CHAPTER I.

SHORTLY after John's departure, another day of unremitting embarraſment happened to Henry: the provoking croſs purpoſes began in the morning, and conti⯑nued until the evening, and were indeed re⯑ſumed the next morning.

A gentleman now arrived at the caſtle, of a very ſingular character and converſation. His youth had been paſt partly at ſea, and partly in foreign climes; and being in poſſeſſion of a very competent fortune, as well from patrimony as from ſucceſsful adven⯑ture, he had, for ſome years back, quitted the ocean, and all its enterpriſes, and ſet himſelf down on ſhore, in a very comfort⯑able dwelling, within a neighbourly diſtance of Fitzorton Caſtle. Mr. Partington had many peculiarities;—there was a rough ho⯑neſty [2]in his manner, and a fredom of expreſ⯑ſion correſponding to it, which, at firſt ſight, ſeemed more boiſterous and rugged than the element on which he had been educated. His perſon was ſomething under the middle ſize, and his features had little more of ſmoothneſs than his manners: but, beneath this uninviting exterior, beat a heart, every pulſation of which was genuine good-will to mankind, without the leaſt alloy of ſenti⯑mentality,—that ſhining droſs which makes ſo much glitter in theſe tinſel times. Parting⯑ton, if he liked you, was a friend indeed! but, the more he fancied you, the rougher would you find his addreſs; and this rule held good in all the degrees of his appro⯑bation:—for, exactly proportioned to his good opinion was his jocular rudeneſs. If he thought tolerably well of you, he would call you a ſad fellow; if, on farther acquaint⯑ance, you improved in his good graces, you would advance alſo in the ſcale of abuſe, and he would ſpeak of and to you as a curſed good-for-nothing devil: and when he had taken you into his heart,—wherein, by the [3]bye, you might confide your honour, your happineſs, and your life,—he would honour you by the appellation of a damned inſuffer⯑able ſcoundrel! This being the higheſt and moſt diſtinguiſhing mark of his eſteem, could be boaſted of by few; for Partington never thought any man or woman deſerving of this mark of his affection, unleſs they appeared to him pre-eminently great or good. We ſay, "man or woman," becauſe the ſex of the perſon made no manner of difference to him.

His diſlike, on the other hand, was ex⯑preſſed in quite a contrary way; but ſtill he marked it by the ſame gradations. If nei⯑ther your head nor your heart was ſatisfac⯑tory to him,—that is, if the firſt was not worth carrying upon your ſhoulders, nor the other in your boſom,—he would, if he ſpoke to you at all, accoſt you in very civil lan⯑guage. If you had any thing remarkably baſe in your diſpoſition, he would be yet more polite, calling you ſir, or madam; and if he thought you deſerved a box on the ear, or the gallows, inſtead of a bow, he would [4]even pull off his hat!—which being the laſt evidence of his abhorrence, bore the ſame pro⯑portion of contempt that his damned inſuffer⯑able ſcoundrel did of affection. Nor were even his benevolences themſelves leſs re⯑markably his own, than his modes of ex⯑preſſion. He never talked of doing any per⯑ſon a kindneſs, and yet was kindneſs itſelf. In truth, while other people were only talking, he would be doing the very thing they talked about; for he would ſlip out of company, on fifty different pretences, none of which you could ſuſpect,—and have had an interview with the party he had heard commiſerated,—then return to the compa⯑ny with no alteration in his general manner, but that of loading with exaggerated ſcurrility the perſon to whom he was indebted for the opportunity of being bountiful: for, as this was the higheſt obligation his heart was ca⯑pable of receiving, he had no other way of returning it. But more frequently he would appear altogether inattentive to tales of di⯑ſtreſs, or, if he did give ear to them, would break out into—"Pſha!—don't tell me! [5]riff-raff! ſtuff! a pack of beggars! I ſhould not have thought of their impudence! I ſay diſtreſs too!" and many ſuch like exclama⯑tions: yet he would be at the door, or at the bed-ſide of the ſufferers, and have every thing that was really of comfort in their ha⯑bitations, before any other man of the party thought of leaving company. If, for in⯑ſtance, an apothecary was wanted, he would arouſe him in the middle of the night, drag him out of bed, or ſome way or other get him under his arm: and if common neceſ⯑ſaries were to be ſupplied, he would run to his little poor-raſcal's warehouſe, as he uſed to call it,—and, making up his bundle accord⯑ing to the caſe, carry it in his hand, and have done his work before his orders to an unintereſted domeſtic could have been well given.

CHAPTER II.

PARTINGTON had been long in the ha⯑bits of intimacy with Sir Armine, and ho⯑noured the family with a liberal ſhare of his [6]loving abuſe, whenever he made it a viſit; and each individual was as jealous of that abuſe as deſirous of his company. The trio of brothers filled his ſcale of epithets! James was only one of his middling ſort of fellows; John had the pleaſure to be ranked his curſed good-for-nothing caitiff; and Henry enjoyed the ſupreme diſtinction of being al⯑moſt the firſt of his damned inſufferable ſcoundrels. "Hark'ee, you Mr. middling ſort of fellow," addreſſing himſelf to James after dinner, "how goes on the affair be⯑tween this damned, inſufferable ſcoundrel,"—here he ſhook Henry by the hand—"and you know who—you curſed good-for-no⯑thing little devil?"—tapping Olivia on the cheek—"What ſay you, you old raſcal?" add⯑ed he, turning to Sir Armine: "are you get⯑ting your gouty legs in order, to dance at the wedding? 'Sbud! man, you ought, upon that occaſion, to give us an hornpipe upon your ſtumps, like Witherington; for two ſuch pretty caitiffs as theſe do not come to⯑gether every day, I can tell you! But, what are you all about, you lazy vagabonds,— [7]ſhilly ſhally? If I were a parſon, they ſhould be married before I left the houſe:—young folks can't begin to be happy too ſoon.—Now look how that inſufferable poltroon" (to Henry) "ſhakes and trembles:—why, one would think, inſtead of feeling the flames of love on ſitting ſo cloſe to a fine girl, whoſe tell-tale bluſhes ought to make him blaze out like a bonfire, that the ague had got hold of him. By the arm of my body, he quivers like a Lapland witch! Well, come, I will give him my bleſſing in a bumper. However, marry when they will, may the pledges of their love be juſt as good-for-nothing as their parents! the girls abominable huſſeys, and the boys damned inſufferable ſcoundrels! Put it round, old Vulcan!" ſaid he, puſhing the bottle to Sir Armine: he then ſtood up, and ſung ſome ſtanzas, ſo replete with humour in themſelves, and in ſo quaint and ludicrous a manner, that the whole company caught the hilarity of their worthy gueſt.

"Was there ever ſuch a comical crea⯑ture?" exclaimed Olivia ſmiling.—"But [8]hold, what is this I hear about Henry's go⯑ing to be hanged for his fine devil's-works at the abbey?"

Henry's confuſion was now re-doubled upon another account: for he did not at all doubt but that the ſubject which had been remotely alluded to by John, would be ful⯑ly explained by this unqualifying ſon of the waves. Henry winked, nodded, and made other ſigns of keeping ſilence, which not only increaſed the curioſity of the company, but made Partington more determined. "I don't care for your wry faces a braſs but⯑ton, you ſcoundrel," ſaid he: "I ſay, not⯑withſtanding all your antics, you will come to the gallows:—'tis a ſerious matter to knock down a baronet on the very ſpot where he is to be buried, then throw his daughter into fits, and run away from both of them."

"Knock him down?" ſaid Olivia. "Why, good heavens! if it had not been for Henry, Sir Guiſe would have been murdered. And as to Miſs Stuart, for whom my ſoul ſtill bleeds, her fits were occaſioned (God [9]knows) by the loſs of her ſweet mother: for, as her brother could not attend, Henry was her only comforter. This is the whole of the matter, I do aſſure you, Mr. Part⯑ington."

The earneſt ſimplicity with which ſhe uttered this, in the defence, and to the ho⯑nour, of him ſhe loved, and for whom ſhe had always a vindication, had a viſible effect upon all, but more particularly on Henry, who, torn betwixt the ſenſations of grati⯑tude and ſhame, tenderly careſſed her.

"You are both of you a couple of inſuf⯑ferable ſcoundrels, and encourage one an⯑other. For that matter, I'd lay my life, if this egregious villain"—to Henry—"ſhould be hanged, this dimpling caitiff would tie her⯑ſelf up in her garters the next morning, that ſhe might lovingly dangle by his ſide, upon the ſame gibbet. So, as I hope yet to ſee them tied up together, I think 'tis the beſt way to pinion them now, till their time comes."—Here he drew them cloſe to his own boſom, formed their arms into the wreathe of love, and ordering the whole [10]party to follow their example, conducted them into the garden.

CHAPTER III.

THUS were matters reinſtated, to the general ſatisfaction; and even Henry felt it might have been much worſe; for, though it had been ſo long the wiſh and endeavour of his heart to come to an explanation of its fatal ſecret,—any diſcloſure of it at ſuch a time, in ſuch a place, and under ſuch cir⯑cumſtances, would have been the moſt overwhelming event that could have happen⯑ed to him.

Partington, who had the romping play⯑fulneſs of a boy, without the leaſt of that miſchief which uſually attaches to the ſport of youth, continued his pleaſantries, a⯑mongſt which was a propoſition to run up⯑on the green-ſward along the park with Henry,—the winner to be intitled to a kiſs from Olivia, and Olivia herſelf to be the umpire.

He pointed to a clump of elms, as the [11]given diſtance: the putting himſelf into a ſtarting poſture, "There—I'll give you law, you villain—ſo away with you!" Henry was, perhaps, never leſs in diſpoſition for a frolic; but knowing that Partington,—who had now doubled his fiſts,—would have puſhed him headlong forward, had he ſuffered him⯑ſelf to be overtaken, he ſoon ſprung to the goal; in doing which, however, he contriv⯑ed to trip up Partington's heels, to the no ſmall diverſion of the company. "A bubble bet!" cried Partington, ſcrambling up: "the race was obtained only by a fraud, elſe I ſhould have beat him hollow:—a contrived thing! I ſaw both the villains laying their heads together, concerting how it ſhould be, before I ſet off." The truth is, he loitered behind, while he counterfeited exertion, pur⯑poſely that the ſuppoſed lovers might be thrown into each other's arms.

Theſe ſallies were interrupted by a knot of travellers, who were paſſing that part of the park, which ſir Armine left free for the accommodation of the public.

The wanderers had the attractions of in⯑diſputable [12]affliction, and of ſickneſs its too frequent attendant, ſtrongly impreſſed in their air, looks, and motions. Yet there was no external appearance of want in any of the groupe; all were habited neatly, and one of them bore a wallet laden with food: but the moment you beheld them, your own heart would have told you they were deſtitute of comforts, which were not to be found in that wallet. There are certain ſigns and tokens of miſery, ſo viſible in the human form and countenance, that every man, without an inſult upon the human character and underſtanding, muſt ſee and feel them at a glance.

The groupe conſiſted of an elderly man, leading a boy about twelve years old,—a woman, ſomething under the age of the man, with a child at her back,—and a beau⯑tiful young woman, who, ſad and ſorrowing, followed the reſt. As the firſt and laſt men⯑tioned objects ſtood by the ſide of the vene⯑rable Fitzorton, and the blooming Olivia, they exhibited, in ſtriking contraſt, the wonderful difference which ſickneſs and [13]health, happineſs and miſery, produce in beings of the ſame ſpecies, and at the ſame period of life. "Pleaſe your honours," ſaid the old man, reſpectfully, "I hope we are not up⯑on treſpaſs here; a man on the other ſide told us, there was a foot-way here to the place we are going: we have come clean from weſt to north, and are ſomewhat foot⯑ſore; and every bit of ground ſaved, there⯑fore, is ſomething. Our Jane here, poor thing, can hardly drag one foot afore t'other: ſo, as night is coming on, and we are not acquainted with the country here⯑abouts, may-hap your honours, who, I ſup⯑poſe are maſters of thatun great houſe, would be ſo kind to give us barn-room, till the morning."—To this Partington made anſwer, "he was afraid the vagabonds had ſtaid in their own pariſh till they were driven out of it bag and baggage; and were living now by accident in a barn, or a ſtable, or the open field, as they could ma⯑nage it."—The old man anſwered, "Pleaſe your worſhip, none of us have been ever a burthen to the pariſh yet; and I hope, with [14]the bleſſing of God upon our labour, we ſha'n't. But, we are burnt, ſtick and ſtone, out of our pariſh, where we lived upon our earnings, and a little matter beſides, for theſe forty years. May be, your honour would like to hear a little about us. I am a maſon, your honour,—ſo I bought a bit of ground, and built a houſe on him, and fur⯑niſhed him, a thing at a time; and there 'twould have done your heart good, to ſee how we lived, till a ſort of quarrel be⯑twixt me and a great rich perſon, who has an eſtate thereabout, and has a houſe like a town,—where nobody lives for a conſtan⯑cy, but a ſavage old ſervant or two,—for the maſter only comes a week or two in the ſpring ſeaſon, or to gather rents, when the ſteward, who, by the ſame token, is worth a hundred of his maſter, can't come down." —"God bleſs his goodneſs!" ſaid the wo⯑man, who appeared to be the mother of the family: "if it had not been for him, I do be⯑lieve it would have been bad off for us long afore; for the baronet was pecking and pecking at us, years a-gone: our Jerom, [15]who is gone forward with the mule, got himſelf made a freeholder, and would not vote for a friend of this great baronight— for he is one who is 'titled to do as he likes with poor folk,—bore us all a grudge."—"And ſomehow or other, your worſhip," re⯑ſumed the old man, "about Auguſt, in the ſummer after, I ſhut up houſe, whilſt I and dame and youngſter went a making a little harveſting at friend Armſtrong's, a couſin of my wife's, who has a bit of a farm, and who wiſhed me to bring all my family; and as we could make ourſelves tolerably tight and ſmart at that time, we rigged ourſelves out, and off we went; but when we got home from merry-making,—(what a world it is, your worſhip!)—I ſaw the top of my houſe where the bottom ſhould be, and the walls as black as my hat."—"Why, Reuben," exclaimed the wife! "how can you be ſo milk-livered and mealy-mouthed, Reuben? Pleaſe your worſhip, as ſure as you ſtand there, this great baronet, I told you about, ſet it a-fire."—"O impoſſible!" cried Olivia.—"Set it a-fire, Miſs, I ſay," re⯑ſumed [16]the wiſe, emphatically ſlapping her hands together: "and I'll tell him ſo to his head, and bring all my ruinated family in my hand, to ſhew him what he has done; for we left neither fire nor candle: and I'll take my affy-david that I put up the ſhut⯑ters, and locked the door, and clapt the key in our pockets, and the ſame to the little garden gate; and God knows, the keys are all now we have for it: here they are, your worſhip: aye, and they ſhall go with us to the wicked wretch, though all the keys in the world can't open his heart, becauſe it is harder than they: but a' ſhall hear on't; and if there is law in the land, he ſhall ha' it."— "Hold your tongue, Sal!" ſaid the old man: "I don't think, Sir Devil's-come, as we call him in our parts, would go to ſet a man's houſe on fire, when there wa'n't a ſoul in it, either to pleaſe or to teaſe him, or to ſay, why do ye ſo? though to be ſure my houſe, as I ſaid, is down, and all that was in it, burned or moved off; and what was worſe, I had put into a drawer a little modukin of money, ſhillings and half crowns at a time,— [17]now and then a golden guinea; and they are gone too; though I have been pottering about with my ſtick, and my family have all been on their knees grubbing i' the aſhes; but it was all to no purpoſe. This fellow would have gone to pot too," continued the old man, pointing to a curl-tail black dog that followed him, "and ſo would the kitten un⯑der our Jenny's arm there, if we had not luckily put ſhe to 'bide with Goody Brab⯑ſon, a neighbour of ours; ſo here is the whole family, your honour, counting Jerom and Dorothy."—Olivia, who had before put a trifle into the young woman's hand, now ſtroked the kitten; and Henry, long before the ſtory had arrived at this ſtage, had made his offering; James, patted the dog, called him a lucky fellow, and aſſured him, conſidering ſuch dangers, he had a very narrow eſcape. At the ſuggeſtion of the houſe being maliciouſly ſet on fire, every particle of blood that ſupplied the body of Parting⯑ton, flew in his face; he cried out, "O that the worthy baronet had been in the middle of the flames! I would have ſet fire to my [18]own houſe, to have had him in the centre! but I don't believe a word on't! it's a lye! it muſt be a lye! I will have it a lye! Are you ſure, fellow, you did not ſee it on fire yourſelf? And why do you keep that child, woman, ſwinging at your back all this time, when there is ſuch a fine ſoft bank by the ſide of you, and the graſs full of flow⯑ers, and as dry as my walking-ſtick?" Here Partington looſed the bandages, took the infant in his arms, repeating, "Anſwer me that! anſwer me that! down with ye, down with every one,—you two old ſinners, in particular,"—Partington appearing to bend them to the ground forcibly, but, in truth, lowering them with all poſſible gentleneſs. "As for you," continued he, "good peo⯑ple," addreſſing himſelf to his own party, "the evening begins to draw in: the dew falls: ſee how your fine neckcloths and handkerchiefs ſhrink at it:—ſun-flowers can bear nothing but fair weather:—the dew won't ſuit your gouty limbs, you old ſcoun⯑drel,"—to Sir Armine—"nor your delicate ancles, Mrs. Abominable,"—to Olivia—"the [19] vagabonds may remain: they are uſed to clouds: and ſo in with the family, you blub⯑bering, water-headed raſcal!"—to Henry— He ſpake this as in rebuke, though, by the bye, his own face was covered with tears.—"Pack off, I ſay: I will have it ſo: I'll be with you preſently:—but you are to know that I ſmoke a damned lye, all through this buſineſs; and I am determined to have it out with the ragamuffins; and I don't doubt but I ſhall have the ſatisfaction of ſeeing every one of them ſent to the houſe of cor⯑rection; and that I ſhall bring them to old Armine here, to make out their mittimus." All this time they had been moving, or ra⯑ther Partington had been puſhing them for⯑wards: and as the Clares and Fitzortons knew the poor creatures would be left in good hands, they bent their ſteps back to⯑wards the caſtle.

CHAPTER IV.

"GOOD heaven!" exclaimed Olivia to her father, as the party were walking home, "do you think there ever was ſuch a ſhock⯑ing thing done in the world, as for a perſon to ſet fire to his neighbour's houſe on pur⯑poſe? I have read of ſuch horrid actions in newſpapers, and once, I think, in a book, but never believed either to be poſſible; in⯑deed, I felt a kind of diſguſt at the author of ſuch incredible fictions."

"It is almoſt a ſin, my ſweet girl," ſaid Mr. Clare, "to deſtroy your opinion of human kind, formed on the baſis of your own inno⯑cence. Painful as it is to oppoſe the wiſdom of experience to the bliſsful ſimplicity of a pure and unpractiſed heart,—I have known more inſtances than one of it."

"Yet we ſeldom—I never did," reſumed Olivia, "hear of people coming to an un⯑timely end for theſe horrid crimes."—"That too is amongſt the vices of the times," re⯑joined Sir Armine. "People make their for⯑tunes [21]now-a-days by being ruined and un⯑done. In a few months after theſe lucky mis⯑fortunes, we behold new trades carried on by thoſe who had been turned pennyleſs out of their ſhops: and we ſee new houſes riſing, like ſo many phoenixes, out of the aſhes of the old."

"My dear girl," cried her father, "who can detail the hiſtory of modern inventions in the art of living?—There is, comparative⯑ly, a poor livelihood, child, now to be picked up out of the real miſeries of life; but luxury and independence pour in their ſtores on the deſigning;—thus, ſome impo⯑ſitions are a decent maintenance, and others a very comfortable ſinecure: in ſhort, to make fictitious diſtreſs the inſtrument of real good fortune, is amongſt the moſt dextrous refinements of this improving age; vice is always at work, and works with the greateſt ſucceſs on the ſenſibility of virtue."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Olivia. "But I cannot think the poor creatures we have juſt left, are of this deſcription; for, ſurely, that old miſerable man, who aſked for nothing [22]but the charity of a bed of ſtraw in our barn, could not trump up ſuch a falſehood againſt the perſon he ſpoke of;—and, indeed, I have blamed myſelf, every ſtep I have come, that I did not beg my deareſt Sir Armine to let him have ſome comfortable place to reſt his family to-night:—the young woman re⯑ally looked ready to ſink into the earth with fatigue; and yet ſhe kept the poor kitten in her arms; and I heard her aſk her mother to let her carry the child, twenty times.—Indeed, indeed, Mr. Partington judges too harſhly of them! Gracious hea⯑ven! Henry, if the world is half ſo wicked as you and your brother John have painted it to me, I do not ſee how ſuch a ſimpleton as your Olivia is to live in it."

Here the lovely girl ran to Henry, and, placing herſelf betwixt him, her own fa⯑ther, and Sir Armine, ſhe ſaid, in a tone that might have taught hypocriſy to forego its victim, "Well! thank God! while I am thus protected, not all the bad people in the world can do me any harm!" ſaying which, ſhe entwined her arms, and clung [23]towards her parent and lover, as if ſhe felt herſelf in a ſanctuary.

"But," ſaid James, with his uſual good ſenſe and moderation, "the miſeries of hu⯑man life, induced by inevitable misfortunes, are, alas! ſo manifold, and ſo various, that the ſoul is not to be frozen up, becauſe vice can aſſume the appearance of virtue in di⯑ſtreſs, and, by applying to the ſame ſource, may partake of the ſame bountiful ſtream."

"Reſpecting the wretched family we have been talking with," ſaid Henry, "we have all ſeen they are both ſick and ſorrowful, my deareſt father: and I dare pledge my⯑ſelf, every tittle of their ſtory is true."—"Truth may, perhaps, lie between," in⯑terpoſed James.—"I would go barefoot a thouſand leagues," exclaimed Henry, "to puniſh the author of their ruin; but if, hav⯑ing found him, he was evidently under the preſſure of any heart-wringing miſery, pin⯑ing with want, or waſting in diſeaſe, I hope I ſhould do what I could to comfort him."—"It is certainly right," ſaid James, half con⯑ceding, "to take care that vice does not run [24]away with the perquiſite of virtue: but it is, nevertheleſs, better that they ſhould divide our bounty, than that, from ſear of encou⯑raging the one, we ſhould refuſe to reward the other."

"The virtue of deſigning well," ſaid Sir Armine, with a deciding voice, as he reached the portico of the caſtle, "if it fails of ſome, is ſeldom deprived of all its rewards.—Let the honourable paſſions and emotions of our frame declare the unrivalled privileges of a gentle and unſuſpicious heart:—let the power which it gives us, in the energies of our loves and friendſhips, pronounce its eu⯑logy:—let pity, charity, candour, benevo⯑lence, eaſineſs to believe the beſt, and tar⯑dineſs to credit the worſt,—yea, and the ſweet, very ſweet, ſimplicity that ſometimes conducts us to the precipice down which we are hurled by the villain guide,—let even the pure and innocent heart itſelf, through all its meanders of ſenſibility,—let it, in vi⯑brations of tranſport, declare, it is the prime delight of man, and the choiceſt gift of God."

[25]Olivia here preſſed the hand of her fa⯑ther, then that of Sir Armine, upon her heart; "You have now all ſettled it ſo en⯑tirely to my ſatisfaction, and have brought me again into ſuch good humour with that world, which ſome of you had almoſt put me out of conceit with, that I will not ſtay to hear another word."—The whole compa⯑ny went into the houſe.

Chapter V.

"IT is among the wonders of the world, when I wonder," quoth Partington, to the family in the park: "and yet I muſt confeſs, the audaciouſneſs of your telling that impudent lye about ſome worthy gen⯑tleman's burning down your houſe, becauſe you would not vote againſt your conſcience, does throw, even me, into aſtoniſhment."—"Sir," anſwered the old man, with ſome dignity, "I do not pretend to ſay it is ſo for ſartain: but Goody Brabſon is ready to ſwear it; for ſhe was diſturbed the night before, and ſaw ill-looking fellows lurking about; [26]and before that day come-week, my houſe was down;—but as for a lye, I don't know whether I would tell one to have it built up again."—"No!" anſwered Partington:—"then give me your hand, you ſcoundrel!"—"But, for that matter," reſumed the old man, "there are hotter doings at electioneering, than burning down poor men's houſes.—Why, bleſs your worſhip, I have ſeen the candidates, as they call themſelves, ready to ſet fire to one, another."—"Aye, your honour," interpoſed the old man's wife, "that's not half the miſchief! there was ſomething worſe than 'lection riots in this affair:—naughty Jenny there, and this poor brat at my back, if it could ſpeak, could tell you all about that."—Here the young woman whom ſhe called Jenny, made ſigns for her mother to keep ſilence; upon which the mother exclaimed, "Huſſy, I will ſpeak! his honour here ſhall know who are ſcoun⯑drels, and who are not! Mayhap his honour is a juſtice of the peace, and will give us ſome law.—An' pleaſe your worſhip, that ba⯑ronet is the father of this babe; after my [27]Reuben had refuſed his vote, this baronet grew ſo kind, that we thought, God help us he repented his haſhneſs to us; where⯑upon I was a kind of a char-woman now and then at the great houſe, when he came down for a week or two: and if I was wanted at home, why, I ſent Jenny there, backwards and forwards, as well ſpoken and likeſome a girl, your honour, aye, and as ſhame-faced then, and for that matter now, tho' ſhe has had a baſtard, as any ſhe of the country;—and ſo, behold ye', this villain of a baronet was only kind for the ſake of ſhe; and, behold ye, he contrived to get to the ſight and ſpeech of her, and ſoon put the girl aſide her⯑ſelf; ſhe could talk of nothing but the baro⯑net:—the baronet told her this—the baronet gave her that!—I believe in my conſcience he turned her ſilly head, and overſet her in ſuch a way, that ſhe was crazy enough to think of becoming my lady:—aye, and he put a new golden ring on her finger, and called her wife—though he was married before, and, they do ſay, to a moral of a woman—not that he ever brought maddam down—and he perſuaded [28]ſilly Jane ſhe was dead—thof a maddam he had there too; and there ſhe comes at times ſtill, for a month in the ſummer, and ſays ſhe's the baronet's cozen—marry come up! a dainty cozen! I warrant, ſhe cozens his virtuous wife finely. But to return to our Jenney:—Reuben and I began to think it odd the girl ſhould get ſo much into favour, ſeeing how we were hated before: but we ſtill were fools enough to believe that Sir Guiſe —"

"Sir Guiſe!" exclaimed Partington: "is he the baronet? It's all true,—get up—tell the reſt of your ſtory as you go along. I ſee you are a pack of ſad ſcoundrels; and I ſhall inſiſt upon Fitzorton's houſe covering all of you ſomewhere until morning. And do you hear, girl?—Jane, I think is your name—do you lean on my arm; and do you, mother Blab, take hold of the other arm—you, young varlet, keep cloſe by your father—huſſy, keep you by your mother—but as to the ſuckling, you muſt carry that ſin yourſelf, Jane; for the devil ſeduce me if I touch any thing belonging to that pretty gentleman, [29]unleſs I ſhould have the felicity of tucking him up under the gallows. Well, but that happy day may come yet!"

Partington had the family all up on the march before he had got to the ejaculation with which he finiſhed his harangue,—and diſpoſed the ſeveral perſons in the order deſcribed. In this manner they were mov⯑ing along towards the caſtle, when they encountered Henry, who, partly in conſe⯑quence of Olivia's whiſper, and partly to gratify his own curioſity,—or, perhaps, from a better principle,—was returning to the ſpot where he left the groupe. Without relating ſtories, or entering into cauſes, Partington ordered Henry to run as faſt as his legs would carry him back to the caſtle, order a comfortable ſupper, but not among the ſervants, and half a dozen well aired beds, and tell old ſquare-toes it was his command:—"Nay that 'tis the old caitiff's duty," ſaid he; "for here is juſtice buſineſs enough for a whole ſeſſions; and moreover, if he don't chuſe to accommodate them, come back again and tell me ſo, that I may [30]take them to the Fitzorton-arms public houſe; for they ſhall not go out of my cuſto⯑dy till I ſift the affair to the bottom; and as it's moon-light, a mile or two more leſs, for good ſuppers and good beds, can make lit⯑tle difference."—Henry, who was ever rea⯑dy to aſſiſt the unfortunate, without paining them by a recital of diſtreſsful ſtories, haſted, without aſking a ſingle queſtion, to execute his commiſſion.

Partington returned to the travellers, who began to think him inſane, and put him⯑ſelf nearly in his former ſituation, with the difference only of taking the child gently from the young woman, who had been giv⯑ing it ſuck, and ſaying, at the ſame time, "Come, as that little raſcal may one day be brought in evidence againſt its virtuous father, I think I will give it a lift: and ſo go on with your walk and your ſtory, old cai⯑tiff."

"As I was ſaying then, your worſhip, we fooliſhly thought Sir Guiſe Stuart—" "Proceed," cried Partington, "if you can, without any more mentioning that worthy [31]gentleman's name, for it puts me in a fever: call him—call him—baronet."

"The baronet, then," anſwered Mrs. At⯑wood, "was never eaſy but when ſome of us was at the great houſe; he wanted Reu⯑ben to give up maſonry:—we ſtaid in the pariſh a twelve-month after the fire, with Goody Brabſon:—the baronet wiſhed us to take one of his farms,—ſometimes he ſaid he would pull down the great houſe, and build up a finer, which would do for his ſon, when he married, and give Reuben the job: and as for Jenny, I don't know what he was to do for ſhe,—he would take her to his other great ſeat in theſe parts;—I never was there, your honour; but I will be there, and ſooner than he thinks.—Well, he would pull this other down, and let her live with miſs—miſs Caroline:—ſo we e'en let her go; and coil enough there was about it, from Reuben, who had been told by neighbours, what would become of it; however, I thought it for the beſt; and away ſhe went."

"Accurſed be the hour ſhe did!" ſaid Reuben.

[32]"Don't interrupt her, you vagabond," cried Partington, doubling his fiſts,—not at Reuben, however, nor at any perſon pre⯑ſent.

"The upſhot of it was, an' pleaſe your worſhip, that one Valentine Miles, a man that uſed to do all Sir Guiſe's—I beg your honour's pardon, I mean—the—the—baro⯑net's dirty work, ſuch as pounding our ſtrays, ſuing for rents, and the like,—Miles, I ſay, your honour, took Jane, as he ſaid, to Guiſe Abbey; but in fact, far enough a⯑field from that: he carried her up to London; always calling her my lady—and, as the fooliſh girl was in love, ſhe believed it:— and for that matter, ſhe lived like a lady, ſure enough—lady's maids, lady's livery-men, and what not!—no wonder, your worſhip, poor Jane believed it all goſpel, for I thought it ſo myſelf—for a'ter this, he had her married over again: but that was ſham too, juſt like the ring buſineſs afore; for the fellow who married her, was as little of a parſon, and as great a rogue, as himſelf:—ſo your wor⯑ſhip ſees the end on't—this poor boy!—" [33]"Whew!" whiſtled Partington.—"And we might have lived in ignorance, and ſhe in wickedneſs, poor thing, a great while longer," continued the afflicted father, ca⯑reſſing his betrayed daughter, "had not ſomebody ſent us a nonmus letter, as they call it, ſaying our daughter was a double U, Sir Guiſe Stuart an R—and the child a B—."

Partington here gave the old maſon an⯑other ſhake by the hand, and then bade the wife proceed.

She then related a variety of other hei⯑nous particulars, unfolding the villany of Sir Guiſe and his agents, and ending with the recovery of the deluded Jenny to the arms of her family. "Yes, your honour," ſaid Mrs. Atwood, in concluſion—"and ſo this very day was ſix weeks brought Jenny and her brat home to us again, dreſſed in the very gown ſhe went away in,—a good ſtuff of our own honeſt buying, and which ſhe has got on, you ſee, at this preſent.—But, with the bleſſing upon us, we'll make the baronet aſhamed of it yet; for we are going [34]to ſettle, not paſſing more than thirteen or fourteen miles on t'other ſide of his abbey; and we have come a matter of that about, purpoſely to tell him a piece of our mind: and if your worſhip can do any thing in this affair, give us ſome juſtice; for we'll have none of his money: ſo far contrary, indeed, that one of the mule's paniers, with Jerom, is loaded with all the things,—ſome of 'em pretty ſmart ones too,—that he gave us be⯑fore Jenny went from us.—As to the fine clothes, and trinkum-trankums he gave ſhe, they were all left behind at the wicked place where we found her."

Their walk and their recital ended toge⯑ther; for they had now arrived at the caſtle, where they were again met by Henry, who told Partington, all things would be done as he had directed.—"Then lead the way," ſaid Partington; "for theſe are much greater vagabonds than you think, and muſt be taken care of accordingly."

Henry conducted them to a large apart⯑ment adjoining the ſteward's.—Partington uſhered them in, ordered the ſervant to [35]place chairs,—aſſiſted in the buſineſs himſelf, obſerving, that, "though they were vaga⯑bonds, they were every one to be treated with the utmoſt reſpect."—He deſired them to eat, drink, and be merry,—to be in good humour with one another; but, above all things, not to ſay a ſingle croſs word to that good-for-nothing huſſy, Jane; and to take care that the child had ſome pap.

CHAPTER VI.

HENRY and Partington returned to the company, where Olivia was ſtill pre⯑ſiding at the tea-table, declaring Mr. Part⯑ington ſhould not go without his uſual be⯑verage. This was a pint baſon filled with tea, and milk, and honey, in equal propor⯑tions. "If you would not have me choaked with rage, give me the ſlop!"—ſo he always called it:—and ſeeing the baſon before him, he ſpilled one part of it, and ſwallowed the other; then taking breath, he threw himſelf into a chair, the blood ſtarting into his face, while he recited the hiſtory of the Atwoods, [36]making no other variations than diſtinguiſh⯑ing Sir Guiſe by the words "fine fellow! pretty gentleman! the hero of the tale!". But, though theſee pithets were not bitter in language, they were intolerably ſo in the manner of their delivery: for, at the men⯑tion of his atrocities, he would ſometimes leap up, take the room at a couple of ſtrides, exclaiming to a chair, to a table, to one of the company, or even to his own ſhadow in the glaſs, ſuppoſing it were Sir Guiſe, "Your moſt obedient very humble ſervant, my no⯑ble baronet! I truſt your execution is not very far off; for other facts are coming out, I dare ſay; and all the crimes of human na⯑ture will conduct your honour to Tyburn, I flatter myſelf! Would to heaven they could all be bundled with you into the ſame cart, that you might be put out of the world to⯑gether! I would empty my cellar,—aye, and almoſt my ſtrong box too,—to celebrate that glorious event."

The effect which the narration had upon the company, was various. Lady Fitzorton lifted up her hands, and wept ſilently.—Mr. [37]Clare exclaimed, "Execrable wretch!"— Sir Armine knit his brows, and ſaid, "Poor Charles! what does he not deſerve, to atone for the curſe of ſuch a parent?"—Olivia ſaid, "The poor girl and child deſerved every care, that innocence betrayed, and helpleſs infancy, could receive from pity."—"Theſe old caitiffs too have their merits," cried Par⯑tington. "But what can be a ſufficient tri⯑bute of admiration for Miſs Stuart?" ex⯑claimed Olivia—"ſo good! ſo conſiderate!— how, my dear Henry, ſhall we do honour to her?"—Henry held his tongue, and ſpake no⯑thing, yet looked as if he ſubſcribed fully to the eulogy.

Partington, however, was the moſt buſy of the groupe. His hands, head, and heart, ſeemed to be full; and he divided the even⯑ing between his inſufferable ſcoundrels above ſtairs, and his abominable vagabonds below.

Olivia, too, frequently ſtole out, and whiſ⯑pering Henry, who always diſappeared ſoon after, haſted to Partington's gueſts; and, under pretence of aſking if they had every [38]thing comfortable about them, took occa⯑ſion to ſhew many little marks of a generous nature and of genuine good-will.

She had particularly directed her own maid to provide all things proper for the child, and would have ſent to the manor-houſe for her own cradle, but was prevented by Henry, who reminded her there were ſe⯑veral in the caſtle.—"Gracious! perhaps your own—what an honour, if we could procure that!" exclaimed Olivia: "the poor babe is innocent, you know: alas! and its mother can ſcarcely be called guilty, my Henry."—She took care that a comfortable change of every thing was provided from her own wardrobe, and placed ready for Jane Atwood, in her bed-chamber; nor was ſhe unmindful of the reſt, in ſuch little additions as might be proper to the general happineſs.

Prior again to this, true George had been diſpatched by Partington to the eaſtern gate of the park, at which Atwood's eldeſt ſon Jerom, with Dorothy, was appointed to wait his family's joining him.—"The boy [39]will ſtand ſtock at the gate, pleaſe your wor⯑ſhip," ſaid old Atwood, as he overheard Partington giving directions: "he ſaid he would, thof it were for a couple of nights. I never ſee'd ſuch a boy for that: bid 'un do a thing: and if he anſwers 'Aye,' the thing's done; but then again, if he gives you one of his noes, i'cod, your worſhip, he's more of a mule than Dorothy!"

"I ſee into the vagabond's character at once," replied Partington. "Go then, George: you will find him ſtuck to the gate; and if he won't leave it, take Armine's team, and bring gate and all."

True George, when he had a good-natured thing to do, never addicted himſelf to unne⯑ceſſary delays, and was, beſides, one of the moſt active young fellows in the world. He ſet off, therefore, for the eaſtern gate, as if his own bed and board depended on his di⯑ſpatch.

To confeſs the truth, this honeſt fellow had been more in the ſecrets of Atwood's family than any other of the ſervants. In⯑deed, he was a youth of moſt inſatiable cu⯑rioſity, [40]where the gratification thereof had but the probable aſpect of being attended by a good office; in ſearching after which, he was indefatigable. And judging from his beloved maſter Henry's ſecond viſit to the park, by moon-light too, that ſome new ad⯑venture was near, he had contrived to take his uſual ſtation of an out-poſt, for fear of being diſcovered. By a little buſh-fighting, however, which is extremely honourable, he formed his ambuſcade behind ſome flow⯑ering thorns, which grew in that part of the park where Mr. Partington recapitulated, in an audible voice, ſo much of the At⯑woods' ſtory as had then been told.

CHAPTER VII.

WERE it our intention to give to each of the heroes and heroines of this epic hiſ⯑tory a day of proweſs, after the manner of the great Maeonides, who dedicated one book of his Iliad to Ajax, another to Aga⯑memnon, and ſo on,—we ſhould certainly conſecrate this chapter to the achievements [41]of Olivia, who, from the orient ſun, even to his down-going, and again to his up⯑riſing, was employed in doing at leaſt as much good as any illuſtrious ancient or mo⯑dern, whom fable or truth has yet celebrated, were we to begin with Philip of Macedon, and end with Frederick of Pruſſia; and we do not at all deem it unreaſonable to declare that we expect, the very abridgment of her acts, during the abovementioned ſpace, will make the reader more in love with her, though rehearſed in humble proſe, than if, in imitation of thoſe royal butchers, ſhe had laid a thouſand of her fellow creatures, with her own hand, dead at her feet, in the field of battle.

The day, then, of the fair Olivia Clare, was uſhered in by an act, mild and lovely as the firſt ray of the morn which ſhone on it,—even by an early walk round the garden with the unfortunate Jane Atwood. Luck⯑leſs victim! thy modeſt appearance and bluſhing graces, and all the deep regrets of downcaſt conſciouſneſs ſtreaming from thy eyes; thy keen ſenſe of the novelty of a vir⯑tuous [42]woman ſoothing and not aggravating the fate of a woman betrayed,—juſtified thy mother's deſcription, and made the com⯑paſſion and loving kindneſs of thy protec⯑treſs a virtue worthy to be imitated by thy ſex! a ſex, too often cruel and unrelenting to moſt pitiable victims.—After ſeveral turns about the walks, Olivia conducted her ſtill trembling protegée to the breakfaſt-room, where the Atwoods had been invited by Sir Armine to join the family: but ſeeming to feel themſelves farther from home there than in the apartment where they had paſſed the preceding evening, they were again committed to the care of Partington and true George.

Olivia, underſtanding this, begged permiſ⯑ſion to ſeat Jane between Henry and herſelf, ſaying in a whiſper to her father, "Becauſe, you know, we can comfort and make her chearful." Beſides the ſhyneſs which only an intercourſe with the world can remove, a painful conſciouſneſs of her error, and of the knowledge which the company had of it, made the timid Jane diſcover ſo much un⯑eaſineſs, [43]that the good-natured Olivia per⯑ceiving it, led her firſt to the window, and then out at the door, ſaying, "her young friend was not very well, and, though ſenſi⯑ble of the honour intended her, wiſhed to take breakfaſt with her own family." Par⯑tington's propoſal to blend the Atwoods and Fitzortons at breakfaſt, was amongſt the ge⯑nerous little inconſiſtencies or rather indiſ⯑criminations which were interwoven into his character, inſomuch that you would ſometimes ſee at his table perſons whom, from their difference of character and condition, any man who attended to the ceremonies of the world, and indeed to the diſtinctions of ranks in ſociety, would have thought it im⯑poſſible he could bring together. But the ſame objection by no means held againſt the propriety of Olivia bringing this young wo⯑man into ſo much good company:—the beſt and moſt juſtifiable motives influenced the fair protectreſs; and there was a natural grace and gentility about the no leſs fair protected, which Sir Guiſe, in giving her the beſt maſters, had not a little improved. In truth, [44]Jane attributed her misfortune, and all its fatal conſequences, to the violence of the baronet's paſſion for her; and ſhe looked on the mock nuptials as ſo ſolemn a pledge of his love, that ſhe herſelf encouraged the wiſh of Sir Guiſe, that the union ſhould re⯑main ſecret, from an idea which ſprung from the purity of her affection, that having the joy to tell her own heart he was her wed⯑ded lord, ſhe had rather continue to be thought herſelf diſhonoured, than that he ſhould be degraded. Her father's finding and carrying her off, ſhe long conſidered as the ſole cauſe by which ſhe had been ſepa⯑rated from the baronet:—and although none of theſe motives wholly obliterated the inward ſenſe of her firſt indiſcretion prior to her ſuppoſed honourable union, or ſup⯑preſſed the ſigh ſo often as ſhe turned her thoughts towards her deſerted father and his family,—ſhe cheared herſelf by reflecting that if ever ſhe ſhould qualify herſelf ſo as to juſtify Sir Guiſe in owning her as his lawful la⯑dy, all would ſtill be well. Inſpired by the ex⯑pectation of ſuch a reward,—ſhe applied with [45]unwearied diligence to whatever might render her more attracting in manners, and cultur⯑ed in mind.—Her grand object, in attempt⯑ing the adornment of both, was, to deſerve the honour which ſhe believed Sir Guiſe had conferred on her; and to enable him to acknowledge her with leſs comparative diſ⯑grace: —and as the baronet ſometimes found relief in her gentleneſs, from the violence of Mrs. Tempeſt, and the diſturbance of his thoughts on his uſage to the real Lady Stuart,—his kind treatment of her made her ſtill lay much of his deception to his fear of loſing her by a diſcovery of the truth; and although her parents, more eſpecially her mother, never uttered his name without annexing to it a curſe,—ſhe acknowledged to Olivia in the garden, that, although ſhe too well knew ſhe had herſelf acted very wrong, ſhe did not believe he was half ſo bad as people repreſented him. "This I muſt ſay: though, except we happen to meet with him at home this morning, I muſt never hope, and indeed, I do not—de—de⯑ſire —that is—I do not—ought to deſire, ever [46]to ſee him more."—"This morning, child?" queſtioned Olivia: "what do you mean?"— "Yes, madam, my father and mother, and my brother Jerom, are determined to ſee him; and—and Jerom ſwore on his knees— But what good can it do, madam, to drag me before his family? And then my brother is ſo paſſionate!—If, indeed, Sir Guiſe could be ſent for to any other place but his own houſe—and—and—talked—to—about me, or about the poor child—or if—if—I—if —I—I—"

Here grief awhile choaked her utterance. —"Not that my father," added ſhe, "would ſuffer either of us to receive another farthing of his money: he would ſooner work his poor fingers to the bone; nay, all which Jerom has in one of thoſe great panniers, are preſents ſent by Sir Guiſe or myſelf, from town, ſince I imagined, alas! myſelf, and aſſured them, I was his ſacred though ſecret wife; and my father and brother have worked night and day for theſe four months paſt,—indeed, ever ſince they knew of my diſappointment,—and almoſt ſtarved them⯑ſelves, [47]to ſave up the money they have re⯑ceived, that they may throw it back to the baronet;—though, if any thing ſhould hap⯑pen to my brother, or to my father, or—or —or—to—any—body—elſe,—I know not what would become of me. Would I were dead, miſs! I am a wicked girl, and have no right to live, bringing the grey hairs of my poor father and mother to the grave. You do not know how they are altered—they are not like the ſame people, ſince they heard of my misfortune—though they have not given me one harſh word ſince I came home; yet I cannot curſe poor Sir Guiſe, as they do,—indeed I cannot: pray forgive me, miſs; I tried to make him love me,—indeed I did:—I ſhall never ſee him again, ſo I do not ſpeak on that account; but were he as much to blame as myſelf, I had rather die than be the death of—of—of—any—body in the world, much leſs the father of—my— my—pray forgive me—yet I would to hea⯑ven, ſome kind-hearted perſon, though I know I do not deſerve it, would try to per⯑ſuade my father from going to the abbey. [48]Would to heaven, Miſs Caroline Stuart did but know, or that I could any way get a letter to her! I have one ready written— I am ſure ſhe would contrive—O miſs, you do not know what an angel ſhe is;—not that I ever ſaw her but once—but that once, I ſhall never forget it—ſhe almoſt broke my heart:—one Mr. Denniſon, the baronet's ſteward, whom we ſometimes ſaw at Clare Place, brought her unawares to my lodgings, when he knew his maſter was gone a jour⯑ney; then it was that ſhe told me, if I would return home to my poor father, and make my family a viſit, and then find ſome excuſe to ſtay with them, without letting any body elſe know of it, except Mr. Den⯑niſon, ſhe would take all the care of the child to herſelf, nurſe and provide for it as her own, and that ſhe would promiſe I ſhould not only hear about its welfare, but contrive, now and then, to let me ſee it, by means of Mr. Denniſon; and none of my family being let into the ſecret; and that as to Sir Guiſe, ſaid the ſweet young lady— (except yourſelf, miſs, I never ſaw her equal, [49]either in goodneſs, or in beauty)—it will be eaſy for us to manage matters with him: for you know, Jane, continued ſhe, he muſt at times be as grieved as yourſelf, for the injury you are both of you doing to the moſt affectionate wife in the whole world.— Then it was, I firſt diſcovered his former marriage, and on authority, alas! I could not diſbelieve. She ſaw the agonies into which the information threw me, and tried to ſooth them;—ah! why are not all good people, all virtuous ladies, ſo mild as her when they ſpeak to—to unhappy women? Sure the gentle accent would have more proſelytes than the ſtern rebuke.—What an atonement it will be—exclaimed the an⯑gel daughter of the unfortunate Sir Guiſe— what an atonement, Jane, for the wrongs you have done my poor mother, who is, both in ſpirits and health, a ſufferer, if you,—who were ſo often the unknown cauſe, though, I own, an unconſcious one, of her huſband's eſtrangement and abſence from home,— ſhould alſo be the ſecret cauſe of his return to her! I am ſure I, as his child, ſhall be [50]bound to pray for you during my whole life! and ſhall look upon the attentions I ſhew this poor little thing—(my child, you muſt know, was then, continued the weeping Jane, aſleep in the cradle juſt by me)—I ſay, I ſhall look upon the attention paid to your babe, Jenny, as part of the gratitude I owe the mother, for the amiable conſideration ſhewn for my own parent; and, indeed, your merit, my good girl—ſhe called me ſo, miſs, though I did not deſerve it—will be much greater than mine, on this occaſion: for you, perhaps, will ſacrifice a ſtrong, though an improper paſſion, to a much ſu⯑perior principle, and I ſhall be but an hum⯑ble inſtrument to reward you for ſo doing! But your reward, Jenny, will be much greater, and adminiſtered to you by an infi⯑nitely higher power, whoſe forgiveneſs of the paſt will be accompanied by eternal happi⯑neſs in future!—Here, miſs, the ſweet lady took my child in her arms, and kiſſed it ſeveral times, and putting it again into the cradle, ſaid—Yes, and this dear little thing too ſhall honour its mother; the firſt words I [51]will teach it to liſp ſhall be bleſs my mother for all her goodneſs! If you conſent to this, Jenny,—Denniſon and I will deviſe ſome means for you to have the child properly diſpoſed of, when you go into the country; and it will be as true as eaſy for you to ſay, you know a perſon who will take care of the infant till you come back.—Then, taking my hand, and again kiſſing my poor little one, ſhe went down with Mr. Denni⯑ſon, who wept as he aſſured Miſs Caroline that my infant—was like the—the—I—I— I—forget what, miſs—but ſomething about its likeneſs to Sir Guiſe:—I often thought there was a reſemblance;—and, I am ſure I could not but kiſs the hand of good Mr. Denniſon, for what he ſaid about it—pray forgive me, madam.

