[] JULIA: A NOVEL.

CHAP. XXI.

MR. Clifford, accompanied by Julia, and Chartres, arrived in London ſoon after Chriſtmas, where a ſpacious and elegant houſe, at the weſt end of the town, was prepared for their reception.

Frederick Seymour had taken a houſe for himſelf in the neighbourhood, and he and Charlotte were ſettled in town a few days before Mr. Clifford arrived.

[2] Julia, ſince the period of Seymour's marriage, had endeavoured, by every effort in her power, to baniſh his idea from her mind. She carefully avoided thinking of him, becauſe ſhe now felt herſelf inclined to pity, while ſhe blamed his unfortunate paſſion; ſince he had fulfilled his engagements, at the price of peace, and had renounced all chance of happineſs, to comply with the de⯑mands of honor. But Julia was con⯑ſcious, that though this conduct gave him ſome claim to her eſteem, eſteem was a ſentiment which it was dangerous to cheriſh, and that, on this ſubject, re⯑flection was at cruel variance with re⯑poſe; ſince, whenever the idea of Sey⯑mour recurred to her mind, ſhe was imperceptibly led into a compariſon be⯑tween him and others; and the deciſion which her heart involuntarily made, was by no means conducive to its tranquil⯑lity. But, though ſhe had not the [3] merit of inſenſibility, the purity of her mind corrected the ſoftneſs of her heart. Rectitude ſtood in the place of indiffe⯑rence; and, ſince ſhe could not entirely controul her feelings, ſhe diſregarded them altogether, and only ſtudied, with a ſervent deſire of acting right, to re⯑gulate her conduct by the ſtricteſt pro⯑priety.

It was at her ſolicitation that Mr. Clifford remained in the country till after Chriſtmas. He was impatient to ſee his daughter, but Julia always found ſome reaſon for delay, and pro⯑craſtinated the journey to town, till no farther pretence could be urged, with⯑out incurring ſuſpicion. She attended him to town, prepared to act a part which ſhe felt would be difficult, but which ſhe ſtedfaſtly reſolved ſhould be free from ſelf-reproach.

The day before her departure from the country, ſhe viſited alone the an⯑cient [4] chapel, where the remains of her father, and grandfather, were depoſited. Here ſhe continued kneeling a conſider⯑able time at the tomb, wrapt in medita⯑tion, and finding it every moment more difficult to tear herſelf from the ſpot. At length ſhe aroſe, and, claſping her hands together, while ſhe continued gazing on the tomb, "Oh my father," ſhe cried, "thou canſt no longer guide and direct thy child, but may ſhe never forget thy precepts! And thou ever be⯑loved and venerable old man! whoſe ho⯑nored image ſtill lives in my heart, oh, may thy ſacred remembrance be the ſureſt guard of my conduct! If I am ever tempted to deviate from the path of rectitude, may I but think of thee, and ſurely my heart will return to its duty: oh, never, never can I mediate on thee and perſevere in what is wrong!—Deareſt old man! though the grave hides thee from my view, the recollec⯑tion [5] of thy goodneſs, thy ſanctity, ſhall be as a ſhield to thy offspring; and may thy exemplary piety have entailed a bleſſing on thy deſcendants! Oh, may I live—and may I die, like thee!"

Mr. Clifford, when near London, ſent a ſervant forward to inform his daughter of his coming. Frederick Seymour was not at home, but Char⯑lotte haſtened to her father's houſe, where ſhe had ſoon the pleaſure of re⯑ceiving him. When their firſt emo⯑tions at meeting had ſubſided, Char⯑lotte intreated her father and Julia to go home with her, and ſpend the day at her houſe. They were preparing to ſet out, in Charlotte's carriage, when Ju⯑lia's maid came into the room and beg⯑ged to ſpeak to her. Julia went out, and the maid ſaid to her, "Indeed Ma'am, I could not help calling you out, for I went into the hall juſt now to look after ſome of the boxes, and [6] there's a poor old man ſtanding at the foot of the ſteps, that ſays, Ma'am, he knows you, and begged me, for the love of God, to ſupplicate you to ſee him; and indeed, Ma'am, I had not the heart to refuſe the poor old creature, he look⯑ed ſo pitiful."

Julia deſired ſhe would tell him to come into the hall. The old man aſ⯑cended the ſteps with great difficulty, leaning on a ſtick with one hand, and holding by the paliſades with the other. His face was pale, and deeply furrowed with wrinkles, and his features, which were ſtrong, had a marked expreſſion of ſettled ſorrow. A conſiderable quantity of white hair, which was parted in the middle of his forehead, hung down his cheeks: his coat, which frequent patch⯑ing had rendered of many colours, did not appear dirty; and his linen was perfectly clean. His figure, though much bent by age and infirmity, ſtill [7] retained ſomething of a military air; and, though he tottered as he walked, his ſtep was not that of a clown.

Julia recollected him inſtantly: he was an old ſoldier, who had ſerved in her grandfather's company, had fought the ſame battles, and ſhared the ſame dangers. After nineteen years ſervice, he obtained his diſcharge on account of ill health, but was not entitled to the benefit of Chelſea-hoſpital. His ſon, however, who was a carpenter, main⯑tained him by his labour. Julia remem⯑bered, from her infancy, this old man, who uſed to make frequent viſits to her father's houſe, where he was always re⯑ceived with kindneſs. She had often flown with eagerneſs, when a child, to announce his arrival to her grandfather, by whom ſhe had been early taught,

[8] Julia was ſhocked at ſeeing the old man ſo much altered, and emaciated. He told her, that his ſon had died four months ago, of a fever, and that, ſince that period, he had ſuffered extreme diſ⯑treſs. "I have been forced, Madam," ſaid the old man, "to part with every bit of furniture that was in our room, to pay the rent, and keep body and ſoul together. I have nothing left but the bed I lie on—but all won't do, Madam, and I muſt go to the pariſh at laſt! Oh, wherefore," ſaid the old man, burſt⯑ing into tears, "wherefore is light given to him that is in miſery, and life unto the bitter in ſoul; which look for death, but it cometh not, and ſeek for it more than for hid treaſures? But I heard, Madam, two days ago, that you would be here, ſo I thought I would ſee you once more before I die. I knew you would have compaſſion for me."

"Yes, indeed," ſaid Julia, with ea⯑gerneſs, [9] "my good old friend, you ſhall never want while I can relieve you: think no more of going to the pariſh, we will provide for you."

The poor old man could not ſpeak, but he wept bitterly. Julia led him herſelf into a parlour. A porter, who had been aſſiſting to carry in the bag⯑gage, and paſſed through the hall while ſhe was carefully leading the old man, with the tears ſtanding in her eyes, ſaid to one of the ſervants, "Aye, ſhe may die when ſhe likes, for (ſwearing a ter⯑rible oath) ſhe's ſure enough of going to heaven." Julia ordered wine for the old man; and, when he was revived by it, left him, to tell her uncle what had paſſed. She returned with Mr. Clifford and Charlotte, who liſtened with the utmoſt compaſſion to the old man, while he repeated his tale of ſor⯑row, and dwelt on the virtues of his ſon. When he had eaſed his heart by this re⯑cital, [10] he talked of his old maſter, and of Captain Clifford, fought over his paſt battles, and lamented Captain Clifford's untimely death with a ſim⯑plicity of honeſt ſorrow, which drew tears from all his auditors. Julia was ſo much affected, that her uncle and Charlotte hurried her away; but not till the old man had received a liberal do⯑nation, together with the aſſurance of a comfortable proviſion for the remainder of his life. While he, putting his fee⯑ble hands together, implored that the "bleſſing of him who was ready to pe⯑riſh, might be upon them."

In the way to Frederick Seymour's houſe, Julia dried her tears, and endea⯑voured to compoſe her mind, that ſhe might meet him with the calmneſs ſhe wiſhed; but the figure of the old ſol⯑dier preſented itſelf to her imagination, and the words he had uttered concern⯑ing her father reſted upon her heart. [11] She felt the deepeſt depreſſion of ſpirits; but when the carriage ſtopt at Sey⯑mour's door, and ſhe ſaw him haſtening through the hall to receive them, ſhe ſummoned all her ſpirit, and aſſumed an appearance of ſerenity. Seymour was far from being ſo collected: his embarraſſment was but too evident to Julia. He uſed, again and again, the ſame expreſſions of pleaſure, and repeated the ſame enquiries, till he was at length checked by Chartres, who gravely declared, that the queſtion which Mr. Seymour then aſked him, he had anſwered three times already. Had Charlotte been leſs unſuſpecting, or Mr. Clifford more penetrating, they could not have failed to obſerve the ſtrange and diſtracted manner in which Seymour performed the honours of his table. When the ſervants had with⯑drawn, "Come," ſaid Mr. Clifford, "my dear children, let us drink a [12] bumper to the happineſs of our new-married pair. Julia, my love, come, fill your glaſs to the brim, and pledge me to your couſin's happineſs!" Julia filled her glaſs, wiſhed Charlotte all happineſs, bowed to Seymour, and, after ſwallowing a few drops, put down her glaſs. "Fie, Julia," ſaid Mr. Clif⯑ford, "you ought to have emptied your glaſs to this toaſt." Julia changed colour, and again took up her glaſs. "Why, really, Julia," reſumed Mr. Clifford, "you drink my toaſt, as if it were a very ſerious buſineſs." "Indeed, my dear," ſaid Charlotte, "you've per⯑formed your part with as much ſad ſo⯑lemnity as if you had a preſage that we were not to be happy." This remark, in Julia's preſent ſtate of agitation, was more than ſhe could bear: her emo⯑tion was too great to be controuled, and ſhe burſt into tears. "My deareſt Charlotte," ſaid ſhe, taking her cou⯑ſin's [13] hand, "be but as happy as I wiſh you, and you will be bleſt indeed." "My dear friend," ſaid Charlotte, "I know all your affec⯑tion; but why indulge this ſadneſs? I aſſure you, I ſhall find happineſs a very diſmal thing, unleſs you will con⯑ſent to be happy too." "This old ſoldier has affected you," ſaid Mr. Clifford; "but you muſt not indulge low ſpirits, my love; you muſt be chear⯑ful for my ſake: you know you are my only child, now Charlotte has for⯑ſaken me, and I can't live without you." "I am grateful," ſaid Julia, in a broken voice, "indeed I am." Seymour, during this ſcene, ſat fixed like a ſtatue: his eyes were riveted on Julia, his lips ſometimes moved, but he did not utter a word. Julia, reco⯑vering herſelf a little, caſt a glance at Seymour, perceived his ſituation, and feared that Charlotte would obſerve it. [14] "Will you give me a glaſs of water, Mr. Seymour?" ſaid ſhe, in order to rouze him from his ſtupor. He ſtarted as from a dream, and poured ſome wa⯑ter into a glaſs. "I am quite aſhamed of myſelf," ſaid Julia: "few have ſo much reaſon to be happy as I have; but the old ſoldier has ſunk my ſpi⯑rits. However," added ſhe, with a ſmile, "I promiſe never to behave ſo ill again, and this once you muſt all forgive me." Charlotte and Julia, ſoon after, left the room.

When they were gone, Mr. Clifford filled his glaſs; "Come," ſaid he, "Seymour, let us drink your couſin's health." "With all my heart," ſaid Seymour, filling his glaſs haſtily. "Really," ſaid Chartres, "Miſs Clif⯑ford ſeems vaſtly ill: I never ſaw her look ſo pale," added he, turning to Seymour, "except the day you were married." "Yes—I recollect—I [15] mean I remember—" replied Seymour, ſpeaking with difficulty, "ſhe was af⯑fected at parting with her friend." "I do not wonder ſhe is ill," ſaid Mr. Clifford:" the old ſoldier talked of my poor father and brother, till I could ſcarcely bear it myſelf." "But," re⯑joined Chartres, "Miſs Clifford was certainly ill before the old ſoldier ar⯑rived. I fancy the air of London diſ⯑agrees with her, and ſhe ſeemed to feel it at ſome miles diſtance; for I ob⯑ſerved that, during the laſt ſtage, her colour went and came every minute." Seymour liſtened in agony to theſe ob⯑ſervations, which, however, made no impreſſion on Mr. Clifford; who, when Chartres had finiſhed his ſpeech, ſaid, with warmth, that Julia was a charming creature, and that he loved her like his own child. "Indeed," added he, "ſhe is one of thoſe women whom it is impoſſible not to love." [16] Impoſſible indeed! thought Seymour. "Her diſpoſition is very amiable," he replied. "So amiable," ſaid Mr. Clifford, "and her perſon ſo lovely, that I wonder any young man can ſee her with indifference." Ah, thought Seymour, who can ſee her with indif⯑ference! "She is a charming young woman," he rejoined. "I hope," ſaid Mr. Clifford, "to have the pleaſure of ſeeing her happily ſettled this winter. Her countenance and figure, tacked to ten thouſand pounds, I think, bid fair for a good marriage; and, when ſhe is ſettled, I ſhall have nothing to do but to die." Seymour liſtened to this ma⯑trimonial project with the feelings of a criminal who hears his own condemna⯑tion. His ſoul recoiled at this plan of felicity; and he longed to perſuade Mr. Clifford that happineſs and ma⯑trimony had formed no inſepara⯑ble alliance, but, on the contrary, [17] were often quite eſtranged from each other. He had, however, the prudence not to truſt his feelings on this ſubject, and remained ſilent; while his uneaſi⯑neſs was entirely unobſerved by Mr. Clifford.

When Seymour reflected on what had paſt, he was not much diſpleaſed at the recollection of the cauſe of Julia's emotion at dinner; nor was he con⯑cerned at the information that ſhe look⯑ed pale on the day of his marriage, and that her colour went and came during the laſt ſtage. Such is the ſelfiſhneſs, the inconſiſtency of paſſion, that Sey⯑mour, though he would chearfully have ſacrificed his life to ſave Julia the ſlighteſt uneaſineſs, would yet willingly have excited in her mind thoſe ſenſa⯑tions which overwhelmed his own with anguiſh, and have been ſoothed by ac⯑quiring an influence over her heart, which, he well knew, would never, in [18] the ſmalleſt degree, affect her conduct; and which, indeed, his own principles of honor, and a reſpect for her cha⯑racter, which amounted almoſt to ido⯑latry, prevented him even from wiſhing it ſhould. He might, therefore, have reflected, that any ſenſibility to his paſ⯑ſion, could only ſerve to involve her in a degree of miſery, which was almoſt inſupportable to himſelf. But, the re⯑gion of paſſion is a land of deſpotiſm, where reaſon exerciſes but a mock ju⯑riſdiction; and is continually forced to ſubmit to an arbitrary tyrant, who, re⯑jecting her fixed and temperate laws, is guided only by the dangerous im⯑pulſe of his own violent and uncon⯑troulable wiſhes.

CHAP. XXII.

MR. Charles Seymour loſt not a moment in paying his reſpects to Julia, upon her arrival in town; ex⯑preſſed the moſt lively pleaſure at ſeeing her; expatiated on the encreaſed bloom of her complexion; ſpoke in his loweſt tone, and aſſumed his moſt finiſhed mode of addreſs. Julia, at length, quite fa⯑tigued with ſoftneſs, and oppreſſed with panegyric, told him, "that ſhe was obliged to go out;" finding that, like moſt other dull people, he was ſubject to the error of making long viſits; and was, at preſent, too much engroſſed by the care of acting his part gracefully, to remark her extreme wearineſs of his perform⯑ance. [20] He intreated to have the honor of attending her where ſhe was going; and they walked to her milliner's, where caps and ribbons ſeemed to ſharpen his wit, and furniſh him with new modes of compliment; and where he waited with great reſignation, while ſhe pur⯑chaſed ſeveral articles of dreſs. No ſet of people are ſo patient as the intereſted. They drudge on indefatigably in the ſame circle, and with one uniform pace, as quietly as a horſe in a mill, contentedly expecting the end of their labours. Ju⯑lia could at laſt only get rid of Mr. Charles Seymour's attendance, by call⯑ing on Charlotte, at whoſe door he took his leave; filled with ſelf-complacency at the progreſs he was convinced he had that morning made in her favor; but at the ſame time recollecting, that the ex⯑traordinary trouble he was now obliged to take, was owing to his former entire ne⯑glect of the lady; and marking it, as [21] one of his future maxims, that a young woman, who has a rich uncle in the Eaſt Indies, although ſhe has no fortune her⯑ſelf, is to be treated with gallantry. In the mean time, he reconciled himſelf to his paſt conduct, by reflecting, that there are ſome events, which no prudence can foreſee; and ſome errors, which expe⯑rience only can correct.

Charlotte was going to call on Mr. Chartres's mother, where Julia accom⯑panied her. They were received with infinite delight by Chartres, who had returned to his mother's houſe, where he found nothing that could atone for the loſs of their ſociety: and Mrs. Char⯑tres was alſo glad to ſee them, not ſole⯑ly on account of their kindneſs to her ſon, but likewiſe becauſe ſhe thought ſo ſplendid an equipage as Charlotte's, did honor to her door, and reflected ſome of the luſtre of its ſilver trappings on herſelf. It is neceſſary to give a ſketch of this Lady's character.

[22] Mrs. Chartres was one of thoſe per⯑ſons to whom time is a burden, which, without the aſſiſtance of cards, would be inſupportable. She conſidered whiſt as the firſt end of exiſtence, and the ſole pleaſure of ſociety; for ſhe thought con⯑verſation the dulleſt occupation in the world; and, although ſhe knew there was ſuch a term as friendſhip, her feel⯑ings did not convey much force to its meaning. Yet, ſhe was not inſenſible of ſome preference towards thoſe who gave her the beſt dinners. A preſent of a brace of woodcocks, of which ſhe was remarkably fond, would alſo ſecure her partial regard, and a young hare never failed to win her heart. With too little ſenſibility to feel her own deficiencies, and too little diſcernment to perceive when ſhe was treated with contempt, Mrs. Chartres could bear neglect with⯑out mortification, and deriſion without reſentment. She was perfectly ſatisfied [23] with being admitted into company, as one who helped to make up the ne⯑ceſſary number at a whiſt table, and to act a part, which an automaton, with a very little farther improvement in me⯑chaniſm, could have performed as well. It was fortunate for Mrs. Chartres, that ſhe was not difficult in her choice of ſociety, or rigorous in her demands of attention and reſpect; for ſhe found ſo⯑litude the moſt inſupportable of all evils. Her mind reſembled an empty mirror, which has no character, no images of its own, borrows every impreſſion from ſome paſſing object, and, if left to itſelf, would for ever remain vacant.

Mrs. Chartres delighted in new ac⯑quaintances; for, in proportion as ſhe was known, ſhe generally found people's civilities decline. But this never gave her any uneaſineſs, becauſe ſhe con⯑trived, with great eaſe, to provide her⯑ſelf with a ſucceſſion of new viſitors. [24] She kept a pack of viſiting tickets in her pocket-book, and, wherever ſhe went, diſtributed them liberally to any ſtran⯑gers who were near her, or with whom ſhe happened to play at cards. By theſe means her acquaintance was numerous, though not very ſelect; but ſhe compre⯑hended ſo little the difference between one perſon and another, if they were equally well dreſſed, that ſhe would only have been puzzled and perplexed by a greater power of choice.

Whenever Mrs. Chartres was diſen⯑gaged, ſhe was ſick, and paſſed the day in bed; but, when ſhe was faſhionably dreſſed, quite ſecure of a good dinner, and an evening party at cards, ſhe felt the charm of exiſtence, could think of the evils of her own lot with reſignation, and of the evils of others with the moſt perfect equanimity.

Mrs. Chartres had a habit of laughing whenever ſhe ſpoke. Having therefore laughed at a ſtorm of ſnow, been no [25] leſs merry at the bad roads, and found her ſon's awkwardneſs an equally good joke, ſhe told Charlotte and Julia, with a titter, that ſhe would ſend them cards of invitation the next morning, to meet a party at her houſe that day fortnight; adding, that ſhe was ſure they could yet have no engagements, as they were but juſt come to town, and that they would for ever oblige her by coming. In vain theſe ladies aſſured her, that they ſhould prefer coming when ſhe had no other vi⯑ſitors; and, that they liked converſation better than cards. Mrs. Chartres would no more hear a reaſon, than ſhe would have given one, "on compulſion;" and, without paying the ſmalleſt attention to what they ſaid, continued to urge her requeſt with ſuch vehemence of entrea⯑ty, that, at length, they yielded to her importunity, and promiſed to come.

As the morning was fine, Julia got out of the carriage at Charlotte's door, [26] and walked home. In her way, ſhe ſaw a young bird that was unable to fly, hop⯑ping on the pavement. A boy ſeized it, whom ſhe bribed with a ſhilling to re⯑linquiſh his prize, which ſhe was taking home, when it eſcaped from her hand, and fell down the area of a houſe. She deſired the ſervant, who attended her, to knock at the door; and a ſearch was made for the little fugitive, but it could no where be found. Julia wrote the following lines on this incident.

CHAP. XXII.

THE Honourable Miſs C [...]'s waited on Julia a few days after her arrival in town; profuſe in profeſ⯑ſions of regard, and eager to know if ſhe meant to give many concerts and balls, in the courſe of the winter. Julia felt as much contempt for their preſent civilities, as for their former neglect; and received them with a degree of coldneſs, by which they found that a plan of tender and romantic friendſhip, intended to commence that very morn⯑ing, was not likely to ſucceed.

Theſe ladies talked much to Julia of the faſhionable amuſements, mingling, with great addreſs, inſtruction with entertain⯑ment; and, while they informed her what [31] every body of a certain fortune did, ob⯑liquely hinted what ſhe ought to do. Julia forced herſelf to hearken to their remarks; but, the moment the Miſs C [...]'s left the room, ſhe forgot their exiſtence; nor did ſhe recollect that there was any ſuch thing as gaiety in the world—her whole thoughts being ab⯑ſorbed by the obſervations ſhe had made on Frederick Seymour's behaviour ſince her arrival in town. She ſaw him ſtrug⯑gling with ill-concealed wretchedneſs: ſhe bitterly reproached herſelf for her weakneſs on the firſt day of their meet⯑ing; and endeavoured to atone for it, to her own mind, by avoiding all particular converſation with him moſt carefully. She perceived that he now no longer ex⯑erted that reſolution which had formerly led him to ſhun her ſociety; but that, on the contrary, he always attended his wife when ſhe viſited her father; and was always at home when Julia was expect⯑ed. [32] He ſeemed unable to refuſe him⯑ſelf the indulgence of ſeeing her; and when they parted, he was only occupied by the conſideration when they ſhould meet again; for he found that the charms of her converſation ſoothed his unhappineſs, and that the tumult of his feelings was often calmed in her pre⯑ſence. His diſturbed mind reſembled a tempeſtuous flood, whoſe waves ariſe dark and turbulent, except where the ſun-beam throws a line of trembling radiance acroſs their agitated ſurface.

When the evening arrived, on which Mrs. Chartres's card-aſſembly was to take place, Charlotte called upon Julia, and the two ladies went together. Mrs. Chartres's room could not hold four card-tables without ſome inconvenience to the company; but, unluckily, the point of her ambition was five. Her aſ⯑piring mind preferred grandeur to eaſe. She felt a noble contempt of difficulties, [33] when her aim was glory; and, as ſhe thought that five card-tables, filled with well-dreſſed perſons, was a very ſublime coup d'oeil, ſhe contrived to place them with ſuch maſterly arrangement, that not one inch of ground was loſt. There was alſo a loo-table, in an adjoining room, or rather cloſet, round which the company had juſt ſufficient ſpace to ſit, with their chairs cloſe to the wainſcot. One of the card-tables in the large room was ſo near the door, that the candle placed next to it blew out every time the door was ſhut or opened. Mrs. Chartres regretted that the wind was high: but then her five card-tables had a fine effect; "and it is ſo eaſy," thought ſhe, "to light a candle, and beſides, who knows but the wind may fall?"

