[]CELESTINA.

CHAPTER I.

WHEN firſt Willoughby arrived in London, he had endeavoured to bring him⯑ſelf to a reſolution of ſeeing Celeſtina; but her abſence at that time on a tour of plea⯑ſure, and the aſſurances he received that ſhe was engaged to Montague Thorold, not only diverted him from that intention, but gave his ſiſter both time and opportu⯑nity to repreſent her as neither wanting or wiſhing for that attention, which he thought he ſhould, as a friend, ſhew her. Theſe inſinuations had gradually their effect: not however in curing that invincible tender⯑ness [2] he always felt for her, but in mingling with it ſo much bitterneſs that his life be⯑came more than ever wretched. The acci⯑dentally meeting Celeſtina at an aſſembly, gay, unconcerned, and, as he believed, forgetting her former attachment to him in her new preference to Montague Thorold; the ſecond meeting, which happened at the opera; and evéry thing that he heard both from his ſiſter and in general converſation where Celeſtina was mentioned, all ſerved to confirm this idea; while the letter which would have undeceived him, never reached his hands. It was left with Lady Moly⯑neux; who, determined as ſhe was to im⯑pede every advance towards a reconciliation between her brother and Celeſtina, made no ſcruple, on hearing from whom it came, to open, read, and, after ſome conſideration, to deftroy it.

Of the apparent neglect, therefore, which Celeſtina imputed to Willoughby, he had accuſed ber; and thought, that if ſhe had not determined to connect herſelf with [3] Montague Thorold without any attention to his wiſhes or reliance on his regard, ſhe would have written to or ſent to him: while his neglect of a letter by which ſhe thought ſhe ſhould awaken all the tenderneſs of friendſhip which ſhe hoped he ſtill retained for her, and the angry and diſdainful looks with which he had twice met her, wounded both her affection and her pride. Thus, by the treachery of Lady Molyneux, all commerce even of civility was at an end between them; and ſuch was the ſituation of Willoughby, when the Caſtlenorths ar⯑rived in London from Italy.

Embarraſſed more and more in his af⯑fairs, and on the point of being over⯑whelmed with pecuniary diſtreſs, it was more than time that he ſhould determine what to do; and this determination, the return of the Caſtlenorths to England was intended to haſten.

Always believing that to the artifices of Lady Caſtlenorth he had owed his being compelled to quit Celeſtina, and ſtill hoping [4] to detect thoſe artifices, he had, by fre⯑quent viſits at his uncle's, and by a ſort of tacit and reluctant acquieſcence in many of his plans, given Miſs Fitz-Hayman great reaſon to ſuppoſe that he intended fulfilling his original engagement with her: yet now that he ſaw he muſt either continue to act what he could not but feel was a diſho⯑nourable and diſingenuous part, or break with his uncle entirely, his uneaſineſs be⯑came more inſupportable. The tortures which he had felt in obſerving the favour Celeſtina had ſhewn to Montague Thorold, by whiſpering and laughing with him, gave him a cruel foretaſte of what he ſhould ſuf⯑fer were he to ſee her married to him; yet his reaſon, whenever he was calm enough to liſten to it, told him how abſurd, how improper it was, to indulge ſuch ſenſations of anguiſh and regret; ſince, if the relation⯑ſhip which had been hinted at did really ſubſiſt between them, he could never take any other part in regard to her than a friendly and fraternal concern in her happi⯑neſs; [5] and ſince the age, family, and circum⯑ſtances of Montague Thorold were all with⯑out objection, he ought, if ſhe believed ſuch an alliance would make her happy, not only to rejoice in it but promote it.

From this, however, his heart abſolutely revolted; and all he could prevail upon himſelf to think of was, to make for Celeſ⯑tina ſome more ample proviſion if he was once convinced of their relationſhip, and to wiſh her happy: for to ſee her happy, when another was to be the object of her love, he found would be to him the cruelleſt pu⯑niſhment that Fate could inflict.

Sometimes he thought, that ſince every other woman on earth was indifferent to him, he ought to learn to approve of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, of whoſe apparently en⯑creaſing affection towards him he could not be inſenſible. But love was never yet the effect of effort; and while he compared her, with all her laboured accompliſhments, to Celeſtina, he found too certainly that he never could love her, and that with ſuch [6] ſentiments to promiſe it, was an unworthy proſtitution of his honour.

His coldneſs, however, and viſible re⯑luctance, diſcouraged none of the other parties who deſired this marriage: and Miſs Fitz-Hayman, with all that pride which her birth, her fortune, and the exalted idea of her own merit, gave her, ſeemed to be, either from her affection to Willough⯑by or ſome other cauſe, content to receive his hand with the hope of afterwards win⯑ning his heart. Convinced that he had no attachment but to Celeſtina, and certain that the impediments between them muſt effectually prevent his ever again thinking of her with the fond partiality he had done, ſhe ſeemed very eaſy as to his indifference towards herſelf; foreſeeing, perhaps, that their lives would be ſuch after they were married as would very ſoon produce it, if they did not ſet out with it: or, to judge more candidly, ſhe might think with pride and pleaſure of conquering, as his wife, that [7] coldneſs to which, as his miſtreſs, ſhe could not be inſenſible.

Lord Caſtlenorth had ſo determined a predilection for the match, which the diffi⯑culties he had met with had by no means abated, that he would not ſee any thing that appeared inimical to this his darling ſcheme. His great object was—and he forgot his infirmities as he purſued it—to procure for Willoughby the reverſion of all his titles, and, to change his name to Fitz-Hayman. This he found would be attended with no great difficulty; and now, whenever he ſaw his nephew, he enumerated all the ſpecies of ſatisfaction which in his opinion would attend theſe acquirements, dwelling with great delight on the circumſtance of the family arms remaining unchanged; though he offered to quarter thoſe of Willoughby, if their owner found any reluctance in parting with them entirely.

From theſe harangues, which nothing could for a moment render intereſting to Willoughby, his imagination was often quite [8] abſent, and ſled after Celeſtina, whom it repreſented as making the felicity of Mon⯑tague Thorold, and enjoying with him that life of elegant and literary retirement, which he had himſelf fondly hoped to ſhare with her. Frequently, when his uncle was talking to him of his anceſtor, Reginald Fitz-Hayman, who in the reign of Hen⯑ry IV. was ſlain by the celebrated Hotſpur, then in rebellion, after having twice un⯑horſed him, deſcribing the circumſtances of the combat, and ſtill more minutely the bearings thereupon granted in addition to their former coat, Willoughby, far from attending to him, was meditating on ſome walk he had taken with Celeſtina during their ſhort happineſs at Alveſtone the preceding ſpring; on the remarks ſhe had made, and the improvements ſhe had ſuggeſted; and having no idea of what his uncle was talk⯑ing about, only under ſtanding by his tone when he ended a period, he ſaid—"To be ſure"—"Oh certainly"—"Very great"—"Undoubtedly"—without knowing or car⯑ing [9] whether theſe words were well placed: while Lord Caſtlenorth was too much de⯑lighted with the pleaſure of hearing himſelf talk on his favourite topic, to remark, that Willoughby knew not a ſyllable of what he was ſaying; and the latter had really ac⯑quired ſuch a habit of inattention to thoſe ſubjects about which his uncle paraded, that he not unfrequently had, in appear⯑ance, aſſented to plans relative to his for⯑tune, and his reſidence after his marriage, when in reality he had not, on the diſcourſe to which he ſeemed to liſten, formed any one idea.

A few days only paſſed in this manner after the return of the Caſtlenorths to Eng⯑land, before the extreme pain he felt, the ſecond time of ſeeing Celeſtina in public, made him ſenſible of his inability to conti⯑nue long in this undecided and wretched ſtate. From mere acquieſcence in miſery, or rather from an hope to eſcape from it by detecting Lady Caſtlenorth's ſchemes, he had become inſenſibly more deeply entan⯑gled [10] in them: and he now began to accuſe himſelf of very unjuſtifiable conduct; ſince not all the diſtreſſing circumſtances of his fortune, not the certainty of Celeſtina's be⯑ing loſt to him, nor the pleaſure of ſaving his paternal eſtate, and particularly Alveſ⯑tone, which, after Celeſtina, had always been his firſt object, could, on a ſtrict ex⯑amination of his own heart, lead him to form a ſerious wiſh of becoming the huſ⯑band of Miſs Fitz-Hayman: and he was conſcious that every part of his behaviour that had raiſed contrary expectations, was owing rather to his deſpair of obtaining one woman than to his wiſh of being united to another.

His mind was now in ſuch a ſtate of con⯑tinual debate and perplexity, that nothing had the power a moment to amuſe or pleaſe him. His ſiſter, without an heart herſelf, had no notion of the corroſive ſenſations that preyed on his; his health, though far from being reſtored, was ſuch as no longer offered her any proſpect of becoming the [11] heireſs to what family property was left; and ſince her brother did live, her wiſh was to have him live in ſplendour, graced with the happineſs of nobility, and reflecting honour on her by his affluence and proſ⯑perity. Her diſlike of Lady Caſtlenorth and her daughter was long ſince loft in the more inveterate diſlike ſhe had conceived againſt Celeſtina, ſince ſhe had been ſo much ſeen in good company in London, and ſo much celebrated for her beauty: ſhe always therefore affected to conſider his marriage with Miſs Fitz-Hayman as a ſet⯑tled thing; and from the moment of the Caſtlenorths return to England, ſhe joined, with more zeal than her ſelfiſh indolence uſually permitted her to feel for any thing, in promoting it.

Thus beſet by his family, and on the other hand harraſſed by the encreaſing cla⯑mours of his creditors, who offered him only the fad alternative of felling Alveſtone, and whoſe impatience was fomented by the artful management of Lady Caſtlenorth, [12] Willoughby for ſome litle time lingered and heſitated: now thought that he ought to marry, when ſuch advantages were to be acquired by it, now recoiled from the dreadful idea of paſſing his life with a wo⯑man who was indifferent to him, and whom he doubted whether he could ever learn to love. Even in the ſymptoms of her regard for him, which were unequivocal enough, there was ſomething which rather diſguſted than flattered him; and when he thought how different were their minds, their tim⯑pers, and their purſuits, no earthly conſi⯑deration ſeemed to have ſufficient weight with, him, to make him reſolve on putting on a yoke ſo uneaſy to his imagination.

The repeated ſight of Celeſtina made all his wounds bleed afreſh. He found, that neither the ſuſpicions of their relationſhip, or what he thought the certainty of her alienation from him, were ſtrong enough to counteract the effect of the long rooted affection he felt for her: but he believed that if those ſuſpicions once amounted to a [13] certainty—if once he was thoroughly con⯑vinced Celeſtina was his ſiſter, he ſhould learn to conquer every other ſentiment in regard to her but what he might with ho⯑nour indulge.

For this reaſon, and becauſe he found ſome ſatisfaction in the delay this journey would give him a pretence for, and thought that mere change of place would afford him ſome relief, he determined to ſet out in ſearch of that ſervant, Hannah Biſcoe, to whom he had obtained a direction in Italy, and whom he had been detained from viſiting partly by his ill ſtate of health and partly by the artifices of Lady Moly⯑neux.

After ſhe and Lady Caſtlenorth had met, however, her oppoſition to this journey was withdrawn; and he ſet out on horſe⯑back, attended only by his old ſervant Farnham, intending to reach the village to which he was directed, and which was on the borders of Lancaſhire, by eaſy journies.

[14] Miſs Fitz-Hayman, to whom he had ſaid that every conſideration urged him to a complete developement of the myſtery now that it ſeemed to be in his power, ſaw him depart with an appearance of reluc⯑tance; but Willoughby had ſeen her, ever ſince her arrival in England, making par⯑ties for public places without him, if he happened not to be able or diſpoſed to go; and found, that during his abſence ſhe would proceed in the ſame courſe of amuſement; and that ſhe and her mother would find no inconvenience for want of an eſcort, as they had brought over with them an Iriſh officer, who had been in the ſervice of France,- with whom Lady Caſtlenorth had contracted an intimacy a few years before in Italy, which in their laſt journey to the Continent had been renewed and encreaſed: in conſequence of which, Captain Cava⯑naugh had accompanied them to London, where he had apartments in the houſe, and was become one of the family. At all places of public reſort he attended on Lady [15] Caſtlenorth; ſat by her at the upper end of the table to carve for her; and acted as a ſort of gentleman uſher to the mother, while he treated the daughter with the moſt profound reverence and reſpect.

This gentleman was three or four and thirty. His face was handſome, and his figure, though large, uncommonly fine. He had ſeen a great deal of ſervice and of the world; ſpoke all European languages except Engliſh, well, and with all the ani⯑mation of a Frenchman, had enough of the national character ſtill about him, to mark him for an Iriſhman.

He was, indeed, ſufficiently proud of his country, and piqued himſelf on being deſcended from the kings of Leinſter; and Lord Caſtlenorth, to whom he contrived to render himſelf agreeable by a patient at⯑tention to long ſtories, by his knowledge of genealogy, by picking up for him old books of heraldry, and underſtanding the difference between a pale lozengy, and a pale engrailed^*; and affixing ſome impor⯑tance [16] to the enquiry, whether one of the quarterings of the arms of Fitz-Hayman, ſhould in ſtrictneſs be on field argent, a boar's head, couped gules, or couped Or^*. Lord Caſtlenorth, among other doubts on this and equally important ſubjects with which he amuſed himſelf, ſometimes con⯑ſidered whether the genealogy of Captain Cavanaugh might not be traced back in Ireland a generation or two beyond his own in Normandy, a circumſtance which ex⯑cited his reſpect, and gave, in his opinion, weight and value to thoſe qualities by which the Captain contrived to render himſelf, throughout the family, ſo very acceptable.

Willoughby had ſeen him with them once or twice abroad, but had not then particularly noticed him among that croud of all nations and deſcriptions which Lady Caſtlenorth contrived to collect around her there. He now ſaw him, not without a ſlight degree of ſurpriſe, domeſticated in the family; but his whole attention ſeemed to be given to the elder members of it; and [17] he hardly ever ſpoke to Miſs Fitz-Hayman, who, when Willoughby one day took oc⯑caſion to remark that he was on a footing of greater intimacy than formerly, anſwered, with ſomething like a careleſs ſneer—"Oh you know that Cavanaugh has long been my mother's great favourite."

In the ſocieties of London, however, this intimacy became the ſubject of ſome malicious comments; and Lady Moly⯑neux, who ſeldom let any thing of that ſort eſcape her, could not forbear indulg⯑ing herſelf in ſome remarks on Lady Caſ⯑tlenorth's friendſhip, even before her bro⯑ther, who gave, however, ſo little atten⯑tion to what he heard, that before he reached the end of his firſt day's journey he had forgot that ſuch a perſon as the Captain exiſted, as he would probably have forgot⯑ten Lady Caſtlenorth herſelf, had not the purpoſe of his preſent journey, and all the tranſactions of the laſt twelve months of his life, brought her and the conſequences of [18] thoſe tranſactions too forcibly to his me⯑mory.

While Willoughby was thus on his jour⯑ney, the diſquiet and unhappineſs of Celeſ⯑tina, though ſhe was compelled to appear to conquer them, were but little abated.

Nothing, in the opinion of Lady Hora⯑tia, contributed ſo much to wean the mind from indulging ſorrow or encouraging weakneſs, as variety of company and con⯑tinual diſſipation; and in theſe, notwith⯑ſtanding her reluctance, Celeſtina was con⯑tinually engaged. She now more than ever regretted that ſhe had relinquiſhed that plan of life which ſhe had fixed upon when firſt left, by the death of Mrs. Willoughby, to ſeek a new one. The quiet farm houſe in Devonſhire where Cathcatt and Jeſſy lived, the tender attention ſhe ſhould be there ſure to meet with, the not unpleaſing melancholy of Mrs. Elphinſtone, and the perfect ſecluſion ſhe might there enjoy from a world where nothing gave her any real pleaſure, were ideas which were now al⯑ways [19] returning to her mind with new power. There, ſhe thought her ſad heart might be laid open to the pitying ſympa⯑thy of her firſt and moſt beloved friend, and find ſome ſatisfaction amidſt it's own diſappointments in witneſſing the happineſs of that friend, to which ſhe had been ſo, greatly inſtrumental; and there ſhe might wander whole days among the fields and copſes, indulging herſelf in repeating the name of Willoughby, in thinking of him, in reading again thoſe books they had read together, painting the plants he admired, and compoſing melancholy verſes, which above every other occupation ſoothed her mind. But when ſhe had repreſented to herſelf all the mournful pleaſure ſhe ſhould in ſuch a ſituation enjoy, and half determined to gratify herſelf, the ingratitude of which ſhe ſhould be guilty towards Lady Horatia deſtroyed her reſolves; and alas! ſhe recol⯑lected too, that at the farm of Jeſſy ſhe ſaw from almoſt every field, and from ſome of the windows of the houſe, Alveſtone Park, [20] where Miſs Fitz-Hayman would ſoon be miſtreſs; the ſight ſhe thought ſhe could not bear; and her mind turned with terror from the idea of it. There were alſo very ſtrong objections againſt her going into the immediate neighbourhood of Montague Thorold, if ſhe meant not to give him en⯑couragement; and theſe conſiderations adding to the impracticability of her quit⯑ting, without better reaſons than a mere wiſh of retirement, ſuch a generous protectreſs as Lady Horatia, determined her to wean her mind from an inclination ſhe could not properly indulge, and to move on as well as ſhe could in the weariſome circle; till the time arrived when Lady Horatia ſet out on her ſummer tour, which was to begin by going to Matlock, from whence ſhe was to go into Wales, and then end the ſummer at Cheltenham.

Vavaſour had been ſo long abſent, that Celeſtina began to hope his pride and re⯑ſentment had ſubdued every wiſh to purſue her. In this, however, ſhe was miſtaken: [21] a few days after the departure of Willough⯑by he called, and was admitted. Lady Horatia and Celeſtina, though neither of them were pleaſed to ſee him, yet received him with civility, and entered on common topics, ſuch as the occurrences of the day afford; to theſe he appeared very inatten⯑tive, and turning abruptly to Celeſtina, he ſaid—"Miſs De Mornay, cannot I ſpeak to you alone?"

She heſitated a moment, and then ſaid—"I believe, Mr. Vavaſour, there is nothing you can have to communicate to me, that ought to be a ſecret to Lady Horatia How⯑ard."

"There is, Madam," returned he with quickneſs, and appearing much diſpleaſed with her apparent diſinclination to oblige him, "for what I have to ſay relates in ſome meaſure to others, whoſe confidence I have no right to betray whatever I may chuſe to do in thoſe circumſtances that re⯑late only to myſelf."

[22] Lady Horatia now roſe, and ſaid—"My dear, oblige Mr. Vavaſour if he wiſhes to ſpeak to you without witneſſes." She then left the room.

"Now, Madam," ſaid Vavaſour, as ſoon as ſhe had ſhut the door—"now you have no longer an excuſe to repulſe or deny me: Willoughby aſſuredly quits you for ever: and nothing ought, nothing ſhall im⯑pede my pretenſions. Emily—my poor Emily herſelf—on whoſe account I own to you I have heſitated more than once, wiſhes my ſucceſs, and bids me ſay, that convinced my happineſs depends upon you, ſhe with⯑draws every claim which ſhe had on my heart, and beſeeches you to believe it is not unworthy your acceptance."

"Emily, Sir?" cried Celeſtina in ſome ſurpriſe: "of whom do you ſpeak? and how can a perſon to whoſe very name I am a ſtranger, be likely in ſuch a caſe to influ⯑ence me?"

"Don't affect," ſaid he, "the ridiculous prudery of diſclaiming any knowledge of [23] her, becauſe ſhe does not rank among thoſe who are falſely called virtuous women: by heaven ſhe has virtues that might redeem the vices of half her ſex; not one in a thou⯑ſand of whom poſſeſs a twentieth part of her worth."

"I mean not," anſwered Celeſtina, mildly, "to diſpute her value, but only to aſk on what pretenſion you urge to me either the reſignation or opinions of a per⯑ſon with whom I have no acquaintance."

"Why will you pretend not to know her," reſumed he with redoubled impe⯑tuoſity—"why affect not to know that Emily, who has lived with me almoſt twelve months, is the ſiſter of your Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone, and of that Cathcart whom Willough⯑by picked up and placed as his ſteward at Alveſtone."

"I have heard there is ſuch a perſon," ſaid Celeſtina: "but I did not know ſhe lived with you."

"Yes, ſhe has lived with me ſome time, though I did not till lately know her fa⯑mily. [24] Unworthy and diſgraced as you may think her, ſhe ſhould at this moment have been miſtreſs of my houſe and my fortune, by what you would call legal claims, if I had not, like a curſed fool as I am, taken up a paſſion for you which I cannot get rid of, and which my generous little girl not only knows, but with diſintereſted affection, inſtead of trying to diſſuade me from it, wiſhes me to ſucceed in. I have ſome⯑times fancied, that your knowledge of my attachment to her was in my way; and that circumſtance, together with the eternal myſtery that always hung over Willough⯑by's intentions—in ſhort, my hopes of be⯑ing cured of a damned folly, by reaſon and abſence, inſtead of matrimony, have alto⯑gether made me refrain from viſiting you lately. But now I think, ſince George is gone out of town and returns only to be married to Miſs Fitz-Hayman, there is an end of that; and for my experiment—curſe me if I believe it will do; and ſo here I am again, more in love and a greater [25] blockhead than ever. Don't, however, miſtake me, Celeſtina: I will not, I can⯑not bear to be triſled with; nor will I ſa⯑crifice one hour, either to your coquetry or to the abſurd partiality which I ſometimes uſed to believe you had, for that whining, ſnivelling Montague Thorold. If there are no other pretenſions than his in the way, I ſhall ſoon know how to ſettle the matter."

"Really, Mr. Vavaſour," ſaid Celeſtina, as ſoon as he would give her an opportunity of ſpeaking, "your conduct and manners are ſo eccentric, that it is difficult to know what to ſay to you, which you will not call either prudery or coquetry, or impute to a partiality for ſome other perſon. Permit me, however, to tell you, with that ſin⯑cerity with which I have always ſpoke on this ſubject, that I am ſenſible of the ho⯑nour you do me, but that I never can ac⯑cept it, even though my ſituation were to be more humble than it is, and though ſuch a man as Mr. Montague Thorold had never exiſted."

[26] "Oh! very well, Madam," cried Va⯑vaſour, impatiently interrupting her—"You muſt, however, allow me to aſk your ob⯑jections: are they to my perſon? my fa⯑mily? my fortune?"

"I have already ſaid, Sir, that they are all unexceptionable."

"Well, Madam, I muſt then infer from your refuſal, that you are engaged."

"No, Sir, that inference by no means follows. Pardon me if I ſay, that notwith⯑ſtanding all the advantages you poſſeſs, it is poſſible for a perſon to decline the ho⯑nour of your addreſſes without being en⯑gaged."

"However, Madam, do you or do you not deny that ſuch an engagement does exiſt? Of that, I think, I have a right to enquire."

"Forgive me, Sir, if I anſwer that it does not ſeem to me that you have any right in the world to aſk that queſtion of me."

"Well then, I ſhall aſk it elſewhere."

[27] "Where you have, if poſſible, ſtill leſs right," ſaid Celeſtina, alarmed at his vehe⯑mence.

"You are, however, very quick at un⯑derſtanding to whom I allude."

"Certainly, after what you have juſt ſaid, I cannot miſtake your meaning. You allude to Mr. Montague Thorold."

"Damn him," cried Vavaſour, riſing, and ſpeaking with vehemence that made her ſhudder, "that puppy croſſes me like my evil genius. By any man at all worthy of you, I might perhaps bear to be ſup⯑planted; but by ſuch a ſilly fellow as that—no, damn it, there is no enduring it—curſe me if it does not make me frantic."

"Hear me then, Mr. Vavaſour—hear me for the laſt time—for I never will again willingly expoſe myſelf to this ſort of treat⯑ment. I am not engaged to Mr. Thorold: it is not likely I ever ſhall be engaged to him; and farther, I again proteſt to you, that did no ſuch perſon exiſt it would make no difference in the reſolution I have made [28] never to liſten to the offers with which you honour me."

This declaration, repeated ſo ſtrongly, ſerved but to inflame thoſe paſſions which Celeſtina hoped it would repreſs, and piqued his pride, without deſtroying what he called love. He walked backwards and forwards in the room a moment or two, and ſeemed to be reaſoning with that extravagant warmth of temper ſhe had complained of: but his eyes and his manner expreſſed plainly what he forbore to utter. After a while, he appeared to have conquered the inclination he felt to give way to the rage that poſſeſſed him; and ſitting down by her, he ſoftened his voice as much as he could, though it trembled through the va⯑riety of emotions he felt, and endeavoured to ſpeak calmly while he ſaid—"Celeſtina, if this be really the caſe—if I may venture to believe you, you will not ſurely refuſe to ſatisfy me a little farther. I am not a vain coxcomb: but I know that neither my figure or my underſtanding are con⯑temptible; [29] temptible; I have a very affluent fortune; and I have an heart that, as you well know, adores you. Willoughby cannot or will not marry you; of that I think you can no longer doubt. You ſay, that you are not engaged to the young Doctor Thorold; tell me then, what there is, that overba⯑lancing ſo many points in my favour, ren⯑ders them all ineffectual."

"And I will tell you candidly, Mr. Vavaſour. My objections then are, to your morals—to your principles: they may not be, and I dare ſay are not, worſe than thoſe of other young men of fortune who have equal opportunities of following their own inclinations: but however that may be, they are ſuch as would inevitably make me unhappy; and knowing that, it would be extreme folly were any advantages which affluence can offer to induce me to riſk it."

"My morals!" cried Vavaſour—"again my morals!—and pray what part of what you are pleaſed to call my morals is it that gives you ſo much offence?"

[30] "All," anſwered ſhe. "Your manner of life—your attachments—your connec⯑tions, which you have juſt acknowledged you could not, without heſitation and re⯑luctance, quit."

"Still you will miſunderſtand me. What I ſaid in regard to Emily ſurely went to a very different meaning. I told you, that you are the only woman upon earth for whom I would quit her; and the greater my regard has been for her, ſurely the greater it makes out my attachment to you, for whom I would relinquiſh her. By hea⯑ven! I cannot tell how far my affection for her might have carried me, if my paſſion for you had not taken ſo deep root in my heart; and curſe me, if amidſt it all I do not ſtill love her dearly, and would give half my eſtate to make her happy and re⯑eſtabliſh her health; but poor dear girl—ſhe will never, I am afraid, recover."

"If her illneſs is occaſioned by her fears of loſing you, Sir," ſaid Celeſtina, "re⯑move at once the cauſe of it by thinking of [31] me no more. If you love her as much as you expreſs, ſurely this cannot be difficult; and why, feeling this attachment to a per⯑ſon whom you think ſo deſerving of it, ſhould you, contrary to the dictates of rea⯑ſon, purſue one who never can return the good opinion you entertain of her."

"Becauſe of my morals! Ridiculous cant and falſehood. Don't I know that women all like the very libertiniſm they are pleaſed outwardly to condemn? Don't I know that the proudeſt, the moſt prudiſh among ye, are flattered by the attention of thoſe men who are called the greateſt rakes, and that if any queer fellow ſets up to be a moral man, ye all laugh at and deſpiſe him. This ſort of ſtuff about morals, you have learned, I ſuppoſe, either from old par⯑ſon Thorold, or this good motherly gentle⯑woman you live with: but you, who have ſo much ſenſe, cannot ſeriouſly perſiſt in ſuch methodiſtical cant; and as to any ob⯑jections about Emily—"

[32] "Don't miſtake me, Mr. Vavaſour. I made no mention of her in the way of ob⯑jection."

"Well then," cried he, interrupting her, "as to my morals in every other reſpect they are really exemplary. I play, com⯑paratively, very little; I don't drink a fifth part ſo much as half the people I live with; and I reckon myſelf, upon the whole, a very orderly, ſober fellow."

"By compariſon only," ſaid Celeſtina, half ſmiling at his way of making out the account.

"Aye, by compariſon. Every thing in this world is, you know, good or bad only by compariſon. Come, come, Celeſtina, I was willing enough to allow for your pre⯑poſſeſſion in favour of George Willoughby, but to any other I cannot, I will not ſub⯑mit; nor will I allow any thing to this damned prudery. I know myſelf worthy of you, highly as I think of you. Yes, I deſerve you, if it be only for my perſevering [33] love; and by all that's good I will not be denied."

"You really will, Sir," replied Celeſtina; who, more and more diſtreſſed by his perſe⯑verance, deſired to put an end to it for ever if poſſible—"you really will; for I proteſt to you that I never can give any other an⯑ſwer than I have already given, and I beg, I entreat that you will deſiſt from a purſuit that can produce for you only mortification."

"May perdition ſeize me if I do!" re⯑turned he with renewed vehemence. "No! if I periſh in the attempt, I will perſevere!" He was proceeding in this ſtrain, when Lady Horatia ſent to let Celeſtina know ſhe waited for her to go out; and ſhe took the oppor⯑tunity of haſtening away, glad to be relieved from a converſation ſo diſtreſſing; while Vavaſour, finding all attempts to detain her ineffectual, left the houſe in one of thoſe paroxyſms of paſſion, which diſappointment, from his having never been uſed to ſubmit to it, always produced.

CHAPTER II.

IT would be difficult to ſay, whether Willoughby, wandering and ſolitary among the remote villages of Yorkſhire, or Celeſ⯑tina, ſurrounded in London by what the world calls pleaſure and amuſement, was the moſt internally wretched. Celeſtina's laſt dialogue with Vavaſour, had convinced her that Willoughby no longer thought of her even with that degree of friendſhip and tenderneſs which he had ſo often aſſured her nothing ſhould deſtroy: he was gone out of town merely to prepare for his mar⯑riage; and gone without deigning either to ſee her or anſwer the letter ſhe had writ⯑ten to him. There was, in ſuch conduct, ſo much unkindneſs and inhumanity, that ſhe began to hope her reflections on it would [35] by degrees abate the anguiſh ſhe now felt: and ſhe liſtened to Lady Horatia, who con⯑tinually ſpoke of it as an unequivocal proof of Willoughby's want of an heart capable of a generous and ſteady attachment. To Montague Thorold, however, (who now again returned to town after an abſence on buſineſs of ſome little time), ſhe could not liſten with ſo much complacency as her friend wiſhed; and ſhe repeatedly told him, that the greateſt obligation he could confer upon her would be to deſiſt from talking to her of love. The certainty, however, there now ſeemed to be that Willoughby no longer conſidered himſelf as intereſted about her; her poſitive rejection of Mr. Vava⯑ſour, and the encouragement given him by Lady Horatia to perſevere, brought him continually to the houſe; where their morn⯑ing parties of reading re-commenced; and whenever they went out of an evening, Montague Thorold was their attendant: thus drinking intoxicating draughts of love, [36] and indulging hope that it would finally be ſucceſsful.

Willoughby now found without difficulty the perſon he ſought: and whether it was that ſhe had her leſſon more completely, or was permitted to ſpeak plainer of what ſhe knew, ſhe anſwered all his enquiries in ſuch a way as ſerved to perplex but not entirely to affirm the queſtion, whether Celeſtina was his mother's daughter. The woman was, in her mind and ideas, one of the loweſt of the vulgar: yet her ſimplicity ſeemed to be affected; and all the proofs which had been talked of did not amount to her declaring that ſhe was preſent at the birth of Celeſtina or could produce any po⯑ſitive evidence of it. She ſpoke principally to the time when ſhe ſaid the little girl was at nurſe at Kenſington; of, which ſhe related a great many particulars that ſtaggered Willoughby more than ever, without con⯑vincing him: yet all the woman ſaid, though it was conſiſtent, had the air of having been learned by rote; and there was about her a [37] ſort of guarded cunning which ſeemed to have been acquired, or at leaſt improved by long practice. Willoughby attempted to diſcover whether ſhe had not received money from Lady Caſtlenorth, and to find what were her preſent means of ſubſiſtence: but for theſe enquiries alſo ſhe ſeemed pre⯑pared; and gave at leaſt a plauſible account of a legacy left her by a great uncle, that enabled her to live without ſervitude in her native country, where ſhe boarded with a re⯑lation, and affected great piety and ſanctity. She bleſſed God, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe ſcorned for the lucre of gain to belye any one, dead or alive, much more her good miſtreſs who was gone: but truth was truth and ſhe hoped, by the help of God, always to ſpeak it plain and direct, without fee or reward: "and as for Lady Caſtlenorth," added ſhe, "whom your honour thinks has paid me for ſpeaking of this thing, pray conſider, your honour, wherein it could be uſeful to my lady to put me upon ſaying a falſity. If I was baſe enough to take money of my [38] Lady for it, which to be certain I never did, for what would that be, as your ho⯑nour well knows, but ſelling my immortal ſoul? and what good, as I may ſay, would all the gold and diamonds in the world do me, if my precious ſoul was to periſh be⯑cauſe of them."

This cant, to which Willoughby liſtened with continued patience, made him hope that he ſhould, in ſome inſtance or other, detect her of inconſiſtency. But though he ſaw her repeatedly, and ſet Farnham to watch her ſtill more narrowly and to talk the matter over with her as if in confidence, ſhe was always ſo guarded that no contra⯑diction could be diſcovered; and after wait⯑ing near a week at the village, Willoughby was compelled to give up every idea of cer⯑tainly coming at the truth, and to return towards London without being poſitively ſure that Celeſtina was ſo nearly related to him; yet forced to allow that he could not, in contradiction to all he had heard of a child nurſed in ſecret at Kenſington, bring [39] any ſort of evidence on which he ought to rely that ſhe was not ſo.

Sick at heart, and feeling too ſenſibly that all his future life muſt be unhappy, his mind ſunk in total deſpondence. Too cer⯑tain it was, that under ſuch circumſtances he could not think of marrying Celeſtina: yet he was unhappily conſcious that he could not bear to think of her marrying another. It was in vain he accuſed himſelf of ſomething worſe than folly. The mo⯑ment his mind dwelt on that ſubject, he found that folly irreſiſtible: and while he determined that one of the firſt things he would do on his return ſhould be to make a proviſion for Celeſtina out of his remaining fortune, he ſickened in recollecting that ſuch a proviſion would probably but facili⯑tate her marriage with Montague Tho⯑rold—and of Montague Thorold he could not think with patience.

Of his own ſituation in regard to the fa⯑mily of Fitz-Hayman, he thought with equal bitterneſs. He was but too conſcious, [40] that to obtain the information he wanted from Hannah Biſcoe, which he had flattered himſelf would turn out very differently, he had renewed his attendance at the houſe of his uncle, and acted diſingenuouſly and un⯑like, himſelf. However indifferent or averſe he was to his couſin, his honour forbade him any longer to trifle with thoſe ſenti⯑ments which ſhe evidently entertained in his favour. What then ſhould he do? This queſtion came continually before him; and was continually debated without his being able to form any reſolution on which he could for a moment reſt without pain.

He ſometimes thought, that ſince in loſing the only woman whom he could love, he had loſt all that could render his life happy, it was immaterial what became of him; and that ſince he muſt be miſera⯑ble, it might as well be in following as in flying from what he ſtill thought was in ſome degree a duty—completing the en⯑gagement he had made to his mother on her death bed. In doing this, he ſhould [41] gratify all his ſurviving relations, and re⯑trieve his eſtate, which he muſt otherwiſe ſell, as the mortgages upon it were ra⯑pidly devouring it: and to do this was, as he ſometimes tried to perſuade himſelf, to pay a debt he owed his anceſtors. He had been educated by his mother in high ideas of the conſequence and reſpectability, not only of her family but of that of his father; but of theſe prejudices his natural good ſenſe had ſuffered very little to remain; ſo that if he now endeavoured to recall them in ſupport of thoſe arguments which he ran over in favour of his marriage, his under⯑ſtanding immediately revolted againſt them.

"I ſhall not-only retrieve," ſaid he, "but augment my fortune: not only ſave Alveſtone, but add to my preſent eſtates the family poſſeſſions of my mother, which will otherwiſe become the property of ſtran⯑gers: the honours too ſo long inherited by her anceſtors will be mine."

He frequently made efforts to fix his mind on theſe advantages; but the mo⯑ment [42] he began ſeriouſly to inveſtigate their value, he beheld them with contempt.

"Ridiculous!" cried he. "My anceſ⯑tors! What is this fooliſh family pride, for which I am meditating to ſell my freedom, in acquieſcence with narrow prejudice? I ſhall have a large eſtate: but will it make me happier in myſelf, or more reſpected by thoſe whoſe reſpect can afford me any plea⯑ſure? I ſhall be called "my Lord"—a mighty ſatisfaction truly! The vulgar—for with ſuch empty ſounds the vulgar only are delighted—will bow low to my Lord⯑ſhip, and I ſhall take place at county meetings above the neighbouring Eſquires who are now my equals. I ſhall have a bauble called a coronet painted on my coach doors and my hall chairs, and ſhall become one of the legiſlature, qualified for it only by the poſſeſſion of that bauble. Perhaps half a dozen or half a hundred men and women of poor ambi⯑tion, may court the notice and boaſt of the acquaintance of Lord Caſtlenorth, who would have let Mr. Willoughby remain [43] unmoleſted by their kindneſs, and by ſuch friends my houſe will be infeſted and my leiſure deſtroyed. But I ſhall go to Court, and be named as having appeared at the drawing room; that will be very delectable certainly: and my wife's fine cloaths will be deſcribed at full length, and the taſte of my equipage be commended in all the newſpapers. It will be there told of me, that I am gone to this or that of my coun⯑try houſes; and my ſix bays, or greys, or blacks, will be celebrated in Hyde Park, or be conſpicuous in the roads within twenty miles of London; while a thouſand inſig⯑nificant inſipid beings, whom I neither know nor deſire to know, ſhall ſay "what a beautiful carriage, what a well appointed equipage is that of my Lord Caſtlenorth." All this felicity in the aggregate, and I know of no more that belongs to the poſ⯑ſeſſion of a title, is certainly well worth the ſacrifice I ſhall make to obtain it; and my anceſtors, "from their airy clouds," will be [44] infinitely delighted by the glory of their de⯑ſcendant.

But what will that deſcendant be in reality? a mercenary, a miſerable wretch: condemned to paſs his life with a woman, whom, if he does not loath, he does not love; to feel himſelf a purchaſed huſband; and to have ſold, in ſad exchange, man's beſt birth right, freedom, for a meſs of pottage.

To ſuch ſoliloquies as theſe, ſucceeded determinations to carry no farther any ſem⯑blance of attention to Miſs Fitz-Hayman; but to go even from his preſent journey and without paſſing through London, imme⯑diately abroad.

To a mind unable to reſiſt miſery, there frequently appears a poſſibility of flying from it; and while Willoughby dreaded the thoughts of returning to London, he fancied that if he could croſs over from Hull to the north of Europe, he ſhould leave ſome part of his preſent unhappineſs be⯑hind him. Unſettled and unhappy as he [45] was, theſe debates with himſelf, theſe vague plans of quitting every thing and becoming a wanderer on earth, became more uſual with him: but ſtill he decided on nothing. The idea of being compelled to ſell Alveſ⯑tone was the only one, however, that had great weight with him. To think that the place to which he had been ſo fondly at⯑tached ſhould become the property of ſome upſtart man of ſudden fortune, was accom⯑panied by a ſenſation of acute uneaſineſs. He imagined, thoſe beautiful woods, the growth of centuries, fallen in compliance with the improving taſte of a broker or a warehouſeman; the park ploughed up to be converted into farms; and the elegant ſimplicity of his houſe and his grounds, de⯑ſtroyed by gothic windows or Chineſe orna⯑ments; the ſhrubberies where he had wan⯑dered with Celeſtina, that turf, where he had ran by her ſide when ſhe was learning to ride, and where they uſed to walk arm in arm together; that houſe, where he had hoped ſhe would preſide, and grace ſo [46] lovely a ſcene with a miſtreſs yet more lovely; all, all were to become the pro⯑perty of another! and the very name of Willoughby, and what was yet more pain⯑ful, the name of Celeſtina, ſhould never more, in thoſe ſcenes, be remembered. Yet in a moment the cruel truth occurred to him, that whether this place belonged to him or to another, Celeſtina would never again viſit it; that he ſhould never again hear her voice calling him among the beech woods, or trace her footſteps on the turf; never liſten to her as ſhe read in his mo⯑ther's dreſſing room, or hold her hand within his as they ſat together on the woody banks of the water-fall, and marked it's ſparkling current leap from rock to rock. And without her, what would Alveſtone be but a place where every ſpot would be haunted by melancholy images of departed happineſs. How little the indulgence of theſe painful contemplations would be in⯑terrupted, or put an end to, by any ſatisfac⯑tion he could derive from the converſation [47] of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, his ſick and reluc⯑tant heart too plainly told him: and then he again believed himſelf determined to ſell all his eſtatesand quit England; if not for ever, at leaſt till time, abſence, and the impoſſi⯑bility of his changing it, had better recon⯑ciled him to that deſtiny which condemned him to give up Celeſtina, and to ſee her in the arms of another.

A deſultory and unſettled life, had within the laſt year become habitual to him; and while he was actually moving from one place to another, his ſpirits preyed leſs corroſively on themſelves. Since to live as he wiſhed to have lived in his own country was impoſſible, he thought he ſhould re⯑gret it leſs while he was wandering over others: and ſince he could not now con⯑template the face and character he ſo fondly loved, he hoped that variety of characters and variety of faces would divert his regret if they could not cure his attachment. There was too an idea of freedom and in⯑dependence, which accompanied his thus [48] ſhaking off at once every incumbrance, that was not without it's charms; and in this diſpoſition he thought contemptuouſly of mere local preference as unworthy a ſtrong mind, and determined to become a citizen of the world; and when in his ima⯑gination he had ſettled his rout, through Holland and France to Sicily, which he had long wiſhed to ſee, and from thence to the Archipelago, he breathed freer, and felt himſelf more reconciled to exiſtence.

