[]HENRY.

CHAPTER I. The Author appeals to his Readers.

I SHALL now put in a few words, whilſt my hiſtory pauſes, touching what I claim from my readers, as a right, and what I hope and expect from them, as a favour.

My claim is briefly this, credit in all caſes for an honeſt meaning, or in other words, the beſt ſenſe that a doubtful paſſage will bear: it is thus I have treated others, the ſame treat⯑ment I have a right now to claim from them.

On the ſcore of favour I am their ſuitor in the humbleſt ſenſe, for I ſee ſo many imper⯑fections ſtarting up in my performance, which I cannot cure, and ſuſpect there may be ſo many more, which poſſibly I ſhall not diſcover, that I have no notion of ſending my ſins into the world without one apology; I am not hardy enough to give in the account between my readers and myſelf, without the uſual ſalvo of er⯑rors [2] excepted.—‘"Take Nature for your guide,"’ ſays the critic; ‘"follow her and you can't go wrong."’ True, moſt ſagacious critic, I reply; but what is ſo difficult? Does the tragic poet always find her out? Does the comic writer never miſs her haunts? Yet they profeſs to paint from nature, and no doubt they do their beſt: the outline may be true, but the leaſt ſlip in filling it up mars the por⯑trait; it demands a ſteady hand, a faithful eye, a watchful judgment, to make the like⯑neſs perfect; and grant it perfect, the author's work will gain no praiſe, unleſs it be pleaſing alſo; for who opens a novel but in the ex⯑pectation of being amuſed by it?

‘"Let it be merry,"’ ſays one, ‘"for I love to laugh."’—‘"Let it be pathetic,"’ ſays a ſecond, ‘"for I have no objection to the melancholy tale that makes me weep;"’—‘"Let your characters be ſtrongly marked,"’ cries a third, ‘"your fable well imagined, and work it up with a variety of new and ſtriking incidents, for I like to have my attention kept alive."’—Theſe and a hundred more are the demands, which one poor brain is to ſatisfy in a work of fancy; wit, humour, cha⯑racter, invention, genius, are to be ſet to work together, fiction is to be combined with pro⯑bability, [3] novelty with nature, ridicule with good-humour, paſſion with morality, and pain with pleaſure; every thing is to be natural, yet nothing common; animating, but not in⯑flammatory; intereſting, but not incredible; in ſhort, there muſt be every thing that judg⯑ment can plan and genius execute, to make the compoſition perfect: no man has done all this, and he, who has done moſt towards it, has ſtill fallen very ſhort of the whole.

With all this conſciouſneſs about me, I yet do not deſpair but that the candid reader will find ſomething in this fable to overbalance its miſcarriages. I ſhall proceed as one, who knows his danger, but is not diſcouraged from his duty. Theſe children of my fancy, whom I have brought into exiſtence, I ſhall treat as they deſerve, dealing out their portions of ho⯑nour and diſhonour as their conduct ſeems to call for it; and though ſome amongſt them will probably perſiſt in acting an evil part to the laſt, yet collectively they will leave no evil leſſon behind them.

As to our hero, if he has been ſo fortunate as to gain an intereſt in the good opinion of the reader in this period of his hiſtory, I am bold to hope he will not forfeit it in the ſuc⯑ceeding [4] occurrences of his life, but that he ſhall preſerve a conſiſtent character to the end; that ſo, when his part is finiſhed, be it happy or unhappy, he may earn a plaudit as the cur⯑tain drops.

I do not aim to draw a perfect character, for after a pretty long acquaintance with man⯑kind I have never met with any one example of the ſort: how then ſhall I deſcribe what I have not ſeen? On the contrary, if I wiſh to form a character, like this of Henry, in which virtue predominates, or like that of Blachford, where the oppoſite qualities prevail, I have nature before me in both caſes: but if in the former inſtance I will not ſuffer a ſingle ſhade to fall upon my canvas, and in the latter do not let one tint of light appear, what do I preſent to the ſpectator, but a confuſed and ſhapeleſs maſs, here too glaring, and there too opaque, to preſerve any outline that can give to view the form and faſhion of a man?—The brighteſt ſide of human nature is not without a ſpot, the darkeſt ſide is not without a ſpark.

For my own part, as I am not apt to be amuſed with ſtories told to the diſcredit of mankind, I ſhould be ſorry if this of mine ap⯑peared to any of my readers to have that [5] tendency in the general. A contraſt of cha⯑racter there will be in all hiſtories, true or feigned; but when an author is the biographer of men and women of his own making, he has it in his power, without loſing ſight of na⯑ture, to let the prevailing impreſſion of his fable be favourable or unfavourable, and in⯑dulge his own propenſities to a certain degree, which ever way they point. Now I know not why we ſhould ſtudiouſly put forward none but the worſt features of the time we live in; yet I think this has been done by ſome no⯑veliſts of great celebrity, in whom there reigns a ſpirit of ſatire, that in my opinion neither adds to their merit nor our amuſement. A pedant, who ſecludes himſelf from ſociety, may nouriſh a cynical humour; but a writer, who gives the living manners of the age, is ſuppoſed to live amongſt men, and write from the crowd rather than the cloſet; now if ſuch a man runs about from place to place with no cleanlier purpoſe than to ſearch for filth and ordure, I conceive his office to be that of a ſcavenger rather than a ſcholar. An honeſt man, as I take it, will always find honeſty enough, and a friendly man meet friendſhip enough in his contemporaries, to keep him in [6] good-humour with them. Something indeed may be found to reprehend in all times; as the manners and the morals fluctuate, the mirror that reflects them faithfully will give to objects as they paſs their proper form and feature. In the time I am now writing, the national character ſhews itſelf in ſo bright a point of view, that the author muſt be harſh in the ex⯑treme, who holds up fictions of depravity as exemplars of the aera in which he lives.

I think I may promiſe myſelf, therefore, that the general ſpirit of my hiſtory will not be thought moroſe. I have, indeed, taken occa⯑ſion, in the character of Jemima Cawdle, to make free with enthuſiaſm; but I have at the ſame time exhibited it in contact with a virtu⯑ous principle, under the auſpices of my wor⯑thy friend Ezekiel Daw: I have deſcribed a domeſtic tyrant in the perſon of Lord Crow⯑bery; but I did not give him a title becauſe I thought that pride was attached to a peerage, or that the cruel and overbearing part which my fable aſſigns to him, was characteriſtic of nobility, the very contrary of which I hold for doctrine; neither did I locate Blachford in Jamaica, as favouring an invective againſt our countrymen in the Weſt Indies; no man, I [7] believe, can be found leſs inclined to be a con⯑vert to that groundleſs prejudice, which vain and ſhallow heads have been hatching for pur⯑poſes no leſs fatal to the intereſts of the public than to the reputations of individuals.

To repreſent ſcenes of familiar life in an elegant and intereſting manner, is one of the moſt difficult taſks an author can take in hand; for of theſe every man is a critic: Nature is in the firſt place to be attended to, and probabi⯑lity is not to be loſt ſight of; but it muſt be nature ſtrongly featured, and probability cloſely bordering on the marvellous; the one muſt touch upon extravagance, and the other be highly ſeaſoned with adventures—for who will thank us for a dull and lifeleſs journal of in⯑ſipid facts? Now every peculiarity of humour in the human character is a ſtrain upon nature, and every ſurprizing incident is a degree of violence to probability: How far ſhall we go then for our reader's amuſement, how ſoon ſhall we ſtop in conſideration of ourſelves? There is undoubtedly a land-mark in the fields of fancy, ſunt certi denique fines, but it re⯑quires a nice diſcernment to find them out, and a cautious temper not to ſtep beyond them.

[8]Here, then, I will reſt my cauſe, and conclude my chapter. My readers have my beſt endeavours to amuſe them; I have de⯑voted very many hours to the compoſition of theſe volumes, and I am beholden to them for beguiling me of many a care; if they retain their property when they ſhall paſs into the hands of thoſe who peruſe them, it will be every thing I can hope for from them.

CHAPTER II. Chamber Dialogues of different Sorts.

WHEN our hero arrived at Zachary's caſ⯑tle, he found a poſt-chaiſe in waiting at the gate: As he paſſed it to enter the court, he made a profound reverence to a lady, whom at firſt ſight he ſuppoſed to be his noble benefac⯑treſs and the owner of it. Upon the glaſs being let down, to return his civility, he per⯑ceived his miſtake: It was Iſabella Manſtock: She had accompanied her couſin in her morn⯑ing airing, and was now filling up the time with a book, whilſt her ladyſhip was in private conference with Doctor Cawdle. That lady had imparted ſo much of her buſineſs to Miſs [9] Manſtock as ſufficed to inform her ſhe was upon a very intereſting diſcovery as to the iden⯑tity of a young man who had belonged to her deceaſed friend Ratcliffe, and whom ſhe ex⯑pected to meet that morning at the Doctor's. Of Henry's adventure with the Miller, and what had paſſed in conſequence of it, that young lady was fully appriſed; the ſtory had been told to Sir Roger in her hearing over night, and more circumſtantially detailed by Lady Crowbery as ſhe came with her in the chaiſe. When ſhe ſaw, therefore, a young man in mourning, whoſe appearance anſwered to the deſcription ſhe had had of him, ſhe was in no doubt of his being the perſon in queſtion: Curioſity led her to ſurvey him with ſome at⯑tention; and when ſhe perceived him, after ſtopping for ſome little time at the gate, turn back without entering it, (for the ſight of Lady Crowbery's equipage made him doubt of the propriety of his viſit) ſhe took courage to accoſt him, ſaying—‘"If your name is Henry, Sir, I believe you are expected within doors."’—‘"That is my name, Madam,"’ he replied very reſpectfully; ‘"and I am much beholden to you;"’ upon this he turned back, and entered through the ſhop to the offices.

[10]In the kitchen he was encountered by old Bridget, who, after daring at him for ſome time with aſtoniſhment, no ſooner recognized his perſon, thus newly habited, than ſhe began a ſtring of queſtions, huddled together with ſo little order, and ſo much eagerneſs, that he fairly excuſed himſelf the trouble of replying to any one of them, by deſiring ſhe would let her maſter know that he attended his pleaſure.—‘"Hold there!"’ cried Bridget, ‘"maſter is engag'd."’—‘"I know how he is engag'd,"’ replied Henry, ‘"but I fancy he will ſee me."’—‘"Say you ſo?"’ quoth the hag, ‘"then 'tis clear from what quarter your fortune comes: Ifackins! you're a rare one! Some folks have the luck of it, that's for certain: times are well chang'd with you, youngſter, ſince you firſt enter'd theſe doors; no won⯑der you was in ſuch haſte to leave us; fine cloaths and an eaſy ſervice ſuit you better than hard work and a coarſe jacket!"’—She then ran on with more of the like traſh, with ſeveral ſly glances at Lady Crowbery, till Henry again reminded her of going up to her maſter—‘"Well, well!"’ replied ſhe, ‘"have a little patience, my fine ſpark, and recollect it is not yet my place to go on [11] your errands at the word of command: though my lady has thought fit to dreſs you out like a gentleman, ſhe has not hir'd me to be your meſſenger: However, I ſhall tell my maſter you are here. Sit down upon that bench; time was when you would have thank'd me for the offer: when you are call'd for I'll let you know."’

Thus muttering to herſelf, ſhe mounted the ſtairs; but inſtead of going into Zachary's room, went ſtrait to her miſtreſs, eager to broach the news ſhe was charged with, and well prepared to ſet it off with every proper comment and illuſtration, ſuited to her own envious temper and the hearer's taſte.

‘"Here's news to tell the King!"’ cried the hag, as ſhe hobbled into Jemima's chamber: ‘"As ſure as you are in that place alive, Miſtreſs, wou'd you think it? there's Harry, our errand-boy, now in the houſe, ſpruc'd out as fine as any lord in the land. If he was heir to the greateſt ſquire in the coun⯑ty he cou'dn't be in handſomer mourning; ſpick and ſpan new from top to toe, and all of the beſt!"’—‘"What do you tell me?"’ exclaim'd Jemima, ‘"how has all this hap⯑pen'd?’—‘"How has it happen'd!"’ repeated [12] Bridget; ‘"why, as it always happens to ſuch vapouring Jacks, by a ſmooth tongue and a handſome face; the poor and homely may go ſtarve for ſome folks; young and per⯑ſonable beggars pick up all the charity: mar⯑ry commend me to ſuch charity, it may well be ſaid to cover the multitude of ſins! As if it cou'd be a queſtion, how he came by his clothes, when there is a certain great lady cloſe cloſetted with maſter, who is waiting to ſee him in all his glory, and I warrant you upon thorns till I tell her he is come; but I won't tell her, not I, at leaſt till I have your orders for it I won't: for why? I am no ſer⯑vant of her's, I'm no putter-together of peo⯑ple that don't pay me for it: why ſhould I ſkip of his errands? I wiſh to my heart, miſ⯑treſs, you cou'd only ſee with your own eyes how the lad is chang'd ſince he ſlipp'd his ſkin: Then he carries him in ſuch a way; he is as vain as a peacock: I proteſt to you I did not know him when he ſtept into the kitchen: Sir, ſaid I, with a curteſy, what is your pleaſure? for I thought he was ſome fine gentleman that might have cuſtom for my maſter.—Bridget! cries he, go up to your maſter, and tell him I am here.—Marry come up! my [13] dirty companion, quoth I, (for his tongue betray'd him, and by this time I had ſpied him out) who'll be the fool then? My maſter's employ'd with your betters. Let him be em⯑ploy'd with whom he will, quoth he, I ſhall be welcome, ſo tell him what I bid you. With that I thought of the old proverb, ‘"Set a beggar on horſeback,"’ and will'd him to re⯑flect on what he was before he preſum'd to ſend me on his meſſages: Yet I was minded to tell you what was going on, ſo I came ne⯑vertheleſs; and now, if you pleaſe, I will go back and let him know I'm not the perſon he takes me for, to fetch and carry at his com⯑mand; for my part, I am out of all patience with ſuch upſtarts."’

‘"Hold, Bridget,"’ replied Jemima, ‘"up⯑on reflection I think it beſt you ſhould let him come up; for 'tis clear to me from what point this wind blows; and though I don't ap⯑prove of my houſe being made a houſe of aſ⯑ſignation, yet by indulging them in this one meeting we may get to the bottom of the plot, if we can but contrive to overhear their cabal. So this is your fine charitable Lady Crowbery, whom every body is praiſing for her good works! rare works, o'my conſcience! excellent [14] charity! that ſingles out the handſomeſt young fellow in the world for its object, and then thinks to throw duſt in our eyes by pretending to befriend him out of pure pity and good will! Ah Bridget, Bridget! what a world is this we live in! How often have I preached to you upon the vanity of works! Let us have faith and grace, and it matters little what we do, or what we omit to do. For my part, I always ſuſpect your charitable people; and as for her ladyſhip here at hand, 'tis pretty clear what complexion her charity is of: how⯑ever, let her have her way for this turn, let her have-her ſwing of charity, and enjoy the fruits of her good works; but be ſure to put your ear to the key-hole, and diſcover if you can what is going on, for all means are fair to bring to light the dark deeds of the wicked."’

Whilſt this was paſſing with Jemima and her maid, Lady Crowbery and the Doctor had been in cloſe and earneſt conſultation on the ſub⯑ject of the diſcovery now ſo fully aſcertained. When ſhe had given way to thoſe tender emotions, which Nature exacts from the ſenſi⯑bility of a parent under circumſtances ſo criti⯑cal, ſhe roſe from her chair, and having taken two or three turns acroſs the room, as if for [15] recollection's ſake and to compoſe her ſpirits, reſumed her ſeat, and laying her hand upon the Doctor's arm, as he reſted it on the elbow of his chair: ‘"My good friend,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"what ſhall I do in this perplexity? Dare I commit myſelf at once to the diſcretion of this young man, and truſt him with the ſecret of his birth? Alas! I dare not make the diſco⯑very to him: the terror I ſhould ſuffer, left the ſecret ſhould eſcape him and reach my lord, would be inſupportable; you know his temper too well not to ſee how compleatly ruined I ſhould be in ſuch an event: indeed I cannot even gueſs at the conſequences; only this I am aſſured of, they would be moſt dreadful."’

‘"Truly,"’ replied Zachary, ‘"I cannot ad⯑viſe your ladyſhip to ſuch a ſtep at preſent, al⯑though I think very highly of the young per⯑ſon's diſcretion, and can well believe how much you muſt wiſh to give a looſe to thoſe feelings ſo natural to a parent for an only child, and one ſo well-deſerving of your love; but the ſuddenneſs of the diſcovery, and the agitations of a youthful ſpirit, taken by ſur⯑prize in a matter of ſuch conſequence, might overpower his prudence for the moment, and [16] drive him upon a diſcovery of the ſecret with⯑out any intention of betraying it."’

‘"'Tis exactly that which I ſtand in dread of,"’ replied the lady; ‘"you ſtate the caſe cor⯑rectly as I feel it, and thoſe feelings, which I have never ventured to confide to any body but yourſelf, would be ſo hard to ſuppreſs, were the object of them here preſent, that I am almoſt afraid of indulging myſelf with an interview. Yet again, when I conſider how long I have been in the practice of ſuppreſſing what I feel, I think I may riſque the meeting. He is not entirely new to my ſight, and if my ſpirits ſhould be too much agitated by what paſſes, you will take meaſures for bringing me to my recollection, and preventing conſe⯑quences that may be dangerous to us both; this you can paſs off to the ſcore of indiſpoſi⯑tion, and diſmiſs him when you ſee occaſion: but if I can command myſelf ſo far as to en⯑ter into converſation with him naturally, and without hazarding too much, you will leave me to make my own way with him in ſuch a manner, as may enable me to gain ſome in⯑ſight into his character and underſtanding. As for his perſon, I told you how ſtriking the impreſſion was that it made upon me, not [17] only from its abſolute but relative beauty, as bringing to my memory the very image of a father, who was, in my eyes at leaſt, the model of perfection. Alas! the traces of that fa⯑tally-beloved form are too deeply imprinted on my heart ever to be effaced by time; and if it was a crime to love, and be undone by loving him too well, ſurely my ſufferings have been ſuch as fully to atone for my improvident offence. To purchaſe pardon of a father, I conſented to his wiſhes by marrying Lord Crowbery: How dreadful was that ſacrifice! I had no heart to beſtow; that was gone with him, from whom I was ſeparated as far as ſea and land and obſtacles inſurmountable could divide us from each other, without a hope of ever meeting more on this ſide death. What has been his fate Heaven only knows! mine has been ſorrowful enough, and what to other married women would be an irkſome reflec⯑tion, is to me my only conſolation—I have never borne children to Lord Crowbery. At the ſame time, I am ſenſible how much this circumſtance contributes to embitter our do⯑meſtic peace, and aggravate that ill-humour, which my unwearied efforts cannot ſoothe. Alas! how ſhould they? He is quick enough to diſcern that the attentions I pay him, and [18] the patience I exert, have no connection with the heart; that they are artificial virtues, be⯑come familiar by practice; and that I am in⯑debted to indifference only for the facility with which I perform them. If then I am thus expoſed to his ill-humour for acting the part of a dutiful and obedient wife without the af⯑fections of one, what would be my fate ſhould he diſcover me to have impoſed upon him in a matter more derogatory to his honour, and for which no plea or extenuation could avail me? I tremble at the reflection: wonder not, therefore, if my terrors prevail over the long⯑ings of a mother's heart, and compel me to uſe the language of caution, whilſt my boſom glows with all the ardour of affection."’

Whilſt Lady Crowbery was thus diſcourſing, Henry had arrived, and being now announced by Bridget, order was given for his immediate admiſſion.

CHAPTER III. Nature will have her Way.

HENRY now entered the room, dreſſed, as we have before obſerved, in mourning for his departed friend, and with all that mo⯑deſt [19] grace, which was natural to him, ad⯑vanced a few ſteps from the door, and then ſtopt ſhort, as one that waits in humble ſilence to be ſpoken to.

The Doctor was ſeated in his ſick chair; the lady oppoſite to him and in full front of the intereſting object that now ſtood before her: It was a trying moment; ſhe glanced a look upon him that would have told him where to find a mother, had he met her eyes. All the advantages of perſon were now re⯑ſtored to him by change of dreſs; but there were other circumſtances ſtill more attractive, that made this ſecond interview peculiarly im⯑preſſive; what was at firſt pre-ſentiment was now become a certainty; the conſciouſneſs that ſhe was actually in preſence of a new-diſcovered unacknowledged ſon, ſtruck on her heart like an electric ſhock, as ſudden and as ſwift. She ſtarted, ſhivered, and with diffi⯑culty refrained from crying out, as Nature prompted her, ‘"My ſon, my ſon!"’ The very counterpart of that engaging form, that won her virgin heart, and triumphed over all re⯑ſtraints of duty and diſcretion, was in her eye; 'twas Delapoer himſelf reſtored to youth, or riſen from the grave; the ſame fine ſymmetry of ſhape, the ſame rich glow of manly beauty, [20] that once ſo fatally had charmed her in the father, was here transfuſed into the ſon, and brought paſt ſcenes ſo full into review, as al⯑moſt made them preſent.

‘"Henry,"’ ſays ſhe, ‘"I find I have a claim in you, that by the death of Ratcliffe now de⯑volves upon me in full right and title: the object of his care henceforth belongs to me, and therefore wonder not to ſee me thus af⯑fected by ſurprize and pity, having diſcovered you to be the relict of my much-lamented friend. Ah, my dear child, (ſo let me call you now) my tears ſhall mix with your's in watering the grave of that invaluable man."’

Here her voice failed, her agitation became extreme, and a diſcharge of tears came ſea⯑ſonably to her relief. What portion of them appertained to the mother's ſhare, what to the friend's, I leave for nature to decide. ‘"And now, Henry,"’ reſumed ſhe, ‘"confiding in your diſcretion, I take you by the hand for life, pledging myſelf for your future fortune, and promiſing to ſtand by you in the place of a mother, till the myſtery of your birth ſhall be revealed, and even of that I would not have you deſpair. I obſerve with pleaſure you have put yourſelf into mourning for your friend, which is highly proper and commendable in [21] you; and as you muſt have exhauſted your ſmall ſupply, I ſhall provide for your occaſions in ſuch a manner as will enable you to ſupport the character of a gentleman, in which you are ſo well qualified to move, and wherein I ſhall not ceaſe to uphold you. The misfor⯑tunes you have encountered ſince your haſty departure from your patron's houſe, and the indignities you have ſuffered in this place, are now recompenſed to you by the happy pro⯑vidence that has thrown you upon the protec⯑tion of one whoſe arms, like thoſe of a parent, are open to receive you. In what line of life to diſpoſe of you muſt be matter of ſome re⯑flection, and I ſhall adviſe with my uncle Man⯑ſtock on the ſubject, who was, equally with myſelf, a very cordial friend to poor Ratcliffe. At the ſame time, my dear child, if you have formed any wiſhes, and have any predilection for one profeſſion rather than another, let me be acquai [...]d with them; remember only that it muſt; [...]e the profeſſion of a gentleman, and your connections in the mean while muſt be ſuch only as are ſuitable to that character. The poor widow and honeſt Ezekiel, who have harboured you in your diſtreſs, ſhall be recom⯑penſed for their hoſpitality; but I ſhould [22] think you may now accommodate yourſelf better, and perhaps it may be the more ex⯑pedient for you to ſituate yourſelf elſewhere, as I underſtand that the daughter of dame May is now in the houſe with you, and you may well believe that people's tongues will not be idle upon that occaſion: indeed I have already heard very ſtrong aſperſions caſt upon that young woman and yourſelf, in the hearing of my Lord; but as they came from that malici⯑ous being Blachford, I gave little credit to what he ſaid, not doubting but you will have too much conſideration for yourſelf and me, as well as too much principle, to form any ſort of connection with a girl like Suſan May."’

Here ſhe caſt a ſcrutinizing eye upon Henry, whoſe cheeks were crimſon, conſcious as he was of ſome certain ſenſations, which theſe ad⯑monitory words did not exactly accord with. He was however at no loſs for terms the moſt proper and becoming to addreſs Lady Crowbery in, neither did he omit to ſet her mind at eaſe with reſpect to Suſan May. Of Blachford he ſpoke without reſerve, reprobat⯑ing the baſeneſs of his attack upon an innocent character; and ſaying, that if there were any [23] evil deſigns in meditation againſt that poor girl, he was perſuaded they were harboured only in his treacherous heart. He profeſſed a wiſh of remaining a ſhort time longer in his preſent quarters, as he feared it would carry the appearance of pride and ingratitude to the good people, who had ſo kindly entertained him, were he to turn his back upon them in ſo abrupt a manner. As to any preference for one profeſſion or employ above another, he ſaid he had been in no condition to indulge ſuch ideas, or preſume that it could in any caſe be referred to him as matter of choice; ne⯑ceſſity had been his miſtreſs, and in his late extremity he had ſeen no other proſpect before him for earning a ſubſiſtence but by carrying a muſket in the ſervice of his king:—‘"There,"’ added he, ‘"I might have laboured uſefully, or periſhed honourably; for private ſervice I was little qualified, as my late kind maſter, now preſent, can witneſs; and perhaps I had beſides ſome conſtitutional repugnancies, which do no credit to my humility, and are the conſequences of an education given me by an indulgent patron, that filled my mind with higher notions than were ſuited to my for⯑tune."’—Then, raiſing his eyes, and directing a [24] look, animated with the tendereſt expreſſion of gratitude and devout affection to his amiable benefactreſs—‘"But you, Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"have commanded me to entertain hopes more aſpiring than I ever ventured to indulge in my happieſt days. In what words can I expreſs my thanks? I have no power to give them utterance. Pardon me, I beſeech you, and pity my confuſion: I would fain ſpeak, but cannot; there is ſomething at my heart, I know not what, too full, too vaſt, I cannot give it vent. Oh! my rever'd, my heaven-inſpir'd protectreſs, whoſe condeſcending good⯑neſs deings to take upon yourſelf the tender office of a parent to me, a nameleſs creature, let me for this one moment feed upon the fond perſuaſion that I am your ſon, and kneel⯑ing at your feet, embracing them, and bathing them with tears of filial love and gratitude, pour out that flood which elſe would burſt my heart."’

The emotions which this energetic addreſs raiſed in the maternal heart of Lady Crowbery, who ſaw her unacknowledged ſon now kneel⯑ing at her feet, were ſuch as deſcription cannot reach; ſhe had thrown her arms about his neck, and was on the very inſtant point of de⯑claring [25] herſelf to him, when at once a ſudden craſh ſtopt the words upon her lips; the door of the chamber burſt inwards, and, ſprawling with her face upon the floor and her heels in the air, behold the perſon of old Bridget! Inſtantly the lady gave a ſcream, and ſtarted from her chair; Henry nimbly recovered his legs, con⯑ſcious that the poſture he was in could not be too ſuddenly ſhifted; whilſt Zachary roared out with aſtoniſhment, making ſeveral demands in the name of the devil; to which Bridget, either being, or affecting to be, ſtunned by her tumble, declined a reply, till being repeat⯑edly urged by the authority aforeſaid to give ſome account of herſelf, and not finding it convenient to give the true one, ſhe pretended to have ſlipped down as ſhe was paſſing haſtily from her miſtreſs's chamber, and falling with her whole weight againſt the door, burſt it open: in the mean time Jemima's bell ringing a furious peal, Zachary bade her be⯑gone for a blundering old fool; which, as Henry had now ſet her on her feet, ſhe thought fit to obey, and departed without more words.

In fact ſhe had effected pretty nearly all the purpoſes of her commiſſion, having ſpied out [26] enough to form a very ſufficient report of the lady's good liking for Henry; and as ſhe had ſeen her throw her arms about his neck, with⯑out hearing what paſſed between them on the occaſion, it muſt be owned ſhe had ſtronger circumſtances in proof than commonly fall to the ſhare of reporters in caſes of the like nature.

From too great zeal to diſcover more than the ſmall horizon of a key-hole was calcu⯑lated to diſcloſe, Bridget had preſſed ſo in⯑cautiouſly upon the door, that the lock, which was none of the beſt, having treacherouſly given way, ſhe fell as we have related head⯑long into the room, juſt in time to ſtop the telling of that ſecret, which was the moſt im⯑portant that ſon could hear, or parent com⯑municate.

Great was the uneaſineſs which this unlucky accident occaſioned to Lady Crowbery; and it was not without ſome pains on the part of Zachary ſhe was diſſuaded from taking cer⯑tain conciliatory meaſures with the old woman, for ſealing her lips, on the preſumption of her having ſeen more than was prudent to make public; but as he contended ſtrongly for Brid⯑get's incapacity of making obſervations, whilſt [27] her face was on the floor, it was finally judged adviſeable to let it paſs in ſilence, and not create a danger by over-anxiety for preventing it. The alarm, however, had ſo diſconcerted Lady Crowbery, that ſhe had no reſolution to renew the conference, much leſs to touch upon that intereſting diſcovery ſhe was on the point of making, when Bridget interrupted her; ſo that after a few words ſpent in recommending Henry to remain quiet and out of ſight at the cottage, till he heard from her again, ſhe haſtened to her fair companion, who was waiting for her in the carriage, and departed.

CHAPTER IV. Nothing ſo furious as a Woman ſcorned.

IT may well be ſuppoſed that Bridget loſt no time in making her miſtreſs acquainted with the cauſe of the diſturbance and noiſe, ſhe had heard in the Doctor's chamber, and alſo of what ſhe had there diſcovered: as ſhe could give no account of their converſation, which was carried on in too low a key to reach her ears on the outſide of the door, Jemima was left to her own imagination [28] for finding out motives for a lady's embracing a handſome young man, whilſt he was kneel⯑ing at her feet, and theſe, according to Je⯑mima's notions, could be but of one ſort; ſhe therefore ſet it down for certain in her own mind, that Lady Crowbery was deſ⯑perately in love with Henry, that her houſe was made a houſe of aſſignation, and her huſband pander to an intrigue of the moſt bare-faced nature.

Theſe concluſions ſhe had no ſooner formed, than ſhe diſcerned at a glance all the advan⯑tages they gave her in a certain project, which ſhe had long meditated, without being able to bring it into any practicable ſhape. Henry, who ſeemed to have eſcaped out of her hands, was by this lucky circumſtance more than ever at her mercy; and though ſhe was ſenſibly piqued at the preference given to a rival very little her junior in age, and, in her own opinion at leaſt, not at all her ſuperior in charms, yet ſhe was well pleaſed to be paid for her mor⯑tification, by having poſſeſſion of a ſecret, the ſuppreſſion of which no ſacrifice on his part could be too great for, whilſt there was ſuch a perſon in being as Lord Crowbery; neither was ſhe ſorry to find that Henry's [29] ſcruples were not ſo general as ſhe thought them, nor his virtue above price: the in⯑ference ſhe drew from all this was, that the menace of a diſcovery ſo fatal to both parties, could not fail to draw him into her meaſures, as effectually as Lady Crowbery's money had bribed him into her's; and as delicacy was no part of Jemima's character, whoſe paſſions were as violent as her ſoul was mean, the heart of Henry was not her object; nor were any gratifications unacceptable to her, becauſe not granted with good will, for pleaſure was pleaſure in her calculation of it, though it were extorted by terror, or gained by artifice and trick.

Her firſt care, therefore, was to bind Brid⯑get to ſtrict ſecrecy for the preſent, that ſo the parties, being under no alarm, might con⯑tinue their meetings, till proofs of a more deciſive nature might be obtained againſt them: her next ſolicitude was to procure an inter⯑view with Henry, and for this purpoſe ſhe diſpatched the old woman to way-lay him before he left the houſe. This ſucceeded to her wiſh, for he no ſooner received her ſum⯑mons than he obeyed it, prompted, as we may preſume, by deſire to aſcertain, from her con⯑verſation, [30] whether any reports had been made to her, that might affect Lady Crowbery.

Upon his preſenting himſelf to Jemima, ſhe received him with an air of joyful ſurprize, congratulating him on his good fortune, and praiſing Lady Crowbery to the ſkies for her charity: ſhe aſſured him of the ſincere pleaſure ſhe took in ſeeing him thus happily extricated out of all his trouble, and by the favour of his kind patroneſs rais'd to a ſituation, which ſo well became him; and as ſhe was perſuaded that his noble friend wou'd not fail to go through with the good work ſhe had ſet her hand to, ſhe cou'd not ſuppoſe that Goody May's cottage wou'd be any longer a fit reſi⯑dence for him, either on his own account or the lady's.—‘"Was it not better,"’ ſhe aſked, ‘"for him to abide where he was, where his good friend might ſee him as often as ſhe thought fit, without drawing any body's eyes upon her, as ſhe was in daily habits of con⯑ſulting the Doctor, and of courſe her viſits wou'd be paſs'd to his account."’

Upon Henry's obſerving that Lady Crow⯑bery's actions required no cover, ſhe quickly replied, that nobody held that lady's character in higher eſteem than herſelf; that ſhe knew [31] well enough ſhe had nothing to fear on the ſcore of reputation, if the world wou'd report nothing but truth; but as ſuch fair dealing was not to be expected, eſpecially in her caſe, who had ſo many evil-minded ſpies upon her, and ſo moroſe a huſband to deal with, ſhe muſt think that too great caution cou'd not be taken to provide againſt conſequences—‘"For alas! poor lady,"’ added ſhe, ‘"I am afraid, that with all her virtues and all her charities, ſhe is ſcarce credited for the one by her jealous lord, and ill rewarded for the other by her thankleſs neighbours."’

Jemima carried on this hypocriſy with ſo much addreſs, that Henry began to think ſhe was ſincere, at leaſt he was perſuaded that nothing had been ſaid to her by Bridget, and of courſe nothing ſeen. As to his continuance at the cottage, he ſaw it nearly in the ſame light with Jemima; Lady Crowbery herſelf had ſtated objections to it, and his own re⯑flections ſuggeſted many more; what Jemima had obſerved with reſpect to the commodiouſ⯑neſs of her own houſe was perfectly well founded, and as ſhe betrayed no one ſymptom of her former propenſity, but talked and looked with compoſure and ſedateneſs, he was [32] half inclined to accept of her propoſal. There were other thoughts, however, that croſſed him in this determination, and they required further reflection. He ſaw all the danger of his ſitua⯑tion with Lady Crowbery; the ardour with which ſhe had claſped him in her arms was more than he could account for, and gave him ſerious alarm; gratitude had prompted him, in an unguarded moment, to throw him⯑ſelf on his knees at her feet; the emotion on his part was natural, and the ſource from which it ſprung pure and reſpectful, but what could be the motive with a perſon of her de⯑licacy and decorum for a mark of ſenſibility ſo extraordinary and unexpected? Charity he could well underſtand to be kind and con⯑deſcending, but charity is not called upon to embrace, to careſs the object it relieves. The act was an indication of ſomething more than pity; it followed upon his claiming her pro⯑tection as a parent, and it ſeemed to be inſpired by all the tenderneſs and affection of the cha⯑racter ſhe adopted: How was he to interpret it?

Whilſt he was ſilently revolving theſe thoughts in his mind, Jemima's eyes were fixed upon him, and the ſame contemplation that [33] inſpired her with hope, inſpired her with de⯑ſire: the colour ruſhed into her cheeks, her countenance underwent a change, that did not eſcape him—‘"Henry,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"I hope you are reſolved to accept my invitation; I have every diſpoſition to be your friend that you can wiſh me to have; I will ſerve you, aſſiſt you, accommodate you in all points and purpoſes, and be as ſecret as your own thoughts: with my friendſhip your fortune is made, without it you are ruin'd, loſt and undone."’

Henry ſtared at her with ſurprize; he ſaw the ſtorm gathering, but knew not where it would burſt; nor could rightly divine what either her promiſes or her menaces alluded to: he deſired her to explain herſelf.

She pauſed for recollection, and ſeemed heſitating whether to proceed or to retract: probably it was her wiſh that ſhe had not precipitated herſelf into this dilemma, till matters had been riper for her purpoſe, but ſhe had already gone too far to avail herſelf of a retreat; it was too late, the die was caſt, and ſhe muſt ſtand to the throw. ‘"Well then,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"ſince you do not, or will not, underſtand me, ſit down, and I [34] will, as you deſire, explain myſelf to you without reſerve. To prove to you therefore in a word how ſincerely I mean to deal with you, I ſhall begin by confeſſing to you honeſtly and freely that I love you: Nay, do not ſtart from me, nor meditate an eſcape, for accord⯑ingly as you treat my ſecret I will treat your's; therefore I muſt be heard: yes, Henry, I love you; but take notice, I am not ſo unreaſon⯑able as to aim at engroſſing either your atten⯑tions or affections; nay, I am ſo much your friend, that I am content to be ſecond and ſubordinate in your regards, for I will not ſtand in the way of your better fortune, nor traverſe any of your plans and aſſignations with a richer, if not a fairer, lady; but where I know, and can depoſe upon oath, that you have been faſt lock'd in her arm's, I tell you ingenuouſly that mine ſhall not be long empty, nor ſhall my paſſion be ſlighted, whilſt Lady Crowbery's is gratified."’

Horror-ſtruck with this dreadful alternative, Henry remained for ſome moments deprived as it ſhould ſeem both of ſenſe and motion, and incapable of a reply. To chuſe between in⯑famy and ruin, had the danger been all his own, would have coſt him little deliberation; [35] but the firſt gloomy proſpect that opened upon him, was that of his benefactreſs ſacrificed on his account; he ſaw her in his imagination ſummoned before her ſurly tyrant, arraigned, condemned, and delivered over to infamy and diſgrace: At the ſame time his very nature re⯑volted from the loathſome means propoſed for preventing this calamity; and was it after all a ſecurity to be relied upon? What ſecret could be ſafe with a character ſo abandoned, and a temper ſo outrageous, as Jemima's? None: to what purpoſe then ſhould he involve himſelf in turpitude and guilt, when he could neither keep misfortune from his benefactreſs by ſuch meaſures, nor endure his own remorſe of con⯑ſcience in the mean time? And though inno⯑cence might not ſerve either Lady Crowbery or himſelf as a defence againſt the malice of Jemima and the injuſtice of my Lord, yet was he well convinced that nothing in this life could compenſate for the loſs of it: So far, however, he would yield to the preſſure of the moment for the ſake of gaining time, as not to irritate Jemima's temper by too peremptory a repulſe: He attempted therefore to ſoothe her by the following expoſtulation:

[36] ‘"Though I take Heaven to witneſs that I am as innocent in thought and deed towards the lady you allude to as the child unborn; and though from my ſoul I believe ſhe is as pure in nature as unſullied ſnow; yet I know the peril ſhe wou'd incur, and can well con⯑ceive the malicious interpretation her inno⯑cence wou'd be expoſed to, was you ſo cruelly bent upon her deſtruction, as to ſet forth the circumſtance, which Bridget has reported to you, in it's worſt colours to her ungenerous lord: I know how eaſy it would be for preju⯑dice like his by falſe conſtructions to represent an expreſſion of pity as an act of criminality, and turn the world againſt her to the ruin of her reputation: But this wou'd be a degree of inhumanity which can never enter into your heart; I am perſuaded your nature is not ca⯑pable of compaſſing the deſtruction of an ami⯑able and innocent woman by ſuch horrid means. For my part, ſooner than I wou'd be party in ſuch a deed, I wou'd meet death itſelf, in whatever ſhape of terror and torment it approach'd me; and believe me, Madam, could I ſuſpect you capable of going theſe lengths in revenge for any want of attention, which your partiality for me might interpret [37] into ſlights, I would rather my life ſhould atone for the offence, than that Lady Crow⯑bery's peace or reputation ſhould be ſacrificed through my ill-conduct or neglect."’

‘"Very well,"’ replied Jemima, ‘"then it is in your power to decide upon the fate of that lady, who is ſo infinitely dear to you, by propor⯑tioning your attentions to the value that you ſet upon my ſecrecy."’

‘"Prove me then,"’ he cried; ‘"tax me to the extent of my capacity in any honeſt ſer⯑vices; and mark if I decline the trial."’

‘"Honeſt ſervices!"’ ſhe repeated; ‘"what are they? I have made a fair confeſſion to you, Henry, and I will not be trifled with."’

‘"I preſume,"’ anſwered he, ‘"you have a ſenſe of that religion you profeſs ſo zealouſly; you have a proper feeling for the dignity and delicacy of your ſex; you have a recollection of thoſe ſolemn promiſes, to which you pledg'd your faith at the altar—"’

‘"I have a proper ſenſe,"’ replied Jemima, ‘"of your folly and impertinence, in preaching to me, who am eſtabliſh'd by faith beyond the reach of guilt or the poſſibility of falling."’

‘"But I,"’ interpos'd Henry, ‘"who cannot boaſt ſuch an all-availing faith, do not poſſeſs [38] ſo qualifying a confidence; therefore I muſt requeſt you will with patience hear a few words from me. The principles which na⯑ture and education have inſtill'd into my heart, are ſuch as teach me to believe no faith can purify the ſoul which guilt defiles. This doc⯑trine was impreſs'd upon me by that beſt of friends, for whoſe lamented loſs I am now in mourning. He was a father to me in effect, though of my real parents I am ignorant. At his death I became deſtitute, and in that ſtate of abſolute diſtreſs was found and reliev'd by your worthy huſband: Shall I repay him with the blackeſt treachery? To him I owe the happy chance that caſt me on the protection of Lady Crowbery; ſhe was the friend and patroneſs of my deceas'd benefactor, the Re⯑verend Mr. Ratcliffe; for his ſake ſhe be⯑ſtow'd theſe bounties upon me, in tender re⯑collection of his valued memory, and in pity for the relict of his care; whilſt I was kneeling at her feet in grateful acknowledgment of her goodneſs, ſhe threw her charitable arms upon my neck in pure benevolence."’—‘"You own it then!"’ interpos'd Jemima; ‘"'tis enough. Give me only to know that a woman of Lady Crowbery's caſt, ſoft, ſentimental, full of ten⯑der [39] paſſions, and neglected by her huſband, goes the length of taking a young fellow like you in her arms; and I will take upon me to ſay, ſuch a woman can have but one poſſible motive for what ſhe does. Talk not to me of benevolence and charity: would ſhe em⯑brace a beggar? would ſhe preſs age and ugli⯑neſs to her boſom? No, no, Henry, you can⯑not impoſe upon me, nor do I believe you are yourſelf impos'd upon: you are at once the irreſiſtible conqueror of us both, and the only difference between us is, that I have the ſin⯑cerity to avow a paſſion for you, and ſhe has the hypocriſy to diſguiſe it."’

This ſaid, ſhe turned towards him, and with outſpread arms was proceeding to embrace him, when ſtarting back, he exclaimed—‘"Hold, Madam! I am not ſaint enough to ſubſcribe to your opinions, nor quite ſo much of a ſinner as to ſuit your purpoſes."’

He now ſprung out of the room, and left her in that ſtate of mind, which is as little inti⯑tled to pity as it is calculated to excite envy.

CHAPTER V. Miſcellaneous Matters.

AS our hero ſlowly directed his ſteps to⯑wards the hoſpitable cottage, pondering the preceding dialogue in his mind, a thouſand diſtracting thoughts took poſſeſſion of him by turns: ſometimes he reproached himſelf for not having attempted to ſoothe Jemima with hopes and promiſes; at other times he almoſt doubted if he ought not to have ſacrificed every ſcruple for Lady Crowbery's ſake; again his ſpirit roſe againſt ſuch groſs impurity, and the fallacy of the maxim ‘'of doing evil that good might come'’ ſtruck him in full force.—‘"If innocence,"’ he cried, ‘"can be no other⯑wiſe protected than by the commiſſion of guilt, let it ſhift for itſelf."’ To appeal to the Doctor was to rouſe a ſuſpicion in Jemima, that he had betrayed her to him, and that he foreſaw would be the certain way to drive her upon retaliation; beſides, he knew the amount of Zachary's authority, and how little good was to be looked for from his interference: to apprize Lady Crowbery of her danger was his anxious wiſh, but by what means he knew not, for neither interview nor letter ſeemed [41] either eaſy or ſafe to undertake. Ezekiel's fidelity could not be doubted, but as a coun⯑ſellor in this caſe, few men could be found leſs qualified.

Henry had now croſſed the green, and was making towards the cottage, when he heard himſelf accoſted by a man in a plain drab riding-coat, and booted, who aſked him if that great houſe at a diſtance belonged to Lord Crow⯑bery? Henry, who had juſt then little or no attention for any thing but the thoughts he was immerſed in, ſtared rather wildly at the ſtranger, and in a peeviſh kind of tone an⯑ſwered, that he knew nothing at all of the matter.—‘"That is rather extraordinary,"’ re⯑plied the ſtranger, ‘"for I think I ſaw you come from the houſe, where Lady Crowbery has been; and if you are bound to that cot⯑tage, you are going where ſhe is."’—‘"And what is that to you, Sir?"’ demanded Henry, in the ſame tone, and abruptly turned away from him. He now quickened his pace, and, entering the cottage kitchen, found there Eze⯑kiel and Dame May, who immediately gave him the ſignal for ſilence, telling him, in a whiſper, that Lady Crowbery and Miſs Man⯑ſtock were in the inner room conferring with [42] Suſan;—‘"And I hope,"’ added the dame, ‘"that our girl is in a way to get a place with one of them."’