"But all Miſs Stuart's intended kindneſs was put a ſtop to by a wicked woman, Mrs. Tempeſt,—and a tempeſt ſhe is by name and by nature,—who ferreted me out, and called me all manner of names; I de⯑ſerved them indeed; ſhe pulled the hair from my head, by handfuls, before his face; [52]ſhe made him promiſe I ſhould go away from him, before ſhe would quit the houſe; and, after repeating all the ſhocking names ſhe had before made uſe of, and curſing me ſeveral times (for ſhe ſwore terribly), ſhe threw herſelf out at the door, declaring, ſhe would be the death of us both, if her own ſoul was the forfeit, unleſs he brought her word I had left the lodgings, never to re⯑turn: ſo that you ſee Sir Guiſe was forced into that he did: yet I thought on what his good daughter had ſaid to me, though it was no time to make him more wretched by my reproaches, or ſpeak of the fatal truths which had been told to me. But I was go⯑ing to ſend my father word, if he would re⯑ceive me I would return home, and never ſee the baronet more,—when my father him⯑ſelf, and my couſin Jonathan, entered the room, while Sir Guiſe was there: they found me-with my hair diſhevelled, and every part of my dreſs in diſorder; which led them to ſuppoſe that Sir Guiſe, who looked no leſs terrified than myſelf, had been beating of me: for it was juſt after Mrs. Tempeſt [53]had gone away. But I never breathed the name either of good Mr. Denniſon or his young lady, to Sir Guiſe, or to Mrs. Tem⯑peſt; ſo that they cannot come to any harm on my account,—there's ſome comfort in that."

Here the tender and afflicted Jane talked to the infant, kiſſed, and wept over it, while Olivia experienced ſtrong emotions of grief, love, and admiration, as well for the friend of her infancy, Miſs Stuart, as for the mo⯑ther and the child.

CHAPTER VIII

UPON the return of Olivia to the break⯑faſting parlour, which was immediately after ſhe had placed Jenny more at her eaſe with her own family, ſhe ſeated herſelf, even though her beloved Henry was in the room, between Mr. Clare and Sir Armine; and in that ſituation recapitulated, with great fide⯑lity,—but with many comments and illuſtra⯑tions, ſupplied from that rich repoſitory, her own good mind,—all that had paſſed be⯑tween [54]her and the humble companion of her walk. Both the old gentlemen were much affected, and experienced, in their turn, the ſenſations, though perhaps in a leſs vivid degree, which had before been felt by Oli⯑via; nor were thoſe of Lady Fitzorton, who had a very tender diſpoſition, leſs animated. But what ſhall be ſaid of the emotions of Henry? eſpecially at the paſſages that de⯑picted the virtue of Caroline Stuart, on whom Olivia paſſed an eulogy that would not have been unworthy of Henry himſelf!— regretting, at every ſentence, that the friend⯑ſhip formed between them in childhood had ever been deſtroyed.

We muſt, in truth, leave this matter, as we have done many others, to the reader's own imagination.—If he has been, or is, a lover, he will not be at a loſs to conjecture; —if he has not, he may be ſtill able, faintly, to judge what a young man of an ardent temper, and under Henry's circumſtances, would be likely to feel on ſuch an occa⯑ſion.

Be it noted alſo, to the honour of Olivia, [55]that in her recital ſhe ſunk upon her little auditory, probably in conſideration of Hen⯑ry's friendſhip for Charles Stuart, as many of the indefenſible parts of the baronet's con⯑duct as ſhe could; or, rather, ſhe gave to truth its moſt candid form. At this mo⯑ment Partington entered the room, took a chair, and ſat thoughtfully down. "To let the Atwoods meet the Stuarts, you know," —ſaid Olivia, addreſſing herſelf to Lady Fitzorton, and looking at the old gentle⯑men, —"would be little ſhort of actual mad⯑neſs, —at leaſt till matters are in better train; and to allow them to take poſſeſſion of the cottage they mentioned, juſt at pre⯑ſent, while left to the guidance of their own reſentments, would be as bad. Suppoſe then"—here ſhe had a long whiſper with her father, at the end of which, ſhe ſprung up, and running to Henry, aſked him if he was diſpoſed for a walk to the poor deſerted ma⯑nor-houſe, that fine morning?—"My father," ſaid ſhe, "has given me a commiſſion, which muſt be executed immediately."

Henry was riſing to attend her, when [56]Partington getting up, cried out, "Hold hold, you little villain! I ſee you, and your old ſcoundrel of a father, are upon ſome ſcheme to trick me out of my vagabonds:— but it won't do:—I have ſettled the whole buſineſs. They are getting ready to go with me; and I have ordered your little meſſage-cart, Armine, to come in tow of my chaiſe; and I had a good mind to have ordered your chaiſe into the bargain."

"And you might have done ſo," ſaid Sir Armine, warmly,—"and my coach too."— "And my curricle," cried Olivia, putting on her cloak.—"And all our carriages," added Mr. Clare;—"but then, you muſt not cheat my poor Olivia out of her ſhare of the Atwoods.—She tells me, the eldeſt daughter is to ſucceed the fooliſh young woman who is marrying off."—"O!" exclaimed Olivia, "I cannot do without dear Jane;—ſhe is the only woman in the world to replace Lucy:— and her child will be no hindrance; and the manor-houſe is really catching cold, for want of company.—You know, my dear Lady Fitzorton, you never let us live any [57]where but with you, at the caſtle;—and we are ten times greater vagabonds, as Mr. Partington calls them, than any of the At⯑woods. —So do not interfere with my part of the property, pray, Mr. Inſufferable!"

"Be it ſo:—you are a ſad fellow, though," anſwered Partington:—"but as that is the caſe, my chaiſe and the cart will do.—I have ſent the caitiff, true George, after Jerom and his Dorothy, as he calls her;—and I will go before, upon one of your horſes,— not your mad-cap, Bucephalus, though, Henry; you have taught him ſome of your poetical flights.—Od's pranks! the high-mettled raſcal would throw Apollo;—one would think he was making Pindarics, while mere mortal man was upon his back! —No, no, James's even-going pad for me." —"Order white Surry for the field to-mor⯑row," quoth Henry, ſportingly.—"But whi⯑ther," demanded Lady Fitzorton,—"are you going to carry the good folks?"

"To where all vagabonds ought to be car⯑ried —to a place of ſafety:—ſo don't aſk any [58]more queſtions:—look to the huſſy and her brat, who are to go into your cuſtody."

"But ſhall we not,"—reſumed Lady Fitz⯑orton —"ſee them again before they go? I have not ſeen any but the eldeſt daughter and her infant yet."

"No," anſwered Partington:—"no leave-takings. The people are ſick and ſorry;— and as to gratitude, and all that, time e⯑nough to ſettle theſe matters when our work is done. We are officers of juſtice, you know, and of courſe are reſponſible for our priſoners.

"Meantime, it is eaſy to ſuppoſe the men and boys have made their bows, and the women and girls dropt their curtſies. I hate bluſhing and blubbering:—ſo good bye to you—I hear the carriages wheeling round; —aye, and there I ſee ſteps on Steady,— your youngeſt villain, Armine, is leading him.—I ſhall have the vagabonds come whimpering, if I do not ſtop them.—Not a ſtep, therefore, on your lives, you ſcoun⯑drels, till we have got through the park."

[59]"But promiſe me,"—ſaid Olivia, following Partington to the door;—"you will leave my property; I ought to go and ſettle that matter myſelf."

"Settle nonſenſe!" cried Partington.— "I'll tell the girl, ſhe and her child are to be put into priſon, by you inſtead of me."

"Oh! but another thing," ſaid Olivia:— "I would not have you go to the abbey, nor within ſight of it, for the world:—you know not what may be the conſequence.— Gracious!—Mr. Partington, you are the beſt man in the world—almoſt—but—but—are ſo precipitate—ſo—"

"Did you ever hear ſuch a ſaucy, vex⯑atious, talkative, prittle-prattle, inſolent, inſufferable ſcoundrel, ſince you were born?" cried Partington, taking her hand and kiſſing it.—"Why, you little impertinent villain, do you pretend to inſtruct an old raſcal like me, where I am to go, and what I am to do?—Do I aſk, how you in⯑tend to diſpoſe of your ſhare of the ragamuf⯑fins? —whether ſtrangling, ſhooting, or only whipping, is to be their portion?—As [60]to the abbey, do you ſuppoſe I will carry ſuch a ſet of abominables before the worthy gentleman"—here he took off his hat, and bowed reſpectfully—"who has been ſo kind to them, till they are in a proper condition to bring him to the gibbet?—But you have kept me talking here, while I could have got, with my whole crew, almoſt half-way to my journey's end:—ſo aſk no queſtions— ſtay, all of you, in this room, without ringing the bell, twenty minutes, by Olivia's watch: —and ſo God mend you all."

Saying this, he opened the door, and meeting Henry, he thruſt him into the room alſo, crying out, "God mend you too, you ſcoundrel!"—then locking the door, gave the key to one of the ſervants. "Here, ſirrah, if you let them out before the expi⯑ration of twenty minutes by the click of that pendulum oppoſite, to which I now ſtation you"—pointing to the caſtle clock— "I'll anatomize you:—nay more, I will have an hole dug, chin deep, in the very ſpot where I now place you,—and turning you into a ſun-dial, with a braſs plate nailed to [61]your head, make you learn to keep time for the reſt of your life!—Stay, here comes George,—you are releaſed, ſirrah,—this raſ⯑cal will ſerve my purpoſe better.—Here Mr. Scoundrel," ſaid Partington:—"twen⯑ty minutes, to a moment, keep this key, —then open that door,—and have an eye to the windows too; but as I know you to be a thorough-paced villain, and there⯑fore to be depended on,—you may move about a little, juſt to ſtretch your legs."

Partington mounted Steady, after a ſhort conference with Jerom and his mule, who now came up,—packed the Atwoods into the carriages—and George took his ſtation.

CHAPTER IX.

THE Clares and Fitzortons had too ſincere a veneration for the virtues of this excellent man, not to let him conduct them in his own way.

Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton could not, [62]however, but ſmile at the conceit of their own caſtle being converted into a jail, and one of their own ſervants into the jailor;— and they were puzzling themſelves, to know in whoſe cuſtody they were placed, when a voice, which they knew to be that of true George, addreſſed them through the key-hole.

"Pray, my ladies and gentlemen, don't be angry;—I hope you will be pleaſed to be ſhut up for as long a time as Mr. Part⯑ington has ordered;—not that I mind being 'natomiſed, a pin's point;—but, ſays he, you are a ſcoundrel of honour, George,—this was in a whiſper—ſhaking my hand at the ſame time—your worſhip knows his way.— So I am ſorry I can't let you out, my ladies and gentlemen: but I know, if I did, he would never call me a ſcoundrel again,— though, mayhap, I ſhould be more of a ſcoundrel then than I am now.—The time will ſoon be gone; fourteen minutes and almoſt a half now.—They ſay, time has wings: but I think, I never knew him creep ſo ſlow in my life.—I wiſh I could tell you any pretty ſtory, or ſing a good [63]ſong, or do any thing, to keep your ho⯑nours in ſpirits, while you are my priſoners. As for that, had your honours been con⯑fined in a dark room, you would have been better off than poor me, or Mr. Partington either:—for there was ſuch kiſſing and cry⯑ing with the old folks, on leaving Jenny and her child behind,—and Jenny, I believe is hardly out of her fits yet!"—"In fits!" an⯑ſwered Olivia:—"let me out this inſtant— no—run and tell her—I will be with her in —a—very few minutes."—"I can't go to tell her, miſs, though I had rather be in fits myſelf, than ſhe:—yet I mayn't budge till my time is out."

Among the other good qualities of George, he had one well worthy the adoption of all his party-coloured brethren,—to wit, that ſimple but rare property of doing what he was ordered.

"But here ſhe comes with the child in her arms, and the tears all about her pretty face:—now I can tell her, miſs,—nay, for that matter, in about another minute and three quarters you may tell her yourſelf."— [64]Here he entered into a ſhort converſation with Jane,—looking alternately at her and at his watch,—then he exclaimed—"Huz⯑za! —Huzza!—the time's out! the time's out!"—and he vaulted in the air as if he himſelf had gained his freedom after years of ſlavery.—He unlocked the door, entered the room, and entreated their honours' par⯑don, on receiving which, he went com⯑forted away.—Olivia haſted to her charge— Henry was about to take his ſhare in the buſineſs, when his father requeſted him to ſtop a few moments, as he had ſomething to communicate, to which the preſence of his mother, and their mutual friend Mr. Clare, could be no objection,—being, in⯑deed, parties concerned. "No," added he recollecting himſelf,—"it will do rather better to-morrow morning.—I forgot a few points which I have to adjuſt previouſly with you, my dear Clare.—To-morrow morning then, Henry, we will have our conference; the reſult of which, I truſt, will be as per⯑fect happineſs to you, as can be expected in a world like this."

[65]Henry ſtood irreſolute, whether to ſpeak or not;—and, while he was balancing, Oli⯑via came back, light as the goſſamer, and ſaid to him in undeniable accents,—"Now, then, for our walk to the manor-houſe,— and Jenny Atwood will be of our party: the air will do her good;—and beſides, ſhe will be wanted,—or if ſhe ſhould be fatigued, my good papa has commanded me to take the coach going and coming, if neceſſary:— and why ſhould not dear Jane, and you and I, Henry, have an airing this morning, as well as the reſt of the Atwoods and Mr. Partington?—We will be back by dinner-time, ſir,"—added ſhe to her father—and then diſtributing, to the reſt of the family, her little careſſes, with a grace perfectly her own, as ſhe always did before ſhe went out, —ſhe took her Henry's arm: and as Jenny Atwood modeſtly declined the carriage, they all three walked through the park of Fitz⯑orton, and to the manor-houſe of Clare.

CHAPTER X.

THIS little excurſion was productive of an event, which had well nigh brought about that very explanation which Henry had ſo long deſired, yet dreaded, ſhould take place.

Olivia had, at this firſt ſetting out, ar⯑ranged Jane Atwood between Henry and herſelf,—each inſiſting upon taking an arm; but ſoon after, Olivia made a little alteration by putting herſelf in Jenny's place, declar⯑ing "That ſhe was reſolved to have the charge all to herſelf." Whether this was the whole, or only in part, the reaſon for the change, it is impoſſible for us to ſay, but it was that which ſhe thought fit to aſſign; and there was no time to diſpute it; for juſt as the trio had gained an eminence in Mr. Clare's park, Jenny was led by curioſity, or ſome other motive, to aſk, "Whether the fine ſeat to the right did not belong to—to —to—"

[67]Perceiving her faulter, Olivia relieved her by ſaying "Yes, that is the abbey: but we ſhall have a better view of it preſently;— yet the manor-houſe will be quite jealous if you give the preference, Jane, to the abbey."

Henry ſuppreſſed a ſigh as he directed his view to the latter.

"And I ſuppoſe, then, that foreſt," reſumed Jane, with increaſed emotion, "is—is—is— the one I have heard—ſo—ſo much about?"

"You are right," anſwered Olivia: "thoſe are the abbey woods;—but I would have you to know, our dear little groves and ſhrubberies will ſupply you with more fra⯑grant flowers and enchanting walks;—do not you think ſo, Henry?"

Jane appearing faint, Olivia propoſed reſting a few minutes in one of the ſmall alcoves. Hither they repaired:—Jenny and Henry ſat on the ſame bench,—perhaps by accident, or out of reſpect to Olivia; for they left to her one which commanded an extenſive proſpect, whereas theirs had no⯑thing to recommend it but an indiſtinct view [68]of the abbey, and a ſkirt of its foreſt.—Oli⯑via did not profit by this mark of their po⯑liteneſs, rather preferring a ſeat on the ſame bench;—and, no doubt, by a like chance, or compliment, thinking ſhe had ſufficiently aſſerted her claims, placed herſelf by the ſide of Henry;—almoſt in the next inſtant her attention was drawn to ſome pencillings on the oppoſite pannel of the wainſcot;— ſhe roſe to read them.—Henry, impelled by a ſudden recollection, caught her gown, and gently drawing her towards him, ſhe again ſat down, without in the leaſt ſuſpect⯑ing there was any other motive in the mind of Henry than that which, to her own, was the moſt delightful—the ſweet thought of Henry;—and ſhe would have left the alcove, without, perhaps, thinking of her former intention, had not Jane Atwood, as ſhe was going out, exclaimed, "Good Heaven! here are the names of that angel, Miſs Ca⯑roline, and Lady Stuart! and—and—" had Olivia permitted her to ſtay another moment in the alcove, ſhe would have diſ⯑covered the reſt: but that amiable girl, be⯑lieving [69]ſhe could not get her away too ſoon, hurried out, proteſting, "They ſhould not have time to ſettle their buſineſs, and be back by dinner."—She took, however, the firſt opportunity, when they had got into a path which did not admit their all walking together, to aſſure Henry ſhe was doubly indebted to him for his conſiderate goodneſs in preventing her from running on to, per⯑haps, fatal diſcoveries:—"Generous Hen⯑ry! you feared Jenny, who finds, alas, but too many occaſions to ſpeak of Sir Guiſe, would have been led, by ſeeing the names of his fair daughter, and deceaſed wife, into a train of thought, that it is not for her peace ſhe ſhould indulge.—But I wonder we have never obſerved theſe names before;—in⯑deed, it has not been the manor-houſe ſum⯑mer this year;—the caſtle has made us tru⯑ants from this our other home. I do not think," continued Olivia, availing herſelf of being behind Henry, in this narrow path⯑way, and Jenny's walking before, the graſs on the oppoſite ſide being left for mowing, [70]and almoſt ready for the ſcythe,—"I do not think any of the family has been in that alcove ſince July was twelvemonth, when, you remember, we all dined and paſſed the day there. I do not remember any pencil⯑ing then; and it is odd enough, how the names of the Stuarts ſhould be there, as none of them, except Charles, would be likely even to come upon our grounds, ſince our unfortunate quarrel, you know.— Is it not ſtrange Henry? But huſh," ſaid ſhe,—"Do not anſwer me now: dear Jane will think we neglect her:—ſtop, let me paſs you, and join her:—but do not loiter be⯑hind."

Saying this, ſhe bounded beſide him at a place where the graſs happened to be ſcan⯑ty; —and, like Camilla, ſeemed ſcarcely to bend the blade.—Thus did Henry eſcape a diſcovery of an imprudence, which the exceſs of diſappointed love alone could excuſe;— for, had Olivia put her firſt deſign into exe⯑cution, or Jane continued to go on, the fol⯑lowing verſes would have been found pen⯑cilled, [71]in a ſmaller character, immediately under the names of Caroline, Lady Stuart, Sir Guiſe, and Henry.

This effuſion eſcaped Henry in one of his tender migrations;—for there was ſcarce a ſpot on any one of the eſtates, which had not received ſome memorial of his diſap⯑pointed paſſion—and in not a few places his Muſe had been called upon to celebrate the fair object of his afflicted heart—except in thoſe exigencies, when he was really too much diſtracted by his paſſion for Caroline, to indulge his paſſion for poetry, or even to know that the fictions of poetry had a place [72]in his heart;—ſo entirely was it at thoſe times rapt by the realities of love. Happening to be one day ſitting in the alcove which we have juſt left, when he was far from happy, yet as far from being hopeleſs,—the preciſe ſtate of mind, perhaps, which admits a poetic deſcription of real feelings, his thoughts took that turn, in proſe, which he afterwards verſified in the manner we have ſeen. The warm-breathed prayer, for the mo⯑ment, ſoothed the woe: but how he ſuffered ſuch a tell-tale evidence, in which "his hand appeared againſt his heart," to remain, we know not:—certain, however, it is, that a future hazard, from the ſame cauſe, was put at defiance; for the verſes were rubbed out ſo effectually the ſame evening, that not a trace was left for the ſearching eye either of curioſity or jealouſy.

CHAPTER XI.

AS Henry and his fair companions were aſcending the flight of ſteps which led to the front of the manor-houſe, Olivia [73]obſerved, "That two perſons on horſeback were near the paddock," which was at the diſtance only of a few paces from the back of the manſion.—Olivia, with Jenny, ran to the edge of the ſteps to ſee; and Henry followed, as the perſons on horſeback were paſſing the great gate,—the iron-work ad⯑joining to which, ran the full length of the houſe and court-yard:—Jenny cried out, "Oh heaven! there is my guardian angel herſelf!—there is Miſs Stuart!—I ſhould know her from a thouſand!—that is ſhe, madam!—the beautiful lady on horſeback! —and the perſon with her, is good Mr. Denniſon:—I muſt, indeed I muſt go and pay them my humble reſpects."

She was down the ſteps, and round to the iron railing, in a moment, exclaiming, at every ſtep, "Heaven bleſs your ladyſhip!—God preſerve you, Miſs Caroline, and you too, Mr. Denniſon!"—They were re⯑turning from their morning ride round the parks, by the public road, which encircled the three eſtates.—Olivia, hearing the name of Caroline, impelled by the recollected [74]fondneſs of infant days, and by veneration, to ſee a lady, for whoſe virtues ſhe bore ſuch reſpect, ran with no leſs ſpeed;—and Hen⯑ry, agitated by a thouſand emotions, rather flew than ran, to behold the cauſe of all his bliſs and all his anguiſh. Caroline hav⯑ing ſtopped her horſe on the firſt hearing of Jenny's ejaculations, recogniſed the perſon who had uttered them, but had ſcarcely time to exclaim, "Whom do I behold?—Is it poſſible?—Can it be Jenny Atwood?"—be⯑fore the ſight of Henry and Olivia put all her ideas to flight. "Dear aſſociate of our blooming hours!" ſaid Olivia,—"has chance at laſt permitted me again to offer, perſon⯑ally, to your virtues, that tribute, which Henry Fitzorton has a thouſand times heard me pay you,—and which my ſecret heart had mingled with my conſtant prayers for the choiceſt bleſſings of heaven upon the good?"

Caroline was about to reply, but was ſo viſibly affected by the emotions of admiration and aſtoniſhment, excited by the unexpected ſight of, perhaps, the three perſons upon [75]earth moſt calculated to raiſe thoſe emo⯑tions,—and, poſſibly, by ſome other not un⯑delightful reflections,—that ſhe could not utter a word, and with great difficulty kept her ſeat on the horſe: and when Denniſon reminded her, "That Sir Guiſe muſt be within a very ſhort diſtance, as he heard the gate ſhut, which belonged to the cot⯑tage, where they had left him converſing with the labourer;—and as the ſudden ſight of Jane might occaſion ſome diſturbance," the good old man recommended a ſepara⯑tion of the parties for the preſent.—"Gra⯑cious heaven!" exclaimed both the ladies, as if inſpired by the ſame wiſh, and vexed at the ſame diſappointment,—"How cruel!"—"I have ten thouſand things to ſay," cried Caroline.—"And I a million!" obſerved Olivia.

"Sir Guiſe Stuart coming! did you ſay?" queſtioned the trembling Jane Atwood.

"O how long my heart has ached for this meeting! But you ſhall hear all from our dear Henry," ſaid Olivia to Caro⯑line.—"And I hope ſome favourable mo⯑ment [76]will arrive, when—but at preſent this deſerving object of your attention might make it, perhaps—"

"I hear the ſound of the horſes' feet," cried Caroline:—"Barbarous fortune!"—"Ride on, for goodneſs' ſake, miſs," exclaim⯑ed the alternately fluſhed and pallid Denni⯑ſon, guiding her horſe from the railing again into the road.—"Jenny Atwood, get out of ſight, I charge you:—my maſter is juſt behind." Then beckoning Henry to⯑wards him, the old man whiſpered—"Joy⯑ful news, dear young ſquire! joyful news! you'll hear it ſoon;—but maſter muſt not ſee Jenny:—we ſhall be in a peck of trou⯑ble again if he does:—joyful news! joyful news!"

The rapidity with which all the parties converſed and ſeparated, and the character⯑iſtic actions and looks of each perſon, were ſuch as to exceed our powers of deſcrip⯑tion. Denniſon and Caroline were ſoon out of ſight; for when they had paſt the iron rails, the interpoſing trees and thick⯑ening hedge-rows, ſhut them from the view. [77]Henry and Olivia, though ſcarcely able to ſupport their own emotions, were engaged in carrying, rather than leading, poor Jane Atwood into the houſe;—where they were no ſooner arrived, than the hapleſs victim of love and conſcience almoſt fell on her knees; burning, at the ſame inſtant, with her bluſhes, as ſhe implored permiſſion to be taken where ſhe might juſt have a glance, one glance, at Sir Guiſe, without being herſelf ſeen;—promiſing, that it ſhould be the laſt requeſt ſhe would ever dare to make concerning him:—"and, oh! pray, pray conſider, whatever be his faults he is the father of—." Then ſeeing Olivia give a half aſſenting, half denying look, betwixt compaſſion and reluctance, as ſhe raiſed her up,—the hapleſs girl followed to a chamber in the ſecond ſtory, without ſeeming to want any of the ſtrength or life which had before left her;—and, running to the win⯑dow that looked into the road, ſhe claſped her hands together, crying, "There—there—there is—there is—the father, alas! of my poor—poor—diſhonoured—" and, [78]without finiſhing the ſentence, fell ſenſeleſs upon the floor, loſt to the view of what ſhe had ſo earneſtly ſupplicated.

It was not eaſy to recover her: for when ſhe had any return of life and reaſon, her quick ſenſibility of ſhame for the confuſion ſhe had cauſed, and the weakneſs ſhe had betrayed, produced ſuch terrifying relapſes, that, had not True George been diſpatched to the manor-houſe, to ſay dinner waited, and gone back with his uſual ſpeed, ſeeing the poſture of affairs, and aſking no queſ⯑tions, but taking it for granted the coach, with which he ſoon returned, would be ne⯑ceſſary,—it is not probable they would have regained the caſtle that day.

When Olivia and Henry had leiſure to ſe⯑parate the reflections which the foregoing ſcenes had crowded upon them, a new light was thrown over many old ſubjects.—Firſt, it appeared very clear to them both, as it afterwards did to the whole family, that ſuch was the dominion Sir Guiſe Stuart had ſtill over the affections of Jane Atwood, it would be highly improper, and indeed im⯑poſſible, [79]to place her at the manor-houſe, or any where elſe in the neighbourhood of the abbey. Secondly, Olivia was ſtruck with the increaſed perſonal beauty and graceful manners of Caroline, ſet off as they were by an ineffable kind of ſmile, which ſeemed to open upon the perſon addreſſed the warmeſt and moſt brilliant rays of her heart and underſtanding;—indeed, ſhe ſaw Caro⯑line alſo, under the influence of unuſually happy feelings, proceeding from the joyful news that Denniſon hinted at; ſhe there⯑fore, gently reproached Henry for not hav⯑ing done her juſtice;—ſhe doubted whether, even his candid mind had not ſuffered the inſults received from the father, in ſome ſmall degree, to create a prejudice againſt the daughter;—but this idea was done away on her reconſidering the matter, "for," ſaid ſhe, with the moſt unſuſpicious ſimpli⯑city, "if this were the caſe, it would have operated equally, and perhaps more ſo, to the diſadvantage of the ſon."—She then tried to account for the matter in many other ways; and it ended in her reaſoning, as [80]uſual, to her Henry's credit: ſhe told her own heart—and the intelligence commu⯑nicated to her cheeks a ſuffuſion of that beautiful bloom, which is produced by conſcious pleaſure,—ſhe told her own heart, that the tender partiality which Henry en⯑tertained for herſelf, made him blind to much greater perfections in every other woman.—This ſettled the point to that heart's content; and he was again honourably acquitted, as to prejudice, but found guilty, ſweetly guilty of injuſtice;—yet love pardoned him even that offence; "For in truth," ſaid ſhe, "injuſtice to Caroline is love to Olivia."—It is at any rate, very certain, that, amongſt all her ways of inveſtigating this want of rhapſody in Henry, on a ſubject whereon ſhe thought its whole ſcope would have been warranted,—ſhe never once hit upon the only cauſe to which it might have been at⯑tributed, and to which a thouſand other young ladies would, moſt likely, have aſ⯑ſigned it.—Reader, whatever be thy ſex, in the degree that thou art armed with know⯑ledge of the world,—or art arrayed only in [81]that natural innocence, which has no ſuſpi⯑cions or concealments, and which may long be the amiable victim of its credulity, with⯑out at all ſuppoſing it is ſo,—thou wilt pro⯑nounce upon this part of Olivia's conduct and character. If thou haſt the world's wiſdom about thee, thou wilt condemn her as a ſilly girl, wanting penetration, where the moſt ſtupid are ſaid to be ſharp ſighted;—but, if thou art endowed with that unſuſpecting quality we have mentioned, proceeding from unpractiſed innocence, thou wilt love her for poſſeſſing that, which, wert thou united to congenial virtue, would make thy home a paradiſe, and thy partner ſuch as the old poet has deſcribed, where he ob⯑ſerves, thou mighteſt ‘Lay thy ſleeping life within her arms’ But, whether thou believeſt ſuch excellence for natural or not, we can only re-aſſure thee, ſuch was the excellence of Olivia Clare;—and if thou art a man, the worſt we wiſh thee is, that thou mayeſt be con⯑vinced [82]of its poſſibility, by marking ſuch another woman for thine own.

CHAPTER XII.

IN the progreſs of the evening after theſe occurrences, Jenny, by the tender aſſiduities of Olivia, became much more compoſed, though at the firſt ſight of her own little one, ſhe burſt into a flood of tears, amidſt which ſhe told the infant, ſhe had encountered her name-ſake — ſhe tried to impart to it a ſhare of her own emotions,—and concluded by aſking the poor babe,—as if it were of an age to feel and reaſon on its misfortune, "Whether it would be poſſible for Sir Guiſe to look upon that innocent face, without kiſſing, loving, and affording it ſome pro⯑tection?"

But the greateſt difficulty for the hiſtorian of theſe pages, is to enter into, or explain the reſult of Henry's ſentiments and feelings on the various incidents of this eventful day, every hour of which, as indeed of ſe⯑veral preceding ones, had gradually wrought [83]him to a tenſion of thought and ſenſation, almoſt too oppreſſive and tumultuous for his reaſon to ſuſtain.—Every time he beheld Olivia, he witneſſed not only her particular attachment to himſelf, but the general ex⯑cellence of her character.—He ſaw all that is moſt graceful, and moſt worthy, uniting in her diſpoſition:—he perceived that ſhe was ſo guarded by the ingenuouſneſs of her own heart,—it would have required none of the refined arts of a hypocrite to deceive her, in whatever moſt concerned her peace, even for her whole life together:—he obſerved, that her faith was ſo entire in him, that, as he never did, and indeed never had oppor⯑tunity to intimate her affection was not re⯑turned,—it is doubtful whether any thing but the ſtrongeſt confirmation of poſitive proofs could have perſuaded her to be⯑lieve it. For his deepeſt myſteries, ſhe had an explanation ſupplied by her love, and ſatisfactory to her reaſon;—and, for his very languors,—(we will not uſe ſo chilling a word as coldneſs,—it was, perhaps, not poſſible to his nature)—for his languors, her [84]own delicacy ſuggeſted an apology, or ra⯑ther a vindication. Her warm encomiums on his Caroline evinced the ſuperiority of her ſoul to that petty jealouſy, which too often takes alarm at the charms of another woman;—and her behaviour to the poor Atwoods, more eſpecially to the diſhonour⯑ed Jane, notwithſtanding her treſpaſs in a point which few females can pardon in each other under any circumſtances, no, not even where their conſcience tells them, for the moſt ſelfiſh reaſons, they ought to have a degree of fellow feeling,—was a freſh in⯑ſtance, amongſt innumerable others, of her liberal and forgiving ſpirit;—placing her conſpicuouſly on the liſt of the truly good, though not on the catalogue of thoſe whom Mr. Addiſon has emphatically called the "outrageouſly virtuous."

Theſe conſiderations, re-inforced by thoſe which, as auxiliaries, he placed before his eyes,—the family arguments in her favour, ſuch as a ſimilarity of religion,—the ardent hopes of both their parents,—the reward which ſo much conſtancy, ſuch unwearied [85]tenderneſs and goodneſs claimed from him;—with the ſad reverſe in caſe of his remaining inſenſible, or undecided,—ſuch as a reli⯑gious diſpute, the moſt of all human con⯑tentions to be dreaded, whether in families or in ſtates,—the miſery, perhaps the death, of Olivia's father, and of his own parents,—the deſpair, perhaps the diſtraction, of Oli⯑via herſelf, ſhould ſhe diſcover not only that ſhe had not been the object beloved, but that he had all along loved another;—theſe reflections, we ſay, with the impreſſions left on his mind by the keen obſervations and cautionary hints of his brother John, had, at intervals, ſince he returned from the funeral of Lady Stuart, almoſt reconciled him to the idea of ſurrendering up his love, as a ſa⯑crifice to his friendſhip, gratitude, and fi⯑lial duty:—and how powerfully theſe three advocates can plead their cauſe in a heart like that of Henry Fitzorton, thoſe who are acquainted with their eloquence, alone can tell.

At times, he even pleaſed himſelf with the proud triumph he ſuppoſed he ſhould [86]feel on ſuch a ſacrifice, and thought, for a moment, the felicity of many ought to out⯑weigh, in a generous mind, all conſidera⯑tions for the happineſs of one.—To encou⯑rage him in theſe ſentiments, he now paid more than his wonted attention to the words and actions of Olivia,—expatiated on her various attractions, perſonal and mental,—talked to others, and to himſelf about her, and abſolutely ſet himſelf ſeriouſly down to the taſk of trying to ripen his affectionate friendſhip for her into love,—at leaſt ſuch a degree of it, as would guard her from his own wandering feelings, ſhould they join their hands:—the natural effect of all which was, that although he did not make Olivia more in love with him, becauſe that was impoſſible, he riveted the affection ſhe ſincerely felt for him, in a manner that death alone, and that her own death, could break the chain; for ſhe had been heard to declare, (and truth guarded, while it graced her lips) that Henry's deſcending firſt to the grave could not impair her attachment, "ſince I am convinced," ſaid ſhe, weeping at there [87]being a human poſſibility that he might die firſt,—"the memory of him would be infi⯑nitely more dear to me than the life of any other man, be his profeſſions or pretenſions what they might." But, alas! the very at⯑tentions which we have obſerved Henry had impoſed himſelf, were impoſed as a taſk, and—like other forced formalities, and coercive leſſons, which muſt be learned,—turned the whole into a reluctant, but neceſſary toil;— ‘Hic labor hoc opus eſt,’ was its motto, which, in the end, made him recede from the point he thereby propoſed to gain, in the very proportion that Olivia, whoſe tenderneſs was prepared to receive every the leaſt impreſſion, and expreſſion of his,—and whoſe own tenderneſs was her heart's ſpontaneous joy,—advanced towards it.

And, indeed, thoſe efforts in favour of Olivia were always made by Henry after ſeveral days' abſence from Caroline: but the bare mention of the name of the latter, the ſight of her miniature, which the reader cer⯑tainly [88]recollects he was in poſſeſſion of, and to which, "though it be not here written down," we truſt the ſaid reader has repreſented the too faithful lover, as frequently paying his ſecret devotion,—or even the moſt trivial circumſtance that had alluſion to Caroline, would, in a ſingle moment, level with the duſt the laboured fortification he had built in his fancy, for the reception and defence of Olivia.—And, when he ſuppoſed his par⯑tiality to that laſt-mentioned amiable girl was greater than it uſed to be, after he had heard her launch forth into eulogies on the perſon, manners, voice, or recorded deeds of Caroline, it was then moſt demonſtrable, that his eſteem was the greater for the one, becauſe ſhe had then done moſt juſtice to the other:—in fact, becauſe Olivia, his friend, had offered homage to Caroline, his love:—and thus did the former become the victim of her own unſuſpicious generoſity.

CHAPTER XIII.

AFTER this explanation, it will not be matter of ſurpriſe to the reader, that, though Henry neither ſpoke, nor was ſpoken to, in the momentary interview he had with Caroline at the manor-houſe,—the ſight of her, and perhaps another look, of which he only knew the ſenſe and ſentiment,—for lovers alone can tranſlate, with accuracy, the ſilent language of love,—the moſt recent cordial poured into his heart by honeſt Den⯑niſon, in thoſe brief but potent ſounds of "Joyful news at home, young ſquire!"—theſe were more than enough to make him forget the little he had learnt from contem⯑plating the virtues of his fair inmate;—and convinced him, that his heart was neither a convert to Olivia, nor an apoſtate to Ca⯑roline.

While yet in this diſpoſition, the hour ap⯑pointed for his interview with his father ap⯑proached, [90]and he determined it ſhould alſo be the hour of his long ſmothered confidence:—but, what was his ſurpriſe, what his diſap⯑pointment, when, betwixt the time of True George's coming into his apartment, to an⯑nounce his father's being prepared to re⯑ceive him in his chamber, and his aſcending the ſtairs, to obey that ſummons, his mother haſtened, in much diſorder, to ſay, the inter⯑view muſt be poſtponed! as a ſudden return of his poor father's complaint made it im⯑poſſible to ſpeak on any ſubject in which his feelings were intereſted; but that, if he found himſelf not ſufficiently recovered in a day or two, he would depute her to commu⯑nicate his ſentiments, "which, I am ſorry to ſay, my dear Henry," added ſhe, "are of a nature not to brook delay;—and I am not without my fears, that ſomething he has juſt heard reſpecting you, Henry, has been the chief means of bringing on a fit of the illneſs, to which you know he is unfortu⯑nately ſubject."

The trembling Henry, after expreſſing the moſt ſincere ſorrow for his father's ſud⯑den [91]attack, earneſtly entreated to know how he had been the unhappy cauſe?

"I have received your father's ſtrong in⯑junctions," replied Lady Fitzorton, "not to breathe the ſubject either to you or to any of the family till farther notice, and muſt now return to his chamber: for, alas! Sir Armine is all this time in extreme pain." Turning round, however, as ſhe was going out at the door, and looking ſteadfaſtly,—"Henry," ſaid ſhe, "if the intelligence which has reached us be true, your own con⯑ſcience will point it out: and if happily it be falſe, the ſame boſom inſtructor will acquit you, and leave on your mind no other regret, than that your father muſt ſuffer from the miſconception, till it can be done away.—In either caſe," added his mother, "the report, we truſt in God, has reached only to your father and myſelf:—heaven forbid that it ſhould have extended farther!"

Henry's boſom inſtructor told all, and more than all, perhaps, of the tale to which his mother alluded;—it did not heſitate a moment to ſuggeſt to him, that the fatal [92]ſecret of his heart was beginning to circu⯑late. He ſtill ſuſpected it had come to the ears of John; and he did not at all doubt but it was now rapidly making its progreſs through the caſtle.—The firſt wiſh of his ſoul, we have ſeen, was that this might be the caſe: but all the feelings of gratitude, of delicacy, of duty, and, as it will ſpeedily appear, of intereſt,—made him deſire the diſcovery ſhould be attended by thoſe pre⯑paratory explanations, which, if they could not exculpate, might qualify his conduct.

Indeed he began now to ſuſpect that the ſecret was already more ſpread than he had before ſuppoſed, though it was plain, from Olivia's whole demeanour, that it had not yet been communicated to her.

And this, reader, ſeems to be the place at which we muſt ſpeak to thee again, though not perhaps for the laſt time, in the charac⯑ter of recorder of theſe annals.—We are not to learn, that a printed book is a very pe⯑rilous, and in ſome ſort an aſſuming under⯑taking, and that the wit and wiſdom of a reader are upon guard and in arms, like [93]jealous centinels, to eſpy the weakneſs, vanity, negligence, and ignorance of the man who comes forward as an entertainer, or inſtructor of the public.

Some of theſe errors are of courſe obvi⯑ous: and it is extremely probable that thy acumen has enabled thee to detect many, many more, not generally apparent: and in good time thy fault-finding powers may aſſiſt thee in diſcovering others: but, as we would not perverſely, maliciouſly, or wit⯑tingly, leave any of the ſtumbling blocks in thy way, we will at all times do our beſt to remove them, as well for thy eaſe as our own: for it is as ſorry a thing in books as in life,—and we hold it alike villanous,—to put people, whether writing or talking to them, out of temper, when it is in any poſ⯑ſible way to be prevented.

Now it may happen, that, before thou haſt gained this ſtage of our hiſtory, we have put thee a little out of humour by a ſeeming violation of probability: it may have offended thy critical talents, that we ſhould have, as it may ſeem to thee, mali⯑ciouſly [94]contrived to lock this Family Se⯑cret in our Henry's breaſt, although ſuch a number of keys, not only in his own houſe, but in the neighbourhood, were ready to open it. Perhaps, thou haſt long ſince ex⯑claimed, "Go to!—Can it be ſuppoſed an impetuous youth ſhould pay his court to a lady in the neighbourhood, to the daugh⯑ter of his father's bittereſt enemy, for ſo long a period, undiſcovered; that many of the ſervants of her family and of his, that a brother of each houſe, and now perhaps of both, notwithſtanding all the private and public tumults,—can it be ſuppoſed that this matter ſhould be any ſecret to half the ſurrounding pariſhes? and was there not to be found one officious enemy, or "good-natured friend," or idle goſſip, who, on the ſwift wing of folly or curioſity, or the yet more rapid one of malice, would have even panted to carry the tidings to the only two perſons moſt intereſted in its truth or falſehood, namely, Olivia and her father? or was the neighbourhood of Fitzorton-caſ⯑tle, the only ſpot in the whole world where [95]no ſuch friend, enemy, or goſſip in petti⯑coats or in breeches, reſided?"

In reply to ſuch interrogations, it behoved us to ſearch ſomewhat deeply, not only into Henry's ſecret, but into the ſecrets of hu⯑man nature: and having ſo done, we firmly believe, that our knowledge in theſe hidden myſteries—reverentially and not vauntingly be it ſpoken—will clear up to our reader's entire ſatisfaction, whatever talents he may have for diſcontent, all that remains to be diſcovered on this at preſent queſtionable ſubject;—and that in a way, that may juſ⯑tify us in keeping Olivia and her father out of Henry Fitzorton's ſecret, ſhould it be neceſſary, a great while longer.

At preſent it may be ſufficient to remind the reader, that if he looks into the hiſtory of life, he will find that the perſons moſt intereſted in any family ſecret are generally the laſt of that family to whom it is im⯑parted.

CHAPTER XIV.

No wonder, therefore, that Olivia and her father were, in the caſtle, the laſt and the only perſons who heard the ſecret that ſo nearly related to themſelves:—for al⯑though love-tales, being amongſt the moſt light, are the moſt eaſy of carriage—yet it may very poſſibly happen, that even the ſtrong temptation which naturally ariſes out of a ſtrict inhibition to do the very thing forbidden, may, in ſome minds, be contraſt⯑ed by a yet ſtronger deſire to reſiſt.—And this was the exact caſe at preſent:—that ſtronger deſire was the ſincere love which was entertained for Olivia by every part of the family: even the goſſiping part of it in the ſervants' hall would ſacrifice the delight of doing what was commanded not to be done, to the ſuperior pleaſure of ſaying and doing every thing that could keep her from the knowledge of whatever might give her pain. And, as to Sir Armine and his lady, there [97]were other obvious reaſons why the intelli⯑gence that might reach them would be with-held from Mr. Clare and his daughter.

Now, in regard to Caroline Stuart, though the ſame motives would operate the ſame way towards concealing from her the ſecret of Olivia and Henry,—for Olivia could not be more the object of domeſtic good will a⯑mongſt the ſervants,—it was, in her caſe, leſs neceſſary to act upon thoſe motives: for Sir Guiſe ſcarcely ever had a gueſt at home ſince his diſgrace, but Henry and father Arthur; and there was not the ſmalleſt intercourſe between the kitchens of the two houſes, from whence moſt of the materials for ſe⯑cret hiſtory are collected;—and ſhe really had no opportunity of knowing, nor did ſhe hear any thing that related to the Fitz⯑ortons, ſince the ſeparating quarrel, ſave what Henry and her brother Charles choſe to communicate:—and whether thoſe un⯑happy friends were likely to tell Caroline, as matters now ſtood, the reader may by this time well judge.

Henry Fitzorton's ill-fated paſſion, there⯑fore, [98]yet remained to be told to thoſe at the caſtle, who were the moſt deeply intereſted in its effects.—Yet in the proportion that he imagined it known to others, he panted for its being communicated even where he moſt trembled to confide it: and in the per⯑plexity which his long ſuppreſſion produced, he began to wiſh that it were unravelled by any means, rather than it ſhould not be unravelled,—and the more eſpecially ſince the myſtery of his love was not the only one that oppreſſed his heart.—Sometimes he determined to write, ſometimes to ſpeak the whole ſtory to Olivia, and throw himſelf on her generoſity. Sometimes he had thoughts of making her father firſt ac⯑quainted with the hiſtory, "whereof by par⯑cels he has ſomewhat heard perhaps," ſays he, "but nought diſtinctly."—This was, how⯑ever, rejected; and all his hopes were again anchored on Olivia, whom he fully reſolved to inform of every thing,—and that the very firſt opportunity.

On the heel of this determination, Olivia herſelf, who had been giving her aſſiſtance [99]to Henry's mother, to mitigate the ſharp agonies which his father had been endur⯑ing, came running into the room, and pre⯑ſented a letter to Henry,—ſaying, as ſhe delivered it,—"I hope it will prove a cor⯑dial to your ſpirts, which I know your fa⯑ther's ſickneſs muſt depreſs;—it comes from the abbey,—and who knows but our good ſtars may be working together ſo far for our good, that Sir Guiſe may permit his angel of a daughter to be upon the ſame terms at the caſtle, as are enjoyed by his ſon Charles?—For know, my Henry, I am a great dreamer, and I have had a ſort of viſion about this:—I ſee, 'tis a lady's hand.—I would lay any thing, we ſhall find that our Caroline is the writer;—but even if it ſhould be ſo, and my dream ſhould come true, we muſt keep it to ourſelves, and not ſay a word of it to any of the family,—becauſe it will be ſo delightſul ſo have the ſecret be⯑tween us, and divulge it juſt at the time we have brought about a reconciliation.—Ah! Henry, if you and I ſhould, after all, be the means of ſuch a happineſs, how com⯑fortable [100]will it be to all parties!—for it is ſuch a ſhocking thing for neighbours to bear malice for ſo long a time!—and though, perhaps, we can do little good with Sir Guiſe, we might put up with a great deal from him, to be in friendſhip with Miſs Stu⯑art.—Do, then, read the letter, and tell me what it ſays,—that is, if it goes at all to my laſt night's dream."

