, whom it is my ſolemn intreaty"—here Charles pauſed—"my ſo⯑lemn [232]intreaty—alas! my earneſt ſupplication—that you ſhould—O! Henry, Henry—you know the reſt." Caroline, in a ſtate of equal trouble, undertook to apologize for her bro⯑ther's want of words to expreſs the act on which he was not the leſs reſolved—and en⯑deavouring to make up the deficiency, ſhe fell into language ſo incoherent, obſtructed, and inaudible, that relieving herſelf by a violent burſt of tears, ſhe declared it was a ſubject which defied the power of words and depended on deeds only—what thoſe deeds were to be, had been in part explained, and this, alas! was no time to enlarge.

"Brother," ſaid Caroline, "we muſt croſs yonder part of the foreſt to the chapel."

"And not one token of eternal remem⯑brance, at an eternal parting!" cried Henry, whom extremity of ſenſation had hitherto kept ſilent. "Remembrance," replied Ca⯑roline, "O! it ſhall, it muſt be indeed eternal, and for an eternity of bleſſings upon thee, if we now leave each other to our re⯑ſpective duties, the performance of which may, and, alas! muſt, give us miſery, but of [233]which the omiſſion would be ſhame, horror, and deſpair! I ſpeak," added ſhe, "with ſolemn reference to the living and the dead! Deareſt and beſt of men! farewell—fare⯑well—for ever!"

Henry, plunged in unutterable anguiſh, preſſed her extended hand to his lips—and copious were the burning tears that bathed it.

Caroline turned away her head.

Charles ſpoke not, but clung round Henry's neck. Nature could carry the ſen⯑ſation no farther. They ſeparated in dreadful ſilence; Henry taking the road to the caſtle, and the brother and ſiſter returned to the chapel-houſe.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THEY had ſcarce reached the foreſt path, when they ſaw a light advancing to⯑wards them, and heard the ſound of voices which they knew to proceed from Denniſon and father Arthur. "My dear children," [234]exclaimed the latter, running towards them, "you have alarmed us by your untimely abſence; whither have you been wandering?" "Explanations muſt be deferred," ſaid Charles; "let us make the beſt of our way to the chapel-houſe, for our minds and bodies equally demand repoſe."—"Lend Charles your arm, my good Denniſon, and mine ſhall be the ſupport of this dear young lady," cried Arthur, "and I command you both not to add to your fatigues by another word till we regain our peace-reſtoring abode; and then you ſhall ſilently partake of the refreſh⯑ment we have prepared for you, and the word farewell ſhall be all that paſſes between us till the morning."

This truly excellent monk was, on the next day, made acquainted with all that had happened—from the converſation at the chapel-houſe to the rencontre at the church.

"I ſee, I ſee the Almighty hand in it all," ſaid Arthur. "By what unſearchable means is the will of Heaven fulfilled! Your reſolves are the reſult of virtue, ſtrongly proved, and for every tear you ſhed in her cauſe, a ſmile from [235]that heaven ſhall await you. Your temporal ſufferings have been indeed extreme, but eternity is before you, and I foreſee, with a prophet's eye, that even in this world you ſhall have an earneſt of your reward in that which is to come. Nay, you have it at this hour, my children. Look into your own pure hearts, and tell me, if you would ex⯑change the conſcious reflections which are there lodged, for all that is heaping up in the breaſts of thoſe who now inhabit the abbey? Is your loſs infinite? So ſhall be your gain. He who trieth the very heart and reins hath tried you; but O! my dear, dear children, he hath examined and proved you, and made your way acceptable to him. What a con⯑ſolation! what a victory! to be acquitted with honour by—nay to claim the approba⯑tion of your conſcience and your God! Tell me, doth it not deprive adverſity of her ſting, enlarge every generous affection of the ſoul, and cruſh every ſelfiſh thought? It doth, it doth, my children, and it will give to returning proſperity, come when it may, more delightful charms! and beſides [236]extracting thorns from the preſent, ſhall con⯑fer more ſweets than he perfume of the flowers of Paradiſe on the future. Yes, my children, when you reſt this night on your pillow, if your eyes ſhould overflow at the retroſpect of your ſufferings and diſappoint⯑ments, reflect but for one moment that you have gained the applauſe of him whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain, and you will ſlumber in peace and wake in triumph."

There was no profeſſional pedantry, no unmeaning prieſtcraft in the character of fa⯑ther Arthur. He ſeldom held down his friends to long diſſertations; but when he did aſſert the dignity of his office, his eloquence touched at once the underſtanding, the fancy, and the heart: while he ſpoke, the tumultuous paſſions ſeemed to die away, and the hearer thought it folly and deluſion to diſquiet himſelf about any purſuits leſs exalted than thoſe which fill up the higheſt capacities of our nature. From his venerable lips the auditor became intimate with the lofty character of his being, and the ſublime ends of his mind; the paſſions were purified, the deſires elevated, and every fa⯑culty [237]of the ſoul aſſumed new energy and ex⯑tent, as he painted the joys of conſcience, and the bright recompence of the crown that "paſſeth not away."

He deemed this the fit opportunity to in⯑vigorate and encourage ſuffering virtue. He entered, feelingly, into the variety of ſorrows which beſet two amiable perſons. His bene⯑volent heart melted at the ſcenes of woe they had undergone, and at all they might yet have to endure. Their diſappointments in whatever was moſt dear to the human heart, called forth all his compaſſion, all his powers, and giving vent to his bounteous feelings, he addreſſed to them the ſentiments we have here recorded.

Every word had its due force, and they al⯑ternately embraced the good man when he had done, as if they were indeed his children.

Such reaſonings are not loſt on worthy minds; they had their effect on Charles and Caroline, who appeared on the following day endued with new vigour to conduct them with patience and honour through the ſtrong duties they had to perform.

[238]The admonition of father Arthur, reſ⯑pecting the affair of the convent, was conſiſt⯑ent with the wiſdom and goodneſs that per⯑vaded his councils; and after a private con⯑ference with Caroline, whom he prevailed upon to put the entire management of the buſineſs, ſuch as ſeeking out a fit place for her reception, and fit aſſociations, where and with whom to begin her pious offices, he convened his little auditory, conſiſting of Ca⯑roline and Charles, Denniſon and his Indian boy, and ſmiling upon them all, begged their attention to a few obſervations which preſſed on his mind, in a ſurvey he had taken of the late occurrences.

"My dear children and friends," ſaid he, "it is worthy your notice, that in the petty ſpace of a few weeks have fallen out a variety of events, which muſt ſink deep into the re⯑flecting mind. In the degradation of Sir Guiſe Stuart, and in the circumſtances that preceded and followed it, we have ſeen the pageantry of power, and the pride of fortune, unable to ſhield the hypocrite—pardon me [239]for the uſe of ſtrong words to paint ſtrong truths—the hypocrite, I ſay, from detection, miſery, and ſhame; we have ſeen him de⯑ſerted by his own ſervants. They fled from the contagion of vice to the protection of virtue; they left with an honeſt diſdain the lordly manſion, and ſought the cottage of piety and reſignation. My dear children, doth not this point out the ſublime authority and protection of virtue, even when ſhe is depreſſed by misfortunes, and bowed down with or rather elevated by ſorrows? At the leaſt fear of Sir Armine's danger, did not the atteſting country manifeſt in its woe the in⯑eſtimable value of a good man's life? did not the heart-ſwoln grief of friends, neigh⯑bours, children, illuſtrate the importance and the majeſty of virtue? and when it pleaſed him who liveth from eternity to eternity, to call the good man to the inheritance of the juſt, did it not ſeem, by the attend⯑ance, the tears, the groans, of the count⯑leſs multitude, as if each ſpectator was fol⯑lowing a father to the grave; did not you yourſelves feel as if you were his children?"

[240]"O that it had pleaſed Heaven to have made us ſuch!" exclaimed Charles. The tears of Caroline began to flow; the hoary cheek of Denniſon was not dry, and the In⯑dian child of nature crowded cloſe to Arthur, touched his robe with pious awe, and doubted whether man or angel had ſpoken. "But," reſumed Arthur, "when it was but rumoured that Sir Guiſe was on the bed of death, did it not rather ſeem to be the approach of ſome happy and unexpected revolution in favour of mankind, at but the diſtant proſpect of being emancipated from ſome deſpotic tyrant, whoſe life was obnoxious, and whoſe diſſolu⯑tion was implored? and had his death fol⯑lowed, is there a ſigh which would have been heaved, ſave thoſe of mercy and terror for his departing ſoul, or a tear ſhed by one of all the congratulating thouſands on his hearſe?" "O yes, a thouſand ſighs—a thouſand tears," exclaimed Caroline, ſighing and weeping in proof.—"My deareſt child," rejoined Ar⯑thur, taking her hand, "pardon my having forcibly touched a wounding ſubject; the All-good is of long patience, and of eternal [241]kindneſs! thy father may be yet preſerved as an example of penitence, as conſtant as his crimes have hitherto been laſting."

Caroline dropt on her knee, elevating her hands, and ſeemed to offer up a prayer which theſe chearing words had excited in her ſoul. Denniſon and Charles lifted their eyes to heaven, and the Indian boy raiſed up Caro⯑line, ſaying, "Young lady was ſo pretty and ſo good, that good God would make her father good yet for her ſake."

"We have ſeen too in yourſelves, my children," concluded Arthur, "the up⯑right finding favour and honour, followed by the prayers of the living, nay the perſecu⯑tors themſelves, in deſpite of the inveteracy of habit, or natural hardneſs of heart, feel the awful powers of perſiſting innocence; and, perhaps, the deepeſt reſentment of the bad againſt the good ariſes from a conſciouſneſs that even the happieſt triumphs of vice are leſs to be envied than the miſeries of ſuffering virtue, which we are told, and bleſſed be the great Rewarder, we know, "Is but more re⯑liſhed as the more diſtreſſed." Witneſs for [242]me, O recompenſing Power, how ſincerely I weep at the griefs and diſaſters of this afflicted brother and ſiſter! How my heart glows at the fidelity of this good old man, how it beats with a paternal tenderneſs towards this poor artleſs youth, whoſe untutored mind is filled with natural goodneſs! Witneſs all this! and witneſs at the ſame time, that I ex⯑perience more ſoul-felt ſatisfaction in ſuffering with them, in affording them my humble pro⯑tection and encouragement, in ſhewing to this enlightened pair the benevolence of Heaven made manifeſt even in their adverſity, in pointing to the ſure rewards that await this venerable man, and in opening upon the dawning reaſon of this boy thoſe ſublime truths which may convince him not only that his God is "to be ſeen in clouds and heard in winds," but that his creative, protective, and ſuſtaining power, embraces all climes and encircles all nature; and laſtly, that whatever may be the diſtinctions of partial man, the Maker of us all acts under influence of no ſuch prejudices—but attending only to the complection of the heart, hath allotted a place [243]of happineſs and glory to all that wear the forms of men, whether born under the blaze of the ſun or placed beyond the reach of his beams!"

While father Arthur made this apoſtrophe, his eyes ſparkled, his cheeks glowed, and the ſincerity of his heart was viſible in his features.

"Maſſer," ſaid Floreſco, "me could hear you talk all times, and me am better boy, and better good chriſtian black every time, and me ſhall go to good place like white man, and live all times with good peoples and good Maſſer, and be in God's heaven, though Ne⯑gro boy!"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE parties then ſeparated for the night, and the next morning ſhewed the effects of what had paſt in the ſubſequent letters, one of which was the ſpontaneous effuſion of the writer's unaſſiſted heart, and the other the reſult of an early converſation betwixt Charles and Caroline.

[244]Without clogging either of them by any commentary, the reader ſhall be left at large to form his own reflections.

To write this epiſtle was Denniſon's em⯑ployment, after he had withdrawn for the night, and it took him up ſome hours; after which he laid himſelf on the bed, without undreſſing, and enjoyed the moſt ſweet re⯑poſe till the uſual hour of riſing, when going into the chamber of the little Indian, who he found had been at his pen and ink alſo, borrowing from ſleep what he gave to his ſtudies; Denniſon put the letter into his hand, deſiring it might be laid on the break⯑faſt table, neareſt the lady Caroline's ſeat, and covered over with theſe ſweet flowers, which I have freſh gathered—"But ſtay," ſays Denniſon, "my good boy, we muſt bruſh off this morning dew, or it will wet the paper, and I would not for all the flowers i' the field, have that happen." Here he ſhook them gently, and dried them one by one, then gave them to Floreſco, who artleſsly [250]ſaid: "Me gueſs who that letter comes from—'tis from ſomebody that loves miſ⯑ſey." "You are right, boy," replied Denni⯑ſon, "it is from one that loves her dearly." "Aye, I tought ſo; but why you put pinks, roſes, and ſuch'um like over dat? Miſſey will tink dere is no ſweet but de ſweet words of him him loves. Ah! me knows dat, though Negro boy. Looke you, dis ickle letter come from mine own Zoraida in mine own coun⯑try; it is dear as mine own heart, and it make me cry, and it make me laugh; but ſee 'tis almoſt gone into bits and ſcraps, with ſhut⯑ting and opening; for I have a peep at it every times I am by myſelf—but maſſer is almoſt makey me write de nice words, and I learn de faſter that I may ſend to my own heart's dear Zoraida for another letter, as dis is almoſt wear out; ſee, I have been writin A, B, C, D, and E, and tink me ſhall pick my own Zoraida's name out by and bye; but I muſt make him hold together till dat you know. I wiſh him was as freſh as dis to miſſey."

[251]Previous to this obſervation, the poor boy took out of his pocket-book a little lea⯑thern caſe, from which he produced a parcel wrapt in ſeveral papers, and laſtly a piece of ſhawl made its appearance, in which was guarded Zoraida's epiſtle, that was ſent to him after he had been ſold, but now terribly torn in the foldings, and, indeed, almoſt in tatters. After ſhewing it Denniſon with a diſconſolate look, he kiſſed it ſomewhat too devoutly; for two of the pieces, incapable of bearing the ardour of the ſalutation, fell to the ground. His diſtreſs is not eaſily de⯑ſcribed, at the diſcovery of this diſaſter: it was expreſſed by a ſort of ſhriek, at the end of which he exclaimed, ſtooping down, "Oh! mine heart—mine poor heart—is drop in bits, and I no write yet to get him freſh."

He then gathered up the pieces, in which Denniſon aſſiſted, promiſing to write a letter to Zoraida for him, and in the mean time to contrive ſome means of patching up the old one.

This compromiſed the matter; and the grateful boy, putting up the precious reliques, [252]with the ſame care he had taken them out, went to diſpoſe of the ſteward's packet, according to the orders he had received.

The company ſoon appeared at their morning repaſt; and the letter was diſcovered under the flowers, by the lovely eyes for whoſe peruſal it was intended. They dropt many a lucid teſtimony, to denote that the contents were intereſting to the affections, while they pauſed on the ſentiments; and "Good, dear, excellent old man!" exclaimed ſhe, at the concluſion, "were our misfor⯑tunes to anſwer no greater end than calling forth ſuch virtues as thine, we ſhould not ſuffer in vain!" The letter was then given to Charles, who, with equal emotions, read it aloud. "Not that any part of the honeſt creature's offer can poſſibly be accepted," ſaid Charles; "but it is honorary to the human ſoul to be in friendſhip with ſuch a man!" "True," ſaid Arthur; "but to conſider ourſelves worthy to be followed by ſuch a man, from the houſe of feaſting into that of mourning, is a triumph which is reſerved only for the good."

[253]Floreſco, who had liſtened to every ſyl⯑lable with the utmoſt attention, ſtruggled with his ſenſations ſome time, and at laſt burſt into tears; amidſt the flow of which he exclaimed, "O! make me, maſſer, like Mr. Denniſon; but me am poor Negro boy, and no money; but me give ickle to poor beg⯑garman, and would diggey and workey all day, all night, all life, for feel as him feels."

But Denniſon himſelf witneſſed not theſe tender effects of his letter. On the contrary, he purpoſely abſented himſelf, and was miſ⯑ſing the whole morning. Oh, Reader, what is in the human heart, when it has either done any thing remarkably meritorious or baſe, to avoid the eyes, while the action is recent, of the benefitted or wronged? Is it the honeſt internal ſhame which conſcience dictates, on one hand, and the ingenuous modeſty, and delicate fear of wounding the feelings of the object whom we have ſerved, on the other? Both produce bluſhes, but as different in their effect, as in their cauſe. When Denniſon at laſt made his reluctant appearance, he could not have caſt down his eyes, nor diſcovered a [254]more glowing cheek, or tumultuous voice, had he been detected in robbing the parties of the ſum he had offered to lend them. But his generous diſtreſs was ſoon loſt in the embraces of his friends.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ſecond letter, of which we pro⯑miſed our readers a faithful copy, was as fol⯑lows, from

Charles Stuart to Henry Fitzorton, Eſq.

The above packet was diſpatched by the truſty Denniſon, who was made acquainted with ſo much of its contents as to convince him of the neceſſity of its being delivered to Henry Fitzorton's own hand, and in private, without waiting any replies.

Olivia was walking with Henry in a back avenue of the caſtle as Denniſon rode up to the houſe, and by a concealment of the trees, which were there thicker than ordinary, to ſerve as a ſcreen from the north-eaſt wind, he did not perceive either Henry or the young lady till they were too cloſe for any retreat. And this would have been rendered [261]yet more difficult, as little Fitz—who, as uſual, was the attendant on Henry and Olivia—happening to wander, on the hunt, into the path that Denniſon had taken—announced, by cries of gladneſs, that one of the abbey family was at hand. A [...]iverſal tremor ſeized Henry. Denniſon had always been the faithful medium of his affections, and ſilently ſhared in his regrets and diſappoint⯑ments. Denniſon was himſelf greatly moved at this ſudden encounter, and the mutual en⯑deavour of both to conceal it from Olivia, more effectually betrayed them. Far, how⯑ever, far as tender ſympathy is from jealous ſuſpicion, was that ſpirit of candour from conjecturing that the real cauſe was ſeated in the deſpairing Henry's heart, or that the good old man was in its fulleſt confidence. Attri⯑buting the whole to ſome untold calamity which had happened in a family, in whoſe miſ⯑fortunes they were all, in a manner, involved, and the ſufferings of her ever-remembered Caroline firſt exciting her ſympathy, "Alas!" exclaimed ſhe, "I fear ſome freſh diſtreſs has fallen out at the abbey. Tell me, ſir, is Miſs [262]Stuart, or the good Charles, in any new di⯑ſtreſs?—What leſs can be the cauſe of theſe emotions?"—Denniſon anſwered only by a heavy ſigh and ſhake of the head. On re⯑covering himſelf, he ſaid he was charged with a commiſſion from his young maſter to 'ſquire Henry, which muſt be deferred till he re⯑gained his ſtrength and ſpirits. "I am a poor, infirm creature, Miſs, and a little mat⯑ter overſets me."

Olivia, who was, in every ſenſe of the word, one of the leaſt ſuſpecting of human beings, deſired Henry to aſſiſt the old ſteward into the houſe, where they had no ſooner arrived, than, receiving a ſummons from her father, ſhe left Henry and Denniſon together.

"Alas!" ſaid Denniſon, "I fear me much, the weakneſs I have been guilty of has well nigh diſcovered what my maſter and miſtreſs enjoined me to conceal. But your honour and madam took me unwares—I was not in the beſt ſpirits before.—I have loſt my reſt of ſome nights.—Sleep is an old man's friend.—I did not think to ſee your honour ſo much changed—and I forgot you were all in black; [263]and poor little Fitz's love put me in mind of former times; and I had juſt left one ſet of ſorrowfuls to meet another—ſo that it was too much for an old creature, and I doubt the young lady's ſuſpicion—"

"Ah! ſhe hath not an atom in her diſpo⯑ſition!" cried Henry; "but for pity's ſake, thou to whom I owe eternal gratitude—gra⯑titude which even deſpair cannot extinguiſh, tell me the meſſage you have brought from the abbey?"

"Not from the abbey, but the chapel-houſe," ſighed forth Denniſon. He then took out Charles's packet, which, having put into one of Henry's hands, he preſſed the other to his aged boſom, kiſſed it, then wiſhed him all God's choiceſt bleſſings, ſaying, "If that lovely young lady was to be his bride, ſhe muſt be a happy one, even though he thereby loſt Miſs Caroline. I cannot, muſt not ſtay, my dear, honoured 'ſquire; but upon earth and in heaven I ſhall remember, love, and bleſs you!"

The tears of an old white-headed man, whoſe honeſty we have long known, and [264]whoſe affection we have often proved, ſhed over us at probably an eternal parting, are, at all times, affecting; but in Henry's caſe—combined, as it was, with the moſt touching circumſtances of gratitude, doubt, terror, and tenderneſs—it is no wonder that he ſuffered Denniſon to leave the caſtle without the ut⯑terance of another word.