The good dame conjectured rightly, for thoſe ladies had been queſtioning Suſan May upon certain preliminary circumſtances, proper to be well explained before any overture was made on Miſs Manſtock's part for hiring her as her waiting-woman. The points, which Suſan had to clear, were ſimply what aroſe from the aſperſions Blachford had caſt upon her with reſpect to Henry; and being ſtraitly interrogated on the ſubject by Lady Crowbery, ſhe anſwered, without prevarication or reſerve, that to be ſure ſhe could not deny a very ſin⯑cere eſteem for Henry, as who could help liking one every way ſo worthy and ſo engag⯑ing? but as to what that baſe man, Mr. Blachford, imputed to her, ſhe denied it ut⯑terly. It would be well for him, ſhe obſerved, if he had one grain of that honour which Henry poſſeſſed, in ſuch a degree, that ſhe believed he would die a thouſand deaths rather than be guilty of ſuch baſeneſs as that vile man had meditated againſt her: ſhe then related the particulars of his attempt upon her when ſhe ſolicited him to releaſe Henry from the ſtocks.

[43]When both ladies had joined in expreſſing their juſt abhorrence of ſuch proceeding, with proper commendations of Suſan's conduct, ſhe again reſumed her confeſſion of attachment to Henry; and after a very animated enumera⯑tion of his many excellent qualities, mental and perſonal, concluded by humbly aſking par⯑don of her hearers for intruding ſo long upon their patience.—‘"But you, Madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, addreſſing herſelf to Lady Crowbery, ‘"I know to be ſo kind and conſiderate, that I am ſure you will forgive a poor girl like me if I have ſaid too much, for you know a heart too full will overflow; and to be ſure, though I have not the moſt diſtant idea of aſpiring to Mr. Henry, who I dare ſay is as much above me in birth as he is in merit and underſtand⯑ing, yet I hope it is no ſin to love him, to pray for his happineſs and proſperity, and to bleſs and reverence, as from my ſoul I do, all thoſe who are good to him, and your ladyſhip above all."’

Suſan ceaſed, and whilſt the tears flowed from her ſoft eyes, a ſympathetic ſhower be⯑dewed the cheeks of Lady Crowbery; the lovely Iſabella (for lovely ſhe was, gentle reader, and fair beyond my powers of deſcription) was ſo [44] pleaſed with the ſincere and natural character of the girl, that turning to her with a gracious ſmile, and addreſſing her in a voice as tune⯑able as the lyre of Apollo, ſhe ſaid, ‘"I am ſo charmed with your ſincerity, Suſan, that if my place is acceptable to you, we are agreed: from this moment you belong to me; and if the malice of Mr. Blachford attempts ſtill to purſue you, depend upon it neither he nor his ſlander will find admiſſion where I am. As for your attachment to this young perſon, whom you deſcribe ſo amiable, though my hard heart has never been touched by the paſ⯑ſion of love, and I do not ſo much as gueſs what it means, I have nevertheleſs all the compaſſion in life for thoſe who ſuffer by it; and for you, Suſan, in particular, who are out of hope of obtaining the object you admire. You muſt therefore ſtrive to forget him as faſt as you can, which, I ſhou'd ſuppoſe, you can find no difficulty in doing."’

Suſan ſhook her head, but ſaid nothing: a certain look, which Lady Crowbery beſtowed upon her fair couſin, was perhaps not miſin⯑terpreted, when ſhe corrected herſelf by ſaying,—‘"I conclude I have been blundering upon ſomething perfectly abſurd, which is not to be [45] wonder'd at when one talks without underſtand⯑ing what one talks about. You know, couſin, I have never been in Suſan's ſituation; and as all my wiſhes have been conſtantly prevented by an indulgent father, I really never felt what cou'd ſeriouſly be called a diſappointment of any ſort: in love, at leaſt, I can venture to ſay, I am pretty ſecure,"’—‘"Don't be too ſe⯑cure,"’ cried Lady Crowbery, tapping her gently on the cheek as ſhe roſe from her chair. And now the ladies, followed by Suſan May, entered the room, where Ezekiel, Henry, and Goody May, were aſſembled.

The happy news was here announced, of Suſan's being preferred to wait upon the per⯑ſon of Miſs Manſtock. This was the height of all earthly happineſs that could befall the mother of Suſan; and if ſhe herſelf did not welcome it with quite the ſame tranſport, it was not want of value for her young miſtreſs, that damped her joy, for all the neighbour⯑hood rung with Iſabella's praiſe, and Sir Roger Manſtock was univerſally beloved; but there was a pang at the heart of that fond girl, which in the very moment of her good fortune drew a ſigh from her breaſt, and directed her eyes towards Henry with the moſt penſive expreſ⯑ſion: [46] this glance was not unnoticed by Iſa⯑bella, who followed it in its paſſage to the countenance of our hero, which being juſt then overſpread with a tender bluſh, and character⯑ed with the fineſt touches that pity and bene⯑volence could give it, was perhaps in nature the moſt dangerous object that a young lady, who had ſo lately ſet love at defiance, could encounter; and, was I poetically given, I ſhould here take occaſion to introduce that re⯑vengeful deity taking aim from behind the perſon of my hero, like Teucer covered by the ſhield of Ajax, and launching at the heart of Iſabella one of his ſwifteſt and moſt fatal arrows. Certain it it, there was ſome buſy meſſenger or other, that flitted in that moment on his malicious errand, and, whiſpering in her ear, forewarned her, that the god of love was not to be affronted with impunity. The ſame, perhaps, or ſome ſiſter ſpirit equally bent upon miſchief, threw an accident in the way of their returning in the carriage, by taking off a ſhoe from one of the horſes, and compelling the driver to reſort to the blackſmith for a repair of the damage.

This being reported, Iſabella quickly pro⯑poſed a walk through the plantations, which [47] her lady couſin as quickly cloſed with, happy in the excuſe for taking her beloved Henry with her. It was in vain therefore that the fooliſh ſervant aſſured his lady the jobb would be done in a few minutes; his evidence was inſtantly diſmiſſed, and the ladies adjuſting their cloaks, ſet forward without liſtening to any further demur, accompanied by our hero, blooming with every modeſt grace that beauty, youth, and ſenſibility, could unite to adorn him with.

When they entered the plantation they were ſecure from being overlooked, and then the mother, whoſe heart yearned towards her new-diſcovered treaſure, pretending to want ſup⯑port, paſſed her arm under his, and inſtinc⯑tively preſſed it to her heart, giving him at the ſame time a look of unutterable fondneſs. The action was ſo marked as not to be miſun⯑derſtood: Henry felt it, and turned pale with alarm; ſeized with a ſudden faintneſs, he ſeemed not leſs in want of ſupport than the lady herſelf: ſhe ſaw his change of counte⯑nance, ſhe perceived him tremble as ſhe leant upon him, and perfectly comprehended all the delicacy and diſtreſs of his ſenſations: con⯑cealment was no longer generous, it was no [48] longer ſafe; nay, it was now no longer in her power. He had ſtopt ſhort from incapacity to proceed; their mutual embarraſſment was too conſpicuous to be overlooked by Iſabella, had ſhe been ever ſo induſtriouſly accommo⯑dating; but of theſe arts ſhe was perfectly ig⯑norant, and had already run to the aſſiſtance of her couſin, very naturally alarmed at her ſituation, and was tendering a bottle of ſalts to her; when that lady, in the tendereſt tone, ex⯑claimed,—‘"Oh! my ſweet friend, my beloved Iſabella, judge not unfavourably of me for the uncommon ſenſibility, the ſtrong emotions, which you ſee me ſeized with: I knew the pa⯑rents of this youth; dear to me they were as my own life, near as the blood that flows from my own heart."’—Here ſhe fell upon Henry's neck, and in her agony ſobbed aloud.

At this inſtant the perſon of the Viſcount was ſeen advancing towards them in the ſame walk: there was no further time for explana⯑tion; ſcarce a moment remained for reflec⯑tion; Henry was bidden to retire with all ſpeed; Lady Crowbery ſtruggled to compoſe herſelf for the dreaded rencontre; the affec⯑tionate Iſabella was employed in chearing and [49] ſupporting her; but the interval was momen⯑tary, and my Lord at hand.

It was ſo unuſual a thing with him to walk at this hour of day, and in this place, that no⯑thing could be more unlooked for than this meeting: he had now ſeen with his own eyes a confirmation of what had already been re⯑ported to him by Blachford. That gentleman, enraged at ſeeing all his deſigns upon Suſan May traverſed by the interference of Henry, and her reſignation of Jemima's ſervice, had paid a viſit to that diſconſolate dame within a a very few minutes after our hero had left her in a ſtate of mind little ſhort of abſolute phrenzy: inflamed as ſhe was to the heighth with rage, indignation, and revenge, the flat⯑tering attentions of that inſidious viſitor, whoſe groſs appetites could batten on a moor, gained thereby the knowledge of an important diſco⯑very, and ſhe the gratification of a revengeful paſſion, well knowing to what malicious pur⯑poſes he would apply the ſecret ſhe had im⯑parted to him.

The meeting between the Viſcount and his lady, from which ſo many dreadful reproaches were expected, went off without any; a few words in paſſing, and thoſe addreſſed to miſs [50] Manſtock, were all that occurred; but Lady Crowbery diſcovered enough in the ſullenneſs of his look to awaken all her apprehenſions, nor was ſhe deceived in her obſervations: My Lord purſued his way towards Juſtice Blachford's, and the ladies held on their walk and their diſcourſe till they arrived at the caſ⯑tle.

As ſoon as Henry had paſſed the plantation⯑gate that opened upon the village-green, he was again accoſted by the ſtranger in the horſe⯑man's coat, who told him he had juſt picked up a ring in the foot-path, which he conceived had been dropt there by Lady Crowbery as ſhe paſſed, and begged him to take the charge of returning it to her, as he himſelf was upon the wing, and could not undertake the delivery of it in perſon.

Henry took the ring, examined it, was con⯑vinced that it belonged to Lady Crowbery; and recollecting that his former treatment of this perſon, when he broke in upon his meditations, had been none of the moſt courteous, he was the more deſirous to make up for it by his ci⯑vility on this occaſion: the man ſeemed in that ſtyle of life as might be complimented on his honeſty without an affront to his dignity. [51] The ring was of value, for it conſiſted of a ta⯑ble diamond ſet in the ſhape of a heart, under which was a plait of hair, with the words Cecilia Adamant, neatly engraved upon the back of the ſetting. This, Henry obſerved, being the maiden-name of Lady Crowbery, was a proof of it's belonging to her, and he therefore ſuggeſted it to him as proper to be delivered by his own hands, the meanneſs of his appear⯑ance warranting to add, that he was perſuaded that generous lady would wiſh to make a ſuit⯑able return to the finder.—‘"I underſtand your kind hint,"’ replied the man, ‘"and am thankful to you for it; if her Ladyſhip ſhould be pleaſed in her bounty to take any conſidera⯑tion for the finder of this trinket, be ſo good to tell her, it is a poor man lately returned from tranſportation, who will thankfully receive her favours through your hands; but as I don't think it ſafe to put myſelf in the way of Lord Crowbery, circumſtanced as I am, ſo I do moſt earneſtly conjure you not to give the ring to my Lady in his preſence, nor to let any inti⯑mation reach him that may expoſe me to be traced as the finder of it: for the preſent, it will not be prudent for me to tarry here any longer; ſometime hence I may call upon you [52] again."’—‘"Sometime hence,"’ replied Henry, ‘"I may chance not to be found here; but call at that cottage, and whatever is there depoſited will be honeſtly delivered to you by the good people of the houſe: you know your own dan⯑ger beſt, but if returning from tranſportation conſtitutes any part of it, I ſhould think you had better have been ſilent on that head; how⯑ever, you may depend upon it I ſhall not be⯑tray your truſt either in one caſe or the other."’

‘"Sir,"’ rejoined the ſtranger, ‘"permit me to ſay, there is ſomething in your countenance that aſſures me I might repoſe greater truſts than this in your keeping without hazard; the good woman of the cottage you pointed to has made me acquainted with your adventures in this place, and you muſt allow me to ſay that I honour you from my ſoul: though I have been a guilty man in my time (which you will readily believe, having told you I am newly return'd from tranſportation) yet I love virtue, and reverence brave, humane and vir⯑tuous perſons like you: I have been alſo told of Lady Crowbery's generoſity to you, and I applaud her for it; charity is a lovely quality, but frailty is of the very eſſence of woman; [53] and I beſeech you to recollect that Lady Crow⯑bery is a wife."’

This ſaid, he haſtily turned away, and be⯑fore our hero could recover the ſurprize which a ſpeech ſo unexpected had thrown him into, the ſtranger was out of ſight.

CHAPTER VI. A figurative Style is apt to puzzle a plain Un⯑derſtanding.

WHEN Henry returned to the cottage, he found Ezekiel ſitting with old Weevil, the miller, who had come to report the convale⯑ſcence of his ſon; and as he really bore a grate⯑ful mind towards our hero, it was with great pleaſure he congratulated him on the happy change in his fortune and appearance: he then began to ſound forth the praiſes of Lady Crowbery for her charities; and when he had run on in this ſtrain for ſome time, frequently appealing to Henry, who made no reply, he looked at him with a degree of ſurprize, and ſaid,—‘"How is this, friend Henry? You ſay nothing all this while."’—Our hero now an⯑ſwered, that if he was ſilent on the ſubject, it [54] was not from want of gratitude, but becauſe he knew that Lady did not wiſh her good deeds to be talked of.—‘"Heyday!"’ cried Weevil, ‘"what is the value of a good deed, if the world does not know it? For my part, if I do a man a kind turn, I am the firſt to let him hear of it; for where would be the plea⯑ſure of doing it elſe; and how can I expect a return of the ſame kindneſs, if I don't let him underſtand from whence it came?"’—Then turning to Ezekiel, who did not ſeem to reliſh his notions, and had exhibited certain tokens that they would not paſs unqueſtioned, he de⯑manded of him, with an air of raillery, if he preached ſuch ſort of charity as that lady was ſuppoſed to practiſe?

Ezekiel roſe from his ſeat, and drawing him⯑ſelf up into an erect poſture, as his cuſtom was when he debated any intereſting point—‘"Neighbour Weevil,"’ he cried, ‘"you demand of me, as a preacher, if I recommend to my flock ſuch ſort of charity as this good lady practiſeth; and I demand of thee, as a Chriſ⯑tian, if thy paſtor hath never taught thee that good leſſon, ‘"Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth?"’’

‘"I hope I know that without his telling,"’ [55] quoth the miller, ‘"for ſurely no man would put his hand into his neighbour's ſack, and be fool enough to blazon his own ſhame; I think he would be but a ſilly fellow, who did not keep his own council in ſuch a caſe; but that any one ſhould be aſhamed of giving away their alms, and take no credit for what they beſtow, ſeems to me an unaccountable piece of buſineſs; for why ſhould I lay out my money and get nothing for it?"’

‘"And is it nothing,"’ cried the preacher, elevating his voice, and riſing on his inſteps, ‘"to purchaſe that divine ſenſation, which ſprings within the human breaſt when we re⯑lieve the ſufferings of a fellow-creature? Is the ſelf-approving teſtimony of a good con⯑ſcience nothing worth, unleſs echoed back upon thee by the applauſes of the world? The eye of the Almighty is upon the deeds of men, whether they be good or evil; nay, more than that, it penetrates to the heart, and diſcerns the motives and ſecret ſprings which govern it. Is it not enough for man to know, that he, who ſeeth in ſecret, will reward us openly? I hope, friend Weevil, thou art not a man of that phariſaical kidney, as loveth greetings in the [56] market-place, and delighteth to blow a trum⯑pet before thee."’

‘"I blow a trumpet!"’ replied the miller, ſomewhat angrily; ‘"I don't know what you mean by ſuſpecting me of ſuch mountebank tricks; and as for greetings in the market-place, whether I love 'em or not is no matter; but I have plenty of them without aſking for, for I don't go there without my money; they are glad enough to greet me, friend Zekiel, for I am a fair trader, do you ſee, and neither blow trumpet or horn to call cuſtomers about me, and bring griſt to my mill: No, no, if they like my dealings they are welcome; if not, let 'em go elſewhere. If the mill were never to go till I blew a trumpet, it wou'd ſtand ſtill to everlaſting for me; but I can't ſay ſo much for you, Doctor, in your way of trade; you may be ſaid to blow a trumpet, methinks, when you are perch'd up in a tree, hooting and howling and preaching the end of the world to a parcel of poor ſcar'd wretches, that are ready, through fright, to hang them⯑ſelves upon the branches of it: this I call blowing a trumpet, maſter Zekiel,"’ added he, ‘"and ſuch a trumpet it is, that with my good [57] will ſhall never enter theſe ears whilſt they are fixt to my head."’

‘"Be it ſo, ſcorner, be it ſo,"’ replied the preacher: ‘"if thy heart be harden'd even to the conſiſtency of one of thine own mill-ſtones, whoſe misfortune is it but thine own? Pha⯑raoh's heart was alſo in like caſe, he was har⯑den'd againſt the warnings of the meek man Moſes, and what was his fate? Whelm'd in the red ſea, ſwallow'd up, drown'd, Gaffer Weevil, drown'd I ſay, as thou perchance may'ſt be for a judgment in thine own mill-tail; which, God forbid! for I would rather wiſh thee to live and to repent: nay, hath not a judgment fallen upon thee already, a terrible judgment, from which thou art newly eſ⯑cap'd? and wilt thou not obey the warning, as holy David obey'd, when the Lord ſmote the ſon of Bathſheba for his ſins? Will nothing awaken thee but the laſt trump, thou deaf adder?"’

Here Ezekial Daw turned his eyes towards the place, that had lately been occupied by the perſon of Weevil, and diſcovered nothing there within his ken ſave an old elbow-chair, lite⯑rally as void of edification as the deaf adder; miller Weevil having neither carried that [58] away with him, nor one ſingle word of inſtruc⯑tion from the late expoſtulatory harangue. ‘"I proteſt,"’ quoth Ezekiel, as he looked about for Weevil, ‘"the man hath diſappear'd, and the chair of the ſcorner is left empty: Good hope,"’ added he, ſitting down in it at the ſame time, ‘"I ſhall not offend againſt the Pſal⯑miſt's precept by placing myſelf in his ſtead."’

‘"No fear of that,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"the words are not to be taken in their literal ſenſe"’—‘"Humph!"’ replied the preacher, ‘"don't be too ſure of that, young man; it is early day for ſuch as thou art to ſet up for an expounder of holy writ."’—‘"I beg pardon,"’ anſwered the youth; ‘"if I had been aware there could have been two opinions in the caſe, I ſhould have held back my own till I heard what your's was."’—‘"All is well,"’ rejoined the other, ‘"I do not reprove thee, child, but for thy good; I would warn thee againſt the example of that froward man, who hath newly departed in his error, and ſuddenly diſappeared, whilſt my eye was not upon him:"’—A circumſtance, that could hardly have happened to any other per⯑ſon than Ezekiel, whoſe eye, like the poet's, had been rolling in ſo fine a phrenſy, that the miller and every other perſon about him might [59] have walked out of company at that moment without his ſeeing them.

The good man, who, as we have before ob⯑ſerved, was only patient upon principle, had been not a little nettled at the retort of the trumpet, which being a martial inſtrument, had ſounded a note in his ear, that had ſome what rouſed the natural ardour of his ſpirit; a hint, which we think fit to give to the ſaga⯑cious reader, who might elſe conceive there was hardly cauſe ſufficient for the vivacity of his reproof to our young hero, whoſe nature certainly was not prone to give offence, nor wanting in humility; in proof of which we take leave to add, that he quietly ſubmitted to a long lecture from Doctor Daw upon that very virtue, of which it was plain he had a much greater ſhare by nature than, his teacher.

CHAPTER VII. The Events of this Life are chequered with Good and Evil.

DAME May now returned to the cottage, having circulated the happy tidings of her daughter's promotion into every houſe of [60] the village, where ſhe could find an acquaint⯑ance at leiſure to give her the hearing; and as we are never better diſpoſed to rejoice with others than when we are joyful ourſelves, ſo it was with this good woman, whoſe heart, though naturally apt to ſympathize, was at this mo⯑ment in the beſt humour poſſible to take a friendly ſhare in Henry's good fortune: whilſt her eyes overflowed with pleaſure at the ſight of him in his new apparel, her tongue poured forth praiſes in abundance, and bleſſings with⯑out ſtint upon his generous benefactreſs.

The hoſtile cabal aſſembled at Blachford's were in the mean time projecting ways and means of revenge; for Lord Crowbery had joined them full fraught with what he called ocular demonſtration of his lady's miſconduct; for though he had obſerved a ſullen ſilence when he met her in the plantation, nothing which there paſſed had eſcaped his obſerva⯑tion; and the reader will recollect enough of her ſituation to acknowledge it was a very ſuſ⯑picious one: the credit of Jemima's intelli⯑gence, as reported to him by his friend Blach⯑ford, was now completely eſtabliſhed, and his mind prepared for any meaſures of revenge, that could be propoſed to him; but as it was [61] his practice in all caſes of danger to keep him⯑ſelf out of ſight, and put his proxies in the front, his caution did not forſake him upon the meeting with his lady, and he prudently for⯑bore to waſte any of his noble anger in words, not wiſhing either that Miſs Manſtock ſhould witneſs them, or that Henry ſhould be called to an altercation on the ſpot; whether becauſe he deemed him too ignoble for his perſonal reſentment, or too gallant to ſubmit to his in⯑ſult, muſt be left as matter of opinion; we do not wiſh to have any correſpondence with his lordſhip's private meditations; as to his diſ⯑cuſſions with Lady Crowbery, he was very in⯑genious in ſelecting proper times and ſeaſons for them. The cabal now ſitting conſiſted of Blachford, Captain Crowbery of the marines, and Fulford, an attorney; gentlemen entirely devoted to his lordſhip, and the major part at leaſt not immoderately prejudiced by the ſecret dictates of juſtice, conſcience, or honour.

The inmates of the cottage were now col⯑lected, for Suſan had joined the party, but not with the ſame joyous ſpirits that her mother had brought amongſt them; a ſecret melan⯑choly ſeemed to weigh upon her heart, and Henry, who well divined the cauſe, between [62] compaſſion for her and alarm for Lady Crow⯑bery, found ample occupation for his thoughts: as for Ezekiel Daw, the even tenor of his ſpirits was not apt to be diſcompoſed either by the fortunate or unfortunate events of this life.

One of the firſt meaſures reſolved upon by the cabal, had been to expel the tenants of the cottage from their humble abode; the te⯑nement belonged to Blachford, and was held at will; ſo long as he ſofter'd any hopes of ſucceeding with the daughter, that conſiderate gentleman had been a very eaſy landlord to the mother; but now that he ſaw his deſigns blaſted, firſt by her attachment to Henry, and ſecondly, by her engagement with Miſs Man⯑ſtock, his charity cooled ſo faſt, that he com⯑miſſioned Fulford the attorney not only to warn her mother from the premiſſes, but alſo to en⯑force payment of certain arrears of rent, which he had abſtained to demand from motives above-mentioned; nay, it was aſſerted on the part of the poor widow, that as far as any unwitneſſed promiſe could avail, he had paſſed his word to her for an acquittal of the whole.

Charged with theſe inſtructions, Fulford [63] now preſented himſelf to the party in the cot⯑tage, and in proper terms of office delivered himſelf of his commiſſion. Goody May heard the warning, and demand accompanying it, with horror proportioned to the diſtreſs it menaced her with. The bounty of Lady Crowbery in conſideration of her kindneſs to Henry, had juſt enriched her with a ſum, which this demand ſo nearly involved, that ſhe felt herſelf in imagination even poorer than ſhe was before; her flattering hopes of peace and plenty vaniſhed like a dream; ſtript by her deceitful creditor of all her ſtock of wealth, and thruſt out of her cottage, ſhe knew herſelf to be excluded in effect from the pariſh, where ſhe had long dwelt in the good eſteem of the villagers, and by the humble ex⯑erciſe of her art had hitherto contrived to earn a decent maintenance; it was a further aggra⯑vation to her ſorrows, that in this diſtreſs her friend and inmate Ezekiel was to be a ſharer: ſhe fixed her eyes upon the counte⯑nance of the attorney, ſhe ſaw no movements of compaſſion there; ſhe then turned them upon her friends aſſembled around her, ſhe drew no comfort from their looks, threw herſelf into a chair and burſt into tears.

[64]Ezekiel ſeeing this, put himſelf between Fulford and the door, towards which he was retreating, and gently laying his hand upon his breaſt in the action of ſtopping him, with a ſteady look and ſolemn tone, addreſſed him in the following words—‘"Mr. Fulford, you are an attorney; and pity, though not un⯑known to ſome of your profeſſion, is certainly no part of your buſineſs here; I ſhall not therefore trouble you by appealing to what it is evident you do not poſſeſs: whether this poor woman is at this inſtant furniſh'd with money ſufficient to diſcharge your de⯑mand, I cannot take upon me to ſay; I my⯑ſelf have ſome little matter in hand, which will be forth coming at her call."’—‘"I have enough, and more than enough,"’ cried Henry—‘"Peace, young man,"’ replied the preacher, ‘"and interrupt me not: this gentleman's time is too precious to liſten to the modes we ſhall take for raiſing the ſum he requires of us, neither is his nature likely to be ſoftened by any difficulties we are put to in providing it: with your leave, therefore, Mr. Attorney, we ſhall deſire you will ſignify to your principal, that we do not oppoſe ourſelves to the power which the law has given him [65] over us, for expelling us from his cottage: tell him we have received his orders, and are preparing to obey them, but ſay withal, that they have wrung the tears from the eyes of the widow, and let him prepare himſelf to anſwer the appeal that is gone up againſt him."’

‘"Lookye, Maſter Daw,"’ replied Fulford, ‘"how all that may be is another caſe, and coram non nobis as we ſay; my commiſſion extends no farther than to the widow May; ſhe is the party I am to look to; with reſpect to you I have no inſtructions, and for aught I know, you may have his worſhip's leave for remaining on the premiſſes,"’—‘"How ſay you, ſir?"’ exclaimed Ezekiel, ‘"may I have his leave to abandon this poor widow? I will neither take his leave, nor his example, for any thing ſo baſe and daſtardly: he ſhall never teach me to be cruel like himſelf, he ſhall never ſeduce me to make promiſes of pro⯑tection and afterwards revoke them; I reject his favour, and will perſiſt in my integrity."’

‘"You know your own buſineſs beſt,"’ quoth Fulford; ‘"I am to look for the rent, or diſtrain to the amount."’—‘"Name it,"’ cried Henry, ‘"produce your bill, I am prepared [66] to diſcharge it"’—‘And who are you,"’ replied Fulford, ‘"that take upon yourſelf to ſpeak to a gentleman in ſo peremptory a ſtile?"’—‘"I ſpeak to you,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"as I ſhou'd to your principal"’—‘"Speak then to my prin⯑cipal,"’ replied the attorney; and turning on his heel, quitted the company.

Before he had gone many paces from the door, Iſabella, accompanied by her father, en⯑tered the cottage: Goody May had not yet dried her tears, and the cauſe of them being enquired into by her worthy viſitors, gave her an opportunity of relating what had paſſed. Sir Roger Manſtock, whoſe heart was ever open to a caſe of pity, and who well knew the hateful character of Blachford, bade her be comforted, for that he would provide her with a habitation on his own eſtate, and in the near neighbourhood of her daughter, where ſhe ſhould be at leaſt as well lodged and better protected than ſhe was at preſent—‘"As for the little matter of rent,"’ added he, ‘"which Mr. Blachford thinks fit to exact of you, not⯑withſtanding his word to the contrary, if one of you will ſtep out and call back the attorney, we will diſcharge it on the ſpot."’

Henry flew upon the errand, and was at [67] Blachford's door in an inſtant, where that gen⯑tleman was then ſtanding with Fulford at his elbow. At the name of Sir Roger Manſtock he ſtarted, ſwelled with pride and paſſion, and ſtrode away with haſty ſteps to the cottage, ordering the attorney to follow him.

‘"Give me leave,"’ ſaid he, as he ſet his foot within the door, ‘"to tell you, Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock, that I do not hold it proper behaviour from one gentleman to another to interfere between me and my tenant, and ſpirit her out of my houſe for the invidious purpoſe of caſt⯑ing an odium upon my character, as if I was a tyrant and perſecutor of the poor: I would have the world to know that I have as much humanity as yourſelf or any man breathing, and I don't ſee what right you have to take for granted that I intend to go the length of driv⯑ing this woman out of her houſe at any rate."’

‘"Mr. Blachford,"’ replied the venerable baronet, ‘"you have put an interpretation upon my motives ſo contrary to what has ever go⯑verned my actions, that I ſhould be warranted in making no reply to your invectives; but I am an old man pretty well known in this neighbourhood, and little afraid of being miſ⯑underſtood by any body but yourſelf. If your [68] attorney did not warn this poor widow from her houſe by your authority, I have ſtept into a buſineſs by miſtake, which does not belong to me; if, on the contrary he did, I have as much right to take her into my protection, as you can have to put her out of your's, and that protection I will give, though your perſecution ſhould extend to every other perſon under this roof."’

Blachford's duſky viſage turned purple with rage, he gnawed his lip, knit his ſooty brows, and ſullenly replied, ‘"It is no concern of mine how many vagabonds you take into your houſe, ſo mine is clear of them."’—Upon the inſtant ſtept forward our young hero, and darting a look like that which our immortal bard beſtows upon the ſeraph Abdiel before he encounters the grand apoſtate.—‘"Now,"’ ſaid he, ‘"your virulence ſo clearly points at me, that I am warranted to reply to you; and firſt, I tell you, I will not permit you to loſe the reſpect due to a venerable character, which none but one devoid of every manly, every virtuous feeling, would have the baſeneſs to defame: in the next place, I have a word for you in anſwer to the aſperſions you have thrown out againſt this innocent young wo⯑man, [69] in which you have brought my honour into queſtion, and for which you ought to bluſh, knowing your own infamous attempts upon her perſon; but as your turpitude is ſuch, that to ſpeak of it in this preſence would be a breach of decency, I deſire you will ſtep out with me, and I will breathe one word in your ear; which, if you have the ſpirit of a man, you will know how to reply to."’

This ſaid, Henry ſtept nimbly out of the door, and Blachford, attended by his lawyer, ſullenly followed.—‘"In the name of the Lord,"’ cried Ezekiel, graſping his crab-ſtick, ‘"I will alſo go forth."’—At this moment Iſabella gave a ſigh, and fell back in her chair.

CHAPTER VIII. How deep and ſecret are the Seeds of Love!

AS ſoon as Blachford was on the outſide of the door, Henry, who had ſtopt for him, accoſted him, and ſaid, ‘"I now repeat to you, that your attempt upon Suſan May was infa⯑mous; and that when you told Lord Crow⯑bery that innocent girl had been criminal with me, you told a moſt impudent and abominable [70] lie."’—‘"Very well, Sir,"’ replied Blachford, ‘"I ſhall not talk with you now: you ſhall hear from me in another way."’—The cow⯑ardly bully ſlunk away, and Henry returned to the cottage, but not till Ezekiel, brandiſhing his crab-ſtick, had marched up to him, and declared, with an obſervation little ſhort of an oath, that if he had turned out with the Juſ⯑tice, he himſelf would have undertaken for the attorney, and—‘"Grace of God,"’ added he, ‘"I truſt I ſhould have ſmitten him to the earth, even thereafter as the prophet Samuel ſmote Agag."’

When Henry entered the cottage, he found the women anxiouſly employed in bringing Iſabella out of a ſwoon.—‘"Heaven defend me,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"what is the matter?"’ Dame May had dropt ſome hartſhorn into water; Henry, ſcarce knowing what he did, ſeized the cup, and preſented it to the lips of the drooping beauty; at that moment ſhe opened her eyes—‘"And are you ſafe?"’ ſhe ſaid, then took the contents of the cup, and preſently revived.

In a few minutes Iſabella was perfectly re⯑covered, and then Sir Roger Manſtock began to expreſs himſelf in the kindeſt terms to [71] Henry: he required to know what had paſſed between him and Blachford; exhorted him very earneſtly not to enter into any quarrel with a man of ſo malicious a character, and very cordially invited him to take refuge in Manſtock-houſe—‘"For I am perſuaded,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that both Blachford, and, I am ſorry to add, Lord Crowbery himſelf, will ſet every engine at work to play off ſome diabolical plot upon you."’

‘"Indeed, Sir,"’ ſaid Iſabella, turning her eyes upon him with the tendereſt expreſſion, ‘"you are in the greateſt danger whilſt you re⯑main amongſt them; my dear father gives you the beſt counſel, and you will do well to get out of their way; for only think what afflic⯑tion it would give to my poor couſin, if any harm was to befall you."’

‘"She is infinitely good,"’ replied Henry, ‘"and her ſolicitude gives ſome value to a life, which, circumſtanced as it was a while ago, would ſcarce have merited my care."’—‘"If that be ſo,"’ reſumed Iſabella, ‘"I am confident it is her wiſh that you ſhould accept my fa⯑ther's invitation; and, after what I have now been a witneſs to, permit me to ſay, it is mine alſo."’—‘"You honour me too much,"’ replied [72] he, ‘"and I can make no other return to ſuch unmerited kindneſs, than by aſſuring Sir Roger Manſtock and yourſelf of my unalterable re⯑ſpect and gratitude."’

This point being ſo ſettled, the worthy ba⯑ronet and his fair daughter took their leave of the good people, Sir Roger having ſhaken Henry very cordially by the hand, and aſſured him of a hearty welcome at Manſtock-houſe. Upon their arrival at the caſtle, they found Lady Crowbery alone, and employed at her writing-table; their carriage was at the door, and they had called to bid her farewell. Sir Roger related to her all that had been paſſing at the cottage, and ſaid ſo many handſome things of Henry, both with reſpect to his be⯑haviour, perſon and ſpirit, that whilſt her heart trembled for his ſafety, it overflowed with joy upon hearing him ſo praiſed.—‘"And now,"’ ſaid the baronet, ‘"we muſt think of ſomething for him out of hand, for there is a deal of malice brewing againſt him in the hearts of this Blachford and his crew: he has a gallant ſpirit; I think his turn ſeems to lie to⯑wards the army."’

‘"It is too clear,"’ replied Lady Crowbery, ‘"what dangers beſet him, and with whom they [73] ſpring: that I ſhall have my ſhare in them, I can well believe; I expect no leſs, and am preparing myſelf to meet it. In the mean time, to remove him to ſome place of ſafety ſeems the firſt thing needful; of his future deſ⯑tination we may decide at leiſure."’—‘"But my father,"’ cried Iſabella, ‘"has invited him, and he is coming to Manſtock-houſe."’—Lady Crowbery ſmiled; but whether it was from the joy ſhe took in the intelligence, or from ſome⯑thing ſhe obſerved in the eagerneſs of Iſabella's manner, or from a mixture of cauſes, we muſt leave to conjecture; certain it is, that the fineſt eyes in nature were juſt then illuminated with uncommon vivacity, and the ſweeteſt counte⯑nance overſpread with a bluſh, whoſe exquiſite carnation no art can imitate.

After a few minutes ſpent in making their affectionate adieus, they parted; Sir Roger Manſtock and his fair daughter to their own home, and Lady Crowbery reſumed her pen; the productions of which, it is more than pro⯑bable, our readers will hereafter be acquainted with.

We ſhall now look back to the cottage, where the agitation, in which we left our friends, had not yet ſubſided. Ezekiel was [74] gone forth upon the Green, and being there joined by ſeveral of his neighbours, with whom he was in general favour, had been giving them a valedictory harangue, with ſome occaſional comments upon Juſtice Blachford's inhuma⯑nity to the widow; that good woman, in the mean while, who had not the fault of keeping an idle tongue, was no leſs buſy in a different quarter; and perhaps there was not a corner in the pariſh where ſhe was not beloved and the Juſtice abhorred, ſo that all voices were loud in her cauſe; even John Jenkins, a fel⯑low of notorious levity, and the obſtreperous cow-boy, his brother, were on the ſide of the ſufferers, and joined in the cry againſt their village-tyrant with the reſt.

Henry and Suſan alone kept houſe; he pon⯑dering on a variety of intereſting matters, ſhe probably on only one object, and that before her eyes. Opportunities like the preſent ſhe had little proſpect of in future; her heart flut⯑tered, her ſpirits wavered betwixt hope and deſpair: ſhe ſighed, and gently reſting her arm upon his ſhoulder, ‘"Alas! for me,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"my happy hours have been but few, and they are paſt: You'll think no more of me when this fine lady occupies your heart: I ſee it com⯑ing [75] on, I ſee it plainly."’—‘"Impoſſible!"’ he re⯑plied, ‘"my thoughts are otherwiſe employ'd; they never can aſpire ſo high."’—‘"Ah, Hen⯑ry!"’ reſumed ſhe, ‘"this is but feign'd humi⯑lity; you've ſeen enough to know that I am right: You and I ſhall take no more ſuch walks together as we have done; you will have a fairer companion in your rambles through the groves at Manſtock; and let me own 'tis fit you ſhou'd; I am not worthy of you; you are in all reſpects above me, and it was only in your diſtreſs'd and humble ſtate that I aſpir'd to think of you, to conſort with you, and to love you: If I have been too forward, and offended you, do not remember me with contempt, but pardon a fond girl that can never ceaſe to bear you a devoted faithful heart."’

Suſan never looked ſo lovely in the eyes of Henry as at this moment: the melancholy tone in which theſe words were uttered, the modeſt air accompanying their delivery, her ſighs, her tears, her bluſhes, touched him more ſenſibly than all the playful ſmiles that in her gayer moments ſhe had glanced upon him. Every thing that his compaſſionate nature could ſug⯑geſt to conſole and ſoothe her he ſaid and did without reſerve, for every paſſion ſeemed now [76] buried in affliction; and as for ſuch careſſes as honour might allow of, he deemed it cruelty to withhold them.—But here let me inſert one caution to my youthful readers how they ſur⯑render themſelves to the indulgence of that dangerous propenſity called pity, which, if it is not love itſelf, is yet ſo cloſely allied to it, that wherever the intereſts of the one can be ſerved, there is no ſafety in committing yourſelves to the other. Of the truth of this remark our in⯑experienced Henry may ſerve for an example; ſeduced by pure compaſſion into the office of a comforter, he found himſelf ſurprized into emotions, which it required the ſtrongeſt reſo⯑lution to controul; and ſo gentle was the cur⯑rent, ſo pleaſingly deceitful the gradations by which he was carried on towards that gulph, where honour would have been loſt, that had not the recollection of his late reproach to Blachford timely warned his conſcience to avoid the guilt which he condemned in another, he had here been overthrown, and we muſt have devoted one unwilling page to the la⯑mented record of his ſhame; for opportu⯑nity courted him, beauty ſmiled upon him, love allured, and Suſan whiſpered an in⯑viting challenge in his ear, that fairly ſet all prudence at defiance; in ſhort, malicious For⯑tune [77] ſeemed to have trepanned him into a ſitua⯑tion with this tempting girl, exactly of a piece with their's, to whoſe incontinence he owed his birth.

‘"Then I muſt marry you,"’ was his apology to Suſan's raſh propoſal.—‘"I aſk no ſuch ſa⯑crifice,"’ replied the damſel.—‘"This hoſpitable roof will fall upon my head."’—‘"Away with all ſuch ſcruples,"’ ſhe again replied, and preſs'd him in her arms.—‘"'Tis a hard ſtruggle!"’ he exclaimed, ‘"but, by the Power that guards me, I will never be a Blachford!"’—With theſe words he ſprung from her embrace: the ſnares of love, that had ſo nearly cloſed upon him, gave way, and burſt at once; the vanquiſhed paſſions fled, and Virtue put her wreath of triumph on his brow!

A momentary glance of anger darted from the eyes of Suſan, as ſhe exclaimed,—‘"Hea⯑vens! can you uſe me thus?"’—But it was only a glance; reſentment had no laſting tenure in her breaſt; her heart, though liable to be ſur⯑prized by love, was not ſurrendered to diſho⯑nour: She rallied her diſordered thoughts, looked back upon the paſt with conſcious ſelf-reproach for her own deſperation, and, covered with confuſion, hid her face.

CHAPTER IX. A Funeral Oration out of Place.

IN the council, that ſate upon the fate of Henry, there were as many opinions as there were members: Fulford, who looked for no reſources but what were to be found in his own profeſſion, recommended the eject⯑ment; and of this we have already ſeen the re⯑ſult, which certainly was not very flattering to the projector.

Captain Crowbery, whoſe ideas, like thoſe of Fulford, were of the profeſſional ſort, was for bolder meaſures, and undertook, through his intereſt with a friend, who commanded a preſs⯑gang then upon the coaſt, to take our hero off, unknown to all his friends, and ſhip him in a tender: This propoſal, which did not interfere with the legal proceeding before mentioned, nor involve any one of the junto either in diffi⯑culties or dangers, was univerſally approved of, and had in fact every merit that a revengeful plot could boaſt of: It was therefore reſolved, nem. con. that the Captain ſhould ſet forth in ſearch of his friend, and concert the means of carrying it into execution ſecretly and ſecurely; [79] Lord Crowbery enjoying by anticipation, the agonies of his Lady when her favourite ſhould diſappear on a ſudden, and no one could ac⯑count for it.

But Blachford, whoſe nature, though by no means brave, was bloody and revengeful, and whoſe pride was ſtung to the quick by the ſpi⯑rited retort which Henry had caſt in his teeth, had an underplot of his own, which, for good reaſons, he withheld from his aſſeſſors, conſcious that it would neither tally with the legal no⯑tions of the attorney, nor probably ſuit the more martial ſpirit of the Captain; nay, he had his doubts if even my Lord would be fond of giving countenance to it; for it was neither more nor leſs than to aſſaſſinate Henry, or, in the vulgar phraſe, knock him down in the dark, and leave him to his chance for life or death when he had done with him.

Blachford in his chair of juſtice could expa⯑tiate, as we have ſeen, with all due ſolemnity upon the heinous crime of murder; but Blach⯑ford in his private character was the very man in the world to project the perpetration, though not juſt the perſon to undertake the hazard of executing ſuch an act: He was pro⯑vided with a confidential ſervant, whom Na⯑ture [80] ſeemed to have qualified for theſe pur⯑poſes with the moſt abſolute inſenſibility both of danger and humanity. This adroit perſonage, by name Lawrence O'Rourke, whoſe origin was to be ſought in the weſt of Connaught, had been taken into Blachford's ſervice, when he firſt commenced planter in Jamaica; and ſo faithfully had he miniſtered to the cruelties of his maſter, that it was generally thought moſt of the memorable acts were done by his hands, for which that gentleman became diſtinguiſhed in thoſe parts by the title of Bloody Bob Blach⯑ford.

The moon was at this time commodiouſly in her laſt quarter: Lord Crowbery had ſignified his intention of ſummoning Henry to the caſ⯑tle that evening, and it occurred to Blachford that the opportunity was favourable for way-laying him on his return through the grove, where Larry O'Rourke undertook to poſt himſelf, armed with a ſtout bludgeon, in the uſe and exerciſe of which he was very expert.

In the mean time Ezekiel and Goody May, having in their different quarters diſſeminated the ſtory of Blachford's employing his attorney to eject them from their cottage, through the whole village, the indignation became general, [81] and ſome of the younger people began to em⯑ploy themſelves in the making and erecting of a very ſtately gibbet in the centre of the Green, and in full view from the windows of his wor⯑ſhip's manſion, for the purpoſe of executing that venerable magiſtrate by proxy on the ſpot. This proxy, which was a very reaſon⯑able likeneſs of it's principal, was ſeated in a tumbril, with it's arms tied behind it in a very orthodox manner, and ſeemed only to wait the prayers of ſome charitable perſon, before it re⯑ceived the word of command for being hoiſted up to the place of it's execution. In this aw⯑ful interim it occurred to the ingenious pro⯑jectors of this moral machinery, that if Doctor Daw could be prevailed upon to give it his paſsport to the other world, they might launch it off with becoming grace, and the ſpectators be edified by the cataſtrophe.

It was in the duſk of the evening, and Eze⯑kiel had juſt knocked the aſhes out of his laſt pipe, when the noiſe and hubbub on the Green called him forth. No ſooner had the figure in the tumbril croſſed his optic nerves in the ob⯑ſcurity of the twilight, than thoſe aforeſaid nerves ſuggeſted to his ſenſorium an idea, that the enraged mob were actually about to execute [82] a living man without judge or jury. Horror-ſtruck at the ſight, he ruſhed amongſt them, vociferating by the way, ‘"For the Lord's ſake, neighbours! what are you about? Are you mad? Are you going to commit murder?"’—‘"No, no,"’ cried one of the throng, ‘"we are only gibbetting the Squire for turning you and Goody May out of doors."’—‘"Od's my life!"’ cried Ezekiel, coming nearer to the figure, and diſcovering ſomething like a human face, with an enormous pair of black eyebrows, ‘"I proteſt to truth it did deceive me: Never truſt me if it is not a ſtriking likeneſs of that unworthy perſon who has turned the widow from his door, and aſſailed the chaſ⯑tity of her daughter: would to Heaven the original were as harmleſs as the copy! Oh! thou monſter of uncleanneſs"’ (for now the ſpirit had taken hold of him, and he had again forgot he was addreſſing himſelf to a dumb image) ‘"Oh! thou idolatrous worſhipper of filthy Be⯑lial! outcaſt from grace, and given up to work all manner of whoredoms and abominations in the land; juſtly art thou cut off in thy ſins, thou he-goat of the flock of Beelzebub! Have you eyes, ye lookers-on, and can you ſee the fate of this unholy one without trembling? Have you ears, and can you hear me and not [83] mark? Hearts have you, ye obdurate ſinners! and will you not underſtand how terrible is the latter end of the wicked? Let him that coveteth his neighbour's daughter take warning by this wretch's fate! What is the luſt of the eye? a ſnare: What the evil motion of the heart? a ſerpent in your boſom: What the war of the members provoking to uncleanneſs? a ramp⯑ing and a roaring lion. Maidens! (if there be any here that anſwer to that name) remem⯑ber that the chaſtity of a damſel is like the dew-drop on the flower; the ſun ſhineth wantonly upon it, and it is gone: Keep yourſelves in the ſhade; let your concealment be your ſafe⯑guard, ye are then only ſecure when no one can approach you: Handle not the aſp, for it will ſting you; put not your hand to the cocka⯑trice's neſt, for there is poiſon in the tooth of it, and it hath the bite of mortal death."’