He journeyed, however, ſlowly towards London while theſe debates were carrying on: and at York, whither he had ordered his letters to be directed, he found one from Cathcart which related ſome circum⯑ſtances in regard to his affairs that con⯑vinced him he could not, unleſs to the material injury of ſome perſons who were connected with him, quit England without ſome regulation of thoſe pecuniary con⯑cerns which he had ſo long neglected and would now willingly have eſcaped from. This letter determined him to return to [49] London; though another letter from his ſiſter, in which ſhe mentioned, as an article of news, that Celeſtina was either actually married to Montague Thorold or on the point of being ſo, threw him into a ſtate of mind bordering on diſtraction: reaſon, which had long fruitleſsly contended againſt this fatal, and perhaps guilty attach⯑ment, now ſeemed tired of a contention ſo hopeleſs, and his mind became a chaos of conflicting paſſions, all equally deſtructive to his mental and bodily health.

To return to London, however, was be⯑come neceſſary; and Farnham, his old faithful ſervant, perſuaded him to take poſt chaiſes for the reſt of his journey. He arrived, after an abſence of above three weeks, at the houſe of Lady Molyneux; and there heard, that a few days before, Lady Horatia Howard had publicly ſpoken of Celeſtina's marriage with the young di⯑vine as a ſettled thing; that his father had bought for him a conſiderable living in Glouceſterſhire, where they were to reſide, [50] and where a curate was ſettled till he was himſelf qualified to take it; and thither, as there was a very good houſe upon it, they were going immediately after their marriage. Willoughby heard all this with⯑out being able to make any reply, and then haſtened to his own lodgings, from whence he diſpatched Farnham for intelligence from the ſervants of Lady Horatia. The coachman, with whom he had ſome time before made an acquaintance and who was a very talkative fellow, immediately in⯑formed him of all he knew, and much that he imagined. He ſaid it was very true, that Mr. Thorold lived almoſt always at their houſe, "and my Lady," ſaid the man—"my Lady loves him for all the world as if he was her own ſon. There they are all morning reading play books and, ſuch together, as my fellow ſervants tell me, that is, my Lady and Miſs and this here young divine as is to be; and then they goes out in my coach, all's one as if they belonged to the ſame family; and I [51] do underſtand as how my Lady is to give her a portion and they be to be married out of hand, that is in a little time, and I believe that's the very truth of the thing, for my Lady have bought another coach horſe within theſe ten days, and told me—"Abraham," ſays ſhe, "I ſhall go early next month into Glouceſterſhire, inſtead of go⯑ing to Matlock as I talked of, and I ſhall go in the coach inſtead of the poſt chaiſe, becauſe I have ſome friends with me."

This account, which Farnham faithfully repeated to Willoughby, confirmed almoſt beyond a doubt all Lady Molyneux had related to him. Some more recent intelli⯑gence that he had received from Cathcart as to the embroiled ſtate of his affairs in the country, combined to render him deſpe⯑rate: and he had been ſo long harraſſed be⯑tween his love and his intereſt, his honour and his reluctance, that he ſuddenly took the reſolution of putting it out of his own power to undergo again ſuch variety of torments: like a wretch who leaps from a [52] ſhip on fire into the ſea, though certain of meeting death in another ſhape, he formed the determination of making himſelf, ſince he muſt be wretched, as completely wretched as poſſible. He thought of Celeſ⯑tina as his relation in vain; it abated no⯑thing of that anguiſh with which he conſi⯑dered her as the wife of Montague Thorold; and ſo hideous were the images that forced themſelves upon him, that he found his rea⯑ſon had no power to ſubdue them, and thought that nothing could ſo decidedly oblige him to check them as his marriage; and without giving himſelf time to conſider how deſperate was the remedy, he went immediately to the houſe of Lord Caſtle⯑north, declared to him that he was ſatisfied as to the object of his journey, and took the moſt immediate opportunity after his return of expreſſing his ſolicitude to avail himſelf of his couſin's generous predilection in his favour, and to fulfil the wiſhes of his deceaſed mother and his ſurviving family.

[53] The eager and tremulous manner in which lie uttered all this, and which was in reality the effect of deſpair and anguiſh, Lord Caſtlenorth miſtook for the anxiety and im⯑patience of love. His nephew had never ſpoke thus deciſively before; and ſeeing thus what he had ſo long fondly wiſhed for out of doubt, his firſt idea was, to proceed inſtantly in ſecuring to Willoughby the reverſion of thoſe titles on which he ſet ſo high a value himſelf. While, therefore, he ſat out in his chariot, ſupported by Mrs. Calder, who always attended him, to ſolicit the completion of a buſineſs which had hi⯑ther proceeded but ſlowly, and fancied the happineſs of all parties would be wonder⯑fully advanced by his ſucceſs, Willoughby, with ſuch ſenſations as a determined ſuicide alone could envy, was making to Lady Caſtlenorth the ſame declaration; and was immediately afterwards allowed, or rather deſired, to preſent himſelf at the feet of her fair daughter.

CHAPTER III.

TO play the lover is not difficult to moſt men, even where their hearts are not really intereſted. A few fine ſpeeches, a little common place declamation, are eaſily pro⯑duced and generally accepted: but Wil⯑loughby, always a very poor diſſembler, and who felt, in deſpite of every effort to repreſs them, ſentiments towards Miſs Fitz-Hayman bordering on antipathy, was very conſcious that he ſhould ill anſwer her ideas of a paſſionate lover, and this conſciouſneſs deprived him of the little power he might otherwiſe have had to diſſemble.

He now, with encreaſed confuſion of thought, repented that he had gone ſo far; but to recede was impoſſible; and with a countenance expreſſive rather of perturba⯑tion [55] and wretchedneſs than of the pleaſura⯑ble ſenſations inſpired by ſucceſsful love, he entered the apartment where Miſs Fitz-Hayman had been prepared by Lady Caſtle⯑north to receive his tender profeſſions.

He approached her, and took her hand; muttered ſomething about the final ecclair⯑ciſſement of his doubts as to another per⯑ſon, (for he dared not truſt his voice with the name of Celeſtina), and ſomething about being, in conſequence of that ecclair⯑ciſſement, releaſed from his former engage⯑ments: then in a ſtill more tremulous and uncertain tone, he ſolicited her permiſſion to dedicate his life to her ſervice, and to haſten thoſe preparations for his happineſs, which his former uncertainties and embar⯑raſſments had put it out of his power to ſo⯑licit with that ardour which he ſhould un⯑der other circumſtances have evinced.

The falſehood he was uttering died away almoſt inarticulately on his lips, and his re⯑volting heart reproached him for it, faint and reluctantas it was. As he finiſhed his ſpeech, [56] Miſs Fitz-Hayman turned her large black eyes, which had till then been modeſtly caſt down, full upon him. She ſeemed to have been trying to make them ſpeak ten⯑derneſs; but to him they expreſſed nothing but an imperious enquiry into the truth of his profeſſions, from which he ſhrunk. In a moment, however, thoſe eyes, ſo little calculated for the ſoft parley of affection, contrived to overflow with tears. She gave him the hand he had juſt before let go, and inclining her head tenderly towards him, ſaid, in terms as gentle as ſhe could com⯑mand—"Oh! Willoughby! you know too well, you have long known my unfor⯑tunate partiality towards you—a partiality, which, with reluctance and with regret I own, not all your too evident coldneſs has conquered. Alas! could I now believe you ſincere!—"

"Believe it I conjure you," cried he in a hurried voice, and haſtening to put an end to a dialogue which he found he could ſo ill ſupport—"Believe it, dear Madam! [57] and believe, (what is true alſo)—that I have now no other engagement—no other attachment—and cannot but be—be truly ſenſible of your extraordinary merit."

"I will believe it," anſwered ſhe: "I will endeavour to believe it, for I find, that even if I am deceived, the deceit is dear to me."

Willoughby then kiſſed her hand with as much warmth as he could affect; and running over, in the breathleſs tremor which conſciouſneſs of his diſingenuous conduct occaſioned, a few common place ſentences about eternal gratitude and unalterable love; ſpeeches which have probably been repeated ten million of times with as little ſincerity but ſeldom with ſo much ſelf re⯑proof, he led her to talk of preparations, and equipages, and jewels; ſubjects on which ſhe entered with ſuch eaſe as ſhewed that her mind had been familiarized to conſider them, and that they were not without im⯑portance in her opinion. Poor Willough⯑by, who now felt his fate irretrievable, had [58] very different ſenſations. Oppreſſed and bewildered by a variety of ſufferings, yet compelled, by the part he had thus raſhly determined to act, to ſtifle them all, his prevailing idea was, that ſince the Rubicon was now paſſed, the ſooner this dreaded marriage was over the better for him; ſince his mind muſt then combat, with more force than it could now do, thoſe wild eccentri⯑cities, the offspring of deſpair, which were crouding faſt upon him. He therefore preſſed for an early day; not with the vehe⯑mence of love, but with that of a wretch who knowing he muſt die, wiſhes to hear his phyſician fix the period when his tor⯑ments are likely to end. Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man, however, either could not or would not diſcover this; and though his inflamed eyes, his ſhort ſighs, unſettled manner, and broken ſentences, gave him altogether the appearance rather of a man ſuffering under ſome recent calamity than of a favoured and fortunate lover on the point of obtaining his happineſs, the lady, either from her confi⯑dence [59] in her own charms, or from ſome other cauſe, was perfectly ſatisfied with his behaviour; and before he left her, pro⯑miſed that ſhe would not oppoſe the ar⯑rangement which ſhe underſtood to have been made by her father—that in three weeks he ſhould receive her hand.

This then was determined without poſſi⯑bility of recall; and Willoughby, too ſenſi⯑ble already of the weight of thoſe chains which he had thus haſtily forged for him⯑ſelf, now diſengaged himſelf as ſoon as poſſible, and ran out of the houſe, impa⯑tient to be alone, and to contemplate in the ſtillneſs of his own room the proſpect of miſery into which he had thus raſhly bound himſelf to ruſh. He walked very faſt, and as if he was flying from himſelf, towards his lodgings in Bond-ſtreet, where, as he paſſed along it, a croud of paſſengers near one of the croſſings impeded his paſſage. He regarded them not; but made his way eagerly among them, till he was imme⯑diately between a footman who waited at [60] the door of a coach, and a young lady who was coming out of a ſhop to ſtep into it. On his preſſing rather haſtily before her, the ſervant put him back with his hand. Willoughby, out of humour at that mo⯑ment with himſelf and with all the world, and fancying the action of the footman impertinent, ſpoke to him very harſhly and was almoſt provoked to ſtrike him, when the lady, who had her foot on the ſtep, ap⯑peared a good deal alarmed, and no ſooner heard the ſound of his voice thus menacing, than ſhe caught the ſervant's arm for ſup⯑port; and at the ſame moment Willough⯑by, who had not till then ſeen her face, be⯑held the lovely but pale and terrified coun⯑tenance of Celeſtina!

Thrown entirely off his guard, and not knowing what he did, he took the hand with which ſhe had ſupported herſelf againſt the ſervant. "Celeſtina!" cried he—"Oh God! is it you, Celeſtina?"

She looked at him with eyes where ſur⯑priſe was ſoftened by tenderneſs, and tried [61] to recover voice enough to utter more than—"Willoughby!" which the imme⯑diate emotion drew from her: but he gave her not time; for fixing his eyes on her's, all that ſhe had been to him, all that he be⯑lieved ſhe was now to another, and all that he had juſt agreed to be himſelf, ruſhed upon his recollection at once, and in an agony of grief, remorſe, and de⯑ſpair, he threw her hand from him, and turning away, he walked, or rather ran towards his lodgings as if he had been pur⯑ſued by the furies, where, without giving his ſervant time to open it, he rapped at the door with violence enough to break it down; ſo fearful he ſeemed of again ſeeing Celeſtina as ſhe paſſed in the coach, which, by the horſes being in that direction, would, he thought, come that way.

Farnham, his ſervant, who opened the door, was amazed at his impatience ſo un⯑like his uſual manner, and with ſtill more ſurpriſe ſaw him, inſtead of ſpeaking and enquiring for letters, as he always did when [62] he came in, and was particularly likely now to do after ſo long an abſence, ruſh by him as if he had not ſeen him; and hurrying up ſtairs by two ſteps at a time, ſhut the door of the dining room with a violence that ſhook the whole houſe, and turn the key.

This faithful ſervant had lived with him from the time of his leaving ſchool, and was more attached to his maſter than to any other perſon on earth. He had ſeen with deep concern the ſad change that had hap⯑pened in his health and in his temper, ſince that unfortunate night when he ſo ſuddenly left Alveſtone the year before, and had, in all his journies and all his illneſs, watched over him with aſſiduous and attentive care. He had often known him dejected, and al⯑moſt ſinking under his uncertainties and his diſappointments, but had never till now ob⯑ſerved ſuch fury in his eyes and marks of deſperation in his manner; and alarmed at the circumſtance of his having locked the door of his room, Farnham was immediately beſet with numberleſs fearful conjectures.

[63] He was aware that his maſter's affairs were far from being proſperous, and imagined it poſſible that he might be purſued for debt: and as he knew his pride would render ſuch a thing almoſt inſupportable, he feared leaſt in the ſudden agony to which it might ſub⯑ject him, he might commit ſome violence on himſelf. Willoughby's temper was na⯑turally very mild, and not eaſily inflamed to anger; but when that did happen, his anger was dreadful; and though Farnham had only once or twice ſeen it excited dur⯑ing his long ſervice, he knew how terrible it was when thoroughly rouſed.

The conjectures that Farnham enter⯑tained were not to be ſupported calmly; and though he had always received ſtrict orders never to enter the room where his maſter was buſy, till he rang or called for him, he was now ſtrongly tempted, yet dared not determine to diſobey his com⯑mands. He could not, however, forbear going to the door and liſtening. He heard his maſter utter deep and convulſive ſighs: [64] he heard him walking by ſtarts in the room; but, by the key's being left in the lock, he could ſee nothing. He then went ſoftly into the bed chamber; and from thence a defect in the door, which opened from it into the dining room, enabled him to diſtin⯑guiſh that Willoughby now ſat by a table on which his arms were thrown, and on them he reſted his head; while his hair, all in diſorder, concealed every part of his face: then in a moment ſtarting up, he traverſed the room with quick and uncer⯑tain ſteps, now claſping his hands together, now throwing them wildly abroad. At length he ſtopped, and ſtriking his fore⯑head, ſaid, in a voice rather reſembling groaning than ſpeaking—"Oh accurſed, accurſed wretch!—what haſt thou done!"

Still more alarmed by theſe words, and by beholding the frantic geſtures with which his maſter now leaned againſt the ſide of the chimney, now flew to the other ſide of the room, and now threw himſelf on a ſo⯑pha, Farnham again debated with himſelf [65] whether he ſhould not go in at any event. There was a couteau de chaſſe and a ſword hung up in the room, and two brace of piſtols in their caſes, which Farnham had juſt put there, loaded as they were when his maſter travelled; and the poor fellow fan⯑cied that on theſe, whenever he paſſed them, his maſter looked wildly eager. This might be ſome time fancy: but at length, either from accident or from his feeling at that inſtant ſome horrible tempta⯑tion to eſcape from the evils that juſt then appeared quite intolerable, Willoughby ſtopped with folded arms oppoſite to theſe inſtruments of deſtruction, and while his expreſſive countenance was marked with the ſevereſt anguiſh, he murmured inarti⯑culately ſome words which Farnham inter⯑preted as a determination to put an end to his ſufferings. Bent at any hazard to pre⯑vent his executing this fearful threat, the affrighted ſervant now ſearched with trem⯑bling hands for the lock, which he forgot he could not open. His maſter demanded, [66] in a voice which ſtruck him with terror, who was there? when luckily for him a thundering rap at the ſtreet door gave him hopes that ſome viſitors might be coming who might more properly and effectually interfere, and he flew down to let them in, regardleſs of Willoughby, who, coming out to the top of the ſtairs, called to him, and peremptorily ordered him to admit no⯑body.

It was Sir Philip Molyneux; who hav⯑ing juſt met Lord Caſtlenorth at the Miniſ⯑ter's levee, had heard from him that Wil⯑loughby, immediately on his arrival in town, had agreed to the concluſion of his marriage; and that in conſequence of it he had himſelf been attending the levee to haſ⯑ten the affair of the reverſionary titles, which, affair was likely to be ſpeedily concluded. Sir Philip, therefore, having received this intelligence, called as he went home to congratulate his brother in law, and to take him to dinner in Portman-ſquare.

[67] Little accuſtomed as Sir Philip was to make remarks on any body's appearance, and particularly on that of his inferiors, he was not withſtanding ſtruck with the coun⯑tenance of Farnham, as, pale and aghaſt, he opened the door to him; and as he went before him up ſtairs, he enquired what ailed him. "I hardly know indeed Sir," replied Farnham: "but my maſter, who came from Barnet only early this morning as you know I ſuppoſe Sir, off his Yorkſhire jour⯑ney, has been out ſomewhere ſince, and is come home in ſuch a humour as I am ſure I have never ſeen him in in all the years I have lived with him: be ſo good, Sir, however, as not to take notice that I ſpoke about it."

Sir Philip had no time to promiſe he would not, before they were at the door of the dining room, where Willoughby ſtood and ſternly ſaid to his ſervant—"How dare you, Sir, diſobey me in this manner? did I not tell you, ſtupid hound, that I would not be at home?"

[68] "Lord, Sir," cried Farmham in great diſtreſs, for he was little accuſtomed and could hardly bear to be thus harſhly re⯑proved—"Lord, Sir—it is only Sir Phi⯑lip—and I am ſure I thought—"

"Curſe on your thoughts!" cried Wil⯑loughby. "Blockhead—are you to think for me?"

"Hey day!" ſaid Sir Philip, "what's all this? Don't be angry with poor Farn⯑ham. I would come in, for I was impatient to wiſh you joy."

"Joy, Sir?—of what?"

"Why I have this moment ſeen Lord Caſtlenorth, who has told me that every thing is ſettled at laſt. Come, I'm very glad to hear it, for it muſt be owned that this buſi⯑neſs, George, has advanced but ſlowly. Well! ſo now 'tis to be done directly? The old peer was quite friſky upon it, and forgot his aſthma and his gout to ſtand till I was tired of hearing him, telling me of the regulation he had made as to your name: he becomes Earl and Viſcount Caſ⯑tlenorth; [69] and you take, as your title, that of Baron Ravenſburgh. I heard the hiſtory too of how that came into the family. Well, but George, you'll go dine with us. Lady Molyneux will be glad, perhaps, to hear about it, and to wiſh you joy."

"Joy—damnation rather!" muttered Willoughby, as, ſnatching away his hand, he fled to the other end of the room: then by an effort recovering himſelf a little, he returned towards Sir Philip, and ſaid, with forced calmneſs—"Prythee don't teize me with theſe hateful common place congratu⯑lations. Surely it is bad enough for a fellow to be forced to hear them afterwards, and indeed bad enough to be married, without having them rung in his ears for a month before hand."

Sir Philip, who now ſaw very plainly that his reluctance was by no means ſubdued, had no inclination to argue the matter with him. He had no idea why he might not be happy with Miſs Fitz-Hayman or any other woman of equal fortune: but whether he [70] was ſo or no, his own ſolicitude went no further than that his brother in law might not be reduced either to a ſtate of indigence ſuch as might diſgrace his alliance or com⯑pel him to borrow money of his relations; and as Willoughby's marriage with Miſs Fitz-Hayman would preclude the poſſibility of any ſuch awkward circumſtances, he heartily wiſhed it, and had of late forgot his uſual apathy to join with his wife in pro⯑moting it.

There was, he thought, no occaſion for argument in the preſent caſe, ſince the af⯑fair was now, whether Willoughby liked it or no, irrevocably fixed upon. He there⯑fore ſpared himſelf the fatigue of remarks or remonſtrance on Willoughby's behaviour, and only ſaid—"But you'll dine with us, George, to-day—will you not?"

"No, I cannot," replied Willoughby.

"To-morrow then. We ſhall have a large party, and dine exactly at ſeven o'clock.

"I will if I can. But I can engage for nothing. I hate to be fettered by engage⯑ments: [71] but if I can come I will. Shall I ring for your ſervants?"

"They are at the door," ſaid Sir Philip, who immediately went away, without hav⯑ing any great reaſon to be ſatisfied with the politeneſs of his brother in law. Of that, however, he thought not; and if the beha⯑viour of Willoughby afterwards occurred to him at all, it only created a momentary ſurpriſe, mingled with ſome degree of pity, which his abſurdity, and not his evident unhappineſs, excited.

His viſit, however, had the effect of rouſing Willoughby from that dreadful con⯑dition of mind into which the ſtep he had taken that morning in regard to Miſs Fitz-Hayman, and the ſudden ſight of Celeſtina, had thrown him. He now became able to collect his thoughts; and was at once con⯑ſcious of the general folly of his conduct, and of his cruel behaviour to Farnham, who was ſo hurt by having ſeen his maſter in ſuch a ſtate, and by the unkind and un⯑uſual way in which he had ſpoke to him, [72] that when the poor fellow came up to en⯑quire if he would pleaſe to dreſs, the tears were in his eyes, and he was hardly able to ſpeak.

Willoughby was of too noble a nature not to apologiſe for his fault the moment he felt it. He anſwered mildly that he ſhould dreſs directly, and then ſaid—"Farnham, I ſpoke angrily to you juſt now, and I am ſorry for it. I was vexed, and could not command my temper. You were wrong too in letting in Sir Philip Molyneux. Another time remember, that when I give orders to be denied I except nobody unleſs I particularly name them."

Poor Farnham dared not ſay why he then ventured to diſobey him; but in the moſt humble terms begged his pardon and ſaid he was very ſorry. "Well, well," cried Willoughby, with a deep ſigh, "and I am very ſorry, Farnham, that I was ſo fooliſhly paſſionate. Let us think no more of it." He then bade him get his things to dreſs, and tried, by taking up a book, to [73] divert his thoughts from himſelf, and ob⯑tain at leaſt a reſpite from the corroſive re⯑flections that purſued him; but it would not do: he threw the book away, and felt, not⯑withſtanding all his efforts, his wretched⯑neſs and impatience returning: while Farn⯑ham, who as he dreſſed his hair watched every turn of his countenance, ſaw but too plainly that his maſter was half diſtracted by ſomething into which he dared not en⯑quire. This gave a ſort of unquiet flow⯑neſs to his manner, which Willoughby ob⯑ſerving, was on the point of relapſing into that ſort of behaviour for which he had but the moment before expreſſed his ſorrow, and impetuouſly bade him mind what he was about and make haſte: then hardly ſuffering him to finiſh his hair, he ſtarted up, and putting on his cloaths in the haſte that denoted the unquietneſs of his mind, he ſent for a hackney coach, and ordered it to ſet him down at the hotel in Soho-ſquare. Farnham ſtill apprehending that ſome fatal event might follow all the agitation of [74] mind which he had witneſſed, now ap⯑proached again, and aſked if he ſhould be at home in the evening, or ſup at home? To which Willoughby, no longer able to check himſelf, anſwered—"no!" as he drew up the glaſs, in an accent that terrified poor Farnham; who, more and more con⯑firmed in his notion that ſomething was about to befall his maſter, now concluded that ſomething was a duel. The piſtols and the ſword indeed were ſtill hanging up in the dining room: but yet he could not be eaſy; and, after ſome conſideration, he determined to go and enquire among the ſervants at Sir Philip Molyneux's and at Lord Caſtlenorth's if they could at all gueſs what was the matter; and with moſt of the latter he was particularly acquainted, by having been much with them at Flo⯑rence and Naples when his maſter was laſt abroad.

CHAPTER IV.

IF Willoughby was ſo deeply affected by the ſight of Celeſtina, the ſudden ſhock ſhe had received from their abrupt meeting, and from his ſtrange behaviour, had on her an equally painful though a different ef⯑fect. That the impulſe of the moment had urged him to take her hand, made her hope that ſome remains of affection for her yet lingered in his boſom, and that his former regard was rather ſtifled by anger than an⯑nihilated by indifference. She knew that the firſt might be removed, and that ſhe might be reſtored to his friendſhip; but that if his heart had once become quite cold towards her, nothing could ever renew even that ſhare of tenderneſs with which ſhe could [76] learn, if not to be happy, at leaſt to be con⯑tent.

It was ſome time before ſhe could reco⯑ver from the agitation of ſpirits into which this unexpected interview had thrown her: but when ſhe at length became calm enough to reflect on it, ſhe determined to ſay nothing of having ſeen Willoughby to Lady Horatia, as ſhe knew it would ap⯑pear to her only a freſh inſtance of his un⯑worthy treatment of her; on which, how ſeverely ſoever ſhe felt it, ſhe did not love to hear any comments even from her beſt friends. With all the reſolution ſhe could collect, therefore, ſtifling her internal an⯑guiſh, ſhe prepared to go with a large party in the evening to Ranelagh.

While ſhe was dreſſing for this purpoſe, a ſervant brought up to her the following letter:

[80] Celeſtina could not peruſe ſuch a letter without a mixture of admiration and pity for the amiable unhappy writer. Though her reſolution in regard to Vavaſour could not be changed, ſhe thought that ſhe ſhould no longer delay acquainting Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone and Cathcart with the information ſhe had obtained relative to their ſiſter; but it required ſome conſideration, at leaſt in re⯑gard to Cathcart. The circumſtance of Emily's letter added to the flutter of ſpirits which the meeting in the morning had given her. Montague Thorold, who dined with Lady Horatia, and was to be one of their party at Ranelagh, contrived to be more than uſually importunate with her for more pity and favour than ſhe had lately ſhewn him: while the ladies, and Mr.How⯑ard, who joined them in the evening, com⯑pleted her anguiſh and confuſion, by talk⯑ing. of the marriage which was in a few days to take place between Miſs Fitz-Hayman and Mr. Willoughby. One of theſe was [81] acquainted with Mrs. Calder, and had heard from her that morning that every thing was ſettled, the title arranged, the equipages and liveries beſpoke, and the jewels and cloaths concluded upon, all of which ſhe detailed at great length; while another ſaid, that ſhe underſtood that the marriage was to take place at Caſtlenorth, and that from thence all the family were to proceed together to Italy, where they were to paſs a twelvemonth. All, however, agreed that it was certainly to be concluded immediately, and Celeſtina could not any longer entertain a doubt of it.

Though her heart had always revolted from the idea of Willoughby's union with Miſs Fitz-Hayman, ſhe had been now ſo long accuſtomed to think of it, that ſhe felt leſs poignant concern on that account, but if poſſible more than ever from his continued coldneſs, and the cruel neg⯑lect he had been guilty of in not anſwer⯑ing her letter. "That he marries ano⯑ther," cried ſhe, as ſhe reflected on it, "I [82] might learn to ſubmit to without murmur⯑ing, if it can contribute to his eaſe or hap⯑pineſs in any way; but that he ſhould quite deſert and forſake me after ſo many aſſur⯑ances of eſteem and regard, even when love was no longer in queſtion; that he ſhould diſdain to own that connection by blood, if he is ſure that it is ſo, which made him, with ſo much apparent reluctance, relinquiſh every other, that he ſhould with⯑out pity leave me to a deſtiny which owes its unhappineſs to him, ſeems ſo ſtrange, ſo unnatural, ſo unlike him!—If I could once ſee him, hear him talk to me with friendly calmneſs, and tell me that he felt for me fraternal affection, or even the re⯑gard of long acquaintance, even what his mother's ward might claim from him, I think I ſhould be comparatively happy, and ſhould have no farther wiſh than to hear ſometimes from himſelf that he was happy too. But to be thrown from him in this unfeeling and unfriendly way, to be for⯑gotten and abandoned as if I had been [83] found unworthy not only of his affection but of his remembrance—oh! it is too much."

Theſe reflections, and the unintereſting converſation of the company ſhe was with, to which ſhe was compelled to attend in order to eſcape the more irkſome importu⯑nity of Montague Thorold, ſerved but lit⯑tle to raiſe her ſpirits. They did not reach Ranelagh till a late hour: but on their en⯑trance, the firſt party they met was Lady Caſtlenorth, her daughter, and Lady Mo⯑lyneux. Captain Cavanaugh was on one ſide between the two former; and in deep conference with the latter was Captain Tho⯑rold.

The ladies, who could not avoid ſeeing Celeſtina, paſſed her with averted and haughty looks. Cavanaugh fixed his eyes on her with a look of bold enquiry, and Captain Thorold, as he paſſed his brother, ſaid—"Ho! Montague, are you there? I did not know you were in town my boy!" He then gave a ſignificant nod, as much [84] as to ſay—"Aye, aye, I ſee how you are engaged," and paſſed on, renewing with great ſeeming earneſtneſs his converſation with Lady Molyneux.

Though there was not in the world ano⯑ther ſet of people whom Celeſtina could be ſo little pleaſed to meet, and though ſhe heard throughout the room, and from every group that paſſed them, the report of Wil⯑loughby's marriage, with various comments and circumſtances, ſuch as every body thought themſelves at liberty to adorn it with, ſhe felt a ſort of ſatisfaction in ſeeing that he was not with them; and while there was not any thing ſhe really ſo ardently de⯑ſired as his happineſs, yet ſo contradictory is the human heart, that ſhe wiſhed to be⯑lieve he married Miſs Fitz-Hayman reluc⯑tantly, though a marriage under ſuch cir⯑cumſtances muſt above all other things ren⯑der him miſerable.

Montague Thorold, elated more than ever by hope, and encouraged to perſevere by Lady Horatia, having now too, in con⯑ſequence [85] of the purchaſe his father had made for him, more pretenſions to aſpire to her than his unſettled fortune had before given him; and ſanguinely interpreting her gentle refuſals, her friendly admonitions to deſiſt, as giving him all the encouragement ſhe could do, while her fate in regard to Willoughby was not abſolutely decided; was on this evening particularly preſſing and earneſt; while her languor and weari⯑neſs, the encouragement which ſhe was conſcious ſhe ſeemed to have given him, her pity and even her regard for him, with the certainty of his ardent love for her, gave her altogether the air of liſtening to him fa⯑vourably; and while her mind was fre⯑quently fixed on Willoughby, and ſhe hardly recollected that Montague Thorold was talking to her, ſhe ſeemed to be hear⯑ing the latter with complacency, and ap⯑proving of converſation which it was not neceſſary for her to anſwer.

At length the ſhort time Lady Horatia meant to paſs at Ranelagh was over. She [86] was fatigued, and Celeſtina rejoiced to hear her ſay ſhe ſhould go home. As Montague Thorold and Mr. Howard were with them, the other gentlemen remained with the ladies who intended to ſtay longer; and Lady Horatia taking the arm of her relation, left Celeſtina to the care of Mon⯑tague Thorold; and they were in this order proceeding towards the entrance, when ſtanding near one of the niches, his hat over his eyes, and his head leaning againſt the wall, they ſaw themſelves cloſe to Wil⯑loughby, who was, in that attitude, liſtening to ſome very earneſt converſation from Va⯑vaſour, who ſtood by him.

The croud about the entrance was con⯑ſiderable; and Celeſtina, holding by the arm of Montague Thorold, was ſo near them, that they both at the ſame moment ſaw her. Willoughby ſtarted as if he had been croſſed by a ſpectre; and without waiting to look a ſecond time, he puſhed through the croud and diſappeared; but Vavaſour came up to Celeſtina, and ſaid [87] in his uſual way, taking abruptly the hand that was at liberty—"You muſt give me leave, Miſs De Mornay, to ſee you to your carriage."

Celeſtina, dreading to give occaſion to any thing like altercation between him and Thorold, anſwered coldly but civilly, that ſhe thanked him; but Thorold, who had not forgotten or forgiven the mortification ſhe received from him at York and on other occaſions, could not now help reſent⯑ing what ſeemed to be a repetition of ſuch inſulting behaviour. He therefore, walk⯑ing very haſtily on with Celeſtina, ſaid—"No, Sir, there is no occaſion for you to give yourſelf that trouble; for Miſs De Mornay is under my care."

"I did not mean, Sir," replied Vava⯑ſour fiercely, "to aſk your leave to wait on this lady; and I beg you will not take the liberty to addreſs yourſelf to me."

"Pray, Mr. Vavaſour," ſaid Celeſtina, trembling, "do not perſecute and terrify me with this ſort of behaviour." She then [88] ſaw by his countenance, and by the eager way in which he graſped the hand he held, that he was very far from being ſober, and her terror encreaſed.

"I did not mean to perſecute or terrify you," cried he: "no, by heaven! But damme if I can with any temper ſee that fel⯑low always at your ear, and affecting to be favoured. Come, come, leave the pedant to his meditations, and don't forſake your old friends. The petticoats that he is to wear are his protection."

"And this lady's preſence, Sir," ſaid Thorold, "is your's, or be aſſured I ſhould anſwer you in a very different way."

Celeſtina, now alarmed even to agony by the menacing look of Vavaſour, who quitted her hand and ſtepped before Thorold, ſcreamed out to Mr. Howard and Lady Horatia; but the croud had ſo far divided them from her, that neither heard her, and before ſhe could effectually interfere to pre⯑vent it, ſuch words had paſſed between Vavaſour and Thorold, as nothing but blood [89] is, by the laws of honour, ſupppoſed to atone for. Celeſtina, who heard them in affright not to be deſcribed, now diſengaged herſelf from both of them, and not know⯑ing what ſhe did, only having ſome con⯑fuſed idea that ſhe might meet Captain Thorold in the room, ſhe ran back thither alone.

Her beauty and her terror, whether it was thought real or affected, gave her, in the opinion of the firſt groups ſhe met, the appearance of ſome young creature deſirous to attract attention. Three or four young men ſurrounded her, and enquired what ſervice they could do her. Breathleſs and ready to faint, ſhe anſwered that ſhe was in ſearch of Captain Thorold.

"Egad," cried one of them, "Captain Thorold is a deviliſh lucky fellow."

"And a very taſteleſs one," ſaid ano⯑ther, "to leave ſuch a lovely creature to ſeek for him."

Celeſtina now underſtood how entirely they miſtook her; and collecting ſome pre⯑ſence [90] of mind, ſaid—"For heaven's ſake, gentlemen, aſſiſt me to find him. His brother is engaged in a quarrel: a quarrel, I fear, on my account—and—"

She would have gone on, but unhappily for her the party of men who ſurrounded her were all of that deſcription which are called bucks, who fancy they diſtinguiſh themſelves by ſhewing how little they de⯑ſerve the character of men. One or two of theſe hearing of a quarrel, found they had no diſpoſition to engage where there might be trouble or danger, and therefore walked away; but three others had now time to conſider the eminent beauty of Celeſtina, and to have ſettled in their own minds that ſhe was a girl without character, which her being alone, and even what ſhe had told them of a quarrel on her account, ſeemed to authoriſe: they were therefore all deter⯑mined not to let her go; and far from thinking of relieving the terror in which they ſaw her, and which they indeed be⯑lieved to be a mere piece of acting, two [91] of them took her arms within theirs, and held with her ſuch diſcourſe as encreaſed her alarm almoſt to diſtraction. She now knew not what ſhe ſaid. Terror for herſelf had ſo mingled itſelf with her fears of what might happen between Vavaſour and Tho⯑rold, that ſhe ſometimes angrily entreated her perſecutors to releaſe her, then humbly beſought them to ſee for Captain Thorold, till at length, as they led her again towards the door, her fears were become inſup⯑portable, and ſhrieking, ſhe entreated them rather to kill her than expoſe her to ſuch horror as ſhe felt. At this moment, how⯑ever, by a ſudden ſpring, ſhe diſengaged herſelf: Willoughby was returning alone along the paſſage: ſhe ſaw him, and threw herſelf into his arms.

"Save me, ſave me, Willoughby!" was all ſhe could utter, before, quite overcome with variety of terrors, ſhe became almoſt ſenſeleſs; her head reſting on his ſhoulder, and his arms ſupporting her.

[92] He looked ſternly on the young men, and demanded the occaſion of the lady's alarm. They replied that they knew no⯑thing more than that ſhe had run into the room alone, enquiring for a Captain ſome⯑body, and that they had endeavoured to find the cauſe of her fright and to aſſiſt her. Willoughby, who did not believe this, but who was more ſolicitous to recover the fainting Celeſtina than to puniſh theſe idle boys, waved with his hand for them to be gone, and they immediately obeyed; for it was the defenceleſs only they had courage to inſult. Willoughby then, by the aſſiſt⯑ance of a gentleman whom he happened to know, led Celeſtina, who was juſt ſenſible, into the room where the ladies cloaks are received; and while his friend ran to get her a glaſs of water, Willoughby placed himſelf by her, and with one hand round her waiſt, ſupported her with the other; nor could he forbear, as he gazed on her pale but ſtill lovely countenance, preſſing her to that heart which had been ſo long [93] fondly devoted to her. In a very ſhort time ſhe drew a deep ſigh; and recovering recollection, begged his pardon, in a voice hardly articulate, for the trouble ſhe had given him. She remembered that to the huſband, the lover of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, it muſt be trouble, and ſhe withdrew her⯑ſelf from his arms before he could aſk her, (ſo abſorbed was he in the mingled ſenſa⯑tions of pain and pleaſure,) what had occa⯑ſioned the alarm in which he had ſeen her. With a ſigh ſtill deeper than her's, he now made this enquiry. She anſwered, but not very diſtinctly, that high words had ariſen between Mr. Vavaſour and Mr. Montague Thorold, and that not able to check their impetuoſity, nor to overtake Lady Horatia and Mr. Howard, who were gone on be⯑fore, ſhe had fooliſhly run back into the room to find ſomebody who might part them, when thoſe young men had ſur⯑rounded and inſulted her, till in her fear ſhe knew not what ſhe did.

[94] "And all this terror—all this exceſſive apprehenſion, was for Mr. Montague Tho⯑rold?" ſaid Willoughby, in a faultering but not a tender voice: then, as if he had diſcovered nothing but what he had before known enough of to be eaſy under, he ſeemed at once to repreſs all appearance of intereſt as far as it related to Celeſtina, and ſaid, with forced coldneſs—"I dare ſay, Madam, you have nothing to apprehend for his precious life. However, I will ſeek my friend Vavaſour, and take care at leaſt for to-night that it goes no farther, if you will tell me where I can find him, and whi⯑ther I ſhall have the honour of conducting you."

Celeſtina was heart ſtruck by the manner in which this was uttered. She turned her expreſſive eyes on his, to enquire whether he could really behave thus cruelly towards her; his eyes met her's; but as if he could not bear her looks he turned them away towards the door, where his friend now en⯑tered, with the water, and almoſt at the [95] ſame moment Mr. Howard came in, and told her that Lady Horatia had been in great alarm at her not following her to the coach, where ſhe now waited for her. She did not give him time to finiſh the ſentence, before ſhe eagerly aſked if he had ſeen Mr. Montague Thorold.

"Seen him," cried Mr. Howard; "no certainly. Is he not with you?"

Celeſtina would then have related what had happened; but her returning appre⯑henſions that ſomething fatal might have already been the conſequence, and the look with which Willoughby ſurveyed her, en⯑tirely deprived her of the power of ſpeech; and Willoughby himſelf in a few words re⯑lated to Mr. Howard what ſhe had told him. "I do not know," added he, "what ground Miſs de Mornay has had for the alarm ſhe has been in; but I know Vavaſour was not ſober, and poſſibly may have been wrong headed: it will therefore be neceſ⯑ſary perhaps for me to enquire after him; and as you Madam, ſeem to be now re⯑covered, [96] and are ſafe in the protection of Mr. Howard, I will wiſh you good night." Having hurried over theſe words, he bowed to Mr. Howard, then with equal coolneſs to Celeſtina, and diſappeared.

A ſhower of tears, the firſt ſhe had been able to ſhed, fell from the eyes of Celeſtina as ſhe loſt ſight of him. Theſe tears how⯑ever, and the water ſhe had drank, a little relieved her; and Mr. Howard again re⯑preſenting the uneaſineſs in which he had left Lady Horatia, ſhe collected ſtrength enough to avail herſelf of the aſſiſtance he offered her; and leaning on his arm, reached the coach, where ſhe was compelled, however unequal to the recital, to relate to Lady Horatia what had happened within the twenty minutes, (for more had not elapſed,) that ſhe had loſt ſight of her.

Lady Horatia expreſſed great apprehen⯑ſions for Montague Thorold; and thought, with great appearance of truth, that unleſs he had gone immediately away with Vava⯑ſour to decide their difference that evening, [97] he would have ſought them again, and have relieved them from the extreme apprehen⯑ſions which he muſt imagine they muſt be under on his account.—Theſe conjectures, which were but too well founded, and which they had no means of ſatisfying, kept Lady Horatia and Celeſtina awake the whole night: towards morning, the former, who was leſs deeply intereſted; and more accuſtomed to the painful events of life than Celeſtina, found ſome repoſe; but Celeſtina herſelf was up by break of day, liſtening to every noiſe in the ſtreet, and trembling every mo⯑ment leaſt ſhe ſhould hear of ſome fatal acci⯑dent: and her reflections, which no longer offered her any thing to hope, were buſy in repreſenting and magnifying all the evils which ſhe had to apprehend.

CHAPTER V.

THE cruel ſuſpenſe as to the extraordi⯑nary diſappearance of Montague Thorold with Vavaſour the evening before, laſted till near ten o'clock; when, as Lady Horatia and Celeſtina were ſitting at a breakfaſt⯑table, where the uneaſineſs they were both under did not allow them to eat, a ſer⯑vant announced Captain Thorold.—Celeſ⯑tina turned pale as death at the name; but there was no time to expreſs any part of the fear ſhe felt before he entered.

His air was aſſuming, confident, and what the French call glorieux. But from that Ce⯑leſtina could judge nothing; for ſhe knew he had too little regard for his brother to have been much affected at any thing that might have befallen him. He paid his compliments in the common form to Lady Horatia, who [99] was too much concerned to be able to anſwer them; and then turning to the ſilent, trem⯑bling Celeſtina, he ſaid, with an unfeeling ſmile, "Well, Madam, your young cham⯑pion is living."