Henry, who know at the firſt glance, that the letter was directed at leaſt by Caroline, had been trying by every means in his power to conceal his agitation,—when a ſer⯑vant came to deſire Olivia's immediate at⯑tendance upon Lady Fitzorton. She had ſcarcely left the room when the trembling and impatient Henry opened the billet, which contained theſe words: "Scarcely can I hold my pen,—ſuch is the ſatisfaction of my heart, to inform you I write by the command of my father, to in⯑vite you to the abbey, where we may enter into the particulars of the extraordinary, but endearing and renovating encounter of yeſterday morning,—an encounter which [101]preſented to my view three perſons I had long moſt anxiouſly deſired again to behold,—Jane Atwood, my lovely playmate Olivia, and Henry Fitzorton.—Do not write any thing in reply to this haſty billet, part of which is confidential,—but come yourſelf to⯑morrow noon, the time appointed by my father to receive you. You will imagine how I rejoice in a reconciliation betwixt my father, and my brother's deareſt friend.—Ah, Henry! gueſs the emotions of Caroline Stuart."

He had juſt finiſhed the peruſal, when True George came haſtily into the apartment, preſenting another letter,—"Juſt brought by the poſt, your honour: and I came with it as quick as I could, becauſe I believe 'tis from 'Squire Stuart the lieutenant, and I thought it might bring your honour good news."

Honeſt George was partly right in his conjecture;—it brought tidings at once of the moſt pleaſing and painful nature.—Charles acquainted his friend,—"that he would liſten to no terms of accommodation with his father, unleſs the reſtoration of [102]Henry at the abbey was made the prelimi⯑nary condition of the treaty;" obſerving to his father, that—"he had plainly diſcovered the ſtrange conduct of Caroline had origi⯑nated in her father's cruel commands."—Then followed theſe expreſſions:—"If you ever, Sir, hope to ſee the face of the ſon whoſe heart you have almoſt broken,—re-invite my injured friend to your houſe, where I have my good colonel's leave to give him the meeting, and ſhall hope to be at the abbey almoſt as ſoon as this letter: and in a full confidence of your treating my friend as he deſerves,—I am your dutiful Charles Stuart."—"Go then, my deareſt Henry! haſten to re⯑aſſume your privileges"—ſo the letter went on—"It is but returning to a happineſs I owe to you in kind.—Ah! I owe to you far more than I can ever pay, till my ſiſter is your own!—but pardon the vanity of my affection, if I conſider her hand as a recom⯑pence in full, even for all your pain, for all your goodneſs,—even for the laſt—the com⯑miſſion:—and yet that diſintereſted office is ſo—but I accept it—from you,—yes I accept it [103]with tears—of joy: your brother John too! noble, generous, manly John!—how ſhall I ever ſettle the account with him?—You know not the proſeſſional ſervice he too has done me; my colonel, I find, and your mi⯑litary brother, have been in correſpondence for my honour.—The former ſwore, and, by a hero's oath, the god of war!—it would be ſin⯑ful to conceal it from me, though our glorious John had enjoined it: yet as I did not pro⯑miſe, 'tis no breach of truſt, you know; and 'tis fit a man ſhould know his real friend.—I have no ſecond Caroline, my Henry, to offer John:—indeed I know but one more ſuch woman in the world:—Oh! if Caro⯑line could call her ſiſter!—but it is madneſs to think that way; yet ſuch an alliance would bind up all our wounds. It can ne⯑ver be,—thoſe wounds muſt flow, though the life-blood of Charles mingles in the ſtream. Had the heart of my friend been captive to my Olivia,—pardon me for the weakneſs of calling her what ſhe will never be!—I think my own would have been guarded from captivity;—or reflections on the prior [104]claims of my deareſt Henry would have made me look upon his choice with the eyes I look upon my ſiſter, or, as you yourſelf, Henry, look upon Olivia:—or if a tender idea had at any time obtruded, I would then have expelled it as a traitor, encroaching on the rights of ſacred friendſhip and mu⯑tual love.—But, as I know your heart is another's,—as I know the love is not recipro⯑cal, and as I feel ſhe is dearer to me, than the breath I now draw in deep and bitter ſighs,—Oh! how peace would return to us all, Henry, did Olivia experience that ſenti⯑ment for me, that ſhe cheriſhes ſo fondly, ſo fatally, for my friend!

"But why do I talk of peace?—alas! I have never known what it is ſince laſt we parted.—The loſs of my mother, and the little proſpect of my ever being happy with the adored Olivia, preys upon my health, and bears down my ſpirits.—On theſe ſub⯑jects, ever dear and ever fatal to my re⯑membrance, I dare not dwell:—but the only ſolace in this long abſence, which I have been capable of receiving, has ariſen from [105]proving that my own evil deſtiny has not rendered my heart callous to the hap⯑pier fate of my friend.—Haſten then, I ſay, to the abbey:—enable me, my dear friend, by your preſence, to ſupport that of Sir Guiſe Stuart, without forgetting I am his ſon, or too keenly remembering that he is the cauſe why I ſhall never more behold the face of my deareſt mo⯑ther. —Ah! how ſhall I look—in vain— for one of the ſmiling welcomes of my return! How ſhall I feel the change!—Your ſociety, therefore, will be even neceſſary to the dejected ſpirits of your poor Charles, as well as to our beloved Caroline:—ſurely ſome happy event will yet take place, to diſplace the barriers which appear immove⯑able: —I ſpeak only of thoſe which oppoſe the union of my friend and ſiſter;—for my⯑ſelf, alas! a barrier ſtronger even than the errors of my father, or the juſt indignation of yours, oppoſes my every hope of happineſs with Olivia,—even her own cold indiffe⯑rence to me, and her heart's warmeſt though unrequited attachment to my friend.— [106]Accurſed fortune!—yet, by heaven, I would rather unite myſelf to a fiend who loves me, than to a ſeraph who could not give me the heart. They talk of a war, Henry! would it were come!—ſelfiſh, cruel, murde⯑rous, as is the wiſh to thouſands of the human race,—I cannot but exclaim, would it were come!—My fatal paſſion ſeems to gain ſuch ſtrength, as to render me weak to every other tie,—even to that which holds me to my ſpecies. It is not without diffi⯑culty, I conceal my ſufferings from the ex⯑cellent colonel:—"You droop, Stuart," ſaid he to me this morning, taking me by the hand, but with a ſmile of encouragement: "you droop, my lad.—I am no talker, Charles: but do you want any thing within my com⯑paſs? —I do not deſire to clog you with obli⯑gation: I ſhall therefore only aſk, would you borrow?—I have heard your father is not ſo liberal as his ſon is deſerving.—Or is there an enemy here" (laying his hand on my heart) "got into the breaſt-work, and in poſſeſ⯑ſion of this little fort?—Is there mutiny within?—I do not, however, aſk for love [107]ſecrets; and if I did, you, perhaps, might be diſobeying orders even to your colonel;— Cupid is greater than a generaliſſimo, and takes command of all the armies in the world,—field-marſhal, my lad, of the uni⯑verſe.—But how is this? I hear you are go⯑ing to give me up;—your friend, Henry Fitzorton, I find, has procured you an ad⯑vance;—I wiſh it had not taken you out of this regiment: but"—"I wiſh ſo too, ſir," ſaid I.—"But,"—replied the colonel,—"it takes you to one in which that Henry Fitzorton's brother John is captain, and may one day have the command;—and ſo, as it moves you only from one friend to another, I muſt learn to be content."—The generous man ſhook me by the hand, and walked away. I ſhall bid adieu to him, and to many of my valuable brother officers, with infinite regret;—and, be aſſured, amongſt all my cares, I am not inſenſible, that your generous heart, aſſiſted, I cannot but think, by your good father's heart, ſhould have fixed me in the regiment of John Fitzorton.—Why, Henry, have you interdicted the ſub⯑ject? [108]—but alas! military and every other ambition, but that which cannot be gratified, is, I fear, dying in my boſom:—an unfortu⯑nate paſſion alone lives there:—it will con⯑ſume me, Henry: I ſhall grow inſenſible to every thing elſe;—no, ſurely, the affection I have for my Henry Fitzorton will ſurvive the general wreck, and holy friendſhip be preſerved entire, amidſt the ruins of Charles Stuart."

So various were the emotions which the peruſal of Caroline's billet and this letter occaſioned, that Henry could ſcarcely read to the end. Love, friendſhip, pity, hope, fear, admiration, joy, and ſorrow, took poſſeſſion of him by turns; and at the concluſion, they all ſeemed to be at war in his boſom. His friend Charles, his brother, his parents, Olivia, and Caroline, tyrannized at once.—The empire was long divided, long con⯑tended for:—but love, as is generally the caſe in ſuch diſpoſitions, aſſerted its domi⯑nion, looked upon all other paſſions as uſurpers, and re-aſſumed its ſovereignty on the throne of his affections.—Caroline Stu⯑art, [109]appeared to be fixed there too ſtedfaſtly for any uſurpation to prevail.

CHAPTER XV.

IT was in this criſis that Olivia re-en⯑tered the apartment, eager to know the contents of Caroline's billet, and to convey to Henry the intelligence of his father's being much better;—ſhe never omitted any communication, which ſhe ſuppoſed might obviate pain or promote pleaſure.—"Well!" ſaid ſhe, with vivacity,—" is my dream out?—does Miſs Stuart mention any thing of our yeſterday's adventure?—does ſhe ho⯑nour her playmate with her remembrance?—does ſhe notice Jenny Atwood?—and is there any chance, provided our little plans ſucceed with all our fathers, of Olivia and Caroline ever becoming friends, in⯑veſted with the privileges of Charles and Henry?"

What a cruel ſtring of queſtions,—each kindly conceived, and ſweetly delivered!—Henry was, however, collected enough to [110]ſtisfy her, who attributed all the emotions of his ardent love to ſentiments of glowing friendſhip;—and ſhe entered into the recon⯑ciliation of the families in general, and the long-deſired intercourſe of Caroline and Oli⯑via, in particular,—only in a leſs degree, and on a much more diſintereſted principle than himſelf.

"Miſs Stuart," ſaid Henry,—"is ſo ear⯑neſt to hear more of Jane, and to pour forth the tribute of praiſe to Olivia, that ſhe has even perſuaded Sir Guiſe to give me an in⯑vitation to the abbey, where I have not been, you know, ſince the funeral of lady Stuart;—and Caroline has written in the moſt impatient terms, to acquaint me with her father's acquieſcence."

Here Henry pretended to rummage his pockets for the billet itſelf, and expreſſed ſome ſurpriſe what could poſſibly have be⯑come of it,—though we are afraid there was very little reaſon for ſurpriſe,—the ſaid billet being, probably, not only in his pock⯑et, but often in his hand, during the affected ſearch;—and, no doubt, he could have pro⯑duced [111]it with nearly the ſame degree of dif⯑ficulty, as the taking the hand which held it, out of the aforeſaid pocket.

But Henry ſimulated, you ſee, reader;—this letter having again thrown out the ex⯑planatory bill, he predetermined to with⯑hold the billet, and was, accordingly, in⯑ſpired with a due degree of wonder, what could have become of it.

"Never ſtand looking for the letter," ob⯑ſerved Olivia, who appeared always fated to help him out of his embarraſſments, uncon⯑ſcious that ſhe was thereby plunging deeper into her own:—"never ſtand looking for the letter!—For heaven's ſake! go to the abbey directly:—I have heard you ſay, Sir Guiſe is a paſſionate, capricious creature, and has his ſtarts of rage and reconciliation; and who knows how ſoon he may change his mind again?—then we ſhall all be at a loſs for ſuch another opportunity.—Beſide, your good father is better, and you can go with perfect eaſe;—I need only ſay to him, you are taking your beloved wood walk,—(you can go to the foreſt, you know)—and [112]that you were quite in ſpirits at the thought of his mending ſo faſt.—I am ſure every word of all this will be true."

Henry now obſerved, "That an epiſtle was juſt come, alſo, from Charles,"—and without any of that ſurpriſe or difficulty at⯑tending the production of Caroline's billet, he drew it from his pocket.—"See," ſaid he,—"Olivia, what a pacquet!"

There were one or two paſſages which he could wiſh to have read to her, as deſcrip⯑tive of his friend's paſſion for herſelf,—hop⯑ing, the knowledge of it might lead the way to ſomething favourable;—for, al⯑though his own paſſion, ſo far as it de⯑pended on Caroline, was now in a better train than it had been for a conſiderable time,—he felt the ſituation of his faithful Charles, as one of the moſt oppreſſive of the many heavy drawbacks upon his newly⯑revived hopes.

Unfolding, therefore, the pacquet, to ſee whether it was not poſſible to bring out ſomething like an explanation, of two paſ⯑ſions, of which Olivia had, as yet, no ſuſ⯑picion; [113]—he was haſtily running his eye over the pages, in order to ſeparate the commu⯑nicable ſentiments, from ſuch as could not ſafely be read aloud,—when Olivia repeat⯑ed her wiſh, "That he would repair to the abbey," promiſing to hear his friend's ac⯑count when he returned.—You provoking thing, you!" cried Olivia,—"I feel that I ſhall love the ſiſter as well as you do the brother;—and here, you are ſo taken up with your friendſhip for the latter, that you are loſing the only opportunity which may happen this age, of bringing me and the former together.—Upon my life, I ſhall again ſuſpect you have taken ſome unwar⯑rantable prejudice againſt that ſweet girl, and do not love her half ſo well as you ought.—Set off this inſtant, if you would not have me feel confirmed in this hard ſuſ⯑picion."

Olivia drew him, betwixt ſport and ſe⯑riouſneſs, towards the door, where Henry exclaimed—"Ah! Olivia, if you knew the condition of that excellent young man, Charles Stuart, at this moment, your gentle [114]heart would pity him."—"His condition!" anſwered Olivia:—"good heaven! has any thing befallen him?"—"He is, and long has been, ſuffering all the tortures of an hopeleſs paſſion!"—"Then I pity him, indeed!" ſaid Olivia,—"for I do really think, were ſuch a misfortune to have happened to me, it would have broken my heart.—I know myſelf, Hen⯑ry, ſo well," added ſhe,—"it would have kill⯑ed me;—and, indeed, the certainty of that would be my only conſolation.—Poor Charles!—he is an amiable creature."— "He is one of the nobleſt young men upon earth," anſwered Henry,—"and would make the beſt woman in it the happieſt."—"What, then, prevents the lady of his choice from being ſo?—Can ſhe be inſenſible to the affection of ſuch a lover?"—"I do not believe," replied Henry,—"though it has been of ſome ſtanding, and they have been very often together,—that ſhe yet ſo much as ſuſpects his paſſion."—"That's very ſtrange," ſaid Olivia:—"you ought to do all you can to aſſiſt him, my dear Henry;—I am ſure the kind youth would do the like [115]good office by you;—nay, he has ſpoke to me of you an hundred times, not in ſo animated a manner, indeed, as you deſerve, but very, very warmly:—he perceived your virtues wanted no advocate!—I proteſt, if I knew the lady, I would try all the force of my little eloquence, to win her heart for him.—Why does not his divine ſiſter exert her powers?—Can any one reſiſt her?—Me⯑thinks, we ſhould all confederate, combat, and conquer in his cauſe:—are you not of this opinion?"

Here was another home queſtion, aſked in the utmoſt ſimplicity of Olivia's heart, which ſincerely ached for Charles.—Henry turned round, and walked away to the window.— "I do not wonder that you are uneaſy," continued Olivia:—"but what can be the reaſon of the lady's Indifference?—Is ſhe already engaged?"

"Fatally ſo, I fear," replied Henry.—"That's terrible!" anſwered Olivia.

"And to a man who is himſelf betrothed in the moſt ſolemn manner to another," cried Henry.

[116]"Worſe and worſe!" rejoined Olivia:—"and does that other lady return her lover's paſſion?"

"Entirely!"

"And, I ſuppoſe, the gentleman's affec⯑tion is as great."

"It is, alas! it is."

"I know not, then, what can be done for your poor friend: for the caſe ſeems to have ſhut out all ſervice, all good offices.—I do not ſee a ſingle opening to promote his ſuit:—for who, you know, would attempt to divide two hearts already united, to make any third happy?—Make the caſe our own a moment, my dear Henry:—we ſhould ne⯑ver bear even the ſight of the wicked ſeducer of the affections of Henry and Olivia, for inſtance, even though we were both per⯑fectly convinced, all his or her arts would be vain.—I proteſt, my blood runs cold at the very thought of ſuch a monſter!

"Nevertheleſs, the condition of the un⯑happy Charles," added Olivia, after a reco⯑vering pauſe, and finding Henry much diſ⯑turbed,—"is dreadful indeed!—And I [117]am not ſurpriſed at the miſery I ſee you are ſuffering on the occaſion;—I now clearly perceive that your ſympathiſing heart has made this one of the ſtrongeſt ſources of your late, alas! too frequent, melancholy;—I cannot blame you for it; it fills my own breaſt with grief; and I weep that I cannot mitigate it."

Henry was extremely affected, more e⯑ſpecially as Olivia now applied all that her tenderneſs could deviſe, to give him com⯑fort;—and, though intended to promote a very different emotion, to fill up the mea⯑ſure of his deſpair on his friend's ſubject and his own, ſhe took his hand, and carry⯑ing it to her lips, where it received a chaſte and delicate preſſure,—"How infinitely grateful am I to you, my beloved Henry!" ſhe exclaimed,—"and how grateful ought we both to be to heaven, for exempting us from thoſe agoniſing trials, which are, and muſt be, inſeparable from hopeleſs love!— Oh! that your friend could experience the felicity which is permitted you and me, Henry, to feel at this moment, with the [118]ſanction of both our dear parents upon our heads!—I cannot feel my bleſſed ſtate, with⯑out the tears of joy guſhing from the fulneſs of my happy heart.—I ſee you ſhare my ſen⯑ſations;—long, long may the ſacred ſympa⯑thy continue! and may theſe drops—"ſhe wiped away the tears which were run⯑ning along Henry's pallid cheek,—"may theſe drops of overflowing felicity be the only ones Olivia's tenderneſs or your own ſhall bring from your eyes!"

"In pity, ceaſe, Olivia!" cried Henry:—"I can bear no more."

"Let us ſeparate a little while," anſwer⯑ed Olivia, with the moſt bewitching ac⯑cents:—"compoſe yourſelf, my deareſt friend, and then purſue your walk:—the air will reſtore you; and be ſure you try to make Caroline love your Olivia, as Charles does Henry, when we are all friends."

Olivia now made an effort to rally her ſpirits, that ſhe might recover thoſe of Henry.

"When we are all friends, and mixed together, you, I, Caroline, and Charles,— [119]we may beguile the latter of his griefs:—at leaſt, our loving endeavours ſhall not be wanting;—I inſiſt, therefore, upon your ſetting off; and I will give you, as you have ſo great an undertaking in hand, leave of abſence for the whole afternoon."

Olivia was again leading Henry out, when, recollecting herſelf, ſhe cried, "But ſtop a moment: I have had ſomething of yours in my pocket theſe two days:—your brother John ſent it me;—and it is very charmingly finiſhed indeed! My father ſays,—and ſo does yours,—it is much more like than when you ſaw it before; but, for my part, I really think it a thouſand times too handſome."

Before Olivia had finiſhed her prefacing ſpeech, ſhe had taken out of her pocket, and unfolded, a little parcel, which proved to be that miniature of herſelf, which the conflicting John had painted for Henry, and which was now re-given, by the lovely original, with a grace, and at a moment, which might have enſured its welcome, al⯑moſt from an enemy,—much more from the [120]deeply penetrated, though unfortunate Henry.

As he received it from Olivia, ſhe ſaid, "Tell the truth, now, Henry,—does it not flatter me greatly? Yet do not tell me ſo: for I ſhould weep, if I were to think your fancy and affection could not draw as partial a likeneſs as any painter in the world!—ſo take it with you; and, as I can not, with any propriety, go with you to the abbey juſt yet, let it be my ſubſtitute;—and be ſure you ſhew it to Miſs Stuart, and tell her that I ſend it as my repreſentative; and if it could ſpeak, it would ſoon make out my dream:—do not forget this, I charge you.—So now I will go to poor Jane.—I declare, Henry, I can never get from you, and muſt run away at laſt."

CHAPTER XVI.

HENRY had an anxious deſire to make his perſonal enquiries after his father, but was really afraid to encounter him.—Under the different impreſſions, therefore, of that [121]tender father's diſpleaſure,—of his brother John's ſilence,—of Olivia's overwhelming goodneſs,—of Charles's generoſity, and di⯑ſtreſs, —of Caroline's ſummons,—and of Sir Guiſe's myſterious invitation,—he once more took the road that led to the abbey;—at the ſight of which manſion, after again read⯑ing Caroline's billet, as he paſt along the great avenue, his heart began to reſume its ac⯑cuſtomed emotions;—and, as he approached within view of that little window already commemorated in this hiſtory, thoſe emotions increaſed;—and, by the time he gained the grand portico, late ſo ſternly cloſed upon him, and now to be ſo wide opened, by authority, they totally abſorbed every other conſideration.

To ſay the truth, Caroline herſelf had, for ſome time, thought it ſtrange,—perhaps taken it a little to heart,—that Henry had not, ſince the evening of the funeral, made an effort to viſit at the abbey.—She was ſa⯑tisfied of the great propriety of his conduct; it was certainly what prudence preſcribed; and, had he attempted to act otherwiſe, it [122]is probable ſhe would have marked out the very line of behaviour he ought to have purſued; and declared herſelf much diſſa⯑tisfied, had he not obeyed.—Yet Love, my good reader, is,—as peradventure thine own heart can atteſt,—a very inconſiſtent deity, and can very much approve and diſ⯑approve, be pleaſed and angry, at the ſame time, and at the ſame thing. Caroline had as lively a remembrance of the parting look ſhe beſtowed upon Henry, at the abbey gates, on the night, or rather on the morn⯑ing after the funeral, as if ſhe had ſeen it on her countenance in a mirrour;—and ſhe thought it expreſſed enough of gratitude and affection, to hold out a future welcome, and almoſt beckon him towards her.—There was no immediate probability, indeed, of his meeting with any ſuch welcome, but, on the contrary, every likelihood of a repulſe from Sir Guiſe, and, conſequently, from herſelf;—and yet, perhaps, ſhe would have been better ſatisfied, had he hazarded this, than, as it appeared to her, to be ſo over exact, as wholly to eſtrange himſelf.

[123]If there ſeems any thing in theſe obſerva⯑tions incongruous to the reader, we can ſafely refer him to our patroneſs, Nature,—from whom every word has been faithfully copied. We ſpeak here to readers in ge⯑neral. Of lovers we ſhall only requeſt that they will conſult the little hiſtorian in their own boſoms.

Henry's conduct at the funeral, however,—his defence of Sir Guiſe,—his attention and delicate conſideration at the awful cere⯑mony which preceded the affray,—wrought very powerfully in his favour with Caro⯑line; and ſhe was truly deſirous of an oppor⯑tunity to pay him her heart's acknowledge⯑ments;—indeed, ſuch deſire began to take poſſeſſion of her the very hour ſhe bade him, or rather looked him, an adieu, and had continued increaſing ever ſince.

Her tranſport, therefore, at having the power to receive him now by her father's conſent, may more readily be imagined than deſcribed. To imagination, then, we ſhall leave it:—but, notwithſtanding Caro⯑line's impatience, we are ſorry we are un⯑able [124]to grant them, or our reader, the pleaſing interview, till we ſhall have ſhewn him the means by which that conſent was obtained;—for the pacquet of late enſign, now lieutenant, Stuart, unfolds but a part of theſe means.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE reader hath in perfect recollec⯑tion, no doubt,—becauſe it was a very mate⯑rialpoint,—the worthy reſolution of Sir Guiſe Stuart, to become, at leaſt in his external behaviour to his own family and even to the Fitzortons, an altered man:—now, as this could not be done without a con⯑ſiderable degree of addreſs, he reſorted to a power, whoſe aid and inſpiration he al⯑ways invoked, whenever he had any great undertaking to perform;—and, to conceal the bittereſt reſentment, and deadlieſt hate, certainly came under that deſcription. This tutelary power was neither any of the de⯑mons above nor below, but, ſimply and ſolely, that boſom friend which enabled [125]him to effect his fouleſt intents more com⯑pletely than if he had been in league with all the infernal deities,—namely, his own fraudful heart.—This, indeed, was all-ſuf⯑ficient, as well to ſuggeſt evil thoughts, as to deviſe the means of carrying them into execution;—and, in the preſent caſe, it not only empowered him to conceal the hate and reſentment above-mentioned, but to ſubſtitute, in their places, the faireſt ap⯑pearances of forgiveneſs and good-will;— in ſhort, he was a maſter in that great and uſeful ſcience to a determined knave, ſo finely deſcribed by Shakeſpeare:— ‘He could ſmile, and ſmile, and be a villain.’ He began to put in practice a ſyſtem of this kind, immediately after the funeral.—As he ſat at breakfaſt the ſucceeding day, "Caro⯑line," ſaid he,—"your brother having thought proper to leave us at ſuch a time to ourſelves, we muſt comfort each other as well as we can.—This is but a melancho⯑ly houſe at preſent, my dear:—ſuppoſe we [126]were to leave it, and walk out a little into the air:—it may be of ſervice to us both."

He took her hand, and they walked into the garden.—Meeting Denniſon upon their return into the houſe, Sir Guiſe exclaimed, "Tell the gardener to be particularly care⯑ful of thoſe myrtles in the corner of the hot⯑houſe,—they were the favourites of your poor lady."—"And one of them, I ſee, is drooping," cried Caroline,—"as if it mourn⯑ed her loſs."—"Good Denniſon, let this be remembered:" continued Sir Guiſe. Hav⯑ing ſaid which, he held his handkerchief to his face, and ſhed as many tears as were conſiſtent with his grief. Caroline had her⯑ſelf noticed theſe myrtles, as ſhe paſt the green-houſe, and beſtowed upon them many of thoſe drops of real ſympathy, which might give her father the hint to counter⯑feit, thinking that as good as any other piece of hypocriſy, to advance his plan.—A more perfect example of genuine and af⯑fected ſorrow hath rarely been ſeen, than what the father and daughter then exhi⯑bited.

[127]Denniſon, like Caroline, was touched by the novelty of this conduct.—They were ſoon convinced it was not the ſtart of the mo⯑ment, by an increaſe of good humour the next day, and ſo on, in ſucceſſion, as well to the reſt of the ſervants, as to Denniſon:—and at length the whole kitchen pro⯑nounced their maſter to be, bona fide, a new man:—prior to which, Charles had written, but not by Caroline's medium, ſuch letters of reproach and menace to his father, that, poſſibly, the fear of that which they threat⯑ened being put in execution, might have ſome weight in bringing about this marvel⯑lous reformation.—The baronet, however, without communicating the contents of the letters to Caroline, anſwered them in the moſt unexpected manner, to the entire ſa⯑tisfaction of Charles, who thereupon wrote the letter to Henry, which has been com⯑municated in a former chapter.

But this was not all.—The conduct of Sir Guiſe was of the moſt general kind, and ex⯑tended even to Father Arthur. He made [128]ample confeſſion of the errors of the paſt, promiſing as large atonement in future.

And in regard to Caroline, he was every day propoſing ſome little plan of conſola⯑tion,—gave her one of his favourite horſes,—and not only allowed Denniſon and an⯑other ſervant to attend her, but often accom⯑panied her himſelf, more than once intro⯑ducing the name of the Fitzortons, and par⯑ticularly Charles's favourite and her own, without any other alluſion to old grievances than obſerving that it was a great pity when neighbours could not agree:—there were always faults on both ſides:—for his part he looked upon implacable hatred as the blackeſt amongſt the crimes, inaſmuch as it was the fartheſt removed from the re⯑lenting mercy of him who is ready to par⯑don all our treſpaſſes whenever his forgive⯑neſs is piouſly and unaffectedly ſought. Holding ſuch ſound doctrine as this before Caroline and Denniſon,—particularly in the preſence of Father Arthur,—he by degrees ſo thoroughly perſuaded theſe, and indeed [129]the whole family, that his reformation and repentance were ſincere, that Stuart Abbey now reſounded the praiſes of the man whoſe vices all its echoes had before ſo often re⯑peated.

This happy change was attributed by all to the ſalutary impreſſions made on the good baronet's conſcience when he came to reflect on the fate of his lady. In private diſcourſes of this matter among themſelves, Denniſon obſerved, "it was a long lane that had no turning;" and that "it was better late than never,"—recounting, at the ſame time, an hiſtory which he conceived to be in point, "of a poor wretch who had been in a conſtant habit of all manner of wickedneſs, till he was turned of ſixty, and then took up all at once, becauſe his con⯑ſcience would not let him ſleep a-nights; whereupon he made his peace with God, and was ſo good a Chriſtian before he died, that, though he was as ſinful a creature as Sir Guiſe before, all the pariſh bleſſed him, and went to his burial."

Father Arthur gave the praiſe of this con⯑verſion [130]where he thought it due,—to the great reſtorer,—and took more than his ac⯑cuſtomed delight to viſit at the abbey. For the paſt week, indeed, he had been an in⯑mate, often wandering in the woods of Stuart, ſo well calculated to inſpire and cheriſh meditation, till the hour of repaſt, which he would take with the family,—and then, devoting an evening hour to private prayer, which was his invariable cuſtom, he would remain in ſocial endearment, yielding to all the felicities of his mind and conſtitu⯑tion till bed-time.

The happineſs of Caroline was indeed ex⯑treme;—her gratitude to her father was in proportion;—and had ſhe not now and then retired to her chamber to ſhed a tear of re⯑gret to think that her dear mother lived not to witneſs and to ſhare this bleſſed alteration, her happineſs would have been without al⯑loy; for, beſides the above felicity, a proſpect of reconciliation opened once more on the houſes of Fitzorton and Stuart. She even had the comfort of hearing, and being her⯑ſelf permitted to mention, the name of Hen⯑ry [131]with due reſpect:—her brother was made partaker of her joy,—and her favourite Fa⯑ther Arthur no longer with-held his viſits on the ſcore of ſhunning the houſe of ſtrife, where he had ſo often found it impoſſible to be a peace-maker.

And in ſo fair a train was the general happineſs, that on the day ſhe encountered the party at the manor-houſe gate ſhe would aſſuredly have forgot ſhe had a little ſecret quarrel with Henry, for not doing that, which, had he done, ſhe would have reſent⯑ed, —and have told him the delightful tidings which ſhe had in ſtore for him, had not the ſudden appearance of Jenny Atwood, the ſight of whom might have thrown a cloud over all theſe agreeable proſpects, made it impoſſible for her to ſay or do more than has already been ſhewn to the reader.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE abbey door was opened to the ſummons of Henry Fitzorton by the good and truſty Denniſon, who gave him a thou⯑ſand [132]welcomes as he entered, and enſured it to him afterwards in the following words, which, after the faſhion of the ſpeaker, were delivered as he led the way to the ob⯑ject of Henry's wiſhes.—"Joyful news, as I told you, dear ſquire!—the old gentleman, and God be praiſed for it, has renounced the Devil and all his works. He's clean and clever another thing,—and he makes us all weep for joy, more than he uſed here⯑tofore to make us cry for grief. He has made young maſter happy alſo!—Miſs Ca⯑roline is e'en almoſt aſide herſelf,—and my old wits are about to take leave of me:—and for the matter of that, if I thought ma⯑ſter would be at his old tricks again, in the way of relapſes as they call 'em, I had ra⯑ther bid them good bye now;—for if the Devil ſhould come into the old boy any more, it would be worſe than before, your honour knows."

"True, very true!" anſwered Henry, who ſhaking Denniſon heartily by the hand, ex⯑claimed in the words of Othello, thinking perhaps rather of his approaching inter⯑view, [133]than the old man's deſcription of Sir Guiſe, though it would well apply to both, —"If I were now to die," my dear Denni⯑ſon, "I were now to be moſt happy!"

"See what it is to be a ſcholar!—Learn⯑ing is better than houſe or land, after all," quoth Denniſon;—"but here," added the old man, opening the door of that very apartment from which, ſome weeks before, Henry had been expelled,—"here is that which is better and prettier than houſe, land, and learning, put 'em all together!"

Sir Guiſe and Caroline were both in the room, and both roſe to receive Henry. "Mr. Fitzorton," ſaid the former, bowing familiarly, "I had promiſed myſelf you would have obeyed a lady's ſummons more willingly; in which caſe I ſhould have had more of your company:—but ſome buſineſs calls me out:—I muſt therefore leave Caro⯑line in the double charge of doing the ho⯑nours of my welcome and her own." Sir Guiſe, repeating his bow, went forth.

We ſee as palpably, dear reader, as if we were now looking thee full in the face, and [134]through that could penetrate into the re⯑ceſſes of thy heart, that thou art making thyſelf up, in this place, to hear ſome of the many ſublime and beautiful ſentiments which now fell from the enamoured Henry, and enraptured Caroline; and, therefore, though it were extremely eaſy for us,—did we prefer fancies to facts,—to fill a very ho⯑neſt modern volume with what they might be ſuppoſed to ſay,—it would be the moſt difficult matter in the whole art of book⯑making, to eke out one ſentence, with what, for the ſpace of ſeveral minutes, they really did not ſay;—and that, for nearly as ſub⯑ſtantial a reaſon as ever was given, viz. be⯑cauſe neither of them, during that period of time, ſpoke a ſingle word:—and upon con⯑ſulting our goddeſs, (thou remembereſt the deity here ſpoken of, is Nature) we find it recorded, in a minute of her own divine hand writing,—"Theſe lovers did not for ſo long a ſpace enter into diſcourſe, for two of my moſt powerful reaſons,—firſt, becauſe they had too many things to diſcourſe upon, to know which to begin with,—and ſecond⯑ly, [135]becauſe their tenderneſs was unſpeak⯑able."

Their actions, however, were ſufficiently expreſſive, leaving indeed other language unneceſſary. Henry held Caroline in his arms; and Caroline, perhaps for the firſt time ſince ſhe became ſenſible to the thrill⯑ing power of his magic touch, did not ſhrink from his embrace. In this ſituation they gazed on each other with ſo perfect a joy, that they were deluged in a flood of thoſe tears which at once enrich and give relief to heart-felt felicity, but are de [...]ied to the exceſſes of woe;—the tranſports of the firſt admitting of thoſe ſalutary ſtreams which freſhen as they fall; whilſt the par⯑oxyſms of the latter are denied this balmy relief. Then it is that the current ſeems ſuddenly to be frozen up,—the blood itſelf congealed,—and every drop of com⯑fort dried by Deſpair,—who may truly be ſaid, in ſuch caſes,— ‘To leave no channels for the tide of tears.’

[136]Having remained, as we have ſaid, ſe⯑veral minutes in this ſituation of indeſcriba⯑ble ecſtacy, nature permitted Caroline firſt to ſpeak,—and, with a frankneſs that de⯑monſtrated ſhe was ſuperior to the little pride of giving pain when it was conſiſtent with her ſenſe of right to impart pleaſure, ſhe aſſured Henry that, as the happineſs of now telling him, as far as words could tell, how unutterably dear he was to her, was derived from her father's goodneſs, ſhe heſitated not to con⯑feſs it was the only truly conſolatory mo⯑ment ſhe had experienced ſince her mo⯑ther's death,—and, but for that ever-la⯑mented event, would perhaps be the moſt bliſsful period of her whole life. "Ah! your own good and juſt heart, my deareſt Hen⯑ry," ſaid ſhe, "will inform you what mine has often told me,—that then only can it dare to avow its felicity, when that felicity is-ſanctioned by thoſe who gave us life." When ſhe had ſaid this, her beautiful hand was preſented in a way that juſtified her ſentiment; and though perhaps the doc⯑trine [137]wandered a little from his late prac⯑tice, Henry warmly ſubſcribed to the theory with his lips,—giving the aforeſaid hand ſo impaſſioned a kiſs, that the place on which he thus ſigned and ſealed the aſſent ſweetly bluſhed in confirmation.

It is probable that Henry would have given in at the ſame time ſome other reply ſuitable to the occaſion, had he not been prevented by Caroline, who, anxious to ſa⯑tisfy her heart, in the midſt of its own hap⯑pineſs, about that of others, prefaced her enquiries after Olivia and Jenny Atwood, by obſerving, "that ſhe never ſhould quite forgive either Henry, or her brother Charles, for the niggard manner in which they had both deſcribed Miſs Clare, who," ſaid Ca⯑roline, "is abſolutely a Grace,—a love,—a cherubim!—I have thought of nothing elſe, Henry, except yourſelf.—Do you know, ſhe has grown out of my recol⯑lection. Ah! in times long paſt, I remem⯑ber we flew about our foreſts, and her and your father's parks, like wood-nymphs:— [138]but, to behold her, in a few years, ſhot up into ſuch a noble yet elegant creature!—I declare, I am ſupriſed that my brother and you have not both loſt your hearts."

The tell-tale in his cheek might literally be ſaid too often to put him out of coun⯑tenance,—and either obſtruct or contradict the ſtory of his tongue.—And though there is a bluſh which denies, and a bluſh which confeſſes,—they are frequently confounded and miſtaken, even by perſons who are thought to be the moſt ſkilful interpreters of ſilent language.—The manner in which Ca⯑roline conſtrued the bluſh before us, may be ſeen in what follows.

"Even ſo, as I live! and I ſuppoſe you are rival friends!—come, be honeſt, Henry: have I not a ſhrewd gueſs?—Indeed I had a ſuſ⯑picion before, as to my brother: but muſt confeſs, I—I—I—yet as I ſaid, it was ine⯑vitable! it was—that is,—pſhaw! how ridicu⯑lous I am! I cannot ſpeak plain to day.—But, do tell me, Henry, which is to be the happy youth? The all-conquering Henry Fitzor⯑ton, [139]doubtleſs!—Alas, poor Charles! and alas, poor Caroline! prithee inform me,—"(here, on viewing certain changes of colour in Henry's countenance, her own under⯑went more ſerious alterations) "do, I—I—I— beſeech you, inſtruct me, which of you claims my—my—felicitations? which my condo⯑lence?—But—no—you may ſave yourſelf the trouble:—I perceive who I am to con⯑gratulate! You—yes—yes—you—are the happy man, Mr. Fitzorton: I—I—I—give you joy."

A few minutes previouſly to this conver⯑ſation, Henry had, in obedience to Olivia's wiſh, preſented, with proper comments as he delivered his meſſage, that lovely girl's miniature:—but even this, as it turned out, was an addition to his misfortunes;—for, as Caroline ſurveyed the well-imitated counte⯑nance, her own actual viſage coloured to crimſon;—ſhe admitted the exceſſive like⯑neſs, the extreme beauty:—ſhe even preſſed it to her lips, and declared it repreſented an angel in beauty as in graces: yet her voice [140]faultered, her eye filled with tears, her lips quivered; and, leſt it ſhould drop from her trembling hand, ſhe laid it down.—Henry ſaw, with ſtrangely mingled emotions, that the ſublime Caroline could fear and feel a ſuppoſed rival.

Henry could not but make the diſcovery with a proud and heart-felt conſciouſneſs, that he was moſt dear to her whom he ad⯑ored: but he ſtill found himſelf daily more and more entangled in the web of his per⯑plexing deſtiny,—even as if he had been as dark and inſidious a double-dealer as Sir Guiſe Stuart, the difference appearing only in the motives of their conduct;—but this difference, indeed, forms the diſtinction be⯑twixt the evils of vice, and the trials of virtue.—While a ſenſation like this was oppreſſing him, he fixed his eyes on thoſe of Caroline, and exclaimed:—"Good Hea⯑ven! when—when ſhall the unfortunate Henry be underſtood by any body?"

"He is underſtood," anſwered Caroline, taking his hand, and raiſing the back of it [141]to her lips:—"and thus I ſolicit forgiveneſs for the—I hope—almoſt only unworthy emotions, begun in ſport, and continued to ſeriouſneſs, that ever my boſom harbour⯑ed.—Oh! may they never more be its gueſts!—how has Caroline dared for a moment to expreſs a doubt of Henry Fitzorton's faith, his oaths, his honour?—I ſee and acknow⯑ledge the juſtice of his reproach: the ac⯑cuſing ſpirit arms his countenance!—Yes, well may that deep indignation which over⯑ſpreads his face, be kindled againſt Caroline! Would ſhe had been as incapable of a baſe ſuſpicion, as he is of the treachery that would warrant it!—and yet, Henry, the ſtrongeſt teſt of our affection is the weakneſs of our fears, even when we are aſſured they are without a ſhadow of foundation! But, as indifference never felt thoſe fears,—nay, as indeed nothing but the moſt unalterable love was ever guilty of this weakneſs, if guilt it can be called,—ſurely my Henry will forgive it:—perhaps he will do more than forgive! ſhould it add energy to his own affection,— [142]if it be not more unjuſt than vain in me, to ſuppoſe it capable of addition,—his pardon is perhaps the only thing which can teach me to forgive myſelf:—alas! my own anger, I have ever found,—what you have often told me of the ſelf-rebuking of the noble John,— is the moſt intolerable to bear!—but this is a miſery my beloved Henry can never have had cauſe to inflict upon himſelf."

Henry caught her paſſionately in his arms, ſtill ſtruggling with his emotions: and Caro⯑line, —feeling that the ſuppoſed crime of accuſation could not be too effectually done away,—entered at once into the plan of happineſs, which ſhe earneſtly hoped would reſult to both families, from her fa⯑ther's preſent favourable diſpoſition towards them.—"Surely, my deareſt Henry, this may be improved;—our beloved Charles may have his ſhare in the accommodation;—I have a whiſper for you about him, and the lovelier original of this lovely ſimilitude:—I will tell it you, when you have entirely ſealed my pardon, and reconciled me to my⯑ſelf. [143]—Should it be any way in your power, I know how readily you will promote the happineſs of your friend, and my brother,"

Theſe expreſſions Caroline accompanied by ſuch atoning ſmiles, and by thoſe little endearing attentions which are of ſuch im⯑meaſurable magnitude in matters of affec⯑tion,—that, had Henry really been as diſ⯑pleaſed as he had been delighted, and but half as much in love as the reader knows he was,—he muſt not only have forgiven but forgotten all her offences;—and, more⯑over, circumſtanced as he was at this obli⯑vious moment, he muſt himſelf be pardon⯑ed for neglecting to avail himſelf of ſo fair an opportunity to explain his Family Secret, at leaſt to Caroline.—Her tenderneſs, indeed, was as balm and oil poured upon his wounds:—and he had almoſt loſt the ſenſe of anguiſh in the ſolace of her love, now as unbounded in expreſſion, as in feeling. But, ſome farther queſtions ſhe put him, by way of finiſhing the whole,—and finiſhers in truth they were,—tore open again all thoſe wounds, and made them bleed with renovated fury. [144]"How—ah how, my Henry," ſaid ſhe,—"even now my father, Sir Guiſe Stuart, is not averſe to our happineſs,—how is yours,—how is Sir Armine Fitzorton to be reconciled to accept of—of—of—?"

Caroline held down her head; and a very different hue—the hue of fear—uſurped her cheek.—"Even now that Sir Guiſe is become fully ſenſible of his ſon's exalted merits,—how will the venerable father of ſuch a ſon," ſaid ſhe, "be perſuaded to give his honouring hand to Caroline?—I ſuppoſe it has been impoſſible for my Henry even to glance at this circumſtance: but poſſibly—for I know your generous ſolicitude—poſſibly you may have employed your brother John, who, I am ſure, bears good will to Charles, and muſt adore you;—or your brother James may have undertaken to ſound your father on this ſubject:—or the ſweet Olivia herſelf, who has a face and figure to convert hate into love,—by the bye, I cannot think how you came to prefer me to that angel;—'tis well for me that love is blind:—I ſay, Hen⯑ry, it may be that you have got that charm⯑ing [145]creature to ſpeak in favour of Caroline; though I think, 'tis as ſtrange that ſhe ſhould not love you, and that you ſhould not love her—heigho!—well, how I run on! yet, me⯑thinks I ſhould like to owe the greateſt hap⯑pineſs upon earth to Olivia. And poor Jane At wood!—I bluſh to think my ſelfiſh heart has ſo long neglected her: ſhe is an old ac⯑quaintance of mine:—but it is impoſſible to expreſs my aſtoniſhment, when I ſaw her with you and Miſs Clare,—though, to ſay the truth, we every one of us appeared to be planet-ſtruck.—Do explain all this."

Caroline had hardly ended her interroga⯑tories, before Denniſon came to the door, rather ſtealing in than delivering a letter, which, he ſaid, was brought from the caſtle, in great haſte, by Mr. True George, and that he believed it required an anſwer.—Denniſon, however,—having, like George, an high veneration for the privacy of all true lovers, and eſpecially theſe,—no ſooner perceived they were in earneſt diſcourſe, than he immediately withdrew, ſaying he [146]ſhould anſwer the bell the moment their honours thought proper to ring.

Thou haſt heard of pre-ſentiments, reader: peradventure thou haſt felt them; at leaſt they may be in the little ſuperſtitions of thy ſecret heart.—The very delivery of this let⯑ter, and its coming from the caſtle, had an inauſpicious air and ſound:—the ſuperſcrip⯑tion too in Sir Armine's hand was yet more ominous: and the epiſtle itſelf, alas! con⯑firmed all theſe myſtic tokens.

CHAPTER XIX.

LET the reader go back to the ſtate of Henry's mind, previous to the receipt of this epiſtle,—and he will not wonder that the additional anxiety it produced, was too vehement to be concealed from Caroline,— who, ſuſpecting ſome misfortune had hap⯑pened at the caſtle, earneſtly entreated he would break the ſeal.—He obeyed with a trepidation that denoted he knew not in whoſe preſence he was about to commit this raſh act: and having read it to the end, [147]—in the progreſs of doing which, Caroline vigilantly watched the varying emotions and paſſions that took poſſeſſion of his counte⯑nance, —he roſe, traverſed the room, and ſtamped with a vehemence which ſurpaſſed all former diſplays of his known enthuſiaſm.—It was a ſudden acceſs of inſupportable phrenzy:—he ſmote his breaſt, earneſtly ſupplicated pardon of Caroline on his knees,—then flung from her, deplored he had ever ſeen her,—and execrated his own being.—"My hour is at laſt come;—long deſired, long ſought, and now it is arrived.—Death, ſud⯑den death, would be relief,—mercy,—bleſ⯑ſedneſs!"—The affrighted Caroline, who loſt all her uſual preſence of mind, wanted power to conſole him;—ſpeech, colour, motion, and almoſt liſe forſook her;—the diſordered ſoul of her lover now having aſcended its tremendous climax, he caught her hand, and again ſmiting his boſom, ex⯑claimed,—"Oh Caroline! ill fated Caro⯑line!—the utmoſt malice of antipathy never equalled this conſtant, this cruel conſpiracy of love and affection, to which I ſee it is [148]the determination of my whole family to ſacrifice the loſt, the agonizing Henry!—But you, and you only, can prevent it, Caro⯑line. —Behold! read! from my dear inhu⯑man father!—I am bound!—I am at the ſtake; the fires are kindling around me!—and my peace, my happineſs, my heart itſelf will be conſumed, if you do not this inſtant deviſe ſome means to ſave me from being led to the hated altar."

Caroline took the fatal ſcroll, and read it with ſuch pauſes and ejaculations, as its contents were well formed to create.

CHAPTER XX.

IT is moſt likely, Henry knew not, in his extreme confuſion, more than half the contents of this epiſtle, ſo calculated to aſto⯑niſh, perplex, and terrify even Caroline:—the blow precluded all preſence of mind, and cut down all energy of character. While ſhe was reading the fateful letter, the diſ⯑aſtrous Henry ſat rocking himſelf in a chair, with his hands ſpread over his face.