Charlotte and Julia arrived before Mrs. Chartres had adjuſted all her card-tables, and gained admittance with [34] ſome difficulty. Mrs. Chartres puſhed through the crowd to receive them; and, having a very ſmall ſpace to move in, by a ſwing of her arms, which ſhe thought faſhionable, ſhe overturned a candle⯑ſtick which ſtood on a card-table in her way, and ſet fire to her gauze apron. Many ſcreams, and much confuſion, en⯑ſued: but the flame was ſoon happily extinguiſhed; and, after lamenting for ſome time the depredations of fire on gauze aprons, ſhe left that fierce ele⯑ment to itſelf, and returned to the du⯑ties of the evening. She told Charlotte and Julia, "That ſhe would not aſk them to ſit down till the card-tables were fixed, when they would obtain a good ſeat." They ſtood for a conſidera⯑ble time; but at length, (perceiving there was little chance of the ceremonies being adjuſted, and finding themſelves much incommoded by the ſudden and frequent movements of Mrs. Chartres, [35] and her ſon, whom ſhe repeatedly order⯑ed to be alert, and who often met her in mid-way, and ran againſt her in all di⯑rections,) Charlotte and Julia procured a ſeat for themſelves; and had leiſure to contemplate the ſcene before them. It ſeemed as if the art of receiving com⯑pany conſiſted in perpetual motion. Mrs. Chartres flew from one part of the room to the other, without intermiſſion; enquired, in the hurry of her taſk, if thoſe gueſts were cold, whoſe faces were ſcorched by being placed too cloſe to a large fire; and hoped Julia found the room warm, who was ſeated with her back againſt a door, which was perpe⯑tually opening, while ſhe was almoſt frozen by a blaſt which iſſued from it. Neither enquiry on the part of Mrs. Chartres, or complaint on that of Julia, could ſerve any purpoſe. The company were packed for the evening, and no perſon could move without cauſing a general diſturbance.

[36] One card-table was ſtill vacant, and the taſk of making up another whiſt⯑party remained yet unperformed. The attack was begun on a Mrs. Sanford, who at firſt abſolutely refuſed to play; but at length, overcome by the ſteady perſeverance of Mrs. Chartres, ſhe gave her reluctant conſent.

After laviſhing much eloquence, Mrs. Chartres prevailed on three other perſons to make up the party, who had before refuſed to play. Some time was ſpent in ſettling the price; and when this was done, Mrs. Sanford, who had retired to a corner of the room, was told the party waited for her. But Mrs. Sanford, who had by this time gained ſufficient fortitude to ſuſtain another ſiege, reſolutely refuſed to play. The at⯑tack, however, was renewed with freſh vigour, and poor Mrs. Sanford at laſt yielded to its violence. The party was ſettled, and Mrs. Chartres, relieved [37] from this load of anxiety, found leiſure for a little converſation with ſuch of the company as would not be enliſted in the ſervice of the card-table; though ſhe felt much indignation at their refractory conduct. She now rejoiced that one lady had eſcaped cold—hoped her neighbour on the right had eſcaped too—and regret⯑ted that her on the left was ſtill hoarſe. Then ſhe enumerated all her own com⯑plaints—expatiated on her weak nerves—and afterwards, by a very eaſy tranſi⯑tion, paſſed from bodily to mental evils; lamenting that ſhe had had nothing but ill-luck the whole winter, and that ſhe had loſt three crowns a night; and de⯑claring that her beſt fortune was never more than five ſmall trumps, without one king or queen. Mrs. Chartres expected to awaken general ſympathy in her loſſes; but ſhe forgot that there is more diſtreſs in the world than pity, and that the world cannot afford to waſte any of its little [38] ſtock upon five ſmall trumps. She then complained how much company had diſappointed her, and told Charlotte ſhe had received twenty apologies that morning. A little while after, ſhe related to another lady the ſame circumſtance, with the addition of ten more excuſes; and, when Frederick Seymour arrived, complained to him how ill her acquaint⯑ances had behaved; "For no leſs than forty cards of apology," ſaid ſhe, "have I received this morning." "The men in buckram will ſoon be here," ſaid Charlotte. "I cannot help thinking," rejoined Seymour, in a low voice, "that theſe forty excuſes were well-timed; un⯑leſs Mrs. Chartres could adopt Milton's plan with the evil ſpirits, and, by ſome commodious transformation, ſuit the dimenſions of her company to thoſe of her apartment."

Mrs. Chartres ſoon after told Julia, in the confidence of friendſhip, that her [39] old uncle was dead. "But I only re⯑ceived the account laſt night," ſaid ſhe, "and it would have been ſo much trouble to forbid all the company, that I thought I would let them come, and keep it a ſecret;—don't tell!"

Tea was brought by Thomas, a young countryman, who had enliſted in one of the new-raiſed regiments; but hav⯑ing been in a ſhort time diſcharged, be⯑cauſe his ſize was below the military ſtandard, he had entered into the ſer⯑vice of Mrs. Chartres. His figure was ſquat; his ſhoulders broad and high; and his livery ſomewhat old-faſhioned, with a profuſion of buttons, and long waiſtcoat pockets; and, upon the whole, he bore a very ſtriking reſemblance to Mr. Par⯑ſons, in the entertainment of High Life above Stairs. It was eaſy to perceive that Thomas had been accuſtomed to march by beat of drum; and though, in the exerciſe of his preſent peaceable pro⯑feſſion, [40] he wore no defiance in his aſ⯑pect, but, on the contrary, hung down his head, and looked meek as a lamb, yet his military ſtep ſtill rendered him for⯑midable. He preſented the tea-cups in the ſame abrupt manner in which he had been taught to preſent his firelock; and, Julia being unprepared for theſe martial movements, a cup of tea was ſpilt on her gown. Thomas's face be⯑came like ſcarlet at this accident. Mrs. Chartres ſcolded loudly, and declared ſhe believed it would be impoſſible to cure him of his awkward ways. "Then," ſaid ſhe, "he blunders for ever; I never knew him once do right; he brings me into ſuch ſcrapes!—I or⯑dered him, a month ago, to leave two tickets at Mrs. C [...]'s, and Mrs. N [...]'s, which he thought proper to forget; and now Mrs. C [...] is gone to the Eaſt-Indies, and Mrs. N [...] is dead:—how provoking! Mrs. Char⯑tres's [41] diſcourſe did not proceed without interruption; for, whenever a knock was heard at the ſtreet-door, ſhe inſtantly ſtarted from her ſeat, obliged the com⯑pany to make way, and ſtationed her⯑ſelf at the door of the apartment, where ſhe paid her compliments to her viſitors, before ſhe ſuffered them to paſs the thre⯑ſhold; and where, for the moſt part, ſhe ſtood a conſiderable time in expec⯑tation; Thomas being ſo unwilling to leave the company above, to admit thoſe who were waiting in their car⯑riages below, that his miſtreſs was, more than once, compelled to remind him of his duty by a puſh on the ſhoulder.

The rubber being now finiſhed, at the table where Mrs. Sanford had been compelled to ſit down, ſhe came to Mrs. Chartres, to know who was to cut in. "I know of nobody," ſaid Mrs. Chartres, with great compoſure, "you muſt play on." At this moment, Fre⯑derick [42] Seymour, who had been called away, returned, fortunately for Mrs. Sanford, who inſtantly quitted the ta⯑ble. Seymour had little inclination to play. He however came prepared to do penance; and, being convinced, like other votaries of mortification, that his merit would be great, in proportion as his ſenſations were diſagreeable, he quietly ſeated himſelf at whiſt.

A young man now entered the room foppiſhly dreſſed; and, caſting a look of ſelf-importance around the company, he advanced with a ſauntering ſtep to Mrs. Chartres, and apologized for his ſiſter's not coming, who, he ſaid, was detained by two friends, that had juſt arrived from the country. "La," ſaid Mrs. Chartres, "I wiſh ſhe had come, and brought her two friends with her, they would have helped to fill up the room." "You are very good Ma'am," replied Mr. Burton; "upon my word we never [43] thought of that." He then turned to ſpeak to an acquaintance, and Mrs. Chartres took that opportunity of in⯑forming Julia, that ſhe had aſked Mr. Burton on purpoſe to meet her; for, "I know," ſaid ſhe, "you are a great read⯑er; ſo I thought you would like him; for, I do aſſure you, he's vaſtly clever, and knows all about Cicero, and Hume's Hiſtory of England." By this time the connoiſſeur in Cicero, having finiſhed his compliments, returned to Mrs. Chartres's circle, and, placing himſelf next to Julia, aſked her if ſhe had ſeen the new play?" She ſaid ſhe had not. "I'm ſurprized at that Ma'am," rejoin⯑ed Mr. Burton, "I aſſure you every body likes it." "Well, I really long to go," ſaid Mrs. Chartres, with her uſual laugh; "but Mrs. Smith has been ſo much engaged, that ſhe could not take me, and I have no notion of going to the play in a hack, and coming into [44] the boxes with the ſtraw about one's petticoats, as if one had juſt eſcaped from Bedlam. To be ſure, I might have gone a fortnight ago to the new play, but they would only give us a ſecond row, and, at the other houſe, they gave us a firſt; ſo I thought the difference of the play didn't ſignify much." "And pray what was the play you ſaw, Ma'am?" enquired Mr. Burton. "Mac⯑beth," replied Mrs. Chartres: "I de⯑clare I was quite diſappointed, for I had never ſeen it before, and I had a notion Lady Macbeth was a good ſort of woman; and there is ſuch wickedneſs going on, and ſo many extravagant fancies!" Mrs. Chartres concluded, as ſhe had begun, with a laugh, and then made her way to another part of the room.

Meantime Mr. Burton intreated Ju⯑lia to join the party at loo, declaring that he was ſure ſhe would win, and he [45] would bet any ſum upon her cards. When he found ſhe was inflexible in her determination not to play, he endea⯑voured to entertain her, while he diſ⯑played his own knowledge of faſhion⯑able life, by talking of the public places, particularly the theatre; and by diſcuſſing at large the merits of the dif⯑ferent actors and actreſſes; only inter⯑rupting his criticiſm to give her a ſig⯑nificant wink at the manner in which Thomas preſented the lemonade. Ju⯑lia, quite diſguſted with his vulgar and impertinent familiarity, roſe to change her ſeat, which was a matter of ſome difficulty. Placing herſelf near three young ladies, who were dreſſed in the utmoſt extreme of the faſhion, ſhe en⯑deavoured to avoid Mr. Burton's aſſi⯑duity, who followed her with officious gallantry, by entering into converſation with theſe ladies; but ſhe found herſelf wholly unqualified for the taſk. Their [46] converſation conſiſted entirely of anec⯑dotes of the nobility, and minute details of all that had lately paſt in the great world. In vain, however, did theſe ladies attempt to dazzle and awe each other, by the rank and importance of their reſpec⯑tive friends; for, if one mentioned an in⯑cident, which had happened to her friend, Lady ſuch a one, the other young la⯑dies immediately recollected ſome cir⯑cumſtance, as well worth relating, of a friend of equal rank.

Frederick Seymour now left the card⯑table, where he had been ſcolded, the whole time he played, by his partner, a little fat woman, above forty, with a pert countenance, and a manner ſtill more pert than her phyſiognomy, who kept herſelf in pocket-money by cards, and was eagle-eyed to the ſmalleſt devia⯑tion from what ſhe thought the rules of the game. She and Seymour gained the firſt rubber. One of their opponents [47] happened to have no ſilver, and, while ſhe was trying to get change, the other laid down a crown to Seymour, which his partner inſtantly ſnatched up, ſaying that the other lady ſhould pay Mr. Sey⯑mour, for ſhe herſelf was ſo apt to forget! After cutting for partners, ſhe was again Seymour's lot; and they ſoon loſt double the ſum they had gained. When Seymour left the table, Mrs. Chartres enquiring if he had won, he ſaid, "he had no ſubject of ſatisfac⯑tion, but the ſucceſs of others." His diſagreeable partner now joined their circle, affected to talk of her ill⯑luck with indifference, and began ſym⯑pathizing with Mrs. Chartres, who again brought forward her own bad for⯑tune. "I obſerve," ſaid Seymour to Julia, "that people are at as much pains to diſplay their feelings, on occaſions when they feel nothing, as to hide them at cards, when they are loſing their mo⯑ney, [48] and really feel a great deal." Mrs. Chartres watched her opportunity, and, while ſhe fancied herſelf unobſerved, could not reſiſt moving towards the card-table which Seymour had quit⯑ted, and gently lifting the candleſtick, to ſee if the card-money had been duly remembered. Being ſatisfied of this, ſhe came up to Julia, and complained of her not calling upon her in a morning. "I ſeldom pay morning viſits," ſaid Julia. "Oh, I know you're always reading," ſaid Mrs. Chartres; "I ſuppoſe you ſhut yourſelf up at home: aren't you charm'd with the Pangs of Senſibility?" "Is that the title of a book?" ſaid Ju⯑lia. "La, why, is it poſſible you haven't read the new novel, the Pangs of Senſibility?" "No indeed I have not," anſwered Julia, "Well, I'm ſo ſur⯑prized! Nor you, Mrs. Seymour, not read the Pangs of Senſibility?" "No." "Nor have you never heard of it, [49] Mr. Seymour?" "I muſt acknow⯑ledge my ignorance of the book," ſaid Seymour, "whatever imputation it may be upon my taſte." "Oh, pray do buy it," reſumed Mrs. Chartres; "it will only coſt you ſix ſhillings, and its ſo exceſſively pretty; but the end's very diſmal." "Well," ſaid Seymour, "I ſhall be prepared for the worſt; and you may depend upon it we will have ſix ſhillings-worth of ſenſibility to-mo⯑row morning."

Thomas now announced Mrs. Sey⯑mour's carriage, not by coming for⯑ward, and telling her the agreeable tidings in a low voice, as is uſual; but, having collected all his courage in com⯑ing up ſtairs, he opened the door, and, with a firm countenance, called out, as loud as he could, Mrs. Seymour's car⯑riage ready! which laſt word he pro⯑nounced ſo ſhort and quick, and in ſuch an elevated tone, that it had the effect [50] of an electrical ſhock, and no perſon of weak nerves could hear it without ſtarting. Charlotte roſe inſtantly, and was haſtening away with great alacrity; but ſhe found this a more difficult en⯑terprize than ſhe imagined. Mrs. Chartres ſeized both her hands, de⯑clared ſhe muſt not go ſo ſoon, aſſured her it was very early a hundred times in a breath, and, gathering freſh cou⯑rage as ſhe proceeded, at length, in a moſt authoritative tone, inſiſted upon her ſtaying. Although unprepared for ſo violent an attack, Charlotte, when ſhe had recovered her ſurprize, aſſigned a reaſon for going, which ſhe thought unanſwerable: ſhe told Mrs. Chartres, "that ſhe made it a rule not to keep her ſervants and horſes in waiting in bad weather." "La," ſaid Mrs. Char⯑tres, "why, your ſervants can come into the houſe, and as for the horſes, you told me two of your's were ſick, [51] and you had job horſes; ſo why need you care about their waiting, ſince they are not your own?" Charlotte an⯑ſwered, "that, indeed, that reaſon had never occurred to her; but though the horſes are not my own," ſaid ſhe, with ſome emphaſis, "I muſt be gone this moment:" and ſhe was again haſtening away, when Mrs. Chartres ſuddenly placed herſelf between her and the door; declared that ſhe had prepared a ſupper below for a ſmall ſelect party; expatiated on the cruelty of refuſing to ſtay this once, when her ſupper was prepared; and then petitioned, im⯑plored, and perſecuted, till ſhe wrung from the diſtreſſed Charlotte her ſlow conſent to ſend away the carriage for an hour.

The choſen party which Mrs. Char⯑tres diſtinguiſhed by an invitation to ſupper, waited a conſiderable time after the reſt of the company were diſperſed, [52] before the repaſt was announced. Mrs. Chartres had not proportioned the num⯑ber of her gueſts to the ſize of her ta⯑ble, which was ſo crouded, that the company were obliged to ſit ſideways, and, whenever a plate was changed, or a diſh removed, to give way by general conſent. But theſe inconveniences Mrs. Chartres perceived with perfect indif⯑ference, and only lamented, that ſhe could not prevail on more of her friends to ſtay. She heard, with equal com⯑poſure, the vain applications which were made to Thomas for plates, knives, and forks. Thomas, when cal⯑led upon, anſwered, "Yes," with great alertneſs; but, as nothing can come of nothing, it was entirely out of his power to ſupply the demands of the company. All that wiſdom could ſuggeſt, or promptitude atchieve, Thomas per⯑formed. When deſired to bring de⯑ſert ſpoons, of which there were none [53] in the houſe, he preſented tea-ſpoons; and when called upon for oil (an arti⯑cle which, in the hurry of preparation, had been forgotten) he produced vine⯑gar, by way of ſubſtitute.

Mr. Burton had taken care to place himſelf next Julia, to whom he devoted his whole attention, and begged to have the honour of helping her to ſome chicken, enquiring what part ſhe choſe. She deſired a wing. "Well, I declare," ſaid Mr. Burton, "that ſurprizes me; I think a leg ſo much better. I believe I have a ſtrange taſte; but I like the legs of all fowls better than the wings; I even prefer the drumſtick of a tur⯑key." Julia made him no anſwer, as it was a point ſhe felt not the leaſt incli⯑nation to diſcuſs. After ſupper there was much loud merriment; for the company in general ſeemed to be of opinion, that mirth and noiſe were ſy⯑nonymous terms, and gaiety merely a [54] counterfeit, unleſs it was powerful enough to diſturb the neighbourhood. When the party became a little fa⯑tigued with this vociferous convivia⯑lity, Mr. Burton, in order, as he de⯑clared, "to keep it up," volunteered a ſong in the Italian manner; but in a voice that ſcorned all tune, and with ſo many ſtrange cadences, that Char⯑lotte, who was in good ſpirits, found it extremely difficult to avoid laugh⯑ing. Mr. Burton, however, was ſo perfectly ſatisfied with his own per⯑formance, that, when the ſong was finiſhed, he looked round to collect the applauſe of his audience. He then propoſed ſentimental toaſts, which, he ſaid, he liked of all things, among cle⯑ver people: but Charlotte's carriage was now announced, who, impatient to be gone, haſtened away with too quick a pace to be again ſtopped. Julia followed as faſt as ſhe could, happy to [55] leave the ladies who were in friendſhip with the nobility, and eſcorted to the carriage by the gentleman who knew ſo much about Cicero, and had ſuch a taſte for the drumſticks of turkies. Frederick Seymour haſtened after the ladies; but they could ſcarcely be con⯑vinced they had eſcaped, till they were out of the houſe; for Mrs. Chartres purſued them along the paſſage, with repeated wiſhes that they might not get cold, repeated thanks for their com⯑pany, and a thouſand "good-nights," till they were quite out of hearing.

In their way home, Charlotte laugh⯑ed heartily at the recollection of all that had paſſed; while Julia declared, ſhe thought the evening the longeſt ſhe had ever ſpent. Seymour expreſſed his in⯑dignation at the horrible penance he had undergone; and all of them agreed never to make ſuch a ſacrifice of time again.

[56] Mrs. Chartres, on the contrary, diſ⯑miſſed her gueſts with much ſelf-com⯑placency. She had given a card-aſſem⯑bly, and a petit-ſouper; and had not ſufficient penetration to diſcern that her ſketch of elegance was a wretched daub; and, though it was copied from what ſhe had heard of high-life, had as little reſemblance to its model, as the picture of King William on a ſign-poſt, to the real features of the hero it repreſents. When the company departed, Mrs. Chartres told her ſon, with an air of triumph, that the evening had gone off remarkably well. Chartres was by no means of opinion that the evening had gone off well: but that it was gone at laſt, was to him a moſt comfortable re⯑flection; to whom it had produced no⯑thing but confuſion, perſpiration, and diſtreſs.

CHAP. XXIV.

MRS. Melbourne, and Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, who had been ſome weeks at Bath, arrived in town; and ſoon after Mrs. Melbourne took an opportunity to repeat, what ſhe had already more than once inſinuated to Mr. Clifford, that Julia was incapable of the management of his family, and that he ought to watch her narrowly, and limit her expences. It may ſeem ſtrange, that Mrs. Melbourne took the trouble to intereſt herſelf in Mr. Clif⯑ford's family affairs: but ſhe had no leſs than two motives for this conduct. Since Julia was the age of ſeventeen, this lady had had a ſtanding quarrel [58] with her, on account of her beauty; and, though ſhe had patched up a reconcili⯑ation on Mrs. Seymour's marriage, her former animoſity revived, when ſhe ſaw Julia miſtreſs of her uncle's houſe, and living in greater ſplendor than her own daughter. But, independently of this parental jealouſy, Mrs. Melbourne was a perſon who often intermeddled in the concerns of other people, merely as an exerciſe for the activity of her own mind. She had the higheſt opinion of her own penetration, was fond of com⯑mand, wiſhed to be the directing ſtar of all her acquaintances, and diſtributed counſel, admonition, and reproof, with infinite liberality. There is, however, a remarkable difference in the value placed upon advice, by thoſe who give, and thoſe who receive it; and Mrs. Melbourne's tutelar care of Mr. Clif⯑ford's houſehold, met with ſo cold a re⯑ception from that gentleman, that ſhe [59] determined to deprive him of the bene⯑fit of her inſtructions in future.

Mrs. Seymour ſoon invited Julia to a party at her houſe, where her chief amuſement aroſe from the obſervations ſhe made on Charles Seymour's beha⯑viour. She could gueſs the rank or fortune of the perſons with whom he converſed, with as much preciſion as if ſhe had read their names in the Court Calendar, or had learnt from their bro⯑ker the ſtate of their funds: for, had the title, or wealth, of each of his acquaint⯑ances been weighed in one ſcale, and the degree of his attention in another, the counterpoiſe would have been found exactly even, without one grain of courteſy, one atom of kindneſs being waſted, or miſplaced. If the rule of his conduct had been ſomewhat more no⯑ble, nothing could have been more praiſe-worthy than his diligent adher⯑ence to it; which was uniform, and un⯑deviating; [60] neither relaxed by tender⯑neſs, or moved by admiration. Polite⯑neſs, in him, was the offspring, not of benevolence, but of ſelfiſhneſs; and though he laboured to conceal its here⯑ditary likeneſs, under the maſk of oſten⯑tatious urbanity, and ſtudied candor, yet ſome lurking meanneſs, or inſolent neglect, occaſionally betrayed, to per⯑ſons of penetration, its ignoble origin.

He devoted half an hour, in the courſe of the evening, to Julia; which was certainly half an hour loſt, both to her and to himſelf; though he was gay and tender, witty and pathetic, by turns; muttered, ſighed, and ſmiled, and re⯑peated thoſe flattering things, to which he was well convinced no woman could liſten with indifference, when they pro⯑ceeded from his lips. When he thought Julia had heard enough to be almoſt ſeriouſly in love with the ſpeaker, to prevent that miſchief, he ſauntered to [61] the youngeſt Miſs C [...], who was ſit⯑ting at ſome diſtance with a very grave countenance; but, when ſhe ſaw him approaching, her features became more gay every ſtep he advanced, and ſhe was ſo ſprightly by the time he drew near, that ſhe received him with an encou⯑raging titter, which ſhe honoured his wit by renewing at proper intervals.