Whilſt theſe words were upon his lips, Eze⯑kiel, to his utter aſtoniſhment, beheld the fi⯑gure ſlowly aſcend out of the cart; and by the operation of a rope and pulley (of neither of which, good man! he had taken any account, being then warmly engaged with the cocka⯑trice) mount into the air, ſuſpended by the neck from the croſs-bar of the gibbet. He caſt [84] his eyes upwards with pity and amaze, and pi⯑ouſly ejaculated, in the charity of his heart,—‘"The Lord have mercy upon thy ſoul!"’—‘"Amen!"’ echoed John Jenkins, who per⯑formed the office of hangman, and at the ſame time run the vice-juſtice up by the pulley. John was the idleſt fellow in the pariſh, and moſt in the ill graces of Doctor Daw, for the looſeneſs of his morals.—‘"Here he goes to the devil in a whiff,"’ quoth Jenkins.—‘"Art thou ſo familiar with the devil,"’ ſaid Ezekiel, ‘"as to know whom he will take, and whom he will ſpare? Have a care of one, John Jen⯑kins, and do not venture to pronounce upon thy neighbours."’—John was too buſy to enter into argument, ſo Ezekiel had the laſt word, and turned aſide towards the cottage.

The mob, under the conduct of General Jenkins, the hangman, marched in array to Dame May's cottage, and having drawn up be⯑fore the door, Jenkins being deputed as ſpokeſ⯑man, announced himſelf, and was admitted.—‘"By your leave, Dame May,"’ quoth the ora⯑tor, ‘"we mean you no offence; but being, as you do ſee, your friends and neighbours, we come to cheer you a bit in your affliction, by telling you, for your comfort, we have gib⯑betted [85] the Juſtice upon the Green; and if we had treated him as ſuch a hard-hearted fellow deſerves, we ſhou'd have pull'd his houſe ſtick and ſtone down to the ground; ſo there's the right o' the matter. As for thee, Henry, give me thy hand, my brave lad! I will ſtand by the man that will ſtand by a woman as long as I have life, dammee! I beg your pardon, Doctor, for ſwearing, but when a man's heart is right, lookye, what he ſays goes for nothing; as for a few haſty words, it is to be hop'd there'll be no account taken of them."’

‘"I hope ſo too,"’ quoth Ezekiel, in an un⯑der-tone. Dame May returned her thanks; Henry ſhook the orator by the hand, and the mob, according to cuſtom, adjourned to the alehouſe.

CHAPTER X. The trampled Worm will turn.

THE news of the gibbetting flew to Blach⯑ford's ears by one of the nimbleſt couriers Fame had in her ſervice; it made him furious, and as he laid it all to Henry's account, it [86] rendered him as hungry for his prey as a hyaena.

The haughty Peer now ſeated in his caſtle, and encompaſſed by his myrmidons, diſ⯑patched a ſervant with his ſummons for Henry to attend upon him: What particular purpoſe he meant to effect by this, does not clearly appear, but it is not unlikely Blachford was the mover of it, with the view of wreaking his vengeance upon the youth by the hands of O'Rourke, on his return from the conference.

The meſſenger being diſpatched for Henry, order was given by the Peer, that his lady ſhould come to him: Blachford and the attorney thereupon took the hint to retire, and her Ladyſhip, having obeyed the call, was welcomed in manner following—‘"So Madam, you are come; be pleas'd to take your ſeat, I have ſomething to ſay to you. What are the motives, I would fain know, for your late viſits to my apothecary in the village? I did not know you was out of health, or, if you are, methinks it is his duty to attend upon you."’

‘"But he is confin'd to his chamber, my lord."’

‘"So ought you to be, my lady, and ſo [87] ſhall you be, if you have no more regard for my honour and your own dignity, than to be ſeen goſſiping and caballing in beggarly cot⯑tages, with vagabonds and ſtrumpets, for pur⯑poſes I bluſh to name."’—‘"What ſtrumpets and what vagabonds,"’ replied the lady, ‘"do you charge me of caballing with; and what purpoſes have I ever had in hand, which you, my lord, ſhou'd bluſh to name? Declare them."’

‘"Declare to me firſt, if you can, who that young fellow is, you have been graciouſly pleas'd to furniſh with cloathes and money, and pick up out of the dirt; a beggarly vagrant, for the worthy purpoſe, amongſt others that ſhall be nameleſs, of inſulting my friend Mr. Blachford in the moſt public and daring man⯑ner, for which he ſhall be made an example of my vengeance, be aſſur'd, though your folly, Lady Crowbery, (to ſay no worſe of it) ſhou'd be expos'd thereby to all the world. Who is this fellow, I demand? What is his name? What is his buſineſs here? What are the mighty charms you can diſcover in the em⯑braces of a beggar? what the ſenſe of your own honour, that you ſhou'd fall into his arms, as theſe eyes have witneſs'd? And have you not [88] repeatedly done this? Can you deny the charge? and what excuſe are you provided with to offer to a huſband, who will not tamely ſuffer ſuch unparallel'd diſgrace?"’

The vehemence, with which all this was uttered, the variety of queſtions it contained, her unwillingneſs to anſwer ſome, and her in⯑capacity of accounting for others (for ſhe was not yet informed of Blachford's late affair) ſo totally overpower'd the tender and maternal feelings of Lady Crowbery, that unable to collect her thoughts, ſhe remained ſilent and without an anſwer.

After ſome little pauſe, regarding her with a look of anger and contempt, he exclaimed—‘"'Tis well, madam, 'tis very well! I take your ſilence for confeſſion, and your tears for tokens of your ſhame. I now tell you that I have ſent for your fellow hither; I wou'd fain ſee this favour'd rival, whom you have ſingled out to diſgrace me. Was he worthy the reſentment of a gentleman, I wou'd not part from him till the life of one of us was ſacrific'd to honour; but being what he is, the loweſt, baſeſt, vileſt of mankind, fitter chaſtiſe⯑ment ſhall be provided for him."’

‘"Hold, my Lord!"’ ſhe now exclaimed, re⯑ſuming [89] on the ſudden a compoſed and ener⯑getic tone of voice; ‘"hold, my Lord Crow⯑bery, nor drive me quite to deſperation by your ferocious menaces and falſe unfounded glances at my reputation, which defies your charge. If you demand to know why I have reach'd out the hand of charity to this young man, whom you arraign ſo cruelly, it is be⯑cauſe my heart hath feeling for the unfortunate, when undeſervedly oppreſs'd, for the ſtranger and the friendleſs, for the benevolent, the brave, the generous preſerver of another's life, for which he had nearly ſacrific'd his own—in one word for the relict of a dear departed friend, the laſt bequeſt of Ratcliffe, a foundling dropt at his door and adopted by his charity. You have ſent for him, you ſay; you will then ſee him, hear him, queſtion him, and if you have a heart, approve, admire."’—‘"This to my face!"’ he cried in a tranſport of rage; ‘"this to my face! By Heaven I'll not endure it, I'll not live with you, I'll not cohabit with a woman as my wife, who dares to uphold and praiſe her paramour to my very face."’

‘"My paramour do you call him? Alas! how widely do you miſtake!"’—Here ſhe dropped her voice, and accompanied theſe [90] few words with an action and motion of the head ſo mournful, as ſeemed to ſtrengthen his ſuſpicions rather than allay them, for he now grew louder in reproach, and with an oath denounced determined ſeparation.

‘"Be it ſo,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"acquitted by my own conſcience, I ſhall patiently ſubmit to what you threaten, and will appeal to time and Heaven's good pleaſure for the reſt: only this I tell you, and accept it from me as a ſalutary caution, beware how you inſult too far a brave, though temperate, ſpirit."’

This ſaid, a ſervant announced the arrival of our hero.—‘"Already!"’ cried my Lord, in a tone of ſurprize; What ſtruck upon his mind at that particular moment to diſcompoſe him, is more than we pretend to account for; diſcompos'd he certainly was, 'till recollecting that ſome order muſt be given to the ſervant, who was attending for that purpoſe, he cried out—‘"Let the fellow wait."’—After a pauſe, turning a ſevere look upon his lady, he ſaid,—‘"I ſhall exact from you, madam, your moſt ſolemn promiſe never to ſee or communicate with this fellow more."’—‘"I have told you,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"who and what this fellow as you call him is, and I ſhould be a hypocrite [91] to ſay I will not fulfil a truſt of the moſt ſacred ſort that friendſhip can bequeath: but why need you exact, or I make any promiſes, when you are determin'd on a ſeparation, that will releaſe me from your authority, and leave me to account to conſcience only for the rec⯑titude of my conduct?"’—‘"But you are not yet in that happy ſtate of freedom,"’ he cried, ‘"and I will be obeyed!"’—To this no anſwer was returned.

He ſtarted haſtily from his ſeat, walked a turn or two up and down the room, and then in a ſul⯑len tone ſaid, ‘"Perhaps you expect to ſee your favourite triumph in his inſolence; you'll be miſtaken: Pleaſe to leave the room."’—‘"Wil⯑lingly,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"and from this moment I regard it as my diſmiſſion."’ Her firmneſs ſtaggered him; he would have called her back, but pride withheld him: Suſpicious that his lady in her preſent temper might in de⯑fiance of his orders attempt an interview with the youth in waiting, he rung the bell with vehemence, and called for his attendance on the inſtant.

Henry made his entrance, bowing reſpect⯑fully to the Peer, who ſeated with all due ſtate, from which he did not in the ſlighteſt degree [92] relax, eyed him over from heel to head with that haughty air of contempt, which is now ſo rarely ſeen, except in our tyrants on the ſtage.

A ſtring of interrogatories, ſomewhat in the inquiſitorial ſtile, were the firſt ſalutations Henry received from the noble perſonage; his anſwers to theſe, though not always ſa⯑tisfactory to the point of information, were reſpectfully and modeſtly conveyed.—‘"I find,"’ reſumed his Lordſhip, ‘"you are here without occupation or employ, idling about my pariſh, conſorting with a young woman, the daughter of one of the cottagers, caballing with the rabble of the village, and ſtirring them up to very infamous attacks upon a reſpectable ma⯑giſtrate, my friend and neighbour; and there⯑fore I wou'd have you know, that I ſhall con⯑ſider you as a perſon of a very ſuſpicious cha⯑racter, and paſs you off as a vagrant, unleſs you inſtantly decamp."’

‘"My lord,"’ replied the youth, ‘"if I offend againſt the laws of my country, by being poor and without employ, I muſt patiently ſubmit to all the conſequences I may incur by your enforcing them againſt me; but if I have com⯑mitted no offence, have behav'd myſelf peace⯑ably, [93] and in one inſtance, ſuffer me to ſay, profitably to an individual of your lordſhip's pariſh, I am at a loſs to think how I can be repreſented to you as a dangerous and ſuſ⯑pected character: nevertheleſs, if my abiding any longer on your lordſhip's ſoil may give you offence, I ſhall not oppoſe myſelf to your diſpleaſure, but depart."’

‘"Do ſo then without delay,"’ ſaid the Peer, ‘"and begone; but firſt tell me what charities you have receiv'd from my wife, for what ſervices, and to what amount."’—‘"My lord, I have done no ſervices to Lady Crowbery, nor am at liberty to anſwer to the other points, on which you queſtion me."’

‘"What, Sir! do you receive money from my wife, and refuſe to ſatisfy me, when I de⯑mand how much?"’

‘"I am very ſorry to be obliged to decline any thing your lordſhip wiſhes to be informed of from me, but in this inſtance I muſt deſire to be excuſed."’

‘"You have been cautioned, I perceive; but do you affect honour?"’

‘"That requires no anſwer, my lord."’

‘"Why, in truth the queſtion is rather ſu⯑perfluous."’

[94] ‘"I treat it as ſuch, for honour is as inherent in my perſon as it is hereditary in your lord⯑ſhip's: I do not therefore take your lordſhip's words as conveying any doubt of my preſerv⯑ing that part at leaſt of my natural character, which misfortune cannot rob me of, and which, permit me to add, does not ſuffer me to put up with a determin'd inſult from any man."’

‘"Upon my word, Sir!"’ replied Lord Crowbery, ſomewhat relaxing from the ſtateli⯑neſs of his manner, and the acrimony of his tone, ‘"you talk a high language conſidering what you are; and I believe it was ſomewhat in this ſtile that you deported yourſelf with Mr. Blachford."’—‘"Pardon me, my lord, it was in a very different manner I found myſelf compelled to addreſs Mr. Blachford: he had defamed the character of a young woman, whom he took the baſeſt means to ſeduce, and as he had falſely charg'd me with the very crime he himſelf had attempted to commit, I ſimply told him, that his attack on Suſan May was infamous, and his report of me an impu⯑dent and abominable lie. That gentleman, I dare ſay, very diſtinctly heard the words; if not, I am very ready to repeat them."’

‘"Not in my hearing; I deſire no ſuch fa⯑miliarity; [95] nor do I wiſh to be made a party in Mr. Blachford's quarrels."’

‘"Your lordſhip will be pleaſed to recollect that you ſtated my behaviour to that gentle⯑man as matter of charge: in my own vindi⯑cation therefore I was led to tell you of what ſort his behaviour was to me; and in account⯑ing for my words found it neceſſary to explain the cauſes that provok'd them. I truſt your lordſhip thinks I have not failed in my reſpect to you by anſwering in my own defence."’

‘"You have no right over my thoughts; them I ſhall keep to myſelf: there are deeper thoughts in my mind than I ſhall ſee fit at pre⯑ſent to produce."’

‘"Then, my lord, I am to preſume you ne⯑ver will produce them, againſt me at leaſt; for I am here preſent on your own ſummons, ſtanding before you like a culprit at the bar, to hear and to anſwer every thing you can urge againſt me; I therefore humbly beg leave to know from yourſelf whether I am clear of all you have to charge me with."’—‘"I have no⯑thing more to ſay to you, Sir,"’ replied my my Lord; ‘"you may retire when you pleaſe."’—‘"I underſtand you, my lord,"’ cried Henry; ‘"you have reſtored to me my character, and [96] I will take care ſo to guard it that no man ſhall traduce it with impunity."’

CHAPTER XI. A Blow well placed in the Dark, or, in other Words, according to the Greek Proverb, Blach⯑ford ſhears a Lion.

AS Henry paſſed through the hall, after his conference related in the foregoing chap⯑ter, he was met by Lady Crowbery, who haſtily put a paquet into his hand, con⯑juring him to take care of it, and keep ſecret the contents.—‘"In that paper,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"you will ſee the myſtery of your birth re⯑veal'd: Betake yourſelf to my uncle Manſtock without delay, and Heaven in its mercy pro⯑tect and guard you!"’

Henry, almoſt overpowered with joyful ſur⯑prize, at hearing what that paper was to diſ⯑cloſe, took it with all the rapture and devotion, which its intereſting contents excited, and carefully ſecured it in his pocket. He had yet ſufficient recollection left to ſeize the oppor⯑nity for returning the ring to Lady Crowbery wrapped up in paper and tied; at the ſame [97] time he briefly recited what had been ſaid to him by the man who found it: Lady Crow⯑bery ſeemed a good deal ſurprized, and denied having miſſed any one of her rings, however as the time was preſſing, and the danger of being diſcovered inſtant, ſhe took it from him, and again bidding him tenderly farewell, haſtened away.

There were two roads to the village; the ſhorteſt by a foot-path through the plantation, which was cloſe and now dark, the other was the common coach-road through the park, open and ſecure from ambuſcade. As Henry came out from the hall-door, he found old Weevil the miller waiting in the court-yard: he had been to the houſe with flour, and had been chatting as uſual with the ſervants; he underſtood from them, that Henry was under examination with my lord, and having noticed O'Rourke prowling about the plantations with, his bludgeon in his hand, entertained ſome ſuſpicions of a plot upon Henry, and was de⯑termined to accompany him home, and per⯑ſuaded him to take the open road through the park.

This was a taſk of ſome difficulty on the part of the friendly miller, for Henry's eager⯑neſs [98] to open the important pacquet made him very adverſe to any propoſal that prolonged the time; the point, however, was carried, and he, accompanied by Weevil, arrived ſafe at the widow's, whilſt Larry O'Rourke laid cloſe in his ambuſh at the bottom of the grove, where was a little foot-bridge that led over a narrow ſtream, thickly ſhaded with alders.

When a much longer period of time had elapſed than would have ſerved to carry Henry through the grove, Blachford, who calculated minutes, with ſome anxiety, ſet out from the Viſcounts upon the ſcout, and took his way ſecretly and ſolitarily down the plantation-walk: as he approached the ſpot where the attack was to be made, he ſtopt and liſtened; all was ſilence: he took counſel with his own thoughts, and concluding the buſineſs was done, advanced, nothing doubting, till he had one foot upon the bridge, when, as if fortune had in that inſtant recovered her eye-ſight and beſtowed the bludgeon with ſtrict reta⯑liation upon its proper owner, Larry O'Rourke, ſuppoſing he had now made ſure of his victim, took aim with ſuch ſucceſs, and dealt his blow with ſo hearty a good-will upon the pericranium [99] of the magiſtrate, that Blachford, having ut⯑tered one horrid yell as his heels flew from under him, inſtantly paid his compliments to the muddy naiads of the brook.

The George and Dragon alehouſe, where the party was carouſing, who had performed the ceremony of the gibbet, was ſo near to the ſcene of action, that Blachford's yell was moſt diſtinctly heard by the perſons there aſ⯑ſembled, who immediately turned out upon the alarm. Amongſt the firſt of theſe was John Jenkins the hangman, who found Larry O'Rourke employed in dragging the juſtice out of the water, for he had now, though ſomewhat of the lateſt, diſcovered a ſmall miſtake as to heads, but in point of execution no fault could be found with his work, which ſeemed to be effectually done, as the blow had taken place juſt above the temple, and the bludgeon was loaded with lead. John Jenkins being ſomewhat more than elevated with his evening's feſtivity, was for leaving the juſtice to his fate, making uſe of the trite proverb, that the man who was born to be hanged, was in no danger of being drowned; but the ſoberer part of the company, who [100] ſaw further into the caſe than John did, lent their hands to the work, and aſſiſted in dragging Blachford out of the brook, who during the whole operation obſerved a perfect ſilence, which we are far from imputing to any ſullenneſs on the part of that gentleman, he being at that time from home upon a tem⯑porary trip to the regions of inſenſibility.

One of the company had been diſpatched for a candle and lantern, and by the light of this the body of Juſtice Blachford, ſtretched upon the ground and motionleſs, exhibited a moſt ghaſtly ſpectacle; his temple ſtreaming with blood, his eyes fixed, and no ſymptom of life appearing. Upon the ſight of this, Larry O'Rourke ſet up a moſt dolorous howl in the true Connaught key and cadence, crying out.—‘"Ullaloo! Maſter, why wou'd you die? Had'nt you horſes and cows and cattle in abundance, with plenty of ſtrong drink in your vaults, and ſtore of money in your lockers, and why wou'd you leave poor Larry to lament and cry over you at ſuch a rate, when you might have been eaſy and quiet at home, and no harm done? Ah! was'nt it a foul ſtep of your's to thruſt your head in the [101] way of my cudgel, when you knew well enough, aye and wou'd witneſs it too, if the grace of God was'nt juſt now out of your memory, that if every one had his own, that big knock on the head you have got is another man's property, only he chanc'd to be out of the way when I gave it to him."’

‘"Seize the murderer,"’ cried one of the troop, upon which John Jenkins and the reſt laid hold of him.—‘"What is it you are upon, ye pagans,"’ exclaimed Larry, ‘"to be ſeizing me? Let the dead man ſpeak for himſelf, and mark if he don't tell you another ſtory about the matter, whereby it was no murder, only a ſmall miſtake, and if that's a hanging matter, woe beſide my countrymen! Aſk him now, ye ſparrow-hawks, if it was'nt at his own deſire that I kill'd him, and how ſhou'd I know one man from another in the dark, when I cou'd ſee neither?"’

Somebody now cried out to hold him faſt, for it was confeſſedly a plot between maſter and man to have aſſaſſinated Henry.—‘"To be ſure it was,"’ ſaid O'Rourke; ‘"Do you think I'm ſuch a graceleſs teif as to kill my own maſter? Huh! you are a cunning one, are you not, to find out that?"’

[102]Three or four of them now began to hale the Iriſhman away with them, whilſt others fetched a blanket from the alehouſe, on which they laid the body of Blachford, and in this manner carried him to his own houſe.

CHAPTER I. A ſhort Treatiſe upon Love, antient and modern.

LOVE, as a deity, was inveſted, by thoſe who made him ſuch, with the moſt con⯑tradictory attributes: they feigned him blind, yet called him an unerring markſman; gave him wings, yet allowed that conſtancy was his beſt qualification; deſcribed him as an infant, yet were not to learn that infancy alone is exempted from his power.

Theſe are contrarieties, which none but the initiated can reconcile. They juſtify his blind⯑neſs, when hurried on by the impetuoſity of paſſion they eſpy no danger in the precipice before them; they acknowledge he is ſwift of wing, when the minutes they devote to his en⯑joyments fly ſo quickly, and they cannot but regard him as an infant, when one ſhort honey⯑moon begins and terminates his date of life.

A thouſand ingenious devices have been formed to ſuit the various properties of this fa⯑bulous [104] divinity, and every ſymbol has it's moral; he has been allegorized and enigmatized in in⯑numerable ways; the pen, the pencil and the chiſſel have been worn out in his ſervice; floods of ink, looms of canvaſs, and quarries of marble, have been exhauſted in the boundleſs field of figurative deſcription. The lover, who finds out ſo many ways of torturing himſelf, cannot fail to ſtrike out ſymbols and devices to expreſs the paſſion under which he ſuffers; then the verſe flows mournfully elegiac, and the bleed⯑ing heart, transfixed with an arrow, is emble⯑matically diſplayed; thus, whilſt the poet va⯑ries his meaſure, the painter and the ſculptor vary their devices, as joy or ſorrow, ſucceſs or diſappointment, influence their fancy. One man's Cupid is ſet aſtride upon a lion, to ex⯑emplify his power; another places his upon a crocodile, to ſatyrize his hypocriſy; here the god is made to trample upon kingly crowns, there to trifle with a wanton ſparrow; the adaman⯑tine rock now crumbles at his ſtroke, anon we ſee him baſking on the boſom of Chloe, his arrows broken and his pinions bound.

The Greeks, who had more caprice in their paſſions than either nature or morality can excuſe, nevertheleſs bequeathed their Cupid to [105] poſterity with a conſiderable ſtock in hand; but the moderns added more from funds of their own, and every thing they beſtowed was honeſtly appropriated to the only ſex that has any claim upon the regular and ſolid firme of Venus, Cupid, and Co.

When ſuperſtition met its final overthrow, and the heathen temples were diſmantled of their images and altars, Love alone, the youngeſt of the deities, ſurvived the diſaſter, and ſtill holds his dignities and prerogatives by chriſtian courteſy; and though modern in⯑genuity has not added much to his embelliſh⯑ments, yet, in the ardour and ſincerity of our devotion, we do not yield to the antients: the whole region of romance has been made over to him; our drama, tragic as well as comic, has gone far beyond that of the antients in building its fable and character upon the paſ⯑ſion of love. Laſt in point of time, but not of allegiance, comes the fraternity of noveliſts, who are his clients to a man; Love is the eſ⯑ſence of every tale, and ſo ſtudious are our authors not to let the ſpirit of that eſſence be⯑come vapid, that few, if any, fail to conclude with the event of marriage: connubial love is of a quality too tame for their purpoſe.

[106]As the majority of our novels are formed upon domeſtic plots, and moſt of theſe drawn from the very times in which they are written, the living manners muſt be charactered by the authors of ſuch fables, and we muſt of courſe make our Love of ſuch materials as the fa⯑ſhion of the age affords: it will not therefore reſemble the high-flown paſſion of the Gothic knights and heroes of the old romance, neither will it partake of thoſe coarſe manners and expreſſions, which our old comic writers adopt; it will even take a different ſhade from what a noveliſt would have given it half a cen⯑tury ago, for the ſocial commerce of the ſexes is now ſo very different from what it was then, that beauty is no longer worſhipped with that diſ⯑tant reſpect, which our antiquated beaux paid to their miſtreſſes.

As the modern fine gentleman ſtudies no⯑thing but his eaſe, and aims only to be what he terms comfortable, regarding all thoſe things, that uſed to be conſidered as annoyances and embarraſſments, with cool indifference and contempt, even Love in him is not an active paſſion; he expreſſes no raptures at the ſight of beauty, and if he is haply provoked to ſome ſlight exertion out of courſe, it muſt be ſome [107] new face juſt launched upon the public, that can fan his languid ſpirit into any emotion ap⯑proaching towards curioſity. Nothing is an object of admiration with him; he covets no gratifications that are to be earned by labour, no favours that are to be extorted by aſſiduity; his pleaſures muſt court him, and the fair one he affects muſt forget that ſhe is a divinity, and baniſh from her thoughts the accuſtomed homage of ſighs and tears and bending knees, for all theſe things give trouble to the per⯑former, and on that account are by general conſent exploded and aboliſhed.

Now the writer of novels has not the pri⯑vilege, which the painter of portraits has, of dreſſing modern characters in antique habits; ſo that ſome of our beſt productions in this claſs are already become, in ſome particulars, out of faſhion; even the inimitable compoſi⯑tion of The Foundling is fading away in ſome of it's tints, though the hand of the maſter as a correct delineator of nature will be traced to all poſterity, and hold it's rank amongſt the foremoſt of that claſs, which enrols the names of Cervantes, Rabelais, Le Sage, Voltaire, Rouſſeau, Richardſon, Smollet, Johnſon, Sterne, and ſome others, whoſe pens death [108] hath not yet ſtopt, and long may it be ere he does!

Having now allowed the hiſtoric muſe her cuſtomary bait, we ſhall ſoon urge her to freſh exertions, by which a certain young lady, who as yet has barely ſtept upon the ſtage, will be⯑gin to ſupport a more important intereſt in the buſineſs of this drama. Iſabella Manſtock, in the bloom of youth and beauty, cannot long remain an idle character; though ſhe has flat⯑tered herſelf that filial affection will keep poſ⯑ſeſſion of her heart, to the excluſion of that in⯑truding paſſion we have been ſpeaking of, yet nature and experience will compel me to ex⯑hibit that lovely recuſant as one amongſt ma⯑ny, who have been fain to truckle to the tyrant they abjure: the time is drawing near, when impreſſions, which ſhe never felt before, will force their way; when the merits, the misfor⯑tunes, the attentions of our hero, will take hold upon her heart; when her eye will dwell upon his perſon with delight, her ear liſten to his praiſes with rapture, to his ſighs with pity, to his ſuit with favour: then if Love, who is not to be affronted with impunity, gives a looſe to his revenge, and makes her feel the full terrors of his power, the reader will be pleaſed to bear [109] in mind, that I have not taken my lovers from the inanimate groups that form the circle of faſhion, but ſought them in the ſequeſtered walks of rural life, where the ſenſes are not deadened by variety, nor indifference become habitual by the affectation of it.

CHAPTER II. A Letter ſpares a Bluſh.

WHEN Henry entered the cottage, and found it cleared of it's inhabitants, who had joined the crowd that was collected about the wounded body of the juſtice, his heart pal⯑pitated with eager, yet anxious, curioſity, as he unfolded the intereſting pacquet which Lady Crowbery had given him, and therein read as follows:

The myſtery thus revealed, Henry awhile ſtood fixt in dumb ſurprize; the firſt emotions of his heart burſt into unpremeditated prayer and pious thanks to God. Claſping the paper in his hands, with bended knees and eyes up⯑lifted, in the fervour of his ſoul, he broke forth—‘"I thank thee, Father of all mercies, that thou haſt now vouchſafed to take thy humble creature out of darkneſs into light, conducting me through various chances by thy all-gracious providence, and giving me at length to know what nature languiſhed for in vain, the myſtery of my birth. And, O my God, though I were born in guilt, yet ſanctify me; though the child of diſobedience, with my whole heart I'll ſerve thee; ſo ſhall I gain in heaven what I have forfeited on earth, a name and an inheritance."’

CHAPTER III. Some Folks are no nice Diſcerners of Times and Seaſons.

A Few minutes only had paſſed, whilſt Henry was endeavouring to compoſe his agitated ſpirits, when behold! Ezekiel, fol⯑lowed by the women, returned to the cottage, full fraught with texts of holy writ applicable to the ſcene he had been preſent at, and which he was ſo impatient to diſcharge, that how to find room for them all, and what order to bring them out in, ſeemed to be the only thing that puzzled him; and though the hour was drawing towards bed-time, preach he muſt, and Henry muſt hear him, though any other perſon but Ezekiel could not have failed to notice the diſtraction of his thoughts; but times and ſeaſons never were a part of that good man's ſtudies, neither was he one who thought there could be too much of a good thing; and the beſt of all poſſible things, in his opinion, was his own preaching.

‘"The wicked is trapped in his own ſnare,"’ quoth Ezekiel; ‘"this is one of the proverbs of Solomon, and Solomon, my children, was [113] a wiſe man, the wiſeſt man in all the world, every ſchool-boy can tell you that: he was king of Iſrael; it is not all kings are as wiſe as Solomon; put down all they ever ſaid in a book of proverbs, and one chapter, nay one ſingle ſentence of his ſhall be worth them all; and he ſpake three thouſand proverbs, his ſongs were a thouſand and five; he could en⯑tertain the Queen of Sheba with ſomething worth her notice, when ſhe came to prove him with hard queſtions; I cannot tell you where Sheba was, I wiſh I could, but I know it was ſomewhere in the ſouth, and that ſhe travell'd out of a far country to hear his wiſdom; now you can hear it and not move out of your chairs, and yet you cry out 'tis bed-time, yet a little ſleep, a little ſlumber, a little folding of the hands to ſleep. A terrible judg⯑ment hath lighted on this wicked Blachford, the cry of the widow is gone up againſt him, the perſecutor of the innocent man hath fallen by the hand of his own accomplice: If they ſay, come with us, let us lay wait for blood, let us lurk privily for the innocent without cauſe, behold they lay wait for their own blood, they lurk privily for their own lives."’

Scarce had Ezekiel brought this ſentence to [114] a cloſe, when the unexpected appearance of Doctor Zachary Cawdle cut him ſhort.—‘"May I believe my eyes?"’ exclaimed Henry.—‘"Here I am ſure enough,"’ replied Zachary, ‘"and no ghoſt, rather too fat for that ſtill, though a good ſpan in the girdle leſs than I was; but venienti occurrere morbo is my maxim, you underſtand me, brother Daw: if I had not play'd the doctor with the devil, he wou'd have played the devil with the doctor, I can tell you; but I have parried him for this turn."’—Ezekiel groaned.—‘"Here's been fine doings amongſt you; there's one head in the pariſh, that I wou'd not have on my ſhoulders for all the money that belongs to it. Zooks and blood! my old Sawney wou'd have made a poſſet of the Juſtice's brains, had'nt I ſtept in at the nick."’—‘"Is the wound dangerous,"’ quoth Ezekiel, after another groan.—‘"Dan⯑gerous!"’ replied Zachary, ‘"tis not ſo deep as a well, nor ſo wide as a church-door, but it will do: many an honeſt man has walk'd out of the world, and not ſo good an apology for taking leave of it, as Maſter Blachford has, believe me, brother Doctor. My Sawney prognoſticated he would do well, becauſe for⯑ſooth he ſlept ſo quietly; blockhead, quoth I, the ſomnolency augurs injury to the brain by frac⯑ture, [115] or concuſſion, or depreſſion of the ſcull; and ſure enough I found it ſo, a damnable ſquat upon the occiput;—Good night to you, thought I, your nap will be a long one."’—‘("Alas, alas!"’ murmur'd Ezekiel) ‘"I be⯑lieve, brother ſurgeon, we muſt apply the tre⯑pan, we muſt break a way into his ſmall cargo of brains."’—‘"Mercy upon me,"’ quoth Eze⯑kiel, ‘"the man will die."’—‘"Moſt men will do that,"’ ſaid Zachary, ‘"and he perhaps as ſoon as moſt."’—‘"But he's not fit to die,"’ reiterated the preacher.—‘"I've long thought,"’ rejoined the doctor, ‘"he was not fit to live."’—‘"Is he in his ſenſes,"’ Ezekiel aſk'd—‘"If he is,"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"he keeps them to himſelf."’—‘"How then ſhall he be warned of his ap⯑proaching end?"’—‘"Methinks he is pretty well warn'd of that,"’ replied the doctor; ‘"if you had ſuch a crack on your ſkull, you wou'd find one warning full ſufficient."’—‘"But I mean,"’ cried Ezekiel, exalting his voice and rearing himſelf up into the perpendicular, ‘"who is to awaken him to a recollection of his ſinful life, to call him to repentance, and prepare his poor departing ſoul for eternity?"’—‘"That's another matter,"’ replied the man of medicine, ‘"that's a buſineſs out of my way altogether."’—‘Yet [116] give me leave to ſay,"’ reſumed the preacher, ‘"tis a buſineſs that imports him highly, 'tis that which he, and you and I, and every mortal breathing muſt take ſeriouſly in hand: he is the artiſt that can heal thoſe wounds, he the beſt friend that can aſſuage thoſe pangs, and find a balm to allay the rage of a tormented conſcience."’

This was one of the laſt ſubjects Zachary wiſhed to talk upon, yet ſo it happened, that Ezekiel ſeldom failed to ſtart it in his com⯑pany; to turn it off therefore for the preſent, Zachary obſerved, that death to be ſure was a ſerious thing to every man, but that was no reaſon we ſhould be always talking about it; 'twou'd come ſoon enough of its own accord: ‘"For my part,"’ continued he, ‘"I hold it good to keep up the ſpirits of my patients, and do my beſt to drive ſuch gloomy thoughts away from them; whereas, whenever one of your ſort comes about them preaching and praying, I conſtantly obſerve they ſink and pine away, the pulſe grows low and feeble; tremors ſeize them, and ſymptoms, which be⯑fore were only menacing, thenceforward be⯑come mortal: therefore do you ſee, friend Daw, you and I directly counteract each other, [117] for whilſt I am bracing you are relaxing, and I wou'd as ſoon adminiſter cathartics to my patient in a putrid caſe, as bring you to his bedſide to ſound the death-watch in his ear. Leave the juſtice then to me, I beſeech you, and when I have mended his head, if ever that ſhall be, it will be time enough and taſk enough for you to mend his heart."’

Zachary concluded in time, for Ezekiel's tongue wou'd not have been reſtricted to ſilence any longer; as there was ſomething in this harangue which touched him in the ten⯑dereſt part, and as the good man was always ready armed for religious controverſy, he was juſt ſtepping into the liſts, when he ſaw the perſon of the doctor vaniſh at the door with hat and cane in hand, not waiting for a re⯑joinder, which was likely to be ſo little to his taſte.

‘"Aha!"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"let him go for an obſtinate deſpiſer of things ſacred. Is that man, who carries a tub full of mortality before him, a proper champion to ſet death and re⯑pentance at defiance? But mark the valour of this boaſtful challenger; he throws down his gage, and then runs away from the combat. Oh! if he had but ſtay'd to hear me; I [118] wou'd have made his ears tingle with my anſwer; like a two-edged ſword, the word of truth ſhou'd have pierc'd that belly-full of wickedneſs to the dividing of the marrow; I wou'd have told him."’—Here Ezekiel re⯑collected ſo many things that he would have told, and new matter flowed in ſo faſt whilſt he was working out the old, that if Henry's patience could have reached the length of Ezekiel's ſermon, the beſt example of this virtue would not have been that of holy Job.

All things, however, come to an end, and even Ezekiel's preaching did not laſt for ever, ſo that our hero was at length left to his repoſe, or I ſhould rather have ſaid to thoſe in⯑tereſting meditations, which occupied his mind too fully to admit of ſleep. The important paquet was again reſorted to; the diſcovery therein contained, gave him a name and ſtation in ſociety; new duties, new ſenſations now commenced; now he diſcerned the pure ma⯑ternal ſource, from whence thoſe tender tranſ⯑ports were derived, that had occaſioned his alarm, and rouſed the jealous rage of Lord Crowbery; but he ſaw with infinite regret, that circumſtances, juſtified by nature, never [119] could be explained, and how to reſcue his unhappy parent from her danger he knew not: ardently he longed to throw himſelf at her feet and receive her bleſſing, but all ap⯑proaches were barred againſt him; no choice was left but to reſort for protection to the hoſpitable houſe of Sir Roger Manſtock, and he now regarded him not only as the friend of Ratcliffe, but as the uncle of his mother; a conſideration that greatly relieved him from many of his ſcruples; a ſum in bank notes, which was incloſed within the cover of his mother's letter, very amply furniſhed him with an independence as to money matters, a favor of all others the moſt painful to ſolicit from any benefactor but a parent. He reſolved there⯑fore to ſet out for Manſtock-houſe with the return of morning, and it is no improbable conjecture, that in forming this reſolution, ideas of a certain ſort, not abſolutely devoid of hope, nor far removed from the firſt dawn⯑ings of a tender paſſion, had a ſhare in his deciſions; certain it is, that he had little courage for the undertaking in his former humble ob⯑ſcurity, though the invitation had been held out to him by the worthy Baronet in the moſt gracious manner.

[120]At length the morning dawned, when the ſound of voices under his window occaſioned him to open the caſement and enquire into the cauſe of it. Two or three peaſants, who had taken the body of Larry O'Rourke in charge, had miſſed their priſoner, and were reproaching each other with what ſeemed to have been the joint neglect of all, for they had contented themſelves with ſhutting him into an upper chamber in the alehouſe, whilſt they regaled themſelves in the kitchen: the points they had now in debate were, firſt, how it was poſſible for him to eſcape; next, whoſe fault it was that he did eſcape; and laſtly, whether it was worth their while to purſue him; this however was ſoon decided in the negative, as one of the company aſſured them that the law would give them no reward for apprehending him, and all parties inſtantly agreed that there was nothing to be got by running after him. In this concluſion all were of a mind, and the buſineſs ended in their ſeparating on the ſpot, and ſeverally returning quietly to their own homes.

CHAPTER IV. A new Scene opens upon our Hero.

WITH the break of day Henry left his pallet, and Suſan at the ſame time ſhook off the ſoft bands of ſleep, and preſented to the eyes of morning a figure worthy to enliſt amongſt the Hours, that dance before the chariot of Apollo. When ſhe had packed up her wardrobe, and arrayed her perſon in the ſimple dreſs of ſnow-white callico, ſhe was prepared to obey the promiſed ſummons from her young miſtreſs at Manſtock-houſe.

Our hero in the mean time had accoutered himſelf to the beſt advantage: though the effects of a ſleepleſs night were diſcoverable in his eyes and complexion, his model was ſuch as academies might rejoice in, and theatres applaud; the child of love, offspring of parents in the prime of youth and bloom of beauty, he inherited all his mother's ſweetneſs, and his father's fire; whilſt nature and education had united to repay him for thoſe penalties, which the law had laid upon his birth.

The old Dame and Ezekiel had not yet made their appearance. Suſan entered the [122] room, where he was ſitting wrapt in medita⯑tion; her eyes met his, ſhe ſighed, bluſhed, and retired: nothing was ſaid, and we do not preſume to dive into the thoughts and emo⯑tions of the heart.

After a few minutes Ezekiel Daw deſcended from his loft; his air and ſtep had more than uſual ſolemnity, and his countenance was ex⯑preſſive of a tender melancholy; his voice, naturally ſharp and acrimonious, was now pitched in its ſofteſt and loweſt key, when he addreſſed himſelf to our hero in the following terms:

‘"I perceive, my beloved child, thou art about to depart from us. I have remember'd thee in my morning exerciſes, and put up my petitions to the throne of grace for bleſſing and protection to thee in thy future pilgrimage through this world of woe. Verily, my good child, I do love thee as a father loveth his own ſon; and if it were thy deſtiny, amidſt the groſs temptations of a ſinful age, to fall from virtue, and a ſtate of grace, I wou'd aſk of Heaven to ſmite me now with death, rather than let me live to know and to lament thy ſoul's ſad forfeiture of happineſs to come. But I will hope thou art not in the way of [123] ſuch perdition; Heaven forbid! And now I pray thee, hearken to me awhile: I have liv'd longer in the world, and know it better, than thou poſſibly canſt, who haſt ſuch ſhort experience of it: mark me therefore! Thou art adven⯑turing forth upon the word of promiſe given to thee by the Lady Crowbery; 'tis well! I do agnize good diſpoſitions in the Lady Crow⯑bery, ſhe is a bounteous lady, but ſhe is a woman; and of that ſex I draw my caution from the book of books, yea verily I take them on the word of the wiſeſt of men, for what he found them to be to his coſt: Yes, grace of God! young man, I ſtudied them betimes; never took fire into my boſom, as the preacher hath it; never luſted after her beauty, neither let her take me with her eyelids; therefore thou ſeeſt I have good right to ſay I know them well; and though I ſhou'd be loth to miſin⯑terpret the fair-ſeeming acts of any one, yet ſeeing thou art comely in thine outward man, and goodly to look at, being withal in that prurient ſtate of early youth, which is moſt apt to lure the wandering eyes of woman, I warn thee not to run into a ſnare. What art thou to the Lady Crowbery?—a ſtranger; wert thou her ſon, cou'd ſhe do more? Great fa⯑vours [124] granted without cauſe to comely men, and outward decking of the perſon, as thine now is, my child, rather betokens love, and amorous deſire, than true and perfect charity: The Lady Crowbery, I ſay, is but a woman."’

‘"I grant you,"’ replied Henry, ‘"ſhe is a woman, but ſuch an one as never muſt be mentioned in my hearing but with reverence."’—‘"Enough ſaid!"’ cried Ezekiel, ‘"enough ſaid, young man, I have done! Take your own courſe; good luck go with you! proffer'd advice, they ſay, has a bad ſavour with it: there is a certain animal, (I name no names) which, if you throw a pearl to him, will turn and rend you. I'll not ſtrive to make a cap of grey hairs for a green head. You are wiſe, I warrant me; you are all-ſufficient; I am an ape, an aſs, a ninny; I have not ſtudied women, I know nothing of their tricks, their whims, their fancies, not I. Well, well, I've done, I ſay I've done; and ſo good bye to you."’

This ſaid, he turned away; when Henry, catching hold of the ſkirt of his coat, cried out, ‘"Stop, my good friend, let us not part in an⯑ger."’—‘"Let go!"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"beware you rend not my veſture; what wou'deſt thou, intemperate boy?"’—‘"I wou'd not hurt you [125] for the world."’—‘"Then looſe your hold upon my veſture."’—‘"I wou'd not, by the ſoul of me, I wou'd not anger you."’—‘"Anger me!"’ cried the preacher, ‘"when did'ſt thou ſee me angry? when did I ever yield to wrath, or vent one haſty word? Never; I know myſelf too well: thou doſt miſtake, raſh youth, to call me angry; 'tis thou thyſelf that art in wrath; I'm calm as water."’

‘"If I am angry, then, forgive me,"’ ſaid Henry; ‘"if I am a raſh youth, pity me, for, by my ſoul"’—‘"No more of that,"’ interpos'd the preacher, ‘"thou haſt us'd that ſtrong aſ⯑ſeveration twice, thou haſt twice pledg'd that ſacred part of thee already in a ſlight trivial matter; perhaps I can believe thee, though thou doſt not ſtake thy immortality upon the aſſertion."’—‘"Without a pledge, then,"’ re⯑joined the youth, ‘"I tell you, in plain honeſty and truth, that your advice, however well-in⯑tention'd, and, in other caſes, good, in this of Lady Crowbery is miſapplied; and, did you know with what my heart is charg'd, you wou'd not wonder at this ſtart of paſſion and impatience: bear with me then, and do not doubt but I know how to value both your counſel and your friendſhip."’

[126] ‘"Well, well, well!"’ replied the worthy creature, ‘"here is my hand; you ſee your fault, and there's an end of it; but never think that I can be ſurpriz'd by the unruly paſſion of anger: No, no, thank Heaven, no man can ever throw that ſtone at me. And now, my dear child, as I am a ſinner, I cou'd almoſt think that thou hadſt drugg'd me with ſome potion, ſo much I love thee; and when thou doſt leave me, Henry, 'twill almoſt break my heart; but what of that? Fortune calls thee hence; go, never think of me; for by my ſoul I ſwear"’—Here a ſmile on Henry's counte⯑nance brought the good man to ſudden recol⯑lection—‘"What was I about to ſay?"’ he cried; ‘"Oh! this it was: my ſoul is in that ſtate of readineſs for misfortune, pain, adver⯑ſity, nay, death itſelf, that, as to any thing that can befall myſelf, I am perfectly indifferent; but I ſhou'd indeed be wretched, my dear child, if any evil chance betided thee."’