It was, indeed, a conſiderable time before he had ſufficient ſtrength to open the eventful packet, of which his inmoſt ſoul felt at once the virtue, the energy, and the irremediable neceſſity.—"Excellent Charles! divine Ca⯑roline!" ſaid he. "Yes, your Henry ſhall be added to ſwell the ſacrifice of ſelf-devoted victims; and our oaths ſhall be reſpect⯑ed!"

By degrees his mind ſoftened to a ſort of pious acquieſcence, and ſeeing himſelf hem⯑med round by innumerable duties at the caſ⯑tle, and inſurmountable difficulties at the ab⯑bey, a new oath aſcended ſilently from his lips to that Heaven which had received his former, and, kneeling down, he cried out in a loud voice, thrice repeating it, "Here [265]then, again I ſwear to devote my hand to Olivia! Witneſs the oath, O God!"

Olivia, re-entering, diſtinctly overheard Henry pronounce this ſolemn aſſeveration. He was yet on his knees. Olivia raiſed him into her innocent arms.—"Join, join my fer⯑vent and humble prayer," ſaid ſhe, "to the atteſting God, that I may deſerve the bleſſing thoſe vows impart!" Henry reiterated them in her embrace.

Whoever wants any explanation of this little incident, would not comprehend its force were it illuſtrated by all the books of the Sorbonne. To every tender heart it will be intelligible, and to ſuch only it is ad⯑dreſſed.

CHAPTER XXVII.

WHILE they were thus ſituated, John Fitzorton came into the apartment to witneſs this. Olivia, to eaſe the overflowing of her heart, which had now felt the firſt returns of joy ſince the death of Sir Armine, could not [266]forbear deſcribing to John the circumſtance which had given birth to her happineſs.

Henry delivered to his brother the letter which had been addreſſed to his care; and John, after haſtily reading it, went out of the room.

Henry and Olivia, being again left toge⯑ther, fell into a train of reflections, which, in⯑ſenſibly, brought round the converſation to the preſent poſture of affairs at the abbey.

"Alas!" cried Olivia, "I dread, yet wiſh to hear what are thoſe ſad events which have the power to affect not only the ſympathiſing heart of my beloved Henry, but to move the firm temper of John. It was, I ſee, not with⯑out difficulty he reſtrained his tears. But did you notice the affecting turn of his powerful eyes as he directed them to us? The more I ſee of him, the ſtronger is my veneration. How gratifying to the inmoſt ſoul to poſſeſs his approbation; but, good Heaven! how in⯑ſupportable would be his anger!"

Although this was an hour in which Olivia gained extremely on Henry, he had preſence of mind enough to communicate only ſuch [267]parts of the chapel-houſe packet as might ſatisfy the ſolicitude which he ſaw it had raiſed: to have told her all he knew, would only have deſtroyed her happineſs, and augmented his own infelicity; and he had now firmly reſolved to reſign himſelf to the inevitable deſtiny of his life. He informed her, therefore, of the Baronet's indiſcreet mar⯑riage; of the open rupture which had hap⯑pened in conſequence of making ſuch a wife the miſtreſs of his family; of the impoſſibility there was, that Caroline, or her brother, ſhould remain longer at the abbey; of their departure thence; of their preſent reſidence with the venerable father Arthur, and their domeſtic, the good Denniſon; of their forlorn ſtate of mind and fortunes; and of their future de⯑ſtination, bound by oaths, which, "from my acquaintance with both," ſaid Henry, with a trembling voice, "I know to be irrevocable as fate itſelf."

Olivia not only gave him full credit for the tender feelings of friendſhip, but countenanced them by generous teſtimonies of her own, and aſked, with the moſt faſcinating ſimpli⯑city [268]and ardour, "whether it were not poſſi⯑ble eſſentially to ſerve theſe excellent perſons without wounding their delicacy? My be⯑loved Henry will not ſuppoſe that I involve their virtues in the faults of their father; or that I do not as fervently wiſh, and intend to ſue for, the revived friendſhip and ſociety of Caroline. And if I have been withheld from the like avowals, it has been in con⯑formity to the melancholy, which muſt, alas! long hang over our houſe, and which ſuſpends every promiſe of the heart. But, indeed, Henry, I have a faithful memory, and think it is a ſolemn duty, incumbent on us both, to conſult each other, till we ſtrike upon ſome expedient by which your friend Charles and my Caroline ſhould be reconciled to the felicity we ſhould feel in rendering them happy."

"Generous creature!" cried Henry, "it is impoſſible."

John re-entered, and read the letter he had received from Charles; "becauſe," he ſaid, "it was to the honour of the human race that ſuch an action ſhould be known."

[269]"Where," ſaid Olivia, "where muſt be the heart of Sir Guiſe Stuart, that it catches not ſome ſparks of virtue from ſuch a ſon!"

"And how irrefragable muſt be that ſon's virtue," added John, "which receives no foul tints from the contagious example of ſuch a father!"

Henry ſighed in the heavineſs of his ſoul.

"Something might, ſurely, be contrived notwithſtanding," whiſpered Olivia.

Henry, fully ſenſible of her excellence, begged the ſubject might drop for the pre⯑ſent.

Olivia, however, took an early oppor⯑tunity of renewing it, little imagining that ſhe was labouring the very point which kept alive the only ſubject it was her intereſt to annihilate, inſtead of ſuffering it to die ſilently away. Henry, after ſtrong repetitions of his aſſurances, that nothing could be deviſed, again put an end to the ſubject.

It occurred to Olivia, that Henry might be deterred from ſerving his friend, on con⯑ſideration, that, as the power of conferring pecuniary obligations to any very conſider⯑able [270]amount, would originate from her, ſhe thought that ſhe could not poſſibly give him a more graceful inſtance of her affection, and at the ſame time effectually indulge her own bounteous diſpoſition, than by entering pri⯑vately, and without aſſiſtance, into ſuch arrangements as might anſwer the ends pro⯑poſed. She could not eaſily ſettle on a plan, but ſhe felt in every fibre of her heart, that ſhe would adopt any one that might be likely to promote an object, which, by tender prepoſſeſſion for, and long meditation upon, was become, in addition to the aſſured af⯑fection of Henry, the one thing neceſſary to her happineſs. Day and night did ſhe revolve the point in her fancy; but ap⯑prehenſive that either Charles or Ca⯑roline would put their ſcheme into exe⯑cution before her own ſhould be matured, or even engendered, ſhe formed the reſo⯑lution of paying a viſit to Caroline; con⯑vinced, that when they got once together, ſomething might be done which ſhould fa⯑cilitate the happineſs of all.

[271]A purſuit of this kind, in which all the generous affections are convened to aſſiſt, is among the higheſt delights of a young and animated mind; the agitation which attends, and the ſecrecy with which it is conducted, are parts of its happineſs. Olivia—whoſe whole life was too innocent for the diſguiſes or concealments of an action or a thought—in⯑tended, that Henry, her father, and every⯑body concerned, ſhould be, at a fit ſeaſon, in confidence of her deſigns, but ſhe wiſhed to give them ſomething like "form and preſſure," before they were revealed; and this ſecret interview with Caroline was de⯑ſigned as the general outline. She knew, that two women, of warm imaginations, could do more towards the advancement of a favourite project, by one hour's conver⯑ſation, than by an age of ſolitary thinking; and ſhe was pre-determined to believe, that her mind was ſo exactly in ſympathy with that of Charles's ſiſter, that their wits would be in immediate uniſon, and that ſomething would be ſtruck out—from this colliſion of diſcourſe—which would [272]make her return to her ſoul-beloved Henry, doubly happy, from the diſcovered power of enlarging the ſphere of his enjoyment; the grand point in which were concentered all the hopes and endeavours of her life.

While ſhe was yet in ſearch of an oſtenſi⯑ble motive for her viſit—at leaſt ſuch a one as could be reaſonably aſſigned—and while ſhe began to feel ſomewhat embarraſſed at the difficulty, Caroline's ſpaniel—which had been for ſome time aſleep at her feet—ſtarted in ſlumber as if dreaming of the chaſe, then barked as if, after long puzzling at the ſcent, he had hit it off, and, after running it at full cry, awoke. Courting his new miſtreſs's careſ⯑ſes, he leaped into her lap; and at the ſelf-ſame inſtant leaped into Olivia's mind, which had, alſo, been on the hunt, an idea that he would be a fit inſtrument of her operations on the preſent occaſion. "The moſt proper and natural apology in the world, dear, little creature," exclaimed ſhe, ſmoothing his vel⯑vet ears, and patting his downy ſides: "The keeping thee, agreeable as thou art, ſo long from thy poor miſtreſs, has lain on my con⯑ſcience, [273]and now that ſhe is under affliction, thy ſociety, and various endearing ways, may, haply, beguile her of her grief, and ſteal her ſometimes from herſelf. Thou wilt ſoon diſcover, dear, ſenſible, ſagacious little being, that ſhe wants every relief which an old friend can afford, and wilt, therefore, double thy fondneſs. Nor ſhall ſhe have cauſe to think thou haſt been unfaithful, by volun⯑tary deſertion. Albeit, thy firſt ramblings diſcovered the little truant of an hour, they were intended only that thy neighbouring friends ſhould ſhare thy company, and thou wouldeſt have returned to her who owned thee—I know thou wouldeſt—had not thy ſympathy for our ſorrows, and my ſeductions, kept thee from thy own houſe. All this ſhall thy lovely owner be told, and if there be ought of blame, it ſhall light on Olivia; or, to clear thy fame from ingratitude, as rare in thy race as common in ours, even my Henry ſhall be made a partner in the treſpaſs we have committed; and thy lady ſhall underſtand the arts he, too, uſed to make thee ſenſible his at⯑tentions were never paid in vain. And yet, truſt [274]me, kind-hearted creature, nothing but a ſenſe of thy duty and mine own honeſty ſhould induce me to part with thee—but it will not be for ever; ſince I tell my affections, thy beſt friends ſhall be mine, and thou, who art now to be an aſſiſtant in the plan, wilt be entitled to part of its felicity."

Ah, reader! what arguments the inventive heart can find when it wants their aid! All this was very true, and it would have been no leſs ſo had it been thought of many days before: but a feeble ſpaniel was now a tower of ſtrength to a favourite plan of ope⯑rations.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NOTHING now remained to perfect Olivia's enterprize, but a fit opportunity of ſallying forth, and this ſoon preſented itſelf. John had deſired of Henry a morning's private conference; Lady Fitzorton was em⯑ployed in her own apartment; Mr. Clare was going his uſual ride. Thus favoured by circumſtances, ſhe gave out, that as the day invited, ſhe ſhould live in the air, and wander [275]about like one of its feathered inhabitants. "But," ſaid ſhe to her father as he was mounting his horſe, "I ſhall only make a cir⯑cular flight of it, and at the ſound of the dreſ⯑ſing bell return to my neſt." She ſoon ſum⯑moned her four-footed aſſociate, who ſeemed to take the hint, and with a bounding ſtep and beating heart ſhe ſet forward toward the chapel-houſe. It was an enterprize that more than emulated the ſpirit of older times; it put the flower of knighthood to the bluſh. It had the pureſt motive, and propoſed the nobleſt end. There were dangers to be paſt, and difficulties to be ſubdued; but theſe all yielded to youthful hope and imagination, thoſe generous Quixotes in the chivalric ad⯑ventures of the human heart.

There is, aſſuredly, an exultation ſeldom felt, and never to be deſcribed, attendant upon the performance of every hard and dif⯑ficult duty. Charles and Caroline Stuart were in the poſſeſſion of this, after they had performed the ſacrifices with an account of which Denniſon had been charged. And while that honeſt creature was on his com⯑miſſion, [276]the brother and ſiſter wept and ſmiled in the fullneſs of their hearts, ſenſible of their forlorn condition, yet proud to ſuf⯑fer with the dignity of virtue, what virtue required. In this tearful triumph they re⯑lated what they had done to father Arthur, whoſe reflection on their conduct produced the ſubſequent remark. "My children," ſaid he, "the majeſty, or the meanneſs, yet more than the ſtrength or weakneſs of the ſoul, is only to be aſcertained by an occaſion like this. The mean will temporize; the ma⯑jeſtic will ſtoop to no accommodation ſhort of the point which honour preſcribes. The mean will ſhift about for an evaſion; me⯑thinks I ſee him trembling at the approach of a duty which menaces the deprivation of what he has long cheriſhed. His conſcience and his paſſions are at war within him. The inſurrection of the little inviſible world is hot and obſtinate, but his ſpirit is abject. Virtue, with a frown, demands her ſacrifice. He arms againſt her all his forces. She is immortal, and he arms in vain. 'Such a point muſt abſolutely be yielded,' ſaith ſhe [277]ſomewhat auſterely, he ſtill reſiſts, and calls in his auxiliaries,—ſophiſtry, prevarica⯑tion, and delay. They prevail not, for his own conſcience, another divinity, goes over to the ſide of virtue, even when every one of his paſſions keep the field. Behold, how he waits, to the laſt moment, in a miſerable balance betwixt the diſgrace of the moſt vile and the glory of the moſt virtuous action! Every hope and fear upon the ſcout, to hunt for poſſibilities of an eſcape, till puſhed by circumſtances, he at laſt gives way only to an arbitrary neceſſity; to that he yields without any impulſe from the moral prin⯑ciple, and repines for the reſt of his life. The majeſtic, on the other hand, not leſs ſen⯑ſible of what is dear to keep, and difficult to part from, obeys, for a while, the dictate of human nature. He ſees the advancing power, that is to diſmantle his breaſt of a cheriſhed joy; he receives him with a ſacred awe that wants a name, diſdaining to hold in equipoiſe the choice of good and evil; or, when a great and poſitive duty, arrayed, [278]it may be, in terrors, and pronouncing what is fitting to be done—in the ſtill ſmall voice of conſcience, whoſe whiſpers are, to ſuch minds, more loud and alarming than the thunder—the majeſtic, I ſay, my dear chil⯑dren, your recent experience tells you, takes the treaſure which had been long enthroned on the heart of hearts, out of the boſom, where it was lodged and treated as a gueſt from Heaven,—innocent affection is ſuch—and, like the patriarch offering up his only ſon at the command of God, prepares to ſacri⯑fice; the majeſtic weeps and trembles at the altar as he binds the beloved victim—the blood of the heart ſeems to blend with his tears, but they are the tears neither of weak⯑neſs, nor of rebellion: They are not the bitter waters of repining on having made that ſacrifice, but a ſacred ſtream flowing from a tender heart, which mingles the feel⯑ings of a man with the duties of a chriſtian. My children, he who made us 'trem⯑blingly alive,' ſanctions the feeling which the agonizing yet bliſsful ſenſibility he gave, [279]creates. Even I, who have had my heart educated in the pale cloiſter, there labouring early to govern the paſſions of nature, he⯑ſitate not do declare, ſuch ſorrow is, indeed, heavenly!"

The whole of the time that Arthur was uttering this ſpeech, the brother and ſiſter illuſtrated it by example; and, perhaps, with⯑out hearing one half of it, continued to ſmile and weep as if their ſenſations were beyond the reach of declamation or eloquence. The proudeſt forms of words are, indeed, wretched mediums to paint any of the grander movements of the ſoul, and particularly the ſtruggles of honour and affection. Theſe are unſpeakable: and when Arthur had pauſed, it was, perhaps, ſome relief to the afflicted friends whom he addreſſed, that he was prevented from going on by the unexpect⯑ed ſight of the little animal lately mentioned. He had often roved away, and often returned for careſs, yet gained the chapel-houſe be⯑fore Olivia; nay he had made his beſt apo⯑logies there for abſence, and by every teſti⯑mony [280]of tenderneſs, had conciliated the fa⯑vour of Caroline; while Olivia, though the generous purpoſe of her viſit haſtened her ſteps, was ſcarce midway.

Excuſe the human heart, good reader; if thou haſt any knowledge of it, thou wilt: Excuſe, too, the truly virtuous and reſolved Charles and his ſiſter, if the ſlight ſurprize of ſuddenly obſerving a poor truant dog re⯑turn to his friends, renewed a train of tender ſorrows which would have at the moment been too powerful for a folio of moralities, even from father Arthur, ‘Tho' truths divine come mended from his tongue.’

But, what will to thee appear a yet greater weakneſs—if indeed thou art not a delineator—father Arthur, knowing and feel⯑ing as he did the hiſtory of this quadruped, diſmounted in an inſtant from his vaulting ſteed of eloquence, and when Caroline exclaimed, "Ah my poor, poor Fitz! and art thou come to be of the chapel-houſe party—or did my—my—my—did—Mr.—Henry—Fitz—orton [281]ſend thee to comfort us?"—Father Arthur forgot to reaſon, but remembered to feel. To him, to Denniſon, and to themſelves, yea and even to Floreſco, it was in a moment diſcovered, that Olivia was as dear to Charles, and Henry to Caroline, as at any period of their lives; and had any correſponding teſtimony been wanting, the following miſ⯑cellaneous converſe would have ariſen in proof. "Happy little creature, how ſleek and ſmooth he looks!" ſaid Caroline, con⯑tinuing her careſſes; "and have they been very tender to thee, poor fellow?"

"Siſter," ſaid Charles, as his hand fol⯑lowed Caroline's along the dog's gloſſy back, "Henry has told me ſuch inſtances of my Olivia's—hem—hem—of Miſs Clare's par⯑tial fondneſs for this little animal, that I am almoſt ſorry he has quitted her, and yet is it not comfortable to look at any thing which has found favour in the eyes of thoſe we love?"

Caroline bluſhed aſſent. "I am perſuad⯑ed," cried the lieutenant, "the fair hand of [282]that ſweet girl has honoured him in this man⯑ner a thouſand times!"

"He ſtept in Henry's bed-chamber," ſaid Caroline.—

"The 'ſquire and young madam were fondling him by turns, even while I was at the caſtle," interpoſed Denniſon, "and me⯑thought the dog, when he lay down and whined piteouſly at my feet—which he did—ſeemed aware that all was not as it ſhould be." Caroline drew her cheek acroſs the dog's forehead, and Floreſco went and brought him a ſweet cake of his own pre⯑paring, then kneeling down to feed him, told him, whiſperingly, "you no ſpeak, ickle ting—you no ſpeak—but young lady and maſſer 'ſquire love ſomebody's that you loves, and that loves you dearly.—I ſee dat as plainer than you ickle ting."

While the good Floreſco was thus em⯑ployed, Olivia made her appearance at the chapel-houſe. She ſtood on the threſhold of the door, which was open, and ſupporting herſelf with one hand by the door-handle, [283]which trembled as ſhe held it, ſhe pointed with the other to the ſpaniel, as an apology for her intruſion. Then ſlightly curteſying, ſhe ventured to ſtep over the threſhold, and with accents of hyblean ſweetneſs, the bloom of a generous heart mounting into her cheek, ſhe aſſured Caroline, "that the detention of her favourite lay upon her conſcience, and ſhe thought nothing could make her pardon poſ⯑ſible, but coming herſelf to ſurrender him at its miſtreſs's feet. It had the wicked feeling of robbing you of his little faithful heart, and what is there amongſt the wide circuit of crimes ſo bad as to ſteal away the object of one's affections? But he is now reſtored, and you muſt try to forgive me."

Caroline felt the very anguiſh of a truth which reached a deeper ſentiment than the loſs or even the death of her ſpaniel could create. But to form any idea of the ſtate into which Charles and his ſiſter were thrown by this unlooked-for interview, with the cauſe of all their admiration and agony, you muſt have a heart, friend, that can enter [284]into their ſeveral ſituations as well in times paſt as preſent. So that, unleſs ſuch internal evidence is at your command, this whole incident, which might otherwiſe have come quite home to "the buſineſs of your boſom," muſt be found miſerably wanting. All that we can do for you, is, to deſcribe the mere matters of fact, without a thouſandth part of the appertaining emotions and paſſions, and if you have neither fancy or feeling to ſupply theſe, it is not our fault.

CHAPTER XXIX.

NEITHER Charles nor Caroline were able to mark their welcome by a ſingle word. They bowed, trembled, bluſhed, turned pale; endeavoured to reach a chair, attempted ut⯑terance, and failed in both: Denniſon and father Arthur were ſcarcely more collected, and had it not been for the happy alertneſs and urbanity of Floreſco, the hoſpitalities would have deſerted the chapel-houſe on the firſt entrance of its lovely gueſt.