"Good God," cried Celeſtina, "has he ever then been in danger?" "Yes," replied the Captain, "he has been in all the danger that a man can be who has a brace of piſtols fired at him; and is now in as much as is uſual to a man who has a ball lodged in his ſhoulder."

Celeſtina could not ſpeak; ſhe could with difficulty breathe: but Lady Horatia now eagerly enquired the particulars, and learned, that in conſequence of violent language that paſſed between Vavaſour and Montague Thorold, after Celeſtina left them the pre⯑ceding evening, a challenge had paſſed, and a meeting been appointed in Chelſea Fields, at ſeven o'clock in the morning;—that Thorold, after quitting Vavaſour, had in vain endea⯑voured to find out Lady Horatia and Ce⯑leſtina, and meeting his brother, and relating to him what had happened, was by him diſ⯑ſuaded from attempting it, as he could not [100] ſee them without informing them of what had paſſed, and was yet to happen; that he had therefore gone home with Captain Tho⯑rold, who had, at the appointed time, attended him to the field, where Vavaſour was with a friend; and where, the preliminaries being ſoon ſettled, each fired without effect; but neither declaring themſelves ſatisfied, they fired again, and Montague Thorold received a ball in his ſhoulder, which was not extracted when his brother left him at his lodgings, whither he was immediately conveyed, and where he was attended by an eminent ſurgeon. "And is he in danger, Sir," ſaid Celeſtina, with all that tremulous tenderneſs in her voice that her extreme ſenſibility gave her—"Is he in danger? is he in pain?"

Captain Thorold gave her a look which ſeemed to ſay "Humph"—it is true, then, that you are violently in love with this, brother of mine: and then, anſwered—"The ſurgeon, on whoſe ſkill I have great reaſon to rely, does not ſeem to think him in danger; but till the ball is extracted, which will be attend⯑ed with pain enough, it is not, I fancy, eaſy to ſpeak very poſitively.—However, Miſs de [101] Mornay, Montague wont complain of the pain, let it be as ſevere as it will, while he recollects that he ſuffers in your defence, and hears, what I ſhall not fail to relate, how dearly you are intereſted for him."

Celeſtina could not ſay that this unlucky affair did not originate about her; indeed, ſhe had not at that moment ſtrength to enter on any explanation; nor could ſhe deny, that ſhe was extremely concerned, or make Cap⯑tain Thorold comprehend that for a ſtranger, under the ſame circumſtances, ſhe ſhould have been greatly, if not equally ſorry:—As to Lady Horatia, who hoped that this accident would operate deciſively on behalf of Mon⯑tague, ſhe rather encouraged than contra⯑dicted the idea that his brother ſeemed to entertain of Celeſtina's partiality towards him: And now the Captain, with as much uncon⯑cern as if nothing had happened, ſeemed only deſirous of diſplaying his own conſequence and his own perfections: as if to convince them both, that for a woman, who had ever ſeen him and his brother together, to prefer the latter, was an inſtance of moſt terrible want of diſcernment. Several times was Celeſtina, [102] who could hardly ſupport herſelf, on the point of withdrawing; but ſhe thought, that were ſhe to quit the room, it would look ſtill more as if ſhe was ſinking under her apprehenſions; and ſhe beſides feared, that were ſhe abſent, the zeal of Lady Horatia would induce her to explain to Captain Thorold more of her wiſhes and projects in regard to her and his brother than, feeling as ſhe did the impoſſibi⯑lity of their ever taking place, ought in diſ⯑cretion or in juſtice to be talked of.

For theſe reaſons, wretched and diſtreſſed as ſhe was, ſhe had yet reſolution enough to remain in her place; till at length Captain Thorold, having paraded about himſelf for near half an hour, withdrew.

Then it was, that, from the converſation of her friend, Celeſtina underſtood how much ſuch an event would be expected to affect her ſentiments in favour of Montague Thorold; and how impoſſible Lady Horatia conſidered it for her, after all the ſufferings he muſt ſuſtain on her account, to delay rewarding thoſe ſuf⯑ferings and his long and ardent attachment to her longer than till his recovery: of which, notwithſtanding what Captain Thorold had [103] ſaid of the poſſibility of danger, ſhe ſeemed not to doubt; though ſhe expreſſed great concern for the pain he muſt endure, and great anxiety to be informed of his actual ſi⯑tuation. To all that ſhe ſaid, Celeſtina hard⯑ly anſwered a word—her heart was too much oppreſſed; and ſhe could ſay nothing that would not appear either like inſenſibility, in⯑gratitude, or like the anxious ſolicitude of love. She wiſhed to avoid either: ſhe wiſhed to be alone; and though the determination Lady Horatia almoſt immediately formed to viſit Montague Thorold herſelf, was a mea⯑ſure which muſt ſtrongly confirm all the re⯑ports that ſhe wiſhed to diſcourage, yet it releaſed her to her own reflections, and ſhe was glad at that moment to ſee her friend depart.

Her own reflections, to which ſhe was now left, were moſt uneaſy—She knew that ſuch an affair muſt unavoidably be much and im⯑mediately talked of: ſhe knew how much it would be miſrepreſented, and what conclu⯑ſions would be made upon it. The expreſſion uſed by Willoughby the evening before ſtill vibrated in her ears: "What! and is all this [104] terror, all this apprehenſion, for Montague Thorold." It was diſpleaſing then to him that ſhe ſhould feel an intereſt for Montague Thorold—and the little tenderneſs he had ap⯑peared to ſhew her, was repreſſed the moment he underſtood who was the ſubject of her alarm—conſcious that hopeleſs as ſhe had long been of his affection, and ſubmitting to the neceſſity of their ſeparation, ſhe had yet never beſtowed on another the heart he had reſigned, ſhe could not bear to think how much every circumſtance had contributed to make him think, that ſhe had lightly given it to the firſt candidate; nor could her mind dwell without extreme concern, on the pain this affair would give the elder Mr. Thorold, whoſe hopes were, ſhe well knew, centered in his youngeſt ſon, and who would not only be diſtreſſed by the ſickneſs and danger to which he had thus expoſed himſelf, but he hurt at his having acted ſo contrary to thoſe prin⯑ciples he had always endeavoured to incul⯑cate, as to giving or receiving a challenge.—Nor were the ſufferings of Montague Thorold himſelf the leaſt part of her concern: ſhe apprehended he might be long confined in [105] great pain; he might perhaps loſe his arm, or even his life: and while ſhe regretted the raſhneſs which had been the occaſion of this hazard, ſhe could not but acknowledge, that it was impoſſible a young man of ſpirit could otherwiſe have anſwered the unprovoked fe⯑rocity of Vavaſour.

Of him ſhe thought with terror; and knowing that he was capable of any impro⯑priety in the humour he was now in, ſhe gave immediate orders, that if he came ſhe ſhould be denied.

All the circumſtances of the preceding evening, which the fear that had beſet her during the latter part of it had for a while driven from her recollection, now returned to it; and the repeated intelligence ſhe had re⯑ceived throughout the day of Willoughby's marriage, all the particulars with which it had been related, the happy looks of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, the proud triumph that ſat on the features of her mother, and the forced friend⯑ſhip with which Lady Molyneux ſeemed to have connected herſelf with perſons who were ſo lately the objects of her averſion, all con⯑firmed [106] the reports that were in circulation, ſo as to put their truth beyond a doubt.

In a few days ſhe was to hear of their actually being married: to liſten again to the detail of their nuptial ſplendor, perhaps to witneſs them: ſhe was to be ſurrounded by a thouſand im⯑pertinent people who would enquire and talk to her about the duel; and, with an heart ſo op⯑preſſed, muſt attend to them with patience, and anſwer them with civility. The whole proſpect before her was too unpleaſant; ſhe fancied it impoſſible to be endured; and re⯑ſolved to attempt, though at the hazard of appearing ungrateful, perhaps of diſobliging her beſt and almoſt her only friend, to ſo⯑licit leave to go down to Jeſſy, at leaſt till the public converſation ſhould have been turned to ſome other topic, and the public curioſity no longer excited by the marriage of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, or the rencontre of Vavaſour and Thorold.

The natural ſoftneſs of her heart made her, among all theſe ſources of peculiar uneaſineſs, really and tenderly intereſted for Montague Thorold: and ſhe awaited the return of Lady Horatia with as much ſolicitude as ſhe could [107] have felt if a beloved brother had been in ſuch a ſituation: perhaps ſhe would have felt more for nobody but Willoughby himſelf. It was, therefore, a great relief to her haraſſed ſpirits, when ſhe heard, that while Captain Thorold had been in Park-ſtreet, the bullet had been extracted; that no bone had been injured by it, and that he was in as good a way as could be expected; his ſurgeon de⯑claring, that from the nature of the wound, and the good conſtitution of his patient, he. thought him in no danger, and ſhould pro⯑bably, at the end of a fortnight, diſmiſs him with his arm in a ſling.

The ſatisfaction Celeſtina expreſſed on this account, was not however increaſed, when Lady Horatia added, that far from complain⯑ing of his ſufferings, he exulted and rejoiced in them; flattering himſelf that ſhe for whom he could willingly have riſked an hundred lives if he had poſſeſſed them, would feel ſome pity for him; and knowing how much power, in ſuch a heart as hers, that ſenti⯑ment had to produce others ſtill more fa⯑vourable.

[108] Lady Horatia then went on to ſay very ſeriouſly to Celeſtina, that ſhe ought no longer to trifle with ſuch a man, but reſolve imme⯑diately to give him her hand: not only as the reward of his merit, but to preclude the dan⯑gerous pretenſions of Vavaſour: "to whoſe perſeverance," ſaid ſhe, "no refuſal, no re⯑pulſe ſeems to put an end."

"Deareſt Madam," ſaid Celeſtina, did I ever trifle with Mr. Thorold—ſurely I never meant it—ſo far from it, I have an hundred times regretted that your Ladyſhip's partia⯑lity towards him, and the influence you have and ought to have over me, have combined to keep him in an error, which all my candid dealing with him has not had the power to refute. I have told him, whenever he has urged the ſubject, that he is in poſſeſſion of my eſteem and of my friendſhip, but that for my love I have it not to beſtow."

"But he is content, my dear, with your eſteem, with your friendſhip; and knows that, in ſuch a heart as yours, love will follow his attachment to you; eſpecially as you now ſurely cannot alledge that any other perſon poſſeſſes it."

[109] Celeſtina, too conſcious of all theſe circum⯑ſtances that ought long ſince to have induced her to withdraw it from Willoughby, yet equally conſcious that ſhe could never feel for another that degree of affection of which ſhe had been ſenſible for him, was ſilent a moment or two, and then ſaid, "Dear Lady Horatia, why muſt I marry at all? while you afford me your protection can I be happier; and ſhould I be unhappy enough to loſe it, ſhould I not be more likely to meet content even with my ſmall and humble for⯑tune, if I remained ſingle, than if I gave my hand where I have no power to beſtow my heart."

"I am amazed," replied Lady Horatia, "that with ſuch very good ſenſe as you poſ⯑ſeſs, you would accuſton yourſelf to cheriſh theſe childiſh and girliſh notions: what is this love, without feeling all the violence of which, you ſuppoſe it impoſſible to be happy?"

"Dear Madam," cried Celeſtina, inter⯑rupting her, "have I not heard you ſay, that you once was ſenſible of it yourſelf; and that having been compelled to quit the man of your choice, you conſidered ſuch a neceſſity [110] as a heavy affliction, and that it rendered moſt of the occurrences of your ſubſequent life indifferent to you?"

Yes, you have heard me ſay ſo—I merely acknowledged a folly, a weakneſs, which I pretended not to defend in myſelf, and cer⯑tainly not to encourage in you.—What has been the life of this man, whom I called, in the romantic ſimplicity of ſixteen, my firſt love? When my father parted us, and I was compelled by his authority to give my hand to General Howard, he was a younger bro⯑ther, with very little fortune. In a twelve-month afterwards, the death of his elder bro⯑ther and an uncle gave him a very large for⯑tune; and he quitted the navy, where he had, for ſo young a man, highly diſtinguiſhed himſelf, and with his profeſſion he ſeemed to reſign his virtues. He married a woman to⯑wards whom he profeſſed himſelf indifferent; and whoſe only recommendation was a for⯑tune nearly as large as his own. To her he behaved with neglect, which ſhe repaid with ſcorn and infidelity. They ſeemed to agree in nothing but mutual extravagance; till at length they parted, and he now lives in [111] France the greateſt part of the year; at other times wanders about the world, to gratify his taſte for variety, and fly from thoſe corroſive reflections which muſt purſue him who has ruined his health and his fortune by de⯑bauchery. Can I, when I conſider all this, help deſpiſing myſelf for the pain I felt at being ſeparated from ſuch a man; and ought I not rather to rejoice at what once appeared an inſupportable misfortune?

"Ah, Madam," ſaid Celeſtina, "it is well if by theſe reflections you have been enabled to conquer thoſe remains of uſeleſs regret which might otherwiſe have embittered your life: but give me leave to aſk, ſince there is now no danger of renewing them, give me leave to aſk, whether you ſincerely believe that this gentleman, had he married you, would have paſſed a life as blameable? You have told me that he was paſſionately attached to you: you now ſay, that to the lady he married he was indifferent: ſurely to that may be imputed all his errors.—His mind became unhinged when he loſt her to whom it was devoted, and he aggravated himſelf the cruelty of his deſtiny. To you [112] he might have been an excellent huſband, becauſe he loved you; but loſing the poſſ⯑ibility of being happy, he loſt the wiſh to be reſpectable; and ſince he could not live with you, cared not with whom or how he lived."

"There may be ſome truth," ſaid Lady Horatia, "in your remarks; but to be tole⯑rably eaſy, Celeſtina, in this world, you muſt learn to be more of an Optimiſt; and to believe, that whatever happens, could not, nor ought not to have been otherwiſe. Thus the interference of Lady Caſtlenorth, whatever might have been her motives, has ſaved you from a marriage that might have been a hide⯑ous crime; thus, not to enumerate other in⯑ſtances that muſt occur to your recollection; thus, the wild brutality of Vavaſour, and even the wound of Montague, will all contri⯑bute finally to good, and produce that hap⯑pineſs for you with him, which I do not be⯑lieve you would have found with any other perſon."

To this doctrine Celeſtina could not agree. But the fear and fatigue ſhe had within the laſt twenty-four hours undergone, diſqualified her [113] for any farther diſcuſſion of the ſubject at pre⯑ſent, or for the attempt ſhe meant to make to prevail on Lady Horatia to allow her to go down to Jeſſy for a few weeks; her eyes were indeed ſo heavy, her complexion ſo pale in conſequence of her long agitation, that now the immediate fears for Montague Thorold's life were over, Lady Horatia adviſed her to take ſome repoſe; a propoſal which ſhe glad⯑ly accepted; and in deſpite of the variety of uneaſineſs ſhe ſtill laboured under, exhauſted nature obtained for her a few hours reſpite in ſleep: though ſhe was, in her previous con⯑templations, ſo far from aſſenting heartily to the reſigned philoſophy of Lady Horatia, that ſhe thought with anguiſh of the fate of Willoughby, who might, ſhe feared, by the ſame diſappointments in the early part of his life, become quite unlike what he once was; and from his cruel neglect of her ſince he had been in London, ſhe already fancied ſhe ſaw that this change had begun.

But could ſhe for one moment have ſeen the real ſtate of that mind whoſe virtues ſhe believed to be tarniſhed, ſhe would have found it as worthy as ever of her tenderneſs, and [114] entitled to all her pity. Tormented by an affection which he could not indulge for one woman, and entangled by a ſeries of perverſe events in an engagement with another; em⯑barraſſed in his circumſtances, and diſcontent⯑ed with himſelf; his whole life paſſed in a continual tumult of contending paſſions; and whatever means he took to calm and mitigate them ſeemed only to irritate his ſufferings.—Thus, when he left his own lodgings on the day of his interview with Miſs Fitz-Hayman and his meeting Celeſtina, he went to the hotel where Vavaſour uſually lived when he was in town; and where it happened that a party of their mutual acquaintance that day dined: this prevented his having any con⯑verſation with Vavaſour, which, though it might have contributed but little to relieve his vexation as to Montague Thorold, would have eaſed his heart by unburthening it to his friend; and Vavaſour drank ſo much, that there was afterwards no hopes of his hearing him rationally. With him he was prevailed upon, at a late hour, to go to Ranelagh;—where he ſaw Celeſtina again with the very man to whom he had been ſo repeatedly told [115] ſhe had engaged herſelf; and there, though Celeſtina happened not to ſee them together, he was compelled to take ſeveral turns with Lady Caſtlenorth, her daughter, and his ſiſter; thus confirming, by his appearance in public with the two former, what it was in⯑deed too late to retract, though he had already moſt bitterly repented it.

The quarrel between Vavaſour and Mon⯑tague Thorold, of which his ſuddenly quitting the place where he met Celeſtina was partly the occaſion (for had he ſtaid he might have prevented it), added to the conviction he now had that Thorold was very ſoon to be her huſband; and increaſed his vexation, in de⯑ſpite of all that reaſon could ſay to counteract the effect of it. That reaſon repeatedly aſked him—if Celeſtina had really been brought up and acknowledged as his ſiſter, and had with ſo ſmall a fortune been addreſſed by Tho⯑rold, and herſelf approved him, whether he could in ſuch a caſe have made any reaſonable objection? He was compelled to anſwer no! yet his heart revolted againſt the aſſent which common ſenſe urged him to give to a mar⯑riage which differed in nothing from what [116] would then have been the caſe, but in early prejudice. He never could learn to conſider Celeſtina as related to him by blood; nor did all the pains he had taken to learn the truth convince him of it; though he dared not act as if he wholly diſbelieved it. Yet ſo per⯑verſe is an heart under the influence of ſuch paſſion as he felt, that while he had relin⯑quiſhed her, and agreed to marry another, left that relationſhip ſhould really exiſt, he deteſt⯑ed Thorold for having, as he believed, poſ⯑ſeſſed himſelf of thoſe affections, which, other⯑wiſe than as her brother, he had owned he dared not claim.

When he left Celeſtina under the care of Mr. Howard at Ranelagh the preceding even⯑ing, he had gone, as he promiſed, in ſearch of Vavaſour; but not finding him any where about the room, or in the avenues to the Ro⯑tunda, he had gone to his lodgings, and waited there till near four in the morning.—He then left orders with his ſervant to ſend for him the moment his maſter came; but Vavaſour, inſtead of returning to his lodg⯑ings at all that evening, ſlept ſomewhere elſe; and only called there in a hackney-coach at [117] half paſt five o'clock to take his piſtols; and his ſervant being ordered to attend him, with the ſurgeon, there was no poſſibility of his man giving Willoughby notice; and of courſe he could do nothing to ſtop a ren⯑contre of which he did not hear till after it was over.

Vavaſour, who then came to him, was not ſober: and Willoughby ſaw, with more con⯑cern than ſurpriſe, that the habits his friend had acquired ſince his laſt abſence were be⯑coming inveterate, and were ruining alike his conſtitution, his fortune, and his underſtand⯑ing. Though he himſelf deteſted Montague Thorold, and curſed the hour when he had put Celeſtina under the protection of his fa⯑ther, and by that means thrown him in her way; he was; too generous, even to an enemy, not to feel that Vavaſour had behaved with unwarrantable brutality; and notwith⯑ſtanding his long friendſhip for him, he felt too, that had he been as ſucceſsful as he be⯑lieved. Thorold to be, all that friendſhip would have been cancelled.

He was vexed, however, at the converſa⯑tion which this fooliſh buſineſs muſt occaſion; [118] and in which he knew the name of Celeſtina muſt be joined with that of Montague Tho⯑rold: and when Vavaſour ſpoke with ſome triumph of his having chaſtiſed the young pedant, Willoughby, with a peeviſhneſs very unuſual with him, ſaid, he heartily wiſhed he had let it alone.

From the little converſation he had with Lady Caſtlenorth the evening before, he found ſhe expected him to wait on them the next day. Reluctantly, and with an aching heart, he had then given a ſort of promiſe, and with ſtill more regret he recollected it. The ſun now never roſe for him but to bring him a renewal of miſery; and his dejection never left him, but to give place to paroxyſms of paſſion and fits of fruitleſs deſpair.

As the hour approached when he knew he was expected at the houſe of his uncle, his unwillingneſs to go increaſed. Farn⯑ham, who now anxiouſly watched all his looks, ſaw a deeper gloom come upon him: he ſaw him take out ſeveral letters, read them, replace them, then ſnatch up a pen, write a few lines, and hurry a-croſs the room as if undecided what to do. At length he wrote [119] a few lines, ſealed the note, and put it in his pocket. Farnham had heard a great deal of the duel that had happened the evening be⯑fore, and knew it was about Miſs de Mornay, and that a gentleman had been wounded dan⯑gerouſly. He had heard converſation be⯑tween his maſter and Vavaſour, and ſuppoſed, from their manner, that they parted in anger. This circumſtance put it in his head, which was rather an honeſt than a clear one, that ſome other affair of honour, in which his maſter was concerned, was ſtill in agitation; and he ſo thoroughly perſuaded himſelf of this, that he determined to obſerve narrowly every thing that happened, and to take all poſſible precautions againſt his maſter's hav⯑ing ſuch an accident beſal him as had hap⯑pened to Mr. Montague Thorold,

For this purpoſe he attached himſelf very cloſely to the hole in the door between the dining-room and the bed-chamber; and when he was ſummoned, by a furious ring, to at⯑tend him, he was under the neceſſity of firſt ſlipping ſoftly down ſtairs, and then running up to aſk his commands.

[120] Willoughby gave him two notes, and aſk⯑ed if the groom was within. On hearing he he was not: "Then go yourſelf," ſaid he, "with theſe two notes: no anſwer is required to either: return as ſoon as you can."—Farnham promiſing to be expeditious, left him; and reading the directions, found one to be, to Miſs de Mornay, the other to Mr. Vavaſour. This, with all he knew of his maſter's former attachment and embarraſſing doubts about Celeſtina, and all that had hap⯑pened that evening before, and that morn⯑ing, convinced him beyond a doubt, that another duel would happen, which he ima⯑gined it to be his peculiar duty to prevent.—He was not very fertile in expedients: but it occurred to him that the beſt way would be to carry both theſe letters, and at the ſame time communicate his fears, to Sir Philip and Lady Molyneux.

Sir Philip was not at home; but Lady Molyneux, on hearing he wanted to ſpeak to her; ordered him up.

He opened his buſineſs with great gravity; detailed all the cauſe he had for apprehenſion [121] from his maſter's behaviour, and produced the two notes.

Lady Molyneux affected to agree with him as to the juſtice of his fears, and to com⯑mend his prudence and fidelity; ſhe then told him ſhe thought it would be the beſt way to open the letters, which, as ſhe happened to have a ſeal with the Willoughby arms, the ſame as her brother's, ſhe could eaſily re⯑ſeal; and ſend, if they contained nothing of what they ſuſpected; and if they did, that it would be proper to deſtroy them.

Poor Farnham, trembling as he ſpoke, aſ⯑ſented to all this, only entreating her to take care that his maſter might never know it. This ſhe readily promiſed; and, taking all the blame upon herſelf, bade him retire while ſhe opened the letters, and come up again when ſhe rang.

She then read them.—That to Vavaſour was merely to put off an appointment for the evening, which Willoughby found himſelf unable to attend.—That to Celeſtina ran thus:

[123] This letter, cold and unlike his former ſtyle to Celeſtina as it was, his ſiſter imme⯑diately reſolved to ſuppreſs. Her hatred to Celeſtina was increaſed to a degree of inve⯑terate malignity of which it was difficult to conceive her haughty indolence was capable; and this aroſe chieſly from the admiration ſhe every where ſaw her beauty excited, which was a point in which ſhe could not bear to be excelled. Convinced as ſhe internally was, that Celeſtina was an orphan ſtranger, brought up on her mother's charity, ſhe choſe rather to leave the report of their relationſhip uncontra⯑dicted, than to ſee her united to her brother, and put on a footing with herſelf, to which that equivocal relationſhip could give her no claim: and ſince the ſuppreſſion of her letter to Willoughby, which an interview now would explain, ſhe was doubly ſolicitous to prevent it—Her pride could not bear that her brother ſhould become the humble and reduced coun⯑try gentleman that he muſt ſubmit to be if he married a woman without fortune; and her avarice repreſented the poſſibility of his being, in ſuch a caſe, a burthen on his affluent rela⯑tions. [124] All theſe conſiderations determined her to ſtifle it, and the ſentence with which the letter concluded, aſſured her ſhe might do it with impunity. She therefore called up Farnham, on whoſe ſimplicity it was very eaſy to impoſe, and told him that the letter to Mr. Vavaſour was very immaterial, and that he might carry that; but that the other to Miſs de Mornay, was of a nature to involve his maſter in great difficulties, and that there⯑fore ſhe would deſtroy it. She then put it in the fire; and bide him carry the other, which ſhe had carefully re-ſealed. This Farnham immediately did; but being un⯑willing to be guilty of a greater falſehood than there ſeemed to be occaſion for, he ac⯑tually went to Park-ſtreet that he might tell his maſter he had been there.

On his return, Willoughby queſtioned him who he ſaw at Lady Horatia's.—For this queſtion the poor fellow was not prepared.—However he anſwered—"I ſaw John, Sir, my Lady's own footman."

"Well—and was Miſs de Mornay at home?"

[125] "No, Sir," replied Farnham, who had now acquired courage; "but you know you bade me not wait for an anſwer."

"Well, but had you not the ſenſe to aſk where ſhe was?"

"No, Sir; to be ſure I did not think of that: but, however, I fancy ſhe was viſiting, Sir, the wounded gentleman in Oxford-ſtreet."

Willoughby knew that Montague Thorold lodged there, and that it muſt be him alone who was deſcribed as the wounded gentleman.

"And why do you think ſo, Sir," ſaid he, fiercely, as if poor Farnham had been acceſ⯑ſary to it—"and what the devil have you to do to think about it?"

"Lord, Sir," cried Farnham, "only be⯑cauſe as I came along I ſaw my lady's coach at the door where I knew young Mr. Thorold lodges, and juſt nodded to Sam, who was upon the box."

"Curſed fool!" exclaimed Willoughby—"could you not have aſked whether ſhe was there or no: yet why ſhould I deſire to know;" added he, riſing and walking about with his hands clenched together—"what is it to me? [126] and why do I torment myſelf?—Go, Sir, and fetch my powdering gown and my things to dreſs." Poor Farnham, convinced that Lady Molyneux was right in what ſhe had done, yet rendered doubly timid by the conſciouſneſs of having committed a ſort of fraud on his maſter, haſtily obeyed.

CHAPTER VI.

THE ſituation of Celeſtina was rendered infinitely more uneaſy to her by the tranſac⯑tions of the laſt two or three days; and her ſpirits could no longer ſupport her—The cer⯑tainty of meeting Willoughby wherever ſhe went, and of meeting him only to be more and more convinced that he had ceaſed to feel any degree of affection for her, made the thoughts of continuing her preſent mode of life, which had any charms in her opinion, quite inſupportable to her. The converſa⯑tion about the duel—the queſtions ſhe ſhould be aſked, and the impertinence ſhe muſt at⯑tend to, encreaſed the averſion with which ſhe thought of appearing again in public; and ſhe determined, at any hazard, to propoſe to Lady Horatia, that ſhe might go into the [128] country, and there wait, wherever ſhe pleaſed, till ſhe ſhould herſelf quit London.

She took, therefore, the firſt moment they were alone together, to prefer and urge this requeſt: and after making ſome objections, which, however, the altered looks and de⯑preſſed ſpirits of Celeſtina very forcibly com⯑bated, Lady Horatia conſented to her going; but as the houſe of Jeſſy was too near Al⯑veſtone, where it was ſuppoſed Willoughby and his bride were immediately to go after their marriage—it was ſettled that ſhe ſhould, with a maid to attend her, go to Cheltenham, and wait there till Lady Horatia could leave London, which ſhe propoſed doing in a fortnight or three weeks at fartheſt. This plan being once arranged, Celeſtina was impatient till it was executed; and ſo effectually ſet about the little preparations ſhe had to make, that the next day ſhe left London—and for the firſt time ſince her quitting the Hebrides, enjoyed the calm ſolitude ſhe loved.

Wretched in the mean time was the ſtate of Willoughby; he went to dine at Lord Caſtle⯑norths, as he had been obliged to promiſe—where a large company were aſſembled, as if [129] to receive him, for the firſt time, as the heir and acknowledged ſon-in-law of Lord Caſtle⯑north. He had, however, no power to con⯑ceal, under the common forms of life, the miſery of his internal. feelings; his counte⯑nance refuſed to wear the forced ſmile of complaiſance; his emotion when the duel was talked of, and the name of Celeſtina was in⯑troduced, was evident enough to all but thoſe who did not chuſe to ſee it.

Lord Caſtlenorth was, indeed, never very much celebrated for diſcernment; but his Lady, who highly piqued herſelf on her ſa⯑gacity—on the facility with which ſhe read characters, and penetrated the views of thoſe with whom ſhe converſed—her blindneſs there⯑fore was evidently wilful—and that of her daughter, unleſs her love or her vanity inter⯑cepted her right, was equally ſtrange—cer⯑tain it was, that they either could not, or would not, attend to the reluctant melancholy of Willoughby, under which he with difficulty concealed the bitter agonies of deſpair; and they appeared perfectly ſatisfied with him and with themſelves.

There was one face, however, in the circle [130] that, though it wore looks of feſtivity, yet was now and then ſeen to ſurvey Willoughby with indignant ſcorn; and then, as if checked for indulging it, to reſume the ſmile of approba⯑tion and complacency. Captain Cavanaugh indeed did not very frequently addreſs himſelf to him; but converſed chiefly with the Ladies. But whenever he did ſpeak to him, Willoughby himſelf, who had till now very little noticed him, could not help remarking that there was ſomething peculiar in his man⯑ner.

When the Gentlemen were left together, Lord Caſtlenorth, who could not drink, and whoſe health obliged him to retire early, called to his nephew, and bade him take his place. This Willoughby, who had been all day meditating how he might make an early eſcape, was compelled to do, though he ob⯑ſerved, "that as Captain Cavanaugh uſually took that ſeat when his Lordſhip retired, he wiſhed him then to aſſume it." Lord Caſtle⯑north, however, perſiſted; and Willoughby, willing to get rid of an irkſome taſk as ſoon as poſſible, made the wine circulate ſo quick⯑ly, that, as he was never in habits of drinking, [131] he ſoon began to find himſelf looſing his de⯑jection in a kind of bewildering ſtupor: any thing ſeemed better to him than the taſk of entertaining Miſs Fitz-Hayman for the reſt of the evening; and as he felt he by degrees ceaſed to think of her, he found ſome ſatisfac⯑tion in drinking, and was very ſoon complete⯑ly intoxicated.

He was no longer capable of judging for himſelf, or he would not have gone up ſtairs in ſuch a ſituation—he had juſt recollection enough left to ſtay, without committing any great extravagance, while tea was ſerved; and then gladly followed a ſervant who whiſpered to him that Lord Caſtlenorth deſired the fa⯑vour of ſeeing him in his own apartment.

Thither he ſtaggered with very little con⯑ſciouſneſs; and being ſeated where his uncle ſat oppoſite to him, in a great chair, while ſeveral parchments lay open on a table, he heard, but without the leaſt comprehenſion of what was ſaid, a long harangue—on for⯑tune and family, heraldry and genealogy, titles and ſucceſſions;—the whole of which con⯑cluded, by his informing him that the money was ready to pay off all the incumbrances on [132] his eſtate, which was to be immediately done; that the ſettlements were in hand, and to be finiſhed in a week; and that, that day fort⯑night was fixed for the marriage. Willoughby, between the verboſe confuſion of his uncle's mode of delivery and his own incapacity of at⯑tention, heard it all, but underſtood nothing; he was not, however, ſo unconſcious of pain and ſickneſs. Mrs. Calder, who for the greater part of this converſation had ſat read⯑ing a treatiſe on bilious concretions, on the oppoſite ſide of the room, with her ſpectacles on, now finding Lord Caſtlenorth had done, and that Willoughby looked very likely to ſink out of his chair, very wiſely ended this converſation, by ſending up Farnham to his maſter, who had him conveyed home in a chair.

The next morning he was awakened to a perfect recollection of all that had paſſed the evening before; and became too certain, that the means he had taken to obtain a temporary releaſe from his fetters, had ſerved only to rivet them more cloſely. Alas! he remem⯑bered too—with poignant anguiſh remem⯑bered, that ſo many hours had elapſed ſince he [133] had written to Celeſtina; and that it was now too certain ſhe would not anſwer his letter, and wholly declined ſeeing him.

Though he had ſo often determined never to meet her again; ſo often perſuaded himſelf not wiſh it; this cruel conviction of her total eſtrangement from him, ſeemed to fall as heavily as if he had never dreamed of their ſeparation—ſhe might, however, be out of town; ſhe might be engaged; ſomething might have prevented her writing. To this ſlender hope he clung for ſome hours of the morning; but it inſenſibly became fainter as his impatience encreaſed, and at length he ordered Farnham to find the coachman of Lady Horatia, with whom he was acquainted, and try to diſcover any particulars he could.

Farnham, dreading leſt his maſter ſhould diſcover the impoſition he had ventured to practice, dared not diſobey him—he ſat out therefore for the ſtables, where, at that time in the morning, he was ſure of finding his ac⯑quaintance; he found him indeed very buſy in cleaning, with the aid of a poſtillion and a helper, two of his horſes, which had been, "poor things!" he ſaid, "the firſt ſtage to Chel⯑tenham [134] ham, with Miſs de Mornay and Rebecca the maid, that my Lady ſent with her."—Farn⯑ham made him repeat this intelligence; to which he added, "Why, my Lady and all of us be going down to Glouceſterſhire, in about a fortnight; that is, as ſoon as young Mr. Thorold is well enough to be moved, which, the Doctor as tends him ſays, will be in that time or leſs. My Lady takes his illneſs ſadly to heart, and ſo does Miſs—and went out of town ſadly down in the mouth; but, howſo⯑ever, 'tis well 'twas no worſe, you know; and as he is like to do well—why there's no great harm—and Miſs will be married all one."

The minuteſt article, of this account was remembered by Farnham, and punctually re⯑lated by him to his maſter—who now tho⯑roughly convinced that all hope was at an end of Celeſtina's retaining for him any affection; and a certainty ſo dreadful; the aſſurance of his being irrevocably engaged, and having gone into Glouceſterſhire, there to wait the recovery of Montague Thorold; the aſſur⯑ance that he ſhould never ſee her more—all contributed, with his exceſs of the evening be⯑fore, [135] to inflame his blood—and by four o'clock he was in an high fever.

His indiſpoſition was encreaſed by a viſit from Vavaſour, who laughed at the vexation and diſguſt he expreſſed at what had hap⯑pened in regard to Montague Thorold; but grew graver when he heard that, far from its having put an end to his pretenſions to Celeſ⯑tina, it had ſerved only to haſten their mar⯑riage.—The wild and ill founded projects of Vavaſour to prevent this, and to ſucceed him⯑ſelf, which to Willoughby would have been equally hateful, were but little calculated to appeaſe his agitation, and quiet his boiling blood; before Vavaſour went away, he be⯑came delirious—and Farnham, in a terrible fright, went for Lady Molyneux and a phy⯑ſician—Lady Molyneux was juſt ſtepping in⯑to her coach, when the affrighted face of Farn⯑ham appeared before her—ſhe chid him for the needleſs alarm he had given her; and ſaid, that ſhe ſuppoſed it was nothing but a little return of the fever her brother was ſubject to—"I cannot," ſaid ſhe, "call now; but as I come home this evening, I will ſee him."—The phyſician, for whom Farnham then went, [136] directly attended; and found his patient, though not in ſo high a fever as he had ſeen him before, ill enough to require his immedi⯑ate aſſiſtance—which he ordered with ſo happy an effect, that in a few hours the delirium en⯑tirely ſubſided, and Willoughby, though ex⯑tremely languid, was at night almoſt free from his fever.—Lady Molyneux who called on him, ſoon after midnight, for a few mo⯑ments, again blamed Farnham for his offici⯑ous apprehenſions; and being well convinced that Willoughby would be glad of any excuſe to keep back the preparations which were now going on, ſhe endeavoured to perſuade him that his illneſs was very triſling; and taking occaſion to talk over what happened at Rane⯑lagh, told her brother, laughingly,—that ſhe hoped he was now convinced of the attach⯑ment between young Thorold and Miſs de Mornay—adding, "his brother, Captain Tho⯑rold, who is really an elegant and faſhionable man, tells me they are to be married the mo⯑ment Montague is able to leave London."

"Well, well," cried Willoughby, peeviſh⯑ly—"I know it; and I do not deſire to hear any more about it.—I thank you for calling [137] on me; but it is very late, and my phyſician deſires I will keep myſelf quiet."

Lady Molyneux then withdrew, and poor Willoughby, to whom ſhe had adminiſtered a poiſon inſtead of a cordial, tried to find that repoſe which he ſo greatly wanted: but to him his eſtranged, his loſt Celeſtina, on one hand, and on the other his intended bride, ſeemed to cry—"ſleep no more."

Farnham, who ſat up by him to adminiſter the medicines he was to take, heard him ſigh the greateſt part of the night without ceaſing; and whenever he thought he might venture, aſked him how he did.—"Pr'ythee, Farnham," ſaid he, after two or three of theſe queſtions, "do not aſk me how I do—how ſhould a man do, who is in a ſituation to envy every body but the fellow juſt going to be hanged—you know, that I am at this moment the moſt miſerable fellow upon earth."

"I am ſure I am very ſorry to hear it anſwered his ſervant: but if I might be ſo bold as to ſpeak, I ſhould ſay that I cannot think what cauſe you can have to be miſer⯑able—nor....."

He was going on, when Willoughby, eager⯑ly [138] catching aſide the curtain, ſaid, "What cauſe!—Have I not loſt an angel—and am I not, have I not condemned myſelf to marry—a woman I cannot love—no, never; never, by Heaven."

"To be ſure, Sir," ſaid Farnham, "to be croſſed in love, as I may ſay, is very bad—as I have heard tell—but in this here matter—all things conſidered, I hope your honour's mind will be ſettled about it; and as for the two ladies, to be ſure beauty is all fancy—Miſs Celeſtina, for certain, is a fine young lady, and ſo good and gentle to ſervants, that it was always a pleaſure to me to hear her ſpeak to me, and to wait upon her; but then, for certain, Miſs Fitz-Hayman, though ſhe is higher and more ſtately, as ſhe ought to be, being as ſhe is a lady of title and quality—is a fine young lady too, and a very majeſtic grand perſon—and then her great riches—"Curſe on her riches," exclaimed Willoughby. "Aye, Sir;" ſaid Farnham, who was not a little ſlattered by his confidence, and was now got into one of his proſing humours—"Aye Sir, it is very well for young, gentlemen to cry curſe on this, and that, and t'other—but as for riches—what can they do without them? [139] Nobody is not reſpected the leaſt in the world, if they don't make a ſhew, and a figure, and the like of that—and can it be done without money?—No—nor not without a pretty deal on't—and, for my part, I own—I don't love to ſee my maſter not able to vie with the beſt lord of the land—as to be ſure he ought."

"Thou art a fool, Farnham," cried Wil⯑loughby—"Do have done with thy Lords of the land, and give me twenty drops more of the opiate"—"Yes, Sir," ſaid Farnham; and prepared to obey him—but while he was counting out the drops, he could not forbear going on—"One, two—there are other peo⯑ple, Sir,—three, four—about my Lord's houſe, who, it's my notion—five, ſix, ſeven—are not ſo apt to cry, curſe money—eight, nine, ten—there is Captain Cavanaugh—eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen"—"Cap⯑tain Cavanaugh," interrupts Willoughby—"What of Captain Cavanaugh?" "Nay, Sir,—only the Captain—as far as I can find—do'nt hate money, nor cry, curſe it and damn it—he has been long enough living about the world, to know that nothing can be had with⯑out it, and—that is all, Sir."

[140] "But that ſeems to me not to be all, Sir—pray, tell me what Captain Cavanaugh has to do with what we were talking of—with Miſs Fitz-Hayman?"

"Lord, nothing, Sir, I am ſure, that I know of—only, if the young Lady was not engaged, and in love with you, perhaps—the Cap⯑tain, Sir, is reckoned, by the women, a very handſome man, Sir—and Miſs Fitz-Hayman may think ſo, as well as another." "Why he is married—you booby—what ſtuff have you got into your head; and who has been talking to you of him and Miſs Fitz-Hayman; let him be reckoned as handſome as he will by the women—he can be nothing to Miſs Fitz-Hayman—for I know he has been mar⯑ried ſome years."

"Aye, Sir, I dare ſay that may be—but there is ſuch a thing as being un-married again;—not that I ever heard, I am ſure, much about the Captain; only Juſtina was laughing one day, and laying, in her broken Engliſh—ſo that I can't ſay I quite right underſtand her—that if my Lord ſhould die, and the Cap⯑tain ſhould ever be able to get rid of his wife—ſhe ſhould not be much ſurpriſed if he and [141] my Lady was to make a match of it; for that never was ſuch a favourite as the Captain."

"I ſhould not be much ſurpriſed at that myſelf," anſwered Willoughby, "for I believe the Captain has a good deal of intereſt there—ſo, then, he has been trying to get rid of his wife?"

"Juſtina told me, Sir, one day, as a great ſecret, that my Lord had helped him to money, to try at it.—But, Sir, if Juſtina ſhould know I ever mentioned it, I ſhould never be able to get a word out of her again." "I promiſe thee, ſhe never ſhall—ſo tell me, Farnham, all thou haſt heard from her about Lady Caſtle⯑north and the Captain."