Here the converſation ended with a very af⯑fectionate reply from Henry, in return for this kind ſpeech; and, not long after, a ſervant ar⯑rived from Sir Roger Manſtock's, in a one-horſe chair, for the conveyance of Suſan and the baggage, and at the ſame time a groom with a led horſe for Henry.

[127]After a ride of about twelve miles through a fertile and pleaſant country, our hero came in ſight of Manſtock-houſe, the antient ſeat of that reſpectable family, which through many generations had preſerved it in it's original character without alteration or derangement: the ſame venerable avenues, the ſame walled gardens and formal parterres, held their ſta⯑tions around it; it's turrets were untouched, it's windows had not felt the hand of modern art, and the pariſh church ſtill kept it's poſt of a cloſe and faithful centinel over the morals of the family. The village ſpread itſelf to the north and weſt, and in the oppoſite quarter an inlet of the ſea, at about a mile's diſtance, bounded a park well furniſhed with groupes of ſtately timber-trees; the fields and paſtures about the village ſhewed themſelves in a ſtate of high cultivation, whilſt ſeveral farm-houſes in detached ſituations added greatly to the life and beauty of the landſcape.

Henry had ſtopt upon the height to con⯑template this animated proſpect, and whilſt he was thus employed, the venerable Baronet and his fair daughter joined him on horſeback. Sir Roger was not a man of many words, neither did he excel in the modern faſhion of addreſs, [128] but he had a ſtile of welcoming his gueſts, that expreſſed his own ſincerity, and put them ef⯑fectually at their eaſe: his reception of our young adventurer was peculiarly cordial; it told him in few words that the heart of the owner was like the houſe, open, large, hoſpi⯑table, and old-faſhioned. Suſan was ſent home in the chair by the ſhorteſt road, whilſt Henry, at his own requeſt, was permitted to accom⯑pany the party on horſeback in their circuit through the grounds, which, after a very plea⯑ſant tour, brought them to the village: here they ſtopt at a neat little manſion, which ſeemed newly repaired, and had a piece of ground at the back of it laid out as a garden, and well cropt with uſeful vegetables.

‘"This little tenement,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"belongs to Iſabella, and ſhe is miſtreſs of the works here carrying on; therefore I believe we muſt pay our court to her by diſmounting from our horſes, and taking a view of her per⯑formances."’—Upon the word, Henry leapt from the ſaddle, and preſented himſelf at the lady's ſtirrup, who accepted of his aſſiſtance.—‘"I propoſe,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"with my father's leave, to put Suſan's mother into this cottage: what is your opinion of it? Perhaps ſhe will [129] not find herſelf ſo comfortable here as in that ſhe is accuſtom'd to, but I flatter myſelf ſhe will be more mercifully treated."’—‘"'Tis a little paradiſe,"’ cried Henry, as he looked about him; ‘"and, if I could contemplate her happineſs with envy, it would be for living in ſuch a place, and under ſuch a patroneſs."’

It was truly a moſt enviable little manſion, in which the generous care of the fair owner had provided againſt every want, that its deſ⯑tined inhabitants could be ſuppoſed to have: upon the ground-floor, beſides a kitchen ſtock⯑ed with every neceſſary, there was a ſitting-room neatly papered, and beyond that a ſmall office fitted up with ſhelves, which, Iſabella ob⯑ſerved, would ſerve the good dame as her ſhop of medicines. Over the chimney in the ſitting-room Iſabella had hung a print, which not only bore the name, but alſo a very ſtrong likeneſs, of her father. When Henry had con⯑templated this print for ſome moments, he turned his eyes upon Iſabella, as if he was ſearching for a reſemblance in her features: ſome tender ſentiment at that moment had called the tears into her eyes; Henry caught it by the ſwifteſt glance that delicacy permitted him to indulge—ſwift as it was, it offered up [130] her whole heart to his view, where filial affec⯑tion, amidſt a thouſand tender ſenſibilities, held pre-eminence; the ſympathetic impulſe was communicated in an inſtant; the intelligence of kindred ſouls is quick as thought itſelf: in ſpite of his addreſs the glance had paſſed and repaſſed, that carried with it the reciprocal ſen⯑ſation of two feeling hearts: nothing was ſaid, but all was underſtood; ſouls can confer with⯑out the noiſy vehicle of words.—Sir Roger Manſtock was at this time talking with a la⯑bourer in the garden.

‘"I muſt ſhew you the chambers on the upper floor,"’ ſaid Iſabella. Henry followed her in ſilence: the ſtairs were ſteep; he for⯑got himſelf, and let her lead the way: he ſuf⯑fered for his overſight as ſuch forgetfulneſs de⯑ſerved; his heart was doomed to encounter an emotion of another ſort from that he had ſo lately felt. Ill-fated youth! are all Ezekiel's precepts ſo ſoon forgotten? He would have told thee there is danger in every atom of a beautiful damſel, from the crown of her head even to the taper extremities of thoſe elegant limbs, which thine unguarded eye took in. Thoughtleſs, devoted victim! whither art thou climbing? Thou doſt but follow to inevitable [131] ſacrifice: thy fate precedes thee, and trains thee up a precipice, from whence it is decreed that thou muſt fall.

At length they have reached the ſummit of their aſcent: a door on each ſide opened to a bed-chamber, which ſeemed to ſay that here benevolence had provided an aſylum for the repoſe of peace. The ſimplicity here diſplayed, which Horace in two happy words deſcribes, I could not convey in twenty; it was ele⯑gance, that modeſt poverty would not bluſh to avow; it was taſte ſo void of ornament that the diſpoſer's excellence conſiſted in the con⯑cealment of her art.—‘"You ſee,"’ cried Iſabella, ‘"I have provided for the good man, who lodges with the widow; if he comes,"’ added ſhe, pointing to the bed, ‘"there is reſt from his labours."’

Henry took notice that Ezekiel's chamber was provided with a ſmall neſt of ſhelves for books; neither did it eſcape him that Iſabella had conveyed a compliment to his charity by adorning his chimney with a print of the good Samaritan. In the chamber of Dame May ſhe had hung a print alſo, which repreſented the ſtory of the widow of Zarephath and the prophet Elijah. Theſe, with many other cir⯑cumſtances [132] in the accommodations of the houſe, ſhewed him how thoroughly Iſabella poſſeſſed the happy quality of doubling her favours by the grace of beſtowing them.

They now remounted their horſes and pro⯑ceeded to the manſion. To Henry, who had all his life been accuſtomed to the ſmall and pri⯑vate ſcale of a country clergyman's eſtabliſh⯑ment, this was a new and curious ſcene; as they paſſed through a Gothic gateway into the front court, a venerable perſonage, dreſſed in a tufted gown, and holding a ſilver-headed ſtaff in his hand, preſented himſelf to the wondering ſight of our hero; at the ſame time a bell was tolled in the turret, which gave ſolemn notice of their approach, and ſummoned the domeſ⯑tics to their poſts in the great hall: here, ac⯑cording to the faſhion of old times, the Baronet took Henry by the hand and welcom'd him to Manſtock-houſe. Scenes, that he had only read of in deſcription, were now preſent to his view; every thing within the houſe perfectly correſponded with the ſtile and character of the exterior: walls built for perpetuity, rooms calculated for feudal hoſpitality, and ſpace wantonly laviſhed without regard to oeconomy or convenience, beſpoke the rude magnificence [133] of the founder; the very ſervants ſeemed in age and habit of another century. The hall was hung round with banners and trophies of va⯑rious ſorts, both of war and of the chace: over an immenſe ſpan of fire-place was diſplayed the family ſhield, containing a vaſt number of bearings properly illuminated and arranged according to the rules of heraldry, and at the upper end the portrait of an old man at full length in a black habit, with the enſigns of the garter and the blue ribbon hanging in a point from his neck, holding a ſcroll in his hand, on which was traced the ground plot of the houſe, and beſpoke him to be the founder of it.

Sir Roger Manſtock's family conſiſted of one only daughter; he had loſt his lady about three years paſt. Iſabella, the darling of her father, had now entered her eighteenth year, and ſince her mother's death had conſtantly reſided with him, and of late had taken the poſt and preſidency of miſtreſs of the fa⯑mily. With a table always open to his friends and neighbours, Sir Roger paſſed his time in a conſtant reſidence at Manſtock-houſe, in the center of a very noble property, beloved by all that knew him, and doing good to all [134] that depended on him. When his friends ſolicited him to ſtand forth as county member, telling him that all parties would join in elect⯑ing him, his conſtant anſwer was, that he thanked them for their good opinion, but his utmoſt ambition was to live amongſt them, fulfilling to the beſt of his capacity the duties of an acting magiſtrate and a plain country gentleman; in which ſtation he humbly con⯑ceived he ſhould ſerve them better, and ap⯑prove himſelf a more uſeful member of the community, than by attending upon parlia⯑ment, for which he modeſtly, and perhaps truly, aſſerted that he had no talents.

CHAPTER V. The Coward out of Doors is a Lion in his own Houſe.

HAVING now ſo happily diſpoſed of our hero for a while, we are at leiſure to look back to the ſtate of affairs at Crowbery Caſtle, where the miſadventure of Juſtice Blachford had made no ſlight impreſſion. The Captain, who had laid his plan of the preſs-gang, [135] as we have related, was now deterred from putting it to the experiment, not only by the ſhameful cataſtrophe of Blachford's mur⯑derous plot, but alſo by the conſideration of Sir Roger Manſtock's having taken Henry into his protection. Blachford's caſe was ſtill extremely doubtful; he ſeemed to be doſing away his life, with few and ſhort intervals of faint and imperfect ſenſibility; the ſcull was evidently fractured, and Zachary had pro⯑nounced upon the trepan as indiſpenſable: it had been thought proper, however, to call in the aſſiſtance of a London ſurgeon, and his arrival was hourly expected. Nobody doubted his being the victim of his own plot; but O'Rourke, who probably would have brought it home to him in his own defence, had eſcaped from the people who apprehended him, and was far enough out of reach; nobody ſtirred in his purſuit, and the few perſons, who were intereſted to conceal the evidence of Blach⯑ford's criminality, were much more likely to aſſiſt his flight than to ſtop it. To leave the matter myſterious, or rather to aim at making it ſo, was the moſt they could hope for: to caſt ſuſpicion upon Henry was out of their power, no chicanery could do that againſt the [136] joint force of ſo many witneſſes, who cou'd depoſe to the very words that O'Rourke had uttered, when he confeſſed that what he had done was by his maſter's orders, only that he had miſtaken the perſon upon whom they were to have been executed; and this account, in which they perfectly agreed, was circulated over all the neighbourhood. In the mean time old Weevil the miller, who had been eventually the preſerver of Henry's life, by perſuading him to return with him through the park, was not idle in publiſhing his account of the affair, and the motives that induced him fortunately to adviſe as he did. Blachford, therefore, whether living or dying, was effec⯑tually ruined in reputation, and ſo univerſally execrated as the vileſt of wretches, that even the Viſcount himſelf, and his ſatellites the law⯑yer and the captain, were fain to diſavow him. Still the heart of the proud peer rankled with rage and jealouſy: diſappointed of the revenge he had promiſed himſelf to enjoy through the means of others, and intimidated from taking any open meaſures of his own againſt the object of his malice by the firm language Henry had held in his late interview, his daſ⯑tardly ſpirit had no other reſource but to vent [137] itſelf upon the defenceleſs party in his power, and in this his cruelty knew no bounds. In his treatment of Lady Crowbery he kept no terms of decency or reſerve, publiſhing to all parties (not even his own domeſtics excepted) the charges he had againſt her—‘"Will you tell me,"’ he wou'd aſk, ‘"that wife is virtuous, who was not only ſeen by others, but whom I myſelf ſaw, hanging upon the neck of a handſome vagabond, embracing him in her arms, and careſſing him with all the ecſtacy of an enflamed and guilty paſſion? Who will ſay that this is not an action that implies crimi⯑nality ſo ſtrongly, that ocular demonſtration could ſcarce add to the conviction of it? What other motive but one can a woman of her ſort have for a conduct ſo extraordinary towards a fellow, who is a perfect ſtranger to her, and who, till ſhe put cloaths upon his back, had not a pocket to hold the money ſhe la⯑viſhly beſtowed upon him? Will any one perſuade me that all theſe favours and fondneſſes are to be accounted for rom mere reſpect to the memory of a certain parſon Ratcliffe, who picked him up as a foundling, and whom ſhe has not ſet eyes on for theſe twelve years [138] paſt? The mereſt dupe in nature could not find credulity for ſuch a tale."’

In this ſtile his Lordſhip took every occaſion to vent his grievances, and make public the breach between himſelf and Lady Crowbery: When in conference with her he would hold a harſher language; and as he preſſed for anſwers, which the difficulty of her ſituation would not allow her to give, every interview ſerved only to ſtrengthen his concluſions and enflame his animoſity.

It was generally ſuſpected that a ſeparation would take place, and this he had threatened her with; but when ſhe ſhowed a willingneſs to meet him in this meaſure, he ſeemed to drop it altogether, and the rather, as in that caſe her paternal eſtate would have remained with her, which during their joint eſtabliſh⯑ment was ſo liberally applied to the common ſtock, that the major part of the family diſ⯑burſements was provided for out of her fund. He had however long abandoned all hope of any benefit upon the contingency of his ſur⯑vivorſhip, and of an heir there was now no longer any proſpect. As he had therefore no intereſt in view on either of theſe accounts, [139] he kept no check upon his ill-humour and chagrin, but perſecuted her without reſerve, abſolutely confining her to the houſe, and, as far as he could prevent it, not ſuffering her to correſpond with any one, particularly her rela⯑tions of the houſe of Manſtock, to whom he bore peculiar hatred and inveteracy.

‘"What does your uncle mean,"’ ſaid he in one of his altercations, ‘"by receiving that fel⯑low into his family, who has ſo effectually de⯑ſtroyed the peace of mine? Can there be a groſſer inſult, a more outrageous breach of decency and good-manners, than thus to hold him up in my defiance after what has paſſed, and when he knows that I myſelf have diſco⯑vered him in a ſituation, that no huſband, who has any ſenſe of honour, can put up with, nor a wife, who has any ſenſe of modeſty, would permit him to be found in? Does Sir Roger think that I want ſpirit to reſent ſuch conduct, or can he ſuppoſe that I am tame enough to ſubmit to an indignity, which he renders ten times more galling by the countenance he ſhews to the deſpicable object of my reſent⯑ment—your Ladyſhip's beggarly Adonis?"’

To this ſhe patiently replied, ‘"That her un⯑cle knew her innocence, and the motives of that [140] tenderneſs, which pity for the ſufferings of the guiltleſs had extorted from her; that with a heart naturally ſuſceptible of compaſſion, ſhe had a further intereſt in the ſufferings of the young man in queſtion, as a relict of her va⯑lued friend Mr. Ratcliffe, who had protected him from his infancy, lov'd him as a ſon, and left the ſtrongeſt teſtimony in his favour, de⯑ſcribing him as endow'd with every good and virtuous quality, that can centre in the human heart: that for theſe reaſons ſhe had deter⯑min'd to ſtand in the place of her deceas'd friend towards an unfortunate youth, who ſeem'd deſtin'd to be the victim of ſuſpicion, and to meet puniſhment where he merited praiſe."’

‘"'Tis one thing,"’ ſaid my Lord, ‘"to pro⯑tect; to careſs him is another: you, or I, or any body may relieve a beggar, but who em⯑braces him? Your purſe you may pour into his hands, but your perſon you had no right to throw into his arms, ſeeing that I have a claim upon that, ſo long as it is my lot to be call'd your huſband, and your privilege to bear my name and title."’

‘"True, my lord,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"your right and title to my poor perſon is abſolute and ex⯑cluſive, [141] and had my heart been made of ſterner ſtuff, I ſhould not have yielded it even to pity, as you ſaw; to impurity it has never been ſur⯑render'd ſince you call'd it your's. If your ſenſe of pity cannot find excuſe for mine, I muſt ſubmit to my fate; I have no other means of ſoftening your diſpleaſure."’

‘"Sincerity will ſoften it,"’ ſaid my Lord; ‘"confeſſion will in part atone for the injury which my honour has receiv'd, becauſe to own your faults is one ſtep towards repenting of them: confeſs then that you are in love with this young fellow, that you was captivated with his perſon, that you was ſurpriz'd into a weakneſs, which your conſtitution muſt apolo⯑gize for.—Nay, ſtart not, Madam! nor affect to be offended at what I ſuggeſt, for that you have lov'd is well known, and that you can go great lengths for thoſe you love is not to be denied; why then may I not preſume that your nature is the ſame, kind, ſoft and yielding as it ever was? A father's authority could not reſtrain you, why ſhould I ſuppoſe a huſband's can? Let me know therefore the extent of my diſgrace, and I will then decide as ſhall be beſt both for myſelf and you: till then you muſt give me leave to ſuſpect the worſt, and to [142] conclude againſt you as much from your ſilence and reſerve as from my own reaſon and obſer⯑vation."’

‘"In one word then, my lord, and I call Heaven to witneſs to the truth of what I ſay, I am as incapable of the idea you annex to my tenderneſs for this young man, as I am of mur⯑der, inceſt, blaſphemy, or any crime the moſt dire and deteſtable that only beings totally abandon'd can commit: the criminality you ſuſpect me of wou'd be ſuch as but to think of makes my blood ſhudder and my heart ſhrink back with horror."’

‘"Hold, Madam; not ſo ſtrong in your ex⯑preſſions, if you pleaſe; moderate the energy of your language, if you wiſh that I ſhould credit the ſincerity, or even underſtand the meaning of it: let me have a plain anſwer to a plain queſtion—Did you ever ſee this young man before?"’

‘"I ſaw him about twelve years ago, ſoon after my father's death, when he was a child under the care of Mr. Ratcliffe."’

‘"Is he the baſtard ſon of parſon Ratcliffe?"’

‘"That is a plain queſtion truly, my lord: your delicacy might have couch'd it in politer terms."’

[143] ‘"Very true, Madam, I ſhould have been more ſelect in my expreſſions, as I might have recollected that none are ſo affectedly regard⯑ful of the forms of delicacy as thoſe, who have bidden adieu to the eſſentials of it."’

‘"'Tis well, my lord; I ſhall give you no further opportunity of inſulting me, by anſwer⯑ing to no further queſtions: here ends our con⯑ference; proceed againſt me as you pleaſe; be as cruel as your heart will let you; there is a friend at hand that will ſoon reſcue me from your tyranny."’

‘"Say you ſo, Madam! Who is that friend?"’

‘"Death."’

CHAPTER VI. Danger approaches, and the Doctor is diſmiſs'd.

IN this manner the ſad and heavy hours dragged ſlowly on at Crowbery caſtle. Do⯑meſtic altercations, jealouſies, and complaints on the part of Lord Crowbery, preſſed down the ſpirits, and now began to ſap and under⯑mine the conſtitution of his unhappy lady. [144] Her confinement was become no leſs a matter of neceſſity than of obedience; ſhe took her meals, and paſſed her whole day, in her ſeparate apartment; and as great pains were beſtowed in keeping the affair of Blachford's plot and its providential iſſue from her knowledge, it was not till after the dialogue recited in the preced⯑ing chapter had taken place, that ſhe came to the knowledge of that diſgraceful buſineſs.

His Lordſhip's ſuſpicion pointed at Zachary as the informer on this occaſion; and though a pretty ſtrict watch was kept upon him in his viſits, probably the ſuſpicion aforeſaid was not ill placed, for our honeſt Doctor had great at⯑tachment to his noble patient, and very little to her ignoble lord: our hero alſo had an intereſt in his heart; Blachford he deteſted, and though he did his duty to him faithfully and ſkilfully, for he had now performed the operation of the trepan, yet if he had been dreſſing the wounds of a wretch condemned for murder, he proba⯑bly could not have felt leſs ſympathy for the ſufferings of his patient. The impreſſion, which the ſtory of Blachford's plot made upon Lady Crowbery's mind, was ſuch as left a ſtrong perſuaſion of my Lord's participation in that baſe attempt, and from this moment ſhe [145] could not ſee him without horror: fixt in her reſolution to enter into no further diſcuſſions with him, all intercourſe between them was ſuſpended.

One day, as ſhe was ſitting alone and pen⯑ſive in her chamber, ruminating on the ſad fortune of her life, and the miſeries which an attachment fatally traverſed had entailed upon her, as ſhe drew out her handkerchief to ſtaunch the tears that were flowing from her eyes, a little packet dropt on the floor, which ſhe took up, and ſoon diſcovered to be the ſame that Henry had delivered to her, incloſ⯑ing the ring, but which, in the hurry of her ſpirits at that moment, ſhe had haſtily put into her pocket, and from that time it had eſcaped her recollection.

What was her ſurprize, upon unfolding the envelope, to diſcover the very ring ſhe had given to her beloved Delapoer, when they ex⯑changed their pledges, and ſolemnly devoted their hearts and affections each to the other.

With eager trepidation ſhe turned it over and over, minutely examining it in every part. The hair, the ſtone, the ſetting, the motto, every particle depoſed to the identity of the object; not a doubt remained; aſtoniſhment [146] poſſeſſed her wholly; ſhe ſhook in every joint, and feit a tumult at her heart, that her enfee⯑bled frame could ſcarce ſupport. Happily ſhe was alone; and when ſhe could command ſuf⯑ficient recollection to debate the caſe, and ſhape her thoughts into ſome form and order, ſhe began to give them vent, talking to herſelf, in broken ſentences, after the following manner:—‘"The very ring I gave to Delapoer! the pledge of love, my firſt, my only love! aſſur⯑edly it is the ſame! I cannot be miſtaken! Oh memory of a fond fleeting moment, thou art much too faithful to deceive, or be deceiv'd! How came it here? Is he that own'd it living, and return'd to England, or is he dead, and, dying, gave it in commiſſion to ſome friend to render back to me? Let me recal to mind what Henry told me; a man had found it, a poor man, return'd from tranſportation; that may be himſelf; well may he call it ſo; 'twas baniſhment, 'twas tranſportation for the crime of loving one, whom the hard heart of an in⯑exorable parent wreſted from his arms too late for honour. Ah cruel father! there was a mo⯑ment, when, if you had relented, your poor child had never known theſe agonies, that now muſt plunge her in the grave: had you per⯑mitted [147] her to take her own heart's choice, and at the altar ſanctify thoſe vows, which Heaven had heard and regiſter'd, your daughter had been now a happy mother, and poſterity wou'd have bleſſed you; inſtead of which, behold a jealous tyrant and a barren bed! Oh! bar⯑barous ſoul-enſlaving law, devis'd in an ac⯑curſed hour to counteract the firſt great bleſ⯑ſing pronounc'd by the Creator on his works, which alike makes wretched thoſe who obey, and thoſe who deſperately evade it; which gives a power to parents that is their curſe, entailing a dreadful reſponſibility on ſuch as enforce it, and violating the moſt ſacred pri⯑vileges of all who are reſtrain'd by it."’

This ſaid, ſhe roſe, and opening a little caſket, where other tokens were depoſited, lodged it amongſt them, referring it to time, the revealer of all myſteries, to elucidate this amongſt the reſt; and recollecting it had been told her by Henry, that the finder of the ring ſaid he would call again for his reward—‘"Alas!"’ ſaid ſhe, as this reflection oc⯑curred, ‘"what have I to beſtow, that De⯑lapoer wou'd now deem a reward? Cou'd I endure the meeting, ought I even to wiſh it? Shou'd I not in diſcretion avoid it? If there [148] is any remnant of affection left in his heart for me, will not the ſight of ſuch a faded form, and the diſcovery of my wretchedneſs, give anguiſh to his feelings?—But then my ſon! my Henry!—How elſe ſhall I diſcloſe to Delapoer the intereſting intelligence that he is a father? O Henry, for thy ſake I wou'd abide that trial!"’

It was now the hour for Zachary to pay his profeſſional viſit: curioſity, or ſome mo⯑tive not connected with kindneſs, induced Lord Crowbery to accompany him on this occaſion: his preſence was not calculated to quiet un⯑eaſineſs of any kind; and Zachary's fingers had no ſooner touched his patient's pulſe, than he gave my Lord a ſignificant look, which not only indicated alarm at what he diſcovered by his touch, but ſeemed to intimate that he knew, by his intuition, where the cauſe of it was to be found.

‘"I am told, madam,"’ ſaid my lord, ‘"you are indiſpoſed; I ſhould wiſh to hear the nature of your complaint, and what this gentleman's opinion is of your caſe."’

‘"So pleaſe you, my lord,"’ replied the man of medicine, ‘"it is not our practice to diſcuſs thoſe points in the hearing of our patients."’

[149] ‘"Cannot you preſcribe then,"’ ſaid the Peer, ‘"when I am preſent; or have you no advice to offer, till you have conſulted with her Ladyſhip what remedy ſhe likes beſt?"’

There was a taunting ſneer in this, which Zachary's ſpirit did not quite reliſh; he had all due conſideration for the dignity of a noble; but he was not without ſome ſenſe of his own conſequence, and the honour alſo due unto the phyſician: he anſwered, therefore, with more quickneſs than was expected, that, to the beſt of ſuch judgment as he poſſeſſed, he ſhould preſcribe in due time; but there was a diſorder in her ladyſhip's pulſe, which he took to be incidental rather than ſymptomatic, and he be⯑lieved the beſt remedy for her caſe, at preſent, would be perfect quiet and a ſilent room.

‘"By which I am to underſtand,"’ rejoined the peer, ‘"that you cou'd very readily diſ⯑penſe with my company, and remain here yourſelf—will that promote ſilence, do you think? If you have nothing to ſay that I ſhou'd not hear, and ſilence be ſo neceſſary for her ladyſhip, I can ſit here without opening my lips, whilſt you purſue your obſervations with⯑out interruption, and meditate at leiſure on the remedies you are to apply."’

[150] ‘"My Lord,"’ replied the ſage, ‘"if I am worthy to be entruſted with the health of Lady Crowbery, I hope I am not ſuſpected as unfit to be left with her in private."’

‘"No more arguing, Mr. Apothecary, if you pleaſe,"’ quoth the noble intruder; ‘"do the buſineſs you are ſent for; and remember, that it is for the contents of your gallipots, and not for the charms of your converſation, that I employ you in my family."’

‘"I have been employ'd,"’ quoth Zachary, ‘"for my lady and her family, many years before I was honour'd with your Lordſhip's commands, and I never was treated in Sir Andrew's family but with confidence and kind⯑neſs: I hope I am not likely to forget my ſtation in ſociety, and how far it is removed from that, which your Lordſhip now fills; but I can at the ſame time recollect, that the diſtance between them has not always been ſo great."’

For the better underſtanding of this glance, at the concluſion of Zachary's reply, we muſt inform the reader, that the noble perſonage, at whom it was pointed, had, in the early days of his worldly pilgrimage, walked in the hum⯑ble line of an officer of his Majeſty's cuſtoms, [151] in which ſtation he was totally unnoticed by the head of his family, and, indeed, by every other family whoſe notice was worth having, until the title, and ſuch part of the eſtate as was entailed upon it by a variety of intermediate contingencies, devolved on him. Though not deficient in talents of a certain ſort, he had been greatly cramped in his education by the poverty of his parents, and, as far as precept and example reach, very little benefited by either. With the great world, ſince he had been made a part of it, he had formed little or no acquaintance; and conſcious of his de⯑ficiencies in the acquirements of a gentleman, he had never taken his ſeat ſince his acceſſion to the peerage; ſhutting himſelf up in his caſtle with a few mean dependants about him, who flattered him in his humours, whilſt they fed at his table, he lived in ſullen pride, avoiding all his neighbours of a better ſort, and avoided by them. When he made propoſals for his preſent lady, he had newly ſucceeded to his title, and, it may well be preſumed, he was more indebted to a certain incident in her hiſtory, well remembered by her father, though carefully concealed, than to the elegance of his own manners and addreſs. A title and [152] eſtate, however, were circumſtances not over⯑looked in the brief catalogue of his accompliſh⯑ments; they doubtleſs had their weight with Sir Andrew; and for the lady's ſhare in the tranſaction, that was purely negative; a broken ſpirit, a dubious reputation, and a blank indif⯑ference to all mankind, with one exception only, made her conſent to an act of duty and atonement, not of choice and free will. In this manner they married, and upon the terms which ſuch marriages naturally produce, they lived together joyleſs, comfortleſs, childleſs.

The glance, therefore, which Zachary had retorted upon his lordſhip's former obſcurity, rouſed his preſent dignity into a flame of rage. It is not in the art of the moſt ingenious tor⯑mentor to puniſh the object of his vengeance half ſo bitterly, as the proud man, without any art or ingenuity at all, naturally contrives to puniſh himſelf. No ſooner had Zachary's words entered the porches of his ears, than in an inſtant, like the leporous diſtilment deſcribed by Hamlet's ghoſt, it courſed through all the natural gates and alleys of his blood, poſt-haſte, to the ſeat and head quarters of the ſpleen (if any of my readers know where that is to be found) and there it ſwelled and fermented at [153] ſuch a rate, that his boſom was not wide enough to hold it, but out it burſt, ſputtering and frothing, from his lips, in accents very little reſembling thoſe that ſhortly after fell with gentle cadence from the ſofter lips of Lady Crowbery. Enough was underſtood, from the inarticulate vehemence of his lordſhip's wrath, to diſcover that Zachary Cawdle, ſurgeon, apothecary, and man-midwife, was in no future time to exerciſe any one of theſe ſeveral branches of his art within the walls of Crow⯑bery Caſtle, or upon the perſon of any one who belonged thereunto.

Zachary had riſen from his ſeat with an iraſ⯑cibility little leſs than boiling hot, and with a countenance, whole ſcarlet hue of downright honeſt anger wonderfully contraſted the pale and ſickly complection of his lordſhip's ma⯑lice, when the gentle invalid, directing a look of mild benevolence to her diſcarded attend⯑ant, addreſſed herſelf to him in the following terms—‘"Farewel, my long approv'd and worthy friend! I loſe your ſervices when they can be of no further uſe to me; you ſee the ſituation I am in, and you know it is incurable. It is not in your art to ſave me, and you are only diſmiſſed from a fruitleſs attendance, and [154] the painful ſpectacle of an expiring friend. For all paſt care and kindneſs, and a thouſand zealous offices, which your good will to me has prompted you to perform, I render you my laſt, my cordial thanks. Go to my uncle Manſtock; tell him I am in a fair way to ſhake off all complaints, and want no more medical aſſiſtance: when that is over, and my cure completed, he will ſhew you that your ſervices have not been overlook'd, and that I have bequeath'd you a fee, which I hope will ſet me clear at the cloſe of our account."’

‘"God forbid! God forbid!"’ cried Zachary, the tears bubbling from his eyes, ‘"it ſhou'd be my ſad lot to outlive you. Providence in its mercy reſtore you! But continue, I beſeech you, the valerian draughts: I had other me⯑dicines in reſerve; but I take heaven to wit⯑neſs, I am diſmiſs'd from my attendance, when my patient's pulſe is at a hundred and twenty-five."’

CHAPTER VII. Shews how ſome People paſs their Time in the Country.

ZACHARY returned diſconſolate to his ſhop.—‘"How do we go on at Lord Crowbery's?"’ quoth Alexander Kinloch.—‘"The devil take Lord Crowbery,"’ replied Zachary, ‘"and that blind bitch Fortune into the bargain, for putting a coronet over the ears of a cuſtom-houſe officer."’—‘"She has put a creſt as well as a coronet over his ears, if Fame ſays true,"’ reſum'd Kinloch, with a grin.—‘"If Fame ſays that, Fame lies,"’ ſaid Zachary. ‘"A fellow that but yeſterday, as it were, trampt about with a pen and inkhorn in his button-hole, to talk to me in ſuch a ſtile: I have been treated ſcurvily, friend Saw⯑ney; he has diſmiſs'd me from all further at⯑tendance on his lady: poor dear ſoul, ſhe will be loſt without my help; there is not a man in England can diſcern the cauſe of her com⯑plaint ſo well as I can; it breaks my heart to think that any other perſon ſhou'd preſcribe to her; yet there's not a minute to be loſt, for her pulſe was going at an hundred and twenty-five [156] when I left her."’—‘"That betokens a criſis,"’ ſaid Kinloch.—‘"Right,"’ quoth the Doctor, ‘"and 'tis then the patient has moſt need of a phyſician; urgente morbo adſit medicus."’—‘"I foreſaw what wou'd happen,"’ cried the North Briton; ‘"your own dear wife has made all the miſchief, tattling about Henry and my lady, and how they met at your houſe, and what paſſed at their meeting when ſhe hug'd him in her arms, which has been told my lord; and ſo they wou'd not let the man be a cuckold in quiet, but muſt be talking to him about it, which, if it was your own caſe, you muſt con⯑feſs, is not the pleaſanteſt thing to hear; but for my part I make it a rule to let all ſuch trifles paſs, and ſay nothing of the matter."’—‘"Aye, aye,"’ anſwered Zachary, ‘"you are a wiſe man, Sawney, and know how to keep peace and ſilence in a family; but my tippling ſaint of a wife has ſuch a curſt tongue of her own, that there is nothing ſhe ſo dearly loves as ſcandal, except it be the brandy-bottle; but her pleaſure will be her poiſon, for ſhe's tack'd in the liver, and tumbling off the perch. As for that bluſtering lord, his cuſtom I ſhou'd not value at a doit, nor his caſtle nei⯑ther, if my lady was not in it; I can live with⯑out [157] either; for I don't believe that obſtinate fellow has taken a doſe of my drugs theſe ten years paſt, and if he lets it alone for ten years to come I care not; let him go off in his own way; I ſhou'd be ſorry to ſave him a trip to the other world, and employ my ſkill in his cure, which I muſt in conſcience do, was I call'd in; 'tis exactly the caſe with juſtice Blachford; I know I am defrauding the devil of his due by keeping him alive; but if a man won't die when his brains are out, how can I help it? If ſome folks had had the hand⯑ling of his ſcull, the world before this wou'd have been rid of a monſter."’

Whether the deputy doctor took this as a ſide-blow at himſelf I cannot ſay, but certainly a learned diſpute ſprung up between him and his principal upon the application of the tre⯑pan, which branch'd out into ſo many zig⯑zags and croſscuts, and was carried on with ſo little method, and ſo much abuſe of brevity, that after Zachary's vanity had run foul of Alexander's ſpleen, his choler began to chafe and fume at ſuch a rate, that peſtle and mortar never ſet up a more clamorous argument than now enſued between maſter and man, which [158] was only put an end to by the ſuperior din of Jemima's bell.

In the mean time the hours at Manſtock Houſe moved on in harmony and peace: each diviſion of the day had its appropriated occu⯑pation or amuſement: the morning ride, the ſocial meal, the evening walk, the hour of reſt, each link of time kept it's due place and pe⯑riod: order and regularity were ſo perfectly obſerved throughout the whole eſtabliſhment, that though the ſpirit of the maſter pervaded every part, his voice was no where heard; the domeſtics were a numerous body, but, like well-diſciplined veterans, each knew his duty, and no one ſwerved from it.

Here our hero might have repoſed in abſo⯑lute tranquillity, had his feelings been leſs alive to the diſconſolate ſituation of his ſuffer⯑ing mother, or had his wandering fancy (for why ſhould I conceal the truth?) permitted him to enjoy the comforts of an amiable ſo⯑ciety, without a profeſt partiality to any one in particular belonging to it: but nature and philoſophy are at conſtant variance; the warmth which one inſpires ill ſuits the cool⯑neſs which the other preſcribes. Though the [159] converſation of Sir Roger and the Reverend Mr. Claypole offered all the edification that experience could miniſter to a youthful hearer, yet perverſe nature (or ſomething we are wil⯑ling to aſcribe to nature) biaſſed the judgment of our hero ſo as to induce him to prefer the ſlighteſt ſyllable, that gave motion to Iſabel⯑la's lovely lips, before all the anecdotes of Sir Roger, or the metaphyſics of Mr. Claypole: this was not a preference which his under⯑ſtanding gave, for that he never called into council on the queſtion; but he liſtened as his eyes directed him, and judged as his heart preſcribed. Though he was not to learn that time moves on with equal ſtep, yet he miſcal⯑culated moſt groſsly, reckoning hours but as minutes when alone with Iſabella, and minutes as hours without her. Any other perſon would have found out theſe were ſymptoms of love, Henry only found out they were miſtakes, and never ventured to ſearch into the cauſe of them: Iſabella, who was even leſs experienced, and ſomewhat younger than himſelf, was ſo ſure that ſhe loved no human creature com⯑parably to her father, and really did love him with ſuch true devotion, that ſhe had no idea there might be attachments of another ſort [160] to ſhare her heart with him, and, in the full conviction of her own ſecurity, never once thought of what ſhe held impoſſible to hap⯑pen; ſhe took her evening walks with Henry by her ſide, and then the weather was ſo fine, or the proſpect ſo charming, or the diſcourſe ſo entertaining, that the minutes ſtole away ſo imperceptibly ſhe could not underſtand how they were gone ſo faſt, and ſhe ſo far from home; now ſhe muſt haſten back, and Hen⯑ry's arm was wanted to aſſiſt her ſpeed: ſtiles ſometimes intervened, and then both arms found full employment; hillocks, and dales, and foot planks over rills with waters half a foot in depth tremendouſly rolling underneath, demanded a conductor of no ſmall addreſs; in defiles and difficulties like theſe, all Hen⯑ry's care was none too much; yet they oc⯑curred ſo frequently, that ſlander would have ſaid they were more ſought than ſhunned.

Sometimes, when nothing more material occupied her thoughts, Iſabella would divert the ſubject of diſcourſe to queſtions about Su⯑ſan May.—‘"Did'nt Henry think her very pretty?—Was'nt ſhe a very open-hearted natural girl, a little wild or ſo?—Had'nt ſhe turn'd off her late miſtreſs on his account? and [161] did'nt that look as if ſhe had a liking for him?"’—Theſe were leading queſtions, which Henry did not always chuſe to follow without ſwerving. With a great reſpect for truth, he had ſomething more than reſpect for the per⯑ſon he was to addreſs it to, and though he ſcorned to ſay what was directly falſe, he did not altogether like to ſay what was ſtrictly true. A little equivocation, but as little as his delicacy could diſpenſe with, he certainly made free with upon theſe occaſions; and if Iſabella did not give him perfect credit for ſin⯑cerity in all particulars, it was becauſe ſhe was as thoroughly informed of facts, as Suſan's full confeſſion, honeſtly avowed, could make her: ſhe was not however ſo mere a novice in the world as not to comprehend that there are ſubjects, on which men of delicacy will not be perfectly explicit; but on the point of reputa⯑tion Iſabella was as forward to believe, as he was firm in aſſerting, the perfect innocence of Suſan's conduct; pure in her own nature, ſhe was too candid in her judgment of others to ſuſpect that want of chaſtity was implied in freedom of behaviour.

In their converſations about Lady Crow⯑bery, their hearts and tongues completely co⯑incided [162] in bearing teſtimony to the lovelineſs of her nature, and in lamenting her unhappy lot.—‘"I ſhould not wonder,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"if that croſs ugly creature was to ſcold and ſcandalize my poor couſin for what he ſaw in the plantation walk, when her benevolent heart overflow'd with tenderneſs and pity for you, ſo that ſhe could ſcarce ſupport herſelf from ſinking to the ground; his hard nature is not capable of underſtanding, and allowing for the ſoft emotions of a ſoul like her's. I know what ſhe felt on your account, becauſe I have heard her talk ſo warmly in your praiſe, and how Mr. Ratcliffe lov'd and admir'd you; and then ſhe wou'd bewail his loſs, and the misfortunes which it brought on you; I know alſo the impreſſion that Lord Crowbery's be⯑haviour made on her, and how ſhe execrated that horrid Blachford, whom Providence has now chaſtis'd; and I don't doubt but ſhe foreſaw ſome wicked plot wou'd be concerted againſt you, as in fact it was: all theſe terrors were in her mind when ſhe was ſo affected as to fall upon your neck, and vent herſelf in tears; and who can wonder at it? What is ſo touching as the ſight of innocence diſtreſs'd and perſecuted? How could a heart ſo ſoft [163] and ſenſitive as her's reflect on all that you had ſuffer'd, all that you was ſtill expos'd to, and not melt with ſympathy? Was ever act ſo no⯑ble, generous, and humane, rewarded with ſuch baſe, malicious, and unjuſt oppreſſion? For my part I cannot conceive how any one of common feelings can hear the ſtory and be un⯑mov'd: I'm not aſham'd to ſay my tears kept pace with her's on the occaſion; yet I was not inform'd of all particulars, as ſhe was; neither was I, like her, the friend of Mr. Ratcliffe; I had not ſeen you, but as you paſs'd into the houſe of Mr. Cawdle; ſhe had both ſeen you and diſcours'd with you, and heard thoſe wor⯑thy creatures at the cottage, in their natural manner, relate a thouſand circumſtances, which your modeſty would not ſpeak of. Heavens! muſt we be hypocrites becauſe we are women! withhold our love for virtue in the dread of ſlander, and not beſtow our praiſe and admi⯑ration where they are ſo juſtly due! That would be hard indeed! But when we ſee a character like this accuſed, inſulted, puniſhed, treated like a malefactor and a murderer, all mouths open, all hearts ſhut againſt him, with⯑out a friend, or houſe, or food, but what one poor widow and her charitable cruiſe ſupplied, [164] what heart can ſtand it? and he muſt be a monſter that can doubt my couſin's purity, be⯑cauſe her arms encircled what her heart pitied and approv'd."’

Here Iſabella paus'd: Henry was ſilent; it was a ſubject he would not venture to commit himſelf upon; his too great ſenſibility to a mo⯑ther's praiſes might excite ſuſpicion: Iſabella reſum'd her diſcourſe—‘"To be ſure, if peo⯑ple will decide from appearances only, the moſt innocent actions may be conſtrued into guilt, and, as I take Lord Crowbery to be one of thoſe people, I am ſadly afraid my poor couſin may ſuffer wrongfully by his haſty tem⯑per; not that he can ſeriouſly and from his heart ſuſpect a woman of her eſtabliſhed cha⯑racter; but he may pretend to do it for the ma⯑licious pleaſure of tormenting her; for I am ſorry to ſay, I think him capable of being very cruel, nay I am ſure he is, having been a pain⯑ful witneſs of very harſh treatment on his part; in ſhort, he is a bad huſband, and nothing ſur⯑priſes me more, than that a perſon of her taſte and intuition ſhould have been deceiv'd by ſuch a character; and that with youth, beauty, great fortune, and good ſenſe, ſhe ſhould be induc'd to marry a man neither ſuitable to her [165] in age, manners, principle, or perſon; nay, I rather wonder ſhe ſhould marry at all, at leaſt whilſt her father was alive, for ſhe was then exactly in the ſituation I am now, the only ſo⯑lace of a widow'd parent; and ſure it is a daughter's duty (Heaven knows I feel it ſuch) never to quit that poſt till nature's debt is paid by one or other of the parties."’

As ſhe ſpoke theſe words, they had ap⯑proach'd the gate that opened to the garden from the park; Henry advanced towards it, but, ſtopping ſhort, he turned, and with an anxious look aſked if what ſhe had now deli⯑vered was her determined purpoſe and opinion.—‘"Aſſuredly it is,"’ ſhe ſaid; ‘"for what have I to think of, bleſt with ſuch a father, but to pleaſe and ſtudy him? Can I fulfil two duties at a time? Never will I devote leſs than my whole heart to him; how then can I divide it with another? No, no, that is impoſſible: whilſt he has life and health I ſhall be happy in my preſent ſtate; if Heaven ſhould ſnatch that bleſſing from me, I ſhall have full em⯑ployment for the ſhort remainder of my wretch⯑ed days in mourning and lamenting him."’

The tears were ſtarting from her eyes; ſympathy, or ſome other impulſe, ſtruck the [166] heart of Henry: he ſupported himſelf againſt the gate, trembling and pale, as if ſome ſudden faintneſs had come over him: it was a tranſient attack; a few moments ſufficed to recal his recollection; when, half ſighing, half ſmother⯑ing a ſigh, he thus began in gentle terms to controvert what ſhe had ſaid—‘"Your ſenti⯑ments, Miſs Manſtock, are too amiable not to be admir'd, but ſuffer me to ſay, too melan⯑choly to be admitted without ſome reſerve: Daughters have ſacrific'd their youth and beauty to the pious offices which you deſcribe; but it has been to parents helpleſs and diſtreſt, to age, to poverty, or to ſickneſs, which other⯑wiſe had wanted thoſe kind ſervices that they beſtow'd:—the Grecian Daughter was a he⯑roine that ſtands, as you well know, recorded to all ages for her filial piety; ſhe fed her fa⯑ther in a priſon, but, take notice, he had elſe been famiſh'd; remember too, that daughter was herſelf a mother; and, let me not offend your delicacy if I preſume to ſay, that in a heart like your's, filial affection may poſſeſs its place, and yet make room for connubial love, without reſtricting either. To put the caſe, that any man is likely to be found, who may deſerve your love, is more for argument [167] than fact; I know of no ſuch man, nor am inclin'd to think our ſex can boaſt of one, who merits ſuch diſtinguiſh'd happineſs; but grant there was, could he deſire to divert you from the exerciſe of thoſe attentions, which muſt at once endear your character to him, and by his ſharing them might recommend his character to you? Think for a moment what his grati⯑tude muſt be to the author and beſtower of all his earthly happineſs; by heavens! I think his reverence and devotion to your father muſt be ſuch, as hardly to be exceeded by your own; how then, by adding his attentions, could the ſum of them be leſs? When age and infirmity ſhall call for ſupport, might not his manly ſtrength, activity, and courage conſpire to up⯑hold that venerable parent, which your ſoft ſen⯑ſibility and gentle pity would be employ'd to ſooth? This, you muſt own, would be to double rather than divide your grateful taſk. But when you ſpeak of dedicating your ſurviving days to ſorrow, I muſt hope you ſpeak but as you apprehend, and not as you wou'd act. I know, alas! the agonizing loſs of one, that was to me a father, a voluntary father; and, methinks, that is an obligation on my part be⯑yond what Nature can impoſe; a duty more [168] impreſſive than the neareſt ties of blood can devolve upon a ſon: that father is dead, and his death plung'd me not only in affliction but in adverſity; ſtill I have a poſt to keep, and I muſt not deſert it: one man, at leaſt, ſnatch'd from deſtruction, has ſome cauſe to ſay I have not liv'd in vain; but you, belov'd, admir'd, ador'd, you ſhould well reflect, before you give yourſelf to ſuch ſad thoughts, how many you make ſad thereby; for, be aſſur'd, ſhould you ſink under affliction, you would not ſink alone."’