[285]Olivia, by a very natural conſtruction, at⯑tributed this general confuſion, partly to the variety of embarraſſing circumſtances which now ſubſiſted between the two families, and partly to the ſituation in which ſhe found Charles and Caroline at the chapel-houſe, where ſhe ſuppoſed they felt themſelves as exiles almoſt within ſight of the paternal home from whence they had been driven. In pur⯑ſuance of which opinion, ſhe begged to ſpeak a few words to them apart. And being con⯑ducted into another room, by the trembling Charles, ſhe gave the brother and ſiſter each a hand, and with a frankneſs that ſpoke the ſoul, and in a voice whoſe ſweetneſs was, in itſelf, an antidote to the poiſons of life, ſhe ſaid, "We meet not as ſtrangers: you and I, Caroline, have been friends from our infant days. Cruelly have our amiable de⯑ſigns been broken, but we have daily and hourly converſed with each other by ſecret and ſilent intelligence. I know we have, ſo it is vain to deny it. This is no time for ceremony or for concealments. Let us be ingenuous then: I have been greatly alarmed [286]at the diſcovery of a plot,"—here ſhe aſſum⯑ed a graver air and accent—"a plot, which I am told, you have actually laid againſt the happineſs of Henry and Olivia."

The ſcarlet of a fever, and the pale of death, tyrannized alternately in the cheeks of Charles and Caroline.

"You are, I find, about to rob," conti⯑nued Olivia, addreſſing them both, "two of your moſt ſincerely admiring friends, of what their ſouls hold moſt dear.—"

There is no adequate expreſſion to the looks of Caroline or Charles.

"Rob us, I ſay, of our inalienable pro⯑perty in your ſociety," reſumed Olivia, to the infinite comfort of her hearers, who felt relieved paſt utterance; "I am come, there⯑fore," ſhe added, "not only to reſtore your favourite, but, as a friend, to claim the intereſt which you, Mr. Stuart, promiſed to create for me in Caroline's affections; nay I come to aſſert myſelf thoſe claims of ſympathy—of childhood—of ſofteſt, tendereſt hours—and if they meet any congenial advocate in your boſoms, will be inſtantly rewarded with an [287]aſſurance, that this cruel convent ſcheme—for there begins your confederacy againſt us—will be wholly laid aſide—and a more ſocial plan, which has been ſome time forming in my mind—adopted; a plan, my dear friends,—you muſt allow me to call you ſo,—which includes the felicity of all; and, though it is not yet mature, I can make no farther progreſs in it, till you here promiſe me you will not throw an inſurmountable bar in my way, by putting your plot upon our peace in execution, and ſo throw down my new raiſed edifice, and bury the happineſs of Henry and Olivia in its ruins.

"In ſhort," continued Olivia, glowing as ſhe proceeded, "my heart, dear and ſuffering friends, is in the hiſtory of all your unmerited misfortunes and diſappointments; and I truly conſider them as much my own, as if I even had created them, and am as ſincerely inte⯑reſted in their removal."

The ſurpriſe and puzzling kind of per⯑plexed aſtoniſhment, which ſeized on Charles and his ſiſter, became again inexpreſſible. The words ſeemed to involve much more "than met the ear;" and although Olivia [288]intended them to expreſs, with the moſt li⯑beral ſimplicity, her general knowledge of the abbey calamities, the auditors believed they included even a diſcovery of their unfortunate loves, to which they ſuppoſed—judging from themſelves—that Olivia had determined to become a martyr.

"It is decreed, by all the powers of ho⯑nour and tenderneſs," ſaid ſhe, "that the caſtle muſt make reparation to the abbey; and, by a union of fortunes, fates, and affections, be for ever of one family."

The equivoque increaſed. "And why this trembling reſerve?" ſaid Olivia. "I will prove to you, ſweet Caroline," ſaid ſhe, car⯑rying her hand to her heart, and gently hold⯑ing that of Charles—"I will prove to you both, that this is to be done conſiſtently with the niceſt feelings and duties to ſuffering friends below, and pitying angels above."

The Gordian knot was now to the appre⯑henſion of Charles and Caroline leſs difficult to untie.

"After this confeſſion," continued Olivia, "it remains with you to ſend me back to the [289]eaſtle the moſt ſucceſsful or the moſt diſap⯑pointed of human beings. I ought to tell you, however, that your compliance will enable me to make our friend Henry of hu⯑man beings the happieſt, and it will be ac⯑companied by the ſweeteſt ſurpriſe in the world; for though I know, and you cannot be ignorant, that it is the neareſt wiſh and deſign of his heart, that ample atonement ſhould be made to you for all the pangs you muſt have undergone, before, alas! you were driven to this extremity, the diſtreſs into which the news of your intention to ſteal your⯑ſelves away from us, has ſo diſordered him, as well it might, that he can think upon no⯑thing deciſive, and my proud heart, aſpiring to gain the conqueſt of your promiſe not to leave us, and my earneſt deſire to carry the tidings of my victory to him myſelf, has made me dare to undertake the whole matter with⯑out his knowing or even ſuſpecting it; ſo that I have my plot too, you ſee. Judge, there⯑fore, what a generous occaſion preſents itſelf for your exalting me in his eſteem. If you permit me in this great inſtance to aſſure him [290]of your friendſhip, and it can be done in no other way, than by ſuch a family compact as I have ſuggeſted, you will thereby raiſe the va⯑lue of mine, and my obligations to you will be everlaſting."

What was to be ſaid? what done by Caro⯑line or Charles? Even what was done and ſaid;—Nothing. The myſtery was inextri⯑cable, yet a ſtrange opening of trembling light, of hope and of happineſs, all which had been yielded to the influence of deſpair, ſeemed to break in upon them like a viſion, or rather day-dream which they knew not how to en⯑courage or diſpel.

"All I at preſent ſolicit," rejoined Olivia, earneſtly, "is your promiſe to adopt no fatal meaſure, that may put it even beyond your own power to make us and yourſelves, I truſt, happy. O! grant me this, and I will fly with the wing of affection to mature my project: but why do I talk of your granting what neither of you can in conſcience refuſe? You owe it to yourſelves—you owe it to Henry Fitzorton—you owe it to me. Be⯑twixt Henry and you, Charles, there ſubſiſts [291]even a brotherly affection; and my beating heart tells me, it is not wholly without a kin⯑dred emotion in the boſom of Caroline. I anticipate then your full compliance, and will now therefore go on with my darling ſcheme, of which you ſhall have the particulars at my next viſit. But remember, you have both looked a complete aſſurance, that we have no more to fear from your former inſufferable ſcheme."

Though it might be ſincerely ſaid, that du⯑ring the delivery of theſe ſentiments,

the diſorder, ſurprize, and a thouſand ſenſa⯑tions, known only to the minds which feel them, wholly took from Charles and his ſiſter the power of ſpeech. Olivia ſaw a variety of ſymptoms, part of which ſhe thought auſpi⯑cious, and part ſhe feared were unfavourable to her deſigns. Interpreting, however, their ſilence into a kind of modeſt aſſent, ſhe would have now hurried out of the apartment, had not Charles, with a melancholy but deter⯑mined [292]air, aſſured her there were invincible reaſons, which, he feared, muſt for ever inter⯑rupt her benevolent endeavours to unite the families of Fitzorton and Stuart.

"I know every one of thoſe reaſons," rejoined Olivia, maintaining her point; "but they are all to be reconciled, my good ſir; they are all to be reconciled." The riddle appeared now reſolved. The generous ani⯑mation with which Olivia repeated this aſſu⯑rance, brought into the mind of Charles the moſt delicious of all human deluſions. His fancy had been achieving wonders all the time; and now he even ſuppoſed (what cannot the tender heart?) that Henry had, like himſelf, forgot every thing but love, and had told the ſtory of all their hapleſs paſſion to Olivia, who had determined, at whatever riſk, to ſave them all from the threatened deſpair. "O! thou unheard-of excellence! Is it poſſible," ſaid he, throwing himſelf at her feet. "Shall we then owe to thy unparalleled ſweetneſs the mighty bleſſing?"

Olivia, believing his rapture proceeded from the proſpect of being reſtored again-to [293]the arms of his friend, replied, with an ardour ſcarcely inferior to his own, "That ſhe was ſatisfied there was not a wiſh, which he, or his enchanting ſiſter, could form, but the propo⯑ſal ſhe ſhould ſpeedily make would gratify, to its utmoſt height.

The ſtrength of this expreſſion, ſeeming to diſpel all that remained of the myſtery, moved the firm ſpirit even of Caroline, who, in her turn, ceaſed for an inſtant to remember her ſcheme of ſequeſtration, and all the reſolves ſhe had made to bid the world an eternal farewell.

But, alas! it was the rhapſody only of a few bliſsful moments; yet thoſe, who have hearts to feel, might weigh thoſe moments againſt a thouſand inſipid years, and find, in all the dull and freezing truths of the latter, nothing to balance the ſhort-lived, but heartfelt tranſ⯑ports of this deluſive joy.

Obtrude not upon theſe children of ima⯑gination thy more ſober reaſonings, ſage read⯑er, in this their delirium. As well mighteſt thou argue with a fever, or declaim againſt the fury of a whirlwind. Avaunt thy cata⯑logue [294]of cold interrogations.—"Have they forgot," ſayſt thou, in the ſpirit of a man, ſu⯑pinely ſtretching in the elbow-chair of apathy; "have they forgot the long epiſtle of victo⯑rious virtue which they ſent, in the conviction of their ſouls, to the caſtle of Fitzorton? Has the upright Charles, and the correct Caro⯑line, ſo ſoon annihilated what appeared to be engraven on their heart of hearts? Where is their heroiſm, their fortitude, their philoſophy, and that nice internal ſenſe which their parading hiſtorian would have perſuaded us had prompted the glorious ſacrifice, which virtue demanded?" Yes, redoubted queriſt, all theſe things were, for the moment, as if they had never been. Enſlaved by a delicious impoſſibility, which the heart, inly ſtirred, made practicable as the plaineſt point in na⯑ture, fancy and affection opened to them the gates of hope, and moved, with more than the lightning's celerity, thoſe bars which their own reaſon—peradventure, with all its pliability, ſtrong as thine—had ſo ſolemnly, and ſo recently, declared were more immoveable than the everlaſting hills. In a word, their [295]heroiſm, fortitude, and philoſophy, were what thine would have been, even if thou art more intrepid than Achilles, more gigantic than Ajax, and a better reaſoner than Neſtor.

CHAPTER XXX.

"ALAS!" exclaimed Caroline, "what⯑ever deſtiny intends for us, we muſt be loſt to every thing that is good and lovely in human nature, before we are unmindful of Olivia's kindneſs; and her friendly wiſhes will be in the nature of bleſſings to us, go where we may."

They had by this time reached the other apartment; and Olivia, ſuppoſing ſhe had gained ground, proceeded to purſue her ad⯑vantages, then inſenſibly ſlid to the door of the chapel-houſe, and was ſtealing off without ſeeming to move away. Charles and Caro⯑line as inſenſibly followed. "We were all formed to be of one family," ſaid Olivia! "Surely your hearts muſt convince you of this! How happy ſhall we be, when our arrangements are made! Can any thing [296]interrupt it! Methinks I ſee, as in a mirror, the times to come. We are all ſeated by our fire-ſide; the arts, the pleaſures, and the affections, ſmiling before us. We ſhall be all in alliance, in friendſhip, in love."

They were now in the path that led from the chapel-houſe to the caſtle, Charles, per⯑haps without knowing it, preſſed one of Oli⯑via's hands to his lips, and the other was thrown round the waiſt of Caroline. In this manner they walked on, colouring the fairy paradiſe of their fancy more highly at every ſtep. Ah! that it ſhould be neceſſary for Reaſon to advance with a frown, and diſſolve the charm! Yet, how quickly is it done? Under influence of any vehement affection of the heart, the ſtep is quick, and almoſt keeps pace with the emotion. It is incre⯑dible how ſoon our three friends were within the bounds of Fitzorton. Olivia had now placed herſelf in the middle, wreathing her lovely arms within thoſe of Charles and Caroline. Had a ſentiment, ſoft as that which Charles might wiſh to inſpire, animated her boſom, its effects would have been de⯑moſtrated [297]nearly in the ſame way in which ſhe now proved the loving-kindneſs, com⯑paſſion, and ſympathy of her gentle heart, which all the time felt only what ſuch feelings allowed; nor had it one throb of a tenderer paſſion for any mortal but her Henry.

The ſpaniel led the way.—"See," ſaid Olivia, ſmiling, "that dear thing certainly knows our convention; I find our George calls him Little Fitz. The time, I truſt, is not far off when every one of us ſhall aſſert our ſhare of property in that worthy little fel⯑low. Nay, and I predict, that the proſpect from the caſtle to the abbey, will, one day, be as clear and bright as it is now obſcure and cloudy. Methinks half the grand ave⯑nue, even to the little ſide alcove, which is never to be forgotten, looks full of promiſe already."

Here was a ſtroke of recollection, which, though intended by Olivia as a memento of her affecting ſcene with Henry, brought back to Caroline's heart ten thouſand feelings, of which Olivia had not the moſt diſtant idea.

[298]Such converſe brought them abſolutely within a few paces of the caſtle gates; at which all three, who had ſeen and heard nothing but themſelves, expreſſed equal ſurpriſe.—"O!" cried Olivia, "that the moment were now come in which we might all be preſented to one another, hand and heart, in the way each beſt deſires.—And why not? It is but an⯑ticipating the event, and in ſuch a cauſe—"

Olivia's hand was upon the gate bell, and a ſingle ſound was given, juſt as Caroline, from ſome ſecret impulſe, trembled, and begged her to ſtop.

It was a tumultuous and indefinable, as well as indeſcribable moment. Charles and Ca⯑roline Stuart, conducted by Olivia Clare, were at the gate of that caſtle which they intended never more to approach.

A new and unexpected hope, naturally ariſing out of a chain of miſconceptions, as naturally correſponding to their wiſhes, ſud⯑denly expelled deſpair. Every paſſion, which was before refuſed admittance, re-entered the boſom, an almoſt-invited gueſt, and even Reaſon ſeemed, at length, to nod aſſent.

[299]"I have a thought," ſaid Olivia, "how it may even now be contrived;" and, without farther warning, ſhe rung the bell with a force which that thought ſeemed to inſpire.

"Heavens! what have you done?" ex⯑claimed Caroline, attempting to ſtop the ſound, the vibrations trembling from her diſ⯑ordered preſſure.

"Away with reſerves!" ſaid Olivia.—"My long-promiſed, long-poſtponed hand will be given to my beloved Henry when—O, my heart! there he is!—you may ſee him through the iron work of the gate—how rejoiced will he be to ſee you!—I will undertake to ex⯑plain.—Stop—hide yourſelves a moment;—ſtand behind me, that his ſurpriſe may be the greater."

Charles and Caroline were ſhot through and through by the ſecond ſentence: that ſentence, like deſpair and death, diſſolved their fairy dream in a moment; they had no ear for more. Their deluſion, their weak⯑neſs, their affection, their diſappointment, their miſery, were by thoſe few words made palpable; and had the gate of the caſtle, and [300]the caſtle itſelf fallen upon them, it would have been deemed a tender mercy. Luckily for them, Olivia was too much buſied to no⯑tice their conſternation, in what ſhe had now, at a moment's warning, to ſay and to do; and too much taken up with the approach of Henry, who, catching a glimpſe of Olivia, ran to receive her, exclaiming—"My ſweet Olivia, I have been watching here this hour! We thought we had loſt the treaſure of the caſtle."

According to Olivia's arrangements, Charles and Caroline were ſo ſituated that Henry could not ſee them in his advance; ſhe heard, therefore, the tender greeting, which was in ſtrict conformity to Henry's wiſh to love, and oath, to live for her alone.

Henry opened the gate—Olivia immedi⯑ately preſented her friends. They had re⯑treated ſeveral paces. Henry ſaw, and be⯑came, in an inſtant, a ſtatue of aſtoniſhment! Olivia ran, and, taking their hands, would have advanced. "His joy, you ſee, is too great," ſaid ſhe.—"I will for ever love and bleſs you, Olivia," replied Caroline—exerting [301]herſelf—"if you will go with Henry to the caſtle, and ſuffer us to return to the chapel-houſe. It is for the eaſe and happineſs of all that this be done! But it muſt be in⯑ſtantaneous; for I ſee not only Mr. Fitz⯑orton, but all the family and ſervants are pouring upon us, and we ſhall be diſgraced and expoſed beyond the pardon even of Olivia."

This petition was made in a manner, and in a voice, that rendered compliance neceſ⯑ſary. Olivia believing the diſgrace and ex⯑poſure alluded to, ſuggeſted by a too deep, though delicate ſenſe of their ſituation as ex⯑iled children from the abbey, and the beha⯑viour of their father at the caſtle, anſwered—"You ſhall be obeyed—Heaven forbid I ſhould violate your worthy feelings! Go, then, but remember your promiſe; and be prepared to expect the fulfilling of mine.—You muſt leave our beloved friends to their own plans at preſent, and hear mine,"—ſaid ſhe to Henry, who was now cloſe behind her, and whoſe eyes followed Charles and Caro⯑line, now turning ſadly into the path they [302]had ſo chearily trod a few minutes before;—"you muſt not purſue them, for my word is given. The ſeries of myſteries ſhall, in due time, be explained." There was not oppor⯑tunity for ſaying more; as John, Lady Fitz⯑orton, and Mr. Clare, with ſeveral of the ſervants ſummoned by the bell, were gather⯑ing about Olivia.

She had outſtaid her time more than two hours, and was ſurpriſed to hear that dinner was over, or rather had been ſent away un⯑taſted, each individual wondering what had become of the fair truant. She gratified their curioſity without betraying either her own deſigns or the emotions of her chapel-houſe friends, laying the whole blame on herſelf for having neglected to take her watch—"that is, to wind it up," added ſhe, as ſhe per⯑ceived her father putting it to his ear, de⯑clared it ticked.—"Really?" ſaid ſhe, "does it, indeed? None of my excuſes then will do, it ſeems: well, then, I muſt own myſelf a truant, and beg pardon." She ſupplicated and was forgiven. And cold muſt be the reader who is not convinced ſhe would [303]have had neither eye or ear to time had a thouſand clocks reminded her that dinners of ortolan and deſerts of paradiſe waited her re⯑turn.

Charles and Caroline, ſave by ejaculations, ſpake not till they regained the chapel-houſe; and then deſiring to paſs an uninterrupted hour in their ſeparate apartments, they retired to compoſe afflicted hearts, in the beſt manner they could.

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHEN Henry had an opportunity to converſe with Olivia alone—an opportunity which he ſought with unuſual diligence, for his thoughts faſtened on the foregoing ſcene with an eagerneſs, that, had Olivia been en⯑dued with one particle of ſuſpicion, or been furniſhed with any clue to it, would have diſ⯑covered the cauſe to lie deeper in his boſom than the intereſts of friendſhip.—"I ſee," ſaid Olivia, "you are earneſt to know the hiſtory of my rencontre with your friend and [304]mine, my Henry; and though a train of little untimely events have gone blundering on, to the diſorder of the whole ſcheme, which I in⯑tended to have kept a profound ſecret, even from you, till all was ripe for diſcovery, I cannot now but let you into the whole mat⯑ter; for indeed, Henry, I would not give you the pain of one moment's ſuſpenſe for all the ſchemes upon earth, and even this was plotted for your felicity."

Hereupon ſhe related all the circumſtances, from each of which the goodneſs of her mind and the tenderneſs of her heart were diſplayed ſo clearly, and with ſuch force, that penetrated as Henry was to the quick, with the unex⯑pected ſight and as ſudden departure of Ca⯑roline, the very glimpſe of whom conjured up myriads of ideas which aroſe like the ſpec⯑tres of departed joy, as from their tombs, in his boſom, he embraced her with the utmoſt tenderneſs, and ſwore ſhe was too generous, too good, and that he was utterly unworthy of her. "But though the plan is impoſſible," added he, "your kind wiſhes can, in this in⯑ſtance, [305]be accompliſhed:—I ſhall for ever cheriſh a remembrance of them in my grate⯑ful heart."

"Why do you talk of impoſſibilities?" reſumed Olivia; "Charles held the ſame lan⯑guage; he, too, ſaid it was impoſſible! Where, pray, is the difficulty of our making two of the beſt people in the world a part of us? I ſhould bluſh with ſhame for us if I thought we could diſpoſe of more than a third of our income on ourſelves, and I know of but one difficulty in appropriating ſome of the ſurplus, and that is in reconciling the ac⯑ceptance of it to minds as proud and noble as our own. But this we muſt meditate upon. I have gained, meanwhile, the one thing need⯑ful—Charles and Caroline's implied, though not expreſſed promiſe, not to leave the cha⯑pel-houſe till you or I viſit them again."

Henry, the more he heard, the more he admired the generous ſpeaker; but with an agitation that rather ſeemed to proceed from a tenacity of opinion, than any thing elſe in the judgment of Olivia, ſtill inſiſted on the impracticability of the thing.