Caroline now perceived that ſhe had be⯑fore ſpoken but too prophetically,—that ſhe had been long ſupplanting another woman,—and that woman an inmate of her lover's family,—each, and all of whom, with the con⯑currence of her own father, approved of the alliance.—She had not, for ſome time, the power of utterance, or of motion;—but vainly trying to fold up and return the pac⯑quet, [153]ſhe let one of the ſheets fall to the ground, and begging Henry's pardon, at⯑tempted to pick it up;—then tottering to⯑wards the neareſt chair, ſhe ſunk into it, and remained in tearleſs conſternation, ſomething in the way we before deſcribed her in the dying moments of her mother;— and, indeed, an affection cheriſhed, even in the midſt of the moſt trying circumſtances, for many years, even till it had twiſted with the fibres of her heart,—might now, be ſaid to be in its laſt agonies,—and from a wound as ſudden as fatal.—At length ſhe made an effort to riſe, with intent to leave the apartment:—Henry obſerving her, roſe alſo, and throwing himſelf at her feet, "I perceive you look upon me to be far more culpable than I am," ſaid he;—"and you impute to treachery the effect of dire misfortune.—I call, therefore, as well upon your juſtice, as your humanity, to hear me."—Without waiting for her permiſſion or re⯑ply, he recapitulated, as clearly as he was able, the whole ſecret hiſtory of his ſituation with Olivia,—with the long train of myſteries, [154]perils, and penalties, that had attended it, from the firſt moment of his diſcovering the family deſigns, to the very inſtant of his taking leave of her at the caſtle. He pour⯑trayed, in the moſt lively colours, his eſteem, gratitude, and brotherly affection, for that amiable girl;—but aſſeverated, with yet greater warmth, that ſhe never had poſſeſſed, or could poſſeſs, any part of that tenderneſs which belonged ſolely and excluſively to Caroline.—He then took a retroſpective view of the inſurmountable difficulties that had hitherto been placed in the way of his explanation of himſelf, either to his own father, to Olivia's, to his brothers, to Oli⯑via herſelf, or to Caroline. He enumerated the ſundry and manifold attempts he had made towards this, to each, to all,—and the ways and means by which all his purpoſes were defeated.

The forcible manner in which he painted theſe ſad truths, and the agonies he had endured, from this neceſſary ſuppreſſion,—his abhorrence of all duplicity, notwith⯑ſtanding the appearance of having acted the [155]part of a diſſembler,—the nights he had paſt in the foreſt, when the caſtle was irkſome, and the abbey ſhut againſt him,—brought a ſhower of tears from the lovely eyes of Caro⯑line.—He pathetically conjured her, now that his cruel condition was at length un⯑folded, not to add to the miſeries he had yet to encounter, by with-holding her ten⯑der advice, how beſt to extend the diſco⯑very to the other parties concerned.—Her wiſdom, goodneſs, and unalterable af⯑fection, he declared he muſt now regard as the ſupporting pillars that were to ſuſtain him againſt the anger of his parents,—the reſentment of Mr. Clare, and the diſpleaſure of his brothers;—all of which, however, he might conſider as unfair and unwarranted, ſince they had, though with generous in⯑tentions, enſnared him, without his conſent or concurrence, given or implied in any manner whatever.—Chiefly he relied on his Caroline for counſel, how beſt to break the affair to Olivia, for whoſe peace of mind, he ſwore he would ſacrifice every conſider⯑ation in the world, but the honour, faith, [156]and eternal happineſs of his own.—"Theſe," ſaid he, paſſionately,—"depend on Caro⯑line;—and ſhould ſhe perſuade me to break them,—but it is impoſſible,—they find a counterpart in her own ſoul, and ſhe will ſtrengthen my reſolution, to preſerve them, with the moſt religious care, to my lateſt hour!—And, as to Olivia, ſo well do I know the goodneſs of her heart," continued he,—"ſo many inſtances have I ſeen of her noble diſpoſition, that I am convinced,—were it poſſible to tell her how much and long I have ſuffered from theſe continued miſ⯑conceptions, on what reſiſtleſs antecedent claims my vows are founded, and what would be the conſequence of my breaking them,—ſhe would not only reſign all preten⯑ſions, but even be an advocate with the three families, to bleſs and ſanction the loves of Henry and Caroline!"—He then obſerved, in concluſion,—"that her brother Charles only ſhared the ſorrows of his heart;—and, he was confident his friend would aid her to remove them."—To all this, Caroline only ſaid, faintly, "I am extremely unwell; [157]you muſt ſuffer me to depart:—the terrifying circumſtances which you have related, and which I have read, ſhall, when I am able to think, be duly conſidered.—But, oh! if you ever wiſh me to have the power of thinking again, do not detain me now."—She left her chair with great difficulty,—in tremulous accents bade Henry adieu,—and quitted him in a ſtate, compared to which, probably, many of his former ſituations of mind, thought at the time to be intolerable, were conſoling.

He did not, however, remain long in this condition;—for a gentleman entered the room ſoon after, who came, in this criſis, as a comforter,—being his ſecond appear⯑ance in that character.—This was no other than Sir Guiſe Stuart, who was extremely ſurpriſed to find him alone, and equally con⯑cerned at ſeeing him ſo much out of ſpirits.—Henry, hereupon, notwithſtanding his for⯑mer ill-luck when he tried to gain the baro⯑net over to his intereſt, was now ſo tho⯑roughly convinced of the ſincerity of that gentleman's reform, that he repeated the [158]heads of what he had ſaid to Caroline,—ac⯑quainting him with the abrupt manner in which ſhe had gone out of the room, and conjuring him, by all thoſe things which have moſt weight with good friends and fa⯑thers, —namely, honour, humanity, and the dread of plunging his own child, and the man ſhe loved, in ruin,—to uſe his ſtrongeſt, deareſt influence, to perſuade his daughter to give him ſuch an anſwer, as, with his own interceſſions and explanations at the abbey, might bring about the general ſa⯑tisfaction, and their particular happineſs.—All this Sir Guiſe very kindly promiſed to do;—"And, ſurely," ſaid the amiable baronet,—"if I am ready to forget my wrongs, and acknowledge my ſhare of error in the ſub⯑jects that divided our families,—Caroline may contribute her part to the good work.—As to poor Miſs Clare, that, to be ſure," cries Sir Guiſe,—"is the worſt part of the buſineſs; and there is no foreſeeing how Caroline may take it;—or, if ſhe could be brought to paſs it over, who knows but the lady's father, and yours, and all your fa⯑mily, [159]might conſider it a ſtronger objection to an alliance with our houſe, even than our other domeſtic hoſtilities:—however, de⯑pend on it, nothing ſhall be wanting on my part, conſiſtent with my friendſhip and my own honour."—After this, Sir Guiſe ſtayed conſoling Henry for a conſiderable time.—Caroline's waiting-woman coming into the room to enquire whether Mr. Fitzorton was gone, — the conſiderate baronet ſaid in a whiſper to Henry, while he beckoned the ſervant to ſtop,—"Had not you better hear her anſwer now?" Henry eagerly aſſenting, the maid was directed to ſay, her lady's com⯑pany was earneſtly entreated for a few mi⯑nutes;—and, while the girl was going on this meſſage, Sir Guiſe himſelf departed, ſaying, at his exit, and with right dramatic effect, "It will be beſt to leave you toge⯑ther;—I may be ſome check upon her;—and it is neceſſary, you know, to have her own undiſguiſed ſentiments;—after which, in the degree that they oppoſe our own, we may take our meaſures."—"You are too good, Sir Guiſe," ſaid Henry, cor⯑dially [160]taking his hand, and drawing it to⯑wards his boſom.—As Sir Guiſe went out, he cried, ſtill dramatic, and at the edge of the ſcene,—"I muſt away:—ſhe will ſur⯑priſe us:—I will take a turn in the garden:—there is yet half an hour's light; and as you certainly will not think of leaving us till after ſupper, an opportunity may occur for your telling me what ſhe ſays;—huſh—I hear her coming down ſtairs;—this door, however, will conduct me into the garden by another way.—Be ſure you tell me all that paſſes."

Whether it was neceſſary for this in⯑junction to have been repeated, or whether, indeed, any mention of it, in the firſt in⯑ſtance, was not ſuperfluous, will be ſhewn hereafter. At preſent, our entire attention is called to Caroline Stuart, who re-entered the room almoſt in the ſame moment her father had left it.—She had been in tears.—Her viſage was pale, and her limbs yet trembled.—With leſs interruption, however, than ſhe had herſelf apprehended, ſhe at length addreſſed Henry:—"Though I ex⯑pected, [161]from my maid's report, to find my father with you, I rejoice,—alas! why do I talk of rejoicing?—It is—it is beſt you are alone,—I know not, whether what I feel at this moment, Henry, deſerves ſo harſh a name as woman's weakneſs;—but I am rea⯑dy to confeſs, that the tenderneſs which is the cauſe of it, is almoſt too much for me to bear.—Alas! the preparation of a whole life, for a hiſtory like that you have told,—and for ſupporting the event which, I—I—I foreſee, will—muſt—reſult from it—"

"What event?" cried Henry, catching her hand, and looking as if he anticipated the moſt dreadful of all the evils which can happen to man.—"Do not interrupt me!" reſumed Caroline, anſwering his look of impetuoſity and terror, by one of energy, that commanded his patient attention.—"You will not take an undue advantage, Henry, of the tenderneſs I have, even at a criſis like this, avowed for you.—Ah! what an hour have I paſt ſince I left you!—Alas! this apartment ſeems to be marked out by our ill fortune, as the ſpot where I am to [162]meet varieties of wretchedneſs!—Here was my poor mother ſtruck with that which proved her dying diſorder!—Here was aſſe⯑verated a father's curſe!—Here! O! why have I forced upon me the remembrance of theſe ſucceſſive calamities?—they unfit me to endure the preſent:—alas! it is ſo ſud⯑den, ſo unexpected!—it has fallen upon me in ſo cruel a moment!—Pardon me!—I feel altogether unequal to the converſation I would wiſh to hold, or the conduct I ought to purſue:—this laſt dire blow has left me nothing but powerleſs tears!" Such tears, indeed, fell from her eyes, in overwhelming torrents;—and Henry, inſtead of drying them up, could only augment the torrent.—Relieved, however, at length, Caroline obſerved, "that the impreſſion left on her mind by the paſt intelligence, would be eternal:—that, amidſt all her ſelfiſh regrets, and the agoniſing ideas that gave them birth, ſhe had ſenſe and honour enough to be convinced Henry Fitzorton and Caroline Stuart were now placed beyond—ſo far beyond the poſſible reach of each other, [163]that, even if her father were to lay his ſa⯑cred commands upon her to marry, ſhe ſhould, in this ſecond inſtance of her life, think herſelf juſtified in diſobeying him."

CHAPTER XXI.

CAROLINE pauſed and wept.—She then recapitulated his ſituation,—placed be⯑fore him all the ſtrong parts of his duty, and her own,—ſhewed, in new points of view, the irreſiſtible claims that Olivia, her father, and both the families had upon him;—ſhe obſerved, that, though ſtrange impediments had combined to prevent him from an ear⯑lier explication, thoſe very impediments had given force to the pretenſions of Olivia, who, never ſuſpecting any impediments had exiſtence, had been cheriſhing a pure affection all the while.—She gently up⯑braided Henry, for ſuppoſing that ſhe her⯑ſelf would deign to become his wife, under the corroding conſciouſneſs of having made any other woman, who had ſo many ſuperior [164]claims, unhappy,—but more eſpecially Oli⯑via Clare, the friend of her earlieſt youth.—"With reſpect to myſelf,"—cries Caroline,—"being in the conſtant habit of meeting ill fortune, I better know how to ſtruggle with it, in the ſevereſt ſhapes it can preſent itſelf:—and, alas! the power that puniſhes me, knows it is now about to take a form the moſt dreadful!—perhaps—the moſt inſup⯑portable."

Caroline's fortitude again forſook her: and Henry, in the ſtruggle betwixt the contrary emotions of hope and fear, drew his chair, ſo as to be within reach of her trembling hand, which he preſſed in his own,—but could not ſpeak.

"Yes! misfortune, my dear unhappy Henry," continued the firm but faultering caroline, "has, I hope, inured my heart to bear what would probably break that of Miſs Clare, who has been bred up by every ſmil⯑ing power, in the lap of indulgence,—the pride and joy of two reſpectable families,—and has perhaps never known any diſap⯑pointment but what I have already occa⯑ſioned. [165]—Ah, Henry! how would ſhe hate your Caroline!—alas! yours, did I ſay?—how would ſhe contemn the cauſe of all the delays and myſteries which have involved her in one eternal maze, did ſhe know that Caroline Stuart had, like her evil genius, ſo often robbed her of Henry's dear ſociety!—Yet, alas! this tranſient pleaſure ſhould not be envied me!—for oh, what vengeance fol⯑lows it! Indeed, Henry, I can ſcarcely bear the thought:—but—but—it muſt be borne: and, whatever happens to me, I will endure that, or any other misfortune it may be the will of Providence to inflict, rather than the conſciouſneſs of carrying grief, diſtreſs, ha⯑tred, and, perhaps, death, into the houſes— into the hearts of ſo many perſons!—Such an abhorred union, indeed, would now force, even upon you, Henry, a juſt opinion of my unworthineſs.—And ought I not to be diſ⯑pleaſed that you ſhould believe I would take refuge in Olivia's mercy to me, when I had not ſhewn any to her?—or, that Caro⯑line, bowed as ſhe is by many griefs, could be content to owe the poſſeſſion of Henry's [166]hand to that bounty which would conſign herſelf, her aged father, and Henry's parents, to wretchedneſs and deſpair?—Why, Hen⯑ry, ſhould you ſuppoſe, even Olivia could ſurpaſs your Caroline in doing what is right,"—added ſhe, giving dignity to her before humbling diſtreſs,—"when Caroline has the advantage of the point of rectitude being firſt ſhewn her?—and, had you, Henry, carried on the concealment longer, and avail⯑ing yourſelf of my unhappy partiality, made me, under theſe circumſtances, your wife—"ſomething aſſociated with the word wife fainted on her lips, as ſhe pronounced it; and many moments paſt, ere ſhe could conclude the ſentence—"and had I afterwards been proved the dire though innocent ſcourge of your family, how wretched ſhould we both have been!—My diſguſt—perhaps my hatred even of Henry Fitzorton—might have been the conſequence!"

"And will it not," ſaid Henry, ſtarting up with violence,—"will it not be far worſe, to give my loathing hand to Olivia,—and the after-proof come out, that ſhe has [167]been the cauſe of all my miſery and yours?—and, though ſhe never can have my hate, ſhe never had my love, and would then be the bane of Henry's, of Caroline's, and or her own happineſs."

"No ſuch proof," cries Caroline, more aſſuredly,—"need ever happen.—You are too good and generous, to treat any woman who ſincerely loves you, unkindly;—and kind⯑neſs from Henry Fitzorton, will be in the place of a warmer ſentiment:—nay, it is, in him, a ſentiment more tender than the love of an ordinary mind.—At all events, it is in your power to make Olivia Clare the hap⯑pieſt of women! — But Caroline Stuart, whom you have now acquainted with your ſituation, you could render even more wretched.—There remains nothing for her but accommodation to thoſe ſevere trials in which, alas! her whole life has been paſt. Oh! I bluſh not, though I weep, to ſay I would not yield up the proſpect, which de⯑luſive hope recently ſpread before me, on weak ſurmiſes,—or let any viſionary clouds, that might gather to darken it, prevail.— [168]No!—I would embrace whatever might diſ⯑pel the ſurrounding darkneſs!—But, caſt your eyes on every ſide; and you will ſee the fatal neceſſity of taking our reſolu⯑tion."

"Hold!" exclaimed Henry:—"I ſee the point you aim at:—your reſolution would not affect the general peace, to which you would thus ſacrifice your own happineſs and mine.—I warn you, that it would ſubvert it.—There is a cauſe ſtill behind."

"Alas! alas! there can be none," inter⯑rupted Caroline, ſtill bathed in tears:—"there can be no cauſe, why I ſhould not here ſolemnly bind myſelf by the moſt ir⯑revocable vow never more to ſee Henry Fitzorton,—the pride, pleafure, and paſ⯑ſion of my ſoul,—till—till he is the huſband—of—of—"

The word huſband had even a more pow⯑erful effect upon the whole frame of Caro⯑line, than that of wife, for the expreſſion ſunk her to the earth.

"The huſband!—of whom?" exclaimed Henry:—"of Olivia Clare? Oh monſtrous! [169]monſtrous!—Oh God!"—exclaimed Henry, raiſing the convulſing form of Caroline into his arms,—"yes, this barbarous effect, even of the very thought, is a freſh proof, deareſt life, that, were Henry Fitzorton the huſ⯑band of Olivia Clare, he would be the moſt perjured traitor to love and friendſhip!—he would be the moſt perfidious viper, to ſting and wound every breaſt moſt dear;—and Ca⯑roline Stuart would become acceſſary to all his fraud, to all his treachery,—Alas! my love," continued he, ſtill holding and ſtill careſſing the unreſiſting, the almoſt lifeleſs Caroline,—"there is yet another fatal myſ⯑tery to be explained."—"Reſerve it," ſaid Caroline, faintly:—"I can hear—I can bear no more."—"Remember," ſaid Hen⯑ry,—"remember that I bid you beware, as you would avoid the deſpair, the deſtruction of all that is precious to your blood,—beware of coming to any reſolution which ſhall preclude you from acting as your future duty may preſcribe. Your brother can diſ⯑cloſe the reſt."

Caroline had been ſeveral times waving [170]her hand, as a ſign for Henry's leaving her, aſſuring him, by ſuch broken ſentences as ſhe could utter, that he might depend on her doing what ſhe thought was right,—but that ſhe could not anſwer to what a degree her illneſs might augment, if he perſiſted in the converſation any longer, till ſhe was more recovered. Henry, therefore, went mourn⯑fully but haſtily out of the room, and by the greateſt good luck, or ſomething that an⯑ſwered his purpoſe juſt as well, met Sir Guiſe gliding from an adjoining apartment. He appeared, however, ſomewhat confuſed and agitated,—perhaps at ſeeing Henry uneaſy. Few words, therefore, paſſed between them; and thoſe purported, on the part of Henry, a requeſt to defer the particulars of his diſ⯑courſe with Caroline, on account of her ſud⯑den indiſpoſition, till the next day, alleging, that, as his father was confined to his chamber, it would be expected he ſhould ſup at the caſtle.

With this requiſition the worthy baronet readily complied,—expreſſing leſs curioſity than might have been expected. He there⯑fore [171]civilly demanded of Henry, whether he choſe any of the ſervants to attend him; and, on his courteſy being as handſomely de⯑clined, they parted.

CHAPTER XXII.

BUT our ſympathy of virtuous and ſu⯑perior woe demands that we ſhould leave Henry on the road to the caſtle, and return to Caroline at the abbey. This truly amia⯑ble and as truly unhappy girl remained without words, and almoſt without ſenſe, long after her lover's reluctant obedience to her repeated requiſition. The firſt thing which ſtruck her when ſhe felt herſelf ſome⯑what collected, was Olivia's miniature, which Henry had left on the table in his general agitation. Her examination of this led her to account for ſeveral of the myſterious ex⯑preſſions which fell from Henry towards the cloſe of his converſation; for, on his way to the abbey, Henry had penciled on the pa⯑per that had been the envelope of the pic⯑ture, [172]and which remained alſo on the table, "This ſhall be a transfer to dear Charles." Thus, not only the words of her brother, which were once overheard and aſſerted to her by Denniſon, but thoſe which Charles himſelf dropt the ſame morning previous to his ſetting out to join his regiment, were brought forcibly to her mind.

It was hence apparent that her brother loved Olivia; and not leſs evident that Olivia had fixed her entire affection upon Henry; and finally, that both Henry and Charles were, nevertheleſs, in the ſtricteſt friendſhip. But, although this diſcovery deve⯑loped the maze one way, it involved in it an⯑other, beyond all her power to unravel; yet one inflexible truth preſſed on her in a more unrelenting ſhape even than it had before,—that whether Henry and Olivia were or were not to be united, Henry and Caroline could never join; ſince, to ſuppoſe that Olivia Clare would ever diſpoſe of her hand to Charles, and that Henry would thereby be at liberty to offer himſelf to Caroline Stuart, were points equally prepoſterous.

[173]In this ſtate of perplexity, her father en⯑tered the room; and although he was in ſome perturbation from a cauſe yet untold, he ſaw his daughter's dejected countenance with parental regret, and obſerved on it, that, as the occaſion had in ſome meaſure been related by Mr. Fitzorton, he would not give her the pain of again telling the ſtory, but do every thing in his power to make her happy; ſaying at the ſame time, ſhe muſt be ſenſible, as well as Henry, how ready he had been to ſacrifice himſelf to their felicity, though he could not take upon him to anſwer for events, and that he relied upon both her and Henry doing him every juſtice with his ſon Charles.

The deeply-afflicted Caroline acknow⯑ledged that his goodneſs was written in the tablets of her heart, and that ſhe was ſure Mr. Fitzorton and her brother would ever retain a due ſenſe of it; then entreated her father's indulgence to retire for the night.

Sir Guiſe granted this petition alſo, as willingly as he had done the other, and after ſaying he hoped a good night's reſt would [174]ſet all right again, deſired her to hope the beſt, called her his dear Caroline, and bade her adieu.

Since the burial of Lady Stuart, Caroline had ſucceeded to the chamber in which that amiable woman died; and this ſucceſſion proceeded from the very oppoſite ſenſation to that, which, had there not been any ſe⯑paration of ſleeping-rooms between Sir Guiſe and his wife, would have induced the good baronet to change it for another. Indeed he had moved to one at the other end of the abbey; but as this motive might have been ſuggeſted by the love which could not en⯑dure the ſight of the deſolated ſpot which brings to memory the object of affection, no leſs than by the hate which ſurvives the grave, or by the fear which always attends upon guilt, but more particularly when we view the place where our ſelf-condemned crimes were committed, and of courſe, where the conſequences of thoſe crimes might be faid to ſtare us in the face, inaſmuch, as they ſeem, to the "mind's eye," the ghoſts of our paſt foul deeds,—it is but fair that we leave [175]the choice of theſe ſeveral motives to the reader's own ſelection.

Certain it is, that the night after the fu⯑neral—on the ſame night, the reader remem⯑bers, one or other of the above-ſtated ſenti⯑ments kept him out of any bed-chamber,—he did remove far from his from his deceaſed wife's apartment; and whatever were his motives, thoſe of his daughter, in giving that very chamber the preference to every other in the houſe, proceeded from the ſincere affec⯑tion which attaches itſelf to whatever brings to mind the venerated though departed ob⯑ject. Nevertheleſs, we are ready to admit, the ſame meaſure of affection that filled the boſom and memory of Caroline, might be poſſeſſed by many other daughters, who might yet find themſelves unable to ſupport the ſight of any thing their deceaſed parents had worn, touched, or been accuſtomed to behold:—and, indeed, we have known ſome of the moſt amiable perſons fly from their houſes, their eſtates, and their coutry, on this principle; and, forbid it nature, that we ſhould be ſuppoſed to ridicule any of the [176]pious terrors, or even the ſuperſtitions of filial love!—we only feel it neceſſary to ſay,—as has indeed more than once been proved to the reader,—that the mind of Caroline Stuart, though melting as love itſelf, had none of theſe apprehenſions. Yet the re⯑ſignation of her late apartment, which was alſo precious to her remembrance, was connected with ſome other circumſtances that ought not, as they are in keeping with her character, to be paſſed over.

We can ſometimes better endure the ſight of that room where we have ſeen a dear parent expiring, than of that where we ſup⯑poſe ourſelves to have taken an eternal leave of a living lover. When Caroline, at her father's command, had bade, as ſhe thought it to be, an everlaſting adieu to Henry, ſhe gave vent to all the tender effuſions which are ſet down for thy ſympathy, reader, in a former part of this work; but this little ſpot, late ſo dear to her, ſoon became an object of eſcape, becauſe ſhe found it more difficult for her to perform the ſevere taſk of oblite⯑rating Henry from her mind, while from the [177]window of that apartment ſhe looked upon many things that brought his image back too keenly upon her ſenſe; and, although, in her mother's room, when ſhe was devoid of all the powers of recollection, Henry had ſup⯑ported her in his arms, her reflections there⯑upon were more divided than from the view of that window.—Has the reader forgotten, that it had in full proſpect the grand avenue, of tender memory, the ſpot where the loves of Henry and Caroline were firſt declared to each other, and, alas! diſcovered to Sir Guiſe? And, to cloſe the whole artillery which it levelled againſt her lacerated heart, has it eſcaped his memory, that it carried the eye to the moſt appreciated part of Fitzor⯑ton-caſtle, even to the chamber of Henry himſelf?

Reſolved, therefore, to avoid, as much as in her lay, the objects which fed her deſpair, ſhe tore herſelf from theſe temptations, and took refuge in a place where perhaps her grief from one cauſe was mitigated by the claims from another; for it is certain that two ſorrows equally great, provided they are [178]of diſtinct kinds, demand that diviſion of our thoughts, and afford that ſad relief, which, in any ſingle calamity, often overwhelms the ſufferer.

Her mother's vacated room, then, ſhe for ſome time occupied; but ſince her father's turn of behaviour, ſhe conſidered the pro⯑ſpect from her old apartment as both lite⯑rally and figuratively clearing up, and had therefore moved into it again. But now that it was overcaſt by another cloud more dark and menacing than any of the former, ſhe ſettled the plan of a third alteration even as ſhe was aſcending the ſtairs,—ſent her woman for her night-dreſs,—and direct⯑ed her ſteps once more to the room of Lady Stuart.

All that was heroic about Caroline was ſubdued. She had not only exerted, but exhauſted, whatever the natural ſtrength or acquired energy of her mind could ſupply, to ſupport her in the laſt diſcourſe ſhe had held with Henry; and from the weari⯑neſs of a ſoul more haraſſed than the frame that encloſed it, ſhe had ſcarcely gained her [179]mother's room ere an extreme faintneſs overtook her, and ſhe fell down in a ſwoon, in which, without any violence,—indeed, ſcarcely without any ſound, or motion,—ſhe remained till the maid whom ſhe had ſent into the other chamber came to reſtore her,—or, more properly ſpeaking, till perſecuted nature by a temporary ſuſpenſion of life re⯑ſtored herſelf.

But, with the powers of her life, the ſenſe of that happineſs which would have made life deſirable, was not, alas! renewed. On the contrary, ſhe revived to the moſt ago⯑nizing reflections. Her preſent appeared leſs to be endured than her former fate. To that, if ſhe had not been reconciled, ſhe had in ſome meaſure been reſigned. She had impoſed on herſelf the ſevere but neceſſary taſk of calling to her aſſiſtance whatever would be moſt likely to keep her heart under ſome diſcipline; though ſhe found it im⯑poſſible to vanquiſh the hoſt of tender but powerful enemies that had there gained re⯑ſidence: theſe, however, reaſon, duty, and time, three of the moſt able and experienced [180]generals, and on whom ſhe wholly relied for ſucceſs, might at length have routed. But, when the enſlavers were almoſt worſted,—when Love himſelf, after many deſperate ſkirmiſhes, and ſome pitched battles, with the forementioned chiefs, was made a cap⯑tive, and led out of his citadel in Caroline's breaſt, in chains,—then to have reaſon and duty not only demand a truce, but throw⯑ing down their arms, and, as of old, in the ſtory of the Horatii, run into the embraces of the oppoſite party, declaring that the war was unnatural;—after ſuch a treaty, approved of by duty, and, indeed, ſigned and ſealed by that aweful power,—nay, after both the armies, formed by theſe potentates, were diſbanded, a choſen few only keeping gar⯑riſon at the abbey, to prevent ſurpriſe from the caſtle, where, it was imagined, ſome malcontents, not yet brought over, were poſted,—then, we ſay, to have the amicable convention broken by an enemy from the moſt unexpected quarter,—even in the gen⯑tle Olivia Clare,—who, without herſelf be⯑ing as yet conſcious of it, involved the [181]houſes of Fitzorton and Stuart in deadlier hate than that which the daughter of king Priam occaſioned;—this—this was indeed too much!

Such, however, was the caſe.—Hoſtili⯑ties recommenced:—every paſſion and eve⯑ry principle muſtered their forces,—ſounded to arms,—and duty, compaſſion, reaſon, and rival love, were all at once warring in Ca⯑roline's boſom.

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHEN this amiable but unfortunate girl was left, at her ſtrong deſire, alone, ſhe caſt a mournful look over the apartment, and derived ſome little comfort from re⯑flecting that her dear mother, who breathed her laſt in it, was now in her peaceful tomb.—"That is ſome comfort yet!" ſaid ſhe:—"it is the cordial drop thrown into the bitter cup of my deſpair!"

Taking from her pocket that handker⯑chief of which her eyes but too much ſtood in need,—ſhe felt the little pacquet that [182]Henry left with her, whether diſcreetly or not, we cannot now ſtop to conſider, for her brother.—Her confuſion, at the time it was firſt ſhewn her, did not allow her to ob⯑ſerve it accurately,—ſcarce, indeed, to take it from the paper in which it was wrapt, or to do more than lay it again on the table:—indeed, ſhe did not, as yet, know whe⯑ther it was intended for her inſpection;—for ſhe ſeemed now to have no memory of any thing but her own weighty ſorrows.—On taking it up again, however, it ſlipt from the ſilken envelope which Olivia had folded round it.—She once more examined the re⯑ſemblance of the innocent girl who had al⯑ready been the cauſe of ſo much anguiſh to the families which ſhe ſo anxiouſly deſired to ſee happy.

It is not an eaſy matter to deſcribe the mixed ſenſations that took poſſeſſion of Ca⯑roline as ſhe attentively looked on this picture:—how diſtinct from thoſe ſhe felt on receiving that of Lady Stuart, and the two others, from the hands of her dying mother!—At Olivia's ſhe looked, and to [183]Olivia ſhe ſpake, as if it were the original—"Beautiful author of the miſery which awaits us all," ſaid ſhe,—"dear play-mate, when life was young,—wherefore are we rivals?—Yet, how was it to be avoided?—how could it be poſſible for thee to live in the preſence of my Henry—of thy Henry, and his thouſand virtues, and not give him all thy heart, even, alas! as I gave him mine?—And what but that pride which muſt now be ſeverely humiliated, could ſo long blind me to the certainty of this?—But how is it that his own has eſcaped the magic of thy merit and thy charms?—how has it been poſſible for him not to return thy paſſion?—Yet love is capricious; elſe had thy empire been unqueſtioned.—Ah! hadſt thou honoured my dear unhappy brother with thy affec⯑tion, —for now I ſee into the ſource of his long concealed diſtreſs!—Yet, thou art not my rival, but my aſſociate in grief.—Even the irreparable loſs which Caroline muſt ſuſtain, will be no gain to thee, Olivia!—We muſt both be wretched—wretched in the extreme!"

[184]The breath of her ſighs had dimmed the cryſtal of the miniature: but her tears fall⯑ing faſt upon it at the ſame time,—"Hea⯑ven knows," continued ſhe,—"I would not willingly obſcure thy ſight or happineſs; nor wouldſt thou mine!—Ah! that we could relieve the misfortunes which I foreſee are in ſtore for us both!—for indeed, Olivia, to thy painted image I may, without fear of wounding thee, confeſs, Henry Fitzorton cannot be more dear to thee, than he was—than he is—and, I fear, ever, ever muſt be to—"

She preſſed the miniature to her boſom, without finiſhing the ſentence.—"Yet," reſumed ſhe,—"in this confeſſion I do not wrong thee,—I do not wrong thee, Olivia;—for I have loſt him for ever!—He is gone from me, never, never to return!—And were he thine this moment, or divided from thee, even as he is from Caroline,—ſuch is the ſevere deſtiny in which we are both en⯑tangled, we muſt be both miſerable."

In the ſtruggle of theſe emotions, ſhe had turned the miniature on the other ſide, [185]which preſented ſeveral little devices, done with Olivia's hair, ſuch as Cupid and Hy⯑men binding Venus with her own ceſtus;—and, underneath, a motto in pearls, ſuitable to the deſign;—on ſeeing which, ſhe uttered many more ſentiments expreſſive of her feel⯑ings; in the courſe of which, ſhe adverted, for the firſt time ſince the death of her mo⯑ther, to the circumſtance of her own and brother's miniatures, which ſhe knew had been in Lady Stuart's poſſeſſion, and not ſpoken of at the time when ſhe received the other, on the very bed which was now ſpread before her.—Thinking, however, they were depoſited in ſome of her mother's drawers, into which ſhe had not yet exa⯑mined, all thoughts reſpecting them ſoon ſubſided.—That of her mother, however, ſhe drew from her boſom, which had been its "moſt delicate lodging" ever ſince, and kiſſed it fervently,—then returning it to its tender but now trembling throne, ſhe re⯑ſumed her attentions to Henry and Olivia, who appeared by turns to occupy, her en⯑tire [186]ſoul.—It is beyond queſtion, that her affection for the one, notwithſtanding all increaſe of miſery and impediment, was now at its height;—and her pity for the other, derived, perhaps, partly from fellow-feeling, was no leſs extreme.

The ſenſe of her father's unwonted kind⯑neſs, the ſincerity of which was not for one moment doubted, relieved her much;—ſhe thought it far better that her ſorrows ſhould flow from any but the domeſtic foun⯑tain, whoſe waters of ſtrife indeed are the moſt bitter we can poſſibly taſte.—"Bleſſed be God! it is not my father's fault now," cried ſhe, "that I am relapſed into my former wretchedneſs, with every aggravation that could be heaped upon it. He, alas!—which is, indeed, one of thoſe aggravations,—partakes my grief, after he had generouſly ſacrificed to me his ſtrongeſt reſentments, and taken my deareſt Henry to his arms."

She then adverted to her brother,—and again taking up Olivia's picture, ſhe ex⯑claimed, [187]in a ſoftly rebuking tone,—"And thou alſo art the unhappy cauſe of my dear Charles's affliction,—a youth ſcarce leſs deſerv⯑ing thy adoration than Henry himſelf!—But for his love of thee, O inſenſible! he, at leaſt, might have been happy; and in this dread hour of my own woe, I might have looked up to him for comfort, courage, and pity.— He will now, alas! be abſorbed by his own griefs."

She had no ſooner uttered theſe re⯑proaches againſt Olivia, than ſhe turned ſeveral of a more bitter kind, and with as little reaſon, againſt herſelf, whom ſhe ac⯑cuſed of cruelty, folly, falſehood, and mad⯑neſs, —recapitulating the ſeveral cauſes of impediment, why neither Charles and Olivia, nor Henry and Caroline, could ever hope, even had their own hearts ſo arranged mat⯑ters, to be united by holy vows.—She next preſſed the miniature to her lips, and be⯑ſtowed on it a kiſs, in token of her reconci⯑liation and repentance.—In ſhort, ſhe proved in every reflection, ſhe was in love, and in deſpair:—ſhe proved, indeed, at once, [188]ſhe was tortured by all the feelings of her heart, in which jealouſy was not the leaſt tyrannic.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHILE the picture was yet at her lips, the door was opened by her woman, who, ſeeing her miſtreſs not yet in bed, firſt announced, and then uſhered in, Charles Stuart.—"Deareſt ſiſter, forgive my impa⯑tience:—I am this inſtant diſmounted from my horſe,—but your father telling me you had retired to your chamber at this early hour, I was alarmed, eſpecially as he ſaid our beloved Henry had paſſed the afternoon here, and had but juſt left you.—I ſhould have thought ſuch a tete-a-tete,—for my fa⯑ther intimated he had left you together,—un⯑der ſuch ſmiling proſpects too, would have kept ſleep from your eyes for this week to come!"—"My dear, dear Charles!" cried ſhe, tenderly embracing her brother,—"ſleep was never farther from them than at this moment:—or had they been cloſed, [189]ſurely nothing but the ſleep of death could have rendered me inſenſible to the arrival of my ever good and affectionate brother."—"Sleep!" anſwered Charles, ſurveying her countenance:—"no—thoſe eyes, I perceive, have been but too much awake!—For hea⯑ven's ſake, what is the matter?"—"Is not joy, as well as grief," returned Caroline,—"the cauſe of tears?"—"Ah! my ſiſter," cries Charles,—"but that pallid counte⯑nance, that deſolate air, and the galled borders of thoſe weeping lids, demonſtrate a far different cauſe than that of joy.—I thought to have found you and my friend as happy as mutual love and a father's au⯑thority could make you;—and I came, with all the ſpeed of friendſhip for him and af⯑fection for you, to deviſe ſome means that might incline thoſe towards your happineſs, who might be averſe to it.—And that mi⯑niature in your hand!—Has our beloved Henry at laſt given it to you?—I chid him once, that he had not done it before,—and called him a loitering lover."

[190]"No, truly," ſaid Caroline, ſobbing with ſtifled emotions:—"It is not his."

"Not his!" returned Charles:—"ſurely nothing can have happened between you, to make him return your own!"

"My own?" exclaimed Caroline.—"Yes, Caroline," ſaid Charles:—"I found yours with mine, on that very bed ſoon after our ever-lamented mother had expired, and gave him both with the benediction of her dying breath, ſtill warm upon them.—He was entitled to the gifts: for, now that ſaint is in heaven, who upon earth can love Caro⯑line and Charles, like Henry Fitzorton?—I will not think any thing could induce him to give it back:—let me ſee!—perhaps he has preſented you with mine:—but could that make you weep?"

"It is yours, Charles," ſaid Caroline,—"and left with me in truſt, to preſent to you the moment I ſhould ſee you."

Caroline gave the miniature to her bro⯑ther, who, on the firſt view, exclaimed—"Gracious heaven! what do I ſee, my [191]dear Olivia?—Tell me, ſiſter, I conjure you,—tell me, have our happy deſtinies been ſo run together, that while—heaven knows how diſintereſtedly—I have been labouring for the felicity of Henry and Caroline,—they, by ſome yet unknown good fortune, have been promoting the happineſs of Charles and Olivia?—Oh! if I could flatter my heart that this dear, dear reſemblance of all which is moſt precious, was given by the loved original, to be preſented by Henry to Caroline, and by her to Charles!—but that is impoſſible:—I rave!—alas! it is no won⯑der! —I love:—forgive! pity me!"

Here, inſtead of ending his rhapſody, he fell to kiſs and careſs the miniature,—eja⯑culating as he gazed, "Is ſhe not an angel, Caroline?—did you ever behold ſuch a brow?—ſuch an eye?—ſuch a lip?—ſhe certainly inſpired the artiſt! who is he?—I could worſhip him!—why do you not ſpeak?—Oh my foreboding heart! you are weep⯑ing ſtill!"

Caroline felt the utmoſt regret at the ſad neceſſity of diſſolving the charm that bound [192]up her brother's ſenſes, or rather at reſtor⯑ing him to ſenſe, out of that ſweet deliri⯑um that carried him beyond the bounds of reaſon, into that delicious phrenzy, which, to ſuch diſpoſitions, in ſuch ſituations, af⯑fords bliſs ſuperior perhaps to what reaſon ever gave.—Finding, however, that he was ſtill impatient,—nay, that he ſtampt and raved for explanation,—ſhe at length reluc⯑tantly cried,—"Alas! Charles, would I could continue the deluſion till it could be rea⯑lized!—I grieve to ſay our diſappointments are reciprocal: yet your friend Henry de⯑ſired that picture might be given,—but told me, you would explain the impoſſibility of the original ever becoming his wife!"

"His wife!" reiterated Charles.—"Friend⯑ſhip forbid!—Should I live to ſee that day!— but I conjure you to tell me all:—if the hap⯑pineſs—the life of your brother be matter of concern, conceal not a tittle of what I per⯑ceive is now labouring in your boſom.—The ſudden ſight of this miniature has in⯑deed hurried me to a ſweet oblivion of all my cares;—but I now return to the curſe of [193]my reaſon, and the certainty of my deſpair! —Olivia!—Olivia!—my delight!—my de⯑ſtruction!"

He now again renewed his attentions to the picture,—ſwore, that, with whatever in⯑tent it was put into his hands, it ſhould never go out of them more,—and concluded with aſſeverating, that, unleſs Caroline imme⯑diately ſatisfied his heart in all it panted to know, he would quit the abbey that mo⯑ment, and repair to the caſtle, to demand of Henry a full explanation.

The wild and extravagant manner in which he ſpoke, terrified Caroline;—but looking at him with a ſoftneſs that might have extracted the ſting almoſt from deſpair itſelf,—"Alas! my brother," ſaid ſhe, "could my life procure to you and your friend Henry the bliſs you have loſt, it ſhould be laid at your feet!"—She then explained all that had happened in the converſation be⯑twixt her and Henry: and when ſhe had brought down her narrative to the depoſit of the miniature, ſhe obſerved, that ſhe referred, for the particulars reſpecting Olivia and Charles, to Charles himſelf.— [194]"Our dear father, however," ſaid Caroline, "deſerves our warmeſt acknowledgements on this occaſion:—he has ſhewn ſuch indul⯑gence, that my grateful ſoul avows he has made ample reparation for all former miſ⯑takes;—nay, I feel aſſured, that, as much as in him lies,—oh! that his power were now equal to his generous inclinations!—he will promote the loves of Charles and Olivia. I am perſuaded he will.—If for Caroline he could condeſcend ſo greatly, what exertion will he not make for the felicity of his darling ſon?—But, as yet, my brother, I am to learn how far you yourſelf are inte⯑reſted in this matter.—I long, yet dread to hear!"

"O Caroline!" replied Charles,—"if I have hitherto concealed from you the ſecrets and the ſorrows of my heart, it was from the ſame generous motives that actuated my be⯑loved friend to keep them from you."—He then related at length the ſtory of his un⯑fortunate attachment, — the friendly be⯑haviour of Henry,—and the noble conduct of John Fitzorton. — He enlarged upon the cruel kindneſs of the whole family to [195]him,—confeſſed that his viſits at the caſtle, like thoſe of Henry at the abbey, were the conſequence, rather of love than of friend⯑ſhip:—he particularly dwelt on the manifeſt impoſſibility of his ever becoming, in any meaſure, dear to Olivia, till the paſſion of Henry for Caroline was declared;—yet ac⯑knowledged that he did not ſee, though he had revolved it ten thouſand times in his mind, how ſuch a declaration was to be made:—he averred, if ſo heart-rending an event as the union of Henry and Olivia were to take place,—though heaven could witneſs that his friendſhip for the former could be ſurpaſſed only by his love of the latter,—he would not, dared not, think on what might enſue!—"It would break my heart!—it would make me mad!"—cried Charles!—"Would my friend were here at this moment!—why did you let him depart?—Some way muſt befound to preſerve him,—Olivia,—you,—myſelf,—and all that belong to us,—from the horrors that are impending!—conſider of it, Caroline!—oh! conſider of it!—conſult your pillow!—remember what we [196]have at ſtake!—it is an awful criſis!—if there is not any expedient to ſave us from irremediable deſpair, what muſt be the re⯑ſult?—Oh Caroline! for the ſake of pity, friendſhip, love, ſuggeſt ſomething:—my brain ſeems turning as I ſpeak to you.—My ſiſter and my friend alone are in the confi⯑dence of my affliction!—it involves them⯑ſelves!—it will ſpread to all who belong to us!—Caroline, weigh the matter well:—I am diſtracted."

He broke from her, and hurried down ſtairs, leaving his ſiſter more perplexed than ever: for ſhe perceived too plainly, by her brother's vehemence in the relation, that the deſigns at the caſtle were almoſt ripe for that event which would determine the de⯑ſtiny of all whom it concerned:—the mini⯑ature of Olivia had wrought him to a curioſity, whoſe gratification had proved worſe than the myſtery of his ſiſter's diſtreſs.—In ſhort, ſhe perceived, that Charles had been long as violently in love with Olivia, as Henry could poſſibly be with herſelf:—but with this ſtrong and unfortunate differ⯑ence [197]in the returns of the paſſion,—that Olivia was not ſenſible to, indeed was not conſcious of, the tenderneſs of Charles;—whereas Caroline felt in the bottom of her tyrannized heart, in deſpite of her diſap⯑pointment and deſpair,—that it beat only for Henry.

It was no leſs apparent to her, that her brother and her Henry had been generouſly, but unavailingly, playing into each other;s hands, to proſper their affection by impart⯑ing favourable impreſſions of each other to the beloved object;—and that, although the intereſt of Charles, was not, thereby, in any meaſure advanced, Henry had not acted with leſs zeal, conſiſtent with the caution it was thought right to obſerve, than Charles; in fine, that the friendſhip of theſe young men was equally noble, generous, and indefa⯑tigable.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE vigilant Sir Guiſe, like a kind parent who has reaſon to fear his children were unhappy, was upon the ſtairs to re⯑ceive his beloved ſon when he came from Caroline's apartment;mdash;ſolemnly proteſt⯑ing, the ſupreme delight of his life would be to ſee his offspring as happy as their own wiſhes could make them,—which was an exact compromiſe betwixt ſincerity and deceit; for in the caſe of Charles it was true, and in that of Caroline it was falſe.—In fact, he was in ſome ſort alienated from the former, by the almoſt conſtant up⯑braidings he received, on the double ſcores of his tyranny and cowardice.—Charles, however, ſtill retained much of his invo⯑luntary affection:—and if any thing in the world, except the miſcarriage of cer⯑tain great deſigns which had been long rolling in his mind, could have broken down the bulwark of that impenetrable [199]ſtuff of which his heart was compoſed, it would perhaps have been the total loſs of his ſon's ſociety, ſo often threatened.

"It is needleſs, my dear Charles," ſaid this affectionate father,—"to give you the pain of repeating your diſcourſe with Caroline:—I have heard too much already for my peace, and I ſee you are much affected.—This letter, indeed," added Sir Guiſe, "is, of itſelf, a hiſtory of the plans carrying on at the caſtle:—but do not read it at preſent: to⯑morrow morning you will be more able to take meaſures in behalf of your poor ſiſter, and counteract their ſtratagems."

Charles received the letter; and ſee⯑ing it had been written by Sir Armine,— indeed it was that brought to the abbey for Henry, and left there in his confuſion,—"I muſt read it, Sir," ſaid Charles, "though every ſentence were a poignard, and my life-blood ſhould flow from the wounds."—He peruſed the fatal epiſtle which had al⯑ready been the cauſe of ſo much diſtreſs: and when he came to the paſſages, that men⯑tioned [200]the ſtate of the preparation for Oli⯑via's marriage, he burſt forth into the moſt extravagant geſtures and expreſſions.

"Have you come to that part," ſaid Sir Guiſe, "where Fitzorton inſolently talks of the diſgrace and infamy of an alliance with our family?"

Charles replied to this queſtion, only by a wild, inſenſible kind of ſtare.

"And did you take notice, my dear boy, of the ſaucy air which the proud-hearted John gives himſelf,—inſinuating, than an union with the Stuarts would be pollution?"

"O Sir! breathe not an accent againſt John Fitzorton,"—anſwered Charles, reco⯑vering himſelf.—"He is the ſecond young man in the world; and his brother, my friend Henry, is the firſt;—my obligations to both are infinite; and I love Henry next to—but, perdition! if he marries her!—it muſt not be!—I will ſooner put an end to both their lives,—to my own!"

Charles cruſhed the paper between his hands,—then opened and read it again.

[201]His father began to fear he had carried this exploit too far:—he ſaw with terror theſe violences increaſe,—and did not know how ſoon they might be turned upon him⯑ſelf.

"What is this I ſee?"—queſtioned Charles, taking a light to read the paſſage more clearly.—"Who is this?—Jane Atwood!"