Meantime, Frederick Seymour, whol⯑ly abſorbed by Julia, played at whiſt without knowing a card in his hand, and followed her with his eye wherever ſhe moved. He ſaw her converſing with Mr. F [...]; obſerved that ſhe ſeemed to have pleaſure in the converſation; and that ſhe ſmiled upon him with great ſweetneſs: and, while he meditated with horror on the ſatisfaction expreſſed in her countenance, he finiſhed the rubber very expeditiouſly, by making ſome ca⯑pital miſtakes. He paid his loſſes with great alacrity, and haſtened to Mr. [62] F [...], whom he engaged in converſa⯑tion; but he had no power to detain Julia, and ſhe left her ſeat in a few mi⯑nutes. Seymour did not dare to follow; and, while he was employed in watching her movements, entirely forgot that he was converſing with Mr. F [...], till that gentleman left him and haſtened to the party of ladies whom Julia had join⯑ed. Frederick Seymour now perceived, that in quitting the whiſt-table, he had only procured for himſelf a change of miſery: again Mr. F. ſpoke, and again Julia liſtened. In vain Seymour en⯑deavoured to witneſs this ſecond con⯑verſation-ſcene with compoſure;—in vain he ſtruggled to ſuppreſs his ſenſa⯑tions;—it was a thing impoſſible! "Ah! who can hold a fire in his hand, by thinking of the froſty Caucaſus?" Seymour, in a fit of deſpair, went to Charlotte, told her he was going to pay a viſit, and haſtened away. But, by the [63] time he reached the ſtreet door, he hear⯑tily repented having left the room. He fancied he ſaw Julia rejoicing in his ab⯑ſence; and Mr. F [...] happy in her ſmiles. He wiſhed to find ſome excuſe for returning: but the preſent agitation of his mind was not favourable to in⯑vention; and he was at laſt reduced to hope, that his horſes feet might ſlip, his carriage break down, and that ſome kind diſaſter might furniſh him with a pretence to go back. But while theſe things were paſſing in his mind, his coachman conducted him in perfect fafety to his own door. He haſtened to his ſtudy, but with no intention to read; walked up and down the room, then flung himſelf into a chair; then walked again; liſtened to every carriage that paſſed; thought Charlotte would never return; reflected how much time Mr. F [...] had had for converſation; and was little comforted when Charlotte appeared, [64] and told him ſhe had left her father and Julia behind, as his carriage was not come. Seymour was ſurpriſed Mr. Clifford choſe to ſtay ſo late, wondered Charlotte did not offer to ſet him down, and deſired to know what company ſhe left behind. Charlotte mentioned ſeve⯑ral names, but omitted Mr. F [...], and Seymour was obliged to aſk if he was gone when ſhe came away? "Oh, no," ſaid Charlotte, "I beg Mr. F [...]'s pardon, I declare I quite forgot him, and I wonder at that, for I left him talking to Julia." Seymour roſe haſtily from his ſeat, and walked two or three times acroſs the room. He then en⯑quired at what hour Mrs. Seymour's parties generally broke up; and gained no information. Meantime Charlotte grew ſomewhat tired of her huſband's interrogatories: "Yet," thought ſhe, "it is eaſy to repeat a few names, and anſwer a few queſtions; and though [65] I find them a little dull, becauſe I am ſleepy, I am glad he is amuſed."

At length, however, when Seymour again renewed the ſubject of Mr. F [...], "Do, my dear Mr. Seymour," ſaid Charlotte, "let me bid that worthy gentleman good night; and we'll have him ſerved up at breakfaſt to-morrow morning." Charlotte went to ſleep, as unconſcious of the pain ſhe had inflict⯑ed, by her intelligence reſpecting Mr. F [...], as a child who ſports with ima⯑ges of death, and prattles about the tall feathers of the hearſe, to the afflicted mourner, who feels every ſyllable a wound.

Julia, though ſhe had converſed with Mr. F [...] with apparent cheerfulneſs, felt no ſuch ſenſation at her heart. She had perceived Frederick Seymour's jea⯑louſy and perturbation, and trembled leſt his unhappy paſſion ſhould be diſ⯑covered, and ſpread a wider circle of [66] miſery. She found ſome relief, after he was gone, in converſing with Mr. Sey⯑mour, who ſaw ſhe was in bad ſpirits, and exerted his brilliant talents for her entertainment. He had a high place in her eſteem. She reſpected his abilities, was charmed with his converſation, and ſometimes ſecretly lamented, that he was not united to a woman more capa⯑ble of conferring domeſtic happineſs. But an incident happened, which total⯑ly altered her opinion of his character.

Mr. Clifford hired a houſekeeper, on the recommendation of an old friend of his, to whom ſhe had been long known. This perſon had only been a few days in Mr. Clifford's family, when ſhe acknowledged to Julia, that ſhe had lived many years with Mr. Seymour's mother, and that ſhe had only left Mr. Seymour's ſervice one year. Julia enquired into the reaſon of her quitting it. "Ah, Ma'am," ſaid ſhe, "it [67] was becauſe I was too honeſt, and loved that poor dear young lady, Mrs. Mey⯑nell, too well." "Who is Mrs. Mey⯑nell?" enquired Julia. "Have you never heard of her, Ma'am?" "No, never." She then related to Julia, that Mrs. Meynell's mother, who was the daughter of a Scotch Lord, married her father's chaplain, a Mr. Forbes. Her fa⯑mily renounced her; and her brother, who ſoon after ſucceeded to the title, would never hear her name. Her huſ⯑band died ſome years after their mar⯑riage, and Mrs. Forbes was ſo much afflicted at his death, that ſhe fell into a conſumption, and ſoon followed him to the grave; leaving one daughter. Several years before Mrs. Forbes's marriage, her eldeſt ſiſter had married Mr. Seymour, an Engliſh gentleman, who was the father of the preſent Mr. Seymour. Upon the death of Mrs. Forbes, Mrs. Seymour, who was then [68] a widow, took her orphan child under her own protection. "She was juſt ſe⯑ven years old, Ma'am," ſaid the houſe-keeper to Julia, "when ſhe came to my miſtreſs, and ſhe had ſo many en⯑gaging ways, Ma'am, that ſhe ſoon won all our hearts. Pretty creature! ſhe would ſit and talk of her poor mama, by the hour together. "To be ſure, (ſhe would ſay) my aunt is very good to me, but I ſuppoſe, Mrs. Evans, an aunt never loves one like a mama." "My dear," ſays I, "your aunt will be a mama to you now." "Yes," ſays ſhe, "my aunt ſaid ſo yeſterday, and told me I might call her mama, if I pleaſed, and ſo I ſhall: but for all that, ſhe's not my own true mama that was put into the coffin." "Poor little ſoul! I remem⯑ber very well going into the room one day, and the child was ſtanding at the window, crying: ſo, ſays I, What are you crying for, my dear? ſays I." [69] "Nothing, Mrs. Evans, only," (and ſhe ſobbed,) "only that black coach, that went by, put me in mind of my mama; I was thinking how ſhe kiſſed me, the laſt time, before ſhe died; and I remember every word mama ſaid. She took me in her arms, and held me ſo faſt! and ſaid, My poor child!—my ſweet darling!—muſt I leave you?—God Almighty bleſs you, my poor or⯑phan! and then ſhe ſaid ſomething more about the fatherleſs—and then my ma⯑ma cried ſo, Mrs. Evans!—and I cried very much indeed.—Pray, Mrs. Evans, what made my mama call me poor child? I'm not poor, you know; I have frocks enough, and a new black ſaſh; and yet every body that comes to ſee my aunt kiſſes me, and ſays, Poor little thing! But I can gueſs why they call me poor; it's becauſe I have no mama, and other little girls have a papa and mama too." "I could not [70] bear to hear her innocent prattle, Ma'am, it went to my very heart. "Heavens bleſs you, my love," ſaid I, "and keep you from all evil!" "And pray, Mrs. Evans," ſaid ſhe, "what is evil?" "I wiſh you may never know," ſaid I. "But come, my dear," ſays I, "come into my room, and I'll give you a great peach." "No, I thank you, Mrs. Evans," ſays ſhe, "keep it for me till to-morrow, if you pleaſe; I ſhall like the peach beſt when I'm not thinking of my mama."

"Well, Ma'am, ſhe grew up, as one may ſay, like a fine plant, tall, and ſtraight, and a very lovely creature ſhe is: ſhe has ſomething, Ma'am, of your mild look. And ſo, Ma'am, as I was ſaying, my miſtreſs could not help being fond of her, and gave her fine cloaths, and took her every where a viſiting with her."

Mrs. Evans then informed Julia, [71] that at the death of Mrs. Seymour, which happened when Miſs Forbes was two and twenty, ſhe was left entirely deſtitute; as Mrs. Seymour had no⯑thing but her jointure, and it was not in her power to provide for her niece. The young lady, upon her aunt's death, determined to go out in the world, how⯑ever unfit ſhe felt herſelf to ſtruggle with its difficulties. But this meaſure Mr. Seymour ſtrenuouſly oppoſed, in⯑forming her, that he was going to be married, in a few months, to Miſs Mel⯑bourne, and intreating that ſhe would ſtill conſider his houſe as her home. He aſſured her of his utmoſt endeavours to make her ſituation happy; and propoſ⯑ed that, till his marriage took place, ſhe ſhould board with a family of which he had ſome knowledge.

"So, Ma'am," continued Mrs. Evans, "ſhe hardly knew what to do. So, [72] Ma'am, I adviſed her to go, till ſhe could look about her: ſo ſhe went, and, as ſoon as ever Mr. Seymour was married, he invited her to his houſe; but ſhe ſaid to me, the night ſhe came, "ſays ſhe, Mrs. Evans," ſays ſhe, "I am come here for a few weeks, becauſe Mr. Sey⯑mour urged it with ſo much kindneſs that I could not well refuſe. But I am determined not to live in a ſtate of de⯑pendance, and ſhall only ſtay till I can provide myſelf with a proper ſituation." "Well, Ma'am, Mrs. Seymour was pro⯑digious civil to her at firſt; but ſhe ſoon behaved ſo diſreſpectful, and ſo ſpiteful, you can't think. I believe in my con⯑ſcience it was all pure envy, becauſe Miſs Forbes was handſomer than her⯑ſelf; for, Ma'am, Miſs Forbes looks like a queen when ſhe's dreſſed: Mrs. Sey⯑mour isn't fit to hold the candle to her. So, poor thing, ſhe uſed to complain, Ma'am, of ill health, and never would [73] appear when there was company, or go out with Mrs. Seymour; ſo Mrs. Sey⯑mour kept it a ſecret ſhe was in the houſe." "And where is ſhe now?" ſaid Julia, with eagerneſs. "Why you ſhall hear, Ma'am. She was reſolved to go out in the world, but ſhe couldn't hear of a ſituation directly; ſo Mr. Sey⯑mour told her ſhe would make him miſerable if ſhe thought of it; but, if ſhe diſliked his family, ſhe ſhould go and board where ſhe was before; ſo, Ma'am, ſhe went, till ſhe could hear of a place. Well, Ma'am, then he came every day to viſit her, on pretence, to be ſure, that ſhe was his couſin; but at laſt, Ma'am, he had the aſſurance to make downright love to her. So ſhe ſent for me, all of a hurry, and cried bitterly, and told me of it; for, Ma'am, though I ſhould not ſay it myſelf, I had always done my du⯑ty by her, and ſhe knew how I loved her, and ſo ſhe treated me like a friend. So, Ma'am, there was a captain on half⯑pay, [74] a Captain Meynell, that viſited where ſhe was, and had made propoſals of marriage to her; and, it was ſaid, he had a good deal of money in the ſtocks; and ſo the beſt advice I could give her was, to take him for better for worſe, though, to be ſure, he was a little rough, and ugly enough, God knows. Well, Ma'am, ſhe was half diſtracted, and at laſt ſhe conſented to marry the Captain, in deſpair, as one may ſay. So, Ma'am, Mr. Seymour gave me leave to go and dreſs her wedding dinner, and be with her; and plague enough I had with their awkward ſervants, to be ſure. There was a pretty diſh of green peaſe overboiled, that coſt Mr. Seymour a gui⯑nea; for he ſent them, though ſhe wou'dn't ſee him, and a very handſome diſh it was, to give the devil his due. There was a very good dinner to be ſure, for the mat⯑ter of that; I remember all the diſhes. I'm ſure I had vexation enough: the [75] ducklings were over-roaſted, and that ſweet creature cried ſo; many a ſalt tear I ſhed with her. I was ſo vexed about the ducklings, I never met with ſuch an accident before; and many a pair have I ſent up in my time, roaſted to a turn; but then I had all my things proper about me. Moreover, Ma'am," ſays I, "what does it argufy," ſays I, "taking on ſo now, when the deed's done; but, poor ſoul! ſhe only cried the more for that. She was dreſſed all in white, Ma'am, and as plain as could be, but ſhe looked charmingly for all that. Well, Ma'am, ſhe wanted to go directly and live in the country, to hide herſelf from the world, as ſhe called it; but do you know, Ma'am, that monſter my maſter (for a monſter he is to be ſure) perſuaded her huſband, who is but thick-headed, to ſtay in London, and he would get him ſome place or another; but all he wanted was to keep [76] her here for his own vile ends. And now, Ma'am, he's always going there, on pretence of ſeeing Captain Meynell; but ſhe takes on ſo, I believe ſhe'll fret herſelf to death ſoon." "Where does ſhe live?" ſaid Julia; "Why, Ma'am, in a little miſerable ſort of a lodging in Charles-ſtreet, Weſt⯑minſter. I'm ſure I little thought for to ſee her come to that; and, I believe, ſhe often goes without her dinner: for it turned out, that Captain Meynell had no money at all, and only married her in hopes that her great friends would provide for him; and, I believe, Ma'am, Mr. Seymour knew well enough he was poor when ſhe married him; but he wanted to get her more into his own clutches. Well, Ma'am, and Mrs. Seymour goes ſometimes to ſee her, but its only to vaunt over her. Oh, Ma'am, it ſets my blood up ſo when I think of it. So one day I gave [77] it to Mr. Seymour pretty roundly, for all his doings; and told him a piece of my mind. And "Sir," ſays I, "I ſhould expect a curſe, Sir," ſays I, "would come upon me, if I eat your bread any longer; and I deſired to be paid my wages, and went off that very night." Julia was now called away, but Mrs. Evans's narrative had made a deep im⯑preſſion on her mind. She determined to get acquainted with Mrs. Meynell, and felt a generous impatience to foften her misfortunes, by adminiſtering all the comfort which her unhappy ſituation would admit. With reſpect to Mr. Seymour, ſhe felt that ſevere diſap⯑pointment which is experienced by an ardent and ingenuous mind, when it is forced to exchange the fervent glow of eſteem and confidence, for diſguſt and averſion; and when, finding itſelf groſs⯑ly deceived in its opinions of another, it is led with painful regret to lower its general ſtandard of human excellence. [78] She lamented that Mr. Seymour's character, which appeared open, libe⯑ral, and elevated, ſhould ſo ill bear a cloſe inſpection; and that his mind re⯑ſembled one of thoſe pictures which muſt be viewed by the dim light of a taper; ſince their coarſe and glaring co⯑lours, which attract the eye in the de⯑ceitful medium, ſhrink from the full and clear ſunſhine of truth.

But, while Julia's heart throbbed with indignation at the oppreſſor, and melted with compaſſion for the oppreſſed, ſhe fancied ſhe ſaw the arm of indignant Hea⯑ven tearing the veil by which iniquity was concealed, and making manifeſt the ſufferings of innocence. And, while ſhe hoped to act as the agent of Provi⯑dence, in protecting afflicted virtue, ſhe exulted in the ſtrengthened conviction, that evil, like a baleful meteor, has its appointed courſe, and then muſt ſet in darkneſs.

CHAP. XXV.

JULIA felt all the eagerneſs of ar⯑dent benevolence to become ac⯑quainted with Mrs. Meynell, and to en⯑deavour, by every effort in her power, to alleviate her misfortunes. She de⯑termined to wait upon her immediate⯑ly, but had too much reſpect for her unhappy ſituation to viſit her without the cuſtomary forms of introduction.

She haſtened to Charlotte, impatient to be informed if ſhe had any knowledge of Mrs. Meynell, and anxious to ſolve a moſt painful doubt which aroſe in her mind, left Frederick Seymour ſhould be capable of deſerting his amiable rela⯑tion becauſe ſhe was unfortunate. A doubt of thoſe in whoſe integrity we [80] have confided, in whoſe virtue we are intereſted, is a ſituation of mind the moſt gloomy and comfortleſs. Suſ⯑picion is like a miſt, which renders the object it ſhades ſo uncertain, that the figure muſt be finiſhed by imagination; and, when diſtruſt takes the pencil, the ſtrokes are generally ſo dark, that the diſappointed heart ſickens at the pic⯑ture.

Julia related to Charlotte the cir⯑cumſtances which Mrs. Evans had told her concerning Mrs. Meynell, conceal⯑ing, however, her account of Mr. Sey⯑mour's criminal deſigns, which ſhe thought it was improper to communi⯑cate to any one. Charlotte told her, that ſhe had frequently heard Frederick Seymour ſpeak of Mrs. Meynell with the moſt affectionate concern. "We have ſcarcely had a moment's téte-à⯑téte," ſaid Charlotte, "ſince you came to town, or I ſhould certainly have [81] mentioned to you what I had heard of her. Mr. Seymour has often told me how much he was ſhocked, at his re⯑turn from the continent, to find her married to ſuch a man as Captain Meynell; and he has viſited her three or four times ſince we came to town, but ſhe will not allow him to bring me to wait upon her. He ſays, he is ſure that Mrs. Seymour has been inſolent to her, and, I ſuppoſe, ſhe ap⯑prehends the ſame treatment from me: I cannot intrude upon her againſt her conſent, but I hope ſhe will be per⯑ſuaded to ſee me in time." "But, my dear Charlotte," rejoined Julia, "we will not wait theſe ſlow determinations. She has not forbidden me to come, and I will go directly to Mrs. Seymour, ob⯑lige her to introduce me to Mrs. Mey⯑nell, and then bring you together at my uncle's." Julia, earneſt in her pro⯑ject, without farther deliberation, called [82] upon Mrs. Seymour, and enquired if ſhe had an hour of leiſure that morn⯑ing. Mrs. Seymour aſſured her, that ſhe was quite diſengaged, and vaſtly happy to ſee her.

Since the period of Mr. Clifford's re⯑turn from the Eaſt, Mrs. Seymour had behaved to Julia with the utmoſt cordi⯑ality, as ſhe now thought her acquaint⯑ance eligible; though ſhe could feel no friendſhip for a woman ſo handſome: for Mrs. Seymour was not like the world in general, attracted by "a ſet of features, or the tincture of a ſkin;" but, on the contrary, felt a generous affec⯑tion for deformity. She was ſenſible, however, that her taſte was ſingular, and ſhe therefore concealed it carefully. After many expreſſions of kindneſs on the part of Mrs. Seymour, and ſome general converſation, Julia led to the ſubject of her viſit, by mentioning that Mrs. Evans was now Mr. Clifford's [83] houſekeeper. Mrs. Seymour changed colour at this intelligence: "That's ſtrange enough," ſaid ſhe; "pray, who recommended her?"—"An old friend of Mr. Clifford's."—"Well, I am ſure," added Mrs. Seymour, with affected careleſſneſs, "you will not keep her long. She is a moſt forward imperti⯑nent creature, and had been ſo ſpoilt by Mr. Seymour's mother, that I found myſelf obliged to part with her." "There is one circumſtance, however," ſaid Julia, looking ſtedfaſtly at Mrs. Seymour, "which gives me a favour⯑able opinion of her; her ſtrong at⯑tachment to Mrs. Meynell." "O yes," replied Mrs. Seymour, in mani⯑feſt confuſion, "ſhe's a poor relation of Mr. Seymour's." "I wonder I never heard you mention her name," rejoined Julia. "Why, really," ſaid Mrs. Sey⯑mour, "I thought it very unneceſſary to teaze you with a long hiſtory of Mr. [84] Seymour's relations." "But I think Mrs. Meynell's ſtory ſo intereſting, and the accounts I have heard of her from Evans have prepoſſeſſed me ſo ſtrongly in her favour, that I feel a great deſire for her acquaintance; and the purpoſe of my viſit, this morning, is to aſk you to come with me, and introduce me to her." "Bleſs me, my dear Miſs Clif⯑ford," ſaid Mrs. Seymour, with apparent chagrin, "what a ſtrange whim!—what in the world can you have to do with Mrs. Meynell?" "I have no other reaſon," ſaid Julia, calmly, "for deſiring her ac⯑quaintance, than that her character and ſituation intereſt me. But come, why ſhould we waſte time in talking of our viſit? Mr. Clifford's carriage is at the door: I ſuppoſe you often call on Mrs. Meynell, and there will be nothing very ſingular in taking me with you." "Oh, my dear," ſaid Mrs. Seymour, "you don't know what confuſion the ſight of [85] a new carriage will create. It will ſhake Mrs. Meynell's nerves for a fortnight; ſhe'll be flying into her bed-room to tie on a clean apron, and come to us in ſuch a tremble!" "That will give me pain indeed," ſaid Julia. "I aſſure you," rejoined Mrs. Seymour, "going there is the moſt diſtreſſing thing in the world. I was made ſo ill laſt time I went, by an unlucky circumſtance.—You muſt know ſhe lodges at a taylor's, and the men work in the garret: ſo the laſt time I called, her little girl of a ſervant was out of the way, and a ſour ill-looking fellow opened the door, and, when my ſervant enquired if Mrs. Mey⯑nell was at home, anſwered "Yes," and walked away. So I got out of the car⯑riage and was going up ſtairs, for I knew it was in vain to wait for any body to announce me; and juſt as I reached the firſt landing-place, I met five or ſix men coming with a ſhocking noiſe [86] down ſtairs. It really ſtruck me that they were a gang of thieves, who had plundered the houſe, and were making off. I believe I gave a ſort of ſcream, but they ſtopped, and made way for me very reſpectfully; and, who ſhould theſe people be but the men who work in the garret, coming down to dinner. However, when I reached Mrs. Mey⯑nell, I was ſo ill with the fright, that I was forced to call for a glaſs of water. I waited a great while for it, for ſhe was obliged to get it herſelf, and when I told her the reaſon of my being in⯑diſpoſed, ſhe was ſo ſullen that ſhe would ſcarcely ſpeak while I ſtayed. I ſuppoſe ſhe very good-naturedly thought there was ſomething of affecta⯑tion in my fright. Becauſe ſhe is uſed to this formidable troop herſelf, ſhe fan⯑cied that there was nothing in it to alarm me."

"Well," ſaid Julia, "I am not at [87] all deterred, by your rencounter, from wiſhing to viſit Mrs. Meynell; and feel more diſpoſed to pity than blame her ſullenneſs on the occaſion you men⯑tion." "If you will go," ſaid Mrs. Seymour, with ſome aſperity, "you muſt; and if you find the acquaintance troubleſome, remember its your own fault." She then rung the bell for her maid, ordered, with much ill-humour, her cloak and gloves, and ſet off with Julia in Mr. Clifford's carriage. Mrs. Seymour was extremely ſullen the whole way; and, when Julia ſpoke to her, only anſwered by monoſyllables, till they drew near the door; when ſhe ad⯑viſed Julia to take care to hold up her gown while ſhe went up ſtairs, or ſhe would probably have her train toler⯑ably dirtied from the feet of the work⯑men.

Julia found, that though Mrs. Mey⯑nell's lodgings were mean, and ſuch as [88] beſpoke extreme penury, the dirt and confuſion, of which Mrs. Seymour com⯑plained, were violently exaggerated; but, notwithſtanding this, the habitation appeared utterly unfit for the inhabit⯑ant. She ſeemed like a finely propor⯑tioned ſtatue; the exquiſite workman⯑ſhip of Grecian hands, which thoſe maſters of art would have deemed wor⯑thy to inhabit a temple, and decorate a ſhrine; but which Gothic barbarity had placed in a rude and ſordid hut, where it lay neglected, by thoſe who were ig⯑norant of its value. Mrs. Meynell was about twenty-four years of age; her fi⯑gure was tall, graceful, and elegant; her countenance, with a conſiderable degree of beauty, had a ſtrong expreſ⯑ſion of melancholy; and there was a dignity in her manner which command⯑ed reſpect, even from thoſe who were unfeeling enough to refuſe it to her ſitu⯑ation. She had heard much of Julia's [89] goodneſs from the old houſekeeper, who had been to viſit her ſince her re⯑ſidence in Mr. Clifford's houſe; and, though Mrs. Meynell was unable to account for Julia's viſit, ſhe was charm⯑ed with the ſweetneſs of her manner, and converſed with her with evident pleaſure. When Mrs. Seymour roſe to take leave, Julia gave Mrs. Meynell a card with her direction, and requeſted to ſee her, in a manner which ſhewed how much ſhe wiſhed it. Mrs. Mey⯑nell promiſed to wait upon her, and the ladies departed.