[306]"I proteſt," exclaimed Olivia, warmly, "you do not enter into my views with half the ſpirit, my dear Henry, I might have ex⯑pected, from your friendſhip to the Stuarts, and your love to me. I could almoſt call you unkind—for is not Charles your friend, and is not Caroline his ſiſter?—By-the-bye, Henry, I am aſtoniſhed how you have guarded your heart againſt the—I ſhould have thought—unerring darts of this all-conquering girl. Though the deep ſhades of melancholy are caſt about her, one diſcovers ſuch ineffable ſweetneſs, grace, and beauty, through their veils, that I really could not help thinking, as I beheld her, nothing but the prepoſſeſſion or prejudice of old habits—ſuch as our being born, bred, reared, and educated together—could ac⯑count for it;—and although I verily believe my heart would break, and my death enſue—Heaven knows, I hope it would—on the loſs, or the ſlighteſt abatement of your tenderneſs for me, I ſhould have enough of candour in the midſt of my deſpair almoſt to juſtify the infidelity that would, nay, that ought—for how is the loſs of Henry Fitzorton to be re⯑paired?— [307]yes that ought to ſhorten my days! Your affection has taught me to be ambitious, Henry. As you have no ſuperior in your ſex, methinks—vain and proud wiſh!—I would be the firſt of mine:—methinks, for your ſake, I would be a Caroline. How in⯑finite muſt be your attachment, to prefer an Olivia! Precious, precious preference! which at once makes me proud and humbles me!"

In this artleſs and animated addreſs, as there were ſo many points to wound, and ſo many to heal, Henry ſtruck a kind of balance be⯑tween both; and in the compromiſe, his gratitude and admiration of Olivia ſeemed almoſt to outweigh his love of Caroline, and made it even more impoſſible than it had ever been before, to declare in whoſe favour the trepidations of the ſcale preponderated.

The converſation ended with Henry's de⯑ſiring to know the particulars of Olivia's plan.

"The particulars," replied Olivia, "would run into too much length for the time allowed us to detail it; but the ſubſtance is—if it met your approbation—to make Charles and Ca⯑roline [308]as independent as ourſelves; but that only you and I ſhould be concerned, or be in confidence of the means. Indeed it would be yet better if the parties themſelves could imagine it came from ſome fund on which they had a claim. For this reaſon, I blame my haſty viſit to the chapel-houſe, but you terrified me with the thoughts of their leav⯑ing us for ever. With your aſſiſtance, how⯑ever, it may not yet be too late to redeem my raſhneſs. At all events my heart is ſet upon their remaining amongſt us."

Tell us, reader, if thou thinkeſt the an⯑cient epicure Sardinapalus, or the modern voluptuary Quin, who is ſaid to have expreſſed a wiſh that his throat had been a mile in length and every inch of it palate—Tell us, if the Grecian Alexander, who conquered worlds, or the Roman Nero who rejoiced to throw them away, could, at any time of their lives, boaſt a feeling equal to that which poſſeſſed the mind of this amiable young woman while projecting to rebuild the fortunes of two perſons, whom ſhe valued only on ac⯑count of their virtues and misfortunes, and as [309]they were dear to the man ſhe loved? If thy heart be as the unmelting ſnows on the mountains of Scandinavia, thaws it not at the contemplation of ſuch good⯑neſs? And if we tell thee, that Henry Fitz⯑orton—touched to the inmoſt receſſes of his ſoul at what he heard, dropped upon his knees, as in homage to a ſuperior Being, burſt into tears of conſciouſneſs, and with a fervour more glowing even than love can ex⯑cite in ſome boſoms—renewed his oath to live only for Olivia—wilt thou not own he did as thou wouldeſt have done? If thou wouldeſt have done leſs, renounce thy claims on hu⯑manity.—If thou thinkeſt thou wouldeſt have done more, in like circumſtances, thou haſt not known—and oh, mayeſt thou never know!—the force of ſublime paſſions in con⯑tention; friendſhip for one woman and love for another—and both warring at once in thy boſom—nor haſt thou been, like him, compel⯑led by every principle of honour, good faith, and piety, to wed the former and renounce the latter—the renounced, alas! ſtill the fole ob⯑ject [310]of his doating heart, juſt torn from his longing arms and ſtraining eyes.

But the generous romance of Olivia's ad⯑venture increaſed the griefs ſhe intended to heal, or rather tore open again thoſe deep-mouthed wounds which ſhe little ſuppoſed had bled ſo long; much leſs did ſhe imagine her virtuous ſelf the innocent cauſe. On this ſubject, her "ignorance was aſſuredly her bliſs," and it would not have been "folly" only, but wickedneſs in the extreme, to have "made her wiſe."

Henry, to do him juſtice, now concealed from her with the moſt generous and tender care, ſo ſoon as he found no diſcovery had taken place at the chapel-houſe, all that could lead to a fact, which he every hour received ſome freſh conviction, would, were it but ſurmiſed, plant an eternal thorn in the breaſt of the woman he had ſworn to a dying fa⯑ther, who took his oath to the "regiſtering angel," that he would make his wife, and whom even in the ſtorm of paſſion which ſhook his heart, he felt had claims upon him independent of all bonds.

[311]Yet, Olivia made this neceſſary conceal⯑ment of Henry's emotions the more difficult; ſhe imputed the occaſional cloud that, in de⯑ſpite of his utmoſt caution, overſhadowed his brow, and the involuntary ſigh that ſtole from his boſom, ſolely to the loſs of his father Sir Armine, and the abſence of his beloved friend Charles; a day ſeldom paſſed without her reminding him that the virtues of the former enſured him that heaven to which his ſoul had aſcended, and from whence it looked be⯑nignly down, and bleſſed that forgiving ſpirit which led his beloved Henry to ſuccour the children of his mortal foe, whoſe vices ren⯑dered thoſe children the more perfect ob⯑jects of pardon and of love.

"Certain I am," would ſhe ſay, lifting her beautiful eyes to heaven, "Sir Armine approves all we may or can do for thoſe af⯑flicted and deeply injured beings. His ſacred form was before my mind's eye, as I entered the chapel-houſe—he ſmiled, methought, as I roſe above the ſhrinking diffidence of my own timid nature, and the fancy that he did ſo, gave me confidence in what I ſpoke. As [312]I came back, ſuch a glow ſpread over my heart, that I have ſince conſidered it as an emanation ſent from the bright region in which he now reſides, to ſignify that even God himſelf, in whoſe ſacred preſence he now moves, pronounced what I had under⯑taken was good. Your image too, deareſt Henry, came in with its encouragements. Henry will be ſo ſurprized—ſo pleaſed, thought I—O my little offering of good will is abundantly overpaid! Why, Henry, will not every body do kind things! ſince the ſmalleſt urbanity is ſure to be returned in bliſs a thouſand fold! Virtue ſeems to me to be common intereſt, my friend, and all the powers of earth and heaven reward it with happy feelings even to uſury. Sweet, de⯑jected, drooping Caroline! noble-hearted, ge⯑nerous Charles! how infinitely am I already indebted to ye! How can I repay my ob⯑ligations?"

Indeed, every object that preſented itſelf was productive of ſomething deſigned to cre⯑ate the felicity of that heart which it kept in continual agitation. As ſhe ended the above [313]effuſions, which were poured forth on the very evening of the eventful day that ſhe arrived from the chapel-houſe, ſhe caſt her eyes on that little adherent who has already been ſo fruitful of adventure in the courſe of this hiſtory.—"As I live," ſaid ſhe, "this dear little Fitz is with us again! He already anticipates the time when we ſhall all be of one houſe, and even now conſiders himſelf as one of the family. But, methinks, he ought to have gone back with his ſweet miſtreſs too, now ſhe is unhappy."

It was impoſſible for Henry not to be at once diſtreſſed and delighted by theſe kind revivals of what it was for the happineſs of both Olivia and himſelf to forget.

CHAPTER XXXII.

MEANTIME the amiable brother and ſiſter, whom we ſo lately reconducted to the chapel-houſe, had a conference with father Arthur as ſoon as they were able to appear before him. The ſubject was, their prepara⯑tions [314]to leave the neighbourhood. They in⯑genuouſly related to him the particulars of their diſcourſe with Olivia, nor did they con⯑ceal the ſtrong emotions of their hearts.

"It is time to make an eſcape from our⯑ſelves," ſaid Charles. "Our hearts are not to be truſted. Every hour we continue here is replete with pain and peril; and the very air we breathe is full of temptation. I cannot anſwer for myſelf if I remain any longer in this ſtrait betwixt Scylla and Carybdis—the abbey and the caſtle; and my ſiſter concurs with me in thinking, that when ſhe is pro⯑perly and honourably placed, ſomething may be determined as to myſelf. Let us then loſe no time, for I will honeſtly confeſs, a ſecond viſit from Olivia, which ſhe has given us reaſon to expect, would perhaps prove too ſtrong for all that reaſon, piety, or prayer could urge."

"A ſecond rencontre of that kind would, at leaſt, afflict us both, to no good end," ſaid Caroline; "and as my fixed and ſolemn purpoſe is to go, the ſooner that purpoſe is fulfilled the better."

[315]Caroline uttered theſe few words with much delay and difficulty. The ſight of Henry Fitzorton, and the conteſt it produced in her gentle boſom, had thrown her into ſuch a ſtate of agony, that ſhe remained ſeveral hours ſpeechleſs in her chamber.

Late on the following day ſhe aroſe and came into the hall of the chapel-houſe, pale almoſt as if ſhe were indeed in her ſhrowd, and feeble even to ſtaggering. But her principles knew no weakneſs; and what was due to virtue ſhe ſtill reſolved to pay, without one appeal from the rigours of juſtice to the ſoftneſs of love.—"O father Arthur!" ſaid ſhe, "We have confided with you our hearts—diſpoſe of us before any diſcovery takes place which may make the angel-hearted Olivia as wretch⯑ed as ourſelves. Perhaps, already ſomething has tranſpired from the late fatal interview. We rely on your inſtant ſervices. To your moral guidance, O dear adopted parent, we commit ourſelves."

Denniſon, who was within the hearing of this, threw himſelf upon his aged knees, and embracing by turns thoſe of Charles and [316]father Arthur, and then taking the hand of Caroline, humbly entreated, that ſince his dear young miſtreſs was reſolved on retiring from the world, that it might be in ſome aſylum where the attendance of an old and faithful ſervant would be admitted;—de⯑claring, that if he were denied this, he would build himſelf a hut, at the gate of the con⯑vent that incloſed her, and live and die near the daughter of his dear lady, to whoſe family he had ſworn the dedication of himſelf while life remained.—"So it will be in vain to ſhut me out," cried the old man; "remember Miſs, remember young 'Squire, what I ſaid in my letter,—'where ſhe lives there will I live; where ſhe lodges there will I lodge.'—I know what the true Lady Stuart, as ſhe lay dying, ſaid,—I ſhall never forget it—'Denniſon,' ſaid ſhe, 'poor Denniſon, you are an old ſtandard of my dear father's family, and muſt needs love my children;' and then ſhe whiſpered ſomething about what might come to paſs—what, alas! has happened—ſure ſhe was a propheteſs! I am ſure ſhe is a ſaint, and a ſpirit in heaven, at the right hand [317]of the Lord God, as ſure as I am now ſpeak⯑ing upon earth.—Reverend Sir, do not think of letting me leave my young lady. If you part me from her, my heart will break, and my death ſhall be upon your head—aye, I would ſay ſo, if you were my father by blood."

"We will all go, my honeſt fellow," ex⯑claimed Arthur, melted with his earneſt and ſimple eloquence, and aſſiſting Charles and Caroline to raiſe him up:—"I have already been turning the matter in my mind, and think it behoves all of us to depart, for a time at leaſt, from a place which is, as you ſay, my dear child, beſet with danger. The day may arrive when ſome of us may return to it with joy. Be that as it may, I truſt you will put yourſelves wholly under my guidance; and convincing yourſelves that I have your beſt intereſt, temporal and eternal, in view, I muſt have your promiſe to ſubmit unqueſtioned, however myſterious may be my ſeemings, to what I ſhall propoſe, and to follow wherever I ſhall lead."

[318]Having vowed the moſt implicit and unli⯑mited obedience, and Denniſon's worthy mind being made eaſy, the reſt remained with the good Arthur, who told them, that on the third day, counting from that in which he ſpoke, their route ſhould be fixed, and their journey might begin on the morning of the fourth. In truth, the ſagacious monaſtic had already made his arrangements; for he ſoon perceived the chapel-houſe would be no reſt⯑ing-place; and as well read in the weakneſs of the human heart, as in its ſtrength, he thought it fool-hardineſs to ſet virtue too ſevere a taſk, or impoſe on her approved votaries mere trials of ſtrength—a ſaving knowledge this, which our ſpiritual guides do not always know, ſince numberleſs are the misfortunes and the crimes which have ariſen from ex⯑perimenting upon the principles, and as it were ſcrewing them up "to the top of their bent," to ſee what degree of tenſion they can bear, and laying in their way unneceſſary dif⯑ficulties. He had little to apprehend from the eſtabliſhed rectitude of thoſe whom he called and loved as his children; but now that [319]he was more completely in the ſecret of their hearts, he ſaid they were ſurrounded by ſnares which virtue herſelf had ſet, and that their own ſenſibility was lying in ambuſh to entrap them; a ſpeedy refuge was, therefore, expe⯑dient, and his honeſt heart had been and was ſtill diligent to prepare it.

But, ſhort as was the ſpace betwixt the de⯑termination and the departure of this little party, it was filled with incidents of great ac⯑count to each individual.

The point was ſcarce agreed on, as to the time of ſetting out, ere True George, in that ſort of haſte which made him blow as if he was labouring with an aſthma, and in which indeed he performed all his commiſſions, de⯑livered a packet to Charles—gave ſeveral re⯑verential bows, with like rapidity in diſtinct reſpect, to every one preſent—apportioning his bend to the degree of claim which each had on his affections, and then ſet off with the ſame ſpeed he entered.

The billet contained theſe few words:

Though the ſurpriſe was broken by this note of annunciation, the curioſity which it excited, as to what might be the motive of the viſit, was extreme.

Charles read the billet aloud to his friends, and the expectation of ſomething extraordi⯑nary became general. They knew, indeed, that the writer of it would ſay nothing with⯑out a meaning, and that his meaning was al⯑ways characteriſtic of himſelf, appoſite to ſome point that he believed to be ſtrong and momentous. They laid no ſtreſs on the meſ⯑ſenger's buſtling addreſs, for as it was a maxim of old Denniſon's to do buſineſs a round trot, ſo was it young George's to fetch and carry meſſages at full gallop; but with this line of variation between the two, that Denniſon ge⯑nerally, as has been noted, converſed with himſelf or others all the way going and coming, and George ſeldom ſpoke any ſentence but that which made up his meſſage, which he would in repetition mutter to himſelf, leſt he [321]ſhould drop a ſyllable on the road, for miles together; and if the errand had nothing verbal in it, he would conduct himſelf exactly as he did at the chapel-houſe, on the delivery of John's billet.

From the hurry-ſcurry of George, there⯑fore, nothing could be gathered by thoſe who were acquainted with his paces, although theſe alone, to any one who knew him not, would have been ſufficiently alarming to denote an affair of life or death; whereas, in fact, he would bring you a toothpick or a challenge with equal diſpatch.

Yet no one at the chapel-houſe, except Charles, had ſeen John Fitzorton ſince the death of Sir Armine, or the conſpiracy of Sir Guiſe. Charles ſilently interpreted the interview, partly to his delay in returning to the regiment, and partly to diſregard of the captain's admonitions. Caroline, knowing John's high ſenſe of honour and inſult, had her ſilent fears alſo.

While they were involved in the labyrinth of theſe conjectures, the object of them ap⯑peared, to the moment of his appointment; [322]and after a more reſpectful bow than it was his practice to give, and which was a deference he paid ſometimes to real misfortunes, but never to the affectation of them, nor indeed to falſe pretenſions of any kind, he deſired to exchange a few words with Mr. Stuart, and they went out together.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"LIEUTENANT," ſaid John, "I hate letter-writing—not the trouble, but the vexa⯑tious inefficiency of it. It multiplies words, and embarraſſes meaning; to explain which, we run into replies and rejoinders, till we imperceptibly involve ourſelves in a corre⯑ſpondence. The chaos of obſcurity is then complete. I come, therefore, to anſwer your reſignation perſonally: I accept that reſignation: I think I ſhould have acted as you have done, in your ſituation. You have done nothing to diſhonour the commiſſion you received; but I do not ſee how you could have publicly held it to the ſatisfaction of your private feel⯑ings, [323]which are not only the beſt judges, but the ſureſt rewards and puniſhments of a man's actions."

Charles's cheek began to glow.

John pauſed, and extended his hand, which Charles met half way.

"It would be tyranny," continued John, "to impoſe on the ſon of the wretched and peſtilent man, who has contributed to murder my father, any thing that has the air or weight of an obligation."

"O, inſupportable!" ſaid Charles, ſtretch⯑ing out both his arms to their utmoſt width, as if to figure the immeaſurable burden removing from his boſom.

"Your lieutenancy is, therefore, elſewhere diſpoſed," proceeded John; "and of your father's attempt on the ſacred life of mine—but let me hurry from the dreadful circum⯑ſtance! Alas! not millions of ſuch lives as—but I will not name him to you—could atone even for imagining the death of Sir Armine Fitzorton. Why is there not a law, my friend, that the parent ſhould conſign to immediate death a thankleſs child, and the [324]diſhonoured child be the ſanctioned execu⯑tioner of an unnatural father."

"What leſs can expunge the ſpot which infamy entails on a family to all poſterity!" ejaculated Charles.

"Poſterity itſelf," replied John, "and the example of children like my friend Charles—but all that was in the power of Sir Guiſe has, reluctantly, been done. This packet,"—here John took ſome papers from his pocket, and deſired Charles would depoſit them in his own,—"this packet will explain every thing, I truſt, to your ſatisfaction, becauſe it is both to me and to you an act of juſtice, and not of obligation. I am, as haply you ſuſpect, put, by your own lips, and from my own ob⯑ſervation, in the moſt ſecret ſorrows of your heart. They are profound—they are pitiable—but—they are not without a parallel."

"Alas! no!" ſaid Charles; "they find one no leſs bitter in the boſom of—" Charles was juſt about to pronounce the name of his ſiſter, when, checking himſelf, he left the ſentence unfiniſhed. He thought it unne⯑ceſſary to commit or involve Caroline, the [325]knowledge of whoſe ſimilar diſappointments could lead to no good effect; ſince, like his own, her paſſion was hopeleſs. It was one of the maxims ſettled by John's noble diſpo⯑ſition, as a rule of conduct, never to make a good mind betray itſelf; nor, if poſſible, to ſuffer a bad one to eſcape its own ſnare. In the latter caſe, he would hurry on a rogue to confeſſion of villainy by every terrifying power. In the former, he would prevent confeſſion by all the kind interventions that offered. He ſaw the worthy Charles embar⯑raſſed; and without puſhing the generous ſoul into painful declaration, or waiting to gratify curioſity, he relieved him, by ſaying, "Yes, dear Charles; they find another where poſſibly you little expected—in the boſom of a friend—even in him who now gives you the hand of ſympathy," ſaid John.

"In your's!" exclaimed Charles, with all the emphaſis of amazement.

"Even ſo," reſponded John. "You are amongſt the number of thoſe who impute to the coldneſs of my nature what proceeds from the vigour of my diſcipline. Imitate that [326]vigour—emulate that diſcipline. To ſuch an end I diſcloſe and confide it with you. I have been, for eleven years, perhaps I am ſtill, as much devoted to Olivia as yourſelf, or as Henry, I now find, is to Caroline. Had I not diſcovered her affection for my brother Henry, I would have tried the fortune of my rougher heart, or at leaſt ruder manners, and might poſſibly have been your rival. But her whole ſoul was anticipated; and had you, my friend, or had even an enemy of worth and honour, pre-engaged it, I would have acted as I have done—promoted her happineſs with the object of her affection. This, my friend, is not the ſally of a hero, but the common duty of an honeſt man; for though it were to be wiſhed ſhe could have inſpired the man of her choice with an equal paſſion, ſhe had better wed a man of honour whom ſhe tenderly loves, than one to whom ſhe is wholly indifferent; which muſt have been the caſe, had ſhe fallen to the lot of either you or me, my friend. To ſtruggle honourably, and ſilently," con⯑tinued John, "to convert unavailing hope, and unwarranted jealouſy, into an honeſt endea⯑vour [327]to ſerve her with the man of her heart, was all that remained."

Charles admitted the fact, but gave a heavy ſigh at the words "wholly indifferent;" for though he knew theſe words deſcribed the truth of his own caſe, and had reſolved never to ſee Olivia again, he could not hear that truth without an uneaſy ſenſation.