"Why, Sir, it was not much—but only Juſtina was laughing t'other day about my Lady's having ſuch a great friendſhip for him, and there's no ſtopping her tongue when ſhe begins—ſo ſhe told me—Lord, Sir! a great many things that were odd enough to be ſure—but only Ladies of quality, I reckon, don't much care what people ſays of them.—She ſaid, that my Lady knew well enough, that my Lord could not hold it long—and that ſhe was providing herſelf with a handſome [142] young huſband, and making ſure of him, as ſhe thought, before the old one hobbled off—but let her take care, ſaid Juſtina, that ſhe marries her daughter firſt, or I know what will happen.—The Captain knows well enough, that a young woman is better than an old one; and beſides, that ſuch a great for⯑tune as my young lady will have, is better, twenty to one, than her mother's jointure."

This ſpeech at once opened Willoughby's eyes, as to Lady Caſtlenorth's motives for the extreme haſte and earneſtneſs ſhe had ſhewn to conclude her daughter's marriage; feeling as he did, in regard to Miſs Hayman, he was ſenſible neither of jealouſy or mortification, at the idea of any preference ſhe might enter⯑tain for Cavanaugh; but a hope, that, from this circumſtance, ſomething might happen to break off the connection for ever between him and his couſin involuntarily aroſe in his mind.—In any event, it ought to be attended to; he bade Farnham therefore go the next day, and ſee if he could ſet Juſtina goſſipping again—"I have a notion, Farnham," ſaid he "that you are very much in the good graces of the little Neapolitan."

[143] "Oh, no, Sir; finer fellows than I am have all the chance there—and for my part, Sir, I don't much fancy her, though ſhe is lively and ſmart, and when I get her by herſelf will tell the ſecrets of all the family."

"Which thou loveſt to hear; therefore get her by herſelf as ſoon as thou canſt, and make her tell thee all ſhe knows."

Willoughby then again tried to compoſe himſelf—and by the help of the medicines he had taken, obtained four or five hours ſleep.—He was a great deal better in the morning; as he breakfaſted, a note was brought him from Lady Caſtlenorth, informing him that his uncle had been ſeized in the night with a violent return of that aſthmatic complaint which ſo frequently had rendered his ſtay in England impoſſible: that the ſpring, though far advanced, was ſo cold and wet, that there was no chance of his being better while he remained there now; and that therefore he had, by the advice of his phyſicians, and by his own inclination, determined to ſet out that very day for the continent. She added, "You will come to us, of courſe, inſtantly, and if you cannot go with us, ſettle when you will follow [144] us; but your uncle wiſhes you to accom⯑pany us."

This intelligence was to Willoughby like a reprieve from what to him was worſe than death; ſince the longer he conſidered of his marriage, the more diſhonourable now, and the more certainly miſerable hereafter, it ap⯑peared to him. He wrote an haſty note, ſaying how ill he had been the whole night, and how impoſſible he feared it would be for him to ſee his uncle that day; but that, if his phyſician, whom he every moment expected, gave him leave to go out, he would certainly wait upon him.

This anſwer had not been diſpatched above an hour, and his medical friend had juſt left him, with a ſtrict injunction not to ſtir out that day, when Lady Caſtlenorth and Mrs. Calder entered his room.

"So, my dear Sir," cried the former—"what is to be done! Lord Caſtlenorth will be wretched to leave you behind—and my poor girl too!—What is this ſudden fever—you really look ill—I cannot imagine what is to be done—For my Lord to ſtay, he thinks it death."

[145] Willoughby muttered ſomething which he meant ſhould expreſs concern at his uncle's illneſs: but Mrs. Calder fortunately precluded the neceſſity of his being very diſtinct in his hypocriſy, by ſtepping up to him, and taking his hand, "Come, come," ſaid ſhe, "let me feel your pulſe." She then, gravely counting its vibrations as ſhe held her ſtop-watch, ſaid, "Why, really now, here is much leſs fever than I expected from your appearance—let us ſee your tongue.—Humph—'tis white to be ſure—Where are your medicines—I ſhould think, if you were well wrapped up and put into a chair, you might go to your uncle with⯑out any danger—on ſuch an emergency, you know, a little may be hazarded."

"No," ſaid Lady Caſtlenorth, "by no means; nothing muſt be hazarded—And af⯑ter all, my Lord may make himſelf eaſy, as I dare ſay you will be able to overtake us be⯑fore we get to Paris; where, if my Lord is better, and finds that relief he generally does from a change of air, we will ſtop till you join us: I think you will be perfectly reſtored in a week: but, however, I will go myſelf to Dr. B—, and hear what he ſays."

[146] "Oh, I can tell you," interrupted Mrs. Calder, "that he'll be well, perfectly well, in leſs than a week.—I have been taſting his medicines, and underſtand clearly from them what Dr. B—thinks of his fever—I was a mere ephemeris—of that be aſſured.…"

"Well," ſaid Lady Caſtlenorth, "my dear Willoughby, what ſhall we ſay?"

Willoughby was ready to anſwer—"No⯑thing more, good Madam:" but ſighing from a ſenſe of pain and reſtraint, he only replied, "that he could only ſay that he was very ſorry for his uncle's illneſs—and—"

"That you will haſten after us?—that, I think, I may venture to aſſure your uncle.—He was ſettling this morning that you ſhould be married in the Engliſh ambaſſador's chapel at Paris; and I really don't ſee myſelf that, upon the whole, theſe unlucky illneſſes of my Lord's and of your's need impede the affair a ſingle hour; all the difference will be, that you will be married at Paris, inſtead of at Lon⯑don, and we will paſs the reſt of the year in Italy inſtead of Caſtlenorth."

"But the dear young Lady," cried Mrs. [147] Calder, "our ſweet and lovely child, how will ſhe bear even this tranſient ſeparation!"

"Indeed, I don't know," ſaid Lady Caſtle⯑north, affecting to be quite ſympathetic—"but ſhe ſhall come, and bring the letter my Lord will have directed to be written with his laſt directions about the deeds and car⯑riages; which our dear George muſt bring with him: and" added ſhe, ſmiling, "I fancy, upon the footing they are now, there will be no great indecorum in her coming to his lodgings."

Willoughby found immediately his fever returning, and that he ſhould have a terrible headach: he put up his hand to his temples—"I am obliged to your Ladyſhip," ſaid he in a languid voice; "and I wiſh this moſt oppreſſive head-ach of mine would—"

"What it aches now, does it?" ſaid Mrs. Calder, "I wiſh Dr. B—was here, I am ſure I could give him a hint or two on this caſe which might be of uſe to him."

"Let us go to him," interrupted Lady Caſtlenorth, "and talk to him about this ugly fever; and when we have found him, it will be time to return to my Lord, and to ſend [148] my daughter hither; for we think to ſleep at Rocheſter to-night."

Willoughby now bleſſing her for her haſte, made his compliments in a low voice; and ſtill complaining of his head—the Ladies de⯑parted.

They were no ſooner gone, than he tried to diſcover by what means he might beſt avoid receiving the favour of the viſit Lady Caſtle⯑north had promiſed him from her daughter. He was aſhamed of the part he was acting, however ill and reluctantly he performed it. For the firſt time in his life his conduct was contrary to his ſenſe of honour, and, he was conſcious, altogether unworthy of him; and while he had thus betrayed himſelf, he was become the dupe of Lady Caſtlenorth, and perhaps was meant to be the dupe of Miſs Fitz-Hayman and their mutual favourite.—His pride, as well as his rectitude, revolted from the idea of carrying on this odious farce, which he now wondered what demon had tempted him, in the moment of paſſion and deſpair, to begin—and which he, however late, thought he ſhould now act more ho⯑nourably in ending at once, than in ſuffering it [149] it to proceed another day—He was, however, by no means able to determine, at once, how he ſhould do this; and what he had moſt im⯑mediately to conſider was, how he ſhould eſcape the enquiry and adieu of the heireſs, which he might now every moment expect.

He at length determined to go to bed—and ſending again for his phyſician, who was very much his friend, acknowledged the truth to him, and got an abſolute prohibition againſt his ſeeing any body—He told Farnham, therefore, that he again felt himſelf extreme⯑ly ill; and bade him immediately run for Dr. B—. Fortunately he met him in the next ſtreet; and in leſs than ten minutes he had received Willoughby's confeſſion, that all his illneſs, both before and ſince his return from abroad, had been owing to diſtreſs of mind, which he could now no longer hope would abate, by the neceſſity he had thought of putting himſelf under to conceal it—In ſhort, he owned that his diſlike to Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man, as a wife, was unconquerable; and that as he was determined at all events to break the treaty off, however far it had gone, and therefore entreated his friend to find ſome rea⯑ſon [150] for his evading an interview ſo uſeleſs and ſo irkſome, when it was impoſſible for him to continue acting a moment longer the part he had ſo raſhly undertaken; and yet did not mean, and eſpecially in the preſent condition of his uncle's health, abruptly and rudely to end it; but to ſoften, at leaſt to him, a diſ⯑appointment which he had thus rendered doubly heavy.

Dr. B—entered at once into his meaning,—and, ſmiling, ſaid, "It is a little unuſual, my friend, for me to contrive an illneſs to ſeparate a lady from her lover, though I have been often aſked to make pretences for bring⯑ing them together.—However, the fact is, that you really are unfit to entertain the lady, for your fever is conſiderably increaſed ſince I ſaw you in the morning; and we ſee very plainly that any agitation is hazardous while you continue in this irritable ſtate:—I will therefore wait here and ſee Miſs Fitz-Hayman myſelf; and ſo contrive as to bring you off this time, and for the future you muſt ma⯑nage it yourſelf."

"I am ſure you deſpiſe me, Doctor,"—cried Willoughby, "for the part I have acted in this curſed affair."

[151] "No," anſwered he, "not exactly ſo—But I own I think you wrong, inaſmuch as any kind of diſſimulation is unworthy of you; and above all, that which goes to rob a young woman of her heart under falſe pretences."

"But I hope I have not done that—for, upon my honour, I ſhould never forgive my⯑ſelf, if I had."

It looks very like it though, my friend, from your own account of the matter—And if it is ſo—

"You think I ought, at all events, to marry her?"

"Indeed I do."

"Alas, my dear Sir," ſaid Willoughby, "it is ſurely better for me—even more ho⯑nourable, to decline her hand now, than to accept it and make her miſerable."

"I don't believe you could make any wo⯑man miſerable," anſwered Dr. B—, "be⯑cauſe you have good nature, honour, and ge⯑neroſity—but, my dear Sir, I did not mean to play the caſuiſt in ſuch an affair—and here—if I am not miſtaken, is the lady herſelf at the door."

"Dear Doctor," cried Willoughby, "have [152] the goodneſs to go down directly." He im⯑mediately obeyed—and returning in a few moments, ſaid, "Well, I have ſent away the diſconſolate fair one—broken-hearted—for fear of loſing her love."

"Don't rally me, my friend,"—anſwered Willoughby—"But, tell me, did my couſin appear very much concerned?"

"She endeavoured at leaſt to appear ſo."

"Do you think then it was merely en⯑deavour?"

"Would you not be mortified, now, if I ſaid it ſeemed ſo to me?"

"No, upon my honour—I might perhaps be mortified to find that I was believed to be an eaſy ſubject of impoſition—but for the reſt—nothing would be a greater relief to me, than to be well aſſured that the partiality my couſin ſhewed for me was either never real, or, having been ſo, exiſts no longer."

"I don't know her enough," replied Dr. B—, "nor have I been long enough talk⯑ing to her now to be a very good judge.—The honeſteſt of them, my friend, are not eaſily underſtood—and I am much miſtaken if your fair relation comes under that deſcrip⯑tion.— [153] I mean, when I ſay honeſteſt—the moſt candid—the moſt ſincere."

"Well! but what do you judge, from her behaviour juſt now, are Miſs Fitz-Hayman's ſentiments towards me?"

"She would have me believe, I think, that they are thoſe of great attachment and trembling apprehenſion for your health—But, ſomehow, it was, I fancied, a ſort of concern that had more ſtage effect for its object, than real concern ever thinks about—and I do be⯑lieve, that if you do prove a perjured ſwain after all, the heireſs of Caſtlenorth will not add to the ſorrowful catalogue of damſels who have died for love."

Willoughby, glad to hear this, now rea⯑dily promiſed a ready acquieſcence with his friend's orders, which were to keep his mind as quiet as he could, and to ſee nobody till he had quite conquered his remaining indiſpo⯑ſition; and the Doctor then took his leave.

In leſs than two hours, a large pacquet came to him from Lord Caſtlenorth—which Wil⯑loughby ſent word down to the man who brought it, that he was then too ill to open—On Farnham's delivering this meſſage, the [154] ſervant ſaid, that no anſwer then was requir⯑ed, for that his lord and lady, their daugh⯑ter, Mrs. Calder, and Captain Cavanaugh, had all departed, with the ſervants who were immediately about them, the very moment he came away, and were then, in two poſt coaches and four, on their way to Rocheſter.

Willoughby felt for a moment as much re⯑lieved by this intelligence, as if half his trou⯑bles had been removed by their departure.—Too ſoon, however, this temporary reſpite ended, by his recollecting how much he muſt yet encounter before he could feel himſelf free; and that whatever freedom he might regain, Celeſtina would be another's.

CHAPTER VII.

IN the mean time Celeſtina was alone at Cheltenham, indulging that regret which aroſe from the certain loſs of Willoughby's friendſhip, and the aſſurance that ſhe ſhould ſee him no more.—Every day ſhe expected to ſee in the newſpapers, or to hear from Lady Horatia, that he was married—and though ſhe tried to reaſon herſelf into a calm acqui⯑eſcence with what was unavoidable, ſhe never opened a paper or a letter without trembling.

But her own unhappineſs prevented her not from feeling for the unhappineſs of her friends. The letter ſhe had received from Emily Cath⯑cart had made a great impreſſion upon her—though ſhe knew not how it would be proper to act to anſwer the views of the writer.—At [156] length ſhe determined to write to Mrs. El⯑phinſtone, and encloſe the letter itſelf—and this ſhe did a few days after ſhe was ſettled at Cheltenham.

Almoſt every poſt brought her accounts of the amendment of Montague Thorold, from Lady Horatia, who viſited him conſtantly—and in almoſt every letter ſhe expreſſed, either plainly or by implication, her expectations that Celeſtina would attend to the wiſhes of all her friends, and give him her hand imme⯑diately on his recovery.—This repeated im⯑portunity from a perſon to whoſe wiſhes, and for whoſe opinion ſhe felt ſo much de⯑ference to be due, was infinitely painful to her; but how to eſcape from it ſhe knew not.—If ſhe quitted Lady Horatia ſhe had no proper protection—no home to receive her—and though her little income had hi⯑therto more than ſufficed to ſupport her while with ſuch a friend, and though ſhe had received about an hundred pounds from Cathcart, paid her by the direction of Wil⯑loughby while he was abroad, which yet re⯑mained almoſt untouched, yet on ſuch a ſum, and on the intereſt of fifteen hundred pounds, [157] ſhe could not with any degree of prudence adopt the plan on which her imagination had lately dwelt with peculiar pleaſure—that of ſetting out alone, or with only a female ſer⯑vant, and travelling through France. She fancied that there ſhe might be enabled, though ſhe had yet no clue to guide her, to find ſome traces of her family.—An invincible inclination, which ſhe ſometimes took for the inſpiration of heaven, had been for ſome weeks gaining on her imagination—and every thing ſeemed to encourage it; but reaſon and pru⯑dence, both of which were perhaps decidedly in favour of her accepting the proper eſta⯑bliſhment offered her, by a man who had not only given ſo many proofs of his ſincere and tender affection for her, but who was the ſon of one of her beſt friends, and avow⯑edly recommended to her by another—a man too whom ſhe preferred to every other perſon except Willoughby, and whom ſhe would have choſen had Willoughby never been in queſtion.

For her it was very certain that he was in queſtion no longer; he was in fact dead to her—and no probability remained of his ever [158] feeling for her even the regret that the loſs of an agreeable acquaintance might have given him.—But ſtill her heart and her imagina⯑tion had been ſo long accuſtomed to conſider him as their firſt object, that ſhe found it im⯑poſſible for her to transfer to another the ſame attachment; and without being ſenſible of love ſhe could not promiſe it—ſhe deſired nothing but to be permitted to live ſingle; and be miſtreſs of her time and herſelf—and not to be importuned to undertake duties which her heart told her ſhe could not con⯑ſcientiouſly fulfil.

But ſhe foreſaw too evidently, that while ſhe remained in her preſent ſituation, and Lady Horatia continued ſo eager for the match, her life muſt paſs in a continual con⯑flict between her wiſh to gratify her friend, and her diſinclination to marriage. At her time of life, profeſſions of a reſolution to re⯑main ſingle were merely laughed at, and never believed; and Montague Thorold had never hitherto conſidered her gentle refuſals and friendly admonitions to deſiſt, but as be⯑ing in reality as much encouragement as ſhe could give him, while her ſituation in regard [159] to Willoughby remained ſoaukwardly undecid⯑ed—that while he might renounce the name of lover, he might ſtill aſſume that of a near re⯑lation, and have the power of controuling, or at leaſt of directing her.

Now that it was decided, beyond a doubt, that he neither meant to avail himſelf of either the one or the other, ſhe ſaw that ſhe had no⯑thing to urge in ſupport of her refuſal which would be liſtened to; and while her mind dwelt on all the friendly but ſtill irkſome controverſy in which ſhe muſt of neceſſity be engaged when Lady Horatia and Thorold came down, it of courſe adverted to the means of relief, which could, ſhe thought, be obtain⯑ed only by her quitting England—and for her doing ſo, her natural deſire to diſcover her parents was, ſhe thought, a ſufficient ex⯑cuſe.

In her preſent ſolitude ſhe found ſo much to ſoothe and conſole her, that ſhe longed for no⯑thing ſo much as the power of enjoying it, and at the ſame time wandering through various countries, and particularly through that which ſhe had been taught to conſider as her own. The longer ſhe thought of this plan, the more agree⯑able [160] it became to her imagination; and ſhe paſſed many hours every day in reading travels through France, Italy, and Switzerland, ſtill humouring this viſionary idea till it had ac⯑quired the force of a preſentiment; a perſua⯑ſion that could ſhe go to the South of France ſhe ſhould find her family.

Of this ſhe continually thought: of this ſhe continually dreamed; and though one great motive that would haveurged her to attempt it, the poſſibility of being reſtored to Willoughby, was at an end, ſhe ſtill determined to execute this plan before the ſummer elapſed.

She had indeed nothing but her gratitude and attachment to Lady Horatia to detain her in England—ſhe could not go to Jeſſy, becauſe it was ſo near Alveſtone; nor enjoy the friendly and inſtructive converſation of Mr. Thorold, becauſe of the unfortunate par⯑tiality of his ſon.—The ſole remaining friend of her childhood, Lady Molyneux, was not merely eſtranged from her, but had invariably treated her with negligence, ſcorn, and con⯑tempt.—To England therefore ſhe had at leaſt no friends who attached her—the whole world was her country; and with that reſtleſſneſs [161] to which the unhappy are ſubject, ſhe fancied that in any part of it ſhe ſhould find more ſatisfaction than in her preſent ſituation.

By her wandering continually alone in the pleaſant country that ſurrounded the town where ſhe reſided, at a ſeaſon too when the face of nature was every day growing more lovely, her talent for poetry, which ſometimes remained for whole months unexerciſed, was again called forth; but whatever were the ob⯑jects really before her, whatever were preſent⯑ed to her mind by books, Willoughby was ever the principal figure in the landſcape.—If ſhe ſat on the green hill, as ſhe often did for hours together, loſt in mournful yet not un⯑pleaſing reverie, it was only to recollect ſcenes that were paſſed; which the ſame ſounds ſhe had then heard, the ſimple ſheep-bell, the early ſong of birds; the ſame ſcents of freſh turf and wild flowers, brought again moſt forcibly to her recollection.

If in her reading, ſhe was by the traveller's lively deſcription of the countries he had paſſed through, to fancy herſelf there, ſhe re⯑verted inſtantly to the delight ſhe ſhould have [162] felt could ſhe in a progreſs through ſuch ro⯑mantic ſcenes have been the companion of Willoughby; and it was in this diſpoſition of mind, that after peruſing an account of a cottage and its inhabitants overwhelmed by the fall of an avalanche, a great body of ſnow from the mountain above, ſhe compoſed the following little lyric poem.

While Celeſtina was thus, with more tender⯑neſs than diſcretion, cheriſhing the memory of the friend ſhe had loſt, Willoughby was very differently occupied from what her ima⯑gination ſuggeſted.—Inſtead of being the gay and fortunate lover, on the eve of marrying one of the greateſt heireſſes in England, he was ſuffering in his perſonal health, from the anxiety of a mind at war with itſelf—and cer⯑tain of nothing but that for him the world no longer contained any happineſs.—The intel⯑ligence, however vague, and like the com⯑mon goſſipping ſtories ſo uſual among ſervants, that he had received from Farnham, had made [165] a great impreſſion, which what he afterwards gathered from the ſame quarter had increaſed. Juſtina had told Farnham, as a ſecret however of the firſt importance, that Captain Cava⯑naugh had been of late in the habit of being admitted to her young lady's dreſſing-room after Lady Caſtlenorth and the family were retired, however late the hour might be—that her young lady was obliged to entruſt her with theſe viſits, that they might be more ſecurely concealed from the reſt of the family; but that ſometimes ſhe had been diſmiſſed to bed, and ſometimes ordered to wait till he re⯑tired.—That on ſome of thoſe occaſions ſhe obſerved her young lady had been crying, by the redneſs of her eyes; and that then the Captain had always left her with the air of a man much offended.—That ſhe had ſome⯑times heard them talk in voices as if they were arguing upon ſomething, but could ne⯑ver diſtinctly underſtand what their converſa⯑tion was about.—"They were in ſad fright always," ſaid Juſtina, "that Miladi hear them.—Miladi knows not at all what goes on in this houſe."—"And my lady, I ſuppoſe," [166] ſaid Farnham, "would be in a horrible paſ⯑ſion if ſhe heard of it?" "Oh, for me," re⯑plied ſhe, "I could not ſtay if ſhe did find it out."—"But why," enquired Farnham, "why, if your young lady likes the Captain ſo as to have him keep company with her in this manner, what does ſhe mean by marry⯑ing my maſter?" Juſtina then, with an arch look, anſwered, "Oh, my good friend, the Captain has one wife already; and why ſhould not my young lady have one huſband?—The Captain will be her Ceciſbeo—cavalier ſervante."—"I don't underſtand your French out-of-the-way names," replied Farnham; "but I am ſure, that if your lady marries my maſter only to play ſuch pranks as ſome other fine ladies do, ſhe will get into a bad ſcrape—for he is not a man to be quiet when ſuch fort of doings are a-going on, that I can tell her—and if ſhe don't love him better than any other man, I think ſhe had much better ſay ſo."—"Oh, ſilly man,"—anſwered Juſ⯑tina—"as if my young lady could not have a regard for both of them!"—"Aye, aye," replied Farnham, "that may do well enough in your country—but it will never do here."— [167] Juſtina now, afraid that Farnham's zeal for his maſter would perhaps urge him to reveal the dangerous ſecret with which ſhe had thus entruſted him, began to ſoften the harſheſt features of it; by ſaying, that ſhe believed there was no harm at all in the friendſhip be⯑tween her young lady and Captain Cava⯑naugh—that to be ſure, the Captain was a ſweet handſome man, and very agreeable—and therefore her young lady liked to talk with him, which ſhe never could do when her mo⯑ther was by; as ſhe never ſuffered him to ſpeak hardly to any body elſe—and that it was natural enough for her lady to like the Captain, and have a regard for him, becauſe ſhe had known him ſo long.—She ended her converſation with exacting from Farnham a promiſe that he would never mention a ſyl⯑lable to any body of what ſhe had told him; a promiſe which he kept, however, only till he could reveal it all to his maſter.

Willoughby had, after receiving this in⯑formation, no longer a doubt as to breaking off inſtantly his propoſed alliance; but how, without plunging a dagger in the heart of his [168] uncle, to do this, required ſome conſidera⯑tion.—Lord Caſtlenorth had ſent him full di⯑rections as to paying off all the incumbrances upon his eſtate, and depoſited the money at a banker's, where he had alſo left a large ſum for his own uſe; and expecting him to join the family at Paris, if he did not overtake them ſooner; and was now pleaſing himſelf with the idea, that in a very few days the fa⯑vourite project of his life would be com⯑pleted; and that in adopting the ſon of his ſiſter, and uniting him with his daughter, he ſhould tranſmit his name and his honours to poſterity with little variation from lineal de⯑ſcent—It was this hope, that ſeemed to have ſuſtained his feeble exiſtence to its preſent pe⯑riod, in ſpite of the numerous infirmities he laboured under, and even of the preſcriptions and nurſing of Mrs. Calder—And though it was impoſſible for Willoughby either to love or eſteem ſuch a man as Lord Caſtlenorth, yet he felt for him ſome regard, as his mo⯑ther's brother, and ſome pity not only for his real but his imaginary ſufferings, which he knew muſt be dreadfully increaſed, and per⯑haps [169] become fatal, from ſo heavy a diſap⯑pointment of all his expectations.

He heſitated, then, how to act; whether to write or go to him—or whether he ſhould not rather addreſs himſelf to Lady Caſtlenorth or her daughter; and for two days after their departure, had been unable to reſolve on any thing, when a porter, who immediately diſ⯑appeared, gave to the ſervant of the houſe a letter for him.—It was evidently written in a foreign hand, and in a foreign idiom—though pains ſeemed to have been taken to diſguiſe both—The contents were theſe:

Willoughby had no ſooner read this letter, than it ſtruck him that it was written, either by Cavanaugh himſelf, or by ſome perſon employed by him—and his motive evidently was to prevent a marriage he now ſaw ſo nearly concluded, and which would deſtroy all his hopes of ſecuring to himſelf this opu⯑lent heireſs—rather than her mother, whoſe laviſh fondneſs for him had enabled him—by ſome means or other—it was probable they were not very juſtifiable means, to releaſe [171] himſelf from his former engagements—en⯑gagements which, with far other views, ſhe had aſſiſted him to diſſolve.

Many concurring circumſtances ſtrength⯑ened the perſuaſion that this letter was fa⯑bricated, if not written, by Cavanaugh.—It ſeemed to be the tranſlation of a letter firſt writ⯑ten in French, and Willoughby heard that Ca⯑vanaugh could not write Engliſh with facility from long diſuſe.—It was certainly Cava⯑naugh's intereſt, by any means, to ſtop the marriage between him and Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man, which perhaps no means could have done more effectually; ſince from the tears ſhe had frequently been obſerved by Juſtina to ſhed in their long conferences, it was probable his arguments had failed of their effect.

If Willoughby had before felt ſomething like antipathy towards Miſs Fitz-Hayman, which he never could wholly conquer, he now found it amounting to abhorrence and deteſtation.—The love ſhe had ſhewn towards him muſt either have been the effect of art or of vice—and both were to him equally odious. That ſhe could hope to impoſe upon him by [172] the one, or think him a proper object for the indulgence of the other, were ideas equally hateful and equally humiliating; and under the firſt impulſe of indignation, he was tempt⯑ed to write to her, and, incloſing the letter from his anonymous correſpondent, add to it all the circumſtances Farnham had learned of Juſtina, as reaſons why he renounced her with contempt.

But after a little reflection, his manly and generous ſpirit inſpired him with far other deſigns.—It was poſſible, that his couſin, whom he now conſidered with as much diſ⯑like, but with more compaſſion, might yet be ſaved from the artifices of a villain—and he thought himſelf bound to attempt it by every exertion, except the ſacrifice of him⯑ſelf in marriage. It was poſſible that his uncle, though he could not make that ſa⯑crifice to gratify him, might yet be in ſome degree preſerved from the dreadful ſhock which his daughter's conduct muſt give him, were it deſcribed to him in the horrid light he himſelf now ſaw it in; or revealed to him by any one leſs cautious than himſelf. Diſtreſſing, therefore, as the ſcenes muſt be that he ſhould [173] have to go through, when, inſtead of joining the family, to complete his marriage, he ſhould meet them with thoſe charges which put an end to it for ever; he determined to follow them immediately; and writing to Cathcart ſuch inſtructions as were moſt requiſite, as to the management of his affairs, and without hinting how different the purpoſe of his jour⯑ney was from what it was ſuppoſed to be, he departed as ſoon as his phyſician diſmiſſed him, for the Continent; which was in ſome⯑thing more than a week after the Caſtlenorths had left London.

Every body concluded that he was gone to his bride; and every body's conjectures remain⯑ed uncontradicted—Lady Horatia, in her letters to Celeſtina, told her that Lord Caſtlenorth's illneſs having obliged him to quit England, on a very ſhort notice, Willoughby and Miſs Fitz—Hayman had been privately warned the day before they ſet out; that ſome buſineſs, as to his eſtates, detained him afterwards five or ſix days in London; but that he was now gone to the Caſtlenorth family at Paris, and was to proceed with them to paſs the ſummer in Italy. The ſame account found its way into the [174] public prints, and was received without any doubt.—Celeſtina ſhed many tears over the firſt information ſhe received, and then ac⯑cuſing herſelf of folly, tried to dry them, and to detach her mind from thinking of Wil⯑loughby—but this no effort enabled her to do; and though all anxiety was now loſt in the moſt painful certainty, ſhe ſunk from fruitleſs ſolicitude into hopeleſs dejection.

In ſuch a frame of mind Lady Horatia found her—when after a ſeparation of about three weeks, ſhe rejoined her at Cheltenham. With her arrived Montague Thorold, quite recovered of his wound, deriving from it, and from thus being allowed to attend Ce⯑leſtina, more hope than ever; while his love ſeemed to have increaſed, if to increaſe were poſſible; and while his ſufferings and his merit certainly rendered him intereſting to Celeſtina, and combined to entitle him to her friendſhip, her pity, and eſteem; ſhe felt, and felt with regret, that, decided as ſhe believed her fate now to be in regard to Willoughby—friendſhip, eſteem, and pity, were yet all ſhe could give to Montague Tho⯑rold.

CHAPTER VIII.

WlLLOUGHBY, with every ſenſation that could render ſuch a journey unpleaſant, pro⯑ceeded to Paris, where he learned that his uncle impatiently waited for him;—had he gone immediately to him, he muſt have cruſh'd at once, all the expectations his appear⯑ance raifed: and the ſhock muſt have been too great and too cruel. He determined at firſt, therefore, to write to Lady Caſtlenorth—yet after ſome reflection, doubted whether it would not be better to give the letter he had received to Miſs Fitz-Hayman; and leave it to her to find the means of diſmiſſing him, without his being compelled to aſſign the true reaſon. It was ſtill poſſible that the charges againſt her might be unfounded or exaggerat⯑ed. [176] It is poſſible, that were they neither, he might reſcue her from the abyſs to which ſhe ſeemeed to be devoting herſelf.—But, from the pride and violence of her temper, and from that imperious ſpirit, which had never yet borne to be told of an error, he not only felt great uneaſineſs from the idea of the ſcene that was before him, but doubted whether the perſon for whoſe ſake he was willing to encounter it, would not baffle all his endea⯑vours to reſcue her from evil, or conceal her errors by clamour and reſentment.

After ſome deliberation, however, as it was neceſſary to fix on ſomething, he wrote a ſhort note to Miſs Fitz-Hayman, deſiring ſhe would favour him with a few moments converſation; and entreating her, for reaſons which he would then explain to her, not to inform Lord or Lady Caſtlenorth of his arrival at Paris, till after he had ſeen her.

This note he ſent by Farnham to Juſtina, to be delivered to her miſtreſs; and received in a ſhort time an anſwer, that ſhe ſhould be alone that evening at ten o'clock, and that Juſtina ſhould conduct him to her, in her own dreſſing room.

[177] He found, her ſitting alone; and, under the appearance of receiving him with pleaſure, there was, he thought, a lurking apprehenſion of the occaſion of this myſterious viſit.—He felt himſelf extremely diſtreſſed how to open ſuch a converſation; but the conſciouſneſs of rectitude, and ſome degree of indignant reſent⯑ment, immediately reſtored that calmneſs and reſolution, which on his firſt entrance he feared he might fail of commanding.

He began by apologizing for the liberty he had taken in thus ſoliciting an interview with her, before he ſaw the other parts of the family. "But, I am perſuaded, Madam," con⯑tinued he, advancing towards her, with the letter open in his hand, "that whatever foundation there may befor the aſſertion which this letter contains, it will be leſs uneaſy to you to read it yourſelf—than to have any ap⯑peal made on it to Lord and Lady Caſtle⯑north."—She took the letter with an air of mingled aſtoniſhment and indignation; but Willoughby ſaw it tremble in her hand—"a letter, Sir, in which mention is made of me!—I am really quite at a loſs to know what there can be in it, that I ſhould, in your [178] opinion, wiſh to have it concealed"—"It is not long, Madam," ſaid Willoughby, fixing his eyes on her face; "and if you will have the goodneſs to read it"—"Oh, certainly, Sir"—She ran her eyes over it, and as he atten⯑tively watched her countenance, he ſaw pride ſtruggling to conquer fear and ſhame, and with ſome degree of ſucceſs; for having read it, ſhe pauſed a moment, and then aſſuming an air of haughty reſentment, ſhe threw the letter on the table that was between her and Willoughby—and ſaid, contemptuouſly, "I know not whether moſt to deſpiſe, the Author of ſuch a letter, or the man who—if indeed he is not included in both deſcriptions—can poorly make it a pretence for inſulting a perſon, who has already been too much his victim."—"Pardon me, Madam," ſaid Wil⯑loughby, "for interrupting you; but I muſt take leave to ſay, that I am included in nei⯑ther—a moment's reflection will convince you that I am incapable of the latter; and had the former been my object, I ſhould not have choſen this method of ſhewing this extraordi⯑nary billet to you; nor thus put it in your power to detect the author, without any ha⯑zard [179] to yourſelf of having his charges be⯑lieved. Miſs Fitz-Hayman, I will be very ingenuous with you:—the perſon here alluded to, is Captain Cavanaugh—I know it: I know that the partiality, whether real or affected, with which you have appeared to favor me, has been ſuperſeded by his more eminent merit; and, though I am very willing to relinquiſh all proſpect of an honor of which I am unworthy,—I cannot feel much ſatisfaction, in reflect⯑ing on the idea you ſeemed to have enter⯑tained of my facility or blindneſs;—nor, in⯑deed, can I, without regret, ſee you likely to—"

"Say, rather, Sir," interrupted Miſs Fitz-Hayman—"Say, rather, that you rejoice in having found, or made, an excuſe to break through the promiſes you have given—from which, however, Sir, you would have been releaſed without degrading yourſelf, by this poor and unmanly artifice.—The daughter of Lord Caſtlenorth need not, ſurely, ſolicit the hand of any man." Pride and anger now choak⯑ed her utterance; and Willoughby, taking ad⯑vantage of her want of words, again ſeized the opportunity to ſpeak; he took her hand [180] which ſhe would have ſnatched from him, but he continued to detain it, while, in the gentleſt accents of friendly remonſtrance, he ſaid, "Come, come, my dear couſin—if I am not your lover—at leaſt, I can never be your enemy.—For Heaven's ſake, be not your own; confide in me, and believe that I will rather take the blame and inconvenience of our ſeparation on myſelf, than ſuffer you to in⯑cur either with your father—you cannot ſup⯑poſe, I truſt you do not even wiſh, I ſhould proceed farther in forming the alliance that brought me hither, knowing what I know."

"And what do you know, Sir; and from whom have you obtained this knowledge."

"From ſources, which render it impoſſible that I ſhould be miſtaken—Captain Cava⯑naugh."

He was proceeding; but, either from the tone in which he ſpoke, or ſome other circum⯑ſtance which at that moment ſtruck her, ſhe was ſuddenly impreſſed with a fear that he had been calling Cavanaugh himſelf to an account; who, as it happened, had not that day dined with them.—This idea threw her inſtantly off her guard—ſhe turned pale, and aſked in [181] an altered and tremulous tone—"what he meant by theſe ſources of information?"

Willoughby ſaw immediately what ſhe be⯑lieved; and the truth of the information he had received from Juſtina was evident beyond a doubt. Her fears for her own reputation, or of the anger of her father, ſhe could con⯑quer; but the moment ſhe apprehended that the life of Cavanaugh either had been, or might be hazarded, her fortitude failed her. It was now the moment to purſue the truth, which Willoughby, by ſoothing her, while he kept the idea of her lover's danger in view, at length, with great difficulty, obtained, by her half indignant, half contrite avowal—that Cavanaugh had been a too ſucceſsful candi⯑date for her heart—and that her father and her mother's eager wiſhes, together with ſome other motives, which Willoughby diſcerned, through the confuſion and agitation with which ſhe attempted to palliate or conceal them, had prompted her to affect for him a paſſion ſhe had not felt ſince ſhe had been in the habits of liſtening to Cavanaugh.

Willoughby looked back with terror to the danger he had eſcaped—and with infinite pity, [182] mingled with leſs gentle emotions, caſt his eyes again on his couſin; he found her ſo deeply entangled by the art of Cavanaugh, that to ſave her from him, was no longer in his power; but it was poſſible perhaps to take upon himſelf the anger and indignation of Lord and Lady Caſtlenorth, and give her time to arrange her own plans, by immediately withdrawing in ſilence; though, how any com⯑fortable arrangement could be made for her, with a man who was underſtood to be already married, he knew not; nor how Lady Caſtle⯑north would bear ſo cruel a blow, as the preference thus given to her daughter by a man whom ſhe certainly had intended as ſuc⯑ceſſor to her preſent huſband, whenever his in⯑firmities ſhould releaſe her. When the firſt tumult of thoſe paſſions, which fear, ſhame, and love, had excited in the boſom of Miſs Fitz-Hayman, ſubſided, by the kind and con⯑ſiderate arguments of Willoughby, ſhe be⯑came able to talk with ſome degree of calm⯑neſs on the ſubject; and he found that from the laſt renewal of their acquaintance with Cap⯑tain Cavanaugh, this deſign had been certainly entertained by Lady Caſtlenorth; but that, on [183] his part, no other advantage had been taken of her extreme partiality towards him, than to obtain, by her means, money to enable him to proſecute a divorce from his wife—a young woman whom he had married ſome years before for the ſake of ſome fortune, and a great deal of beauty, which ſhe then poſ⯑ſeſſed.—Having in two or three years diſſi⯑pated the former, he left her to make what advantage ſhe could of the latter; and had never troubled himſelf about her ſince, till his reception in the family of Lord Caſtle⯑north opened to him proſpects of carrying off the rich heireſs—and made him deſirous of ob⯑taining a diſſolution of his marriage, for which his wife's ill conduct, though entirely owing to his deſertion of her, gave him a very good pretence. Much of this Willoughby learned from various little circumſtances which eſcaped Miſs Fitz-Hayman in this long converſation; for her repreſentation of him was, that of the moſt amiable and un⯑fortunate of men; married early in life to a woman inſenſible of his merit; and now ren⯑dered unhappy by a paſſion for another ob⯑ject, whom he had long ſeen on the point of [184] being given to a rival, who ſaw her with very different eyes.

Willoughby could not, without aſtoniſh⯑ment, obſerve the blind infatuation of a wo⯑man, poſſeſſed of rather a good underſtand⯑ing: but he found that the art of Cavanaugh, to the ſucceſs of which his very handſome figure had undoubtedly contributed, had ſo completely attained the government of Miſs Fitz-Hayman's mind, that ſhe no longer ſaw but with his eyes; and that while, to prevent any ſuſpicion on the part of her mother, ſhe had been ſuffered to affect a degree of affec⯑tion for Willoughby, which had long ſince ceaſed—Cavanaugh truſted to his reluctance to delay a marriage, which it was eaſy to ſee he dreaded; and hoped that the divorce would be obtained before that reluctance would be con⯑quered—he found, however, that Willoughby ſuddenly agreed to haſten it; and then it was that, in his conference with her, after the reſt of the family were in bed, he urged her to find delays; and to procraſtinate, herſelf, a period, to the arrival of which Willoughby no longer ſeemed averſe.—Her tears, and the alarm in which Juſtina had obſerved her, were the effects [185] of the earneſtneſs and impetuoſity with which Cavanaugh now preſſed the neceſſity of her doing this; and the alternative he ſometimes offered her, of declaring to Willoughby him⯑ſelf, the footing upon which he was with her.—Her father's illneſs, fortunately for her, inter⯑vened; and now Cavanaugh was every hour in hopes that he ſhould be ſet free from his ma⯑trimonial engagements—and poſſeſs himſelf of the prize ſo long the object of his ambi⯑tion, and the end of all his deſigns.

Miſs Fitz-Hayman and Willoughby now were to diſcuſs the means by which, with the leaſt prejudice to her, their intended union could then be broken off.—The lady, though ſhe did not ingenuouſly own it, had many reaſons for accepting, unconditionally, her couſin's generous offer, to take the whole burthen of their diſpleaſure upon himſelf.—She knew, hot only the extravagant and furi⯑ous paſſions which any ſuſpicion of its real cauſe would excite in her mother, but ſhe was aware of the increaſing fondneſs of her father for his nephew; and apprehended, that if he appeared the injured and forſaken perſon, that fondneſs might urge him to make [186] him amends, by giving him a part of the great ſums and eſtates that were in his own power—and this, rich as ſhe would ſtill have been, ſhe had not any diſpoſition to pro⯑mote.

After ſome debate, then, in what way Willoughby ſhould excuſe himſelf, and his rejection (on account of their falſehood) of ſome method which Miſs Fitz-Hayman pro⯑poſed; he at length determined to write to Lady Caſtlenorth, ſtating ſimply, that he had changed his mind, and found it impoſſi⯑ble to fulfil his engagements: and leave it to her to break it to her Lord as ſhe thought proper; for he imagined any letter from him⯑ſelf might be a ſtill ſeverer ſhock, unleſs he could aſſign better reaſons than any it was poſſible for him to offer.