"Jane Atwood!"—reiterated Sir Guiſe, who,—in his eagerneſs to ſhew his ſon, doubtleſs for ſome good reaſon, this letter,—had forgot what he would at preſent have concealed:—but after the confuſion of a moment, he exclaimed with admirable pre⯑ſence of mind,—"Yes, they have, I un⯑derſtand, hunted up that infamous huſſy, in order to fortify themſelves with freſh malice, and do me freſh miſchief in the coun⯑try.—Think, Charles, what I am ready to do for the happineſs of you and your ſiſter, when I am willing to paſs over even this mean inſult!—his low paltry revenge!—Jenny Atwood, you know, is the girl, who I told you, ran away from her pariſh with child, and then put it round the country [202]forſooth, that I was the father of the brat.—You remember the impudent ſtory, I dare ſay: but heaven knows, I forgive them all:—nay, my dear ſon ſhall even carry my ad⯑vances to them, for the ſake of my chil⯑dren's happineſs;—and, indeed, for that of my own, I will meet my bittereſt enemies on the road of reconciliation, more than half way:—as to Jenny Atwood, old Fitzorton, and the furious Mr. John, I will,—I ought,—I am at peace with them all."

Sir Guiſe now ſtrung together, and ſtrewed around his pious harangue, many an holy text from ſacred, and many a moral axiom from profane hiſtory,—ending with this aſſeveration:—"Yes, Charles, I repeat, I forgive them all."

Whether his beloved ſon was ſufficiently collected to hear any part of the foregoing ſpeech, or was a ſceptic as to its ſincerity, is uncertain:—he only replied to the paſ⯑ſage that had reference to Jenny Atwood;—and to that he ſaid with ſome difficul⯑ty, but with a marked, though obſtruct⯑ed emphaſis,—"As to the poor girl, by [203]whatever means ſhe found her way to the caſtle, Sir, I am ſure ſhe will there find thoſe who will pity and protect her."

"Then you did not expect this marriage would take place quite ſo ſoon,"—interrupted the Baronet, willing to ſhift the diſcourſe.—"I ſhould not wonder if they were to hurry Henry into it ſo ſoon as to-morrow,—eſpe⯑cially if they ſhould, any how, hear what confuſion we are in about it."

"To-morrow!"—raved Charles,—"What! Henry and Olivia!—marry! to-morrow!—does this accurſed, this murderous letter ſay ſo?—Have you heard—did Henry dare to intimate—'Tis well I am come thus oppor⯑tunely for the ceremony!—I will be there!—yes! depend upon it, I will be there to-morrow!—damnation!"

Sir Guiſe felt himſelf now in a worſe ſcrape than ever, and wiſhed he had let the conver⯑ſation take its courſe even about Jenny At⯑wood.—Charles tore one of the ſheets of the letter with a vehemence bordering on phrenzy,—put part of the fragments into his mouth, and champed them between his teeth.

[204]The affrighted Denniſon came in, ſaying, his poor young lady had, in a great fright, rung to know what was the matter, and whether her preſence could be uſeful?—Charles roſe,—ſhook the old man by the hand,—begged him to entreat his ſiſter's for⯑giveneſs for ſuch unſeaſonable diſturbances; and that if ſhe would try herſelf to get a lit⯑tle reſt, he would withdraw to his chamber, and not utter another complaining ſyllable, though his poor heart ſhould burſt in his boſom. "Bear this meſſage to her, good fellow," ſaid Charles; "and tell her you ſaw me going to perform my promiſe:—but let me be called early." Then taking a candle, and bidding Sir Guiſe reſpectfully a good night, he went into his bed-room without thinking of any refreſhments after the fatigues of his journey, or the greater wearineſs of contending paſſions.

Denniſon ſhook his head, as he went at full trot upon his commiſſion, obſerving as he aſcended the ſtairs,—there muſt be a place of comfort, bye and bye, ſeeing that here upon earth there was none,—that high [205]and low, rich and poor, can get no reſt in this world for the ſoles of their feet,—and ſeeing, beſides, that if this had been intended as a place of happineſs, his young maſter, and miſtreſs, and ſquire Henry, would be as merry as their days were long.

Sir Guiſe Stuart's morality was all in ſo⯑liloquy, for he immediately went to bed, though we have our reaſons for thinking, not to ſleep.

Peradventure, courteous reader, thou art diſpoſed to retire into thy chamber alſo. Torpid, indeed, muſt have been thy diſpoſi⯑tion, if it has permitted thee to nod while the foregoing ſcenes were repreſenting. But, as a feeling ſpectator enters into, and may be ſaid to partake of, the exertions of the actor, thy ſympathy for the ſufferings of ſome of the principal characters may have no leſs fatigued thy ſpirits, to read, than ours to relate; on which preſumption we here reſign thee to what one of our poets has called ‘Nature's ſoft reſtorer:’ and while thou art refreſhing thyſelf, we will [206]endeavour to prepare ſomething worthy of thy renovated powers.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IT has been intimated that the worthy baronet had heard, or rather overheard, the preceding converſation betwixt his ſon and daughter. In truth, it is very certain, he knew every ſyllable of their diſcourſe, as well as if he had been preſent the whole time. Indeed thoſe parts of him, beſt adapted to take in the intelligence were, in a manner, preſent; for, though he could not, in ſtrict⯑neſs of ſpeaking, be ſaid to be an eye, he had been an ear, witneſs, and could have ſworn to the facts, on auricular demonſtra⯑tion, in any court of judicature, as conſcien⯑tiouſly as if he had been a ſpectator. The worthy baronet conſtantly put himſelf in the way of enjoying all the benefits of this mode of collecting evidence; and as to hearing now and then ſuch a character of [207]himſelf as he knew he deſerved,—in drawing which, his ſervants, or others, would liberally deal forth the words—'profligate—villain—coward,' &c. he treated theſe things as mere matters of courſe, which were no more able to reach his conſcience, at leaſt to wound it, than the paper pellet of a pop-gun from a ſchoolboy's arm could penetrate the anvil which had ſtood the heat and hammer of a century in a blackſmith's ſhop.

By theſe laudable means, he knew every body's FAMILY SECRETS, without any ha⯑zard of divulging his own,—which is fre⯑quently an unwelcome interruption to the buſineſs in hand, perplexing it with adventi⯑tious matter. Sometimes, it muſt be owned, the liſtener, who is juſtly ſaid ſeldom to hear much good of himſelf, is a little put to it to maintain his poſt, which the baronet, like the poet,—leaving out only the expletive word "honour"—found, was "a private ſtation."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE meditations of Henry Fitzorton on his ſecond expulſion from the abbey, and partly by that very clearing up of affairs ſo long dreaded, and deſired, were not more enviable than thoſe of Caroline. His night ſcenes, indeed, from this place, were gene⯑rally gloomy enough; and ſome evil planet ſeemed to rule his deſtiny whenever he paſſed along the famous grand avenue, by which he now again ſought the caſtle.

His old habit of holding converſations with himſelf returned ſtrongly upon him, as he reached the pathway at which the firſt fatal declaration of his love for Caroline took place. "Since that moment," cried he, "ah! what has been my life, but a ſucceſſion of myſteries and misfortunes? I am driven from the caſtle to the abbey, and again from the abbey to the caſtle, only to be made more and more the ſport of my ma⯑licious ſtars! If a gleam of hope breaks [209]upon me from Caroline, it is inſtantly cloud⯑ed by Olivia! If I labour to teach my heart to ſacrifice itſelf to the latter, the former ſeems to pronounce, that my peace and my vows are broken for ever! Here the mi⯑ſery of my boſom friend! and there the de⯑ſolation of my own family! Even the ap⯑probation of Sir Guiſe, which I thought a bleſſing beyond my reach, is no ſooner ob⯑tained, than another impediment ſtarts up to render that bleſſing of no avail! I have left thoſe conſecrated walls again in deſpair; and what awaits me at the place to which I am directing my ſteps? If I unravel the like myſterious cauſes there, the like effects muſt enſue,—the tears of Olivia! and the wrath of my dear—dear—father! If I re⯑main ſilent, which I have already done but too long, that ſilence will be again ad⯑duced in proof of my conſent to their diſ⯑poſal of my revolting heart!"

All this time True George was within a few paces of Henry, but ſaid not a word: when⯑ever his maſter turned, or made any tranſ⯑verſe motions, the faithful ſervant, who had [210]the legs of a hare though he had not the wings of a bird, was on the oppoſite ſide in a moment: his cuſtom, when there hap⯑pened, as in the preſent inſtance, to be any trees or hedges, was to keep as near to them as poſſible; and in caſe of neceſſity, he was in, over, or under them in the twinkling of an eye.

In truth, this honeſt fellow, independent on the veneration he bare to Henry for his book-learning, and eſpecially for his quota⯑tions from the poets, had long ſuſpected, and for ſome time paſt looked upon him, to be abſolutely mad; and from the various ſolilo⯑quies he had overheard, in which the name of Caroline was ſo often mentioned, he had ſet it down that this injury on his poor ma⯑ſter's brain had been occaſioned by his being croſſed in love. But his ſenſe of honour was naturally too great to breathe the diſco⯑very which he thought he had made, to any ſecond perſon upon earth; and his fear of offending, and indeed, of making his maſter worſe, had, in like manner, reſtrained him from ſpeaking of it to Henry himſelf. In [211]the day-time, George was pretty eaſy, think⯑ing Henry ſufficiently ſafe in the ſociety of his friends or relations: but, from the very inſtant that the evening drew in, he was as aſſiduouſly upon guard, as if it was his turn to hold watch on the toll of the curfew; and he attended his maſter's motions, from night⯑fall even until bed-time, making it a con⯑ſtant rule not to leave him till he was or⯑dered to take away his light.

This general aſſiduity had not a little endeared him to Henry, whoſe gratitude for every degree of kindneſs ſhewn to him, whatever was the rank or ſtation of the obliging perſon, was lively and ſincere. Hi⯑therto, however, George's nocturnal attend⯑ance had eſcaped the diſcovery of his maſter.

The dexterity and management with which the poor fellow kept ſentry upon Henry, is curious.—If any ſentence dropt towards evening, ſignifying his maſter's de⯑ſign to take his moon-light ſtroll, or retire to bed earlier than uſual, on the pretence of ſudden indiſpoſition,—or, if he ſaw Hen⯑ry [212]more than uſually merry or ſad,—(for, ſo well had he ſtudied him, he looked upon both theſe extremes as ſymptomatic)—he was from that inſtant at work.—He had long known, that no impediments of wea⯑ther could prevent his maſter's going forth, when the wandering ſpirit ſeized him.—If then the night was ſtormy, or likely ſo to be, George would be provided with his comfortables, as he called them, according to the ſtate of the element.—He would be as reſtleſs in the kitchen, or ſervants' hall, as his maſter in the parlour, or 'drawing-room.—George was as great a favourite below ſtairs, as was his maſter above;—and his fellow ſervants found it difficult to make him ſit down to a diſh of tea; or, if they prevailed, and his hour was almoſt come, he would ſwallow it in haſte.—The maids jeered him upon this:—one ſaid, he was like a troubled ſpirit;—another likened him to a bad conſcience;—and the butler, who was a great ſcholar, to the perpetual motion.—Rachel, one of the houſe-maids, [213]who was ſuſpected to have a kindneſs for him, toſſed up her head, and ſaid, "She ſuppoſed, the poor devil was in love,—and, that he had ſome lady or another, who met him every night in a fairy bower:—but for her part, ſhe never knew any good come of forward huſſies who went ſkulking after fellows in lanes and alleys:—if a man fol⯑lows a woman," ſaid ſhe,—"let him follow her fair and above board;—for her part, ſhe ſuppoſed a brat would be laid at the gentleman's door, for all his ſlyneſs."——"Lord, Mrs. Rachel," replies Mrs. cook,—"why, for ſartain ſure you are jealous:—Mr. George has only got the fidgets; and as for brats," here ſhe winked with one eye at the coachman, and looked ſtedfaſtly at Mrs. Rachel's ſhape, with the other,—"as for the matter of brats,—my notion of theſeum things is, that they are to be had, without going into lanes and alleys, or out of the houſe either.—What ſay you, coachee?"—Here the cook began the laugh; the coachee, as ſhe called him, continued it; and the reſt joined in chorus,—till Rachel would ſome⯑times [214]times bitterly aſſert, that "heaven knows, nobody can ever accuſe you, Mrs. cook, of having brats!—you may thank God for that, however:—look in the glaſs,—that's all—look in the glaſs."—At other times, ſhe would content herſelf with calling every one a pack of ſlanderous, enviable perſon⯑ages, take herſelf off into her lady's cham⯑ber, where ſhe often ſat at work,—ſaying, as ſhe left the room, "It ſerved her right for mixing with a ſet of vulgar, vandal-goth ſouls, who were born to the kitchen!—She was naturally a parlour-bred young wo⯑man."

None of theſe gibes or jeers, however, had the ſmalleſt effect upon George, who heard them out, if he was certain of his maſter;—and if not, he would often leave them in the midſt of their irony, and pur⯑ſue his deſigns.—Once, indeed, he was dogged by another of the ſervants, as far as the outer gate that led into the park: but, luckily, Henry was then a good way for⯑ward; and George, turning round, told the fellow, that "if he followed him an inch [215]farther, or ever ſerved him ſuch a trick again, he would pull the ſkin over his ears, and throw it in his face, though he were to die a thouſand deaths for it!—I pry into no man's buſineſs," ſaid George;—"and d*mn me, if I ſuffer any man upon earth, except my maſter whoſe bread I eat, to pry into mine!"—The fellow, here⯑upon, ſtole off, while he had the whole of his ſkin to cover him,—and, as it may be ſuppoſed, told every ſervant in the houſe: for none ever after preſumed to interrupt George,—though it was univerſally be⯑lieved he was deſperately in love with ſome maid, wife, or widow, in the neigh⯑bourhood, who dared only have a ſtolen interview with him in the evenings.

George, however, was ſo kind-hearted a young fellow, and ſo generally beloved, that every body forgave him, but Mrs. Ra⯑chel; and even the man he ſo dreadfully menaced, exclaimed, "Why, 'tis after a woman, I warrant; and there's no harm in that.—He that won't go out at pitch dark after a woman, ought to be d****d."—But [216]Mrs. Rachel obſerved, "Such good-for-no⯑thing forward harlots, who draw young men aſtray,—and the fellows too, who can like ſuch filthy, naſty huſſies,—ought every one of them to be burnt alive"—To which the learned clerk of our kitchen, the butler before mentioned, ſlyly anſwered, taking her conſiderately round the waiſt, "God forbid, Mrs. Rachel, they ſhould all take flame, unleſs you are prepared to go off to the other world in a flaſh of fire, like a ſky-rocket."

In ſhort, George made uſe of as many ſtratagems, and was as much put to his ſhifts, to avoid being ſeen or ſuſpected by his maſter, as his maſter put in practice to eſcape the detection of Olivia, whoſe cuſ⯑tom of becoming, as heretofore, the com⯑panion of his wanderings, he had for ſome time as much as poſſible prevented.

George, however, was himſelf in no ſmall hazard of being diſcovered, as he was now following his maſter to the abbey;—for when Henry had got almoſt to the caſtle-gate, after curſing his fortune at every ſe⯑cond [217]ſtep, he all at once wheeled round▪ exclaiming, in the language of Romeo, whoſe deſtiny he conſidered, at the moment, in ſome reſpects ſimilar to his own,— ‘Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out!’ This he uttered with a rant of natural grief, more truly felt, but with much, alſo, of the wildneſs and extravagance of the theatre.

Henry then aſked himſelf, why the Mon⯑tagues and Capulets ſhould be thus at va⯑riance?—Then anſwered his own queſtion. "My only love ſprung from my only hate!" cried he. "Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Henry traced ſuch reſemblance to his fate in this celebrated love ſtory,—and roſe ſo high in his heroics, as he ran the parallel betwixt himſelf and Romeo, and Caroline and Juliet,—that he was to the full as much diſtracted as they could have been.

"No!" ejaculated he, "'tis paſt! Oh; never more muſt I hope

At the end of this rhapſody, he ſet off at full ſpeed, as if carried away by the ſen⯑timent:—and he had, indeed, ſo abſolutely made the caſe his own,—forcing it to apply where it did not, and appearing almoſt to think he was the identical Romeo, where it did,—that, had not the darkneſs favoured,—at the ſight of a man running as faſt as he could towards the avenue, and then hiding behind the trees in the viſta,—George would have had good reaſon to ſay, with Mercutio, "A plague o' both your houſes!"

When George thought all ſafe, he ven⯑tured from his hiding place,—but not daring to riſque another ſcene of the ſame kind that night, ſuffered his maſter to go into the houſe firſt; and then ſtealing ſoftly round to the back gate, of which he had a key, he was in time to ſlip on another frock, and [219]get into his maſter's chamber, ſoon after Henry had rung his bell.—The family, and even Olivia, had given up all thought of ſeeing Henry for the night, and had gone to reſt,—one of the ſervants having obſerved, while waiting at ſupper, that young ſquire Stuart was juſt arrived.—George, glad that he had eſcaped ſo well, went to bed, but not without ſtrong ſuſpicions that his poor maſter would not be long out of Bedlam.— Nay, the honeſt fellow began to debate with himſelf, whether it would not be better, at once, to tell the melancholy, or rather rav⯑ing, ſtate in which he often ſaw him, to his family, for fear worſe ſhould come of it.—"Who knows but he may lay violent hands on himſelf, before one is aware?" ſaid George:—"and then what is to become of us?—Heigho!" ſighed George:—"Love's a ſad thing.—I ſuppoſe Jenny Atwood is a-bed and aſleep now.—Well, God bleſs her!—and God bleſs us all!—Heigho!—I'll go to bed too.—I hope I never ſhall be ſo much in love.—Heigho!—Yes, I dare ſay Jenny At⯑wood is aſleep.—Heigho!"

[220]George repaired to his truckle bed, which was in a cloſet adjoining his maſter's, where he had begged, long before, he might ſleep,—to be within call,—in caſe any thing ſhould happen in the night.

The good fellow quietly undreſſed him⯑ſelf: but the affair of Romeo and Juliet, the Montagues and Capulets, had quite ſettled with him his maſter's madneſs, which he now conſidered as incurable: and his laſt words that night were, "Ah! poor dear gentleman! it's all over with him now, ſure enough.—What a terrible thing love is, when it comes to this!—Heigho!—The Lord deliver us!—I won⯑der how Jenny is to night.—I hope I never ſhall love at this rate!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WHATEVER roſes hope might ſtrew on the pillow of Olivia, that of Henry was on this night lined with thorns.—When, for an inſtant, he dropt into a tranſitory ſlum⯑ber, all the images of a diſturbed imagina⯑tion and tortured mind roſe to his view.—At one moment his fancy repreſented him toſſing in the ocean, at another labouring in mud;—ſometimes his ears were aſſailed by the ſhrieks of both Caroline and Olivia, falling in the general ruin;—and ſometimes he beheld his friend Charles pointing a dag⯑ger at his boſom.

In his waking hours, he often reſolved on a ſtratagem to eſcape the union of Olivia, by an elopement with Caroline,—and pro⯑jected this ſo as to form a double plot, includ⯑ing the flight of Olivia with Charles.—The violent emotions accompanying this idea, extravagant as it was, operated with ſuch force on his burning fancy, that he ſuddenly [222]ſtarted upright in his bed, and exclaimed, "Would it were morning!—I will be at the abbey by day-break!—Surely, Charles is by this time arrived!—If not, I will go poſt to meet him!—Were he at the end of the earth, I would travel towards him!"—Then preſſing his repeater, which hung at the bed' [...] head, he found, to his infinite mortification, that it was only two o'clock.

The ſound of his exclamations had pierced the ear of the truſty George, who had him⯑ſelf been kept awake by his own reflections, partly about his maſter, and partly about himſelf;—for the havoc he had witneſſed in a human breaſt by diſappointment in love, made a very ſtrong impreſſion, and convinced him more fully of a truth he had before begun to ſuſpect, in regard to his own heart.

George was certainly much alarmed at the ſtate of his maſter, yet no leſs ſtruck at the prodigious effects of the paſſion itſelf;—and as well from the dread of his being one day reduced to the ſame condition, as from the hope that he ſhould not,—each lover [223]commonly making himſelf the happy excep⯑tion to a general rule,—he was effectually kept from cloſing his eyes.

The moment, therefore, he heard Henry's concluding aſſeveration, that, were Charles at the end of the earth, he would travel towards him,—he leaped out of his own bed, and was at the ſide of his maſter's, juſt as the watch had repeated the inauſpicious hour.

"For goodneſs' ſake, what is the matter with your honour?—Can I do any thing for your honour myſelf?—Shall I go for the doctor?—Shall I call up the reſt of the ſervants?—or the family?—I fear your honour is very bad.—How is your honour's head?—Hot—very hot—all of a coal!—your honour is in a high fever!—let me ſtrike a light."

"No," anſwered Henry, "not ſo, ho⯑neſt fellow.—I know you love me, George."

"Love you, your honour! Yes!" though my diſtracted ſenſes, too, ſhould forſake me,—"I'd find, as the play ſays, and as I have [224]heard your honour ſay,—I'd find ſome inter⯑val, when—"

"Go then to bed," ſaid Henry: "riſe at the firſt peep of dawn:—run to the abbey;—aſk if Lieutenant Stuart is arrived, and bring me word, unknown to any body."

"He is arrived, your honour: our coach⯑man told me he ſaw him ride by the park pales about ten o'clock laſt night; which muſt be ſoon after we—we—that is, after your honour, left the abbey."

"Arrived!" anſwered Henry. "Then let my own horſe and your's be ſaddled, and in the ſtable, ready to mount, by four o'clock. Leave me now; and be ſure you are not after the time, my good George."

"I'll make very ſure of that, your honour, by not going to bed any more.—Try to get a bit of reſt yourſelf, dear good ſir; and I will call you to the click of the quarters, ſo that you ſhall be on horſeback as the clock is ſtriking."

George,—knowing this to be the beſt mode of arranging the buſineſs, both for [225]his maſter's eaſe, and his own,—did not wait for any objections thereto,—but com⯑mending Henry's loſt wits to God, ſhut the door of the chamber, and returned to his own.

At the time appointed, with an accuracy that marked the exactneſs of his character, he had not only done his work in the ſtable, but in the houſe alſo; for he had made a fire, boiled the kettle, had a diſh of coffee, and all his comfortables, ſmiling upon a table, in what was called the hunting parlour, to greet his maſter, on coming down ſtairs,—and by calling Henry a few minutes earlier than the ſpecified hour, had allowed time for taking the refreſh⯑ment.

What was the nature of his maſter's bu⯑ſineſs, George never enquired. This young man had firſt been in the ſervice of John Fitzorton, as the reader remembers, while yet a boy, and ſince a private in John's regi⯑ment; and had ſo well profited by his mili⯑tary education, that he practiſed ever after towards his commanding officer,—and ſuch [226]he now looked upon Henry to be,—the law of non-reſiſtance and paſſive obedience.—Indeed, a ſlight nod often teſtified his aſſent to what was required of him: but moſt commonly the laſt word of any meſſage ſent him off without any ſign or token at all.

Henry, however, having had leiſure to reflect on the inconſiſtency, ingratitude, and even impoſſibility of carrying his wild ſcheme into execution,—told George that he had altered his mind as to ſetting out ſo early, but ſhould perhaps ride or walk to ſee his friend Mr. Stuart in the courſe of the day, and would try to ſleep an hour or two now, that he might be ready to attend his own family at breakfaſt;—and cordially adviſed George to do the ſame.

The joy of our worthy domeſtic, on ſee⯑ing his maſter unexpectedly compoſed, was ſo great, that he ſunk involuntarily upon his knees, exclaiming with much fervency, "The Lord be praiſed!"—then drawing the curtains, and cloſing part of the ſhutter next to the bed, that the light might not prove unfavourable to his maſter's ſlumbers, [227]—he went on tiptoe out of the apartment, reiterating in whiſpers,—"the Lord be praiſed! the Lord, of his infinite mercy, be praiſed!—He may do yet."

Henry's fixed reſolution, however, was,—let the conſequence be what it might, or whatever involvements it might bring upon the abbey, or the caſtle, or both,—to make a full and free confeſſion of the paſt and preſent, and long-eſtabliſhed ſtate of his affections, in the courſe of that very day,—and, indeed, at all hazards, to prevent his union with Olivia Clare, even if the loſs of Caroline Stuart, and his own ruin, ſhould be the iſſue of the explanation.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AFTER turning this, at length irrevo⯑cable determination, as he called it, into various ſhapes,—how beſt to proceed in it,— [228]whether to begin by diſcourſe with Olivia, with James, or with his mother, whoſe heart he knew was his own.—or whether to make his confeſſions, and his "round unvarniſhed tale deliver" in preſence of the whole fa⯑mily,—he lay for ſome time in a ſtate be⯑twixt ſleeping and waking,—a ſtate pro⯑duced by a violent tenſion of the thoughts to one of thoſe objects which hurries the animal ſpirits, till the mind, having fa⯑tigued itſelf and the body, is compelled, from very heavineſs of the fleſh and ſpirit, to grant the relief of a pauſe,—during which we cannot ſtrictly be ſaid either to ſleep or wake:—the word, which, for lack of a better, we have for it, is dozing, a kind of intermediate ſtate betwixt a vehement emotion and no emotion at all;—the mind ſtill carrying on, though feebly, her former deſigns, till the body, relaxed and languid, is unable to keep pace with her;—and a perſon may lie in this ſtate ſeveral hours, and find himſelf, in the end, without any material refreſhment.

[229]Out of this dozing then Henry was a⯑rouſed by a ſcratching at the door, as from the foot of a dog:—this was preſently fol⯑lowed by another, and that again by a whine, which ſpoke, as plainly as any lan⯑guage, that, whoever might be the peti⯑tioner, he earneſtly deſired to be admitted. As Henry was going to the door, he was ſa⯑luted by the barking of the ſaid petitioner, ac⯑companied by a ſmart pat againſt the pan⯑nel of the door, indicating that, having done with ſupplication, the ſaid pat might be con⯑ſidered as a ſort of threat to effect a forcible entry in caſe of longer reſiſtance.—On open⯑ing the door, who ſhould make his appear⯑ance but little Fitz,—ſo was he called,—the favourite and almoſt conſtant companion of Caroline Stuart.—It had been Henry's gift to that young lady, who was grown ſo fond of it, partly for its own ſake and partly for the donor's, that ſhe never ſuffered it out of her ſight without feeling uneaſy.—It had been preſent, of courſe, at all the ſcenes of joy and ſorrow which had paſſed between the lovers, and there⯑fore [230]was much in the good graces of both.

But, how to account for this unexpected viſit, Henry could no way conjecture.—However, little Fitz came at the right mo⯑ment to receive a hearty welcome;—for Henry no ſooner beheld his viſitor, than he hugged, kiſſed, and called him as many en⯑dearing epithets, as if it had been Caroline herſelf.—The fancy of Henry, always ready to encourage the illuſions of his heart, ſoon gave to this delightful "airy nothing," more than "a local habitation." He called the dog dear little name-ſake:—indeed it was at his own deſire Fitz had been ſo ho⯑noured;—"For," ſaid Henry, "it will make Caroline then think of the donor."—He aſſured little Fitz, that he was more grate⯑ful for his attention now, than at any for⯑mer period of their friendſhip for each other, as he was convinced he came on purpoſe to comfort him in the hour of his deſpair:—"But how did you find your way to my chamber?—and how long haſt thou been ſitting at my door, poor fellow?—And [231]why didſt thou not addreſs thyſelf to me before?—So thrive my ſoul, as I would ſhare with thee my bed and board, ſooner than with the fineſt object amidſt the works of creation, thy miſtreſs alone excepted.—But what will ſhe ſay to thy playing truant?—does ſhe know of thy coming?—or did Caroline ſend thee in charity to Henry?"

He continued this rhapſody much farther, and kindled in his courſe, till it is to be doubted whether he did not really expect regular replies to thoſe interrogatories.—Be that as it may, we never underſtood that the dog gave any anſwer whatever,—ſave that he had now changed the whine of com⯑plaint, to the exulting note of joy;—for it admits not of a doubt, that the little ani⯑mal was extremely glad to ſee Henry, who had frequently taken him into the fields and foreſts, and treated him with the ſight of a hare or partridge;—for which, as well as other tokens of good-will, little Fitz, who was extremely well born, and well edu⯑cated too,—being of the ſpaniel kind and of a choice breed,—was entirely grateful; ſo [232]that, in fact, there was no love loſt betwixt him and Henry.

But, whatever impreſſion this enthuſiaſtic addreſs to little Fitz might make upon him, it ſunk peculiarly deep into the mind of True George. The door being open when the dog entered, he heard quite ſufficient to convince him that the few hopes he had before enter⯑tained of his maſter's wits being reſtored, were now over, and that the unhappy gen⯑tleman was ten times more diſtracted than ever.

The various queſtions he heard put to the dog, gave George the ſtrongeſt apprehen⯑ſions even of raving madneſs: but when Henry, with the utmoſt extravagance of voice, talked about ſharing bed and board with the dog, and giving him the prefe⯑rence to all the objects of created nature ex⯑cept Caroline,—the poor fellow could hardly contain his ſorrowful emotions, which, in deſpite of himſelf, forced their way between his teeth, as he muttered "Alas! quite gone!—mad as a March hare!—Lord have mercy upon us!—If I thought the caſe would ever [233]be mine, I'd hang myſelf at once out of the way! Oh Jenny!—Jenny!—All this for a dumb beaſt!—very well in his place! I would not hurt a worm!—but a worm is a worm;—and a dog is a dog,—and a dog is a beaſt of the field;—and what is a beaſt to do in a man's bed, except a Chriſtian gives him a pat, and away, or ſo, to get him down,—as much as to ſay, 'If you pleaſe, ſir, off my bed, and make room for your betters:' and, to be ſure, Chriſtians are better than dumb beaſts at any time; and if they a'n't, more ſhame for 'em.—Poor ſoul!—quite loſt in⯑deed! —gone for ever!—O merciful father! for pity, how mad he is!"

Moſt of this ſpeech was delivered as George walked to and fro in the long gallery, which extending the whole length of the bedchambers, Henry heard only the words which began and ended it—viz, "quite loſt!—mad as a March hare!—gone for ever," &c. To which he replied, "What's that you ſay?—who's there?—George?"

"Yes, your honour," replied George, [234]giving the matter a turn for fear of making his maſter worſe,—ever an uppermoſt idea,— "'tis only me, ſir."—"Gone for ever—and mad as a March hare—what are you talking about?" ſaid Henry.—"Little Fitz, pleaſe your honour.—I found, after we—that is, your honour—got home, he had followed us—fol⯑lowed you, that is—from the abbey; ſo I let him have a night's lodging in my room, know⯑ing he was Lady Caroline's dog, and made him a ſnug birth in the corner: and when I got up he was off; and I was ſaying to my⯑ſelf, —ſays I,—he's gone—he's loſt—and if he is, it will make Lady Caroline as mad as a March hare.—But I ſee your honour has him ſafe; ſo it's all well. But breakfaſt waits, your honour."

"Well then," ſaid Henry, "give this dear little fellow ſomething to eat; and keep him out of ſight till I can walk over with him to the abbey; and be ſure you let him have what he likes: for, d**n me if I don't love him almoſt as well as if—"

"He ſhall be taken good care of, your honour, depend on it," interpoſed George, [235]lifting him from the bed, and walking off with him under his arm, before Henry could finiſh his aſſeveration.

Henry had always been much attached to, and not a little ſuperſtitious about the fide⯑lity and genius of dogs: and this friendly viſit of little Fitz was, to his poetic heart, a freſh proof that the canine came very near to the human ſpecies, in thoſe matters, barring ſome very nice and ſubtle diſtinc⯑tions, about which he would ſometimes rea⯑ſon with John, till that philoſophic youth would pronounce him, as did True George, ſometimes to be mad, and ſometimes only merry.

It was in the preſent caſe a yet farther confirmation, when, before Henry had left his chamber, little Fitz had given George the ſlip, and again paid his reſpects to the lover of Caroline. And at the time of this his ſecond appearance, Henry was offering his devotions to Caroline's miniature. This, he told Fitz, leſt he ſhould approach it in an unhallowed manner—this, he told Fitz, was the picture of her they both adored. [236]"But, you happy creature," added Henry, you will be fondled by the original when I, perhaps—" He then fell to careſſing the ſpa⯑niel and the picture by turns, and concluded, by exclaiming, as he was going out of his room, "Dear, precious reſemblance!—ne⯑ver —never—will I part with thee!—not Death himſelf ſhall ſnatch thee from me!"

The chamber-door was all this time wide open, and the above words were heard di⯑ſtinctly, and the ſpeaker of them ſeen, by Lady Fitzorton, Mr. Clare, and Olivia,—the two latter at that inſtant coming from Oli⯑via's chamber, where the former had, as uſual, given her a gentle ſummons, to ſee if her daughter, as ſhe always called her, was ready to go down to breakfaſt; and they met Mr. Clare as he was ſhutting the door of his apartment.

The trio were all of one mind, as to what they heard and ſaw. Olivia bleſſed herſelf, and cried,—"Dear ſoul!—how he honours my poor gift!—See madam,"—turning to Lady Fitzorton,—"ought I not to be proud?"—"It gives me almoſt as much joy as it does [237]you," replied her ladyſhip: "for as he was not prepared for our coming, as you ſee by his agreeble confuſion, we may be ſure his careſſes of the picture are— ‘Warm from his heart and faithful to its fires.’ "Hey, Henry!" exclaimed Mr. Clare, "what ſignify your proſings, to a bard caught in ſo poetical a ſituation?—There's a quotation for him, that deſcribes him in his own way.—.For my part, I ſay nothing:—but were I Olivia, I ſhould be little pleaſed with the cold compliment paid to my inani⯑mate picture, when the original ſtood bloom⯑ing like the morning before him, without his ſo much as offering to—"

"Come, madam," ſaid Olivia, "ſhall we go down ſtairs?"—"With all my heart, my dear," anſwered Lady Fitz⯑orton:—"Mr. Clare will have his joke, you know."

"You'll follow, Henry," ſaid Olivia, bluſh⯑ing delightfully and tripping down ſtairs. "Is your friend Charles come? and, pray, [238]how fares my ſweet play-fellow, my ſweet friend?"

Olivia recollected it might not be quite prudent to mention Caroline's name at that inſtant, and ſo made the beſt of her way.

Henry had ſeldom been thrown into a more aukward ſituation. The miſtake of the miniature, which, on being diſcovered, he put haſtily out of ſight, was ſo extremely natural, and ſo impoſſible to be then explained, that he was utterly confounded; and his complex⯑ion now almoſt as nearly reſembled the car⯑nation as Olivia's: a circumſtance which lite⯑rally gave a ſtill ſtronger colour to the ſuppoſi⯑tion that the picture he had been ſo tranſ⯑ported with, was the one that Olivia had preſented.

What became of little Fitz, we never heard: but it is probable he had ſhyed off at the ſight of ſo much unexpected company; for he had naturally more diffidence than be⯑longs to favourites in general, whether of the biped or quadruped kind. But, indeed, he might very poſſibly have been at Henry's feet, and not noticed by either of the parties in their [239]confuſion; and, for the moment, Henry himſelf forgot, perhaps, that this "dear little ſoul, whom he preferred to created na⯑ture," had any exiſtence within the bounds of the univerſe. Be that as it may, Henry went down to breakfaſt:—but from what happened afterwards,—and, indeed, from what might be expected to happen from the queſtions which would ariſe on the unex⯑pected ſight of ſuch a gueſt,—we are rather inclined to think Henry did not perceive his companion till it was too late. Of this the reader will preſently form his own judgment.

CHAPTER XXX.

SIR ARMINE FITZORTON, who ſtood in the great hall which led from the cham⯑bers to ſeveral of the apartments, encoun⯑tered Henry as he came down ſtairs, and received him with an ardour of affection and applauſe, to which nothing but Henry's conſciouſneſs of not deſerving it, could have rendered him inſenſible.

"It is ſurely decreed," ſaid Sir Armine, [240]embracing Henry, "that my life is to be pre⯑ſerved by one or other of my children. Twice has it already been in danger, and twice have my ſons reſcued me!—Here, Henry, is the accurſed ſcroll, whoſe contents, had they been true, would have been far more fatal than the injury which this aged frame re⯑ceived from Sir Guiſe Stuart's horſe: for I am convinced they would have broken mine and your mother's heart.—Henry, therefore, merits, in a ſtill greater degree even than our beloved John, the title of his Parent's Preſerver.—I am grateful and I am happy."

The venerable man threw his arms round Henry's neck, and wept;—a circumſtance no way inconſiſtent with the tranſport either of gratitude or happineſs, and which nature often adduces in proof of both.

The heart of Henry, though throbbing with love for Caroline, was by no means unmoved by ſuch an appeal to it. It is more than probable indeed, that at ſuch a moment his heart had little to do with Caroline, or with any thing in this world but with the ſa⯑cred object in his embrace.

[241]"Oh Sir!" exclaimed he, "I cannot,— indeed I cannot bear it! Spare me, I conjure you; for I feel powerfully, that theſe tears, and the goodneſs which occaſions them, will be more fatal than that paper, what⯑ever it may ſuggeſt.—I cannot ſpeak!—my dear,—dear, father! I cannot ſpeak!"

"I perceive, my child, thou canſt not.—Bleſſings upon thee! Let us haſten then to thoſe whoſe affection for you is equal to my own."

They proceeded towards the breakfaſt parlour, the door of which was at that mo⯑ment opened by Olivia, who began to be impatient of Henry's delay.—"Your tea will be quite cold, gentlemen," ſaid ſhe, complainingly.

Sir Armine turned his face gently from her, and ſaid, "Give me your hand, Olivia, and let us take a turn or two before we go in.—There, Henry! do you follow my ex⯑ample."

Henry took the other hand, and they all three traverſed the hall for the ſpace of ſome [242]minutes,—Sir Armine attempting to hide ſtrong emotions, and Henry labouring in the ſame way. Both were unſucceſsful; Olivia perceived they had been in tears, and indeed ſtill diſcovered ſome which had lodged in the furrows of Sir Armine's cheek.

"Heavens!" ſaid ſhe, "what can theſe mean?" wiping them ſoftly away with the back of her hand:—"and yours, Henry, are not quite dry," ſaid ſhe, removing them by the like action.

"Why ſhould we endeavour, my ſon, to conceal the effects of our tranſport from any one, but leaſt of all from her who has a right to ſhare them?—Daughter," conti⯑nued Sir Armine, "what you have noticed in our countenances, has been produced by the joy of our hearts;—and it was churliſh in us to wiſh to rob you of your juſt diviſion. This our Henry has—but no matter,—I charge you to love him better than ever, and if he proves to you as good a huſband, as he has done to me a ſon,—as I am, there⯑by, [243]the happieſt of fathers, ſo will you be the moſt bleſſed of wives. Aſk no more queſtions, but let us to breakfaſt."

"It is very unfair, however, of you," ſaid Olivia with all imaginable ſweetneſs, as if betwixt ſport and earneſt, "to have all this tranſport to yourſelves: for I would have you to know I am as fond of weeping for joy as either of you, and am now almoſt ready to cry with grief, at your cheating me in this cruel manner. And as to being more fond of this creature than I ever was before, I am ſorry, Sir, at the neceſſity of diſobeying you in this particular; for he very well knows, that—that—"

"Knows what?" queſtioned Sir Armine.

"That it is impoſſible," whiſpered ſhe; but the whiſper was conveyed in another of thoſe ſtage tones which have ſo amply been diſcuſſed in one of the family converſations; for, when ſhe mentioned to Sir Armine the impoſſibility of loving Henry better than ſhe had done, ſhe certainly intended her lover ſhould hear. Indeed, ſhe reſigned her hand to his careſſes while this reaſon was commu⯑nicated; [244]and gliding herſelf between Henry and Sir Armine,—the former in almoſt an oblivion of every thing but his filial love,—ſhe drew them into the apartment.

As they entered, little Fitz had placed himſelf in Olivia's chair, and thinking, per⯑haps, he had waited long enough for his breakfaſt, was helping himſelf very cordially to ſome bread and butter, that ſtood commo⯑diouſly near him;—Lady Fitzorton and Mr. Clare having entered into a ſerious tête-à-tête at the other end of the room.

Olivia, therefore, running to him, ſaid, "Oh! but I forgot, Henry, to tell you about this dear little dog:—he is quite taken with me:—I think he likes the caſtle better than the abbey.—What is his name?—I ſee by the collar, he belongs to—to—to—to—"

Olivia checked herſelf on a caution⯑ary hint from Henry: and, though ſhe could not gueſs the motive of that hint, as the name of the dog's owner was no longer proſcribed, her Henry's wiſhes were always followed by prompt and ſmiling obedience.

As Sir Armine advanced towards little [245]Fitz, Henry's agitation was ſo extreme, he involuntarily took hold of his father's coat, to prevent his examining the collar.

Olivia was taken up with conſidering the beauty of the animal, ſo that Henry's ſitua⯑tion eſcaped her;—but Sir Armine gave him ſuch an interrogating look as ſent his very blood into his face to anſwer it.

"Let me ſee, Olivia!" ſaid Sir Armine, ſtooping down, as if to read the engraved letters.

"Indeed, you muſt not Sir!" cried Oli⯑via, turning the collar round, till the engraved part was hid under the dog's throat.—"Dear Sir, he does not chooſe to tell the name of his owner: beſides, 'tis a Family Secret:—or, perhaps, he means to change his ſituation."

"Then he ought to bring a character from his laſt place," ſaid Lady Fitzorton, now firſt joining in the diſcourſe.

"Very true," ſaid Mr. Clare:—"ſo pray Mr. what's-your-name, whom do you be⯑long to?"

"Don't mention Sir Guiſe! ſay, he belongs [246]to Caroline,"—whiſpered Olivia to Henry, "and—and—"

Judge, reader, if this was not helping this lame dog over the ſtile, with a vengeance.

"If you muſt know,"—ſaid Olivia,—"the little fellow belongs to Miſs Stuart: only, you know, we are not to talk about it, as, perhaps, ſome other perſon's name may be on the collar:—and though I know you are all too good 'to turn your enemy's dog out of doors,'without his breakfaſt, I—I—in ſhort, I had half a mind to ſteal him, and love him for his miſtreſſes ſake."

"If you will but help me out, this will do nicely,"—added Olivia to Henry,—not in a ſtage whiſper.

"Miſs Stuart!"—ſaid Mr. Clare—"then you ought, I am ſure, to be jealous, either of the dog or his miſtreſs; for I ſaw Henry almoſt devouring him with kiſſes."

"And I could kiſs him myſelf,"—ſaid Olivia,—"for he's a dear and a love; and if I did not think it would break Miſs Stuart's heart, I would ſteal him. Yes, I would, you dear thing!" added Olivia, renewing her ca⯑reſſes: [247]—"not that I ſaw Henry kiſs him at all—It was ſomething elſe I ſaw him kiſs."

The bloom which accompanied this ob⯑ſervation, covered the cheeks of Olivia, and was inexpreſſibly beautiful.

"Admitted," ſaid Mr.Clare, pleaſantly:—"but, methinks, a lover of mine would not a little anger me, if he were to ſalute the prettieſt cur in the world, and my pic⯑ture, in the ſame breath;—however, as that is your buſineſs, not mine, you muſt e'en ſettle it between you."

"Let you and I, Lady Fitzorton, finiſh our breakfaſt as faſt as we can, and go on with our converſation, which, as is but too often the caſe, a puppy in favour has in⯑terrupted."

With all theſe reliefs, Henry had collec⯑tion enough to ſay, the dog was a favourite at the abbey, from whence it had followed him, as it had done more than once before, though not perhaps noticed;—but that, as often as it did, he ſent it back immediately, knowing what ſearch there would be after it,— [248]as he ſhould have done now, had he diſcover⯑ed it in time.

Henry now patted the dog's head,—and ſaid, "he ſuppoſed, if he did not ſend or take it back ſoon, there would be a ſearch-warrant after it."

Breakfaſt now went on ſmoothly, except that Sir Armine and Henry rather over⯑acted their parts,—the former being too talkative, and the latter too taciturn,—yet both equally anxious to conceal their ſenſa⯑tions.

The engraving luckily eſcaped;—for the collar bore theſe words:—"LITTLE FITZ; the gift of HENRY TO CAROLINE."

Mr. Clare and Lady Fitzorton diſap⯑peared:—Olivia ſoon followed, and ran up ſtairs with the ſpaniel in her arms;—and almoſt in the ſame inſtant ſhe had ſo done, True George came whiſtling through the hall, calling at every ſtep, "Little Fitz!—little Fitz!"—The door of the breakfaſt parlour being left open, George came to the threſhold, put his head into the room, ſtill whiſtling for, and calling after, little Fitz.

[249]"What's that you ſay,"—queſtioned Sir Armine,—"about Fitz?"

George inſtantly perceived his error, and trying to repair it, anſwered—"Nothing, an't pleaſe your honour,—but that I was looking for the litle ſpaniel that had ſtrayed from the abbey, and I was ſaying to myſelf, ſays I, (God forgive me for fibbing! aſide) if he ſhould be loſt, the perſon he belongs to might go into fits:—that's all, your ho⯑nour:—and—and—Jenny Atwood ſaid,—'ſhe thought ſhe knew the dog, and—and had a bit of a fancy to ſee him again,'your honour,—that's all."

"And that's enough," ſaid Sir Armine:—"go, and ſhut the door after you,"

George obeyed the word of command in much perturbation.

Sir Armine ſpoke ſternly, and roſe himſelf to ſhut the door, even while he was giving orders.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"HENRY, I wiſh to look at Olivia's miniature,—that which John painted for you."

Forgetting, perhaps, in his confuſion, he had left it with Caroline, for a purpoſe the reader may remember, Henry put his hand into his pocket, as if to feel for it; and not finding it there, his agitation increaſed.

"I—I—I—muſt have left it, Sir," ſtam⯑mered Henry.

"I mean that," ſaid Sir Armine, "on which you beſtowed, as your mother told me, ſo many careſſes this morning."

"That, Sir?" cried Henry, his breath al⯑moſt gone.

"The ſame," rejoined his father.—"Mr. Clare aſſerted, you have heard, it more than divided with you the fondneſs you diſcovered for Miſs Stuart's ſpaniel!"

"Heaven! Sir! what a compariſon!" ſaid Henry with vehemence.—"Spaniel!"

[251]"Yes, little Fitz," obſerved Sir Armine, looking ſearchingly at Henry.

"But, to leave compariſons, fetch me the picture:—perhaps it may be left in your chamber; it may be even at this moment on your pillow.—It ought, by the laws of love, let the original be who ſhe may"—here his eyes ſeemed to penetrate into the very heart of his ſon,—"it ought, I ſay, to be always within reach of your lips. Perhaps it is ſo now,—your boſom companion! Let us ſee! and pray, ſir, what is this?"

His father pointed to a ſmall piece of ribbon which had, perhaps, in his endea⯑vour to conceal it from the party who ſur⯑priſed him at his chamber door, inſinuated itſelf on the wrong ſide of Henry's ſhirt: and pulling at it abruptly, that boſom-ſecret, which had literally been ſo long ſuſpended, would then have come forth, and Caroline's well-painted reſemblance ſtood confeſſed, had not a little conteſt enſued between the parties.

Henry defended the paſſes to his breaſt with his hand, which graſped the frill of his [252]ſhirt, and perhaps, the myſtery underneath it.

Sir Armine renewed the attack, ſaying ſarcaſtically,—"What can be the meaning of all this?—Is it not Olivia's?—Is it not the 'counterfeit preſentment' of one who is alike dear to us both?—The fair object of the fa⯑ther's choice, as well as the ſon's! what other could be cheriſhed in Henry's boſom?—Is it not Olivia Clare's: and if I am any longer denied the pleaſure of paying it my tender reſpects, I ſhall ring for Olivia herſelf, and aſk her conſent."

Sir Armine, without letting go his hold, made a ſtep or two towards the bell.