"Any other conduct, you are aware," reſumed John, "would have aggravated my diſappointment, and driven Olivia to the neceſſity of refuſing me; the diſtreſs of which to her, and the diſgrace to me, would have been equal."

Charles conſidered this inference as incon⯑trovertible, yet could not help thinking the worthy ſpeaker more a hero than a lover.

"I therefore proſecuted my plan," con⯑tinued John,—"a ſevere ſyſtem of ſelf-denial: but do not think that I ſuffered leſs on that account. I have an averſion to confidences in ſorrow, whether from pride, or a better motive, I know not; but miſerable feelings are beſt kept to one's ſelf, methinks, though I will communicate matter that is comfortable [328]with any man. Theſe remarks are ſuper⯑fluous, as it is impoſſible either you or I can indulge a farther hope of Olivia, who is now little leſs than my brother's—wife."

Betwixt the utterance of the words "bro⯑ther" and "wife," there was a long line of circumvallation drawn by John's heart, which now began viſibly to ſound the alarm.

"Ah! my friend," ejaculated he, "that Henry were as ſenſible to her merits as either you or I!—but ſhe cannot make him mi⯑ſerable! Alas! if ſhe ſhould, in the end, be ſo herſelf! that would be a hard ſtroke on us both." John took out his handker⯑chief, and applied it to that part of his face which demanded it not, violently proteſting at the ſame time, that the cold in his head—then firſt diſcovered—almoſt diſtracted him.

"As—I—ſay—as," continued John; "excuſe me, Charles—I am, as you muſt perceive, getting quite hoarſe—I ſhall not be able to ſpeak!—In ſhort, let us remember—let us never forget—let us have it eternally in recollection—In ſhort, you ſee clearly—"

"I do, alas! I do, moſt clearly," ſaid Charles.

[329]"Theſe keen eaſterly winds, my friend, force the water from one's eyes," exclaimed John.

Charles, looking on the weather-cock of the chapel, which ſtood oppoſite to the ſpot where they diſcourſed, and ſeeing it point due weſt, whiſpered to his own heart, that John was no more of a philoſopher than him⯑ſelf.

But John tried again—"Let us remem⯑ber," taking Charles by the hand, "that we are brother-ſufferers—brother-ſoldiers—and men of honour. You ſee how I bear it, my friend,—bear it as—"

Three hems—ending in as many coughs—could not ſtifle John's ſenſations; for the tears, as if in perfect deſpite of his efforts to conceal them, ſtreamed along his face; and it was in vain that he pretended, in this extre⯑mity, to ſubſtitute a weakneſs in the eyes as the cauſe of that effuſion which flowed from the tenderneſs of his heart. Perceiving this,—"Behold," ſaid he, "one of the many curſes of what is called ſocial ſorrow. I have had ten thouſand of theſe momentary infir⯑mities [330]in my ſolitary walks—in my chamber—in my tent—and even in the field of battle, where public duty prevented private obſerva⯑tion; yet ſtill it was an affair of the ſecret heart that involved none but myſelf, and did not expoſe the mind that agonized. Not that I ought to be aſhamed of it," continued John, reſuming himſelf; "for with this hand will I give away, at the altar, that of Olivia, to him only whom ſhe can love; and in order, my friend, to prove, that you and I love her ſtill, love her as we ought to do, let us take every opportunity to make her huſband—"

John declared a fly had got into his throat.

"Her huſband as proud of—of—of poſ—poſ—poſſeſſing her—"

The fly had ſomehow leapt from his throat again into his eyes.

"As—happy, I ſay, as—had it pleaſed Heaven to have inclined her heart to either of us—we—ſhould have been—"

The latter part of this ſentence, in point of tone and emphaſis, was many degrees lower than the former. One was in uniſon with the loftieſt ſentiment of the human mind, the [331]other attuned to the trembling vibrations of the human heart. But it was the ſame noble compoſition of nature in all her grand and tender movements.

John rallied, and was re-aſſuming the philoſopher, when obſerving Charles ſhake his head, "I will yield the point," exclaimed John—anſwering to that ſignificant ſhake. "We have talked each other into this con⯑dition. Another bleſſed effect of confidence! I told you what would come of it. I proteſt to you, Charles, more words have been waſted and more weakneſs diſplayed in this ſhort interview, than in my eleven years of ſilent forbearance; and yet I confided only that you might not think your ſufferings and ſituation unexampled. You are right, my friend, this is no moment to be magnani⯑mous; yet our being men of ſenſibility, in⯑volved in ſimilar diſappointment, prevents not our being men of honour. We are in poſſeſſion of each other's misfortune, and may ſecretly reſort to one another for ſupport and ſympathy, ſhould the approaching event require greater ſtrength than our own."

[332]John perceived that Charles's heart was full, but his arms open. He run into thoſe with an ardency that was returned with an ingenuous zeal. The friends then bade each other farewell. John haſtened back to the caſtle, firſt aſſuring Charles, "that he had but half performed his errand, and that he ſhould ſee him and his party again, on ſome momentous buſineſs he could not then ſtay to impart."

"Noble, high-feeling, and high-thoughted man!" ſaid Charles, apoſtrophizing in ſolilo⯑quy as he paſſed on: "What a moment has he choſen for the diſcovery! He knew my do⯑meſtic ſorrows to be deep and mighty, the ruins of my fortune to be complete, the diſ⯑grace of my family to be deſolating—and the agonies of my heart to ſwell almoſt to burſt⯑ing; then, then it was that he came to ſeparate the ſufferer from the offender, to embrace me as an unfortunate friend, ſhew me that we were involved in one common calamity, and taught me to bear it—not by the ſtubborn example of the cynic's virtue, which is but another word for affectation or [333]ſtupidity, but by convincing me he ſtruggled with a diſappointment mighty as my own!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

FROM the time that John Fitzorton had received the reſignation of the lieuten⯑ancy, he was truly anxious to atone for the loſs which that unfortunate young ſoldier, whom he at once loved and pitied, ſuſtained by an action which he felt to be the conſequence of a brave, delicate, and independent ſpirit. And on converſing with Henry, he found his brother officer labouring under the various ills and injuries which Charles himſelf re⯑capitulated in this ſoliloquy. John, therefore, without waſting time or words, in barren and oſtentatious compaſſion, or ſpeaking to Henry a ſingle word about tender diſappoint⯑ments, ſeriouſly, although ſilently meditated how he might eſſentially ſerve this young man, and his no leſs meritorious, no leſs ſuffering ſiſter.

Indeed, his attachment to their virtues had all along been as ſincere as the deteſtation [334]he had borne to the vices of their father; nor had any inſults which he had himſelf ſuſ⯑tained from the one, the power to affect his unprejudiced and clear-judging mind from what was due to the others. Not even the outrage of Sir Guiſe at Adſell foreſt ſhook his impartiality, although the interdicted par⯑ticulars of that outrage, all fatal as they were, had come to his knowledge. No immediate opportunity, however, preſented itſelf: it was a point of delicacy and difficulty; and John not only rejected confidence in his ſorrows but his benevolence, whenever it could poſſibly be avoided; and till the hour of giving them effect, his moſt generous deſigns lay hid in his boſom. But the miſcarriage of one, two, three, or three-and-twenty efforts, did not diſcour⯑age him from going on till he ſucceeded; his maxim then was to impart the riſe and progreſs of his lucky endeavours, conſidering the reſt as irrelevant. He would however much oftener preſent the happy piece of fortune he had procured to the perſon deſerving it, without annexing to it any hiſtory at all, which he uſually conſidered as a bait for applauſe, on [335]which he looked down with all the pride of a magnificent ſpirit.

Several days elapſed before John could ſa⯑tisfy himſelf as to the mode of redreſſing the grievances of his two friends at the chapel-houſe, although he was early determined that the chief author of the calamity ſhould be inſtrumental in its relief.

At length, an accident brought about, without any difficulty, what had coſt the per⯑ſevering John ſo much labour in thought, and ſo much of that labour in vain.

The hiſtory muſt look back a little. Our companions in this work will not have for⯑gotten that the perſon fixed on by John to carry his billet to Charles was True George.

That faithful fellow who had, in his heart, the very ſimplicity and ſincerity of goodneſs, was acceſſary to the proſperity which was now about to gild the chapel-houſe. He had, with unſpeakable aſſiduity, ſought to wean the affections of Jenny Atwood from the unworthy object who too long poſſeſſed them, and place them in his own honeſt boſom; and though he made ſlow progreſs, [336]he had begun an impreſſion; the firſt viſible mark of which was her ſuffering him to mention the baronet's name with a part of the indignation it deſerved.

Indeed, the vile and abject ſpirit of her quondam lover, manifeſted both before and after the aſſaſſination-ſcheme, the baſe in⯑juſtice practiſed againſt the reſpectable Fitz⯑ortons, and his own children, and more eſ⯑pecially the marriage with Mrs. Tempeſt, and which was not like poor Jane's a mock, but bona fide a real wedding, after a time worked together for George's good. She began to find a kind of relief in his com⯑pany, which had before been burdenſome. She ſuffered his little attentions, which for⯑merly ſhe had declared were intolerable; and always in poſſeſſion of her good-will and eſteem for his virtues, ſhe by degrees, and inſenſibly, encouraged his flame, not that ſhe could yet be ſaid to return his love.

She had ſtill a child which had been the fruit of her former ill-requited and unfortu⯑nate paſſion, and by that tenure the faithleſs ſeducer had ſome hold on her maternal ſen⯑ſibility: [337]yet, ſhe was pleaſed to merit the daily increaſing tenderneſs of a worthy man.

One evening as George returned from an errand his maſter Henry had ſent him on, Jenny perceived his eyes were filled with tears, which he in vain attempted to conceal. "What is the matter, George?" ſaid ſhe in a voice ſofter than ſhe had ever before ad⯑dreſſed him, putting her handkerchief at the ſame time up to his face. Unable to make any reply, he ſat for ſome moments rocking himſelf in a chair, and then broke forth into the following exclamation, interrupted by a torrent of grief, which had its foun⯑tain in his generous heart: "I do not like, Mrs. Jenny, to bring up the name of that Sir—Somebody in your hear⯑ing, becauſe I would not have you think I diſparage him to make you have a better liking to me; but I would not have what he did no longer ago than yeſterday to anſwer for, if I might have the whole world! no! not to have you."

"Yeſterday!" repeated Jenny.

[338]"But I may as well ſpeak of it as ano⯑ther," ſaid George. "The unnatural—gen⯑tleman—no ſooner brought home the madam, whom he had married, than he picked a quarrel with the poor Lieutenant and Miſs Stuart, and turned them out of doors! and the worthy po⯑piſh doctor you have heard ſo much of, took them into his little chapel-houſe, where they now are almoſt diſtracted; for thus runs the rumour in the pariſh.

"The hard-hearted—perſon," continued George, ſtill ſinking the name, "even re⯑fuſed ſending their wearing apparel; this, alſo, was reported; and if it had not been," proceeded George, "for my maſter, and good Mr. Denniſon, they might have wanted a morſel of bread."

"Morſel of bread!" ſaid Jenny. "Gra⯑cious God!—Why, have not they 500l. a⯑year each, left to them by Sir Marmaduke Stuart, their relation, in the Weſt Indies?"

"Not they, poor ſouls! nor five hundred farthings; and as for Sir Marmaduke, I ne⯑ver heard of him before, nor I don't believe [339]they either. I thought my maſter Henry would have gone raving diſtracted mad, while he was ſpeaking of them, though I found, thank God, he did not know the worſt, which you may be ſure, Mrs. Jenny,—I wiſh I might call you Jane, as I find, Sir—Some⯑body called you Mrs. Jenny—I did not, I ſay, tell my maſter the worſt, and ſo, poor gen⯑tleman, he got up into his own chamber, that none of the family might ſee the trouble he was in—Ah, Jenny!"—"I thought you were to call me Jane, Mr. George," ſighed ſhe—"Thank ye, Mrs. Jane," anſwered George, bowing; "Ah! dear Mrs. Jane, there is a great deal of trouble that nobody but God Almighty ſees—and Mr. Henry is a great ſuf⯑ferer, for all he is ſo kind ſpoken. 'George,' ſaid his honour to me, 'is the door faſt?' I went and locked it, trembling all the way, but ſaying never a word—'George, if you would ſave me from dipping my hands in blood—in the blood of Sir Guiſe Stuart—take this purſe, and give it to old Denniſon, whom you will find at the chapel-houſe, and for your life ſpeak not a word either to [340]Charles or Caroline.' As he pronounced theſe names, I thought his heart would have broke—'Speak not a ſyllable to any body, George.' Well, I was at the chapel-houſe, and back almoſt directly, and by good luck only ſaw Mr. Denniſon—though he looked almoſt as bad as my maſter. I did not open my lips, but Mr. Denniſon whiſpered—he feared it was all over with his young maſter and miſtreſs."

"You aſtoniſh me," ſaid Jane, "more and more at every word; certainly, unleſs Sir Marmaduke's will is good for nothing, by there being one of a later date, the ſon and daughter of a—a—certain perſon are in poſ⯑ſeſſion of 500l. a-year each—for I ſaw the will with my own eyes, but in the calamities that fell ſo thick on each other about that time, perhaps, Sir—Sir—Guiſe forgot the circumſtance."

"What circumſtance?" demanded George, eagerly.

"Why the will I juſt now ſpoke of; and if it be ſo, how fortunate ſhall I think myſelf in not having deſtroyed or loſt it; and you [341]muſt know, my good George, that while I was living—alas! I then thought as innocently as happily—in London, I had occaſion to look into a kind of travelling cheſt which belonged to Sir Guiſe, and which Mr. Valentine Miles's man brought, ſaying it was full of old papers, it muſt be put into a careful place, as ſome of the papers might be of conſequence, and were to be ſorted; and I remember on the after⯑noon Mr. Dabble the attorney had ſettled ſome law buſineſs, I obſerved Sir Guiſe throw ſeveral packets into that cheſt, telling me he would have a fire lighted the next time he came, and could ſpare an hour to overlook and burn moſt of that trumpery; but this was forgotten, and as the baronet was then in a great hurry to go out, the key was forgot alſo, which I myſelf put into my pocket, with an intention to give it Sir Guiſe the next time he came, but it went out of my head, and as the lodgings were ſcanty of drawers and ſuch conveniencies, I put into it any thing that would otherwiſe have laid littering about; in tumbling over theſe, I miſplaced ſome of the papers which Sir Guiſe had thrown in for [342]burning, and was ſtruck with theſe words on the back of one of them: 'Copy of Sir Marmaduke's will.' I don't know what poſſeſſed me to look into it, and though I could not very well make it out, I read ſuf⯑ficient to ſee it was much in favour of the ba⯑ronet's children."

"But you have got the papers yet, you ſay," cried George; "with the bleſſing of God we may ſtill recover their property. I have a thought, Mrs. Jane; you muſt be ruled by me."

"If no harm is intended Sir Guiſe, who, I am ſure, cannot be to blame in this, I conſent, George," exclaimed ſhe.

"I dare not tell my maſter, Mr. Henry Fitzorton, of this, becauſe I know the conſe⯑quence; but you muſt let me mention it to his brother, Mr. Sir John—" ſo he uſually call⯑ed him ſince Sir Armine's death; "Mr. Sir John," ſaid he, "is as firm as a rock, and as ſtout-hearted as a lion, yet goes quietly about a thing."

"Do any thing you like," ſaid the agitated girl, "ſo as you reſcue the poor injured [343]creatures rights, though I fear it is too late; only do not let any harm come to Sir Guiſe, who was made to do whatever thoſe lawyers thought proper; if any body has been to blame in this affair, it reſts with me in not ſpeaking of it before, which was only from thinking it of no conſequence; for I recollect once mentioning it to Sir Guiſe, who ſaid the buſineſs was taken care of, and I dare ſay he thought ſo; not that I pretend to underſtand theſe matters, nor I ſuppoſe he neither."

"May be ſo," cried George; "but I know who does as well as any lawyer in the land; ſo do you go and get the papers ready, dear Mrs. Jane, and leave the reſt to me; but not a word to any living ſoul, and as to harm—God help us, we only want to do what is right, and would not wrong any body."

CHAPTER XXXV.

THIS affectionate conduct on the part of George, during the diſcloſure of a hiſtory [344]from which reproaches were expected, won extremely on the grateful heart of the timid Jane Atwood, who, on taking leave, recom⯑penſed him with a look that richly paid the cordial he had beſtowed on her wounded ſpirit; and this was the firſt moment he dared to tell himſelf—I am not indifferent to her.

But the hiſtory, and the hiſtorian, as well as the new ſenſation which filled his heart, did not allow of his going to ſleep, or even to bed. The morning beginning to dawn, he waited John's hour of riſing with the utmoſt impatience; at length it came, and as John had paſt the night in fruitleſs meditations upon the mode of extorting ſome proviſion for poor Charles and his ſiſter out of the father's daily diſſipated finances, it was the criſis moſt favourable to the tidings that the worthy do⯑meſtic had to communicate. To render all things pliant, John, weary with cogitations, adopting an idea this minute and rejecting it the next, had left his chamber at ſun-riſe and taken a meditative walk round a ſhrubbery that was fenced in by the park paling on one ſide, and by a quickſet of hawthorns on the [345]other, running about a mile circularly from each wing of the houſe.—George triumphed in this opportunity, and deſired permiſſion to unfold to his honour a ſcene of villainy as bad as that of Guy Faukes—ſeeing it was againſt one of the beſt young gentlemen and gentle-women in the country, aye in the world—Captain and Miſs Stuart.

A man, already debating on a ſubject which intereſts his affections, eagerly catches at every thing that applies. John—we ſhould ere this have marked his right of inheritance by calling him Sir John, but that, in his ſtrong way, he forbid every one of the family to uſe any title that reminded them or him of ſo irreparable a loſs as the death of Sir Armine Fitzorton; and whenever any one annexed to his name the title which that loſs conferred on him, he would check the obſervance of that mark of reſpect with as ſtern a frown as new-made Honourables generally give to thoſe who preſume to neglect it: But the dignity of John Fitzorton depended on nothing ex⯑ternal—He ordered George to follow him into a ſummer-houſe at the ſouth corner of the [346]ſhrubbery, where the ſubſequent diſcourſe paſſed between them.

"Relate every circumſtance, George."

"Only your honour will take it into conſi⯑deration, that poor Mrs. Jane Atwood, who is the cauſe of the plot being diſcovered, comes to no harm; but indeed your honour will ſee ſhe deſerves none: and I have paſſed my word, afore God and Mrs. Jane, that ſhould Sir Guiſe Stuart be found to have any hand in the matter, not to 'peach ſo as to get him hanged, as to be ſure he ought to have been long agone."

John nodded aſſent. George related all that Jane had told him about the will, ſaying, at the cloſe of his narrative, "I am glad at heart to ſee your honour takes it ſo well. I knew you would not fly out into hurry-ſcurry—Lord love his honour—as Mr. Henry would—but take your meaſures to get back what belongs to poor Captain and Miſs Caroline more coolly and cunningly, an't pleaſe your honour: and it was therefore, I thought to myſelf, ſays I, 'George, you had better tell 'Squire Sir John than 'Squire Henry, about [347]this will.' And as to my Jane—that is—our Jane Atwood—I've done Jennying her, by permiſſion—your honour ſees ſhe is as harmleſs in the affair as the new-born baby; and per⯑haps ſo is Sir Guiſe: but if it had not been for Jane, the thing might have been ſmuſhed up for ever—at leaſt in this world."

John did not interrupt this ſtory by a ſingle queſtion. What George called taking it ſo well, aroſe from the magnitude of the emo⯑tion. At ſome paſſages in the narrative, torrents of blood ruſhed into his cheeks, which the next moment were left of as death⯑like a pale as if there had not been one drop of that blood remaining in his body. He threw open the window, and thruſt his head out for air—a common habit with him in deſperate caſes—and left it open till he was as often obliged to ſhut it, his teeth chattering and his hands ſhaking, as if the chills of death had come ſuddenly upon him. At length, col⯑lecting all his powers of ſelf-controllment, he conferred an unuſual mark of diſtinction on George, whom he ſhook by the hand—an honour never before granted to any do⯑meſtic; [348]for though he was kind, conſiderate, and even bountiful to ſervants, his favours were always beſtowed as if they came from the hand of a maſter, of which character he never loſt the diſtinction or the awe.

Henry, on the other hand, was apt to condeſcend a little too much: it produced affection, but it ſometimes engendered alſo undue familiarity, and relaxed the well-poiſed authority ſo neceſſary to be preſerved invio⯑late. But George had a diſpoſition not to be ſpoiled by any extremes of behaviour, and was a rare example—amongſt tens of thou⯑ſands which form the rule of ſubordinate pride, folly, and ingratitude—how far the enriching hand of ſimple Nature can ſtore the heart with the principles of humility, honour, and goodneſs, not to be ſhaken by any intereſt, nor corrupted by any examples.