Captain Meynell did not appear dur⯑ing their viſit; but we will give a ſhort ſketch of his character. He was about the middle ſize, thin, and rather genteel in his figure; but his manners were diſguſting, and his perſon uſually dirty. His mind was a ſtrange compound of pride and meanneſs. He was continu⯑ally boaſting of his wife's family, and [90] was not a little proud of his own, which was alſo reſpectable, but which he him⯑ſelf diſgraced. He behaved with the moſt abject meanneſs, to all thoſe who he thought could ſerve him; yet, at times, when he fancied himſelf neglect⯑ed or ill uſed, his brutality ſuddenly burſt forth, and by a reproof, which had more of rudeneſs than ſatire, he defeat⯑ed the ſervile practices of years, and was generally diſmiſſed with diſgrace. His ſullenneſs, which was extreme, no⯑thing could conquer, but his inſatiable curioſity, which led him to make the moſt minute enquiries into the private hiſtory of his acquaintances. Such anecdotes he retailed with the greateſt avidity, and often occaſioned much miſ⯑chief by ſo doing. He had as ſtrong an affection for Mrs. Meynell as he was capable of feeling. He had married her merely with a view to ſecure Mr. Sey⯑mour's good offices, who had been la⯑viſh [91] in his promiſes of ſervice, being earneſt, from the worſt motives, to pro⯑mote this ill-aſſorted union. But though Captain Meynell had no views in mar⯑rying, but thoſe of intereſt, his wife's ſweetneſs of temper, exemplary reſigna⯑tion, and uniform ſubmiſſion to his will, had awakened every ſpark of tenderneſs in his boſom, and led him to feel a ſin⯑cere wiſh to make her happy: yet, his ſordid meanneſs, vulgarity, and ill-hu⯑mour, continually fruſtrated that de⯑ſire. His ferocious nature was ſoftened, but not ſubdued; and his varying hu⯑mours only produced, to his unhappy wife, "variety of wretchedneſs." She was either wearied with his mirth, diſ⯑guſted by his fondneſs, ſhocked by his meanneſs, or wounded by his bruta⯑lity.

In her way from Mrs. Meynell's, Julia expreſſed, in the warmeſt terms, her admiration of that lady; to whoſe [92] praiſes Mrs. Seymour reluctantly aſ⯑ſented. Julia returned home, exulting in plans of future benevolence. She found Mr. Clifford at home, and Fre⯑derick Seymour with him. She told them, that Mrs. Seymour had intro⯑duced her to Mrs. Meynell, and de⯑clared how much ſhe was pleaſed with that lady's converſation and manners. While they were converſing on this ſub⯑ject, Mr. Clifford was called out of the room; and Frederick Seymour, who had liſtened to the hiſtory of her viſit, with delighted attention, exclaimed with warmth, "I am not ignorant, Miſs Clifford, of the generous motives which have prompted you to make this viſit; for I have juſt had a conference with my old friend Mrs. Evans, who told me ſhe had made you acquainted with Mrs. Meynell's misfortunes." "She is in⯑finitely to be pitied," replied Julia. "But ſhe will henceforth be leſs unhap⯑py," [93] rejoined Seymour, "for ſhe will poſſeſs your ſympathy, ſhe will be bleſſ⯑ed with your friendſhip, and the evils, which are ſoothed by ſuch conſolation, are more to be envied than deplored." "It is later than I imagined," ſaid Julia, looking at her watch, "I muſt go and dreſs for dinner." "Ah Miſs Clifford," reſumed he paſſionately, "muſt then the indulgence of converſing with you for a moment, be for ever denied me? What have I ſaid, of what have I been guilty, to merit this ſeverity?—Alas, Madam, far from daring to utter a ſen⯑timent unfit for you to hear, I have been lamenting the miſeries of another, at the very moment when the acute ſenſation of my own wretchedneſs al⯑moſt deadens every feeling of ſympa⯑thy: in vain I have ſtruggled to ſub⯑due that obſtinate wretchedneſs"—"Why, Sir," ſaid Julia, interrupt⯑ing him, "will you force me to fly from you, by uſing a language, which [94] I cannot hear without indignation?" While ſhe was haſtening out of the room, he exclaimed, "But one mo⯑ment!" "No Sir, not a moment." She then left him, and when ſhe reached her own apartment, forgot her inten⯑tion to dreſs, and only thought of that look of deſpondency, with which Sey⯑mour ſaw her depart. Soon, however, rouzing herſelf from this dangerous meditation, ſhe dreſſed, and haſtened into company, determined to allow her⯑ſelf not a moment more for the indul⯑gence of reflection, which ſhe was con⯑ſcious, in her preſent ſtate of mind, was but another name for the indulgence of ſorrow.

Seymour remained, for ſome time af⯑ter Julia had left the room, in a ſtate of miſery not to be deſcribed. Paſſionately as he loved her, he had no deſire but that of ſeeing, of converſing with her, of poſſeſſing a place in her eſteem and friendſhip. He had the higheſt reſpect [95] for her character, nor ever ſuffered him⯑ſelf to harbour a wiſh inconſiſtent with the purity of her heart, and the recti⯑tude of her principles. He was, there⯑fore, filled with remorſe and anguiſh, when he reflected that, by the weak indulgence of complaints in her pre⯑ſence, he had juſtly incurred her re⯑ſentment; and, perhaps, by wounding her delicacy, robbed himſelf of that ſhare of her pity and regard, which was the ſole alleviation of his miſery. He left Mr. Clifford's houſe in the utmoſt perturbation of mind, and returned home diſconſolate and wretched. Sey⯑mour, in vain, poſſeſſed diſtinguiſhed talents, and was placed in a ſituation which opened a ſplendid and honour⯑able career for his abilities. Abſorbed by his unfortunate feelings, thoſe ta⯑lents were uſeleſs, and thoſe advantages were loſt. His mind reſembled a fine⯑toned inſtrument, whoſe extenſive com⯑paſs [96] was capable of producing the moſt ſublime and elevating ſounds; but a fatal preſſure relaxed the ſtrings, and ſunk its powerful harmony.

The ardent, enthuſiaſtic ſpirit of this young man was ſuſceptible of the ſtrongeſt and moſt laſting impreſſions. How carefully, therefore, ſhould he have guarded againſt the weak indulgence of that imperious paſſion, which, on ſuch a temper, produces the moſt fatal ef⯑fects, and ſubdues all energy of ſoul! In vain would that ſpark of divinity within us, purſue the courſe of ambi⯑tion, the ardor of enterprize, the re⯑ſearches of knowledge, or the contem⯑plations of philoſophy. Thoſe noble, thoſe exalted privileges of our nature, become a painful exerciſe to faculties which are chained to one idea, and to a heart which flutters round one object, and can as little change that object as the magnetic needle its direction; which, [97] while every ſtar in the glowing firma⯑ment ſheds its brightneſs, points only, and unalterably, to one.

CHAP. XXVI.

MRS. Meynell wiſhed much to return Julia's viſit, but was for ſeveral days prevented by the bad⯑neſs of the weather; and her finances did not admit of the expence of a hackney-coach. For Captain Meynell, who was to the laſt degree mean and parſimonious in his diſpoſition, denied her even the little indulgences his nar⯑row income could afford; ſeldom al⯑lowed her to have a ſhilling in her pocket; and when he did, it was on the ſame condition upon which the vicar of Wakefield beſtowed a guinea upon his daughters; viz. with a ſtrict in⯑junction not to change it.

The firſt fair day, however, Mrs. [99] Meynell, in ſpite of dirty ſtreets, ſet out for Mr. Clifford's houſe, which was in Berkley-ſquare. She picked her way, with difficulty, through the dirt, apprehenſive leſt her cloaths ſhould be ſplaſhed, which, ſhe knew, would pre⯑vent her gaining admittance; the ſer⯑vants in wealthy families being, in ge⯑neral, very nice obſervers of etiquette, and proportioning their civilities, with great preciſion, to the dreſs and appear⯑ance of the viſitor. In croſſing over Piccadilly, Mrs. Meynell was ſtopped by a carriage, and, looking up, ſaw Mrs. Seymour, with her mother and Miſs C [...], in the carriage. The ladies bowed to her ſomewhat ſuperciliouſly as they paſſed, and Miſs C [...] looked after her till ſhe could ſee her no longer. Mrs. Meynell conjectured that they were going to Mr. Clifford's, and, mor⯑tified at the thoughts of meeting them, and fatigued and diſpirited by her toil⯑ſome [100] walk, ſhe felt a ſtrong inclination to return home immediately: but, re⯑collecting that ſhe might, very proba⯑bly, have the ſame diſagreeable circum⯑ſtances to encounter another time, ſhe determined to proceed.

Mrs. Seymour and her party were, as Mrs. Meynell apprehended, going to Mr. Clifford's, where they were admitted. After the uſual com⯑pliments, Mrs. Seymour enquired of Julia, if Mrs. Meynell had returned her viſit? Julia anſwered that ſhe had not. "Oh, then ſhe will be here pre⯑ſently," rejoined Mrs. Seymour, "for we have juſt paſſed her in Piccadilly." "I'm ſure," ſaid Miſs C [...], "Mrs. Meynell takes a great deal of trouble to wait on you, Miſs Clifford, for we met her wading through the dirt, poor woman." "I ſhall place a particular value on her viſit," replied Julia, "if that will be any compenſation for her [101] diſagreeable walk." "She is certainly very much to be pitied," ſaid Mrs. Sey⯑mour, in a pathetic tone; "I'm ſure my feelings have been deeply wounded by her ſituation. I muſt own I'm very ſorry ſhe's coming here this morning, and I almoſt wiſh you would be denied to her; my ſpirits are already ſo low, about my poor little dog. I'm afraid I ſhall loſe him, after all my nurſing: he ſeemed quite well yeſterday, but this morning he has had a relapſe." Ju⯑lia, without once lamenting that Bijoux was ſubject to relapſes, coolly ſaid, that "ſhe could not think of refuſing ad⯑mittance to Mrs. Meynell, as ſhe was very deſirous to have the pleaſure of ſeeing her." "I believe ſhe's a deſerv⯑ing young woman," ſaid Mrs. Mel⯑bourne, and I ſhould aſk her oftener than I do to dine with me, (for I ſuppoſe, ſaving a dinner at home is ſome object in her circumſtances,) but her melancholy looks are as diſa⯑greeable [102] as the face of a creditor to a man in debt; a ſort of demand upon one's pity, that's very troubleſome. Her clothes too are grown ſo ſhabby, that I can only aſk her when I'm alone, and really my ſpirits are too weak to bear ſuch a tête-à-tête frequently." "One cannot much wonder," replied Julia, "that a woman of Mrs. Mey⯑nell's ſenſibility is unhappy, in ſuch a ſituation as her's." "For my part," re⯑joined Mrs. Melbourne, "I cannot un⯑derſtand what right people have to the indulgence of ſo much ſenſibility, who are in poverty. People in affluence may indulge the delicacy of their feelings; and mine, I own, are ſo affected by the company of unfortunate perſons, that I am obliged, in regard to my health, to avoid them carefully. And I really blame Mrs. Meynell quite as much as I pity her. She has enough to eat and drink, and clothes ſufficient to keep her [103] warm and comfortable; but ſhe muſt be hurt, forſooth, becauſe her appear⯑ance is ſhabby. I ſuppoſe ſhe wants to be dreſſed like Mrs. Seymour, which is abſurd enough." "Then," ſaid Miſs C [...], "one's obliged to be ſo upon one's guard in her company, for the leaſt hint about her ſituation brings a fit of tears directly. I recollect, laſt time I met her at your houſe, you happened to ſay that you wondered, when people were poor, they didn't prefer ſome honeſt employment to living in poverty: I very innocently anſwered, that I ſup⯑poſed they found idleneſs eaſy enough; upon which ſhe burſt into tears, and left the room in heroics, ſaying, "If ſuch a ſituation were eaſy, Madam, I ſhould not be affected as I now am." "Really theſe airs are intolerable." "I own," ſaid Julia, "what ſtrikes me as intolerable, was your hint about idle⯑neſs; for I ſee nothing, but what is na⯑tural, [104] in a woman of family and educa⯑tion reſenting diſreſpect." "Family!" interrupted Mrs. Melbourne, "the beſt thing, Miſs Clifford, that people in po⯑verty can do, is to forget their preten⯑ſions to family, if any ſuch they have; and this only requires the effort of a good underſtanding. Poverty, and high birth, are ſuch an inconvenient alliance, that, if Mrs. Meynell cannot get rid of the firſt, I would adviſe her by all means to baniſh the recollection of the latter. When ſhe comes into my draw⯑ing-room in an old gown, with the dig⯑nity of a Counteſs in her own right, and expects diſtinction on account of her family, ſhe really ſtrikes me as a very ridiculous figure." "Ridiculous indeed!" exclaimed Miſs C [...], with a laugh: "it puts me in mind of my green parrot, when his feathers have moulted. He retains only a little yellow tuft on his head; but he opens his wings [105] with all the exultation poſſible, though they are as bare as a picked fowl." "I muſt ſuppoſe," ſaid Julia, colour⯑ing with indignation, "Mrs. Meynell as deficient in underſtanding as your green parrot, Miſs C [...], before I can believe ſhe would expect attention from you, when ſhe was not in full feather: I am ſure ſhe muſt long ago have diſcovered your partiality for fine plumage." Miſs C [...] was a little abaſhed by this ſpeech, and before ſhe had recovered herſelf ſuf⯑ficiently for the "reproof valiant," Mrs. Meynell was announced; whom Julia received with diſtinguiſhed politeneſs, while Miſs C [...] bit her lips, and was ready to exclaim, "Why ſhould the poor be flattered?" Miſs C [...], who had but a very ſmall ſtock of urbanity and good⯑nature, always laid out her little fund upon uſury; and demanded exorbitant gratifications of vanity or pleaſure in re⯑turn. She therefore conſidered Julia's [106] civilities to Mrs. Meynell as an extra⯑vagant profuſion of an article, which, if properly applied, might be turned to ſome account.

When Mrs. Seymour and her party roſe to take leave, after wiſhing Julia good morning, ſhe turned to Mrs. Meynell, and ſaid, "Shall I ſet you down?—but I muſt explain that it's not in my power to take you to your own door; your lodging is ſo out of the world, and I have a great circuit to make to my mother's, and Miſs C [...]'s, and very little time this morning." "It's quite unneceſſary to make any apology to me," replied Mrs. Meynell, coldly. "Well, but do give me leave to take you part of the way," rejoined Mrs. Seymour: "I'll ſet you down at the top of the Hay⯑market, wherever the ſtreet looks toler⯑ably clean; and then at leaſt you'll be within a ſhilling fare of home."

[107] "I ſhall certainly put you to no in⯑convenience on my account," ſaid Mrs. Meynell: "beſides, I mean to ſtay a little longer with Miſs Clifford." Up⯑on this, Mrs. Seymour made her a ſlight curteſy, and departed.

When theſe ladies were gone, Mrs. Meynell and Julia enjoyed a converſa⯑tion which rendered them more and more pleaſed with each other; and, after conſenting to dine at Mr. Clifford's, the following day, and Julia having ap⯑pointed an hour at which ſhe would call for her in the carriage, Mrs. Meynell departed, ſoothed and gratified by her viſit. Julia's attentive kindneſs ſeemed to her deſolate heart like a ſolitary flower, that diſpenſes its reviving ſweet⯑neſs amidſt ſurrounding thorns. But the pleaſure ſhe derived from her viſit, was embittered by ſome farther circum⯑ſtances of mortification: for, when ſhe reached Mr. Clifford's ſtreet-door, the [108] ſervant who opened it informed her that it rained a little; and aſked if ſhe choſe to have a coach. Mrs. Meynell, who was conſcious that ſhe had but a ſingle ſhilling in her pocket, which was inſufficient to pay her coach-hire home, and which, if ſpent, would expoſe her to much brutality from her huſband, told the ſervant that the rain was ſo trifling, it was of no conſequence; and went away, walking very faſt till ſhe got out of ſight of the houſe. When ſhe reach⯑ed Piccadilly, ſhe met Capt. Meynell, and the ſhower increaſing, they were obliged to take ſhelter under the porch of a door. In a few minutes, Mrs. Seymour, who had ſet down her mother in Hanover-ſquare, and had ſince been at ſome ſhops in Bond-ſtreet, paſſed in her carriage, with Miſs C [...]. The rain was now ſo violent, that Mrs. Sey⯑mour felt it was impoſſible not to offer to take Mrs. Meynell home. She there⯑fore [109] ſtopped the carriage, and begged they would come in. Mrs. Meynell, much mortified at being obliged to ac⯑cept this offer, entered the carriage with regret, and her huſband followed.

"My dear Mrs. Meynell," ſaid Mrs. Seymour, as the carriage drove on, "I wonder you venture out ſuch days as theſe: what would you have done if we had not happened to paſs?" "Why," replied Mrs. Meynell, waited quietly till the ſhower was over." "But," rejoined Mrs. Seymour, in a tone of affected ſympathy, "I'm really ſurpriſed you don't catch your death of cold, walking in ſuch weather as this." "Why, you know, Mrs. Seymour," ſaid Miſs C [...], "there's a great deal in habit: I ſuppoſe it would kill either you or me, but Mrs. Meynell is uſed to it." "Ah," thought Mrs. Meynell, "Is it the fault of poverty, Miſs C [...], if its path is rugged, and beſet with [110] thorns, that you find ſatisfaction in pointing their edge, and making the feet of the weary traveller bleed on his pilgrimage? Is it a crime in penury, if its boſom is defenceleſs, that you love to poiſon the arrows which pierce it?" Capt. Meynell, who had ſenſe enough to comprehend the inſolence of Miſs C [...]'s obſervation on the force of habit, anſwered, in his uſual blunt tone, "Why, faith, Ma'am, Mrs. Meynell, till lately, was as little uſed to walk in wet weather as yourſelf; and if we go to her anceſtors, I believe, we ſhall find they have been uſed to a coach longer than any of the forefathers of this pre⯑ſent company:—for inſtance, Miſs C [...], I read in the newſpapers, that your family was made noble about five years ago, and Mrs. Meynell's has been noble about five hundred." Miſs C [...] frowned, and coloured, and, afraid of another reproof of equal plain⯑neſs, [111] obſerved a ſullen ſilence the reſt of the way.

Mrs. Meynell returned home, ſcarcely finding, in the recollection of Julia's ſweetneſs, a compenſation for the mor⯑tifications which had attended her viſit. Capt. Meynell was in ill-humour at ſeeing his wife treated with diſreſpect. But, though he ſaw the tears of vexa⯑tion fill her eyes, he comforted himſelf with the reflection, that her regret would paſs away, and that, in the mean time, he had ſaved coach-hire to the amount of eighteen-pence. He had no conception of the keenneſs of his wife's ſenſations, and was entirely ignorant, that though, when a blow is levelled at the body, the degree of its force is known, it is impoſſible to gueſs what pain may be inflicted by a blow which is aimed at the mind. But Capt. Meynell was of opinion, that a little indignity might be ſubmitted to, when it ſaved money; [112] and was determined never to be guilty of ſuch a waſte of pity, as to prevent a few tears, which coſt nothing, at the price of eighteen-pence.

CHAP. XXVII.

JULIA, offended at the expreſſions which Frederick Seymour had uſed at their late interview, carefully ſhunned all particular converſation with him; though this was accompliſhed with great difficulty, for ſcarcely a day paſſed without their meeting. Mr. Clifford was never happy but in his daughter's ſociety. Their parties were generally the ſame, their viſits were of⯑ten made together, and Frederick Sey⯑mour uſually placed himſelf next Julia, except when by ſome contrivance ſhe put it out of his power. Charlotte, who had not the ſmalleſt ſuſpicion of the real ſtate of her huſband's mind, was [114] pleaſed to ſee him renew his former at⯑tention to her friend; till ſome circum⯑ſtances, which we muſt now relate, brought the fatal ſecret of his paſſion to the knowledge of the unhappy Char⯑lotte.

Mr. Seymour's plan for the accom⯑pliſhment of his baſe deſigns on Mrs. Meynell, was ſuch as ſuited a mind har⯑dened in the practice of vice. He meant to reduce her to extreme diſtreſs; and perſuaded Captain Meynell, over whom he had acquired great influence, by promiſes of a place, or penſion, to remain in London. Theſe promiſes, Mr. Seymour never meant to fulfil, till Mrs. Meynell, reduced to abſolute want, and ſinking in deſpair, might be driven to accept his aſſiſtance upon the only terms on which he was determined to beſtow it.

It has before been mentioned, that Mr. Seymour entertained but a con⯑temptible [115] opinion of the ſtrength of fe⯑male virtue: he had, therefore, formed his machinations, as he imagined, with the moſt artful ſkill, and entertained no doubt of his final ſucceſs. Meanwhile, he perſecuted this unhappy lady with his viſits; expreſſed the moſt tender ſympathy in her ſituation, and endea⯑voured to ſooth her with offers of ſer⯑vice. But he was not a little alarmed, when he heard that Mrs. Evans was houſekeeper at Mr. Clifford's; being convinced, from what he knew of her character, that ſhe would betray his de⯑ſigns to Julia. He alſo fancied he perceived a change in her manner to⯑wards him: but what gave him far greater vexation was, the progreſs of that young lady's friendſhip for Mrs. Meynell; for he ſaw that at the very mo⯑ment when he was ready to ſeize upon his prey, Julia's friendſhip would reſcue her from his graſp. He was now fre⯑quently [116] deprived of ſeeing Mrs. Mey⯑nell, who ſpent much of her time at Mr. Clifford's; and when ſhe was at home, he was often debarred any particular converſation with her, by finding Julia of the party. Two months were paſſed by him in this uneaſy ſtate of mind, when he accidentally heard, that Mr. Clifford was making intereſt to obtain a very profitable appointment for Capt. Meynell, in the Eaſt Indies. Mr. Sey⯑mour well knew, that Mr. Clifford's influence would render the ſucceſs of his application certain. Enraged be⯑yond all bounds at this diſcovery, which at once fruſtrated all his deep⯑laid ſchemes, and would place the ob⯑ject of his purſuit entirely out of his power, he returned to his own houſe with his whole ſoul boiling with indig⯑nation againſt Julia, whom he juſtly conſidered as the chief mover in this application of Mr. Clifford's.