This point being ſettled, Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man retired to recover herſelf from the effects of the ſcene ſhe had paſſed through; and to ſtudy her part in thoſe that were to come.—Willoughby returned, unſeen by all but Juſ⯑tina, to his hotel; where he compoſed a ſhort note to the purport they had agreed Upon; and early the next morning he ſet out on [187] horſeback for Lyons, from whence he intend⯑ed to proceed, along the coaſt of the Medi⯑terranean, to the Pyrenees, and to paſs ſome weeks among thoſe mountains which he had never yet ſeen.

The recent and extraordinary events that had befallen him, gave his mind ſufficient ſubject for contemplation, during the firſt part of his journey.—It was now very certain that he was for ever releaſed, and that by means which left him nothing to reproach himſelf with, from his engagements with Miſs Fitz-Hayman, and of courſe from that pro⯑miſe to his mother, in conſequence of which thoſe engagements were made.—One great objection, then, to his union with Celeſtina was thus removed; and never did her image more tenderly occupy his thoughts than at this moment: but, alas! it was no longer cheriſhed with delight. The myſtery that clouded her birth, and which he deſpaired of ever removing, empoiſoned the pleaſure with which he would have thought of her; and with yet greater bitterneſs, he adverted to the probability there was that ſhe was now the wife of another.

[188] Very certain that he ſhould now never find that happineſs of which her loſs had deprived him, the leſſer evils—evils from which, a few years before, he would have ſhrunk with diſ⯑may, ſeemed to have loſt their effect.—It was almoſt impoſſible for him, without injuſtice to others and uneaſineſs to himſelf, to keep ſuch a place as Alveſtone, in the preſent ſhattered ſtate of his fortune; and reſolving to diſem⯑barraſs himſelf from the neceſſity of returning to England, for ſome years, he wrote from Lyons, to Cathcart, giving him directions to put the eſtate to ſale: and at the ſame time informed the banker, in whoſe hands Lord Caſtlenorth had left money for the diſcharge of all his incumbrances, that he ſhould not avail himſelf of it; but that it muſt be re⯑placed to his uncle's account.

Having thus looſened almoſt every tie that connected him with England, from which he did not wiſh even to hear, left the inform⯑ation of Celeſtina's marriage ſhould reach him, ‘The World was all before him where to chuſe;’ [189] and his utmoſt hope was, to obtain, by change of place, ſo much tranquillity of mind, as to allow him to feel ſome ſatisfaction in the va⯑riety of the ſcenes it offered.

He journeyed from Lyons to Avignon; and then proceeded along the coaſt, by Be⯑zieres and Mirepoix, into Rouſſillon: intereſted by the grandeur and beauty of theſe remains of Roman antiquity which he ſaw in his way; ſtill more charmed by the ſublime views, which, in this romantic line of country, every where offered themſelves to his ſight; and hearing, and but hearing, at a diſtance, the tumults, with which a noble ſtruggle for free⯑dom at this time (the ſummer of 1789) agi⯑tated the capital, and many of the great towns of France, till, among the wild and ſtupendous ſcenes which he at length reached, even this faint murmur died away.

In one of the cottages ſcattered at the foot of Montlouis, he found a young mountaineer, acquainted with all the paſſes of the Pyrenees: he was there only for a few days, on his way back from Perpignan to his home, in the Vallei de Douron; and on Willoughby pro⯑poſing [190] it to him, he moſt willingly undertook to be his guide through the mountains.

Willoughby had left his horſes at Perpig⯑nan, and his preſent equipage conſiſted only of Farnham, carrying a light portmanteau, and a ſort of havreſac for proviſions, which he took himſelf, ſtrapped over his ſhoulders.

On the morning of his departure from the foot of Montlouis, he travelled towards the ſouth-eaſt, always aſcending, and was ſoon in the very heart of the Pyrenees. In ſcenes which had hardly ever been traverſed but by the ſhepherds and goat-herds, and where no veſtiges of man were ſeen, but here and there a ſolitary cabin, ſerving them for ſhelter, during a few weeks of ſummer, built of the rough branches of pine or cheſnut, covered with turf, and lined with moſs.—In theſe huts, which were now ſome of them inhabited, Willoughby found a wild, but ſimple and benevolent people; always ready to ſupply him with ſuch food as their flocks, among thoſe deſert regions, afforded to themſelves; and in one of them, on a temporary bed, made of the ſkins of their ſheep, whom acci⯑dent had deſtroyed, after a deep ſigh, which [191] was drawn from him by the memory of Ce⯑leſtina, and with which every day concluded, he obtained a few hours of refreſhing ſleep, and with the dawn of the next day purſued his journey towards the ſummit of the moun⯑tain.

Amid theſe paths that wound among the almoſt perpendicular points of the cliffs, he often ſat down; ſurveying with awe and ad⯑miration the ſtupendous works of the Divine Architect, before whoſe ſimpleſt creation, the laboured productions of the moſt intelligent of his, creatures ſink into inſignificance.—Huge maſſes of grey marble, or a dark gra⯑nite, frowned above his head; whoſe crevices, here and there, afforded a ſcanty ſubſiſtence to lickens and moſs campion; while the deſo⯑late barrenneſs of other parts, added to that threatening aſpect with which they ſeemed to hang over the wandering traveller, and to bid him to fear, left even the light ſteps of the Izard (the Chamois of the Pyrenees), or the wild goats, who now and then ap⯑appeared ſuſpended amid the craggy fiſſures, ſhouldd iſunite them from the mountain it⯑ſelf, [192] and bury him beneath their thundering ruins.

Daſhing down amongſt theſe immenſe piles of ſtone, the cataracts, formed by the melting of the ſnows, and the ice of the glacieres, in the boſom of the mountains, fell roaring into dark and abyſs-like chaſms, whither the eye feared to follow them—yet, frequently, amidſt the wildeſt horrors of theſe great objects, ap⯑peared ſome little green receſs, ſhaded by im⯑menſe pines, cedars, or mountain-aſh; and the ſhort turf beneath them appeared ſpangled with the Soldinella and fringed^* pink, or bluſhing with the ſcented wreaths of the Daphne Cneorum—while through the cracks and hollows of the ſurrounding wall of rock, were filtered ſmall and clear ſtreams, that crept away among the tufts of juniper, roſemary^†, and the Rhododendron of the Alps, that clothed the leſs-abrupt declivity; where, un⯑interrupted by intervening crags, the moun⯑tain ſhelving gradually to its baſe, opened a [193] boſom more ſmiling and fertile; through which the collected waters, no longer foaming from their fall, found their way towards the Mediterranean ſea; their banks feathered with woods of cork trees, cheſnuts, and evergreen oaks—while the eye, carried beyond them, was loſt in the wide and luxuriant plains of Languedoc.

Never did ſuch a ſpot offer itſelf to the eyes of Willoughby, but the figure of Celeſ⯑tina was inſtantly preſent to his imagination—he ſaw her ſitting by him, enjoying the beau⯑tiful and romantic ſcenery; he heard her, in thoſe accents which had, long ſuch power to enchant him, expatiate on its charms, with all that exquiſite taſte and feeling he knew her poſſeſſed of; and remembering a charm⯑ing deſcription given by Rouſſeau, in his Julie, of a ſpot of this ſort among the rocks of Meillerie.—"II ſembloit que ce lieu dé⯑ſert, dût être l'aſyle de deux amants; échappés ſeuls au bouleverſement de la nature^*."

[194] For a moment or two he indulged ſuch a delicious reverie, till the ſudden recollection of the truth cruelly deſtroyed it.—Celeſtina was not, never could be his—never could ſhare with him the ſimple and ſublime de⯑light offered by the ſuperb ſpectacle of na⯑ture—"with all her great works about her." Whether he was among the rude mountains that ſhe has raiſed as a barrier, to divide two powerful nations; or gratified with the more mild beauties of his native country, never could ſhe ſhare in his ſatisfaction, or heighten his enjoyment—but her hours and her talents were all deſtined to make the happineſs of Montague Thorold.—At that idea he ſtarted up, and hardly conſcious of the rugged pre⯑cipices beneath him, renewed his wandering reſearches; and ſought, by activity of body, to chaſe the fearful phantoms of loſt happi⯑neſs that haunted his mind.

He had now paſſed three weeks among the Pyrenees; had traverſed ſeveral Glaciers, and deſcended on the Spaniſh ſide, and looked over part of Catalonia.—Again he took his way to their ſummits; again croſſed deep [195] vallies of ice, and wandered over regions where winter reigns in all its rigour, though under a ſky of the deepeſt blue, illuminated by the ardent ſun of July; a ſky ſo clear, that not even a fleeting ſummer cloud, for a mo⯑ment, diverſifies its radiance.—One of the talleſt of theſe ſtupendous points is, Le pie du midi de Bagneus, which ſeems to be the ſo⯑vereign of the inferior points around it:—from its tall head he deſcended to Bagniers; and there meaning to cloſe his reſearches, he reſted ſome days, and then, by another route, returned towards the country of Rouſſillon, from whence he had firſt begun his journey.

But when he arrived there, he had nothing to do but to form ſome ſcheme of farther pro⯑greſs; and therefore, pleaſed as he was with the variety and novelty offered him by this long chain of immenſe mountains, he deter⯑mined to lengthen his ſtay amongſt them.—His guide, who had by this time acquired an affection for him, delighted to carry him to every place that he thought might offer either novelty or amuſement—and he now converſed with the ſmuggler, who conveyed, at the ex⯑tremeſt peril, prohibited articles of commerce [196] between France and Spain; now joined the ſolitary hunter of the Izard, or ſmaller Cha⯑mois; and now ſhared the more dangerous toils of thoſe who ſought the bear, the wild boar, or the wolf, among the deep woods that clothed the ſides of the mountains.

It was in an excurſion with an hunter of the Izard, that, Farnham having been left be⯑hind at the cabin of a ſhepherd where Wil⯑loughby intended to paſs the night, he and Gaſton, his guide, were, by an accident, ſe⯑parated; and he found himſelf alone—on one of the moſt ſavage ſpots of the whole chain—above him aroſe a point covered by eternal ſnow; beyond which a Glacier ſpread its deſolate and frozen ſurface for ſome miles, ſurrounded every way by ſharp and barren rocks: on one ſide, fed by this magazine of ice and ſnow, a broad and thundering torrent threw itſelf; fall⯑ing, with deafening noiſe, into a rocky cauldron, ſo far below that the eye could not fathom it.—A dark and apparently inacceſſible wood of firs was on the other ſide, where no tree or plant could find its abode, that was not equally able to endure the ſeverity of thoſe cold winds, that, paſſing over theſe immenſe magazines of [197] ice, carry with them froſt and deſolation, even into the rich vineyards and luxuriant paſ⯑tures of Gaſcony and Languedoc, and there aſſume the name of the Bize-wind.

Willoughby had lingered ſo long among theſe mountains, that it was now the ſecond week of Auguſt.—The evenings were, of courſe, ſomewhat ſhortening; and the ſun was viſible only by reflection from the ſnowy point above him, when he found himſelf loſt on a place where he knew not his way to any hu⯑man habitation, or was likely to hear the ſound of a human voice.—Little accuſtomed, however, to fear of any kind, he ſat himſelf down on a piece of broken rock, to conſider if, by any of thoſe remarks which Gaſton had taught him to make, he could find his way before, night-fall to rejoin his ſervant and his guide, or to find at leaſt ſome place of ſhelter.

Theſe obſervations, however, were impeded by the clouds that ſeemed to ariſe from the extenſive plains below him, and to gather round the baſe of the mountains.—Theſe in⯑creaſed every moment, and at length ſur⯑rounded him like waves; ſo that he no longer diſtinguiſhed the objects beneath him, while [198] immenſe volumes of white vapour were poured like a ſea between him and the neigh⯑bouring precipices.—He heard louder than ever, but he no longer ſaw the torrent that threw itſelf down within a few yards of him; and had apprehenſion ever been, under any circumſtances, troubleſome to him, he now might well have feared that, loſt in this chaos of miſt, he ſhould at leaſt remain all night where he was, and perhaps never regain his companions at all.

Life, however, had ſo few charms for him at this moment, that his indifference for it, added to his natural courage, when only him⯑ſelf was in queſtion, made him perfectly calm and collected—though the thick clouds of miſt continued to gather and darken round the ſpot where he was now compelled to re⯑main.

For a few moments the ſighing of the wind which bore this floating vapour, the increaſed hollow murmurs of the ruſhing waters of the cataract, were interrupted only by the ſcream⯑ing vulture, and the deep hoarſe raven, who ſeemed by their cries, as they failed above the grey abyſs of miſt, to be warning their com⯑panions [199] of ſome approaching danger: thunder was in fact gathered in the boſom of theſe clouds, and Willoughby, as he ſat on his ſo⯑litary rock, heard it muttering at his feet; and after ſome tremendous burſts, which ſeemed to ſhake the mountains to their foun⯑dations, accompanied by blue and vivid lightning, a violent wind aroſe, and diſperſ⯑ing the foggy clouds, drove them, with the ſtorm generated in their boſom, to the coun⯑try beneath.

The laſt rays of the departed ſun were now reflected from the ſummits of ſnow, the air became perfectly ſerene and Willoughby ſaw diſtinctly every object around him. He ob⯑ſerved at ſome diſtance to the left a croſs, in an elevated ſituation, but far below the ex⯑tremeſt point of the cliffs; and he recollected, that the day before Gaſton had ſhewn him that croſs, and had told him that near it was the reſidence of a ſhepherd; and that not far from it a convent, near the foot of the mountain.—Towards this, therefore, he now endeavoured to find his way; and by the help of a ſtick, with an iron fixed at the end of it, [200] and by his own activity, he at length paſſed difficulties that to many people would have ſeemed inſurmountable; and, attended only by a terrier which had followed him from England, and which had been the faithful companion of all his wanderings, he reached the pointed rock where the croſs was erected.

It was now, however, ſo late, that he began to deſpair of finding the hut which Gaſton had told him was ſituated ſomething lower down. The moon, indeed, was riſing in majeſtic beauty behind him; but her light, he feared, would hardly be ſufficient to guide him among the woods and crags with which he was ſurrounded, to an object, perhaps, entirely concealed within them, and with which he was wholly unacquainted.—He fat down, however, till ſhe ſhould afford him more be⯑nefit, and to conſider what he ſhould do—when, amidſt the ſilence of the night, the ſound of a human voice, in ſlow cadence, ac⯑companied by ſome muſical inſtrument, was borne on the faint breeze that aroſe from the low-lands.—He liſtened—it was not the iiluſion of fancy, as he had for a mo⯑ment [201] ſuppoſed; and he involuntarily ex⯑claimed—

His dog, too, gave evident ſigns of hearing ſomething unuſual—ran from his maſter to the brink of the precipice—then returned jumping towards him, and ſeemed rejoiced that they were once more within reach of a human habitation.—His ſagacity aſſiſted his maſter to follow the ſound; and deſcending the, mountain, by an entangled and almoſt overgrown ſheep-path, that led from one pointed rock to another, he at length entered one of thoſe woods of larch, pine, and cheſ⯑nut, that fill many of the hollow boſoms of the Pyrenees; and though the trees rendered it entirely dark, the muſic, which ſtill con⯑tinued at ſhort intervals to float in the air, led him on, till, in a ſmall glade, overſhadow⯑ed by rocks clothed with bruſh-wood, he ſaw [202] a ſmall cabin, or rather cottage, where he had no doubt of finding an aſylum for the night: his terrier now run gaily before him, and was preſently ſaluted by the loud barking of thoſe dogs which guard the Pyrenean flocks—but on meeting, the animals courteouſly ſa⯑luted each other, and the ſhepherds dog ſeem⯑ed glad to ſhew the ſtrangers to his maſter.

CHAPTER VIII. Continued.

THE moon, though not yet riſen above the trees, which on every ſide ſhaded the rocks ſurrounding this ſolitary glen, yet af⯑forded general light enough for Willoughby to perceive a groupe of peaſants aſſembled round the door of a cottage, ſuperior in ſize to any of the cabins of the ſhepherds which he had yet viſited.—As he approached, the founds which had guided him towards it ceaſed; and a man advanced to meet him, whoſe air and manner were very different from the native, mountaineers whom he had been accuſtomed to ſee, though his dreſs was nearly the ſame. Willoughby accoſted him in French, told him he was a ſtranger who had loſt his guide, and deſired to be permitted to remain in his cottage till the morning [204] enabled him to find his companions.—The man to whom he ſpoke hardly allowed him to finiſh the ſentence, before, in language un⯑adulterated with the Patois which is ſpoken in that country, and is a coarſe mixture of Spa⯑niſh and French, he expreſſed the utmoſt ſo⯑licitude for his accommodation—and leading him to the door of the cottage, preſented him to his wife, to an old man her father, and to ſeveral young people whom his muſic had aſſembled round the cabin—and who were inhabitants of a little group of cottages diſperſed at ſhort intervals among the woods on this part of the Vallée de Louſon.

Every individual of this ſimple party was eager to ſhew civility and attention to the ſtranger.—"Louiſon," ſaid he, who appeared to be the maſter of the houſe, and who had met Willoughby—"Louiſon, go and pre⯑pare what our cottage affords, to refreſh this gentleman, who may well have occaſion for it, after ſuch fatigue as he has gone through." Willoughby owned he was almoſt exhauſted—and in a moment, milk, bread, and ſuch other ſimple food as they themſelves lived upon, were before him.

[205] With the ſame hoſpitable ſimplicity, Loui⯑ſon went again, at her huſband's requeſt, to prepare him a bed, which one of the younger brothers of his hoſt relinquiſhed to him; ſay⯑ing, he could find a lodging that night at a neighbouring cottage.—Le Laurier, which he found was the name of his hoſt, then preſſed him to retire to his bed—but Willoughby, refreſhed by what he had eaten, found his curioſity ſo ſtrongly excited, by the manners and language of this man, that it became more powerful than fatigue—and he could not help expreſſing a wiſh, to know how a man, who poſſeſſed ſuch muſical talents, and whoſe con⯑verſation was certainly not that of a moun⯑taineer, ſhould be found inhabiting a fequeſ⯑tered nook, in the boſom of the Pyrenees.

"I inhabit it, Sir," replied Le Laurier, "becauſe I was born in it; but it is true, that I have alſo ſeen a great deal of other parts of the world—and that it is not yet a a month ſince I quitted the capital of France, to return hither, after a very long abſence."—"Long, indeed," ſaid his wife, who had now rejoined them—"Alas! ſo long"—and ſhe [206] ſighed deeply—"that I never expected, Sir, to have ſeen him again."

Let me hear", ſaid Willoughby, "not only what you have to relate of yourſelf, but what is now paſſing at Paris, which you ſay you have ſo lately left—I have been ſo long, wandering among theſe mountains, that I am wholly ignorant of the conſequencs of that fermentation which was evident there among all ranks of men when I paſſed through it?"

"And I was in the midſt of it all, Sir," replied Le Laurier—"for my maſter, Cheva⯑lier de Bellegarde, was among the priſoners who were releaſed from the caſtle of Mount St. Michell—but our hiſtory is too long for this evening:"—he gave, however, a brief detail to. Willoughby, of what had paſſed at Paris the preceding July—and then, gaily turning the converſation, ſaid—"Well, Sir, but here am I, after all this, returned to my cottage in the Pyrenees, and here is Louiſon and my family—we are all happy together—and what is yet better, my dear maſter is re⯑ſtored to his home here below us."—"And where is his home?" "Oh, Sir, the Chateau [207] of Rochemarte, where his family have lived ſince the beginning of the world, I believe, is juſt down in the valley—have you never ſeen it?—to-morrow, pleaſe Heaven, you ſhall—and you ſhall ſee my maſter—who is now indeed the Count of Bellegarde—for his father and brother are dead—you ſhall ſee him, Sir; and ſee how a man enjoys liberty that has been a priſoner ſo many years,—Not, in⯑deed, that he is ſo happy as ſome people would be, becauſe of the misfortunes in the beginning of his life—which always hang upon his mind—but now, I hope, in time, he will get over them.—For my part, I think it folly to lament what we cannot help, or regret what cannot be recalled—and I wiſh the Cheva⯑lier was of my diſpoſition."

"'Tis a very fortunate one, at leaſt for yourſelf," replied Willoughby—"and has undoubtedly helped you gaily through the world." "No, Sir, not gaily—but tole⯑rably; amidſt the ſevereſt of thoſe misfor⯑tunes, which I ſhared with the Chevalier, I had always a perſuaſion that I ſhould reviſit my cottage, and my Louiſon."—"Ah, thank Heaven, your perſuaſion was a juſt one, my [208] friend," replied his wife—and now that we may not part with melancholy impreſſions on our minds, let us have a little more muſic."

Le Laurier then began to play on the in⯑ſtrument Willoughby had before heard, and which was ſomething between a lute and a Spaniſh guitar—he touched it with uncom⯑mon taſte, and ſang a ſimple ruſtic air; the cadence was ſolemn and pathetic, and at every cloſe, the female part of his auditory joined their voices in uniſon.—Willoughby had now time to obſerve the groupe before him by the clear light of the moon, which caſt a mild and unclouded radience around them—The ſcene was ſimple and affecting—Le Laurier, a fine manly figure, ſat on a feat of turf by the ſide, of his door—His wife, a very hand⯑ſome woman, ſtood leaning againſt the ſide of it, her head inclined towards him; a girl, twelve or thirteen years old, who was his eldeſt daughter, leaned on the turf, and looked up towards him, with a fort of innocent and affectionate admiration; while a boy of ſeven, the youngeſt of his children, had fallen aſleep as he ſat at her feet, and reſted his head on [209] her lap;—two or three young peaſants were behind, liſtening to the muſic, and gazing at the ſtranger; and, in a chair, before the door, the venerable father of the family, ſat, con⯑templating the felicity ſo lately reſtored to them all, by the return of Le Laurier—with the mild reſignation of repoſing age.

A thouſand fragrant ſmells floated in the air, after the rain; and the lighteſt wind whiſpered among the woods by which they were every way ſurrounded.—Not a ſound interrupted the plaintive paſtoral air, which the performer now began to play, while his wife and daughter alternately ſung a ſtanza.—It was a kind of romance in Pa⯑tois—but Willoughby underſtood it to be the complaint of a mountain ſhepherd, whoſe miſtreſs had forſaken him for a richer eſtabliſhment.—There was nothing new in it, but it was the language of nature, and brought forcibly to the mind of Willoughby his own misfortunes.

[210] The ſoothing melancholy which every ob⯑ject around him ſeemed to breathe; the light of the moon trembling among the waving branches, of which Celeſtina had ſo often re⯑marked the effect when they were wandering together; the ſimple cadence of ruſtic muſic, even the happineſs which he ſaw on the coun⯑tenances of his hoſt and his family, combined to raiſe in his mind regret and languor.—Never could he now hope to enjoy ſuch a ſcene with Celeſtina; never was he likely to taſte the delight of being reſtored to all he loved—Oh, no!—Celeſtina was the wife of another—and the world had no happineſs for him.—As he indulged theſe melancholy thoughts, he ſat almoſt motionleſs, and ap⯑peared to be attending to the muſic of Le Laurier—but on a ſudden they quite over⯑came him, and ſtriking his hands together, he ſtarted up, and walked ſuddenly away from the little aſſembly.

[211] His hoſt immediately ceaſed to play, and following him, enquired with unaffected ſoli⯑citude, if he was ill.—Willoughby immedi⯑ately recovering himſelf, thanked him for his kindneſs; and aſſured him, that his emotion was occaſioned merely by the ſong he had heard, which had brought ſome unpleaſing recollections to his mind.—The man, inſtead of attempting to conſole him by common⯑place ſpeeches, ſaid, he would then leave him a moment; and hoped he would ſoon rejoin them, and allow them to wiſh him a good⯑night.—Willoughby walked on a little far⯑ther towards the wood—he looked up to the moon—"Even at this moment," ſaid he, "perhaps the eyes of Celeſtina are fixed on thee, mild and beautiful planet.—Thoſe fine and expreſſive eyes, which I have ſeen fill with tears of admiration and delight, as they have contemplated the beauty of the univerſe, and the wiſdom of its Creator—Ah, Celeſtina!—our hearts were made for each other—but yours—yours is perhaps changed, and to me is loſt as well as your perſon."—he dared not truſt himſelf with this train of thought; but turning, walked ſlowly back towards the [212] cottage door, where only Le Laurier, and his Louiſon, now waited to ſhew him to his bed. As he walked ſilently along, the bells of a convent below ſeemed to be calling its inha⯑bitants to their evening prayers; and from an higher part of the mountain, which aroſe very ſuddenly beyond the woods, a ſmall bell anſwered, and was re-echoed among the rocks.—On his reaching Le Laurier, he enquired what theſe ſounds meant—"The bells, be⯑low," ſaid he," "are thoſe of the convent of St. Benoit, about half a mile below us; and the ſmaller one is that of Father Antho⯑ny, a hermit, who inhabits one of the rocks above—he has lived there many years.

"And where is the caſtle of Rochemarte?" enquired Willoughby.

"It is almoſt cloſe to the convent," re⯑plied Le Laurier—"and if you wiſh to ſee them both I will wait upon you thither to⯑morrow."

Willoughby now repeated his acknowledg⯑ments for the courteſy he had received; and retired to his ruſtic bed—where fatigue, in deſpite of the depreſſion of ſpirits, which his [213] laſt reverie had brought upon him, gave him up to repoſe; and he, for a while, enjoyed that ‘Sweet forgetfulneſs of human care,’ without which the wretched would loſe the power of enduring their wretchedneſs; and the happy, that of enjoying their good for⯑tune.

CHAPTER IX.

BY the break of day, the following morn⯑ing, Willoughby had left his ruſtic couch, and joining his hoſt and his family, partook of their ſimple meal.—He felt ſome concern, on reflecting on the panic poor Farnham muſt have been in, when the guide returned with⯑out him to the place of rendezvous, the preced⯑ing evening.—He expreſſed his uneaſineſs on this head to Le Laurier, who ſaid, he knew the place deſcribed, perfectly; and would im⯑mediately ſend thither the ſon of a neigh⯑bouring ſhepherd, who was then employed about his cottage, and bring his ſervant and the guide to him: in the mean time, he pro⯑poſe to ſhew Willoughby the chateau of his maſter; a propoſal which his gueſt readily accepted.

[215] Louiſon, however, on their being about to depart, had, in her very expreſſive face, a look of concern; and in her manner, an ap⯑pearance of inquietude, for which Willoughby wiſhed to account.—He was not long left in ſuſpence: ſhe took her huſband's hand, and ſaid, "My friend, you will not leave me long."—"No, ſimpleton," replied he—and then turning to Willoughby, he gaily ex⯑claimed—"Here is a woman, who is afraid of truſting her huſband to go half a mile!"

"Ah, Monſieur,"—ſaid Louiſon—"you would not blame me, if you knew how he once left me—he went away only for a few days, and he ſtaid near three years."

"But not voluntarily, indeed," anſwer⯑ed Le Laurier—"I met my maſter, my dear maſter, who had been ſo kind to me—in priſon—in diſtreſs—in a ſtate of mind bor⯑dering on inſanity—and I could not leave him."

"I do not blame you for that, my friend," ſaid Louiſon; "but I own I am afraid of its happening again."

"How happen again?—the Chevalier— [216] or rather the Count, my maſter, is not now as he was then?"

"Ah, no!—But you have owned yourſelf, that he is reſtleſs and unhappy; and though he appears at times delighted with being re⯑ſtored to his liberty, his eſtate, and his daugh⯑ter, yet, that at times his mind is unſettled, and his ſchemes wild and uncertain—and if he ſhould take it into his head to travel again!"

"You fear that I may be tempted to travel with him."

"Yes," ſaid his wife—"indeed I do."—Le Laurier then tried to laugh away her appre⯑henſions, and they left her; while Willoughby felt his dialogue give new force to the curio⯑ſity he had to ſee the Count de Bellegarde.

As their way was down through the woody ſide of the mountain, they ſoon reached the domain of the chateau; in which, the firſt object that ſtruck Willoughby, in a ſpot which had once been cleared of trees, but where the underwood, and a ſmaller growth of wood again, almoſt concealed it, was a pavilion, which had once been magnificent, but was now in ruins.—It was built of various-coloured mar⯑bles, [217] found in the Pyrenees; was of Grecian architecture, and ſeemed to have been a work of taſte. The pillars of the portico, though broken, yet ſupported its roof; and behind it were three apartments, that had once been richly furniſhed: one, as a banqueting room; the other two as rooms, for the Sieſta ^*, which is uſually taken here as in Spain.—The cano⯑pies of yellow damaſk, were fallen, and the hangings of the rooms devoured by the moths, and decayed by the damps from the windows; which, having never been glazed, the ſhutters had long ſince dropped down.—There was ſomething particularly melancholy to the mind of Willoughby in contemplating this building, once the ſeat of gaiety, ſplendour, and luxurious repoſe, thus deſerted—and he enquired of Le Laurier, if the preſent Count never intended to repair it.—"Sir," replied he, "My Lord, the Count, has hardly had time to think about that yet; for he has been ſo little a while at his caſtle, that every thing [218] there remains as it was—ruinous enough.—But, as for this pavilion, I queſtion if ever it will be put in order, though my lord has ſuch an odd ſort of a liking to it, that the mo⯑ment almoſt he got home, he came down to look at it.—It was quite late in the evening; but it was not dark—and he looked in at the window, for that night I could not open the door—the key was loſt—and the locks were all ruſty—and by what he ſaid, I am ſure there is ſome ſtory belongs to this place.—The peo⯑ple of the caſtle, indeed, always had a notion of its being haunted ever ſince the death of my lord's ſiſter, whoſe heart, they ſay, was broke by her father's ill uſage.—Certain it is, that the old Count cauſed this place to be ſhut up, and took away the fine glaſſes and pictures that were in it once—but what you fee now he left to fall to pieces.—There uſed to be large trees all around it; and all manner of flowers; and the ſtream, that now almoſt ſtag⯑nates among thoſe reeds and ruſhes, and with difficulty finds its way to the moat of the caſtle, was then brought into a bath, behind the banqueting-houſe, and. into a baſon, [219] which is now grown over with weeds and graſs, ſo that it can hardly be traced.

Willoughby left this deſolate ſpot with a ſigh, and as his companion led him through the obſcure paths of the woods that ſurround⯑ed it, he enquired whether the caſtle itſelf had equally ſuffered from time.—"Oh, yes, Sir,' replied Le Laurier, "from time; and from war, too.—It was formerly a place of great ſtrength, and of great importance, as a paſs into France, from the Spaniſh ſide of the the Pyrenees; and held out a long ſiege when the famous Count of Bellegarde, my lord's anceſtor, defended it for Henry the Fourth, our king; againſt the army of the League."—"Perhaps," ſaid Willoughby, "your Lord may not like the intruſion of a ſtranger into his retirement?"—"Oh," re⯑plied his conductor, "we may not happen to meet him; or, if we ſhould, it will be a ſufficient introduction and recommendation, for you, Sir, that you are an Engliſhman, for he loves the Engliſh."

Encouraged by this aſſurance, Willoughby proceeded, and in a few moments, the woods aſcending a little, as they reached the extreme [220] baſe of the mountain, opened into what could only be called a plain, when oppoſed to the ſurrounding hills, for the ground was rugged and uneven, ſcattered with maſſes of ruined buildings, that had formerly been part of the outward fortifications; but of which ſome were fallen into the foſſe, and others over⯑grown with alder, aſh, and arbeal. The gate of the caſtle, and all beyond the moat, how⯑ever, was yet entire, as were the walls within its circumference, bearing every where the marks of great antiquity, but of ſuch ponderous ſtrength, as time alone had not been able to deſtroy.—Where breaches had been made by cannon, the walls had been repaired; but this work being of leſs durability than the original ſtructure, had gone to decay; and the depredations of war were ſtill very viſible. The whole was compoſed of grey ſtone; the towers, at each end, roſe in frowning, gran⯑deur, above the reſt of the building; and having only loops, and no windows, impreſſ⯑ed ideas of darkneſs and impriſonment, while the moſs and wall-flowers filled the interſtices of the broken ſtones; and an infinite number of birds, made their neſts among the ſhat⯑tered [221] cornices, and half-fallen battlements, filling the air with their ſhrill cries.

Over the moat, which was broad and deep, but now only half-full of water, which was almoſt hidden by aquatic plants, ſheltering ſeveral ſorts of water-fowls, that now lived there unmoleſted; a draw-bridge, with maſ⯑ſive chains, led to the gate of the firſt court, under an high arched gate-way, defended by a double port-cullis: this court was where the caſtle guard were, uſed to parade—It was ſpacious, and the buildings that ſurrounded it were gloomily magnificent; but now, no warlike footſteps wore away the graſs which grew over the pavement; no martial muſic echoed among the arches and colonades—one ſolitary figure alone, appeared ſlowly walking with his arms croſſed, on the terrace that led to the ſecond court.—"There is my Lord, the Count," ſaid Le Laurier—"Speak to him, then," replied Willoughby, "and apologize for my intruſion." Le Laurier advanced, with his hat in his hand, and at the ſame mo⯑ment, the Count, who then firſt perceived him and Willoughby, came towards them.—His [222] military air, and dignified figure, were tem⯑pered by the mild and courteous manner with which he moved forward to receive the ſtranger whom Le Laurier announced to him. He was greatly above the common height, thin, and a little bent, as if from depreſſion of ſpirit—but his face pale, ſallow, and ema⯑ciated, as it was, was marked with ſuch pe⯑culiar expreſſion, that all the adventures of his life ſeemed to have been written there.—When he ſpoke, his dark eyes were full of fire and vivacity, yet at times they were wild; and at others, heavy and glazed—his brows were a little contracted, and hollowneſs about his temples and cheeks, and the ſtrong muſ⯑cular lines of his whole face, ſeemed to bear the harſh impreſſions of the hand of adverſity, rather than of time: for though his hair was grey, and he looked much older than he really was, Willoughby did hot think him above four or five-and-forty: at his breaſt was the croſs of the order of St. Eſprit; and his dreſs, that of a captain of cavalry, was not modern, and apparently neglected—his whole appear⯑ance inſtantly announced him to be a man of high rank.

[223] If Willoughby was pleaſed with his man⯑ner and addreſs, he ſeemed equally, or even more gratified by the curioſity expreſſed by an Engliſhman, to viſit him. "You ſee me here, Sir," ſaid he, "releaſed only a few weeks ago from a long impriſonment, won⯑dering at my freedom, and a ſtranger in my own houſe. To thoſe only, who have been the victims of deſpotiſm, it would be eaſy to comprehend my ſenſations on ſuch a ſudden emancipation; and the triumph with which I reflect that I owe it to the ſame noble efforts which have given liberty to France—to my country."

"Ah!" continued he, pauſing—and loſing at once all the vivacity with which he had, a moment before, ſpoken—"ah! what ſenſa⯑tions of concern are mingled with this exulta⯑tion—I regain my freedom—but where ſhall I regain my happineſs?"

He now fell into a deep muſing, which laſted only a moment—while Willoughby walked by his ſide, on the terrace—then ſud⯑denly awaking from it, he cried—"But it is too ſoon to trouble you with this ſort of con⯑verſation—we ſhall have time enough—for I [224] flatter myſelf, Sir, with a hope of your ſtay⯑ing with me, as long as you remain in this country—you muſt have no other home.—If you knew the pleaſure I have in converſing with the Engliſh!"—he pauſed again, as if forgetting what he meant to ſay—and then added—"I will introduce you to my daugh⯑ter—to my little Anzoletta—for I have ſaved her—that one little gem is reſtored to me in all its luſtre, amid the wreck of every thing elſe that was dear to me—we will find her now." He then entered through another arched way, the ſecond court of the caſtle, and Willoughby accompanied him in ſilence, while Le Laurier, with his hat in his hand, followed, as the Count bade him.

They entered an immenſe hall; barbarouſly magnificent; it was roofed with beams of oak, and the ſides covered with ſtandards, and tro⯑phies of armour, the periſhable parts of which were dropping to pieces.—The narrow Go⯑thic windows were filled, not with glaſs, that admitted the light, but with glaſs, painted with the atchievements of the family; mingled with the heads of ſaints and martyrs, whoſe names were now, no where to be found, but [225] in the archives of the neighbouring convent. But, in contemplating the innumerable coats of arms that were blazoned on the windows, and on the banner that hung in faded majeſ⯑ty, between them, Willoughby could not help recollecting what food they would afford for the favourite ſpeculations of his uncle—and his thoughts dwelt a moment on the ſcene that might have paſſed in conſequence of his abſence, in the family of Caſtle⯑north.

Theſe reflections, however, he had neither inclination nor time to indulge—for the Count aſcending a broad, but ſteep ſtair-caſe of ſtone, that led out of the hall, and wound within one of the turrets, entered a gallery, and at the end of it was his daughter's apartment, the door of which was open, and Willoughby was immediately introduced to a young per⯑ſon, who ſat before a frame, working on a piece of embroidery: a woman between fifty and ſixty, who ſeemed to be a kind of go⯑verneſs, was with her.

Willoughby was pleaſed by the graceful ſimplicity of her figure, and the beauty of [226] her face—but when ſhe ſpoke, in anſwer to the compliment he made her, this pleaſure was converted into amazement—he fancied he heard the voice of Celeſtina!

So ſtrikingly did its tones reſemble thoſe to which his heart had been always tremblingly reſponſive, that had he not ſeen who ſpoke, he ſhould not have doubted of its being Ce⯑leſtina herſelf.—He ſtarted—and felt the blood ruſh into his cheeks—nor could he im⯑mediately recollect himſelf enough to reply to what Anzoletta ſaid; and again call forth thoſe ſounds, to which, the ſecond time ſhe ſpoke, he liſtened with increaſed aſtoniſhment and more painful delight; for, not only the ſimilarity of her voice, to that of Celeſtina, was more evident, but he ſaw a reſemblance to her in the air and manner of Anzoletta, that aſſiſted the deluſion.

Anzoletta ſeemed to be about the age of Celeſtina, but her figure was leſs: her hair and eyes were much darker, nor had ſhe that dazzling and radiant complexion which made it always difficult to believe of Celeſtina, that ſhe was a native of the South of Europe—the features of Anzoletta were, perhaps, more [227] regular, and were not turned like Celeſtina—ſo that the reſemblance conſiſted in that ſort of air of family, which we ſometimes obſerve among relations—a kind of flying likeneſs, which we now detect, and now loſe.

The Count ſeemed highly gratified by the notice Willoughby took of his daughter—to whom he now ſpoke, and bade her prepare herſelf for dinner, for that his gueſt was to remain with them—He then led Willoughby back to the room where he uſually ſat him⯑ſelf; and as they went, he ſaid—"Is not my Anzoletta charming?"—"She is indeed," re⯑plied Willoughby.—"Perhaps," added the Count, "perhaps you would not believe that ſhe is the child of the daughter of a man of inferior rank, one of my father's vaſſals."—"Is ſhe not your daughter, my Lord?" en⯑quired Willoughby.—"Yes," replied the Count, "ſhe is my legitimate daughter; and as ſuch, I glory to acknowledge her—but her mother was rolurier—and, to my marrying her, ſhe owed all her misfortunes; and I, many of mine.—But if ever you think it worth while to hear the incidents of a life, [228] that has, I think, been marked with ſome ſingular occurrences, I ſhall have a melan⯑choly pleaſure in relating them.

"Nothing would oblige me ſo much," ſaid Willoughby, whoſe curioſity had been every inſtant increaſing—eſpecially ſince he had ſeen Anzoletta.—"May I, till I can be ſo gratified, enquire where is the mother of your lovely daughter?" "Yes," replied the Count; "and you will hear a freſh inſtance of the barbarous policy which deſpotiſm en⯑courages and protects. Her mother! ſhe was compelled by my father, the laſt Count of Bellegarde, to enter into a convent of Carme⯑lites, at Bayonne, and there to take the vows. She was my wife, by the laws of God and man—but I was abſent with my regiment—I was unable to protect her—and the power of the governor of the province, and of an en⯑raged and tyrannic father, were united to tear her from me.—Would to heaven, we had been theonly victims—but there was yet another!—another, who is gone whence there is no re⯑turn."—Here he ſell into one of thoſe fits of ſilent muſing, to which Willoughby had [229] even during their ſhort acquaintance, obſerv⯑ed him to be ſubject.—It laſted, however, only a moment, and then recovering from it, he claſped his hands eagerly together, and cried, with energy—"But, for my wife—my Jaquelina—Thanks to the generous, the glo⯑rious ſpirit of my country—I ſhall retrieve her—ſhe yet lives—I have ſeen her through the iron bars of her cloiſter—I have ſpoke to her!—I have, in my boſom, a handkerchief which ſhe gave me, bathed in her tears!—She told me where to find our child—our little Anzoletta—and I go to Paris to demand and obtain her liberty: to claim her as my wife, and to be enabled to bring her hither, to a huſband, who, changed as ſhe is, by conſine⯑ment, and affliction, ſtill adores her—to a daughter, whoſe early excellence promiſes to reward us both for many, many years of ſe⯑paration and ſorrow."

The eyes of the Count were filled with tears, as he ceaſed ſpeaking; and Willoughby,—whoſe heart was as tender as it was manly, was deeply affected.—"Heaven grant you all your wiſhes, Sir!" cried he—"and that [230] your private happineſs may be one of the in⯑numerable bleſſings attending on public feli⯑city."—The Count wrung his hands—and cried, with yet increaſed vivacity, "It will—it will, my friend!"—There, was in his man⯑ner a ſomething bordering on wildneſs, as he continued this diſcourſe, which Willough⯑by remarked with ſome concern—he was not, therefore, ſorry, when it was interrupted by the entrance of Le Laurier, who told him, that the meſſenger he had diſpatched, had found his ſervant and the guide; and, reliev⯑ing them from their fears, for his ſafety, which had been cruelly ſevere upon poor Farnham, had brought them both to the caſtle, whither his wife had directed them.