Nature hath given to ſome a tone, a man⯑ner, an expreſſion, that makes language but a ſecondary vehicle for what paſſes in their mind: this endowment Henry poſſeſſed in a moſt ſtriking degree; his heart was in his features, voice, and action. Iſabella needed no inter⯑preter to underſtand his feelings in their full extent: how to recal a reſolution vouched to ſolemnly ſhe knew not, yet ſomething ſhe wiſhed to ſay or do to mitigate it.

By one of thoſe unpremeditated movements, which Nature ſometimes betrays us into before our perception can correct it, her hand was preſſed by his: which was the aggreſſor in their meeting neither party knew; the one [169] therefore could not reprove the other, yet both were awakened to reflection at the ſame mo⯑ment, both ſympathized in the ſame effect, and both were overſpread with bluſhes. There was a thrilling nerve that ran to Iſabella's heart, through which her ſenſibility conveyed a voice that whiſpered to her—‘"She had ſaid too much:"’—a ſecond notice intimated to her—‘"That 'twas no crime to love:"’—a third, and that was followed by a throng of ſoft inſinuat⯑ing ideas, ſuggeſted to her pity a regret, that one ſo brave, ſo young, ſo generous, ſo engag⯑ing, ſhould languiſh in deſpair, and deprecate her ſtern decree in vain.—‘"He'll die,"’ theſe tempters ſaid, ‘"if this your cruel reſolution ſhould take place: why tell him he muſt never hope? 'twou'd be but charity to leave him that deluſion for his temporary comfort."’—To all theſe arguments her heart in gentleneſs accorded, and as language was not needful, and probably not preſent for the purpoſe, in that inſtant he felt, or fancied that he felt, a gentle trembling preſſure of his hand by her's: a bluſh of ſenſibility glowed on his cheeks: it was health to his ſick hope, light to his dark deſpair, oil to that dying ſpark, which reaſon ſcarce per⯑mitted to languiſh in his deſponding boſom: [170] ſtill he repreſs'd all rapture; tenderly, but yet reſpectfully, he ſtoop'd his lips upon her hand—‘"You are all excellence,"’ he cried; ‘"'tis ſo I ſhould expect the friend of my protectreſs, and the daughter of the beſt of men, to conſole the mourner: I have been witneſs to your filial love and piety, Heaven grant I never may be witneſs to your ſorrows; for Heaven can teſtify how gladly I would meet my death to reſcue and preſerve that ſacred life, ſo dear to you, and keep affliction from the tendereſt heart that ever animated the moſt lovely form."’

CHAPTER VIII. He is the true Hero, that can conquer himſelf.

THE next morning brought Doctor Za⯑chary Cawdle to Manſtock Houſe. No ſooner did the figure of old Beſs, ſhuffling un⯑der the non-elaſtic load of her rider in the cin⯑namon ſuit, croſs the optics of our hero, then upon a ſolitary ramble in the park, than he ran to the encounter.—‘"What news,"’ cried he, ‘"my worthy maſter?"’—‘"Ill news,"’ quoth the rider in cinnamon, ‘"for thoſe who are [171] ſick, when I am diſmiſs'd: that pettyfogging peer has put me out of his houſe, when the ſituation of his lady ſhould have kept me in it."’—‘"No matter for that,"’ eagerly reſum'd the other; ‘"tell me how that lady is."’—‘"How ſhould ſhe be,"’ again quoth Zachary, ‘"when I am not allow'd to come near her? And do you ſay no matter for that? Marry, but there is a great deal of matter, and matter of a very ugly nature, and a very rapid pulſe, let me tell you; and I ſhould think no man, who has ever been within the ſound of my peſ⯑tle, wou'd have the hardineſs to ſay, no matter for that."’

‘"Pardon me, my good Doctor,"’ replied Henry; ‘"mine were the words of impatience, not of contempt: I am very ſeriouſly alarm'd for Lady Crowbery."’—‘"Enough ſaid,"’ quoth the Doctor; ‘"'tis natural you ſhould be alarm'd for one ſo near to you, and your im⯑patience is excuſable. As we have here no liſ⯑teners within reach of us, I ſhall let you know that I am made privy to what has paſs'd be⯑tween you and your mother, and that I bear you the bleſſing of that beſt of ladies; ſhe is indeed a ſaint, a ſuffering ſaint and martyr to the meereſt perſecutor in creation."’—The [172] filial heart of Henry ſwelled with indignation, his eyes ſparkled, and his cheeks fluſhed, as he broke forth into vehement denunciations againſt Lord Crowbery, and it was with ſome diffi⯑culty Zachary could preach him into patience; the ſtorm, however, ſubſided by degrees; and when Zachary told him, that he came over at his mother's deſire, to conſult with Sir Roger Manſtock, he became perfectly calm, and de⯑clared that he would reſign himſelf to what that worthy perſon ſhould adviſe: at the ſame time he ſaid, that he could not but lament the pe⯑culiarity of his ſituation, which inveſted him with a character, that he was not permitted to avow; and as the relation in which he ſtood with regard to Lady Crowbery was not known to Sir Roger Manſtock, he could not expect, that any ſuch part would be aſſigned to him in that lady's vindication, as his intereſt in her wrongs would otherwiſe intitle him to de⯑mand. The reſult of the conference, however, was an appeal to Sir Roger in the firſt place, and for this purpoſe Zachary proceeded on⯑wards towards the houſe, whilſt our hero ſtruck into the grove adjoining, which, by a more cir⯑cuitous path, led to the ſame point.

Upon entering this ſcene of meditation and [173] retirement, Henry found himſelf unexpectedly encountered by a fair nymph, whom fortune ſeemed to ſeize every occaſion of throwing in his way, when ſolitude and ſecrecy conſpired to put his virtue to the teſt. Suſan May was on her return from the village, where ſhe had been to welcome her mother to her new habi⯑tation, which ſhe had that morning taken poſ⯑ſeſſion of. Though certain events had now parted theſe friends into ſeparate ſpheres of life, Henry accoſted her in the ſame ſtile and manner as when they lived together upon the level: their converſation began by her re⯑counting the kindneſſes of Miſs Manſtock to her mother, and the comforts ſhe had provided for that good woman in her new abode: Eze⯑kiel Daw had ſtaid behind to attend the calls of Juſtice Blachford, who, in his lucid inter⯑vals (if ſuch they might be termed) was viſited by certain fits of terror and compunction, which made the ſpiritual aſſiſtance of that pious creature not unwelcome to him, and it is need⯑leſs to remark, that from duties like this Eze⯑kiel was, by no intereſt or allurement, to be detached.

Henry's mind was, juſt now, too much occu⯑pied to be in the beſt of all poſſible diſpoſi⯑tions [174] for the preſent meeting, but it was not in his nature to give pain to a fond heart like Suſan's; he made no effort, therefore, to divert the converſation from thoſe intereſting points, to which ſhe wiſhed to lead it. Few girls of Suſan's ſort had greater quickneſs of intuition; and as love is, in ſome caſes, a mighty ſharpener of the eye-ſight, ſhe had taken her obſervations pretty accurately as to the effect of Iſabella's bright eyes upon the heart of Henry, and be⯑ing fully ſatisfied ſhe had no chance againſt ſuch a rival, ſhe good-naturedly reſolved to do him all the ſervices in her power with that young lady, and though ſhe had little comfort to adminiſter to him at preſent, yet ſhe diſcerned enough to warrant her in talking on the ſubject, and reporting ſuch particulars as might ſerve, at leaſt, to keep the ſpark of hope alive; when Henry, therefore, aſked her if ſhe was happy in her ſervice, ſhe anſwered, that her young lady was an angel for goodneſs, and if ſhe herſelf was not as happy as ſhe might be, it was only becauſe ſhe was not altogether ſo wiſe as ſhe ought to be; but time, ſhe obſerved, would cure her of thoſe follies which had taken ſuch poſſeſſion of her:—‘"A kind word however,"’ added ſhe, ‘"now and then beſtow'd [175] upon me, when ſuperior objects do not engroſs your attention, will be a generous way of aſſur⯑ing me, that I am not entirely out of your thoughts; more than this I do not expect, but without this I ſhould indeed be wretched."’

Henry conſoled her with the moſt ſooth⯑ing aſſurances, and he accompanied them with certain tender looks and actions, which carry more perſuaſion with them, than the ſtrongeſt profeſſions can convey without them. Turn⯑ing to him with a ſmile—‘"Ah! my dear friend!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I ſuſpect there is a cer⯑tain lady of mine, not far off, who will give you the heart-ache before long, and then you will know what it is that we poor love-ſick mor⯑tals ſuffer; theſe evening walks of your's, with that captivating fair one, will lead you into a maze that will puzzle you to eſcape from, unleſs I give you a clue to guide you out of it. We women of the chamber have many oppor⯑tunities of diving into the ſecrets of our miſ⯑treſſes, eſpecially of ſuch as, like my lady, are all nature and ſincerity. I muſt tell you then, in one word, that there is a terrible reſolution gone out againſt all mankind at once, never to marry; ſhe has made a vow to devote herſelf to her father; ſhe has not the moſt diſtant idea [176] of falling in love; and has been very curious in her enquiries, how it came to paſs that I ſuf⯑fered myſelf to be ſurpriſed into ſo extraordi⯑nary a weakneſs. I laid it all upon Nature and a tender heart: this ſhe did not admit; for ſhe contended, that her heart was as tender, and her nature as compaſſionate as another's; that ſhe could pity the unfortunate, admire the brave, and applaud the deſerving; but to ſigh, and pine, and languiſh, as ſhe conceived I did, was what ſhe had no conception of. Love to our parents, and good will to the reſt of the world, ſhe thought was all that any one heart could fairly entertain, and as much as in reaſon it ought to undertake for. At this I ſmiled, and took the freedom to tell her, (for ſhe is the moſt frank and affable creature living) that, accord⯑ing to the old ſaying, it was every body's fate to fall in love once in their lives; and if that was true, my deſtiny was paſt, and her's was to come: as for myſelf, I own'd I was juſtly pu⯑niſhed for preſuming to think of one ſo infi⯑nitely my ſuperior in all reſpect; but nobody could prevent their fate; and I doubted if many were to be found, who could be indif⯑ferent to an object ſo deſerving."’

‘"There you ſpoke too humbly of yourſelf,"’ [177] ſaid Henry, ‘"and too partially of your friend."’—‘"My young lady did not ſeem to think ſo,"’ replied Suſan; ‘"and, if I have any gueſs at her heart, you have more intereſt there than ſhe is aware of."’—Here they found themſelves at the extremity of the grove, and within ſight of the houſe.—‘"Adieu!"’ cried Suſan, ‘"I muſt not be ſeen with you:—Perſiſt coura⯑giouſly, and you will conquer: my life upon it, Miſs Manſtock has a heart diſpos'd to you and love."’—‘"Has ſhe ſo?"’ cried Henry, and ſuddenly ſtopt ſhort, whilſt Suſan quickened her pace, and left him to his reflections.—‘"Has ſhe a heart for me and love,"’ he re⯑peated; ‘"and ſhall that flattery tempt me to perſiſt? 'Tis fatal flattery, and I will not pur⯑ſue it. Grant it were truth; grant that I cou'd ſucceed to gain an intereſt in her heart, to ſhake her reſolutions, and detach her from the du⯑teous purpoſes to which ſhe has devoted her⯑ſelf; can I reconcile ſuch conduct to the princi⯑ples of honour, and the gratitude I owe to her father, the uncle of my mother? What pre⯑ſumption wou'd it be in me to conceive, that I can be acceptable to Sir Roger Manſtock, as a pretender to his daughter! 'Tis impoſſible! Circumſtanc'd as I am, it is againſt all reaſon [178] to ſuppoſe he cou'd admit of my addreſſes. What then am I doing? Gratifying a pro⯑penſity that will be my ruin; liſtening to ad⯑vice, that, whilſt it flatters my vanity, conſpires to blind my reaſon, and betray my honour. I will not perſiſt; no, Suſan, though I were ſure to conquer, as you call it, I will not follow your ſeducing council; I will ſtop whilſt it is yet in my power; I will tear myſelf away from the ſnares, which every moment of delay will draw cloſer about me, and eſcape, whilſt I have ſtrength and reſolution for the effort. If ever that day comes, when Sir Roger Manſtock ſhall know me as the couſin of Iſabella, and if this tumult at my heart ſhall be quieted by time and abſence, he may then once more re⯑ceive me, as one attach'd to him by gratitude and conſanguinity, and permit me to pay to him the devotion of a ſon, and to his belov'd Iſabella the attentions of a brother: this will be ſomething ſtill; it will be tender friendſhip, it will be love, that ſtrikes no ſting into the conſcience; it may aſſuage her ſorrows when ſhe will want a comforter, and enable her to ſay, when her father's eyes ſhall cloſe—'I have fulfill'd my promiſe, I have perſiſted in my re⯑ſolution, and devoted my whole heart to the [179] pious duties of a daughter.'—By heavens! 'tis great, 'tis noble! Shall I rob her of this triumph? I will go this inſtant, and prepare for my departure."’

CHAPTER IX. It now becomes doubtful, if a certain Hero is any Hero at all.

HAVING thus decided betwixt love and honour, our hero, firm in his gallant pur⯑poſe, marched triumphantly to the houſe; here, on the very threſhold of the hall, he was met by the lovely object who had occaſioned all his ſtruggles.—‘"I have been ſeeking you,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"all over the houſe: I am terribly afraid there is ſome bad news of my dear Lady Crowbery, for her Doctor is cloſetted with my father, and I dare not interrupt them. They have been calling for you in the library, and I am ſure you will put me out of ſuſpenſe as ſoon as you can learn what it is that has happened."’—‘"Certainly,"’ replied Henry; ‘"but I believe I have heard the whole: Lady Crowbery is indiſpos'd, but I hope not dan⯑gerouſly; [180] if I hear any thing more, you ſhall be informed of it."’—This ſaid, he paſſed on to the library, where Zachary and the worthy Baronet were in cloſe confabulation: at their deſire he ſeated himſelf between them.—‘"Henry,"’ (ſaid Sir Roger Manſtock) ‘"I have juſt now receiv'd a very unpleaſant ac⯑count from this gentleman, which makes it neceſſary for me to pay a viſit to my niece at Crowbery caſtle, without delay. I am afraid there is too much cauſe to apprehend a ſpeedy decline; and as my Lord is not diſpos'd to avail himſelf of this worthy gentleman's ſkill and experience, it behoves me very ſeriouſly to urge him to ſome other meaſures for her re⯑lief, with all the expedition that her caſe de⯑mands. If this were all I had to do, I ſhou'd not ſuppoſe that any difference cou'd ariſe be⯑tween my Lord and me; but I ſuſpect there will be ſome points of a more difficult nature to diſ⯑cuſs, in which we cannot poſſibly agree, ſo long as he perſiſts to avow certain jealouſies and ſuſ⯑picions of his lady, my niece, which I hold to be highly injurious, and totally without foun⯑dation: in this part of the buſineſs, Henry, it happens that you are involv'd; and though I want no proteſtations on your part to ſatisfy [181] my mind in the matter, yet if Lord Crowbery either cannot, or will not, be brought to reaſon upon any other terms, than your conſenting to put yourſelf at a greater diſtance than where you now are, I am free to ſay, it is a requi⯑ſition, however unreaſonable, to which I ſhou'd be diſpos'd to ſacrifice the enjoyments I derive from your ſociety, rather than to leave him any pretence for the complaints, which, I un⯑derſtand, he makes of me, and the very harſh treatment, which, I am griev'd to hear, he practiſes againſt my niece."’

Henry now heard the very meaſure pro⯑poſed, that he was pre-determined to adopt; his anſwer therefore was ready, and his ac⯑quieſcence unqualified.—‘"I ſhall be gone, Sir,"’ he cried, ‘"before his lordſhip can re⯑peat his murmurs againſt you for harbouring a gueſt ſo obnoxious to his repoſe: as for the ſuſpicions he annexes to my ſtay in his neigh⯑bourhood, I will not ſo degrade the evidence of truth and innocence, as to honour thoſe ſuſ⯑picions with a diſcuſſion; they are the forgeries of his own malicious imagination, fabricated with the baſe deſign of giving ſome colour of excuſe for that tyranny of temper, which it is natural to him to indulge in, and of which, [182] it ſeems (juſt Heaven requite him for his cruelty!) your injured niece, and my ever honour'd benefactreſs, is to be the victim. For her ſake I am not only ready to forego the comforts, the delights of abiding here under your protection, but to remove myſelf to any diſtance, far as ſea and land can carry me, if ſo requir'd, beyond the reach of his pretended jealouſy. But let him have a care how he does more than brood in ſecret on his ſuſpi⯑cions; let him confine his murmurs within the dark receſſes of his own gloomy breaſt; let him take heed how he circulates them be⯑yond the walls of that caſtle, in which he keeps innocence immur'd; for if any word of his ſhall reach my ears, by which he attaches my name to an imputation, that my nature ſhrinks from with horror unutterable, the cauſe is then my own, and I will bring him to ſo ſtrict a reckoning, as ſhall either ſilence his calumny, or ſtifle my reſentment, for ever."’

As the youthful hero of this ſtory thus de⯑livered himſelf, his eyes gliſtened, and the ſpot of anger glowed upon his cheek. Sir Roger noted his emotion, and was enraptured, not leſs by the contemplation of his countenance, than by the energy of his ſentiments: ſo [183] charmed was he with what he ſaw and heard, that his heart ſmote him with compunction for having ſignified to him a kind of warning from his houſe.—‘"Gracious Heaven!"’ he cried, turning to Zachary, and ſtriking his hands together, (as was cuſtomary with him when ſurpriſed with any ſudden thought) ‘"am I to ſacrifice the delight of cheriſhing a ſpirit like this, in compliment to the caprice of a domeſtic tyrant? What ſtore of virtues do I contemplate dawning in the boſom of this gallant youth; and ſhall I loſe the pride of foſtering their growth? It is too much: Henry, my noble fellow, we'll ſet this paltry Peer at naught; I never can conſent to part from you."’

Age had not deadened the ſenſibility of this venerable old man; he was greatly moved, his voice ſhook, and he claſped the hand of Henry in his. Zachary, who had much of the milk, or rather the butter, of human kind⯑neſs in his compoſition, melted like a thaw; and taking out his handkerchief, without any fineſſe, began a tune upon his olfactory organ little leſs ſonorous, and not more muſical, than the cow-horn of Joe Jenkins. Our hero him⯑ſelf was ſhaken, but not overthrown; his [184] courage reeled, but it did not go back from the poſt he had taken, and he maintained his reſolution of abiding by Sir Roger's firſt propoſal, which he aſſerted to be neceſſary on more accounts than one; at the ſame time he expreſſed a hope, that he might be allowed to accompany him to the caſtle, where he thought he had a right to appear, as the party accuſed; and obſerving withal, it was poſſible that Sir Roger, in conference with a perſon of Lord Crowbery's brutal nature, and alone, might not be treated with all the reſpect due to his perſon and character.

This propoſal did not ſuit the ſpirit of Sir Roger, neither was it a thing practicable or adviſeable, ſo that he put a peremptory ne⯑gative upon it at once, adding, in a tone of voice ſomewhat above his uſual key, that if an affront was offered to himſelf or family, though he was too old for haſty meaſures, he was not yet paſt the age for manly reſent⯑ment. He now ordered four horſes to be put to his chaiſe with all haſte, and deſired Henry to inform Miſs Manſtock, that he was ſimply going to pay a viſit to Lady Crowbery, and wou'd return to dinner.

Charged with this commiſſion, Henry re⯑turned [185] to the hall, where the lovely Iſabella was ſtill waiting, and made his report. She expreſſed herſelf much alarmed by the tidings, not only on Lady Crowbery's account, who, ſhe feared, was in a very dangerous way, but on her father's alſo; ſhe declared there was nothing ſhe more dreaded than his interview with Lord Crowbery; his viſits there were at all times unpleaſant, but much more ſo on the preſent occaſion, when, ſhe was ſure that cruel man would fly out into ſome violence, and, perhaps, ſay or do ſomething ſo very galling to her father's ſpirit, as might draw him into a ſerious quarrel; and what then would become of her! the mere poſſibility of it was terrifying in the extreme.—‘"Oh! this odious viſit,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"wou'd it were well over! I cannot think of it without trembling."’

To theſe tremors and apprehenſions Henry applied all the comfort his kind conſideration for ſuch generous feelings could ſuggeſt: He promiſed her he would take a horſe, and ride over to Crowbery, on the pretence of viſiting his friend Ezekiel, but, in fact, to be at hand for any ſervice that occaſion might require; he begged her to reſt aſſured that no attention [186] ſhould be neglected by him, where a life ſo valuable to her, to himſelf, and to the world at large, was concerned; but as for any danger perſonally affecting her father, from the brutal manners of that daſtardly Peer, he held that in ſovereign diſregard; he had ſeen enough of my Lord to know how far his inſolence could go, and where it would ſtop.—‘"He would fain,"’ added he ‘"have practiſed it upon me, when he conſidered me as a wretched helpleſs worm, that he might ſafely tread upon; but no ſooner did he ſee that worm cou'd turn upon him, than he ſhrunk back like a coward as he is, and in ſpite of all his pride and haughtineſs, lower'd his high tone at the rebuke of a poor friendleſs being, whom he expected to have cruſh'd with a word."’

This conſolation ſo effectually cheered the filial heart of the grateful Iſabella, that ſhe re⯑aſſumed her ſpirits, and with a ſmile, that gave animation to a thouſand charms, expreſſed her thanks with ſo captivating a grace, that if Henry's heart, aſſailed by ſo many intereſting ſenſations at once, was juſt then in no humour to fulfil its ſelf-denying reſolution, ſome ex⯑cuſe may be fairly offered for his tranſient in⯑firmity of purpoſe.—‘"I'll not leave ſight of [187] the chaiſe,"’ he ſaid, ‘"either going or return⯑ing. If Sir Roger Manſtock does not approve of my accompanying him to his interview with Lord Crowbery, nothing ſhall prevent my being watchful of the iſſue of it, and at⯑tending upon him in every other moment of his abſence from you."’

‘"You are infinitely kind and indulgent to my weakneſs,"’ ſaid Iſabella; ‘"and I know your gallant ſpirit is ſuch, that every thing it protects muſt be ſafe; I will therefore diſmiſs my fears on my father's account;"’—then ten⯑dering him her hand with a look of modeſt ſweetneſs and benignity—‘"Fare you well,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"I ſhall think them heavy hours till you both return; but I hope we ſhall have a cheerful meeting at dinner time, and a plea⯑ſant walk in the evening."’—With theſe kind words diſmiſs'd, he was going, when ſhe call'd him back, ſaying—‘"One word more before we part: I inſiſt upon your not taking that flighty animal you rode yeſterday; and if you will do me a particular favour, you will exerciſe my mare for me,"’—‘"I ſhall be in continual ter⯑ror,"’ replied Henry, ‘"leaſt any accident ſhou'd befal her."’—‘"Judge then,"’ rejoin'd ſhe, ‘"of me by yourſelf, and let your fears, [188] that have ſuch a trifle for their object, give place to mine, that have ſo much at riſque."’

‘"Where am I?"’ ſaid Henry within him⯑ſelf. ‘"What is become of the reſolution I had taken?"’

CHAPTER X. Symptoms of falling in Love.

SIR Roger Manſtock had no ſooner ſet out, attended by Henry on Iſabella's favourite mare, when Zachary Cawdle ſummoned old Betty to the door, and at that inſtant recol⯑lected a ſmall packet he had in charge from Lady Crowbery, to deliver to her ſon: vexed at himſelf for his forgetfulneſs, he ſaw no better way of redeeming his neglect, than by putting it into Miſs Manſtock's hands, requeſting her to give it to Henry on his return: he then took his leave, and departed, having a patient or two to viſit by the way.

Iſabella retired to her chamber; ſhe took up a book, opened it at random, run her eye over two or three pages, and threw it aſide; ſhe was not in the humour for reading. Suſan [189] was diſpatched for her work-bag; ſhe rum⯑maged it for ſomething to employ herſelf upon; nothing ſuited her fancy, though ſeve⯑ral things preſented themſelves to her choice; the bag fared no better than the book; both were diſcarded.

‘"I am juſt now,"’ ſaid ſhe to Suſan, ‘"in that ſort of humour, when one can fix to nothing, and yet I want ſomething to occupy me."’—She then began to examine the little packet ſhe had in charge for Henry; ſhe could perceive that it contained a ring; it puzzled her to divine what Lady Crowbery could intend by ſuch a preſent: ſhe put it into her purſe, and for ſome minutes ſat ſilent and thoughtful; then directing her eyes to Suſan, who was employing herſelf in ſome arrange⯑ments of the toilet, ‘"I am convinc'd,"’ ſhe cried, ‘"that Henry has an excellent heart. I begin to think, Suſan, that though it is a very fooliſh thing to fall in love, and every girl's duty to guard herſelf againſt ſuch idle notions, yet in your caſe, I can ſuppoſe, it was hardly to be avoided, where you had ſo many opportunities of knowing the good qualities of that engaging young man: it is not every body can be content only to admire and [190] approve a perſon and character like his."’—‘"I hope, Madam,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"you will not think the worſe of me for owning that my heart is capable of love."’

The conference was now fairly opened; by Suſan, with a deſign to probe the heart of her fair miſtreſs; by Iſabella, innocently, incauti⯑ouſly, and with no other motive, but for the preſent relief of certain new and hitherto un⯑experienced ſenſations, of which ſhe neither knew the real nature or extent.

To Suſan's frank appeal above recited, ſhe candidly replied—‘"No, no, I don't altoge⯑ther condemn you for being capable of love, but I am afraid you have beſtow'd your love upon one, who is not ſuſceptible of the like paſſion: I take Henry to have a mind ſupe⯑rior to the weakneſs of liking any woman, but as a friend."’

‘"To the weakneſs of liking me in any other light,"’ Suſan modeſtly replied, ‘"he is certainly ſuperior; I know the little ſervices I did him in his diſtreſs are rated by him above their value, for he has a grateful and a feeling heart; too generous to treat me with unkindneſs, too ſincere to deceive me with falſe pretences; for what am I, to aſpire to a [191] perſon of Mr. Henry's ſort, conſcious as I am that he is of high birth, with ſuch talents, ſo accompliſh'd, and with ſo fine a perſon."’—‘"He has indeed a very fine perſon,"’ repeated Iſabella.—‘"I have never ſeen his like,"’ re⯑ſumed the other.—‘"But you yourſelf are very handſome,"’ ſaid the lady, ſurveying her with a gracious ſmile.—‘"I handſome!"’ ſaid the damſel, affecting a ſurpriſe at a compliment, which had been repeated to her a thouſand times; ‘"ſurely, Madam, you are laughing at me; ſuch a clowniſh girl as I am can have no charms for Mr. Henry"’.—‘"Did'n't I tell you,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"he had no heart for love?"’—‘"It would he happy for him if he had not,"’ Suſan anſwered; ‘"for I am afraid his love is likely to produce nothing but ſorrow and diſ⯑appointment."’

Iſabella eagerly demanded what ſhe meant—‘"Pardon me,"’ replied Suſan, ‘"I muſt not explain myſelf; neither ſhou'd I have ventur'd to ſay a word on the ſubject, if I cou'd have conceiv'd what was ſo plain to be ſeen cou'd have eſcap'd your notice. I am ſure he wou'd be very angry with me, was he to know that I preſum'd to hold ſuch diſcourſe with you, Ma⯑dam; but I ſhou'd indeed have thought, that of [192] all perſons living you wou'd have been the laſt to doubt if he had a heart for love. Alas! he only loves too well for his future peace and quiet, and, I fear, he will live to rue the day that ever he came within the walls of Man⯑ſtock Houſe."’

‘"Heaven in its mercy forbid!"’ cried Iſa⯑bella, ‘"that any thing ſhou'd befal him in this houſe, that might cauſe him to regret the coming into it! I am ſure, if I am innocently the occaſion of it, ſooner than be the means of bringing him into miſery and misfortune, I wou'd, I wou'd—"’ Here ſhe faultered, not daring to complete the ſentence as her feelings dictated it. The intelligent waiting-woman well underſtood her embarraſſment, and prompted her to a concluſion, which, at the ſame time, ſhe knew was far ſhort of her meaning.—‘"You wou'd pity him,"’ ſhe ſaid.—‘"From my ſoul,"’ cried the lovely Iſabella, with an agitated air and accent; ‘"I wou'd run away and hide myſelf, if I thought what you allude to was the caſe, and that my pre⯑ſence gave him pain."’—‘"That can more properly be done on his part,"’ ſaid Suſan; ‘"and if I may venture to gueſs at his fate, that ſad remedy will very ſhortly be reſorted [193] to."’—‘"How ſo! how ſo!"’ exclaimed the faireſt of her ſex, her fine face glowing with bluſhes, and the tear of ſenſibility ſtealing down her cheek, ‘"is he going from us? I wou'd not have him leave us for the world! what can he ſee in me, that ſhou'd frighten him away?"’—‘"Every thing that is lovely and engaging,"’ replied Suſan; ‘"that's out of all doubt. But when he ſees what he muſt love, and cannot hope to obtain, if he has one grain of ſpirit, which I think he does not want, he will eſcape whilſt he can, and not perſiſt to ſtay, where every hour muſt render him more fond and more unhappy."’

This was a concluſion that Iſabella could not parry; it was an inference from her own aſſerted reſolution, which ſhe was not aware of, and could not anſwer: probably, if Suſan had not juſt then reminded her of that unlucky reſolution, ſhe might have been as well pleaſed; and it is more than probable, had ſhe never let it paſs her lips, this was not the very moment ſhe would have choſen for imparting it; it was done, however, and Iſabella was not ſo regardleſs of conſiſtency as to revoke it; ſhe had made a vow, and vows are too ſacred to be ſported with; ſhe could be ſilent, at leaſt, and cut ſhort a [194] converſation that ſo pleaſingly had led her on into a dilemma ſo embarraſſing; this ſhe could do, and this ſhe did.—‘"Fetch me my cloak,"’ ſhe cried; ‘"it is time for me to take my walk."’

Sir Roger Manſtock, in the mean while, fol⯑lowed by Henry on horſeback, proceeded ra⯑pidly towards Crowbery; arrived there, he entered the caſtle, whilſt Henry ſtruck off to⯑wards the cottage on the green, where Eze⯑kiel Daw ſtill ſojourned in pious attendance on the dying juſtice. The good man was at home when Henry rode to the door, and re⯑ceived him with the greeting of a father to his ſon.—‘"Welcome, my dear child,"’ cried Ezekiel, as he took him by the hand; ‘"never truſt me, but it maketh my heart glad to be⯑hold thee. Let it not be a wonder with thee, that I tarry here awhile, till it ſhall pleaſe the Lord to diſpoſe of this wretched creature, lan⯑guiſhing on the bed of death, conſcience ſtrick⯑en, and wounded in the ſpirit no leſs than in the fleſh. Thou may'ſt well believe I have not fail'd to awaken him to a proper ſenſe of his loſt and deſperate condition: as his returns of reaſon are but ſhort and rare, I have made the moſt of them, and ſet forth the heinouſneſs [195] of his ſins with all due horror, and in its blackeſt hue. As death hovers over him momenta⯑rily, I have prepar'd his ears for the awful ſound of the laſt trump, and the dreadful warn⯑ing of eternal condemnation. Fain wou'd he have ſnatch'd at the vain hope of pardon and forgiveneſs; but I told him not to flatter him⯑ſelf with any ſuch fallacious hopes; and that his offences againſt man muſt firſt be aton'd, before he thought of mercy from God: he appeal'd to his preſent ſufferings, and demand⯑ed of me, if I did not think they were pu⯑niſhment ſufficient for all the crimes he had meditated or committed. I forbid him to draw any comfort from ſuch falſe perſuaſions, reminding him, that mere pains and ſickneſs cou'd not expiate offences; that he was in⯑deed diverted from the perpetration of a mur⯑der by a ſudden judgment, but it was the hand of Providence, and not his change of purpoſe, that had fruſtrated that horrid deſign; the crime remain'd with him, though the execution of it had been turn'd aſide; I advis'd him, therefore, to ſolicit your forgiveneſs in the firſt place."’—‘"He need not doubt of that,"’ cried Henry, with eagerneſs; ‘"I heartily and from my ſoul forgive him, and I beſeech you ſo to aſſure [196] him."’—‘"Thou ſpeakeſt, Henry, as it befit⯑teth a Chriſtian to ſpeak; but I much queſtion if theſe tidings can be imparted to him; by me at leaſt they cannot, ſeeing I am inter⯑dicted from all further viſits to him, by one who hath the care of his body, but regardeth not the ſalvation of his ſoul. A certain emi⯑nent practitioner hath come down from Lon⯑don, to inſpect his wounds, and adviſe in the caſe. The man is a notable man in his pro⯑feſſion, and no leſs ſkill'd in pharmacy than ſurgery; but, alas! he lacketh the one thing needful; for he declaimeth vehemently againſt my ſpiritual admonitions, crying out amain, that they depreſs his pulſe, diſturb his ſpirits, and ſink him into that deſpondency, which defeats his efforts, and portendeth death. Thus doth this man of medicine ſet his face againſt thoſe wholeſome terrors of the Lord, by which we perſuade men: but, in truth, this Mr. L—, of whom ſo much is ſaid for his ſkill in the management of wounds, regardeth not the doctrine of a wounded conſcience, which, pro⯑bably, he hath no experience in."’—Henry ſmiled: Ezekiel made no ſtop.—‘"How⯑ever, I have taught the ſick man that, which has ſunk deeper into his brain than the ſur⯑geon's [197] probe can reach; I have ſown thoſe ſeeds in his heart, which the enemy cannot root out; and, I flatter myſelf, he hath a feeling foretaſte of thoſe torments, which are prepar'd for the impenitent ſinner in the world to come."’

‘"Alas! alas! my zealous friend,"’ cried Henry, ‘"cou'd you not, in pity to a dying wretch, ſtrike out one ſpark of comfort from the hope we have in God's all-gracious mer⯑cy? Cou'd you preach nothing ſhort of abſo⯑lute deſpair? How can a wretch repent, who has no hope of pardon? If you diſplay all hell before his ſight, how can he lift his dying eyes towards Heaven? Indeed, indeed, my pious friend, you have been too gloomy in your doctrine."’

‘"And who ſhall tell me that!"’ exclaimed Ezekiel, ‘"a boy! a child! a new born babe! Wilt thou reform, correct, reprove my doc⯑trine! thou! Remember the fate of thoſe ſau⯑cy brats that mock'd at the prophet Eliſha; a bear out of the foreſt devour'd them; I don't ſay it will be exactly thy fate, for there are no bears in England, I know that well enough; but have a care of a judgment no leſs; have a [198] care, I ſay, young man, how you flout at my doctrine."’

‘"I flout not either at you or your doctrine,"’ replied Henry, ‘"but I compaſſionate the ſitu⯑ation of this unhappy Blachford; and if he feels contrition for his faults, why ſhou'd he not be cheer'd with hopes of being pardon'd for them?"’—‘"I tell thee, Henry,"’ quoth Eze⯑kiel, his guſt of anger being now pretty nearly blown off, ‘"there is not a more deceitful pro⯑penſity in the heart of man, than what is call'd pity; it is as unlike true charity as it is unlike ſtrict juſtice; ſome people have a ſoft heart, and a watery eye, at every body's command that chuſes to apply to them, by which means they are dupes of every knave and impoſtor, who can put on a crying countenance, and tell a canting tale; but a nature of this caſt is only active, when it is ſpur'd into motion by ſome intereſting ſpectacle; provoke it not, and it ſleeps; mere pity never ſeeks for employ⯑ment; it is a virtue of parade and popularity; it ſearches not for diſtreſs, nor follows the ſe⯑queſter'd mourner into his melancholy haunts, to adminiſter the ſecret charities of conſolation and relief; theſe offices demand a firmer ſpi⯑rit, [199] nerves better brac'd, and a more manly nature, that can face affliction without whim⯑pering, do its buſineſs boldly, and wipe away the widow's tears with a ſteady hand. What is it to me that a rogue is on his death-bed? he is a rogue no leſs; and I don't ſee the cha⯑rity of ſending him out of the world with a lie of my telling, becauſe the truth is unpleaſant to him to hear. Blachford has been a tyrant and an oppreſſor all his life long; he has not felt for others, neither does he now; his feel⯑ings are for himſelf, and if he has any com⯑punction, his fears call it up; it is not volun⯑tary repentance; 'tis the dread of death, the remorſe of a thief at the gallows."’

Here Ezekiel ſung forth in his beſt key.—‘"Let us not judge too harſhly,"’ cried Henry; ‘"Heaven only knows the hearts of men: we will leave Blachford to his conſcience, and turn our thoughts to a more intereſting object. Have you any news of the Lady Crowbery?"’—‘"Ah!"’ ſaid Ezekiel, ‘"I fear there are dark doings in that quarter; ſhe is a priſoner, and, which is worſe, ſhe is ſick and ill, and has been order'd to Liſbon, if her Lord will let her go thither."’—Henry now, with much anxiety, queſtioned Ezekiel as to [200] his authority for this intelligence, and found that the London ſurgeon, who attended Blach⯑ford, had been called in by Lord Crowbery, who could no longer ſhut his eyes againſt the alarming ſituation of his Lady, and this gentle⯑man had pronounced a change of climate ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary, and recommended the air of Liſbon without delay.

The chief object of Sir Roger's viſit was thus anticipated, and though the news was painful in the extreme to Henry, yet he drew the con⯑ſolation from it, of ſeeing the way ſmoothed for a peaceable conference between the parties now met at the caſtle; and it further opened to him a proſpect of better opportunities for paying his attentions to his mother, when ſeparated from her tyrant, and in a foreign country, whither he was determined to reſort, and at the ſame time diſengage himſelf from the ſnares of the too charming object, who had taken ſuch hold of his heart.

CHAPTER XI. An angry Altercation with a Perſon unknown leads our Hero into imminent Danger.

THESE pious and prudent reſolutions of our hero for renouncing his abode at Manſtock Houſe, and following his mother to Liſbon, were not taken without a ſtruggle; for all complaints on the part of Lord Crowbery were more effectually avoided by his remain⯑ing with Sir Roger, in the abſence of the Lady, than by his leaving him, to which it could not fail, but that ſuſpicious conjectures would be affixed. This was a ſtaggering cir⯑cumſtance, and could hardly eſcape being ſtated and oppoſed to him by the hoſpitable Baronet, nay, perhaps, by Iſabella herſelf, and of her powers of perſuaſion, ſhould ſhe exert them on the occaſion, he had full ſenſe and conviction; neither was it abſolute deſpair, from which he was preparing to retreat; there was no repelling ſphere about the lovely per⯑ſon of Iſabella; on the contrary, all was at⯑traction there, all was ſweetneſs and ſmiles; ſtill, native honour, reverence for the feelings of a father, and a due ſenſe of the young heireſs's [202] ſuperior pretenſions, held him to his purpoſe; but, above all other motives, devotion to a ſuffering mother decided againſt all temp⯑tations.

Ezekiel had left him to theſe meditations, and was gone to the next door, hoping to find ſome opportunity of making Blachford ac⯑quainted with Henry's forgiveneſs of his at⯑tempt againſt him. In the mean time a perſon entered the cottage, whom he recollected to be the finder of Lady Crowbery's ring: though he no longer preſented himſelf in the mean and humble dreſs he before appeared in, his coun⯑tenance was pale and ſickly, and his frame emaciated, yet there was ſomething noble and impreſſive in his air and deportment. After the ordinary ſalutations, he deſired to know if there was any meſſage or commiſſion from Lady Crowbery. Henry informed him, that he had nothing of the ſort in charge. This was heard with ſtrong expreſſions of ſurprize. Some ſmall acknowledgment, he owned, he did expect for his honeſty; what did ſhe ſay upon the delivery of it? She took it, and ſaid nothing, was the anſwer.—‘"Impoſſible!"’ exclaim'd the diſappointed ſtranger; ‘"Lady Crowbery would not receive it in that ſtile; ſuch indif⯑ference [203] is totally out of character; it exceeds all credibility. Suffer me,"’ he added, very ſe⯑riouſly, ‘"to deſire you will be pleas'd to recol⯑lect yourſelf; any one word you can call to mind, as utter'd by her on that occaſion, will be of moment to me; conſult your memory, I beſeech of you; perhaps it may have ſlipt you in the hurry of your thoughts; nay, it is poſſible, being ſo ſmall an article, you may have for⯑gotten to deliver it."’—‘"How, Sir!"’ exclaimed Henry, ſternly fixing his eyes upon him.—The man paid little regard to this angry interjec⯑tion, but went on with his diſcourſe, obſerv⯑ing, that it was nothing extraordinary if the memory of a young man ſhould fail him in a commiſſion not very intereſting.

‘"I ſtand in need of no apologies,"’ replied our hero, ‘"for defect of memory; I am clear in what I tell you, and having once aſſerted it, ſhall repeat it no more, nor patiently ſubmit, that any queſtion ſhould be made of my vera⯑city."’—‘"You talk loftily, young Sir,"’ ſaid the ſtranger; ‘"and before we proceed any further in this kind of altercation, it will be proper for me to clear up ſome preliminary points between us, that may elſe involve you in a miſtake you may repent of. Appearances, [204] I preſume, have deceiv'd you; from what I ſaid to you at our laſt meeting, when I confid⯑ed to you the ring, you doubtleſs conſider'd me as a needy abject man, and yourſelf, then newly taken into favour by Lady Crowbery, as my ſuperior; before you ſuit your conver⯑ſation to that idea, I muſt forewarn you, that you are talking with a gentleman."’

‘"I am ſorry for it,"’ replied Henry; ‘"as I cannot put up with thoſe ſuſpicions from a gentleman, which, in a vulgar perſon, I ſhou'd have diſregarded: you talk'd to me of being return'd from tranſportation, and in ſuch a man it was an unexpected merit to reſtore the pro⯑perty he had found; but what can a gentleman require more, than the ſatisfaction of knowing, that the owner of the ring is in poſſeſſion of what ſhe had loſt? This you are now inform'd of, and you muſt prepare your mind, before we part, to diſmiſs every ſhadow of doubt, that I could poſſibly be guilty of a falſe report."’

‘"Hold,"’ replied the other, ‘"I cou'd never in my life regulate my thoughts at the word of command; and if you mean to make them accord to your wiſhes, you muſt give me ſome leading aids towards conviction of your ſincerity, before I can repoſe implicit faith in [205] it: the word, that pledges the honour of a gentleman to me, I ſhall not diſpute; I am ready, to acquieſce in it; but I am not willing to make a tender of my confidence to a per⯑ſon, who exacts ſuch high demands upon me, until I am convinc'd he is entitled ſo to do; let us, therefore, interchange explanations with each other, before you require, or I render, ſatisfaction for what you ſeem to treat as an affront. Inform'd as I am, I am to conſider you as a child of fortune, newly emerg'd from the loweſt ſtate of human wretchedneſs; your looks, your language and demeanour, certainly are not thoſe of a mean uneducated perſon; give me therefore your name, condition and pretenſions, and I will give you mine; then, if you tell me Lady Crowbery has receiv'd the ring I ſent her by your hands, and treated it as a bawble not worthy her remembrance, and the ſender of it as an object not deſerving her enquiry, I think I muſt be compell'd, hard as it will be even then, to ſay that I believe you."’

Our Henry's candour ſaw the reaſonableneſs of this ſtipulation, and the dilemma was a very awkward one to which he was reduced by it; ſenſible that he could not juſtly preſs his requiſitions any further, yet unwilling to ſub⯑mit [206] to the indignity of being doubted—‘"I am not at liberty,"’ he replied ‘"to give you the information you require; I muſt leave you, therefore, to draw your own concluſions, and we muſt part, as we met, ſtrangers to each other. Your diſappointment about the ring certainly has an anxiety in it, that goes deeper than to the mere fact of my delivering it or not to the Lady Crowbery; but whatever my curioſity on that account may be, I have no right to be inquiſitive as to your ſecrets, ſo long as I withhold my own. When you appeal to the Lady, you will find I have told you truth; but I did not recollect to tell you, that ſhe never ſaw the ring I gave her; it was wrapt in paper, and ſhe, being in haſte, put it into her pocket without examination; if then there is any myſtery about it, and mere was annexed to it, than as a common trinket dropt from her finger, you have the ſatisfaction of know⯑ing there was no time for her to develope it, neither have I ſet eyes on her ſince."’