"I am going to my chamber, George," ſaid John; "follow me thither, when you have got the papers you ſpeak of. Tell Jane Atwood, ſhe ought to love and honour True George; and do you and ſhe guard every [349]ſyllable that reſpects this will in your own boſoms; for on that ſilence depend, not only my good opinion, but poſſibly the lives of many here—and elſewhere."

"Lives!" cried George: "Lord help—well, your honour, but don't forget I have paſſed my word for Sir Guiſe's."

There was in John's ſpeech, or in the manner of uttering it, ſomething ſo affecting to True George, that he bowed and looked, looked and bowed himſelf out of the room. Silent obedience, however, in ſervants was ever a charm in the eyes of John.

But Jane Atwood's lover did not ſuffer even love itſelf to delay carrying the bundle of papers ſhe gave him, but ſtill with the injunctions as to Sir Guiſe.

John received them graciouſly, and re⯑tiring to his chamber, dropt the bolt of his door, and ſat down, with a palpitating heart, to examine theſe eventful materials. In the heat of the peruſal, the breakfaſt ſummons was rather abruptly given by Olivia's foot⯑man. "Puppy!" exclaimed John, "get down ſtairs. Tell them I ſhall not leave this [350]room till dinner." Dinner-time came; and Henry himſelf ventured a tap at the door. "If you diſturb me, Henry," quoth John, "I proteſt I will break in upon your muſe, and frighten her away, when ſhe is inſpiring you with happy thoughts. I ſhall be buſy all day, perhaps all night; and as to eating, I ſhall not ſtarve, depend upon it. I have a room full of food, both for body and ſoul; ſo leave me to my repaſt, and go quietly to yours."

Henry withdrew; and, as he rejoined the family, he applied the well-known words of King Richard— ‘He's not i'th' vein!’ and we muſt not diſturb him till the fit is over.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

NOTHING, ſurely, but the deſignation of that Providence, which gives to its direc⯑tion the form of caſualty, could make the timid and apprehenſive Sir Guiſe Stuart either [351]ſo negligent or ſo forgetful, as to leave the credentials of his intended fraud—for we will eaſe the reader ſo far as to tell him it had not been completely perpetrated—upon his chil⯑dren to the mercy of whomſoever might find them. But thus it is that the crafty is en⯑trapped by his own ſnare; thus, too, is there often to be ſeen, even in this world, in earneſt of that which is to come, a juſt diſtribution of puniſhments and rewards.

From the written teſtimonies it appeared, that Sir Marmaduke Stuart, a firſt couſin to Sir Guiſe, had made a will, though Sir Guiſe had given out he died inteſtate, in conſe⯑quence of which, Sir Guiſe, being heir at law, took poſſeſſion of his property, which, though not very conſiderable, was ſufficient to diſcharge the teſtator's debts, and anſwer the ſeveral bequeſts, amongſt which were life-annuities to the children of Sir Guiſe of five hundred pounds each, to be paid into a cer⯑tain ſpecified government fund one twelve-month and a day after his deceaſe, and the intereſt to accumulate until the parties came of age, but both intereſt and principal to be [352]delivered up at their arriving at that period. It was likewiſe manifeſt that this will had been duly executed, but the ſignatures were torn off; and Sir Guiſe made up his con⯑ſcience to the enjoying the fruit of his deceit. But unluckily for the Baronet, Sir Marma⯑duke's ſolicitor, who was obliged to go ſud⯑denly and take poſſeſſion of ſome property in the Weſt Indies, where he afterwards eſta⯑bliſhed, ſent over to Sir Guiſe a ſecond will, the date of which revoked all others, and in this deciſive one Charles and Caroline were mentioned with no leſs marks of diſtinction. Before, however, the end of the ſame year an account arrived from Jamaica of the attor⯑ney's death, an event which ſtill promiſed ſe⯑creſy to the deſigns of Sir Guiſe, who, finding his own eſtates begin to ebb apace, felt a ſtrong propenſity to ſupply them from Sir Marmaduke's reſervoir. To which end he ſtill gave out to his ſon and daughter, that they had not been remembered—he ſuppoſed becauſe Sir Marmaduke knew the property would devolve to them as effectually after their tender father's death as if it had [353]been deviſed. Charles and Caroline being then very young, and very generous, and, of courſe, very unſuſpecting, reſted ſatisfied with this account, and taking its truth for granted, never renewed, or perhaps never thought on the ſubject. They had never ſeen Sir Marma⯑duke, who chiefly lived abroad, and left ſo large a portion of his fortune to his couſin's children, merely becauſe he did not wiſh to give it out of the family; and yet did not chooſe to bequeath it to Sir Guiſe, whom he never eſteemed, and to whom he left only fifty pounds, with theſe remarkable words:—"I give and bequeath the ſum of fifty pounds to my kinſman Sir Guiſe Stuart in token of my contempt." This mark of ignominy, however, Sir Guiſe pocketed, as he did every other affront, even when it was not gilded like the preſent. Matters remained in this undivulged way, to the infinite content of Sir Guiſe, till he diſcovered that at the time the attorney ſent over to him a copy of the will, the original, ſent by the ſame conveyance, had been depoſited in Doctors' Commons, but which, Sir Guiſe was informed, had been [354]deſtroyed. This thundering intelligence ar⯑rived at the time of the Baronet's matureſt averſion to the firſt Lady Stuart, and to Ca⯑roline, and when his affections to Charles were in the decline. All theſe were motives to run any hazards rather than make a con⯑feſſion of the fact to the parties concerned. But there was yet a more important induce⯑ment to huſh up the buſineſs. We muſt make a ſhort digreſſion to ſtate the nature of it.

The finances of Sir Guiſe had even then been ſome time under the pupillage of Mrs. Tempeſt and her paramour Miles. The Ba⯑ronet's unconquerable love of the dice, and his complete ignorance with their conſum⯑mate ſkill, gave them both the beſt pretence of plundering him in an honourable way. One fatal evening, therefore, when he was literally ſtript even from his diamond ſhirt-buckle to his watch, and downward to his ſhoe-buckles, at a friendly party, compoſed of Mrs. Tem⯑peſt, Valentine Miles, a common companion of theirs, and himſelf, he grew frantic with his ill luck, and, execrating Fortune, reſolved on complete redemption or utter ruin at a [355]ſtroke. Mrs. Tempeſt had, in a few hours, won ſeveral thouſand pounds; Valentine no leſs. The friend abovementioned, whom Mrs. Tempeſt called couſin, had ſingly net⯑ted a draft for 8000 l. Claret, Burgundy, Champaigne, and laſt of all "imperial To⯑kay," had been called in to ſupport the droop⯑ing heart, aching head, and trembling hand. The diſappointed rage of Sir Guiſe, till it was put to flight by fear, was always phrenzy without the inflammations of the bottle; but theſe being adjoined, raving madneſs is a phraſe ſomewhat too temperate to expreſs the non-deſcript diſtraction of this memorable hour. He overſet the dice-table, threw one of the boxes into the fire, tore and ſtamped upon ſome of the cards, gnaſhed others be⯑tween his teeth, piled one chair upon an⯑other, ſlapped his forehead, and at length, being worked up to the proper ferment, he leaped upon the table, and propoſed "Double or quits. Damnation! I inſiſt on reſtitution or ruin!" The bet was taken, amounting to a ſum of forty thouſand pounds, which had been the aggregate winnings of the friendly [356]trio during the night. The ignorance and inſanity of Sir Guiſe had no chance with the dexterity and double dealings of three expert gamblers! He ſoon roſe, therefore, the above ſum worſe for that ſingle throw, and at one ſitting became debtor to the three friends in the ſum of eighty thouſand pounds!

Sir Guiſe now declared himſelf a ruined man, and muttered ſomething about packed cards and loaded dice; whereupon Valentine Mills ſtrutted up to him, aſſuming the man of nice honour, and inſiſted on ſatisfaction. The bodily fear of Sir Guiſe always brought him to his ſenſes, whether he was deliriouſly intoxicated with wine, or loſſes, or inſults. In a tone wholly altered, he declared he had been ſtrangely miſconceived, but it was plaguy hard to have ſuch a curſed run in one night. Mrs. Tempeſt ſaid ſhe was ſure her dear Baronet meant nothing perſonal; the friend proteſted, for his part he thought peo⯑ple in luck ought to do an handſome thing to the loſing party, ſwearing that he would accept only Sir Guiſe's note at his own time for ten thouſand, and cry quits. The cue [357]was no ſooner given, than the other perform⯑ers acted their parts to perfection. Miles aſſeverated that he had as great a regard for Sir Guiſe as for any man in the world, and would let him off eaſily, and "I will anſwer for the lady's liberality." "Aye, he knows my weak part too well," ſighed Mrs. Tempeſt. "Do what you will with me, gentlemen," anſwered the Baronet: "If you think fit to ſave me from ruin, it is more than I deſerve." Thus they parted, and the next day Sir Guiſe being wholly out of caſh, as the trio very well knew, a mortgage was given on the abbey eſtate for ten thouſand pound to the friend, and the foundation was laid for the approbation and ſale of poor Charles and Caroline's annuities to ſatisfy the two other moderate claims of Mrs. Tempeſt and her Valentine.

Verſatile to the numberleſs meanders of the town, Mr. Miles ſoon adjuſted the ſale of the property in Mr. Dabble, the man in the world to make or mar a thouſand laſt wills and teſtaments. The ſubſequent curious epiſtle which fell into John's poſſeſſion will [358]give the reader a happy ſpecimen of that gentleman's creative talents:

"N. D. informs V. M. that caſe is nice, but has got a party to do it, who, for conſidera⯑tions, will run all riſques, and ſecrecy de⯑pended on—Broker of character will ſpeak to married party, his friend; but for valuable conſiderations, broker ſides with us: and muſt be let into plan—alſo, have drawn up ſketch of the writings.—N. D. fancies if parties to conſent ſhould be wanting, they may be had on equitable terms; better if V. M. can provide them. Two adults of ſome ſort muſt be forthcoming to agree, aſſign, &c. &c. elſe purchaſe null; but V. M. and any other of ſame age—ſpinſter in preference to feme covert—will do. A fair price of⯑fered on ſpeculation, allowing for hazards. V. M. may fix time to ſee the inſtruments at N. D.'s apartments.

P. S. Ring at office bell.

Minories, Sep. 11.

N. B. Purchaſer, an old dealer, and looks cloſe. Parties to repreſent annuitants ſhould be healthy conſtitution, price according. Af⯑fidavits, [359]certificates, &c. &c. ready at a mo⯑ment's warning.

At the finiſhing of this eloquent morſel, which was amongſt the papers delivered by Jane Atwood, John worked the letter into a twiſt in his clenched hand, preciſely as he would have twiſted the neck of the writer had he been preſent; and then, perſonifying the innocent paper, beſtowed upon it all thoſe opprobrious names which were due to Mr. Nicholas Dabble, but of which the ſaid pa⯑per was to the full as ſenſible in point of conſcience as the aforeſaid Nicholas, who had lived in the city of London a practiſing doer of all dirty works eight and thirty-years, with⯑out once committing an action, even by miſ⯑take, which did not deſerve the halter. He had been the boſom friend of Mr. Miles and Mrs. Tempeſt half their lives, during which time he had got both of them out of as many hang-worthy eſcapes as he had got every perſon they connected with into them. And, indeed, few Judges had ordered more guilty perſons from the priſon to the gallows than Nicholas had prepared innocent ones for [360]both. But, as Mr. Dabble will turn out by no means like one of thoſe heroes who "ſtrut their hour upon the ſtage, and then are heard no more," we will reſerve what may further be proper to ſay of him to his ſecond ap⯑pearance, convinced that his firſt has fixed an impreſſion of his character in the mind of the reader not ſpeedily to be effaced.

John ſoon recollecting himſelf, deemed the epiſtolary philippic of this proſtitutor of the law of too high value to deſtroy, and therefore reſcued it, almoſt griped aſunder, to as nearly its priſtine ſtate as he could, in the conſolatory hope, that, like the hand⯑writing on the wall, it might, one day, be given in evidence againſt the author. Meanwhile, he carefully folded it up, and having ſat a full hour in the profound thought that uſually preceded his deeds of moment, he roſe from his chair indignant and deter⯑mined. His plan was mature, and he loſt not an inſtant in its execution.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

BY a perſeverance which uneaſineſs of mind rather rendered more intenſe than obſtructed, John had by this time ſecured his ſeat in parliament, where the independent diſplay of his talents and principles had gain⯑ed him the reſpect of all parties; as his at⯑tention to military duty, at home and abroad, had rendered him honourable in the opinion of friends and enemies: but, in the intervals of peace, it was always a lucky circumſtance to favour any of John's ſecret manoeuvres, or in retreating from any chagrin or boſom ſer⯑vice at the caſtle, to gain the regiment; and whenever the colonel, the colonel's horſe, or groom were not to be found, which was often the caſe, it was concluded he was gone to quarters: And when his own ſervant was indiſpoſed, he would, without ceremony, borrow True George from Henry, for an hour, a day, or a week. For inſtance, the colonel's ſervants being otherwiſe employed, [362]or thought leſs proper for the buſineſs, George was now ordered to have horſes ſaddled at five the next morning. The colonel only ſaying to him over-night, "You muſt leave your maſter, aye, and your miſ⯑treſs too, George, to accompany me at five to-morrow, on the matter we ſpoke about in the ſummer-houſe." George bounded, rather than ran, out of the room, and on that oc⯑caſion would have left even the arms of his Jane, had they been enfolding him in the bridal hour, ‘Punctual as lovers to the moment ſworn.’ therefore John Fitzorton and True George kept their aſſignation in the ſtable. The morning was heavy with clouds, which, as the colonel mounted his ſteed, broke in deluges of rain: Neither of our heroes appeared at all diſ⯑poſed to advert to the circumſtance, nor in⯑deed to be ſenſible of it. The 'tempeſt in their minds,' as the great dramatic delineator ſays, 'took from them all feeling elſe.' They had cleared the park, and got about a mile on the road, when George recollected that [363]the Colonel's great coat was belted to his back; and the Colonel, ſo far from feeling the want of it, was jogging on at a gentle trot, with his eyes fixed on the pummel of the ſaddle, as if he were counting the drops that fell from the ſpout of his hat, which, having the cock military, filled like a reſervoir, and, from the down⯑ward bend of his head, flowed like a fountain.

George, however, having unbuckled the great coat, rode up to the ſide of John Fitz⯑orton, but ſeeing his poſition, (for George critically underſtood all the family attitudes,) he feared to interrupt his mind by an unſeaſonable care of his body, which, he knew, was always ſecondary in Colonel Sir John's cogibunduſſes. After due delibera⯑tion, therefore, what, in ſo difficult a caſe, was proper to be done, he paſſed by John a ſew paces, holding the great coat at arm's length, ſo that it might ſtrike in the moſt favourable point of view, and thereby re⯑commend itſelf; but this not ſucceeding, and the ſhower not only increaſing, but driving with the wind full in their faces, George drew in his own ſteed, and gently [364]threw the coat on John's ſhoulders. This arouſing the latter, who had been all that time making Sir Guiſe, his new married lady, her gallant Mr. Miles, their agent Mr. Nick Dabble, and even the purchaſer of annuities, dance the tight rope from one ſcaffold, had the deſired effect; the colonel, throwing the bridle on his horſe's neck, took up the great coat, and put it on ſlightly, ſay⯑ing to George, who ſtood at the horſe's head, "And I adviſe you to follow the ex⯑ample;" which the obedient George would certainly have taken even had the dogſtar raged—ſo implicit was he as to the word of command—but for a trifling impediment—that is to ſay, he had no great coat to put on; for when he unbuckled John's, he for⯑got to ſave his own, which, therefore, dropt for the uſe of the next traveller who might wiſh for ſuch a convenience. Upon this diſcovery, however, George contented his honeſt heart with gently condemning and ſtriking his own head, kept his ſtation behind, and only ſaid to himſelf, 'What a ſilly Simon! 'tis well it was not Mr. Sir John's, though.'

[365]The Colonel puſhed on, much increaſing his pace—not becauſe the morning continued ſhowery, but becauſe he had, perhaps, ſa⯑tisfied his imagination with ſeeing the parties ſwing their hour in his fancy, and he ſeemed riding-poſt to take the news to his friends. The Colonel and his attendant had travelled up⯑wards of twenty-four miles ere George had hazarded a conjecture where they might be going, for John had not ſaid a ſyllable as to that particular, nor, indeed, would George have made an inquiry had he been journey⯑ing to the world's end; but that feeling a miſgiving they were wrong, he ſuppoſed matters had better be ſet right; he conceived John was at leaſt two-and-twenty miles out of the road. He was therefore on the very rim of a queſtion, the rareſt of all things with George, when John, pulling in his ſteed, ſignified his intention to ſtop at the next market-town, and if the weather did not clear, go poſt the reſt of the way, "for," add⯑ed he, "I am, as I ſuppoſe you may gueſs, going to Mr. Partington's."—"Bleſs us! your [366]honour," replied George, "I wiſh I had known that before, becauſe I could have gone ſeveral miles nearer acroſs the country. We ſhould have left the London road, which your honour knows we are ſtill upon, at the two mile-ſtone, and gone over the heaths." "And pray how happens it thou art ſo well ac⯑quainted with this road?" interrogated John, "'tis quite out of Henry's beat, proſaic or poetical, and Partington is but recently ſettled in theſe parts."—"Your honour knows I have been backwards and forwards on one buſineſs or t'other ever ſince—"—"Ever ſince—Jenny Atwood's father, I ſuppoſe, was put by Partington into a farm in his neighbourhood. Hey George? What, you went for his vote and intereſt I ſuppoſe?" George bluſhed, and took in a copious mouthful of rain; he then ſaid, "We muſt now go right an end, pleaſe your honour, then take the road ſlip-ſide of the town, which will bring us to—to the farmer's, your honour." While George was accurately deſcribing the geography of the road to Partington's, a man on horſeback rode by at a full trot, when George immediately [367]exclaimed—"Your honour, there's my great coat! if your honour will give me leave, I'll have it off that fellow's back in a jiffy."—John aſſenting to this, the dripping George gallopped after the man, who, believing himſelf purſued, and whoſe horſe having the ſpeed of George's, would, perhaps, have eſcap⯑ed with the ſurtout after all, had not ſome little altercation at the turnpike taken place, and occaſioned a delay which brought the purſuer near enough to catch the arm of the man purſued, and to ſay—"This is mine, Sir; I'll make affidavy of it before a juſtice of peace; and there's one juſt behind, who is a'ſquire, and a barrow night, and a colonel, and a parliament-man, at the ſame time, and who knows the coat as well as I do." The word juſtice, ſounded more ominouſly in the ears of the party accuſed than all the other titles of his worſhip, had they out-pedigreed Cadwallader; he therefore owned the fact, ſaying, "Though I found it in the king's highway, friend, and could, therefore, keep it by law, I will ſurrender it, if the pikeman will open the gate and let me through, as I am [368]in a very great hurry." This haſte produced a ſuſpicion in the mind of the toll-receiver, who ſwore he would detain him as a thief on his own confeſſion, the goods being found upon him. "And as to your finding a good great coat on the road ſuch a morning as this," ſaid the man, ſneeringly, "'tis a likely ſtory, indeed! ſeeing that there is not ſuch a ninny in the world to throw away the beſt friend to a man's back in ſuch a ducibus of a day as here is!" For the proof of which aſ⯑ſertion he appealed to George himſelf, putting it to him, whether ſuch a nincompoop igno⯑ramus was ever known in King George's dominions! He then added, "I ſuppoſe, young man, this fellow has robbed both you and your maſter."

"I believe," ſaid George, "he might find it, for I was fool enough to let it drop; but ſtill it is my coat, and I muſt have it." All this time the ſtranger reſiſted, for fear of ſome worſe diſ⯑covery; and while he was labouring to muffle up his face in the ſaid coat, which had now become neceſſary as a diſguiſe, George laboured to un⯑caſe him, aſſiſted by the tollman, and indeed by [369]his wife, who now came forth from the turn⯑pike-houſe, half undreſſed, to ſee what was the matter. Theſe contentions gave John time to come up, and he gained the ſcene of action juſt as the victorious George had un⯑hooded his antagoniſt—a victory, which un⯑folded to the view of the company the illuſ⯑trious Mr. David Otley, late, as the reader remembers, a faithful domeſtic in the Clare, and now a no leſs worthy confident in the Stuart family. At the ſight of John Fitzorton his uſual preſence of mind, which in a caſe of ſtratagem was ſcarcely inferior to that of the Swediſh monarch, wholly forſook him, and he fell upon his knees, aſſuring every one preſent, that—though he knew he was a very infamous raſcal, greater raſcals than he had made him ſo; and particularly the love of gold, the root of all evil, and which he verily thought was the greateſt raſcal-maker in the world, and would, ſooner or later, bring him [...] a number of his friends to the gallows. [...]old [...]t indeed, your honour, my conſcience has [...] done what I thought would never come to paſs, worked a miracle upon me, for I am [370]now running away from the abbey, and going to London to repent."