[117] Mr. Seymour was haſtening to con⯑ceal his emotion in his library, when, meeting Mrs. Seymour on the ſtairs, ſhe aſked him to come into her dreſſ⯑ing-room, ſaying ſhe had ſomething to tell him. When they reached the dreſſ⯑ing-room, "O, Mr. Seymour," ſaid ſhe, "I have ſuch a ſtrange piece of intelligence for you; and I want to know your opinion of it. I have this moment heard, from a perſon whoſe pe⯑netration may be well truſted, that your brother Frederick is deſperately in love with Julia Clifford, and ſhe with him, and that they were ſo before his mar⯑riage." Mr. Seymour, whoſe prudence would have led him, in a calmer mo⯑ment, to contradict a report which might produce the moſt miſchievous conſe⯑quences, being now entirely thrown off his guard by paſſion, diſappointment, and indignation, haſtily anſwered, that "if Mrs. Seymour had had much [118] penetration, ſhe might have found out that circumſtance herſelf." "Is it re⯑ally true?" ſaid Mrs. Seymour. "I can't talk of it at preſent," he replied, impa⯑tiently, "for I have an appointment, and muſt be gone." He then went haſtily out of the houſe; for he found himſelf unable to ſupport either Mrs. Seymour's company, or the ſolitude of his library. His impetuous paſſions had met with the rudeſt ſhock: the machinations of years were in a mo⯑ment defeated. Stung almoſt to mad⯑neſs by the failure of his deſigns, he found no relief in thoſe projects of am⯑bition, which uſually occupied his aſpir⯑ing mind. Every object on earth ap⯑peared indifferent to him but that which was loſt, and he gave way to un⯑controuled rage, frenzy and deſpair. If the guilty, even in ſucceſs, are unhappy, how complete is their miſery in diſap⯑pointment! It is the natural tendency [119] of vice to depreſs the mind, which, when loaded with the additional weight of ſorrow, ſinks into a deep abyſs of deſpondency; while the buoyant ſpirit of virtue reſiſts the preſſure of calamity, and floats upon the ſtormy ocean of life, unſubdued by the tempeſt.

When the violent agitation of Mr. Seymour's mind had a little ſubſided, he reflected on the imprudence into which reſentment had led him, in aſ⯑ſenting to a report which might in⯑volve his brother in ſo much miſery. He therefore haſtened home, in or⯑der to enquire from whom his wife had received her intelligence, and to charge her never to repeat it to any per⯑ſon whatever. But he reached home too late. Mrs. Seymour was gone out; and, as he had long perceived her envy of Julia's beauty, and was well acquainted with her diſpoſition, he ſuſpected ſhe would be ſufficiently ready to repeat any thing to her diſadvantage. As ſoon [120] as Mrs. Seymour returned, he deſired to know from whom ſhe had received the information ſhe had given him, re⯑ſpecting Frederick and Julia. Mrs. Seymour, after ſome heſitation, being again urged by her huſband to declare the author of this intelligence, at length mentioned Miſs Tomkins. Mr. Sey⯑mour flew into a violent paſſion; ſwore that the circumſtance gave him a diabo⯑lical idea of Miſs Tomkins; and that he was convinced, ſhe had mentioned her ſuſpicions from ſome ſecret malig⯑nity towards Julia, who, he added, was too beautiful to eſcape the perſecution of the women. He then enquired if Mrs. Seymour had repeated to any perſon what ſhe had heard? She acknowledged that ſhe had called upon Mrs. Chartres; that they had talked of Frederick Sey⯑mour; and that her ſon, who was at home, had mentioned ſo many ſtrange circumſtances in Seymour's behaviour, both before and ſince his marriage, that [121] ſhe was convinced he had diſcovered the ſecret: ſhe had therefore ventured to remark, that it was a little unfortu⯑nate for poor Frederick, that his wife's couſin was handſomer than herſelf. "But," added Mrs. Seymour, "I real⯑ly repented exceedingly what I had ſaid, when I found, that though Chartres repeated a thouſand circumſtances which would have brought conviction to any perſon of leſs ſimplicity than himſelf, he had remarked the effects, without ever conjecturing the cauſe. I am really vaſtly ſorry for what is paſt, but I am certain that neither Chartres or his mo⯑ther will ever mention this affair." Mr. Seymour, however, was much diſturbed at this recital, and appeared far leſs cer⯑tain than his wife, of Mrs. Chartres's capacity for keeping a ſecret.

But it is neceſſary to explain the mo⯑tives which influenced Miſs Tomkins, in communicating the above-mentioned intelligence to Mrs. Seymour. Miſs [122] Tomkins had, in the courſe of the win⯑ter, frequently been of the ſame parties with Julia, at Lord [...]'s, at Mr. Seymour's, Mr. Clifford's, and other places. Mr. F [...] was always of theſe parties, and his attention was uniform⯑ly devoted to Julia. In vain Miſs Tomkins hoped that Julia's indifference would at length conquer his paſſion; ſince farther acquaintance with that young lady did but add to his admira⯑tion of her beauty the moſt confirmed eſteem for her character. Mr. F [...] had penetration enough to perceive that Miſs Tomkins reſented his prefer⯑ence of Julia; but he was not of a tem⯑per to be compelled to pay any atten⯑tion, to which he was not prompted by inclination. He poſſeſſed not that finiſhed politeneſs, which levels all the diſtinctions of the heart, and caſts an impenetrable veil over its feelings. Mr. F [...], on the contrary, acted from the [123] impulſes of his own mind, and poſ⯑ſeſſed that independent frankneſs of ſpirit which openly avows its prefer⯑ences, and is at no pains to conceal diſ⯑like.

Miſs Tomkins, who had flattered herſelf, during the ſpace of ſome months, with deluſive expectations of detaching Mr. F [...] from Julia, returned home one evening from a party, where ſhe had ſuffered ſo much mortification from that gentleman's neglect of herſelf, and attention to her rival, that, ſtung by en⯑vy, reſentment, and deſpair, ſhe deter⯑mined to go the next morning, and re⯑late what ſhe had obſerved, of Frederick Seymour and Julia's mutual attach⯑ment, to Mrs. Seymour; through whom ſhe hoped the report would ſpread wide enough at leaſt to reach Mr. F [...]'s ear; and Miſs Tomkins believed, that if the high opinion which he entertained of Julia's character was leſſened, his admiration of her beauty would prove [124] a tranſient ſentiment, and might ſoon change its object. Miſs Tomkins ac⯑cordingly went to Mrs. Seymour the next morning, related her ſuſpicions, and had juſt left the houſe when Mr. Seymour returned home.

His apprehenſions, with reſpect to Mrs. Chartres, were too well found⯑ed. The moment Mrs. Seymour de⯑parted, big with the ſecret, full of anger againſt Julia, and pity for Char⯑lotte, (who was her favourite on ac⯑count of a preſent of potted hare, and a long Indian ſhawl) Mrs. Char⯑tres haſtened to Frederick Seymour's houſe, found Charlotte alone, and, with⯑out much circumlocution, began by lamenting the caprice and inconſtan⯑cy of men; and, after ſome general abuſe of the ſex, finiſhed her harangue by informing Charlotte of the report ſhe had heard.—Charlotte was too much ſtruck by the intelligence to have the power of making any reply. [125] She only, after a pauſe of ſome mo⯑ments, told Mrs. Chartres, in a faint voice, that ſhe felt herſelf not very well, that ſhe wiſhed to go to her own room, and begged ſhe would excuſe her.—Mrs. Chartres, after ſome very common⯑place expreſſions of condolence, took her leave, quite unconſcious of the degree of miſery ſhe had occaſion⯑ed.

Charlotte immediately retired to her room, in a ſituation of which no words can convey an adequate idea. Every fa⯑culty of her ſoul ſeemed ſuſpended; ſhe felt a ſenſation as if a heavy weight had been laid upon her heart; ſhe could not ſhed a tear; her memory retained every image confuſedly; her brain was a chaos of perplexity and diſorder; and ſhe found that to think, was diſtraction. When ſhe had recovered the firſt numbing ſtroke of ſurprize, and horror, which ſeemed almoſt to annihilate her mind, the re⯑collection of her paſt happineſs called [126] forth her tears, and ſhe wept for a con⯑ſiderable time with great violence. Her reflections now threw a gleam of fatal light on the paſt. A thouſand circum⯑ſtances, which had hitherto appeared whimſical or capricious in Seymour, were now too plainly accounted for, and the horrible ſuſpicion became every mo⯑ment more confirmed to her diſtracted mind.

Alas! in the ſad catalogue of hu⯑man evils, what calamity is ſo difficult to bear, as the diſcovery of indiffer⯑ence in that object to whom we have given our affections, and intruſted our happineſs!—when we find that heart alienated, whoſe tenderneſs ſeems ne⯑ceſſary to our exiſtence; when we read coldneſs in that eye, on whoſe look our peace depends!—How ſevere are thoſe pangs, for which we muſt not aſk for ſympathy, that anguiſh, which muſt be nouriſhed in ſecret, and endured without complaint!—while memory recalls the [127] images of the paſt, traces with cruel exactneſs the ſcenes which ſome paſ⯑ſionate mark of fondneſs, ſome proof of former attachment have endeared for ever!—repeats thoſe expreſſions of ten⯑derneſs which are recorded in the heart; reminds us even of the tone in which they were uttered, and gives additional bitter⯑neſs to our pains!—In vain we ſummon fortitude to our aid. The efforts of reaſon are inſufficient to ſtifle the ago⯑nies of paſſion, and ſilence the voice of deſpair!—Time may at length bid theſe violent emotions ſubſide: miſery will become habitual, and the mind may, in ſome degree, accommodate it⯑ſelf to its ſituation: but it muſt paſs through many a ſevere extreme, it muſt ſuſtain many a terrible conflict before it is thus made familiar with ſorrow, or finds a refuge from it in the grave!

Sometimes, in the bitterneſs of her grief, Charlotte felt an impulſe to fly to [128] Julia, and repoſe her anguiſh on the bo⯑ſom of her friend. But ſhe ſuddenly re⯑collected, with increaſed affliction, that this conſolation was denied to her ſor⯑rows. Friendſhip, and love, ſeemed loſt together, and her whole ſyſtem of happi⯑neſs was wrecked at once.—Thus the af⯑frighted ſhepherd on the plains of Sicily, when the deſolating fires of the volcano have deſtroyed his beloved cottage, and conſumed his little treaſure, longs to fly to the ſhelter of ſome holy temple, where his tutelar ſaints may protect him from farther calamity; but perceiving with horror the ſacred fabric totter, the ſainted ſhrines tremble: every ray of hope at once forſakes his diſtracted ſpi⯑rit.

CHAP. XXVIII.

THE unhappy Charlotte wiped away her tears before the re⯑turn of her huſband; for her good ſenſe taught her, that repining, or complaint, would only ſerve to tear aſunder the laſt weak cords of affection, and alto⯑gether detach a heart, which ſhe was now ſenſible ſhe held only by the ties of pity. Love is a plant of delicate texture, and, when it droops, will never be revived by the tears of reproach; which, like petrifying drops, harden, inſtead of cheriſhing, the ſpot where they fall.

Charlotte did not ſee Julia till two days after this fatal diſcovery, when they met at a concert at Mrs. Seymour's. [130] Though but little diſpoſed for muſic or company, Charlotte felt that it would be an eaſier taſk to go out, than to evade the anxious enquiries her fa⯑ther would make into the cauſe of her remaining at home. And, what per⯑haps weighed more with her than this conſideration, was a conſcious dread which hung upon her mind of betray⯑ing her feelings to Julia, whom ſhe therefore wiſhed firſt to meet in the buſtle of a croud.

Mr. Clifford choſe to go early, and he and Julia came before any other company. They found Mrs. Seymour with Bijoux in her lap; when ſhe rung the bell for her maid to come and take charge of him, before any more com⯑pany arrived. The maid advanced ſubmiſſively towards him, patted his head very gently, and told her miſtreſs how happy ſhe was to ſee him in ſuch good ſpirits; and ſhe was ſure his [131] chicken had done him good. After more comments of the ſame kind, re⯑peated in the tone and manner in which ſhe would have addreſſed a young ſon and heir, and accompanied with many reſpectful endearments, Bijoux, who was more remarkable for beauty than good temper, ſnarling at being diſ⯑turbed, was tenderly careſſed by his miſtreſs, and at length diſmiſſed.

Charlotte came alone. Her father and Julia haſtened to ſpeak to her, and Mr. Clifford took notice that ſhe look⯑ed pale. But Charlotte declared ſhe was perfectly well, and forced herſelf to chat in her uſual gay and eaſy manner, till her heart ſunk at the exertion, and ſhe contrived to place herſelf between two ladies who were ſtrangers to her, and with whom no converſation was neceſſary. However, ſhe ſoon repented of this meaſure; for, in the beginning of the firſt act of the concert, Frederick [132] Seymour entered the room, ſpoke for a few moments to his wife as he paſſed, then haſtened to the other end of the room, on pretence of paying his com⯑pliments to Mrs. Seymour, and, after a very ſhort converſation with that lady, placed himſelf on a ſeat behind Julia, and talked to her earneſtly. She an⯑ſwered but ſeldom, and ſeemed to wiſh to liſten to the muſic; but Charlotte ſaw that Seymour conſtantly renewed the converſation. The heart of Char⯑lotte was ſtung by ſenſations, which ſhe had never felt before: jealouſy had now taken poſſeſſion of her boſom; its ſharp-edged "iron had entered into her ſoul!" The ladies, who were ſeated next her, had endeavoured to engage her in diſcourſe, and her natural diſpo⯑ſition to oblige ſo far conquered her re⯑luctance to ſpeak, that ſhe anſwered them with her uſual ſweetneſs. But, upon Seymour's placing himſelf by [133] Julia, Charlotte's eyes wandered after him, her voice changed, and, though her companions ſtill continued to talk, ſhe no longer knew what they ſaid, or what ſhe herſelf replied. Her mind was in a ſtate of uncontroulable agita⯑tion; and, though muſic has power to ſooth a gentle, or even a deep and ſet⯑tled melancholy, the torments of jea⯑louſy, the agonies of ſuſpence, raiſe a tempeſt in the ſoul, which no harmony can lull to repoſe.

She thought that act of the concert would never finiſh, and, the moment it was over, moved her ſeat, on pretence of ſpeaking to Julia about an engage⯑ment the following day. She had ſcarcely ſeated herſelf by Julia, when Frederick Seymour roſe, and went to ſpeak to ſome gentlemen at another part of the room. Charlotte was ſo much hurt at his changing his place the moment ſhe approached, which in a calmer ſtate of [134] mind ſhe would not even have obſerved, that ſhe could ſcarcely reſtrain her tears. But her agitation was concealed by the approach of Miſs C [...], who came with great eagerneſs, to declare how much the company had been miſtaken in their admiration of a ſong, which had been juſt ſung by a young lady; and which, it was the general opinion, had been executed with the moſt pathe⯑tic ſweetneſs and ſimplicity. Other performances of the evening had been applauded, with the uſual exclamations of "Very fine! Charming! Wonderful execution! &c.;" but, when this ſong was finiſhed, the cant terms of admira⯑tion were forgotten, while every eye gliſtened with pleaſure, and every heart ſeemed affected. Miſs C [...] alone was quite aſtoniſhed that the ſong was ſo liked. "For her part," ſhe ſaid, "ſhe thought it extremely inſipid; and ſhe knew that Mrs. Seymour, who was ſo [135] good a judge of muſic, admired that lady's ſtyle of ſinging quite as little as herſelf." "Ah," thought Julia, "when will Miſs C [...] or Mrs. Seymour ad⯑mire excellence?" Julia's reflection was founded on a juſt knowledge of the character of theſe ladies. The luſ⯑tre of excellence is as painful to envy, as the rays of the ſun to the bird of night, who loves to pour his ſhrill cry when the birds of ſweeteſt note are ab⯑ſent, and to flap his ſable wings when they cannot be contraſted with the ma⯑jeſtic plumage of the ſwan, or the beau⯑tiful feathers of the peacock.

The youngeſt Miſs C [...] did not encroach on her ſiſter's department of criticiſing the ſong, but undertook her⯑ſelf to criticiſe the ſinger, whom Charles Seymour having pronounced to be beau⯑tiful, ſhe inſtantly exclaimed, "Well, I wonder you can think her handſome; her ſkin's ſo coarſe, and her colour ſo [136] much too high! beſides ſhe has ſuch a remarkable long chin, and ſuch very ſhort eye-laſhes!—yet ſhe's tolerably ſhowy upon the whole; but I'm ſur⯑prized any body ſhould call her beau⯑tiful."

Before the ſecond act of the concert began, Charlotte, who was ſtanding near the harpſichord, with a little cir⯑cle of acquaintances, with whom ſhe had no inclination to converſe, turned over ſome leaves of a muſic-book, which lay upon the inſtrument, and found the ſong, the ſimple melody of which had been applauded. She read the words, which were as follows.

[139]Charlotte, who could not, in her pre⯑ſent ſtate of mind, read the ſentiment expreſſed in this ſong without emo⯑tion, in much agitation ſhut the book, and went to a ſeat at ſome diſtance. Julia had gone, a ſhort time before, to the card-room with ſome ladies. Char⯑lotte, when ſhe reached the ſeat, looked round for her huſband, but he was not in the concert-room, and ſhe concluded he had followed Julia. The performers were now preparing to begin the ſecond act; and Charlotte, who knew that the ſound of the muſic would immediately draw Julia to the concert-room, longed as impatiently for the beginning of the ſe⯑cond act, as ſhe had wiſhed for the con⯑cluſion of the firſt; thought ſhe had never known people ſo tedious in tuning inſtruments, and began to fear thoſe obſtinate violins would never be in uni⯑ſon. Alas, Charlotte! it was thy heart that was out of tune, and no longer [140] beat in uniſon to pleaſure or tranquillity. In a few minutes the muſic began, and the company returned to the concert⯑room. Charlotte looked wiſtfully towards the door, and at length Julia appeared, and Seymour ſoon followed. Charlotte beckoned to Julia to come and ſit next her; "for then," thought ſhe, "if he follows her, I ſhall at leaſt hear what paſſes, and that will be ſome ſmall com⯑fort." Small, indeed, was the comfort reſerved for Charlotte, who was now but too clear-ſighted to the actions of her huſband. He did not venture again to place himſelf next Julia, but contrived to engage in converſation with thoſe who were near her; and though, in the intervals of the muſic, he occaſionally left that part of the room for a few minutes, he was always ſure to come back, and place himſelf where ſhe was perfectly in his view. As a bird, that is frighted from her neſt, ſtill flutters round [141] the ſpot, and continually returns by a circling flight to the dear ſcene of her treaſure.

In this act of the concert, Mrs. Sey⯑mour and Miſs C [...] ſung a duet; ſo tricked out with ornament, and per⯑formed with ſuch affected diſtortions of the lips, and apparent labour, that the only perſon who ſeemed touched with enthuſiaſtic admiration was Mrs. Mel⯑bourne; who ſat with her eyes rivetted on her daughter, her mouth a little open, as if to draw in the angelic ſounds; and, when the ſong was finiſh⯑ed, was far louder in her applauſe than any one elſe; though, the company in general conſidered it as their duty to have recourſe to the eſtabliſhed routine, of "Delightful! Aſtoniſhing! and Di⯑vine!"

When the concert was over, Mr. Clifford begged Seymour and Charlotte to go home with him to ſupper. Char⯑lotte [142] conſented, notwithſtanding ſhe longed to give vent to her tears; "For," thought ſhe, "though I am ſo wretched myſelf, it muſt always be ſome pleaſure to make my father hap⯑py: yes, yes, my father, at leaſt, ſhall be happy! I will go to ſupper—"with what appetite I may!"

CHAP. XXIX.

CHARLOTTE did not long ſuc⯑ceed in concealing her affliction from Julia, who ſoon obſerved that her gaiety was aſſumed, and that ſome ſecret cauſe of ſorrow hung upon her ſpirits. The ſource of her miſery ſhe could not diſcover; for, though ſhe had often wondered that Charlotte had never diſ⯑cerned any traces of Seymour's unfor⯑tunate attachment, yet, ſince it had re⯑mained ſo long concealed, and ſince no particular circumſtance had lately ariſen to awaken ſuſpicion, Julia concluded that his wife was ſtill as ignorant of it as ever. In ſpite of all her efforts, Charlotte ſometimes appeared abſent [144] and thoughtful; but, when accuſed of gravity by Julia, ſhe would ſtart, as from a dream, and endeavour to ſmile at being ſuſpected of low ſpirits; yet Julia's penetration diſcerned, that the ſmile was artificial, and the ſeriouſneſs real. She went in vain the round of conjecture on this ſubject. Sometimes a ſuſpicion came acroſs her mind, that Seymour's attachment to herſelf was betrayed; but ſhe felt ſuch horror at the idea, that ſhe inſtantly endeavoured to baniſh it from her imagination.

The time drew near when Mr. Char⯑tres was to embark for the Eaſt Indies. He was convinced that his going to India was a thing fit and right, and an expedition he owed his country, on ac⯑count of his projected improvements in philoſophy, at his return: but, notwith⯑ſtanding he had the welfare of philoſo⯑phy much at heart, when the hour of his departure approached, he felt that the [145] thoughts of ſeparation from thoſe he loved, excited a ſenſation of uneaſineſs, which the proſpect of future advantage to ſcience had no power to remove; and that there was a chilling principle in ſorrow, which damped the ardor of philoſophical reſearch, to a degree he had till now thought impoſſible. Char⯑tres, who poſſeſſed an affectionate and grateful heart, felt himſelf bound by the ſtrongeſt ties of obligation to Mr. Clifford, and would have ſacrificed his life to render him the ſmalleſt ſervice. He had the moſt ſincere eſteem for Char⯑lotte, but Julia's ſoftneſs had won his ſoul. She was his friend, his confidant, his counſellor; and he would certainly have been in love with her, if he had not foreſeen how inconvenient he ſhould find ſuch a turbulent ſenſation at the diſtance of Bengal. He determin⯑ed therefore to confine his tenderneſs within the peaceful limits of friendſhip; [146] for he had heard, and gave ſome credit to the information, that when the heart ventured to ſtray beyond that tranquil boundary, the path, if ſometimes cover⯑ed with roſes, was oftener tangled with briars; and the ſky, if occaſionally gilded by the rainbow, was more fre⯑quently obſcured by the tempeſt.

Chartres came the day before his de⯑parture to bid Julia farewel. The tear ſtood in his eye, his heart ſeemed deeply depreſſed, and he repeatedly declar⯑ed, that he looked forward to no other happineſs at his return than that of en⯑joying her ſociety; for in theſe mo⯑ments his philoſophical improvements were forgotten. He told her he had juſt taken leave of Charlotte, whom he found alone, and in great dejection, her eyes were red, and ſhe appeared to have been crying over ſome papers which were lying on the table. "I ſaw mark⯑ed upon the back of one of them," [147] added Chartres, "Sonnet to Peace, written by Julia." "When, at part⯑ing," reſumed he, "Iwiſhed her every happineſs, ſhe burſt into a violent fit of tears, ſhook her head, and deſired me not to talk of happineſs. I ſuppoſe ſhe thought I was acquainted with that falſe report which my mother was ſo impru⯑dent as to repeat to her. I ſee it has made her unhappy, and ſhe has never been in good ſpirits ſince." "What report?" ſaid Julia, in a faint voice. Chartres then repeated the intelligence which Mrs. Seymour had given his mo⯑ther. Julia leaned back on her chair, and in a few moments burſt into an agony of tears. "I wiſh I had not mentioned this affair," ſaid Chartres, "if it makes you uneaſy; but you have philoſophy enough to deſpiſe it. I con⯑vinced Mrs. Seymour of its falſehood, not merely by vague aſſertion, but by facts which had come under my own obſervation. I told her, that, far from [148] having any liking to you, I had re⯑marked that he was never leſs agreeable than in your company; and was at ſo little pains to entertain you, that I had frequently known him, while ſpeaking to you, forget what he was going to ſay; that whenever any body mentioned you, he ſeemed to find the ſubject diſ⯑agreeable, and always aſſented to your praiſe as coldly as if he thought you did not deſerve it."

Chartres was proceeding to relate the farther proofs he had given of Seymour's indifference, for his audi⯑tor had no power to interrupt him; but at this moment Mr. Clifford knock⯑ed at the door, and Julia, with a great effort, ſummoned ſufficient ſtrength to implore Chartres not to repeat to her uncle a report which would give him ſo much unhappineſs. Before Mr. Clifford reached the room, Chartres promiſed, not only that he never would repeat it himſelf, but that he would [149] alſo bind his mother in the moſt ſolemn manner never to mention it again.