‘"It is enough,"’ exclaimed the ſtranger; ‘"I am ſatisfied, completely ſatisfied, and aſk your pardon for my heſitation in giving credit to you: had you told me this at firſt, I ſhou'd not have expreſs'd myſelf as I did."’

Anger, which in Henry's boſom had no [207] laſting tenure, inſtantly diſappeared upon this apology, and he began to explain as much of his own hiſtory as was proper to be told. This was attentively liſtened to by his companion, who owned having been betrayed into wrong notions, as to his connection with Lady Crow⯑bery, report having ſtated to him, that her Lord was jealous of her on his account, and not without grounds—‘"theſe you have now,"’ added he, ‘"very naturally accounted for, and 'tis too clear, that the man is by nature a ſuſ⯑picious tyrant, and that he uſes her moſt harſhly: Alas! poor Lady, how I pity her hard lot; but how, in the name of wonder, cou'd ſhe ever conſent to join herſelf to ſuch a huſband, whoſe perſon ſhe cou'd not like, and whoſe manners cou'd never have been ſuitable to a woman of her taſte and elegance? I am not acquainted with Lord Crowbery, but I have had a glimpſe of his perſon, and ſome traits of his character; I own I cou'd not have ſuppos'd Cecilia Adamant, one of the richeſt heireſſes, and moſt accompliſh'd young women of her time, wou'd have condeſcended to the propoſals of ſuch a ſuitor."’—Henry ſaid, he ſuppoſed it was a match of her father's making, and ſuch marriages, he obſerved, were not apt to be happy.

[208] ‘"I can readily believe,"’ replied the ſtranger, ‘"that her father forced this odious Lord upon her; for, if I am rightly inform'd of Sir An⯑drew's character, he was capable of ſome vio⯑lence, and not very well diſpos'd to conſult his daughter's inclinations; ſhe, perhaps, might yield to his authority, and conſent to be miſerable for life, rather than diſobedient in any one act of it. From my ſoul I com⯑paſſionate her! And now ſhe is dropping into a decline, and muſt go to Liſbon; this I gather from the perſon himſelf, who advis'd it: mark, therefore, the iſſue of theſe matches of com⯑pulſion. What has not that parent to anſwer for, who forces a child, againſt the natural bent of her affection, into the arms of a man, whom her heart revolts from! But it is a painful ſubject, and we will ſay no more on it."’

‘"Agreed!"’ cried Henry, riſing from his ſeat; ‘"let us diſmiſs this melancholy topic; beſides, my time is expir'd, and I have buſineſs I muſt now attend to."’

CHAPTER I. The Author hints at a Reform in the Conſtitution of a Novel.

IT is my wiſh to devote theſe ſhort pre⯑fatory Eſſays to our fraternity of Noveliſts, if haply my good will can ſtrike out any thing for their uſe and profit; it is, therefore, in the friendly ſpirit of criticiſm, that I proteſt againſt a practice, which ſome few of the corps have lately taken up, of adulterating their compo⯑ſitions with a daſh of politics, which I con⯑ceive to be a kind of fraud upon their cuſ⯑tomers, that not only brings diſgrace and loſs upon themſelves individually, but is injurious to the trade in general. I ſhall not point out the particular offenders, as they are ſufficiently noted by thoſe, who have read their pro⯑ductions; and, if they have but wiſdom enough to reform, I ſhould be loth that paſt errors ſhould be remembered to the prejudice of their future fortune.

[210]I truſt, they need not be told, that there are clubs and coffee houſes in this free country, where nonſenſe may be talked with impunity; but it is a ſerious riſque to print it. Round their own fire-ſides their zeal may boil over without ſcalding their fingers; but when they cater for the public, they ſhould be warned how they mix up any ſuch inflammatory ma⯑terials, as temperate ſtomachs will not bear; our only aim ſhould be to refreſh our friendly viſitors with an exhilarating wholeſome draught, not to diſturb their reaſon with an intoxicating nauſeous drug.

All that I am bound to do as a ſtory-maker is, to make a ſtory; I am not bound to reform the conſtitution of my country in the ſame breath, nor even (Heaven be thanked!) to overturn it, though that might be the eaſier taſk of the two, or, more properly ſpeaking, one and the ſame thing in its conſequences. Nature is my guide; man's nature, not his natural rights: the one uſhers me by the ſtraiteſt avenue to the human heart, the other bewilders me in a maze of metaphyſics.

Doubtleſs, it becomes the gentle nature of a female votary of the Muſe, and of every author ſoft as females, to let no occaſion ſlip [211] for making public ſuch their amiable propenſity, through every channel that the preſs affords; the poor African is therefore fair game for every minſtrel that has tuned his lyre to the ſweet chords of pity and condolence; whether he builds immortal verſe upon his loſs of liberty, or weaves his melancholy fate into the pathos of a novel, in either caſe he finds a mine of ſen⯑timent, digs up enthuſiaſm from its richeſt vein, and gratifies at once his ſpleen and his ambition. The happy virtuous negro, torn from his own fine temperate climate, and tranſported into the torrid heats of our in⯑hoſpitable iſlands, there to ſweat and bleed be⯑neath the laſh of barbarous taſk-maſters, inſpires ſo fine a rhapſody, and gives ſo touching a diſ⯑play of Britiſh cruelty, that, againſt the force of truth, the unguarded reader credits it, and bluſhes for the country that he lives in. No mat⯑ter that the world at large bears teſtimony to the charities of our land, to her magnanimity, her honour, her benevolence; though thouſands of the perſecuted ſufferers for conſcience ſake fly to Britain as the univerſal philanthropiſt, in whoſe arms there is a ſure aſylum for the wretched, ſtill the degrading fiction bears down truth; black troops of ſavages are raiſed [212] to caſt the nation's character in ſhade; the African lives free and happy under the mild government of his native princes; he never licks the duſt in their preſence, nor loads the gibbet to adorn their palaces, and, though ſnatched from death by his purchaſer, yet not emancipated from ſlavery by his employer, he muſt be taught to murmur, and the ſigh, which he cannot draw from his own boſom, muſt be inſpired into him by the breath of others, till urged by theſe incendiary condo⯑lences, he ſhakes off his contentment, riſes terrible in his enthuſiaſm, and, though re⯑deemed from death by thoſe whom he de⯑ſtroys, ſates himſelf with carnage, and ripping forth the heart of his benefactor, ſhows the trophy of his freedom, and gloriouſly aſſerts the Rights of Man. Caſt your eyes towards thoſe blood-beſprinkled iſlands, which ye have conſpired to illuminate, ye merciful reformers, and glory in your doctrines, if your con⯑ſciences will let you. I bluſh to think, that folly can effect ſuch miſchief.

A faſt friend to the intereſts of the preſs, and a great authority in point, who vends our wares to the amount of one hundred thouſand volumes annually (Heaven augment his little [213] modicum of trade!) ingenuouſly acquaints us with thoſe honeſt arts, by which he roſe to eminence ſo juſtly earned; of theſe, one trifling requiſite, amongſt many more noble acquire⯑ments, he mentions to be, that of keeping him⯑ſelf always pretty well informed of the ſtate of politics in Europe, not exactly by the reading of novels, nor purpoſely for the writing of them, but for reaſons much more wiſe and weighty, namely, becauſe he has always found, that bookſelling is much affected by the political ſtate of affairs. May the ſecrets of all the cabinets in Europe be ever open to a politi⯑cian, who makes ſo good an uſe, and draws ſuch worthy profit from his information; and I would to Heaven, thoſe wrong headed zea⯑lots of our fraternity above alluded to, had his political knowledge for our edification, or would copy his prudence for their own amend⯑ment.

This experienced perſonage further obſerves, that the beſt time for bookſelling is, when there is no kind of news ſtirring: it is a little mortify⯑ing, I muſt own, but his authority is conclu⯑ſive, for he tells us, that then many of thoſe, who for months would have done nothing but talk of war or peace, revolutions and counter-revolutions, [214] &c. &c. for want of other amuſement, will have recourſe to books. If this obſervation be true, (and who can doubt that men love talking better than reading?) the author's golden age is that of public tranquillity; how ill then does he employ his talents, who, inſtead of exerting them for the peace and quiet of mankind, turns them to the purpoſes of diſcontent, of revolutions and counter-revolutions, writing the world into ſuch a temper, that no readers are left in it? The true patriot in the republic of letters is he, who, in times of war and tumult, can ſo write as to invite the world's attention to his peaceful ſtudies, and divert it from its ſanguinary politics; the incendiary author, on the contrary, is a fool and a felo de ſe.

If men, therefore, have ſo little diſpoſition towards the purchaſing of books, when there is ſo much news ſtirring abroad, let him, who writes at ſuch a moment, give double dili⯑gence to what he writes; let him ſo manage it as to contraſt the taedium of the politician's taſk, and not revolt him with a double doſe of what he is weary of. Strong efforts will ſucceed, when feeble ones muſt fail; novelty and ſurprize will ever attract admiration, the moſt enchuſiaſtic paſſion of the human mind; [215] and though the philoſophy of Rome cried it down, Plato himſelf confeſſes it to have been the moving ſpring of the philoſophy of Greece.

Here then we diſcern the proper province of works of fiction; for novelty and ſurpriſe (as Biſhop Warburton defines them) are the inſe⯑parable attendants of impoſture; and the very time, when ſtrong attractions are required to draw men to their books, is the time for ſuch productions to appear, and the ſtrength of their attraction will depend upon the writer's care and talents. Now, though novelty and ſurpriſe are what we aim to treat our readers with, we are no otherwiſe impoſtors, than thoſe fair-dealing jugglers are, who candidly warn their ſpectators before hand, that their tricks are nothing more than mere ſlight of hand, the effect of nimble art and practiſed adroit⯑neſs, by which they cheat the ſight, but aim not to impoſe upon the underſtanding; like them, the Noveliſt profeſſes to deal in ingeni⯑ous deceptions, but deceptions ſo like truth and nature, that whilſt his performances have all the vivacity of a romance to excite admi⯑ration, they have the harmony of a hiſtory to engage approbation. Monſters, and prodigies, [216] and every ſpecies of unnatural compoſition are not to be admitted into a novel, for theſe tend only to raiſe wonder in the ignorant and ſuperſtitious, and are a ſort of black art, now univerſally exploded. A writer of romances, in the preſent age, cannot make ſo free with the credulity of his readers, as Herodotus or even Livy did with their's, though profeſt hiſ⯑torians.

A novel may be conſidered as a dilated comedy; its plot therefore ſhould be uniform, and its narrative unbroken: epiſode and di⯑greſſion are ſparingly, if at all, to be admitted; the early practice of weaving ſtory within ſtory ſhould be avoided; the adventures of the Man of the Hill, in the Foundling, is an excreſcence that offends againſt the grace and ſymmetry of the plot: whatever makes a pauſe in the main buſineſs, and keeps the chief characters too long out of ſight, muſt be a defect. In all hiſtories, whether true or fictitious, the au⯑thor cannot too carefully refrain from ſpeak⯑ing in his own perſon, and this is yet another reaſon to be added to thoſe already given, why political diſcuſſions ſhould never be ad⯑mitted in a novel, as they are ſure to be ſet down to the author's account, let him aſſign [217] them as he will. It is not neceſſary that the leading character of a novel ſhould be honeſt and amiable, but it is indiſpenſible it ſhould be intereſting and entertaining; and every writer, who wiſhes to endear man to man by pleaſing pictures of human nature, or, in other words, by preſenting virtuous characters in amiable lights, will let the good preponderate over the evil; he will not take his maxims from Rochfoucault, nor ſhape his fellow-crea⯑tures after the models of Hobbes or Swift; the ſpirit of the author will be ſeen in the general moral and tendency of the piece, though he will allot to every particular cha⯑racter its proper ſentiment and language; the outline will be that of nature, and fancy will diſpoſe the group into various attitudes and actions, but the general colouring and com⯑plexion of the whole will reflect the peculiar and diſtinguiſhing tints of the maſter.

CHAPTER II. A terrible Encounter, in which our Hero is totally diſcomfited.

WHILST our hero had been occupied at the cottage, Sir Roger had concluded his conference with Lord Crowbery. Nature had endowed the worthy Baronet with an even⯑neſs of temper, that was a great ſheather for the ill humours of thoſe he had to deal with. On this occaſion, however, matters paſſed bet⯑ter than he had laid his account for; not that the converſation went off without ſome mut⯑terings on the part of the Peer, but they were ſuch as rather ſhewed his ſullenneſs than fero⯑city.

The reception given to Henry at Manſtock Houſe was touched upon, with a kind of con⯑temptuous ſneer at the weakneſs of Sir Roger for admitting ſuch a gueſt.—‘"But perhaps,"’ added my Lord ironically, ‘"you find all thoſe charms in his elegant ſociety that my Lady your niece did; or, if you yourſelf don't im⯑mediately diſcover them, your fair daughter perhaps may, for prejudices are apt to run in [219] families; and, I dare ſay the young gentleman well knows how to profit by ſuch prejudices; but you, no doubt, have weighed theſe mat⯑ters well before you made an inmate of him."’

Sir Roger, who was no dealer in ſide ſpeeches and inſinuations, took little notice of this traſh, and turned the ſubject to his niece's illneſs. My Lord replied, that ſhe was cer⯑tainly much indiſpoſed, for which, in fact, ſhe had to thank herſelf; that for his own part he had done, and ſhould continue to do, every thing in his power for her recovery; change of climate had been ſuggeſted to him, and by authority he was much inclined to defer to. His neighbour Blachford had called down a very eminent ſurgeon from London, and he had taken his advice in Lady Crowbery's caſe; it was the very Mr. L—, who had made ſo wonderful a cure of Sir George Revel, after his duel with Arundel in Flanders.—‘"I con⯑feſs to you,"’ ſaid the Peer, ‘"I am charm'd with him; he talks to the underſtanding, and I comprehend what he means; but he will not let us decide on what he recommends without a reference to the faculty, and it ſeems we are to have a conſultation of phyſicians in London, [220] who are either to paſs their patient on to Liſ⯑bon, or revoke the voyage, and take other meaſures; ſo the matter ſtands at preſent; but if you wiſh to ſee your niece, ſhe will give you fuller information."’

Sir Roger ſaid; it was what he much wiſhed and notice being given to Lady Crowbery, he was inſtantly and gladly admitted. To his great ſurpriſe, he was ſuffered to be alone with her; the moments were precious, and ſhe availed herſelf of them for putting a packet into his hands, containing her will, and other important papers, the ſeal of which he was not to break but upon the event of her death.

‘"You will find,"’ ſhe ſaid, ‘"that I have made proviſion for this unprotected youth, whom Ratcliffe's death has thrown upon my care; and if your candour ever ſhall be ſhaken by the vile reports, that have been rais'd againſt my fame, you'll ſee ſo full a confu⯑tation of them in that paper, that, however they may affect me living, dead, they cannot reſt upon my memory. Whether my Lord believ'd what he took pains to propagate I'll not pretend to ſay, but now at leaſt I can no longer be an object for his jealouſy, and, to do [221] him juſtice, I muſt own he has relax'd much of his ſeverity, which happy change I am in⯑debted for to the good offices of the gentle⯑man, who has been call'd in upon my caſe: I ſee that he compaſſionates my ſufferings, and I've reaſon to believe he gueſſes at the cauſe of them; I am told, he has had long ſittings with my Lord, and it is clear that he has gain'd an influ⯑ence over his bad humours, of which I happily experience the effects, witneſs the preſent mo⯑ments I enjoy with you; but we'll make pru⯑dent uſe of them, and not treſpaſs on indul⯑gence ſo precarious. Farewell; if I am deſ⯑tin'd to Liſbon, and my Lord allows of it, I hope that we ſhall meet once more."’—Thus ended this affecting interview, Sir Roger part⯑ing with a heavy heart, encharged with many kind remembrances to Iſabella and to Henry.

Our hero, who had kept watch upon Sir Ro⯑ger's departure, joined him as he came out of Lord Crowbery's gate, and, when he was clear of the park, at his requeſt, got into the chaiſe, and gave his mare to one of the ſervants. Sir Roger's ſpirits were ſenſibly affected, and it was ſome time before they were ſufficiently re⯑covered for him to enter upon a recital of what had paſſed, and a deſcription of the ſtate, in which he found Lady Crowbery: it was not, [222] however, his manner to paint in ſtrong colours, ſo that all which Henry collected from this deſcription was, that his niece looked very ill, and was much altered ſince he had ſeen her laſt: of his interview with my Lord he ſimply obſerved, that it was a diſagreeable job well over; he was a man, he ſaid, in whoſe com⯑pany he was never at his eaſe; he dealt too much in dark hints and ſide blows to pleaſe him, who had no taſte for any talk but what went right onwards to the point before it.—‘"There is no proſcription, however, againſt you,"’ ſaid the Baronet; ‘"and if there was, perhaps I ſhou'd not have regarded it, for I am too old to be dictated to in that ſtyle, and told what company I am to keep. He is pleas'd to be conſiderate of my repoſe, and wou'd not be ſorry to make me as jealous of my Iſabella on your account, as he pretends to be of his own lady; but I can aſſure you, Henry, ſuch abſurdities make no impreſſion upon me, and I deſire you will take no notice of it to my daughter. 'Tis true, Henry, you are a handſome fellow, and, I hope, in proper time, ſome honeſt girl may be of the ſame opinion, and make a man of you; but if my heart never aches till Iſabella is in the fault of it, ſorrow and I ſhall never be acquainted [223] more. Apropos to that,"’ added the Baronet with an encouraging ſmile, ‘"here is my friend Claypole's niece coming to us this very day; Fanny is a fine girl, and, between you and me, has a hawk's eye at a handſome fellow; if you mind your hits, who knows what may come of it? She has a very pretty indepen⯑dency, I can promiſe you."’—‘"And I am a beggar,"’ ſaid Henry.—‘"Not ſo, not abſo⯑lutely ſo,"’ replied Sir Roger; ‘"I have that in my hands, which will keep off beggary at leaſt. I don't promiſe, nor wou'd I have you expect, any great matters; but I have my niece's word for ſaying you are remember'd in her will, and that will is in my keeping, ſo you won't be beholden to a wife for the bread that you eat, as ſome folks are."’

Henry was high-minded enough in con⯑ſcience, and there were few people from whom he would have reliſhed this kind of diſcourſe; but he took the Baronet in his own way, and contented himſelf with obſerving, that he was ill-qualified for a fortune hunter, for he ſhould be as ſcrupulous with reſpect to the good qua⯑lities of a wife, and as indifferent to her money, as if he had the fortune of a prince in poſſeſ⯑ſion.

[224]They were now entering the avenue that opened to the houſe, when Henry, ſuſpecting that Iſabella might be upon the look-out, and alarmed with the ſight of a led-horſe, begged leave to ſtop the chaiſe and get out. The meaſure was a conſiderate one, for his preſen⯑timent was verified by the ſight of that young lady walking towards them up the avenue: he galloped onwards, and greeting her with the good tidings, that all was well, ſtopt his career, and leapt to the ground in an inſtant of time; in the ſame inſtant joy illuminated her bright eyes, and glowed on her cheeks.

Oh! all ye Loves and Graces, what were you doing at that moment to make your fa⯑vourite, already miſtreſs of poor Henry's heart, ſo irreſiſtibly alluring, and why thus league yourſelves in mighty combination againſt one weak ſon of nature, unhappily too ſenſitive for his repoſe? Why meet him, lovely Iſabella, with that magic ſweetneſs, thoſe alluring ſmiles, and, to a form ſo beauteous add thoſe charms, that would have recommended home⯑lineſs itſelf—the nymph-like robe tucked up above the inſtep, locks looſe and flowing, quick breath, and panting boſom?—Why muſt every wind conſpire to unveil new beauties to his [225] ſight, and why too muſt that cunning painter, exerciſe, heighten the bright carnation of your cheeks to ſuch a dazzling hue, that the admir⯑ing eye could not behold its luſtre, without be⯑traying the emotions of the heart? Is this fair dealing, tempter? Goddeſſes, ye ſhould have mercy, and remember that my hero is but a mortal.

CHAPTER III. Our Hero is led towards a Diſcovery highly intereſting.

WE left our hero, at the cloſe of the fore⯑going chapter, like the ſon of Tydeus in the fields of Troy, contending with the im⯑mortals: if in that encounter any lady got a wound of Henry's giving, we, who muſt be tried by modern rules of honour, not by an⯑cient lore, will be the laſt to boaſt of it; cer⯑tain it is, that Iſabella ſtept into the carriage, and took her ſeat there, with an agility that argued the free uſe of all her limbs; neither did ſhe fly to her father, as her fair prototype Venus did to Jupiter, to murmur and com⯑plain [226] of the audacious mortal who aſſailed her; on the contrary, ſhe parted with him in peace, careſſed the favourite ſteed on which he rode, and, as ſhe mounted the chariot, accepted his aſſiſting hand; from all which we infer, that Iſabella came heart-whole out of the fray, or, at worſt, with no ſuch viſible injury as could impeach the manhood of our hero. He, on the other hand, whether diſabled by ſome ſecret wound, or from whatever cauſe, at⯑tempted not to vault into the ſaddle with his uſual glee, but ſlowly pacing under ſhelter of the trees with horſe in hand, unfolded the ſmall packet Iſabella had delivered to him, and taking out the contents, which Zachary's careleſſneſs had neglected to give, read as follows—

‘"'Tis Delapoer himſelf,"’ cried Henry; ‘"'tis he! How cruel is this diſappointment! How perverſe, vexatious, and unpardonable the negligence of Zachary! and what fatal con⯑ſequences might have follow'd from our al⯑tercation [227] in the cottage! Heaven and Earth! I might have been the murderer of my father! my blood chills at the reflection! Three times I have met him, and each time, ſave once, have treated him with ſullen diſreſpect. O Nature, where were thoſe ſecret workings we are told of; where that ſympathy of ſouls, that inſtinct, to impel us to each other? 'Tis plain why he diſguis'd himſelf; he came to ſpy the land, to hover round the ſpot, where his firſt love was planted: he knew the ru⯑mour of Lord Crowbery's jealouſy; nay, he confeſs'd he did, and (oh ſtrange involution of unnatural circumſtances!) accuſed me in his heart of inceſt with a mother. Monſtrous perverſion of ideas! by what horrors have I been unknowingly encompaſs'd! by what pro⯑vidence have I eſcap'd! He muſt be Delapoer; he muſt be the unconſcious author of my myſ⯑terious birth. Where ſhall I ſeek him now? No matter! I will ranſack the whole iſland ere I renounce the ſearch. He ſaid he was a gentleman; 'twas truly ſaid! for when I rous'd him into wrath, his pale and ſickly cheeks caught fire, and his eyes witneſs'd to the high⯑born ſpirit of a noble gentleman. Thank [228] Heaven! we parted not in anger, but in peace."’

Thus venting his ſad thoughts aloud, he ſauntered towards the houſe; and, there arrived, betook himſelf to his chamber, depoſited the ſacred pledge ſecurely, and was ſummoned from his meditations to the taſk of dreſs by the tolling of the bell, which ſolemnly an⯑nounced the arrival of a numerous party of viſitors to the hoſpitable houſe of Manſtock: theſe viſitors, who were of the firſt reſpect in the county, came uninvited; but though Sir Roger's liberal ſtile of furniſhing his board defied ſurpriſe, his table was not proof againſt their numbers, ſo that Henry, who was late in his appearance, ſhaped his courſe aſide from the main body, and attached himſelf to a ſup⯑plemental table, where ſate a young officer in a captain's naval uniform, whoſe open coun⯑tenance and eaſy manners ſoon unlocked reſtraint, and put both parties at their mutual eaſe.

‘"Jack,"’ cried Sir Roger, addreſſing him⯑ſelf to the Captain, ‘"that gentleman is a friend of mine, I recommend him to your care, and you to his; I pray you waſte no ceremony in [229] being known to each other."’—‘"Enough ſaid, uncle,"’ quoth the Captain, and tendered his hand to Henry.

Gallant, congenial hearts, how quick ye harmoniſe and are attuned together!

This officer, Cary by name, was nephew to Sir Roger, and youngeſt of five ſons, which his ſiſter had borne to Sir Nicholas Cary, de⯑ceaſed. He was in perſon ſhort, but of athletic mould, hard favoured in his features, which, though they could boaſt no beauty, made ample compenſation by a ſtrong diſplay of candour and benevolence; they needed not a herald to proclaim—‘"this is an honeſt, brave, well temper'd man; him you may truſt without a pledge, and take into your heart without a trial."’—He was a prime favourite with his uncle, of which he had re⯑ceived many unequivocal proofs at times when pay run ſhort, and prize money did not come in; and this very day had greeted his eyes with the Baronet's name at the foot of an order for an hundred pounds, together with an excellent time-keeper, preſented to him by the fair hands of his couſin Iſabella, which Clay⯑pole, who was a great martinette in things of that ſort, had procured for her in London for [230] this very purpoſe. Captain Cary had lately been made poſt into a frigate, as a reward for his gallant behaviour in an action with the enemy, when he had command of a cutter; in this frigate he was now hovering upon the eaſtern coaſt for the purpoſe of collecting ſome preſt men to complete his complement. His preſence ſpread joy through the whole family; every one of the old ſervants, in their turns, made an errand to the ſide table, which was ſoon overloaded with their offerings, for none came empty handed, and it had been a vain attempt to think of checking their good will; none went away without a kind word; and in all theſe manoeuvres Henry diſcovered ſuch a flow of heart on both ſides, that before many minutes had gone by, he and Cary had hatched a friendſhip for each other, which ſome boſoms would have taken as many years to brood upon without the ſame effect.

‘"I am going to ſea in a whiff,"’ ſaid Cary to our hero; ‘"but I was determin'd to ſnap a ſight of my uncle and Iſabella, if it was in my power, and conſiſtent with the ſervice: I have now brought my ſhip to an anchor, by order of my ſuperiors, and ſhall be off to⯑morrow by peep of day"’.—Henry aſked how [231] long it would be before he left the coaſt, and how far off his ſtation was?—Two hours ſmart riding might carry him to it, and in five or ſix days, at moſt, he expected to take his de⯑parture.—‘"I know,"’ added he, ‘"that my deſtination is to Liſbon; 'tis a pleaſant trip, and if you have a mind to volunteer with me ſo far, I'll give you the beſt welcome that my accommodations admit of, and thank you for your company."’

An opportunity ſo tempting, and a com⯑panion ſo much to Henry's taſte, were not to be ſlighted; it accorded ſo critically with the project he had in mind, and ſo fully met his wiſhes, that he told Cary in a whiſper, he would talk with him farther upon it in another place; and if a certain event came to paſs as he expected, he ſhould moſt thankfully embrace his kind propoſal, and eſteem himſelf happy in carrying a muſquet on his quarter deck, under ſo gallant a commander. Henry, for reaſons beſt known to himſelf, ſpoke this in ſo low a voice, that it may be preſumed he wiſhed it not to be overheard at the other table: whether it was or was not, time, perhaps, may ſhew; but there was a glance juſt then directed towards him from a certain perſon who there preſided, [232] which had a great deal of tender intelligence in its expreſſion, and, we are apt to believe, though it ſounds paradoxical to ſay it, that the ſenſation it created in him was at once both pleaſurable and painful.

There was another perſon at table, though at ſome diſtance from the ſender of the glance in queſtion, who was not idle or indifferent in the intimations, which her eyes occaſionally condeſcended to beſtow upon our hero. This was none other than Fanny Claypole herſelf, the niece of Sir Roger's reverend friend, and whom, as the reader may probably recollect, the worthy Baronet had charactered as an ac⯑curate obſerver of beauty in the male ſex, and not unkindly diſpoſed, as it now ſeemed, towards Henry, who poſſeſſed it in ſuch high perfection. She was ſeated between her uncle and Sir Roger, but to the attention ſhe paid to either of them, or to any thing paſſing round or upon the table, ſhe might as well have been in another planet. Henry had all her notices, and nobody any ſhare of her converſation. Her particular location as a ſpectatreſs of what was to her ſo intereſting a phenomenon was as happy as good fortune could make it, for there was nothing to cut the line of viſion be⯑tween [233] her eyes and the object they were en⯑gaged upon, and thoſe eyes, which were truly very communicative, ſent ſuch plain-ſpeaking meſſages every now and then, that Henry muſt have been duller than the fat weed on Lethe's brink not to have read their meaning; even Cary himſelf, who was not over-critical in this kind of language, wanted not the help of his ſea-glaſſes to ſpy it out—‘"Look to,"’ he cried, whiſpering Henry in the ear, ‘"by the lord, volunteer, there's a ſignal out for you to come on board the Fanny ſloop of war: launch away, my brave fellow, for you'll have warm work when the decks are clear'd."’

Henry ſmiled, and ſaid nothing; but the prediction was not a whit the leſs true for his diſregard of it; for no ſooner was the cloth removed, and grace pronounced by the Re⯑verend Mr. Claypole, than Fanny began her manoeuvres, and having introduced a chair between herſelf and uncle, ſhe beckoned Henry to her, and with a hitch that edged Mr. Claypole conſiderably out of the line, brought her prize cloſe alongſide of her, to the infinite delight of Cary, who calmly ſeated himſelf in a more envied place, beſide his couſin Iſabella.

[234]Next to abſolute privacy, nothing is ſo fa⯑vourable to a determined tête-a-tête as a large company; Fanny ſeemed aware of this, for ſhe devoted her regards entirely to her next neigh⯑bour. She poſſeſſed in a very eminent degree thoſe graces and qualifications, which are more properly ſtyled allurements than beauties, and attract more lovers than they fix; ſhe had beſides the art of arranging her forces in the beſt way poſſible for her own purpoſes, and ſuffering none to be idle in her ſervice, made up by diſcipline what ſhe wanted in numbers; ſhe might, however, be fairly called a very pretty woman, dreſſed with a becoming negli⯑gence, and talked with a familiar eaſe; with a ready flow of words ever at command, ſhe had a vivacity that might paſs for wit, and a raillery that reſembled humour; ſhe was quick to apprehend all meanings that a word could carry, and not afraid to ſhew, that ſhe both ap⯑prehended and applied them; ſhe was, in ſhort, an admirable actreſs, and never more ſo than when ſhe affected to look modeſt and de⯑mure.

It was not the habit of Sir Roger's houſe for the ladies to ſit long after dinner, and as Iſabella naturally concluded that the gentle⯑men [235] now preſent had come upon county bu⯑ſineſs, ſhe was the quicker in her motions, and, to the ſenſible regret of Fanny Claypole, broke up the female part of the aſſembly, and left the ſtage entire to the lords of the creation.

CHAPTER IV. County Politics debated over a Bottle.

WHAT Iſabella had ſurmiſed was true: one of the county members lay at the point of death, and Sir Roger's viſitors, who were the leading men of the oppoſite parties, had united in referring themſelves to the worthy Baronet as a middle man, and ac⯑ceptable to both, for the ſake of preſerving peace in the county, and preventing a conteſt, which, from the ſtate and temper of parties, ſeemed to be inevitable, unleſs he could be pre⯑vailed upon to ſtep in upon the vacancy. This had been ſo often tried before, and his averſion from the undertaking was ſo well known, that though they came upon him in great ſtrength, and as it were by ſurpriſe, yet they rather [236] laid their account for a hard-fought battle than an eaſy victory.

One of their junto, an elderly gentleman, and much reſpected, was Sir Roger's particular friend; he was accordingly put forward as their ſpokeſman in the opening of this buſineſs; he acquitted himſelf of the taſk in a manner that did credit to their choice; he appealed to thoſe paſſions, in which he knew his friend was moſt aſſailable, the ſpirit of patriotiſm, and the pride of being marked as the preſerver of the public peace. Sir Roger, in plain words and few, made his hearty acknowledgments for the great honour conferred upon him, candidly ſtated his unfitneſs for the office to which they in⯑vited him, and humbly ſolicited to be excuſed from undertaking it—‘"My age,"’ ſaid the good man, ‘"my habits of life, my attachment to the quiet character of a country gentleman, diſqualify me for the active duties you would lay upon me. I love my country, it is true, and, in my ſmall ſphere, do all the good I can amongſt my neighbours, but in the politics of the ſtate I am as ignorant as a child."’—‘"For that reaſon we appeal to you,"’ ſaid one of the gentlemen, who was of an oppoſite, intereſt to the laſt ſpeaker; ‘"to your honour and impar⯑tial [237] judgment, unconnected with party, and unbiaſs'd by politics, we would fain delegate this important truſt, and in your nomination only all voices will unite; you alone can keep us all in harmony and good fellowſhip, and, I flatter myſelf that Sir Roger Manſtock, as a lover of peace, will not refuſe to his friends and neighbours their conciliating petition, tho' it may be at the expence of ſome ſmall ſhare of his repoſe."’

Sir Roger ſaid truly he was no adept in po⯑litics, neither was he verſed in ſhifts and eva⯑ſions, which we take to be an inferior branch of the ſame ſcience; where his conſcience, as in the preſent caſe, could not ſtand by him, wit never came to his aſſiſtance; in ſhort, he was a good man and a bad orator; theſe argu⯑ments, therefore, which puſhed right forwards at his heart he could not parry, and whilſt he was thus balancing the pro and the con in ſi⯑lence, Cary, who ſaw the conflict, and which ſide his honour ought to take, filled his glaſs, and cried aloud—‘"Come, uncle, let us drink, ‘'Peace at home and victory abroad;'’ if you'll preſerve the one, we'll ſtruggle to obtain the other."’ This lucky ſtart of gaiety was pledg⯑ed by all preſent, and Sir Roger ſeemed to be [238] carrying his election very faſt againſt his will; one hope only remained, and that was centered in his friend Mr. Claypole, who hitherto had fate, with a neutrality of countenance, in per⯑fect ſilence. He was a cool, deep-thinking man, and one on whoſe opinions Sir Roger re⯑poſed a very catholic faith; when he found himſelf invited to ſpeak by a certain look, which his friend in doubt directed to him, and ſaw all other eyes upon him at the ſame time, and evi⯑dently with the ſame expectations, he deliver⯑ed himſelf with much gravity, as follows:—

‘"I am ſo inconſiderable a perſon in this company, and have ſo little right to ſpeak upon the point in queſtion, that I ſhould naturally have been ſilent, had not my reſpected friend ſignified to me by his looks that my poor opinion would not be unwelcome or imperti⯑nent; I ſay, gentlemen, I ſhould be without excuſe for uttering a word on this ſubject, but for Sir Roger's wiſh that I ſhould do ſo, and your encouragement in giving ear to me; I ſhall not, however, abuſe your indulgence by going put of my line, which certainly has no⯑thing to do with parliamentary matters, but ſhall ſimply ſubmit to my friend's conſideration what my conſcience obliges me to recommend [239] as a miniſter of peace, and a well wiſher to the good order of ſociety. The monſtrous ex⯑ceſſes and groſs enormities of a conteſted elec⯑tion are ſeriouſly to be deplor'd, and every worthy means for preventing them have my hearty concurrence; how then can I withhold my approbation from the means now propoſed, which, having for their object a perſon ſo wor⯑thy, cannot fail to be worthy in themſelves? It has been my happineſs to live in the cloſeſt in⯑timacy with my friend here preſent for many years, and, if Heaven ſees fit to add others to them, I pray that it may continue to me that bleſſing alſo; I can boaſt therefore that I know him well; but what of that? you know him alſo, as your preſent application teſtifies, and know him pre-eminently deſerving of the ho⯑nours you would fain confer upon him; I there⯑fore join my humble ſuit to your's, that he would be pleaſed to accept them; and this I do, not unconſcious of the ſacrifice he muſt make of many comforts, nor even indifferent to the loſs which I myſelf muſt ſuffer by his abſence, becauſe I cannot bring myſelf to put the ſacrifice of any one man's peace, leaſt of all the ſacrifice of my own, into the balance againſt the peace of many."’

[240]The reverend ſpeaker ceaſed, and Sir Roger had no more to do but to ſignify his aſſent, and take up his burthen with the beſt grace he could. The victory was complete, and he glaſs began to circulate to the health of the Baronet; Captain Cary was in the chair, and the very ſoul of good fellowſhip; the wine was excellent, the company in high good humour, and Sir Roger's courage began to rally; he had now his joke at his nephew Jack, and a whiſper for Henry at his elbow, which intimat⯑ed to him, that his prediction about Fanny was in a fair courſe to be made good; in ſhort, there was no one preſent who did not ſeem to ſym⯑pathiſe in the feſtivity of the moment.

When the gentlemen negotiators were three parts tipſey, and their ſervants entirely ſo, they ſet out, at the riſque of their necks, towards their reſpective homes. Henry and the Captain join⯑ed the ladies in the drawing-room, whilſt Sir Ro⯑ger, according to cuſtom, exerciſed himſelf with a walk up and down the great hall with his friend Claypole: though a man in general of few words, he was juſt now in a talking vein, and having gently tapped the parſon on the ſhoulder as if to beſpeak attention, he began as follows:—

[241] ‘"Well, my good friend, theſe gentlemen have carried their point, with your aſſiſtance, and I am in a fair train to find myſelf, where I never expected to be found, a mute member in the Britiſh ſenate, and the unworthy repreſenta⯑tive of this great country. Pr'ythee, Claypole, what do'ſt think that I can do in that place? a pretty figure I ſhall make; a mere country putt, amongſt wits, lawyers, orators and poli⯑ticians. I may perhaps be able to ſay aye or no, but good chance if I do not ſay it, like Sir Francis Wronghead, ſometimes in the wrong place."’

‘"No fear of that,"’ quoth Claypole; ‘"if all were ſpeakers that ſit in parliament, our Houſe of Commons would be a mere club of ſpouters. The aſſent or diſſent of an honeſt and right-judging country gentleman will never be a matter of indifference."’

‘"Why, truly,"’ ſaid the Baronet, ‘"ſpeech-making has not been in vogue with my family for many years paſt; not but there have been thoſe heretofore who could do it, and roundly too; we have a record of my anceſtor Sir Thomas Manſtock, in 1566, making a flaming ſpeech in the Commons to conſtrain Queen Beſs to marry or appoint a ſucceſſor; [242] he was a bold man, and call'd her a faint heart⯑ed woman in the face of the Houſe, for which, by the way, ſhe tweak'd his noſe in the face of the Court, and call'd him cuckold. It was ſcurvy treatment, and, I am apt to think, gave the orator a ſurfeit, that has run in the blood ever ſince; for all our generations in deſcent from Sir Thomas have been as mute as fiſhes to the preſent day."’

‘"Well, Sir Roger,"’ ſaid Claypole, ‘"there have been times ſince thoſe of Elizabeth, when taciturnity was a good family qualification, and that ſame royal tweak of the noſe may have been the means of keeping ſome heads upon their ſhoulders: after all, it muſt be own'd, it was a rough way her Majeſty took of ſnub⯑bing the good man Sir Thomas, and what few old maids in the like caſe wou'd have done; but match-making for crown'd heads is a tick⯑liſh buſineſs,"’—‘"For any heads,"’ added, Sir Roger; ‘"and tho' a matter of that ſort may, for aught I know, be going on at this very moment under our noſes, I ſhall keep mine at leaſt out of danger, as I ſhou'd be loth to have it tweak'd, even by the fair fingers of Fanny Claypole."’

This was a hit that Claypole had not quite [243] given his friend credit for, and it was at leaſt a proof to him that his own remarks had not been ſingular; for he argued rightly enough, that if Sir Roger had ſpied it out, nobody could have overlooked it; he thought it beſt therefore to treat it in the ſame ſtrain, between jeſt and earneſt, and obſerved in reply, that Fanny was a free-hearted girl, and her own miſtreſs.—‘"She is out of my hands,"’ ſaid he; ‘"ſo ſhou'd not I be out of her's with a whole ſkin, if I was to play the part of Sir Thomas Manſtock, and dictate to her on the ſubject of matrimony. Henry is a fine fellow, it muſt be confeſs'd, and it is no impeachment to her taſte that ſhe likes him; if, therefore, ſhe is reſolv'd to make him a preſent of fifteen thouſand pounds and her fair perſon, much good may it do him; I can't gainſay it."’—‘"And if it was to come to that,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"it might not, perhaps, be the very worſt thing ſhe could do: I have a very high opinion of Henry, and tho' we are in the dark about his p [...]rents, I would riſque a wager that my niece Crowbery knows him to be a very honeſt man's ſon, and one for whoſe memory ſhe has a great regard; and as a proof of it, friend Claypole, I can tell you in confi⯑dence, that Henry will be well provided for at [244] her deceaſe; but he has a high proud ſpirit of his own, and it muſt be Fanny's charms, not her money, that will weigh with him."’

Claypole was a man that looked to the main chance, and not a word of this was loſt upon him: his eyes had not been idle, whilſt Fanny's were employed with Henry; he knew her well, and had had a painful truſt whilſt ſhe had been under his guardianſhip; he ſaw her daily in danger of being made the prey of the firſt ſightly knave that laid his traps for her; he had as high an opinion of our young hero as Sir Roger himſelf had, and was in the ſame perſuaſion, as to his being the ſon of Ratcliffe; believing alſo that he was in a fair train ſhortly to become his nephew, he was by no means ſorry to hear of Lady Crowbery's intentions in his favour. Upon theſe grounds he not only became reconciled to the neceſſity he was under of leaving his niece to her own choice, but was ſecretly diſpoſed to further the connection by all the means in his power: all theſe thoughts he kept to himſelf, and quietly followed his friend Sir Roger to the drawing-room.

CHAPTER V. Freſh Miſchief in Meditation againſt our Hero.

WHEN Sir Roger and his friend entered the apartment of the ladies, they found the young people diſtributed into pairs; Cary in high talk, and ſitting by his couſin; Henry in no talk at all, but fairly pounded in a corner of the room by the manoeuvre of Fanny Claypole, who was ſo poſted as to cut him off from all chance of an eſcape: ſhe had ſeated herſelf in a chair with her back to one ſide of the room and her knees to the other, ſo as to form the exact hypotheneuſe of a triangle, and Henry in the area of it. There were many fortunate circumſtances concurring with the poſition ſhe had taken to favour her operations; the ſize of the room was enormous, and the little ſhare of light, that only two candles could have beſtow⯑ed upon her at that diſtance, ſhe fairly inter⯑cepted by ſitting with her back to them, and ſuffering no one ray to fall upon the perſon of her priſoner; he alſo was not the leſs attuned to her purpoſe, for being ſomewhat fluſtered by [246] the many toaſts he was obliged to pledge by Cary's ſtrict attention to diſcipline, which he took care to exact with the utmoſt impartiality towards all under his command, unleſs he could be ſaid to favour Henry as a volunteer, by thruſting him into the thickeſt of the fire. To this circumſtance only it was owing, that our hero, contrary to his natural good breeding, ſuffered himſelf to be ſo long detached from the reſt of the company.

Something or other had diſcompoſed Iſa⯑bella's ſpirits, and all Cary's efforts could not rally them. The preſence of her father was a relief to her, and, upon his entrance, Henry ſtarted from his corner, and joined the circle; Claypole placed himſelf next to him, and drew him into talk about Blachford and his trepan. Henry, with a good deal of humour, related Ezekiel's account of that gentleman's ſtate of conſcience, and his mode of comforting him on the bed of ſickneſs. Claypole obſerved upon this with ſome degree of aſperity, and hinted, that he ſhould conſider Ezekiel as a dangerous enthuſiaſt amongſt his pariſhioners. This led Henry to ſpeak of him in a more ſeri⯑ous, ſtile, and to give ſuch a delineation of his character as turned all hearts in his favour, [247] eſpecially that ſoft charitable heart, which Iſa⯑bella wore in her boſom,—‘"I ſhould do him injuſtice,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"if I were only to bring forward his oddities, and keep his virtues out of ſight; I acknowledge that my friend, in ſome inſtances, has a ſuper-abundancy of zeal; but it is not that zeal, without knowledge or diſ⯑cernment, which would betray him to intrude where there is no call for his ſervices; he is only a ſhepherd to the ſtragglers of the flock; at Crowbery he had full employ, here he will find none."’—‘"I hear,"’ ſaid the divine, ‘"he has been preaching out of trees."’—‘"I don't doubt it,"’ replied Henry, ‘"and to the trees if he thought it would edify a ſingle leaf upon their branches."’—‘"And is it true,"’ reſumed the ſaid divine, ‘"that he addreſs'd a funeral ſermon at the foot of the gibbet to the effigy of juſtice Blachford?"’—‘"Perfectly true,"’ quoth Henry, ‘"and I honour him for it, for his heart was right, tho' the miſtake was other⯑wiſe ridiculous enough."’—‘"I perceive he is a favourite of your's,"’ repeated Claypole.—‘"And with me a very great one,"’ ſaid Iſa⯑bella, with ſome quickneſs.—Claypole ſaid no more.