John could ſcarcely help unbending his muſcles, braced up as they had long been to thoughts of vengeance; and, indeed, he al⯑moſt ſmiled at the place which Otley had choſen for the ſcene of his reformation. How⯑ever, commanding George to take his pro⯑perty, the youth had no ſooner obeyed, than feeling ſomething hard and heavy in the poc⯑kets, he took out from thence a brace of piſ⯑tols, which in an inſtant George diſcovered to be loaded.

"As our piſtols, your honour, are in their caſes on the ſaddles, theſe cannot be they," ſaid George, ſignificantly.

"And are theſe the books, ſirrah, from which you ſtudy the art of penitence?" queſ⯑tioned the Colonel, ſternly. "Tie him on the horſe, George, and bring him away."—Jane's lover performed this with ſurpriſing agility. He belted him with the ſtrap [...] had before bound the very great coat [...] to his diſcovery, then threw him on his back over the horſe's ſhoulders, and, getting up [371]before him, trotted off with him calf-faſhion, with as much eaſe as if he had been carrying his maſter's portmanteau.

The turnpike-man, who was an arch fel⯑low, and a great lover of ſeeing thieves taken, tried, and executed, begged a holiday of his wife.—"Now do oblige me, my dear love, by letting one of your pretty eyes look to the gate, and your two pretty hands take the toll, juſt while I ſee this gentleman limbo'd. 'Tis for the good of my country to lend a lift to hang off its rogues; and next to you I love my country, you know."—The wife, pleaſed with the wording of her huſband's petition, charitably and lovingly replied, "Well—but mind you bring me back news the fellow is to be hanged at our next ſiſes, becauſe then I ſhall have a goſſiping as well as you, and limping Beck will ſee to the gate; and I know, huſband, that is a villain, becauſe the young man ſays he went from 'Squire Clare's family to that of ſir Guiſe. We know old devil-come Guiſe of old."

Thus authoriſed, the turnpike-man, jump⯑ing up behind George, reached his colonel [372]and the town, which was but a ſhort mile from the turnpike, at the ſame time. They ſtopt at the ſign which bore the name of George, with the addition of Saint, for the proweſs of conquering the dragon; but per⯑haps the reader will preſently be of opinion, as great honours ought to be adjudged to our modern George for his atchievements in bring⯑ing to condign puniſhment an animal more baneful to ſociety than the dragon which fable aſſerts, or all the actual wild beaſts of the earth; for what troop of them can cauſe half the miſchief that has often been produced by one diſhoneſt man?

The culprit being unbound, to obſerve which a greater concourſe of ſpectators had gathered, than ſuited the colonel's purpoſe, he took in his hand Otley's piſtols, and went with him into a room, and ſat on him in his judicial capacity, as ſucceſſor, by right of elderſhip, as well as nomination in the commiſ⯑ſion of the peace. Aſſuming, therefore, his terrible graces, he told David, in a very ſuc⯑cinct manner, that he was appriſed of enough of his villany, as well as that of his employers, [373]to hang the whole gang. "But as you know me, Otley," ſaid John, "few words are neceſ⯑ſary; anſwer, then, the queſtions I ſhall put to you;—firſt, whither are you going?"—"To London, ſir, as I hope to be ſpared," an⯑ſwered the trembler.—"To London! for what?"—"To—to—to—"—"Have a care! if your affectation of penitence was not in it⯑ſelf an ample ground of my ſuſpicion, the thorough knowledge of you and your aſſo⯑ciates warrants my inſiſting upon—." "Sir, your honour, I ſee, knows me as well as I know myſelf," interrupted the quivering wretch; "I am only going, ſir—am going, a going—I am going, an't pleaſe your ho⯑nour—I am only going—" "Where, raſ⯑cal?"—"To town, on a little buſineſs to Sir Guiſe and Mr. Miles's attorney, ſir."—"His attorney!" exclaimed John, ſtaring wildly. "What is that attorney's name, ſirrah?—"His name, an't pleaſe your honour—his name is—that is to ſay the name he does bu⯑ſineſs in, is—is—" "Is what, abominable caitiff," queſtioned the terrible John, loſing all temper. "The name he does ſome of [374]his buſineſſes in, pleaſe your hon—hon—hon—hon—our," replied Otley, cutting the word exactly in twain between his chattering teeth, "is N. D. which means Nic Dabble, pleaſe your honour; but his real name, I have heard ſay, is—"—"Perdition on his real name, that in which he cheats heirs at law out of their eſtates, is ſufficient for me;—the alias's under which he will be hanged are immaterial," ſaid John—"Oh Lord! Lord! your honour! ſave me, I am but a ſervant; a ſecond-handed little perſonage, as it were, and obliged to do as I am bid. But I ſee your honour knows all; yes, I ſee I ſhall ſuffer yet. I told my⯑ſelf ſo years agone! both at the manor-houſe and caſtle. David, (ſaid I,) depend upon it, my friend, the abbey will, ſooner or later, take you to Tyburn."

"The abbey, for once, told truth," ſaid John.

Here David dropped on his knees implor⯑ing mercy, and proteſting he would from that moment be an honeſt man, and give inſtant proof of it, by 'peaching his maſter, miſtreſs, and Miles, and the lawyer, and his clerk; and, [375]in ſhort, bring all their necks into the nooſe, if his worſhip would but promiſe to let his own ſlip out of it.

John, inſtead of making any promiſe, held one of the piſtols to each ear of the miſerable petitioner, till he confeſſed that he was going to Mr. Dabble's chambers to meet the fa⯑mily.

"What family?" interpoſed John.

"Sir Guiſe, and the new Lady Stuart, and Mr. Miles, your honour, will be there pre⯑ſently, having ſet off before day-light from the abbey; only they come into the open road by back ways, and are going to ſettle ſome little affair with a gentleman who lives in this very place, and then for London, to Mr. Dabble's and—and there has been a—a—a—a—"

"WHAT?" ſaid John, in thundering ac⯑cents. "A little bit of a rumbuſtion at the abbey, and Mr. Dabble is to commodate.—He's a vaſt commodater, your worſhip—and I am a party—ſomething about a little bit of an affair of honour between Mr. Miles and my lady.—And this—this—is the whole [376]truth, as we are all wicked ſinners, an pleaſe your worſhipful, merciful honour."

What further queſtions John would have put to the captive is uncertain; for True George tapped at the door of the chamber of examination, and, ſpeaking through the key⯑hole, ſaid, "the mob was ſo great, they would not leave the inn-yard till they knew what was to be done with the rogue." John, by the ſame mode of communication, deſired them to be told, that the man had given ſatisfactory anſwers to all his queſtions; and that, as the great coat had been actually found, and reſtored, the priſoner muſt be acquitted, in caſe he cleared up ſome other points, for which he muſt proceed with him to London. The multitude, though they appeared much diſcontented with theſe tidings, diſperſed, leſt they themſelves ſhould become reſponſible to juſtice. The turnpike-man, in particular, was mortified, and began to fear it was de⯑creed for him to return home to his wife without his welcome, having pledged himſelf, at parting, to bring the good news ſhe ex⯑pected, as to the thief's being committed to [377]priſon, and in a fair way of the gallows. And, indeed, ſeveral of the mob now ſhifted their cenſure from the thief to the juſtice, whom, in a general muttering, they accuſed of undue ſeverity, in taking a poor honeſt man up, and packing him upon a horſe, as if he was a beaſt. Nay, one of the bye-ſtanders ob⯑ſerved, "that juſtices of the peace ought to be ſure what they are about, before they go ſuch lengths; otherwiſe, nobody is ſafe," ſaid he, addreſſing thoſe neareſt to him; "and you or I may be clapt into priſon when we are as innocent as the child unborn; and as to the coat's being dropt—I don't doubt but that was deſigned as a trick upon travellers, all done for the purpoſe. I have been in the law myſelf, and wiſh every gentleman of the faculty"—"You mean, of the profeſſion, per⯑haps," ſaid his next-hand neighbour. "Well," reſumed the other, "it is the ſame thing, faculty or profeſſion, in the Greek; and I ſay again, what I meant to ſay before—I wiſh all gentlemen were of my opinion; then ſome⯑body would be ducked, or ſo, for trying to make rogues of honeſt men—juſtice or no [378]juſtice." George, who, though in regard to his own intereſts, he was the moſt peaceable young fellow in the world, had a ſpirit of vindictive fire that mounted into flame the moment any of his maſter's friends or favour⯑ites were accuſed. Having heard, therefore, theſe reflections on juſtice, he caught hold of the profeſſional gentleman of the faculty, ſwearing, that his maſter was the beſt juſtice in all the country, as well as one of the beſt men in all the world; and if every man had his deſerts, he did not doubt but the raſcal that dared to ſay any thing to the contrary ought to ſwing under the gallows. "My maſter's name, the juſtice of peace now in that room," cried George aloud, and with triumph, "is Co⯑lonel Mr. Sir John Fitzorton, who is the ſon of Sir Armine Fitzorton; and ſhall ſuch a fellow as this here, that I am ſhaking by the collar, and who, I dare ſay, is no more a lawyer than I am—ſhall the ſon, I ſay, of Sir Armine"—ſeveral of the populace, to whom the name of Sir Armine was not only known, but held in reverence, would not permit George to finiſh what he intended to ſay; but, levelling their [379]reſentment at its proper mark, they took the accuſer of juſtice from the graſp of George into their own hands, and were proceeding with him to a copious pond at the bottom of the inn back-yard, when a female voice exclaimed, "Stop, ſtop thief!—there's my handkerchief ſticking out of the corner of that man's pocket—give it me, gentlemen—I'll ſwear to my property!" This exclamation produced a ſearch; the conſequence of which was, a redemption, not only of the handker⯑chief in queſtion, but of ſeveral others, all of which were owned by different claimants; amongſt whom was George himſelf, who ſaid he would ſwear to a ſilk India handker⯑chief which the thief had thruſt into his boſom. "'Tis marked in the corner," exclaimed George, vehemently, "with J. A. and I would not take all the handkerchiefs that ever was born for it." Indeed, it was that which Jane Atwood had, with her own fair hand, tied round his neck the very morning before he ſet out on the preſent expedition: in our haſte to prepare for which, we forgot to tell the reader, this affectionate [380]girl had riſen, notwithſtanding the unſeaſon⯑ableneſs of the hour, to make George, for whom her regard grew apace, a comforting diſh of tea, before he went into the cold air.

The worthy gentleman, whoſe morality, touching the ſubject of juſtice, had been ſo violent, turned out a pickpocket, and, as the reader will perhaps, hereafter, be of opinion, ſomething worſe. Thus there was freſh buſi⯑neſs for Juſtice John, before whom, inſtead of the horſepond, it was thought expedient to ſecure the arraigner of raſh juſtices of the peace, with all his credentials of moral ſenti⯑ment about him, ſave and except that precious mark of Jane's attachment, which George declared he would ſhew to the juſtice himſelf; but that he would not let it be polluted by touching ſuch a fellow's neck.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE clamour in the yard had induced John to open the door, firſt commanding the ſtill-trembling Otley, on pain of death, neither [381]to ſpeak or ſtir. In leſs than two minutes the room of juſtice was filled with people of all deſcriptions.

The two priſoners, that is to ſay, Mr. David Otley and the pickpocket moraliſt, no ſooner ſaw each other, than, in deſpite of the penitence of the one, and the morality of the other, an involuntary recognition took place, in a very curious way—to wit, in a determina⯑tion not to own each other; but the ſtruggle, on either ſide, to effect the concealment, pro⯑duced the diſcovery: a diſcovery, dear reader, of their being not only brothers in iniquity, according to the vulgar but expreſſive phraſe, but brothers in blood. It is a nice point in feeling, and certainly a deſperate caſe in politics, when two ſuch perſonages are, by a ſudden and unthought-of rencontre, ſo tho⯑roughly aſhamed of their relationſhip, that each deeming the other the greater ſcoundrel, both reſolve on diſavowal. Nature, how⯑ever, ſometimes ſeizes upon men unawares, to the total overthrow of their beſt-concerted deſigns.

[382]Now the diſcovery of brotherhood in the caſe of the Otleys, was a ſtroke of that abſo⯑lute nature treated of by John himſelf in one of the Fitzorton converſations, and of Nature too, in one of her moſt determined moments to prove nearneſs of kin. After John had heard the depoſitions of ſeveral of the witneſſes, with George's account of the theft of Jane Atwood's handkerchief, about which George ſtill ſtormed like another Othello, the juſtice was ſtruck with ſomething very particular in the behaviour of his two criminals, who, hap⯑pening to ſtand parallel to each other, were biting their lips, gnaſhing their teeth, and making many other grimaces, which they ſuppoſed were not noticed; for, hitherto, the noiſe and confuſion of relating the thefts, and of aſſerting claim to the ſeveral properties, were favourable to ſuch deportment. At length, being "perplexed in the extreme," by this demonſtration of vengeance in dumb ſhew, the moraliſt, exaſperated, probably by ſome geſture in the penitent too provoking to be borne, broke through the laws of pan⯑tomime, by exclaiming—"What, brother [383]Davy! you ſcoundrel, are you unhanged yet?" Yes, brother Gam," anſwered the pe⯑nitent, with an overflow of malicious ſpleen, that forgot all conſequences—"Yes, brother Gam, you villain, I know my duty, and ſtaid on purpoſe to ſee my elder brother ſwing firſt."

"Scoundrels!" interpoſed John; "I make no doubt, however, the precedency may be adjuſted, but you will both die the ſame ho⯑nourable death; my buſineſs at preſent is to direct you the neareſt way to the accompliſh⯑ment of your fraternal wiſhes—for which purpoſe—"

While John was ſpeaking, a noiſe was heard at the door, of "Make way, make way for Juſtice Barhim," and in the next minute the ſaid juſtice, and his attendant, having by dint of fiſt and elbows made an avenue through the ſpectators, his egregious worſhip appeared in view, diſcovering thus his great abilities and good manners: "Mr. Thingum—Thang⯑um—" ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to John Fitzorton—"I underſtand you have taken upon you to examine, to harbour, and detain [384]in durance, my thief, thieves, or what not—the which is neither law, nor goſpel, nor like one gentleman to another; thief taken on my juriſdiction, is as much my thief, as game taken on my manor is my game. Perhaps, Mr. Thingum, you don't know any more who I am than I know or cares who be you; but I muſt tell you, if you be a juſtice, this here townſhip has rights; and I, thereby, take up, whip, ſtock, pound, pillar, cage, bind over, or bind down, or what not, in my own right, ſo that whoever takes up, whips, ſtocks, pounds, pillars, cages, &c. &c. in my bounds, commits a treſpaſs on my rights, and is thereby guilty of a breach, and an action will ſtand, go, and lie, againſt him. You will do well, therefore, to ſurrender my thief, thieves, or what not, and look after your own, for there's enow in reaſon in every man's pa⯑riſh, if a gentleman will look after 'um; therefore—which are the priſoners? what are their offences? and where be they going?"

He now vaulted into the ſeat of juſtice, ſquatting down on a chair by the ſide of juſtice John, when there paſt a ſcene of dumb [385]eloquence betwixt John Fitzorton and his brother of the quorum, not inferior to that which had been acted by the moraliſt and penitent; for nowithſtanding his pretended ignorance, as to perſonal identity, the ob⯑truding magiſtrate as thoroughly knew John, as John knew him, and they bore to each other an averſion not leſs inveterate than that born by the brother priſoners, though very different in kind; for John Fitzorton deſ⯑piſed Mr. Barhim, becauſe he conſidered him abundantly more miſchievous than either of the ſcoundrels in cuſtody; and Barhim hated John, becauſe he was conſcious the ſaid con⯑tempt was founded on ſuch knowledge; in ſhort, the antipathy on either ſide was no more than that which an honeſt man feels to⯑wards a rogue, and a rogue towards an honeſt man.

The mob had now freſh objects of ſur⯑priſe and curioſity before them; John Fitz⯑orton declared he by no means wiſhed to diſ⯑pute with Barhim his natural or inherent right to any or to all the vagabonds and villains of the land, inaſmuch as he believed no man had [386]ſo juſt a claim on the villain who had a fel⯑low feeling in the villainy; and that ſo far from diſputing pretenſions with Mr. Barhim to a property in the priſoners now before him, that he thought it a pity two jails ſhould part them; for which reaſon, unleſs a certain miſdemeanor be atoned for, committed ſome years ſince by the ſaid Barhim on the perſon of the late Sir Armine Fitzorton—"my father, Sir," ſaid John, exalting his voice, "I ſhall include three of the greateſt ſcoun⯑drels that ever came before a magiſtrate to the ſame place of confinement."

Before the great man accuſed had opportu⯑nity to make any reply to this inſinuation, which, indeed, it is more than probable he would not have attempted, for it had a viſible effect upon him, a chariot and four, followed by two ſervants, drove into the inn-yard, and the words—"This way, my lady, this way, an't pleaſe your Ladyſhip—the juſtices and a couple of thieves are in the Angel—hope your ladyſhip and his honour, therefore, will put up with the Devil for a moment till they are gone."—"Thieves," exclaimed [387]the lady, "I am glad they are taken; we might have been robbed perhaps."—"I hate pettyfogging, way-laying thieves of all things; I have a great fancy to ſee the fellows," obſerved one of the two gentlemen who came out of the coach; "and ſo have I," ſaid the other. "Let us go into the room then," ſaid the lady: "but pray," added ſhe, "has not ſome gentleman been here to aſk for—though of courſe he is one of the juſtices, ſo lead on to the thieves."

The reader who has been, in ſome ſort, pre⯑pared for the company of Sir Guiſe, Lady Tempeſt Stuart, and Mr. Valentine, by their courier, Mr. David Otley the penitent, will not be ſurpriſed by any means in the degree that the ſaid good company were, when, on entering the apartment of equity, they beheld their own confidential ſervant in one of the priſoners—his brother, who had been of no leſs uſe in their affairs, in the other, and the two magiſtrates—equally known to them—John Fitzorton, the avowed and indignant enemy of their vices, and Mr. Barhim, as their mercenary and time-ſerving friend.

[388]But great as was the myſtery and amaze⯑ment in which the miſcellaneous groupe now gathered together in the room of juſtice were involved, deſtiny, fortune, or ſome ſuperior power that controls theſe, had pre-ordained to thicken the plot, by making it impoſſible for any of the parties to go into explanation; and though the reader ſhould wonder "how the devil the ſaid parties came there," we are ourſelves at this moment ſo full of buſineſs, that he muſt wait for elucidation to a more convenient ſeaſon.

Another arrival this inſtant demands our attention, even as it did, at the time it hap⯑pened, that of the landlord and landlady of the inn, and every ſervant who had, from time to time, run to the door of the Angel, then taken a mouthful of juſtice between one ſummons and another; crying, "coming, coming, Gemmin," as the different bells rang, then from the Angel to the Devil, from the Star to the Bear, and from the Red Lion to the Fox. The rumble of a ſtage-coach was ſucceeded by the rattle of two poſt-chaiſes following it; and, by a miſerable jealouſy [389]which the gentlemen of the whip almoſt uni⯑verſally feel to drive furiouſly through a market town; or, if their paſſengers ſtop at any inn in the ſaid town, a no leſs abſurd vanity of turning into the yard with velocity and diſpatch, animated both the poſtillions with two ſublime determinations—the one to paſs the ſtage coach, and then to contend be⯑tween themſelves which ſhould take the lead into the George yard.

The ſtage coachman, however, happened to have as great a thirſt for glory as the poſtillions, and giving his horſes the encou⯑raging word and the commanding whip, had almoſt gained the entrance, when the poſtil⯑lions taking each a ſide, made a vigorous puſh which carried them all three into the mouth of the gateway at the ſame moment, by which manoeuvre all the wheels were locked together, and the axle-trees of the carriage ſo wedged that they could have but one movement, even as if they had been one body. Seeing which, the high blooded drivers, by this time, like all great ſouls, in the heart of action, ſuperior to conſequences, [390]plied the laſh when they ought to have pulled the reins, and by driving forward when they ſhould have backed, the heavier body, namely the ſtage coach, diſengaged itſelf from the lighter one, and carrying all, before it worked its victorious way into the yard, where it broke down with one grand jump upon the ſtones, almoſt ſhivering its two petty rivals in its fall!