Henry, aiding his father's intentions, tore open his ſhirt in a kind of phrenzy, and cried, "It muſt—it muſt be explained! The hour is come!—thank heaven, the hour is come!—I am the ſport of every accident, and will here accumulate or put an end to my miſery, and all its myſteries, at once."

"Have a care!" ſaid his father, prevent⯑ing Henry's deſign;—"have a care! your father's happineſs, your father's life, and [253]not ſingly his, but the happineſs and life of a man venerable as myſelf, of her likewiſe, who gave life to you,—and more than the exiſtence, probably the ſelf-deſtruction, of the innocent Olivia.—"

Sir Armine panted and pauſed.

"Theſe, my ſon, are in your hands, as entirely as if you were our fate.—Beware then!—I tremble at the omens I have juſt ſeen!—Deep plots are diſcovered by trifling occurrences.—Heaven forbid I ſhould be right in my preſent forebodings!—oh, if I were!"

Sir Armine's looks and accents ſeemed to anticipate and confirm the ſentiments he was about to utter.

"If I were, loſs of fortune and of life would be as the tender mercies of God, com⯑pared to what is reſerved for the houſes of Clare and Fitzorton."

Henry falling at Sir Armine's feet, ex⯑claimed, "That God is my witneſs, Sir,—if the loſs of my life could prolong the happi⯑neſs of yours, and of my mother's, but one day,—with a prayer as earneſt as ever came [254]from the heart of man, I would invoke my death this moment,—invoke it thus on my knees, a poſture befitting a ſon to receive it!—But there are circumſtances which would make my exiſtence ſo hateful, ſo diſ⯑honourable in my own eyes.—This picture, ſir, could it ſpeak—" Here he drew it half from his boſom.

"Forbear, Henry, forbear!" anſwered Sir Armine, cloſing his eyes, and averting his head:—"I will not look on any thing that may—"

"I have forborne too long," reſumed the madding Henry:—"enthralled by inexpli⯑cable events, I have been too long involved in a thorny labyrinth;—and this, O my ho⯑noured, my almoſt adored father,—this is the criſis at which I muſt force my way out of it.—Hear me, ſir! hear me with patience, pity, and parental love, while I confeſs,—while I explain, by what a ſeries of un⯑avoidable delays, entanglements, and al⯑moſt more than human interventions, I have, day after day, onward to weeks, months, years,—to the deſolation of health, happi⯑neſs, [255]all offices, all ſtudies, even the moſt ſacred—"

"Henry!" interpoſed Sir Armine,—"let me not liſten to what would, muſt, and ought to turn that heart againſt you,—where, perhaps I ought to bluſh while I confeſs, you have been, from the hour of your birth, to this moment, the moſt che⯑riſhed of human beings!—If you have in your boſom any paſſion, which has made its way by ſtealth, to effect the havoc of ſoul and body, and derange every purſuit of duty, and devotion,—and, if you raſhly carry the reſemblance of the unhappy, ill⯑fated object of that paſſion in your breaſt,—let the conſideration you owe to the united lives and fortunes of united families,—to your religion, and to your God, whoſe mini⯑ſtry you have promiſed to aſſiſt, though even that promiſe ſeems forgotten,—let all theſe ſacred motives aid you to expel the in⯑truder."

"I was ſilent, ſir," interrupted Henry;—"becauſe I could not explain:—but I did not promiſe—"

"It is ſtill in your power to derive ad⯑ditional [256]virtue from the very ſufferings, by which ſuch complicated miſery to the aged, and to the young, may be prevented," reſumed Sir Armine.—"For my own part, I here declare to you, deareſt Henry, that, were my individual felicity, were my ſingle life, the only points of deſtruction which would reſult from what I tremble to name, I would give up that felicity, and that life, a ſacrifice to you—a willing ſacrifice!

"It is enough, my ſon, I will not expa⯑tiate, I will not remonſtrate, or reaſon.—Any attempt to ſubdue you by the force of argument, would leſſen you in your own eyes, even more, perhaps, than they would diſgrace you in mine.—I would rather leave every thing to your own graceful duty, and good principles;—and, that I may give you an opportunity of exerting theſe, I thus raiſe you from the earth, fold you in my arms, and leave with you in truſt—what?—all that ought to be moſt important to you on earth."

In vain did Henry attempt to detain his father;—in vain did he ſtruggle in his em⯑braces,—in vain lift up his ſtreaming eyes, [257]and exclaim, "Cruel, cruel perverſity of fortune!—Deteſted diſſenſions! which have thus placed one duty in oppoſition to an⯑other!—Accurſed domeſtic feuds! which ſet even the virtues at variance with each other!"

At the end of theſe diſordered, and al⯑moſt frantic ejaculations, Sir Armine cried out, "I have heard too much.—Half of this indecent violence would diſtract the reſt of my family, and murder Olivia.!"

He then ruſhed out of the room,—per⯑haps forgetting he had been exhauſting himſelf in ſimilar paroxyſms.

CHAPTER XXXII.

BY means ſo apparently inſignificant, was this long-delayed and long-projected diſcovery brought about: and Sir Ar⯑mine was ſtrongly confirmed in all his former ſuſpicions, by the ſimple circum⯑ſtances of the miniature and the ſpaniel. ‘Thus bad begun, and worſe remained behind:’ [258]for Henry had, hereby, alſo, more fully convinced himſelf that the diſcloſure was likely to be attended, in its progreſs through the families, with worſe miſchiefs than had reſulted to them or to him, even from the concealment, diſaſtrous as it had been.

But one of theſe miſchief-makers namely, little Fitz, was deſtined to be the ſmall, but important, inſtrument of ſeveral other diſcoveries;—for, while Henry was in the midſt of the above diſtreſſing reflections, Olivia and her canine companion, with whom ſhe was, by this time, on the beſt terms poſſible, returned into the breakfaſt parlour, where ſhe no ſooner perceived Henry alone, than ſhe took up the dog in her arms, and ſaid, "Do you know, my dear Henry, that this little fellow had like to have thrown poor Jane Atwood into hyſterics?—He followed me into her ſitting⯑room, where ſhe and your good George were tête-à-tête; and on perceiving the dog, ſhe caught him up, kiſſed him as much as we have done, and ſaid, 'it was the very ſpaniel that was with Miſs Stuart, when [259]ſhe and Sir Guiſe paid her a viſit in London, and that ſhe heard Caroline ſay, ſhe would not have any thing happen to it for half her father's eſtate;' adding, that it followed her wherever ſhe went, and ſhared her very bed.—'But I have another reaſon for loving it,' ſaid Jane. 'Pray pardon me, miſs! but what is conſtantly in the ſight of—of—of an abſent friend, you know, miſs, is always dear to us.'—Her heſitation made it difficult for her to ſpeak.

"I declare, Henry, when I heard the poor girl ſay this,—though I was ſorry for having been the occaſion of her ſhedding tears on a ſubject I have conſtantly endea⯑voured to keep out of her mind,—I loved her the better for her tenderneſs, though I knew it was improper for her to indulge it.—Ah! I know by my own feelings," con⯑tinued Olivia, "that, had you but touched a flower, a leaf, or the moſt trivial thing you can imagine, my fancy and heart would hold it conſecrated from that moment;—and, indeed, it would be eſtimable beyond [260]all price. This locket, for inſtance,—though that is not a well choſen example either, becauſe it is not a trifle, and is very dear,— I have aſſured it of my affection, a thouſand thouſand times."—Here ſhe took what ſhe deſcribed from her lovely boſom, and forgot, moſt likely, for the inſtant, that little Fitz was in the world.

"I have heard, or read, Henry," conti⯑nued ſhe, "that it is unſafe, or unwiſe,—ſome have pronounced it fooliſh, and philo⯑ſophers, I am told, have called it indelicate,—for a woman to expreſs the extent of her tenderneſs, to the man ſhe loves, even if he be moſt amiable—Now, that has always appeared very ſtrange: for it is one of the ſweeteſt, I feel, likewiſe, it is one of the moſt innocent pleaſures of my life, to declare how much I eſteem, love, and honour my deareſt Henry.—Where can be the peril of truſting with all his powers, the man who has long given you an equal degree of con⯑fidence and affection in return?—I ſhould hate myſelf, if, ſituated as we are, I could [261]coldly repreſs a ſentiment, the declaration of which might produce to Henry but the ſmalleſt added proof of my attachment.

"But how I am running on?—I know not whether you ought to be angry or love me the better for it.—Do ſet me right; de⯑cide for me, Henry."

Before this queſtion could be replied to, True George came to ſay, Lieutenant Stuart was in the blue room, and begged to ſpeak to Squire Henry, before he paid his reſpects to the family.

"Run to him this moment!" replied Oli⯑via.—"I ſee, Henry, you are out of ſpirits.—He and I will make you quite well and happy: and if he aſſiſts me in doing that, I will forgive him even for robbing me of this little fellow,—for I foreſee he will take him.

"But, alas! he is, you ſay, out of ſpirits too; then I will nurſe and comfort you both.—Be very particular in your enquiries about Caroline, Henry.—I ſuppoſe he is juſt come down: but you drive every thing, except yourſelf, out of my head—I forgot that you muſt have ſeen him laſt night at the abbey.—I wonder what he can have to [262]ſay to you alone.—Shall I leave the dog?—No—he will go with me, you ſee.—I declare, Caroline would be jealous of me, if ſhe were to know it.—If you had but ſeen the face of True George when Jane fondled the dog—'I have no notion of people kiſſing puppy dogs,' muttered he:—'they could do no more to chriſtians.'—But ſuppoſe we take off the little fellow's collar—then, you know, Sir Armine—" Henry caught at the hint,—ſlipped the ſtrap from the buckle, and put the tell-tale in his pocket.

"Delightful!" cried the unſuſpicious O⯑livia.—"Now I think we ſhall be a match for the old gentleman's curioſity. But I have forgot to look myſelf;—let me ſee!—no—now I think of it, your friend is waiting for you while I am prating." She then exultingly left the room.

The meeting of Charles and Henry was extremely affecting. They ran into each other's arms, and forgot, for a while, their ſorrows in their embraces.

"Beloved, unhappy friend!" cried Charles,—"I feel, that even hopeleſs love, ſince you muſt have been innocent of my [263]deſpair, would have wanted power to diſ⯑ſolve our friendſhip!—Diſſolve it!—No— my poor breaking heart would rather have flown to that friendſhip for ſuccour and ſupport, as the only good it could expect in the hour of its deſpair!

"But I do not deſpair, Henry: for al⯑though I have heard, ſeen, and read all that might be diſtracting on this ſubject, my friend,"—Charles here held out a letter—"ſtill our fate is ſuſpended by one precious hope—"

"On that letter?" queſtioned Henry.

"From my father," replied Charles.—"It propoſes, — in a language ſo humi⯑liating, indeed, that though, as I ſaid, all depends thereon, I am at a loſs whether, as a ſon, I ought to be the bearer—It pro⯑poſes, Henry, an accommodation between our houſes, on your father's own terms.—It paints, in glowing colours, regret for our long diſſenſions, and holds out a general amneſty to each offending party.

"Whatever be the reſult," continued Charles,—"the motive which led Sir Guiſe to this ſignal kindneſs, has more than [264]atoned for all that I have ſuffered from his former conduct; and, though I greatly fear, becauſe I greatly love, leſt his generous ef⯑fort ſhould be in vain,—I ſhall remember the intention with my dying breath.—Yet, wherefore ſhould I entertain an unworthy doubt of the ſucceſs?—If the aggreſſor can ſue for pardon, the man whom he has of⯑fended, can much more eaſily forget his wrongs;—and Sir Armine Fitzorton, I truſt—"

"Alas!" interpoſed Henry, "I have to paint a ſcene which blaſts that hope in the bud."

He now related what had recently paſt with Sir Armine, in conſequence of the diſ⯑coveries brought about by Caroline's minia⯑ture, and little Fitz; and added thereto, by way of filling up the gap in their hiſtory, all that had fallen out to oppoſe the progreſs of their ill-fated loves, ſince they parted.

When he had cloſed the narrative,—at ſeveral paſſages in which Charles ſhuddered with apprehenſion, eſpecially at the proofs of Olivia's rooted attachment to his friend, [265]though Henry mentioned as few inſtances of theſe, and touched thoſe few as lightly, as poſſible.

Charles exclaimed, "Notwithſtanding all this, ſomething whiſpers me, a ſudden and unforeſeen good will reſult from the opera⯑tion of this epiſtle on a heart ſo noble as your father's. Conſider, my friend, we live in a world of wonderful revolutions: and, amongſt the infinity of changes and chances that ſurround us on all hands, who can tell but from this ſource may ſpring my happineſs with Olivia, and yours with Ca⯑roline?"

Until the mention of Caroline's name as a party in this matter, Henry, notwith⯑ſtanding the conſtitutional and habitual intemperance of all his feelings, could not help conſidering his friend's hopes as the mere offspring of a mind violently agitated by the paſſion that moſt ſtrongly believes it can reconcile impoſſibilities; but now he found out, all at once, there was much ſound reaſoning in his friend's obſervations; [266]and he indulged a credulity that ſhewed he was again in a diſpoſition to believe every thing practicable, which favoured his ruling paſſion. He exclaimed "Oh, my friend, if the exertions of your now generous father ſhould have influence with mine,—and if the ſame kind ſtar that induced the divine Caroline to look favourably on me ſhould diſpoſe the gentle Olivia at length to incline an auſpicious ear to the ſuit of my friend—"

"O, if ſuch bliſs ſhould be in ſtore for us!" interrupted Charles: "for I can with truth inform you, Henry, that my ſiſter's affection for you, in deſpite of all that has paſt, is greater than—in ſhort nothing but the returns which are made by your own heart—and the ardent and unſpeakable ten⯑derneſs with which mine throbs for Olivia, can truly indicate how much you are be⯑loved by Caroline Stuart."

"Let us loſe no time!" exclaimed Henry, with the utmoſt impatience. "Sir Armine ought to have had the important letter long ago. Give it me, my friend:—no,—deliver [267]it yourſelf.—Yet, that may not be right.—Let us think a moment what is beſt to be done."

A gentle tap was now given at the door, on opening which, a voice, more gentle than the ſummons, ſaid,—"Forgive my inter⯑ruption of you, dear friends: but I long to aſk Mr. Stuart how he does: and it is not fair of you, Henry, to keep him all to your⯑ſelf in this manner, when I will anſwer for the whole family being rejoiced to ſee him,—as well as this little fellow," pointing to Fitz,—"who, you ſee, aſſerts his claims to a ſhare of his company, as well as you, Mr. Henry."

This ſportive reproach enſured the fair ſpeaker a cordial welcome; and both the friends ſeemed to be animated by the ſame ſentiment, namely, that of making Olivia a party in the reconciliation; for they both ex⯑claimed, at the ſame inſtant, with very little variation in the expreſſion, and both with equal fervour, "Good Heaven! who ſo pro⯑per, ſo likely, as Miſs Clare, to aſſiſt us with her counſel in this exigence?"

[268]"I beg," repeated Olivia, "inſtantly to be made acquainted with the nature of it, if either of you ſuppoſe there is a pro⯑bability of my being uſeful!" Henry, per⯑ceiving his friend too much agitated by the preſence of his beloved miſtreſs to proceed, informed Olivia of Sir Guiſe's wiſh of being reconciled to the family, and his almoſt ſup⯑plicatory letter to effect it.

"And who can tell, lovely creature," ſaid Charles, almoſt forgetting himſelf, "but that, if it were preſented and ſupported by ſuch an advocate, it might ſucceed, and then—"

"And then," exclaimed Olivia, "it would make us three of the happieſt of families in the world! you know. I dare ſay, Mr. Stuart, your friend Henry, who, I ſuppoſe, keeps nothing from you, told you my heart throbs again to embrace my ever remembered Caroline. Methinks I ſeel for her a ſiſter's love."—"A ſiſter's!" ejaculated Charles. "Good heavens!—what a thought!—I will pledge all my hopes of happineſs here and hereafter, ſhe would re⯑joice [269]to call you by that endearing name!"—"Do you think ſo?" ſaid Olivia.—"Then we ſhall be all as one family! and this little fellow too," added ſhe, patting the dog upon the head,—"ſee! here is the dear creature's ſpa⯑niel! —Make much of him, Mr. Stuart.—If he could tell your ſiſter how I have fondled him,—you know the old proverb—but what have I to do with proverbs at ſuch a time as this?—I ſee you are both ready to quarrel with me for loitering on my commiſſion.—Proſper it, good heaven!"

Give me the letter then this moment!—Give me the letter this moment!" added Olivia, taking it from the trembling Charles: "and I could almoſt worſhip the hand of the bearer of ſuch overtures."

The ſweet girl held her own hand, in a way that would have made a novice in the little courteſies of life underſtand that it might be ſeized with impunity. Charles conveyed it in a diſordered manner to his lips, from which Olivia drew it away, and left the room, ſaying, "You young ſoldiers [270]are ſo uſed to carry every thing by ſtorm, that the deſtined object of your attack has no hope of eſcaping, when 'tis a poor dam⯑ſel like myſelf, but by running away."

Now, though all this was only the play of a friendly and benevolent heart, happy at every proſpect of promoting happineſs, and at being choſen as the inſtrument to recon⯑cile alienated minds, the two friends were no ſooner left again to a tête-à-tête, than they derived, even from the alacrity of their embaſſadreſs, a freſh ſupply of hopes that fortune was turning in their favour.

Charles was too much tranſported with his having, almoſt for the firſt time, raviſhed, or rather received as a free-will-offering, the beautiful hand of his miſtreſs, to think of or feel any thing but the tumult into which it had thrown him.—He therefore only ſeized the hand of his friend, and carrying it to that ſide where nature has thought pro⯑per to place the heart,—he cried,—"God of feeling, how it beats!—did you ever feel any thing like it, Henry?" To which queſ⯑tion [271]his friend obſerved, in the words of his favourite Shakeſpeare, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men;’ perhaps, Charles, we have now taken it ‘at the flood;’ and if ſo, ‘It will lead on to more than fortune.’

In honeſt proſe, his friend aſſured him he was almoſt weak enough to ſubſcribe to his opinion. They then proceeded to increaſe this delightful phrenzy by every means in their power. Superſtition itſelf is not more credulous than love, when, in the very bo⯑ſom of deſpair, hope, as if by ſtealth, darts but one ray upon it.

"And if, after all our diſappointments," cried Henry, whoſe heart was an admirable ſophiſt, and could, when warmed, overturn the moſt elaborate philoſophy and reaſon⯑ing, "if, after all our miſeries, this unex⯑pected chance ſhould be the ground-work of that temple of felicity to which we might [272]at length conduct our deſtined brides,—ſhall we not—?"

"Shall we not both go out of our ſenſes with joy?" queſtioned Charles. "Brides! O Henry! how often have we known one happy change lead on, and prove as it were the harbinger to, another! And when For⯑tune does bring her atonements, ſhe is fre⯑quently, like a long tyrannous but at length yielding miſtreſs, as kind as ſhe had been cruel."

The ſelf-deluding friends then enume⯑rated all the inſtances their memories could furniſh of one unexpected piece of good luck producing or having been followed up by others no leſs unlooked for. Charles re⯑lated a ſtory of two young people coming to⯑gether, whoſe parents, friends, and fortunes, were all in oppoſition to their deareſt hopes.

Henry, bringing the matter more into point, ſaid, he had read ſomewhere the hiſ⯑tory of a lady in love with a gentleman whoſe heart was otherwiſe engaged; notwith⯑ſtanding which, after a courſe of hopeleſs years, ſhe was married to the object of her af⯑fections, [273]by an accident that had induced the gentleman to transfer his paſſion from his former love.

"And why ſhould not this be the ultimate event in the caſe of Charles and Olivia?"

Such was the romance of their hearts, that they could not ſtop, or indeed ſtoop, to ex⯑amine whether this was not a mere rhapſody of the affections in the hey-day of youth⯑ful blood. Indeed, the wiſdom of reaſon and of common ſenſe is ſo unwelcome and diſguſting to lovers of this character when the heart is in this ſort of delirium, that it ſin⯑cerely adopts the maxim of the poet, by pronouncing it "folly to be wiſe."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

To this deluſion of a fond and love-ſick imagination, then, did Henry and his friend deliver themſelves up ſo entirely, that they had ſketched out, and communicated to each other, ſeveral of the delicious plans of happineſs which, it was agreed upon, ſhould [274]take place when Charles became the huſ⯑band of Olivia, and Henry of Caroline. The ſoul of poeſy was at work in the boſom of Henry. His fancy performed miracles. His head and heart were both on fire. The enraptured Charles caught the flame; and both enjoyed ‘Thoſe painted clouds that beautify our days;’ while reaſon, half-bluſhing half-ſmiling, withdrew; and that ſpecies of madneſs, which indeed can never endure ſo ſtern a power, reſumed its reign. The proſpect of felicity ſeemed to approximate as our young friends looked upon it, and to brighten as it advanced: all the impediments which had ſo long ſtood like a dead wall of ſeparation betwixt the abbey and caſtle, were, by the help of reconciling fancy, removed; and in its ſtead 'a verdant wall,' like that of pa⯑radiſe, up-reared its florid head. The turrets ſeemed to ſmile on each other,—the trees on each eſtate appeared once more to form their branches into true-lover's knots, and [275]extend their 'marriageable arms' till they embraced both houſes: the very flowers of the different gardens were, as by inſtinctive amity, diſpoſed to waft fragrance to each other, 'ſtealing and giving odours:' and that this courteſy might be the more expe⯑ditiouſly done, Henry's muſe was command⯑ed to create a Zephyr on purpoſe, com⯑miſſioned to bear upon his balmy wing the roſy ſweets of Fitzorton to the abbey, and with no leſs celerity to fly back with the violet perfumes of Stuart. Meantime, Hen⯑ry had ſtationed the Loves and Graces, of which he had a warehouſe, in different parts of the groves and gardens, to twiſt flowers and wreathe chaplets, to adorn the brows of Caroline and Olivia. Nay, he had placed Cupid in one part of the foreſt, aiming a new dart at the tender boſom of Olivia, in favour of Charles, and had ſet old Hymen at work, in the ſacred form of Sir Armine, to build a nuptial bower to be ready for that double marriage which was to complete ſuch in⯑finity of happineſs.

Shouldſt thou, reader, be either a poet, [276]a lover, or both, thou wilt here exclaim, "if this be madneſs let me rave!"—but, if thou art a reaſoning being, and wiſe, that is, cold enough to keep the track of com⯑mon ſenſe, thou wilt pity or deſpiſe thoſe diſtracted day-dreamers, and not being able to conceive any happineſs in ſuch phrenzy, think Bedlam, or St. Luke's, the only places proper to hold our two frantic young gen⯑tlemen.

Now as the frozen Caucaſus and the burning Aetna do really exiſt in the natural world, ſo do theſe oppoſite degrees of heat and cold in the human temperament;—and as it would be no leſs impoſſible to con⯑vince thee of even the tranſitory rapture of being mentally diſtracted, than to per⯑ſuade the man of ſanguine diſpoſition,—a Charles or a Henry,—there was infinite gra⯑tification in carrying a lump of unthawed ice in the boſom by way of a heart,—we ſhall attempt no means of reconciling ſuch extremes,—ſatisfied in our own mind, that intenſe heat and cold have their ſeparate and peculiar uſe in the little globe of man's na⯑ture, [277]—no leſs than in that great globe, the world itſelf.

Thou knoweſt, reader, that Greenland is a perfect bagnio to the temperature of the pla⯑net Saturn, to whom the ſun himſelf ap⯑pears but as a little pallid ſtar, and that its inhabitants would expire with heat in our coldeſt countries;—while, on the other hand, Mercury is ſo full of fire, that the heat to which its ſuppoſed natives are accuſtomed, is ſo ex⯑ceſſive, that the moſt glorious day here would be to them no more than declining twilight, and they would be frozen to death in the torrid zone.—If thou art ſaturnine, therefore, thou wilt not heſitate to pro⯑nounce our mercurial ſparks abſolutely mad, and ſit only to live in that planet which has been called the bedlam of the ſpheres.

Yet, grudge not Henry or his friend the momentary bliſs they derived from this flame of their fancy, although it may have raged in contraſt with thy more ſober mat⯑ter-of-fact ſenſations.—It was but as a meteor of the night, that appeared and paſſ⯑ed away, making the darkneſs that followed, [278]the more horrible, from the gleam and its coruſcations.—Alas! while theſe children of imagination were triumphing in the viſionary happineſs that blazed about their eyes, rea⯑ſon and common ſenſe, aſſuming ſoon the ſhapes of a father and mother, entered the apartment.—Sir Armine held the opened letter of Sir Guiſe in his hand;—"I ſup⯑poſe," ſaid he, addreſſing the youths,—"you are both acquainted with the contents: your friendſhip, no doubt, indulges unlimited confidence; and I take it for granted, what⯑ever is imparted to one, is, in effect, com⯑municated to both."

Upon Henry's aſſuring him he had not ſeen the letter, and that his friend had only partially mentioned the general purport, Sir Armine gave it to Henry, deſiring him to read it aloud.

"What does that mean?" queſtioned Lady Fitzorton, looking at Henry.

Henry directed his eyes to Charles for the materials of an anſwer,—but, not finding any, was ſilent and embarraſſed; for Charles was at that inſtant conſulting, for a like reaſon, the countenance of Henry.

"Proceed with the letter," ſaid Sir Ar⯑mine.

"But more powerful advocates than even our ſons have pleaded for putting an end to our family feuds.—Conſcious feelings, my good neighbour, urge me to ſeek reconciliation.—I have lifted—O it was foul! my hand againſt mine ancient friend! [280]and I could even humble my unworthy ſelf in the duſt of the earth."

"Should that have been ſaid,—at leaſt in that groveling way,—by the father of a ſoldier?" aſked Sir Armine, darting his eye on Charles.

Charles bluſhed.

"Young ſoldier," ſaid Sir Armine, "let us quit this letter! it will agonize you more than any wounds you could receive in the defence of your country. I deſire to converſe with you on another ſubject.—Directly and at once, therefore, I ſhall demand of you, in the preſence of my wife who has an equal intereſt in the matter, whether you have any knowledge of a correſpondence which is ſaid to ſubſiſt between your ſiſter Miſs Stuart, and your friend here?"

"He has, Sir," anſwered Henry, re⯑lieving Charles, who ſtood irreſolute.—"He has the moſt perfect knowledge of it, and has done his utmoſt to—"

"Not to promote it, certainly?" inter⯑rupted Sir Armine.—"He is of an honour⯑able [281]profeſſion, and incapable of clandeſtine baſeneſs."

"Baſeneſs, Sir!" exclaimed Charles red⯑dening.

"Yes, young man," returned Sir Armine.—"It would be the laſt exceſs of baſeneſs to aid and abet an intercourſe which would render every individual of this houſe, except that raſh boy, unhappy, and make him un⯑grateful and infamous. You are aware of your friend's ſolemn engagements to Olivia:—but he neglects her!—his friends!—his relations!—his God!"

"Solemn engagements, Sir!" exclaimed Henry:—"I know not of any I ever made to that lady: they have all been taken for granted:—and whatever may be the iſſue, I here diſclaim them;—I here declare, that my whole ſoul is, has been, and ſhall for ever be, betrothed only to Caroline Stuart,—even as firmly, and irrevocably as is that of my friend Charles to—"

Henry checked himſelf a moment, and then proceeded—

"Yes! wherefore ſhould a virtuous but [282]unfortunate paſſion be thus hid from thoſe who ought earlier to have known it?"

Lady Fitzorton, perceiving the emotions of Sir Armine were ſwelling into one of thoſe dreadful extremities that ſometimes tyrannized his boſom, would have drawn him out of the room, and made ſigns of ſilence to Henry, who too much ſtirred to regard them with his uſual reſpect, exclaimed,—"No, madam! ſilence has already wrought this mighty complication of miſchief and miſtake."

"Let me hear all! let me hear all!" cries Sir Armine, his articulation almoſt buried in his ſenſations.

"It is heard in a ſentence," replied Hen⯑ry, throwing himſelf at his mother's feet.—"The ſiſter of my friend is not more pre⯑cious to your ſon, than is Olivia Clare to—

"To whom?" queſtioned Sir Armine, ſtaring wildly, and ſtammering violently.

"To the unhappy wretch who now throws himſelf upon your mercy," anſwered Charles, falling on his knees before Sir Ar⯑mine.—"Miſerable that I am!—the flame [283]has long been conſuming my vitals; and the life and death of us all depend upon ſome ſudden changes in our favour."

"A ſudden change will ſoon take place," exclaimed Lady Fitzorton.—"Look at my poor huſband! you have already deprived him of ſpeech!—you will deſtroy him be⯑tween you! but his death ſhall be upon your heads!"

"I ſhall not die," ſaid Sir Armine, exerting himſelf after a deep ſtruggle that ſhook his venerable frame, as if he were contending with death himſelf:—"I will not die! the young aſſaſſins ſhall not have that ſatisfaction."—He pauſed for breath.

"Then I am to underſtand, Sir," conti⯑nued Sir Armine, recovering his utterance, and ſtaggering towards Charles, "that you and my ſon have availed yourſelves of my permiſſion to carry on your friendſhip for each other, independent of my juſt re⯑ſentment elſewhere,—I ſay I am to under⯑ſtand—"

"No, Sir!" interpoſed Charles, ſtill keep⯑ing his humble poſture,—"I have never yet [284]dared to breathe my unhappy paſſion for Miſs Clare, to herſelf, or to any other perſon but my friend, till within theſe few hours. Even the ſiſter of my heart, from whom nothing was ever ſhut out before, did not ſuſpect it."

"That is ſtill ſomething," anſwered Sir Armine, in a tone much ſoftened.

Henry, ſtill kneeling, perceived the fa⯑vourable moment, and applied his whole artillery of moving eloquence, in the cauſe of himſelf and friend.—He briefly recapitu⯑lated the moſt important parts of the myſte⯑rious hiſtory of their unhappy loves,—he ſet the honour, generoſity, and heroic virtues of Charles, in the moſt affecting points of view, and concluded his harangue, by obſerving, while he held the lieutenant by the hand,—that if his father and mother were diſ⯑poſed to prevent unheard-of horror from overwhelming all parties, it could be done only by deviſing ſome means to bring about the double nuptials, on which they had ſet their hearts;—"any thing ſhort of which," ſays Henry, "I foreſee, will bring [285]deſolation upon the three houſes,—deſola⯑tion, which, as an earthquake, ſhall ſwallow them.

Lady Fitzorton, whoſe affections were much moved, tenderly wept over the young men.

Sir Armine gave a hand to each of the youths, and raiſing them up, addreſſed them, trembling as he ſpake, yet his manner and tone of voice determined.

"Suſpect your enemy when he brings gifts; and have a doubly guarded eye upon your ancient foe, when he ſuddenly changes his frowns into ſmiles, are long eſtabliſhed maxims.—How far theſe are applicable to Sir Guiſe Stuart in his laboured profeſſions, I preſume not to ſay.—As for you, Charles, when I have told you, that, added to former impediments, you muſt paſs to the arms of Olivia Clare through the blood of her father, my own, and the life of this af⯑flicted woman,—I ſhall point to you the alternative of an honourable action, which will juſtify the truſt I have long repoſed in [286]your aſſertions, however I may ſuſpect the aſſeveration of others."

Charles eagerly deſired a farther explana⯑tion.

"Save us, dear youth,—ſave yourſelf, your ſiſter, and your boſom friend," ſaid Sir Ar⯑mine,—"by retreating from, if you cannot conquer, a paſſion, which it is impoſſible, without violating every law of friendſhip and hoſpitality, to indulge,—nay, which, were it ſanctioned by our united ſuffrages and aſſiſtance, could not proſper with Olivia, whoſe happineſs and life are contracted to your friend."

Charles fetched a deep ſigh, and ſhook his head, as if to expreſs at once the diffi⯑culty of complying with the requeſt, and the too evident ſtrength of argument in the obſervation.

"Having done this," continued Sir Ar⯑mine,—"your virtue will be complete; for you will have done all that in you lies to alienate this infatuated boy from farther purſuit of a ſiſter, whoſe very tenderneſs, in [287]this caſe, calls upon you to reſcue her from herſelf;—for inaſmuch as ſhe loves, muſt ſhe be wretched,—as it is no leſs impoſſible for her to be married to my ſon, than for you to wed Mr. Clare's daughter,—unleſs at the ſacrifice of every thing in this world, that ought moſt to be valued by an honeſt man."

Perceiving Charles was abſorbed in grief, and that Henry was about to ſpeak—

"As to you, Henry, I have to trouble you with a very few words:—let not your friend, who, I ſee, is contending with himſelf, but whoſe virtue will triumph in the end,—let him not ſurpaſs you.—Emulate him.—Your parents, aged and infirm, are before you.—Your union with Miſs Stuart would de⯑ſtroy both, would murder Olivia, and there⯑fore make Caroline far more wretched, than the diſappointment of her paſſion.—Dear—dear ſon,—child of my heart,—moſt favoured,—moſt precious,—ſave your family! —you know not half the claims, that Olivia has upon you, though you know they [288]are manifold.—I will not, in this moment, diſguiſe that her father has preſerved yours, preſerved him from unexpected but utter ruin,—from impriſonment!—Behold, your weeping mother is borne down with ſor⯑row, with love, with gratitude:—behold ſhe kneels, kneels to her ſon:—your fa⯑ther joins her petitions, in a poſture no leſs ſuppliant:—muſt we both ſupplicate in vain?—alas! look upon us, my ſon!"

The venerable pair were almoſt ſuffocated with their ſenſations.

Charles raiſed Lady Fitzorton.

Henry lifted his father from the ground into his arms, exclaiming, as he held him in his embrace,—"Live! live, my father!—let me alone be the ſacrifice!—it ſhall be ſo!—moſt willingly will I be the victim.—Do with me as you both ſee fit!" (here he embraced his mother) "diſpoſe of my hand, my life, to your wiſh:—I will not murmur. No deſtiny, no agony, can equal what I at this moment feel at ſeeing you in ſuch a ſituation. And yet my friend,—my poor friend—"

[289]Henry left his mother, and ran into the open arms of Charles.

"Take no thought of me!" exclaimed his friend: "I cannot bear to witneſs, much leſs to create, a ſcene like that which yet pierces my ſoul.—I will baniſh myſelf for ever.—My own ſword ſhould end me, if I could be the cauſe of ſuch another, to thoſe who ought to have ſhut the door which they threw wide open to give me welcome!"

"Sir!—Madam," continued Charles, "as Olivia knows not yet of my unhappy love, I here ſwear to you,—although it may, and I hope it will break my heart,—I ſwear never—never—"

"Charles," anſwered Sir Armine,—"I will have you bound only by the ſacred ties of your own reaſon, friendſhip, and honour:—and thus, from my inmoſt ſoul, do I pour out my thanks."

"In which are included," ſaid Lady Fitz⯑orton, "my heart-felt acknowledgments."

"My houſe is your own:" cries Sir Ar⯑mine. "When your viſits afflict you, or interrupt the generous taſk you have im⯑poſed [290]on yourſelf, you ſhall be free to depart unqueſtioned; and whenever you return, our ſmiles ſhall welcome you.—Neither ſhall Henry be reſtrained from the abbey:—We ſubmit him to your protection, to the guard of his own duty, wiſdom, and virtue, and to the ſacred office for which he will now again prepare his head and heart:—we yield him to the counſels of Caroline Stuart herſelf, who, from thoſe traits of character and conduct you have at different times related, will, I am ſure, when you explain to her more fully our ſituations, help us,—even againſt herſelf.

"Another word, and I have done," ad⯑ded Sir Armine:—"the care with which the fatal myſteries that have entangled us, has been guarded from Olivia and her fa⯑ther, my beſt benefactor, my preſerver,—I conſider as more than chance,—as provi⯑dence.—If the peace of innocence be dear, oh! be jealous of dropping a hint that may lead to any diſcovery of what has paſt between us this day.—But let us part: we may be ſurpriſed.—Do not be ſeen at pre⯑ſent, [291]Henry! and do you, dear Charles, take to your father my beſt acknowledgments of his letter, to which I will return an early anſwer:—it ſhall be ſuch, I pledge myſelf, as is conſiſtent with the new ſyſtem of good⯑will, I hope mutually ſincere, that again ſub⯑ſiſts between us:—but in the mean-time, I wiſh you both to peruſe this paper, and to give me, when opportunity favours, your joint opinion of it."

"Huſh! I think I heard Olivia's voice," ſaid Lady Fitzorton.—"I got her to write ſome viſiting cards for our next week's an⯑nual party, thinking ſhe might be ſecurely employed in that manner, while our con⯑verſation, which, I foreſaw, would be in⯑tereſting, laſted:—perhaps ſhe has finiſhed, and is returning."

"Let us ſeparate," ſaid Sir Armine, who led Lady Fitzorton out of the room, leaving Charles and Henry again together.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

DEPRIVED for ſome time of the power of ſpeaking to each other, Henry and Charles could only expreſs by ſigns, a mutual deſire of peruſing the paper left in their hands. Henry opened it, and found the obligation mentioned by his fa⯑ther.

It conſiſted in Mr. Clare's having ad⯑vanced no leſs a ſum than fifty thouſand pounds, to replace the amount of what Sir Armine had loſt within the paſt week, by the failure of a banker whoſe credit he had generouſly attempted to ſave in the hour of an exigence that threatened deſtruction to himſelf and a whole family.

To prevent this threatened ruin, Sir Ar⯑mine, who had been long in friendſhip with the banker, put himſelf to the laſt difficulty, but had ſcarce effected the accommodation before the banker was declared inſolvent; and the news getting air, the perſon of whom Sir Armine borrowed the money, [293]made ſudden claim for a return of the ſum, which was only borrowed for one and twenty days, to cover ſudden loſſes which the banker had himſelf ſuſtained. In this extremity Sir Armine confided the caſe to Mr. Clare, who immediately depoſited the money, inſiſting it ſhould not be conſidered as any part of Olivia's independent fortune, but what it had been his ſolemn deſign, out of his diſtinct property, to leave to his oldeſt, deareſt friend, in caſe he ſhould be his ſurvivor, and if not, to be divided equally between his young friends, James and John.

Mr. Clare had farther ſaid, "that as Sir Armine had informed him he had no way of paying off the ſum borrowed, but by trench⯑ing on thoſe independencies, which, though duteouſly ſurrendered, he knew his old friend conſidered only as a more ſolemn truſt:—the advance of what he (Mr. Clare) had willed to be preſented after death, would better be offered now; which, "you know my friend," added Mr. Clare,—"will give me an opportunity of ſeeing an important [294]article of my laſt will and teſtament per⯑formed in my life-time,—beſides making Olivia one of the happieſt girls in the world; for to tell you the truth, this is one of her plans, after I had thrice refuſed the offer of her own fortune: but that, I have determined, muſt come clear to one whom I have long conſidered as her huſband."

Both the young men were greatly affect⯑ed at this act of generoſity on the part of Mr. Clare, and were not ſo blinded by their paſſion, as not to feel it was a natural and ſtrong, though not, perhaps, altogether juſ⯑tifiable inducement in Mr. Fitzorton, to promote the match between Henry and Oli⯑via:—for indeed, there is not any degree of family diſtreſs, though it may be pleaded as a palliative, can be admitted as a juſtifica⯑tion.

Following, therefore, the impulſe of a ſimilar ſenſation, they mutually deplored the cruel deſtiny which did not give them an apparent pretence to cenſure the event of which they were to be the victims.—On the contrary, they ſeemed to catch the [295]ſpirit of chivalry which characterized the action of the good old Clare; and, warm⯑ing by degrees, they worked themſelves up to ſuch a ſenſe of the conduct they ought to purſue, that each reſolved to ſtrong then the other, to the performance of the promiſe made to Sir Armine and Lady Fitzor⯑ton.

And thus, for a time, in this well-con⯑ducted victory over themſelves, they forgot that they were ſtill paſſionate lovers.

Alas! how nature plays with her chil⯑dren! She ſeems to rank them even amongſt her ſports.

In the midſt of all this heroiſm, a ſmall circumſtance happened, to convince the he⯑roes that theoretical and practical philo⯑ſophy are ſomewhat different.

Charles had a glimpſe of Olivia, and Henry of Caroline's little ſpaniel, exactly as they had ſettled their point of reſolution.—The ſight of theſe objects ſhook the goodly fabric which imagination had reared in their hearts; and, from the pride of victors, they ſunk, in a moment, to the condition of [296]the captive that had only been dreaming he was free.

"Muſt I reſign thee, beautiful Olivia?" ſighed Charles:—"muſt I then relinquiſh the very hope of thy ever being mine?"

"O thou envied little animal!" ex⯑claimed Henry to the ſpaniel,—"how wilt thou be fondled by my ſoul's dear Caroline, while I—muſt no more indulge the thought, even that I am beloved!"

Then, as if by ſympathy, both the youths embracing, they came to another ſettled point, namely, that they were a couple of miſerable fellows, who had nothing left in the world that took the ſhape of conſola⯑tion, but that one was as wretched, as the other;—a concluſion, which, though not perhaps ſtrictly generous, has been often thought comfortable,—proceeding, poſſi⯑bly, from a ſocial idea; for few can bear to be happy or ſorrowful alone.

Olivia and her canine companion ſoon joined the young gentlemen.—She was de⯑lighted to ſee them hand in hand, which ſhe conſidered as the reſult of their mutual hap⯑pineſs. [297]—Her ſpaniel, enraptured to behold two of his beſt friends, leaped alternately upon them, with every demonſtration of gratitude and joy, but more eſpecially upon Henry, who, we believe, was, of the two, the greater favourite: and Henry, in turn, received him with undiminiſhed affection, and, indeed, appeared to be, either for his own ſake or ſome other perſon's, more fond of him than ever.

Olivia, with an air of pleaſantry, coun⯑terfeiting mortification, declared that "ſhe ſhould now, in reality, be jealous, and would, therefore, the leſs reluctantly ſuf⯑fer Charles to take her rival back to his miſtreſs: "For," ſaid ſhe to Charles,—"you ſee plainly, the little ſeducer receives Henry's firſt attentions; and I ſhall pre⯑ſently be but a ſecondary object.—To con⯑feſs the truth," ſaid Olivia,—"I am a little jealous of you too, Mr. Stuart; for you and your friend, in your laſt interview with Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton,—who, by the bye, inſidiouſly kept me out of their party,—have contrived to run away with their [298]hearts, in a manner that throws poor Oli⯑via and the reſt of the family in ſhadow, quite into the back ground of our domeſtic groupe—Nothing now, forſooth! but the praiſes of the two inſeparables, Henry and Charles, has for the laſt half hour been heard through the caſtle!—'They are the beſt, the nobleſt young men in the world,' ſays the old lady. — 'Excellent youths!' cries the old gentleman.—Why what have you done to deſerve all theſe fine things?—But do not tell me.—I hate ſecrets.—The knowledge of them would only ſerve to increaſe my jealouſy; for I ſuppoſe I ſhould have the mortification to find you have done every thing to effect the charming reconci⯑liation, which, I find, is to take place be⯑tween our families; and I have been only the letter-carrier, you the ambaſſadors!—And you are to know, I am of ſo perverſe a diſpoſition, that I quarrel with the happi⯑neſs of my beſt friends, unleſs I have been ſome way, aye, and importantly, the me⯑dium."

The friends conſulted each other's looks.

[299]"Yes, you may plot, and lay your wiſe heads together, againſt a poor feeble wo⯑man," reſumed Olivia:—"but I will have my revenge yet, and with intereſt too;—for, when we are all again as we ſhould be, I am determined there ſhall not happen a ſingle thought or word that ſhall make any one of us wiſh to part again, except under the aſſurance of a ſpeedy return to each other, for the reſt of our lives.—So, that being the caſe, I ſhall now go to your father and mother, whom I left in the gar⯑den, Mr. Henry,—and ſee if I can get back ſome of my ſtolen goods—a little bit of their hearts again.

"Meantime," added ſhe, as ſhe was quit⯑ing the apartment,—"do not forget, Mr. Stuart, to tell your ſiſter, that if ſhe be but half as happy as I am at the proſpect of our amicable aſſociation, ſhe will be almoſt as bleſſed as I wiſh her to be,—not that I ſhould be quite contented till ſhe was as happy as myſelf either.—As to you, little Mr. Fitz,—but you know my mind already, and ſo this parting careſs, and adieu, ſir."

[300]Little is that reader ſkilled in the hiſ⯑tory of the human heart, who cannot ſug⯑geſt to himſelf the additional dilemma into which the two friends were thrown by this animated harangue.

When Olivia had departed, Henry caught hold of little Fitz, and turning to his friend, obſerved, "From the bottom of my ſoul, my unhappy Charles, I regret that you and I ever came into the world!"

"Would to heaven, we were both out of it, my dear Henry!" anſwered Charles.

"If we were both dead, all would be very well," ſaid Henry.

"You are perfectly in the right," an⯑ſwered Charles.

Henry ſeemed ſolemnly to recur to a ſuſ⯑pended idea. The expreſſions were trite, and, if conſidered as the language of de⯑ſpairing lovers, are ludicrous and unmean⯑ing:—but, on the part of Henry, they be⯑trayed the image that was but too deeply rooted in his mind.

The lie [...]tenant, after a mournful pauſe, obſerved that, "as, either way, they muſt [301]be both miſerable, it would be better for only two perſons to ſuffer, than to increaſe the number of victims." Hereupon Henry, who had been holding the ſilken ears of Ca⯑roline's ſpaniel to his cheek, and wiping away the tears which had dropt upon them, very gravely demanded of Charles, "What was his opinion of ſuicide?"

"To ſpeak of it profeſſionally, I think it the worſt ſort of deſertion, and flying one's country," anſwered Charles.—"To ſpeak of it morally, I feel it to be ſinful:—in ſorrow, as in joy, ſuch have ever been my ſenti⯑ments.—I wiſh we were both in our graves, my friend, with all my ſoul: but I do not hold it right to gratify this wiſh by ſhorten⯑ing our lives. Death would be a bleſſing: but could it be purchaſed by an action ac⯑curſed?"

Henry gave a ſort of diſſentient ſhake of the head, but dropt the ſubject.

"I can endure this houſe no longer at preſent," ſaid Charles,—"and will there⯑fore go home,—but without any hope of greater happineſs when I get there."

[302]"I will attend you—part—of—the way," ſays Henry, ſtammeringly dividing his ſen⯑tence.

They went out, and little Fitz was ſtill in the arms of Henry. Scarce had they reached the park, when Charles aſked, "Whether the family would not think it ſomewhat rude to go without his taking leave?—Very ill bred, certainly! do not you think ſo, my dear Henry?"—and he was walking again to⯑wards the houſe, without waiting for Hen⯑ry's reply. Then, as if changing his mind, he turned and took the path to the abbey, ſaying, with a dejected voice, "it was not material."

They now walked arm in arm, and little Fitz, being ſet down, ranged the hedge⯑rows, and traverſed the grounds,—far the happieſt being of the trio.

They ſoon gained the never-to-be-for⯑gotten grand avenue, from which the ab⯑bey and the caſtle could be viewed diſtinct⯑ly in all their parts.—It would be no eaſy matter to decide, whether Henry gazed more earneſtly at the one, or Charles at the [303]other. They both ſtood fixed, midway be⯑twixt both edifices, employing themſelves with the view of objects in the moſt oppo⯑ſite directions; and, after feeding their ſe⯑parate unhappineſs by all thoſe tender thoughts which they had reſolved, but a few minutes before, to conſider as the for⯑bidden fruit of their heart, and therefore never to be taſted.

Charles declared, "That this nurſing an unfortunate paſſion was extremely wrong; and, if they were wiſe, they were now taking their laſt look of the devoted caſtle, and the ill-fated abbey."