When Cary underſtood, from Henry's diſ⯑courſe, [248] that he had been living in the ſame cot⯑tage with Ezekiel, it ſtruck him that he muſt be the very perſon, who had been repreſented to him by Captain Crowbery as an idler and a vagrant, proper to be preſſed into his ſhip, and upon a fuller explanation of what had paſſ⯑ed on that occaſion, there was no doubt that he conjectured rightly. This was a new diſco⯑very of another plot, unknown to Henry, though not unnoticed by this hiſtory, which that baſe junto, of which Lord Crowbery was the head, had contrived againſt him. His countenance upon the developement underwent a change, that ſhewed the ſtruggle he had within himſelf to repreſs the angry emotions of his mind; nevertheleſs, he commanded him⯑ſelf before the ladies, and ſimply enquired of Cary if he was acquainted with Captain Crow⯑bery: the anſwer was, that he had ſerved in the ſame ſhip with him ſome years ago, when he himſelf was a youngſter and Crowbery a lieute⯑nant of marines.—‘"I ſhall find an opportuni⯑ty, perhaps,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"to convince the gentleman that I want no preſſing into a ſhip, when I can have the honour of fighting under the eye of ſo gallant a commander."’ This was at beſt equivocal, and Iſabella turned pale. [249] —‘"My quarter-deck is at your ſervice,"’ cried Cary, ‘"and, if occaſion calls upon me, I will do my beſt to preſerve the good opinion you conceive of me."’ This made matters not a whit the better in Iſabella's ſenſe of them.—‘"Don't talk of fighting,"’ cried Fanny Clay⯑pole, who had ſtolen a glance at Iſabella, ‘"for if you do, ſome of us will faint; look, if you have not already turn'd Miſs Manſtock as pale as a lilly."’ The remark was true, but cruel⯑ly ill-timed; Iſabella's countenance ſuddenly changed to the other extreme, and was ſcarlet with bluſhes. Henry bit his lips with rage, but had the prudence to keep ſilence; Claypole gave his niece a reprimanding frown, but to no purpoſe.—‘"I dare ſay,"’ added ſhe, ‘"Mr. Henry is too wiſe to put himſelf into any poſt of danger, where it is not his duty to be."’—‘"Pardon me,"’ ſaid Cary, with a kind deſign to turn the attention of the company from Iſa⯑bella, ‘"that does not appear, for I think I have juſt now ſeen my friend in a poſt of the greateſt danger, and I am miſtaken if it was duty, and not choice, that brought him there."’ This ſally brought all parties home; Fanny tittered, but ſeemed rather piqued that Henry had no ſpeech upon the occaſion: Iſabella in the mean [250] time recovered ſo far as to glance a momentary look of approbation at our ſilent hero, which ſaid to him—but where is the commentator that will help me to a conſtruction of what it ſaid, in words that will not debaſe the ſenſe of the original? It is enough that Henry under⯑ſtood it.

Hearts eaſily impreſſed with ſudden paſ⯑ſions are generally communicative; Fanny Claypole's was of this ſort; prone to love at firſt ſight, and not in the practice of ſuppreſſing her emotions, ſhe had given Henry pretty clearly to underſtand that he was not indifferent to her. This ſhe contrived to convey to him, during their conference in the corner, through the channel of more ſenſes than one, and though they were not all juſt then in the cleareſt ſtate of apprehenſion, none were ſo diſabled as to loſe their functions. The fondneſs of a fine woman never can, nor ever ought to be treated with indifference and contempt; neither was it in the preſent inſtance. This gallantry, ſo in⯑diſpenſible on the part of Henry, confirmed her in the full perſuaſion, that the impreſſion was reciprocal, ſo that when her uncle afterwards took occaſion, as they were paſſing to the ſup⯑per room, civilly to ſubmit to her in a whiſper, [251] if ſhe was not a little too particular with a new acquaintance, ſhe anſwered him in the true ſpirit of independence, that he need not con⯑cern himſelf about appearances, ſhe and her new acquaintance, as he called him, perfectly underſtood each other. This, though ſome⯑thing more than ſhe was warranted to ſay, was no more than ſhe thought prudent to aſſert, by way of check to any objections, which ſhe was prepared to expect from that cautious quarter. For Iſabella ſhe had another language; from her ſhe expected no oppoſition, and dreaded no rivalſhip; but there was an innate delicacy of character in that amiable young lady, which made it neceſſary for Fanny to conform to it, in appearances at leaſt, and ſhe was ſenſible that the levity of her behaviour ſtood in need of ſome ſoftening and apology, for ſhe had not been ſo totally engroſſed by her own pur⯑ſuits, as not to perceive that Iſabella did not entirely approve her proceedings in the corner. She followed her therefore into her dreſſing room, when they retired for the night, and as ſoon as Suſan was ſent away, the enſuing converſation took place:—‘"I can ſee by your looks,"’ ſaid Fanny, ‘"that I am out of favour with you; you think [252] I have behav'd like a fool, and expos'd myſelf, I know you do; but, dear ſweet ſoul, don't turn that grave countenance upon me, but hear, and pity me, and be my friend. I confeſs to you, I never was ſo taken by ſurpriſe in all my life. I know what young men in general are, and how cautious we ought to be in our behaviour towards them; but you never told me that I was to behold what I did not believe was in nature, and ſo my poor heart, being caught in an unguarded moment, and not be⯑ing made of either flint or ſteel, cou'd not ſtand the ſhock, but, alas for me! was overthrown in the end; not at firſt, do you mark me; for, handſome as he is, if he had been only that, I could have look'd upon him as one does upon a picture, and thought no more about him; but the misfortune is, he is ſo irreſiſtibly engaging withal, that it requires either more inſenſibility, or more hypocriſy than I am miſtreſs of, to pre⯑vent his finding out how agreeable he is to me: now I dare ſay you ſee him with other eyes than I do, and think all this very filly, and per⯑haps it is not very wiſe; but upon my life, my dear, I find it very natural."’

‘"Whether I ſee Henry exactly with the ſame eyes that you do,"’ replied Iſabella, ‘"is [253] more than I can anſwer for; but if it is on the goodneſs of his character that you found your regard for him, we certainly do not differ in opinion as to that."’—‘"Oh, you chilling creature!"’ exclaimed Fanny, with an affected kind of ſhriek; ‘"that is ſo like you, ſo guard⯑ed, and ſo preciſe: the goodneſs of his cha⯑racter indeed! why 'tis an expreſſion for an attorney; and then, my regard for him truly! there's a freezing word! regard for ſuch a man as Henry! I much doubt if I have any ſuch ſenſation belonging to me; 'tis a mere icicle compar'd to what I feel. Pray, my dear Iſa⯑bella, let me aſk you one plain queſtion, and honeſtly reſolve me, if you do not think him poſitively and without compare the fineſt young fellow in creation?"’

The lovely Iſabella pauſed upon this queſ⯑tion; ſhe drew up, and with a ſomewhat ſtronger tint of the roſe in her cheeks than was natural to her, ſaid—‘"I never think or ſpeak in ſuch a rapturous ſtrain of any man, neither do I call them familiarly fellows; it may be the faſhionable name for them, but I have not yet brought my lips to the ſtyle of it."’—‘"In your own ſtyle then,"’ replied Fanny, ‘"and without any treſpaſs on the purity of your im⯑maculate [254] expreſſions, tell me, if you pleaſe whether you conſider a tender ſentiment for a young man like Henry as a violation of the laws of modeſty, as a ſin againſt the delicacy of the ſex; but underſtand me rightly, I do not put the caſe as applying to you but to my⯑ſelf."’—‘"That's a little hard, methinks,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ‘"to put a queſtion of conſcience to me, that does not reſpect myſelf. If I was apt to talk of other people's conduct you might have a juſt excuſe for tying me down to my words, but as I promiſe you I ſhall in no time to come paſs a cenſure on your actions, I think, dear Fanny, I may be excus'd from pronouncing upon them before hand."’

‘"Well,"’ anſwer'd ſhe, ‘"you are always too wiſe for me; and yet I am perſuaded, if you ſaw me in any danger, you have too much good nature not to guard me againſt it. If man was ſuch a monſter as ſome old maids make him to be, you, who are far enough out of his reach, wou'd not ſuffer me to be devour'd by him. If Love be not harmleſs, why do they deſcribe him as a child?"’—‘"When I have been taught Love's catechiſm,"’ quoth Iſabella, ‘"I may be able to anſwer your queſtion; at preſent I know nothing about it; [255] but I ſhou'd gueſs, if you was to apply to Henry, he wou'd be much more likely to ſa⯑tisfy your enquiries than I am."’—‘"I believe you, on my conſcience,"’ ſaid Fanny, looking archly as ſhe ſpoke; ‘"Henry is likely enough to tell me how harmleſs love is; but queſtion may lead to queſtion, and in the end he may be found to preach one thing and practiſe ano⯑ther."’

To this the fair moraliſt gravely anſwered—‘"Never, Fanny, will Henry, or any other man of honour, loſe his reſpect whilſt you pre⯑ſerve your dignity. How he might treat queſtions of ſo frivolous a ſort, and flippan⯑cies ſo profeſt, as I never prov'd him with any thing of the kind, ſo I cannot anſwer for him in the caſe; certain it is, that if a woman is not ſecure in herſelf, no man ſhou'd be truſted by her; for my own part, I have walk'd and convers'd with Henry at all hours, and in all places, without fear or reſerve."’—‘"Oh Heavens!"’ exclaimed Fanny, ‘"and you ſur⯑vive it! well, but in the firſt place you are not in love with him, that is out of all doubt; nature ſeems to have exempted you from that weakneſs; and the inſurmountable barrier which your rank and fortune oppoſe to ambi⯑tion [256] on his part, was he diſpos'd to entertain it, throws him at ſuch a diſtance, that he can only regard you with an awful reſpect. You are the heireſs of Sir Roger Manſtock; Henry is, the Lord knows who; you have a beloved father, for whoſe ſake it is well known you have rejected, and wou'd again reject, ſuitors of the beſt pretenſions; this young man, ob⯑ſcure, unknown even to himſelf, and without pretenſions, muſt of conſequence be without hope, and where there is no hope, my dear Iſabella, you know there can be no ſpirit for enterprize, nay, I ſhou'd think impoſſibilities can ſcarce provoke deſire; ſo that at all events you are out of danger, and being immoveable in your own reſolutions, have nothing to fear either from Henry or yourſelf."’

Whilſt Fanny reaſoned in this manner, it was as much as Iſabella's politeneſs could do to attend with patience the concluſion of her argument, upon the very firſt pauſe ſhe in⯑terpoſed by replying,—‘"When you labour to convince me that I am in no danger with a perſon of Henry's ſort, you do but argue to aſſure me, that when the ſun gives his light I am not in the dark; but when you wou'd aſ⯑ſign other cauſes of my ſecurity, than what [257] are to be found ſimply in his honour, your argument becomes more ingenious than ſolid, becauſe there needs not more than one good and ſufficient reaſon for any one thing. As for that awful reſpect, which you aſcribe to him, as applicable to my rank and fortune compar'd with his own, believe me, Fanny, I am not likely to exact, nor he to pay it, on that account; if he gives as much as my be⯑haviour merits, be aſſur'd he adds nothing on the ſcore of thoſe worldly advantages fortune has for the preſent thrown into my ſcale, and which ſhe may have in reſerve for his in an equal or ſuperior degree; I deſire, therefore, to be underſtood as owing no ſecurity to thoſe inſurmountable barriers, which you fancy you diſcover between us, but which are as imagi⯑nary as the exemption that you flatter me with ſuppoſing I enjoy by nature from the com⯑mon weakneſſes of my ſex, or the reſolution you credit me for having fix'd ſo immoveably againſt all ſuitors, becauſe I have declin'd the tenders of ſome. If there is an imputation that wou'd wound me deeper even than the charge of levity and coquetry, it is that of being thought a proud deſpiſer of thoſe be⯑neath [258] my level, and inſenſible of ſoul to merit in an humble ſtate of fortune. When I have ſaid this in juſtification of myſelf, we will leave the ſubject where it is, obſerving only, that if you, being your own miſtreſs in all reſpects, are ſerious in this attachment, and can engage the heart of a man ſo truly amiable and ſo ſtrictly honourable, you will be the happieſt of women; and if ſome few may condemn you for your diſintereſtedneſs, there will be many more to envy you for your good fortune."’—‘"Well then, my dear Iſabella,"’ ſaid Fanny, in concluſion, ‘"if I was reſolutely to marry this young unknown, you wou'd not think me quite run mad?"’—‘"Upon my word,"’ re⯑plied ſhe, ‘"I will not flatter you ſo far as to ſay I ſhou'd."’—‘"Then I will go and con⯑ſult my pillow on the matter,"’ ſaid Fanny, ‘"and ſo good night to you!"’

CHAPTER VI. Love is a ſubtle Arguer.

WE who are hiſtorians of fiction have a privilege that hiſtorians of fact do not enjoy, which, like the ring of Gyges, gives us the power of inviſibility, by which we inſinuate ourſelves moſt completely into the ſecrets of our heroes and heroines, and inſtead of arguing, as our unendowed brethren do, from records and authorities, up to the thoughts and cha⯑racters of our actors, which at beſt is but an uncertain kind of gueſs-work, we can go point-blank to their hearts, in ſpite of all the obliquities of words and actions, and give to our readers the idea in embryo before it has been brought to the birth, or ever mounted to the lips. In virtue of this privilege I ſhall let Fanny Claypole go, as her meditations may eaſily be gueſſed at, and remain with the lovely Iſabella, whoſe thoughts are proba⯑bly more deep, and undoubtedly more inte⯑reſting.

As ſoon as ſhe was alone, ſhe began to take a ſtrict review of what had been her ſtate of [260] mind and temper during the foregoing ſcene: the firſt reflection that occurred to her was of the ſelf-accuſing ſort; ſhe had acted with du⯑plicity.—‘"Have I not permitted Fanny to conclude that Henry is indifferent to me? and is he?"’—To this her heart replied that he was not. Her next reproach was for the coldneſs and reſerve with which ſhe had met the warmth of Fanny's friendly confidence:—‘"I hate myſelf for that,"’ ſhe ſaid; ‘"it looks ſo like what I deteſt and diſavow, pride and diſdain."’—Here ſhe pauſed, and began to call over, as near as memory enabled her, the very words ſhe had uſed in her paſt diſcourſe with her friend. Her faults did not appear ſo glar⯑ing upon this review; her ſilence with, reſpect to Henry did not ſtrike her as ſo direct a breach of that frank ſincerity which was her nature; ſhe did not ſee the obligation ſhe was under to make diſcovery of impreſſions, the reality of which ſhe was not yet aſſured of: why ſhould Fanny's levity, who ſaid every thing at random that was uppermoſt in her thoughts, draw her into the like idle vein of talking?—‘"If ſhe will pronounce upon my inſenſibility, it is not I that lead her into the miſtake, nor am I ſure it was my buſineſs to lead her out [261] of it."’—She now commenced a ſtricter exa⯑mination of her heart, inſpected it with a ſe⯑verer eye, and found, or thought ſhe found, ſome cauſe to ſuſpect it of jealouſy, a baneful paſſion.—‘"Oh horrible!"’ ſhe cried, ‘"what's this that I diſcover? this pang I never felt before! this diſpoſition to repine and murmur at another's happineſs! Hateful propenſity! I'll baniſh it at once; it makes me mean and loathſome to myſelf. Why cou'd not I be well content when ſhe was pleaſed? why ſigh and vex myſelf, and love her leſs than ever I did before, becauſe ſhe ſat with Henry, and engroſs'd him to herſelf? I'll call her back, and tell her I admire her generous, her diſin⯑tereſted paſſion; nay, I'll do more, I'll go and be her advocate with him ſhe loves; that will be noble, that will be a gallant conqueſt over myſelf; and ſhe deſerves him, ſhe will marry him; ſhe has the happy privilege of chuſing for herſelf; I am—Alas! I know not what I am; but this I know, I am not quite ſo deſ⯑perate and romantic as to ſacrifice myſelf, and be officious in her cauſe, and ſo, perhaps, give Henry juſt offence, and yet do her no ſervice: no, that won't do; I am not bound to go ſo far as that, nay, I am ſenſible I cannot: alas! [262] alas! I but deceive myſelf; the more I look into myſelf the more diſſatisfied I am with what I ſee: I find my heart incapable of ge⯑neroſity; it is not what it was. I will not injure Fanny, or betray her, but I perceive I cannot be her friend."’

Ah Iſabella! dear ingenuous girl, you ſee the point which honour fain would reach, but do not ſee the interpoſing paſſion that diverts it from his courſe. This night you muſt wear out in ſleepleſs meditations; within the region of your heart there's one at work, whoſe in⯑novating ſpirit never reſts till it has perplexed the reaſon, overturned the peace, tampered with the loyalty, and ſhook the boſom's lord upon his throne. Love is that ſubtle dark in⯑cendiary, which unexperienced candour has no guard againſt: he wears a ſoft alluring ſmile, flatters in gentle whiſpers, wooes you to plea⯑ſure, vexes you with no complaint, is ſocial, gay, familiar, void of care; charmed by his artful approaches you admit him of your parties, make him your inmate, and lodge him in your boſom; then the turmoil begins, then all his ſpecious qualities are ſeen no more; unſocial, murmuring, diſcontented, he begins to brood upon his ſchemes, ſhunning the face of man [263] and day, renouncing food and ſleep, hiding himſelf in dark and ſolitary places, till all is anarchy, miſrule and madneſs, to the deſtruc⯑tion both of heart and brain.

Ah Iſabella! dear ingenuous girl, there was a time when you would have entertained this openneſs of heart, this frank confeſſion of your friend with heart as open, confidence as frank; you would have given her warm diſintereſted paſſion then a noble name, encouraged it with your applauſe, promoted it with all your power; but jealouſy, that fierce and active partiſan of love, will not permit theſe energies of native generoſity to have their play; it is a monopo⯑lizing miſer that will let no partner have an intereſt in that ſtake at which it ſingly graſps, and often, in the zeal of competition, overrates the prize which it would fain engroſs.—This probably was not its error in the caſe of Henry; but though the rivalſhip of Fanny could not eaſily give more than its true value to the object in diſpute, yet, doubtleſs, it ex⯑cited ſenſations in Iſabella's boſom, which, had they not been ſtirred ſo roughly, might have enjoyed a longer calm; the paſſion, which ſhe ſaw reflected from the fond eyes of Fanny, quickened her curioſity to ſcrutinize the en⯑gaging [264] form on which thoſe eyes were fixed; ſhe followed them to the attracting point, and there ſhe found enough to warrant all that rap⯑ture and delight with which they ſeemed inſpired; ſhe ſaw the art with which Fanny had poſted herſelf, heard the murmur of her voice in ſoft and tender tones, and marked the animation of her action, her ſtarts, and titterings, and co⯑quetries, to all which ſhe gave meaning and matter as her fancy dictated. This was the ſtate of her mind, whilſt Cary's railleries, once ſo entertaining, diſtracted her attention, and Fanny was enjoying her triumph, till her father's preſence drew Henry from his corner, and diſſolved the ſpell.

If the gentle Iſabella, with a heart thus agi⯑tated, fell ſhort in any degree of her wonted candour towards Fanny, either during her con⯑verſation with her, or in the courſe of her re⯑flections that enſued upon it, let any who have experienced ſimilar ſituations arraign her if they can.

‘"Dear Madam,"’ cried Suſan as ſhe en⯑tered the room, ‘"how pale you look! I hope nothing has happened to vex you."’—‘"What ſhou'd vex me?"’ ſaid Iſabella, ſighing as ſhe aſked the queſtion.—‘"Nay, Madam,"’ replied [265] the girl, ‘"I can't pretend to ſay what ſhou'd vex you, unleſs it be that teazing miſs who has held you ſo long from your repoſe, and who, they ſay, is ſo forward amongſt the men, that I'm ſure you can't approve of her goings on with Mr. Henry."’—‘Who tells you this?"’ ſaid the miſtreſs; ‘"who are they that ſay ſhe is forward with Mr. Henry?"’—‘"Nay, Madam,"’ replied the girl, ‘"I dont't know who ſays it in particular; every body ſays it that ſaw it; if I were to name names I ſhou'd paſs for an informer, and I'm ſure I ſhou'd be ſorry to make miſchief in the family, and ſtir up a combuſtion amongſt my fellow-ſervants; if it offends you, Madam, I will have done."’

‘"It does not offend me, Suſan,"’ ſaid Iſa⯑bella, looking graciouſly upon her, ‘"nor need you have done on that account, as ſuppoſing what you ſay to me can poſſibly be repeated in this family. No doubt the ſervants, who waited at table, muſt have obſerved Miſs Claypole's particularity; ſhe was very un⯑guarded to be ſure."’—‘"And very ridiculous, Madam, if I may ſay ſo,"’ cried Suſan, ‘"for every body ſeems to think ſhe can do herſelf no good by it, and that her ſchemes won't take with the young gentleman, who certainly did [266] not reliſh her behaviour, though he was too much of a man to turn his back upon her publicly; yet they tell me he look'd very croſs at times, and that I'm ſure is not natural to him: I dare ſay, Madam, you never ſaw him look croſs in your days; for my part I can ſafely ſwear I never ſaw a frown upon his brow, though he has had enough to vex him, poor dear ſoul; therefore I'll forfeit my life if this lady has not done for herſelf; and if ever I come cleverly to the ſpeech of him, I warrant me I'll get it all out, unleſs you are pleas'd to order otherwiſe, and ſee fit to forbid me."’—‘"Why ſhou'd I do that?"’ Iſa⯑bella replied, ‘"ſince you will ſpeak only for yourſelf, and not let him ſuppoſe that I can have any intereſt in the ſtate of his heart to⯑wards Miſs Claypole; in that, you know, I cannot poſſibly have the ſmalleſt concern, fur⯑ther than as mere matter of curioſity to hear how ſhe ſtands with him; that is natural enough, you ſee, becauſe, ſomehow or other, Suſan, I have taken it ſtrongly into my head, that Henry is not over-fond of forward girls."’—Suſan bluſhed from conſciouſneſs that the remark was juſt, to which ſhe ingenuouſly gave teſtimony, ſaying, that ſhe believed the world [267] did not contain his like for honour towards the ſex, and true modeſty of nature.—‘"I have reaſon to ſay it,"’ added ſhe; ‘"for love wou'd have made a fool of me, and ſomething worſe perhaps, but for his care and generous con⯑cern for me. Oh! Madam, did you but know him as I do; had you ſeen him in poverty and in ſorrow; how patient, how reſign'd, of in⯑juries how forgiving, in dangers how brave, in nature how benevolent; oh! Madam, you wou'd not wonder if a girl like me had lov'd him to diſtraction."’

‘"Indeed, my good girl,"’ ſaid the amiable Iſabella, bluſhing as ſhe ſpoke, ‘"there is all the reaſon in the world for loving him, and I do not wonder at you; every body that knows him muſt love him."’—‘"That's what I ſay,"’ reſumed ſhe; ‘"but lackaday! as for this young madam that is ſo hot upon it, what is her love? mere outſide love; the love of the eye; that will never make its way with him; I am certain that my Mr. Henry will never be her man, no, not if ſhe had a thouſand pounds where ſhe has one."’—‘"Indeed, Suſan,"’ re⯑plied Iſabella, ‘"I agree with you that fortune will never be Henry's motive for making love; and though Miſs Claypole is a handſome girl, [268] I ſhou'd doubt if her manners are to his taſte; nay, I own to you, it wou'd very much ſink him in my opinion, was he to place his regards there; and I think I may venture to anſwer for him, that he will not."’—‘"Anſwer for him!"’ cried Suſan, ‘"I will ſwear it, Madam: no, no; his heart is otherwiſe beſtow'd, his affections are more worthily plac'd; and if ever he ſwerves from the lovely object he adores, to trifle and diſgrace himſelf with that vain wanton flirting Miſs Claypole, if ever he does that, I will, I will."’—‘"Come, come, Suſan,"’ ſaid Iſabella, interpoſing, ‘"there is no fear of him; I ſhou'd be forced to hate him if he did, and that wou'd make me wretched; but no more of this at preſent: get you to bed; we ſhall have a ſtormy night, and upon thoſe occaſions I always ſit up till it is over."’

CHAPTER VII. The Hero of our Hiſtory is brought to Shame.

THERE was a gallery in this quarter of the houſe, which had a communication with ſeveral of the apartments, and amongſt [269] others with that which Fanny Claypole oc⯑cupied. Here ſhe was met by Henry, as ſhe was going to her chamber ſome time after her conference with Iſabella. We confeſs it does not ſet off the gallantry of our hero, that he would fain have contented himſelf with civilly bidding her good night, and ſo have paſſed onwards to his bed-room, which alſo opened into the aforeſaid gallery. There were other modes of diſpoſing of time, to Fanny's mind in its preſent ſtate, more grateful than that of devoting it to ſolitude and ſleep. She con⯑trived to hold him in parley ſome few minutes, and in that ſhort ſpace of time the ſtorm foreſeen by Iſabella took place; the winds began to howl, the lightnings flaſhed, and the thunder rolled.

Fanny's gentle ſpirits inſtantly took alarm; her terrors deprived her of the power of ſtirring from the ſpot on which ſhe ſtood; ſhe clung cloſe to Henry, claſping him with both arms, and ſeeming to ſupplicate protection in the moſt piteous manner. It was in vain he en⯑couraged her to lay aſide her fears, that the burſt was over, and the ſtorm had ſpent its fury; ſhe was ſure there would be more of it; ſhe did not dare to move; and ſhe implored [270] him not to leave her; thunder had always ſuch an effect upon her, that it would throw her into fits if ſhe had not ſomebody to ſupport her, and as for her own ſervant, (whom he offered to call to her aſſiſtance) ſhe was to the full as mere a coward as herſelf, and totally helpleſs. What could he do, but cheer the frighted fair one, who reſorted to his courage for protection in this extremity? Another burſt ſucceeded, the thunder louder and the flaſh more vivid. Fanny's arms now ſtrained him cloſer than before; ſhe dropt her head upon his neck, and hid her face; ſhe ſhook in every limb, and murmuring cried—Support me, or I ſhall drop!—When the ſenſes are poſſeſſed by fear, all reſerve ceaſes, nay, even delicacy itſelf; we cling to the moſt loathſome object that gives us ſhelter from the face of danger. If Fanny's terrors were proportionable to the eagerneſs with which ſhe embraced her ſupporter, they were ſtrong indeed. Henry was not ſorry to ſee a couch conveniently within reach, on which he could depoſit his fair burthen, which now indeed was become a very preſſing and im⯑portunate concern; her knees ſeemed ſinking under her, and as ſhe hung upon his neck with [271] her whole weight, he began to think the fit ſhe had predicted was actually upon her; he took her in his arms, and placed her carefully, and with all due delicacy, on the couch; as ſhe ſtill kept her hold upon him, of neceſſity he was drawn down upon the ſeat beſide her.

The ſtorm went on, the pitileſs elements relaxed not of their fury, and poor affrighted Fanny, trembling more than ever, faintly whiſ⯑pered, ſighing the whilſt moſt movingly—‘"Deareſt of men, what will become of me? ſhelter me, I beſeech you, from this ſcene of terror."’—As the flitting wheatear huddles her⯑ſelf under the turf whilſt the gathering clouds hang threatening over her head, and caſt a gloom upon the earth, ſo did the like timorous damſel, under the protection of her courageous defender, gazing on him with uplifted eyes that prayed for pity on her diſconſolate con⯑dition, and encircling him in her arms, whilſt ſhe ſoftly murmured—‘"Oh Henry! let the lightning ſtrike me now; within your arms I die content."’

‘"Oh Henry!"’ honour alſo cried, ‘"awake and be yourſelf! whither are you ruſhing? break from her hold; eſcape from her ſnares; they are ſpread for your deſtruction; the mo⯑ment [272] is on the wing that wafts you to per⯑petual diſgrace. Raſh, heated youth! accurſed power of wine, that thus inflames the blood and blinds the eye of reaſon: can you not ſee theſe terrors are but counterfeit, panders to paſſion? the ſtorm that you ſhould dread is in your veins, not in the elements; awake, and ſave yourſelf!"’

What ſhall we ſay? Muſt we break Na⯑ture's mould, and faſhion an imaginary hero of purer matter than of earthly clay, ſetting up a phantom of perfection, without ſpeck or ble⯑miſh, for enthuſiaſtic ignorance to wonder at? Is it to ſhew man as he is, or only as he ought to be, that we compoſe this hiſtory? Surely as he is; we make not men by working in our cloſets, but take them ready made from the world's mighty warehouſe, and preſent them as we found them; therefore, as the hand of na⯑ture guides my pen, ſo do I write, and here conſign my hero to as much diſgrace as im⯑purity in meditation, not in act, may in the judgment of my candid readers ſeem to me⯑rit: virtue had loſt its hold upon his heart, honour's appeal was ſilenced, and modeſty had turned away her face from the ſuſpicicus ſcene, when in the very moment as he ho⯑vered [273] on the brink of ruin, a ſudden ſcream from Iſabella's chamber ſnatched him from his fate; her door flew open, and behold the very form of lovelineſs in fear's moſt ſtriking at⯑titude! Swift as the lightning's glance our hero ſtarted from the couch, ſhook off the embrace that bound him like a ſpell, and, deaf to Fanny's ſcream, flew to the reſcue of the trembling Iſabella.

Fear had not ſo far robbed her of her ſenſes, but that ſhe had ſufficient faculties to note the ſituation of the parties, whom her preſence had ſo critically broken in upon. Inſtant averſion ſeized her heart, and ſuperſeded the leſs ur⯑gent ſenſe even of fear itſelf: ſhe was at once indignant and compoſed; ſo that when Henry, in a faultering voice, begged to know what alarmed her, ſhe turned diſdainfully away, and in a tone that pierced him to the heart, bade him pay his attentions where they were more wanted and more welcome, then haſtily re⯑turned into her chamber, and locked the door.

A long and diſmal ſilence enſued between the parties in the gallery. Fanny remained ſeated on the couch, her dreſs diſordered, her looks wild, and her attitude that of a Sybil in [274] her phrenſy. Henry ſtood motionleſs, con⯑founded, the very ſtatue of deſpair and horror.—‘"I am undone!"’ cried Fanny, ‘"Iſabella has diſcovered us; ſhe has the eyes of a lynx, and nothing now remains to ſave me from diſ⯑grace and ruin, but boldly to join hands this moment, and defy the world."’—‘"Miſs Clay⯑pole,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"I hold myſelf in honour bound to make you every reparation that you can require; I only wiſh you to conſider, if the mode you point at is not deſperate in the ex⯑treme: I am but what I am, and that is, no⯑thing; in this houſe I will not paſs another day; worlds would not tempt me to encounter the chaſte eyes of that offended lady; before you make ſo raſh a ſacrifice, therefore, recol⯑lect it is only to appearances you would make it, and that your conſcience does not plead to facts, thank Heaven!"’—‘"Thank Heaven for what?"’ ſhe eagerly demanded; ‘"not for the interruption that her jealouſy occaſion'd; not for the ſhock that ſhe has given to my tor⯑tur'd nerves: it is not that I bluſh at what has paſs'd, or any thing that might have paſs'd, but only that ſhe knows it. No, Henry, when I took you in my arms, I bound my heart to you by vows as ſacred as if pledg'd before the altar; [275] favours beſtow'd on you I never can regret; they are ſanctify'd by honour; they are en⯑dearments ſnatch'd by opportunity from the cold lingering forms of law; the overflowings of a heart that doats upon you, whoſe pride it is to give you proofs of boundleſs confidence:—Here is my hand; take it, Henry, and with it take a huſband's right in all that this fond heart and devoted perſon can beſtow; we do but borrow a few hours from time."’

‘"Not ſo,"’ cried Henry, ‘ſtepping back; not in this tumult of your mind will I avail myſelf of an extorted ſacrifice, and take your hand. I do moſt reſolutely bar the agreement till the event is ſeen. Mark what Miſs Manſtock does; our fate is in her hands alone; if by her means (which I am ſlow to ſuſpect) the ſtory gets abroad, and that your fame requires it, I ſhall be at hand; and here I ſolemnly engage my honour to come forth upon your ſummons, whether it be to confute falſhood and exaggera⯑tion at the riſk of my perſon, or to repair your injuries by marriage, if this you ſhall require; and from this promiſe no temptation, be it what it may, ſhall make me ſwerve."’

With theſe words he departed, leaving her to bewail her diſappointment, and murmur out [276] reproaches for his coldneſs, amidſt tears, and ſighs, and ſleepleſs toſſings in a ſolitary bed. As for his mind, it felt a ſtab in every thought; one fatal lapſe had ſunk him in his own eſ⯑teem; and in the promiſe he had made to Fanny, every hope that could aſpire to Iſa⯑bella was for ever buried. Not daring to en⯑quire the cauſe of her alarm, he conjectured that it muſt have been created by the ſtorm, and ſaw, with ſome degree of conſolation, that it now was paſt. Captain Cary was to return to his ſhip by the very firſt of the morning, and had kept his chaiſe and poſt-horſes waiting for that purpoſe; and as immediate retreat from Manſtock Houſe was Henry's fixt re⯑ſolve, the opportunity was fair for taking him and his baggage off at once, before the family was ſtirring. Their road fortunately laid through Crowbery, which was ſomething more than half way; it was poſſible, therefore, that Cary's time might allow of a ſhort call at Ezekiel's or Zachary's houſe, where ſome information might be gained of Lady Crowbery's deſtina⯑tion, and if that ſhould turn out to be for Liſ⯑bon, all was ſo far well, if his new friend would ſtand to his offer of tranſporting him thither. It was neceſſary, however, to take a proper [277] leave of Sir Roger; and for this purpoſe he immediately wrote the following letter, ad⯑dreſſed to that worthy perſonage:

CHAPTER VIII. A Viſitor appears at Manſtock Houſe, who brings Intelligence of an unexpected Sort.

THOUGH Cary's chaiſe was ordered to the door by break of day, yet ſuch of the domeſtics as had notice of it were ready wait⯑ing [278] to make tender of their ſervices and fare⯑wels at his departure; to one of theſe Henry delivered his letter for Sir Roger, and from the ſame perſon he had the ſatisfaction to hear that Iſabella's alarm, which proceeded from the ſudden burſt of one of her window ſhutters, ſhivered by a ſtroke of lightning, had paſſed off without any f [...]rther ill conſequences; but what was his ſurpriſe when he found himſelf accoſted by his friend Suſan May at this early hour, who drew him aſide, and in a whiſper eagerly demanded—‘"What in the name of madneſs can poſſeſs you to be running away from your good fortune at the very moment when my lovely miſtreſs is dropping into your arms? Oh! if you had but heard what ſhe ſaid of you laſt night!"’—‘"Tell it not to me,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"I have undone myſelf with her for ever!"’—Then recollecting that he was on the point of betraying Fanny Claypole, he checked himſelf, and graſping both her hands in his—‘"Suſan!"’ he cried, ‘"I conjure you, by the love you once had for me, never name me to your angelic miſtreſs; I am going to ſhake off this loathſome exiſtence, and my laſt breath will expire in prayers for her."’—This [279] ſaid, he turned away, and ſprung into the chaiſe, where his companion was waiting for him.

And now, as we can well believe the better part of our readers are by this time become in⯑different to the fate of our unworthy hero, we will leave him, without regret, to purſue his journey, and for the preſent confine our atten⯑tion to the houſe of Manſtock.

As ſoon as Fanny Claypole was dreſt, ſhe preſented herſelf at the door of Iſabella's cham⯑ber, and was inſtantly admitted. Without any embarraſſment, ſhe began her enquiries as to the alarm ſhe had ſuffered in the ſtorm; and when that was explained, and the ſhattered window ſhutter referred to, Fanny, in her turn, undertook a plauſible account of her being thrown into a fit by the violence of her fright, and of Henry's great attention in conveying her to the couch, and protecting her in her diſtreſs, with ſo much tenderneſs, that ſhe verily believed ſhe owed her life to his care.—‘"I am ſure,"’ added ſhe, ‘"I ſhall never forget his kind aſſiduity ſo long as I live; and though I dare ſay my ſituation, ſtretch'd at my length, and helpleſs as I was, might appear to you a little equivocal, yet I can truly aſſert that the dear man was as delicate in his treatment of me as [280] if he had been one of our own ſex."’—‘"I pro⯑miſe you,"’ replied Iſabella, ‘"I ſhou'd very unwillingly ſuppoſe to the contrary; only I cou'd wiſh, if you have any more fits, it may literally be one of our own ſex, and not Mr. Henry, that will fetch you out of them."’—‘"Humph!"’ ſaid Fanny, ‘"I aſſure you I ſhall not be aſham'd to thank him before all the company, when I ſee him in the breakfaſt-room."’—Upon this they ſeparated.

Suſan had been ſo obſervant of Henry's in⯑junctions, that ſhe had not named him to her miſtreſs, and that young lady being equally ſilent, his departure was as much a ſecret to her as to Fanny. Iſabella had paſſed a wretched night; her dread of meeting Henry was ex⯑treme; ſhe gave little ear to Fanny's palliating account; and, with a mind agonized between love and reſentment, ſhe came trembling down the ſtairs; at the foot of them Suſan was ſtanding, her eyes drenched with tears, and a paper in her hand, that had juſt been deli⯑vered to her by the ſervant who generally at⯑tended upon Henry: Iſabella demanded a ſight of it, and before the girl had time to recollect herſelf, it was in her hands, and ſhe read theſe words:

The contents were a bank bill for twenty pounds.—‘"Is he then gone!"’ cried Iſabella, ‘"gone for ever! Oh my God!"’—Then with a ſigh fell lifeleſs into Suſan's arms.

At that moment Sir Roger came out of his dreſſing room, and ran with agony to de⯑mand what ailed his darling. Suſan, with ad⯑mirable preſence of mind, ſlipt the letter out of ſight, and anſwered, that her lady had been extremely frighted by the ſtorm, had paſſed a ſleepleſs night, and had fainted through mere weakneſs and fatigue;—‘"But all will ſoon be well,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"you ſee ſhe is recovering,"’ (which was true) and then ſhe recounted the accident of the ſhutter in Iſabella's hearing, to convince her that no diſcovery had been made of any other cauſe. Sir Roger led his daughter into his own apartment, and ſent Su⯑ſan for hartſhorn and water. Iſabella repeated [282] the account of her fright exactly as Suſan had given it, and ſoon declared herſelf ſufficiently recovered to attend upon the company at breakfaſt.—‘"You will find our party,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"has ſuffered a loſs that I dare ſay you will regret as much as I do: my nephew Jack has ſtolen away our young Henry from us; here is his letter."’—This he delivered to Iſabella, and ſhe read what we have before recited. She returned it to him with a mournful look, and was ſilent; in truth ſhe was not at that moment enough compoſed to venture an attempt at words.

‘"My dear child,"’ cried Sir Roger, ob⯑ſerving her turn paler than before, ‘"I hope you are not ill again."’—Iſabella anſwered, that ſhe was not quite recovered, but begged him not to be alarmed, for it would ſoon paſs off.—‘"I ſuſpect,"’ ſaid the good man, hold⯑ing the letter in his hand, ‘"this will be bad news for Fanny Claypole, for ſhe ſeems to be very fond of the young man, and if we bring it out upon her unawares it may create ſome confuſion, and diſtreſs her. I think it will be better for me to whiſper it to her uncle, and let him break it to her after we are out of the way; we may eaſily deviſe ſome excuſe [283] for his not being at breakfaſt. But does not this look like a pretence of Henry's for get⯑ting away from her? I ſuſpect that Fanny has not play'd her cards well, and comes on rather faſter than he approves of: I proteſt it ſeems to me to be all up with her, by the purport of this letter."’—‘"I ſhou'd think a woman riſques a great deal by ſuch forward advan⯑ces,"’ replied Iſabella; ‘"but I ſuppoſe ſhe knows her man, and probably they underſtand each other."’—‘"Why ſo ſhe told her uncle laſt night,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"now you bring it to my recollection, and he believes that every thing goes on to her heart's content."’—‘"I don't doubt it,"’ cried Iſabella.—‘"And I can aſſure you,"’ added Sir Roger, ‘"Claypole himſelf is very well inclin'd to the match."’—‘"Then I dare ſay the match will take place,"’ ſaid Iſabella, ſomewhat pettiſhly; ‘"for Mr. Claypole is very apt to ſucceed in his under⯑takings; but let us not meddle with it, for I think it is no concern of ours."’—This being concluded, they went into the breakfaſt room.

As the company were ſitting down to the table, and before any notice had been taken of the abſence of Henry, the porter's bell an⯑nounced [284] an arrival, and Mr. L— was uſhered into the room; he took his ſeat by Sir Roger, and all eyes were eagerly directed towards him, expecting, yet dreading, the re⯑ſult of his intelligence. He ſoon relieved their anxiety, by ſaying he had left Lady Crowbery preparing to undertake the jour⯑ney he had adviſed; ſhe was to ſet out the next day, and proceed by eaſy ſtages to Lon⯑don.—‘"I have no doubt,"’ he ſaid, ‘"that an Engliſh winter muſt by all means be avoided, and that Liſbon will be her ultimate deſtina⯑tion; but as I ſhou'd be loth to take the ſole reſponſibility of ſo valuable a life on myſelf, we are to have a conſultation of phyſicians when ſhe arrives in town, and my advice will then either have the ſanction of the faculty, or better opinions will direct her otherwiſe."’—Sir Roger made a civil remark upon this, and Mr. L— proceeded to ſay, that he flattered himſelf ſhe had gained ſtrength within the laſt few days, and that her ſpirits were greatly re⯑lieved from that dejected ſtate in which he found them; he had prevailed upon my Lord to reinſtate the gentleman ſhe had been ſo long uſed to in his attendance upon her; he had fully communicated with Mr. Cawdle [285] on her caſe, and diſcuſſed with him the whole proceſs he was to follow, both as to medicine and regimen, till they met in London; and concluded by informing Sir Roger, to his utter ſurpriſe, that his niece would repoſe herſelf at his houſe the very next day, and make that the firſt ſtage of her journey.

Sir Roger ſtarted, ſtruck his hands toge⯑ther with more than uſual energy, and fixing his eyes upon his viſitor, ſeemed to be ſurvey⯑ing him with that ſort of curioſity and ſur⯑priſe as a conjurer excites in his ſpectators, when he has almoſt perſuaded them that he has the devil in his circle. How did he bring Lord Crowbery to conſent to this, was the queſtion from more than one quarter?—‘"I perceive,"’ ſaid this excellent perſon in reply, ‘"I need not diſguiſe from this company, that I had ſome prejudices to overcome; but few diſpoſitions are ſo naturally obſtinate as to hold out againſt truth and reaſon: Lady Crow⯑bery's very ſerious indiſpoſition made it my duty to ſcrutinize into cauſes, and I ſaw ſo much of mental diſtreſs combin'd with bodily, that I perceiv'd ſhe wou'd be irretrievably loſt, unleſs ſome inſtant relaxation was provided for her; in this part of my inveſtigation I had [286] great aſſiſtance from Mr. Cawdle; I found him poſſeſs'd of every thing that cou'd throw light upon the caſe, much attach'd to the per⯑ſon of the Lady, and ſufficiently intelligent in his line for all the purpoſes I had in medita⯑tion for her relief. I found it neceſſary to be very explicit in my ſtatement with my Lord; I told him that I had diſcovered, in my pa⯑tient's caſe, wounds deep and out of ſight, which were beyond my art to cure without his aſſiſtance, I muſt therefore condition for full confidence and concurrence, or immedi⯑ate diſmiſſion: this brought matters to an iſſue, and I muſt do his Lordſhip the juſtice to ſay, he was not long in deciding upon the alternative.—Theſe,"’ ſaid he, addreſſing him⯑ſelf to the worthy Baronet, ‘"are all the means that I have us'd for inducing Lord Crowbery to conſent to his Lady making your houſe her firſt place of reſt, and to permit her to be attended through the whole journey by Mr. Cawdle, who, with great zeal and alacrity, very much to his honour, embrac'd the under⯑taking at the very firſt word."’—‘"God bleſs him for it!"’ cried Sir Roger, ‘"I'll engage he will be no loſer by it. Permit me to ſay, Sir, you have effected wonders."’

[287]Several enquiries were now made as to Lady Crowbery's mode of travelling, what ſervants were to attend upon her, and whether my Lord would accompany her to Manſtock or elſewhere. Full information was obtained upon all theſe points, and Lord Crowbery did not propoſe to go any part of the way with her; he was waiting the event of Mr. Blach⯑ford's death, which was almoſt hourly to be looked for.—‘"What had he to do with that?"’ was the queſtion from Mr. Claypole; ‘"Did his Lordſhip expect to be benefited by that gen⯑tleman's deceaſe?"’—‘"If he does,"’ replied Mr. L—, ‘"I have reaſon to believe his expectations will be defeated altogether: I met the heir of Mr. Blachford this morning, with⯑in a mile of his houſe."’—All ears were in⯑ſtantly, as it were, erect for the news; he pro⯑ceeded,—‘"As Mr. Blachford does not wiſh to keep the diſpoſition of his property a ſecret, I have no ſcruple to ſay, that I was myſelf a witneſs to his will, and commiſſion'd by him to ſeek for the young gentleman in this houſe, who is to inherit under it; but, as I ſaid before, I luckily fell in with him, in company with a ſea-officer, who, I underſtand, is your nephew, Sir, and in a ſituation by which I not only [288] fortunately came to the knowledge of him, but had an opportunity of being in ſome fur⯑ther degree of uſe to him."’

Here the agitation of more perſons than one became ſo conſpicuous, that Mr. L— found it neceſſary to be very quick in aſſur⯑ing his audience, that no manner of miſchief had enſued. A fracas, indeed, had taken place between the heir aforeſaid and Captain Crowbery, who, in conſequence, had turned out by the road ſide, with the piſtols which the ſea-officer had in his chaiſe, to ſettle their difference; one had been fired without effect by the young gentleman, whom he only knew by the name of Henry, and Captain Crowbery had diſcharged the other in the air, upon which the quarrel was made up, and the parties, be⯑fore he left them, perfectly reconciled to each other.

‘"Heaven be prais'd!"’—cried Iſabella, her face as pale as aſhes. ‘"How horrible it is,"’ ſaid Mr. Claypole, ‘"that ſuch a practice as duelling ſhou'd exiſt in a Chriſtian coun⯑try!"’—‘"Horrible do you call it?"’ ſaid Fan⯑ny, ‘"I honour Henry for his ſpirit; I adore him for it; wou'd you have a gentleman put up with ſuch an inſult as he receiv'd from that [289] naſty Captain? for my part I am only ſorry he let him off ſo eaſily."’