The ſcream of the paſſengers, who were toſſed or tumbled out in heaps from all the vehicles, were drowned in the louder cries of the ſpectators within and without the gate⯑way; but even theſe ejaculations were loſt in the diſſonant tones and trembling oaths of the ſtage coachman and the two poſtillions, who with no leſs than four men, who were jerked from the top of the coach, and as many of the inſide paſſengers as could reco⯑ver their fall and conſternation, were all in arms at one and the ſame moment. The juſtice room was emptied even faſter than it had filled, and the inhabitants of the Angel would have run to the Devil, had not one of the combatants, who appeared, by a handful [391]of hair which he held in triumph, to have been the moſt active in the affray, cried out, in as loud a voice as a mouth filling with the blood of his own noſe would permit—"Stop, ſtop thief—ſtop the worthy gentleman to whom this head of hair belongs." Without uttering more, the exclaimer darted amongſt the croud in ſearch of the fugitive. Alarmed at this, John Fitzorton and True George, ſuppoſing the thief who had ſtolen away was one of their own priſoners, looked about and ſaw both of them ſecured, the one in the cuſtody of a ſtout young man, which hap⯑pened to be Jonathan Armſtrong, Jane Atwood's couſin, the other in that of as ſturdy a young and as hearty an old one, being no other than the two Atwoods, father and ſon. The colonel's aim, therefore, was to recover his brother juſtice, who, taking advantage of the new diſturbances, had diſ⯑creetly withdrawn himſelf, as did Meſſrs. Miles, Sir Guiſe, and his amiable ſpouſe, but, by the vigilance of George, they were reco⯑vered, and will be forthcoming when their re-appearance may be neceſſary.

[392]Still raged the battle in the Inn yard with unabated fury, and in leſs than half an hour, ſuch a collection of the halt and blind, of bruiſed and bloodied, of teeth diſplaced, heads broken, women crying, children bawl⯑ing, and men ſwearing, were ſurely never before brought together out of an hoſpital, or indeed out of Bedlam. The two poſtil⯑lions lay to all appearance defunct upon the pavement, a pair of as miſerable carcaſes as ever were dragged at the chariot wheels of any of the ſtage coachmen of former times, when heroes, gods, and goddeſſes delighted to tear their mortal victims with immortal rage, limb from limb, and indeed ſometimes to tear themſelves. The coachman himſelf was a man of rags, every paſſenger having had a pull at him for obtaining a victory too dear, even at the expenſe of many wounds and much bloodſhed.

Amongſt the female ſufferers alſo, all the hyſterical reſtoratives, and pocket me⯑dicines were at work. My landlord was holding hartſhorn to the noſe of one lady, my landlady chaffing the temples of another, [393]the chamber-maids and waiters were running againſt each other, and an apothecary was applying ſalts, opodildoc, brown paper plaiſters ſteeped in thieves' vinegar, volatile lineaments, &c. &c. while another party comforted themſelves with ample doſes of cherry-bounce, unſophiſticated brandy, or ho⯑neſt hollands.

Meantime, the gentleman who had, in the firſt inſtance, given the alarm, as to the eſcape of a thief, returned, conducting that perſon⯑age by the collar, declaring, as he held the honours of his head in his hand, "that he was ſure of his man, for that what he had borrowed from the ſcalp would fit it to an hair. Come, gentlemen," ſaid the hero to his three attendants, who were at the heels of the priſoner, "help to eſcort him into a place of ſafety." They accordingly took him into the room, which the baronet and his lady and her friend had vacated; the at⯑tendants followed; and as the gentleman was himſelf about to enter, True George plucked him gently by the coat, ſaying, "Bleſs me, 'Squire Partington! is it you! as I live, Sir, [394]here's my maſter's parliament brother Mr.—Sir John the colonel—and we have had ſuch a to do—but Mr.—Sir John will be ſo glad to ſee you, Sir, for he was going to your honour's houſe, only he was ſtopt on the way by a thief or two.

Partington immediately conferred on George, who was a ſingular favourite, the high and diſtinguiſhed mark of his moſt coarſe abuſe, and exclaimed in high ſpirits, "Why then all the raſcals are got together! for look you, there are the two Atwoods com⯑ing, with, as I ſuppoſe, your friends, for mine is gone into this room, with three as honeſt perſonages as himſelf."

At the name of the two Atwoods, George, ſeeing John coming up to Partington, left them together, to enter into further explan⯑ations, and running to his Jane's father and brother, who had the Otleys ſtill in their gripe, he gave them a hearty welcome, and had their hands been at liberty, would have demonſtrated his ſincerity by the uſual token. But ſcarce a moment's opportunity was given for careſs or converſation, as Partington [395]beckoned the Atwoods to advance with their priſoners; and as they paſſed him, Partington bowed very reſpectfully, telling them, as he thruſt them into the room, where his own party were incloſed, "that they would there probably meet with an old acquaintance."

He now locked the door, put the key into his pocket, and clapping his own cudgel into George's hand, ſaying, "You muſt ſtand cen⯑tinel here, you ſcoundrel, as you did at the inn at Adſell." He then gave his arm to John, and deſiring the Atwoods to follow, they ſhut themſelves into the apartment, which had been before, and as the reader will preſently find was ſtill decreed, by the powers that ruled on this eventful day, to be the room of juſtice. It may not, meantime, be improper to ob⯑ſerve, that True George, previouſly to theſe arrangements, had diſpatched the turnpike man to the place where the angry juſtice and his friends had betaken themſelves, with a ſtrict charge to have an eye on all their mo⯑tions, and that they might not ſteal out of town before they had Mr.—Sir John's ſanc⯑tion ſo to do. George had, in the buſtle of [396]affairs, taken care to order the landlord of the inn, the only one where poſt-chaiſes were to be had, not to put horſes to the carriage of Sir Guiſe, or any other, without giving him the ſaid George notice. The turnpike man was too well pleaſed to find the miſchiefs in which he ſo much delighted, multiply upon him—and to think that he ſhould not go home with an empty budget—not to execute the commands of George on this occaſion with as much vigilance as if his own property and life were at ſtake.—So indefatigable are ſome men in the buſineſs of others, and ſo offi⯑ciouſly do they engage in puniſhing the follies and vices of their neighbours to the utter oblivion of their own!

And now, reader, having cleared the ob⯑ſtructed path, which literally blocked up every loop-hole to explanation; having taken two thieves into cuſtody, who little expected to find a brother in that ſpot; having conveyed, to the ſame ſcene, Sir Guiſe and Lady Stu⯑art, and Valentine Miles, in a coach and four; preſented to your view two of his majeſty's juſtices of the peace, and ſet them together [397]almoſt by the ears; having alſo, unexpectedly, produced your old friend Partington, two of the Atwoods, three thief-takers in their train, and the thief himſelf; having, likewiſe, reſ⯑cued George's coat and Jenny's handkerchief; and, laſtly, brought into the yard of this ever⯑memorable inn three carriages at once, broken them almoſt to pieces, to ſtand for future ages amongſt the ruins of ambition; maimed and mended the paſſengers, clapped our ho⯑neſt men into the Angel, and ſent our rogues to the Devil, we will leave them awhile to hold diſcourſe on the ſubject of thoſe very ſurpriſes of which we will unfold the cauſes; and, in good truth, we muſt ſay it is high time that this were done, and yet thou wilt have the candour to allow it could not have been done ſooner.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IT will ſcarce be neceſſary to refreſh the memory in any thing that compounds the ſin⯑gular [398]but veritable character of Partington ^*, who, under the moſt unornamented leaf, con⯑cealed the faireſt fruit, and within the rougheſt huſk ſhut up the richeſt kernel. In ſhort, he was, like John Fitzorton, earneſt and inde⯑fatigable in ſearching out miſery and misfor⯑tune, of every ſize and of every ſort, purely for the ſatisfaction of relieving it; and like John alſo, though utterly different in the means of effecting the ſame ends, he was no leſs perſevering in his reſearches after fraud and villainy, for the gratification of expoſing it to ſcorn and infamy. His hale conſtitu⯑tion, lofty courage, and ample fortune, were all knit together to produce theſe effects. The means, indeed, were, as juſt obſerved, not only diſſimilar to his friend, the Colonel's, but ſuch as ſcarcely any other man would think of uſing, but in the way of counteraction and contra⯑riety; yet, never did a human being more infinitely love an honeſt, nor more abundantly [399]hate a diſhoneſt man—never would human being go farther, or try harder, to ſave the one, and hang the other.

The moment that he returned from taking an eternal leave of his ineſtimable friend ſir Armine, which was not till almoſt the expir⯑ing hour, he hurried to his houſe in London, and after bringing the whole of Sir Guiſe Stu⯑art's character into a point, he concluded it would be a meritorious thing, as well to the family in particular, as to human ſociety in general, to bring the noble Baronet to the gallows!

"The focus of that honeſt gentleman," ſaid he, "preſents to my view halters by the thouſand; now, the ſummit of my ambition would be to twiſt them all together with my own hand, and tie them about his neck; for I can aſſert with the Moor— ‘My great revenge has ſtomach for them all.’ But as this ſupreme happineſs is denied me, he muſt, I fancy, be put out of the world the ordinary way, and with that, I muſt try to be [400]content. I muſt learn ſome of my friend John's philoſophy."

While he was in the ſpirit of this ſoliloquy, which he pronounced on his arrival from London—even as he was juſt ſetting down to a diſh of tea after his journey—the two At⯑woods, and their kinſman Jonathan Arm⯑ſtrong, whom he had ſituated in the com⯑fortable and independant way the reader has been informed of, came running in to know whether their patron had returned, and, to their infinite ſatisfaction, hearing that he had juſt drawn off his boots, they followed the agitated feelings which impelled them, and ruſhed, without aſking the uſual queſtions, into his preſence. "Tell me, you dear, good-for-nothing ſcoundrels; tell me," ſaid Parting⯑ton, the inſtant they entered—puſhing them down by their ſhoulders till they were ſeated in chairs—"which of you has gratitude and religion enough in your hearts to aſſiſt a ſcoundrel like yourſelves, even my magnani⯑mous ſelf, in a plan that I am forming to hang an honeſt man? But, before you deter⯑mine, [401]remember that you owe ſomething to Providence, and that one good turn deſerves another."

"As your honeſt man, pleaſe your honour, I have obſerved, is always a rogue," replied Atwood the father, trying to conceal his diſ⯑turbance of mind, "I think I may ſafely pro⯑miſe you my poor efforts, and I fancy I can anſwer for thoſe of my boy and his coz." Young Atwood fervently, but rather more fuddled than affrighted, declared, he would knock all the honeſt men in the kingdom on the head, and no queſtions aſked, which his honour ſhould think ought to be put to death. "But as to that," added the high-mettled youth, with increaſed impetuoſity, "father and I are come to wait on your honour about, as I take it, another hanging or knocking down matter: whether the party be over⯑honeſt your honour will be the beſt judge when you have heard the ſtory."

"Tell it, you inſufferable caitiff!" ex⯑claimed Partington.

"Why, then, there is a good-for-nothing rogue of a lawyer, an't pleaſe your honour," ſaid young Atwood.

[402]"Out upon you!" vociferated Partington "What's that you ſay, ſirrah?"

"I aſk your honour's pardon," replied the youth, very gravely correcting his miſtake, "under favour, there is one of your honour's honeſteſt men, by trade a lawyer, who has ſent two ill-looking fellows into our farm, ſwearing we owe him above two hundred pounds, though we never clapped eyes on him before; and then they toſſed about our things, and rum⯑maged our boxes and drawers, and almoſt frightened poor mother out of her wits; whereupon I thought, your honour, it was time for me to begin—eſpecially as they got father by the collar, and mother ſet up a roar, and there was no time to run for neigh⯑bours, and your honour's juſticeſhip was, as I thought, from home; ſo with that, couſin Jonathan here and I, made bold to trip up one of the law-men's heels, and knock down t'other ſmack, your honour, with back⯑handed ſtroke, this faſhion. So we down'd with 'em both; then, wi' a couple of halters couſin Jonathan, who was with us at farm, had bought at market i' th' morning"—"Yes, I had been to market, and got rather mellow, [403]your honour," ſaid Jonathan, "and was in order, as I may ſay, for any thing; and couſin Jerom is in the ſame way; ſo I tied un till they ſqueak'd, and then rowl'd un into back⯑houſe, ſlip ſide kitchen, and icod, there they be now, your honour; and they took it as kindly, as thof they had been us'd to it, only one o'um gave a bit of a growle, and ſaid ſummut about Sir Guiſe Stuart ſhould pay for his bloody noſe yet!—ſure enough his noſe ſpouted finely—ſo thought I, as ſure as a gun, that ſon of a—gentleman, Sir Guiſe, is at the bottom of all this: but I did not ſtay to ax queſtions, thinking to get neighbours, and your honour's ſervants—glad enough are we your honour's come home yourſelf, juſt in the nick."

"Fine fellows!" in a kind of gulp, and giving a ſort of hyſterical catch at the name of Sir Guiſe Stuart; "Fine fellows!" ſaid Par⯑tington; then doubling his fiſt at young At⯑wood and Armſtrong, ſwore the ſcoundrel, meaning Atwood, ſhould die upon the ſpot, if he ſtopt to breathe till he had given his old raſcal of a father a bumper of brandy, and [404]taken another himſelf; and made Jonathan then ſwallow a third.

This command the ſon obeyed with great diſpatch and dexterity, declaring, when he had ſwallowed one half of his allowance, he ſhould now be a match for all the rogues. "I beg pardon, your honour, I mean, for all the honeſt gentlemen who take a fancy to come into other people's houſes in Chriſtendom. O! but I ſhould have told your honour," ſaid Jonathan, "one of theſe genuſſes, when he firſt came in, juſt as uncle, aunt, and cou⯑ſin, were keeping out the cold of this biting night from our ſtomachs, and drinking to your honour's health—which we do every night, as ſure as the night comes, after ſupper"—"And as I do now, God bleſs your honour, in the reſt of this brandy," interpoſed Jerom, taking up the ſtory—"one of the genuſſes ſaid, 'We had better let'um do things quietly, and let'um take account of goods and chattels, as we could not pay money: for that lawyer himſelf would be down ſhortly, and then, ſaid he, You'll all go to pot."

At the cloſe of this narrative, Partington ſnapped his fingers, rubbed his hands, and [405]danced about the room, as if he had been hearing the extrication, inſtead of the involve⯑ment of the family in queſtion. "Charm⯑ing! noble! exhilarating! delightful! and triumphant!" exclaimed Partington, putting on his gloves and great coat, and taking his hat, and graſping the cudgel which we have celebrated in this hiſtory, and then leaping by bounds, rather than long ſteps, out of the houſe, the elder Atwood in one arm, and ordering Jonathan and Jerom to follow, but never ſlackening his pace till he gained At⯑wood's farm, nor aught abating his demon⯑ſtrations of joy in his way thither, exclaiming, however, almoſt at every ſtride, "It ſhall be—it muſt be—it can be no other than Sir Guiſe, who ſet this amiable pair at work. I know him by his marks—I will ſwear to his noble deeds out of a thouſand."

After ſhaking Goody Atwood, as he uſually called her, by the hand, and aſſuring her that ſhe was a ſilly good-for-nothing old woman, to whimper at her preſent unexpected good fortune, he ordered the ſon to unlock the door of the priſon-room, which being done, he [406]ran to the priſoners, whom he found bound hand and foot, by thoſe halters which, had they been faſtened by the hand of juſtice, would have been placed in a more elevated part of the human body. "Gentlemen," ſaid Partington, bowing himſelf almoſt to the ground, "teach me how to thank you;" here he began to draw the ropes harder in their knots; "teach me, I pray, how to expreſs my thanks—my—my—ſincere—eſt—thanks"—(here three pulls and three bows)—"for making me the—happieſt—of mankind. But the load which you have taken from my mind is ſo heavy—ſo—heavy—I ſay"—four pulls and as many bows—"ſo—very heavy—that I can never hope to make a ſuitable return"—a grand jerk of the halters—"ſuitable—return—unleſs it were within my power to ſave your necks"—here many ſtrong tugs, in ſucceſſion, at the ropes, his foot on the body of one of the priſoners—"to ſave—I ſay, your necks—for the opportunity you will give me of ſtretching thoſe of the worthy—very worthy—gentleman, who ſent you hither. I ſuppoſe you have the honour to know Sir [407]GUISE—STUART"—at pronoucing the name, three enormous bends and pulls.—"Yes, we do," ſaid one of the men—"that is, we have heard of ſuch a gentleman."—"Aye—I thought ſo," replied Partington—"which binds me to you"—here he pulled the halters with redoubled force—"binds me to you—for ever."

"Take care, maſter, that your own neck is not ſtretched, for your outrage of his ma⯑jeſty's officers, in the diſcharge of their bounden duty," ſaid the other captive, almoſt gagged, and ſtruggling like a lion in the toils; then lifting up the only eye which ſome former conteſt had left in his head, young Atwood would certainly have deprived him of this, had not Partington interpoſed, by inſiſting on the honeſt gentleman's being permitted to ſee his way to the gallows.

Further remarks were interrupted by the appearance of the great perſonage, who had ſet theſe ſubordinate inſtruments to work, namely, the lawyer himſelf. He had come poſt haſte from London, for many great and important purpoſes; amongſt which, not the [408]leaſt in "his dear love," was the pure and laudable deſign of turning a whole innocent family into the ſtreets, in the bittereſt weather that a rigorous December ever inflicted—and that upon a mock execution inſtituted againſt them, and to be ſerved, unleſs he could ob⯑tain a certain ſecurity, which was, indeed, the great object he came in ſearch of, and of which the reader ſhall not die in ignorance, unleſs his death be very ſudden indeed. This peſt of the laws of England began to exhibit a ſpecimen of the goodneſs of his heart the moment he entered, by demanding, whether the diſtreſs had been made, and the goods inventoried? obſerving, that he had not a ſingle moment to ſpare; and unleſs he had ſatisfaction, muſt take them all into cuſtody that very night: then ſeeing the inſtruments of his office bound, he caſt his eyes about in a wild ſort of ſurprize, and, in ſo doing, threw them on Partington and his aſſociates, whom till then he had not noticed, and at the ſight of whom, though he did not perſonally know either, his honeſt conſcience, the only thing which even rogues cannot always bring over [409]as parties aſſenting—his honeſt conſcience ſuſpected, perhaps inſtinctively, were no friends to his cauſe. Partington, without ſpeaking one ſyllable, and even without making his bow, a rare omiſſion in his dealings with a knave of diſtinction, gave the cue to the Atwoods and Co. and zealouſly aſſiſted, firſt in tripping up the heels, then in pinioning the arms, and, finally, in fettering the legs, of the principal, even as the legs and arms of the petty agents had been fettered and pinioned▪ with a ſlight difference only in the materials of bondage—ſubſtituting for ropes, the handker⯑chiefs tied together, and the garters—which were looſened in a moment—even of the afore⯑ſaid agents and principals. While this cere⯑mony was performing, Partington ſuggeſted a trifling alteration, which he thought might be an improvement, in the article of faſtening—to wit, tying the priſoners neck and heels together, and then arranging them ſo cloſe that they might enjoy the benefits of a converſation, "which, no doubt," ſaid he, "muſt be inte⯑reſting, while you and I, ye ſcoundrels, and this old good-for-nothing whimpering wo⯑man," [410]ſaid Partington, pointing to Mrs. Atwood, "retire to the Bury, and conſult about their future promotion. Meantime, worthy gentlemen," continued Partington, "I will, by virtue of mine office, perform the duty of ſearching your pockets, convinced, that I ſhall find nothing therein but the moſt unequivocal teſtimonies of your virtue and humanity!"

Partington's hands were ranſacking the pockets of the priſoner in chief, and the At⯑woods and Jonathan thoſe of the ſubalterns in captivity, all the time they were thus ſpeak⯑ing: then poſſeſſing themſelves of the ſpoil, the parties, thus literally bound over to their better behaviour, were packed in the way Partington propoſed. The windows were made faſt, neither fire or candle allowed, every article of furniture moved out of the room, a comfortable cold brick floor was their bed; the key of the ſtreet door was then turned upon the vanquiſhed, and the con⯑querors marched away, taking Goody At⯑wood in protection to head-quarters, at Par⯑tington-Bury.

[411]Here, over a bottle of the beſt wine which Partington's cellar afforded, the victorious party examined the plunder which they had taken from the enemy. It conſiſted of the following intereſting particulars, a commen⯑tary on which would call for a hundred pens, each of them better at deſcription than ours, and yet, which any ſingle perſon, with a heart as honeſt as that of Partington, Jonathan Armſtrong, or the Atwoods, may furniſh, as he reads. But theſe particulars are of too great conſequence not to be given in an ap⯑propriate Chapter, nay, they ſhall even have the honour, on account of the diſcoveries they unfolded, to open the Fourth Volume of our FAMILY SECRETS.