Willoughby had been under a good deal of concern for Farnham, who, he knew, muſt have been dreadfully alarmed for the ſafety of his maſter; his arrival, therefore, was particularly welcome, and he was glad to change his clothes; for which purpoſe, he now begged leave to retire—The Count or⯑dered Le Laurier to ſhew them to an apart⯑ment, and to take care he had every accom⯑modation [231] he deſired.—Willoughby, as he marched gravely along, through the long gal⯑leries, and acroſs the gloomy hall, fancied him⯑ſelf a knight of romance; and, that ſome of the ſtories of enchanted caſtles, and wandering adventurers, of which he had been ſo fond, in his early youth, were here realized.

CHAPTER X.

AFTER a repaſt, rather hoſpitable than ſplendid, during which the looks of paternal admiration, and tenderneſs with which the Count obſerved every action of Anzoletta, and her innocent and agreeable vivacity, ren⯑dered them both more attractive to Willough⯑by: Monſieur de Bellegarde, finding that Willoughby rather wiſhed to liſten to the hiſtory he had promiſed, than to take any repoſe, during the heat of the day, propoſed retiring to the north gallery, and there begin⯑ning this intereſting account. Willoughby moſt readily agreed to the plan—and the Count, diſmiſſing his daughter and her go⯑verneſs, led him hither.

[233] This room extended far on the north ſide of the building—and looked over the moat to a wood of fir and cypreſs, fringing the abrupt aſcent of the mountain, which roſe almoſt perpendicularly from the. plain. As this ac⯑clivity commanded the caſtle, two ſtrong re⯑doubts were built on it, where, in hoſtile times, parties were ſtationed to keep the ene⯑my from poſſeſſing poſts, whence the caſtle might be annoyed. In the port-holes of theſe fortreſſes, now faſt approaching to decay, the cannon yet remained, though ruſty and uſeleſs—and the ſtrong but treſſes, and circular towers, mantled with ivy, were ſeen to aſpire above the dark trees, on every ſide encom⯑paſſing them—while, a little to the weſt, from a fractured rock, of yellow granite, which ſtarted out amid the trees, a, boiling and ra⯑pid ſtream ruſhed with violence, and pouring down among the trees, was ſeen only at in⯑tervals, as they either crowded over it, or, re⯑ceding, left its foaming current to flaſh in the ſays of the ſun.

It was altogether one of the moſt ſublimely beautiful landſcapes Willoughby had ever [234] ſeen; and he contemplated the ſcenery with penſive pleaſure, while the maſter of it thus addreſſed him:

Perhaps you are ſo well read in the hiſtory of France, as to make it unneceſſary for me to remark—that my family is ancient and il⯑luſtrious.—My father, the Count of Belle⯑garde, was educated with every prejudice that could make him tenacious of his rank, and anxious to ſupport it.—He was married early by my grandfather to the heireſs of the houſe of Ermenonville; and his eldeſt ſon, the only iſſue of that marriage, inherited from his mother the great property of that family.

But ambition, which my father poſſeſſed a great ſhare, both from his temper and his education, ſaved him not entirely from the in⯑fluence of ſoſter paſſions.—During the life of his firſt wife, an indigent relation of his own, was received into the family of one of his ſiſters, as a dependant—ſhe was beautiful and intereſting, and my father being releaſed, by death, from an engagement, in which his heart had never any ſhare, married her—and [235] thought himſelf overpaid, by the felicity of his ſecond marriage, for the little ſatisfaction he had found in the firſt.

But though he had in one inſtance, ſuffered his inclinations to conquer that aſpiring tem⯑per, which, under leſs-powerful influence, would have led him to ſeek for a ſecond great heireſs, he ſeemed determined to apply him⯑ſelf with more aſſiduity to the attainment of power and honour, by other means—He had ſome capacity for buſineſs; was daring in forming ſchemes, and obſtinate in adhering to them—proud, vindictive, and violent; with ſuch a portion of national pride, as made him hold every other nation but his own in the utmoſt contempt—and, whenever they ſeemed likely to diſpute the ſuperiority of France, he was tempted to wiſh, like Caligula, that the people ſo preſumptuous, had but one neck, than he might deſtroy them at a blow.

With this diſpoſition, you will eaſily ima⯑gine, the inveteracy with which he regarded the Engliſh.—He held a high poſt in the war-department of France, in 1755, when thoſe hoſtilities commenced, in which, for a ſeries of years, the Engliſh had almoſt always [236] the advantage—events that added to national hatred, or a kind of perſonal and peculiar malignity—for of many of the operations in which his country failed of ſucceſs, the Count of Bellegarde was the projector.

By a long courſe of defeat, however, his maſter, Louis the Fifteenth, and his co-adju⯑tors, grew weary of his influence; and, in 1759, after the loſs of Quebec, he was ſud⯑denly diſmiſſed in diſgrace.

Nor was this mortification the only one he was at that period fated to ſuſtain.—A violent and infectious fever at the ſame time deprived him of his wife—and, wounded thus deeply, by public and domeſtic misfortune, he took the ſudden reſolution of quitting the world, and retiring to this caſtle, with my brother, my ſiſter, and myſelf.

Hither, then, he came—leaving, at Paris, his eldeſt ſon, who had been ſome time in poſſeſſion of his mother's fortune, and had lived entirely independent of. his father, and on no very friendly terms with him. To the young, gay, and diſſipated D'Ermenon⯑ville (for he took the name of his mother) the auſterity of a ſtateſman, and converſation [237] of a politician, were alike repulſive; and he had no feelings about him that diſpoſed him to ſubmit to the authority of a parent, from whom he had nothing to expect—for it was well underſtood, that of all the Count de Bellegarde either poſſeſſed from his anceſtors, or acquired from his political advantages, D'Ermenonville would inherit only that ſhare which, by its being entailed, his father could not deprive him.

The error of which the Count thought he had been guilty, in allowing to this eldeſt ſon early independence, and boundleſs ex⯑pence, made him determine to adopt, in re⯑gard to me and my brother, a conduct alto⯑gether contrary.—On his retirement from the world, my brother, who was the eldeſt of the two, and called the Baron de Rochemarte, was near fifteen, and I was only fourteen months younger—yet, though at that age, we ſhould have been either purſuing our ſtudies, or with the army, in which we had both commiſſions, my father took us away with him: and, with a governor whom he en⯑gaged, becauſe he was the moſt rigid pedant he could find, he fixed us both in what we then [238] thought the deſolate ſolitude of Rochemarte—a place which he had fixed upon for his own reſidence; not only becauſe it was ſo far from the ſcene of his former elevation; but becauſe it was the only one of his capital houſes that was not entailed on D'Ermenon⯑ville.!

The gloomy ſolitude in which he lived—the power of life and death which he poſſeſſed in his domain, and the proneneſs of his mind to ſuperſtition, which was encouraged by the Monks of the neighbouring convent, who ſoon. found the advantage of having ſo liberal a benefactor—at once darkened and ſoured a temper, never very good. Accuſtomed to dic⯑tate and command, he could not now diveſt himſelf of the habit: and his vaſſals, and his ſons, being the only perſons over whom he could now exert it, were the victims of his harſh and imperious ſpirit—for in them he delighted to diſcover, or to fancy faults, only for the ſatisfaction of impoſing puniſh⯑ment.

It may be eaſily imagined, that to two lads of our ages, and who had from temper and conſtitution a keen reliſh for pleaſures of [239] every kind, the life we led was inſupportable. The mild and ſoft-tempered Genevieve, our ſiſter, who was then not more than twelve years old, though from her ſex and diſpoſi⯑tion, more accuſtomed to, and able to endure ſolitude and confinement, began to feel the weight of thoſe chains, of which, however, ſhe did not complain; but endeavoured, by her ſoothing ſweetneſs, to make ours ſit more eaſy.—She was my father's favourite, and her influence had, for ſome time, the power to aſſuage the harſhneſs of his temper—but, by degrees, even that failed of its effect, and his mortified pride, his loſt happineſs, and his gloomy notions of religion, combined to increaſe this ferocity, and irritate his aſperity, till, at length, his children, though the chil⯑dren of a woman he ſo fondly loved, ſeemed to afford him nothing but objects of anger and tyranny, and he was left alone to the influence of Father Ignatius, a Jeſuit, whom he took into his houſe as the director of his conſcience; and whoſe purpoſe, it ſeemed to be, to eſtrange him from his family en⯑tirely.

[240] There is a point, beyond which, the en⯑durance of the moſt patient ſufferer, cannot go—Genevieve, indeed, Was not yet arrived at this point, but the Baron and I had long ſince paſſed it, and determined to break the ſetters, which, in their preſent form, we did not think even paternal authority had a right to impoſe. The Baron, therefore, wrote to D'Ermenonville, repreſenting our ſituation, and entreating his aſſiſtance to deliver us from it.

The Marquis D'Ermenonville had, per⯑haps, no great affection for us; he could not be totally indifferent to the repreſentation of the Baron; and felt, perhaps, ſome pleaſure, in being able to thwart his father, where it ſeemed to be a ſort of duty to act in oppoſi⯑tion to him. For this purpoſe, he immedi⯑ately, and by a way which we had pointed out to him, ſent us a conſiderable ſupply of money, and directed us both to quit the caſtle in the night, and find our way to Perpignan, where his ſervant and horſes ſhould attend to conduct us to Paris.—He urged, not only the cruelty the Count de Bellegarde was guitly of, [241] in thus obliging us to waſte the beſt of our days in a deſart; but the appearance it muſt have to the world, that when a war was carrying on, two young men, enliſted in their coun⯑try's ſervice, ſubmitted to be confined, like monks, in a cloiſter.—This remark would have been enough to have fired us with am⯑bition and military ardor; but to the incite⯑ments of honour, he added the allurements of pleaſure—and every ſcruple that remained (for I had ſtill ſome as to leaving my father without his permiſſion) gave way before their united influence.

I could not, however, with equal ſucceſs, conquer the regret I felt at leaving my be⯑loved Genevieve, to whom, from our earlieſt infancy, I had been particularly attached.—She would, we were well aſſured, be com⯑pelled to encounter all the fury and indigna⯑tion of the Count, when our departure ſhould be known; and when we ſaw her trem⯑ble with the mere apprehenſion of it, we would very fain have obviated every difficulty that ſeemed. to forbid our taking her with us: but, child as ſhe was, ſhe anſwered with firm⯑neſs and reſolution, of which her gentle tem⯑per [242] ſeemed little capable; "No, my dear brothers," ſaid ſhe, "it is fit you ſhould go—but that I ſhould ſtay—no point of ho⯑nour, no military duty calls me; and I will not deſert my father—he is unhappy—and has need of me—he muſt not be depriv⯑ed at once of all his children—and, if he treats me with rigour, the conſciouſneſs of not having deſerved it, will enable me to ſuſ⯑tain it with patience."

It was neceſſary, however, that ſhe ſhould appear wholly ignorant of our flight—and we dreaded that her reſolution would give way, when ſhe was charged with having been acquainted with it; inſomuch, that we ſhould now have repented having made her a party in our ſecret, could we have borne the thoughts of leaving, abruptly and unkindly, a ſiſter, whom we both ſo fondly loved.

At length, the hour came for this cruel parting.—My father, who ſince his reſidence here, had affected all the ſtate of a feudal ba⯑ron, and even many of the precautions of a beſieged chief, though he had no enemies to apprehend, but the wolves and bears of the Pyrenees; not only had the draw-bridge [243] taken up every night, but had a ſort of guard parade, at ſtated hours, the courts of the caſtle. Our deſire of liberty, however, ſur⯑mounted all the difficulties by which our eſcape ſeemed to be impeded; and, by means of our ſiſter, and our own reſolution, we de⯑ſcended in ſafety, from one of the lower win⯑dows; croſſed the moat, which was then full, in our drawers, by ſwimming, and dreſſing ourſelves on the oppoſite bank, we proceeded on foot to Perpignan; and with hearts ex⯑ulting in our ſucceſs, and the joy it gave us, allayed only by our apprehenſions for Genevieve.

Our tutor had taken a fancy to wine, and we took care liberally to ſupply him—in con⯑ſequence of which, and of the increaſe of pleaſure he found, from this eaſy indulgence of his favourite paſſion, he had inſenſibly abated of his former ſtrictneſs; ſuffered us every evening to go to the apartment of Ge⯑nevieve; and frequently took, in our abſence, ſuch plentiful potations, that he was in bed, and aſleep, before we returned to our apart⯑ments, which were within his. Thus, we [244] were not miſſed till the morning; and, as we left no traces on our way, and had not even entruſted a ſervant with our ſecret, the pur⯑ſuit that was then made for us, was quite in⯑effectual. We arrived ſafely at Perpignan; in ſpirits too elevated to be affected with the fatigue of our long walk.—We found that D'Ermenonville had punctually adhered to his promiſe; and, on his horſes, and attend⯑ed by his ſervants, we proceeded gaily to Paris.

D'Ermenonville received us with more cor⯑dial friendſhip than I believed to be in his na⯑ture—he furniſhed us with money to equip us for joining our reſpective regiments, as became the ſons of the Count of Bellegarde—and aſſured us of his continued aſſiſtance, till my father could be brought to reaſon—it is not, therefore, wonderful, that his friendſhips made us blind to his faults; and, that we ſaw not the diſſolute libertine, in the kind and generous brother.—In fact, he had many virtues; and it was to him we owed our ſup⯑port after the peace of 1763 reſtored us to the pleaſures of Paris. Then, however, the Count of Bellegarde, though he reſiſted every argu⯑ment [245] which could be brought by the other parts of our family, to induce him to receive, and forgive us; yet was ſo far averſe to our owing any farther obligation to D'Ermenon⯑ville, whom he held in abhorrence, and no longer acknowledged as his ſon, that he agreed to make us each an handſome allow⯑ance.

Peace being made, my brother, the Baron de Rochemarte, went into Germany, where, during the war, he had formed ſome attach⯑ments; and I was for ſeveral years in gar⯑riſon with my regiment, hearing nothing of my family but what I learned from the let⯑ters my ſiſter contrived, by ſtealth, to ſend me. After our elopement, ſhe had been, for ſome years, more rigorouſly conſined—and had ſuffered inconceivable harſhneſs and cruel⯑ty from her father—but at the end of ſix years, though his temper was far from being ſoftened by age, the death of the Jeſuit, who had been his confeſſor, ſeemed to have pro⯑cured ſome little alleviation to her ſufferings. A younger, and leſs-auſtere director, of the ſame order, had ſucceeded to the government of his conſcience; and Genevieve now in⯑formed [246] me that, accuſtomed as ſhe had been, almoſt from her infancy, to confinement, the moderate ſeverity of that in which ſhe now lived, was comparatively eaſy to her—that her father admitted of her ſervices with more pleaſure than he uſed to do; ſpoke to her with greater kindneſs; ſometimes allowed her to walk out, and had promiſed that the daugh⯑ter of one of his vaſſals, for whom ſhe had conceived a friendſhip, ſhould be allowed to reſide with her at the caſtle, as her compa⯑nion: ſhe always added her vexation, that this execution of his promiſe was, ſhe knew not why, always delayed from time to time; though her old governeſs was become quite uſeleſs as a companion—but her greateſt un⯑eaſineſs ſeemed to ariſe from our long, and as ſhe began to fear, endleſs ſeparation.

This regret ſhe repeatedly dwelt upon, with ſo much pathetic tenderneſs, that I at length determined to go in ſecret, and in diſguiſe, to Rochemarte, and embrace once more, this beloved ſiſter; for whom, long as we had been parted, I ſtill felt the warmeſt af⯑fection.—I was at Paris when I made this re⯑ſolution, where, a ſhort time before, I had [247] formed an intimate acquaintance with a young Engliſhman, the ſecond ſon of a nobleman—he was two or three years younger than I was; in perſon, remarkably handſome; and in man⯑ners, the moſt engaging man I ever met with.—Our acquaintance ſoon became the ſincereſt friendſhip—and as he communicated to me every intereſting circumſtance that beſel him—ſo my ſituation in regard to my father, and my increaſing deſire to ſee my ſiſter, were no ſecrets to him.—He entered into all my ſoli⯑citude, and encouraged me to indulge the in⯑clination I had to viſit Rochemarte in diſ⯑guiſe, for the pleaſure of ſeeing Genevieve.

A letter I at that period received from her, determined me, to heſitate no longer.—She intimated, that her ſituation was become ex⯑tremely unpleaſant, from the extraordinary behaviour of the Spaniſh Jeſuit, who had ſucceeded old Ignatius—that this man ſeemed to have deſigns of the moſt improper nature, in regard to her; and, that it was he, who had hitherto oppoſed her having Jacquelina, the young perſon to whom ſhe was attached, with her; becauſe he foreſaw, he ſhould then have leſs frequent opportunities of entertain⯑ing [248] her alone: finding, however, the Count diſpoſed to indulge her, and being unable to form any longer pretences to prevent it, he had at laſt told her, that he would immediate⯑ly influence the Count to oblige her, if ſhe would conſent to aſk for the addition of an⯑other member to the family, and receive, as if at her own deſire, a ſiſter of his, who muſt be a ſuperintendant over both her and her friend, and replace the ſuperannuated go⯑verneſs, who was no longer capable of her charge.—To this, my poor Genevieve told me ſhe had conſented, rather than not have the company of Jacquelina, to cheer her ſoli⯑tude—that Jacquelina was conſequently ar⯑rived, and the other expected every day—but that, notwithſtanding ſhe now had a com⯑panion, the Jeſuit continued to find but too many opportunities to entertain her with converſation which ſhe could not miſunder⯑ſtand.

My blood boiled with indignation, while I read this letter, and I inſtantly communicated the contents of it to my friend, Ormond.—"It is not poſſible," ſaid he, "that you can heſitate, my dear Chevalier, how to act—let us [249] ſet out inſtantly for Rochemarte—you ſee a friend ready, not only to attend you, but to loſe his life in your ſervice." We departed the next day, followed only by two ſervants, and arriving at Perpignan, began to conſult on the means of meeting Genevieve, without the knowledge of my father, or the inhabi⯑tants of the caſtle—and the propereſt expedi⯑ent that occurred to us was, to diſguiſe our⯑ſelves and our ſervants, as hunters, and to watch, in that dreſs, till chance ſhould throw my ſiſter in our way.

I ſometimes thought of going openly to my father, and making one effort to awaken his paternal feelings; to obtain my own pardon, and my ſiſter's liberty; but after conſulting with Ormond, we agreed, that it was better to en⯑deavour to ſee her firſt; for a failure in the ſucceſs of this ſcheme would probably occa⯑ſion her to be ſo cloſely confined, that we might never have an opportunity of ſeeing her at all.

Equipped, therefore, as Izard hunters, we reached this caſtle—and wandered about a whole day in its neighbourhood without any [250] ſucceſs—the weather was ſo intenſely warm, for it was now autumn, that I believed my ſiſter came out only early in the morning, or late in the evening—and that the beſt probability of meeting her, was at thoſe hours—to take up our abode near the caſtle, therefore, was mate⯑rial, and I recollected the banqueting-houſe in the wood, which had then, I imagined, been long neglected, and where our reſidence could not be ſuſpected. But, on entering, I was ſurpriſed to find it newly fitted up, and ſump⯑tuouſly furniſhed with every article that could contribute to luxury and repoſe—this had been done by the Jeſuit's directions, and here he now and then made little entertainments for ſome favourite fathers of the convent and their female penitents, which Apicius or Marc Anthony might have beheld with envy.

Dread of the Count's power and ſeverity, effectually ſecured every part of his domain from the intruſion of any of the neighbouring peaſants. The pavilion, therefore, furniſhed as it was, was never locked—and, as I imagined nobody had ſo good a right to it as myſelf, I [251] took up my abode in it without much appre⯑henſion of being diſlodged.—My friend oc⯑cupied the other room, and our ſervants found a lodging in the deſerted cabin of a ſhepherd, on the other ſide of the caſtle; from whence they were ordered to watch for the appearance of the ladies we deſired to ſee; and immediately, on perceiving them, to ac⯑quaint us.

The whole of the ſecond day paſſed as the firſt had done; we wandered about the woods that ſkirt the caſtle—but all about it appear⯑ed the deſolate abode of ſullen deſpotiſm.—At night, when we had no longer any thing to fear from the obſervation of thoſe who might belong to it, we approached its walls more nearly, and watched the lights at the windows, hoping that Genevieve might paſs with a candle; though even then it would have been very difficult, if not impoſſible, to have apprized her of our being ſo near.

If my friend had been eager for the expe⯑dition, he was now more earneſt for its ſuc⯑ceſs.—The wild and mountainous country, around a caſtle ſuch as is deſcribed as the ha⯑bitation of enchanters, and monſters of fable, [252] was exactly ſuited to inflame his ardent and romantic imagination—and when, to theſe circumſtances, was added our purpoſe, to ſave a young woman from the harſh ſeverity of a father, and the wicked hypocriſy of a Jeſuit, he became an abſolute enthuſiaſt; and vowed, like a true knight errant, never to leave the ſpot till our adventure was ſucceſs⯑fully accompliſhed.

The ſecond night, however, we were ſlowly retiring to our pavilion, and had almoſt reached it, when we fancied that among the trees, on one ſide of us, which were then cut into alleys, we heard female voices talking low and plaintively.—The evening was ſo pro⯑foundly ſtill that we heard every leaf that quivered in the ſcarcely-perceptible air; and theſe voices we now loſt, now heard more diſtinctly—till at length I was ſure that one of them was the voice of Genevieve, though it was ſo long ſince I had heard it. I would have flown into her arms—but Ormond, for once more conſiderate than I was, withheld me, by repreſenting to me, that if the perſon with her ſhould be the Jeſuit's ſiſter, we ſhould be ruined by our raſhneſs. Inſtead, therefore, of [253] ſhewing ourſelves abruptly, we glided along on the other ſide of a treillage of beech, which entirely concealed us, and, liſtening attentive⯑ly, heard diſtinctly, that it was to her friend Jacquelina, that my ſiſter addreſſed herſelf.

I knew not whether my voice or the ſight of me could alarm her leaſt; but at length determined to walk from the banqueting⯑houſe, and meet her. We both, therefore, proceeded ſlowly down the walk in which ſhe was, leaning on the arm of Jacquelina; but neither of them immediately perceived us—and I had time (for though it was evening, every object was yet diſtinct) to obſerve the wonderful alteration that time had made in the perſon of my ſiſter.

I had left her, a beautiful girl, of twelve years old; her fine hair hanging looſe over her face and neck; and her features, though then lovely and expreſſive, not yet formed.—She was now in her nineteenth year—with the figure of a nymph, and a countenance beam⯑ing with ſenſibility and ſweetneſs—with a ſen⯑ſibility that ſeemed to have no object, and with ſweetneſs that had ſomething of patient acquieſcence infinitely intereſting. Her com⯑panion [254] was ſo beautiful a woman, that at any other time, I ſhould have been immedi⯑ately ſtruck with her charms; but at this moment, I had no eyes but for Genevieve—and Ormond, whoſe heart had been prepared for any impreſſion, was ſo faſcinated, that forgetting my injunctions of ſilence, he ex⯑claimed, "Heavens! Chevalier—you never told me that your ſiſter was an angel!"

At this exclamation, though not uttered in a loud voice, Genevieve, whoſe eyes were be⯑fore fixed on the ground, raiſed them, when ſeeing two men approach, ſhe was extremely alarmed, and taking Jacquelina by the arm, ſhe cried—"Here are ſtrangers, my friend—let us haſten back to the caſtle."

"No," cried I—"No, Genevieve, it is no ſtranger, but your brother, who comes to defend and protect you." "My brother! my dear brother!" ſaid ſhe—"what, both! is it poſſible; can you be both ſo good?"

I held her in my arms, for ſhe was unable to ſupport herſelf—while Ormond paſſionate⯑ly exclaimed, "Oh, would to Heaven I were your brother! but accept me, lovelieſt of [255] women, as your friend; and be aſſured, that I will defend ſo glorious a title with my life."

She was ſoon ſo well recovered as to liſten to what I related to her, and her beautiful eyes were turned towards Ormond, full of ſuch expreſſions as charmed his very ſoul—while ſhe thanked him for having accompa⯑nied her dear Chevalier. From her conver⯑ſation, and from that of her amiable compa⯑nion, I learned, that my infatuated father, was not only entirely governed by his con⯑feſſor, but had lately ſhewn ſo much attach⯑ment to the ſiſter whom he had introduced, that there was every reaſon to apprehend the conſequence of the increaſing influence of both. Genevieve, however, ſpoke of her fa⯑ther's failings, and even of his unreaſonable harſhneſs towards her, with reluctant ſweet⯑neſs that was bewitchingly intereſting; and Ormond, in this ſhort converſation, was gone whole ages in love.—His eyes watched every turn of her countenance—his ears drank the ſoft ſounds of her plaintive voice.

I ſaw that the beauty, the ſimplicity of Ge⯑nevieve, aided by the ſingularity of her ſitua⯑tion, [256] and the ſcene in which he ſaw her, had effected an inſtance of what has often been denied, and often ridiculed—love at firſt ſight. Neither Ormond, nor my ſiſter, nor I, were conſcious of the courſe of time; but Jacquelina at length reminded her, that it would be ha⯑zardous to be longer abſent from the caſtle. She inſtantly recollected herſelf, and ſaid with a ſigh—"My Chevalier—we muſt part—when ſhall we meet again?" It was agreed, that by the earlieſt dawn of the following morn⯑ning, we would wait for them in the wood, near the pavilion: we attended them as far as we dared, towards the approach to the caſtle, and then ſlowly and unwillingly bade them good-night.

Ormond ſtood watching my ſiſter as ſhe paſſed among the trees, and when he could ſee her no longer, he hinted to me, and ſaid, with an energy peculiarly his own, "Belle⯑garde, I am in love with your ſiſter to diſ⯑traction!" "I am ſorry for it, my friend," ſaid I; "and why ſorry?" interrupted he—with an air of diſpleaſure; "becauſe," replied I, "this attachment, if it indeed becomes permanent, though very honourable to her, [257] may be a ſource of miſery to you both.—My father has ſo great an antipathy to an Engliſh-man and a Proteſtant, that were a man, who is both, to poſſeſs the world, I am convinced he would refuſe him his daughter."—"Refuſe," cried Ormond: "Do you think I would aſk him? or do you, Chevalier, mean to leave your ſiſter—ſuch a ſiſter—here in his power?"—"I hardly know what I mean yet, my dear friend. Let us, however, do nothing raſhly, leſt we injure the objects we wiſh to ſerve."—Alas! at that time, I was cool and collected, and could argue with the romantic enthuſiaſm of my friend; but in a few days I was as madly in love with Jacquelina, as Ormond was with my ſiſter.

The impediments between us, were as great as thoſe between my friend and Genevieve—Jacquelina was of inferior birth, the daughter of one of my father's vaſſals; and to the ſul⯑len pride of the Count of Bellegarde nothing could be ſo repugnant as ſuch an alliance. I was not yet of the age when ſons were al⯑lowed to diſpoſe of themſelves; and my al⯑lowance from my father would, I was well aſſured, be inſtantly withdrawn, if I offended [258] him anew—All theſe conſiderations, however, weighed nothing againſt the violence of my paſſion—and determined as I was to marry Jacquelina, and to give Genevieve to my friend, the only difficulty ſeemed to be to find a Prieſt on whom we might depend; for, ſen⯑ſible of our affection as were the objects of our love, they refuſed to leave their home unleſs under the protection of their huſbands.

While I was ſtudying how to find and ſe⯑cure the fidelity of ſuch a man as we had oc⯑caſion for, Genevieve endured from the inſo⯑ſence of the Jeſuit, and the encroaching au⯑thority of Mademoiſelle D'Aucheterre, his ſiſter, inſults which ſhe dared not avow to us in all their extent. But Jacquelina, when ſhe was alone with me, ſpake with leſs reſerve, and told me ſhe had no doubt but that it was the plan of D'Aucheterre, the Jeſuit, to marry his ſiſter to the Count: and that ſo entirely was he governed by him, that there was no doubt of his falling into the ſnare. This was very unpleaſant intelligence; but I forgot it when ſhe added, that ſhe dreaded every day leſt the walks Genevieve was now allowed to take ſhould be prohibited.

[259] It was neceſſary immediately to hazard ſomething. I contrived to make an acquaint⯑ance with one of the younger Monks of the convent—he had never ſeen me as the Cheva⯑lier de Bellegarde, and believed, for ſome time, that I was an hunter, from Pau in Berne. At length, when I believed myſelf tolerably ac⯑quainted with him, I told him who I was, and with what view I had ſo long lingered about my father's abode, from whence I had been many years exiled. From the manner of his receiving this intelligence, I believed I could truſt him—It was very hazardous; for the Fathers of the Convent were for the moſt part decidedly in the intereſt of the Jeſuit—But I offered to this Monk the means of gratifying ſome of thoſe paſſions which his poverty and mode of life afforded him little opportunity of indulging—and he agreed to do whatever I pleaſed.

The riſing ſun of the following morning ſaw my friend Ormond the enraptured huſ⯑band of the lovely Genevieve; and gave me, in Jacquelina, the only woman who ſeemed to me worthy to be her friend.—Trembling at every breath of air, at every [260] whiſper of the falling leaves, they hurried back to the caſtle—where an unuſual degree of tranquillity ſeemed on that day to reign.—The Count ſpake kindly to his daughter—and ſhe, encouraged by the certainty of now be⯑longing to the man ſhe loved, put a reſtraint upon herſelf, and behaved with more civility to D'Auchterre and his ſiſter than ſhe could generally command. In the evening they met us as uſual; but our felicity was embit⯑tered by the apprehenſions for our ſafety that had taken poſſeſſion of Jacquelina.—"Though there is not a peaſant, or a ſhepherd, round the domains of the caſtle," ſaid ſhe, "that loves the Count well enough to do him any kindneſs on his own account, yet fear may have the influence which affection and grati⯑tude have not. Some of them have been tell⯑ing the ſervants that two ſtrangers have been ſeen for many days among the mountains, who call themſelves Izard hunters, though they have no dogs with them; that nobody knows where they ſleep, or how they live; and that they are ſuſpected to belong to a banditti who have for ſome time infeſted the Vallée d'Aran, about the ſource of the Ga⯑ronne. [261] This whiſper," continued Jacquelina, "terrifies me. It was only to-day I heard it, and I have never had a tranquil moment ſince: I figure to myſelf that your lodging in the banqueting-houſe may be diſcovered; that you may be taken up—impriſoned—puniſhed."—I endeavoured to appeaſe the fears of my angelic wife, though I felt that they were too well founded. Ormond, intoxicated by love, and knowing leſs of the manners of the people than I did, treated them ſlightly—"Let them come," ſaid he;—"are we not armed?" The following day, however, Genevieve and Jac⯑quelina met us in increaſed alarm. The re⯑ports among the ſervants gained ground—the Jeſuit had heard of them, and had ſaid to Genevieve and her friend, that if ſuch men were lurking about the confines of the caſtle, their early and late walks would become very unſafe, and that he muſt ſpeak to the Count to forbid them.

To remain another night in the pavilion was not ſafe. Our little council deliberated what to do, and Love was the preſident. Under his auſpices, the timid Genevieve learned courage to propoſe what appeared a [262] more hazardous meaſure than to remain where we were. "The eaſtern ſide of the caſtle," ſaid ſhe, "is never inhabited on that ſide: the guard-room, and the rooms above and under it, have not been opened for many years:—in that quarter, you, my Chevalier, may recol⯑lect there was a conſiderable breach made in one of the ſieges, and the windows are diſ⯑mantled and broken ſtill—as nobody ever goes near that range of rooms, would there be much danger in your remaining in them till we can depart?"

"The danger," cried Ormond; "is no conſideration, but why ſhould we not depart immediately? why ſhould you and Jacquelina ever return to the caſtle?"

To this my ſiſter anſwered, that unleſs pre⯑cautions were taken, ſuch as ſhe feared we had not thought of, our flight would undo us—"My father," ſaid ſhe, "by the death of that nobleman, who was the moſt powerful among his enemies, has obtained the government of Rouſſillon, and has even had offers of other advantages which may awaken his dormant and diſappointed ambition. Thus armed with powers to detect our flight, conſider what [263] would be the conſequence of our being miſſing, if we are not ſure of getting out of his reach before he can exert that power. Secure, if poſſible, the means of an eſcape, and we will fly: in the mean time, you muſt think of your own ſafety till that can be done."

We were too much in love to raiſe any dif⯑ficulties to a plan which brought us nearer the objects of our affections; and the remark Genevieve made as to the difficulty of our carrying her and Jacquelina with us, without ſome quicker means of conveyance than their delicate limbs afforded them, was perfectly juſt. How to procure ſuch conveyance was a matter that required more deliberation than the preſent moment afforded, and it was there⯑fore agreed that at night, when all about the caſtle was quiet, Genevieve and Jacquelina ſhould be at one of the loweſt windows on the eaſtern ſide; and that we ſhould croſs the moat, and by their aid aſcend to that window, which we conſidered as a very eaſy under⯑taking.

As it was now late in the autumn, and there was no moon, it was dark enough for our purpoſe. We croſſed the moat with eaſe, [264] and found our lovely conductreſſes waiting for us; with almoſt equal eaſe aſcended the broken wall, and I was thus in my father's houſe, unknown to him, and took poſſeſſion of the paternal manſion of my anceſtors as if I had been a robber and an aſſaſſin.

Here, however, under ſuch circumſtances, I paſſed the moſt fortunate period of my life—Ah! ſhort and fleeting felicity—which never, never can return again!

We were not, however, ſo intoxicated with our preſent happineſs, as to neglect the means of its continuance; but nothing was ſo diffi⯑cult as to carry them into execution. It was only of a night I could get out, for with ſuch a commiſſion I was unwilling to entruſt the daring and impetuous Ormond; and the ap⯑plication I made for horſes at two or three villages at hours ſo unreaſonable, raiſed ſuch ſuſpicion of my intention, that I twice narrowly eſcaped being ſeized by the peaſants as one of the banditti; and once, on my return to the caſtle, was watched and compelled, in⯑ſtead of entering it by the window, as uſual, to plunge into the woods, and conceal myſelf till the following evening: while my wife, my [265] ſiſter, and Ormond ſuffered the moſt cruel anxiety and were almoſt dead with apprehen⯑ſion.

After this unſucceſsful ſally, they entreated me not to venture out again, and we continued to live on ſome time longer in ſecurity. The immenſe extent of the caſtle made our abode in this uninhabited part of it attended with very little riſh; for the paſſages were all ſtone, and our footſteps could not be heard, even if we had not taken all precautions againſt noiſe. The appearance of complaiſance which Gene⯑vieve was compelled to aſſume towards D'Aucheterre, obtained for her any little fa⯑vour ſhe choſe to aſk of him: and he allowed her frequently to dine in her own apartment, while his ſiſter was thus enabled to carry on, with more ſucceſs, her plan of operations againſt the heart of the Count, in which in⯑deed ſhe had made a much greater progreſs than we apprehended. Thus we were ſupplied with food without raiſing any ſuſpicion, and were ſo well content with our conſinement, ſince it was the impriſonment of love, that could we have been ſure of its continuance with ſafety to the objects of that love, we [266] ſhould never have regretted our loſs of li⯑berty.

To this moment I am ignorant of the means by which we were diſcovered, though I can impute it only to the treachery of the Monk who married us. It was after mid⯑night, near five weeks after our reſidence in the caſtle, that I was awaked by a loud ſhriek from Jacquelina, who at the ſame moment threw her arms about me.—I ſtarted up, and flew to a cutlaſs which I uſually placed in a chair near the bed; and with which I defended Jacquelina for ſome moments, till I was ſtunned by a blow which one of the ruffians who ſur⯑rounded me aimed at the back of my head, and I recovered not my ſenſes till many hours afterwards, when I awoke in a kind of litter, in which two hideous figures guarded me, with their ſwords drawn. I was confined by heavy chains; and when I enquired why I was thus fettered like a malefactor, I was ſhewn a Lettre de Cachet, which directed me to be conveyed to the Baſtile—and thither I was now travelling. Oh, Sir, if you have ever loved! you may be enabled to judge what were my feelings!—Yet, who was ever ſo cruelly outraged—who [267] was ever torn from ſuch a woman, unleſs it was my unhappy friend, Ormond!—whoſe fate I had reaſon to fear was yet ſeverer than my own—becauſe I doubted whether my fa⯑ther, ſavage and inhuman as he was, could exerciſe on me exactly the ſame degree of cruelty, which he would feel himſelf diſpoſed to inflict on one who, in addition to his being the huſband of Genevieve, was an Engliſhman, and an heretic. The anxiety I felt for his fate, and for that of my ſiſter, and the dread of what might have befallen Jacquelina, whoſe ſhrieks, as they endeavoured to tear her from me, yet vibrated in my ears, made me inſen⯑ſible of my own ſufferings, notwithſtanding my wounds and the inconveniences of my con⯑finement. But my guards were obſtinately ſilent, and neither threats nor entreaties could procure for me the leaſt intelligence of what was to be the fate of the beloved friends from whom they had divided me.

While any hope remained, I retained ſome degree of compoſure and recollection: but at length deſpair took poſſeſſion of me—I be⯑came delirious—Furious, frantic, I was only prevented by my chains from deſtroying, firſt [268] my keepers, and then myſelf.—I knew nothing of what happened for many days, during the diſorder of my ſenſes: when I recovered them, I was in a room in one of the towers of the Baſtile, ſo much weakened with the loſs of blood that they had taken from me during my frenzy, that I could not leave my bed. My head had been ſhaved, and I was under the regimen appointed for thoſe who are decidedly inſane.—Pardon me, if I here aſk your pa⯑tience till to-morrow—the recollection of what I then ſuffered is too painful for me to dwell upon longer; and when I think that theſe ſuf⯑ferings were inflicted by a father!—Here the Count put his hand on his heart, and ſighed deeply. Willoughby remarked in his eyes that unſettled expreſſion that ſtill bore teſtimony of the ſtate of mind into which the ſufferings he had been relating had thrown him; and extremely affected himſelf by the Count's narrative, he was glad, powerfully as his curioſity was excited, to delay hearing the melancholy cataſtrophe, for melancholy he feared it muſt be, till the next day.

CHAPTER XI.

WHEN the Count de Bellegarde and Wil⯑loughby met the next morning, the former ſeemed perfectly compoſed, but penſive and melancholy. It was early—he propoſed walk⯑ing towards the convent; "and as we go," ſaid he, "I will conclude, as briefly as I can, my mournful hiſtory. I will not dwell upon the nature of my ſufferings in the Baſtile: of much of the time I paſſed there I have no per⯑fect recollection; and, for the reſt, ſuffice it to ſay that, by the orders of my inflexible father, I endured all the rigours of im⯑priſonment, in its moſt hideous form for ſeveral months, during which I made ſome attempts to eſcape—Attempts, the failure of which only ſerved to convince me of the im⯑poſſibility [270] of effecting it; and, in the impo⯑tency of rage, I curſed my exiſtence, and, I fear, reproached Heaven itſelf for permitting ſuch horrors on earth. The idea of Jacque⯑lina, abandoned to the inhuman vengeance of a man capable of acting with ſuch malig⯑nity towards his own ſon; the thoughts of the miſery in which I had probably been the means of involving Ormond and Genevieve, hardly ſuffered me to attend to my own wretch⯑edueſs, when I was capable of feeling it; but many weeks paſt in wild ravings about them, and then for myſelf I felt nothing.

"I thus loſt ſome of thoſe miſerable days, the cauſe of which, when I was ſenſible, I marked on the wall of my priſon. I had now, though my reckoning was thus rendered defective, paſt near two years in my priſon; when my barbarous father, at the interceſſion of my brother the Baron, ſent a prieſt to offer me my releaſe on certain conditions: one of which was, that I ſhould immediately, on leav⯑ing my confinement, be conducted to my re⯑giment, which was then in garriſon at Liſle, and give my parole that I would not quit it without the permiſſion of the commanding [271] officer. Though I ſaw that this reſtriction was intended to prevent my gaining any intelli⯑gence of Jacquelina, of Ormond, or of my ſiſter, I gave the promiſed deſire, as being re⯑leaſed from my deteſted priſon always ſeemed a ſtep towards them; and two days afterwards the governor of the Baſtile delivered me to the perſons whom my father had ſent for me; and I was thus conducted, like a priſoner, to join the regiment, where the colonel, a friend of the Count's, took care to take the parole in the ſtrongeſt manner; and believing, perhaps, that under ſuch circumſtances I ſhould not feel myſelf bound in honour to keep it, he continued to have me watched ſo ſtrictly that I was ſtill in fact a priſoner.

"And thus, at the age of twenty-nine, was I treated; my ſoul revolting againſt the tyranny, without the means of eſcaping from it, and conſuming itſelf in vain projects, to ſee or to hear from the wife ſo adored—from friends ſo tenderly beloved.

"A few days, however, after my arrival at Liſle, my brothers, D'Ermenonville and the Baron De Rochemarte, came in diſguiſe to find me. They hardly knew me, ſo greatly was [272] I changed by deſpair and confinement; but without giving them time to expreſs their concern, I enquired for Jacquelina—for Or⯑mond, for our ſiſter.

"Their countenances, particularly that of the Baron, told me that I had only tidings of ſorrow to expect; and knowing the ſtate in which my mind had been, he ſtudied a moment how to ſoften them; but the impa⯑tience of my fear would not give him time—"Tell me," cried I, "tell me, where is Jac⯑quelina, where is Genevieve, where is my friend Ormond? They are dead, I know they are; that inhuman man, who calls himſelf my father, has deſtroyed them all."