"Very true," ſaid Henry:—"here then let us—yes—after we have taken another look, let us ſeparate—at leaſt for the pre⯑ſent. —No,"—added he,—"I will go with you, my friend, juſt as far as thoſe trees on the left—for there—and then—and then—"

"Yes," obſerved Charles, gazing.

"True, my friend, and—th—the—then—"

Henry abſolutely ſtuttered, and was drag⯑ging at the arm of Charles, as he ſpoke;— [304]Charles, in the ſame degree, hanging back, as the other preſſed forwards. Juſt as this ſee-ſaw ſituation ended, Charles recollected he had left his ſtick at the caſtle, but pro⯑teſted, "He would not loſe it for the world. It was a gift."—One of his gloves too was miſſing.—This, indeed, he had, the inſtant before, taken off and put into his pocket.—So he ſtrode back ſome paces, pulling his friend, whoſe turn it now was to linger be⯑hind.—"They will be taken care of," ſaid Henry.—"You will walk over again ſoon, you know, or—or—or I can bring—bring—bring them—myſelf—to the ab—ab—ab⯑bey."

"I walk over again to the caſtle!—you bring them to the abbey!—Alas! my friend, have you ſo ſoon forgot our ſolemn reſolu⯑tions? —Exert yourſelf," cried Charles,—"bravely.—What a noble pile is Fitzorton Caſtle, my friend!"

"The abbey, methinks, is a more attrac⯑tive object:—ſuch grandeur, ſo many awful charms—ſo many—only look at it as the ſun falls on the weſtern turrets:—a long [305]and eternal adieu, thou ſacred manſion! farewel, for ever!"

Henry walked towards it with haſty ſtrides, all the while he was ſpeaking.—"Yes! Adieu! thou venerable edifice, whoſe very ruins are dear to my ſoul!—and ye, O conſcious woods, who have often witneſſed my ſighs and tears — my fer⯑vent vows, and bitter execrations, againſt perſecuting fortune.—But chiefly thou, Oh heart-enſhrined bower!"

Henry quickened his ſteps, till he almoſt ran.

"Thou receivedſt my firſt trembling de⯑clarations of a paſſion that has not hitherto, for one moment," continued he,—"and ſhall never quit, my troubled breaſt!—and thou, oh well-remembered tree, whoſe ten⯑der bark is ſtill, I truſt, faithful to thoſe names, which, alas! muſt never, never be united!"—

The ſpirits of paſſion and of poeſy were now at work; and Henry, deſirous that his feet and tongue ſhould keep pace with each other, had got to the ſide of the very tree [306]of which he had been ſo pathetically taking an everlaſting leave;—when happening—then for the firſt time ſince his ſoliloquy began—to recollect his friend, he turned round, and ſaw that no leſs diſtracted lover going, as faſt as his legs could carry him, in the contrary direction, towards the caſtle, to bid as affectionate and as eternal an adieu to its appreciated objects.

Henry exalted his voice, and aſſured his friend "he was going the wrong way:"—which Charles retorted upon Henry,—and thus they ſtood for a conſiderable time, hallooing and beckoning to each other, each ſteady to follow that part of the com⯑paſs to which his own affections pointed.

Alas! the abbey and caſtle were as the oppoſite poles, — Henry and his friend, the attracted needles.

CHAPTER XXXV.

WHILE they were vibrating to their different points, little Fitz, whom fate ſeems to have intended as the ſmall but [307]important inſtrument of many a great event in this hiſtory, was heard to give tongue, and chaſe a hare, which he had ſtarted, at full cry, till all the woods of Stuart were made vocal with his muſic.—The animal took up the great avenue, and ſeeing the unequal enemy ſhe had to contend with, rather played with her ſlender legs, than put them on the ſtretch, keeping only at a ſafe diſtance before the panting little Fitz, as if ſhe intended to afford him diverſion.

Henry, taken by ſurpriſe, though not a great admirer of the chaſe, now followed the ſport, and by turning towards the ſame ſide of the hedge with the hare, whenever ſhe deviated from the track that led imme⯑diately to the abbey, ſeemed to wiſh ſhe would keep the ſtraight road; while Charles, who came ſlowly after, perhaps would have been better pleaſed had ſhe taken her courſe towards the caſtle.

It was, however, decreed that the ab⯑bey ſhould now be the aſylum for the poor hare; and, having reached the gate of en⯑trance, ſhe ſprung through a well-known [308]meuſe, formed among ſome buſhes that cluſtered at the bottom of the avenue; and, notwithſtanding the utmoſt efforts of little Fitz, was ſoon loſt in the windings of the foreſt.

The hue and cry of the ſpaniel, however, and of Henry, who, though on very differ⯑ent motives, was not leſs vociferous, had not only brought forth into the front garden that faced the grand avenue, ſeveral other four-footed lovers of the ſport, who ſwelled the thunder of the woods, at they knew not what, but alarmed Sir Guiſe, honeſt Denniſon, and laſtly Caroline herſelf, who all ran to the iron railing to ſee what was the matter.

Henry, who was, very conveniently for his embarraſſment, out of breath from his purſuit, explained the circumſtance, and was relating the heroic achievements of little Fitz,—accounting, at the ſame time, to Caroline for his delay, when the coura⯑geous animal came panting into the gar⯑den, where, hardly finding breath to ex⯑preſs his tranſports at being reſtored to [309]his miſtreſs, he threw himſelf on his ſide upon one of the graſs plats, and, ſtill the moſt happy of the groupe, recovered his ſtrength and ſpirits at leiſure.

Preſently after, arrived the tardy Charles; and, when Denniſon had conſulted the countenances of the whole company, and ſeeing nothing there either particularly to delight or to diſtreſs him, he patted little Fitz on the head, telling him, "Puſs had led him a fine dance, and, like many other fine folks, had made a fool of him at laſt:" and with this pithy remark the good old man withdrew.

There never perhaps was exhibited in any four faces more characteriſtic impa⯑tience, than in thoſe of the party then pre⯑ſent,—Henry and Charles, to diſguiſe their ſecret emotions,—Sir Guiſe and Caroline to diſcover them.

This threw them all into very aukward ſituations.—Caroline, from certain clouds not unattended with ſhowers, that gathered and fell involuntarily on the features of Henry, was afraid to aſk any queſtions: [310]and Charles, whiſpering her not to be inquiſitive, obſerved that "Ill tidings al⯑ways arrived too ſoon," augmented her di⯑ſtreſs.

At length Sir Guiſe, counterfeiting a generous anxiety to know the reſult of his advances to reconcilement, and expa⯑tiating on the ardent deſire he felt to com⯑plete the good work he had begun, inſiſted upon his ſon's telling him, "How his over⯑tures had been received?"

Charles made ſhift to acquaint him with the truth, ſo far as his father was concerned;—he ſaid that "Sir Armine received them with proper kindneſs, and would be as ready to conciliate as Sir Guiſe."

Henry, finding that his friend got through this garbled relation but very lamely, of⯑fered him a helping hand, by taking up the narrative, and carrying it on, ſo far as had any relation to Olivia's amicable meſſage to Caroline.—But Henry was not more ſuc⯑ceſsful than his friend: for, though he like⯑wiſe indulged pretty copiouſly in mental reſervations, the difficulty which he found [311]to ſeparate what was unfit for communica⯑tion, from what might ſafely be divulged, rendered the whole ſtory ſo diſmembered and incongruous, that a far leſs diſcerning ſpectator, than either the baronet or his daughter, might eaſily conceive there was a great deal more hid than there had been diſcovered.

Sir Guiſe, therefore, chooſing to inter⯑pret their confuſion to a diſlike of relating all that had paſt, thought fit to act the part of the man of violated feelings and nice honour, and to exclaim, "Very well, I ſee how it is!—I have been inſulted.—My fool⯑iſh good-nature has been rejected.—I might have expected as much, indeed!—But you would over-rule me.—You know your in⯑fluence, and ſee the conſequence of it!—However, thank heaven, I have the conſo⯑lation to ſuffer this freſh outrage for my children's ſake; and ſo I ſubmit.—But, me⯑thinks, when I condeſcended to make the firſt advances towards the Caſtle, your father, young gentleman, ſhould not have [312]driven me back to the Abbey with diſgrace, or have himſelf retreated.

Henry was about to reply, and with ſome generous warmth, in defence of his father,—from a tender love of whom, no ſufferings of his own, though proceeding from that father, could detach him;—when Charles, who was a young man of high honour and exalted principles, felt it an incumbent duty to take the juſtification of Sir Armine upon himſelf. "Sir," ſaid he, "the overtures you offered, were, as I before obſerverd, received with ſuitable kindneſs: and I am convinced your viſit will be returned with a confirma⯑tion of the moſt hoſpitable aſſurances—but—"

"But what?" queſtioned Sir Guiſe.

Henry, who preſaged ſome poſſible good from concealing, and much poſitive miſchief from divulging, all that might naturally be ſuppoſed to follow, obſerved, in an abrupt manner, that "nothing had paſſed between his father and friend any way inconſiſtent with—that is—as to that—he only meant—he [313]could aſſure Sir Guiſe, as to what had paſt,—nothing material relative thereto, he could take on himſelf to ſay,—in regard to the circumſtances which—"

"Mr. Fitzorton," interpoſed the baronet, "your attempts to explain away the repulſe I have met with from your family, are as generous as they are unſatisfactory; there is at the bottom of all this a ſomething—"

Caroline interrupted the father diſcuſſion of this matter, by declaring ſhe was ſuddenly ſeized with ſo dreadful a giddineſs, that if ſhe did not hurry into the houſe ſhe ſhould certainly tumble. Indeed, her whole ap⯑pearance but too clearly confirmed the de⯑ſcription of her ſituation: ſhe was with difficulty conducted to the abbey, under the ſupports of Henry and Charles,—the former preſſing her to his heart and whiſpering a thouſand tenderneſſes in her ear as they paſſed along, to the total oblivion of every thing on earth but Caroline's anxiety; and her brother ſcarce leſs affectionately tried to recover his ſiſter's ſpirits; for he now plainly ſaw that her diſorder originated in the ap⯑prehenſions [314]of her mind, as to what had paſt at the caſtle.

Sir Guiſe Stuart, not being quite ſo much intereſted in or affected by theſe kind of diſaſters, took a turn or two round the gar⯑den, where we ſhall leave him to the only perſon he did really intereſt himſelf for—to himſelf.

His afflicted daughter now, in a voice of woe and terror, called upon Henry and her brother to unfold the dreadful myſtery which lay hid behind, or was partly ſeen ſtruggling in, their expreſſions. "What new grief has befallen us?" ſaid ſhe: "it cannot ſur⯑paſs what my deſpair ſuggeſts; and I conjure you, both by friendſhip, love, duty, and all that is dear to us, reveal the whole! I know not wherefore I am thus affected; but I feel as if ſomething more terrible than any thing I have yet endured was about to involve us all!"

"No!" ſaid Henry, dropping ſuddenly on his knee, "No, Caroline! neither father, nor fate itſelf,—I here ſolemnly ſwear—"

"Whatever be the nature of your oath, it [315]muſt not be made," replied Caroline: "nor could I hear it now;—for ſo great, alas! is my preſent weakneſs, that—O my father, why, when I had yielded myſelf up to the cold mandates of deſpair,—why did you re⯑vive my hopes?—or how, knowing, as I did, the many inſurmountable evils which en⯑viron all of us,—ah! how could I be ſo frantic—ſo—"

While ſhe was proceeding in this apo⯑ſtrophe, the venerable Denniſon made his appearance, bearing two letters, one of which he delivered to Caroline, the other he laid upon the table, ſaying, "it was for Sir Guiſe."

The baronet himſelf came in immediate⯑ly after: and Charles deſiring Denniſon to leave the room, the reſt of the party, before aſſembled in the garden, were now grouped in the great hall, where Caroline, it being the firſt apartment, had reſted.

Although her ſtrength appeared, in the moment before, to have left her, ſhe rallied ſufficiently, to break the ſeal of the above⯑mentioned letter, and was juſt about to read [316]the contents, when Sir Guiſe, having with no leſs curioſity opened that which had been di⯑rected to himſelf, read aloud what follows,—premiſing, "that it came from the caſtle, and appeared to be written by Sir Armine Fitzorton."

Human attention, or expectation, never perhaps having been more fixed, than du⯑ring the peruſal of this epiſtle, we will aſſign it a diſtinct place.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"SIR ARMINE FITZORTON and family receive Sir Guiſe Stuart's advances to reconci⯑liation, with all the attention due to them: and although ſome domeſtic concerns pre⯑vented an immediate reply in writing, pro⯑per acknowledgments were diſpatched by our friend Charles, whoſe many virtues we all hold in high regard: and Sir Armine, for himſelf and his family, in which he includes by authority that of the Clares, now aſſures [317]Sir Guiſe, his welcome to the caſtle ſhall be no leſs cordial than they expect to find at the abbey; and that the firſt viſit ſhall be left to his own nomination, as ſoon as he pleaſes, after an event, arrang⯑ing between the families of Fitzorton and Clare, has taken place; which it is now ex⯑pected to do in the courſe of a few days."

The conſternation of Henry and Charles, while the baronet read this card, could be ſurpaſſed only by that which, like a hurri⯑cane, ſhook the frame of Caroline. On hearing the laſt paſſage, ſhe dropt the paper, which had long trembled in her hand, upon the floor, and ſinking herſelf after it, cried out in a fee⯑ble yet agonized and interrupted voice, "In—a—few—a—a—very—few days!"

Henry's eye caught the ſuperſcription of the card which was addreſſed to Caroline, and perceived the hand writing of Olivia. He would, hereupon, have glided it into his pocket, to prevent at leaſt farther miſchief. But Sir Guiſe, with a ſolicitude truly cha⯑racteriſtic of his paternal feelings—wounded, no doubt, at ſeeing his now beloved daugh⯑ter [318]in ſuch profound affiction, obſerved, that, "as it was poſſible the contents of the ſecond might ſerve as an antidote to the poi⯑ſon of the firſt paper, he muſt gently inſiſt on reading it."

Henry ſtood by Caroline's ſide, hovering between ſenſe and inſanity:—Charles was in a kind of ſtupor, perhaps, at that time, friendly to his reaſon; and Caroline ſeemed to ſhudder betwixt life and death.

TO MISS STUART.

"THE cuſtoms of the world require that I ſhould begin and end my introductory letter with certain preſcriptive formalities; but, in the firſt place, can I conſider Caro⯑line Stuart as a ſtranger, when, even in our almoſt infant days, I bore to her a ſiſter's love, and have ſince been intimately ac⯑quainted with her virtues, and as long have loved and honoured her for them? And indeed I am ſo little an obſerver of etiquette, where my affections are concerned, that I ſhould put the greateſt reſtraint imaginable on thoſe affections, were I to clog them with [319]common ceremonies, in this addreſs which is ſimply to deſcribe the happineſs I feel in the long-wiſhed and long-ſought opportunity of making it conſiſtently at once with my duty and love.

Sir Guiſe pauſed.

"I told you," ſaid Sir Guiſe, "the young lady would atone amply for the old gentle⯑man:—ſo let us go on."

"The proſpect of our family re-union, in which Caroline and Olivia,—pardon my boaſt,—ſhall be as ſiſters, Henry and Charles as brothers, and our parents ſcarcely diſtin⯑guiſhable from each other, is ſo delightful to me, and is, indeed, a tranſport which has been ſo long watched, wiſhed, and prayed for, that you muſt pardon me if I forget, not only the modes of the world, but the world itſelf, in the ſenſibility with which I reflect upon the completion of thoſe wiſhes and prayers. Almoſt in the inſtant of their being granted to me—"

"Dear Sir Guiſe," ſaid Henry, "it is cruel to proceed, when you ſee how your daughter, and indeed all of us are afflicted."

[320]"Afflicted!" reiterated the baronet: "ſurely there has nothing of an afflictive kind yet occurred; and I therefore augur well of the reſt."

"I entreat," ſaid Caroline,—"that my father may be permitted to pro⯑ceed."

Charles was ſilent.

Sir Guiſe read on, "I catch up the pen to inform my long-loved Caroline of my happineſs, not only becauſe I could not 'ſuffer the coldneſs of delay to hang on' ſuch heartfelt tidings, but becauſe I cheriſh the hope that my felicity will be ſhared by Miſs Stuart."

"Felicity!" exclaimed Caroline.

Henry, who had taken advantage of this pauſe, having caſt his eye over the reſidue of Olivia's epiſtle, which the baronet held careleſsly down that he might the better ob⯑ſerve on the parties, took hold of the paper, and cried, "excuſe me, ſir!—we have heard too much already:—what remains, I ſee, is of no conſequence. So, if you pleaſe, we will—"

[321]"If you pleaſe, Mr. Fitzorton," anſwered Sir Guiſe, pretending offence, "we will go through the reſt, and form our own judg⯑ment of its conſequence."

Charles and his ſiſter ſeemed to anticipate the ſentiments that were to follow, in Hen⯑ry's countenance; which was at all times an expreſſive one, and might now be ſaid in Shakeſpeare's language, "to be a book, in which one might read ſtrange matters." From their peruſal of this, they prepared themſelves for ſomething miſerable.

The baronet aſſerted that, hitherto, he ſaw nothing but what was in good train, and proceeded thus: "I muſt inform my dear Caroline—that—that—I proteſt I hardly know how to write it—that—after a life of wooing—a certain event is likely to take place be⯑tween one of my family—and—and one of—but, I underſtand, Henry accompanied his friend home; and as I ſuppoſe him to be ſtill at the abbey, I refer you to him for the particulars;—or if he refuſes, your brother may be applied to."

[322]If the reader's own mind furniſhes not a ſketch of the ſituation of the trio moſt con⯑cerned in this intelligence, and eſpecially the reference to Henry and Charles, we muſt fairly confeſs the inability of our pen to deſcribe it.

Sir Guiſe, having inſidiouſly made unob⯑ſerved obſervations, read on—

"I only mention the circumſtance, as a tender thought, at the moment of my writ⯑ing, ſteals into my heart, purporting the honour and happineſs I ſhould derive, had I the privileges of a friend to invite the gentle Caroline's ſervice on an occaſion which—in ſhort, as I ſaid before, not being able to conſider her in any other light than an old—an intimate—a boſom friend—I—I—"

Sir Guiſe, maſking a cruel purpoſe in kind expreſſions, declared that "he feared, what followed was coming rather too cloſely to the point.—However," added the baronet, "it is but another ſentence; the ſooner an unpleaſant thing was over, the better.—Suſpenſe was the ſoreſt of evils; and he [323]would therefore get rid of the remainder as faſt as poſſible." He then appeared to hurry over what follows:

"I feel a degree of anxiety, for which I cannot account, that the, I hope and truſt in heaven, moſt joyful day of my life, even though I thus tremble at its approach, ſhould be diſtinguiſhed by two of the great⯑eſt bleſſings—the acquiſition of a—how ſhall I name it—of a tender huſband!—I can ſcarcely write—and the recovery of my ear⯑lieſt friend:—and this double felicity I am ambitious to mark by the latter undertak⯑ing the gentleſt, the moſt endearing office of friendſhip. Ah! cannot my Caroline con⯑jecture what the tumult of my ſoul permits me not to—"

"She wiſhes you to be one of her bride⯑maids, I ſuppoſe," ſaid Sir Guiſe, affecting a bluntneſs, for which, almoſt in the com⯑miſſion of it, he pretended to reproach him⯑ſelf.

"Her bridemaid!" ejaculated the trio at the ſame time:—"her bridemaid!"

[324]"That, indeed, is too much!" ſaid Sir Guiſe, affecting to ſympathiſe.

"Damnation!" exclaimed Charles, riſing and ſtamping as he walked toward the door,—then turned, and taking Henry by the hand,—"yet, God bleſs you together! It muſt be ſo. It ought—and I ſubmit—I—I—I—do.—My friend, farewel."

Caroline attempted to follow her bro⯑ther's example; but, catching his arm as he was going, ſhe could only ſay—"I—too—reſign myſelf—and—and—from my ſoul—repeat the benediction!" She withdrew, ſupported by Charles.

"My dear Henry," ſaid Sir Guiſe, almoſt betraying his triumph in the attempt to re⯑fine upon it, "you perceive I have done my utmoſt—I have ſought, petitioned, and al⯑moſt proſtrated, myſelf,—but all in vain: my children and myſelf remain unhappy, and yet, in this inſtance, none of us perhaps can blame any of your family."

The baronet pauſed, ſeeing Henry ſtart from his ſeat, ſeize his hair in deſperation, [325]and then ſtriking his breaſt as he ejaculated, "No! my worthy friend, it is not you nor any body elſe:—it is the work of my own curſed, curſed fortune!"

A ſervant entered, ſaying to Sir Guiſe, "the gentleman you expected, ſir, is come."—"I will attend him immediately," ob⯑ſerved the baronet: then adverting to Hen⯑ry,—"I am really concerned to ſee you ſo much affected, Mr. Fitzorton. I have only to regret that my paternal efforts have not anſwered the end propoſed: and as ſome very particular buſineſs claims me elſewhere, I muſt bid you farewel: but we ſhall meet: yes, we ſhall certainly meet.—The abbey is ſtill open, you know; and though my good offices have failed, my beſt wiſhes are yours."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

HENRY was now again left to his ſo⯑liloquies in that houſe where it ſeemed fated for him to meet varieties of diſtreſs, diſappointment, and deſpair.—He found [326]himſelf more ſorely beſet than ever:—his grand diſcovery had been made to ſome of the parties who were principally concerned in it;—and he had the mortification to per⯑ceive, his ſecret might have been better ſtill confined to his own boſom.—At the caſtle, his father, mother, and brother James, were made partakers of it: letters had been ſent on the ſubject to John:—at the abbey it had been communicated to Sir Guiſe and Caro⯑line, with equal ill fortune.—Olivia and her father only had eſcaped: and were the knowledge of his involvement even to ex⯑tend to them, it was plain to be ſeen, that, although the ſecret would then have taken its full range, like the flight of an empoi⯑ſoned arrow, it would have loſt nothing by its paſſage though the air, but ſcatter deſo⯑lation in its progreſs.

Under this conviction, Henry once again left the abbey, ſtaring wildly at Denniſon, who once more opened the door to him in an extreme of his miſery,—and in a ſtate betwixt ſenſe and diſtraction.

As the reader has ſeveral times accompa⯑nied [327]the ill-ſtarred Henry in his gloomy walks to and from theſe manſions, we will not now preſs his attendance: but while Henry is on his way, we ſhall enter that apartment in the abbey, where the perſon who, it has been noticed, came to wait upon Sir Guiſe Stuart, was conducted, and whither Sir Guiſe was now gone to give him audi⯑ence.

But, previouſly to our joining them, it may be right to take a ſhort retroſpective view of the points which the worthy baronet had gained, ſince his antipathy to the houſe of Fitzorton, and his no leſs radical aver⯑ſion to his daughter, had arrived at their height, and ſince, for certain purpoſes yet in the womb of time, he had aſſumed the maſk of affection and good-will.

From the date of this memorable aera when his hate admitted not of augmenta⯑tion, the ſaid maſk of kindneſs had conti⯑nued to thicken, till not only the innocent victims thereof, Charles, Caroline, Denni⯑ſon, Henry, and the reſt, were deceived by it,—but even the principal agent in his own [328]deſigns was enabled to penetrate the dark⯑neſs of its folds.

By this reſolute and patient hypocriſy, he had, without any perſonal hazard, the only point which his fell nature felt as a check, effected, in a degree, what was ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary to his ſafety in the perpe⯑tration of ſome nobler works of wickedneſs. He had, by his pretended reform, taken off the bitter edge of that deteſtation in which he was held by every creature of his own houſhold.—He had contrived to ſhift from his own ſhoulders the weight of whatever conſequences might reſult from thoſe hapleſs loves, which his cold heart had aſſured him would, at leaſt he was determined to take care they ſhould, be more ſickly under his chilling influence, than if he any longer ap⯑peared to oppoſe them: and his ſeeming to ſhine upon them was but like the tranſient gleam of the dog-ſtar, that darts upon flow⯑ers after an untimely blight had lodged the worm within their bud.—He knew, indeed, that even if Henry and his daughter ſhould come together, as one conſequence of his [329]affected reconciliation, the union itſelf might be made ſubſervient to his purpoſe of final revenge, not only in working the woe of both the huſband and wife, but of every individual of the two deteſted houſes of Clare and Fitzorton, and principally by the diſappointment of their views in the diſpo⯑ſal of Olivia, the whole ſcope of which he had been made acquainted with before the partial diſcoveries of Caroline or Henry, although we have not yet thought proper to communicate his ſources of intelligence to the reader.

But, in fact, he did not ſeriouſly believe his advance to good fellowſhip would pro⯑duce a match between his daughter and Henry, and only provided for it in his own prolific mind; as a poſſible contingence. He rather anticipated what really happened, that either the folly of the lovers them⯑ſelves, or his own contrivance, would but the more deſtroy their hopes, the more they were made known;—and that, independent on the ſatisfaction which their vexation would give him, for the ſincere hate he bore [330]them, he ſhould derive from the appear⯑ance of having annihilated all his own re⯑ſentments, the more ſolid happineſs he ex⯑pected from entrapping the credulity of the Fitzortons.

We muſt not omit the mention of ano⯑ther, and that not the leaſt important point acquired by his thus "ſeeming the thing he was not," viz. the meaſure of odium he here⯑by took from himſelf in the opinion of his neighbours, who heard of his great change of conduct, not only from the ſervants, who had before reprobated his behaviour, but from the parties who were the objects of this extraordinary alteration.

The people of the pariſh, indeed, inter⯑preted this extraordinary change into a miracle: but the good monk, who was now one of the moſt zealous of his advocates, aſſured them it was the ſimple operation of conſcience, which it had pleaſed God to awake in his heart, in time not only to make atonement to all whom he had injured in this preſent world, but effect his future ſal⯑vation in the world to come.

[331]To ſay the truth, the baronet had been at more than uſual pains to obſerve a conſiſtent conduct in the preſence of our monaſtic, who, though a man of great ſimplicity, and devoid of the ſuſpicion, which thoſe who are themſelves guilty cultivate moſt, was likewiſe of a very penetrating mind.—Yet, the uniform diſeretion of Sir Guiſe was more than a match for the doctor's clearneſs of head or purity of heart,—inſomuch that the beſt, warmeſt, and moſt able, as well as moſt active defender of the baronet, far and near, at home and abroad, was now Father Arthur.

It is hence apparent, that Sir Guiſe, in a very ſhort ſpace of time, but with a dili⯑gence ſuitable to ſo great an object, might be ſaid to have done what is juſtly to be conſidered amongſt the moſt arduous of all human labours,—to have redeemed a loſt character, even when, indeed, it was ſup⯑poſed to be gone, paſt redemption—It was ſtill remembered by many how bad he had been; but it was generally be⯑lieved he had, though late, ſeen his errors, [332]and that if he was now ſometimes as outra⯑geous in doing worthy, as before he had been violent in committing wicked actions, it ſhould be imputed to him as an over-anxi⯑ous deſire to make up loſt time, and to finiſh his own career of virtue by labouring doubly in the vineyard, that he might work out the ſalvation which had been ſo long neglected. Upon the whole, therefore, few perſons en⯑joyed a fairer regenerated fame, ſince the death of his lady, as a good father, a good neighbour, or a ſincere penitent, than Sir Guiſe Stuart.

Perhaps, Sir Armine and John Fitzorton, and one or two more, might ſtill have their ſuſpicions;—yet there was only one man living, who, at the moment here alluded to, could bear witneſs that he was much more conſummate in the ways of deceit than he had ever been before;—and this ſingle living perſon was HIMSELF.

It was even doubted by the perſon who now came to diſcourſe with him, and to whom we ſhall immediately introduce the reader.

[333]This perſon was no other than the noto⯑rious Mr. Valentine Miles, the active agent of Sir Guiſe upon all occaſions:—he col⯑lected his rents and improved his eſtates, he got in his monies, and laid them out to what he thought the beſt, that is to ſay, his own advantage.—He was no leſs the para⯑ſite than the tyrant of Sir Guiſe.—To him the baronet was firſt indebted for the ho⯑nour of Mrs. Tempeſt's acquaintance; and like other providers of his caſt of character, he was ſhrewdly ſuſpected to have firſt taſted the dainty himſelf: yet at other times, jack-all as he was, he knew the art to make the lion crouch at his feet, and tremble before him.—The above-mentioned lady numbered this gentleman amongſt her firſt impreſſions, although we hardly know how to call him or any other perſon her firſt love, becauſe there were, about the ſame period, ſo many candidates for her favour, and from a pecu⯑liar philanthropy ſhe was ſo little diſpoſed to that ſpecies of cruelty whereby lovers are ſaid ſo often to ſuffer wounds and death, that it would be narrowing her kind and [334]relenting nature, to confine her loving kind⯑neſs to any individual.—Mr. Miles was cer⯑tainly one of her happy men:—and Mr. Tempeſt, whom ſhe honoured with her hand, was another; but ſomehow, the latter ſoon died, and the former had at leaſt one rival leſs.—Indeed, Miles continued amongſt her firſt favourites after the lady's heart got more into practice, and even when her love of mankind, increaſing with the knowledge of ſuffering objects, and her pity for their ſuf⯑ferings, was unbounded.—But then her Va⯑lentine recommended himſelf by more than one congenial paſſion,—that of gaming.—The love of the dice was paramount over all. Indeed it nearly extinguiſhed every other, or rather it was, in proceſs of time, ſo much the maſter paſſion, that every other was in vaſſal⯑age to it:—love itſelf, great, enlarged, and im⯑partial as it was in the ample heart of this ge⯑nerous pair, became ſubſervient to it:—for the lady imagined her mighty flame might be fed by once more lighting at it the torch of Hy⯑men. A dice-box, in ſuch a hand, ſeemed to have all the magic power of that torch; and [335]as Sir Guiſe Stuart raiſed his admiring eye to the enchantreſs, the dice themſelves were as two balls of electric fire; and a thouſand ſparks and gentle ſhocks were drawn from his heart. In love affairs, Miles was nothing ſelfiſh.—He ſecretly ſaw this conqueſt, and interrupted it not:—on the contrary, he had long called the object of it his boſom friend; and Sir Guiſe became another happy man, and entered into the gaming aſſociation with a ſpirit like that of his friend and miſtreſs: and, although the aforeſaid hymeneal torch had not yet lighted our baron a ſecond time to the altar, it was only conſigned to Cupid as a little deity in waiting for a more con⯑venient ſeaſon.

Meantime, the loves and games of Valen⯑tine and Mrs. Tempeſt went gaily on:—what though ſhe had no nuptial torch for him? ſhe had a Cupid ſtill very much at his ſer⯑vice; and that did full as well.—And as to the gambling affection, they might both be ſaid to be "pleaſed with ruin;" for they had very often been ruined together on the ſame evening, yet retired in the moſt bene⯑volent [336]humour, on the ſocial principle of making each other happy;—they had, in⯑deed, often been made whole again the next morning, by their choſen friend, Sir Guiſe Stuart, who was altogether unſkilful, but whom the lady by the pretences of vio⯑lent love, and the gentleman by thoſe of as vehement friendſhip, contrived to pil⯑lage of what ought to have been appro⯑priated to his own family:—for, whatever praiſe is due to profuſion, when he had money in his purſe, Sir Guiſe might claim wherever his pleaſures or fears were con⯑cerned.—His temper was ſufficiently niggard indeed: but he was coaxed or terrified out of enormous ſums, becauſe, in truth, except by the ſtarts of a moment, which he always paid for, he dared not refuſe;—his own miſerable ſoul was a reſervoir; but Miles and Mrs. Tempeſt were the impure ſtreams that exhauſted, and literally, played it off.

Yet ſo radical was this vice of gaming in the widow and Miles, that ſometimes, after a run of good fortune had ſent them home,—for they were generally under the ſame roof, [337]—laden with ſpoils, they would paſs an hour before they went to bed in playing againſt each other, and that with the ſame deſire to cheat and win, as if they were at work upon ſome marked novice, upon whom they had a deſign:—and whichever, in this tête-à-tête game, came off loſer, was to undertake the odd trick,—in other words, it was the loſer's part to wheedle the baro⯑net out of the next ſupply.

A ſlight ſpecimen of the abilities of Mr. Miles was exhibited to the reader in the cheat he attempted to paſs upon the family of the Atwoods, after he had favoured the plan for Jenny's journey to London.—But ſince the diſcovery of his treachery, he had lived wholly with the baronet's miſtreſs as an ami de maiſon, and had been the confi⯑dential medium betwixt that lady and Sir Guiſe, in certain important points that are now to be communicated.

The moſt material of theſe, on the part of the lady, was to make good her ground at the abbey, with a view, as has been inti⯑mated, to her becoming no leſs than lady [338]of the manor. And the death of lady Ma⯑tilda gave an unexpected opening to her bold aſpiring.

To accompliſh this, however, was an un⯑dertaking that called for very extraordinary powers: and although thoſe of which Mrs. Tempeſt was in poſſeſſion, were certainly of this extraordinary kind, they were yet in⯑ſufficient to bring about ſo great an event, without ſome congenial aſſiſtance.

For this, ſhe applied to a man whoſe ta⯑lents ſhe had employed in various inſtances, with unvarying ſucceſs.—Indeed, there was not any one amongſt her acquaintance,—un⯑leſs ſhe could have brought Sir Guiſe into a plot againſt himſelf, which indeed ſhe did in many inſtances,—ſo able, or for the re⯑wards ſo willing, as her Valentine, to ad⯑vance a project which he had ſome time ſuſ⯑pected was going on in the mind of his beloved.

Miles was bleſt with a head and heart ſo ſtrictly in alliance with each other, that, like copartners, they carried on buſineſs in the utmoſt harmony.—They had, indeed, [339]embarked in the ſame trade, that of deviſ⯑ing and carrying into effect all ſorts of com⯑modities which promoted the meum, without conſidering the tuum of this life, ſo early that they were now become, from long ha⯑bit and conſtant practice, equal to any human undertaking that ever hath, or may be done in roguery.—And, to complete the alluſion, it might be ſaid, that the beſt eſta⯑bliſhed warehouſe of all kinds of knavery, ready made for every poſſible purpoſe, was under the firm of Mr. Valentine Miles.

This gentleman was of a good figure and genteel addreſs, and had indeed, in his youth, been a diſtinguiſhed favourite of the ladies.—He was now only in the maturity of life, ſomewhat inclined to a corpulence not ſtrictly conſiſtent with elegance, but in perfect uniſon with our ideas of confirmed manhood.—He was of an aſſured air, con⯑fident expreſſion, ready utterance, verſatile talents, and accommodating manners;—and from an uncommonly well-knit conſtruc⯑tion of limbs, and great natural ſtrength of body, with a certain conſtitutional power [340]of drinking others out of their wits while he retained his own, he had run his career in almoſt every ſpecies of debauchery, without being checked by one diſtem⯑per, or puniſhed by any pains of body; and as to thoſe of mind, he ſet them glori⯑ouſly at defiance.—He had, in ſhort, arrived at that pre-eminence, at that perfect imper⯑fection, which annihilates the ſenſe of fear or of ſhame, and herein was confeſſedly the ſuperior, even of Sir Guiſe Stuart, who had an abundance of the former, though he poſ⯑ſeſſed not a jot of the latter.

Upon all theſe grounds, he was the fitteſt for a connection with the baronet, of any man in the world: for, as there was not an infamous thought which the heart of man could conceive, but was engendered by Sir Guiſe, ſo was there not any man who had ſo much intrepidity of practical baſeneſs to carry ſuch conception into action, as Miles.

This accompliſhed gentleman, therefore, and Mrs. Tempeſt, divided the baronet be⯑tween them, and had been for ſome time contriving how to diſpoſe in a more legal [341]manner of his family and fortune to their wiſhes: for as the widow had, after ſound⯑ing him, avowed her deſign to Miles, of becoming lady Stuart,—ſo had Miles, in return of confidence, then firſt mentioned a long-cheriſhed intention of making pro⯑poſals to the baronet, for getting rid of the incumbrance of his daughter Caroline.

Now his was a kind of underplot, to be woven into their domeſtic plan, in order to ſtrengthen their intereſts.—This little epi⯑ſode, indeed, rather endeared the expected cataſtrophe to Mr. Miles, who, at the fall of the curtain, promiſed himſelf from this double marriage, which might indeed be called the title of the farce, more than dou⯑ble advantage;—while Mrs. Tempeſt was reconciled to it, on principles of equal con⯑venience and accommodation, differing only a little in the idea as to Caroline.—She did not love Miles well enough, to feel any jealouſy about the diviſion of his perſonal favours: but ſhe indulged the ſecret thought, that ſhe ſhould come in not only for an equal diviſion of Caroline's fortune,—Miles [342]having promiſed her a moiety in caſe the match ſhould be brought about,—but for the ſole and ſovereign authority over the eſtates of Sir Guiſe Stuart; meditating, indeed, to hold theſe ſo much at controul, that neither her Sir Guiſe nor her Valentine ſhould have a greater proportion than their good beha⯑viour to her ſeemed to merit from her bounty.—As to the baronet's perſon, her diſcovery of his infidelity with Jane At⯑wood was the finiſhing ſtroke to the remains of what ſhe was pleaſed to call love:—ſhe held it more cheap than that of Miles; but not being over nice in her ſenſations, ſhe foreſaw the poſſibility of ſtill retaining both in the voluminous liſt of her happy men.

In regard to the nature of Valentine's attachment to Caroline, it as little partook of the troubleſome and avaricious tender⯑neſs which confines the great paſſion of love to one perſon, as that which Mrs. Tempeſt bore either to her intended huſ⯑band, or to her old protector: for though Mrs. Tempeſt was a woman of ſome violence, in all reſpects, ſhe profeſſed ſovereign ſcorn of [343]thoſe who affected to argue againſt plu⯑ralities in the belle paſſion: and though ſhe declared ſhe doated on Miles to diſtraction, it was thought various others were her doating pieces alſo: and a domeſtic of her father's had diſtracted her in the ſame manner ſo effectually ſome months be⯑fore, that the outward and viſible ſigns of it were obvious even when her elope⯑ment from her family was determined on, and the arms of the accommodating Va⯑lentine were open to receive her with all incumbrances. It was a long-balanced point on her part, whether ſhe ſhould ſtay with Mr. Thomas the footman, or run away with Mr. Valentine Miles, her papa's engroſſing clerk; for at that time her father was an attorney, and Miles was his aſſiſtant. A compromiſe, however, took place between all parties. Mr. Thomas had a parting dou⯑ceur, and a promiſe of future proviſion; and Mr. Miles agreed to the arrangement, in all its parts, and ſo carried off the lady; but, whether they did, or did not, provide for [344]Mr. Thomas, cannot at this moment be made known.

Miles had often ſeen Miſs Stuart both in her mother's life-time, and ſince her death, but had never intimated his paſſion, other⯑wiſe than by certain ſighs and ſmiles, moral ſentences, and well-turned compliments, from time to time, which, partly his ſubor⯑dinate ſituation in life as her father's agent, and partly her own pre-occupied ſentiments, had prevented Caroline from ſeeing, in the leaſt degree, the drift of. He intended, indeed, at firſt only to ſeduce her: but he now en⯑tertained honourable ſentiments, as the moſt profitable. In regard to the former objec⯑tion to him, Miles conſidered it, on reflection, now done away by his profeſſion, as he al⯑ways maintained, before thoſe who were diſpoſed to queſtion his titles, that a gam⯑bler was a gentleman, ſeeing it mixed him conſtantly in the very beſt company: and if ever the baronet diſputed the claim, Miles would riſe up in great diſpleaſure, uſe ſome terrifying menace, and inſiſt either on re⯑ceiving [345]a ſuitable apology, or the ſatisfac⯑tion due to a gentleman.

Of late, indeed, ſome pretty ſmart con⯑teſts, about diviſion of ſpoil, had paſt be⯑tween Miles and the widow: their affection for each other was almoſt worn out; and yet their ties of intereſt were ſo ſtrong, that fear operated now, as love had done before, to keep them together; for each well knew, a very little treachery on either ſide—as is the caſe with moſt rogues who confederate,—would deſtroy both.

Believing that the reader is by this time as perfectly acquainted with theſe great per⯑ſonages, as it is neceſſary for him to be, to the right underſtanding the events which chain our hiſtory,—we ſhall proceed to un⯑fold the buſineſs which brought Mr. Miles to the abbey. But as what paſt between the worthy agent and his illuſtrious em⯑ployer, will be, in part, beſt given in dia⯑logue, we ſhall, as being indeed fit company only for each other, give them a chapter to themſelves.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

WHAT am I to believe, my dear friend? Is it true that you have offered your daughter in marriage to the ſon of your direſt foe? Is it fear, or is it madneſs, that induced you to this ſtep? Whatever was the motive, it was carrying the point too far: it was paſſing my preſcribed line of policy, and giving an advantage, which—

Ha, ha, ha! and have I deceived the deceptive Valentine Miles? Then is my art triumphant indeed!

Not ſo triumphant as you may ſuppoſe, ſir. You are the dupe of your own artifice: and if eſpecial care be not taken, you will yourſelf fall into the trap you have ſet for others.

I underſtand you not.

Our truſty emiſſary brings certain intelli⯑gence that your enemies at the caſtle, with the tremendous John at their head, deſign to take advantage of this your pacific diſpo⯑ſition,— and, breaking the truce when you leaſt ſuſpect it, cut you off at once.

Cut me off! murderous villains!

But we are, I hope, yet in time, to cir⯑cumvent them.

You hope! Is there ſtill a doubt then? Let us take our meaſures this moment! What are they? What could induce the aſſaſſins to this? at a moment, too, when I ſuppoſed the credulous fools—

That is the misfortune of it. While we are attempting to ſucceed in our deſign upon others, we are apt to forget they may be as wiſe as ourſelves, and have their plans upon us. Thus it is with the Fitzortons and Stuarts.—It would be diſtraction to ſuppoſe the for⯑mer, [348]towards whom it has been the buſineſs of years to ſhew every mark of obloquy you dare ſafely hazard, ſhould ever believe your ſudden overtures to good fellowſhip ſincere, or be ſo blind to the human paſſions as to accept them if they were,—the love-ſick boys alone excepted. This cobweb artifice may paſs on children, and lovers who are more weak than children;—it may ſerve, per⯑haps, to amuſe the hearts of your daughter and Henry Fitzorton;—it may hoodwink your neighbours,—and ſo much I expected from the meaſure:—but you and I, who know the world, ought to throw out of our expe⯑rienced minds ſuch infantile and ſuch fri⯑volous credulities. The practiſed and po⯑litic Sir Guiſe ought to know that his proffered hand was received with preciſely the ſame degree of ſincerity with which it was tendered. To have rejected it would have been as unwiſe in old Fitzorton, as in Sir Guiſe not to have preſented it. But, this done,—both parties, judging naturally, ſhould put themſelves in preparation for war the very inſtant peace was talked of. [349]Aſk your own heart, my friend, whether its hate has diminiſhed, or its hope of revenge has ceaſed, ſince you extended the hand of fictitious amity, and held out the olive-branch?

O Miles! my heart rankles with more deadly poiſons; and my pretended treaty of friendſhip was, as you know, but the more ſecurely to give that blow which your ſub⯑limer genius and wiſdom told me would be moſt effectually ſtruck when my hated foes were off their guard. My ſeeming to ſmile upon them was but as the gleam of the Dogſtar darting upon flowers after the blight has lodged a worm within the bud.

True! our only apprehenſion is,—ſince thoſe foes are alike diligent,—leſt they ſhould have the ſtart of us. The tender Mrs. Tem⯑peſt has diſpatched me, on the wing of affection, to communicate the information I have given you, that your ſpeedy aſſaſſination is intended; ſince nothing ſhort of your death can pacify Sir Armine Fitzorton, or [350]his inveterate ſon John, (theſe are their words) for the inſult ſuſtained, the ſenſe of which, notwithſtanding a pretended patched up reconciliation, has been brood⯑ing in their minds ever ſince. They have their plots, as wily and as well-concerted as our own.

Bloody-minded villains! Haſte, my friend, to prevent them. I may, this night, be murdered in my bed! and who knows but Henry and Caroline, or even Charles, may be concerned in the plot? It is always the wiſeſt way to ſuſpect every body. Un⯑grateful wretches! while I have been thus generouſly ſacrificing to them,—at leaſt, ſuch it muſt have appeared to them—

Sir Guiſe, I need not, at this time of day, enter into profeſſions of attachment to you. My friendſhip towards you is as unqueſtion⯑able, as Mrs. Tempeſt's love. We would both live or die for you. You have had proof of it: and if you ſhould (which hea⯑ven forbid!) fall a victim to the ſecret and [351]deep-laid machinations of your enemies,—if you ſhould be deſtined to breathe your laſt—

Talk not of breathing my laſt! but haſten to prevent it. Save my life, and gratify me with complete vengeance on the execrable villains who are now plotting my deſtruction: and there is nothing within the purchaſe of my fortune, that ſhall not be yours in reward of the deed.

The intention at the caſtle, I underſtand to be this:—Jenny Atwood, who is there protected as an inſtrument againſt you, is to be an evidence of your diſgrace, which is to be of the moſt public kind. Your coward⯑ice, your falſehood, (thus they vilify you) your receiving a blow, your abuſe of your late lady, your avarice to your ſon, your cruelty to your daughter, your ſeduction of Jane, your criminal intercourſe with Mrs. Tempeſt, (this is their vile language) your oppreſſion of your neighbours, and your aſ⯑ſumed change of character and conduct, which they pretend to ſee through,—all [352]theſe are forming into one maſs, firſt to effect your diſgrace—

But my life!—my LIFE, Valentine!

Firſt, to effect your diſgrace, I ſay, and then—but indeed their purpoſe is too horri⯑ble;—I know not how to divulge it.

Having wrought the baronet to this, the proper pitch of curioſity, expectation, and terror, Mr. Miles pauſed,—when, ſeeing Sir Guiſe in a diſpoſition to believe every thing, and to dread what he believed, he exclaimed, "But there is ſome ſatisfaction in the thought, that, unleſs we all become victims at the ſame time, you ſhall not, my dear friend,—no, you ſhall not die unre⯑venged."

Sir Guiſe anſwered, "I tell you, I will, not die!—I will ſooner leave the abbey—I will ſooner fly from the hated face of man—of you, and Tempeſt, and all the world!"

"Fly from me and Tempeſt! you cannot! ſhall not!" cries Miles: "for her love, and my [353]friendſhip, ſhall follow you to the uttermoſt ends of the earth.—Ah! my good friend, were we all united by ties as ſacred as they are ſtrong, were we all of one family, and our fates and fortunes run together, what could hurt us? I ſhould defy the powers of hell confederated then to moleſt you; but while we are thus divided—"

"I ſee your wiſhes," anſwered the baro⯑net:—"your long-deſired happineſs ſhall be granted.—I here pledge myſelf that my hand ſhall be Tempeſt's, and my daughter's yours,—if you will, in this inſtance, reſcue me from the deſigns of the accurſed Fitz⯑ortons, and effect my revenge upon them without hazard to my perſon.