When Mr. Clifford appeared, Julia took leave of Chartres, and with ſome difficulty reached her own apartment, ſhut the door, and flung herſelf on a chair, covering her face with her hands, in an agony of mind almoſt inſupport⯑able. "At length," thought ſhe, "the ſtorm which has ſo long threatened me burſts upon my head:—Charlotte! Oh, Charlotte! muſt I be the wretched cauſe of your miſery? Muſt I embitter all the fair proſpects of your life, and overwhelm that affectionate heart with intolerable anguiſh? Why do I live to fill with deſpair that boſom which has ſupported and cheriſhed me?—Oh, my father, my ever beloved father! would that the ſame grave which holds thee, had covered thy unfortunate child!—Why did my uncle receive me beneath [150] his roof? Oh, far happier had it been for me to have been caſt out a deſerted or⯑phan, than thus to ſpread deſolation and horror in his family; to reward his be⯑nevolence by inflicting the ſharpeſt ca⯑lamity, by wounding him in the perſon of his child.—Yes, wretch that I am! by planting a dagger in the heart of Charlotte, I ſhall bring her father with ſorrow to the grave. Perhaps his laſt breath will curſe me!—no, he will pity and forgive me!—but will not his pity, his forgiveneſs, be more piercing than reproach, more terrible than his curſe?"

Julia's mind was long abſorbed by theſe deſponding reflections. She gave way to uncontrouled affliction; ſent Mr. Clifford word, that ſhe was not well; and kept her room the remainder of the day. When her thoughts had recovered their firſt confuſion and ter⯑ror, ſhe deliberated on her future con⯑duct; but knew not on what to deter⯑mine. [151] At one moment ſhe thought of flying to Charlotte, of unboſoming her diſtreſs, and then forſaking her uncle's houſe for ever: at another moment ſhe wiſhed to find a refuge with Mrs. Mey⯑nell. But farther reflection convinced her that any of theſe meaſures would accele⯑rate the miſchiefs ſhe ſo much dreaded, by revealing the fatal ſecret to her uncle, without mitigating, in the leaſt degree, the wretchedneſs of Charlotte. Julia, therefore, reſolved to bear her ſuffer⯑ings in ſilence, to devote herſelf to her uncle's happineſs, and to ſhun Frede⯑rick Seymour more carefully than ever.

Mean time Mrs. Seymour, ſome⯑what aſhamed of her conduct to Mrs. Meynell on the rainy morning, deter⯑mined to pay her a viſit in her way to a party at no great diſtance; and, about eight o'clock in the evening, drove, with Mrs. Melbourne, to Charles⯑ſtreet. [152] Mrs. Meynell had already drank tea, and, having devoted the day to mantua-making, had given orders not to be at home. But her ſervant had gone out, unknown to her miſtreſs, and the woman of the houſe came up, al⯑moſt out of breath, ſaying, "There were ſome ladies waiting in a carriage to know if ſhe would ſee them." "Where is my ſervant?" ſaid Mrs. Meynell, in great diſtreſs, "Have you ſaid I was at home?" "Yes, Ma'am; but I told them I did not know whether you would chuſe to ſee company." "Then I muſt ſee them," ſaid Mrs. Meynell; who, though mortified at their intruſion, threw off her embarraſſ⯑ment, and received them with that eaſe and dignity which commanded reſpect. Mrs. Seymour ſaid, ſhe was come to wait upon her to tea; but on this hint, Mrs. Meynell remained quite paſſive, being ſenſible that it was needleſs to ring the [153] bell, ſince there was no perſon to an⯑ſwer it. The children in the room above were crying in a moſt terrible manner, and the mother, in order to quiet the youngeſt, having put it into the cradle, began rocking with a degree of violence that ſhook Mrs. Seymour's nerves exceedingly; who expreſſed great ſurprize at Mrs. Meynell's remaining in ſuch a lodging. At length the ſer⯑vant returned, and at length tea was procured; the cradle ceaſed to be rocked; and Mrs. Seymour's nerves ceaſed to be ſhaken.

Mrs. Meynell's converſation was that of an elegant and cultivated mind; and Mrs. Seymour, who hap⯑pened to be in good-humour, and who poſſeſſed taſte and underſtanding, though ſhe ſtrangely perverted both, grew inſenſibly pleaſed with Mrs. Mey⯑nell's diſcourſe, in ſpite of her lodgings. As there were no gentlemen preſent, ſhe threw aſide the graces of affecta⯑tion; [154] and, without having the ſmalleſt intention to be agreeable, was really much more ſo than uſual: for ſhe was too apt to diſpoſe the flowers of fancy with the formality of a trim parterre, when ſhe wiſhed to pleaſe; and it was only in a careleſs moment that ſhe ſuf⯑fered them to bloom with the graceful negligence of nature.

Charlotte and Julia now felt a mu⯑tual conſciouſneſs which embittered all their interviews; thoſe feelings of ten⯑der confidence which formerly made every moment of ſeparation painful, being loſt for ever. Julia ſaw Char⯑lotte pining with ſecret grief, into which ſhe durſt not enquire, and for which ſhe knew there was no remedy; and Charlotte felt a degree of reſtraint in Julia's preſence, and often a pang of jealouſy, which made her avoid the ſo⯑ciety of her couſin, whenever ſhe could find a pretext for ſo doing without ex⯑citing ſuſpicion in her father. But [155] though ſhe ſkilfully concealed her feel⯑ings from him, ſhe did not ſucceed in eluding the penetration of her huſband. Frederick Seymour perceived, with in⯑quietude and diſappointment, that Ju⯑lia was leſs frequently at his houſe than formerly; and, though accidental cir⯑cumſtances ſeemed to prevent it, he was convinced, from ſome obſerva⯑tions he had made on his wife's be⯑haviour, that Julia's abſence was no⯑thing leſs than accidental. The idea that his wife was unhappy, and un⯑happy from the diſcovery of his at⯑tachment to another, filled him with the deepeſt concern; and he endea⯑voured, by every mark of attention and kindneſs, to chaſe from her mind thoſe gloomy ſuſpicions which he feared ſhe harboured. But this conduct could no longer confer happineſs on Charlotte: ſhe no longer miſtook attention for ten⯑derneſs, and kindneſs for love. Sey⯑mour [156] was a bad diſſembler, and often ſtrove in vain to ſuppreſs his feelings. When Charlotte choſe to ſtay at home, he frequently gave up his engagements to remain with her; but ſtill it ap⯑peared to Charlotte a matter of duty, and not of inclination. His talents were no longer exerted for her enter⯑tainment, no longer made the hours paſs almoſt imperceptibly away. Char⯑lotte ſometimes talked to him on ſub⯑jects of taſte and literature, of which he was fond, and on which he uſed to give her his opinions with eagerneſs and animation; but he now anſwered her enquiries in a cold indifferent manner, which ſhewed that he conſidered it as a taſk.

Sometimes ſhe endeavoured to for⯑get her wretchedneſs, and tried to divert him by thoſe ſprightly ſallies with which he uſed to be amuſed; or indulged the fondneſs of her heart by [157] an expreſſion of tenderneſs; but ſhe ſaw, or fancied ſhe ſaw, that her gaiety, or her tenderneſs, were alike trouble⯑ſome, and received with a degree of coldneſs and gravity that petrified her ſoul. On theſe occaſions ſhe conceal⯑ed her emotion till he left the room, and then gave way to the tears which ſhe had with difficulty ſuppreſſed. Yet Seymour meant to give every proof of attachment, and earneſtly wiſhed to make her happy. But when thoſe at⯑tentions which belong to affection are prompted only by a ſenſe of duty, there is often ſome failure in the execution, even with the greatect rectitude of in⯑tention. Such ſervices, when weighed in the ſcale of reaſon, may prove rigo⯑rouſly juſt, but, in the balance of love, they will be found wanting. The head may underſtand the general theory of kindneſs, but the heart only can prac⯑tiſe the detail; as the ſculptor can [158] give to marble an expreſſion of human feeling, but cannot animate the image with a ſoul.

We have obtained a copy of the Sonnet mentioned by Chartres, in the former part of this chapter:

CHAP. XXX.

IT was about the middle of June, and Mrs. Melbourne invited a par⯑ty to dine at her villa, near town. Charlotte was not well enough for this excurſion. She expected in a ſhort time to become a mother; and with delight had anticipated that period, when Sey⯑mour would have an additional reaſon for loving her; when the ſmiles of her infant would endear its mother, and convey, to the breaſt of both its parents, an emotion, which, though ſhe had not yet felt, her heart told her would be exquiſite. But theſe dreams of happi⯑neſs were no more: ſhe now only thought of the conſolation ſhe ſhould [161] find in bathing her unconſcious infant with tears ſhed in ſecret. When Char⯑lotte declined joining the party, Frede⯑rick Seymour declared he would re⯑main at home; but ſhe inſiſted on his going. Julia took an opportunity of intreating Charlotte to allow her to ſtay with her on the day of the party; but the offer was rejected with a degree of coldneſs, which ſhocked Julia ſo much, that ſhe preſſed the matter no farther.

The party, on their arrival at the villa, propoſed to take a walk on the banks of the Thames. The villa was ſituated at a ſmall diſtance from the village where Julia had formerly lived; and near Mrs. Melbourn's gate ſhe met with a poor woman, whoſe huſband, a labourer, uſed to work in Captain Clif⯑ford's garden. Julia ſtopped, and beg⯑ged the company would walk on, while ſhe ſpoke to her old acquaintance. They gave the woman ſome money, and went [162] towards the river. At the ſight of Ju⯑lia, the poor woman burſt into tears. "Oh Madam," ſaid ſhe, "I've been in a power of troubles ſince you left the country. I've loſt my huſband, Ma⯑dam, and a good ſoul he was to be ſure, as ever broke bread. He never hit me a ſtroke in his life: we would have a word or two now and then, to be ſure, but that was nothing to nobody." She then related the hardſhips ſhe had undergone ſince her huſband's death, which were confirmed by her meagre looks and thread-bare garment. Julia, who knew ſhe was a deſerving object, gave her ſome preſent relief, and promiſed to allow her a weekly donation, which ſhe ſhould receive from the perſon who took care of Mrs. Melbourn's country houſe.

Without ſtopping, to hear the thanks and bleſſings of her penſioner, Julia then haſtened to join the party, which ſhe ſaw walking at ſome diſtance on [163] the banks of the river; but at this moment, paſſing a little copſe, ſhe per⯑ceived Frederick Seymour coming through it to meet her. He came up to her in a few minutes. "Why did you leave the company, Mr. Sey⯑mour?" ſaid Julia, in a tone of diſ⯑pleaſure—"Becauſe I could not bear to remain with them, when you were abſent, and told them I would wait for you: you know my abhorrence of the whole group of females I have left be⯑hind." Julia made no reply, for ſhe was ſo much vexed and agitated at his having left the party, for the declared purpoſe of waiting for her, that ſhe had no power to rally her oppreſſed ſ pirits. "How," continued Seymour, "can any man who has the ſmalleſt taſte for ſim⯑plicity and nature, have pleaſure in the ſociety of ſuch women as Mrs. Sey⯑mour and the Miſs C [...]'s?—but this day, above all others, I find their [164] company deteſtable; and determined to ſhake off the reſtraint, at leaſt for a few bleſſed moments." "I do not per⯑fectly underſtand," ſaid Julia coldly, "why their ſociety ſhould be ſo much more oppreſſive on this day, than any other." "Need I name the reaſon?" cried he paſſionately: "Oh it is a day to me the moſt deciſive of my life! it was on this very day I firſt ſaw you!—Yes, Julia, deareſt, moſt perfect of women, ſince that hour"—"Is it generous, Mr. Seymour," interrupted Julia, "thus to perſecute me? to re⯑duce me to the cruel alternative of for⯑ſaking my uncle's houſe, or being ſubject to diſcourſe which it ſhocks, which it degrades me to hear." Her voice faltered, and tears fell down her cheeks—"Oh," exclaimed Seymour, "what have I done? if you could ſee the contrition of my ſoul; if you could form an idea of my miſery—" "Speak [165] to me no more, Sir," ſaid Julia, "for Heaven's ſake let me endeavour to com⯑poſe my thoughts." "Try then to forgive me, or, if I am unworthy of pardon, think at leaſt of my wretched⯑neſs with ſome compaſſion!" Julia was ſilent, and Seymour, who ſaw her turn very pale, feared to increaſe her agita⯑tion; and durſt not truſt himſelf to ſpeak. He bitterly lamented his indiſ⯑cretion, only becauſe he ſaw it had oc⯑caſioned ſuch diſturbance to the mind of Julia; for, with reſpect to himſelf, he was careleſs what comments might be made on his conduct. The heart of this unfortunate young man had reached that fatal paroxyſm of paſſion, when the opinions of the world become wholly indifferent; when the mind che⯑riſhes its unhappy feelings; when it lives not to itſelf, but to another; when every object, but one, ſinks into inſig⯑nificance; when all amuſement be⯑comes [166] painful; all ſociety irkſome; and the diſeaſed heart can only endure the gloom of ſolitude, in the abſence of that object to whom it was devoted; while every eſſential good, every important conſideration, all that ſhould be dear and valuable, is ſacrificed to a paſſion, the remorſeleſs tyranny of which has blaſted in youth every bloſſom of hope, ſubdued every principle of fortitude, and conquered every effort of reaſon.

When Frederick Seymour and Julia joined the company, Miſs C [...] ex⯑claimed, "You look very grave, Miſs Clifford, I ſuppoſe your poor woman has told you a moſt diſmal ſtory." "Why yes," anſwered Julia, "it was a melan⯑choly narrative of feebleneſs and want." "That's the worſt part of attending to theſe poor creatures," ſaid Miſs C [...]; "they always inſiſt upon telling one a ſtory of hardſhips of a mile long. Its no great trouble to take a few ſhillings out [167] of one's purſe, but a true and faithful account of their whole hiſtory, is a monſtrous bore to be ſure." Seymour gave her a look of indignation, and Ju⯑lia made no reply.

The day paſſed at Mrs. Melbourne's villa ſomewhat heavily; which generally happens, when people ſet out on what is called a party of pleaſure. There ſeems to be ſuch a perverſe ſpirit in pleaſure, that, whenever we ſend that capricious nymph a particular invita⯑tion, ſhe refuſes to ſit down at the ban⯑quet. The form of preparation frightens her from the vacant ſeat, and ſhe fan⯑cies "the table's full."

As it rained violently the greateſt part of the afternoon, the company looked at the country from the windows, walked from one room to another, and ſeemed at a great loſs how to get rid of the hours which remained before the carriages were ordered. Mr. Seymour, who per⯑formed [168] the honours of the houſe, ſaw that he was expected to be gay and agreeable; but he was in no humour for either gaiety or agreeableneſs. He had not yet conquered the diſappointment of his hopes; and, though he purſued his ſchemes of avarice and ambition as in⯑defatigably as ever, Mrs. Meynell's image ſtill floated in his imagination, and the certainty, that on the departure of her huſband ſhe would immediately baniſh him from her ſight, diſturbed his repoſe. Incapable of real tenderneſs, his paſſion, which had only impelled him to the deſtruction of its object, made him now ſicken at the proſpect of her happineſs; nor could his mind fur⯑niſh him with any ſoothing reflections to repel the force of diſappointment. He could recall no acts of benevolence or generoſity; no feelings of philanthropy or friendſhip; none of thoſe kind and gentle offices, which, to a liberal and [169] open heart are the deareſt occupations of life. Mr. Seymour was conſcious that his talents had never been employed for the benefit of any human creature, excluſively of his neareſt relations; and that his fortune had promoted no man's enjoyments but his own. He was conſcious of having intirely re⯑verſed that paſſage of ſcripture, which declares "that no man liveth to him⯑ſelf," for he had lived to himſelf only. But it ſeems to be the juſt puniſhment of ſelfiſhneſs, that, when its crafty wiſ⯑dom has over-reached the unſuſpicious part of mankind, and its ſchemes are ſucceſsful, it does but enjoy a tri⯑umph, which an honeſt and ingenuous mind would think far too dearly pur⯑chaſed at the price of thoſe exquiſite ſenſations which ariſe from the benevo⯑lent affections. And, when the views of the ſelfiſh are diſappointed, they can⯑not fly for refuge to the boſom of [170] friendſhip. They have been too much occupied by every other intereſt, to cul⯑tivate an intereſt in any human heart; and are condemned to brood over ſoli⯑tary ſorrow. Mr. Seymour had indeed an affection for his brothers, which had led him to promote their advancement in life to the utmoſt of his ability: but even this ſentiment was, in his breaſt, ſtrongly tinctured with ambition, with the idea of aggrandizing his own family, and had ſomething extremely ſelfiſh in its compoſition. When an enlarged, and comprehenſive mind, ſuch as Mr. Seymour poſſeſſed, capable of every no⯑ble exertion, and every liberal ſenti⯑ment, employs its talents only to the narrow purpoſes of ſelfiſhneſs, how in⯑adequate, how unworthy is the end to the means uſed for its attainment!—It ſeems as abſurd and monſtrous, as that ſyſtem of philoſophy, which imagined the ſun, the moon, and all thoſe in⯑numerable [171] worlds which fill the im⯑menſity of nature, were formed only to revolve round this little ſpeck in crea⯑tion.

Mr. Seymour, diſcontented with him⯑ſelf, diſguſted with others, angry at be⯑ing obliged to appear pleaſed when he was in ill-humour, and to talk when he choſe to remain ſilent, felt as if this everlaſting evening would never cloſe. His impatience was perceived by Mrs. Seymour, who, being in very good humour herſelf, Mr. F [...] having ſaid ſome agreeable things to her during dinner, kindly ſaved her huſband the taſk of ſupporting converſation any longer, by taking out her pocket-book, which was ſtored with enigmas and charards. When the faculties of the company had been ſufficiently exer⯑ciſed, Mrs. Seymour produced a ſonnet, which ſhe ſaid ſhe found on the carpet of her drawing-room, one evening the [172] week before, when ſhe had had a great deal of company. "It was ſo ſcrawl⯑ed," added ſhe, "that I could not diſ⯑cover the hand-writing, and I can find no owner for it." The ſonnet was as follows.

[174]Charlotte ſpent the day in ſolitude, which her unhappy reflections render⯑ed miſerable. She fancied ſhe heard Seymour talking to Julia that ſoothing language which he ſo well knew how to uſe: ſhe fancied ſhe ſaw Julia liſten⯑ing to it with ſenſibility: ſhe recalled a thouſand circumſtances which con⯑vinced her that Julia was not perfectly indifferent to his attention: ſhe ſighed, ſhe wept at the recollection, and then thought of the happy moments which ſhe had ſpent the preceding ſummer, in the ſociety of her lover and her friend; when, favoured far above the common lot of humanity, ſhe had no care but that of diſpenſing good to others, and no wiſh but that of deſerving her own felicity. Oh Memory! why wilt thou for ever ſtrengthen the dark ſhadows of preſent affliction, by contraſting them with the bright rays of paſt happineſs?

At length Seymour returned, accom⯑panied [175] by his brother Charles, who told Charlotte that he had never paſſed a more tireſome day; that they had been perſecuted by wind and rain, and bored with charards and enigmas.

In the courſe of converſation, Char⯑lotte enquired about a curious ſhrub which her father had given to Mrs. Melbourne. Charles Seymour ſaid "it was very flouriſhing." "I did not obſerve it," ſaid Seymour. "No," rejoined his brother, "while we ſtopped to look at it, you were at a diſtance with Miſs Clifford." Charlotte changed colour: Seymour caſt an angry look at his brother, and told, in ſome confuſion, the ſtory of the old woman. "Miſs Clifford ſeemed very little pleaſed with your attendance," ſaid Charles Seymour, "for I never ſaw her look ſo grave: Miſs C [...] whiſpered to me that ſhe was ſure ſhe was in love." "I think Miſs C [...]'s remarks," anſwered [176] Seymour, ſternly, "are ſeldom worth the trouble of repeating." Charles Seymour perceived that his brother was in bad temper, and, after repeating that he thought a rainy day in the country a great bore, took his leave, being engaged to ſupper at Miſs C [...]'s.

When Frederick Seymour and Char⯑lotte were left together, ſhe made ſome efforts to be chearful, and had the good ſenſe to forbear from all complaints. Alas! when an impaſſioned mind, wounded by indifference, attempts re⯑crimination, it is like a naked and bleed⯑ing Indian attacking a man arrayed in complete armour, whoſe fortified bo⯑ſom no ſtroke can penetrate, while every blow which indignant anguiſh raſhly aims, recoils on the unguarded heart.

CHAP. XXXI.

FREDERICK Seymour, Charlotte, and Julia, ſeemed by mutual conſent to aſſume the appearance of cheerfulneſs in Mr. Clifford's preſence. They all trembled at the idea of diſ⯑turbing his peace, and extending the miſery which preyed upon their own minds, to the boſom of their generous benefactor. Mr. Clifford was not apt to diſcern what others wiſhed to con⯑ceal: he therefore miſtook this imita⯑tion of happineſs for the reality, and exulted in having been the inſtrument of diſpenſing felicity to the objects of his deareſt affection, feeling it the moſt precious uſe of fortune. He paſſed [178] his time in the exerciſe of piety and be⯑nevolence, and in the ſociety of his friends; enjoyed a rubber at whiſt every evening; and had no ſubject of anxiety except the affairs of the ſtate. He felt, indeed, the moſt watchful ſolicitude to preſerve the balance of power in Eu⯑rope, and was ſometimes in low ſpirits on account of the national debt.

The youngeſt Miſs C [...] had lately been left the addition of ten thouſand pounds to her fortune, by the death of a rich old aunt, with whom ſhe was a favourite; and, a few weeks after ſhe came into poſſeſſion of her legacy, was married to Mr. Charles Seymour. This young man had begun the winter campaign by paying his addreſſes, in very rapid ſucceſſion, to the daughters of a certain lord, a rich baronet, a na⯑bob, and two bankers in the city; but was repulſed by the parents of thoſe young women, on account of not being [179] able to make ſettlements adequate to their fortunes. Upon receiving the intelligence of Miſs C [...]'s legacy, he determined, though a little tired of acting the part of a lover, to perform that character once more. Accord⯑ingly he paid his addreſſes to Miſs C [...], was favourably received, and in a ſhort time married. This union was formed on the wiſeſt motives, conſidering the characters of both parties, notwithſtanding he diſliked his wife at the time of their marriage; and the feelings of the lady towads her huſband, though they did not amount to diſlike, calmly reſted in indifference. But he knew that her fortune would be uſeful, and that her connections were honorable; and ſhe, with no leſs pene⯑tration, diſcerned that his income, join⯑ed to her own, would ſupport her with elegance. She ſaw that his converſa⯑tion, and his ſhoe-buckles, his man⯑ners, and his toupee, were all perfectly [180] toniſh; gems of the firſt water, in the regalia of faſhion; and thought that, upon the whole, he was a huſband that would do her credit. Beſides, ſhe was now twenty-ſeven years of age, and had, in the courſe of the laſt ten years of her life, ſuffered many diſappointments from being very apt to conſtrue the ſlighteſt attention from any of the other ſex, into an oblique declaration of love. If a gentleman was gay in her compa⯑ny, it was with a wicked deſign to win her heart; if he was grave, it was ow⯑ing to the embarraſſment of paſſion. Miſs C [...] fancied herſelf ſkilled in all the ſymptoms of love, and often en⯑truſted the ſecret of her conqueſts to her confidential friends, ſomewhat pre⯑maturely; till at length, tired of miſin⯑terpretation, ſhe determined to prevent ſuch diſagreeable miſtakes in future, by marrying Mr. Charles Seymour, with⯑out farther loſs of time.