"No," replied the Baron, "Ormond lives, and is long ſince returned to England—Jac⯑quelina lives; but lives not for you; ſhe has taken the veil.—As for our unfortunate ſiſter, ſhe is, perhaps, happier; ſhe has been dead ſome months."—This cruel intelligence—that of the three beings deareſt to me on earth I ſhould never again ſee either, was too much for me.—Again I loſt the ſenſe of my miſery in delirium; and it was many days before I could attend to the conſolation offered me by [273] the Baron, or the lighter arguments by which D'Ermenonville attempted to wean me from reflections which it could anſwer, he ſaid, no purpoſe to indulge. The ſtate I then fell into was only another ſpecies of madneſs. I no longer raved or vented my ſury in cries and execrations; but I became ſilent and ſullen: never ſpoke but to the Baron, who ſtill at⯑tended me with paternal pity, and got leave of the commandant to do ſo; and whatever I ſaid to him was only enquiries after ſome par⯑ticulars relative to Jacquelina and my ſiſter, in which he could not ſatisfy me—all that he knew being from my father, or Madame de Bellegarde; for the ſiſter of the Jeſuit, D'Au⯑cheterre had long ſince been raiſed to that title, and had brought the Count to Paris, where he was again admitted to ſuch a ſhare of power as had enabled him to execute more ſecurely his unnatural vengeance.

"As I was no longer capable of duty, and my malady ſeemed to be incurably fixed:—as Jacquelina had taken the vows, and was for ever out of my reach, the Baron obtained leave for me to go with him to a houſe he had in Normandy; where the patient pity with which he watched over me, gradually re⯑ſtored [274] me to my ſenſes! but I regained them only to feel with keener anguiſh all the hor⯑rors of my deſtiny. The Count de Bellegarde, now far advanced in life, and repenting, per⯑haps, whenever his new wife gave him leave to think, of his cruel treatment of his daugh⯑ter, expreſſed ſome inclination to ſee and to forgive me; but I felt that it was I who had much to forgive: and, alas! I felt, too, that though he was my father I could not forgive him.

The firſt moment in which I enjoyed both reaſon and liberty, I ſhould have uſed in flying to Perpignan, where, with difficulty, I learned that Jacquelina was confined; but I had promiſed the Baron, that I could not yet attempt it, and to him I held my word to be ſacred, whatever it coſt me to keep it. All my preſent ſatisfaction was in traverſing the ſea coaſt, near which my brother's houſe was ſituated, and looking towards England, whence I every day expected to hear of Ormond, to whom I had written. Impatiently I waited month after month for an anſwer. I wrote again; but ſtill I heard nothing. At length I recollected the name of an Engliſh gentle⯑man, with whom Ormond lived in habits of [275] intimacy while he was in France. I wrote to him, and my letter was immediately anſwered. He informed me, that Captain Ormond, who had returned to England about ten months before in a very bad ſtate of health, had been ordered very ſoon afterwards to America, with his regiment, which was ſent thither to quell the troubles which about that time broke out in the Engliſh colonies. Thus I had no longer any hope of ſeeing my dear friend, who was of a diſpoſition to have joined me in my attempt, however hazardous, for the recovery of Jacquelina, which I was at all events deter⯑mined to try at.

"Wild and impoſſible as the project was, it had taken ſuch forcible hold of my imagina⯑tion, that reaſon was no longer heard. I concealed my intentions, however, carefully from my brother—affected compoſure, I was far from feeling; and, as he began to be⯑lieve me reconciled to my deſtiny, he no longer refuſed to talk of Jacquelina, when I calmly led the diſcourſe to that ſubject: and by degrees he told me all he knew, which was, indeed, little more than the name of the con⯑vent, where ſhe had taken the veil, at Per⯑pignan.

[276] "Having gained all the inſtruction I could, I left a letter to the Baron, who had long ceaſed to inſiſt upon any parole; and telling him that being now well enough to return to my duty, I ſhould merely ſee Jacquelina, take an eternal adieu, and then rejoin my regiment. I ſat out alone in the night, and, taking bye⯑roads, arrived at Perpignan.

"I found a brother of Jacquelina's, who was ſettled there: he confirmed all I had heard of the compulſion that had been uſed by the Count to force my unhappy wife to take the veil. He had threatened the deſtruction of her whole family: he had impriſoned her fa⯑ther, and aſſured her that I was dead. If I ſhuddered at this relation, judge how my ten⯑derneſs, my regret, my rage was encreaſed when this brother of my Jacquelina went on to ſpeak of what he thought I had known. That ſhe became a mother during this inhuman perſecution; and that an infant daughter then exiſted. My ſiſter, too, had given birth to a daughter; and died in conſequence of the anguiſh of mind ſhe ſuffered at having her child taken from her. "Where are theſe chil⯑dren?" cried I, in an agony it is impoſſible to deſcribe;—"Oh, carry me inſtantly where I [277] may claim them!" "Alas, Sir!" replied my wife's brother, "my ſiſter's child was taken by my mother, who, ill as ſhe could afford it, would never part with it to the Count, who, offered to provide for it; becauſe ſhe doubted what were his deſigns. She doubted, indeed, with reaſon, for the other baby was ſent away to Bayonne, as was then ſaid; but every thing relative to it was ſo ſecretly managed, that nobody knew for a long time what was become of it: and it was not till ſome time afterwards that my ſiſter, who from her ten⯑der affection for Mademoiſelle Bellegarde, was as anxious for it as for her own, perſuaded me to enquire about it; for we all dreaded to hear that the Count, under the influence of the D'Aucheterres, had been very cruel indeed to it!

"Oh! Sir, reflect a moment on my feel⯑ings at this detail. In the ſame breath, I bade my informer go on with the account of all he knew of Ormond's child, and carry me to my own. The wildneſs of my impatience frightened him; he endeavoured to ſoothe me with aſſurances that my infant was living, and well, and then told me as gently as he could, that he had been guilty of a [278] breach of promiſe in naming it, for that the Count had made the whole family enter into an agreement never to let me know any thing about the child.—Irritated by this new inſtance of barbarity, I ſwore, in a tranſport of paſſion, that I would have my daughter re⯑ſtored to me, or periſh in the attempt; and that I would find the child of my murdered ſiſter if I traverſed the world."—"Alas! my dear Chevalier," ſaid my wife's brother, "there will be danger enough for you even in at⯑tempting to ſee your own daughter; for the Count has never ceaſed to have it watched: but for that of your ſiſter, you will certainly never recover it. All my reſearches, which I aſ⯑ſure you were not indolently nor feebly made, traced it no farther than into the houſe of a cer⯑tain Madame de Pellatier at Bayonne, a friend of the preſent Madame de Bellegarde, who undertook"—

"Madame de Pellatier!" cried Willoughby, "Oh! eternal Heaven, are you ſure—Merci⯑ful God!—are you ſure it was Madame de Pellatier?"

Amazed at the vehemence and ſingular manner of Willoughby, for which he could ſo little account—the Count looked at him a [279] moment, and then ſaid—"Am I ſure? Yes, very ſure—Have you then any knowledge of Madame de Pellatier?"—"Oh! if I could tell you," cried Willoughby, in agitation that deprived him of his breath—"but I cannot—'tis impoſſible—yet thus much—Did you re⯑cover the daughter of your ſiſter—was ſhe ever reſtored to you?"—

"No, never," anſwered the Count, "all the intelligence I was long afterwards to obtain was, that Madame de Pellatier had placed her in a convent at Hiers; but her name was changed, and before I could obtain, after my laſt re⯑turn to France, even this information, the people who had received her were dead, and I could only gueſs from ſome memorandums kept in the convent, 'that a child, whom I gueſſed to have been the ſame, was taken from thence by an Engliſh lady."—

"It is Celeſtina," cried Willoughby, in the wildeſt tranſport, "it is my own Celeſtina. She is mine again—without a doubt, without any impediment, mine!"—He was conſcious, that at that moment he was not in poſſeſſion of his ſenſes, ſo extravagant was his joy. The Count, accuſtomed as he had been to the im⯑pulſe of violent paſſions himſelf, was aſto⯑niſhed [280] at this phrenzy, becauſe he compre⯑hended not what had produced it, nor could Willoughby, for ſome moments, command himſelf enough to explain it; till at length, from this paroxyſm of agonizing joy he ſunk at once with as deep dejection, for the proba⯑bility had occurred to him, that, at the very moment when he was exulting in having ſo wonderfully and ſo unexpectedly diſcovered the birth of Celeſtina, and thus recovered all his loſſes—ſhe was, perhaps, married—and no longer intereſted for him—nor ſolicitous to enquire on his account to whom ſhe belonged.

Then as every hour's delay might be fatal if this had not already happened, he deter⯑mined to ſet out inſtantly for England. The wonder, however, with which he ſaw the Count ſurvey him recalled his wandering and bewil⯑dered ſenſes; and as well as he could, though very incoherently and inarticulately, he re⯑lated his hiſtory to the Count—

Monſieur de Bellegarde had not a doubt but that Celeſtina of Willoughby was his niece; every circumſtance, as they became cool enough to compare them, anſwered ex⯑actly. Convinced of this, and becoming every inſtant more partial to his gueſt, the Count [281] now entered with the warmeſt intereſt into all his apprehenſions leſt he ſhould loſe her; and approved of his haſtening inſtantly back to England—Willoughby now intreated him to return to the caſtle, that he might not waſte a moment—for on the event of a moment, per⯑haps, ſaid he, my life depends. As they re⯑turned, however, the Count concluded his own hiſtory, and Willoughby, ſince Celeſtina was concerned in it, commanded that portion of attention which, perhaps, no other ſubject, however otherwiſe intereſting, could at that moment have commanded.

"I was not deterred," ſaid the Count de Bellegarde, "by any of the threats that my father had uttered; but I flew to the convent where Jacquelina was. It was gueſſed by my impatience and ardour who I was—and I was refuſed admittance to the grate. I then had recourſe to the diſguiſe of a female dreſs; and, in deſpite of all the menaces that had been thrown out againſt their family, I pre⯑vailed on one of her ſiſters to accompany me."

"I ſaw her!—but ſhe did not know me.—Her eyes were caſt down; ſhe was pale and thin—reſignation and patience ſeemed to have [282] ſoftened the horrors of her deſtiny—but they gave to her faded beauty an intereſt ſo power⯑ful, that I never loved her ſo ardently as that moment—I would have forced myſelf through the grate, which was one of thoſe that are ſo narrow as ſcarcely to admit an hand.—I threw myſelf againſt it—I ſpoke to her—ſhe then knew me, and caught hold of the bars to ſave herſelf from falling—I kiſſed her hand in the wildeſt tranſ orts—I beſought her to remem⯑ber, that her vows were not—could not be bind⯑ing, either in the ſight of God or man!—that ſhe was my wife; and that againſt the infamousty. ranny that had divided us, all nature revolted." Thus I raved, while tears, ſuch as angels ſhed, fell from her lovely eyes—"Oh! Bellegarde," ſaid ſhe, when ſhe was able to ſpeak, "This is all vain and frantic rage!—learn, my dear, dear friend, to ſubmit, as I do, to a fate, which, cruel as it is, is inevitable—I am dead to you!—for from hence, no power, no force, can now releaſe me—ah! they told me you were no more—or never, never would I have taken thoſe vows, which my heart re⯑fuſed!—But it is done!—and this ſhort mo⯑ment is the laſt we ſhall ever have!"—At this [283] inſtant the ſuperior of the convent, and ſeveral nuns appeared, and ſeverely reproaching her, forced her from the grate—"Inhuman," ſaid ſhe,—"even this laſt moment is denied me!—farewell, my dear Bellegarde—farewell for ever—believe I am dead; and transfer the tenderneſs you felt for your Jacquelina—to her little Anzoletta—in her I ſtill live." This ſentence was hardly articulate, amid the efforts her perſecutors made to force her away—when I loſt ſight of her, again I threw my⯑ſelf frantically againſt the grate that divided, I beat my head againſt it—fury and deſpair poſſeſſed me anew—and I became, for ſome days, again inſenſible—or ſenſible to nothing but the ſight of my little girl, whoſe innocent ſmiles appeaſed my rage, and made me recol⯑lect that there was yet a being in the world for whom I ought to live.

"Every calm interval was employed in pro⯑jects, more wild, perhaps, than my wildeſt ravings; to force Jacquelina from her ac⯑curſed impriſonment. I talked about it con⯑tinually to her brothers, and perſuaded my⯑ſelf that nothing was impoſſible to a man ſo injured, and ſo attached as I was. My fa⯑ther, [284] however, was too powerful in a province, where he was governor, and in a community into which he had influence to get Jacquelina received, notwithſtanding her reſiſtance, and even her marriage. At this time, power did every thing in France, and nature and juſtice were ſilenced—thank God it is ſo no longer!"

In this ejaculation, Willoughby moſt ſin⯑cerely joined, and the Count proceeded:—

"My father, as I was about to obſerve, was too well ſerved to leave me any probability of ſucceſs in this mad project; far from being able to procure the liberty of my wife, I could Rot preſerve my own—but was, under pre⯑tence of my inſanity, carried away a priſoner from Perpignan; and the only favor the Ba⯑ron could obtain for me was, that I might be confined in his houſe in Normandy.—Here I remained only a ſhort time, ſunk again into the impotent fullenneſs of deſpair, when the regiment, to which I belonged, was ordered to America, and my father deſired I might go. I wiſhed for death—and had I had any mo⯑tives to deſire life, my honour compelled me not to heſitate. For America then I em⯑barked; and on my arrival, my firſt care was [285] to enquire for the Engliſh regiment, in which my friend Ormond had a company. I heard, from deſerters, that it had ſuffered greatly in the beginning of the war, and was ordered back to England. Even the mournful ſatis⯑faction which I had promiſed myſelf in em⯑bracing my friend, the huſband of my beloved unfortunate Genevieve, ſeemed thus to be de⯑nied me; and every circumſtance contributed to promote that deſperation, that impatience of life, which is the effect of incurable cala⯑mity.

"Before I left France, I had recommended my infant Anzoletta to the care of the Baron, in caſe of my death, and ſecured to her all the property that would be at my diſpoſal, on the death of my father. I thought, that were Jacquelina dead, I ſhould think of her with leſs painful regret, than I did now; languiſh⯑ing within the walls of a monaſtery; of my natural friends, only the Baron, and D'Erme⯑nonville, affected to feel any intereſt in my fate: the former was now deeply engaged in the duties of his profeſſion as a ſoldier; and for the latter, he was decidedly a diſciple of Epi⯑curus—and made it a rule of his life to enjoy [286] every poſſible pleaſure, and avoid every poſſi⯑ble pain—of courſe, my loſs would be but ſlightly felt by either of my brothers—and my father—for ſo many years my perſecutor and tyrant, would rejoice at it. I continually ſought death as my only refuge againſt the evils he had inflicted upon me; and what was called bravery, was, in fact, deſpair.

"In one of the rencontres which our troops and the revolted Americans had with the Engliſh army, it was my chance to be ſtationed to defend a ſmall poſt on the borders of an immenſe wood, with a ſmall detachment of French. The engagement was warm between the main bodies; but the troops, under my command, were not called into the action. Impatient to be thus idle, I ſent one of my aid-de-camps to the general, repreſenting, that we were abſolutely uſeleſs where we were, and entreating his leave to advance; when he returned and told me, that the battle was over with diſputed ſucceſs; that the Engliſh had ſuffered greatly, particularly in their of⯑ficers; while the Americans and French, hardly in a better condition, were making their retreat, which I was directed to cover [287] with my freſh troops. I advanced, therefore, through the wood by the way I was directed; and after proceeding half a mile, I met a party of Indians, in the intereſt of the coloniſts, car⯑rying with them an Engliſh officer, who was, they ſaid, mortally wounded. By his uni⯑form, he appeared to be of rank—I approached him, and ſpoke to him in French. Judge of my ſenſations, when I ſaw in this dying pri⯑ſoner my friend, my Ormond!—Not even the calls of duty were ſo preſſing as thoſe of friend⯑ſhip.—I even deliberated a moment, whether I ſhould not hazard every thing to attend him myſelf—but when I expreſſed this, though he could hardly ſpeak, he conjured me to go on, and merely to take him out of the hands of the Indians.—"I know I muſt die," ſaid the gallant fellow, "but I would die in your hands—if you can, without injury to your honour, grant me ſuch an indulgence." I ordered a guard to convey him, with the utmoſt care, to the neareſt French quarters; and then haſtening to obey the orders I had received, I had the happineſs, ſucceſsfully, to execute them; and having done ſo, hurried to my friend.

[288] "I found he had received every aſſiſtance which in the ſituation we then were, could be given him: he was eaſy, and though his wounds were mortal, his death was not likely to happen immediately.

"He thanked me, as ſoon as he again ſaw me, for my attention to him—and then eagerly aſked me after his wife—and his child—"but ſhe is dead," cried he—"my Genevieve is dead; I was but too certain of that before I left Europe."—My ſilence, my tears, con⯑firmed the ſad truth. "Well, my dear Chevalier," cried he, clinging my hand, "I am following her faſt—I knew what you would tell me of my infant—of that dear pledge of my Genevieve's affection. Your inhuman father has eluded your ſearch, as he did mine. Oh! I could curſe him!—but I will not, be⯑cauſe he is your father. If ever your friendly ſolicitude for the offspring of your ſiſter, and your friend, ſhould enable you to diſcover her, give her theſe pictures—they are thoſe of her father—of his favourite ſiſter;—of her mother—ſee," added he,—"this reſemblance of Genevieve which ſhe gave me, when I re⯑ceived the dear avowal of her love; never till [289] now has it left my boſom—and I conjure you, Bellegarde, never to part with it, till you place it on that of my daughter.

"My noble friend lingered a few days longer—not in great pain, however, and perfectly ſenſible—and then, in my arms, he reſigned his gallant ſpirit to his God.

"This loſs added ſtrength to the gloomy re⯑ſolution I had before made to die. Among my friend's papers, which, by his order, his ſervant delivered to me, after his death, I found a narrative of all he had done, after his releaſe from impriſonment in the Baſtile, at the demand of the Engliſh ambaſſador (for he was there part of the time that I was, though we never ſaw each other,) to gain ad⯑mittance to his wife, and to have his child reſtored to him—and ſuch an abhorrence did this add to that I had already conceived againſt my father, that I could not bear the name of Bellegarde; nor endure to think of returning to breathe the ſame air with a man whom I conſidered as a monſter.

"To France, however, I returned—without even a wound in all the hazards to which I had [290] voluntarily expoſed myſelf. This inhuman father was ſtill living—but my brother, the Baron de Rochemarte, had fallen at the head of his regiment, at the attack made on the iſland of Jerſey—and I ſucceeded to his for⯑tune—a fortune, which, ample as it was, could make me no amends for the excellent kind brother I had loſt.

"Alas! I had loſt two brothers—and two friends equally dear to me—they were not to be recalled—but I ſtill found a gloomy kind of ſatisfaction in complying with their laſt re⯑queſts. That of my brother de Rochemarte was, that I would take his name; and moſt willingly I quitted that of Bellegarde—the dying requeſt of my beloved friend I endea⯑voured—ah! how vainly endeavoured to ful⯑fil—I never could diſcover his daughter till this fortunate day!

"But my reſidence among the Americans, had awakened in my mind a ſpirit of freedom. The miſeries, the irreparable injuries I had re⯑ceived from ill-placed and exorbitant power, prompted me to aſſert it. I was now poſſeſſed of conſiderable property—uſeleſs to me, be⯑cauſe [291] Jacquelina could not ſhare it—though comparatively free myſelf, I was wretched. In this diſpoſition, it may eaſily be ima⯑gined, that if I poſſeſſed the power, I was not without inclination to add fewel to that fire, which immediately after the end of the war in America, was kindled, though it yet burnt but feebly in France. I wrote—I acted upon my newly-acquired principles, with the energy of a ſufferer, and with the reſolution of a mar⯑tyr. I was already the martyr of deſpotiſm, and ruined in my happineſs for ever. I knew that all the vengeance I could excite could injure me no farther.

"I now ſaw Jacquelina—but ſhe was ſtill pining within her convent.—I ſaw my child—I held her to the grate while her mother be⯑dewed her little hands with tears, which I kiſſed off!—It was a ſcene to move every heart but ſuch as inhabited the breaſt of my father! Again, the hopeleſſneſs of reſcuing my wife from her cruel bonds, gave him occaſion to put other fetters on me. In the raſhneſs of my deſperation, I ſaid, I wrote, I acted ſuch things as made me be conſidered by govern⯑ment [292] as a dangerous perſon. My father took advantage of my raſhneſs—he repreſented me as being diſordered in my ſenſes, and obtained an order for ſhutting me up in the fortreſs of Mont St. Michel.

"Between four and five years had I been a captive in that gloomy priſon, when the glo⯑rious flame of liberty, of which I only ſaw the firſt feeble rays, burſt forth—I regained my perſonal fredom, when my country became free—I found my father dead!—Every thing he could give away, his wife poſſeſſed, but this, and ſome other of his eſtates, were mine—and D'Ermenonville gave me, with the hands which then gave the title of Bellegarde, the name, which I abhor; and which, though it is yet given me by the people, who have been accuſtomed to give it to the head of my family, I will not keep—but take that of Montignac, which is my untitled name, the original deſignation of our family.

"The firſt uſe I made now of the general and particular freedom, in which I rejoiced, was to fly to Perpignan—but the moment is not yet come, when I can deliver my impriſoned [293] Jacquelina. I am, however, aſſured, that ſhe will very ſoon be reſtored to me; in that hope I came hither to attend to my long-neglected affairs, and to enjoy the ſociety of my daugh⯑ter. Even greater happineſs has been the conſequence of my abode here than I dared to hope; for by you, my friend, towards whom, the moment I ſaw you, I was impelled by an invincible propenſity, I ſhall, I truſt, recover the dear orphan child of Genevieve and Or⯑mond.

"In a few days I ſhall go back to Perpignan; leave Anzoletta again in the care of her mo⯑ther's family, and then haſten to aſſiſt in the glorious buſineſs of ſecuring the liberty of France—yes!—the immortal work of defend⯑ing myriads yet unborn from ever ſuffering the oppreſſions, under which I have groaned."

Here the Count de Bellegarde ended his nar⯑rative; and Willoughby, with an inexpreſſi⯑ble contrariety of ſenſations—joy and hope—fear and apprehenſion—being furniſhed with every aſſurance he could wiſh, of the real pa⯑rents of Celeſtina, took a tender leave of the Count and Anzoletta, whoſe voice was to him as the voice of a ſeraph, promiſing him feli⯑city [294] to come, and he then departed, as had been agreed upon between him and the Count, for Perpignan: where he delivered, at the grate, a letter to Jacquelina—of whom the Count had deſired that ſhe would deſcribe to Willoughby any particulars of the perſon of his wife, which ſhe recollected—for in her care, the infant Celeſtina had been left a few weeks.

With trembling impatience Willoughby waited while the intereſting, and ſtill lovely nun peruſed this letter—and heard her, while his heart ſunk with apprehenſion, thus de⯑ſcribe the child of her unfortunate friend—

"She was," ſaid Jacquelina, "fairer than my child, and her features greatly reſembled thoſe of her father.—On her neck, a little on the left ſide, were three remarkable, though diminutive, moles."—"It is enough," ſaid Willoughby—"thoſe moles are on the lovely neck of Celeſtina—a thouſand times have I kiſſed them as we played together in our in⯑fancy—and here on this portrait of her, drawn when ſhe was about twelve years old, they are deſcribed."

Jacquelina kiſſed the picture,—"Little as [295] can be judged from a likeneſs done ſo many years afterwards, I feel an aſſurance," ſaid ſhe, "that this is the picture of my Gene⯑vieve's child. May heaven grant her thoſe bleſ⯑ſings which, in its unſearchable decrees, it re⯑fuſed to my lovely, luckleſs friend." Wil⯑loughby, who would not have been a moment détained by any interview leſs intereſting, or leſs neceſſary, now took his leave, and with the utmoſt expedition, though all he could make, anſwered but ill to his impatience, he haſtened on towards England.

CHAPTER XII.

WHILE theſe things paſſed at Roche⯑marte, Celeſtina, no longer doubting of Wil⯑loughby's marriage, and entire deſertion of her, was trying to acquire once more that calm reſignation, which ſhe had ſo often de⯑termined to adopt, and ſo often loſt.—Mon⯑tague Thorold accompanied Lady Horatia to Cheltenham; where, as Celeſtina foreſaw, his ardent entreaties, and the wiſhes of her friend, ſo ſtrongly enforcing them, gave her ſo much pain, that ſhe grew, hourly more fond of the ſchcme ſhe had adopted, of travelling. If ſhe found it difficult to evade the importunities of her lover, and her bene⯑factreſs, ſhe dreaded yet more the arrival of [297] the elder Mr. Thorold; who, about ſix⯑weeks after Montague's recovery, came with him (after a ſhort viſit he had paid at home) to Cheltenham.

He ſoon found an opportunity of ſpeaking to Celeſtina, alone, and then ſhe became more than ever conſcious of the influence that his ſolid underſtanding, his excellent prin⯑ciples, and his tender regard for her, gave him over her ingenuous mind.—Though he never complained, ſhe well knew, that he was not happy in the other branches of his family, and that his hopes were particularly fixed on his younger ſon, whoſe attachment to Celeſtina, which, had it been ſucceſsful, might have ſecured, in one point, the felicity of his father, had hither to produced for him only anxiety and ſolicitude.

He had ſeen his life once more in immi⯑nent hazard, from the fierce and impetuous Vavaſour, and from his own raſhneſs, which he could not but condemn; he had ſeen, for many months, all his talents, and almoſt all his affections, loſt and abſorbed in this one predominant paſſion, and he knew not what the effect might be on his intellects, [298] and on his health, ſhould he finally be refuſ⯑ed: yet, while Willoughby was uncertain as to his own ſituation, or unmarried, the elder Mr. Thorold had been withheld from making any efforts with Celeſtina, on behalf of his ſon: now, thoſe impediments were removed, he no longer thought himſelf reſtrained from applying to her himſelf. So mildly and rationally, however, he entered on this conver⯑ſation, that Celeſtina retained more courage, while ſhe heard him, than ſhe, at its com⯑mencement, had dared to expect; and when he had recapitulated all the advantages which might, he thought, be derived, from her union with a man ſo paſſionately devoted to her, of ſuitable age; of eaſy fortune—one whoſe taſte was congenial to her own; whoſe temper was remarkably good, and who had a heart uncorrupted by vice, and unexhauſt⯑ed by a long courſe of intrigue; and a fa⯑mily who would conſider her admiſſion into it, as the greateſt bleſſing that they could receive; Celeſtina acknowledged it was all very true. "I own too, Sir," ſaid ſhe, "that to many people, and perhaps to you, I may have ap⯑peared to give your ſon ſuch encouragement, [299] as never ought to be given, unleſs it is meant to end in marriage.—I have felt, without having it in my power to avoid this ſeeming impropriety—yet he will do me the juſtice to ſay, I have always told him, that whatever were my ſentiments in his favour, and how⯑ever I wiſhed to encourage thoſe ſentiments, becauſe I was perſuaded he deſerved them, yet, that my heart never felt for him that decided preference, without which, I cannot believe, he could be happy, were I to give him my hand—I was too ſure, that from an unfortunate prepoſſeſſion, in favour of another, it never could feel this preference; and that, therefore, though I ſhould always be happy to be conſidered as his friend, I never would be his wife. Allow me, dear Sir, to repeat to you, a reſolution from which I do not be⯑lieve I ſhall ever recede—you know how true a love and veneration I have for you—there is not on earth, a man whom I would ſo ſoon chuſe to ſupply to me that ſacred and tender relationſhip I have never known! and to call by the endearing name of father! but I can⯑not—indeed I cannot marry. I know not why, but ſome invincible perſuaſion hangs [300] over me, that if I do, I ſhall be miſerable, and render my huſband miſerable, whatever may be his merit or affection—and can I, ought I, under ſuch a conviction, to wiſh it? Be aſſured, that if time and reaſon conquer this weakneſs—for perhaps it may be only weakneſs—if ever I feel that I can give to your ſon a heart, weaned from every other at⯑tachment, and worthy of his, I will ſay ſo—as candidly, as I declare the impoſſibility of my doing ſo now—and you are ſo liberal, that you will forgive my weakneſs, and ſave me, I am ſure, from importunity, which is the more diſtreſſing, as it comes from thoſe I ſo much eſteem, and whoſe wiſhes it would be, on any other ſubject, my pride and my pleaſure obey."

Mr. Thorold, after this converſation, and ſome other of the ſame nature, was convinc⯑ed, that Celeſtina acted from motives of the moſt delicate honour—the more he ſaw of her heart and diſpoſition, the more fondly he be⯑came attached to her; and the more ardently deſired that ſhe might become the wife of his ſon. He ſaw, that though her ideas were what would be generally called romantic, they were not cheriſhed merely becauſe they were [301] ſo; but that a high ſenſe of the tender duty ſhe wiſhed to pay to the man with whom ſhe was to paſs her life, made it impoſſible for her to enter into ſuch engagements till ſhe was ſure of fulfilling them according to her own ideas—and he hoped, that her entire ſe⯑paration from Willoughby; his unkindneſs and neglect on one hand; and on the other, the acknowledged merit of his ſon, would, though almoſt inſenſibly, yet not ſlowly, pro⯑duce that change which ſhe allowed herſelf to be poſſible, though at preſent it did not ſeem probable. In this hope he was contented to reſt; and promiſing Celeſtina, that if ſhe would ſtill allow Montague to ſee her fre⯑quently, he ſhould not teize her by importu⯑nity—he threw himſelf entirely on her gene⯑roſity and ſincerity; and after a viſit of near a week, he left Montague at Cheltenham, by the deſire of Lady Horatia, and returned home.

In a few days after his departure, Celeſtina had another and more painful ſcene to en⯑counter. Cathcart arrived early one morn⯑ing, and eagerly aſked to ſpeak to her—ſhe went down to him immediately—but when ſhe ſaw him, ſhe dared not aſk the purpoſe of [302] a viſit ſo little expected. He was pale—he trembled and heſitated—he looked fatigued and dejected.—Willoughby inſtantly recurred to her—for he was always the firſt object of her thoughts—"Is any thing the matter, dear Cathcart," ſaid ſhe "with Willoughby?"—"Oh, no," replied he; "nothing new—I have not heard of him ſince he went, which I think ſtrange."

Celeſtina ſighed, and thought ſhe was able too well to account for it—"but is Jeſſy" well? "Yes, thank Heaven," replied he: "but my ſiſter"—"what, Mrs. Elphin⯑ſtone?" "no my other—my unfortunate ſiſter Emily—I have been ſent for to her at Briſtol, where, you know I went to her ſome time ſince, at your entreaty: ſhe has now, I think, only a few days to live—my ſiſter Elphinſtone is with her—poor Emily wiſhes to ſee you—I know not how to aſk ſuch a fa⯑vour of you; but you are ſo good—will you—can you oblige a family—who already owe to you all the happineſs they poſſeſs?"

"What will I not do to give any part of it ſatisfaction," ſaid Celeſtina—"but do you, can you gueſs the reaſon of your ſiſter's wiſhes [303] to ſee me? ſurely Vavaſour is not there?—"He was not, when I left her; but a few days before, he had been at Briſtol, raving like a madman at the fatal intelligence he had then had confirmed—that Emily could not live. If, however, he ſhould come, you can have nothing to fear, for I will not leave you a moment; and I know you ſo well, that I am perſuaded, there are few diſagreeable cir⯑cumſtances, which would not, to you, be compenſated, by the reflection of having given comfort to the laſt moments of my dying Emily."

This plea Celeſtina could not reſiſt: ſhe went, therefore, by the conſent of Lady Ho⯑ratia, with Cathcart, to Briſtol; where a ſcene awaited her, that for ſome time almoſt ſuſ⯑pended even her thoughts of Willoughby himſelf.

The lovely, unhappy victim, to early ſe⯑duction, was in the laſt ſtage of a conſump⯑tion—and, unlike thoſe who are cut off by that diſtemper, was perfectly aware, and perfectly reconciled to her fate—her earneſt wiſhes had been to be forgiven by Cathcart, and to die in the arms of her ſiſter; they both now at⯑tended [304] her with the tendereſt affection, and had even yielded to her requeſt, to be allowed to ſee Vavaſour, towards whom all her anxie⯑ty was now turned, and for his happineſs ſhe felt that concern, which ſhe no longer was ſenſible of for herſelf.

Her exhauſted heart was, from gratitude and habit attached to Vavaſour; and ſhe ſaw that her death would take away the only tie that had been ſome reſtraint on his ungovern⯑able licentiouſneſs: that his diſappointment in regard to Celeſtina, had embittered his temper; and given him a ſort of excuſe for the libertiniſm in which he ſeemed reſolute to perſevere; and while his good qualities, his generoſity, and his candour, as well as his attentive tenderneſs towards her, had made her affection for him the laſt ſentiment ſhe was capable of feeling: ſhe fancied it yet poſſible, young as ſhe was, Celeſtina might be induced to ſave a man who appeared ſo well worth the attempt: and that, intereſting as he appeared to her, he could not fail of having ſome in⯑tereſt with others, and particularly with one who had learned from Willoughby an early prejudice in his favour, which ſhe hoped all [305] his ſubſequent raſhneſs had not yet wholly deſtroyed.

Such were the views of Emily Cathcart, in requeſting this viſit; and her beautiful eyes, lit up with the fire that was conſuming her, became yet more dazzlingly bright when her lovely viſitor was led into the room by her brother.

Celeſtina entered trembling; and fearing the ſight of Vavaſour, whom ſhe had never met ſince the terrifying night at Ranelagh; but the moment ſhe beheld Emily, ſhe no longer thought of any thing but the affecting object before her.

Emily ſat in a great chair, ſupported by pillows—the extreme beauty that had been ſo fatal to its poſſeſſor, ſtill remained, though its luſtre was gone—Emaciated, and of a de⯑licate fairneſs, her hands and her face had a tranſparency that gave an idea of an unembo⯑died ſpirit, and her dreſs was ſuch as favour⯑ed the deception. The blood might almoſt be ſeen to circulate in her veins, ſo plainly did they appear; and her eyes had the dazzling ra⯑diance of ethereal fire, to which the hectic heat of her glowing, though wafted countenance, [306] ſtill added.—A few locks of her fine light hair had eſcaped from her head-dreſs; and played like broken rays from a receding planet, round a face, which only thoſe who had hearts unhappily rigid, could behold, without feel⯑ing the ſenſe of her errors ſuſpended or over⯑whelmed by ſtrong emotions of the tendereſt pity.

She held out her hand to Celeſtina, as ſhe entered, and in a voice faint and interrupted, from the difficulty with which ſhe breathed, ſaid—"Ah! deareſt madam, how good this is; how worthy that tender and ſenſible heart, of which I have heard ſo much"—ſhe ſtopped; as if unable to ſpeak more at that moment, and reſted her head againſt the chair—Celeſ⯑tina affected to tears, ſat ſilently down near her—Cathcart left the room.

After a ſhort pauſe, ſhe recovered ſtrength to ſay, "but a moment will be allowed me, perhaps; let me then haſten to thank you for this condeſcenſion, and to ſay, how earneſtly it is my hope, that it will not be made in vain; but that it will afford me an opportunity of ſucceſsfully pleading—for another penitent—for poor Vavaſour."

[307] "I forgive him moſt willingly," cried Ce⯑leſtina—"and moſt ſincerely wiſh him happy."

"Ah, Madam!" ſaid Emily—"You muſt then carry your generoſity farther—for you only can make him ſo—I dared to repreſent this in a letter to you—I now repeat it—vic⯑tim, as I am, even in the morning of my days, I ſhould, however, die in peace, for I hope my peace is made with Heaven—if I could ſee any proſpect of Vavaſour's being happy; reclaimed from that wild career where he is now waſting his time, his fortune, and his life. I owe him ſo many obligations! I know him to have ſo good a heart! that it is terri⯑ble to me to ſee him devoted as he is, and plunging into an abyſs of miſery, from whence it will ſoon be no longer in his power to re⯑turn.—It has been a great conſolation to me, that I have had ſome little influence in ſtem⯑ming the progreſs of the evil; but it is you only who can ſave him from himſelf effectu⯑ally; and how worthy would it be of good⯑neſs, of compaſſion like yours?"

Celeſtina knew not what to anſwer.—To promiſe what ſhe never, could perform, was [308] little in her nature: yet did ſhe not love to check the diſintereſted hope that thus ani⯑mated the ſoft heart of the fair pleader. "I believe," ſaid ſhe, after a ſhort pauſe, "I be⯑lieve you are miſtaken: and that I have no ſuch power as you impute to me; be aſſured that, though Mr. Vavaſour's conduct has been to me a ſource of the moſt poignant uneaſineſs, I not only will forget it, but ſhall rejoice in ſeeing him happy—for his own ſake—and for the ſake of that dear friend through whoſe means we firſt became ac⯑quainted: a friend"—her voice trembled, and ſhe dared not attempt to name Willoughby, leſt it ſhould wholly fail her—"a friend who is ſtill, and who I dare believe will ever be truly attached to him: and who, on his re⯑turn to England, will, I am ſure, uſe all the influence that friendſhip gives him over Mr. Vavaſour, to recal him from a way of life you ſo much apprehend." She was proceed⯑ing to evade, as tenderly as ſhe could, the pa⯑thetic prayer ſhe had juſt heard, when Emily was ſeized with one of thoſe ſpaſms which announced her approaching death. Celeſtina, terrified, called for Mrs. Elphinſtone; and, [309] unable to bear a ſcene in which ſhe could be of no uſe, ſhe retired to another room, where ſhe paſſed with Cathcart, two melancholy hours, at the end of which, they heard that the fair unhappy Emily was no more.

Vavaſour, who was in another lodging at the Hot-wells, no ſooner heard of this ſad event, than the wildeſt frenzy poſſeſſed him: nor did his having ſo long expected it, at all mitigate the blow.—He ran to the houſe, and regardleſs of Cathcart and Mrs. Elphinſtone, who would have oppoſed theſe frantic ex⯑preſſions of uſeleſs regret, he threw himſelf on his knees by the bedſide—called to her, as if ſhe were ſtill living—was ſure ſhe ſhould not die—and now reproached Heaven that ſhe was dead. From this ſtate of temporary inſanity, nothing had the power to recal him—till Cathcart, reproaching him very warm⯑ly, for the impropriety of his conduct, aſked him, whether it was thus he meant to pro⯑mote the laſt wiſhes of his ſiſter, and obtain the pardon of Miſs De Mornay? That name had ſtill all its influence on the heart of Va⯑vaſour: by a ſtrange, though, perhaps, not uncommon diviſion of his affections, at once [310] vehemently loved the woman he had loſt, and the woman he hoped to gain.—Starting from his knees, he aſked where Celeſtina was? for Cathcart had not yet told him of her arrival, and had promiſed to prevent his diſtreſſing her.—"Miſs De Mornay is below, Sir; but you muſt not go to her." "Not go to her! who ſhall prevent it?" was his anſwer—and he haſtily went down ſtairs.

When he entered the room where Celeſtina ſat weeping with Mrs. Elphinſtone, he had every appearance of a man out of his ſenſes: but, at the ſight of her, he ſeemed ſubdued in a moment; and while ſhe dreaded ſome wild and frantic ſpeech, he threw himſelf on his knees before her, and burſt into tears.

His convulſive ſobs, as he eagerly caught her hands, and preſſed them to his heart; and the broken voice in which he attempted to ſpeak, diſarmed her at once of all the reſent⯑ment which ſhe had, till then, felt for his un⯑warrantable behaviour, when they laſt met—and ſo tenderly, in a voice of ſuch ſoothing pity did ſhe ſpeak to him, that he ſoon be⯑came reaſonable—thanked her for her gene⯑rous attention; even bleſſing her, and calling [311] her the reſtorer of his reaſon—while Celeſtina availed herſelf of this diſpoſition of his mind, to prevail on him to retire; which he did, on her promiſe, that ſhe would ſee him again the next day.

After a mournful night, of which more was paſſed in comforting and conſoling Mrs. Elphinſtone than in ſleep, that day arrived, on which Celeſtina was not only bound by the promiſe which in the agitation of mind ſhe was in the night before, ſhe had made to Vavaſour, to ſee him; but induced to declare to him again, how totally he was miſtaken in ſuppoſing her engaged to Montague Tho⯑rold. Again he cheriſhed the hope which ſhe never meant to revive; and at once to do, what he knew would gratify her, while he acquitted himſelf of the promiſe he had given to his regretted Emily, he had a deed drawn up and executed, by which he gave to Mrs. Elphinſtone, and her children, two hundred a year; and ſettled them at the houſe he had in Devonſhire. On the moment of her de⯑parture, he gave this deed to Celeſtina, be⯑ſeeching her not to open it till her arrival at Cheltenham. "And whither are you going, [312] Mr. Vavaſour?" ſaid Celeſtina, who felt her pity revive for him, now that ſhe ſaw him ſo dejected and ſubdued. "Ah," replied he, "I am careleſs whither—I cannot, however, go back to my Staffordſhire houſe in the ſtate of mind I am in now; for I ſhould infallibly hang myſelf;—I believe I ſhall go to Lon⯑don—for, even at this time of year, a wretch⯑ed dog, ſuch as I am, may find ſomebody or other to help them to get rid of themſelves; and the gaming houſes are always open.—"The gaming houſes!" ſaid Celeſtina.—"Aye," replied he, "I have been there al⯑ways of late when I have been curſedly mi⯑ſerable—and play has a momentary effect on me, in making me forget other things. Per⯑haps, in wandering about London, I may meet with ſome unſettled, unhappy fellow, like myſelf, who may like to go abroad for ſix or eight months: we may go find Wil⯑loughby, perhaps, and my return may be the more welcome to you, if I bring you an ac⯑count of him."

"Alas!" thought Celeſtina, "what ac⯑count of him can I now hear with pleaſure; unleſs indeed that he is well; that I always [313] wiſh to hear! and I think," added ſhe, her heart ſwelling as ſhe ſaid it—"I think I ſhould ſincerely rejoice to hear, that in his new ſitua⯑tion—he is happy with his wife!"

Vavaſour, again feeling the renewal of that hope which had almoſt eſcaped him, ſaw Ce⯑leſtina depart with more calmneſs than he ex⯑pected. Cathcart ſaw her ſafe in the pro⯑tection of Lady Horatia, at Cheltenham; and then returned to Briſtol, to perform the laſt ſad offices to his loſt Emily; Vavaſour, at his and Mrs. Elphinſtone's requeſt, leaving the place before her remains were conſigned to their early grave.