If a tea cup had not, at this inſtant, dropt from the fair hand of Iſabella, by ſome chance or other, and drawn the attention of the com⯑pany to the accident, it is to be preſumed the Reverend Mr. Claypole wou'd not have ſuf⯑fered doctrine ſo adverſe to his own to have been advanced by his niece without an an⯑ſwer; but as every body ſeemed intereſted about Iſabella, he let the matter paſs off, and contented himſelf with conveying his diſ⯑ſent, by the vehicle of a reproving look.

The converſation was now reſumed, and many enquiries made as to Blachford's extra⯑ordinary bequeſt: was he ſufficiently in his ſenſes to dictate a will? and had they taken ſuch precautions as would prevent a future litigation?—To this it was anſwered by Mr. L—, that himſelf, Zachary Cawdle, and Alexander Kinloch, were witneſſes not to the will only, but to the capacity and ſound ſenſes of the will-maker.—‘"Was it not, how⯑ever,"’ Mr. Claypole demanded, ‘"the moſt ſingular and unexpected event that ever came to paſs? and what cou'd have mov'd Blach⯑ford's heart ſo on a ſudden to beſtow his whole [290] fortune upon one, whoſe life he had attempted to take away?"’—To this queſtion Mr. L— calmly replied, that he preſumed there could be little difficulty in accounting for what had been done by Mr. Blachford in the young perſon's favour, if it was admitted that the heart of a dying man was capable of being touched by repentance, and a deſire of aton⯑ing for the crimes he had committed; and that it was ſo, he believed the will itſelf would clearly evince, as it ſpoke very plainly to the motives of the teſtator. ‘"There was,"’ ad⯑ded he, ‘"a good creature, by name Ezekiel Daw, very much about him (too much per⯑haps for his body's health) who certainly co⯑operated with the terrors of death in bringing this about, which appears to you ſo extraordi⯑nary an act: the man, it muſt be own'd, is ſomething of an enthuſiaſt, and for ſome time I kept him from my patient; but when it be⯑came a loſt caſe, and the penitent on his death-bed eagerly demanded his return, I no longer oppoſed it; he was, undoubtedly, the great inſtrument of moving him to repent⯑ance, and to him I conſider this young gen⯑tleman much indebted for the very ample atonement he will receive at Mr. Blachford's [291] deceaſe: I underſtand there is ſomething myſ⯑terious in his hiſtory, but, from the reception he has met in this family, I can't doubt but he well deſerves the good fortune that has befallen him."’

Here Sir Roger Manſtock broke ſilence, and in terms ſtrong, though conciſe, gave his hearty teſtimony to the merits and good qua⯑lities of our hero. When the worthy Baronet had ceaſed ſpeaking, Mr. L— expreſſed himſelf well pleaſed that his pre-poſſeſſions in this inſtance had not miſled him.—‘"For I profeſs to you,"’ ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to Sir Roger, ‘"I did never in my life feel a a ſtronger impreſſion from the perſon and countenance of any man than in the inſtance of this youth, and his conduct in the affair with Captain Crowbery was exactly ſuch as was beſt calculated to confirm it."’

Sir Roger, with a ſmile of approbation, gave ſign of his aſſent; Fanny Claypole ſaid, ſhe believed there could be but one opinion in the caſe; and the Reverend Mr. Claypole, ſtraying a little from the ſubject in hand, ob⯑ſerved, that Henry would now find himſelf a very rich and happy man, glancing a look at [292] the ſame time towards his niece.—‘"That is as it may be,"’ ſaid Sir Roger, ‘"as to his riches; Mr. Blachford, perhaps, has poor relations left behind him, and my friend Henry has a wor⯑thy ſpirit of his own."’—Claypole's counte⯑nance fell, but Mr. L— relieved him from his embarraſſment, by ſaying, he could ſpeak upon that ſubject from the authority of Blach⯑ford himſelf, who had told him that he had not a ſingle relation in exiſtence, who could have a claim upon him; confeſſing that he was the ſon of a certain planter in Jamaica, long ſince dead, by a Mulatto wench, who was his property, and that he was entirely the founder of his own fortune, which, if certain circum⯑ſtances had not occurred, was once, as he was given to underſtand, bequeathed to the Lord Viſcount Crowbery.—‘"Mark that,"’ ſaid Mr. Claypole; ‘"the cunning man is caught in his own trap: how juſt are the ways of Provi⯑dence!"’

But now time preſſed with Mr. L— for his departure; the carriage was called to the door, and the friend of human miſery haſtened away to ſoothe the pains of other ſufferers, anxi⯑ouſly expecting their relief from his hands; it [293] was a parting much regretted by Sir Roger—‘"Well,"’ cried he, ‘"if I live to go to Lon⯑don, ſick or well I will cultivate the acquaint⯑ance of that amiable gentleman.’

CHAPTER IX. Bold Meaſures boldly avowed.

THE Reverend Mr. Claypole having duly pondered theſe extraordinary occurrences in his mind, found himſelf not the leſs attracted towards Henry on the ſcore of his good for⯑tune; for in that gentleman's eſtimate of his character, proſperity was regarded as no con⯑temptible recommendation; and he very juſtly conſidered, that Mr. Blachford's great property would not make him one whit the worſe huſband to his niece, or his niece the leſs affectionate wife to him. Still the cir⯑cumſtance of his haſty departure with Captain Cary, and the wild idea of volunteering with him, as ſtated in his letter to Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock, ſeemed to augur ſo ill for Fanny, that he much doubted if that good underſtanding [294] between them, of which ſhe had ſo confidently boaſted, ſubſiſted any where but in her ſan⯑guine imagination; neither could he with all his ſagacity diſcover more than one reaſon for a young man's running away from the woman that made love to him, and that reaſon was not very compatible with Fanny's report aforeſaid: as ſoon therefore as he could find a fair opportunity of drawing her into private conference, he began to open upon the ſubject of her attachment; he ſtated to her what, upon common report, the property of Mr. Blachford was ſuppoſed to amount to, which, upon the moſt moderate calculation, he gueſſed could not be leſs than twice as much as her own.—‘"I care little about that,"’ cried Fan⯑ny, ‘"the man is my object."’—This was very candidly admitted as the firſt but not the only point to be conſidered in a connection for life: they could certainly, with proper diſcretion, live very comfortably upon their joint means, not loſing ſight in the mean time of future contingencies from Lady Crowbery, whoſe life, he obſerved with great regret, could not but be very precarious, as change of climate was generally the laſt deſperate reſource for conſti⯑tutions, like her's, in deep decay.

[295]Here Fanny again put him by, declaring, that ſhe looked to no proſpects but the pro⯑ſpect of poſſeſſing the dear man of her heart. Mr. Claypole's candour again admitted, that all this was quite natural, and beſpoke a very ſincere affection; but he could not exactly ſee the neceſſity why it ſhould be altogether ſo diſintereſted.—‘"Becauſe,"’ replied that gene⯑rous young lady, ‘"if he was the verieſt beg⯑gar upon earth I would marry him; nay, I muſt marry him."’—‘"Muſt,"’ repeated Claypole in⯑quiſitively; ‘"is there a neceſſity in the caſe?"’—‘"To be ſure there is,"’ cried Fanny, nothing abaſhed, ‘"after what has paſs'd between us; after all his faithful promiſes, all the rapturous careſſes he laviſh'd upon me, when my fears and ſwoonings in the ſtorm laſt night threw me in his power, and expos'd me to the prying eyes of Miſs Manſtock, whilſt I was lock'd in his embraces. What wou'd ſhe ſay of me? what wou'd the world, what wou'd you yourſelf pro⯑nounce upon my reputation, were I not to be his wife?"’

‘"You alarm me,"’ cried Mr. Claypole, ‘"has the villain dar'd—"’ ‘"Villain do you call him!"’ exclaimed the angry fair one,—‘"he is no villain; but the moſt honourable, the moſt [296] lovely and adorable of mankind. Do you think him capable of expoſing me to the ma⯑lice of this family, where I will not ſtay another night, though I travel hence on foot to ſeek a lodging?"’—‘"Indeed, child, you terrify me,"’ repeated he; ‘"by this vehemence of expreſſion I ſhould almoſt fear that you have been be⯑tray'd into dangerous and improper conceſſions, through exceſs of love operating on the natu⯑ral weakneſs of your ſex, and conſpiring with the temptations of opportunity. Let me know the worſt at once, that I may obtain that in⯑ſtant reparation, which your character and my honour demand of the ſeducer. Your un⯑ſuſpecting nature is not aware of the danger you are in; you truſt to promiſes often laviſh'd in the heat of paſſion, and as often violated in the coolneſs of reflection. You are yet to learn, that this young gentleman has written to Sir Roger Manſtock a farewel letter, in which he tells him he is going out to ſea with Captain Cary. Is that a proof of love? Is that conſiſtent with his promiſes? Can a ſeceſſion like this be reconcil'd to honour? And where is your hope of a ſpeedy union with a man who is flying from you and his country?"’

‘"Ridiculous alarm!"’ exclaimed the indig⯑nant [297] damſel; ‘"who tells you all this idle tale? Henry is only doing what I myſelf ſhall do; flying from this odious houſe, where Iſabella's jealous eyes wou'd look him out of counte⯑nance, as they would fain do by me; but I defy ſuch feeble ſpite, for I have Henry faſt as vows can bind him: he fly from me and his country! No, were he not too honourable he is too wiſe for that, too fond, too much a friend to him⯑ſelf. As for what he writes to Sir Roger Man⯑ſtock, 'tis a mere blind, a concerted matter be⯑tween us; he ſaid laſt night he wou'd not paſs another day in Manſtock houſe; he has fulfill'd his word, and this contrivance extricates him from an uneaſy ſituation, and gives no offence. I underſtand it all, and if you'll only help to place me ſomewhere within his reach and out of their's, from whoſe intruſion he eſcapes, my life upon it I will lure him back."’

A confidence ſo ſtrongly vouched ſeemed to have due effect upon the good man, whoſe tender feelings for his niece had given him ſuch alarm; his countenance cleared up, and having ruminated a while upon the caſe, he took a more placid tone, and ſaid—‘"Well, niece, I have turn'd it over in my thoughts, and do agree with you, that 'twill be better for [298] you to remove from hence, eſpecially as the Lady Crowbery is expected, with whom you have little or no acquaintance, and therefore the beſt plea in the world for civilly ſtepping out of the way from a family meeting of ſo in⯑tereſting and melancholy a ſort. I, who have ont the ſame excuſe, will remain where I am, and you ſhall have my parſonage houſe to yourſelf in the meanwhile; there are ſervants in it, and all things ready to receive you. You know, my dear, how greatly it concerns me to avoid any chance of a miſunderſtanding with my worthy friend Sir Roger, therefore you muſt be content to let me ſtate matters to him in ſuch a light as may make a merit of your going; and this correſponds not only with my regard to him, but alſo with my views as to myſelf, for I am not out of hope, through his intereſt with the Lady Patroneſs, to obtain the nomination to Ratcliffe's valuable living, which is yet undiſpos'd of."’

‘"I know nothing about that,"’ replied Fanny, with a careleſs air; ‘"but if I can have the parſonage to myſelf, with no jealous Miſs to overlook me, I deſire nothing more; I will be anſwerable for all the reſt."’—‘"It ſhall be ſo then,"’ ſaid this compliant uncle; ‘"the [299] houſe ſhall be your own; and may ſucceſs at⯑tend your laudable and virtuous endeavours: for in truth, my dear, if I was not fully per⯑ſuaded, that this worthy young man wou'd make you an excellent huſband, eſpecially ſince this unexpected good fortune has fallen upon him, I wou'd be the laſt man living to do what I do for the promotion of the match. I am a great friend to young people, and make all the allowances in reaſon for thoſe pardonable weakneſſes that proceed from mutual fondneſs for each other. I have felt the force of love myſelf in former days, and re⯑member what it was; I am therefore doubly urg'd to be active in your cauſe, both from zeal to forward your wiſhes and real approba⯑tion of the object they point at. With this view it ſtrikes me as a proper meaſure to ſtep over to Crowbery to-morrow, where I can hardly fail of meeting our young friend the heir, and at the ſame time that I can impart any meſſage or letter you may wiſh to ſend, I can avail myſelf of the opportunity for paying my reſpects to Lady Crowbery, and attending her upon her way to Manſtock Houſe, if that is found acceptable."’

‘"I approve of the propoſal much,"’ re⯑plied [300] the Lady, ‘"and will write to Henry: if he remains an hour at Crowbery, after he has receiv'd my letter, he is not the man I take him for."’

Theſe meaſures being ſo agreed, Mr. Clay⯑pole's next buſineſs was to ſeek his friend Sir Roger, whom he very opportunely met, tak⯑ing a ſolitary walk in the grove. Claypole's thoughts were ready arranged, and it was with⯑out difficulty he found words for them, and proper addreſs to make his propoſal of remov⯑ing Fanny acceptable to his friend Sir Roger; nay, he was ſo explicit in ſtating particulars, and ſo little ſparing of his niece's reputation, in the account he gave of her nightly interview with our hero in the gallery, that the worthy Baronet drew exactly thoſe concluſions which Claypole wiſhed to lead him to, ſaw and ac⯑knowledged the propriety of removing Fanny out of the houſe, and expreſſed himſelf much indebted to his candid friend for the delicacy of the meaſure. At the ſame time he was not wanting in all due ſenſibility on behalf of that friend, and juſt reſentment againſt Henry for his ſhare in the tranſaction. If he did not in⯑veigh againſt him quite ſo bitterly on this oc⯑caſion, as his conduct might ſeem to merit, it [301] was becauſe he did not ſee it in the light of an abſolute ſeduction, having been a witneſs to Fanny's flippant behaviour towards our hero, and being conſcious moreover, that he had ſomething to accuſe himſelf of for the conver⯑ſation he had held with Henry in the chaiſe, which poſſibly might have inſpired him with the firſt idea of aſſailing a virtue, that, accord⯑ing to his own report of it, had no right to be greatly reſpected, much leſs to be conſidered as abſolutely impregnable.

Theſe reflections, which in ſome degree caus'd his anger to abate, did not however pre⯑vent him from conſidering Henry's conduct in its true light, and reſenting it as a breach of that decorum, which he had a right to expect from a young man admitted into his family under ſuch circumſtances. He ſtill found himſelf called upon, by all the laws of friendſhip and hoſpitality, to co-operate in every meaſure that Claypole could propoſe for obtaining repara⯑tion for the indignity, and when he underſtood that marriage was the point in view, he declar⯑ed himſelf determined to enforce juſtice, if it became neceſſary, by reſorting to his niece Lady Crowbery, and employing her authority over Henry, in aid of his own, for that purpoſe. [302] This Mr. Claypole begged might be ſuſpended for a while, and at the ſame time took occaſion to open his ſcheme of going over to Crow⯑bery the next morning, in ſearch of the young man.—‘"And ſo you ſhall,"’ cried the good man, ‘"and my chaiſe ſhall be at your ſervice, with every thing elſe that you can ſay on my part, to convince him of the ſenſe I entertain of his con⯑duct, and to further your appeal for juſtice to your niece. If he has ſtill the hardineſs to withſtand you, and ſhall attempt to run out to ſea with my nephew Cary, I warrant I have that influence with Jack as will not ſuffer him to eſcape us by that channel at leaſt."’—‘"I don't pretend to juſtify my niece in all particulars,"’ ſaid Claypole; ‘"but a lady's honour is not to be ſported with, and he has certainly made her a firm promiſe of marriage; but then, I muſt obſerve, it was a promiſe made upon the ſpur of paſſion, and (which is more alarming) made when her fortune was a greater object to him than it has now eventually become."’—‘"In that particular,"’ cried Sir Roger, ‘"I do not agree with you. Henry, amongſt all his failings, is not a mercenary lover; and I muſt believe that Miſs Claypole's fortune is neither more nor leſs in his thoughts, for any thing that has [303] happen'd to him; and if I am not greatly miſ⯑taken in his character, he is an honourable lad, and will not go back from any promiſe he has given. If Miſs Claypole makes a true report, and he has paſs'd his word to her, I think the marriage is ſecure; if it is not a caſe of honour, but of choice, I hold it to be doubtful."’

Here the dialogue ended, and the friends ſeparated, Sir Roger to prolong his walk, Clay⯑pole to reſume his meditations.

CHAPTER X. More bad Tidings of our degraded Hero.

IT is time now to attend upon my hero, who, though degraded in character, is in train to be ſo advanced in fortune's favour, that he has one claim at leaſt upon my attention, which does not paſs for nothing with the world at large.

The chaiſe, in which he was conveyed with his friend Cary from thoſe once happy ſcenes, now forfeited and forſaken, made ſuch rapid progreſs, that he ſoon found himſelf within ſight of Crowbery Caſtle, proudly towering over its [304] dependant village, which ſpread itſelf along the vale. Here, in a narrow lane, our travellers were encountered by a gentleman on horſe-back, who had a fowling-piece in his hand, and was followed by a brace of pointers. The paſs was ſo ſtrait that civility required the gentle⯑men in the carriage to ſtop their drivers. Whilſt Cary was giving theſe orders, he diſ⯑covered the perſon of Captain Crowbery, and inſtantly addreſſed him by his name. Henry had recognized him at the ſame inſtant, and determined to let him know he was in⯑formed of his deſigns, eagerly cried out,—‘"When you are at leiſure, Captain Crowbery, I ſhall be glad to have a word with you."’

The chaiſe had ſtopt oppoſite to a gate, which led to a field, and made a receſs in the lane, where Crowbery had taken poſt for the convenience of paſſing. He knew the perſon of our hero, and this abrupt ſalutation was an⯑ſwered by a demand upon Henry to explain himſelf; this explanation was immediately given in terms that required no further illuſtration, and with a degree of heat that Cary vainly at⯑tempted to moderate. Want of ſpirit was not amongſt Crowbery's defects; and in the hearing of the Captain, to whom all the particulars [305] were ſo fully known, it wou'd have been in vain for him, had he been ſo diſpoſed, to have diſavowed the plot he had projected againſt the perſon of our hero. This he did not attempt, but on the contrary retorted upon Henry with expreſſions not leſs hoſtile than thoſe he had made uſe of.—‘"Diſmount,"’ cried Henry; ‘"I have piſtols in the chaiſe:"’ immediately the door was flung open, and he was upon his feet with the weapons in his hand. Crowbery made no delay; the word was given to follow, and they ruſhed into the adjoining field together. Cary raiſed his voice to no purpoſe, exclaim⯑ing,—‘"Gentlemen, you are too haſty; this matter may be explain'd; ſuffer me to inter⯑poſe."’ By this time they had taken their diſtance, and each with a piſtol in his hand had levelled at his opponent, Crowbery calling out to fire: Henry gave fire at the inſtant, and the ball paſſed through Crowbery's coat, which was unbuttoned.—‘"You have miſs'd me,"’ he cried, and immediately diſcharged his piſtol in the air."—‘"Now I am ready,"’ added he, ‘"to expreſs my regret for what I have done, if that will ſatisfy you; if not, we will repeat the operation till the offence is cancelled: I wou'd have made atonement at firſt; but the honour [306] of a ſoldier will not permit him to apologize to any one, who with a weapon in his hand calls him out for ſatisfaction, and precludes an explanation."’

‘'Tis enough,"’ cried Cary; ‘"your beha⯑viour, Captain Crowbery, does honour to your⯑ſelf and your corps: I am ſure my friend is perfectly ſatisfied."’—‘"With every thing but myſelf,"’ replied Henry;" ‘"but that I have aim'd at Captain Crowbery's life without ex⯑poſing my own to the ſame danger is a painful reflection, that I ſhall not eaſily get rid of."’—At this moment Mr. L— came up, and his chaiſe being entangled in the ſame defile, he got out upon the report of the piſtol, and ran with all ſpeed to the place of action. As ſoon as he had ſeen a reconciliation between the parties perfectly effected, he drew Henry aſide, and communicated to him the intelligence he had in charge from Blachford, of which the reader is already informed.

Henry ſtood rapt in deep attention, ponder⯑ing upon an event ſo ſtrange and unlooked for, till Mr. L—, having clearly detailed the whole account, with all particulars leading to it, ceaſed from ſpeaking. Henry now per⯑ceived it was expected of him to reply, and [307] began by returning thanks to Mr. L— for the communication he had given him, which, he obſerved, was of a ſort ſo extraordinary, that if he had received it from authority leſs reſpectable, he ſhould ſcarce have given credit to it, conſidering it only as the vapour of a delirium, to which no rationality could be af⯑fixed, and of courſe he ſhould have treated the deed as nugatory and illegal—‘"But to you, Sir"’ added he, ‘'and to the other gentlemen, who atteſt his capacity, I muſt give perfect credit. Certain it is that Mr. Blachford, in his dealings with me, has ſomething to repent of; but it is as certain I needed not to be ſtimulated to forgiveneſs by any other bribe than the ſa⯑tisfaction of giving eaſe to the compunctious feelings of a dying man, as you deſcribe him to be: I ſhall inſtantly attend upon him ac⯑cording to his deſire, and to the concluſions I may draw from that interview I muſt refer my final reſolution."’

This ſaid, they parted, Mr. L— pro⯑ceeding on his way towards Manſtock Houſe, Henry to the cottage of his friend Ezekiel, where Captain Cary ſet him down, and pur⯑ſued his journey.

It was ſtill early morning; Ezekiel how⯑ever was up and alone, and had juſt ſaluted [308] the noſtrils of Aurora with his morning pipe; the ſmoke that curled round his head did not prevent him from recognizing the face of his friend; he drew the tube from his mouth, and greeted him with his uſual welcome: he began immediately upon the buſineſs of Blachford, in which Henry gave him no interruption, though the detail was ſufficiently verboſe and circumſtantial, in the courſe of which he did not forget to inter⯑weave many pious calls and admonitions to a worthy uſe of the great and unexpected good fortune that had befallen him.

When Henry had heard him to an end, he made a very proper acknowledgment of the obligations he was under to him for his zealous and kind ſervices. In this part of his diſ⯑courſe, he expreſſed himſelf with warmth and animation; but when he came to ſpeak of his own immediate intereſt in Blachford's intended bequeſt, the reflections he had brought with him from Manſtock Houſe weighed ſo heavy on his ſpirits, that his language ſunk below indifference. This was matter of ſurpriſe to honeſt Daw, who knew not that his friend had to lament a loſs, by the forfeiture of Iſabella's eſteem, which no worldly wealth or proſperity [309] could compenſate; he was therefore inſtant with him not to put on an aſſumed contempt for the good things of this life, which were only then to be deſpiſed when they were un⯑worthily employed; moderation, he obſerved, was much to be commended, but inſenſibility was a degradation of our nature. To a re⯑mark ſo little applicable to his caſe, Henry made no reply, but graſping the hand of the good man, who was ſitting beſide him, and watching his countenance at this moment, he exclaimed—‘"By my ſoul, Ezekiel, thou haſt the kindeſt, beſt, and worthieſt heart in nature, and when hard fate ſhall ſeparate us, as ſoon it will, by Heavens! the parting from you will make a woman of me, ſo much do I love and honour you."’

Ezekiel ſtared wildly at him for a moment, then drew the pipe full ſmoking from his mouth, whiffed away what he had drawn from it with an indignant air, and daſhed it on the hearth to atoms.—‘"Parting!"’ he exclaimed; ‘"by the life of Pharaoh, I will never part from thee!"’—Then riſing ſuddenly from his ſeat, and ſtretching himſelf up upon his inſteps, he aſſumed a poſture ſo militarily perpen⯑dicular, and at the ſame time purſed his [310] brow into a frown that marked ſuch deter⯑mined reſolution, that our hero, gazing with aſtoniſhment upon a figure at once ſo enthu⯑ſiaſtic and ſo groteſque, waited in ſuſpenſe till the oracle ſhould utter his definitive reſponſe.—‘"Set forward,"’ at length cried Ezekiel, ‘"ſet forward, I ſay, young man, when thou wilt, with the bleſſing of the Lord, I am ready to accompany thee."’

Ezekiel's mind was not made to embrace more than one object at a time, if that was an intereſting one; in friendſhip more eſpeci⯑ally his ideas were too ardent to be at leiſure for any other ſubject collaterally, ſo that he had juſt now conſigned Blachford and his le⯑gacy to abſolute oblivion; neither did he keep his offer back till enquiry could be made of Henry, whither he was going, and why he was going at all, but having quitted his wicker chair, and diſpoſed of his tobacco pipe, by ſhivering it into fragments, he ſtrode to the corner of the kitchen, where he ſeized hold of his faithful crabſtock, and brandiſhing it with a gallant air, declared himſelf forthwith ready to begin his march.—‘"Hold,"’ cried Henry, ſmiling, ‘"have patience, my good friend; our's is no ſhort trip, and methinks [311] you are not equipt for a long one."’—‘That's true, that's true,"’ replied Ezekiel, ‘"I proteſt to you my apparel had eſcap'd me."’—And indeed, unleſs an old black and white ſtuff night gown, with a woollen cap on his head, and worn-out ſhoes cut into ſlippers on his feet, might be called the proper trim of a tra⯑veller, honeſt Ezekiel was at this moment no otherwiſe provided.

‘"But you forget,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"Mr. Blach⯑ford and his buſineſs."’—‘"Ods my life,"’ quoth Daw, ‘"as ſure as can be it had ſlipt my memory, and now it comes into my mind that I ſhou'd have aſked you whither it is that you are going, and how it comes to paſs that you are poſting away juſt when fortune is dropping into your lap: theſe, do you ſee, friend Henry, are very natural queſtions, and my only wonder is, how it came about that they did not occur to me before."’—‘"'Tis all in good time,"’ quoth Henry, ‘"for, if I can prevail, you ſhall not ſet a foot without theſe doors on my ac⯑count. With the officer, who accompanied me hither in the chaiſe, I am going out of England."’—‘"Well, well,"’ reſumed the good man, ‘"if thou art going in a good cauſe, were it to circumnavigate the globe, I'll not [312] flinch from my word. Doſt think, becauſe I am a man of peace, I am therefore not a man of ſpirit? But whither art thou bound? Is it to fight the enemies of our country? Be it ſo! The danger thou can'ſt face I ſhall not fly from."’—‘"I know I may depend upon your ſecreſy,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"therefore I ſhall not diſguiſe from you my intentions: Lady Crow⯑bery is ordered to Liſbon."’—‘"And doſt thou think of going with her?"’ cried Ezekiel.—‘"Not ſo,"’ replied Henry, ‘"for I ſhall take my paſſage by another conveyance."’

Here the preacher ſhook his head, which, being noticed by our hero—‘"Baniſh all theſe horrid notions,"’ he cried; ‘"baniſh them for ever! Let it not enter into your heart to con⯑ceive that my motives are not pious, and my duties ſacred. You would have followed me to priſon, being a ſtranger to you and a culprit; ſhe is a guiltleſs ſufferer, my friend and bene⯑factreſs; ſhall I do leſs for her, and be a monſter of ingratitude?"’—‘"Thou ſhalt not,"’ quoth honeſt Daw; ‘"if gratitude be thy mo⯑tive; I will travel with a grateful man to the world's utmoſt limit, nay, beyond it, for I pronounce, that gratitude is a lovely virtue, it is, it is—but I have now no time to tell thee [313] what it is; I will ſpeak more fully of it on another occaſion. But hark thee, friend of mine, thou muſt alſo be regardful of thine intereſts in this Blachford: he is a dying man, and ſhou'd'ſt thou not be preſent when he breathes his laſt, the harpies may lay hold of his effects, and thou may'ſt be defrauded of ſome part at leaſt of that property, which is lawfully to devolve to thee."’—‘"Whatever may be the conſequence,"’ replied Henry, ‘"I ſhall not put intereſt in the balance againſt con⯑ſcience. I muſt perform my duty to Lady Crowbery; and if you will remain here, and act on my behalf upon the ſpot, all will be well; and, in fact, my friend, as you have been the moving cauſe of all this unlooked for good fortune, I have a claim upon your kind offices, for completing what you have begun."’—‘"Very well,"’ replied Daw, ‘"we ſhall ſee what is to be done after you have viſited the ſick man; in the mean time I will go and apparel myſelf for the day."’

CHAPTER XI. A Death-bed Dialogue, in which ſome Readers will think there is much Folly, others much Honour, on the Part of our Hero.

WHILST Ezekiel Daw was aſcending to his cock-loft, and before Henry had ſet out upon his viſit to Blachford, Doctor Zachary Cawdle, returning from his patient at the next door, entered the cottage. As ſoon as he eſpied our hero—‘"Welcome, welcome,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"thou child of good fortune; ſure the ſkies rain gold for you; here's a chance, and a change! Marry, the times are ſtrangely altered, Henry, ſince you and I firſt met. Why this juſtice of our's is indeed a juſtice at laſt, and honeſt Ezekiel the preacher has once in his life preach'd to ſome purpoſe; I have only made a hole in the head of my patient, he has open'd his heart. And ſo you are now the 'Squire of Crowbery, heir to his whole fortune, a few legacies excepted, one of which I am ſure you will not regret, a ſmall bequeſt to Suſan May, to balance old ac⯑compts: but what gratifies me above all is, that he has entirely cut this good-for-nothing [315] Peer out of his will, who ſtood heir to his whole property before this blow upon his ſcull brought my patient to a better recol⯑lection. Death and Ezekiel together have wrought a wonderful reformation."’

When Zachary had rambled on in this ſtrain for ſome time, Henry, who had paid little or no attention to what he had been ſaying, de⯑manded if it was now a proper time for him to pay his viſit to Mr. Blachford? Zachary replied, that he had juſt then been dreſſing his wound, and wou'd recommend him to wait a few minutes before he preſented himſelf for admiſſion.—‘"Sit down then,"’ cried Henry, ‘"if you pleaſe, and ſatisfy my anxious curioſity on a ſubject infinitely more intereſting to me, than all my expectations from Mr. Blachford, had he the wealth of the Indies to beſtow."’ He then began a courſe of enquiries relative to his mother, which, with Zachary's circum⯑ſtantial anſwers, and certain occaſional digreſ⯑ſions, into which his profeſſional vanity be⯑trayed him, held on the converſation till it was time for him to repair to Blachford. He had, however, in the courſe of this converſa⯑tion, commiſſioned Zachary to report to his mother every thing that he wiſhed her to be [316] informed of, reſpecting the time he ſhould paſs in attendance upon Blachford, and the reſolu⯑tion he had taken of repairing to Liſbon, in the hope of paying his duty to her there: he was very particular in guarding againſt miſ⯑takes, and repeated his inſtructions ſo fre⯑quently, and with ſuch preciſion, that Zacha⯑ry, who did not juſt then call to mind all the reaſons for his caution, began to feel offended at his manner, and aſked him, if he could not truſt his memory for conveying a ſimple meſ⯑ſage?—‘"I ſhou'd have thought ſo,"’ replied Henry, ‘"if you had not, moſt unfortunately for me, let it fail you in the matter of the little packet, which you was to deliver to me from may mother."’—He then proceeded to explain to him the importance of that paper, the op⯑portunity he had loſt by not poſſeſſing it in time, and the fatal conſequences that had nearly enſued upon his altercation with the perſon it alluded to. Zachary heard all this with aſtoniſhment, and after beſtowing upon himſelf a very plentiful proportion of block⯑heads and boobies, promiſed that he would ſpare no pains to atone for his miſtake, by en⯑quiring out Mr. Delapoer, when he ſhould arrive in London with Lady Crowbery; and [317] he deſpaired not but intelligence could there be obtained of him, if he was actually in Eng⯑land, as Lady Crowbery ſuppoſed, of which, however, he declared, for his part, he took leave to doubt. And now the time being come when the Doctor judged his patient might be acceſ⯑ſible, he aſked Henry if he had ſet his thoughts in order for an interview; and being anſwered that he was ready to accompany him, he roſe from his ſeat, when Henry, recollecting him⯑ſelf on a ſudden, ſtopt, and taking him by the button, ſaid—‘"One word more if you pleaſe before we part: I think you ſaid there was a legacy bequeathed to Suſan May, and that it was to balance old accompts: I prythee, my good friend, tell me, if it is no inviolable ſe⯑cret, what thoſe old accompts are which Blach⯑ford has to balance."’—‘"Humph!"’ quoth the accoucheur, ‘"it was an account of about nine months ſtanding, and ſuch a one as ſometimes falls into my hands to audit; if you can gueſs at it you may, but we reveal no ſecrets of this ſort, 'tis againſt the freemaſonry of our or⯑der."’—‘"Well then,"’ ſaid Henry, ‘"I know it, but you did not tell me. Blachford, we will ſuppoſe, ſeduc'd Suſan May, and had a child by her; is it not ſo?’—‘"I muſt confeſs,"’ re⯑plied [318] the Doctor, ‘"there is as fine a boy now alive, of ſomebody's producing, as ever I uſher'd into the world, yourſelf not excepted, and, to the beſt of my belief, his Worſhip has the honour of being the father of it; 'tis but right, therefore, you ſee, that ſome proviſion ſhould be made for its maintenance, and, if I am not miſtaken, it is to the exact amount of forty pounds a year, charg'd upon the eſtate, which I dare ſay you will not think unreaſon⯑able."’

Here Zachary made a pauſe; but Henry re⯑maining ſilent, he proceeded—‘"You will hear this from Blachford himſelf, in which caſe I ſhall be acquitted of the ſecret; but, as we have kept it cloſe hitherto, I am perſuaded you will not let it get out, to the prejudice of the poor girl in her place, for I think ſhe will hardly be ſo fooliſh as to throw that up vo⯑luntarily on account of this legacy."’—Henry aſked if this was all Blachford had done for the mother and child? Zachary aſſured him that, to the beſt of his remembrance, there was no other incumbrance on their account; it was a caſe of conſcience, he obſerved, and though he believed they had been upon no terms of in⯑timacy for ſome time part, yet, for his own [319] part he ſhould have given very little credit to Blachford's reformation, if he had gone out of the world, and taken no notice of a poor girl, whom he had reaſon to ſuſpect was trepanned into the ſcrape by very unfair practices; and though perhaps ſhe was ſomewhat of the wildeſt afterwards, as Henry himſelf probably could witneſs, yet whom had ſhe to thank for it but her ſeducer?

‘"Tis enough,"’ cried Henry; ‘"I am ready to attend you to Mr. Blachford's."’

After waiting a few minutes in a lower room, whilſt the Doctor went up ſtairs to announce his arrival, our hero was admitted to the ſick man's chamber: he was lying on his couch, ſupported by pillows, and upon Henry's en⯑tering, Zachary and the nurſe retired. One ſmall ray of light was let into the room, which ſerved to guide the ſteps of our hero through the gloom, who had been deſired to tread with great caution, and to ſpeak low, as the leaſt jar was intolerable to the aching brain of the wounded man. A chair was placed cloſe to the couch, at the right hand of Blachford, who made a ſign to his viſitor to ſeat himſelf in it. This he accordingly did, treading lightly and with care as he moved towards it.

[320]A ſilence for ſome time was obſerved by both parties, Blachford holding his handkerchief to his eyes the whilſt. At laſt, ſpeaking in a feeble tone, he ſaid—‘"I am afraid and aſham'd to look upon you; I fear it is not poſſible you can forgive me, and, if you cou'd, how can I hope—"’ Here ſomething ſeemed to choak his ſpeech, and he broke off. Henry waited awhile in compaſſionate attention, but finding him relapſing into his former debility, with his handkerchief again held to his eyes, he thought it time to ſpeak, and addreſſed him as fol⯑lows;—‘"Mr. Blachford, I do beſeech you to believe, that what I am about to ſay to you is not dictated by any intereſted motives, but ſprings freely and voluntarily from my heart, influenced only by an unfeigned commiſera⯑tion for the ſtate in which I find you, and a firm reliance on the ſincerity of your contri⯑tion. For whatever you have done or medi⯑tated againſt me, I do moſt entirely and from my ſoul forgive you."’

‘"You are infinitely kind and compaſſion⯑ate,"’ ſaid Blachford, faintly; ‘"but I have been the cruelleſt of monſters towards you, not only in the dark buſineſs that has brought me to this condition, but in the matter of the trial, [321] where I wou'd fain have ſuppreſs'd the evi⯑dence that ſo clearly acquitted you: but this is not all; it was I who ſet Lord Crowbery upon you; I was the tale-bearer from that wretched woman Mrs. Cawdle, that made him furious againſt you and his unhappy lady, who, I dare ſay, was falſely ſlander'd and unjuſtly perſecuted through my means; I have all her ſufferings on my conſcience; I am weigh'd down by offences. Alas! what will become of me? and what atonement can I now make to you in the firſt place? what to that in⯑jur'd Lady, whoſe health, fame, happineſs, have been ſacrific'd to my malice? for it was the very demons of malice, envy and jealouſy, that poſſeſs'd me againſt you, and through you againſt her. All that I can do is all too little; yet what I can I have done. I know I can ex⯑pect no mercy from Heaven, if I do not ſtrive to repair the wrongs I have done upon earth. Juſtice demands that I ſhould do my beſt to make that life happy, which I have at⯑tempted to deſtroy: Heaven grant that my en⯑deavours may ſucceed! Poverty at leaſt you need no longer dread; by this deed you are heir to all I am poſſeſs'd of, and, be aſſur'd, moſt excellent young man, that if conſcience [322] did not force me to the act, choice and opinion in your favour wou'd now lead me to it freely and voluntarily, for I am confident you de⯑ſerve it, and long, long may you enjoy it!"’

‘"If I am to receive this,"’ ſaid Henry, (taking the will that Blachford tendered to him) ‘"as an act of juſtice and atonement, which your conſcience impels you to diſcharge, I cer⯑tainly ſhall not oppoſe myſelf to your will and pleaſure; but before I acquieſce in a deed that accumulates all your atonement upon me alone, I ſhou'd know, and be convinc'd, there are no other injur'd perſons who have better claims upon it; nay, give me leave to ſay, who have any claims. You well obſerv'd juſt now, that you cou'd expect no mercy from Heaven, if you did not ſtrive to repair the wrongs you have done upon earth; it was a becoming ſen⯑timent, and I believe I repeat it nearly, if not correctly, in your own words; ſuffer me, therefore, I conjure you, by your hope in Heaven, to put it cloſely to your conſcience, whether you have repair'd all wrongs com⯑mitted againſt others as fully and ſufficiently as you have thoſe committed againſt me?"’

The ſick man pauſed, as one employed in recollection; at laſt he ſaid, he thought he [323] could reply with a ſafe conſcience, that he had made proportionable reſtitution to all claimants on the ſcore of injuries—‘"One of that deſcrip⯑tion,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you will find remember'd in my will; an acquaintance of your own, Suſan May by name; I have burthen'd you with a proviſion of forty pounds a year for her life."’

‘"And why have you ſo done?"’ ſaid Henry. ‘"Becauſe—becauſe,"’ replied Blachford, ‘"I have extorted favours from her ſhe did not voluntarily grant, and thereby encumber'd her with difficulties and expences which this an⯑nuity will amply ſatisfy. Ah! my dear Sir!"’ added he, ‘"this was the ſevereſt tug of all I had to ſtruggle with; for that girl has been the cruel cauſe of all my miſery. I was infatuated with her charms, I doated upon her to diſtrac⯑tion; but as ſoon as ſhe ſet her eyes on you, ſhe turn'd them from me with loathing and ab⯑horrence. This was horror to my heart: this it was that made me ſurious to revenge myſelf on you: 'twas jealouſy, outrageous jealouſy, that inſpir'd me to attempt your life: judge, therefore, what I had to combat, before I cou'd perſuade myſelf to make atonement to one, whom in reaſon I regarded as rather bound to atone to me, for all the pains and ſorrows that [324] have embitter'd my ſad cup, and brought me to this lamentable ſtate of body and of mind."’

‘"You have an infant ſon by her,"’ ſaid Henry.—‘"You know it then, it ſeems,"’ re⯑plied the ſick man; ‘"I have a ſon by her; at leaſt I think he is my ſon; and in that perſua⯑ſion nature had it's ſhare of influence for ſoft⯑ening my reſentment, and inducing me to make proviſion for a helpleſs innocent."’

‘"What muſt that nature be,"’ cried Henry, ‘"which does not feel this influence? But you have us'd the word reſentment; I pray you Sir, inform me rightly of your cauſe of reſent⯑ment againſt this young woman; Did ſhe ſe⯑duce you, or you her?"’

‘"You know her well, I dare ſay, Sir,"’ ſaid Blachford; ‘"you muſt have had poſſeſſion of her frequently."’

‘"Never, I take Heaven to witneſs; never, by all that's ſacred,"’ exclaimed Henry, elevat⯑ing his voice rather above the pitch proper for his ſituation.

‘"You aſtoniſh me,"’ ſaid the other; ‘may I indeed believe you?"’

‘"As confidently as you believe in Heaven. She is innocent for me; I ſhou'd be happy for your conſcience ſake cou'd you ſay as much [325] with the ſame truth; for yet you have not an⯑ſwer'd to the queſtion of ſeduction, on which, as I conceive, the whole of your reſponſibility muſt turn, and by that you ought to meaſure and proportion your atonement."’

‘"Then I will anſwer you,"’ returned Blach⯑ford, ſighing, ‘"and diſcharge my troubled conſcience by confeſſion of the whole proceed⯑ding. Seduction baſe as hell was practis'd by my agent to ſubmit her to my deſires; my houſekeeper, a woman corrupted to my pur⯑poſes, invited this girl, then ſixteen years of age, and lovely as an angel, to her room in my houſe; there ſhe careſs'd her, treated her with dainties, ſuch as ſhe, poor thing, had never taſted, gave her rich cordials, perſuading her of their harmleſs quality, and ſo, in fine, intoxi⯑cated her by ſurpriſe: that moment was her ruin: devil as I was, in that ſtate of inſenſibi⯑lity I accompliſh'd my vile purpoſe. The in⯑toxication paſs'd off, and the recovery of her ſenſes diſclos'd the injury ſhe had ſuffer'd; her agonies were ſtrong, and her reproaches vehement; but ſoothings, preſents, promiſes, were laviſhly beſtow'd, and in concluſion took effect: ſhe was poor, and vain of her fair per⯑ſon; I was not wanting to profit of that va⯑nity, [326] and I gave her means to deck herſelf out in a ſtyle that put down all her rivals in the village. The good dame, her mother, it is true, was alarm'd; but I took means to lull her ſuſpicions, and ſhe liv'd rent-free in her cot⯑tage: I don't ſay ſhe accommodated me in my intrigue, but ſhe was credulous in the extreme, and my profeſſions, jointly with my favours, blinded her effectually. Suſan recover'd her ſpirits, and I, by a colluſion with that ſorry jade, whom honeſt Cawdle is condemn'd to call wife, put Suſan into her ſervice, removing her from under the eye of her mother and that worthy ſoul Ezekiel Daw, who liv'd with her. Here I had free acceſs; but dearly paid by oc⯑caſional civilities to that diſguſtful ſot her miſ⯑treſs. At nine months end from my firſt know⯑ledge of her ſhe bore this boy; Zachary brought him into the world, and the affair was ſecretly ſo manag'd as to create no ſuſpicion, even in her mother. It is a lovely boy, and I put him out to nurſe, providing for his mainte⯑nance, and frequently viſiting him. Here then you have my full confeſſion: let Suſan therefore enjoy her annuity, which I can well believe you think ſhe fully deſerves; and ſuffer me to hope you will protect and be a father to my helpleſs child."’

[327] ‘"Hear me!"’ cried Henry, ‘"and let me implore you to have regard for your departing ſoul: I am myſelf, like your poor innocent, a ſon of nature, born out of marriage, thrown upon the world without inheritance, and unac⯑knowledg'd by the laws of man; yet I have found a friend that leaves me nothing to re⯑gret, when I decline your bounty, which here I ſolemnly declare, calling my God to witneſs, I peremptorily renounce in favour of your ſon. Bequeath not your own child to a ſtranger; make not me your intermediate inſtrument of juſtice, but plead your own atonement at the throne of mercy, and delay not for a moment to mitigate the wrath of that juſt judge, who will not ſpare the parent that abandons his own offspring."’

‘"Oh horrible!"’ cried Blachford, ‘"you tear my heart aſunder."’

‘"Not ſo,"’ Henry anſwered, lowering his voice; ‘"I'll heal it, ſoften it, comfort it. You ſhall live happily, or die in peace; and never will I quit this place till you conſent to what I aſk. 'Tis for your ſake I intercede; it is to awaken nature in your heart, and reconcile you to your God, that I thus earneſtly conjure you to ſtrike out my name from this miſtaken paper, and adopt your ſon."’

[328] ‘"Myſterious, wonderful young man!"’ cried Blachford; ‘"I do not know your name; the blanks are left for you to fill."’

‘"Then fill them with the name that na⯑turally ſhou'd fill them. Send for your infant and his mother; I'll be your meſſenger. Enjoy the gratifying ſight of thoſe whom you make happy, and let me be not your heir, but the executor of your will, and the guardian of your ſon; then I will call you juſt; then and only then I will honour your memory, and record you as my friend and benefactor."’

‘"Do with me as you will,"’ cried Blachford; ‘"your generoſity overcomes me; I ſicken and am faint; language fails me: I commit my⯑ſelf to your diſpoſal."’

Our hero ſaid no more; his ſuit was granted; joy ſwelled his benevolent heart; he roſe from his ſeat, caſt a look of pity on the dying man and departed.