"It is enough," ſaid Miles. "I know you are a man of honour; and the inſtant I have informed Mrs. Tempeſt of her happineſs,—you know how it will rejoice her tender ſoul, which doats on you,—thoſe meaſures ſhall be taken,—indeed I had concerted them previouſly, without other inducement than pure diſintereſted friendſhip,—which will complete your triumph, and the defeat of [354]your enemies, at one and the ſame inſtant. Meantime, as our double marriage cannot, you know, take place immediately, it might be wrong to let the idea go abroad to any part of your own family, till the impending danger to your precious life is over; and then, my dear father,—for I may now call you by that tender name,—we may ſhape the intelligence according to events. Indeed, I am ambitious to deſerve the honour of an alliance with Sir Guiſe Stuart, by ſaving his life before I receive the bright reward, the promiſe of which, ſhould I even die myſelf in preſerving you, I ſhall think a full atone⯑ment; for, though I have not, like that puny lover, the ſenſitive Henry Fitzorton, been playing at the game of declaration, I have an affection which—an affection which—but your dear life, my future parent, is in danger,—and this is no time to talk ſenti⯑mentally about my paſſion:—ſo, if you will conſider of theſe little articles of family af⯑fection which I have drawn up, ſuppoſing the family convention between us to take place,—and juſt put your name thereto, I will [355]clap the ſaddle on my horſe to convey the glad tidings to Mrs. Tempeſt,—and return with ſuch plans, and powers of putting them into execution, as ſhall rid you of all your fears. Meantime, you will intimate nothing of what has paſt, to your family, but wait my return, in aſſured expectation that my life ſhall be the guarantee of yours.—Alas! Sir Guiſe," continued Miles, taking the baronet by the hand, "what would have been the event, had not my inceſſant vigi⯑lance and ſecret intelligence traced the helliſh plot now forming againſt you at the caſtle! I am ſorry to ſay, Henry is almoſt the ringleader; your own ſon is not without a hand in the conſpiracy; and in leſs than eight-and-forty hours, your death,—your concerted murder—"

"Eight-and-forty hours! Mercy defend me!"—cries the baronet.

"Your death, I ſay, within that time, would have been as certain, as will now be your preſervation."

At the end of this ſentence, Sir Guiſe leaped on the neck of Miles, with the moſt [356]extravagant demonſtrations of joy,—called him and Tempeſt his only friends, protec⯑tors, and preſervers,—ſwore they only ſhould be his future heirs, his preſent aſoc;oci⯑ates,—declared he longed for the hour which ſhould give to one the claims of a wife, and to the other thoſe of a ſon,—and proteſted he only waited till the forms of mourning for Lady Stuart were paſt, perſonally to make a graceful offer. He then opened the paper which Miles had given, glanced his eye haſti⯑ly over the contents, which he approved,—caught up a pen and ſigned his name,—call⯑ed in Denniſon and another domeſtic as wit⯑neſſes, telling them it was a mere deed of truſt,—diſmiſſed them the inſtant they had made their ſignatures, and thus bound him⯑ſelf to obligations, the nature of which he ſcarcely knew, being under terrors which would have induced him to ſign away the globe,—and again hugging Miles to his boſom, and calling him his beſt friend, urged him not to ſpare horſe-fleſh, to greet Tem⯑peſt with the moſt laviſh epithets of fondneſs, and to return with the utmoſt ſpeed; add⯑ing [357]as Miles departed, that he ſhould not dare to take food, or reſt, till he again em⯑braced his dear Valentine,—ſo the daſtard now called a man whom he had long feared and deſpiſed, and ſuch was the meſſage he ſent by that man to a woman who was both his averſion and his dread.

Miles had not left the room more than a minute, when he re-entered, ſaying, as upon recollection, that, in his zeal to ac⯑compliſh the baronet's ſafety, he had forgot all other matters, eſpecially to intimate that as the deſign of counter-plotting the Fitz⯑ortons would be attended with conſiderable expence—

"I underſtand you," ſaid Sir Guiſe, taking out ſome banker's checks, and ſcribbling at random. "You will paſs the houſe: get theſe caſhed: and ſhould more be wanted, I have always ſome running caſh with my country banker."

"We are waſting time," ſaid Miles, pocketing the drafts. "God bleſs you! Expect me ſoon. Be ſilent and be ſafe!"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

BUT, great as were the motives already aſſigned for this invention of plots and intended counterplots to work upon the fears of Sir Guiſe,—the inventor, and his fair aſſociate, Mrs. Tempeſt, were influenced by other inducements, more potent than all the advantages they had hopes of deriving, in the iſſue, from the operation of thoſe fears, and the well-connected fable on which they were founded.

The primary wheels in this grand ma⯑chine were the luſt of revenge, and a luſt yet more fordid, more violent, which the widow and her Valentine bore towards the Clares and Fitzortons.

Mr. Clare had been the firſt to intimate to his friend Fitzorton, that there was ſome⯑thing more wicked, though better diſguiſed, in the diſpoſition of Miles than that of the baronet,—adding that he had heard a ſtory of his being drummed out of a regiment [359]ſomewhere in Ireland, for mal-practices,— amongſt which, "it hangs in my memory," ſaid Mr. Clare,—"that theft and perjury were not the moſt atrocious."

This happening to be communicated to Sir Armine in the preſence of one David Otley, a domeſtic of Mr. Clare's, and a ſhrewd fellow, but to whom Mr. Clare was ſomewhat attached, the caution reached, by this medium, the ear of Mr. Miles.— John Fitzorton had been at ſome pains to trace this rumour, not only in compliance with Mr. Clare's ſuſpicions, but in confirma⯑tion of his own, which had ſecretly faſtened upon this man, even when he had the pri⯑vileges of a viſitor at the caſtle, in common with Sir Guiſe, who introduced him.—John ſoon profited of thoſe opportunities which his military connexions gave him, and made a report at the caſtle, not covertly, but con⯑ſiſtent with the intrepid deciſion of his cha⯑racter.

One day, when the ſame David Otley was waiting at the back of his maſter's chair, and when, indeed, Sir Guiſe himſelf,—it [360]being prior to the public breach,—was at Sir Armine's table,—"It is matter of aſtoniſh⯑ment to me," ſaid John, who happened to be the only perſon of his family then preſent, "that a fellow who has every vice in human nature, but cowardice,—and that ſingle ex⯑ception proceeding only from a fearleſs conſtitutional impudence,—ſhould gain the protection of any perſon of credit."

Then turning to Sir Guiſe, he added, "If, on your return to the abbey, you ſhould meet with a friend of yours who anſwers to this character, do me the honour, ſir, to tell him what I have ſaid. And farther, ſhould his being in poſſeſſion of the ſingle quality I have alluded to, namely, his in⯑ſolent courage, be thought a counterbalance for the ſtain of every baſeneſs, by the uſe and exerciſe you may have for it, Sir Guiſe, I have only to deſire, in the name of my fa⯑mily, that the gentleman who may be ſo gifted, from this moment for evermore, may forbear coming to the caſtle,—and I think I may venture to add, or the manor-houſe."

[361]It is unneceſſary to obſerve, that this pointed meſſage was carried, at the time, to the party concerned.—Indeed, leſt any thing ſhould be loſt in its journey from the caſtle to the abbey, it was kindly taken to the latter manſion by two perſons.—Sir Guiſe faithfully related it, the very ſame night, to Mr. Valentine Miles; and David Otley took it in his budget of caſtle and manor-houſe in⯑telligence, the next morning.

A natural conſequence, ariſing from this inhibition, was, of courſe, cutting the ac⯑quaintance of Mr. Miles: but another very natural conſequence, of courſe alſo, took place between the truly brave John Fitz⯑orton and the truly audacious Valentine Miles.

No ſooner was the latter in poſſeſſion of the favourable ſentiments borne him by the former, than he ſent, in turn, a ſcarce leſs civil meſſage to John, who inſtantly obſerved the contents, without ſo much as uttering a ſyllable to any of the family, ſave and ex⯑cept to True George, then his domeſtic.— Miles had contrived to get the baronet to [362]accompany him to the place of rendezvous, without letting him know the deſign.—Ac⯑cordingly, the parties met at the dawn of the third day from the communication of John's opinion.—At the ſight of John, whoſe very countenance was a rebuke to cowardice, Sir Guiſe involuntarily drew back a few paces; and the view of the piſ⯑tols, a brace of which both antagoniſts took out of their pockets at the ſame time, made him ſo expert at the ſcience of tergi⯑verſation, that he had got ſeveral yards in his way home, exclaiming, "Miles had be⯑trayed him,"—before the ſaid Miles per⯑ceived he had taken fright.—Valentine, however, who wanted him as a witneſs of that proweſs which might be one day of service in his own cauſe, ſoon brought him back, aſſerting, that "He was in no dan⯑ger:"—and the duelliſts prepared for ac⯑tion.

John condeſcended only to ſay, ſternly, "Fellow, I am admitting you to an unde⯑ſerved honour."—Then ſettling their di⯑ſtance, and taking aim, almoſt in the ſame [363]inſtant John diſcharged his ſhot and re⯑ceived that of Miles, without any injury to either.—John's ball, however, whizzed ſo near to the body of Sir Guiſe, who had ſhifted about, that the good baronet again took to his heels, and George after him, leaving the field of battle ſolely to the com⯑batants.—John's next ball took effect in the neck of his adverſary, who dropping on the ground, John demanded "if he was ſatisfied with his being ſtill of opinion he was a ſcoun⯑drel:" —and upon being anſwered by Valen⯑tine that "he was ſatisfied for the preſent,"— John left him to the care of True George, who by this time returned without the fearful game of which he had been in chaſe.—John now walked home, ſaying to True George, "When you have conveyed that fellow to the abbey, return to me at the caſtle; and do not inform any of my family, I have diſ⯑graced either them or myſelf, by ſuch a con⯑teſt, I charge you.—And as for you, ſir," added he, addreſſing Miles, as George lifted him from the ground,—"if you live, and are again as impudent as you are infamous, [364]I may be tempted to confer on you the dig⯑nity of a ſecond leaden token of my eſteem for your virtues: and if you die, public ho⯑nours ought to be adjudged me, for being the author of that ineſtimable bleſſing to the community, your invaluable death!"

Although neither John, who was too much aſhamed of his exploit, nor True George, who was too faithful to his truſt, revealed this tranſaction to any other per⯑ſon at home or abroad,—and, perhaps, both had long ſince thrown it from their memo⯑ries, as unworthy of preſervation,—the whole buſineſs was ſtill ſmarting in the re⯑collection of Miles, who,—although he did not think proper to call John to a ſecond account, nor to aſſign it amongſt his mo⯑tives for taking part in the vengeance of Sir Guiſe,—had been inwardly conſuming with the moſt implacable hatred to the whole family ever ſince.

He had, indeed, long watched his occa⯑ſion,—had aſſiduouſly, though ſecretly, fo⯑mented every cauſe and effect of hatred in the baronet,—and was almoſt in deſpair of [365]an opportunity falling out ſuitable to his deſign, when at length he came to the knowledge of circumſtances which will preſently be no ſecret to the reader, and which, if well managed, he did not doubt, would produce a rich harveſt of events fa⯑vourable to his love, his avarice, and his vengeance.—The fabrication of the well⯑timed ſtory of the aſſaſſination of Sir Guiſe was ſimply a neceſſary prelude to the bringing this about; and, as to the degree of probability of the tale, he was the leſs care⯑ful to conſtruct it, as he had often perceived that when the baronet's terrors were once excited by a ſudden ſhock, none of his fa⯑culties were ſufficiently at his command to reflect how the hiſtory hung together, or how the parts were in harmony with the whole.—On the contrary, every ſenſe ſeemed to take the alarm, at the moment he heard of a poſſible danger; and, like an affrighted family running from a houſe at the cry of fire, every paſſion of his ſoul, but that of fear, left his boſom.

Now, in accounting for the hatred [366]which the widow Tempeſt bore to the houſe of Fitzorton, we fear we muſt be un⯑der the diſagreeable neceſſity of telling yet another Family Secret, and one which a more prudent biographer would conceal. But the truth, that guides our pen, demands the diſcovery; and the human nature, to which our hiſtory is dedicated, muſt plead excuſe for whatever offences the develope⯑ment of myſteries behind her curtain may bring to light.

CHAPTER XL.

HENRY became acquainted with Mrs. Tempeſt, without knowing any thing of her attachment to Valentine Miles, or her con⯑nexion with Sir Guiſe Stuart.—The time was critical.

It was during Henry's viſit in London to a female relation: and his firſt interview happened at a very remarkable moment.— It was, in truth, in the evening of the day on which, with his accuſtomed punctuality and [367]ardour, he had diſpatched a large pacquet of "everlaſting love and conſtancy" to his dear Caroline, under cover to the truſty Denniſon.

The ſoft duty of his heart diſcharged, he went to the theatre, full of the tendereſt vows, the fondeſt ideas; but having made, in company with ſome young friends, larger libations to the purple god of the grape, or rather, to the health of his beloved, than his reaſon could bear, though his paſſion ſeemed to augment at every glaſs,—he hap⯑pened to walk, we had almoſt written, ſtagger, into a box, where the widow was then ſmiling at Mr. Congreve's pleaſant co⯑medy of Love for Love. Seeing a place to the left vacant, and near a beautiful lady, the right ſide being occupied by another fe⯑male, who appeared to be in the character of a foil, rather than of a rival brilliant,— he made one of thoſe bows which were ſure to procure him a gracious reception; and, perceiving his welcome inſured, by the brilliant's ſitting cloſer to the foil, in [368]order to make more room for him,—he took poſſeſſion of the ſeat.

Rather as an effect of high youth and high ſpirits animated by love and wine, than a ſpirit of gallantry, he entered at once into ſome glowing remarks on the ſcene which was then repreſenting.—The lady being one of thoſe females who follow firſt impreſſions, and have the talent of being deſperately in love at a glance, contrived to forget, in the ſpace of half an hour, that Sir Guiſe Stuart (for it was his widow Tem⯑peſt) had any claims for money, or her Valentine Miles for love,—or, indeed, that Mr. Congreve had any wit, or that her muſe companion required any more of her at⯑tention than if ſhe had been part of the bench ſhe ſat on,—or, in ſhort, that there was any body but the enchanting young ſtranger at her ſide in the creation.—She pre⯑ſently gave the youth ſuch manifeſt and manifold proofs of her ſo thinking, by cer⯑tain little tenderneſſes, innuendoes, languiſh⯑ing looks, and gentle preſſures, every one [369]of which,—though they were perfectly new to him,—being altogether in a different ſtyle from the attentions of the chaſte and charm⯑ing Caroline,—it was impoſſible for him not to comprehend their meaning: and be⯑fore the couples in the comedy were brought tegether in the laſt act, an union of a dif⯑ferent kind was ſettled in the lady's mind, and ratified in her eyes, which ſeemed to inſiſt on the conſent of the young gentleman. —In a word, the widow thought her new object—and, indeed, ſhe decided rightly— one of the handſomeſt and moſt elegant young men ſhe had ever ſeen,—and, agree⯑ably to her firſt-ſight ſyſtem, was, by the time the firſt act of the farce was over, in love with him to diſtraction!

It is probable ſhe heard not a ſentence of act the ſecond, though it was upon a ſub⯑ject congenial to her feelings: ſo entirely was ſhe engroſſed by her new conqueror. At the concluſion, common gallantry required he ſhould ſee her ſafe out of the houſe, and put her and her ſtill dumb companion into their carriage,—to which as he was hand⯑ing [370]them, the widow ſaid, even as ſhe ſet her foot on the ſtep, "I hope, ſir, I ſhall have the honour to ſet you down, in re⯑turn for your civility."—Which offer be⯑ing accompanied by certain inviſible ſigns and tokens, as potent as the ſecrets of free⯑maſonry, or the ancient art of palmiſtry,— Henry got into the coach, and ſeated him⯑ſelf on the ſame ſide, without attending to the other lady quite ſo much as the forms of politeneſs might ſeem to preſcribe.

Henry, new to the town, thought it right, in point of etiquette, to ſee the lady home, before he took the liberty of uſing her carriage, which was, therefore, driven to a very handſome houſe in Groſvenor Square; where, alighting to hand the ladies out, it is certainly poſſible that Henry might have taken leave of his ladies, had not the ſprightly widow ſportingly exclaimed, with certain accompaniments, having ſtill hold of his arm, "We may as well make it the romance of a night, ſir, if you are not better engaged:—for you muſt know, I dreamed of an adventure of this ſort, and [371]am juſt in the humour to have my dream out.—What ſay you, Priſcilla?"—turning to her companion.—"I ſhould like it of all things:" replied the lady.—Henry was not in a diſpoſition to be rude: ſo the widow in⯑formed the coachman ſhe ſhould have no farther occaſion for the carriage; and the trio of choice ſpirits tripped into the houſe.

Voluptuous elegance now began its faſ⯑cination.—A collation was ſoon ſerved up, after which the ſervants diſappeared; the moſt coſtly wines circulated; for neither the widow nor her companion was un⯑known to the jolly god; and either of them would have taken off her bottle, with more eaſe than Olivia Clare, or Caroline Stuart, or any ſuch "puny whipſter" of the ſex, could have managed her firſt and half ſipped her ſecond glaſs.

Indeed, our fair ſeducers were frequent votaries at the court of Comus, inſomuch that Mrs. Tempeſt might have repreſented, and, in truth, often did repreſent, upon the ſtage of life, the part of Euphroſyne; and [372]her aſſociate had as often done equal juſ⯑tice to the character of the principal bac⯑chante.

It is with reluctance we tell the reader that Henry was not ſo much alarmed at finding himſelf in ſuch company, as was Milton's lady when ſhe diſcovered the dan⯑ger of her ſituation;—yet the ſituation was but too ſimilar with reſpect to the ſurround⯑ing magic.

Mrs. Tempeſt was, in all ſenſes of the character, a ſyren.—Her voice, though neither ſweet nor tender, either like that of Olivia or Caroline, was yet ſeductively harmonious.—Her eyes, though poſſeſſing neither the modeſt luſtre of Olivia's, nor the appealing ſoftneſs of Caroline's, darted ſuch intolerable fire through her long dark eye⯑laſhes, that a leſs ardent gazer than Henry might have been ſcorched by their burning beams.—She was ſomewhat under the ſize of Olivia, and, by the ſame proportion, above that of Caroline:—ſhe wanted the chaſte dignity that gave command to the one, and was utterly deſtitute of the inter⯑eſting [373]graces, ſhifting with every attitude, that adorned the other.—But ſhe had to boaſt a ſymmetry of ſhape, a certain volup⯑tuous roundneſs of limbs, a contour of viſage, and an alluring government of countenance, ſo entirely the reverſe of both, that while their features were formed to inſtruct the beholder that real beauty, love, and vir⯑tue, were the ſame,—thoſe of the widow were calculated to excite, ſuddenly, a train of impetuous emotions, formed to ſeduce from the youthful boſom all its heavenly guards, and lure the gazer to indulge in the fatal contraſt.—All the lineaments of her face offered the moſt infallible marks of paſſion unreſtrained, an inordinate love of pleaſure, and a total diſdain of the decent laws by which paſſion and pleaſure, and more eſpecially in women, ought to be re⯑gulated.—Her lips were in exact corre⯑ſpondence with her eyes, and as conſtantly employed in expreſſing the ſame emotions; and the regularity and colour of her teeth could only yield to the beauty of her arms and boſom, which were in the higheſt per⯑fection [374]of female lovelineſs, but were diſ⯑played or ſhaded with a ſtudied attention, that denoted ſhe was at once proud and conſcious of their attraction.

The then extreme youth of Henry, the novelty of the ſituation, the combining en⯑chantments, and the ſtate of the poor lad's head, will, we hope, mitigate his offence, ſhould we own, as own we muſt, that he was far from being a mere neutral liſtener or looker on during the hilarities of the even⯑ing.—He looked at the widow, indeed, with a timid admiration: and as ſhe ſung ſeveral couplets from the l' Allegro, Henry's manly and pathetic voice, which the reader has already heard celebrated, joined in the chorus, with a ſpirit that ſhewed he had been gradually enchanted out of himſelf.

"Here's a health to thoſe that we love." cries the widow, filling the glaſs while ſhe ſung.

"Here's a health to thoſe that love us!' anſwered her companion, in the ſame ſtyle, putting the bottle, which contained ſome excellent champaigne, to Henry, who then, [375]for the firſt time, probably, ſince the intox⯑ication began, bluſhed and ſighed, as at the remembrance of Caroline.

This, however, though noticed by the piercing eyes of the widow, was conſtrued rather into growing paſſion for herſelf, than tenderneſs for another.—With renewed fervency, therefore, ſhe proceeded with the ſong, increaſing in animation as ſhe went on;—and when they came to the following line, which the widow trilled with uncom⯑mon melody, ‘O my love, lov'ſt thou me?’ ſhe caſt an enflaming and decided look at Henry; and her redundant hair dropt from its ſlight bondage, and covered her with its luxurious mantle.

The heart of Henry muſt have been made of "impenetrable ſtuff," indeed, had he, at ſuch a time, in ſuch a place, and at ſuch an opportunity, affected not to underſtand the drift of ſuch a queſtion, breathed in har⯑mony, through the lips of beauty.

The companion, on ſome pretence or [376]other, withdrew; and the very few remains of modeſty, which had been reluctantly confined in the room before, followed her, or rather flew bluſhingly out of the apartment, the moment the door opened, and ſeemed to wiſh for an aſylum in Caroline's or Oli⯑via's boſom.

Mrs. Tempeſt and Henry were now toge⯑ther; and very few moments more might have completed the triumph of youthful folly and infidelity, had not Henry's good angel, in the imaged form of Caroline herſelf, interpoſed:—and that pure image was brought forward even by Mrs. Tempeſt herſelf.

"Come, one more brimmer to the wo⯑man of your heart," ſaid Mrs. Tempeſt, re⯑pleniſhing her own, and then Henry's glaſs. "This one bumper more, thou enchanting ſtranger! who—without my knowledge of, or deſire to know, thy name, family, fortune, or aught but thy enchanting ſelf,—haſt turned a moment of time into an age of love!"

She quoted, theatrically, various rhapſo⯑dies [377]from the old dramatic poets: and then ſeizing Henry's hand, every artery of which trembled, ſhe preſſed it to her lips, ex⯑claiming, "Ah! dear unknown, tell me who ſhe is?—What is her name?—Whoſe health am I to drink?—Who is my too happy rival?—For to ſuppoſe—to flatter myſelf, I have the bliſs to find the heart of ſuch a love-inſpiring fellow unengaged—and ſtill at liberty to devote itſelf to this throbbing breaſt—"

She thought proper to heſitate, and imi⯑tate baſhful difficulty,—then went on—

"To dare even hope that I meet ſuch a treaſure undiſpoſed of, is a bliſs too great! too mighty!—No, 'twas too preſumptuous! and yet to think this hand, thoſe lips, that form, this panting heart another's—O! it would deſtroy me!—By my ſoul it would!"

After a trembling pauſe, ſhe cried, "You are ſilent—you bluſh—your lips turn pale— and, good heavens!—ah! what do I ſee? there are tears in your eyes!—Accurſed fortune!—perhaps, perhaps you love!— [378]confuſion! perhaps—no, you are not—ſurely you are not married!—but if you are—"

"Curſe! as the ſweet poet ſays,—curſe on all laws but thoſe which love has made!"

CHAPTER XLI.

HAVING finiſhed her poetical juſtifica⯑tions, which have been many a pretty liber⯑tine's, and tripping lady's apology, ſhe ob⯑ſerved Henry extremely troubled.

"What can be the matter with you?— Yes, I know my fate.—It is not the fetters of wedlock only I have to contend with:— theſe might be broken—theſe, I could ſnap aſunder;—but, you are bound in the chains of love—almighty love!—and I—wretched woman!—But I am reſolved to know all.— [379]Here, ſince you cannot ſpeak the cruel word, write—write the dreaded name—write on the back of this letter, and with my pencil— there—who am I to hate—curſe—extermi⯑nate?—mark the deteſted name."

"Deteſted name!" reiterated Henry: "oh! ſhe is an angel! and her precious name would be profaned, were I to breathe it now with theſe unfaithful lips, to thoſe polluted ones which have tempted me to injure her."

"Polluted lips!" in her turn re-echoed the widow, ſpringing up, and diſdainfully withdrawing her hand from Henry's,— "Polluted lips!—have a care, ſir!—you do not perhaps know, that, as I can doat to diſtraction, ſo can I abhor to madneſs!— yes, and both with equal ſpeed!—Polluted lips!—they have ſeldom been rewarded for their partiality by ſuch an epithet!"

She took the room three or four times, backwards and forwards, in a violent paſſion, ſometimes throwing herſelf down into a chair, ſometimes toſſing by Henry, without [380]deigning to mark her rage, except through the flaſhes of her indignant eyes,—from which ſhot now as intenſe flames of fury, as had, a few moments before, darted burning beams of deſire.—Her whole perſon was rendered terrifying, and might perhaps have alarmed Henry, though by no means apt to be appalled, had not another object, more fraught with terrors than an hundred thouſand angry men or even women, with an equal number of armed troops in their train, faſtened upon his attention, namely, the ſight of the addreſs of that letter which the widow had produced for the purpoſe of his penciling her rival's name, and which the ſaid widow had hurled in diſdain upon the ſofa, where Henry and ſhe had before been ſeated.

This ſuperſcription opened on Henry's eyes the following diſcoveries—firſt, that he had entangled himſelf, almoſt paſt redemp⯑tion, in an affair of gallantry with the miſ⯑treſs of his beloved Caroline's father! and ſecondly, that it was directed to the ſaid [381]father's miſtreſs, in the well-known hand⯑writing of Sir Guiſe Stuart!

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Henry, —"what do I ſee?—is it poſſible, madam, you ſhould be Mrs. Tempeſt?"

"And what then, ſir?" demanded the widow, ſnatching the letter from Henry, and throwing it into the fire with a dreadful execration.

"That Mrs. Tempeſt, continued Henry, of whom I have heard ſo much?—whom Sir Guiſe Stu—?"

"And who then are you?" queſtioned the widow, ſtopping him in the middle of the name.—"Are you that enemy of mine, his deteſted ſon, whoſe hate I have long felt, but whoſe perſon I have never yet—"

"No, Madam!" replied Henry, inter⯑rupting in his turn,—"I am not ſo great, ſo juſt, ſo honourable a man, as that noble, that diſtinguiſhed youth, whom I now bluſh to call my friend!—but, unworthy as I am, I bleſs heaven for this timely diſcovery,— this miraculous eſcape!"

Henry caught up his hat, and, without [382]conſidering the lateneſs of the hour, or any thing elſe but what he had mentioned, hur⯑ried to the door.

"Eſcape!—eſcape!—inſolent!—impu⯑dent!" —raved forth Mrs. Tempeſt, running after him, and pulling him back.—"Con⯑fuſion to my ſoul!—if you provoke me,— whoſoever you are, were you the father who gave me life—"

Henry ſtruggled in her graſp:—and a violent rapping at the ſtreet door made him ſtep a few paces back.

The lady exclaimed, ſtill keeping her hold, and perfectly agonized with rage, ſhaking Henry while ſhe ſpoke,—"God be thanked!—that is either Valentine or Sir Guiſe!—now, ſir, will my triumph be com⯑plete!"

As ſhe ſaid this, a noiſe was heard upon the ſtairs; and preſently the former of the above-mentioned perſons made his appear⯑ance.

He had come to town, as the reader may remember, poſt haſte, on the buſineſs of Jane Atwood. Arriving with Sir Guiſe in the [383]middle of the night, and having left the baro⯑net in Jane's lodgings, which had been pro⯑vided by Miles,—he, Miles, had made up his excuſe for viſiting the widow at ſo unſea⯑ſonable an hour, as at that time he ob⯑ſerved ſome etiquette with her.

At the ſight of Henry, whom he had ſeen more than once at the abbey, and whoſe paſſion for Caroline he had heard from Sir Guiſe, he ſtarted, as at that of an appa⯑rition.

"Mr. Henry Fitzorton!" exclaimed he.

"Who?—Henry Fitzorton!" cried the widow.—"No wonder, then, theſe unheard-of outrages have been heaped on me!—and I have not the ſmalleſt doubt, but that one wickedneſs would have led to another, till it had ended in my death!—oh, Valentine! —ſure heaven ſent you at this moment to my reſcue!—could you conceive what I have endured from this, till now, un⯑known wretch,—your heart would bleed for me!"

She then related the foregore ſcene, ſo as exactly to reverſe the ſeveral actual circum⯑ſtances, [384]obſerving, with an admirable accu⯑racy of tranſpoſition, that, "he had rudely ſeated himſelf in the ſame box at the play⯑houſe,—watched her out,—thruſt himſelf into her coach,—ran up ſtairs as ſoon as they got home,—forced poor Priſcilla, her companion, out of the room,—locked the door,—ſwore that he would deſtroy the firſt perſon who offered to approach,—and, on caſting his eye upon a letter ſhe had re⯑ceived from her dear, dear Sir Guiſe, whoſe hand-writing he knew, he ſlandered both him and Valentine, with a volley of exe⯑crations,—and was proceeding to every thing ſhocking, when her good ſtars brought her friend Valentine to her aid!—'Twas ſurely providence," &c. &c. &c.

As ſoon as ſhe had finiſhed this ſpeech, which the gentleman whom ſhe addreſſed believed as much of as ſhe did herſelf,—yet the former thought it might be moſt pro⯑ductive to give it credit,—Valentine went into another room, obſerving, "he ſhould return in a moment."

The widow then ſallied up to Henry, and, [385]in a malicious whiſper, accompanied by a ſarcaſtic ſneer, her arms akimbo, demanded, "whether he thought another miracle would happen, to befriend his eſcape from the ven⯑geance of her injured friend!"

Henry diſdained to make her any reply; and indeed, before he could have done ſo, Miles returned with his piſtols, at the ſight of which, Mrs. Tempeſt, affecting to be alarmed, flung herſelf on her knees, and interceded for the life of Henry;—then, by a gentle whiſper, ſuggeſted to Miles, "that if the outrage were well managed, it would be worth more to them both, than a million of ſuch lives."—This interceſſion wrought ſo on the tender heart of Miles, that all would have gone off, for the moment, with a gentle reprimand or menace, had not Henry,—who felt the Fitzorton blood ruſh in boiling torrents through his veins, walked towards Valentine, and ſnapping his fingers in his face, obſerved loftily, "that the trick was too ſtale, and that, as he was too infa⯑mous a wretch to be met on a level by a man of honour, whoſe family had juſtly [386]baniſhed him from their preſence, he ſhould be warranted to treat him in the only way ſuch a ſcoundrel was entitled to, if he did not let him paſs out of the private brothel which Sir Guiſe and himſelf kept between them.—"I have concealed your vile ſecret, which has been long communicated to me by the injured Charles, only out of delicacy to my angel.—I will no more ſully her pure name by breathing it in a peſt houſe.—But, if an accent, reſpecting the ſhameful com⯑pany into which I have been trepanned by that vicious and artful woman, is mentioned either in my hearing, or in that of any per⯑ſon dear to me, and it ſhould reach me, I will ſet fire to a train that ſhall deſtroy you both!—ſo be warned."

It was with great difficulty Miles now held the arms of Mrs. Tempeſt, who mad⯑dened with rage, ſhame, and diſappoint⯑ment. —Miles was himſelf ſcarce leſs in⯑flamed: but certain ideas roſe in his mind ſuddenly, that induced him to let Henry go unmoleſted out of the room, and alſo to hold the widow by main force till the ſtreet door [387]was ſhut, even to the hazard of Valentine's own face, which received ſeveral luſty blows;—but, when Henry was fairly off, it did not take either much pains or time to convince the lady, that, "though her whole ſtory was well put together, he knew it had not one ſyllable of truth in it, and that, even had it been as veritable as it was falſe, it would be better for all parties to huſh up the affair at preſent.—Till we provoke the ſtripling farther, he will keep our ſecret for the ſake of his own; and the bringing upon us the fury of Charles, and of the d *** d Fitzortons,—and, in conſequence of our ill⯑timed reſentment, arouſing that neſt of hornets, the magiſtrates,—would ruin the fruit of thoſe plans which a little diſcre⯑tion will mature.—And as to Sir Guiſe himſelf," added Miles, archly,—"it would be as impoſſible to perſuade him as me, or indeed yourſelf, that a young fellow ſhould come here, and drink champaigne, or bur⯑gundy,—which, I perceive by theſe tell-tale bottles, has been the caſe,—without your conſent, unleſs he committed a rape upon [388]the key of your cellar alſo!—No!—no!— let us be merry and wiſe, my dear widow: leave the event of this buſineſs with me.—I have a memory and mind, very faithful to my reſentments; and depend upon it, when opportunity favours, though it ſhould be the length of the ſiege of Troy before it ar⯑rives, I ſhall cheriſh the freſheſt recollec⯑tion of whatever has been done or ſaid in this buſineſs, even down to the ſaucy ſnap of his fingers in my face, which his heart's deareſt blood ſhall one day pay for!—no matter!—leave the thoughts of revenge to me.—When time is ripe, do you aſſiſt the deed; and depend on it, we ſhall both be ſatisfied."

This conſideration pacified her; and as Miles knew Sir Guiſe was ſafely diſpoſed of in the apartments of the deluded Jane Atwood for the night, he entered into the explanations he thought fit to make the widow for his untimely viſit; and the ami⯑able pair retired, after the buſtles of the night, to the conſolation of each other's faithful arms.

[389]But, though this happy couple, recon⯑ciled by mutual deception, were ſatisfied with each other, they were by no means ſo with Henry:—for, notwithſtanding the happy turn which the widow gave to the affair at the time, and her inceſſant aſſu⯑rances ſince, ſo often as it was mentioned, it was beyond the reach of policy, caſuiſ⯑try, or the moſt ſolemn oaths, to make Va⯑lentine believe there had not been ſome previous intercourſe between Henry and herſelf, and that he caught them only in ſome quarrel of love, which would have ended in the uſual way, had not his coming at the moment made it expedient for her to pretend violence, outrage, and diſplea⯑ſure.—And the idea did not a little ag⯑gravate the hate he bore to the Fitzortons, who appeared, at every turn, the bane of his purpoſes.—Indeed, John and Henry were now alike deteſtable to him, eſpecially as at this time the perſon of Mrs. Tempeſt, —though, for reaſons good, he conſented to divide her with Sir Guiſe,—was not then indifferent to him: for he had only begun [390]to plot alienating the affections of the re⯑cently ſeduced Jane from the baronet.

And as to Mrs. Tempeſt herſelf, the ſud⯑den guſt of love—or by whatever other name the reader thinks it ought to be called, for Henry, was preſently ſucceeded by as ſudden an averſion, when ſhe found that no leſs than three penitently-tender letters, and one madly accuſing epiſtle, which ſhe cauſed to be clandeſtinely delivered to him by the means of David Otley, produced not one word of reply.

The caution, and dread of conſequences, however, ſuggeſted by Miles, reſtrained her from public and avowed revenge; but the thirſt of vengeance kept raging within, and threatened one day to burſt upon his head. Meantime, ſhe availed herſelf of more than one occaſion to do him ſecret miſchief, by way of giving earneſt of her future deſigns.— The anonymous letters to John and his fa⯑ther, reſpecting Caroline, were from this lady's pen:—and had ſhe known, at the time, his ſituation with Olivia, that would probably have been the ſubject of a third [391]epiſtle.—Why ſhe did not, ſince that, do him this kindneſs alſo, is yet in our confidence, and alſo, the farther proof, in her inſtance, how great truth there is in that celebrated diſtich of the poet—

In regard to Henry, candid reader, his error, and his repentance, are both before you.—His treſpaſs, and his temptations, have been delineated.

We are writing certain parts of the hiſ⯑tory of Human Nature, the inconſiſtencies of which, we muſt again repeat, it is our office rather to deſcribe than account for.— The foregoing ſcene has nothing irrecon⯑cilable with the frail though intereſting ſubject of our book, the human heart; and it is to be wiſhed that every young man who began an adventure of this kind as im⯑prudently, might finiſh it as amiably as Hen⯑ry Fitzorton.

To ſuppoſe that this his approach to infidelity will recommend him to the vir⯑tuous [392]reader, would be inſulting: but to imagine he has loſt that virtuous reader's good will for his firſt and laſt indiſcretion of this kind, would be to ſuſpect that the reader has either great ignorance of human nature, or great hypocriſy;—there ſeems to us no other alternative.—Leaving, therefore, the point to be ſettled by the only power which can ſettle it, the reader's conſcience, we ſhall return to the place from whence we have digreſſed.

CHAPTER XLII.

ABOUT the time that the diſaſtrous Hen⯑ry left the abbey, the impatient Olivia bent her ſteps toward that venerable manſion;—and never, perhaps, was an evening walk undertaken by two perſons in ſituations of mind, and with reflections, more oppoſite. Henry, impelled by deſpair, and driven by irremediable neceſſity from the preſence of his dear but deeply diſtreſſed Caroline, lite⯑rally felt that "he dragged at each remove, [393]the lengthening chain:" every ſtep hurried him farther from the object of his affections, while Olivia, animated by hope, was by every ſtep brought nearer to him whom ſhe loved with unſpeakable tenderneſs, and whom ſhe fondly believed ſhe was about to make the happieſt of mankind.

They met about the mid way of the me⯑morable grand avenue; and the ſudden ſight of each other inſpired very diſtinct emo⯑tions.—Henry wiſhed for the velocity of thought to eſcape ſo unſeaſonable a rencon⯑tre, and Olivia ſighed for the ſpeed of light to reach his hand.—Yet both were alike embarraſſed, the one by trembling joy, the other by variety of ſorrow.—By an invo⯑luntary impulſe, Henry receded a few paces with the degree of rapidity that Olivia ad⯑vanced; the wings of fear are even more rapid than thoſe of love.—But Henry ſoon recovered himſelf and his ſteps; and by one of thoſe hazards, which have all the air of deſign, and yet are common enough in life, Olivia and Henry joined each other imme⯑diately parallel to the place where the firſt [394]avowal of love had been made by Henry to Caroline;—a circumſtance, we truſt, in the full recollection of the reader.

Anxious to know Caroline's reply to the requeſt ſtated in the letter which had already produced ſo much miſchief in the abbey family, Olivia was covered with bluſhes, and, heſitating almoſt to a ſtammer, alluded to the ſubject moſt likely to increaſe Henry's confuſion.—"What would I give," ſaid ſhe, "to have been a ſylph, or ſome other ſpirit, to have been preſent, yet unſeen, at the reading of my hurried but heart-felt letter to Caroline!"

"Preſent at it!—you preſent!—good heaven!" exclaimed Henry, throwing up his hands and eyes.

"I dare ſay," continued Olivia, "you all thought me—but yet—I hope—"

Her bluſhes deepened, and the faultering of her voice augmented.

"I hope Caroline did not ſhew it?—Gra⯑cious!—if ſhe did, I ſhould never forgive her! yet," recovering herſelf, "wherefore ſhould I talk thus? wherefore attempt to [395]conceal the pride and triumph of my life? O Henry, my dear—dear—Henry, grant me a portion of your eloquence, that I may ex⯑preſs what I feel at the thought of calling Henry—I know not what I would ſay,—I only know that I am the moſt honoured and bleſſed of human beings,—and that it is his goodneſs, love, and conſtancy, have made me ſo."

Her eyes were directed to thoſe of Henry, as her artleſs heart thus poured itſelf forth to her now almoſt huſband; for, in his late abſence the two fathers had at laſt fixed the eventful day of thoſe nuptials which had a thouſand times come into the ſport and ſe⯑riouſneſs of the family converſation; but Lady Fitzorton had communicated it in form to Olivia a few minutes before ſhe ſet out to meet Henry.

The eyes of Henry were now caſt a dif⯑ferent way,—and they were filled with tears.

"Ah! hope and glory of my life!" ex⯑claimed Olivia,—"wherefore do you weep? If, thoſe tears, like mine, proceed not from [396]exceſs of tenderneſs,—exceſs of felicity,—the earth b [...]ars not ſuch a wretch as Olivia!"

"They do — the almighty ſearcher of hearts knows—they do proceed," ſaid Hen⯑ry, paſſionately, "from tenderneſs!"

"That omnipotent witneſs be praiſed!" ejaculated Olivia. "And yet, methinks I would not have ſuch drops as theſe flow from my Henry's heart, even though they ſpring from joy!"

Archangels might have ſanctioned the movement with which Olivia now laid her cheek to that of Henry, and dried up his tears. Alas! the fountain was full, and ſtreamed afreſh.

"Yonder is an arboring tree with a bench round it.—I ſee it through the under⯑wood," ſaid Olivia, gently drawing Henry towards the place.

"Let us reſt awhile," continued ſhe: "for I have ſomething—very—very dear to im⯑part to my Henry."

Henry ſuffered himſelf to be led paſſively on; when reaching the bench, he ſat down, Olivia placing herſelf by his ſide.

[397]"I proteſt," ſaid Olivia, reſuming her cheerfulneſs, that Henry might catch the gaiety, "this ſpot ſeems formed for tender hearts;—doth it not, Henry?—One would imagine theſe bowering hawthorns and theſe o'er-arching ſhades, branching from this romantic oak, had been the ſcene of ſome gentle aſſignation in days of chivalry."

Every word ſhe ſpoke, though deſigned to convey more than the roſe's fragrance to his ſenſe, was ſharper than a thorn preſſing into his heart. His diſappointments were all brought cloſe under his very eye: and wherever he turned, memory preſented ſome bleeding image of former felicity, untimely deſtroyed even in the ſpot which was at once the place of its birth and burial.

He turned his head, as to conceal his agi⯑tations, when thoſe initials of Caroline's name which his own hand had carved in the rind of the oak, met his view, and the words, "O my only life and love!" burſt ſpontaneouſly from his heart. The name of Caroline which was about to follow this paſſionate exclamation, quivered and died [398]on his lips; yet wholly ſubdued by a ſitua⯑tion ſo affecting, he ſunk down on Olivia's ſhoulder; and he had only ſtrength enough to ſigh out, "This—this—is too much!"

Olivia naturally applied to herſelf the above-mentioned tender expreſſion ſo cha⯑racteriſtc of Henry's habits, and ſo conge⯑nial to the rahpſody of her own heart: and ſhe ſuppoſed—as how, indeed, could ſhe imagine otherwiſe?—he was melted by that overwhelming ſenſibility which might well be excited in a diſpoſition like his, by the avowal ſhe had made of boundleſs returns of her affection. "And, ah! in what lan⯑guage but your own," cried ſhe, chaſtely but fondly careſſing him, her own lovely eyes repaying him with largeſt intereſt every tear,—"oh in what language but Henry's can I anſwer ſuch tenderneſs?—My only life! my only love! Yes," added ſhe, exalting her voice without diminiſhing its ſweetneſs, "that divinity to whom my beloved had juſt appealed in teſtimony of his own faith, can tell how truly my love and life are de⯑voted to him alone."

[399]Henry raiſed himſelf up, as if to rectify the miſconſtruction which had been put on an expreſſion that Olivia had ſo naturally appropriated: but the ſudden appearance of little Fitz, and, in the enſuing moment, the ſound of a voice, exclaiming, "there is the dog,—depend upon it his friends are not far off,"—pointed his attention to other objects.

CHAPTER XLIII.

HENRY and Olivia, without expreſſing their ſurpriſe to each other, haſted through the opening in the buſhes to explore the cauſe, when they obſerved Sir Armine and Lady Fitzorton coming up the avenue, and within a few paces of them.

Olivia, who had caught up little Fitz, in ſilent rapture ran down the avenue to meet them, and in a whiſper aſſured Lady Fitzor⯑ton that Henry was the beſt creature in the world, and had made her the happieſt.—"With all his ardours you know, my dear madam," ſaid ſhe, "he is not a man of pro⯑feſſions, [400]—more delicately truſting to actions than words, in atteſtation of his feelings;—a conduct I have often vainly attempted to imitate, and which I have admired, even when I could have quarrelled with him for it. But, had you heard the endearing ex⯑preſſions he juſt uttered, accompanied by his tears, and witneſſed by his love-declar⯑ing eyes—O heaven!—indeed,—indeed,—I am the happieſt—and he is the beſt of human beings!"

During the diſplay of this deluſion, which thoſe who admire Olivia will wiſh might end with her life, Henry was advancing, but with ſteps that little juſtified Olivia's deſcription, on an occaſion which would have carried him,—had he been indeed her lover,—with a ſpeed and impatience like her own.

Indeed he ſeemed at firſt undetermined whether to make his eſcape by ruſhing into the woods, or to join the family party. Perceiving, however, the latter were moving towards him, he thought it would be im⯑poſſible to recede; and after aſſuring his [401]ſtars that he now defied their utmoſt ma⯑lice, and ſhould reſign himſelf to their ma⯑lignant power without any farther reſiſt⯑ance, he ſomewhat quickened his pace, like a man giving himſelf up deſpairingly to the worſt that could happen. Notwithſtanding this, he ſaluted his parents with thoſe graces of filial duty which the ſight of them always enkindled, and which even diſappointed love, of whoſe pangs they were in great meaſure the cauſe, could not extinguiſh.

The ſight, however, of little Fitz, whom he had not before ſeemed to notice, had nearly overſet his plan of non-reſiſtance. "Would it not be beſt for me, deareſt ma⯑dam, to ſtep home with that ſpaniel?" ſaid he to his mother. "I dare ſay he watched the opening of the abbey gate to follow me."

Henry held out his arm to receive him from Olivia, who ſportingly ſaid, "ſhe was ſure he came again on a meſſage to her from his fair miſtreſs; for there was more than ordinary accident in the dog's returning ſo ſoon and at ſuch a moment, they might de⯑pend [402]on it; and ſhe would therefore give him a fair chance either to go or ſtay."

She gently patted him, and ſet him down, obſerving that ſhe would uſe no bribery to detain, nor any chiding to diſmiſs him. "Let him follow his own unbiaſſed inclina⯑tions," ſaid Olivia: "if he goes towards the abbey, I declare I will not ſay a word to call him back; but if he attends any of us uncalled, I ſhall,—yes, you may laugh at my ſuperſtition as much as you pleaſe,—but I ſhall think there is more in it than common chance,—and expect a welcome for him at the caſtle, till I can have an oppor⯑tunity to return him to his lovely owner, in perſon.—There—now for it!—He is now to do as he likes. Say nothing; but let us walk on, and leave him to himſelf."

Little Fitz was no ſooner ſet upon the ground, than he paid his compliments, firſt to Henry, then to the reſt of the company, and bounding along the avenue in the di⯑rect line towards the caſtle, ſeemed to con⯑firm the prepoſſeſſion of Olivia, who now [403]roundly re-aſſerted, nothing ſhould perſuade her there was not more in it than even the philoſophy of John, had he been preſent, could find out.

Sir Armine, who had attended rather to the hiſtory of his ſon's face than to what had been ſaid about the dog, caught the eye of Henry, and over-ruled whatever far⯑ther arguments or objections he might have been diſpoſed to make: ſo the whole groupe went together to the caſtle. At firſt they walked arm in arm, in a row; but ſoon after they divided two and two.—Oli⯑via and Lady Fitzorton, Sir Armine and Henry. This arrangement was again al⯑tered, by deſign or accident: for Sir Ar⯑mine propoſed that his wife and Olivia ſhould make the beſt of their way home, and that he and Henry would take a poeti⯑cal ſaunter, and follow at leiſure; averring that he wiſhed to diſcuſs with him a knotty point.

The emphaſis with which he pronounced theſe words, and the ſmile that accompanied [404]them, was ſo well underſtood by her lady⯑ſhip, that ſhe pleaſantly exclaimed, walking away with Olivia at the ſame time, "Pray, my dear daughter, let us leave theſe poetic philoſophers to ſettle their knotty points by themſelves, while you and I," whiſpered ſhe to Olivia, who crimſoned at the remark, "go and prepare ſome other knots that ſhall prove too hard for both their worſhips." Olivia turned back thrice on pretence of ſeeing whether little Fitz preferred the male or the female diviſion of the party, but, poſſibly, for a more affectionate reaſon. The ſagacious and political little animal, however, ſeemed to keep, like James Fitz⯑orton, the midway between them, and ſo continued to hold well with both parties:— a line of conduct which has been faithfully followed by much greater politicians.

We would forbear to inſert theſe minu⯑tiae, were we not aſſured that the real great events in life are, as ſome one has pro⯑foundly obſerved, produced by a nice train of little circumſtances.

[405]For example, this apparenly trifling mat⯑ter of filing off the family groupe into divi⯑ſions led to an incident of as great impor⯑tance to Henry, and perhaps to our readers, as any hitherto recorded in this hiſtory.