[181] With theſe ſentiments of mutual convenience, encumbered with no feel⯑ings of reciprocal affection, confidence, or eſteem, Mr. Charles Seymour and Miſs C [...] were united. Nor were their expectations deceived. They cer⯑tainly enjoyed no domeſtic ſatisfaction, but thought that might well be diſpenſ⯑ed with, as, in the crowd of ſucceſſive engagements, it would have been im⯑poſſible to find any time to be happy at home, even if they had felt the inclina⯑tion; and when ſo many amuſements courted their acceptance abroad, they had the moderation to think, that one ſmall article of enjoyment ought not to be regretted. This congenial pair lived much apart; were very civil when they met; crouded a number of viſits into each day; and partook of all the plea⯑ſure which diſſipation can confer upon its votaries. It certainly was not a ſpe⯑cies of pleaſure which an enlarged mind [182] would purſue, or a feeling heart would reliſh; and occaſionally it became ſo very tireſome, that, from the languor of their countenances, an uninformed ſpectator might have miſtaken gaiety for pe⯑nance. They ſought for happineſs as laboriouſly as an alchymiſt for the phi⯑loſopher's ſtone; but found, that, like that undiſcovered treaſure, happineſs was a hidden property, which mocked all the reſearches of the diſſipated.

Julia's perplexities and ſorrows did not make her negligent of Mrs. Mey⯑nell's affairs; and, though ſome of the evils under which ſhe laboured were ſuch as admitted of no remedy, Julia determined at leaſt to remove the mi⯑ſeries of penury: a ſituation which ex⯑poſes a delicate mind to thoſe mortifi⯑cations, of which, however galling, it were abject to complain, and unavail⯑ing to demand ſympathy; ſince, though the world is liberal of its alms to po⯑verty, [183] wealth has monopolized its re⯑ſpect.

Mr. Clifford had, at Julia's ſolicita⯑tion, procured for Capt. Meynell a profitable appointment in India; and, the moment the affair was ſettled, ſhe flew to Mrs. Meynell, and inform⯑ed her of the ſucceſs of the application. Mrs. Meynell attempted to ſpeak, but her voice faltered, and ſhe was unable to proceed. As the eye is oppreſſed by ſudden light after darkneſs, ſo her heart was overpowered by ſenſations to which it had long been a ſtranger, and ſhe burſt into a violent fit of tears: but, how delicious are ſuch feelings! Alas, the ſources of miſery, that give riſe to tears, are many and various; but how ſeldom do they proceed from the over⯑flowing tide of happineſs!

Julia acquainted Mrs. Meynell, that it would be neceſſary for Capt. Meynell to go to India in a few months, and [184] invited her, in Mr. Clifford's name, to take up her reſidence in his family dur⯑ing the abſence of her huſband. Mrs. Meynell received the invitation with rapture. "To find an aſylum," cried ſhe, in a voice frequently interrupted by tears, "to find an aſylum beneath your roof, to enjoy your ſociety, is to me, of all plans, the moſt ſoothing. Oh, after having ſo long contended with the world, after being ſhocked by neglect, or obliged to combat with in⯑ſolence, how will your gentleneſs heal every wound of my heart!—Is there indeed ſuch happineſs reſerved for me? Can the period be near when my days ſhall paſs in tranquillity?—Alas, I ne⯑ver hoped to be at peace again!—I ex⯑pected to bear the load of miſery till I could no longer ſupport its weight, and death came to my relief."—"Per⯑haps," added ſhe, "I have been cri⯑minal in the indulgence of deſponden⯑cy; [185] but I own to you, that I have long felt life a burden. I have been tempted to ſay to myſelf "In the morning, Would to God it were evening! and in the evening, Would to God it were morning!"—but I ſhall be happy again, and, what will endear that happi⯑neſs, I ſhall owe it to you!"

After an effuſion of gratitude, which Julia in vain endeavoured to interrupt, Mrs. Meynell, in the fulneſs of her heart, mentioned the treatment ſhe had received from Mrs. Seymour. "While Mr. Seymour," ſaid ſhe, "was paying his addreſſes to Miſs Melbourne, ſhe courted my acquaintance, becauſe her intimacy with me brought them more frequently together. Yes, Miſs Clif⯑ford, when I ſtood in no need of her friendſhip, ſhe and Mrs. Melbourne were both profuſe of kindneſs, and laviſh in profeſſion. But as ſoon as the period arrived, in which their friendſhip would [186] have been uſeful; as ſoon as they diſco⯑vered that I was left without ſupport, and in a manner thrown upon their mercy for protection, they inſtantly changed the tone of their behaviour. To their friends my deſtitute ſituation was recounted with an oſtentatious pa⯑rade of pity; and when left alone with them, I met with thoſe ſlight indigni⯑ties, thoſe petty inſults, which are per⯑haps more difficult to bear than any other ſpecies of miſery. They do not in⯑deed rend the heart ſo deeply as ſevere misfortunes, but tear and gnaw its ſur⯑face. Perhaps thoſe, who can thus heap wrongs on the unhappy, deſerve no⯑thing but contempt: yet, even while we deſpiſe the hand which inflicts the wound, we cannot avoid feeling pain from its ſmart. Had Frederick Sey⯑mour been in England," added Mrs. Meynell, "I ſhould have been ſpared half the wretchedneſs I have ſuffered. [187] He has a mind the moſt noble, and ele⯑vared; he has a heart the moſt gene⯑rous, and affectionate!"—"I believe ſo," ſaid Julia, faintly. "You anſwer but coldly," rejoined Mrs. Meynell; "ſurely you know him well enough to have diſcovered his merit. But I will hazard a reſlection to you, which I can ſcarcely bear to indulge. He appears to me not perfectly happy: there is ſome ſecret cauſe of depreſſion, ſome lurking ſorrow, that ſeems to hang upon his mind, and affect his ſpirits—Ah, Miſs Clifford, you change colour! what do you know of this? is he not happy with your couſin?" "Indeed you miſ⯑take," ſaid Julia; "you—I believe—I mean, I am ſure Charlotte makes the beſt of wives. "I have no doubt of it," replied Mrs. Meynell, much aſtoniſhed at Julia's embarraſſment. "Her ſweet⯑neſs of diſpoſition—" ſaid Julia, en⯑deavouring to ſpeak with compoſure; [188] but her voice faltered, and Mrs. Mey⯑nell, after waiting ſome time for the concluſion of the ſentence, finding ſhe was unable to proceed, anſwered, with⯑out ſeeming to obſerve her confuſion, "Yes, indeed, her diſpoſition ſeems formed to conſtitute domeſtic happineſs, and perhaps my anxiety for him has led me into an error."

At this moment Frederick Seymour entered the room. "I am come," ſaid he, with eagerneſs, "from Mr. Clifford, to give you joy of Captain Meynell's appointment." "You are very good," anſwered Mrs. Meynell, "Miſs Clif⯑ford has juſt brought me thoſe happy tidings." "It was an office," rejoined Seymour, with warmth, "which ſuits her perfectly." "Yes," replied Mrs. Meynell, "and I owe, not only the communication, but the event itſelf, to her goodneſs." "My dear Mrs. Mey⯑nell," ſaid Julia, riſing, "how very [189] ſmall muſt be the merit of any ſervices, which are attended with the pleaſure I feel at this moment!" She then de⯑parted, leaving Mrs. Meynell a ſubject of conjecture and alarm, in the confu⯑ſion ſhe had betrayed in their converſa⯑tion reſpecting Seymour, which greatly diſturbed her mind, even amidſt the agreeable proſpects which were juſt opened to herſelf. Julia, however, ſoon recovered the agitation ſhe felt from Seymour's ſudden appearance, and left Mrs. Meynell's, exulting in the felicity ſhe had been enabled to confer. Bene⯑volence was the ruling paſſion of Julia's ſoul. To ſacrifice her own gratifications to thoſe of others, to alleviate diſtreſs, and to diffuſe happineſs, were the moſt delightful occupations of her mind: and ſhe had felt the ſame ardor of be⯑neficence in her former confined cir⯑cumſtances, though it could not pro⯑duce the ſame effects as in her preſent [190] ſtate of affluence. Charity reſembles the Spring, whoſe benign influence, in a ſcanty ſoil, can only wake a few ſcat⯑tered bloſſoms; but in a more favoura⯑ble ſituation, ſpreads a profuſion of beauty, and rejoices the heart of na⯑ture.

CHAP. XXXII.

THAT unhappy paſſion which Frederick Seymour cheriſhed, gained every day a more fatal aſcend⯑ancy over his mind. To him every hour ſeemed loſt that was not ſpent in Julia's ſociety; for life, in his eſtimation, had no other value. The only ideas of pleaſure and pain in his mind, were her preſence, or her abſence: for when he ſaw and converſed with her, he deſired nothing more on earth; and when ſhe was abſent, he no longer felt any diſ⯑tinction or choice of amuſement or ſo⯑ciety. All other objects were to him alike indifferent; and the moſt agree⯑able company had as little power to [192] give him entertainment, as the moſt in⯑ſipid.

Mean time, Charlotte had too high an opinion of Julia's graces and accom⯑pliſhments, and thought too meanly of her own, to believe ſhe could ever regain the heart of Seymour. Every gleam of hope forſook her boſom: but ſhe had ſufficient command over her feelings to appear tranquil. She ſhuddered at [...] thoughts of betraying, by her looks, that acute anguiſh which had ſunk into her ſoul; nor did her countenance diſ⯑cover thoſe marks of agitation which a lighter affliction would naturally have impreſſed upon it. When a ſtorm firſt ariſes, it throws de p lines of darkneſs amidſt the ſtruggling ſun-beams; but when the gathered tempeſt has blotted out every ray, there is no longer any appearance of ſhadow.

Charlotte had ſufficient fortitude to bear her miſery without complaint; but [193] ſhe could not conquer her feelings, though ſhe endeavoured to ſuppreſs them. She ſometimes received Julia with great coldneſs, and ſometimes, from an impulſe of jealouſy, was at pains to prevent her from being placed near Seymour. This he perceived with reſentment; and Julia, though ſhe thankfully ſeconded Charlotte's inten⯑tions, diſcerned them with anguiſh.

One evening, when Charlotte had company, Julia, whoſe ſpirits were deeply depreſſed, appeared uncommon⯑ly grave. Seymour thought ſhe looked ill, and wanted to place himſelf next her; but ſhe was ſurrounded by ladies, and he could not accompliſh his deſign; upon which he became impatient and tired, and when tea was over, went up to a young lady who was ſitting next Julia, and, after much ſolicitation, prevailed on her to play a leſſon on the piano forte. Charlotte well knew that Seymour had [194] no fondneſs for any but ſimple muſic; and that, when young ladies were called upon to exhibit their power of perform⯑ing what was difficult, he was ever rea⯑dy to exclaim, with Doctor Johnſon, "Would it had been impoſſible!" Charlotte, therefore, could give little credit to this ſudden change of taſte; for her heart told her, that he only wanted a pretence to place himſelf next Julia, and her jealouſy prompted her, while he was attending the lady to the piano forte, to go and fill her vacant ſeat. Alas, it is the peculiar curſe of jealouſy, that its watchful ſpirit is never lulled to repoſe! And the reaſon why "trifles, light as air, are, to the jealous, confirmation ſtrong as proofs of Holy Writ," is, that love inſtructs the heart to diſcern thoſe minute ſhades of conduct which paſs intirely unnoticed by others. It is often wounded by indifference. It is often ſtung by unkindneſs, while they lurk [195] under the uſual forms of behaviour, and are altogether hidden from common ob⯑ſervation.

Seymour, in a few moments, looked round, and ſaw that the young lady's chair was occupied by Charlotte; who aſked Julia ſome indifferent queſtions, in which ſhe clearly perceived that Charlotte's mind was not at all con⯑cerned, and diſcovered that the move⯑ment ſhe had made was merely the effect of jealouſy. When the leſſon was finiſh⯑ed, the young lady ſat down in another part of the room; and, Charlotte being obliged to move on the entrance of more company, Seymour placed himſelf by Julia, who determined to leave him the moment ſhe could do it without the ap⯑pearance of rudeneſs. In the mean time, a gentleman was explaining to a circle at a little diſtance, a curious piece of me⯑chaniſm he had juſt ſeen; in doing which he addreſſed himſelf particularly to Char⯑lotte, [169] who ſeemed attentive to what he ſaid, but, in reality, knew not one ſyllable of what was paſſing. She was liſtening at⯑tentively to Seymour, and heard a few indiſtinct words, which heightened her chagrin, as ſhe ſaw that Seymour's ſoul was abſorbed in the converſation, and fancied that Julia heard him with plea⯑ſure. A gentleman who was placed next to Charlotte, afterwards tried to engage her in converſation; but though ſhe was obliged to liſten, ſhe commanded her attention with infinite difficulty, her eyes often wandering involuntarily to that part of the room were Seymour and Julia were ſitting. She tried indeed to ſmile at ſuch parts of the converſation in which ſhe was engaged, as ſeemed to require it, while her heart was over⯑whelmed with deſpair. Her abſence of mind, however, was not remarked by this gentleman, who was a ſolemn ſort of perſon, that ſtudied his phraſes; came [197] into company prepared to ſay what were called, by courteſy, good things, which he always accompanied with ſome action that diſplayed his large dia⯑mond ring; and had no conception that human attention could be diverted to any other object while he was ſpeak⯑ing.

The ſubject of Seymour's converſa⯑tion with Julia was, the deſcription of a ſcene he had been contemplating in his ride that morning. This he deſcribed ſtrongly; and Julia, who delighted in every view of nature, could not hear him on ſuch a ſubject with diſpleaſure; ſeeing, however, Charlotte's eyes wan⯑dering towards them, the moment he ceaſed ſpeaking, ſhe roſe and joined her party. Charlotte ſpoke to her very drily; and Julia was ſo much hurt by this coldneſs, that tears ſtarted into her eyes; and, as ſoon as the carriage was an⯑nounced, ſhe hurried out of the houſe, [198] ready to exclaim, in the words of Shakeſpeare,

More than uſually depreſſed and wretched, it was ſome hours that night, after Julia went to bed, before ſhe could compoſe herſelf to reſt; and, when at length ſhe fell aſleep, her imagination was diſturbed by dreams of horror. Sometimes ſhe fancied herſelf wander⯑ing among fearful precipices, that over⯑hung a deep abyſs of waters, which roll⯑ed black and turbulent beneath; while on the edge of the higheſt cliff ſtood Charlotte, with her boſom uncovered, and her hair diſhevelled by the winds! Her face had loſt all its ſweetneſs; her eyes had a look of frenzy; and darting a [199] furious glance on Julia, ſhe accuſed her of having brought her to diſtrac⯑tion! Julia was going to reply, but ſhe ſobbed violently, and the agitation of her mind awaked her. She fell aſleep again; and fancied ſhe ſaw Seymour ſtretched upon the floor; his eyes cloſed, and his features diſtorted by death. She called to Charlotte for help.—Charlotte appeared—her face was pale, her eyes were languid, and ſhe tottered as ſhe walked. When ſhe came near ſhe gazed on the lifeleſs figure at her feet, with her hands claſped. In an agony of grief, ſhe knelt by the dead body, and kiſſed it a thouſand times: then turning mournfully to Julia, ſhe cried, "This is your doing, but I for⯑give you!" Julia ſprang forward to embrace her, and awoke. She deter⯑mined to avoid a repetition of theſe gloomy viſions, and aroſe earlier than uſual.

[200] Mr. Clifford went out as ſoon as breakfaſt was over, and Julia, who was much indiſpoſed, gave orders to admit no company; but when her uncle re⯑turned, Frederick Seymour, whom he had met in the ſtreet, was with him. "I have bought ſome drawings for you, Julia," ſaid Mr. Clifford, as he en⯑tered; "do, Seymour, ſhew them to her, while I ſpeak to the perſon who is waiting in the hall; I ſhall be back im⯑mediately." He then left the room. Julia turned pale at being left alone with Seymour. She was overwhelmed with the ſenſations of the paſt evening, and the impreſſion which the gloomy viſions of the night had left on her ima⯑gination: but ſhe endeavoured to aſ⯑ſume, though not with much ſucceſs, an appearance of tranquillity; and forced herſelf to talk of the drawings. Her re⯑marks, however, were not very acute; and Seymour, though a connoiſſeur in [201] drawing, diſplayed but a ſmall ſhare of critical judgment on this occaſion. One of the drawings was Thomſon's Lavinia. Julia made ſome obſervations on the picture; but Seymour now pre⯑ſerved a gloomy ſilence, which ſhe dreaded would end in ſome paſſionate exclamation, and therefore continued ſpeaking, though ſhe found it no eaſy taſk either to collect her ideas, or to ar⯑ticulate her words. "Thomſon," ſaid ſhe, "is, of all poets, to me the moſt ſoothing; and when I feel any vexation, a few pages of the Seaſons ſerve to calm my mind immediately." "Poetry has no ſuch effect on me," replied Sey⯑mour: "it only renders me more ſuſ⯑ceptible of miſery. Happy is the man who can imitate the wiſdom of Chartres, who ſeeks for ſolace in mathematics inſtead of belles lettres, and employs his underſtanding, while his feelings are at reſt."

[202] One of the engravings was the picture of Charlotte at Werter's tomb. Julia, on ſeeing it, laid it haſtily aſide, and was go⯑ing to examine another print: "Do let me look at the tomb of Werter," ſaid Seymour. "I think it is ill executed," replied Julia. "You will at leaſt allow that the ſubject is intereſting," he re⯑joined. Julia was ſilent. "Are you of a different opinion?" ſaid Seymour. "I think there can be but one opinion of that book," replied Julia: "every one muſt acknowledge that it is well written, but few will juſtify its princi⯑ples." "I am one of thoſe few," re⯑plied Seymour. "I am ſorry for it," anſwered Julia; "but we will talk no more about it, for I do not wiſh to like it better." "But one word," ſaid Sey⯑mour, "and I have done. People talk of the bad tendency of this book, and blame the author for blending virtue and vice in the ſame character, becauſe [203] the example is dangerous. Does any perſon, when pleaſed with a book, im⯑mediately determine to imitate the hero of it in every particular? and has not the Author of our being blended virtue and vice in the great book of na⯑ture? Why does Werter intereſt us? Becauſe he is not a phoenix of romance, but has the feelings and infirmities of man. He is ſubject to the power of paſ⯑ſion—let thoſe who never felt its influ⯑ence, condemn him; thoſe who have felt its influence, too well know that it is abſolute, that it is unconquerable. The heart that is bleeding with an incur⯑able wound, needs not the cold coun⯑ſels of reaſon, to be informed that ſuch feelings are painful, and ought to be ſubdued. It is already but too ſenſible of theſe truths; but it is alſo ſenſible, that its miſery is irretrieveable, that it mocks the vain efforts of pru⯑dence; and that, if peace depends upon indifference, it is a good which is unat⯑tainable, [204] which can never"—"I muſt interrupt you," ſaid Julia, in a falter⯑ing voice, "for I cannot ſtay any lon⯑ger." He did not attempt to detain her, but roſe in great agitation to open the door, and ſhe hurried away. She met Mr. Clifford in the hall. "You have ſtayed a long time, Sir," ſhe ſaid, with ſome difficulty. "I could not diſ⯑patch my buſineſs ſooner," he replied: "but you look very pale, Julia, are you well?" "Very well," ſaid ſhe, in a voice ſcarcely audible, and then haſtened to her room. "How cruel," thought ſhe, "is my ſituation! I make every effort to avoid him, yet am I continu⯑ally thrown in his way, and have no power to prevent it, without diſcover⯑ing to my uncle that fatal ſecret, which would for ever rob him of peace. What will become of me?—how ſhall I act?—where ſhall I fly?—alas, I ſee no end of my conflicts but in death! would [205] I were prepared to die!—Oh my deareſt, my ever lamented father! if your ſpirit ſtill hovers over your child, aſſiſt and guide her in theſe perplexi⯑ties.—Oh never, never will ſhe again enjoy thoſe days of ſweetneſs and tran⯑quillity, which were ſpent under your protecting care!—Yet Heaven, that ſees my heart, knows it is guiltleſs."

Julia dined that day at Frederick Sey⯑mour's, with a large company, Mr. Clif⯑ford being engaged with a party of gen⯑tlemen. After dinner, Julia found her⯑ſelf ſo ill, that when the ladies return⯑ed to the drawing-room, ſhe told Char⯑lotte that ſhe had a bad head-ach, and begged ſhe would allow her to go home. Charlotte no longer felt any wiſh to detain her; for, though they were ſtill obliged to paſs much of their time in each other's ſociety, reſtraint, perplexity, and uneaſineſs, had taken place of the tender intercourſe of affec⯑tion. [206] Theſe fair friends were like two roſes, which had once grown on the ſame ſtalk, but which ſome rude hand had torn aſunder; and though their leaves were ſtill mixed together in one noſegay, the tie, that formerly united their ſtems, was broken for ever.

Julia was anxious to depart before the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, and ſent immediately for a chair; but, at the moment a ſervant came to tell her a chair was ready, the gentle⯑men entered the room. Seymour, with a degree of perturbation which he could ill conceal, came up to her, and enquir⯑ed where ſhe was going: "I have the head-ach," ſhe replied, "and am going home." "Let me hand you to your chair," ſaid Seymour, following her out of the room. A few minutes after, a violent noiſe and confuſion were heard in the hall. Charlotte rang the bell, but it was not anſwered, and, the noiſe [207] ſtill increaſing, ſhe went to the door, where ſhe heard a number of voices, and a great tumult. She haſtened down ſtairs, accompanied by ſeveral gentle⯑men, and found that one of Julia's chairmen had fallen near Frederick Sey⯑mour's door: the chair was broken, and the glaſſes were ſhivered. When Char⯑lotte reached the hall, Seymour and the ſervants were taking Julia out of the chair: her forehead was cut with the broken glaſs, and bled violently. Char⯑lotte, as ſhe came towards her, caſt a glance at Seymour, and, from the de⯑ſpair viſible in his countenance, con⯑cluded that Julia was dying. She flew eagerly to her aſſiſtance, while Seymour, in a voice of horror, uttered words the moſt incoherent, and ſeemed deprived of his reaſon: but, in the general alarm and confuſion, the agonies of his mind were unobſerved by all but Charlotte; who, though much affected herſelf by Julia's [208] ſituation, could not perceive Seymour's violent agitation without an emotion the moſt painful. A ſurgeon was ſent for, who ſtopped the bleeding, and found that the wound was but a ſlight one. Charlotte intreated her couſin to remain all night at her houſe; but Julia aſſured her ſhe was well enough to re⯑turn home. Charlotte's carriage was immediately ordered, and, when it was ready, Frederick Seymour inſiſted upon attending Julia home: in vain ſhe de⯑clared, that ſhe was quite recovered, and that his going was intirely unneceſſary. Seymour perſiſted in his deſign, which Charlotte felt herſelf obliged to ſecond; though that look of diſtraction, and that voice of deſpair, to which the ac⯑cident gave riſe, were ſtill preſent to her mind.

Julia, in the way home, remarked to Seymour, "that it was fortunate his ſervants ſaw the accident, and came ſo [209] immediately to her aſſiſtance." "The only perſon who ſaw the accident," re⯑plied Seymour, "was myſelf. I was looking after your chair, and when I ſaw it fall, flew to the ſpot, and called to the ſervants to follow." Julia, after this information, thought it prudent to ſay no more on the ſubject. Seymour was ſtill in too great perturbation of mind to truſt himſelf to ſpeak; and they reached Mr. Clifford's houſe without uttering another word.

CHAP. XXXIII.

IN the midſt of many worldly ſchemes, which it would have required a length of years to accompliſh, Mrs. Melbourne was ſeized with a dangerous diſorder. Mrs. Seymour paid her a viſit of half an hour every day; but the re⯑mainder of the day was ſpent in ſoli⯑tude, which afforded no very comforta⯑ble reflections to her mind, the oppor⯑tunities of doing good which ſhe had neglected, being the ſubjects of her fre⯑quent meditation. How different is the opinion which we cheriſh of our⯑ſelves in the days of health, and when we feel the approaches of death! At the appearance of that king of terrors, the [211] deluſive miſt which ſelf-love throws around our vices and our weakneſſes, "melts into thin air," and the naked heart ſhrinks from its own obſerva⯑tion.