The ſcenes which, during this period, paſſed in the family of Lord Caſtlenorth, were more turbulent, and to ſome of the parties equally melancholy.

The anxious peer, whoſe health was, as uſual, a little amended by change of country, waited at Paris the promiſed arrival of Wil⯑loughby, with extreme impatience: impatience which had ſuch an effect upon his feeble frame, that death, which had ſo long been laying in wait for him, now ſeized him, and at a period, when the blow ſaved him from knowing what [314] could not have been concealed from him many hours. Lady Caſtlenorth having enacted with great dignity all that a mournful relict muſt do on ſuch an occaſion: and Miſs Fitz-Hayman having alſo performed her part ad⯑mirably, the will was opened in due form, of which Lady Caſtlenorth thought herſelf perfectly ſure of the contents; and ſhe had indeed ſecured to herſelf a great deal of mo⯑ney, and a ſplendid income, beſides her ſet⯑tlement. The property deſcending to Miſs Fitz-Hayman, immediately, was about eight thouſand a year; but, in a codicil (made in the immediate pleaſure he received when Willoughby firſt declared himſelf reſolved to marry his couſin) he had given him an eſtate of five-and-twenty hundred a year; and ten thouſand pounds in money, as a nuptial pre⯑ſent; without, however, affixing any condi⯑tions to the gift.

The ſhort ceremony of reading the will be⯑ing over, another was to be gone through leſs eaſy to Miſs Fitz-Hayman; which was, announcing to her mother her actual marriage with Captain Cavanaugh—which ſhe thought [315] muſt otherwiſe be revealed by ſomebody elſe.

The dialogue was ſhort, but deciſive—Miſs Fitz-Hayman, or rather Mrs. Cavanaugh, had more courage than tenderneſs; and hav⯑ing now nothing to fear from her mother's influence with her father; and ſecure of her fortune, both at preſent and in reverſion, ſhe aſſumed rather an air of triumph than of con⯑trition. Lady Caſtlenorth would be but faintly deſcribed by the ſtrongeſt of thoſe re⯑preſentations that have been given of an en⯑raged woman, when ſhe has been compared to a tygreſs robbed of her young.—Cava⯑naugh had poſſeſſed the art to make her be⯑lieve, that his admiration of her mental per⯑fections was the foundation of that attach⯑ment he felt for her; yet, that while he ador⯑ed her beautiful mind, her fine perſon was an object of tender admiration. To find that he cared for neither the one nor the other; but had availed himſelf of her credulity to obtain a footing in the family; and money to get his matrimonial fetters broken, that he might marry her daughter, were convictions ſo ex⯑tremely [316] mortifying to her pride, that they, for a while, ſuſpended the power of expreſſing her rage—When, however, that power return⯑ed, ſhe raved like a lunatic—gave way to the moſt extravagant ſallies of paſſion—and, though her Lord was yet unburied, proteſted that the ſame houſe ſhould no longer hold her and her "pelican daughter." Mrs. Cavanaugh was more calm, and retired to her room: where Mrs. Calder, at length, perſuaded Lady Caſtlenorth to let her ſtay till after the re⯑mains of her father were ſent forward to Eng⯑land, which they were in a few days; and then Mrs. Cavanaugh ſet out, by the way of Rouen, to England alſo, with her huſband, who was impatient to take poſſeſſion of his great acquiſitions, the price of ſo much pa⯑tient perfidy.—Though he would willingly have been excuſed giving to Willoughby even the ſmall ſhare of the ample property which his uncle had aſſigned to him; yet he knew he muſt ſee the will, and finally obtain it. He thought it better, therefore, to continue with him the appearance of honour; and therefore wrote to him, informing him of Lord Caſtle⯑north's death; of his own marriage; and the [317] codicil in favour of Mr. Willoughby. But not knowing whither to direct this letter; for Willoughby had left no intimation of the route he meant to purſue, when he quitted Paris; he addreſſed it to Alveſtone; where, with one on the ſame buſineſs from Lady Caſtlenorth, it lay, while Willoughby was wandering among the Pyrenian mountains, and while he purſued his impatient way to⯑wards England.

CHAPTER XIII.

UNCONSCIOUS of the good that awaited him, and dreading the evil that might be irre⯑parable, Willoughby landed at Brighthelm⯑ſtone from Dieppe. Though it was eleven o'clock when he got on ſhore, he ordered poſt-horſes to be inſtantly ready; and uſed the moment he waited for them to take a ſlight refreſhment. On the table of the room he was in, a newſpaper lay—it was long ſince he had ſeen an Engliſh newſpaper—and he took it up, where the firſt article that ſtruck him was an account of the funeral of Lord Caſtle⯑north, after his having lain in ſtate at his houſe in town.

Willoughby felt an immediate impreſſion of concern for his uncle, and feared leſt diſ⯑appointment ſhould have haſtened his death. [319] On himſelf. or any advantage he might derive from the event, he never beſtowed a thought; but as the mind, under the influence of any predominant paſſion, returns immediately to its bias, however temporally diverted from it, it almoſt inſtantly occurred to him, that if his uncle had been ſo long dead without his knowing it, Celeſtina might poſſibly have been as long married. Trembling, he looked among the marriages, but there were no names there at all reſembling thoſe which he dreaded to ſee united.—His chaiſe was ready, and he departed for London; for it was there only that he was likely to gain intelligence of Lady Horatia Howard, and he knew of no other clue to guide him to Celeſtina.

Celeſtina had left Cheltenham with her friend, and was now at Exmouth, where Mon⯑tague Thorold was continually with them.—Whether he was preſent or abſent, Celeſtina was equally penſive and melancholy; but it was only in the latter caſe, that ſhe attempted to indulge thoſe ſenſations in the ſolitary walks which the ſea-ſhore afforded her: for ſhe avoided as much as poſſible being quite alone with him, becauſe her heart every day con⯑firmed [320] her in the opinion that ſhe never could love another man as ſhe had loved Willough⯑by, and it was diſtreſſing to her to be fre⯑quently under the neceſſity of repeating, what it inflicted ſuch pain on her impaſſioned and indefatigable lover to hear. It was now late in September: the evenings ſoon ſhut in; and, when there happened not to be a ſupply of new books, Lady Horatia often engaged Montague Thorold at piquet, while Celeſtina ſat by them at work; or, if ſhe could be ſure he was ſo occupied as not to be able to fol⯑low her, ſhe walked out alone, and as the moon trembled on the waves, recollected the nights when, with Willoughby and Matilda, in the early days of their innocent friendſhip, they uſed to mark and admire together this beautiful appearance of the ſea illuminated by the moon.—Here, on this very ſpot, ſhe had with him beheld it—The waves had now the ſame trembling brilliancy; the ſurrounding objects were the ſame; but Willoughby was changed: and happineſs and Celeſtina were, ſhe thought, parted for ever.

Such were her contemplations one evening▪ when, towards the end of the month, and of [321] Lady Horatia's intended ſtay at the place, ſhe left the company who were aſſembled at the lodgings; and who happened to be the elder Mr. Thorold, his wife, their ſon Montague, and Mr. and Mrs. Bettenſon, who being on a viſit to the elder Mr. Thorold, when he was ordered to the ſea for his health, had accom⯑panied him all together to Exmouth, and were ſhewn every attention by Lady Horatia, as the relations of her favourite Montague.

They were at cards; and Celeſtina, who never played, took the opportunity of her ad⯑mirer's being engaged at a whiſt table, from which ſhe knew he could not immediately eſcape, to go out—The wind was high, and the ſea boiſterous; it was growing dark, and ſhe fancied a particular gloom hung over every object—ſtill, however, it was luxury to her to be alone; ſhe was particularly wearied by the converſation of Mr. Thorold; and found nothing in that of Mrs. Bettenſon to make her amends: Bettenſon was ignorant inſipidity it⯑ſelf; and time, inſtead of adding to the num⯑ber of his ideas, ſeemed to have rendered him, if poſſible, more ſtupid—Amid ſuch ſociety, ſhe could derive no pleaſure from the con⯑verſation [322] of Mr. Thorold and Lady Horatia; and the unuſual weight ſhe felt on her ſpirits ſeemed leſſened, when ſhe could ſigh at liberty—and hear nothing around her but the wind, or the ſea breaking againſt the ſhore.

She had not, however, been out long, be⯑fore the chill and gloomy appearance in⯑creaſed; and darkneſs coming on, ſhe ſlowly and reluctantly returned to the houſe—She heard, a little before ſhe quitted the road, horſes behind her; but not attending to them, ſhe did not even diſtinguiſh whether they were the horſes of the people of the place, or thoſe of travellers. She entered the parlour, and ſat down by the card table, where Montague Thorold, having performed his evening's taſk, had juſt reſigned his place to Mr. Bettenſon. Suddenly a voice was heard in the paſſage, enquiring for Lady Horatia Howard of her ſervant—"My lady is within, Sir," replied the man—"And who are with her"—"Mr. and Mrs. Thorold, and"—The ſervant was going on—when the enquirer ſaid vehemently—"It is enough—let me however ſee them." Celeſtina, at the firſt ſound of this voice, had ſtarted from her chair—The ſecond ſentence [323] it uttered affected her ſtill more; but ſhe had no time to anſwer the eager enquiry of Mon⯑tague Thorold—"What is the matter?"—before the parlour door opened; and pale, breathleſs—with an expreſſion to which only the pencil can do juſtice, ſhe ſaw before her the figure of Willoughby.

There was agony and deſperation in his looks. He gaſped—he would have ſpoken, but could not. The company all roſe in ſi⯑lence. Lady Horatia, who hardly knew him even by ſight, looked at Celeſtina for an ex⯑planation, which ſhe was unable to give—At length Willoughby, as if by an effort of paſ⯑ſionate phrenzy, approached Celeſtina—and ſaid, in a hurried and inarticulate way, "I would ſpeak to you, Madam—though—to—this gentleman, I ſuppoſe," and he turned to Montague Thorold, "I muſt apply for per⯑miſſion."

His manner, his look, as wildly he caſt his eyes around and ſaw all the family of the Thorolds aſſembled, which confirmed his idea of her being married, contributed to over⯑whelm Celeſtina with terror and amazement. She no more doubted of his marriage with his [324] couſin, than he did of hers; and could not conjecture why he came, or why he looked ſo little in his ſenſes—She ſat down—for her limbs refuſed to ſupport her—and faintly ſaid, or rather tried to ſay, "I hope I ſee Mr. Willoughby well."

Lady Horatia then addreſſed herſelf to him—deſired him to take a chair, and to do her the honour of ſtaying ſupper with her.—He heard or heeded her not—but, with fixed eyes, gazing on Celeſtina, he ſtruck his hands to⯑gether, and cried—while the violence of his emotion choaked him.—"It is all over then—I have loſt her—and have nothing to do here—No, by heaven, I cannot bear it"—He then turned away, and left the room as haſtily as lie had entered it.

"My dear Celeſtina," cried Lady Hora⯑tia, "what does all this mean? Do, Mr. Montague—for Miſs De Mornay is, I ſee, much alarmed—Do, ſpeak to Mr. Willoughby—I am really concerned to ſee him in ſuch a ſituation."

"No;" ſaid Celeſtina, who would not for the world have had Montague Thorold follow him—"No; I will go myſelf after him"— [325] Her fears now gave her reſolution, and with⯑out heeding Montague Thorold, who would have prevented her, ſhe hurried after Wil⯑loughby, and overtook him juſt as he was quitting the houſe.

"Dear Sir," ſaid ſhe, "dear Willoughby!"—At thoſe well known ſounds, once ſo pre⯑cious to him, he turned round—She took his hand—"I am very ſorry to ſee you," continu⯑ed ſhe, "in ſuch agitations of ſpirits—I greatly fear—perhaps—" ſome miſery between him and his ſuppoſed wife occurred to her—"I am afraid ſomething is wrong—"

"Wrong!" cried he; "Wrong!—and do you, Celeſtina, inhuman Celeſtina, inſult me with ſuch an enquiry?—Wrong!—am I not the moſt curſed of human beings?—"

"I hope not," interrupted ſhe—"for your happineſs"—She knew no longer what ſhe meant to ſay; nor did he give her time to re⯑collect; for, eagerly rivetting his eyes on her face, and graſping her hands between his—he cried—"My happineſs!—and what of my happineſs? Is it not gone, loſt, for ever—Have you not deſtroyed it?—Damnation and diſtraction—Why do I linger here?" He [326] then plunged away, and ruſhed out of the door, where Farnham waited with two poſt⯑horſes—Celeſtina, trembling, and attempting to ſtop him, followed.

He tried, however, to mount his horſe, but could not: he deſiſted, leaned againſt it, with his arm over the ſaddle, and reſting his head on his arm: Farnham ſpoke, and Celeſtina immediately recollected him. "What is the matter with your maſter, Farnham?" ſaid ſhe, "indeed he terrifies me to death!"—"Oh, Ma'am," replied the honeſt fellow, ſorrowfully, "my poor maſter! Come, Sir," added he, interrupted by a look of anguiſh and horror from Willoughby—"Come, dear Sir!—you cannot ride any farther, I am perſuaded, to⯑night; let me lead you to the inn." Wil⯑loughby, without reſiſtance, ſuffered Farnham to lead him a ſtep or two; but he waved with his hand for Celeſtina to leave him, and faintly ſaid—"Go! go, Madam!—I wiſh you well!—I wiſh you well!"—"Which is the way to the inn?" cried Farnham.

"Not to the inn—do not go to the inn," exclaimed Celeſtina; "you are very ill, dear Willoughby; let us take care of you here; [327] Lady Horatia requeſts it." Farnham led him towards the door again; he leaned upon him, and ſighed loudly and deeply. At length he ſaid, "I am a fool!—I came hither know⯑ing all I know now, and ought to have been better prepared for it. But I am better: let me then execute my laſt reſolution, and bid her one long, one eternal adieu."

There was a little vacant parlour near the door; there Willoughby ſat down. The ſer⯑vants, who were aſſembled, brought candles: Celeſtina ſtood ſilently by the table on which they were placed; and Willoughby bid Farn⯑ham leave the room.

A ſhort ſilence enſued. Willoughby ſeemed to be aſhamed of his weakneſs, and trying to collect fortitude to bear like a man the cruelleſt moment he had ever paſt, he aroſe and ap⯑proached Celeſtina, ſaying in a low, grave, and tremulous tone, "I have no right, Ma⯑dam, to diſtreſs you—I have no juſt cauſe of complaint againſt you—I am very miſerable—I deſerve your pity—your prayers—I have been deceived—you, I hope, will never have ſo much cauſe to regret it, as I muſt have—you, [328] I hope, are happy—will be happy."—He could ſay no more, but put his hand on his heart, and looked at Celeſtina with eyes ſo ex⯑preſſive of deſpair and grief, that all the ex⯑quiſite tenderneſs ſhe had ever felt for him re⯑turned at once; ſhe forgot that he was (as ſhe believed) the huſband of Miſs Fitz-Hay⯑man; but he was in a moment the beloved Willoughby, the firſt and only poſſeſſor of her heart. She threw her arms around him, and, ſobbing on his boſom, became almoſt ſenſeleſs from the violence and variety of emo⯑tions that overwhelmed her.

He ſhrunk, however, from her "Who is it," ſaid he, "gracious Heaven! that I thus hold in my arms?—Not my Celeſtina, my own Celeſtina; but the wife of another—Go, Ma⯑dam—I entreat you leave me—Go, or phren⯑zy may overtake me, and I may attempt im⯑poſſibilities—to tear you from your huſband." "Huſband!" cried Celeſtina—"I have no huſband."—"Are you not married then?—not married to Montague Thorold?"—"No indeed—indeed, I am not."—"Not married—nor intending to be married?"—"Neither, in⯑deed."—"And you are at liberty, then, to be [329] mine."—"I am, if you know that we ought not to be divided."

Thoſe only who have loved like Willough⯑by, and who, by a ſudden tranſition, are raiſed from the abyſs of deſpair to the height of fe⯑licity, can imagine what he felt at that mo⯑ment. If the fear of Celeſtina's being mar⯑ried, had, for a moment, bereft him of rea⯑ſon; the certainty of her being not only free, but as paſſionately attached to him as ever, had, for a little time, an equally violent ef⯑fect. Amidſt her own tranſports, the extrava⯑gance of his terrified her. There was a wild⯑neſs in his joy which made her tremble for his intellects. But, after a moment, her ſoft and melting voice; the tender aſſurances ſhe gave him, that ſhe lived only for him; that her heart had never been eſtranged from him, ſoothed and ſubdued the tumult of his beating heart. As his arms fondly encompaſſed her; as he reſted his head on her boſom, he ſhed tears of tender gratitude; his ſpirits became calmer, and the native ſerene dignity of his mind returned.

He was not, however, quite tranquil enough to relate that night to Celeſtina the extraor⯑dinary [330] ſeries of events, which had led to the enchanting certainty he now poſſeſſed—that ſhe was not his ſiſter, but the daughter of Lady Horatia's brother; that regretted bro⯑ther, to whoſe picture ſhe had ſo great a re⯑ſemblance. The information, however, ſuch as in his preſent agitated ſtate he was able to give, convinced her, not only that the fatal ſuppoſition of her being too nearly related to Willoughby was for ever removed; but, that ſhe was born of parents to whom it was ho⯑nourable to belong: and that ſhe was nearly allied by blood to her kind protectreſs.

She deſired Lady Horatia might, be ac⯑quainted with this. "Not to night," ſaid Willoughby—"I would to night ſee nobody but you, my Celeſtina; hear no voice but yours—to-morrow I will explain it all. But now I feel my unexpected felicity too forcibly to be able to talk about it."

He could not, however, determine to quit Celeſtina; nor were either of them conſcious of the courſe of time, till Lady Horatia ſent to let Celeſtina know ſupper was ready, and to beg the honour of Mr. Willoughby's com⯑pany.

[331] It was then that Celeſtina prevailed upon him to go from her, promiſing to be ready to walk with him by the dawn of the next morn⯑ing. "And you muſt go with me," ſaid he, "immediately to Alveſtone; for I will not live another week without you." He then recollected that Alveſtone might be ſold; for he had never heard from Cathcart ſince he had given directions to have it diſpoſed of He pauſed a moment, and felt ſome uneaſi⯑neſs in the reflection: but the happineſs he poſſeſſed was too great to allow him to feel any concern long. He ſmiled, and added, "If indeed Alveſtone is ſtill mine; and, if it is not, my Celeſtina will create for me a pa⯑radiſe wherever ſhe is."

"And wherever you are," replied ſhe, while tears of tenderneſs filled her eyes, "Ce⯑leſtina will find a paradiſe."

He then once more bade her good night—again returned—and again bade her adieu. "You are going now to rejoin the company," ſaid he, "and there is Montague Thorold, of whom, I know it is a weakneſs, I do not love to think"—

[332] "It is indeed, Willoughby, a weakneſs un⯑worthy of your generous heart; and, I hope, what I can never have deſerved that you ſhould indulge."—"Well, well, my angel I will not indulge it. But muſt you ſup with them? They will fatigue you with queſtions—they will diſtreſs you by enquiries." "No; I had determined to ſend an excuſe; for, in⯑deed, my heart, yet wondering at its unex⯑pected felicity, beats fearfully, and my trem⯑bling nerves have unfitted me for conver⯑ſation."

At length Willoughby withdrew; and Ce⯑leſtina, with a pencil, told Lady Horatia, who waited the event of this extraordinary inter⯑view in the moſt uneaſy ſuſpenſe, that ſome extraordinary converſation with Mr. Wil⯑loughby had agitated her ſo much, that ſhe could not return to the company, but muſt retire to her bed.

Montague Thorold, who was the moſt in⯑tereſted of the party, had ſuffered all the tor⯑tures of anxious jealouſy while Celeſtina was abſent. Every noiſe he heard in the paſſage, every time the door opened, he hoped ſhe was [333] coming. She came not. He went out, not to liſten, but in hopes of meeting her. He heard a low murmur of voices—the tones were thoſe of tenderneſs—Willoughby then was come to claim her: he was forgiven—and he himſelf had loſt all hope.—He return⯑ed to the parlour, pale and dejected—his lips trembled; his eyes were ſtill eagerly turned to the door. He heard nothing that was ſaid to him; but unable to remain in his ſeat, again aroſe, went out, and returned. At length he he heard the door of the parlour open, where Willoughby and Celeſtina were—he liſtened attentively—he heard her ſay, "Good night, dear Willoughby." Willoughby ſeemed, as he anſwered, to kiſs her hand. Poor Thorold could not bear it; but became more reſtleſs—again went to the door—came back—opened it to ſee if Celeſtina was coming—then helped the ſervant to put the chairs round the ſupper table, without knowing what he was doing—and ſat down himſelf in one next to that which he had placed for her. The ſupper was announced, but no Celeſtina appeared. At length the ſervant brought in the note ſhe had written. Lady Horatia read it, while poor [334] Montague anxiouſly followed her eyes. She gave it to him acroſs the table: he ran it over, and his ſolicitude becoming inſupport⯑able: he complained of being ill with the head⯑ach, and deſired permiſſion to go to his lodgings.

The eyes of his father were turned mourn⯑fully towards him, as he went out of the room. Mr. Thorold, however, did not ſpeak, but he ſighed—and Lady Horatia underſtood him. As for his wife, though ſhe had been extremely averſe to the thoughts of her ſon's marrying Celeſtina, while Celeſtina ſeemed to be no more than a rejected dependent on the Wil⯑loughby family; yet now, ſince Lady Horatia Howard had adopted her, ſhe appeared to be altogether as fond of the connection—ſo eaſily are minds like her's changed by adven⯑titious circumſtances, and influenced by ſounds. The notice Lady Horatia took of her, and her daughter Bettenſon, delighted and elated her; rendering her ſo diſguſtingly civil, that only the regard Lady Horatia felt for Mr. Thorold and Montague, would have induced her to ſupport the awkward and offenſive adulation of Mrs. Thorold.

[335] The lady of the houſe was ſo anxious about Celeſtina, that only her general politeneſs, or what is uſually termed, l'uſage du monde, en⯑abled her to acquit herſelf in the uſual forms towards her gueſts.

The ſupper was ſhort and dull—the con⯑verſation being divided between Captain Bet⯑tenſon, who related a long ſtory of a duel be⯑tween Jack Marſham, of his regiment, and one Mr. Abberſley, an enſign in the ſeven⯑teenth; the merits of which nobody under⯑ſtood—and for the event of which, nobody cared—and Mrs. Thorold, who deſcribed a dinner and ball given at Exeter, the week be⯑fore, by a banker of that place, on occaſion of his daughter's marriage. With the termina⯑tion of theſe diſſertations, the ſupper ended; and Mr. Thorold, who had long been uneaſy and impatient, withdrew with his family.

Lady Horatia then haſtened to the chamber of Celeſtina; ſhe was juſt in bed—but knowing who it was tapped at the door, begged her to Come in:—

"Well, my dear child," ſaid Lady Horatia, "and what is all this? I am impatient to know."—"And I, Madam, impatient to re⯑late, [336] though this evening I am quite unable to undertake it, all the extraordinary circum⯑ſtances recounted to me by Willoughby." "You are then related to him?" "No, thank Heaven, I am not—I thank Heaven too, that I am related to you." "To me?" Celeſtina then gave a brief account of her birth, and the way by which Willoughby had learnt thoſe particulars he had recounted: Lady Horatia embraced her with tears of rapture. Every circumſtance ſhe recollected of her brother's viſits to France, confirmed the truth of Wil⯑loughby's ſtory; and ſhe very perfectly recol⯑lected the deſponding ſtate of mind in which he went to America, after his laſt return from thence. His impriſonment for a few weeks in the Baſtile, which was imputed to ſome indiſcretion, and that he himſelf never otherwiſe explained—exactly correſponded with what the Count de Bellegarde had related. But while every concurrent, teſtimony evinced the truth of that narrative, Lady Horatia could not account for her brother's never having mentioned his marriage, or his daugh⯑ter.—"Perhaps, however," ſaid ſhe, "he might have reaſons for this, which I cannot [337] penetrate. My father was harſh, obſtinate, and avaricious; and always expected Ormond would marry as his elder brother did, to ag⯑grandize his family—this he uſed frequently to be teazed to do, but always refuſed—and for ſome years, his diſpoſition retained nothing of its former vivacity, but an ardour for war, in which he ſeemed, I often told him, deſirous rather of death than of promotion: and he anſwered me more than once, "That I gueſſed right—for that he was weary of life." I own, I not unfrequently ſuſpected, that ſome unfor⯑tunate attachment had ſo ſhaded his natural gay and vigorous mind, with gloomy depreſſion.—I have told him ſo—and he has replied, "That whatever might have been the caſe, he had no attachment then."

At length, as Celeſtina extremely needed repoſe, Lady Horatia left her, reflecting, with infinite delight, on the kindneſs ſhe had ſhewn her, as an orphan and a ſtranger, while ſhe had, in fact, been protecting the daughter of her beloved brother. With pleaſure too ſhe now thought of Willoughby, ſince Celeſtina's happineſs was to be reſtored by her union with him. But poor Montague Thorold, de⯑jected [338] and in deſpair, relinquiſhing all thoſe charming hopes, which, with more pity than prudence, ſhe had herſelf encouraged him to cheriſh preſented himſelf to her imagination, and greatly abated the ſatisfaction, with which ſhe thought of the approaching felicity of Willoughby and her neice.

She determined, however, to mitigate, as much as ſhe could, the force of this cruel blow—and, early the next morning, while Celeſ⯑tina was walking with the happy and enrap⯑tured Willoughby, ſhe ſent for the elder Mr. Thorold, and related to him all ſhe had learned from Celeſtina the evening before.

"I now blame myſelf, my good friend," ſaid ſhe, "for the part I have taken—but who could foreſee this?—Yet, I own, I fear the conſequences, and heartily wiſh I had never given ſo many opportunities to your ſon, of contemplating thoſe perfections of mind and perſon, which he will never, I fear, be able to forget."

Mr. Thorold knew too well that this ob⯑ſervation was juſt—and dreaded, leſt the: loſs even of reaſon itſelf ſhould be the conſequence of Celeſtina's marriage—he returned home, [339] however, immediately, to relate to Montague the probability there was, that this event would immediately happen. But, however tenderly he communicated ſuch fatal intelligence, he found his ſon more affected by it, than even his paternal fears had repreſented.

A ſilent and heavy deſpondence took poſ⯑ſeſſion of him. He neither complained of, nor reproached any one—but perſiſted in ſay⯑ing, that he would fee Celeſtina—take a laſt leave of her, and then try to reconcile himſelf to his fate.

But in his manner of ſaying this, there, was ſomething more diſtreſſing to his father, than he would have felt from the wildeſt ravings of deſpair—he entreated him to relinquiſh his project of ſeeing Celeſtina.—"Why ſhould you ſee her, Montague," ſaid he; "to what purpoſe?—You own, that while Willoughby was in queſtion, you entertained no hope—That Celeſtina has never afforded you any ſince; but that in ſpite of her aſſurances that ſhe could never feel a ſecond attachment—that you have perſevered, and taken that hope which ſhe refuſed to give—you have no one, therefore, to blame; and if you have ſought [340] pain, you muſt learn to bear it. But after all that has paſſed, I cannot conſent to your inflicting it on Celeſtina, or hazarding the poſſibility of giving uneaſineſs to her huſband."

"Huſband!" cried Montague Thorold—"he is not her huſband yet—but if he were—can my humble adoration offend him—when I mean to bid her an everlaſtingadieu?—She will conſole my ſick heart by tender pity—She will bid me be at peace—and I may try then to obey her—The ſound of her voice is to me ſo ſoothing—that if ſhe does not refuſe it, I muſt hear it once more ſpeak to me in accents of kindneſs."

Mr. Thorold, finding every thing he could ſay to diſſuade Montague from indulging this unhappy inclination quite ineffectual, became extremely uneaſy; and dreaded, leſt ſome alarming conſequence ſhould ariſe from an in⯑terview, which he thought Willoughby could not approve, even if it were reaſonable or proper in his ſon to aſk it.

But Willoughby, now perfectly ſecure of the affections of Celeſtina, was too generous, and too noble-minded, not to feel pity for his unfortunate rival. His own happineſs, great [341] as it was, would have been more complete, if he could have believed Montague Thorold leſs unhappy.—"Would to Heaven," ſaid he, as he ſpoke of him to Celeſtina, "Would to Heaven that he could ſee Anzoletta, and transfer to her that affection, which, while it is fixed on you, can ſerve only to render him miſerable."—Celeſtina joined moſt cordially in this wiſh.—"He deſerves to be happy, I believe," ſaid ſhe; "and the deſire you ex⯑preſs to ſee him ſo, is worthy of the heart of my Willoughby."

But however liberal and reaſonable Wil⯑loughby was in regard to a competitor, from whom, though he had ſuffered much, he had now nothing to fear; he was not ſo patient under any circumſtance that was likely to impede his union with Celeſtina.—All that ſhe or Lady Horatia could urge to him on the propriety and neceſſity of a ſhort delay, for preparations and forms, he treated as ridicu⯑lous—and ſo vehemently inſiſted on the ne⯑ceſſity of fulfilling the promiſe he had made to the Count de Bellegarde, at parting with him, to return to him immediately with Ce⯑leſtina as his wife—that their oppoſition was [342] to little purpoſe.—So totally engroſſed, how⯑ever, had Willoughby been by his fears leſt Celeſtina might be loſt to him, that he did not even know whether he had a houſe to take her to—but, as with him, all places were alike to her, he ſent an expreſs that morning to Cath⯑cart, informing him, that he ſhould be at Exeter the next day with Celeſtina, deſiring him to meet him there with Jeſſy, and to go with them to Alveſtone, if Alveſtone was yet in his poſſeſſion.

He diſpatched another meſſenger to Lon⯑don for a ſpecial licence to be married at Al⯑veſtone, or Exeter; and obviating every re⯑maining ſeruple, he prevailed on Celeſtina to ſet out with him that evening for the latter place, with the conſent of Lady Horatia, who promiſed to follow them in a few days.

The diſtance was ſo ſhort, that though it was late in the day, after Willoughby's arri⯑val at Exmouth, before this was determined upon, they were at Exeter by ſeven in the evening; and in an hour afterwards, Cathcart and Jeſſy arrived alſo.

Cathcart not only informed Willoughby that his eſtate was ſtill his, but put into hands [343] thoſe letters that brought the intelligence of that acquiſition of fortune which came by the death of Lord Caſtlenorth.—The ſatisfaction of this intelligence, the pleaſure of meeting Cathcart and Jeſſy, who were overwhelmed with joy to ſee them—the certainty of return⯑ing together to a place they both ſo fondly loved, ſeemed to complete the happineſs of the long divided lovers.—Early the next morning they reached Alveſtone, where, in the abſence of Mr. Thorold, his curate joined the hands of Willoughby and Celeſtina, above eighteen months after that period, when they believed themſelves ſeparated for ever.

In three days Lady Horatia arrived at Al⯑veſtone; and the additional pleaſure her com⯑pany gave them, was checked only by the ac⯑count ſhe gave of the ſituation of Montague Thorold—who not having been allowed to ſee Celeſtina, the time of whoſe departure from Exmouth had been induſtriouſly concealed from him, had ſunk into ſuch a ſtate of deſ⯑pondence, as made his father tremble for his reaſon, if not for his life.

For Vavaſour too, whom Willoughby had always loved, he could not help feeling con⯑cern. [344] —He knew not whither to direct to him; but from all the accounts he was able to gain, he feared that all the good qualities of his heart and underſtanding were obſcured, if not deſtroyed, by the diſſolute ſtile of life into which he had plunged with ſuch avidity, ſince their laſt parting.—He endeavoured, however, to counteract the impreſſions of theſe only alloys to ſupreme happineſs, by reflecting on the probable felicity of other friends, and particularly of the Count of Bellegarde; from whom, ten days after his marriage, he re⯑ceived a letter, informing him, that he was then going to Perpignan; empowered to re⯑leaſe his wife from her convent—and that they ſhould go, together with their Anzoletta, im⯑mediately to Rochemarte—where he beſought Willoughby to rejoin him, with Celeſtina—promiſing, that if he would do ſo, they would return with him, and paſs the winter all toge⯑ther in England.

Though it was now late in the year, and though Celeſtina would have preferred re⯑maining at Alveſtone, where ſhe had fixed all her ideas of happineſs, yet the wiſhes of her uncle, and the melancholy ſatisfaction of vi⯑ſiting [345] the place where her mother had lived—and where ſhe died a victim to parental harſh⯑neſs, and maternal grief; together with the inclination Willoughby ſhewed to gratify the Count, and introduce his wife to him and Anzoletta, determined her to make no ob⯑jection to their immediate departure.—There was, indeed, no time to loſe; as the winter was ſo near.—Lady Horatia too, who waited impatiently an interview with Monſieur de Bellegarde, though ſhe had not health to un⯑dertake ſuch a journey, haſtened them as much as poſſible; and in ſomething leſs than a month after Willoughby called Celeſtina his, he preſented her, at Rochemarte, to her uncle de Bellegarde, to Jacquelina, and Anzoletta. To the two former ſhe appeared the precious repreſentative of their two beloved and re⯑gretted friends; the tender recollection of of whom, added to her own merit, made her to them an object almoſt of adoration—while Anzoletta loved her as a ſiſter, to whom ſhe became more tenderly attached, from taſte and affection, than even that near tie of blood alone could have attached her.

With what melancholy pleaſure did the [346] Count tie round the neck of Celeſtina that picture of her mother, which her father, as he was dying, had taken from his own boſom—with an injunction, never to part with it, but to his daughter.—And how many tears did Celeſtina ſhed, as, leaning on the arm of Wil⯑loughby, he pointed out to her the ſpot, which the Count had ſhewn him, as the grave of Genevieve.—Willoughby kiſſed thoſe tears away, as they filled her eyes—and bade her turn from the too frequent recollection of the paſt, to thoſe ſcenes of future happineſs, which love, friendſhip, and fortune, ſeemed to be pre⯑paring for them.

In the romantic and magnificent ſcenes round the caſtle the poetical taſte of Celeſtina Was highly gratified. Willoughby took her the ſpot where he had been loſt in the fortu⯑nate night that eventually led him to the re⯑ſidence of the Count of Bellegarde. They viſited together the humble cottage of Le Laurier, whoſe family they loaded with kind⯑neſs; and traced with her the ſcenes which were ſo many years before witneſſes to the clandeſtine marriages of Genevieve and Jac⯑quelina.

[347] Winter, however, put an end to theſe ex⯑curſions in the mountains; and the Count de Bellegarde, having completed the ſettle⯑ment of his affairs, agreed, at the earneſt re⯑queſt of Willoughby and Celeſtina, to go with his wife and daughter to England.

On their journey thither, they met at Paris Captain and Mrs. Cavanaugh. They found the former become a man of the utmoſt im⯑portance, and arrogantly enjoying the ſplen⯑dour of his new ſituation, in a country where he had appeared in one ſo very different. Mrs. Cavanaugh ſeemed to affect being happy—and to diſdain all ſhe had relinquiſhed to obtain that happineſs her own way. But, from ſome ſtrange caprice, ſhe now appeared ſo fond of Willoughby, that had Celeſtina been liable to jealouſy—or had Cavanaugh really cared for his wife, they might both, in her manner, have found ſufficient cauſe of diſcontent. Mrs. Cavanaugh related to Wil⯑loughby all the artifices her mother had uſed to break off his marriage with Celeſtina; and when he expreſſed his wonder that Lady Caſtlenorth ſhould go ſuch lengths in an affair in which her intereſt did not appear to be im⯑mediately [348] or particularly concerned, ſhe an⯑ſwered, in her uſual ſneering way—"If you could know my mother ſo well as I do—but it is impoſſible by words to do her juſtice—you would no longer wonder. Her ſcheme lay much deeper than you were aware of."

Lady Caſtlenorth, to conſole herſelf for the defection of Captain Cavanaugh, had taken, as her travelling companion, a young Abbé, who, diſcontented with the prevailing politics of his country, found in her at once an ad⯑mirer of his perſon and character, and a ſtre⯑nuous ſupporter of his ariſtocratic principles—and, what was yet better than either, he found himſelf ſharing a fortune beyond what he had ever dreamed of poſſeſſing. This well aſſorted pair were at Bruſſeis—and Mrs. Cavanaugh diverted herſelf with ſome ſarcaſtic remarks on the Director choſen by her mother—of whom ſhe always ſpoke with a degree of ran⯑cour which made Celeſtina tremble, while Willoughby ſhuddered to recollect how near he once was becoming the huſband of one who could thus expreſs herſelf towards her mother.

Captain and Mrs. Cavanaugh were going [349] to Italy.—The happy party, who took leave of them, haſtened to England, where, on their arrival in London, Lady Horatia joined them, and they were ſoon fixed at Alveſtone, in ſuch perfect felicity as is ſeldom enjoyed, and ſtill more rarely deſerved.—The firſt enquiry of Celeſtina was for Mr. Thorold and his family. She learned that Captain Thorold was the great friend and favourite of Lady Molyneux, with whom he was gone to Ireland to the diſ⯑pleaſure of his father, who had however no influence over him, and whoſe diſappointment in his eldeſt ſon was embittered by the condi⯑tion into which a hopeleſs and incurable paſſion had thrown the youngeſt.

Celeſtina, who could not reflect, without great pain, on the unhappineſs with which the days of her excellent friend were thus over-clouded, took an early opportunity, after her being ſettled at Alveſtone, to deſire an interview with the elder Mr. Thorold. He came—and ſhe ſaw with redoubled concern, the ravage which anxiety had made on his manly face and figure, even in a few ſhort months. He related to her, hardly refraining from tears, the ſad change that had happened [350] in the temper and talents of his ſon—"I have ſometimes thought," ſaid he, "that you, my dear Madam, and you only, can rouſe him from theſe alienations of mind—I was averſe to his ſeeing you before you went abroad—but now I wiſh it: your reaſon may reconcile him to his fate—you pity, ſoothe him—or, be the event of your meeting what it may, no change can, I think, be for the worſe." Ce⯑leſtina promiſed to ſee him—and his father contrived, with her, the means of procuring this interview; for Montague now ſhunned every body, and very frequently would not appear, even to his own family.

Celeſtina did not, however, mean to meet him alone; but to ſhew him, in Anzoletta, beauty, underſtanding, and ſweetneſs, with a heart untouched by any former paſſion, and worthy of his. Her generous intentions, ſuc⯑ceeded.—Montague Thorold, ſtruck with the reſemblance between them, and particularly with the voice of Anzoletta, was ſoon as paſ⯑ſionately attached to her, as a man could be, who had once loved Celeſtina herſelf. The Count of Bellegarde, who intended to beſtow her, with her ample fortune, on an Engliſh⯑man, [351] and a Proteſtant, heſitated not a moment, in conſenting to an union which would, he found, make his daughter happy; and, eight months after the marriage of Willoughby and Celeſtina, Anzoletta gave her hand, in the chapel of Alveſtone, to Montague Thorold.

Willoughby had now but one wiſh unful⯑filled—for every pecuniary difficulty, the mu⯑nificence of the Count de Bellegarde, and the legacy of Lord Caſtlenorth, had removed—and this one wiſh was, to ſee Vavaſour ſuch as a reaſonable being, with every reaſonable means of happineſs in his power, ought to be. But in this, as he had no ſecond Anzoletta to give him, and ſhould have feared his want of ſteadineſs if he had, he almoſt deſpaired of being gratified.

Vavaſour, however, ſometimes viſited at Alveſtone; and, unlike Montague Thorold, he ſeemed to have conquered his extravagant paſſion for Celeſtina, ſince it was become hopeleſs. He had, unluckily for him, taken up no permanent affection in its place; but loſt his health, and his fortune in purſuits which could not afford him even a temporary [352] poſſeſſion of that happineſs for which he ſtill declared himſelf to be in ſearch.

When Celeſtina reflected on his kindneſs to Mrs. Elphinſtone and her children, who now lived in comfort on the proviſion he had made for them; and on many other generous and noble actions; ſhe could not but lament, with Willoughby, that infelicity of which he con⯑tinually complained, even amid his wildeſt and moſt determined perſeverance in the career of diſſolute pleaſure. But for this ſource of regret, as there ſeemed to be no remedy within her power, ſhe did not ſuffer it to embitter the ſatisfaction ſhe derived from almoſt every other friend.

Lady Horatia no longer complained of that tedium which, at the beginning of their ac⯑quaintance, ſeemed to have rendered life indif⯑ferent to her. She had now, in Willoughby, and his lovely wife, objects of her affection; and hoped to grow old amidſt their children. Monſieur and Madam de Bellegarde, were more acutely ſenſible of their preſent happi⯑neſs, from the poignancy of their paſt afflic⯑tions; and their daughter, the object of their tender ſolicitude, made the felicity of a worthy [353] man, who deſerved the affection ſhe felt for him. In Cathcart and Jeſſy, Celeſtina beheld the earlieſt objects of her beneficence—enjoy⯑ing all that affluence and mutual tenderneſs could beſtow—And the widowed heart of Mrs. Elphinſtone was at eaſe, not only by her own preſent independence, but from the aſ⯑ſurances Willoughby had given her, of pro⯑viding for her boys, as ſoon as they were of the age when they could be put to profeſſions. The elder Mr. Thorold, too, her venerable and reſpectable friend, was reſtored to happi⯑neſs, in contemplating that of his ſon: and above all, Celeſtina beheld in Willoughby, the beſt and moſt affectionate of huſbands—whoſe whole life was dedicated to the pur⯑poſe of making her happy—and whoſe only apprehenſion ſeemed to be, that with all he could do, he muſt fall infinitely ſhort of that degree of merit towards either heaven or earth, which that fortunate being ought to poſſeſs, who was bleſſed with ſo lovely and perfect a creature as Celeſtina.