Mrs. Melbourne now became ſenſi⯑ble, that ſhe had not deſerved the bleſſ⯑ings of friendſhip, and ſhe found herſelf left to die without its conſolations. De⯑ſerted by every body, formal meſſages to enquire how ſhe did, were all the marks of ſympathy ſhe received; for ſhe had no friend to pay her thoſe tender offices, thoſe minute attentions, which ſmooth the bed of death, and which money cannot purchaſe of thoſe who are paid for their attendance on the dying. Her ſervants were more occupied by their own affairs than her ſufferings; and, being no longer able to exerciſe authority, ſhe was left entirely to their mercy. The perſon to whom ſhe was moſt obliged was Julia, who, when ſhe [212] found her deſolate and unhappy, viſited her every day, and adminiſtered all the comfort her feeling heart could give.

Mrs. Melbourne left her daughter a conſiderable addition of fortune; and Mr. Seymour, who had long been weary of thoſe civilities which decency obliged him to pay to the mother of his wife, and who was eager to ſeize on her property, heartily rejoiced in her death. Beſides, it was one of his opi⯑nions, that no woman ought to ſurvive the age of fifty; and he had often ſe⯑cretly blamed Mrs. Melbourne for be⯑ing guilty of ſo great an impropriety.

Charlotte's apprehenſions that the heart of Seymour was wholly devoted to another, had received the moſt cruel confirmation from his behaviour while he thought Julia's life in danger. Thrown entirely off his guard, by the ſurprize and horror which the accident occaſioned, he had diſplayed in thoſe [213] moments, to the watchful eyes of Char⯑lotte, the uncontrouled agonies of af⯑flicted tenderneſs, the diſtracted ſolici⯑tude of apprehenſive paſſion. His voice, his look, his frantic movements, being all treaſured in Charlotte's remem⯑brance, her coldneſs and reſtraint to⯑wards Julia daily increaſed, and gave the finiſhing ſtroke to the peace of that unfortunate young lady. To know ſhe was the cauſe of Charlotte's wretched⯑neſs, to ſee her heart alienated, to read reproach and anguiſh in her looks, which uſed to beam with affection and delight, was a ſpecies of miſery which the ſenſibility of Julia was unable to ſuſtain. Her frame was naturally deli⯑cate; and the uneaſineſs of her mind at length produced ſo great an alteration in her, that ſhe grew pale and thin, loſt her appetite, and her health ſenſibly declined.

[214] Charlotte's heart was too honeſt, and affectionate, to obſerve theſe ſymptoms of decay with unconcern. Julia never made the leaſt complaint, but Charlotte now diſcerned in her countenance the ſadneſs of her mind. She was con⯑ſcious ſhe had of late treated Julia with harſhneſs; and revolving in her mind every circumſtance of Julia's conduct, ſhe felt that ſhe had not merited this unkindneſs. She fancied ſhe ſaw her ſinking into the grave without complaint, and ſtruggling to conceal from every eye the anguiſh that preyed upon her heart. The warm and generous boſom of Charlotte was unable to ſupport theſe reflections: her jealouſy was ſof⯑tened; her ſuſpicions vaniſhed: ſhe thought only of Julia's virtues, and ſhe felt that nothing was dearer to her than Julia's friendſhip.

Mr. Clifford and Julia coming to dine at Frederick Seymour's, Charlotte [215] received her couſin with the tenderneſs of former days. At dinner Julia ſent away her plate when ſhe had ſcarcely eaten a morſel. Charlotte, who was watchful of her, and obſerved it, tried to perſuade her to eat ſomething more, which Julia declined. When the ſervants had left the room, "Indeed," ſaid Charlotte, with eagerneſs, "I can bear this no longer—I am ſure Julia is very ill, though ſhe does not complain. Yes, my deareſt Julia," added ſhe, burſt⯑ing into tears and ſobbing, "my firſt, my beloved friend, yes, you are ill, and I am miſerable!" Julia, equally aſtoniſhed and affected at this effuſion of tenderneſs, had no power to make any reply. She preſſed Charlotte's hand in her's; while Mr. Clifford inſiſted that a phyſician might be ſent for immedi⯑ately. Julia made all the oppoſition ſhe could, from a conſciouſneſs of the inability of medicine "to miniſter to a [216] mind diſeaſed;" but Mr. Clifford's fears were awakened, and he was not to be moved from his purpoſe. The phy⯑ſician was ſent for; but Julia found, in the returning tenderneſs of Charlotte, a cordial of more powerful efficacy than any which the art of medicine could ad⯑miniſter.

Seymour felt Charlotte endeared to him by the ſolicitude ſhe diſplayed for Julia. He ſaw his wife's excellence—was charmed with her generous affection, and endeavoured, by the moſt tender and unremitting attention, to convince her how highly he eſteemed her virtues. Charlotte's open and ingenuous heart was ſoothed by this conduct. She per⯑ceived that Seymour had the ſtrongeſt deſire to make her happy; and ſhe felt her former tenderneſs for Julia awaken⯑ed by the dread of loſing her. She could not endure the tormenting idea that her neglect or harſhneſs would [217] perhaps ſhorten the life of Julia; of the dear companion of her childhood, the beloved friend of her youth, the con⯑ſtant aſſociate of her joys and ſorrows. She behaved to her with her former kindneſs: Seymour carefully reſtrained his feelings; Julia grew better, and they lived for ſome weeks in great cordiality and friendſhip.

Mr. F [...] called at Mr. Clifford's one evening, and finding Charlotte and Julia ſitting at work, he deſired their permiſſion to read to them a poem, written by a friend lately arrived from France, and who, for ſome ſuppoſed of⯑fence againſt the ſtate, had been immur⯑ed ſeveral years in the Baſtille, but was at length liberated by the interference of a perſon in power. The horrors of his ſolitary dungeon were one night cheer⯑ed by the following prophetic dream.

CHAP. XXXIV.

WHEN Charlotte's hour of dan⯑ger approached, ſhe intreated Julia to come and ſtay at her houſe during her confinement. Julia was gra⯑tified by this mark of confidence, but excuſed herſelf from ſtaying in the houſe; promiſing, at the ſame time, to ſpend with Charlotte the greateſt part of every day.

Charlotte being delivered of a ſon, Seymour beheld his child with tranſport, and Mr. Clifford felt the birth of this infant a renewal of his own exiſtence. A few days after her lying-in, Charlotte was ſeized with ſome degree of fever; and Julia, terrified at her danger, no [225] longer heſitated to remain at the houſe; where ſhe ſcarcely quitted her bed-ſide for a moment, and attended her with un⯑remitting care. In a few days the diſ⯑order abated; and Julia was ſitting in Charlotte's room, ſoothed with the hope of her recovery, when ſhe received a meſſage, that a perſon below wiſhed to ſpeak to her. She went into the parlour, where ſhe found Frederick Seymour alone. He told her, that he had had, for ſome days paſt, a very oppreſſive pain in his head, and that he had that morn⯑ing felt himſelf ſo much diſordered, that he had made Charlotte's phyſician feel his pulſe. "He ſays," added Sey⯑mour, "that I have a conſiderable de⯑gree of fever, and has ordered me to go to bed immediately. I am terrified at the thoughts of alarming Charlotte; but I find myſelf ſo much indiſpoſed, that I muſt obey the doctor's direc⯑tions." Julia promiſed ſhe would en⯑deavour [226] to conceal his illneſs from Charlotte, at leaſt for that day, and then, in much anxiety, left the room.

The phyſician viſited Seymour again that evening, and found he was worſe. The next day Julia, who could no longer evade Charlotte's enquiries, or find any pretext for his abſence, was obliged to inform her of his illneſs, which ſhe did in the moſt cautious manner. Charlotte lamented her own confinement, and implored Julia to at⯑tend him, and ſee that no care was ne⯑glected. For ſome days his fever in⯑creaſed. He believed himſelf in danger, and intreated Julia not to enter his room, telling her that he knew his diſ⯑order was infectious, and that he trem⯑bled leſt ſhe ſhould ſuffer from her attendance on him." Julia replied, "that ſhe was not afraid of the conſe⯑quences, and that her duty to Char⯑lotte"— [227] her heart grew full, and ſhe pauſed.

The next morning the phyſician de⯑clared that his patient was better. Julia flew to give this joyful intelligence to Charlotte; who inſiſted upon being car⯑ried into his room, notwithſtanding Ju⯑lia's repreſentations of the danger at⯑tending it, in her preſent ſtate of weak⯑neſs; but Charlotte would not be diſ⯑ſuaded, and was ſupported into his room by her attendants. She threw her arms round his neck, and wept vio⯑lently. He was affected by her tender⯑neſs, and pèrhaps not leſs ſo from ob⯑ſerving that Julia wept too. "We ſhall be happy yet, my deareſt huſband," ſaid Charlotte, "and how ſhall we ever be grateful enough to Julia, for her care of us both?" "She has been our guar⯑dian angel," replied Seymour, with emotion.—"Indeed," ſaid Julia, "I muſt now uſe my authority as head-nurſe, [228] and inſiſt upon Charlotte's returning to her room; for I am convinced, this ſcene has already been too long for either of my patients." Charlotte ſtill clung to Seymour in an agony of ten⯑derneſs, and was with difficulty prevail⯑ed on to return to her own apartment; which ſhe at length did, attended by Julia.

As the phyſician had pronounced Seymour ſo much better, Julia did not think it neceſſary to viſit him again until the evening. Perhaps, if ſhe had followed the dictates of her heart, ſhe would have gone ſooner; but ſhe was too virtuous to do more on this occa⯑ſion than duty required. When ſhe went to his bed-ſide in the evening, and enquired how he did, ſhe was ſhocked by a remarkable change in the tone of his voice. His articulation was thick, and confuſed, and he ſpoke with a quickneſs quite different from his uſual [229] manner. He told her that he was much better, but Julia doubted it from the way in which he told her ſo. She waited anxiouſly, when the phyſician came, till he left his patient's room. "How is Mr. Seymour?" ſaid ſhe, eagerly. "I am concerned," anſwered the phyſician, "to tell you, that he is worſe." "Good God!" ſaid Julia, ſtart⯑ing, "I apprehended this—his voice is changed." "It is" ſaid the phyſician, "and the fever has increaſed moſt rapid⯑ly—You look very pale, Miſs Clifford, let me lead you to a chair." She burſt into tears—"Oh, how ſhall I tell Charlotte?" ſhe exclaimed. "I intreat you will not tell her, at preſent," ſaid the phyſician: "he muſt be kept per⯑fectly quiet: this night will probably determine the iſſue of his diſorder." "This night!" ſaid Julia, claſping her hands. "Do not tell Mrs. Seymour of this change in his diſorder, till to⯑morrow."— [230] "But if he ſhould die to-night?"—"That is not probable," ſaid the phyſician. Mr. Clifford en⯑tered the room, and the phyſician, after informing him of the unfavourable change in Seymour's diſorder, adviſed him earneſtly to conceal it from Char⯑lotte, at leaſt for ſome days, ſince, in her preſent ſtate of weakneſs, it might produce the worſt conſequences to her⯑ſelf.

When Julia returned to Seymour's apartment, ſhe found him delirious. "Oh, you are come again!" exclaimed he with quickneſs—"I thought you were gone for ever—I dreamt you had forſaken me—left me to die alone!—I had a horrible dream!—my head burns while I think of it—Charlotte looked fiercely on me!—Charlotte will never pardon—ſhe was gentle once, but now!"—he gave a deep ſigh—"Do not ſpeak, my [231] dear Mr. Seymour;" ſaid Julia, faint⯑ly.—"Dear!"—he repeated, in a low muttering tone—"Oh Julia! Ju⯑lia!—if I am dear—I charge you mark the ſpot where I am buried!—mark where they lay me—never, never forget it!—and let it be your grave—it will be no crime, Julia!—Tell me if it will be a crime."—Julia left his bed-ſide to wipe away her tears.—"Where is ſhe? where is ſhe?" ſaid Seymour, in a hurried manner, to the nurſe.—"Do you want Miſs Clif⯑ford, Sir?" ſhe enquired.—"Miſs Clifford," he repeated.—"She will be here, Sir, directly."—"Oh bleſs her! Merciful Heaven, bleſs her!—If I could pray, my laſt prayer ſhould—But don't tell Charlotte—poor Char⯑lotte! no, no—I dare not pray for Charlotte!"

Mr. Clifford and Julia ſat by his bed-ſide all night. He continued talking [232] at intervals with the wildeſt incohe⯑rence; ſometimes raving of Julia, then fancying he was kneeling to Charlotte for pardon, and calling to his infant to plead for him. Mr. Clifford conſidered all he ſaid as the inexplicable wander⯑ings of frenzy; but Julia, who well underſtood their force, liſtened to them with unutterable agony.

The next morning his pulſe grew much weaker, and a few hours before his death the delirium ceaſed. He call⯑ed Mr. Clifford to his bed-ſide, took hold of his hand, which he affectionate⯑ly preſſed, and thanked him fervently for all his paſt goodneſs to him—He then enquired if Charlotte was inform⯑ed of his danger.—Mr. Clifford told him that the phyſician had declared it would be riſquing her life, to acquaint her with his ſituation. "Oh, no!" cried Seymour, "let her be ſpared a ſcene of parting—but tell her—ſince I [233] ſhall never ſee my wife and child again!—tell her, that my affection, my eſteem for her virtues."—His voice faltered, and he was unable to proceed. Mr. Clifford, in great emotion, left the room; and Seymour deſired the nurſe to let Miſs Clifford know he wiſhed to ſpeak to her.

When Julia came into the room, he begged ſhe would order the attendants to leave it. He then ſaid, in a faint voice, "I have ſolicited this laſt inter⯑view, my dear Miſs Clifford, that I may obtain your forgiveneſs, and may die in peace. Oh, Julia, forgive me all that is paſt—pardon the uneaſineſs my conduct has given you—Oh, tell me, while I yet live to hear it, that you for⯑give me!—the atonement of my errors will ſoon be made!—a few hours." His voice became choaked by his riſing emo⯑tion; and her hand, which he held in his, was bathed with his tears. She mixed her tears with his—ſhe aſſured him, in [234] broken accents, that her heart would ever cheriſh his memory with eſteem and regret. He then directed her where to find the key of his ſcrutore, telling her it contained ſome things which he wiſhed to reſtore to herſelf, that her feelings might not be wound⯑ed by thoſe memorials being expoſed to other eyes. Julia unlocked his ſcru⯑tore, and found her loſt glove, toge⯑ther with ſome verſes and notes, in her own hand-writing, which he had pre⯑ſerved on that account. He deſired to ſee thoſe treaſures once more. He took them eagerly from her, preſſed them to his boſom, his lips, and de⯑clared he would only have parted with them in death. Then growing fainter from theſe exertions, and ſeeing her violently affected, he ſaid, with much emotion, "Let not this ſcene, I con⯑jure you, make too deep an impreſſion on your feeling heart. Oh, if my re⯑membrance [235] will embitter your peace, think of me no more!—Have I deſired you to think of me no more?—alas, Julia, my heart aſſents not to that re⯑queſt! Oh, no! my heart refuſes to be forgotten by you—let me be ſometimes recalled to your mind, and when the grave ſhall hide me for ever from your ſight, think not of me with reſent⯑ment." "Alas," ſaid Julia, in a fal⯑tering voice, "is not the anguiſh with which I am overwhelmed at this mo⯑ment, a proof that my reſentment is paſt, and that all that remains is the bitterneſs of ſorrow?" "I hope," ſaid Seymour, after a pauſe of ſome mi⯑nutes, "I hope Charlotte will find comfort in your friendſhip. Poor Charlotte! I fear ſhe has of late been unhappy; ſhe, who is ſo deſerving of felicity—Oh, it is fit I ſhould die, who only lived to embitter the lives of thoſe to whom my ſoul is moſt de⯑voted— [236] Comfort my poor Charlotte, deareſt Miſs Clifford, and aſſure her that my affection for her was active even in death." He now became ſtill fainter. "Oh," cried he, in a low in⯑diſtinct voice, "how often have I wiſhed to die in your preſence!—how often have I deſired that you might be near me when I yielded my laſt breath; that your regret might ſoften my lateſt moments—that you might be the laſt object my eyes beheld!—Oh, ſpeak to me, Julia, ſpeak, and let me hear your voice once more!" She tried to ſpeak, but ſhe had loſt the power of ut⯑terance. She gave him her hand—he preſſed it to his lips—ſhe lifted up her eyes, and perceived he had fainted. She roſe with ſome difficulty, and rang the bell for the attendants: he reco⯑vered from the fainting, but ſoon after became ſpeechleſs. Mr. Clifford and Julia knelt by his bed-ſide, and he held [237] her hand graſped in his.—Oh, is there any ſorrow like that which we feel, when hanging over the bed of our dy⯑ing friend?—when we know there is no hope; when we are certain that a few minutes muſt tear them from us for ever!—when we bathe their ſtiffening hands with unavailing tears, and ſee them ſuffering pains beyond the reach of human aid; and when, at laſt, we lift our eyes to Heaven, not in the bleſſed hope of their recovery, but only to implore that the lateſt ſtruggles may be alleviated, that their pangs may be ſhort.

When Seymour's eyes were cloſed, he ſtill continued to graſp Julia's hand, and in a ſhort time expired.

Such was the fate of this unfortunate young man, who fell the victim of that fatal paſſion, which he at firſt unhap⯑pily indulged, and which he was at length unable to ſubdue. The conflicts [238] of his mind, by inſenſibly weakening his frame, gave greater power to his diſorder, and thus probably ſhortened the life they had embittered.

Let thoſe who poſſeſs the talents, or the virtues, by which he was diſtinguiſh⯑ed, avoid ſimilar wretchedneſs, by guarding their minds againſt the influ⯑ence of paſſion; ſince, if it be once ſuf⯑fered to acquire an undue aſcendency over reaſon, we ſhall in vain attempt to controul its power: we might as ſoon arreſt the winds in their violence, or ſtop the torrent in its courſe. It is too late to rear the mounds of defence when the impetuous flood rages in its ſtrength, and overthrows all oppoſition. With a frame labouring under diſeaſe, we may recall, with regret, the bliſsful hours of health; but have no power to new ſtring the nerves, or ſhake off the malady that loads the ſprings of life. Alas! the diſtempered heart, when it [239] has ſuffered the diſorders of paſſion to gain ſtrength, can find no balſam in nature to heal their malignancy; no remedy but death. In vain we may la⯑ment the loſs of our tranquillity; for peace, like the wandering dove, has for⯑ſaken its habitation in the boſom, and will return no more.

Julia, ſo far as ſhe had indulged any ſenſibility to Seymour's attachment, was proportionably wretched. Women have even greater reaſon than men to fortify their hearts againſt thoſe ſtrong affections, which, when not regulated by diſcretion, plunge in aggravated mi⯑ſery that ſex, who, to uſe the words of an elegant and amiable writer^*, "can⯑not plunge into buſineſs, or diſſipate themſelves in pleaſure and riot, as men too often do, when under the preſſure of misfortunes; but muſt bear their ſor⯑rows [240] in ſilence, unknown and unpitied; muſt often put on a face of ſerenity and chearfulneſs, when their hearts are torn with anguiſh, or ſinking in deſpair." Though a woman with rectitude of principle, will reſolutely combat thoſe feelings which her reaſon condemns; yet, if they have been ſuffered to ac⯑quire force, the ſtruggle often proves too ſevere for the delicacy of the fe⯑male frame; and, though reaſon, vir⯑tue, and piety, may ſuſtain the con⯑flict with the heart, life is frequently the atonement of its weakneſs.

Julia, when ſhe ſaw that Seymour was dead, fixed her eyes on his corpſe: ſhe ſhuddered, ſhe groaned deeply, but uttered not a word. From this dread⯑ful ſtupor ſhe was rouſed by a meſſage from Charlotte, who ſuſpected, from the anxiety viſible in the countenances of her attendants, that Seymour was worſe; and Julia's looks confirmed all her appre⯑henſions. [241] She enquired eagerly for her huſband: Julia ſpoke, but her words were incoherent, and only half-pronounced. Charlotte, every moment more alarmed, became ſo poſitive in her determination to be again carried into his apartment, that Julia was ob⯑liged to acknowledge that his fever was increaſed; and when this only made Charlotte more earneſt in her deſire to ſee him, Mr. Clifford was forced to give her the fatal information that Seymour was no more.

Charlotte lamented him with all the violence of unreſtrained affliction, and a thouſand times reproached her fa⯑ther and Julia for having concealed his danger, and denied her the melancholy conſolation of attending him in his laſt moments. The ſhock ſhe had ſuſ⯑tained long retarded her recovery; but at length ſhe regained her health, and found comfort in her infant, whom ſhe [242] nurſed herſelf, and in whom ſhe cen⯑tered all her hopes and affections. Af⯑ter ſome time, ſhe returned to her fa⯑ther's houſe, where ſhe and Julia lived in the moſt perfect friendſhip.

Mrs. Meynell, on the departure of her huſband for India, was received in⯑to Mr. Clifford's family, where ſhe was treated with every mark of reſpect and kindneſs. Captain Meynell, a few years after, died in India; and the fortune he had acquired was tranſmitted to his wife, who ſtill continued to live in Mr. Clifford's family.

Mr. Seymour, diſappointed in his deſigns on Mrs. Meynell, purſued other objects of pleaſure, and formed new ſchemes of ambition; but neither am⯑bition, nor pleaſure, could confer feli⯑city on a mind which was harraſſed by impetuous paſſions, and unſupported by conſcious integrity.

Mrs. Seymour perceiving, in a few [243] years, that the bloom of youth was fled, endeavoured to ſupply the deficiency with an additional quantity of rouge; devoting more hours than formerly to the duties of the toilet, and pathetical⯑ly lamenting, in ſecret ſoliloquies, the inhuman ravages of time.

Mr. Chartres, by his own diligence, and the aſſiſtance of powerful friends, was ſoon enabled to ſend conſiderable remittances to his mother; who re⯑moved to a houſe, where the drawing⯑room held her card-tables with more convenience, and diſcharged Thomas for a faſhionable domeſtic.

Mr. F [...] ſpent moſt of his time at Mr. Clifford's houſe, remaining un⯑married, and preferring Julia's friend⯑ſhip to an union with Miſs Tomkins; who alſo continued ſingle, and ſuffered the moſt ſevere mortification from the failure of her ſchemes on Mr. F [...]. Still, however, ſhe continued to impoſe [244] an artificial character upon the world; uniting, with the miſerable triumphs of deceit, the comfortleſs ſenſations of ſelfiſhneſs.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Seymour lived together on the moſt faſhionable terms; too careleſs to regard decorum, and too indifferent to feel jealouſy.

The eldeſt Miſs C [...] remained ſin⯑gle, and, whenever ſhe heard of a ſplen⯑did marriage, longed to forbid the banns.

The dying image of Seymour was long preſent to Julia's imagination, and the parting words he had uttered were engraven on her heart. When the all⯑ſubduing influence of time had ſoothed her ſorrows into greater tranquillity, ſhe found conſolation in the duties of religion, the exerciſe of benevolence, and the ſociety of perſons of under⯑ſtanding and merit. To ſuch people her acquaintance was highly valuable, [245] and ſhe lived admired, reſpected, and beloved. She refuſed many honourable offers of marriage, and devoted much of her time to the improvement of Sey⯑mour's child, whom ſhe loved with the moſt partial fondneſs. But the idea of its father ſtill continued, at times, to em⯑bitter the ſatisfaction of her life; which, but for that one unconquered weakneſs, would have been, above the common lot, fortunate and happy.